"THE SILENCE OF THE LAMBS"
by
Ted Tally
Based on the novel by
Thomas Harris
FADE IN:
INT. GRUBBY HOTEL CORRIDOR - DAY (DIMLY LIT)
A woman's face BACKS INTO SHOT, her head resting against
grimy wallpaper. She is tense, sweaty, wide-eyed with
concentration. This is CLARICE STARLING, mid-20's, trim,
very pretty. She wears Kevlar body armor over a navy
windbreaker, khaki pants. Her thick hair is piled under a
navy baseball cap. A revolver, clutched in her right hand,
hovers by her ear. She raises a speedloader, in her left
hand, locks it into her cylinder, twists and reloads.
CLOSE ON
A guest room door, with a small, wired pack attached to its
knob. Suddenly, wish a sharp CRACK!, the knob explodes, and
the door bursts open.
WITH CLARICE - MOVING SHOT
as she runs around a corner, through a cloud of smoke. She
shoulders aside the shattered door and rushes inside, gun at
the ready in both hands...
CUT TO:
INT. HOTEL ROOM - DAY
CLARICE'S POV - MOVING - as she first sees, sitting on the
edge of a bed - a FEMALE HOSTAGE. Black, late 20's, gagged,
hands behind her back. Then, SWIVELLING... she sees a startled
MALE SUSPECT, white, mid-20's, standing by a window with a
rifle in his hands. He is turning towards her...
Clarice drops into a combat crouch, gun extended, and shouts.
CLARICE
Freeze! FBI!
CLARICE'S POV - SLOW MOTION
all natural SOUND suspended - as the Suspect faces her with
a strange, pleading expression. The rifle is rising in his
hands, but oddly enough, it is held across his chest, not
pointing. Then another puzzling detail registers...
THE SUSPECT'S HANDS
are taped to his gun, away from the trigger; he couldn't use
it even if he tried. Suddenly we hear a metallic CLICK, which
registers with unnatural amplification, as - Clarice reacts,
drops to the floor, rolling sideways, and -
THE "HOSTAGE"
pulls a revolver out from behind her back, still in SLOW
MOTION, raising it in her untied hands. She fires repeatedly,
flames leaping from the muzzle; the SOUND is an echoing roar
in these close quarters, but -
Clarice has come up on one knee, beside an armchair, and is
already firing back herself, two quick SHOTS, which send -
THE "HOSTAGE"
pitching over the bed, backwards, to shudder and lie still
in a haze of gunsmoke. Clarice rushes to her, clamping one
knee down on her gun hand, still keeping her covered in case
of movement. HOLD for a few beats... then we hear the shrill
blast of a WHISTLE from somewhere, off screen, as normal
ACTION and SOUND are restored.
BRIGHAM (O.S.)
Okay, people, good exercise...
Clarice relaxes, lowering her gun. The lights brighten.
PULLING BACK
we see that we're in some sort of auditorium, with the "hotel
room" and its "corridor" built as a training set. JOHN BRIGHAM
walks onto this set, thumbing a stopwatch. Mid-40's, ex-
Marine. His T-shirt's lettering says "Firearms Instructor /
FBI Academy."
BRIGHAM
Starling's reaction time was
excellent. Let's break. Critique in
five.
A class of about forty young FBI trainees, of both sexes,
begins to rise from their seats, mingling and chatting.
Clarice nods amiably to the "Suspect", then gives her
"Hostage" a hand up. It's ARDELIA MAPP, her roommate. Her
broad, clever face breaks into a big smile, as they both
remove ear plugs. Clarice's voice has just a soft trace of
southern accent.
ARDELIA
Damn, Clarice, how'd you make me?
CLARICE
(indicating her gun)
Never cock. Just squeeze.
ARDELIA
(grins)
I love it when you talk dirty.
As Brigham joins them, Clarice can't resist a star pupil's
little smile of pride. He frowns good-naturedly.
BRIGHAM
What're you laughin' at, Junior G-
Man? She got off four rounds to your
two.
He takes out a steel-coiled grip flexer, drops it onto her
palm.
BRIGHAM
(continuing)
One hundred reps, each hand, every
day. Now tidy up, the Section Chief
wants to see you.
He nods a direction, then moves off. Clarice, with her smile
finally fading, looks out into the auditorium.
SPECIAL AGENT JACK CRAWFORD
sits on the top step of the aisle, looking down at her. He
is 53, strongly built. He rises impassively, exits through
the back door. He carries a think manila envelope under one
arm.
Ardelia who is helping Clarice unbuckle her bullet-proof
vest, follows her worried gaze.
CLARICE
What'd I do?
ARDELIA
Stay cool. Just remember to call him
"God."
CUT TO:
EXT. FBI ACADEMY GROUNDS, QUANTICO, VIRGINIA - DAY
Crawford is watching a group of trainees on the firing range,
as Clarice joins him. He looks tired, haunted. Between master
and student, we sense a subtle, muted tug of sexuality.
CRAWFORD
Starling, Clarice M., good morning.
CLARICE
Good morning, Mr. Crawford.
CRAWFORD
Your instructors tell me you're doing
well. Top quarter of the class.
CLARICE
I hope so. They haven't posted
anything.
CRAWFORD
A job's come up and I thought about
you. Not really a job, more of - an
interesting errand. Walk me to my
car, Starling.
They begin to cross the academy grounds. A group of trainees
jogs by, in matching sweats, following a p.e. coach.
CRAWFORD
We're trying to interview all of the
serial killers now in custody, for a
psychobehavioral profile. Could be a
big help in unsolved cases. Most of
them have been happy to talk to us.
They have a compulsion to boast,
these people... Do you spook easily,
Starling?
CLARICE
Not yet.
CRAWFORD
You see, the one we want most refuses
to cooperate. I want you to go after
him again today, in the asylum.
CLARICE
Who's the subject?
CRAWFORD
The psychiatrist - Dr. Hannibal
Lecter.
Clarice stops walking, goes very still. A beat.
CLARICE
The cannibal...
Crawford doesn't respond, except to study her face.
CLARICE
Yes, well... Okay, right. I'm glad
for the chance, sir, but - why me?
CRAWFORD
You're qualified and available. And
frankly, I can't spare a real agent
right now.
He walks on again, at a faster clip. She hurried to keep up.
CRAWFORD
I don't expect him to talk to you,
but I have to be able to say we
tried... Lecter was a brilliant
psychiatrist, and he knows all the
dodges.
(hands her the manila
envelope)
Dossier on him, copy of our
questionnaire, special ID for you...
If he won't talk, then I want straight
reporting. How's he look, how's his
cell look, what's he writing? The
Director himself will see your report,
over your own signature - if I decide
it's good enough. I want that by
0800 Wednesday, and keep this to
yourself.
They're reached his car. His driver stamps on a cigarette,
climbs in behind the wheel. BURROUGHS, his assistant, says
something into a walkie-talkie, then opens the back door.
But Crawford pulls her aside, a hand on her shoulder. His
intensity is scary.
CRAWFORD
Now. I want your full attention,
Starling. Are you listening to me?
CLARICE
Yes sir.
CRAWFORD
Be very careful with Hannibal Lecter.
Dr. Chilton at the asylum will go
over the physical procedures used
with him. Do not deviate from them,
for any reason. You tell him nothing
personal, Starling. Believe me, you
don't want Hannibal Lecter inside
your head... Just do your job, but
never forget what he is.
CLARICE
(a bit unnerved)
And what is that, sir?
CHILTON (V.O.)
Oh, he's a monster. A pure
psychopath...
CUT TO:
INT. CHILTON'S OFFICE - BALTIMORE STATE HOSPITAL FOR THE
CRIMINALLY INSANE - DAY
CLOSE ON an ID card held in a male hand. Clarice's photo,
official-looking graphics. It calls her a "Federal
Investigator."
CHILTON (O.S.)
It's so rare to capture one alive.
From a research point of view, Dr.
Lecter is our most prized asset...
DR. FREDERICK CHILTON looks up from her card. A smarmy little
peacock, behind a vast desk; he's conceived an instant,
hopeless letch for Clarice. He smiles, stroking her card
with his beloved gold pen.
CHILTON
You know, we get a lot of detectives
here, but I must say, I can't ever
remember one so attractive...
NEW ANGLE - REVEALS CLARICE
now wearing a more feminine skirt suit. Hair neatly coiled,
elegant shoulder bag, briefcase. He has rudely left her
standing.
CHILTON
Will you be in Baltimore overnight...?
Because this can be quite a fun town,
if you have the right guide.
Clarice tries, unsuccessfully, to hide her distaste for him.
CLARICE
I'm sure it's a great town, Dr.
Chilton, but my instructions are to
talk to Lecter and report back this
afternoon.
CHILTON
(pause, sourly)
I see.
(beat)
Let's make this quick, then. I'm
busy.
CUT TO:
INT. ASYLUM CORRIDOR - UPPER FLOOR - DAY
Clarice flinches as a heavy steel gate CLANGS shut behind
her, the bolt shooting home. Chilton walks ahead of her.
CHILTON
Lecter carved up nine people - that
we're sure of - and cooked his
favorite bits. We've tried to study
him, of course - but he's much too
sophisticated for the standard tests.
And my, does he hate us! Thinks I'm
his nemesis... Crawford's very clever,
isn't he? Using you.
CLARICE
How do you mean, Dr. Chilton?
CHILTON
A pretty young woman, to turn him
on? I don't believe Lecter's ever
seen a woman in eight years. And oh,
are you ever his "taste" - so to
speak.
CLARICE
I graduated magna from UVA, Doctor.
