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, with 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, SWIVELING... 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, O.S., 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 (contd.)
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 (contd.)
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 RAY 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 bulletproof 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 (contd.)
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 (contd.)
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 (contd.)
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 (contd.)
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 I.D. card held in a male hand. Clarice's photo,
official-looking graphics. It calls her a "Federal Investigator."
CHILTON (contd., 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 (contd.)
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 (contd.)
Will you be in Baltimore overnight...?
Because this can be quite a fun town,
if you have the right guide.
Clarice tires, 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 (contd.)
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.
(pause; 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 - them 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 (contd.)
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 police 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 (contd.)
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 (contd.)
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 (contd.)
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 you
could -
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 (contd.)
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 (contd.)
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 sillouette 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 booklined
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 -
STARLING
It's all there, sir, practically
verbatim.
CRAWFORD
Every word, Starling? Every gesture?
STARLING
(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?
STARLING
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?
STARLING
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?
STARLING
To complete and file my report by 0800
Wednesday. But sir -
CRAWFORD
Then do that, Starling. Do just exactly
that.
STARLING
Sir, what is it? There's something you're
not telling me.
CRAWFORD
(beat)
Miggs has been murdered.
STARLING
(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...?
STARLING
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 loca-
tion. 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. Prepaid
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 (contd.)
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 coathangers,
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. LECTER'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 (contd.)
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 (contd.)
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 (contd.)
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 attach-
ments 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 (contd.)
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 APT. - 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 (contd.)
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 (contd.)
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 (contd.)
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 dis-
tinct as fingerprints...
CLARICE
sits at a long table, with other trainees. Ardelia is beside
her. Other tables and students in the b.g. Each trainee has his
own microscope. Clarice is tired, but straightens, hearing -
INSTRUCTOR (contd.,O.S.)
Both of these blouses were worn by vic-
tims 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 (contd.,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 (contd.)
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.
BRIGMAN
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 (contd.)
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, dis-
tracted. 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 (contd.)
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 (contd.)
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 (contd., 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 (contd.)
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.
Then 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 b.g. They slow, turn.
CRAWFORD (contd.)
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 (contd.)
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 (contd.)
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
Wellsir, 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, clo-
sing 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 b.g. 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 (contd., 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 (contd., 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 (contd.)
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 (contd.)
(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,
O.S. 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 -
High 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 (contd.)
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. Ex-
humations 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 travelled 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. What-
ever 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 (contd.)
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 (contd.)
Mister, if you let me go, I won't press
charges, I promise. You've only has 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 (contd.)
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 (contd., 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 (contd.)
- 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 (V.O.)
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 (contd., 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 detec-
ting, 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 (contd., 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
resits an occasional peak at the trailing motorcade, awed and a
bit thrilled to be the center of so much attention.
CRAWFORD (contd.)
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 (contd.)
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 (contd., 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, that for a
United States Senator, you're an odd
choice of messenger?
Clarice, sitting again at the desk-chair, is taking papers from
her briefcase.
CLARICE
I was your choice, Dr. Lecter. You chose
to speak to me. Would you prefer someone
else now? Or perhaps you don't think you
can help us.
DR. LECTER
That is both impudent and untrue... Tell
me, how did you feel when you viewed our
Billy's latest effort?
(beat; he smiles)
Or should I say, his "next-to-latest"?
CLARICE
By the book, he's a sadist.
DR. LECTER
Life's too slippery for books, Clarice.
Typhoid and swans came from the same God.
(beat)
Tell me, Miss West Virginia - was she a
large girl?
CLARICE
Yes.
DR. LECTER
Big through the hips. Roomy.
CLARICE
They all were.
DR. LECTER
Mmm. And what else...?
CLARICE
She had an insect deliberately inserted
in her throat. That hasn't been made
public yet. We don't know what is means.
DR. LECTER
Was it a butterfly?
CLARICE
(pause; staring at him)
A moth... How did you predict that?
DR. LECTER
I'm waiting for your offer, Clarice.
Enchant me.
Clarice looks down at her papers, taking a moment to collect
her thoughts. She looks up at him again, evenly.
CLARICE
If you help us find Buffalo Bill in time
to save Catherine Martin, the Senator
promises you a transfer to the V.A. hospital
at Oneida Park, New York, with a view
of the woods nearby. Maximum security still
applies, but you'd have reasonable access
to books.
He is silent. She rises, moves closer, carrying papers.
CLARICE (contd.)
Best of all, though - one week a year you'd
get to leave the hospital and go here.
(points to a map)
Plum Island. Every afternoon of that week
you can walk on the beach or swim in the
ocean for up to one hour. Under SWAT team
surveillance, of course...
His face remains neutral. She puts the papers in his food tray.
CLARICE (contd.)
Copy of the Buffalo Bill case file, copy of
Senator Martin's terms. Her offer is final
and non-negotiable. If Catherine dies -
(She slides his tray through)
You get nothing.
A measured beat, before he rises smoothly, crosses, and looks
down at the papers, without touching them.
DR. LECTER
"Plum Island Animal Disease Research
Center." Sounds charming.
CLARICE
That's just part of the island. It has
a very nice beach. Terns nest there.
DR. LECTER
Terns... If I help you, Clarice, it will
be "turns" with us, too. Quid pro quo. I
tell you things, you tell me things. Not
about this case, though - about yourself.
Yes or no?
(She is silent)
Yes or no, Clarice. Catherine is waiting.
Tick-tock, tick-tock...
She looks at him. A beat. They are standing uncomfortably close.
CLARICE
Go, Doctor.
DR. LECTER
What's your worst memory of childhood?
(She hesitates)
Quicker than that. I'm not interested
in your worst invention.
CLARICE
The death of my father.
DR. LECTER
Tell me. Don't lie, or I'll know.
Clarice cannot bear the feverish excitement in his eyes. She
looks past him, hesitating again.
CLARICE
He was a town marshal... one night he
surprised two burglars, coming out the
back of a drugstore... They shot him.
DR. LECTER
Killed outright?
CLARICE
No. He was strong, he lasted almost a
month. My mother - dies when I was very
young, so my father had become - the whole
world to me... After he left me, I had
nobody. I was ten years old.
DR. LECTER
You're very frank, Clarice. I think - it
would be quite something to know you in
private life.
CLARICE
Quid pro quo, Doctor.
DR. LECTER
The significance of the moth is change.
Caterpillar into cocoon into beauty...
Billy wants to change, too, Clarice.
But there's the problem of his size, you
see. Even if he were a woman, he'd have
to be a big one...
CLARICE
(puzzled)
Dr. Lecter, there's no correlation in the
literature between transsexualism and
violence. Transsexuals are very passive.
DR. LECTER
Clever girl. You're so close to the
way you're going to catch him - do you
realize that?
CLARICE
No. Tell me why.
DR. LECTER
After your father's death, you were
orphaned. What happened next?
(Clarice drops her gaze)
I don't imagine the answer's on those
second-rate shoes, Clarice.
CLARICE
I went to live with my mother's cousin
and her husband in Montana. They had
a ranch.
DR. LECTER
A cattle ranch?
CLARICE
Horses - and sheep...
DR. LECTER
How long did you live there?
CLARICE
Two months.
DR. LECTER
Why so briefly?
CLARICE
I - ran away...
DR. LECTER
Why, Clarice? Did the rancher fuck you?
CLARICE
(angrily)
No.
DR. LECTER
Did he try to?
CLARICE
No...! Quid pro quo, Doctor.
DR. LECTER
Billy's not a real transsexual, but he
thinks he is. He tries to be. He's tried
to be a lot of things, I except.
CLARICE
You said - I was very close to the way
we'd catch him.
DR. LECTER
There are three major centers for transsexual
surgery: Johns Hopkins, the University
of Minnesota, and Columbus Medical
center. I wouldn't be surprised if
Billy has applied for sex reassignment at
one or all of them, and been rejected.
CLARICE
On what basis would they reject him?
DR. LECTER
The personality inventories would trip
him up. Rorschach, Wechsler, House-Tree-
Person... He wouldn't test like a real
transsexual.
CLARICE
How would he test?
Suddenly Dr. Lecter snarls, loudly, stretching. Clarice take a
sharp step backwards before he smiles, turning his movement
into an elaborate yawn. He gathers the papers from his tray.
DR. LECTER
That's enough, I think. Happy hunting.
Oh, and Clarice - next time you will
tell me why you ran away. Shall I
summarize?
CLARICE
(shaken)
Yes, Doctor. Please.
CUT TO:
INT. MR. GUMB'S CELLAR - DAY
VERY CLOSE ON a cocoon, split along its back, as a living
Death's-head Moth wriggles torturously free. Trembling and
damp, the new creature clings to a sprig of nightshade.
DR. LECTER (V.O.)
You should try to obtain a list of
males rejected from all three gender
reassignment centers...
PULLING BACK -
we see a big wire cage, holding several of the moths. They
crawl over the humus floor or feed at honeycombs, wings pumping
lazily. In the distant b.g., the incongruous SOUND of
show music.
DR. LECTER (contd., V.O.)
Check first the ones rejected for
lying about criminal records...
CONTINUOUS MOVING ANGLE -
at about knee level, as we leave the cage, and begin to TRAVEL
through this eerie, dimly-lit warren of a cellar. As we go -
occasionally TURNING corners, or skirting the dark openings of
unexplored passages - various objects loom briefly INTO VIEW,
overhead - a stainless-steel work table... a big sink... jars
of chemicals... neat racks of gleaming knives...
DR. LECTER (contd., V.O.)
Among those who tried to conceal their
past, look for severe childhood disturbances,
associated with violence... Possibly
you'll find a childhood incarceration...
Then go to their personality tests...
We pass a row of female mannequins, some nude, some wearing
colorful leather jackets, designer knockoffs, in various stages
of completion... then a huge maroon armoire, in Chinese lacquer;
its double doors are slightly ajar... The jaunty b.g. MUSIC is
growing even louder: Fats Waller singing "Bye Bye Baby." And
now we hear something else, too - the rapid CLICKING of a sewing
machine...
DR. LECTER (contd., V.O.)
Study their drawings, especially. Billy's
house drawings will show no happy future...
No baby carriage, out in the yard. No
pets, no toys, no flowers, no sun...
We TURN another corner, and there is Mr. Gumb himself. As we
APPROACH, his wide back is to us; he's hunched over an old-
fashioned sewing machine, humming cheerfully, and working a
piece of material that we mercifully cannot see. A female wig
rests near him on a head form. He wears a hairnet and a
beautiful kimono, and pumps the treadle with his bare feet.
DR. LECTER (contd., V.O.)
His females will be more crudely sketched
than him males - but he'll compensate by
adding exaggerated adornments... jewelry,
big breasts... And his tree drawings -
oh, his trees will be frightful...
Next to Mr. Gumb is an antique phonograph - source of the
MUSIC. His little dog, Precious, perches by his plump ankles.
As we PASS Mr. Gumb, Precious scurries away from him, panting
happily, and we FOLLOW the little dog down another corridor,
the music starting to fade behind us...
DR. LECTER (contd., V.O.)
Billy hates his own identity, he always
has - and he thinks that makes him a
transsexual. But his pathology is a
thousand times more savage... He wants to
be reborn, Clarice. He will be reborn...
At the end of this final corridor, the cellar widens into a
low-ceilinged chamber, with two additional doorways, and in
the center of this is the gaping circle of the oubliette.
Precious sniffs her way over to the edge - excited, tail
wagging - than BARKS happily as we hear a hoarse, ghostly moan
from below.
CATHERINE (O.S.)
Pleeeeeeeease.....!
DISSOLVE TO:
INT. DR. LECTER'S CORRIDOR - DAY
MOVING ANGLE - CLOSE - on Dr. Lecter's slippered feet, which
rest on the shelf of a rolling hand truck. RISING along his
tilted form, we see that his ankles are linked by steel
restraints... his legs, waist, upper torso, and arms are bound
by heavy canvas webbing... beneath the webbing is a
straitjacket... and over his face is a hockey mask.
CHILTON (V.O.)
Bad news, Hannibal...
WIDER ANGLE
shows that Dr. Lecter, on the handtruck, is being pushed down
his corridor by Barney, and back into his open cell.
CHILTON (contd., V.O.)
Gourmet magazine has rejected your
recipe for braised kidneys...
CUT TO:
INT. DR. LECTER'S CELL - DAY
Chilton lounges on Dr. Lecter's cot, casually reading his large
stack of private correspondence, and making notations with his
gold pen on a little pad. Another orderly mops the floor.
CHILTON (contd.)
Perhaps you should have been less specific
about what kind.
(to Barney)
Stand him by the toilet. Then leave us.
Barney props the hand truck into position, then both orderlies
go. Chilton finishes another letter, sighs happily.
CHILTON (contd.)
Such a lot of correspondence! I can
hardly wait to analyze it in more
detail... But first things first.
Tossing letters onto the cot, he rises, crosses out into the
corridor, and bends to remove a small tape recorder from underneath
Clarice's desk. He waggles it triumphantly at Dr. Lecter.
CHILTON (contd.)
I thought she might be looking for a
civil rights violation in Migg's death,
so I bugged you... Not a word to me in
all these years, Hannibal. Then Crawford
sends his bit of fluff over here, and you
just turn to jelly. It's too pathetic.
SIDE ANGLE - TWO SHOT -
As Chilton, back in the cell, leans tauntingly close to the
front of Dr. Lecter's mask.
CHILTON (contd.)
You still think you're going to walk on
some beach, and see the birdies? I don't
think so, Hannibal... I called Senator
Ruth Martin, and she never heard of any
deal with you. She never heard of Clarice
Starling, either. They scammed you,
Hannibal...
CLOSE ON Dr. Lecter's glittering eyes, behind their slits.
CHILTON (contd.)
When Crawford gets through milking you,
he's giving you to Baltimore Homicide
for the Raspail murder. And they're
preparing some special surprises for you
right now, in my electroshock room.
DR. LECTER'S POV (FRAMED BY EYE-SLITS) -
first looking at Chilton's moving lips... then LOWERING to his
soft, white, inviting throat...
CHILTON (contd.)
