Starling found it essential to like Catherine Martin because it helped her to bear down.
Starling could see where Catherine’s apartment was located—two Tennessee Highway Patrol cruisers were parked in front of it. There were spots of white powder on the parking lot in the area closest to the apartment. The Tennessee Bureau of Investigation must have been lifting oil stains with pumice or some other inert powder. Crawford said the TBI was pretty good.
Starling walked over to the recreational vehicles and boats parked in the special section of the lot in front of the apartment. This is where Buffalo Bill got her. Close enough to her door so that she left it unlocked when she came out. Something tempted her out. It must have been a harmless-looking setup.
Starling knew the Memphis police had done exhaustive door-to-door interviews and nobody had seen anything, so maybe it happened among the tall motor homes. He must have watched from here. Sitting in some kind of vehicle, had to be. But Buffalo Bill knew Catherine was here. He must have spotted her somewhere and stalked her, waiting for his chance. Girls the size of Catherine aren’t common. He didn’t just sit around at random locations until a woman of the right size came by. He could sit for days and not see one.
All the victims were big. All of them were big. Some were fat, but all were big. “So he can get something that will fit.” Remembering Dr. Lecter’s words, Starling shuddered. Dr. Lecter, the new Memphian.
Starling took a deep breath, puffed up her cheeks and let the air out slowly. Let’s see what we can tell about Catherine.
A Tennessee state trooper wearing his Smokey the Bear hat answered the door of Catherine Martin’s apartment. When Starling showed him her credentials, he motioned her inside.
“Officer, I need to look over the premises here.” Premises seemed a good word to use to a man who had his hat on in the house.
He nod
ded. “If the phone rings, leave it alone. I’ll answer it.”
On the counter in the open kitchen Starling could see a tape recorder attached to the telephone. Beside it were two new telephones. One had no dial—a direct line to Southern Bell security, the mid-South tracing facility.
“Can I help you any way?” the young officer asked.
“Are the police through in here?”
“The apartment’s been released to the family. I’m just here for the telephone. You can touch stuff, if that’s what you want to know.”
“Good, I’ll look around then.”
“Okay.” The young policeman retrieved the newspaper he had stuffed beneath the couch and resumed his seat.
Starling wanted to concentrate. She wished she were alone in the apartment, but she knew she was lucky the place wasn’t full of cops.
She started in the kitchen. It was not equipped by a serious cook. Catherine had come for popcorn, the boyfriend had told police. Starling opened the freezer. There were two boxes of microwave popcorn. You couldn’t see the parking lot from the kitchen.
“Where you from?”
Starling didn’t register the question the first time.
“Where you from?”
The trooper on the couch was watching her over his newspaper.
“Washington,” she said.
Under the sink—yep, scratches on the pipe joint, they’d taken the trap out and examined it. Good for the TBI. The knives were not sharp. The dishwasher had been run, but not emptied. The refrigerator was devoted to cottage cheese and deli fruit salad. Catherine Martin shopped for fast-food groceries, probably had a regular place, a drive-in she used close by. Maybe somebody cruised the store. That’s worth checking.
“You with the Attorney General?”
“No, the FBI.”
“The Attorney General’s coming. That’s what I heard at turnout. How long you been in the FBI?”
There was a rubber cabbage in the vegetable drawer. Starling rolled it over and checked the jewelry compartment inside. Empty.
“How long you been in the FBI?”
Starling looked at the young policeman.