t h e s i l e n c e o f t h e l a m b s

screenplay by

ted tally

based on the novel by

thomas harris

2nd draft

july 28, 1989

note

for legal reasons, the names of three

of tom harris's characters have had to

be changed. it is my hope, and certainly

tom's, that the original names can be

restored in time for the making of this

movie.

for the purposes of this draft, however,

jack crawford has become 'ray campbell,'

frederick chilton has become 'herbert

prentiss,' and dr. hannibal lecter is

called 'dr. gideon quinn.'

fade in:

int. grubby hotel corridor - day (dimly lit)

a woman's face backs into shot, her head resting against grimy

wallpaper. she is tense, sweaty, wide-eyed with concentration.

this is clarice starling - mid-20's, trim, very pretty. she wears

kevlar body armor over a navy windbreaker, khaki pants. her thick

hair is piled under a navy baseball cap. a revolver, clutched in

her right hand, hovers by her ear. she raises a speedloader, in

her left hand, locks it into her cylinder, twists and reloads.

close on

a guest room door, with a small, wired pack attached to its knob.

suddenly, wish a sharp crack!, the knob explodes, and the door

bursts open.

with clarice - moving shot -

as she runs around a corner, through a cloud of smoke. she

shoulders aside the shattered door and rushes inside, gun at

the ready in both hands...

cut to:

int. hotel room - day

clarice's pov - moving - as she first sees, sitting on the edge

of a bed - a female hostage. black, late 20's, gagged, hands

behind her back. then, swivelling... she sees a startled male

suspect - white, mid-20's - standing by a window with a rifle

in his hands. he is turning towards her...

clarice

drops into a combat crouch, gun extended, and shouts.

clarice

freeze! fbi!

clarice's pov - slow motion -

all natural sound suspended - as the suspect faces her with

a strange, pleading expression. the rifle is rising in his hands,

but oddly enough, it is held across his chest, not pointing. then

another puzzling detail registers...

the suspect's hands

are taped to his gun, away from the trigger; he couldn't use it

even if he tried. suddenly we hear a metallic click, which reg-

isters 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, be-

gins 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 campbell

sits on the top step of the aisle, looking down at her. he is 53,

strongly built. he rises impassively, exits through the back door.

he carries a think manila envelope under one arm.

ardelia

who is helping clarice unbuckle her bullet-proof vest, follows

her worried gaze.

clarice

what'd i do?

ardelia

stay cool. just remember to call

him 'god.'

cut to:

ext. fbi academy grounds, quantico, virginia - day

campbell 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.

campbell

starling, clarice m., good morning.

clarice

good morning, mr. campbell.

campbell

your instructors tell me you're doing

well. top quarter of the class.

clarice

i hope so. they haven't posted anything.

campbell

a job's come up and i thought about you.

not really a job, more of - an interest-

ing 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.

campbell (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.

campbell

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?

campbell

the psychiatrist - dr. gideon quinn.

clarice stops walking, goes very still. a beat.

clarice

the cannibal...

campbell doesn't respond, except to study her face.

clarice (contd.)

yes, well... okay, right. i'm glad for

the chance, sir, but - why me?

campbell

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.

campbell (contd.)

i don't expect him to talk to you, but i

have to be able to say we tried... quinn

was a brilliant psychiatrist, and he

knows all the dodges.

(hands her the manila envelope)

dossier on him, copy of our question-

naire, 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 signa-

ture - 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 in-

to a walkie-talkie, then opens the back door. but campbell pulls

her aside, a hand on her shoulder. his intensity is scary.

campbell (contd.)

now. i want your full attention, starling.

are you listening to me?

clarice

yes sir.

campbell

be very careful with gideon quinn. dr.

prentiss 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 gideon quinn inside your

head... just do your job, but never forget

what he is.

clarice

(a bit unnerved)

and what is that, sir?

prentiss (v.o.)

oh, he's a monster. a pure psychopath...