The Starling bitch wants you to rot here,
in this little box, till your teeth fall
out and you're soiling diapers. You've seen
the old ones, Hannibal. They weep when their
stewed peaches get cold. That'll be you,
too. Unless - you trade with me.
FAVORING CHILTON - as he sits chummily on the table.
CHILTON (contd.)
There never was a deal with Senator Martin
- but there is now. I've been on the
phone for hours, Hannibal, on your behalf.
Here's what you get: if you identify Buffalo
Bill, and the girl is found in time,
Senator Martin will have you transferred
to Brushy Mountain State Prison, in
Tennessee...
CLOSE AGAIN ON DR. LECTER'S EYES -
as they shift restlessly, away from Chilton - then suddenly
lock onto something. They widen with interest.
CHILTON (contd., O.S.)
The Governor has already agreed. You
get books, a view of the woods, and
plenty of exercise time...
DR. LECTER'S POV - EXTREME C.U. -
On the cot, carelessly left there, lying half-hidden under the
letters and the rumpled sheet... is Chilton's gold pen.
CHILTON (contd., O.S.)
And best of all, you'd be out of Jack
Crawford's reach, forever. The Senator
will verify these terms on the phone,
and guarantee them in writing...
BACK ON DR. LECTER -
as he stares a moment longer at the pen, then shifts his eyes
towards Chilton. We can almost hear his brain clicking.
CHILTON (contd., O.S.)
In exchange, I get your full cooperation
in publishing a professional account of
this - my successful interviews with you.
You publish nothing. And I get exclusive
access to any material from Catherine
Martin... So. Do you accept my demands?
(pause)
Answer me, Hannibal.
A beat. Dr. Lecter is silent. Chilton sticks his face INTO
SHOT, almost intimately close to the mask. He is agitated.
CHILTON (contd.)
You'll answer me now, or by God, you'll
answer to Baltimore Homicide. Who is
Buffalo Bill?
DR. LECTER
(pause; then softly)
I'll tell the Senator herself. But only
in Tennessee...
CUT TO:
INT. JOHNS HOPKINS - GENDER IDENTITY CLINIC - DAY
MOVING ANGLE - as the very impatient Crawford, clutching a
folder, strides down a hall beside DR. DANIELSON - early 50's,
severe, in a lab coat. Nurses, doctors, glance as they pass.
DR. DANIELSON
I'm not having a witch hunt here, Mr.
Crawford! Our patients are decent,
non-violent people with a real problem.
CRAWFORD
Dr. Danielson, the man we want was never
your patient. It would be someone you
refused because he tries to conceal a
record of criminal violence. Please,
Doctor - time is eating us up. Just show
me the ones you've turned away.
Danielson enters a cramped, stainless steel nurse's gallery, with
Crawford following, and pours himself a cup of coffee.
DR. DANIELSON
(adamantly)
Examination and interview materials are
confidential. We've never violated an
applicant's trust, and we never will.
CRAWFORD
You want to see a violation? This is a
violation...
He takes a black & white photo from his folder, slaps it down
in front of Danielson. From our angle, we can't see it clearly.
CRAWFORD (contd.)
Her name is Kimberly Jane Emberg, she
was just ID'd. I met her on a slab in
West Virginia. And sometime tomorrow,
or tomorrow night, he's going to do the
same thing to Catherine Martin.
DR. DANIELSON
That's a childish, bullying stunt, Mr.
Crawford. I was a battlefield surgeon,
so you can put away your picture.
Burroughs sticks his head in, looking for Crawford.
BURROUGHS
Phone, Jack. Director Burke.
CRAWFORD
(snaps)
In a minute!
Burroughs hurriedly retreats. Crawford strains for patience.
CRAWFORD (contd.)
Look... search your own records, if you
prefer. You can do it a lot faster than us,
anyway. If we find Buffalo Bill through
your information, I'll suppress it. Nobody
has to know this hospital cooperated.
DR. DANIELSON
I doubt very much that the FBI or any
other government agency can keep a secret,
Mr. Crawford. Truth will out... And then
what? Will you give Johns Hopkins a new
identity? Put a big pair of sunglasses
on this building, and a funny nose?
CRAWFORD
Oh, that's clever, Dr. Danielson. Very
humorous. You like the truth? Try this.
(right in his face, enraged)
He kidnaps young women and kills them
and rips their skins off. We don't want him
to do that anymore. If you don't help me,
just as fast as you can, then the Justice
Department is going to ask publicly for a
court order, We'll ask twice a day, just
in time for the morning and evening news.
And each one of our press conferences
will focus on Dr. Danielson, over at Johns
Hopkins, and how we're still hoping for
his cooperation. And every time there's
any news on the case - when Catherine Martin
floats, when the next one floats, and
the next one - why, we'll just issue
another press release about good ol' Dr.
Danielson, over at Johns Hopkins - complete
with all his humorous fucking remarks.
DR. DANIELSON
(pause; stiffly)
It may be that - I could confer with my
colleagues on this. And get back to you.
CRAWFORD
Would you, Doctor? That would be so kind.
CUT TO:
INT. THE SURVEILLANCE VAN - DAY
Crawford is on the scrambler phone. Burroughs watches silently.
CRAWFORD
(on phone; stunned)
Transferred...?
CUT TO:
INT. FBI BUILDING - OFFICE OF THE DIRECTOR - DAY
HAYDEN BURKE, the FBI Director, swivels in his big chair. Lean,
late 40's, very distinguished. His desk is flanked by flags.
DIRECTOR BURKE
(on phone)
Already airborne for Memphis. Senator
Martin's meeting him at the airport.
(uneasily)
Jack - did you make some soft of promise
to Lecter, in the Senator's name?
Listening to the answer, he looks uncomfortably across his desk
at PAUL KRENDLER, the Deputy Attorney General - 40, very tanned,
modish haircut. Krendler is irritable, impatient.
DIRECTOR BURKE (contd.)
(on phone)
We're going to have to talk about this,
Jack. The Senator's mad as hell. Paul
Krendler's over here from Justice, she's
asking him to take charge in Memphis...
I know that... But you're still in command
of the task force, and Lecter's plane
can still be ordered back. It's your call,
Jack - but I want it now.
CUT BACK TO:
INT. THE SURVEILLANCE VAN - DAY
Burroughs starts to make an objection, but Crawford stills
him with a hand motion. He is taut, frustrated. Long pause.
CRAWFORD
(into phone)
Let him land.
CUT TO:
INT. CLARICE'S DORM ROOM - DOORWAY - DAY
Clarice opens her door, stares out at Crawford. She's just
slipping on her blazer, over her shoulder holster. She's
furious.
STARLING
Chilton has killed her, hasn't he?
That slimy little bastard! We were so
close with Lecter - and now her last
chance is gone.
CRAWFORD
Let's get some coffee and talk.
CUT TO:
EXT. FBI ACADEMY GROUNDS - QUANTICO - DAY
MOVING ANGLE on Clarice and Crawford, as they walk along a sidewalk,
sipping from paper cups. The surveillance van trails them slowly,
radios CRACKLING.
CLARICE
Are you in trouble over this, Mr. Campbell?
Can Senator Martin do something to you?
CRAWFORD
I'm 53, Starling. If I found Jimmy Hoffa
on national TV, I'd still have to retire
tire in two years. It's not a consideration.
But you are...
(beat)
You've done enough. If I keep you out of
school any longer, you'll be recycled.
Cost you six months, at least. I can
guarantee you readmission here, but that's
about it.
(He stops, looks at her)
Now's your chance, Starling. Go back to
class. Leave Bill to me.
CLARICE
If you didn't want me chasing him, you
shouldn't have taken me to that funeral
home.
He looks at her steadily, then nods. They walk on.
CLARICE (contd.)
Lecter is still the key, I know he is.
Whatever he told me about Bill is just as
good now as it was before.
CRAWFORD
Or just as worthless. But I want you in
Memphis, close to him. Maybe when he gets
tired of toying with Senator Martin, he'll
talk to you again. There's a plane waiting
for you now at the airstrip.
She smiles at this acknowledgment; he never thought she's quit.
CLARICE
I lied to Lecter. I'll need some kind of
peace offering... Can I get the drawings
from his cell?
CRAWFORD
Good idea. Meantime, try to get a feel
for Catherine Martin. Her apartment, her
friends... how he might've stalked her.
I'm going to the other two clinics,
Minnesota and Ohio.
(He crumples his cup, tosses it)
Now's the hardest part, Starling. Use
your anger, don't let it keep you from
thinking. Just keep your eyes on Catherine.
We've got less than 30 hours.
CLARICE
(hesitates)
Mr. Crawford... can those cops down there
handle Dr. Lecter?
CRAWFORD
(grimly)
They'll use their best men. But they
better by paying attention...
CUT TO:
INT. AIR NATIONAL GUARD HANGER - MEMPHIS, TENNESSEE - DAY
CLOSE ON Dr. Lecter. Behind his mask, the alert, searching eyes.
CRAWFORD (contd., V.O.)
He will...
OFFICERS PEMBRY AND BOYLE -
two sturdy, well-armed, veteran prison guards - are checking Dr.
Lecter's restraints with clever, careful fingers.
BOYLE
Welcome to Memphis, Dr. Lecter. I'm
Officer Boyle, this is Officer Pembry.
We aim to treat you just as nice as you
treat us. Act like a gentlemen, you'll
get three hots and a cot.
PEMBRY
But we ain't pussy-footin' with you,
buddy ruff. You get cute, try to bite
somebody? - we'll tie your asshole in
a knot. You savvy?
DR. LECTER
Oh yes, Officer Pembry. I certainly do.
The officers turn away, Boyle signing a clipboarded form.
PEMBRY
(under his breath)
Shit, he's just an ol' broke-dick. Won't
be no trouble as all if he don't flip out.
BOYLE
Dr. Chilton...?
NEW ANGLE - WIDER -
as we see that we're in a vast, dusty hangar. Parked to one
side: an EMS ambulance and four highway patrol cruisers; a dozen
troopers stand quietly chatting and smoking over there. Prentiss
is pacing impatiently, casting anxious glances towards the
open hanger doorway.
BOYLE
If you'll please sign right here, sir,
we'll have us a legal transfer.
Chilton instinctively pats his shirt pocket for his gold pen;
it's gone. He searches other pockets, with growing unhappiness.
BOYLE (contd.)
Use mine.
PEMBRY
Here they come.
TWO BLACK STRETCH LIMOSINES
glide smoothly into the hangar, stop. Secret Service agents pour
out of the lead car, form a cordon. A driver opens the rear door
of the second car, and Krendler steps out, followed by the Senator's
assistant, with a briefcase, followed, as last, by the Senator
herself. Barely glancing around, she strides towards Lecter.
NEW ANGLE - DR. LECTER AND SEN. MARTIN -
as she stops, struck by the bizarre spectacle of his restraints.
The others instinctively keep a distance, but Chilton, with
theatrical relish, unstraps and removes Dr. Lecter's mask.
CHILTON
Senator Martin, meet Dr. Hannibal Lecter.
They stare at one another for a long moment: the Senator tense,
almost haggard, the madman with his unearthly poise.
SEN. MARTIN
Dr. Lecter, I've brought an affidavit
guaranteeing your new rights... You'll
want to read it before I sign.
He assistant unsnaps his briefcase, reaches for the form.
DR. LECTER
I won't waste your time and Catherine's
time bargaining for petty privileges.
Clarice Starling and that awful Jack
Crawford have wasted far too much
already. I only pray they haven't doomed
the poor girl... Let me help you now,
and I'll trust you when it's all over.
SEN. MARTIN
You have my word. Paul?
Krendler raises a pad, poised to take notes.
DR. LECTER
Buffalo Bill's real name is William
Rubin. I met him just once. He was refered
to me in April or May, 1980, by my
patient Benjamin Raspail. They were lovers,
but Raspail had become very frightened.
Apparently Rubin had murdered a transient,
and - done things with the skin. He thought
if I could cure Billy, then Billy'd be
safe from the police, and he's be safe
from Billy... Obviously, he was wrong.
KRENDLER
We need his address, a physical descr-
DR. LECTER
Did you nurse Catherine?
SEN. MARTIN
(pause; startled)
What...?
DR. LECTER
Did you breast-feed her?
He flicks his tongue obscenely.
KRENDLER
You son of a -
The Senator stills him with a hand. She is trembling.
SEN. MARTIN
Yes... I did.
DR. LECTER
Toughened your nipples, didn't it...?
(a beat; then rapidly, bored)
Six foot one, strongly built, about 190
pounds. Hair brown, eyes pale blue. He'd
be about 35 now. He said he lived in
Philadelphia, but may have lied. That's really
all I can remember, Senator - but if I
think of any more, I'll let you know.
SEN. MARTIN
(to the others)
Let's go with it.
They start towards the car, but he calls out, stopping her.
DR. LECTER
Senator Martin...! You can't trust Jack
Crawford or Clarice Starling. It's such
a game with these people. They're
determined to get the arrest for themselves.
The "collar," I think they say.
SEN. MARTIN
Thank you, Doctor. I'll keep it in mind.
DR. LECTER
Oh, and Senator...? Love you suit.
DISSOLVE TO:
INT. MR. GUMB'S BASEMENT - DAY (DIMLY LIT)
CLOSE ON scraps of food - peas, chicken bones - lying on the
cement floor of the pit, near the foil tray of a TV dinner.
CATHERINE (O.S.)
(muttering, feisty)
Close enough to fuck is close enough
to fight...
CATHERINE
is hunched over in concentration. The plastic toilet bucket is
on her lap, and she has yanked down its cotton string.
CATHERINE (contd.)
Get my legs round your neck, you goddamn
creep, I'll send you home to Jesus...
HER FINGERS
are tying a chicken bone to the bucket's handle, where it meets
the string. The other end of the string is tied to her wrist.
SHE STANDS -
gathers the coiled string in one hand, and swings the bucket by
its handle, calculating this distance up to the basement floor.
CATHERINE (contd.)
Okay, Precious. Time for a treat...
She hurls the bucket upwards.
AT THE LIP OF THE OUBLIETTE -
the bucket sails out, bounces LOUDLY, then falls back inside.