It's not a charm school.
CHILTON
Good. Then you should be able to
remember the rules.
CUT TO:
INT. DIFFERENT CORRIDOR - LOWER FLOOR - DAY
A darker, even grimmer area. Heavy grids over the lights.
Distant SLAMMINGS and faint, hoarse SHOUTS. They walk briskly.
CHILTON
Do not reach through the bars, do
not touch the bars. You pass him
nothing but soft paper - no pens or
pencils. No staples or paperclips in
his paper. Use the sliding food
carrier, no exceptions. Do not accept
anything he attempts to hold out to
you. Do you understand me?
CLARICE
I understand.
CHILTON
I'm going to show you why we insist
on such precautions... On the
afternoon of July 8, 1981, he
complained of chest pains and was
taken to the dispensary. His
mouthpiece and restraints were removed
for an EKG. When the nurse bent over
him, he did this to her...
He hands Clarice a small, dog-eared photo. Looking at it,
she is stopped in her tracks. This pleases Chilton.
CHILTON
The doctors managed to re-set her
jaw, more or less, and save one of
her eyes. His pulse never got over
eighty-five, even when he ate her
tongue.
(pauses, he smiles)
I keep him in here.
He turns, pushes a button. A steel door BUZZES slowly open,
and BARNEY - a big, impassive orderly - awaits them in an
anteroom. On its walls: restraints, mouthpieces, Mace,
tranquilizer guns.
CLARICE
(quickly blocking him)
Dr. Chilton - if Lecter feels you're
his enemy - as you've said - then
maybe I'll have more luck by myself.
What do you think?
CHILTON
(annoyed)
You might have suggested that in my
office, and saved me the time.
CLARICE
But then I would've missed the
pleasure of your company.
She holds out the photo. A beat. He grabs it, jaw twitching.
CHILTON
When she's finished, bring her out.
He turns on his heel, goes. Barney smiles reassuringly.
BARNEY
Hi, I'm Barney. He told you, don't
get near the bars?
CLARICE
(shaking his hand)
Clarice Starling. Yes, he did.
BARNEY
Okay. Past the others, it's the last
cell. Stay to the middle. I put out
a chair for you.
Sensing her tension, he indicates a nearby security monitor.
BARNEY
I'm watching. You'll do fine.
Clarice nods gratefully. She looks down the long corridor,
takes a deep breath, walks into it. He watches her go.
CUT TO:
INT. DR. LECTER'S CORRIDOR - DAY
MOVING SHOT - with Clarice, as her footsteps ECHO. High to
her right, surveillance cameras. On her left, cells. Some
are padded, with narrow observation slits, others are normal,
barred... Shadowy occupants pacing, MUTTERING... Suddenly a
dark figure in the next-to-last cell hurtles towards her,
his face mashing grotesquely against his bars as he hisses.
DARK FIGURE
I c-can sssmell your cunt!
Clarice flinches momentarily, but then walks on.
DR. LECTER'S CELL
is coming slowly INTO VIEW... Behind its barred front wall
is a second barrier of stout nylon net... Sparse, bolted-
down furniture, many softcover books and papers. On the walls,
extraordinarily detailed, skillful drawings, mostly European
cityscapes, in charcoal or crayon.
Clarice stops, at a polite distance from his bars, clears
her throat.
CLARICE
Dr. Lecter... My name is Clarice
Starling. May I talk with you?
Dr. Hannibal Lecter is lounging on his bunk, in white pajamas,
reading an Italian Vogue. He turns, considers her... A face
so long out of the sun, it seems almost leached - except for
the glittering eyes, and the wet red mouth. He rises smoothly,
crossing to stand before her; the gracious host. His voice
is cultured, soft.
DR. LECTER
Good morning.
CUTTING BETWEEN THEM
as Clarice comes a measured distance closer.
CLARICE
Doctor, we have a hard problem in
psychological profiling. I want to
ask for your help with a
questionnaire.
DR. LECTER
"We" being the Behavioral Science
Unit, at Quantico. You're one of
Jack Crawford's, I expect.
CLARICE
I am, yes.
DR. LECTER
May I see your credentials?
Clarice is surprised, but fishes her ID card from her bag,
holds it up for his inspection. He smiles, soothingly.
DR. LECTER
Closer, please... Clo-ser...
She complies each time, trying to hide her fear. Dr. Lecter's
nostrils lift, as he gently, like an animal, tests the air.
Then he smiles, glancing at her card.
DR. LECTER
(continuing)
That expires in one week. You're not
real FBI, are you?
CLARICE
I'm - still in training at the
Academy.
DR. LECTER
Jack Crawford sent a trainee to me?
CLARICE
We're talking about psychology,
Doctor, not the Bureau. Can you decide
for yourself whether or not I'm
qualified?
DR. LECTER
Mmmmm... That's rather slippery of
you, Officer Starling. Sit. Please.
She sits in the folding metal desk-chair. He waits politely
till she's settled, then sits down himself, faces her happily.
DR. LECTER
Now then. What did Miggs say to you?
(she is puzzled)
"Multiple Miggs," in the next cell.
He hissed at you. What did he say?
CLARICE
He said - "I can smell your cunt."
DR. LECTER
I see. I myself cannot. You use Evyan
skin cream, and sometimes you wear
L'Air du Temps, but not today. You
brought your best bag, though, didn't
you?
CLARICE
(beat)
Yes.
DR. LECTER
It's much better than your shoes.
CLARICE
Maybe they'll catch up.
DR. LECTER
I have no doubt of it.
CLARICE
(shifting uncomfortably)
Did you do those drawings, Doctor?
DR. LECTER
Yes. That's the Duomo, seen from the
Belvedere. Do you know Florence?
CLARICE
All that detail, just from memory...?
DR. LECTER
Memory, Officer Starling, is what I
have instead of view.
A pause, then Clarice takes the questionnaire from her case.
CLARICE
Dr. Lecter, if you'd please consider -
DR. LECTER
No, no, no. You were doing fine,
you'd been courteous and receptive
to courtesy, you'd established trust
with the embarrassing truth about
Miggs, and now this ham-handed segue
into your questionnaire. It won't
do. It's stupid and boring.
CLARICE
I'm only asking you to look at this,
Doctor. Either you will or you won't.
DR. LECTER
Jack Crawford must be very busy indeed
if he's recruiting help from the
student body. Busy hunting that new
one, Buffalo Bill... Such a naughty
boy! Did Crawford send you to ask
for my advice on him?
CLARICE
No, I came because we need -
DR. LECTER
How many women has he used, our Bill?
CLARICE
Five... so far.
DR. LECTER
All flayed...?
CLARICE
Partially, yes. But Doctor, that's
an active case, I'm not involved. If -
DR. LECTER
Do you know why he's called Buffalo
Bill? Tell me. The newspapers won't
say.
CLARICE
I'll tell you if you'll look at this
form.
(he considers, then
nods)
It started as a bad joke in Kansas
City Homicide. They said... this one
likes to skin his humps.
DR. LECTER
Witless and misleading. Why do you
think he takes their skins, Officer
Starling? Thrill me with your wisdom.
CLARICE
It excites him. Most serial killers
keep some sort of trophies.
DR. LECTER
I didn't.
CLARICE
No. You ate yours.
A tense beat, then a smile from him, at this small boldness.
DR. LECTER
Send that through.
She rolls him the questionnaire, in his sliding food tray.
He rises, glances at it, turning a page or two disdainfully.
DR. LECTER
Oh, Officer Starling... do you think
you can dissect me with this blunt
little tool?
CLARICE
No. I only hoped that your knowledge -
Suddenly he whips the tray back at her, with a metallic CLANG
that makes her start. His voice remains a pleasant purr.
DR. LECTER
You're sooo ambitious, aren't you...?
You know what you look like to me,
with your good bag and your cheap
shoes? You look like a rube. A well-
scrubbed, hustling rube with a little,
taste... Good nutrition has given
you some length of bone, but you're
not more than one generation from
poor white trash, are you Officer
Starling...? That accent you're trying
so desperately to shed - pure West
Virginia. What was your father, dear?
Was he a coal miner? Did he stink of
the lamp...? And oh, how quickly the
boys found you! All those tedious,
sticky fumblings, in the back seats
of cars, while you could only dream
of getting out. Getting anywhere -
yes? Getting all the way - to the
F...B...I.
His every word has struck her like a tiny, precise dart. But
she squares her jaw and won't give ground.
CLARICE
You see a lot, Dr. Lecter. But are
you strong enough to point that high-
powered perception at yourself? How
about it...? Look at yourself and
write down the truth.
(she slams the tray
back at him)
Or maybe you're afraid to.
DR. LECTER
You're a tough one, aren't you?
CLARICE
Reasonably so. Yes.
DR. LECTER
And you'd hate to think you were
common. My, wouldn't that sting!
Well you're far from common, Officer
Starling. All you have is the fear
of it.
(beat)
Now please excuse me. Good day.
CLARICE
And the questionnaire...?
DR. LECTER
A census taker once tried to test
me. I ate his liver with some fava
beans and a nice chianti... Fly back
to school, little Starling.
He steps backwards, then returns to his cot, becoming as
still and remote as a statue. Frustrated, Clarice hesitates,
then finally shoulders her bag and goes, leaving the
questionnaire in his tray. But after just a few steps, as
she passes -
MIGG'S CELL
She sees that creature at his bars again, hissing at her.
MIGGS
I b-bit my wrist so I c-can diiiieeee!
S-ee how it bleeeeeeeeds?
