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 separate pieces of fabric.

						INSTRUCTOR (O.S.)
			 Electron microscopy reveals fiber
			 "signatures" that are nearly as dis-
			 tinct as fingerprints...

	CLARICE

	sits at a long table, with other trainees. Ardelia is beside
	her. Other tables and students in the b.g. Each trainee has his
	own microscope. Clarice is tired, but straightens, hearing -

						INSTRUCTOR (contd.,O.S.)
			 Both of these blouses were worn by vic-
			 tims of Buffalo Bill. They were found in
			 two different states, and four months
			 apart. He always slits them up the back,
			 like a funeral suit...

	ON THE SCREEN -

	successively CLOSER VIEWS of the cut fabric edges, until we are
	seeing individual threads, big as tree limbs. The cuts match.

						INSTRUCTOR (contd.,O.S.)
			 The bunching you see - this compression -
			 is characteristic of scissor cuts, rather
			 than a single blade. And, as you see -
			 Bill always uses the same pair...

	ANGLE ON THE DOOR -

	as John Brigham, the gunnery instructor, sticks his head in.

						BRIGHAM
			 Clarice Starling! Are you in here?

										CUT TO:

	INT. HALLWAY - CLASSROOM BUILDING - DAY

	Clarice and Brigham walk briskly down the hall, passing other
	trainees. He carries a small canvas bag.

						BRIGHAM
			 Get your field gear, take stuff for
			 overnight. You're goin' with Campbell.

						CLARICE
			 Where?

						BRIGHAM
			 Some fishermen in West Virginia found
			 an unidentified girl's body. It's a
			 Buffalo Bill-type situation. Been in
			 the water about a week, and Ray needs
			 somebody that can print a floater.
			 Think you can handle it?

						CLARICE
				(thinking quickly)
			 I'll need the big fingerprint kit...
			 and the one-to-one Polaroid, the CU-5,
			 with film packs and batteries.

										CUT TO:

	INT. BRIGHAM'S JEEP CHEROKEE - DAY (DRIVING)

	Brigham steers as they pass hangars, parked planes, an airstrip.
	Clarice holds a big fingerprint kit and a weekend bag.

						BRIGHAM
			 Ray's pretty tough on you, isn't he?
			 Impatient...

						CLARICE
			 Sometimes.

						BRIGHAM
			 He's got a lot on his mind besides
			 Buffalo Bill... His wife, Bella, is
			 real sick. Comatose... I'm tellin'
			 you about it now, 'cause he may never.

	Clarice absorbs this in silence as they stop near an ancient,
	rather dilapidated Beechcraft. Its door is open, the twin props
	and beacons already turning. Brigham turns to her, holding out
	his small canvas bag.

						BRIGHAM
			 You're goin' in the field, so you
			 gotta have full kit. Take this - it's
			 my own...

	Clarice opens the bag, stares at the big blue gun nestled in
	its shoulder holster. She looks up at him, touched.

						BRIGHAM (contd.)
			 Wear it, don't ever leave it in your
			 purse. Dry fire it whenever you get the
			 chance. And do your exercises.

						CLARICE
			 I will... I promise.

						BRIGMAN
			 Listen, I hope you never need a thing
			 I've taught you. But you've got some-
			 thing... Ray sees it, I do too. If
			 you ever need to, you can shoot.

	She nods, climbs out. Then she looks back in at him. They're
	both moved by this rite of passage, but a little embarrassed.

						BRIGHAM (contd.)
			 Bless you, Starling...

										CUT TO:

	INT. BEECHCRAFT PLANE - DAY (FLYING)

	CLARICE'S POV - out the plane's window, at the landscape far
	below. Wisps of cloud, a quilt of farms.

	CLARICE

	turns from the window, looks at a think folder in her lap. The
	cover reads "Case File: / BUFFALO BILL." Clarice is moody, dis-
	tracted. She hesitates, then opens the file, begins to scan.

	INSERTS - HER POV -

	Police forms, some handwritten... Typed lab reports; we catch
	words, phrases: "Autopsy Protocols", "Histamine Analysis"...
	Grainy enlargements of bullet slugs, showing matched grooves...
	And then a stack of victim photos. The first one, taken from a
	good distance away, shows a nude female body, face down on a
	pebbly riverbank, surrounded by bits of litter.

	CLARICE

	hesitates again, then flips this photo to look at the next. It
	makes her flinch, just slightly. Quickly she turns through sev-
	eral more photographs, trying hard to concentrate.

						CAMPBELL (O.S.)
			 He keeps them alive for three days.

	NEW ANGLE -

	shows Campbell standing over her, swaying with the plane's
	motion. Behind him, the open cockpit door, the pilot's back.
	Campbell sits, removing sunglasses. He rubs his eyes.

						CAMPBELL (contd.)
			 Why, we don't yet know... There's no
			 evidence of rape or physical abuse
			 prior to death. All the mutilation you
			 see there is post-mortem.
				(a beat; he glances at her)
			 I'm hot, are you hot? Bobby, it's too
			 damned hot back here...

	The pilot adjusts a valve. Campbell turns to her again.

						CAMPBELL (contd.)
			 So. Three days. Then he shoots them,
			 skins them - usually just the torsos -
			 and dumps them. Each body in a different
			 river, in a different state, downstream
			 from an interstate highway. The water
			 leaves us no fingerprints, fibers, DNA
			 fluids - no trace evidence at all. That's
			 Fredrica Bimmel, the first one...

	A COLOR PHOTO - IN CLARICE'S HANDS -

	shows a pretty, plump-cheeked brunette, in her high school grad-
	uation cap and gown. She smiles at us with touching optimism.

						CAMPBELL (contd., O.S.)
			 A big girl, like all the rest. Went
			 about 160... Her corpse was the only
			 one he took the trouble to weight down,
			 so actually, she was the third girl
			 found. After her, he got lazy...

	NEW ANGLE -

	as Clarice stares at the girl's face, moved. Campbell pulls
	a map from the file, spreads it out. It shows the central and
	eastern U.S., with widely-spaced, hand-drawn markings.