ANGLE ON THE DOG, PRECIOUS -
who is elsewhere in the basement, worrying a toy. She cocks
an ear, making a low GROWL, then sets off to investigate.
DOWN IN THE PIT -
Catherine swings the bucket again, trying another cast.
THE BUCKET LANDS
two feet beyond the pit's edge, rolls a bit, stops.
PRECIOUS TROTS UP -
then pauses, staring curiously towards...
VERY LOW ANGLE (DOG'S POV) -
the enticing chicken bone, six feet away. It twitches as Catherine
tugs on the string, edging the bucket back towards the pit.
PRECIOUS
with her tail wagging, BARKS - greedy but suspicious.
CATHERINE -
staring upwards, pulls again, even so gently, at the string.
CATHERINE
(softly)
Preeeeecious...! C'mon, boy, nice yummy
bone... c'mon, you little shit...
PRECIOUS
edges reluctantly closer... then suddenly rushes in, seizing
the bone in her teeth. She tries to run away with it, but
Catherine is pulling her towards the hole, working her like a
hooked fish. Her toenails scrabble as she tries to stop.
CATHERINE
stares desperately, unable to see how she's doing.
CATHERINE
Hang on, boy... hang on...
PRECIOUS
still fights for the bone, GROWLING, as the bucket rocks
precariously on the edge of the pit. A long, seesaw battle... until
finally, when one of her forelegs slips momentarily into the hole,
she panics and lets go. The bucket flops over the edge.
CATHERINE
crouches, covering her head as the bucket bounces off her.
CATHERINE
Nooooo...!
THE LITTLE DOG
furious, BARKS down at her, then trots away in disgust.
CLOSE ON CATHERINE
as she sinks to the cold cement. She slaps aside the foil tray,
the scraps of food, sobbing in utter despair.
DISSOLVE TO:
INT. CATHERINE MARTIN'S APARTMENT - LIVING ROOM - DAY
CLOSE ON a framed photo of Sen. Martin and Catherine, held in
Clarice's cotton-gloved hands. Powdered fingerprints on the
glass.
CLARICE
glances up from the photo, smiles disarmingly at -
A YOUNG STATE TROOPER -
sitting in Catherine's easy chair. He smiles back at her, then
relaxes, returns to his newspaper. He also wears gloves.
CUT TO:
INT. KITCHEN
Clarice closes the refrigerator door, glances around
A BIG REEL-TO-REEL TAPE RECORDER
has been set up on the breakfast counter, attached to Catherine's
phone. Two new red phones are hooked up as well.
CUT TO:
INT. BATHROOM
Clarice slides open the medicine cabinet's mirror, looks inside.
She reaches in, pokes carefully amongst the lotions.
CUT TO:
INT. ATTIC CRAWL-SPACE
A ceiling hatch bangs open, sending up dust clouds. Clarice,
lit from underneath, pokes her head through, looking around.
CUT TO:
INT. BEDROOM
Flat on her back, Clarice wriggles out from under Catherine's
bed. She sits up, brushing dust from her face and hair.
CUT TO:
INT. BEDROOM
CLOSE ON an open, multi-tiered jewelry box, resting atop a
bureau, as Clarice's fingers pick through costume jewelry.
CLARICE
closes the box, and is just turning away when a figure suddenly
looms INTO SHOT, giving her a bad start; she cries out softly.
SENATOR MARTIN
is revealed, staring at her suspiciously.
SEN. MARTIN
Who are you, please? I thought the police
were through in here.
CLARICE
I'm Clarice Starling, Senator. FBI.
SEN. MARTIN
(softly, very angry)
Clarice Starling...
(calls out)
Paul? Would you come in here, please...?
Krendler enters from the hallway, looks at Clarice.
SEN. MARTIN (contd.)
Miss Starling, you may know the Deputy
Attorney General, Mr. Krendler. Paul,
this is the trainee that Jack Crawford
sent to Lecter... She lied to him,
pretending to have my authority, and thus
jeopardized this entire investigation.
Now she has the further gall to invade
my daughter's privacy, again without
permission. If her little games have
killed my baby...
Overcome, she hurries from the room. Krendler shuts the door
behind her, points sternly at Clarice.
KRENDLER
You're out of line, Starling, and you're
off this case. Back to Quantico.
CLARICE
Sir, Mr. Crawford instructed me -
KRENDLER
Your instructions are what I'm giving
you now. Jack Crawford answers to the
Director, and the Director answers to me.
My God, Crawford's losing it...! He
shouldn't even be on this, with his wife
sick as she is... How the hell did you get
in here, anyway? He gave you - what? - some
kind of special ID? Let's have it.
CLARICE
(stubbornly)
I need the ID to fly with my gun. The gun
belongs in Quantico.
KRENDLER
Gun. Jesus. Turn in the ID as soon as
you get back. The gun, too. Be on the
next plane, Starling, there's one in 90
minutes.
Clarice, burning, starts for the door, then turns back.
CLARICE
Mr. Krendler... Dr. Lecter trusts me. Or
at least, he used to. If I could just -
KRENDLER
Lecter has already named Buffalo Bill.
Clarice reacts, surprised. Krendler takes a folded computer
sheet from his pocket, shoves it at her. She takes it, reads.
KRENDLER (contd.)
He gave us a perfectly good description,
and we're on it now, so we won't be needing
your little novelty act any longer -
or his, either. He's under close guard at
the courthouse, pending a prison transfer.
The next plane, Officer.
CLARICE
Sir, doesn't this "William Rubin" strike
you as - I don't know - kind of vague?
Krendler moves in very close to her, pale with anger.
KRENDLER
Do you need a police escort, Starling?
Or do you think you can find the airport
by yourself?
CLARICE
Yes sir. I can find it by myself.
CUT TO:
EXT. SHELBY COUNTY COURTHOUSE - DAY
The old courthouse is a massive Gothic stronghold, with an
armada of police cruisers parked at the curb.
CLARICE
climbs from her rented car, SLAMMING the door angrily. Holding
a rolled-up pile of papers - Dr. Lecter's drawings - she starts
determinedly up the steps. A nearby commotion makes her pause.
DR. HERBERT CHILTON -
in a sea of interviewers and mini-cams, is preening grandly.
CLARICE -
carefully avoiding his gaze, slips up the steps and inside.
CUT TO:
INT. COURTHOUSE - GROUND FLOOR - DAY
SGT. TATE, a Memphis policeman, is studying Clarice's ID. He
looks up at her from his command desk, a bit doubtfully.
SGT. TATE
Are you with Mr. Krendler's people?
CLARICE
I just left him.
SGT. TATE
Access to Lecter is strictly limited.
We've been getting death threats.
(hesitates again)
Log in, and check your weapon.
He picks up a phone, murmurs into it. As he does so, Clarice
glances around this main ground floor lobby.
HER POV -
The building looks like an armed fort. Cops with shotguns guard
the front door, both ends of the hall, the foot of the stairs,
the single elevator. More of them are coming and going.
MURRAY (V.O.)
Shoot, we haven't had this kinda
security since the President came
through town...
CUT TO:
INT. ELEVATOR - MOVING
Clarice and OFFICER MURRAY, a young patrolman, ride up in an
old-fashioned, CREAKING, metal-cage elevator. He is excited.
MURRAY
Every cop in Tennessee wants a look at
this guy. 'Sit true what they're sayin'
- he's some kinda vampire?
CLARICE
(beat)
I don't have a name for what he is.
CUT TO:
INT. HISTORICAL SOCIETY ROOM - 5TH FLOOR
Pembry, at a desk by the door, looks up from examining the
unrolled pile of Dr. Lecter's drawings.
PEMBRY
You know the rules, ma'am?
CLARICE
Yes, Officer Pembry. I've questioned
him before.
He waves her on her way, but retains the drawings for now.
MOVING ANGLE - WITH CLARICE -
as she crosses the big, spare, white octagonal room. A massive,
temporary iron cage has been installed; Officer Boyle sits facing
its barred door. He rises, nods, moving away to allow her privacy.
INSIDE THE CAGE -
a cot and a small table, each bolted to the floor, and a flimsy
paper screen, hiding a toilet. Dr. Lecter sits at the table, his
back to her, studying the Buffalo Bill case file. He now wears a
green prison jumpsuit. A small cassette player is chained to the
steel table.
DR. LECTER
(without turning)
Good afternoon, Clarice.
She stops at a striped police barricade, before his bars.
CLARICE
I thought you might want your drawings
back... Just until you get your view.
DR. LECTER
How very thoughtful... Or did Crawford
send you here for one last wheedle -
before you're both booted off the case?
CLARICE
Nobody sent me. I came on my own.
He spins in his swivel chair, stops neatly. A coy smile.
DR. LECTER
People will say we're in love.
(beat)
Pity you tried to fool me, isn't it?
Pity for poor Catherine. Tick-tock...
He spins again in his chair, playfully.
MOVING ANGLE - FAVORING CLARICE -
as she circles the cage, trying to keep his face in sight.
CLARICE
Dr. Lecter, you find out everything. You
couldn't have talked with this "William
Rubin", even once, and come out knowing
so little about him... You made him up,
didn't you?
DR. LECTER
Clarice... you're hardly in a position
to accuse me of lying.
CLARICE
I think you were telling me the truth
in Baltimore - or starting to. Tell me
the rest now.
DR. LECTER
I've studied the case file, have you...?
Everything you need to find him is right
in these pages. Whatever his name is.
CLARICE
Then tell me how.
DR. LECTER
First principles, Clarice. Simplicity.
Read Marcus Aurelius. Of each particular
thing, ask: What is it, in itself, what
is its nature...? What does he do, this
man you seek?
CLARICE
He kills w-
DR. LECTER
(sharply, as he stops)
No - ! That's incidental.
CLOSE ANGLE - TWO SHOT -
as he rises, pained by her ignorance, and crosses to the bars.
DR. LECTER (contd.)
What is the first and principal thing he
does, what need does he serve by killing?
CLARICE
Anger, social resentment, sexual frus-
DR. LECTER
No, he covets. That's his nature. And
how do we begin to covet, Clarice? Do we
seek out things to covet? Make an effort
to answer.
CLARICE
No. We just -
DR. LECTER
No. Precisely. We begin by coveting what we
see every day. Don't you feel eyes moving
over your body, Clarice? I hardly see how
you couldn't. And don't your eyes move
over the things you want?
CLARICE
All right, then tell me how -
DR. LECTER
No. It's your turn to tell me, Clarice.
You don't have any more vacations to sell,
on Anthrax Island. Why did you run away
from that ranch?
CLARICE
Dr. Lecter, when there's time I'll -
DR. LECTER
We don't reckon time the same way, Clarice.
This is all the time you'll ever have.
CLARICE
Later, listen, I'll -
DR. LECTER
I'll listen now. After your father's
murder, you were orphaned. You were
ten years old. You went to live with
cousins, on a sheep and horse ranch in
Montana. And - ?
CLARICE
And - one morning I just - ran away...
She turns from him. He presses closer, gripping the bars.
DR. LECTER
Not "just," Clarice. What set you off?
You started what time?
CLARICE
Early. Still dark.
DR. LECTER
Then something woke you. What? Did you
dream...? What was it?
IN FLASHBACK -
The 10-year old Clarice sits up abruptly in her bed, frightened.
She is in a Montana ranch house; it al almost dawn. Strange,
fearful shadows on her ceiling and walls... a window, partly
fogged by the cold; eerie brightness outside.
CLARICE (V.O.)
I heard a strange sound...
DR. LECTER (V.O.)
What was it?
THE CHILD RISES -
crosses to the window in her nightgown, rubs the glass.
CLARICE (V.O.)
I didn't know. I went to look...
HIGH ANGLES (2nd STORY) - THE CHILD'S POV -
Shadowy men, ranch hands, are moving in and out of a nearby
barn, carrying mysterious bundles. The mens' breath is
steaming... A refrigerated truck idles nearby, its engine
adding more steam. A strange, almost surrealistic scene...
CLARICE (contd., V.O.)
Screaming! Some kind of - screaming.
Like a child's voice...
THE LITTLE GIRL
is terrified; she covers her ears.
DR. LECTER (V.O.)
What did you do?
CLARICE (V.O.)
Got dressed without turning on the
light. I went downstairs... outside...
THE LITTLE GIRL
in her winter coat, slips noiselessly towards the open barn
door. She ducks into the shadows to avoid a ranch hand, who
passes her with a squirming bundle of some kind. He goes into
the barn, and she edges after him reluctantly.
CLARICE (contd., V.O.)
I crept up to the barn... I was so
scared to look inside - but I had to...
THE LITTLE GIRL'S POV -
as the open doorway LOOMS CLOSER... Bright lights inside, straw
bales, the edges of stalls, then moving figures...
DR. LECTER (V.O.)
And what did you see, Clarice?
A SQUIRMING LAMB -
is held down on a table by two ranch hands.
CLARICE (V.O.)
Lambs. The lambs were screaming...
A third cowboy stretches out the lamb's neck, raises a bloody
knife. Just as he's about to slice its throat -
BACK TO THE ADULT CLARICE -
staring into the distance, shaken, still trembling from the
child's shock. We see Dr. Lecter, over her shoulder, studying
her intently.
DR. LECTER
They were slaughtering the spring lambs?
CLARICE
Yes...! They were screaming.
DR. LECTER
So you ran away...
CLARICE
No. First I tried to free them... I
opened the gate of their pen - but
they wouldn't run. They just stood
there, confused. They wouldn't run...
DR. LECTER
But you could. You did.
CLARICE
I took one lamb. And I ran away, as
fast as I could...
IN FLASHBACK -
a vast Montana plain, and crossing this, a tiny figure - the
little Clarice, holding a lamb in her arms.
DR. LECTER (V.O.)
Where were you going?
CLARICE (V.O.)
I don't know. I had no food or water.
It was very cold. I thought - if I can
even save just one... but he got so
heavy. So heavy...
The tiny figure stops, and after a few moments sinks to the
ground, hunched over in dispair.
CLARICE (contd., V.O.)
I didn't get more than a few miles
before the sheriff's car found me.