The dark figure suddenly flings his palm towards her, and -
CLARICE
is spattered on the face and neck - not with blood, but with
pale droplets of semen. She gives a little cry, touching her
fingers to the wetness. Stunned, near tears, she forces
herself to straighten up and walk on, fumbling for a tissue.
From behind her, Dr. Lecter calls out, very agitated.
DR. LECTER (O.S.)
Officer Starling... Officer Starling!
Clarice slows, stops. She shudders, but makes the very
difficult choice to turn, walk back, stand again in front of -
DR. LECTER
Who's shivering with rage. For an instant his face opens,
and we catch a glimpse into hell itself. Then he's composed
again.
DR. LECTER
I would not have had that happen to
you. Discourtesy is - unspeakably
ugly to me.
CLARICE
Then please - do this test for me.
DR. LECTER
No. But I will make you happy...
I'll give you a chance for what you
love most, Clarice Starling.
CLARICE
What's that, Dr. Lecter?
DR. LECTER
Advancement, of course.
(beat)
Go to Split City. See Miss Mofet, an
old patient of mine. M-O-F-E-T...
Now go. Go.
(a smile)
I don't think Miggs could manage
again so soon, even if he is crazy -
do you?
CUT TO:
EXT. THE HOSPITAL - PARKING LOT - DAY
The grim gothic pile of the asylum looms overhead as Clarice
rushes out the front doors. She is badly shaken, almost
stumbling, as she rubs at her face. She looks around for,
and finally, with some relief, spots -
HER CAR
an old Pinto, parked nearby. This image begins to BLUR...
CLOSE ON
her face, fighting tears, as the CAMERA begins to WHIRL AROUND
her, almost dizzily. She is seeing, in her mind's eye -
IN FLASHBACK
a screen door banging open, on a wooden porch, and a 10-year
old girl - the young Clarice - rushing outside, down the
front steps, and running joyfully across her front yard to -
MOVING ANGLE - THE GIRL'S POV
a car - late 60's vintage - parked in the dirt road. A MAN,
Clarice's father, is just climbing out. He's tall, handsome,
and has a marshal's badge pinned on his dark suit. He grins,
seeing her, and spreads his arms wide as...
THE YOUNG CLARICE
rushes into them, and he sweeps her up in a hug, spinning
her around, the CAMERA SPINNING with them, and capturing
both their laughing faces, before we abruptly return to -
THE ADULT CLARICE
alone in the parking lot, sagging against her car. Her face
is buried in her arms, she shoulders shaking. SOUND UPCUT -
a steady, rapid series of GUNSHOTS, as we
CUT TO:
INT. FBI ACADEMY FIRING RANGE - DAY
Clarice, in a combat stance, and wearing a sound-muffling
headset, is squeezing off ROUND after ROUND at
A MOVING TARGET
The silhouette of a man, approaching along a track. Her shots,
tightly grouped, are all finding the center chest. The target
stops, quite close to her, still swaying.
Clarice stares at it, deftly working her speedloader. Then
she puts a final, emphatic shot right through THE FIGURE'S
FOREHEAD.
CUT TO:
INT. FBI ACADEMY LIBRARY - NIGHT
CLOSE ON a microfilm monitor - a grainy newsphoto of Dr.
Lecter, scrawling past, with an accompanying story ("New
Horrors in Cannibal Trial"), dated 1980.
Clarice is punching keys on the terminal. Other trainees
study at nearby tables.
She pauses, jotting a note on her pad, as Ardelia comes by,
carrying an armful of books.
ARDELIA
Phone call, Clarice. It's God.
CLARICE
Thanks, Ardelia.
MOVING ANGLE
as Clarice rises, grabbing her notebook, and follows Ardelia
past high metal bookstacks.
ARDELIA
You missed Fourth Amendment law.
Unlawful seizure, real juicy stuff.
Where were you all afternoon?
CLARICE
Pleading with a crazy man, with come
all over my face.
Ardelia stares at her, figures it's a put-on, laughs.
ARDELIA
Damn. Wish I had time for a social
life.
Clarice grins, as Ardelia indicates a phone receiver resting
on the check-out desk, then moves on. Clarice picks it up.
CLARICE
(on phone)
Mr. Crawford?
CUT TO:
INT. CRAWFORD'S HOUSE - STUDY - NIGHT
Crawford, in a cardigan, sits in a wing chair in the book-
lined study of his suburban home. He turns the pages of
Clarice's memo as they talk. His tone is sharp.
CRAWFORD
I've read your interim memo on Lecter.
You sure you've left nothing out?
INTERCUTTING
CLARICE
It's all there, sir, practically
verbatim.
CRAWFORD
Every word, Starling? Every gesture?
CLARICE
(a bit heatedly)
Right down to the kleenex I used.
(he is silent)
Sir, why? Is something wrong?
CRAWFORD
He mentioned a name, at the very
end. "Mofet..." Any followup on her?
CLARICE
I spent all evening on the mainframe.
Lecter altered or destroyed most of
his patient histories, prior to
capture. No record of anyone named
Mofet. But "Split City" sounded like
it might have have something to do
with divorce. I tracked it down in
the library's catalogue of national
yellow pages.
(glancing at her notes)
It's a mini-storage facility outside
Baltimore, where Lecter had his
practice.
She pauses, expecting some soft of approval for her
cleverness.
CRAWFORD
Well? Why aren't you there right
now?
CLARICE
Sir, that's a field job. It's outside
the scope of my assignment. And I've
got a test tomorrow on -
CRAWFORD
Do you recall my instructions to
you, Starling? What were they?
CLARICE
To complete and file my report by
0800 Wednesday. But sir -
CRAWFORD
Then do that, Starling. Do just
exactly that.
CLARICE
Sir, what is it? There's something
you're not telling me.
CRAWFORD
(beat)
Miggs has been murdered.
CLARICE
(startled, upset)
Murdered...? How?
CRAWFORD
The orderly heard Lecter whispering
to him, all afternoon, and Miggs
crying. They found him at bed check.
He'd swallowed his own tongue...
Chilton is scared stiff the family
will file a civil rights lawsuit,
and he's trying to blame it on you.
I told the little prick your conduct
was flawless.
(beat)
Starling...?
CLARICE
I'm here, sir, I just - I don't know
how to feel about it.
CRAWFORD
You don't have to feel any way about
it. Lecter did it to amuse himself.
Why not, what can they do? Take away
his books for awhile, and no jello...
(a bit softer)
I know it got ugly today. But this
is your report, Starling - take it
as far as you can. On your own time,
outside of class. Now carry on.
ANGLE ON CLARICE
as we hear the loud CLICK of Crawford hanging up. She stares
at her receiver, stung by his abruptness.
CLARICE
Well God damn it! You old creep.
Creepo son of a bitch. Let Miggs
squirt you and see how you like it.
She slams her receiver into its cradle.
ANGLE ON CRAWFORD
as he flips aside her memo, then rises, wearily. He leaves
his study, flicking off the lamp, and pads away in his
slippers.
CUT TO:
INT. CRAWFORD'S BEDROOM - NIGHT
A private nurse, in white, stands marking a clipboard chart,
as Crawford enters his tidy bedroom.
CRAWFORD
I'll take over, Patricia. You get
some rest.
The nurse nods, hands him the chart, and goes. He glances at
it, then sets it aside. He crosses to -
BELLA CRAWFORD
who lies in an elevated hospital bed. Nearby are an oxygen
tank and mask, floral arrangements. Her breathing is shallow,
very labored. Crawford looks down at his comatose wife for a
long moment, tenderly brushes a strand of her hair back into
place, then bends over to kiss her forehead. SOUND UPCUT -
THUNDER and RAIN...
DISSOLVE TO:
EXT. "SPLIT CITY MINI-STORAGE" - DUSK (RAINING)
An orange neon sign, streaked with rain, identifies out
location. It looms over a hurricane fence, topped with barbed
wire. Inside, row on row of garage-sized, cinderblock sheds.
MR. YOW (V.O.)
Unit 31 was leased for ten years.
Pre-paid in full... The contract is
in the name of "Miss Hester Mofet."
CUT TO:
EXT. STORAGE UNIT NUMBER 31 - DUSK
Clarice, kneeling before a closed, roll-up metal door, takes
a FLASH photo of its sealed padlock. EVERETT YOW, a fat,
60ish Chinaman, holds an umbrella over them both. He looks
unhappy.
CLARICE
So no one's been in here since -
1980?
She opens the padlock, using a fat ring of tagged keys, then
sets aside both keys and lock.
MR. YOW
Not to my knowledge. Privacy is a
great concern to my customers. But,
if you say this is an FBI matter...
CLARICE
I won't disturb anything, Mr. Yow, I
promise. Be gone before you know it.
Slinging her camera over a shoulder, she tugs at the handle,
but the door won't budge. Another tug, harder - no good. Mr.
Yow stoops to help, puffing hard, but it's firmly stuck. He
sighs.
MR. YOW
We could return tomorrow, with my
son. Or perhaps some workmen...?
Clarice crosses to her Pinto, which faces the shed, reaches
in to turn on her headlights. Mr. Yow blinks in the sudden
brightness. Then she opens her truck, rummaging inside, and
returns with a bumper jack, a flashlight, and a rubber floor
mat.
CLARICE
Would you hold these, please?
She gives him her flashlight and camera, drops the mat on
the ground, then sets the bumper jack in place, under the
center of the door. She pumps on the jack handle as the door
SQUEALS slowly up, but it won't go higher than about 18
inches, despite all her exertions. She spreads out the rubber
mat on the cement, takes the flashlight from Mr. Yow, then
lies on the mat.
