The Silence of the Lambs (Hannibal Lecter 2)

The clerk confirmed that permission had been granted for sale of an auto and gave Starling the make and serial number of the car, and the name of a subsequent owner off the title transfer.

On Tuesday, she wasted half her lunch hour trying to chase down that name. It cost her the rest of her lunch period to find out that the Maryland Department of Motor Vehicles is not equipped to trace a vehicle by serial number, only by registration number or current tag number.

On Tuesday afternoon, a downpour drove the trainees in from the firing range. In a conference room steamy with damp clothing and sweat, John Brigham, the ex-Marine firearms instructor, chose to test Starling’s hand strength in front of the class by seeing how many times she could pull the trigger on a Model 19 Smith & Wesson in sixty seconds.

She managed seventy-four with her left hand, puffed a strand of hair out of her eyes, and started over with her right while another student counted. She was in the Weaver stance, well braced, the front sight in sharp focus, the rear sight and her makeshift target properly blurred. Midway through her minute, she let her mind wander to get it off the pain. The target on the wall came into focus. It was a certificate of appreciation from the Interstate Commerce enforcement division made out to her instructor, John Brigham.

She questioned Brigham out of the side of her mouth while the other student counted the clicks of the revolver.

“How do you trace the current registration…”

“… sixtyfivesixtysixsixtysevensixtyeightsixty…”

“… of a car when you’ve only got the serial number…”

“seventyeightseventynineeightyeightyone…”

“… and the make? You don’t have a current tag number.”

“… eightynine ninety. Time.”

“All right, you people,” the instructor said, “I want you to take note of that. Hand strength’s a major factor in steady combat shooting. Some of you gentlemen are worried I’ll call on you next. Your worries would be justified—Starling is well above average with both hands. That’s because she works at it. She works at it with the little squeezy things you all have access to. Most of you are not used to squeezing anything harder than yo

ur”—ever vigilant against his native Marine terminology, he groped for a polite simile—“zits,” he said at last. “Get serious, Starling, you’re not good enough either. I want to see that left hand over ninety before you graduate. Pair up and time each other—chop-chop.

“Not you, Starling, come here. What else have you got on the car?”

“Just the serial number and make, that’s it. One prior owner five years ago.”

“All right, listen. Where most people f—fall into error is trying to leapfrog through the registrations from one owner to the next. You get fouled up between states. I mean, cops even do that sometimes. And registrations and tag numbers are all the computer’s got. We’re all accustomed to using tag numbers or registration numbers, not vehicle serial numbers.”

The clicking of the blue-handled practice revolvers was loud all over the room and he had to rumble in her ear.

“There’s one way it’s easy. R. L. Polk and Company, that publishes city directories—they also put out a list of current car registrations by make and consecutive serial number. It’s the only place. Car dealers steer their advertising with them. How’d you know to ask me?”

“You were ICC enforcement, I figured you’d traced a lot of vehicles. Thanks.”

“Pay me back—get that left hand up where it ought to be and let’s shame some of these lilyfingers.”

Back in her phone booth during study period, her hands trembled so that her notes were barely legible. Raspail’s car was a Ford. There was a Ford dealer near the University of Virginia who for years had patiently done what he could with her Pinto. Now, just as patiently, the dealer poked through his Polk listings for her. He came back to the telephone with the name and address of the person who had last registered Benjamin Raspail’s car.

Clarice is on a roll, Clarice has got control. Quit being silly and call the man up at his home in, lemme see, Number Nine Ditch, Arkansas. Jack Crawford will never let me go down there, but at least I can confirm who’s got the ride.

No answer, and again no answer. The ring sounded funny and far away, a double rump-rump like a party line. She tried at night and got no answer.

At Wednesday lunch period, a man answered Starling’s call:

“WPOQ Plays the Oldies.”

“Hello, I’m calling to—”

“I wouldn’t care for any aluminum siding and I don’t want to live in no trailer court in Florida, what else you got?”

Starling heard a lot of the Arkansas hills in the man’s voice. She could speak that with anybody when she wanted to, and her time was short.

“Yessir, if you could help me out I’d be much obliged. I’m trying to get ahold of Mr. Lomax Bardwell? This is Clarice Starling?”

“It’s Starling somebody,” the man yelled to the rest of his household. “What do you want with Bardwell?”