The rancher was so angry he sent me to
live at the Lutheran orphanage in
Bozeman. I never saw the ranch again...
DR. LECTER (V.O.)
But what became of your lamb?
(no response)
Clarice...?
BACK TO SCENE -
as the adult Clarice turns, staring into his feverish eyes.
She shakes her head, unwilling - or unable - to say more.
DR. LECTER (contd.)
You still wake up sometimes, don't you?
Wake up in the dark, with the lambs
screaming?
CLARICE
Yes...
DR. LECTER
Do you think if you saved Catherine, you
could make them stop...? Do you think,
if Catherine lives, you won't wake up
in the dark, ever again, to the screaming
of the lambs? Do you...?
CLARICE
Yes! I don't know...! I don't know.
DR. LECTER
(a pause; then, oddly at peace)
Thank you, Clarice.
CLARICE
(a whisper)
Tell me his name, Dr. Lecter.
DR. LECTER
Dr. Chilton... I believe you know
each other?
NEW ANGLE -
as Clarice turns, startled, and the fuming Chilton seizes her
elbow. Pembry and Boyle are beside him, looking grim.
CHILTON
Out. Let's go.
PEMBRY
Sorry, ma'am - we've got orders to have
you put on a place.
Clarice struggles, pulling free of them for a moment.
DR. LECTER
Brave Clarice. Will you let me know if
ever the lambs stop screaming?
CLARICE
(moving closer to the bars)
Yes. I'll tell you.
DR. LECTER
Promise...?
(She nods. He smiles)
Then why not take your case file? I
won't be needing it anymore.
He holds out the file, arm extended between the bars. She
hesitates, then reaches to take it.
VERY CLOSE ANGLE - SLOW MOTION -
as the exchange is made, his index finger touches her hand,
and lingers there, just for a moment.
DR. LECTER'S EYES -
widen, crackling at this touch, like sparks in a cave.
DR. LECTER
Good-bye, Clarice.
CLARICE -
hugging the case file to her chest, stares back at him as the
men crowd in on her, pushing her away.
HER POV - MOVING -
as Dr. Lecter, head cocked in a smile, slowly recedes...
DISSOLVE TO:
INT. GARMENT SWEATSHOP - DAY
MOVING ANGLE - MR. GUMB'S POV - as he pushes a rolling rack
of completed leather garments, each wrapped in plastic, down
as aisle. SOUND of many sewing machines, all clattering at
once, as he passes row on row of work tables. The seamstresses,
mostly black or Hispanic, glance up as he passes, then
quickly avert their eyes, his presence disturbing them in some
nameless way.
A THIN FOREMAN -
in a flowery shirt, sees him approaching. He rises from his
desk and comes over cheerfully, as the rack rolls to a stop.
FOREMAN
Hello, dear! Punctual as always. And
what have you brought us today?
He seizes one of the dangling jackets, pulling up the plastic
wrapper. He examines it, stroking the sleeve.
FOREMAN (contd.)
Oh, marvelous... You know, I always
say you're the Leonardo of leather.
MR. GUMB (O.S.)
(a harsh whisper)
Oil.
FOREMAN
Pardon...?
MR. GUMB (O.S.)
You're leaving oil on the skin.
The foreman quickly releases the jacket.
FOREMAN
Of course... You'll be wanting your -
Mr. Gumb's hand reaches INTO SHOT, snatching an envelope from
him. The foreman is watching him walk away, as a seamstress
comes over to take the rack of garments. The foreman is vaguely
troubled, but shakes it off. He strokes the jacket again,
admiringly.
FOREMAN (contd.)
(to seamstress)
I wish we had a dozen like him...
SOUND UPCUT - Glenn Gould playing Bach's Goldberg Variations...
CUT TO:
INT. MEMPHIS INTERNATIONAL AIRPORT - LOUNGE AREA - DUSK
Clarice, in a line of other passengers, is moving slowly towards
a departure ramp. Through a huge plate glass window, we can
see her plane. She glances back over her shoulder at
A PAIR OF UNIFORMED COPS
brawny and impassive, their arms folded, waiting to make sure
she board the flight.
CLARICE
sighs, turning wearily back towards the jetway. The BACH
CONTINUES, as we...
CUT TO:
INT. SHELBY CO. COURTHOUSE - HISTORICAL SOCIETY ROOM - NIGHT
CLOSE ON a steaming, rather elegant dinner tray, being carried
by Pembry, as he approaches Dr. Lecter's cell.
PEMBRY
(shouts)
Ready when you are, Doc!
IN THE CELL -
The BACH is issuing from the cassette player. Beside it, on
the table, the pile of Dr. Lecter's drawings. The top one is an
accurate, sensitive portrait, from memory, of Clarice. Beyond
the table, we see Lecter's shadowy form, seated behind the paper
screen. He calls out from there.
DR. LECTER (O.S.)
Just another minute, please!
PEMBRY
grunts, sets the tray down. Boyle joins him, handing him a riot
baton and a Mace cannister, which Pembry fastens to belt clips.
Boyle is similarly armed, and carries a ring of keys.
PEMBRY
Sumbitch demanded lamb chops for
dinner, extra rare.
BOYLE
(laughs)
What you reckon he'll want for breakfast
- some fuckin' thing from the zoo?
INSIDE THE SCREEN -
Dr. Lecter sits fully clothed on the toilet - swaying slightly,
eyes closed, lost in the music, tongue working in his cheek.
Suddenly, like magic, a little shiny piece of metal protrudes
from his lips. He plucks it out, opens his eyes.
IN EXTREME C.U. -
He is holding the pocket clip from Prentice's disassembled
pen - a straight, thin strip of metal, with a circular collar
at one end, a square edge at the other.
DR. LECTER -
lines up his thumbnail just shy of the square edge, then braces
it against the stainless steel toilet rim. He pushes down, hard,
using both hands for leverage. After a moment he smiles, holding
up the result, and twirling it before his eyes.
IN EXTREME C.U. -
the straight end of the clip now forms a tiny right angle, and
the circular end anchors nicely between his fingers.
OUTSIDE THE CELL -
Pembry and Boyle turn as the toilet FLUSHES, and Dr. Lecter
reappears, looking jaunty.
PEMBRY
Okay, Doc, grab some floor. Same drill
as lunchtime.
Dr. Lecter sits on the floor, legs straight, then wriggles backwards.
He stretches his arms behind him, hands and wrists through the
bars, with two bars between them, and clasps his hands.
DR. LECTER
I'm ready when you are, Officer Pembry.
Pembry comes around the cell to squat behind Dr. Lecter. He tugs
his hands farther out, rather roughly, handcuffs his wrists. He
shakes the cuffs, making sure of them, then nods to Boyle.
NEW ANGLE - AT CELL DOOR -
as Boyle picks up the dinner tray, and Pembry crosses around.
Pembry takes the keys from Boyle, unlocks the cell door, and
pushes it inward. Boyle goes inside with the tray.
DR. LECTER
watches as Boyle approaches the table, above five feet from
him. Boyle has to set his tray down on the floor to clear off
some of the mess of drawings. The MUSIC plays on.
VERY CLOSE ON -
Dr. Lecter's hands, outside the bars, as the makeshift key, held
between the tips of his right index and middle fingers, searches
for the keyhole of the cuffs. And finds it.
NEW ANGLE - FAVORING BOYLE -
as he finishes clearing the drawings, then turns back towards Dr.
Lecter, stooping to pick up the tray.
BOYLE'S RIGHT HAND -
is just inches from the tray when Dr. Lecter's hand darts INTO
SHOT, snapping a handcuff onto his wrist.
BOYLE
looks up, astonished, to find himself right in the grinning face
of Dr. Lecter - who just as quickly rolls sideways, and snaps -
THE OTHER CUFF
around the bolted leg of the table. And suddenly all natural SOUND
and MOTION are suspended, as the MUSIC soars much louder, each
separate note of it now echoing distinctly, and we see...
VARIOUS ANGLES - EACH BLURRING INTO STOP-ACTION -
Pembry starting into the cell, reaching for his riot baton...
Dr. Lecter smashing against the cell door, driving it into Pembry,
pinning him across the chest, against the door frame...
Boyle, on one knee on the floor, digging desperately in his pants
pocket for his handcuff key...
Pembry's hand, mashed against his body by the door, as he strains
frantically to reach the baton at his waist...
Pembry's eyes, widening in horror as he stares at...
Dr. Lecter's bared teeth, flashing towards him...
Dr. Lecter gripping Pembry's face in his jaws, shaking it like
a dog shakes a rat...
Boyle finding his key, but in his terror dropping it...
Dr. Lecter yanking the mace can and riot baton from the dazed
Pembry's belt, spraying him in his bloody face, then clubbing
him to his knees...
Boyle, mouth open in a silent scream, finding his key again,
unlocking the handcuff, but then, as he starts to rise, seeing...
Dr. Lecter standing over him, with the riot baton raised high; he
swings it viciously down, again and again and again... Then normal
SOUND and MOTION are restored as we go to -
CLOSE ANGLE ON -
the cassette player, and the portrait of Clarice, both now
flecked with blood. In addition to the Bach, we now hear soft
PANTING, close by, and whimpering SOBS in the b.g.
ANGLE ON DR. LECTER
eyes closed, lost in a favorite passage of the music. His bloody
fingers drift airily with the notes, as his breathing slows to
normal. He opens his eyes, sighs contentedly, looks down.
HIS POV -
By the sprawled legs of Boyle lie various objects that spilled
from his pants pocket - coins, a comb, a big pocketknife.
DR. LECTER
picks up the pocketknife, examines it happily. About a four-
inch blade. He becomes aware of the WHIMPERING, O.S., turns.
LOW ANGLE ON PEMBRY
as he crawls, with torturous slowness, towards the command desk,
and the phone. He is crying, but frantically determined.
PEMBRY'S POV - PARTIALLY BLURRED, THEN CLEARING -
Above the desk, hanging from pegs, are his and Boyle's holstered
revolvers...
CUT TO:
INT. COURTHOUSE - GROUND FLOOR LOBBY - NIGHT
The bronze arrow above the elevator swings towards "5," then
indicates a stop there, at the top floor.
FAVORING SGT. TATE -
at his command desk, as he stares at the indicator. Another cop,
JACOBS, sits on the desk's edge, flipping through a magazine;
many more cops can be seen beyond them, idling in the lobby.
SGT. TATE
What is this shit...? Did some-
body go up to five?
(Jacobs shakes his head)
Call Pembry, ask him what -
A GUNSHOT, and then, moments later, TWO MORE quick ones, echo
down the nearby stairwell. Sgt. Tate jumps to his feet, grabs
a radio mike, as the other cops stir, confused and noisy.
SGT. TATE (contd.)
(into mike)
CP, shots fired on five! Repeat, shots
fires on five! Outside posts look sharp,
we've got a... Ho-ly shit.
THE BRONZE ARROW
has begun to descend. Down to 4, then past 4...
BACK ON SGT. TATE
as he reacts. The other cops, behind him, are now in a full
uproar, shouting, pulling out guns.
SGT. TATE (contd.)
(to the others)
SHUT UP...! Guard mount, double up on
your outside posts. Bobby, get the vests.
Rainey, Howard, cover that fucking elevator
if it comes all the way to -
A COP (O.S.)
It stopped!
THE BRONZE ARROW -
has, indeed, frozen at 3.
SGT. TATE
lifts the microphone again.
SGT. TATE
(into mike)
Seal off a ten-block radius. Get me
the SWAT team and an ambulance, double
quick. We're going up.
CUT TO:
INT. STAIRWELL - NIGHT (DIMLY LIT)
HIGH ANGLE on Sgt. Tate as he leads a five-man squad, all in
bulletproof vests, up the stone stairs. They move fast but
carefully, covering each other from landing to landing with
drawn revolvers, shotguns. The distant Back MUSIC makes a
ghostly echo in here...
CUT TO:
INT. THIRD FLOOR CORRIDOR - NIGHT (DIMLY LIT)
A thin rectangle of light on the floor from the open elevator
door. We can't see inside. The MUSIC sounds closer.
SGT. TATE
approaches very cautiously, gun aimed. The other cops, behind
him, fan out silently to set up angles of fire, checking the
various office doors - all locked - as they creep up.
MOVING ANGLE - OVER TATE'S SHOULDER -
as he reaches the side of the elevator, hesitates, then spins
to point his gun inside. It's empty. He backs away.
SGT. TATE
(shouts at ceiling)
Pembry? Boyle...?
CUT TO:
INT. HISTORICAL SOCIETY ROOM - NIGHT (BRIGHTLY LIT)
ANGLE on the door, from inside, its lettering reversed on the
frosted glass. The Bach is VERY LOUD. After a moment the door
is shouldered open, hard enough for the glass to shatter, Tate
following his gun inside, moving low, then other cops appearing
behind him in the doorframe. They all freeze, staring in
utter horror.
SGT. TATE
Oh no... no...
THEIR POV -
is a brief snapshot from hell. The two uniformed bodies, one
sprawled on its back near the door, the other still in the
cell, have been savaged by a knife. Blood and gore everywhere.
The faces are unrecognizable.
SGT. TATE -
struggles for control, as the other cops move grimly around him,
into the room. He pulls his walkie-talkie from his belt.
SGT. TATE (contd.)
(into mike)
Command post... Two offi-
(a beat; clears his throat)
Two officers down. Prisoner is missing.
Repeat, Lecter is missing... He's stripped
the bed, might be making a rope, check all
windows. Where the fuck is my ambulance?
IN THE CELL -
a cop angrily punches OFF the music. Jacobs kneels with his
fingers on Boyle's neck.
JACOBS
Boyle is dead, Sarge. His gun's gone...
AT THE OTHER BODY -
a cop gently removes a revolver from the bloody fist. Murray,
the young patrolman, brings his ear reluctantly close to the
gory face. A bloody bubble appears there; the wreckage GROANS,
very softly.
MURRAY
This one's alive!
Tate crosses, kneels to see for himself. Murray looks green.
SGT. TATE
Take ahold of him where he can feel
your hands, son. Talk to him.