CUT TO:
INT. THE STORAGE SHED - DUSK (VERY DARK)
Clarice, backlit, peers under the door. She reaches in, makes
a sweep with her flashlight. We catch shadowy outlines -
boxes, then the flattened tires of a car...
SOUND of rain on the tin roof, and other noises, too - small
RUSTLINGS. Mr. Yow's chubby face appears down beside
Clarice's.
MR. YOW
It smells like mice... I think I
hear them, too - don't you?
Clarice turns onto her back, starts squirming under the door.
MR. YOW
You're going in there?
CUT BACK TO:
EXT. STORAGE UNIT NUMBER 31 - DUSK
Clarice pulls her head back out again, reaching to take her
camera from him. She hands him a card, trying to appear
nonchalant.
CLARICE
Mr. Yow, if this door should fall
down -ha ha! - or anything else -
would you be kind enough to call
this number? It's our Baltimore field
office. They know you're here with
me... Do you understand?
MR. YOW
Might I suggest tucking your pants
into your socks? To prevent mouse
intrusion.
CLARICE
(beat)
Good idea.
CUT BACK TO:
INT. STORAGE SHED - DUSK (VERY DARK)
Clarice squirms, on her back, through the narrow opening. As
she squeezes all the way in, she snags one thigh on the metal
edge of the door. She curses softly, shining her flashlight
on her ripped khakis - there's a small streak of blood.
MR. YOW (O.S.)
Okay, Miss Starling?
CLARICE
Okay, Mr. Yow...
She shines her light around. In its narrow beam, we see -
CLARICE'S POV - UPWARD, SHIFTING
spiderwebs, everywhere... high stacks of cardboard boxes...
a few dusty pieces of furniture... the big car, oddly long
and tall, covered with a tarp... Suddenly there's a scurrying
of loud MUSICAL NOTES. Clarice turns, scared, her beam
capturing... an old upright piano.
MR. YOW (O.S.)
You're playing a piano, Miss Starling?
CLARICE
That wasn't me.
MR. YOW (O.S.)
Oh.
Clarice crawls a bit further. There's hardly room to stand,
but she finally manages to wriggle upright, clawing away
cobwebs, next to the car. Holding her light under one arm,
she takes several FLASH photos of the shed's interior, ending
with the car. Then, slinging her camera over the shoulder,
she folds back the tarp, resting it on the roof. The resulting
clouds of dust make her cough.
THE CAR
is an antique beauty, a 1931 Packard. It's very dusty, despite
the tarp. Curtains close off the back passenger compartment,
but there's a narrow gap in them. More mousy RUSTLINGS.
CLARICE
peers in through the gap, aiming her flashlight.
HER POV - SHIFTING
as the thin flashlight beam picks out: the broad back seat...
as open album of lacy, old-fashioned Valentines... a crumpled
lap rug, on the floor... and then a pair of women's shiny,
high-heeled pumps... Above these, the hem of a fancy satin
evening gown - and a pair of pale, stockinged legs.
Clarice recoils, alarmed, then steadies herself.
CLARICE
Mr. Yow? Oh Mr. Yow...? It looks
like somebody is sitting in this
car.
MR. YOW (O.S.)
Oh my! Oh my... Maybe you better
come out now, Miss Starling.
CLARICE
Not yet! - just wait for me.
(under the breath)
Maybe in about two seconds.
She leans down with her camera, takes a FLASH through the
gap, then tries the door handle. Locked. So is the front
door. She looks around, aiming her light, and locates a tangle
of coat-hangers, sticking out of a carton of bric-a-brac.
She pulls out one of these, straightens it quickly, bends
the tip into a hook.
CLOSE ANGLE
as she jams this tool inside the join at the top of the back
passenger window, then fishes around till she can snag the
inside door latch, pulling up. A satisfying CLICK.
Clarice opens the door - it hits stacked boxes, and won't
open far - then very cautiously leans inside, aiming her
flashlight.
HER POV - MOVING LIGHT BEAM
revealing more of the evening gown... a pair of hands, in
white, elbow-length gloves - one rests on the lap, the other
atop a large, beaded, drawstring evening bag... thick strands
of costume pearls over the breasts... and finally the white
neck stub of a female mannequin. No face or head.
CLARICE
sighs with relief. She takes a couple more FLASHES, then
very carefully lifts out the Valentine album, holding it by
the corners, and setting it atop the car. Then she eases
herself inside, onto the back seat, as the springs SQUEAK
loudly.
ONE GLOVED HAND slides off the lap, brushing Clarice's thigh.
Clarice starts a bit, then pokes at the gloved arm, hard.
She peels back a bit of glove, revealing the white, synthetic
elbow. She smiles, shaking her head at her own jumpiness, as
she reaches over the mannequin's lap to loosen the evening
bag's drawstring.
A SEVERED HUMAN HEAD stares back at her, as the beaded
material slides away.
Clarice lurches back, gasping loudly, and several long, heart-
pounding moments pass before she can make herself look more
closely.
The head bobs gently in a pool of alcohol, in a laboratory
specimen jar. It is a man's head, but grotesquely transformed,
by the addition of heavy makeup, earrings, and a sodden wig,
into a woman's face. Over the years the makeup has smeared
badly, and the pupils have gone almost milky white.
CLARICE
staring at this terrible thing, is pleased to find herself
quickly regaining control. She murmurs to herself.
CLARICE
Well, Toto, we're not in Kansas
anymore.
CUT TO:
EXT. QUINN'S HOSPITAL - PARKING LOT - NIGHT (RAINING)
A loud clap of THUNDER, as a flash of LIGHTNING illuminates
the eerie towers and barred windows of the asylum.
MOVING ANGLE on Clarice as she climbs from her car, runs
through heavy rain towards the main entrance, where a guard
admits her.
CUT TO:
INT. DR. LECTER'S CELL AND CORRIDOR - NIGHT (DIM LIGHT)
On a noiseless TV screen, an evangelist rants, waving his
arms. Behind him, a swaying choir in gaudy robes.
CLARICE (O.S.)
It's an anagram, isn't it, Doctor?
PAN TO Clarice, with her wet hair plastered flat, sitting on
the corridor floor to one side of this TV, which has been
stationed so that Dr. Lecter cannot avoid seeing it.
CLARICE
Hester Mofet... "The rest of me."
Miss The-Rest-of-Me... Meaning, you
rented that place.
HER POV
he's lost in shadows; we can't see him. He doesn't respond.
CUTTING BETWEEN THEM
Clarice and the darkened call - as she tries again.
CLARICE
You put those - things in there.
Paid for it in advance, ten years
ago... Why, Dr. Lecter?
The food carrier suddenly SWISHES out of the cell, making
her jump up. In its tray is a clean, folded white towel. She
hesitates, then crosses, takes this.
CLARICE
Thank you.
She sits again, rubbing her wet hair. When he finally speaks,
he's on the floor, too - a deeper, hunching darkness in the
shadows, occasionally striped by the flickering TV light.
DR. LECTER
Your bleeding has stopped.
CLARICE
How did -
(she stops herself)
It's nothing. A scratch.
DR. LECTER
Why don't you ask me about Buffalo
Bill?
CLARICE
(surprised, a beat)
Why? Do you know something about
him?
DR. LECTER
I might if I saw the case file. You
could get that for me.
CLARICE
Why don't you tell me about "Miss
Mofet?" You wanted me to find him.
Or do I have to wait for the lab?
DR. LECTER
(sighs)
His real name is Benjamin Raspail. A
former patient of mine, whose romantic
attachments ran to, shall we say,
the exotic...? I didn't kill him,
merely tucked him away. Very much as
I found him, in that ridiculous car,
in his own garage, after he's missed
three appointments. You'd have him
under "Missing Person" - which, in
poor Raspail's case, could hardly be
more true.
CLARICE
If you didn't kill him, then who
did?
DR. LECTER
Who can say...? Best thing for him,
really. His therapy was going nowhere.
CLARICE
Wouldn't it have been easier to just
leave him for the police to find?
DR. LECTER
And have them clomping about in my
life? Oh dear, no... At that time I
still had certain private amusements
of my own.
(beat)
How did you feel when you saw him,
Clarice? May I call you Clarice?
CLARICE
Scared, at first. Then - exhilarated.
DR. LECTER
Ahhh... Why?
CLARICE
Because you weren't wasting my time.
DR. LECTER
Do you have something you use, when
you need to get up your courage?
Memories, tableaux... scenes from
your early life?
CLARICE
I don't know. Next time I'll have to
check.
DR. LECTER
Jack Crawford is helping your career,
isn't he? Apparently he likes you.
And you like him, too.
CLARICE
I never thought about it.
DR. LECTER
Your first lie to me, Clarice. How
sad. Tell me - do you think Crawford
wants you, sexually? True, he's much
older, but - do you think he
visualizes... scenarios, exchanges...?
Fucking you?
CLARICE
That doesn't interest me, Doctor.
And it's the sort of thing Miggs
would ask.
DR. LECTER
Not anymore.
(beat)
Surely the odd confluence of events
hasn't escaped you, Clarice. Crawford
dangles you before me. Then I give
you a bit of help. Do you think it's
because I like to look at you, and
imagine how good you would taste...?
CLARICE
I don't know. Is it?
DR. LECTER
Or doesn't this all begin to suggest
to you a kind of... negotiation?
There's something Crawford can give
me, and I want to trade for it. I
even wrote to him, offering my help.
But he hates me, so he won't deal
directly.
Dr. Lecter slowly turns up the rheostat in his cell. As his
lights rise, we see that the cell's been stripped bare. Gone
are his books, drawings, mattress - even his toilet seat.
