Week Five - Mythical Structures

The Silence of the Lambs

Clarice's Call to Adventure

Agent Clarice Starling walked uncertainly into Mr. Crawford's office. She had no idea what she'd been called for. She had been in the middle of running the Academy obstacle course and she was sweating profusely. The FBI Academy sweatpants and sweatshirt she wore over her t-shirt were practically soaked with sweat. The only things presentable about her now were the pearl earrings she always wore.

Clarice clasped both hands behind her back and looked around the empty office. There were bookcases and file cabinets to the right and left of her, all covered with stacks and stacks of books. Clarice noted the messy desk in front of her and the little computer desk and chair to the right of that; all covered with something. On the wall in front of her was what looked to be a couple of certificates or degrees. A lamp sat on top of one of the file cabinets, making the room seem both comfortable and eerie.

As her gaze swept around the full perimeter of the room, her body followed. She turned and suddenly stopped short. In front of her was a menagerie of massacre. It was only a bulletin board, but from one side of it to the other were photos of dead bodies taken at various crime scenes. The photos showed naked female bodies, most of them with their skin horribly ripped away; skinless torsos and bloodied legs and feet dominated the wall. Starling stared at the photos as if entranced. To the bottom of the board was clipped a newspaper's front page. The caption read “Bill Skins Fifth”, and below it were the pictures of the girls who had fallen victim to him. Clarice thought that this had to be related to the Buffalo Bill serial killer case.

“Agent Starling,” a deep and not unpleasant voice called, startling Clarice out of her gaze, “Clarice M. Good morning.”

“Good morning, Mr. Crawford,” answered Clarice, trying to maintain her composure after having seen the devastation on the bulletin board.

Mr. Crawford was a tall distinguished-looking gentleman. He wore a gray three-piece suit, white shirt adorned with a gray tie and silver eye-glasses. His freshly cut hair was neat against his head, parted on the side. His jewelry consisted of a silver watch and one thin gold bracelet. As he walked around his desk, taking off his jacket, Clarice could not help but wonder what he'd called her into his office for.

“I hear you're doing well in your studies here, Clarice; top of your class,” he said, taking a seat at his desk and reclining, bringing both hands up behind his head. The rush of movement caused Clarice to get a whiff of the cologne he was wearing. She didn't know what it was, but it was something fresh and clean; in complete contrast to the rest of the room.

“I hope so, sir,” answered Clarice, smiling.

“I have a job that's come up and I thought about you,” he said. “Sit down.”

Clarice sat down in the lone chair which sat in front of Crawford's desk. He pulled out a folder and started reading off Clarice's credentials and accomplishments. Visibly uncomfortable with the praise, Clarice started to fidget, reaching up and unconsciously rubbing her earring. “It says here that you'd like to come and work for me in Behavioral Sciences,” Crawford continued.

“Yes, sir,” Clarice said, “very much.”

He looked directly at Clarice for a brief moment, and then leaned forward onto the desk. “We're interviewing all serial killers now in custody for a psycho-behavioral profile. It could be a real help in unsolved cases.”

Clarice immediately sat forward. She listened intently now, brow furrowed.

“Most of them are participating, but there's one we can't seem to get to cooperate.” Crawford stopped a brief beat and said “You spook easily, Starling?”

Clarice laughed again, nervously. “No sir. Not yet, anyway.” She was still a bit uncomfortable to be sitting in front of the Director smelling of sweat, with her hair in slight disarray.

“You see the one we want most refuses to cooperate,” he said. “That's where you come in. We'd like to send you out to the asylum to take another crack at him.”

“And, who's the subject?” Clarice asked.

“The psychiatrist, Hannibal Lecter.”

“Hannibal, the cannibal,” Clarice said dreamily, almost as if she couldn't believe it. Suddenly, the room seemed much less comfortable and much more dreary.

“I don't expect him to talk to you,” says Crawford in the same calm and soothing tone he'd had throughout the conversation. “But I have to be able to say we tried. So, if he won't cooperate, I want just straight reporting: What's he doing. Is he painting? How does he look? Is he sketching? If so, what's he sketching? That kind of thing.”

Clarice swallowed hard, trying to grasp the reality of the situation. She was being asked to meet with Hannibal Lecter, and she realized the impact that this could have on her career as an agent. She focused intently on every word that Crawford was saying.

He picked up a thick file from atop a dozen other documents and sheets of paper covering his desk and placed it in front of Clarice. She was sitting completely upright. “Here's a dossier of Lecter, a copy of our questionnaire and a special ID for you,” he said, placing the other items on top. “Have your memo on my desk by 0800 Wednesday.”

“OK,” Clarice said, quickly grabbing the pile and standing. She turned to make her way out of the office, but suddenly stopped, seeming to have an afterthought. Turning back to Crawford, she said “Excuse me, sir, but why the urgency? Lecter's been in jail for many years now. Is there some connection between him and Buffalo Bill, maybe?” she asked, hunching her shoulders and lifting her head in the direction of the bulletin board.

“I wish there were,” Crawford answered, with what appeared to be the hint of a sad smile on his face. “I want your full attention on this, Starling.” Crawford remained seated behind his desk, but his presence was still the dominant one in the room.

“Yes, sir,” said Clarice, still intensely listening.

“Be very careful with Hannibal Lecter,” Crawford said, looking directly into Clarice's eyes. His voice had taken an ominous tone. “Dr. Chilton at the asylum will go over all the physical procedures used with him. Do not deviate from them, whatsoever. And by no means do you share anything personal with him, Starling. Believe me, you don't want Hannibal Lecter inside your head. Just do your job, but never forget what he is.”

“And what is that?” she asked, concerned.

“Oh, he's a monster.”