MURRAY
What's his name, Sarge?
SGT. TATE
It's Pembry, now talk to him, God
dammit.
(into radio, looking around)
Boyle's dead, Pembry's read bad. Lecter
is missing and armed - he took Boyle's
gun...
The other cop, checking the cylinder of Pembry's gun, holds
up one finger to Tate.
SGT. TATE (contd.)
(into radio)
Pembry got off one round - there's a
chance Lecter was hit. We heard a
total of three shots fired, so he's
got four left... He's got a knife, too.
CUT TO:
EXT. STREET IN FRONT OF COURTHOUSE - NIGHT
VARIOUS ANGLES on a floodlit scene of barely controlled
pandemonium. Flashing red lights, men shouting commands, SIRENS
in the distance. SWAT members, in full gear, leap from a black
van... fan out... swarm up the steps... EMS orderlies unload
a gurney from an ambulance... Cops kneel for cover behind cars,
aiming guns and rifles up at the windows...
CUT TO:
INT. HISTORICAL SOCIETY ROOM - NIGHT
A trio of EMS orderlies work fast over the body, already strapped
on its gurney. Then bandage a big plastic airway into place, over
the butchered face, checking for a pulse at the neck. Young Murray
crouches, sickened, gripping a bloody fist.
MURRAY
You're just fine, Pembry, lookin' good,
buddy, you're gonna make it...
One orderly massages the heart. Another is popping a plasma bag,
ready to insert the needle, when the body starts convulsing.
ORDERLY
Downstairs - let's go!
Quickly the gurney is elevated, wheeled out of the room, with
cops rushing forward to open the doors, help push, SWAT men
are running by in the hall, automatic rifles at the ready...
CUT TO;
INT. THE ELEVATOR - DESCENDING - NIGHT
Sgt. Tate, riding down with Jacobs, has his radio out.
SGT. TATE
(into mike)
Ten-four, Lieutenant. I'm on the elevator,
bringing it down. Pembry and Boyle
are both cleared, top three floors
secured, main stairwell secured. He's
somewhere on -
A spot of blood falls on his cheek. He and Jacobs stare at each
other. Another spot hits his shoulder. They look up.
THEIR POV -
Blood is dripping slowly from the corner of the service hatch.
SGT. TATE
motions for silence, as both men draw their guns.
SGT. TATE
(into mike)
Uh, we're pretty sure he's somewhere on
two, sir... That's all for now, over.
CUT TO:
INT. GROUND FLOOR LOBBY - NIGHT
The elevator doors open, and Tate and Jacobs hurry out, stepping
quickly to the side. Tate reaches back in and -
CLOSE ANGLE -
locks the elevator into position, with its doors open.
OTHER COPS
are rushing up to them, curious, as Tate frantically pushes
them aside, gesturing for silence.
SGT. TATE
(whispers)
He's on the roof of the elevator!
CUT TO:
INT. THIRD FLOOR CORRIDOR - NIGHT
Two SWAT officers, PETERSON and KUBELL, turn a key, unlocking
and opening this floor's elevator doorway. The shaft is dark.
Lying prone, they inch up to the edge, Peterson extends a mirror,
on a long pole, out into the shaft.
IN THE MIRROR (DISTORTED BY THE ANGLE) -
is a distant figure, in a green prison jumpsuit, lying on his
stomach, atop the elevator. A shiny revolver is near one hand.
PETERSON
whispers into a radio, as Kubell carefully tips an assault rifle,
with a flashlight taped to its barrel, over the edge.
PETERSON
I see him... There's a weapon by his
hand. He's not moving...
RADIO VOICE
Can you get the drop?
PETERSON
We got the drop.
RADIO VOICE
One warning. Then take him out.
Peterson nods to Kubell, who switches ON the flashlight, as
Peterson shouts down the shaft.
PETERSON
LECTER!! PUT YOUR HANDS ON YOUR HEAD!!
IN THE MIRROR -
the green figure shows no movement.
ANGLE ON THE COPS AGAIN
as Peterson mutters to Kubell.
PETERSON (contd.)
Put one in his leg.
VERY CLOSE ON
the figure below, as Kubell's gunshot ROARS, echoing hugely
in the shaft, and a slug rips through the jumpsuited leg.
The figure doesn't stir.
PETERSON
staring down the shaft, raises his mike again.
PETERSON (contd.)
No movement.
RADIO VOICE
Okay, Johnny, hold your fire...
CUT TO:
INT. GROUND FLOOR LOBBY - NIGHT
A small army of cops is now covering the elevator doorway,
from both sides. Tate crouches next to the SWAT COMMANDER.
SWAT COMMANDER
(into radio mike)
We're coming into the car, we're opening
the hatch. Watch his hands. Any fire
will come from us. Affirm?
PETERSON'S VOICE
Got it.
The SWAT commander hands his radio to another cop, then looks
at Tate. A long, tense moment. Then he waves a signal.
MOVING ANGLE
as we follow a picked team of four SWAT cops, in full body armor,
rushing into the elevator car. Two men move to the corners,
aim assault rifles at the ceiling. A third man sets a
stepladder in place, and the fourth man, armed with a big
Colt, hurries up the ladder and unclips the hatch.
CLOSE ON
the service hatch, as the hinged cover drops open, and a body
tumbles through, dangling head first, until it's caught at the
waist. We see the back of the head.
SGT. TATE
shoulders through the SWAT cops for a closer look. He turns
towards the SWAT commander, astonished.
SGT. TATE
That's Pembry!
CUT TO:
INT. EMS AMBULANCE - MOVING
In the rear chamber, a young EMS ATTENDANT is braced against the
vehicle's sway. Behind him, the stretchered form of his patient,
and, through a curtained opening, the driver. SOUND of the siren.
ATTENDANT
(into radio mike)
He's comatose, but his vital signs
are good. Pressure's 130 over 90...
Yeah, 90! Pulse 85...
Behind him, in slightly BLURRED FOCUS, the bloody figure sits
slowly upright...
ATTENDANT (contd.)
His convulsions have stopped, but he's
got so much loose skin on his face,
it's hard to tell if -
Suddenly he stops, becoming aware of a strange HISSING. He
turns, puzzled...
THE POCKETKNIFE BLADE -
in Lecter's fist, flashes high in the air...
CUT TO:
EXT. SIX-LANE FREEWAY - NIGHT (ARC LIGHTS)
MOVING ANGLE on the EMS ambulance, as it races along normally,
its SIREN blazing, the heavy flow of traffic parting to make way
for it. Then suddenly it begins to weave erratically, changing
lanes, before drifting dangerously to a full stop, almost side-
ways. Cars swerve to avoid hitting it, HONKING angrily...
CLOSER ANGLE
on the stopped ambulance. After a long, still moment, the windshield
wipes come one, incongruously, then stop. Then the SIREN is
shut OFF, and the flashers. The ambulance starts rolling again
- at first jerkingly, then with increasing speed. We follow it
for several more moments, until is passes - and we LINGER on...
A BIG GREEN INTERSTATE SIGN -
that read "Memphis International Airport / 2 miles."
CLOSE ANGLE - THROUGH AMBULANCE WINDSHIELD
Dr. Lecter's face is slowly REVEALED, as he wipes across it
with a fistful of gauze, tossing it aside...
DISSOLVE TO:
EXT. MONTANA PLAIN - DUSK - (IN FLASHBACK)
MOVING ANGLE, rushing with dizzy swiftness over the prairie,
over waving grasses... a long passage... before we come at last
to the girl Clarice, sitting with her lamb, hunched in despair.
She rises, her face tear-stained, and turns from us. Holding
the lamb, she starts back the way she came...
CUT TO:
EXT. COUNTRY DIRT ROAD - NIGHT - BRIGHT MOONLIGHT
MOVING ANGLE, very rapid, down this road... coming at last to
a stopped highway patrol car. Clarice, with her lamb, is standing
in the car's headlights. She starts wearily towards the
sheriff...
CUT TO:
EXT. RANCH BARNYARD - NEAR DAWN
CRANE ANGLE - sweeping rapidly DOWN into the barnyard towards
the arriving highway patrol car, as it stops... RUSHING to
the little girl as she steps from the car, holding the lamb.
The dark figure of the rancher ENTERS FRAME. As he roughly
takes the lamb from her, we HOLD on a CLOSEUP of her face -
stunned, blank. She EXITS FRAME...
CUT TO:
EXT. BARN - NIGHT
MOVING ANGLE - Clarice's POV - as she walks towards the open
barn doorway... It looms CLOSER... The rancher is revealed,
a shadowy figure, pinning the lamb on the killing table. His
knife hand sweeps up high, then holds... He turns TO CAMERA,
his face breaking into the light - and it is the face of Dr.
Lecter. He smiles his terrible smile at the young Clarice...
CUT TO:
INT. FBI DORM - PAY PHONE IN HALLWAY - NIGHT
MOVING ANGLE - coming in very CLOSE on the adult Clarice's face
- shocked, devastated - as she stands alone by the dangling
receiver...
CUT TO:
INT. SHOWER STALL - FBI DORM - NIGHT
CLOSE ON a shower head, as water suddenly blasts out. Clarice
moves INTO SHOT, as she scrubs her face and hair compulsively,
almost desperately, unable to get clean...
ARDELIA (V.O.)
They found the ambulance...
CUT TO:
INT. CLARICE'S DORM ROOM - NIGHT
Clarice is hunched on her cot, in a bathrobe, her hair wet. The
Buffalo Bill case file, a think bundle, rests by her feet.
Ardelia hovers anxiously nearby.
ARDELIA (contd.)
In the parking garage at Memphis airport.
The crew was dead. He killed a tourist,
too. Got his clothes, cash... By now he
could be anywhere.
Clarice looks up. Her eyes are red-rimmed with exhaustion, and
something close to despair. She reads Ardelia's thought.
CLARICE
No. He won't come after me.
ARDELIA
Why not?
CLARICE
(bitterly)
It would be rude. And he wouldn't get
to ask any more questions...
Ardelia sits beside her, touches her arm.
ARDELIA
Clarice - you did the best anybody could
have for Catherine Martin. You stuck your
neck out for her and you got your butt
kicked for her and you tried. It's not
your fault it ended this way.
CLARICE
The worst part - the thing that's making
me crazy - is that Bill is right in front
of me. Only I can't see him...
(touching the case file)
Lecter said, everything I need to catch
him is right here, in these pages...
ARDELIA
Lecter said a lot of things.
CLARICE
(shakes her head)
He's here, Ardelia.
Ardelia stares back at her. SOUND UPCUT - the low throb of a
washing machine...
CUT TO:
INT. LAUNDRY ROOM - ACADEMY DORM - NIGHT (VERY LATE)
Clarice has spread out the case file across two washing ma-
chines. Ardelia, cross-legged on a dryer, studies another pile
of forms. Nearby is their laundry basket, detergent box.
ARDELIA
(surprised)
Hey, is this Lecter's handwriting?
She holds up the map, with its location markings for the
kidnapping and body dump sites. Clarice takes it, looks.
INSERT - THE MAP -
with newly inked words in Dr. Lecter's precise, elegant hand.
DR. LECTER (V.O.)
Clarice, doesn't this random scattering
of sites seem overdone to you?
Doesn't it seem desperately random
- like the elaborations of a bad liar?
Ta... Hannibal Lecter.
NEW ANGLE - TWO SHOT
as Clarice looks up at Ardelia, puzzled but excited.
CLARICE
"Desperately random." What does he mean?
ARDELIA
Not random at all, maybe. Like there's
some pattern here...?
CLARICE
But there is no pattern. There's no
connection at all among these places, or
the computers would've nailed it! They're
even found in random order.
ARDELIA
Well, except for the one girl.
CLARICE
(beat)
What girl?
ARDELIA
The one that was weighted down. Where
is she...? Fred something.
They search among the inserts. Clarice finds the graduation photo.
CLARICE
Fredrica Bimmel, from Belvedere, Ohio.
The first girl taken, but the third body
found... Why?
ARDELIA
'Cause she didn't drift. He weighted
her down.
CLARICE
But why? He didn't weight the others.
Clarice moves, on fire, unable to keep still.
CLARICE (contd.)
The first, what the hell did Lecter
say about... "First principles," he said.
Simplicity... What does this guy do, he
"covets." How do we first start to
covet? "We covet what we see - "
She stops, turns. She grabs the photo of Fredrica from Ardelia,
stares at it. She looks up, trembling.
CLARICE
"- every day."
ARDELIA
(softly)
Hot damn, Clarice.
CLARICE (V.O.)
He knew her...!
CUT TO:
INT. FBI BUILDING - OFFICE OF THE DIRECTOR - DAY
Clarice and Crawford are seated in front of Director Burke,
who's at his desk. Another chair is empty, because Krendler is
pacing. All four are nearing their boiling points.
CLARICE (contd.)
Maybe he lives in this, this Belvedere,
Ohio, too! Maybe he saw her every day,
and killed her sort of spontaneously.
Maybe he just meant to... give her a
7-Up and talk about the choir. But then -
KRENDLER
Starling -
CLARICE
But then he had to cover up, make her
seem just like all the rest of them.
That's what Lecter was hinting!
KRENDLER
The market in Lecter hints is way down,
today, okay? I've got two good men dead
in Memphis, and three civilians. I've got -
CRAWFORD
Who the hell's fault is -
KRENDLER
- a U.S. Senator who's half out of her
head because her daughter's going to be
murdered today! And all because of
your mind games with fucking Lecter!
CRAWFORD
If you hadn't interfered, he'd still
be in custody in Baltimore!
BURKE
Jack -
KRENDLER
You sent in a green recruit, with a
phony goddamn offer -
CRAWFORD
You're just trying to cover your ass
for letting him escape!
BURKE
THAT'S ENOUGH! All of you...
A long silence, as they all struggle to regain composure.
Crawford, who was at the point of striking Krendler, finally
retakes his seat. Burke looks sadly at Crawford and Clarice.
BURKE (contd.)
(very reluctantly)
Starling, I'm afraid I have no choice.
You're suspended from the Academy.
(Crawford starts to interrupt)
Not another word!