						CAMPBELL (contd.)
			 Blue square for Belvedere, Ohio, where
			 the Bimmel girl was abducted. Blue
			 triangle where her body was found - down
			 here in Missouri. Same marks for the
			 other four girls, in different colors.
			 This new one, today... washed up here.
				(He marks with a Flair pen)
			 Elk River, in West Virginia, about six
			 miles below U.S. 79. Real boonies.

						CLARICE
			 There's no correlation at all between
			 where they're kidnapped and where
			 they're found...?
				(He shakes his head)
			 What if - what if you trace the heaviest-
			 traffic routes backwards from the dump
			 sites? Do they converge at all?

						CAMPBELL
			 Good idea, but he thought of it, too.
			 We've run simulations, using different
			 vectors and the best dates we can assign.
			 You put it all in the computer, and
			 smoke comes out. No, this one is dif-
			 ferent. Then one has seen us coming...

										CUT TO:

	INT. RENTAL CAR - DAY (DRIVING)

	Campbell steers, following a highway patrol car along a wind-
	ing mountain road. Clarice has the file open on her lap. He
	glances at her, inscrutable behind his sunglasses.

						CAMPBELL
			 Talk about him, Starling. Tell me what
			 you see.

						CLARICE
				(choosing her words carefully)
			 He's a white male... Serial killers tend
			 to hunt within their own ethnic group.
			 And he's not a drifter - he's got his
			 own house, somewhere. Not an apartment.

						CAMPBELL
			 Why?

						CLARICE
			 What he does with them - takes privacy...
			 Time, tools... He's in his 30's or 40's -
			 he's got real physical strength, but
			 combined with an older man's self-control.
			 He's cautious, precise, never impulsive...
			 This won't end in suicide, like they
			 often do.

						CAMPBELL
			 Why not?

						CLARICE
			 He's got a real taste for it now. And
			 he's getting better at his work.

						CAMPBELL
				(a beat; impressed)
			 Maybe you've got a knack for this...
			 I guess we're about to find out.

						CLARICE
				(quietly, evenly)
			 Like I have a "knack" for Dr. Quinn?

	He studies her a few moments, measuring her anger.

						CAMPBELL
			 Okay, Starling. Let's have it.

						CLARICE
			 You haven't said a word today about
			 that garage. Or what I found there.

						CAMPBELL
			 What should I say? You did fine work.
			 We'll wait on the lab.

						CLARICE
			 You knew. You knew from the start that
			 Quinn held the key to this... But you
			 weren't up front with me. You sent me in
			 to him naked.

						CAMPBELL
				(beat)
			 Are you finished?

						CLARICE
			 He starts this - buzzing in me, in my
			 head. He makes me feel violated...
			 You used me, Mr. Campbell.

	A shadow of regret passes over his face, but he answers sternly.

						CAMPBELL
			 Number One. Maybe there's a connection,
			 maybe not. Lying and breathing are the
			 same thing to Quinn. Number Two. If I'd
			 sent you in there with something to hide
			 from him, he'd have known it, instantly.
			 He'd never have trusted you.

	She starts to answer, then is silent. He is right. By now the two
	cars are entering a tidy little town - tree-lined streets, wooden
	houses, one-story shops, mountains in the b.g. They slow, turn.

						CAMPBELL (contd.)
			 Number Three, I didn't bring you along
			 today just because you can do first-rate
			 forensics. If Quinn is becoming part
			 of this case, you've got the most current
			 read on him. And Number Four - you don't
			 have to like me, or the way I do things.
			 But you do have to keep a cool head.
			 Especially now... Because from here on
			 out, you'll know everything I do. Are we
			 straight on that?

	Clarice nods, silently; it's as close to an apology as she's
	likely to get. She stares out the windshield.

	JUST AHEAD OF THEM -

	the highway patrol cruiser noses into a curb, next to other
	police cars, facing a big white frame house. Its sign reads
	"Potter Funeral Home." Two troopers climb from the car.

	CAMPBELL

	parks too, then kills the engine. He turns to her, removing
	his sunglasses, gestures to the case file.

						CAMPBELL
				(softly)
			 You think about him long enough, you get
			 a feel for him... Then, if you're lucky,
			 out of all the stuff you know, one little
			 part of it tugs at you, tries to get your
			 attention... You let me know when that
			 happens, Starling. Live right behind your
			 eyes, today. Don't try to impose any pat-
			 terns on this guy. Just stay open and let
			 him show you...

	One of the troopers, impassive in his sunglasses and hat, peers
	in through Campbell's window. Campbell nods to him, then turns
	back to Clarice.

						CAMPBELL (contd.)
			 School's out, Starling.

										CUT TO:

	EXT. SIDEWALK OF THE FUNERAL HOME - POTTER, WEST VA. - DAY

	SOUND of organ music, as Clarice, carrying her fingerprint
	kit, mounts some steps to the sidewalk. She stops, seeing -

	COUNTRY PEOPLE

	in their somber best, filing into the mortuary for a service.
	The music - "Shall We Gather At The River?" - is issuing from
	the open double doors. Several of the mourners glance over at
	her curiously.

	ANGLE ON CLARICE -

	staring back at the mourners, hearing the music, as a sense
	memory is triggered in her...

	IN FLASHBACK - LOW ANGLE, MOVING -

	as we approach, down the aisle of a country chapel, an open
	wooden coffin. Sad country faces turn, looking at us from the
	flanking pews. The b.g. organ hymn is "Shall We Gather...?"

	THE SAD, 10 YEAR-OLD CLARICE -

	in her best dress, is reluctantly approaching the casket. Her
	hands are held by the plump hands of unseen matrons.

	CHILD'S POV -

	on the looming coffin... closer and closer... until finally
	she can see, lying inside it... her dead father, arms folded,
	his marshal's badge still pinned to his lapel.

						CAMPBELL (V.O.)
			 Starling...?

	NEW ANGLE (PRESENT DAY) -

	as the grownup Clarice turns towards the impatient Campbell.
	Like her, he carries a large case.

