A knock, and Crawford looked up to a sight that pleased him—Clarice Starling stood in his doorway.
Crawford smiled and rose from his chair. He and Starling often talked while standing; it was one of the tacit formalities they had come to impose on their relationship. They did not need to shake hands.
“I heard you came to the hospital,” Starling said. “Sorry I missed you.”
“I was just glad they let you go so fast,” he said. “Tell me about your ear, is it okay?”
“It’s fine if you like cauliflower. They tell me it’ll go down, most of it.” Her ear was covered by her hair. She did not offer to show him.
A little silence.
“They had me taking the fall for the raid, Mr. Crawford. For Evelda Drumgo’s death, all of it. They were like hyenas and then suddenly it stopped and they slunk away. Something drove them off.”
“Maybe you have an angel, Starling.”
“Maybe I do. What did it cost you, Mr. Crawford?”
Crawford shook his head. “Close the door, please, Starling.” Crawford found a wadded Kleenex in his pocket and polished his spectacles. “I would have done it if I could. I didn’t have the juice by myself. If Senator Martin was still in office, you’d have had some cover…. They wasted John Brigham on that raid—just threw him away. It would have been a shame if they wasted you like they wasted John. It felt like I was stacking you and John across a Jeep.”
Crawford’s cheeks colored and she remembered his face in the sharp wind above John Brigham’s grave. Crawford had never talked to her about his war.
“You did something, Mr. Crawford.”
He nodded. “I did something. I don’t know how glad you’ll be. It’s a job.”
A job. Job was a good word in their private lexicon. It meant a specific and immediate task and it cleared the air. They never spoke if they could help it about the troubled central bureaucracy of the Federal Bureau of Investigation. Crawford and Starling were like medical missionaries, with little patience for theology, each concentrating hard on the one baby before them, knowing and not saying that God wouldn’t do a goddamned thing to help. That for fifty thousand Ibo infant lives, He would not bother to send rain.
“Indirectly, Starling, your benefactor is your recent correspondent.”
“Dr. Lecter.” She had long noted Crawford’s distaste for the spoken name.
“Yes, the very same. For all this time he’d eluded us— he was away clean—and he writes you a letter. Why?”
It had been seven years since Dr. Hannibal Lecter, known murderer of ten, escaped from custody in Memphis, taking five more lives in the process.
It was as though Lecter had dropped off the earth. The case remained open at the FBI and would remain open forever, or until he was caught. The same was true in Tennessee and other jurisdictions, but there was no task force assigned to pursue him anymore, though relatives of his victims had wept angry tears before the Tennessee state legislature and demanded action.
Whole tomes of scholarly conjecture on his mentality were available, most of it authored by psychologists who had never been exposed to the doctor in person. A few works appeared by psychiatrists he had skewered in the professional journals, who apparently felt that it was safe to come out now. Some of them said his aberrations would inevitably drive him to suicide and that it was likely he was already dead.
In cyberspace at least, interest in Dr. Lecter remained very much alive. The damp floor of the Internet sprouted Lecter theories like toadstools and sightings of the doctor rivaled those of Elvis in number. Impostors plagued the chat rooms and in the phosphorescent swamp of the Web’s dark side, police photographs of his outrages were bootlegged to collectors of hideous arcana. They were second in popularity only to the execution of Fou-Tchou-Li.
One trace of the doctor after seven years—his letter to Clarice Starling when she was being crucified by the tabloids.
The letter bore no fingerprints, but the FBI felt reasonably sure it was genuine. Clarice Starling was certain of it.
“Why did he do it, Starling?” Crawford seemed almost angry at her. “I’ve never pretended to understand him any more than these psychiatric jackasses do. You tell me.”
“He thought what happened to me would … destroy, would disillusion me about the Bureau, and he enjoys seeing the destruction of faith, it’s his favorite thing. It’s like the church collapses he used to collect. The pile of rubble in Italy when the church collapsed on all the grandmothers at that special Mass and somebody stuck a Christmas tree in the top of the pile, he loved that. I amuse him, he toys with me. When I was interviewing him he liked to point out holes in my education, he thinks I’m pretty naïve.”
Crawford spoke from his own age and isolation when he said, “Have you ever thought that he might like you, Starling?”
“I think I
amuse him. Things either amuse him or they don’t. If they don’t …”
“Ever felt that he liked you?” Crawford insisted on the distinction between thought and feeling like a Baptist insists on total immersion.
“On really short acquaintance he told me some things about myself that were true. I think it’s easy to mistake understanding for empathy—we want empathy so badly. Maybe learning to make that distinction is part of growing up. It’s hard and ugly to know somebody can understand you without even liking you. When you see understanding just used as a predator’s tool, that’s the worst. I … I have no idea how Dr. Lecter feels about me.”