Then he sat on the sofa with a clipboard and worked out a provocative personal ad to run in the major papers:
Junoesque creamy passion flower, 21, model, seeks man who appreciates quality AND quantity. Hand and cosmetic model, you’ve seen me in the magazine ads, now I’d like to see you. Send pix first letter.
Crawford considered for a moment, scratched out “Junoesque,” and substituted “full-figured.”
His head dipped and he dozed. The green screen of the computer terminal made tiny squares in the lenses of his glasses. Movement on the screen now, the lines crawling upward, moving on Crawford’s lenses. In his sleep he shook his head as though the image tickled him.
The message was:
MEMPHIS POX RECOVERED 2 ITEMS IN SEARCH OF LECTER’S CELL.
(1) IMPROVISED HANDCUFF KEY MADE FROM BALLPOINT TUBE. INCISIONS BY ABRASION, BALTIMORE REQUESTED TO CHECK HOSPITAL CELL FOR TRACES OF MANUFACTURE, AUTH COPLEY, SAC MEMPHIS.
(2) SHEET OF NOTEPAPER LEFT FLOATING IN TOILET BY FUGITIVE. ORIGINAL EN ROUTE TO WX DOCUMENT SECTION/LAB. GRAPHIC OF WRITING FOLLOWS. GRAPHIC SPLIT TO LANGLEY, ATTN: BENSON—CRYPTOGRAPHY.
When the graphic appeared, rising like something peeping over the bottom edge of the screen, it was this:
The soft double beep of the computer terminal did not wake Crawford, but three minutes later the telephone did. It was Jerry Burroughs at the National Crime Information Center hotline.
“See your screen, Jack?”
“Just a second,” Crawford said. “Yeah, okay.”
“The lab’s got it already, Jack. The drawing Lecter left in the john. The numbers between the letters in Chilton’s name, it’s biochemistry—C33H36N4O6—it’s the formula for a pigment in human bile called bilirubin. Lab advises it’s a chief coloring agent in shit.”
“Balls.”
“You were right about Lecter, Jack. He was just jerking them around. Too bad for Senator Martin. Lab says bilirubin’s just about exactly the color of Chilton’s hair. Asylum humor, they call it. Did you see Chilton on the six o’clock news?”
“No.”
“Marilyn Sutter saw it upstairs. Chilton was blowing off about “The Search for Billy Rubin.” Then he went to dinner with a television reporter. That’s where he was when Lecter took a walk. What a pluperfect asshole.”
“Lecter told Starling to ‘bear in mind’ that Chilton didn’t have a medical degree,” Crawford said.
“Yeah I saw it in the summary. I think Chilton tried to fuck Starling’s what I think, and she sawed him off at the knees. He may be dumb but he ain’t blind. How is the kid?”
“Okay, I think. Worn down.”
“Think Lecter was jerking her off too?”
“Maybe. We’ll stay with it, though. I don’t know what the clinics are doing, I keep thinking I should’ve gone after the records in court. I hate to have to depend on them. Midmorning, if we haven’t heard anything, we’ll go the court route.”
“Say, Jack … you got some people outside that know what Lecter looks like, right?”
“Sure.”
“Don’t you know he’s laughing somewhere.”
“Maybe not for long,” Crawford said.
CHAPTER 43
Dr. Hannibal Lecter stood at the registration desk of the elegant Marcus Hotel in St. Louis. He wore a brown hat and a raincoat buttoned to the neck. A neat surgical bandage covered his nose and cheeks.
He signed the register “Lloyd Wyman,” a signature he had practiced in Wyman’s car.
“How will you be paying, Mr. Wyman?” the clerk said.