						CAMPBELL (contd.)
			 We're around back.

										CUT TO:

	INT. FUNERAL HOME - BACK CORRIDOR - DAY

	A young deputy, several state troopers, and a SHERIFF are all
	waiting, as Campbell and Clarice enter. The dim, cluttered cor-
	ridor doubles as storage space - there's a treadle sewing machine,
	a soft-drink machine, a tricycle. The MUSIC is closer. Campbell
	shakes hands with the sheriff.

						CAMPBELL
			 Sheriff Perkins? Ray Campbell, FBI...
			 This is Officer Starling. We appre-
			 ciate your phoning us.

						SHERIFF
				(grim, unsociable)
			 I didn't call you. That was somebody
			 from the state attorney's office...
			 'For you do a thing else, I'm gon' find
			 out if this girl's local. It could
			 just be somethin' that outside elements
			 has dumped on us.

	He casts a sidelong, unhappy glance at Clarice.

						CAMPBELL
			 Wellsir, that's where we can help. If -

						SHERIFF
			 I don't even know you, Mister... Now
			 we'll extend you ever courtesy, just
			 soon as we can, but for right now -

						CAMPBELL
			 Sheriff, this, ah - this type of sex crime
			 has some aspects I'd rather discuss just
			 between the two of us. Know what I mean?

	He indicates Clarice with his eyes. The sheriff hesitates,
	nods, then lets Campbell guide him into a small office, clo-
	sing the door behind them. Muffled WORDS from there.

	CLARICE -

	burning at this slight, is left alone with the troopers, who
	peek at her with shy curiosity. She pulls her blazer a bit
	tighter, self-conscious about her bulging shoulder holster.

	ANGLE ON THE OFFICE DOOR -

	as, after a few more moments, the sheriff and Campbell emerge.
	The sheriff, still not very happy, addresses his deputy.

						SHERIFF
			 Oscar, run fetch Dr. Akin from the
			 chapel. And tell Lamar to come on when
			 he's done playin' that music.

										CUT TO:

	INT. EMBALMING ROOM - DAY

	Campbell, in one corner of the room, has set up a Litton Po-
	licefax fingerprint transmitter. SOUND of many men's low
	voices, in b.g. He is on the phone, and has to speak loudly.

						CAMPBELL
			 I need a six-way linkup! Chicago,
			 Detroit, Cleveland, St. Louis, At-
			 lanta, and Dallas... What?... Can
			 you hear me...?

	He looks around, frustrated by the noisy circus atmosphere.

	CLARICE

	is pulling on a pair of surgical gloves. She raises her
	voice, turning up her natural accent by several notches.

						CLARICE
			 Gentlemen. You officers and gentlemen!
			 Listen here a minute, please. There's
			 things I need to do for her...

	WIDER ANGLE -

	as we see that the small room is very crowded with deputies
	and troopers. They gradually fall silent, looking at her.

						CLARICE (contd., O.S.)
			 Y'all brought her this far, and I know
			 her folks would thank you if they could.
			 Now please - go on out and let me take
			 care of her... Go on, now.

	The men look at one another, a little bashfully, then begin to
	to file out, whispering among themselves. As they go, a bright
	green body bag is REVEALED, tightly zipped, lying on a porce-
	lain embalming table. It is almost the only modern object in
	this Victorian room, with its glass-paned cabinets and faded
	wallpaper, decorated with cabbage roses.

	FAVORING CAMPBELL -

	as he looks at Clarice with a new degree of respect. Men brush
	by him, till finally only two are left: DR. AKIN, a family g.p.,
	and LAMAR, a lean, whiskey-reddened mortician. SOUND of the door
	closing. Lamar dabs around his nostrils with Vicks VapoRub.

						CAMPBELL
				(on phone)
			 We're starting. Tell everybody to stand
			 by for fingerprint transmission.

	CLARICE -

	at a side counter, has turned back to her open fingerprint kit.
	She is lifting out a camera when she hears the ZIPPER of the body
	bag being slowly opened, behind her... One gloved hand flies to
	her mouth as she reacts, involuntarily, to the sudden smell. She
	blinks at her reflection in the cabinet glass, then steels her-
	self to turn, look at the corpse.

						CLARICE
				(pause; softly)
			 Bill...

	She steadies herself by raising her camera, takes a FLASH photo.

	LOW ANGLE - LOOKING UP, FROM BENEATH TABLE -

	as Dr. Akin gently lifts aside one of the dead girl's arms. A
	piece of fishing line, with multiple hooks, is still snagged
	around it, dangling. Campbell leans in for a closer look.

						DR. AKIN
			 Wrongful death... She'll have to go to
			 the state pathologist at Claxton when
			 you're done.
				(Campbell nods)
			 I better - get on back for the rest of
			 that service. Lamar'll help you.
				(shaken)
			 Lord almighty...

	He leaves, and Clarice leans INTO SHOT, taking another photo.

						CAMPBELL
			 What do you see, Starling?

						CLARICE
			 Well, she's not local. Her ears are
			 pierced three times each, and she's
			 wearing green glitter nail polish.
			 Looks like town to me...

	CLOSE ANGLE

	on the calf of one of the girl's legs, as Clarice trails the
	inside of her bare wrist along the skin.

						CLARICE (contd., O.S.)
			 She waxed her legs, I think... A big
			 girl, just like the others - but she
			 was careful about her appearance...

	UPWARD ANGLE AGAIN -

	as Lamar joins them for a closer look.

						CLARICE (contd.)
			 Two of the fingernails are broken off,
			 and there's - dirt or grit under the
			 others. She tried to claw her way through
			 something... I'll scrape out samples
			 after I've printed her.

	She takes another FLASH, then quickly reloads film.

						LAMAR
			 Them fishhooks are set too close to-
			 gether. No wonder the Franklin boys
			 was scared to say they found her.

						CLARICE
			 Think they were runnin' a trotline?

	Campbell and Lamar both look at her curiously.