She stands, too, startled. They face each other.
DR. LECTER
Punishment, you see. For Miggs. Just
like that gospel program. When you
leave, they'll turn the volume way
up. Chilton does enjoy his petty
torments.
CLARICE
Who killed Raspail, Doctor...? You
know, don't you?
DR. LECTER
I've been in this room for eight
years, Clarice. I know 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. I want to be in a federal
institution, away from Chilton - and
I want a view. I'll give good value
for it. Crawford could do that for
me, but he won't. You persuade him.
CLARICE
(almost a whisper)
Who killed your patient?
DR. LECTER
Oh, a very naughty boy. Someone you
and Jack Crawford are most anxious
to meet.
CLARICE
Buffalo Bill...?
(incredulous)
Bill killed him, all those years
ago...? That's impossible.
But Dr. Lecter only smiles, enigmatically.
DR. LECTER
Who is he stalking right now, Clarice?
I wonder, don't you? How many more
young women will have to die, before
you trade with me...?
As Clarice stares at him, unsure how to respond -
DISSOLVE TO:
INT. CATHERINE MARTIN'S APARTMENT - MEMPHIS, TENNESSEE -
NIGHT
CATHERINE MARTIN takes a long toke from a bong pipe. She is
21, a tall, big-boned, rather fleshy girl with long brown
fair. Her head is on the lap of her boyfriend, CODY; they're
sprawled on a couch in the den of her well-furnished
apartment. The TV in on, with low SOUND.
CATHERINE
This stuff's givin' me the munchies.
Where's that bag of popcorn?
CODY
Shit. Left the groceries in the car.
He starts to rise, but she pushes him back.
CATHERINE
'S okay, I'll go.
She rises, goes out the front door.
CUT TO:
EXT. PARKING LOT - THE APARTMENT COMPLEX - NIGHT
Catherine straightens, with her bag of groceries, shutting
her car's back door. She sees, a short distance away -
A MAN
standing at the open rear door of a brown panel truck. His
right forearm is in a cast and sling; he is struggling,
unsuccessfully, to hoist an armchair into the truck. Parked
nearby, other cars, RVs, a boat on a trailer. A thin, breast-
high fog fills the lot; arc lights make yellow pools.
Catherine hesitates, then crosses towards the man.
CATHERINE
Help you with that?
MAN
Would you? Thanks.
His voice is odd, strained, very soft. A fog lamp, set on
end on the ground, distorts his features from below. We can't
get a good glimpse of his face, but his body is plump, above
average height; he's in his mid 30's. She sets down the bag,
then together they easily lift the chair into the truck.
MAN (O.S.)
Let's slide it up, you mind?
CUT TO:
INT. THE PANEL TRUCK - NIGHT
He climbs inside the truck, ducking under a small hand winch,
and grabs the chair. She hesitates again, but climbs in after
him; together they slide the chair forward, behind the seats.
MAN
Are you about a size 14?
CATHERINE
(surprised)
What?
Suddenly, in the shadowy dark, he clubs her over the back of
her head with his cast. She moans, slumps unconscious, sliding
off the armchair to lie on her stomach. He pulls off his
cast and sling, tosses them aside, then hops out of the truck,
grabs his lamp, climbs back inside, and pulls the door shut.
He bends over her face with the lamp.
We hear her shallow BREATHING.
MAN
Good.
He peels back the collar of her blouse, reading the size
tag.
MAN
Good.
He carefully slits her blouse up the back, with a pair of
bandage scissors, peeling apart the two halves. There's no
bra strap. He strokes her bare skin delicately, very happily.
MAN
Gooood...
CUT TO:
EXT. THE PARKING LOT - NIGHT
LOW ANGLE - CLOSE - on Catherine's grocery bag, as her blouse
is tossed out beside it. SOUND of the truck's motor starting.
The truck backs up, one rear wheel knocking over the bag,
partly squashing it. Then is drives away, taillights
shrinking, as a lone orange rolls slowly away from the bag...
DISSOLVE TO:
INT. FBI ACADEMY CLASSROOM - QUANTICO - DAY
CLOSE ON a large video screen, where a BLURRY image gradually
sharpens, resolving into two separate pieces of fabric.
INSTRUCTOR (O.S.)
Electron microscopy reveals fiber
"signatures" that are nearly as
distinct as fingerprints...
Clarice sits at a long table, with other trainees. Ardelia
is beside her. Other tables and students in the background.
Each trainee has his own microscope. Clarice is tired, but
straightens, hearing -
INSTRUCTOR (O.S.)
Both of these blouses were worn by
victims of Buffalo Bill. They were
found in two different states, and
four months apart. He always slits
them up the back, like a funeral
suit...
ON THE SCREEN
successively CLOSER VIEWS of the cut fabric edges, until we
are seeing individual threads, big as tree limbs. The cuts
match.
INSTRUCTOR (O.S.)
The bunching you see - this
compression - is characteristic of
scissor cuts, rather than a single
blade. And, as you see - Bill always
uses the same pair...
ANGLE ON THE DOOR
as John Brigham, the gunnery instructor, sticks his head in.
BRIGHAM
Clarice Starling! Are you in here?
CUT TO:
INT. HALLWAY - CLASSROOM BUILDING - DAY
Clarice and Brigham walk briskly down the hall, passing other
trainees. He carries a small canvas bag.
BRIGHAM
Get your field gear, take stuff for
overnight. You're goin' with Crawford.
CLARICE
Where?
BRIGHAM
Some fishermen in West Virginia found
an unidentified girl's body. It's a
Buffalo Bill-type situation. Been in
the water about a week, and Jack
needs somebody that can print a
floater. Think you can handle it?
CLARICE
(thinking quickly)
I'll need the big fingerprint kit...
and the one-to-one Polaroid, the CU-
5, with film packs and batteries.
CUT TO:
INT. BRIGHAM'S JEEP CHEROKEE - DAY (DRIVING)
Brigham steers as they pass hangars, parked planes, an
airstrip. Clarice holds a big fingerprint kit and a weekend
bag.
BRIGHAM
Jack's pretty tough on you, isn't
he? Impatient...
CLARICE
Sometimes.
BRIGHAM
He's got a lot on his mind besides
Buffalo Bill... His wife, Bella, is
real sick. Comatose... I'm tellin'
you about it now, 'cause he may never.
Clarice absorbs this in silence as they stop near an ancient,
rather dilapidated Beechcraft. Its door is open, the twin
props and beacons already turning. Brigham turns to her,
holding out his small canvas bag.
BRIGHAM
You're goin' in the field, so you
gotta have full kit. Take this -
it's my own...
Clarice opens the bag, stares at the big blue gun nestled in
its shoulder holster. She looks up at him, touched.
BRIGHAM
Wear it, don't ever leave it in your
purse. Dry fire it whenever you get
the chance. And do your exercises.
CLARICE
I will... I promise.
BRIGHAM
Listen, I hope you never need a thing
I've taught you. But you've got
something... Jack sees it, I do too.
If you ever need to, you can shoot.
She nods, climbs out. Then she looks back in at him. They're
both moved by this rite of passage, but a little embarrassed.
BRIGHAM
Bless you, Starling...
CUT TO:
INT. BEECHCRAFT PLANE - DAY (FLYING)
CLARICE'S POV - Out the plane's window, at the landscape far
below. Wisps of cloud, a quilt of farms.
Clarice turns from the window, looks at a think folder in
her lap. The cover reads "Case File: / BUFFALO BILL." Clarice
is moody, distracted. She hesitates, then opens the file,
begins to scan.
INSERTS - HER POV
Police forms, some handwritten... Typed lab reports; we catch
words, phrases: "Autopsy Protocols", "Histamine Analysis"...
Grainy enlargements of bullet slugs, showing matched
grooves... And then a stack of victim photos. The first one,
taken from a good distance away, shows a nude female body,
face down on a pebbly riverbank, surrounded by bits of litter.
Clarice hesitates again, then flips this photo to look at
the next. It makes her flinch, just slightly. Quickly she
turns through several more photographs, trying hard to
concentrate.
CRAWFORD (O.S.)
He keeps them alive for three days.
NEW ANGLE
shows Crawford standing over her, swaying with the plane's
motion. Behind him, the open cockpit door, the pilot's back.
Crawford sits, removing sunglasses. He rubs his eyes.
CRAWFORD
Why, we don't yet know... There's no
evidence of rape or physical abuse
prior to death. All the mutilation
you see there is post-mortem.
(a beat; he glances
at her)
I'm hot, are you hot? Bobby, it's
too damned hot back here...
The pilot adjusts a valve. Crawford turns to her again.
CRAWFORD
So. Three days. Then he shoots them,
skins them - usually just the torsos -
and dumps them. Each body in a
different river, in a different state,
downstream from an interstate highway.
The water leaves us no fingerprints,
fibers, DNA fluids - no trace evidence
at all. That's Fredrica Bimmel, the
first one...
A COLOR PHOTO - IN CLARICE'S HANDS
shows a pretty, plump-cheeked brunette, in her high school
graduation cap and gown. She smiles at us with touching
optimism.
CRAWFORD (O.S.)
A big girl, like all the rest. Went
about 160... Her corpse was the only
one he took the trouble to weight
down, so actually, she was the third
girl found. After her, he got lazy...
NEW ANGLE
as Clarice stares at the girl's face, moved. Crawford pulls
a map from the file, spreads it out. It shows the central
and eastern U.S., with widely-spaced, hand-drawn markings.
CRAWFORD
Blue square for Belvedere, Ohio,
where the Bimmel girl was abducted.