cut to:

int. prentiss's office - baltimore state hospital for the

criminally insane - day

close on an i.d. card held in a male hand. clarice's photo, of-

ficial-looking graphics. it calls her a 'federal investigator.'

prentiss (contd., o.s.)

it's so rare to capture one alive. from

a research point of view, dr. quinn is

our most prized asset...

dr. herbert prentiss

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.

prentiss (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, ele-

gant shoulder bag, briefcase. he has rudely left her standing.

prentiss (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. prentiss,

but my instructions are to talk to quinn

and report back this afternoon.

prentiss

(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. prentiss walks ahead of her.

prentiss

quinn 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 stan-

dard tests. and my, does he hate us! thinks

i'm his nemesis... campbell's very clever,

isn't he? using you.

clarice

how do you mean, dr. prentiss?

prentiss

a pretty young woman, to turn him on? i

don't believe quinn'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.

prentiss

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. dis-

tant slammings and faint, hoarse shouts. they walk briskly.

prentiss

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.

prentiss

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 prentiss.

prentiss (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. prentiss - if quinn feels you're his

enemy - as you've said - them maybe i'll

have more luck by myself. what do you think?

prentiss

(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.

prentiss

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. quinn's corridor - day

moving shot - with clarice, as her footsteps echo. high to her

right, surveillance cameras. on her left, cells. some are pad-

ded, 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. quinn's cell

is coming slowly into view... behind its barred front wall is a

second barrier of stout nylon net... sparse, bolted-down furni-

ture, many softcover books and papers. on the walls, extraordi-

narily detailed, skillful drawings, mostly european cityscapes,

in charcoal or crayon.

clarice

stops, at a police distance from his bars, clears her throat.

clarice

dr. quinn... my name is clarice starling.

may i talk with you?

dr. gideon quinn

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 be-

fore her; the gracious host. his voice is cultured, soft.

dr. quinn

good morning.

cutting between them

as clarice comes a measured distance closer.

clarice

doctor, we have a hard problem in psych-

ological profiling. i want to ask for

your help with a questionnaire.

dr. quinn

'we' being the behavioral science unit,

at quantico. you're one of ray campbell's,

i expect.

clarice

i am, yes.

dr. quinn

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. quinn (contd.)

closer, please... clo-ser...

she complies each time, trying to hide her fear. dr. quinn's

nostrils lift, as he gently, like an animal, tests the air.

then he smiles, glancing at her card.

dr. quinn (contd.)

that expires in one week. you're not

real fbi, are you?

clarice

i'm - still in training at the academy.

dr. quinn

ray campbell sent a trainee to me?

clarice

we're talking about psychology, doctor,

not the bureau. can you decide for your-

self whether or not i'm qualified?

dr. quinn

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. quinn (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. quinn

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. quinn

it's much better than your shoes.

clarice

maybe they'll catch up.

dr. quinn

i have no doubt of it.

clarice

(shifting uncomfortably)

did you do those drawings, doctor?

dr. quinn

yes. that's the duomo, seen from the

belvedere. do you know florence?

clarice

all that detail, just from memory...?

dr. quinn

memory, officer starling, is what i have

instead of view.

a pause, then clarice takes the questionnaire from her case.

clarice

dr. quinn, if you'd please consider -

dr. quinn

no, no, no. you were doing fine, you'd

been courteous and receptive to courtesy,

you'd established trust with the embar-

rassing 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. quinn

ray campbell 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 campbell

send you to ask for my advice on him?

clarice

no, i came because we need -

dr. quinn

how many women has he used, our bill?

clarice

five... so far.

dr. quinn

all flayed...?

clarice

partially, yes. but doctor, that's an

active case, i'm not involved. if you

could -

dr. quinn

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. quinn

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. quinn

i didn't.

clarice

no. you ate yours.

a tense beat, then a smile from him, at this small boldness.