						CLARICE (contd.)
				(to Campbell)
			 It's a Fish and Game violation. Like
			 poaching. There's a big fine.

						LAMAR
			 Right... Are you from around here?

						CLARICE
			 They do it lots of places.

						CAMPBELL
			 Get photos of her teeth. Then we'll fax
			 her fingerprints to Washington, try to
			 trace her through Missing Persons.

	SIDE ANGLE - CLOSE

	on the dead girl's face. Staring blue eyes, short reddish hair.
	Clarice sets the Polaroid, with its special attachments, against
	the face, while Lamar gently retracts the lips. Each time the
	camera FLASHES, there's a bright glow inside the cheeks.

	NEW ANGLE - CHEST HIGH

	as Clarice examines a developing print.

						CLARICE
			 She's got something in her throat.

	She hands the print to Campbell; he and Lamar look at it, as
	she searches in her kit.

						LAMAR
			 When a body comes out of the water,
			 alots of times there's like, leaves
			 and things in the mouth.

	Clarice holds up a pair of forceps. She glances at Campbell,
	who nods. She bends over, partially OUT OF SHOT, and after a
	few moments reappears, holding up a small, brown cylindrical
	object. She turns this in the air, as they all stare.

						CAMPBELL
			 What is it - some kind of seed pod?

						LAMAR
			 Nawsir, that's a bug cocoon. But how
			 come that to get way down in there?
			 'Less somebody shoved it in...

	Clarice and Campbell exchange a glance.

						CAMPBELL
			 She'll be easier to print if we turn her
			 over. Lamar, will you give me a hand?

						LAMAR
			 Yessir, I will.

	CLARICE

	takes a jar from her kit, carefully drops the cocoon inside.
	SOUND of the men's heavy efforts as they turn over the body,
	O.S. She seals the jar, staring into it at the cocoon.

						CAMPBELL (O.S.)
			 Starling - what do you make of these?

	She turns to look.

	HER POV -

	High on the corpse's back, over the shoulders, two neat, tri-
	angular patches of skin are missing.

	NEW ANGLE - TWO SHOT -

	as Clarice looks at Campbell.

						CLARICE
			 I don't know. I didn't see those on
			 any of the other girls...

						CAMPBELL
			 They weren't there. Get close-ups.

	Clarice raises her camera, leans in for another FLASH.

										CUT TO:

	EXT. BACK STEPS OF THE FUNERAL HOME - DAY

	Clarice sits outside, with her head on her knees, drained. She
	looks up wanly as Lamar appears, offers her a can of Coke.

						CLARICE
			 Thanks, I'm not thirsty.

						LAMAR
			 No, hold it under your chin, there,
			 and on your temples. Cold'll make
			 you feel better. It does me.

	She smiles, touched, and takes the can. When Lamar sees Campbell
	coming outside, he tactfully departs. Campbell sits beside her;
	there's a brief silence. She soothes herself with the can.

						CAMPBELL
			 When I told that sheriff we shouldn't
			 talk in front of a woman, that really
			 burned you, didn't it?
				(She is silent)
			 That was just smoke, Starling, I had to
			 get rid of him. You did well in there.

						CLARICE
			 It matters, Mr. Campbell... Other cops
			 know who you are. They look at you to
			 see how to act... It matters.

						CAMPBELL
				(beat)
			 Point taken.

	She looks at him a moment, then offers the can. He opens it.

						CAMPBELL (contd.)
			 When we get back, I want you to run
			 that bug by the Smithsonian, see if
			 they can identify it. Maybe it's got
			 some limited range, or it only breeds
			 at certain times of year... You found
			 it, Starling, you deserve the credit.

						CLARICE
			 I'm wondering if he's done that before -
			 placed a cocoon, or an insect. It would
			 be easy to miss in an autopsy, espec-
			 ially with a floater... Can we check
			 back on that?

						CAMPBELL
				(shakes his head)
			 The other girls are in the ground. Ex-
			 humations are upsetting for the families.
			 I'll do it if I have to, but -

						CLARICE
			 Then have the lab check Raspail's head.
				(He looks at her)
			 Dr. Quinn's patient - have them probe
			 his soft-palette tissues... They'll
			 find another cocoon.

						CAMPBELL
			 You seem pretty sure of that.

						CLARICE
			 Raspail was killed by the same man who's
			 killing these girls. And Quinn knows him.
			 Maybe even treated him... You think so,
			 too, don't you? Or you'd never have sent
			 me to that asylum.

	He looks at her for a moment, then sips again.

						CAMPBELL
			 Before we caught him, Quinn had a big
			 psychiatric practice in Baltimore. But
			 he travelled all over the country -
			 teaching, consulting... Christ, even
			 testifying in murder trials. Who knows
			 how many potential psychos he turned
			 loose, just for the fun of it...?

										DISSOLVE TO:

	INT. MR. GUMB'S CELLAR - DAY (DIM LIGHT)

	A shadowy male figure looks down at us, leaning over the edge
	of a deep hole. He holds a little white poodle in his arms,
	stroking it. This is MR. GUMB, aka "Buffalo Bill."

						MR. GUMB
				(softly)
			 Rub the cream on your skin. Rub it
			 in gooood...

	CATHERINE MARTIN

	looks up at him. She is standing on the cement bottom of the pit,
	or oubliette, about 15 feet below floor level. The pit is bare,
	except for a futon and a plastic toilet bucket, from which a thin
	string rises up to the basement. She's soaking wet, in an orange
	jumpsuit, and holds a squeeze bottle of skin lotion. She struggles
	to sound calm.

						CATHERINE
			 Mister... my family will pay cash. What-
			 ever ransom you're askin' for, they -

	REVERSE ANGLE - UP TOWARDS MR. GUMB

						MR. GUMB
			 Rub it in! Or you'll get the hose again.

	The little dog squirms in his arms, BARKING excitedly.

						MR. GUMB (contd.)
			 Yes, it will, Precious, won't it? It
			 will get the hose!

	SIDE ANGLE - AT PIT BOTTOM -

	as Catherine kneels, turning slightly away from him.

