“We’re woefully short of material on that sort of thing. There’s one single piece in The Journal of Abnormal Psychology. Would you mind talking with some of the staff—no, no, not this trip—Dr. Bloom was very severe with me on that point. We’re to leave you alone. Next trip, perhaps.”
Dr. Chilton had seen a lot of hostility. He was seeing some at the moment.
Graham stood up. “Thank you, Doctor. I want to see Lecter now.”
The steel door of the maximum-security section closed behind Graham. He heard the bolt slide home.
Graham knew that Lecter slept most of the morning. He looked down the corridor. At that angle he could not see into Lecter’s cell, but he could tell that the lights inside were dimmed.
Graham wanted to see Dr. Lecter asleep. He wanted time to brace himself. If he felt Lecter’s madness in his head, he had to contain it quickly, like a spill.
To cover the sound of his footsteps, he followed an orderly pushing a linen cart. Dr. Lecter is very difficult to slip up on.
Graham paused partway down the hall. Steel bars covered the entire front of the cell. Behind the bars, farther than arm’s reach, was a stout nylon net stretched ceiling to floor and wall to wall. Through the barrier, Graham could see a table and chair bolted to the floor. The table was stacked with softcover books and correspondence. He walked up to the bars, put his hands on them, took his hands away.
Dr. Hannibal Lecter lay on his cot asleep, his head propped on a pillow against the wall. Alexandre Dumas’s Le Grand Dictionnaire de Cuisine was open on his chest.
Graham had stared through the bars for about five seconds when Lecter opened his eyes and said, “That’s the same atrocious aftershave you wore in court.”
“I keep getting it for Christmas.”
Dr. Lecter’s eyes are maroon and they reflect the light redly in tiny points. Graham felt each hair bristle on his nape. He put his hand on the back of his neck.
“Christmas, yes,” Lecter said. “Did you get my card?”
“I got it. Thank you.”
Dr. Lecter’s Christmas card had been forwarded to Graham from the FBI crime laboratory in Washington. He took it into the backyard, burned it, and washed his hands before touching Molly.
Lecter rose and walked over to his table. He is a small, lithe man. Very neat. “Why don’t you have a seat, Will? I think there are some folding chairs in a closet just down that way. At least, that’s where it sounds like they come from.”
“The orderly’s bringing one.”
Lecter stood until Graham was seated in the hall. “And how is Officer Stewart?” he asked.
“Stewart’s fine.” Officer Stewart left law enforcement after he saw Dr. Lecter’s basement. He managed a motel now. Graham did not mention this. He didn’t think Stewart would appreciate any mail from Lecter.
“Unfortunate that his emotional problems got the better of him. I thought he was a very promising young officer. Do you ever have any problems, Will?”
“No.”
“Of course you don’t.”
Graham felt that Lecter was looking through to the back of his skull. His attention felt like a fly walking around in there.
“I’m glad you came. It’s been what now, three years? My callers are all professional. Banal clinical psychiatrists and grasping second-rate doctors of psychology from silo colleges somewhere. Pencil lickers trying to protect their tenure with pieces in the journals.”
“Dr. Bloom showed me your article on surgical addiction in The Journal of Clinical Psychiatry.”
“And?”
“Very interesting, even to a layman.”
“A layman . . . layman—layman. Interesting term,” Lecter said. “So many learned fellows going about. So many experts on government grants. And you say you’re a layman. But it was you who caught me, wasn’t it, Will? Do you know how you did it?”
“I’m sure you’ve read the transcript. It’s all in there.”
“No it’s not. Do you know how you did it, Will?”