“No.”
“Officer Starling, that was a lie. The first one you’ve told me. A triste occasion, Truman would say.”
“President Truman?”
“Never mind. Why do you think I helped you?”
“I don’t know.”
“Jack Crawford likes you, doesn’t he?”
“I don’t know.”
“That’s probably untrue. Would you like for him to like you? Tell me, do you feel an urge to please him and does it worry you? Are you wary of your urge to please him?”
“Everyone wants to be liked, Dr. Lecter.”
“Not everyone. Do you think Jack Crawford wants you sexually? I’m sure he’s very frustrated now. Do you think he visualizes … scenarios, transactions … fucking with you?”
“That’s not a matter of curiosity to me, Dr. Lecter, and it’s the sort of thing Miggs would ask.”
“Not anymore.”
“Did you suggest to him that he swallow his tongue?”
“Your interrogative case often has that proper subjunctive in it. With your accent, it stinks of the lamp. Crawford clearly likes you and believes you competent. Surely the odd confluence of events hasn’t escaped you, Clarice—you’ve had Crawford’s help and you’ve had mine. You say you don’t know why Crawford helps you—do you know why I did?”
“No, tell me.”
“Do you think it’s because I like to look at you and think about eating you up—about how you would taste?”
“Is that it?”
“No. I want something Crawford can give me and I want to trade him for it. But he won’t come to see me. He won’t ask for my help with Buffalo Bill, even though he knows it means more young women will die.”
“I can’t believe that, Dr. Lecter.”
“I only want something very simple, and he could get it.” Lecter turned up the rheostat slowly in his cell. His books and drawings were gone. His toilet seat was gone. Chilton had stripped the cell to punish him for Miggs.
“I’ve been in this room eight years, Clarice. I know that they will never, ever let me out while I’m alive. What I want is a view. I want a window where I can see a tree, or even water.”
“Has your attorney petitioned—”
“Chilton put that television in the hall, set to a religious channel. As soon as you leave the orderly will turn the sound back up, and my attorney can’t stop it, the way the court is inclined toward me now. I want to be in a federal institution and I want my books back and a view. I’ll give good value for it. Crawford could do that. Ask him.”
“I can tell him what you’ve said.”
“He’ll ignore it. And Buffalo Bill will go on and on. Wait until he scalps one and see how you like it. Ummmm … I’ll tell you one thing about Buffalo Bill without ever seeing the case, and years from now when they catch him, if they ever do, you’ll see that I was right and I could have helped. I could have saved lives. Clarice?”
“Yes?”
“Buffalo Bill has a two-story house,” Dr. Lecter said, and turned out his light.
He would not speak again.
CHAPTER 10
Clarice Starling leaned against a dice table in the FBI’s casino and tried to pay attention to a lecture on money-laundering in gambling. It had been thirty-six hours since the Baltimore County police took her deposition (via a chain-smoking two-finger typist: “See if you can get that window open if the smoke bothers you.”) and dismissed her from its jurisdiction with a reminder that murder is not a federal crime.