The Silence of the Lambs - Thomas Harris [23]
BRIDE OF FRANKENSTEIN!! screamed the National Tattler from its supermarket racks.
There was no public comment from the FBI, but there was plenty inside the Bureau, Starling was sure.
At breakfast, one of her classmates, a young man who wore a lot of Canoe aftershave, had referred to Starling as “Melvin Pelvis,” a stupid play on the name of Melvin Purvis, Hoover's numberone Gman in the thirties. What Ardelia Mapp said to the young man made his face turn white, and he left his breakfast uneaten on the table.
Now Starling found herself in a curious state in which she could not be surprised. For a day and a night she'd felt suspended in a diver's ringing silence. She intended to defend herself, if she got the chance.
The lecturer spun the roulette wheel as he talked, but he never let the ball drop. Looking at him, Starling was convinced that he had never let the ball drop in his life. He was saying something now: “Clarice Starling.” Why was he saying “Clarice, Starling?” That's me.
“Yes,” she said.
The lecturer pointed with his chin at the door behind her. Here it came. Her fate shied under her as she turned to see. But it was Brigham, the gunnery instruc?tor, leaning into the room to point to her across the crowd. When she saw him, he beckoned.
For a second she thought they were throwing her out, but that wouldn't be Brigham's job.
“Saddle up, Starling. Where's your field gear?” he said in the hall.
“My room--- C Wing.”
She had to walk fast then to keep up with him.
He was carrying the big fingerprint kit from the property room--- the good one, not the playschool kit--- and a small canvas bag.
“You go with Jack Crawford today. Take stuff for overnight. You may be back, but take it.”
“Where?”
“Some duck hunters in West Virginia found a body in the Elk River around daylight. In a Buffalo Billtype situation. Deputies are bringing it out. It's real boonies, and Jack's not inclined to wait on those guys for de?tails.” Brigham stopped at the door to C Wing. “He needs somebody to help him that can print a floater, among other things. You were a grunt in the lab--- you can do that, right?”
“Yeee, let me check the stuff.”
Brigham held the fingerprint kit open while Starling lifted out the trays. The fine hypodermics and the vials were there, but the camera wasn't.
“I need the onetoone Polaroid, the CU-5, Mr. Brigham, and film packs and batteries for it.”
“From property? You got it.”
He handed her the small canvas bag, and when she felt its weight, she realized why it was Brigham who had come for her.
“You don't have a duty piece yet, right?”
“No.”
“You gotta have full kit. This is the rig you've been wearing on the range. The gun is my own. It's the same Kframe Smith you're trained with, but the action's cleaned up. Dryfire it in your room tonight when you get the chance. I'll be in a car behind C Wing in ten minutes flat with the camera. Listen, there's no head in the Blue Canoe. Go to the bathroom while you've got the chance is my advice. Chopchop, Starling.”
She tried to ask him a question, but he was leaving her.
Has to be Buffalo Bill, if Crawford's going himself. What the hell is the Blue Canoe? But you have to think about packing when you pack. Starling packed fast and well.
“Is it---”
“That's okay,” Brigham interrupted as she got in the car. “The butt prints against your jacket a little if some?body's looking for it, but it's okay for now.” She was wearing the snubnosed revolver under her blazer in a pancake holster snug against her ribs, with a speed?loader straddling her belt on the other side.
Brigham drove at precisely the base speed limit to?ward the Quantico airstrip.
He cleared his throat. “One good thing about the range, Starling, is there's no politics out there.”
“No?”
“You were right to secure that garage up at Baltimore there. You worried about the TV?”
“Should I be?”
“We're talking just us, right?”
“Right.”
Brigham returned the greeting of a Marine