						CATHERINE
				(under her breath)
			 Oh God... oh God...

	She unzips her jumpsuit, part-way, then squeezes some of the
	lotion onto a palm. She reaches inside her suit, rubs it on.

						CATHERINE (contd.)
			 Mister, if you let me go, I won't press
			 charges, I promise. You've only has me
			 here a couple days, and -

						MR. GUMB (O.S.)
			 No. Just one day...

						CATHERINE
			 Is that all...? See - see, my mom is
			 a real important woman... Well, I guess
			 you already know that. She'll pay you,
			 no questions asked. Whatever cause you
			 represent - Iran, Palestine - she'll
			 see that -

	A sudden blinding glare of light silences her. She looks up,
	shielding her eyes.

	HER POV -

	a floodlamp is descending, attached to a small basket.

						MR. GUMB
			 Put the bottle in the basket. No
			 funny business, or you'll be sorry...

	NEW ANGLE - CATHERINE -

	as the basket stops, and she steadies it. But as she slips the
	bottle in, she sees something, O.S., just at the fringe of the
	light. She hesitates, looks closer... then begins to scream,
	hysterically, again and again. Her outflung hand hits the lamp,
	and in its swaying glare, we see - high on the concrete walls,
	all around her -

	BLOODY FINGER TRACKS -

	dried now, brownish - left by many pairs of frenzied hands...

										CUT TO:

	INT. CLARICE'S DORM ROOM - FBI ACADEMY - DAWN

	Clarice is at her desk, exercising her right hand with the grip
	flexer, while simultaneously studying a thick law book. Ardelia
	sticks her head in the door, excited.

						ARDELIA
			 You better come see this.

										CUT TO:

	INT. RECREATION ROOM - FBI ACADEMY - DAWN

	CLOSE ON a TV screen, filled with a photo of Catherine Martin.

						TV ANCHOR (V.O.)
			 ...was listed at first simply as a
			 missing person, but is now believed to
			 have been kidnapped by the serial killer
			 known only as "Buffalo Bill."

	The photo disappears, replaced by the TV ANCHOR himself.

						TV ANCHOR (contd.)
			 Memphis Police sources indicate that
			 the missing girl's blouse has been iden-
			 tified, sliced up the back, in what has
			 become a kind of grim calling card.
			 Young Catherine Martin, as we've said,
			 is the only daughter of U.S. Senator
			 Ruth Martin -

	CLARICE

	looks at Ardelia, surprised. Other trainees are drifting into
	the rec room, some whispering among themselves. Clarice stares
	back at the TV intently.

						TV ANCHOR (contd., O.S.)
			 - the Republican junior senator from
			 Tennessee. And while her kidnapping is
			 not at this point considered to be
			 politically motivated, nevertheless it
			 has stirred the government -

	BACK ON THE TV ANCHOR -

						TV ANCHOR (contd.)
			 - to its highest levels, the president
			 himself being said to be, and I quote,
			 "intensely concerned." Just moments ago,
			 Senator Martin made this dramatic per-
			 sonal plea...

	SENATOR MARTIN (TV FOOTAGE) -

	fills the screen, in a halo of lens flare, as she speaks to a
	jostling crowd of reporters on the front steps of her George-
	town home. A tall woman, late 40's, with a strong, taut face.

						SEN. MARTIN
			 I'm speaking now to the person who is
			 holding my daughter. Her name is Cath-
			 erine... You have the power to let
			 Catherine go, unharmed. She's very
			 gentle and kind - talk to her and you'll
			 see. Her name is Catherine...

	CLARICE

	is moved by what she sees. Other trainees are all around her.

						CLARICE
				(whispers)
			 Boy, is that smart...

						ARDELIA
			 Why does she keep repeating the name?

						CLARICE
			 Somebody's coaching her... They're
			 trying to make him see Catherine as
			 a person - not just an object.

	ON THE TV AGAIN -

						SEN. MARTIN
			 You have a chance to show the whole
			 world that you can be merciful, as well
			 as strong. Please - I beg you - release
			 my Catherine...

	NEW FOOTAGE -

	as we see (NIGHT, TELEPHOTO) - a taped-off section of Catherine's
	parking lot. Technicians, with instruments, are kneeling by the
	crushed grocery bag.

						2ND TV ANCHOR (V.O.)
			 Meanwhile. in Memphis, the investigation
			 continued throughout the night, as state
			 and local authorities were joined at the
			 kidnap scene by agents of the FBI...

	MOVING ANGLE (STILL TV FOOTAGE)

	as Ray Campbell is seen striding towards the front door of
	Catherine's apartment, followed by Burroughs and other agents.
	One of them moves quickly towards the CAMERA, waving it back.

	REC ROOM ANGLE - FAVORING ARDELIA

	as the other trainees send up a brief, ironic cheer. But Ardel-
	ia turns sympathetically towards the troubled Clarice.

						ARDELIA
			 I don't know whether to say "I'm sorry,"
			 or "Congratulations." But girl? - you
			 just went prime time.

										CUT TO:

	EXT. SMITHSONIAN - MUSEUM OF NATURAL HISTORY - DAY

	The massive Victorian building looms over Constitution Avenue.
	Clarice quickly mounts the steps, carrying a small plastic box.

						CAMPBELL (V.O.)
			 I don't think he knew that she's a
			 Senator's child. She's a big girl,
			 Starling, like all the rest. We're
			 going on the theory she was randomly
			 targeted by size...

										CUT TO:

	INT. MUSEUM CORRIDOR - DAY

	Clarice, now accompanied by a museum guard, walks through an
	eerie landscape of dinosaur bones - crouching skeletons with
	blank eye sockets, gaping fangs.

						CAMPBELL (contd., V.O.)
			 By now, Bill's had her for 36 hours.
			 That leaves us just 36 more, before he
			 kills her... But maybe, just maybe,
			 Starling, we caught a real break this
			 time - thanks to you.
				(beat)
			 We found another bug, in Raspail's head.