(to Clarice)
This is pending a reevaluation of your
fitness for the service. I promise you'll
get a fair hearing.
(pause)
Jack... you're ordered to take compassionate
leave. You'll spend the rest of the day
briefing the AG's office, then transfer
command of the task force, effective by
1800 hours.
(beat)
I'm sorry, Jack... Go home. Take care
of Bella.
Clarice and Crawford stare back at him, drained. A long and
very painful silence. Not even Krendler looks happy.
CUT TO:
EXT. SIDEWALK OUTSIDE FBI BUILDING - DAY
Clarice and Crawford walk out slowly, stand there a moment,
not knowing what to say, not wanting to face each other.
CLARICE
All his victims are women... His
obsession is women, he lives to hunt
women. But not one women is hunting
him - except me. I can walk in a
woman's room and know three times as
much about her as a man would.
(beat)
I have to go to Belvedere.
CRAWFORD
You heard them. I don't have that
authority anymore.
CLARICE
You do until six p.m.
He stares at her sadly. He looks, for the first time, defeated,
old beyond his years.
CRAWFORD
Ohio is cold ground. Picked over, ten
months ago. Our people worked it, so
did the locals.
CLARICE
But not from this angle. Not thinking
he knew her. You've got to send me!
CRAWFORD
I'm Bureau for 28 years, Starling. I
won't disobey orders, not even now.
CLARICE
But I just became a private citizen.
I can go anywhere I want to.
CRAWFORD
With ID and a gun...? Impersonating a
federal agent is a felony.
CLARICE
He's going to kill her, Mr. Crawford.
This morning, or maybe at noon, but
today, and Belvedere's our last chance.
I'm flying there, right now, unless
you stop me. You want my ID? Here -
take it...
He stares at her, a long moment. Catherine's life. Clarice's
passion, and future. His loyalty to the Bureau. Call it.
CRAWFORD
(pulls out his wallet)
There's about $300 here... And a
hotline code number. They'll patch you
through to me, wherever I am.
She raises her hand to him. She wants to touch him face, or
his neck, but can't. Finally she takes his money and card.
CLARICE
Thank you.
He watches, frightened for both of them, as she backs away,
smiles, then turns, racing towards the surveillance van.
SOUND UPCUT - the scratchy recording of Fats Waller SINGING,
as we...
CUT TO;
INT. MR. GUMB'S CELLAR - DAY (DIM LIGHT)
CLOSE ON the needle of the Victrola, on the spinning record,
as Mr. Gumb's fingers lift away. MUSIC continues in b.g.
MR. GUMB (O.S.)
(calling out)
Preeeeecious...!
CLOSE ON the moth cage, as Mr. Gumb's fingers search through
the humus, and find a plump new cocoon, lifting it out. The
door of the cage is left open, and one or two of the adult
moths flutter out.
MR. GUMB (contd.,O.S.)
Precious, come on Precious! Busybusy
day today...
CLOSE ON a clean towel, beside the sink. The cocoon is gently
placed in readiness alongside four shiny skinning knives.
MR. GUMB (contd.,O.S.)
Momma's gonna be sooo beautiful!
CLOSE ON a stainless steel Colt Python, with a six-inch barrel,
as the cylinder is spun, and the hammer gets a practice
cock. The metallic CLICK is deep and loud. A note of alarm
has entered Mr. Gumb's voice.
MR. GUMB (contd., O.S.)
You come here this minute, you little
scamp!
LOW ANGLE on Mr. Gumb, wearing the kimono, as he walks through
his sewing workroom. His back is to us; he is looking anxiously
under the furniture. He stops, straightens. Genuinely scared.
MR. GUMB (contd.)
Precious...?
LOW ANGLE - OVER THE PIT OPENING -
towards Mr. Gumb, as he stops at one of the doorways of the
oubliette chamber. He stares inside; his face in shadows.
MR. GUMB (contd.)
Sweetheart...?
From the distant bottom of the pit, we hear Catherine's voice.
CATHERINE (O.S.)
She'd down here you sack of shit.
Mr. Gumb's fist flies to his mouth, and he sags against the
doorframe. A little groan escaped him; the dog answers with
a series of YIPS.
UPWARD ANGLE, FROM THE PIT BOTTOM
as Mr. Gumb's dark shape leans cautiously over the edge.
MR. GUMB
Precious, are you all right?
REVERSE ANGLE ON CATHERINE -
crouched to one side, clutching the dog to her chest. Seeing
Mr. Gumb, the dog squirms frantically, BARKING.
CATHERINE
Get me a telephone. Lower it down to
me. Do it now, mister! I don't want
to have to hurt this little dog.
UPWARD ANGLE
on Mr. Gumb, as, with a cry of fury, he whips the Colt from
inside his kimono. The muzzle gleams as he takes aim.
CATHERINE
yanks the dog up, into his line of fire, screaming at him.
CATHERINE
You shoot motherfucker you better kill
me quick or I'll break her fucking
neck, I swear to God!
MR. GUMB (O.S.)
(wails)
Nooooooo!
Tucking the dog under one arm, she grabs its muzzle, twisting
the head. The dog WHINES piteously.
CATHERINE
Back off, you son of a bitch! Back off!
UPWARD ANGLE
as Mr. Gumb cries out again - a terrible, inarticulate scream
of rage and anguish. But then he slowly lowers his gun.
REVERSE ANGLE
on Catherine, as she maintains her grip.
CATHERINE (contd.)
That's better... Now get me a live
telephone. Get a long extension and
lower is down here... And you better
do it fast, too, 'cause I think her
leg's broken. She's in pain, mister,
she need a vest.
MR. GUMB
stares down at her, a long beat, breathing heavily.
MR. GUMB
You think she's in pain? You don't
know what pain is. But you're going
to find out...
And abruptly he vanishes. SOUND of his footsteps, rushing off.
CATHERINE
begins shaking, hands and arms twitching uncontrollably. She
hugs the little dog tight to her chest, buries her face in
its fur, sobbing...
DISSOLVE TO:
EXT. RESIDENTIAL STREET - BELVEDERE, OHIO - DAY
HIGH ANGLE as a rented sedan pulls up to the curb, stops. After
a moment Clarice climbs out, a bit stiffly. Double-checking
this address, she glances up from a folded street map to -
AN OLD, THREE-STORY WOODEN HOUSE
in a row of similarly shabby homes, all backing onto a narrow
river. A path of boards, laid over mud, leads back along this
house towards the brown water. SOUND of hammering from there.
CUT TO:
EXT. BIMMEL HOUSE - BACK YARD - DAY
An awesome huddle of pigeon coops sprawls by the brackish water.
The birds' COOING mixes with the HAMMERING. A tall, gaunt man
in a knit cap is obsessively pounding nails into a new coop.
CLARICE
approaches him, and the man lowers his hammer. He has red-
rimmed eyes of watery blue. His face is deeply seamed.
CLARICE
Mr. Bimmel...?
He stares back at her, warily.
CUT TO:
INT. BIMMEL HOUSE - STAIRCASE - DAY
HIGH ANGLE - LOOKING DOWN - as Mr. Bimmel leads Clarice up a
steep flight of steps. The bannister is worn, sags a bit.
MR. BIMMEL
I don't know nothin' new to tell ya.
The police been back here so many
times already... Fredrica went into
Columbus on the bus to see about a
job. She left the interview o.k.
She never come home.
Clarice pauses, at the landing, to look at a framed photo: the
familiar graduation portrait. Others pictures show Fredrica as
a young girl, toddler, infant - plump and hopeful at each age.
MR. BIMMEL (contd.)
Her room's how she left it. Just shut
the door when you're done.
CUT TO:
INT. FREDRICA'S BEDROOM - DAY
CLARICE'S POV - MOVING SLOWLY - as she takes in flowery chintz
curtains... posters of Madonna and Blondie... a twin bed, with
worn, stuffed animals on the pillow... . a big sewing machine in
the corner.
CLARICE
turns, absorbing nuances. There is loneliness here, an echo of
desperation under this steeply pitches ceiling. A shrill MEOW,
and she looks down...
A BIG TORTOISESHELL CAT
is rubbing against her ankles.
CLARICE
picks up the cat, scratches behind his ears. She glances up.
IN A FULL-LENGTH MIRROR -
she and the cat stares back at their own reflection...
CUT TO:
Clarice, sitting at the desk, turns the pages of a high school
yearbook. The cat is curled on her lap...
CUT TO:
Clarice, kneeling by the old Decca record player, flips through
LPs and singles. The cat has wandered off...
CUT TO:
Clarice pulling a string to light up the closet. She is surprised
and intrigued to see an extensive wardrobe, groaning from
the rod. A shelf above the rod is stacked high with sewing
supplies, in clear plexiboxes. She flips through the hanging
clothes, pulls out one dress, on its hanger, for a closer look.
THE DRESS
is very big, to fit Fredrica, but beautifully cut. Some of the
seams still look unfinished. She turns it around, sees a blue
tissue dressmaker's pattern still pinned to the back.
FAVORING THE SEWING MACHINE -
as Clarice turns, looks towards it. She hangs the dress on the
closet door knob, crosses to sit at the machine. She takes off
its dust cover. She runs one hand over the cool metal, as a
taunting memory forms in her mind.
DR. LECTER (V.O.)
Billy wants to change, too, Clarice.
But there's the problem of his size,
you see...
She turns, looks again at the unfinished dress. Suddenly she
straightens, her attention riveted by something...
CLARICE'S POV -
On the printed pattern, down at the lower back of the outlined
dress, are two bold black triangles. We RUSH CLOSER to there
shapes, before jumping back to -
CLARICE
who stares at them, starting to tremble.
DR. LECTER (V.O.)
Even if he were a woman, he'd have
to be a big one...
IN FLASHBACK -
those missing triangles of skin on the dead girl's back, in
the funeral home in West Virginia...
CLOSE ON CLARICE
as she jumps to her feet, with a fierce joy.
CLARICE
Sewing darts. You bastard.
CUT TO:
INT. BIMMEL PARLOR - DOWNSTAIRS - DAY
Clarice paces, in an exuberant rush, amidst the worn furniture.
CLARICE
(into phone)
He's making himself a "woman suit," Mr.
Crawford - out of real women! And he can
sew, this guy, he's really skilled.
A dressmaker, or a tailor -
CRAWFORD (V.O.)
Starling -
CLARICE
That's why they're all so big - because
he needs a lot of skin! He keeps them alive
to starve them awhile - to loosen their
skin, so that -
CRAWFORD (V.O.)
Starling, we know who he is! And where
he is. We're on our way now.
CLARICE
(pause; surprised)
Where?
CUT TO:
INT. FBI TURBOJET - FLYING - DAY
Crawford sits at a communications console, with Burroughs, in
headphones, by his side. This forward section of the cabin is
crammed with hi-tech equipment, all lit up and WHIRRING. Through
a window we see clouds, part of the jet's wing.
CRAWFORD
(into speaker phone)
Calumet City, edge of Chicago. I'll
be on the ground in 45 minutes with
the Hostage Rescue Team. I'm back in
charge, Starling. He's mine.
INTERCUTTING -
as Clarice reacts; her happiness for Crawford is tinged with
disappointment at being so suddenly out of the hunt.
CLARICE
(on phone)
Sir, that's great news. But how -
CRAWFORD
Johns Hopkins finally came up with a
name for us. We fed him into Known
Offenders, and he came up cherries.
(takes a paper from Burroughs)
Subject's name is "Jamie Gumb," AKA
"John Grant." Lecter's description was
accurate, he just lied about the name.
INSIDE THE JET - MOVING ANGLE -
from the rear of the cabin forward, as we slowly PASS the
twelve-man HRT. They're seated in full gear, hardshell armor,
quietly checking and rechecking their bulging cases of weapons -
silencer automatics, shotguns, stun grenades...
CRAWFORD (contd., O.S.)
This Gumb's a real beauty. Slaughtered
both his grandparents when he was twelve,
and did nine years in juvenile psychi-
atric. Where, Starling, he took vocational
rehab, and learned a useful trade...
INTERCUTTING -
CLARICE
Sewing...
CRAWFORD
Take a bow. Customs had some paper on
his alias. They stopped a carton two
years ago at LAX - live caterpillars from
Surinam. The addressee was "John Grant."
Calumet Power & Light's given us two
possible residences under that alias.
We're hitting one, Chicago SWAT's taking
the other.
CLARICE
(eagerly)
Chicago's only about 400 miles from
here. I could be there in -
CRAWFORD
No, Starling, there isn't time. And
you've still got crucial work to do in
Ohio. We want him for murder, not
kidnapping. I'm counting on you to link him
to the Bimmel girl, before he's indicted.
Clarice tries hard to swallow her disappointment.
CLARICE
Yes sir... I'll do my best.
CRAWFORD
(pause; gently)
Starling - you've earned back your place
in the Academy. We never would've found
him without you, and nobody's ever going
to forget that. Least of all me.
CLARICE
Yes sir. Thank you, sir...
CRAWFORD
switches off, feeling bad for her. On the console near him, the
fax machine starts to CHATTER. He turns, looks.
BURROUGHS (O.S.)
Here he comes, Jack.
CLOSE ON
an emerging sheet, as Gumb's face is printed out. We see just
his hair, then the top of his forehead, before we...
CUT TO:
EXT. BIMMEL BACK YARD - DAY
Clarice walks slowly across the yard, absorbing all this news,
before suddenly leaping into the air and pumping her fist in
triumph, with a happy yelp. Then she sees -
MR. BIMMEL
staring at her in surprise. He sits by his coops, smoking.
CLARICE
somewhat embarrassed, crosses over to him.
CLARICE
Mr. Bimmel... did Fredrica ever mention
a man named Jamie Gumb, from Calumet
City? Or John Grant?
(He shakes his head)
Did she know any men that sew?
MR. BIMMEL
She sewed for everybody. Stores, ladies,
whatever. I don't know about men.
CLARICE
Who was her best friend, Mr. Bimmel?
Who'd she hang out with?
CUT TO:
EXT. AN ISOLATED RUNWAY - O'HARE AIRPORT - DAY
The FBI turbojet is parked, its gangway down. Crawford,
Burroughs, and the HRT squad, carrying their bags of weapons,
CLATTER rapidly down the metal steps...
