Chapter 2 Chapter One

The Behavioral Sciences Unit, the FBI's serial-homicide division, is half buried on the ground floor of the Quintic College building.Clarice Starling was blushing by the time she arrived, walking briskly down Hogan's Trail from the shooting range.She had grass in her hair, as did the FBI cadet windbreaker from when she pounced on the ground under fire during a capture drill at the shooting range. The office outside was empty, so she simply brushed her hair in front of the glass door in her own shadow.She knew she could look okay without overdressing herself.Her hands smelled of gunpowder, but it was too late to wash, and Crawford, the head of the department, said that she would be summoned now.

She finds Jack and Crawford alone in two disorganized office suites.He was standing at someone else's desk on the phone.This was the first time in a year that she had the opportunity to take a good look at him.What she saw of him disturbed her. On weekdays, Crawford looks like a healthy, middle-aged engineer.He probably paid for it playing baseball in college -- like a smart catcher, he's a pain in the ass to block the pitcher.But now, he is thinner, his shirt collar is so big, and there are black circles under his red and swollen eyes.Anyone who can read a newspaper knows that the department of behavioral science is getting a bad name right now.Starling hoped that Crawford wouldn't go all out, but here, that seemed impossible.

Crawford abruptly ended his phone conversation.He took her file from under his arm and opened it. "Good morning, Clarice M. Starling!" he said. "Hello." She just smiled politely. "Nothing happened, I hope calling you didn't frighten you." "No," thought Starling, not entirely true. "Your teacher told me that you are doing well and are among the top fifteen in your class." "I hope so. They haven't posted the results yet." "I ask them every now and then." This startled Starling a little; she had expected Crawford to be a recruiting squad leader, a double-faced slicker who wouldn't be much of a hit.

Crawford had been invited to lecture as a secret agent at the University of Virginia, where Starling had met him.The quality of his criminology courses was a factor in her coming to the FBI.He had never heard back from a note she had written to him after she had been admitted to the Academy; she had been an intern at Quintico for three months and had not attracted his attention. Starling was the kind of person who didn't ask for favors or ask for friendship, but Crawford's behavior still confused and regretted her.But at this moment, she noticed with regret that in front of him, she actually fell in love with him again.

Obviously, something happened to him.There was something about Crawford besides his wit that Starling noticed above all in his sense of color and the texture of his clothes, which even by the uniform standards of the FBI You can also see it in the clothes.At this moment, he is neat but lifeless, as if a person is being shed and reborn. "A job came up, and I thought of you," he said. "It's not really a job, but he said it was an interesting job. You push Bailey's stuff off that chair and sit down. Here you write that you want to come directly to the Department of Behavioral Sciences as soon as your internship at the academy is over."

"yes." "You have a lot of forensic science knowledge, but no law enforcement experience. We need someone with six years of law enforcement experience, at least six years." "My dad used to be a judicial officer, so I know what life is like." Crawford smiled slightly. "What you really have is a double major in psychology and criminology, and you have worked in a mental health center. How many summers? Is it two?" "two." "Is your psychological counselor certificate still available?" "Two more years, I got this certificate before you came to the University of Virginia to give a workshop, and I hadn't decided to do this at that time."

"Employers freeze and you're stuck. Starling nodded. "However, I was lucky - I found out in time that the result was the qualification of a member of the Forensic Society. Then I can work in the laboratory until the college has a vacant position." "You wrote me about coming up here, didn't you? I don't think I answered—I know I didn't. I ought to." "You have many other things to attend to." "Do you know anything about VI-CAP?" "I understand the Ministry is referring to the 'Violent Criminal Breakup Arrest Program.' The Law Enforcement Bulletin says you are processing the data, not yet in the implementation phase."

Crawford nodded. "We devised a questionnaire that would apply to all known serial killers today." He handed her the thick stack of documents in a thin cover. "There's a section for investigators, and a section for surviving victims, if any. The blue section is for the murderer to answer, if he will. The pink section is The questioner has to ask the murderer a set of questions, and he uses this to get the reaction and answers from the murderer. There is a lot of desk work!" Deskwork.Clarice-Starling sniffed forward like a beagle with a keen sense of smell, out of self-interest.She smelled a job coming her way—a job that would probably be tedious, just inputting raw data into some new computer system.It was tempting for her to do her best for the Ministry of Science, but she knew what would happen to a woman once she was chained to be a secretary—stay in this position for the rest of her life.The opportunity to choose came, and she had to choose well.