										CUT TO:

	INT. MUSEUM OFFICE - DAY

	CLOSE ON an live, enormous, rhinoceros beetle, as it weaves
	its clumsy way among the men on a chessboard, before finally
	stepping off the edge, onto a lettuce leaf.

						RODEN (V.O.)
			 Time, Pilch! My move.

						PILCHER (V.O.)
			 No fair! You lured him with produce.

	WIDER ANGLE

	shows two entomologists, both 30ish, hunched over the board.
	RODEN is a pudgy redhead; PILCHER is lean, quite handsome.

						RODEN
			 Tough noogies! It's still my turn.

						CLARICE (O.S.)
			 If the beetle moves one of your men,
			 does that count?

	They look up, delighted to see Clarice in the doorway. Both men
	are hopelessly smitten by her.

						RODEN
			 Of course it counts. How do you play?

						PILCHER
				(grins)
			 Officer Starling. Welcome back.

										CUT TO:

	INT. ENTOMOLOGY CORRIDOR - DAY

	MOVING ANGLE as Clarice and the two men go briskly down a
	hall lined with mounted insects, in all shapes and sizes.
	Roden peers at Clarice's new cocoon, in its box.

						RODEN
			 Where the hell did this one come
			 from? It's practically mush.

						CLARICE
			 You really don't want to know.

						PILCHER
			 Your West Virginia specimen gave us
			 quite a bit of trouble, but I finally
			 managed to narrow his species through
			 chaetaxy - studying the skin.

						RODEN
			 I'm the one who found his perforating
			 proboscis! Are you wearing a gun, right
			 now?
				(Clarice nods)
			 Ooh, cool! Can I see it? Can I?

						PILCHER
			 Just ignore him. He's not a Ph.D.

										CUT TO:

	INT. LABORATORY - DAY

	VERY CLOSE (MAGNIFICATION) on the sliced cocoon, as Roden uses
	tweezers and a dental probe to ease out the sodden chrysalis.

						RODEN (O.S.)
			 The whole trick is to remove the
			 chrysalis without destroying it...
			 The wings are just like wet tissue
			 paper...

	THE TWO MEN

	are hunched over a formica table, peering through square magni-
	fiers into stainless trays. Clarice watches curiously. Of their
	two specimens, Pilcher's moth is in much better condition - a big
	brown creature, its wings outspread on towel paper.

						PILCHER
				(without looking up)
			 What do you do when you're not detec-
			 ting, Officer Starling?

						CLARICE
			 I try to be a student, Dr. Pilcher.

						PILCHER
			 Ever get out for cheeseburgers and beer?
			 The amusing house wine...?

						CLARICE
				(smiles)
			 Not lately. But maybe someday.

	He looks up at her, shyly. A little moment passes between them,
	before Roden straightens, exultant.

						RODEN
			 Positive match!

						CLARICE
			 You're sure?

						RODEN
				(points with his dental probe)
			 West Virginia... Baltimore. Officer
			 Starling, meet Mister Acherontia styx.

	He moves aside for Clarice to get a closer look at Pilcher's
	specimen. She leans forward, intently.

	HER POV (MAGNIFICATION) -

	The wide, furry, brown back of the moth. And there, right between
	the wing bases - wonderful and terrible to see - is nature's
	perfect reproduction of a ghostly human skull.

						RODEN (O.S.)
			 Better known to his friends as the
			 Death's-head Moth...

						PILCHER (O.S.)
			 The Latin name comes from two rivers
			 in Hell. Your man - he drops these girls
			 into rivers, every time. Didn't I read
			 that?

	FAVORING CLARICE

	as she looks up at him, awed, excited, almost trembling.

						CLARICE
			 And there's no way - no natural way -
			 these could've wound up in the bodies?

						PILCHER
				(shakes his head)
			 They live in Malaysia. In this country,
			 they'd have to be specially raised,
			 from imported eggs.

						CLARICE
				(pause, then softly)
			 Dr. Quinn...

	As the two men stare at her, puzzled, we hear a SOUND UPCUT -
	the wail of police SIRENS - and...

										CUT TO:

	EXT. U.S. ROUTE 95 - DAY (AERIAL SHOT)

	An awesome armada of police vehicles swings through an inter-
	section, while normal traffic is held back by highway patrol
	cruisers. The lead cars turn off, hit the entrance ramp to the
	freeway - SIRENS going, tires SQUEALING, red flashers...

	CLOSER ANGLE

	on a speeding surveillance van, with long antennas and a small
	satellite dish, near the head of the motorcade.

						CAMPBELL (V.O.)
			 Maybe we can trace how he buys the
			 bugs, starting with U.S. Customs...

										CUT TO:

	INT. THE SURVEILLANCE VAN - DAY (DRIVING)

	The van is crammed with an impressive array of hi-tech equip-
	ment, all CLICKING and HUMMING. Burroughs is talking quietly
	on a scrambler phone, while another agent works a computer.

						CAMPBELL (contd., O.S.)
			 Maybe we can locate some of Raspail's
			 old lovers. Maybe, someday...

	CLARICE AND CAMPBELL

	sit in swivel seats at the rear, by a big window. Clarice can't
	resits an occasional peak at the trailing motorcade, awed and a
	bit thrilled to be the center of so much attention.

						CAMPBELL (contd.)
			 But for Catherine Martin, it all comes
			 down to you and Quinn. You're the one
			 he talks to.

						CLARICE
			 He's already offered to help... What
			 would happen if we just showed our cards
			 - asked him for Bill?

						CAMPBELL
			 He offered to help, Starling, not to
			 snitch. That wouldn't give him enough
			 chance to show off. Remember, Quinn
			 looks mainly for fun. Never forget fun.

						CLARICE
			 But if he knew we have so little time -

						CAMPBELL
			 If we act too anxious, he'll make us wait.
			 He'll let the Senator keep hoping, day
			 after day, until Catherine finally washes
			 up. That'd be the most fun of all.

						CLARICE
			 I think he means it, this time. I think
			 he'll deal.

