“I see.”
“Raspail’s dream of happiness was ruined. He put Klaus’ head in a bowling bag and came back East.”
“What did he do with the rest?”
“Buried it in the hills.”
“He showed you the head in the car?”
“Oh yes, in the course of therapy he came to feel he could tell me anything. He went out to sit with Klaus quite often and showed him the Valentines.”
“And then Raspail himself … died. Why?”
“Frankly, I got sick and tired of his whining. Best thing for him, really. Therapy wasn’t going anywhere. I expect most psychiatrists have a patient or two they’d like to refer to me. I’ve never discussed this before, and now I’m getting bored with it.”
“And your dinner for the orchestra officials.”
“Haven’t you ever had people coming over and no time to shop? You have to make do with what’s in the fridge, Clarice. May I call you Clarice?”
“Yes. I think I’ll just call you—”
“Dr. Lecter—that seems most appropriate to your age and station,” he said.
“Yes.”
“How did you feel when you went into the garage?”
“Apprehensive.”
“Why?”
“Mice and insects.”
“Do you have something you use when you want to get up your nerve?” Dr. Lecter asked.
“Nothing I know of that works, except wanting what I’m after.”
“Do memories or tableaux occur to you then, whether you try for them or not?”
“Maybe. I haven’t thought about it.”
“Things from your early life.”
“I’ll have to watch and see.”
“How did you feel when you heard about my late neighbor, Miggs? You haven’t asked me about it.”
“I was getting to it.”
“Weren’t you glad when you heard?”
“No.”
“Were you sad?”
“No. Did you talk him into it?”
Dr. Lecter laughed quietly. “Are you asking me, Officer Starling, if I suborned Mr. Miggs’ felony suicide? Don’t be silly. It has a certain pleasant symmetry, though, his swallowing that offensive tongue, don’t you agree?”