dr. quinn

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. quinn (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. quinn (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, hust-

ling rube with a little taste... good

nutrition has given you some length of

bone, but you're not more than one gen-

eration 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. quinn. 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. quinn

you're a tough one, aren't you?

clarice

reasonably so. yes.

dr. quinn

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. quinn

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 her-

self to straighten up and walk on, fumbling for a tissue. from

behind her, dr. quinn calls out, very agitated.

dr. quinn (o.s.)

officer starling... officer starling!

clarice slows, stops. she shudders, but makes the very diffi-

cult choice to turn, walk back, stand again in front of -

dr. quinn -

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. quinn

i would not have had that happen to you.

discourtesy is - unspeakably ugly to me.

clarice

then please - do this test for me.

dr. quinn

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. quinn?

dr. quinn

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 stumb-

ling, as she rubs at her face. she looks around for, and fi-

nally, 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. quinn,

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. campbell?

cut to:

int. campbell's house - study - night

campbell, in a cardigan, sits in a wing chair in the book-

lined study of his suburban home. he turns the pages of

clarice's memo as they talk. his tone is sharp.

campbell

i've read your interim memo on quinn.

you sure you've left nothing out?

intercutting -

starling

it's all there, sir, practically

verbatim.

campbell

every word, starling? every gesture?

starling

(a bit heatedly)

right down to the kleenex i used.

(he is silent)

sir, why? is something wrong?

campbell

he mentioned a name, at the very end.

'mofet...' any followup on her?

starling

i spent all evening on the mainframe.

quinn 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 quinn had his practice.

she pauses, expecting some soft of approval for her cleverness.

campbell

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 -

campbell

do you recall my instructions to you,

starling? what were they?

starling

to complete and file my report by 0800

wednesday. but sir -

campbell

then do that, starling. do just exactly

that.

starling

sir, what is it? there's something you're

not telling me.

campbell

(beat)

miggs has been murdered.

starling

(startled, upset)

murdered...? how?

campbell

the orderly heard quinn whispering to

him, all afternoon, and miggs crying.

they found him at bed check. he'd

swallowed his own tongue... prentiss

is scared stiff the family will file

a civil rights lawsuit, and he's try-

ing 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.

campbell

you don't have to feel any way about

it. quinn 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 campbell 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 campbell -

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. campbell's bedroom - night

a private nurse, in white, stands marking a clipboard chart, as

campbell enters his tidy bedroom.

campbell

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 campbell -

who lies in an elevated hospital bed. nearby are an oxygen

tank and mask, floral arrangements. her breathing is shallow,

very labored. campbell 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. pre-

paid in full... the contract is in the

name of 'miss hester mofet.'

cut to:

ext. storage unit number 31 - dusk

clarice, kneeling before a closed, roll-up metal door, takes a

flash photo of its sealed padlock. everett yow, a fat, 60ish

chinaman, holds an umbrella over them both. he looks unhappy.

clarice

so no one's been in here since - 1980?

she opens the padlock, using a fat ring of tagged keys, then

sets aside both keys and lock.

mr. yow

not to my knowledge. privacy is a great

concern to my customers. but, if you say

this is an fbi matter...

clarice

i won't disturb anything, mr. yow, i

promise. be gone before you know it.

slinging her camera over a shoulder, she tugs at the handle, but

the door won't budge. another tug, harder - no good. mr. yow

stoops to help, puffing hard, but it's firmly stuck. he sighs.

mr. yow

we could return tomorrow, with my

son. or perhaps some workmen...?

clarice crosses to her pinto, which faces the shed, reaches in

to turn on her headlights. mr. yow blinks in the sudden bright-

ness. 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 ce-

ment, 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 cam-

era 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 captur-

ing... an old upright piano.

mr. yow (o.s.)

you're playing a piano, miss starling?

clarice

that wasn't me.

mr. yow (o.s.)

oh.