Blue triangle where her body was
found - down here in Missouri. Same
marks for the other four girls, in
different colors. This new one,
today... washed up here.
(he marks with a Flair
pen)
Elk River, in West Virginia, about
six miles below U.S. 79. Real boonies.
CLARICE
There's no correlation at all between
where they're kidnapped and where
they're found...?
(he shakes his head)
What if - what if you trace the
heaviest-traffic routes backwards
from the dump sites? Do they converge
at all?
CRAWFORD
Good idea, but he thought of it,
too. We've run simulations, using
different vectors and the best dates
we can assign. You put it all in the
computer, and smoke comes out. No,
this one is different. This one has
seen us coming...
CUT TO:
INT. RENTAL CAR - DAY (DRIVING)
Crawford steers, following a highway patrol car along a
winding mountain road. Clarice has the file open on her lap.
He glances at her, inscrutable behind his sunglasses.
CRAWFORD
Talk about him, Starling. Tell me
what you see.
CLARICE
(choosing her words
carefully)
He's a white male... Serial killers
tend to hunt within their own ethnic
group. And he's not a drifter - he's
got his own house, somewhere. Not an
apartment.
CRAWFORD
Why?
CLARICE
What he does with them - takes
privacy... Time, tools... He's in
his 30's or 40's - he's got real
physical strength, but combined with
an older man's self-control. He's
cautious, precise, never impulsive...
This won't end in suicide, like they
often do.
CRAWFORD
Why not?
CLARICE
He's got a real taste for it now.
And he's getting better at his work.
CRAWFORD
(a beat; impressed)
Maybe you've got a knack for this...
I guess we're about to find out.
CLARICE
(quietly, evenly)
Like I have a "knack" for Dr. Lecter?
He studies her a few moments, measuring her anger.
CRAWFORD
Okay, Starling. Let's have it.
CLARICE
You haven't said a word today about
that garage. Or what I found there.
CRAWFORD
What should I say? You did fine work.
We'll wait on the lab.
CLARICE
You knew. You knew from the start
that Lecter held the key to this...
But you weren't up front with me.
You sent me in to him naked.
CRAWFORD
(beat)
Are you finished?
CLARICE
He starts this - buzzing in me, in
my head. He makes me feel violated...
You used me, Mr. Crawford.
A shadow of regret passes over his face, but he answers
sternly.
CRAWFORD
Number One. Maybe there's a
connection, maybe not. Lying and
breathing are the same thing to
Lecter. Number Two. If I'd sent you
in there with something to hide from
him, he'd have known it, instantly.
He'd never have trusted you.
She starts to answer, then is silent. He is right.
By now the two cars are entering a tidy little town - tree-
lined streets, wooden houses, one-story shops, mountains in
the background. They slow, turn.
CRAWFORD
Number Three, I didn't bring you
along today just because you can do
first-rate forensics. If Lecter is
becoming part of this case, you've
got the most current read on him.
And Number Four - you don't have to
like me, or the way I do things. But
you do have to keep a cool head.
Especially now... Because from here
on out, you'll know everything I do.
Are we straight on that?
Clarice nods, silently; it's as close to an apology as she's
likely to get. She stares out the windshield.
JUST AHEAD OF THEM
the highway patrol cruiser noses into a curb, next to other
police cars, facing a big white frame house. Its sign reads
"Potter Funeral Home." Two troopers climb from the car.
Crawford parks too, then kills the engine. He turns to her,
removing his sunglasses, gestures to the case file.
CRAWFORD
(softly)
You think about him long enough, you
get a feel for him... Then, if you're
lucky, out of all the stuff you know,
one little part of it tugs at you,
tries to get your attention... You
let me know when that happens,
Starling. Live right behind your
eyes, today. Don't try to impose any
patterns on this guy. Just stay open
and let him show you...
One of the troopers, impassive in his sunglasses and hat,
peers in through Crawford's window. Crawford nods to him,
then turns back to Clarice.
CRAWFORD
School's out, Starling.
CUT TO:
EXT. SIDEWALK OF THE FUNERAL HOME - POTTER, WEST VA. - DAY
SOUND of organ music, as Clarice, carrying her fingerprint
kit, mounts some steps to the sidewalk. She stops, seeing -
COUNTRY PEOPLE
in their somber best, filing into the mortuary for a service.
The music - "Shall We Gather At The River?" - is issuing
from the open double doors. Several of the mourners glance
over at her curiously.
ANGLE ON CLARICE
staring back at the mourners, hearing the music, as a sense
memory is triggered in her...
IN FLASHBACK - LOW ANGLE, MOVING
as we approach, down the aisle of a country chapel, an open
wooden coffin. Sad country faces turn, looking at us from
the flanking pews. The b.g. organ hymn is "Shall We
Gather...?"
THE SAD, 10 YEAR-OLD CLARICE
in her best dress, is reluctantly approaching the casket.
Her hands are held by the plump hands of unseen matrons.
CHILD'S POV
on the looming coffin... closer and closer... until finally
she can see, lying inside it... her dead father, arms folded,
his marshal's badge still pinned to his lapel.
CRAWFORD (V.O.)
Starling...?
NEW ANGLE (PRESENT DAY)
as the grownup Clarice turns towards the impatient Crawford.
Like her, he carries a large case.
CRAWFORD
We're around back.
CUT TO:
INT. FUNERAL HOME - BACK CORRIDOR - DAY
A young deputy, several state troopers, and a SHERIFF are
all waiting, as Crawford and Clarice enter. The dim, cluttered
corridor doubles as storage space - there's a treadle sewing
machine, a soft-drink machine, a tricycle. The MUSIC is
closer. Crawford shakes hands with the sheriff.
CRAWFORD
Sheriff Perkins? Jack Crawford, FBI...
This is Officer Starling. We
appreciate your phoning us.
SHERIFF
(grim, unsociable)
I didn't call you. That was somebody
from the state attorney's office...
'For you do a thing else, I'm gon'
find out if this girl's local. It
could just be somethin' that outside
elements has dumped on us.
He casts a sidelong, unhappy glance at Clarice.
CRAWFORD
Well sir, that's where we can help.
If -
SHERIFF
I don't even know you, Mister... Now
we'll extend you ever courtesy, just
soon as we can, but for right now -
CRAWFORD
Sheriff, this, ah - this type of sex
crime has some aspects I'd rather
discuss just between the two of us.
Know what I mean?
He indicates Clarice with his eyes. The sheriff hesitates,
nods, then lets Crawford guide him into a small office,
closing the door behind them. Muffled WORDS from there.
CLARICE
burning at this slight, is left alone with the troopers, who
peek at her with shy curiosity. She pulls her blazer a bit
tighter, self-conscious about her bulging shoulder holster.
ANGLE ON THE OFFICE DOOR
as, after a few more moments, the sheriff and Crawford emerge.
The sheriff, still not very happy, addresses his deputy.
SHERIFF
Oscar, run fetch Dr. Akin from the
chapel. And tell Lamar to come on
when he's done playin' that music.
CUT TO:
INT. EMBALMING ROOM - DAY
Crawford, in one corner of the room, has set up a Litton
Policefax fingerprint transmitter. SOUND of many men's low
voices, in background. He is on the phone, and has to speak
loudly.
CRAWFORD
I need a six-way linkup! Chicago,
Detroit, Cleveland, St. Louis,
Atlanta, and Dallas... What?... Can
you hear me...?
He looks around, frustrated by the noisy circus atmosphere.
CLARICE
is pulling on a pair of surgical gloves. She raises her voice,
turning up her natural accent by several notches.
CLARICE
Gentlemen. You officers and gentlemen!
Listen here a minute, please. There's
things I need to do for her...
WIDER ANGLE
as we see that the small room is very crowded with deputies
and troopers. They gradually fall silent, looking at her.
CLARICE (O.S.)
Y'all brought her this far, and I
know her folks would thank you if
they could. Now please - go on out
and let me take care of her... Go
on, now.
The men look at one another, a little bashfully, then begin
to to file out, whispering among themselves. As they go, a
bright green body bag is REVEALED, tightly zipped, lying on
a porcelain embalming table. It is almost the only modern
object in this Victorian room, with its glass-paned cabinets
and faded wallpaper, decorated with cabbage roses.
FAVORING CRAWFORD
as he looks at Clarice with a new degree of respect. Men
brush by him, till finally only two are left: DR. AKIN, a
family g.p., and LAMAR, a lean, whiskey-reddened mortician.
SOUND of the door closing. Lamar dabs around his nostrils
with Vicks VapoRub.
CRAWFORD
(on phone)
We're starting. Tell everybody to
stand by for fingerprint transmission.
CLARICE
at a side counter, has turned back to her open fingerprint
kit. She is lifting out a camera when she hears the ZIPPER
of the body bag being slowly opened, behind her...
One gloved hand flies to her mouth as she reacts,
involuntarily, to the sudden smell. She blinks at her
reflection in the cabinet glass, then steels herself to turn,
look at the corpse.
CLARICE
(pause; softly)
Bill...
She steadies herself by raising her camera, takes a FLASH
photo.
LOW ANGLE - LOOKING UP, FROM BENEATH TABLE
as Dr. Akin gently lifts aside one of the dead girl's arms.
A piece of fishing line, with multiple hooks, is still snagged
around it, dangling. Crawford leans in for a closer look.
DR. AKIN
Wrongful death... She'll have to go
to the state pathologist at Claxton
when you're done.
(Crawford nods)
I better - get on back for the rest
of that service. Lamar'll help you.
(shaken)
Lord almighty...
He leaves, and Clarice leans INTO SHOT, taking another photo.
