"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 butcher paper. He uses his own hand and forearm as a model. His other drawings, books, and bedding have been restored. DR. LECTER Wouldn't you say, Clarice,