clarice

crawls a bit further. there's hardly room to stand, but she

finally manages to wriggle upright, clawing away cobwebs, next

to the car. holding her light under one arm, she takes several

flash photos of the shed's interior, ending with the car. then,

slinging her camera over the shoulder, she folds back the tarp,

resting it on the roof. the resulting clouds of dust make her

cough.

the car -

is an antique beauty, a 1931 packard. it's very dusty, despite

the tarp. curtains close off the back passenger compartment,

but there's a narrow gap in them. more mousy rustlings.

clarice

peers in through the gap, aiming her flashlight.

her pov - shifting -

as the thin flashlight beam picks out: the broad back seat...

as open album of lacy, old-fashioned valentines... a crumpled

lap rug, on the floor... and then a pair of women's shiny, high-

heeled pumps... above these, the hem of a fancy satin evening

gown - and a pair of pale, stockinged legs.

clarice

recoils, alarmed, then steadies herself.

clarice

mr. yow? oh mr. yow...? it looks like

somebody is sitting in this car.

mr. yow (o.s.)

oh my! oh my... maybe you better come

out now, miss starling.

clarice

not yet! - just wait for me.

(under the breath)

maybe in about two seconds.

she leans down with her camera, takes a flash through the gap,

then tries the door handle. locked. so is the front door. she

looks around, aiming her light, and locates a tangle of coat-

hangers, sticking out of a carton of bric-a-brac. she pulls out

one of these, straightens it quickly, bends the tip into a hook.

close angle

as she jams this tool inside the join at the top of the back

passenger window, then fishes around till she can snag the in-

side 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 addi-

tion of heavy makeup, earrings, and a sodden wig, into a wo-

man's face. over the years the makeup has smeared badly, and

the pupils have gone almost milky white.

clarice -

staring at this terrible thing, is pleased to find herself

quickly regaining control. she murmurs to herself.

clarice

well, toto, we're not in kansas anymore.

cut to:

ext. quinn's hospital - parking lot - night (raining)

a loud clap of thunder, as a flash of lightning illuminates

the eerie towers and barred windows of the asylum.

moving angle

on clarice as she climbs from her car, runs through heavy

rain towards the main entrance, where a guard admits her.

cut to:

int. dr. quinn'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. quinn 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. quinn?

the food carrier suddenly swishes out of the cell, making her

jump up. in its tray is a clean, folded white towel. she hes-

itates, 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. quinn

your bleeding has stopped.

clarice

how did -

(she stops herself)

it's nothing. a scratch.

dr. quinn

why don't you ask me about buffalo bill?

clarice

(surprised, a beat)

why? do you know something about him?

dr. quinn

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. quinn

(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 ridicu-

lous 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. quinn

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. quinn

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. quinn

ahhh... why?

clarice

because you weren't wasting my time.

dr. quinn

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. quinn

ray campbell is helping your career,

isn't he? apparently he likes you. and

you like him, too.

clarice

i never thought about it.

dr. quinn

your first lie to me, clarice. how sad.

tell me - do you think campbell 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. quinn

not anymore.

(beat)

surely the odd confluence of events hasn't

escaped you, clarice. campbell 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. quinn

or doesn't this all begin to suggest to

you a kind of... negotiation? there's

something campbell 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. quinn 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. quinn (contd.)

punishment, you see. for miggs. just

like that gospel program. when you leave,

they'll turn the volume way up. prentiss

does enjoy his petty torments.

clarice

who killed raspail, doctor...? you know,

don't you?

dr. quinn

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

prentiss - and i want a view. i'll give

good value for it. campbell could do that

for me, but he won't. you persuade him.

clarice

(almost a whisper)

who killed your patient?

dr. quinn

oh, a very naughty boy. someone you and

ray campbell are most anxious to meet.

clarice

buffalo bill...?

(incredulous)

bill killed him, all those years

ago...? that's impossible.

but dr. quinn only smiles, enigmatically.

dr. quinn

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, un-

successfully, 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 to-

gether 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 s