CRAWFORD
What do you see, Starling?
CLARICE
Well, she's not local. Her ears are
pierced three times each, and she's
wearing green glitter nail polish.
Looks like town to me...
CLOSE ANGLE
on the calf of one of the girl's legs, as Clarice trails the
inside of her bare wrist along the skin.
CLARICE (O.S.)
She waxed her legs, I think... A big
girl, just like the others - but she
was careful about her appearance...
UPWARD ANGLE AGAIN
as Lamar joins them for a closer look.
CLARICE
Two of the fingernails are broken
off, and there's - dirt or grit under
the others. She tried to claw her
way through something... I'll scrape
out samples after I've printed her.
She takes another FLASH, then quickly reloads film.
LAMAR
Them fishhooks are set too close
together. No wonder the Franklin
boys was scared to say they found
her.
CLARICE
Think they were runnin' a trotline?
Crawford and Lamar both look at her curiously.
CLARICE
(to Crawford)
It's a Fish and Game violation. Like
poaching. There's a big fine.
LAMAR
Right... Are you from around here?
CLARICE
They do it lots of places.
CRAWFORD
Get photos of her teeth. Then we'll
fax her fingerprints to Washington,
try to trace her through Missing
Persons.
SIDE ANGLE - CLOSE ON THE DEAD GIRL'S FACE
staring blue eyes, short reddish hair. Clarice sets the
Polaroid, with its special attachments, against the face,
while Lamar gently retracts the lips. Each time the camera
FLASHES, there's a bright glow inside the cheeks.
NEW ANGLE - CHEST HIGH
as Clarice examines a developing print.
CLARICE
She's got something in her throat.
She hands the print to Crawford; he and Lamar look at it, as
she searches in her kit.
LAMAR
When a body comes out of the water,
alots of times there's like, leaves
and things in the mouth.
Clarice holds up a pair of forceps. She glances at Crawford,
who nods. She bends over, partially OUT OF SHOT, and after a
few moments reappears, holding up a small, brown cylindrical
object. She turns this in the air, as they all stare.
CRAWFORD
What is it - some kind of seed pod?
LAMAR
Nawsir, that's a bug cocoon. But how
come that to get way down in there?
'Less somebody shoved it in...
Clarice and Crawford exchange a glance.
CRAWFORD
She'll be easier to print if we turn
her over. Lamar, will you give me a
hand?
LAMAR
Yessir, I will. Clarice takes a jar
from her kit, carefully drops the
cocoon inside.
SOUND of the men's heavy efforts as they turn over the body,
off screen. She seals the jar, staring into it at the cocoon.
CRAWFORD (O.S.)
Starling - what do you make of these?
She turns to look.
HER POV
low on the corpse's back, over the shoulders, two neat,
triangular patches of skin are missing.
NEW ANGLE - TWO SHOT
as Clarice looks at Crawford.
CLARICE
I don't know. I didn't see those on
any of the other girls...
CRAWFORD
They weren't there. Get close-ups.
Clarice raises her camera, leans in for another FLASH.
CUT TO:
EXT. BACK STEPS OF THE FUNERAL HOME - DAY
Clarice sits outside, with her head on her knees, drained.
She looks up wanly as Lamar appears, offers her a can of
Coke.
CLARICE
Thanks, I'm not thirsty.
LAMAR
No, hold it under your chin, there,
and on your temples. Cold'll make
you feel better. It does me.
She smiles, touched, and takes the can. When Lamar sees
Crawford coming outside, he tactfully departs. Crawford sits
beside her; there's a brief silence. She soothes herself
with the can.
CRAWFORD
When I told that sheriff we shouldn't
talk in front of a woman, that really
burned you, didn't it?
(she is silent)
That was just smoke, Starling, I had
to get rid of him. You did well in
there.
CLARICE
It matters, Mr. Crawford... Other
cops know who you are. They look at
you to see how to act... It matters.
CRAWFORD
(beat)
Point taken.
She looks at him a moment, then offers the can. He opens it.
CRAWFORD
When we get back, I want you to run
that bug by the Smithsonian, see if
they can identify it. Maybe it's got
some limited range, or it only breeds
at certain times of year... You found
it, Starling, you deserve the credit.
CLARICE
I'm wondering if he's done that before -
placed a cocoon, or an insect. It
would be easy to miss in an autopsy,
especially with a floater... Can we
check back on that?
CRAWFORD
(shakes his head)
The other girls are in the ground.
Exhumations are upsetting for the
families. I'll do it if I have to,
but -
CLARICE
Then have the lab check Raspail's
head.
(he looks at her)
Dr. Lecter's patient - have them
probe his soft-palette tissues...
They'll find another cocoon.
CRAWFORD
You seem pretty sure of that.
CLARICE
Raspail was killed by the same man
who's killing these girls. And Lecter
knows him. Maybe even treated him...
You think so, too, don't you? Or
you'd never have sent me to that
asylum.
He looks at her for a moment, then sips again.
CRAWFORD
Before we caught him, Lecter had a
big psychiatric practice in Baltimore.
But he traveled all over the country -
teaching, consulting... Christ, even
testifying in murder trials. Who
knows how many potential psychos he
turned loose, just for the fun of
it...?
DISSOLVE TO:
INT. MR. GUMB'S CELLAR - DAY (DIM LIGHT)
A shadowy male figure looks down at us, leaning over the
edge of a deep hole. He holds a little white poodle in his
arms, stroking it. This is MR. GUMB, aka "Buffalo Bill."
MR. GUMB
(softly)
Rub the cream on your skin. Rub it
in gooood...
CATHERINE MARTIN
looks up at him. She is standing on the cement bottom of the
pit, or oubliette, about 15 feet below floor level. The pit
is bare, except for a futon and a plastic toilet bucket,
from which a thin string rises up to the basement. She's
soaking wet, in an orange jumpsuit, and holds a squeeze bottle
of skin lotion. She struggles to sound calm.
CATHERINE
Mister... my family will pay cash.
Whatever ransom you're askin' for,
they -
REVERSE ANGLE - UP TOWARDS MR. GUMB
MR. GUMB
Rub it in! Or you'll get the hose
again.
The little dog squirms in his arms, BARKING excitedly.
MR. GUMB
Yes, it will, Precious, won't it? It
will get the hose!
SIDE ANGLE - AT PIT BOTTOM
as Catherine kneels, turning slightly away from him.
CATHERINE
(under her breath)
Oh God... oh God...
She unzips her jumpsuit, part-way, then squeezes some of the
lotion onto a palm. She reaches inside her suit, rubs it on.
CATHERINE
Mister, if you let me go, I won't
press charges, I promise. You've
only had me here a couple days, and -
MR. GUMB (O.S.)
No. Just one day...
CATHERINE
Is that all...? See - see, my mom is
a real important woman... Well, I
guess you already know that. She'll
pay you, no questions asked. Whatever
cause you represent - Iran, Palestine -
she'll see that -
A sudden blinding glare of light silences her. She looks up,
shielding her eyes.
HER POV
a floodlamp is descending, attached to a small basket.
MR. GUMB
Put the bottle in the basket. No
funny business, or you'll be sorry...
NEW ANGLE - CATHERINE
as the basket stops, and she steadies it. But as she slips
the bottle in, she sees something, O.S., just at the fringe
of the light. She hesitates, looks closer... then begins to
scream, hysterically, again and again. Her outflung hand
hits the lamp, and in its swaying glare, we see - high on
the concrete walls, all around her -
BLOODY FINGER TRACKS
dried now, brownish - left by many pairs of frenzied hands...
CUT TO:
INT.CLARICE'S DORM ROOM - FBI ACADEMY - DAWN
Clarice is at her desk, exercising her right hand with the
grip flexer, while simultaneously studying a thick law book.
Ardelia sticks her head in the door, excited.
ARDELIA
You better come see this.
CUT TO:
INT. RECREATION ROOM - FBI ACADEMY - DAWN
CLOSE ON a TV screen, filled with a photo of Catherine Martin.
TV ANCHOR (V.O.)
...was listed at first simply as a
missing person, but is now believed
to have been kidnapped by the serial
killer known only as "Buffalo Bill."
The photo disappears, replaced by the TV ANCHOR himself.
TV ANCHOR
Memphis Police sources indicate that
the missing girl's blouse has been
identified, sliced up the back, in
what has become a kind of grim calling
card. Young Catherine Martin, as
we've said, is the only daughter of
U.S. Senator Ruth Martin -
CLARICE
looks at Ardelia, surprised. Other trainees are drifting
into the rec room, some whispering among themselves. Clarice
stares back at the TV intently.
TV ANCHOR (O.S.)
...the Republican junior senator
from Tennessee. And while her
kidnapping is not at this point
considered to be politically
motivated, nevertheless it has stirred
the government -
BACK ON THE TV ANCHOR
TV ANCHOR
...to its highest levels, the
president himself being said to be,
and I quote, "intensely concerned."
Just moments ago, Senator Martin
made this dramatic personal plea...
SENATOR MARTIN (TV FOOTAGE)
fills the screen, in a halo of lens flare, as she speaks to
a jostling crowd of reporters on the front steps of her
Georgetown home. A tall woman, late 40's, with a strong,
taut face.
SEN. MARTIN
I'm speaking now to the person who
is holding my daughter. Her name is
Catherine... You have the power to
let Catherine go, unharmed. She's
very gentle and kind - talk to her
and you'll see. Her name is
Catherine...
Clarice is moved by what she sees. Other trainees are all
around her.
CLARICE
(whispers)
Boy, is that smart...
ARDELIA
Why does she keep repeating the name?
