“I’m Noble Pilcher,” he said. “That’s Albert Roden. You need an insect identified? We’re happy to help you.” Pilcher had a long friendly face, but his black eyes were a little witchy and too close together, and one of them had a slight cast that made it catch the light independently. He did not offer to shake hands. “You are…?”
“Clarice Starling.”
“Let’s see what you’ve got.”
Pilcher held the small jar to the light.
Roden came to look. “Where did you find it? Did you kill it with your gun? Did you see its mommy?”
It occurred to Starling how much Roden would benefit from an elbow smash in the hinge of his jaw.
“Shhh,” Pilcher said. “Tell us where you found it. Was it attached to anything—a twig or a leaf—or was it in the soil?”
“I see,” Starling said. “Nobody’s talked to you.”
“The Chairman asked us to stay late and identify a bug for the FBI,” Pilcher said.
“Told us,” Roden said. “Told us to stay late.”
“We do it all the time for Customs and the Department of Agriculture,” Pilcher said.
“But not in the middle of the night,” Roden said.
“I need to tell you a couple of things involving a criminal case,” Starling said. “I’m allowed to do that if you’ll keep it in confidence until the case is resolved. It’s important. It means some lives, and I’m not just saying that. Dr. Roden, can you tell me seriously that you’ll respect a confidence?”
“I’m not a doctor. Do I have to sign anything?”
“Not if your word’s any good. You’ll have to sign for the specimen if you need to keep it, that’s all.”
“Of course I’ll help you. I’m not uncaring.”
“Dr. Pilcher?”
“That’s true,” Pilcher said. “He’s not uncaring.”
“Confidence?”
“I won’t tell.”
“Pilch isn’t a doctor yet either,” Roden said. “We’re on an equal educational footing. But notice how he allowed you to call him that.” Roden placed the tip of his forefinger against his chin, as though pointing to his judicious expression. “Give us all the details. What might seem irrelevant to you could be vital information to an expert.”
“This insect was found lodged behind the soft palate of a murder victim. I don’t know how it got there. Her body was in the Elk River in West Virginia, and she hadn’t been dead more than a few days.”
“It’s Buffalo Bill, I heard it on the radio,” Roden said.
“You didn’t hear about the insect on the radio, did you?” Starling said.
“No, but they said Elk River—are you coming in from that today, is that why you’re so late?”
“Yes,” Starling said.
“You must be tired, do you want some coffee?” Roden said.
“No, thank you.”
“Water?”
“No.”