						CAMPBELL
			 What would it take?

						CLARICE
			 Transfer to a new prison. With a view of
			 trees, he said, or even water... Can we
			 swing that?

						CAMPBELL
				(shakes his head)
			 State to federal jurisdiction... We can
			 do it - eventually - but we'll never get
			 all the clearances in time. Can you con-
			 vince him a deal's already in place?

						CLARICE
			 You'll back me up with some paperwork?
				(He nods)
			 Then I'll try. But wouldn't this have
			 more weight coming from the Senator
			 herself?

						CAMPBELL
				(hesitates)
			 She doesn't know what we're up to. And
			 we can't afford to let her find out.

	Clarice looks at him, surprised.

						CAMPBELL (contd.)
			 She's the mother, Starling. She can't
			 possibly comprehend what Quinn is. She'd
			 make the mistake of pleading with him.
			 Begging him... He'd feast on her pain
			 till the last second of that girl's life...

										CUT TO:

	INT. BALTIMORE STATE HOSP. FOR THE CRIMINALLY INSANE - DAY

	Prentiss approaches, walking briskly down a corridor in the
	administration wing. He looks quite agitated.

						CAMPBELL (contd., V.O.)
			 We can't trust Herbert Prentiss, either.
			 He's greedy and ambitious. If he knew
			 about Quinn's link to Bill, he's go
			 straight to the newspapers...

	Prentiss falls into step beside Clarice, who has her briefcase.
	He points his gold pen at her accusingly.

						PRENTISS
			 What you're doing, Miss Starling, is
			 coming into my hospital to conduct an
			 interview, and refusing to share infor-
			 mation with me. For the third time!

						CLARICE
			 Dr. Prentiss, I told you - this is just
			 routine follow-up on the Raspail case.

						PRENTISS
			 He's my patient! I have rights!
				(grabs her arm, stopping her)
			 I'm not just some turnkey, Miss Starling.
			 I shouldn't even be here this afternoon.
			 I had a ticket to Holiday on Ice.

	She stares at him, with pity and distaste, till he lets go.

						CLARICE
			 I'm acting on instruction, Dr. Prentiss.
				(handing him a card)
			 This is the U.S. Attorney's number. Now
			 please - either discuss this with him, or
			 let me do my job.

	She walks away, leaving him speechless with frustration and
	hostility. He clicks his pen, watching her go.

										CUT TO:

	INT. DR. QUINN'S CELL AND CORRIDOR - DAY

	Dr. Quinn sits at his table, languidly sketching with charcoal
	on butcher paper. He uses his own hand and forearm as a model.
	His other drawings, books, and bedding have been restored.

						DR. QUINN
			 Wouldn't you say, Clarice, that for a
			 United States Senator, you're an odd
			 choice of messenger?

	Clarice, sitting again at the desk-chair, is taking papers from
	her briefcase.

						CLARICE
			 I was your choice, Dr. Quinn. You chose
			 to speak to me. Would you prefer someone
			 else now? Or perhaps you don't think you
			 can help us.

						DR. QUINN
			 That is both impudent and untrue... Tell
			 me, how did you feel when you viewed our
			 Billy's latest effort?
				(beat; he smiles)
			 Or should I say, his "next-to-latest"?

						CLARICE
			 By the book, he's a sadist.

						DR. QUINN
			 Life's too slippery for books, Clarice.
			 Typhoid and swans came from the same God.
				(beat)
			 Tell me, Miss West Virginia - was she a
			 large girl?

						CLARICE
			 Yes.

						DR. QUINN
			 Big through the hips. Roomy.

						CLARICE
			 They all were.

						DR. QUINN
			 Mmm. And what else...?

						CLARICE
			 She had an insect deliberately inserted
			 in her throat. That hasn't been made
			 public yet. We don't know what is means.

						DR. QUINN
			 Was it a butterfly?

						CLARICE
				(pause; staring at him)
			 A moth... How did you predict that?

						DR. QUINN
			 I'm waiting for your offer, Clarice.
			 Enchant me.
	Clarice looks down at her papers, taking a moment to collect
	her thoughts. She looks up at him again, evenly.

						CLARICE
			 If you help us find Buffalo Bill in time
			 to save Catherine Martin, the Senator
			 promises you a transfer to the V.A. hos-
			 pital at Oneida Park, New York, with a view
			 of the woods nearby. Maximum security still
			 applies, but you'd have reasonable access
			 to books.

	He is silent. She rises, moves closer, carrying papers.

						CLARICE (contd.)
			 Best of all, though - one week a year you'd
			 get to leave the hospital and go here.
				(points to a map)
			 Plum Island. Every afternoon of that week
			 you can walk on the beach or swim in the
			 ocean for up to one hour. Under SWAT team
			 surveillance, of course...

	His face remains neutral. She puts the papers in his food tray.

						CLARICE (contd.)
			 Copy of the Buffalo Bill case file, copy of
			 Senator Martin's terms. Her offer is final
			 and non-negotiable. If Catherine dies -
				(She slides his tray through)
			 You get nothing.

	A measured beat, before he rises smoothly, crosses, and looks
	down at the papers, without touching them.

						DR. QUINN
			 "Plum Island Animal Disease Research
			 Center." Sounds charming.

						CLARICE
			 That's just part of the island. It has
			 a very nice beach. Terns nest there.

						DR. QUINN
			 Terns... If I help you, Clarice, it will
			 be "turns" with us, too. Quid pro quo. I
			 tell you things, you tell me things. Not
			 about this case, though - about yourself.
			 Yes or no?
				(She is silent)
			 Yes or no, Clarice. Catherine is waiting.
			 Tick-tock, tick-tock...

	She looks at him. A beat. They are standing uncomfortably close.

						CLARICE
			 Go, Doctor.

						DR. QUINN
			 What's your worst memory of childhood?
				(She hesitates)
			 Quicker than that. I'm not interested
			 in your worst invention.

						CLARICE
			 The death of my father.

						DR. QUINN
			 Tell me. Don't lie, or I'll know.