STACY (V.O.)
Freaked me out. Get your skin peeled
off, is that a bummer...?
CUT TO:
INT. SAVING & LOAN - BELVEDERE - DAY
STACY HUBKA - short, perky, early 20's - sits nervously at
her desk, talking to Clarice, who jots in her notebook. In
the b.g. beyond them, bank tellers, lines of waiting customers,
MUZAK.
STACY (contd.)
They said she was just rags, like
somebody -
CLARICE
Stacy, did Fredrica ever mention a man
named Jamie Gumb? Or John Grant?
(Stacy shakes her head)
Do you think she could've had a friend
you didn't know about?
STACY
No way. She had a guy, I'da known,
believe me. Sewing was her life, she
was really great at it. Poor Freddie.
CLARICE
Did you ever work with her?
STACY
Oh sure, me'n Pam Malavesi used to help
her do alterations for old Mrs. Lippman.
Lots of people worked for her, she had
the business from all these retail stores?
But she was like, totally old, it was more'n
she could handle.
CLARICE
Where does Mrs. Lippman live? I'd like
to talk to her.
STACY
She died. She went to Florida to retire,
like two years ago? She dies down there.
Clarice reacts, disappointed at the ending of this trail.
STACY (contd.)
(beat; shyly)
Is that a pretty good job, FBI agent?
CLARICE
I think so.
STACY
You get to travel around and stuff?
I mean, better places then this?
CLARICE
Sometimes you do.
STACY
Freddie was so happy for me when I got
this job. This - toaster giveaways, and
Barry Manilow on the speakers all day -
she thought this was really hot shit.
What did she know, big dummy...
Suddenly she's fighting tears. Clarice reaches to hug her.
CUT TO:
EXT. RESIDENTIAL STREET - CALUMET CITY, ILLINOIS - DAY
WIDE ANGLE on what appears to be, at first, a calm, ordinary
neighborhood of working class two- and three-story houses. But
the street is strangely quiet, deserted. After a few moments,
we become aware of movement - armed, dark-clad figures creeping
swiftly and in silence from shrubs to garage corners, from
parked cars to porches, appearing and then disappearing...
CUT TO:
INT. MR. GUMB'S CELLAR - DAY (DIM LIGHT)
CLOSE ON Mr. Gumb, as he settles a big pair of infra-red night-
vision goggles over his eyes. Moths flutter past his face. His
mouth is set in a grim line...
CUT TO:
EXT. STREET IN CALUMET CITY - FRONT YARD - DAY
An HRT cop, prone beneath a hedge, is joined by a 2nd HRT Cop,
who throws himself to the grass beside him. They both take aim
with their scoped rifles at -
TELEPHOTO ANGLE (WITH RIFLE CROSSHAIRS) -
The front door of a big, nearby, split-level house...
CUT TO:
INT. MR. GUMB'S CELLAR - DAY (DIM LIGHT)
CLOSE ON a fuse box, as Mr. Gumb reaches in, flips a switch.
The lights go out. SOUND of a second switch, and the cellar
is bathed in a green glow...
CUT TO:
EXT. STREET IN CALUMET CITY - NEIGHBOR'S HOUSE - DAY
A little boy, riding his tricycle in his driveway, is suddenly
startled to find himself staring into the grim face of -
A MEMBER OF THE HRT -
crouched by his garage, armed to the teeth. As the little boy
starts to cry, the cop pulls him into the shadows, covering
his mouth.
CUT TO:
INT. MR. GUMB'S CELLAR - DAY (GREEN LIGHT)
Mr. Gumb, in his kimono and goggles, creeps silently through
his workrooms - knees bent, painted toes places ever so
delicately, the Colt held aloft - as more moths flutter past him
in the eerie light...
CUT TO:
EXT. STREET IN CALUMENT CITY - DAY
A florist's van turns the corner, comes slowly down the street
and stops at the curb in front of the split-level. The driver,
in a gray deliveryman's uniform and cap, climbs out of the cab,
walks briskly to the panel door, on the street side of the van,
and slides it open. He leans in, comes out with a long, thin
red-ribboned floral box, starts calmly towards the house...
CUT TO:
INT. MR. GUMB'S CELLAR - DAY (GREEN LIGHT)
MR. GUMB'S POV - MOVING ANGLE - on the top of the oubliette,
a glowing green circle in the dark, as it draws closer and
closer... and then Catherine comes INTO VIEW, at the bottom
of the pit. She is crouched, exhausted, staring straight up
at him - but she can't see him in this infra-red darkness.
Precious is curled into her stomach, asleep. The futon is up
to Catherine's waist, but there's a clear shot at her head
and neck.
MR. GUMB -
looking down at her, smiles...
CUT TO:
EXT. STREET IN CALUMET CITY - SUSPECT'S HOUSE - DAY
MOVING ANGLE on the "deliveryman," seen from behind, as he
mounts three steps to the split-level's front porch. Tucked
into the small of his back if a 9 mm. automatic.
CRAWFORD AND BURROUGHS
have slipped out of the van, and are crouched behind it now,
with drawn guns, watching tensely as -
THE "DELIVERYMAN"
settles the floral box in the crook of his left arm, reaches
out with his right hand towards the buzzer...
CUT TO:
INT. MR. GUMB'S CELLAR - DAY (GREEN LIGHT)
Slowly, savoring the moment, Mr. Gumb aims the big Colt, which
is already cocked, using both hands... He is just about to
squeeze the trigger, when we hear his DOOR BUZZER, surprisingly
loud and close by. He turns, startled, and sees -
A DUSTY BLACK METAL BOX -
the extension buzzer, mounted high on the wall, which is making
the hideous, grating JANGLE. It finally stops, but not before
waking Precious, who starts frantically BARKING, O.S., as -
MR. GUMB
raises his gun again, spinning back towards -
HIS POV - THE PIT BOTTOM -
where Catherine, hearing but still not seeing him, quickly
yanks the futon over both herself and the dog. Instantly the
two of them become one squirming, indistinguishable mass.
MR. GUMB
bites his lip, his aim wavering, as he can't decide where to
safely place his shot. The maddening BUZZER sounds again, even
more insistently, and he cries out with frustration and fury.
But as the BUZZER continues, he reluctantly uncocks his gun,
looking up angrily towards his front door...
CUT TO:
INT. MR. GUMB'S FRONT DOOR - DAY
The door opens, on a chain, and Clarice peers in, smiling.
CLARICE
Good afternoon... I wonder if you
could help me. I'm looking for Mrs.
Lippman's family?
Mr. Gumb frowns out at Clarice. For the first time ever, we
get a well-lit view of his bland, pale-eyed moon of a face.
MR. GUMB
They don't live here anymore.
CUT TO:
EXT. FRONT DOOR OF SUSPECT'S HOUSE - CALUMET CITY
The "deliveryman" yanks a 12 lb. sledgehammer from the floral
box, swings it with all his might against the door knob, blowing
it through as -
MOVING ANGLE
Crawford and Burroughs race towards the door, guns up...
CUT TO:
EXT. MR. GUMB'S FRONT DOOR - DAY
Mr. Gumb starts to close the door, only to have Clarice push
back against it, politely but firmly. She holds up her ID.
CLARICE
Excuse me, but I really do need to
talk to you. This was Mrs. Lippman's
house. Did you know her?
MR. GUMB
(beat)
Just briefly. What's the problem, Officer?
CUT TO:
INT. SUSPECT'S HOUSE - CALUMENT CITY - DAY
A bedroom window disintegrates as a flash grenade is shot
through it, EXPLODING on the floor. An instant later, a
black-clad HRT cop dives through the shattered glass, rolls
across the floor, comes up on one knee swivelling his sawed-
off shotgun...
CUT TO:
EXT. MR. GUMB'S FRONT DOOR - DAY
Clarice and Mr. Gumb, still eyeing each other through the
door crack...
CLARICE
I'm investigating the death of Fredrica
Bimmel. Who are you, please?
MR. GUMB
Jack Gordon.
CLARICE
Mr. Gordon, did you know Fredrica when she
worked for Mrs. Lippman?
MR. GUMB
No. Wait... Was she a great, far person?
I may have seen her, I'm not sure...
CUT TO:
INT. SUSPECT'S HOUSE - CALUMET CITY - DAY
MOVING ANGLE as Burroughs moves quickly down a hallway and
enters the living room, where Crawford is standing, with his
gun held down by his side, surrounded by several other cops.
Burroughs shakes his head: Nothing here...
CUT TO:
INT. MR. GUMB'S FRONT HALLWAY - DAY
Mr. Gumb glances briefly over his shoulder, towards his
kitchen, then turns back to Clarice with a smile.
MR. GUMB
Mrs. Lippman had a son, maybe he could
help you. I have his card somewhere.
Do you mind stepping inside, while I
looks for it?
CLARICE
Thanks.
ANGLE FAVORING THE COLT PYTHON
which rests on a counter, just inside the open kitchen doorway.
THROUGH this doorway, we watch as Mr. Gumb, at the end of his
front hall, slips the chain. Clarice enters, closing the door
behind her.
CUT TO:
EXT. FRONT YARD OF SUSPECT'S HOUSE - CALUMET CITY - DAY
MOVING ANGLE - towards the front door, as frustrated HRT cops
file out of the empty house, rifles slung across their shoulders.
WE PICK OUT CRAWFORD -
walking across the grass towards the van, when all at once he
stops in his tracks, shaken by a sudden flash of intuition.
CAMERA RUSHES VERY CLOSE
on his stricken face...
CRAWFORD
Clarice.
CUT TO:
INT. MR. GUMB'S PARLOR - DAY
Clarice, pulling her notebook from her shoulder bag, glances
around the musty-looking room.
MR. GUMB (O.S.)
That horrible business, I shiver
every time I think about it...
Overstuffed furniture, porcelain figurines. One archway onto
the front hall, another onto a dining alcove, and through
there, the kitchen. Mr. Gumb is crossing to a rolling desk,
raising the top. He bends over, begins poking through cubby
holes. His tone is casual, neutral.
MR. GUMB (contd.)
Are they close to catching somebody,
so you think?
CLARICE
I think we may be, yes.
Mr. Gumb stiffens, almost imperceptibly. His back is to her,
as he continues opening drawers, rustling papers.
CLARICE (contd.)
Mr. Gordon, did you take over this place
after Mrs. Lippman died?
MR. GUMB
Yes. I bought the house from her, two
years ago.
CLARICE
Did she leave any records here? Tax or
business records? Maybe a list of
employees?
CLOSE ON MR. GUMB'S BACK
as he continues his rummaging.
MR. GUMB
No, nothing at all. Has the FBI learned
something? Because the police here don't
seem to have the first clue...
Out of the folds of his kimono crawls a Death's-head Moth. It
creeps slowly to the center of his back, raising its wings.
MR. GUMB (contd.)
Do you have his description yet, or
some fingerprints...?
CLARICE -
unaware, is still glancing around the room. For several agonizing
moments, we think she won't see the moth - but then she
turns, does see it, and her eyes freeze. A beat of pure fear.
A tremendous struggle to keep her voice calm.
CLARICE
No... no, we don't.
Very carefully, she drops her notebook back into her bag, lowers
the bag to the floor. With her fingertips she brushes back the
edge of her blazer, loosening its drape.
MR. GUMB
turns back towards her cheerfully, holding out a business card.
MR. GUMB
Ahhh. Here's that number.
CLARICE
keeps her distance. They are about ten feet apart.
CLARICE
Good, thank you. Mr. Gordon, do you
have a phone I can use?
MR. GUMB
is about to reply when the moth suddenly flies up from behind
him, flutters past his face. He turns, looking at it. He looks
back at Clarice, his mouth still open.
HER EYES
are unmoving, locked on his.
HIS EYES
stare back at her, widen. And they know each other.
MR. GUMB
(softly)
In the kitchen. I'll show you.
CLARICE
whips her gun out, gripping it in both shaking hands.
CLARICE
Freeze!
MR. GUMB
slowly tilts his head to one side, smiles at her.
CLARICE
tries to force more authority into her voice.
CLARICE
Okay... Okay, Mr. Gumb, you're under
arrest. Down on the floor, hands
and legs spread, move it.
MR. GUMB
turns, then all at once, in two quick steps, he is gone,
disappearing into his dining alcove, then kitchen.
CLARICE
hesitates, just a split second, to shoot him in the back -
and then it's too late.
CLARICE
Shit!
CUT TO:
INT. MR. GUMB'S KITCHEN - DAY
Clarice hurries inside, moving low, swivelling her gun.
HER POV - MOVING -
The kitchen is empty. To one side, a door still shuddering on
its hinges...
CLARICE
rushes to this - pauses - then elbows the door aside, aiming
her gun down -
AN EMPTY STAIRWELL -
brightly lit, leading to the cellar. Two doors facing the
bottom, both open. No sign of Mr. Gumb.
CLARICE
hates this, hates this, which door, it's a trap, what to do:
she is very scared, but suddenly hears -
ANGLE OF THE STAIRWELL AGAIN -
the distant SCREAM of Catherine Martin, somewhere down there
in that killing maze.
CLARICE
rushes through the doorway, and down the stairs.
BEHIND HER, ON THE KITCHEN COUNTER
there's an empty space; the Colt Python is gone.
CUT TO:
INT. MR. GUMB'S CELLAR - DAY
MOVING ANGLE - WITH CLARICE - hurrying down the steps. More
SCREAMS; they seem to be coming from the left door. Clarice
goes that way, entering a brick-walled passage - pipes overhead,
naked bulbs. The lighting, though dim, is incandescent;
Mr. Gumb has switched off his infra-red system. Clarice comes
to a T-shaped intersection, stops. Another SCREAM, again to
her left, and the BARKING of a dog...
CLARICE
follows her gun around the corner, looking right.
EMPTY PASSAGEWAY -
but doors opening off it - he could be lurking behind any of
them. She looks left... sees an opening onto some kind of
chamber. The noises are LOUDER, coming from there.
CLARICE
moves cautiously towards this chamber...