What was Crawford waiting for—he must have asked her some question just now.Starling had to scramble through her memories. "What tests did you take. The Minnesota Multiphasic Personality Types Test, did you take it? Rorschach?" "I've done it, the Minnesota Multiphasic Personality Types Test, never done the Rorschach Test," she said, "and the Thematic Comprehension Test and the Bender-Gestalt Test for children." "Are you easily startled, Starling?" "still has not now." "You see, we tried to conduct interviews and investigations on all thirty-two known serial killers in custody, with the aim of establishing a psychological summary database for some unsolved cases. Most of them were able to cooperate with— —I think their motivation is to show their faces, and many people are like this. Twenty-six people are willing to cooperate, and the appeal of the four death row prisoners has not yet been decided, so it is understandable that they will not speak up. But what we want most The cooperation of one person has not been obtained, and I want you to go to the mental hospital to find him tomorrow."

Clarice, Starling's chest clenched with joy, and at the same time a little bit of fear. "Who is that person?" "Psychiatrist, Dr. Hannibal Lecter," said Crawford. In any civilized place, the mention of this name is always followed by a short silence. Starling looked at Crawford steadily, but she was very calm. "Hannibal, Ogre Lord," she said. "yes." "Okay, uh—okay, fine. I'm glad I got the chance, but you know, I'm wondering—why should I be chosen?" "Mainly because you're a ready candidate," Crawford said, "and I don't expect him to cooperate. He's turned it down, but it's been through the intermediary of the mental hospital director. I have to be able to say , we have qualified investigators who have gone to him and questioned him himself. There are reasons that have nothing to do with you. There is no one else in my department to do this."

"You're stuck with Buffalo Bill, and the Nevada stuff," Starling said. "You're right. It's what I said just now—there are not many living people left." "You just said that you would go tomorrow—so urgent! Did you get anything out of the case at hand?" "No. That's fine." "If he won't cooperate with me, do you want me to give him a psychological evaluation?" "No. Dr. Lecter is an inaccessible patient, and I have waist-deep assessments of him, all of which are different." Crawford shook out two vitamin C tablets and poured them into the palm of his hand, mixed a glass of Volcaseltz in the water cooler, and washed the tablets down. "You know, it's absurd; Lecter's a psychiatrist, and he's written for some of the publications on psychiatry—something that's unusual—but he never mentions his oddity. Once In a few tests, he pretended to cooperate with Chilton, the director of the mental hospital-sitting boredly put a blood pressure cuff on his penis, and then looked at some shabby photos-and then he will learn Chilton was the first to be published and made a fool of himself. A student of mental illness, although the field of research is not as good as his The case has nothing to do with it. He answered their letters earnestly. That's what he did.If he won't talk to you, I just want you to tell me straight up what he looks like, what his cell is like, what he's doing.Natural color, so to speak.Watch out for the reporters who come and go.Not really a reporter, but a journalist who runs a tabloid.They love Lecter even more than King Andrew. " "Did a porn magazine offer fifty thousand dollars for some of his prescriptions? I seem to get that impression," Starling said. Crawford nodded. "I'm sure the National Confidential has paid off someone in the hospital, and I-arranged for you, and they'll probably know." Crawford leaned forward until he was only two feet face-to-face with her.She stared at his half-sheet reading glasses, the bags under the eyes blurred.He has been gargling with Listerine mouthwash lately. "Now I want your full attention, Starling. Are you listening?" "Yes, sir." "Be very careful with Hannibal Lecter. The actual procedure you use to deal with him, Dr. Chilton, the superintendent of the mental hospital, will go through the purpose. Don't deviate from the procedure. In any case, don't deviate from it in the slightest." ...even if Lecter talks to you, he's just trying to get to know you as a person. It's a curiosity, like a snake trying to poke its head out of a bird's nest out of curiosity. You and I understand that you have to go back and forth during the conversation There are a few rounds, but you don't tell him any details about yourself. Don't let an iota of your personal situation enter his head. You know what he did to Will Graham." "I saw the reports after the incident." "When Will caught him, he eviscerated Will with a linoleum knife. It's a miracle Will didn't die! Remember "Red Dragon"? Lecter had Frances Doller De murdered Will and his family. Will's face looked like it had been painted by a fucking Picasso, thanks to Lecter. He ripped a nurse to shreds in a mental hospital. Do your job, just don't forget who he is." "Who? Do you know?" "I know he's a demon. Other than that, no one can say for sure. Maybe you'll find out eventually; I didn't pick you at random, Starling. You asked me how many times I was at the University of Virginia. Interesting question. What the director wants to see is your own report with your signature on it—if it is written clearly, concisely, and organized. That's up to me. I'll have the report at nine o'clock on Sunday. Okay. , Starling, act according to the appointed plan." Crawford smiled at her, but his eyes were lifeless.