CLARICE
Somebody's coaching her... They're
trying to make him see Catherine as
a person - not just an object.
ON THE TV AGAIN
SEN. MARTIN
You have a chance to show the whole
world that you can be merciful, as
well as strong. Please - I beg you -
release my Catherine...
NEW FOOTAGE
as we see (NIGHT, TELEPHOTO) - a taped-off section of
Catherine's parking lot. Technicians, with instruments, are
kneeling by the crushed grocery bag.
2ND TV ANCHOR (V.O.)
Meanwhile. in Memphis, the
investigation continued throughout
the night, as state and local
authorities were joined at the kidnap
scene by agents of the FBI...
MOVING ANGLE (STILL TV FOOTAGE)
as Jack Crawford is seen striding towards the front door of
Catherine's apartment, followed by Burroughs and other agents.
One of them moves quickly towards the CAMERA, waving it back.
REC ROOM ANGLE - FAVORING ARDELIA
as the other trainees send up a brief, ironic cheer. But
Ardelia turns sympathetically towards the troubled Clarice.
ARDELIA
I don't know whether to say "I'm
sorry," or "Congratulations." But
girl? - you just went prime time.
CUT TO:
EXT. SMITHSONIAN - MUSEUM OF NATURAL HISTORY - DAY
The massive Victorian building looms over Constitution Avenue.
Clarice quickly mounts the steps, carrying a small plastic
box.
CRAWFORD
I don't think he knew that she's a
Senator's child. She's a big girl,
Starling, like all the rest. We're
going on the theory she was randomly
targeted by size...
CUT TO:
INT. MUSEUM CORRIDOR - DAY
Clarice, now accompanied by a museum guard, walks through an
eerie landscape of dinosaur bones - crouching skeletons with
blank eye sockets, gaping fangs.
CRAWFORD (V.O.)
By now, Bill's had her for 36 hours.
That leaves us just 36 more, before
he kills her... But maybe, just maybe,
Starling, we caught a real break
this time - thanks to you.
(beat)
We found another bug, in Raspail's
head.
CUT TO:
INT. MUSEUM OFFICE - DAY
CLOSE ON an live, enormous, rhinoceros beetle, as it weaves
its clumsy way among the men on a chessboard, before finally
stepping off the edge, onto a lettuce leaf.
RODEN (V.O.)
Time, Pilch! My move.
PILCHER (V.O.)
No fair! You lured him with produce.
WIDER ANGLE
shows two entomologists, both 30ish, hunched over the board.
RODEN is a pudgy redhead; PILCHER is lean, quite handsome.
RODEN
Tough noogies! It's still my turn.
CLARICE (O.S.)
If the beetle moves one of your men,
does that count?
They look up, delighted to see Clarice in the doorway. Both
men are hopelessly smitten by her.
RODEN
Of course it counts. How do you play?
PILCHER
(grins)
Officer Starling. Welcome back.
CUT TO:
INT. ENTOMOLOGY CORRIDOR - DAY
MOVING ANGLE as Clarice and the two men go briskly down a
hall lined with mounted insects, in all shapes and sizes.
Roden peers at Clarice's new cocoon, in its box.
RODEN
Where the hell did this one come
from? It's practically mush.
CLARICE
You really don't want to know.
PILCHER
Your West Virginia specimen gave us
quite a bit of trouble, but I finally
managed to narrow his species through
chaetaxy - studying the skin.
RODEN
I'm the one who found his perforating
proboscis! Are you wearing a gun,
right now?
(Clarice nods)
Ooh, cool! Can I see it? Can I?
PILCHER
Just ignore him. He's not a Ph.D.
CUT TO:
INT. LABORATORY - DAY
VERY CLOSE (MAGNIFICATION) on the sliced cocoon, as Roden
uses tweezers and a dental probe to ease out the sodden
chrysalis.
RODEN (O.S.)
The whole trick is to remove the
chrysalis without destroying it...
The wings are just like wet tissue
paper...
THE TWO MEN
are hunched over a formica table, peering through square
magnifiers into stainless trays. Clarice watches curiously.
Of their two specimens, Pilcher's moth is in much better
condition - a big brown creature, its wings outspread on
towel paper.
PILCHER
(without looking up)
What do you do when you're not
detecting, Officer Starling?
CLARICE
I try to be a student, Dr. Pilcher.
PILCHER
Ever get out for cheeseburgers and
beer? The amusing house wine...?
CLARICE
(smiles)
Not lately. But maybe someday.
He looks up at her, shyly. A little moment passes between
them, before Roden straightens, exultant.
RODEN
Positive match!
CLARICE
You're sure?
RODEN
(points with his dental
probe)
West Virginia... Baltimore. Officer
Starling, meet Mister Acherontia
Styx.
He moves aside for Clarice to get a closer look at Pilcher's
specimen. She leans forward, intently.
HER POV (MAGNIFICATION)
the wide, furry, brown back of the moth. And there, right
between the wing bases - wonderful and terrible to see - is
nature's perfect reproduction of a ghostly human skull.
RODEN (O.S.)
Better known to his friends as the
Death's-head Moth...
PILCHER (O.S.)
The Latin name comes from two rivers
in Hell. Your man - he drops these
girls into rivers, every time. Didn't
I read that?
FAVORING CLARICE
as she looks up at him, awed, excited, almost trembling.
CLARICE
And there's no way - no natural way -
these could've wound up in the bodies?
PILCHER
(shakes his head)
They live in Malaysia. In this
country, they'd have to be specially
raised, from imported eggs.
CLARICE
(pause, then softly)
Dr. Lecter...
As the two men stare at her, puzzled, we hear a SOUND UPCUT -
the wail of police SIRENS - and...
CUT TO:
EXT. U.S. ROUTE 95 - DAY (AERIAL SHOT)
An awesome armada of police vehicles swings through an
intersection, while normal traffic is held back by highway
patrol cruisers.
The lead cars turn off, hit the entrance ramp to the freeway -
SIRENS going, tires SQUEALING, red flashers...
CLOSER ANGLE
on a speeding surveillance van, with long antennas and a
small satellite dish, near the head of the motorcade.
CRAWFORD (V.O.)
Maybe we can trace how he buys the
bugs, starting with U.S. Customs...
CUT TO:
INT. THE SURVEILLANCE VAN - DAY (DRIVING)
The van is crammed with an impressive array of hi-tech
equipment, all CLICKING and HUMMING. Burroughs is talking
quietly on a scrambler phone, while another agent works a
computer.
CRAWFORD (O.S.)
Maybe we can locate some of Raspail's
old lovers. Maybe, someday...
CLARICE AND CRAWFORD
sit in swivel seats at the rear, by a big window. Clarice
can't resit an occasional peak at the trailing motorcade,
awed and a bit thrilled to be the center of so much attention.
CRAWFORD
But for Catherine Martin, it all
comes down to you and Lecter. You're
the one he talks to.
CLARICE
He's already offered to help... What
would happen if we just showed our
cards - asked him for Bill?
CRAWFORD
He offered to help, Starling, not to
snitch. That wouldn't give him enough
chance to show off. Remember, Lecter
looks mainly for fun. Never forget
fun.
CLARICE
But if he knew we have so little
time -
CRAWFORD
If we act too anxious, he'll make us
wait. He'll let the Senator keep
hoping, day after day, until Catherine
finally washes up. That'd be the
most fun of all.
CLARICE
I think he means it, this time. I
think he'll deal.
CRAWFORD
What would it take?
CLARICE
Transfer to a new prison. With a
view of trees, he said, or even
water... Can we swing that?
CRAWFORD
(shakes his head)
State to federal jurisdiction... We
can do it - eventually - but we'll
never get all the clearances in time.
Can you convince him a deal's already
in place?
CLARICE
You'll back me up with some paperwork?
(he nods)
Then I'll try. But wouldn't this
have more weight coming from the
Senator herself?
CRAWFORD
(hesitates)
She doesn't know what we're up to.
And we can't afford to let her find
out.
Clarice looks at him, surprised.
CRAWFORD
She's the mother, Starling. She can't
possibly comprehend what Lecter is.
She'd make the mistake of pleading
with him. Begging him... He'd feast
on her pain till the last second of
that girl's life...
CUT TO:
INT. BALTIMORE STATE HOSP. FOR THE CRIMINALLY INSANE - DAY
Chilton approaches, walking briskly down a corridor in the
administration wing. He looks quite agitated.
CRAWFORD (V.O.)
We can't trust Frederick Chilton,
either. He's greedy and ambitious.
If he knew about Lecter's link to
Bill, he's go straight to the
newspapers...
Chilton falls into step beside Clarice, who has her briefcase.
He points his gold pen at her accusingly.
CHILTON
What you're doing, Miss Starling, is
coming into my hospital to conduct
an interview, and refusing to share
information with me. For the third
time!
CLARICE
Dr. Chilton, I told you - this is
just routine follow-up on the Raspail
case.
CHILTON
He's my patient! I have rights!
(grabs her arm,
stopping her)
I'm not just some turnkey, Miss
Starling. I shouldn't even be here
this afternoon. I had a ticket to
Holiday on Ice.
She stares at him, with pity and distaste, till he lets go.
CLARICE
I'm acting on instruction, Dr.
Chilton.
(handing him a card)
This is the U.S. Attorney's number.
Now please - either discuss this
with him, or let me do my job.
She walks away, leaving him speechless with frustration and
hostility. He clicks his pen, watching her go.
CUT TO:
INT. DR. LECTER'S CELL AND CORRIDOR - DAY
Dr. Lecter sits at his table, languidly sketching with
charcoal on