CUT TO:
INT. OUBLIETTE CHAMBER - DAY (DIMLY LIT)
Clarice moves in, hugging the wall, gun swivelling...
HER POV - MOVING -
the open top of the pit... beyond it, the other two doorways,
opening onto this room - Jesus, he could come through either one
of them, or come up behind her... She moves to the pit, looks
down, very briefly, sees Catherine SCREAMING, hysterical, and a
little white dog BARKING...
CLARICE
kneels, staring up from one door to another, she can't cover them
all, she's totally exposed - and what's a dog doing there?
CLARICE
FBI, Catherine, you're safe.
CATHERINE
Safe, SHIT, he's got a gun! Getmeout.
GETMEOUT!
CLARICE
You're all right! Where is he?
CATHERINE
GETMEOUT!
CLARICE
I'll get you out! Just be quiet so I can
hear. Shut that dog up.
(still swivelling)
Is there a ladder? Is there a rope?
CATHERINE
IDON'TKNOW! GETMEOUT!!
CLARICE
Catherine. Listen to me. I have to find
a rope. I have to leave this room, just
for a minute, but -
CATHERINE
NOOOOO! You fucking bitch don't you LEAVE
ME down here, DON'T YOU-
CLARICE
Shut UP!
(then, louder)
THE OTHER OFFICERS WILL BE HERE ANY MINUTE!
YOU'RE PERFECTLY SAFE NOW!
Ignoring Catherine, whose shouts turn to sobs, she backs away,
turns, picks one of the other doorways, moves into it quickly.
CUT TO:
INT. NEW PASSAGEWAY - DAY (DIMLY LIT)
CLARICE'S POV - MOVING - down this passageway, towards a new
room... pausing at the doorway, straining to hear... no sound
except Catherine's CRYING, not in the b.g., and Clarice's own
RAPID BREATHING. Then she crouches - LOWER ANGLE - bursts
forward, through the doorframe, sidestepping...
CUT TO:
INT. WORKROOM - DAY (DIMLY LIT)
Clarice weaves back and forth, half-crouched, gun out, back to
the wall. Her face glistens with sweat, as she takes in...
HER POV - MOVING NERVOUSLY -
Mr. Gumb's sewing machine... his swivel chair... the old
Victrola... Big moths are crashing into the light bulbs, overhead;
they're everywhere. Suddenly, from just behind her, a CLICK
and a HUM, and -
CLARICE
spins, almost shoots, before seeing -
A SMALL REFRIGERATOR -
with its thermostat just switching ON.
CLARICE
gasps for breath, fighting for calm. She turns again, slashing
her free hand at the moths, moving quickly on...
CUT TO:
INT. SKINNING ROOM - DAY (DIMLY LIT)
Clarice moves past the mannequins, all of them naked now...
then quickly past the huge Chinese armoire, ready to shoot into
it. Its doors yawn open; it is empty except for several padded
hangers... She moves on, past the big sink, with its DRIPPING
faucet... the counter, with its gleaming knives... the rows of
chemical jars. At the end of this room is
A CLOSED DOOR
Clarice starts to open it, then hesitates. Looking around, she
seizes a wooden chair, wedges it under the door know, sealing
off this section of the cellar. With her back thus defended, she
turns, softly retracing her steps.
CUT TO:
INT. WORKROOM - DAY (DIMLY LIT)
Passing again through the workroom, Clarice pauses, seeing a
half-curtained door, to one side, that she had previously
skirted. She crosses to the door, listens and hears no sound
inside, takes a deep breath and reaches for the knob. She
twists it, and, as it turns, shoves hard and follows her gun
inside, all in one quick move...
CUT TO:
INT. BATHROOM - DAY (BRIGHTLY LIT)
An old-fashioned bathroom: tiled floor, sink, toilet - and a
big, free-standing tub. An opaque shower curtain, suspended
from an oval ring, hides whatever might be inside.
CLARICE -
centers her gun on the curtain, at chest height, and yanks it
aside with her left hand. No one standing there. Something
lower down catches her eye. She leans in, stares more closely,
not understanding, at first, that she's seeing -
A FEMALE HAND AND WRIST
sticking up from the tub, which is filled with hard red-purple
plaster. The hand is dark and shrivelled, with pink nail polish
and a dainty wristwatch. As -
CLARICE
is reacting with horror to this sight, the lights go out, to be
replaced, a split-second later, by the eerie green glow of
Mr. Gumb's infra-red system. Clarice cries out, turns blindly,
reaching for the door, can't find it, free hand clawing desperately
into what is, for her, utter darkness. SOUND of Catherine
KEENING again, in the far distance. Clarice stumbles, goes to
her knees, rights herself, finally clutches the door frame...
CUT TO:
INT. MR. GUMB'S WORKROOM - DAY (GREEN LIGHT)
Clarice emerges from the bathroom in a half-crouch, arms out,
both hands on the gun, extended just below the level of her
unseeing eyes. She stops, listens. In her raw-nerved darkness,
every SOUND is unnaturally magnified - the HUM of the refrigerator
... the TRICKLE of water... her own terrified BREATHING,
and Catherine's faraway, echoing SOBS... Moths smack against her
face and arms. She eases forward, then stops again, listens...
She eases forward again, following her gun, and creeps directly
in front of, and then past -
MR. GUMB
who has flattened himself against a wall, arms spread like a
high priest, Colt in one hand. He wears his goggles and kimono,
and under that - draping down over his naked arms, like some
hideous mantle - his terrifying, half-completed suit of human
skins. This is an exquisite moment for him - a ritual of supreme
exhaltation. He smiles at Clarice as, completely unaware, she
moves beyond him, exposing her back. Very slowly and quietly he
steps out behind her, taking his gun in both hands, aiming...
CLOSE ON
the Colt Python as - in SLOW MOTION - his thumbs cock the hammer,
the SOUND registering as a LOUD METALLIC CLICK, and -
CLARICE
spins, still in SLOW MOTION, flame already leaping from her
gun muzzle, as we see -
THE TWO FIGURES
almost at point-black range, guns ROARING hugely, one FLASH from
Mr. Gumb, and onetwothreefour FLASHES from Clarice, overlapping
his, and then, as the ECHOES crash deafeningly -
CLOSE ON CLARICE - LOW ANGLE -
with NORMAL SPEED RESTORED, as the side of her face hits the
floor, and she is gasping, stunned by the noise and flames;
there is blood on her check, and an ugly powder burn, but she
ignores them, twisting to yank her speedloader from her jacket
pocket, locking it blindly onto her gun's cylinder, reloading,
right in front of her face, then rolling onto her stomach,
aiming her gun upward again, blinking her dazzled eyes, straining
to locate him in the darkness... Where is he, where...?
Then, as the ECHOES finally fade, she hears something else -
a tortured, sucking, WHISTLE from perhaps eight feet away...
MOVING ANGLE - WITH CLARICE
as she crawls forward, on her elbows, following her gun, until
it bumps against Mr. Gumb's shoulder. He is lying on his back,
chest a bloody mess. She slides her muzzle against his head,
hard, but he doesn't move; another shot isn't needed. He stares
upwards, through his goggles, bloody lips working. He tries
to speak, but cannot. One hand reaches slowly upwards, the
fingers twitching, as if to seize something, overhead... Then
a final, ghastly groan, his hand drops, he is head. Clarice
feels for a pulse at his neck, making sure. Then, and only
then, does she permit herself to roll over, collapsing onto
her back beside him.
OVERHEAD ANGLE -
down at the two faces - intimately close together, like lovers
on their pillow. Then, as we PULL SLOWLY AWAY, we see that her
staring eyes, and his dead gaze, are both locked onto -
A DEATH'S-HEAD MOTH -
perched on an infra-red bulb, overhead, its wings pumping slowly.
SOUND UPCUT - wailing SIRENS, many excited VOICES, as we...
DISSOLVE TO:
EXT. MR. GUMB'S HOUSE - DUSK
The front porch of the tall Victorian house is bathed in a glare
of TV lights, police and ambulance flashers. Cars and vans and
even a firetruck choke the street; cops, reporters, EMS workers
and curious civilians swarm around the ineffective barricades.
The BUZZ of their voices goes even higher as
CLARICE -
dazed, her face bandaged - comes out of the house, walking
protectively beside Catherine, who is wheeled on a gurney.
They are followed out by uniformed cops, then two firemen
with an extension ladder. Catherine, blinking in confusion,
is still clutching the little dog, and refuses to give her up
even as she's trundled into an ambulance. Clarice sways with
exhaustion; everyone seems to be shouting at her at once,
pulling her sleeve. She tries to fight free of them, desperate
for a familiar face.
AN OHIO HIGHWAY PATROL CAR
pulls up, stops, and Crawford climbs out of the back seat. He
makes his way anxiously through the press of bodies, stopping
when he sees Clarice.
THEY LOOK AT ONE ANOTHER
for a long moment, Crawford choked with pride for her, with
sorrow for her ordeal, with love, but unable to find any words.
And then he does.
CRAWFORD
Starling... your father sees you.
And then all at once she is sobbing, her knees giving way, but
he is there to catch her, he is hugging her fiercely. HOLD ON
them for a long beat.
DIRECTOR BURKE (V.O.)
(over loudspeaker)
Congratulations! You are now officers
of the Federal Bureau of Investigation...
DISSOLVE TO:
EXT. GROUNDS OF THE FBI ACADEMY - WEEKS LATER - DAY
The forty members of Clarice's class, resplendent in their
best dark suits and dresses, rise, cheering themselves, then
turn happily to wave to their audience, as APPLAUSE mounts.
Beyond them, on a gaily tented platform, the Director stands
behind his podium.
CLARICE AND ARDELIA
look at one another solemnly. Ardelia holds up both fists, in
a power shake, and Clarice taps them with her own. She is
radiantly beautiful in a navy dress and pearls, the thin scar
on her cheek almost healed. Ardelia turns, waving towards the
crowd, the Clarice's thoughts are elsewhere. She turns, searching
among the dignitaries on the platform, till she locates
CRAWFORD
who smiles back at her with quiet pride, and offers a little
salute.
CLARICE
grins - more happy than we've ever seen her - then turns to
wave towards the crowd with the others.
MOVING ANGLE
over the admiring sea of spectators, several hundred of them,
still rising from their folding chairs, APPLAUDING in celebration
of these special young people, this perfect, sunlit day. SOUND
UPCUT - rock music, laughter - as we...
DISSOLVE TO:
INT. ACADEMY DORM - REC ROOM - THAT NIGHT
A LOUD party is underway - food, beer, dancing - as the new
grads celebrate ferociously. Ardelia weaves her way through the
crowded room, reaches Clarice, who is flanked by her special
guests - Pilcher and Roden, the two ardent scientists. Ardelia
has to shout at Clarice over the din.
ARDELIA
Agent Starling! Telephone!
CLARICE
(surprised)
Agent Mapp! Thank you!
She nods to Pilcher, leaves them. Roden, who is quite happily
drunk, grabs the startled Ardelia around the waist.
RODEN
Hel-lo, gorgeous! Let's get down.
Ardelia looks at Pilcher, confused.
PILCHER
Just ignore him. He's not a Ph.D.
CUT TO:
INT. DORM HALLWAY - NIGHT
Clarice picks up the dangling pay phone, speaks happily.
CLARICE
Starling.
DR. LECTER (V.O.)
Well, Clarice, have the lambs stopped
screaming...?
She freezes, stunned by the familiar voice. Then she turns,
waving frantically towards
ARDELIA
who is just inside the rec room door, at the end of the hall,
lost in conversation with Pilcher and Roden. Ardelia glances
at her briefly but misunderstands, waves cheerfully back.
DR. LECTER (contd., V.O.)
Don't bother with a trace, I won't be
on long enough.
CLARICE
turns back, gripping the phone more tightly.
CLARICE
Where are you, Dr. Lecter?
CUT TO:
EXT. A CLEAR NIGHT SKY
Very beautiful, glittering with countless stars.
DR. LECTER (O.S.)
Where I have a view, Clarice...
MOVING DOWN
We see a rolling lawn, a curving bay. Boats ride at anchor,
lights shimmering...
DR. LECTER (contd., O.S.)
Orion is looking splendid tonight, and
Arcturus, the Herdsman, with his flock...
DR. LECTER
smiles into his mobile phone. He is stretched out on a lounger,
on a tiled patio, languidly paring an orange with a penknife. His
appearance is quite altered - a beard, glasses, lighter hair. He's
has some cosmetic surgery, as well.
DR. LECTER (contd.)
(into phone)
Your lambs are still for now, Clarice,
but not forever... You'll have to earn
it again and again, this blessed silence.
Because it's the plight that drives you,
and the plight will never end.
CLARICE (V.O.)
Dr. Lecter -
DR. LECTER
I have no plans to call on you, Clarice,
the world being more interesting with
you in it. Be sure you extend me the
same courtesy.
CLARICE (V.O.)
You know I can't make that promise.
DR. LECTER
Goodbye, Clarice...
(and then, softly)
You looked - so very lovely today, in
your blue suit.
CUT TO:
INT. DORM HALLWAY - NIGHT
As Clarice reacts, the fill weight of his words sinking in.
CLARICE
Dr. Lecter... Dr. Lecter...!
But only a DIAL TONE comes from the phone. She is still staring
at her receiver, in shock, as we -
CUT BACK TO:
EXT. THE MOONLIT PATIO
Dr. Lecter sighs, sets his phone down, then rises. Popping an
orange section into his mouth, he turns towards the brightly
lit house. Stepping delicately over the sprawled body of a
uniformed security guard, he walks in through open french doors.
CUT TO:
INT. A BOOKLINED STUDY
In a swivel chair, amidst the wreckage of his papers and books,
is the writhing figure of Dr. Frederick Chilton. The extreme
intricacy of his bindings recalls Dr. Lecter's own former
restraints. His screams are muffled by the tape over his mouth;
he stares at Dr. Lecter like a rabbit trapped in headlights.
DR. LECTER
considers him for a genial moment, then raises the little penknife.
His eyes are twinkling.
DR. LECTER
Well, Dr. Chilton. Shall we begin?
FADE OUT:
THE END