The Silence of the Lambs - Thomas Harris [12]
“How do you trace the current registration...”
“...sixtyfivesixtysixsixtysevensixtyeightsixty...”
“...of a car when you've only got the serial num?ber...”
“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 justifiedStarling 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 your” ---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?--- chopchop.
“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 bluehandled 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 current car registrations by make and consecutive serial number. It's the only place. Car dealers steer then 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 pa?tiendy, 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 rumprump like a party line. She tried at night and got no answer.
At Wednesday lunch period, a man answered Star?ling'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?”
“This is the MidSouth regional office of the Ford recall division? He's entitled to some warranty work on his LTD free of charge?”
“I'm Bardwell. I thought you was trying to sell me something on that cheap long distance. It's way too late for any adjustment, I need the whole thing. Me and the wife was in Little Rock, pulling out of the Southland Mall there?”
“Yessir.”
“Durn rod come out through the oil pan. Oil all over everywhere and that Orkin truck that's got the big bug on top of it? He hit that oil and got sideways.