That surprised Starling she had written Crawford off as a two-faced recruiting sergeant son of a bitch. 'I hope so, they haven't posted anything.' 'Your instructors tell me you're doing well, top quarter of the class.' 'No.' Not totally true, Starling thought. 'Starling, Clarice M., good morning,' he said. That seemed most unlikely here.Ĭrawford ended his telephone conversation with a sharp 'No.' He took her file from under his arm and opened it. Starling hoped Crawford wasn't on the juice. Everyone who could read the papers knew Behavioral Science section was catching hell. Now he was thin, his shirt collar was too big, and he had dark puffs under his reddened eyes. Normally, Crawford looked like a fit, middle-aged engineer who might have paid his way through college playing baseball-a crafty catcher, tough when he blocked the plate. He was standing at someone else's desk talking on the telephone and she had a chance to look him over for the first time in a year. She found Jack Crawford alone in the cluttered suite of offices. Her hands smelled of gunsmoke, but there was no time to wash-Section Chief Crawford's summons had said now.

She knew she could look all right without primping. No one was in the outer office, so she fluffed briefly by her reflection in the glass doors. She had grass in her hair and grass stains on her FBI Academy windbreaker from diving to the ground under fire in an arrest problem on the range. Clarice Starling reached it flushed after a fast walk from Hogan's Alley on the firing range. Behavioral Science, the FBI section that deals with serial murder, is on the bottom floor of the Academy building at Quantico, half-buried in the earth.

Thomas harris silence of the lambs