	Clarice cannot bear the feverish excitement in his eyes. She
	looks past him, hesitating again.

						CLARICE
			 He was a town marshal... one night he
			 surprised two burglars, coming out the
			 back of a drugstore... They shot him.

						DR. QUINN
			 Killed outright?

						CLARICE
			 No. He was strong, he lasted almost a
			 month. My mother - dies when I was very
			 young, so my father had become - the whole
			 world to me... After he left me, I had
			 nobody. I was ten years old.

						DR. QUINN
			 You're very frank, Clarice. I think - it
			 would be quite something to know you in
			 private life.

						CLARICE
			 Quid pro quo, Doctor.

						DR. QUINN
			 The significance of the moth is change.
			 Caterpillar into cocoon into beauty...
			 Billy wants to change, too, Clarice.
			 But there's the problem of his size, you
			 see. Even if he were a woman, he'd have
			 to be a big one...

						CLARICE
				(puzzled)
			 Dr. Quinn, there's no correlation in the
			 literature between transsexualism and
			 violence. Transsexuals are very passive.

						DR. QUINN
			 Clever girl. You're so close to the
			 way you're going to catch him - do you
			 realize that?

						CLARICE
			 No. Tell me why.

						DR. QUINN
			 After your father's death, you were or-
			 phaned. What happened next?
				(Clarice drops her gaze)
			 I don't imagine the answer's on those
			 second-rate shoes, Clarice.

						CLARICE
			 I went to live with my mother's cousin
			 and her husband in Montana. They had
			 a ranch.

						DR. QUINN
			 A cattle ranch?

						CLARICE
			 Horses - and sheep...

						DR. QUINN
			 How long did you live there?

						CLARICE
			 Two months.

						DR. QUINN
			 Why so briefly?

						CLARICE
			 I - ran away...

						DR. QUINN
			 Why, Clarice? Did the rancher fuck you?

						CLARICE
				(angrily)
			 No.

						DR. QUINN
			 Did he try to?

						CLARICE
			 No...! Quid pro quo, Doctor.

						DR. QUINN
			 Billy's not a real transsexual, but he
			 thinks he is. He tries to be. He's tried
			 to be a lot of things, I except.

						CLARICE
			 You said - I was very close to the way
			 we'd catch him.

						DR. QUINN
			 There are three major centers for trans-
			 sexual surgery: Johns Hopkins, the Uni-
			 versity of Minnesota, and Columbus Medi-
			 cal center. I wouldn't be surprised if
			 Billy has applied for sex reassignment at
			 one or all of them, and been rejected.

						CLARICE
			 On what basis would they reject him?

						DR. QUINN
			 The personality inventories would trip
			 him up. Rorschach, Wechsler, House-Tree-
			 Person... He wouldn't test like a real
			 transsexual.

						CLARICE
			 How would he test?

	Suddenly Dr. Quinn snarls, loudly, stretching. Clarice take a
	sharp step backwards before he smiles, turning his movement
	into an elaborate yawn. He gathers the papers from his tray.

						DR. QUINN
			 That's enough, I think. Happy hunting.
			 Oh, and Clarice - next time you will
			 tell me why you ran away. Shall I
			 summarize?

						CLARICE
				(shaken)
			 Yes, Doctor. Please.

										CUT TO:

	INT. MR. GUMB'S CELLAR - DAY

	VERY CLOSE ON a cocoon, split along its back, as a living
	Death's-head Moth wriggles torturously free. Trembling and
	damp, the new creature clings to a sprig of nightshade.

						DR. QUINN (V.O.)
			 You should try to obtain a list of
			 males rejected from all three gender
			 reassignment centers...

	PULLING BACK -

	we see a big wire cage, holding several of the moths. They
	crawl over the humus floor or feed at honeycombs, wings pump-
	ing lazily. In the distant b.g., the incongruous SOUND of
	show music.

						DR. QUINN (contd., V.O.)
			 Check first the ones rejected for
			 lying about criminal records...

	CONTINUOUS MOVING ANGLE -

	at about knee level, as we leave the cage, and begin to TRAVEL
	through this eerie, dimly-lit warren of a cellar. As we go -
	occasionally TURNING corners, or skirting the dark openings of
	unexplored passages - various objects loom briefly INTO VIEW,
	overhead - a stainless-steel work table... a big sink... jars
	of chemicals... neat racks of gleaming knives...

						DR. QUINN (contd., V.O.)
			 Among those who tried to conceal their
			 past, look for severe childhood distur-
			 bances, associated with violence...
			 Possibly you'll find a childhood incar-
			 ceration... Then go to their personality
			 tests...

	We pass a row of female mannequins, some nude, some wearing
	colorful leather jackets, designer knockoffs, in various stages
	of completion... then a huge maroon armoire, in Chinese lacquer;
	its double doors are slightly ajar... The jaunty b.g. MUSIC is
	growing even louder: Fats Waller singing "Bye Bye Baby." And
	now we hear something else, too - the rapid CLICKING of a sewing
	machine...

						DR. QUINN (contd., V.O.)
			 Study their drawings, especially. Billy's
			 house drawings will show no happy future...
			 No baby carriage, out in the yard. No
			 pets, no toys, no flowers, no sun...

	We TURN another corner, and there is Mr. Gumb himself. As we
	APPROACH, his wide back is to us; he's hunched over an old-
	fashioned sewing machine, humming cheerfully, and working a
	piece of material that we mercifully cannot see. A female wig
	rests near him on a head form. He wears a hairnet and a beau-
	tiful kimono, and pumps the treadle with his bare feet.

						DR. QUINN (contd., V.O.)
			 His females will be more crudely sketched
			 than him males - but he'll compensate by
			 adding exaggerated adornments... jewelry,
			 big breasts... And his tree drawings -
			 oh, his trees will be frightful...

	Next to Mr. Gumb is an antique phonograph - source of the
	MUSIC. His little dog, Precious, perches by his plump ankles.
	As we PASS Mr. Gumb, Precious scurries away from him, panting
	happily, and we FOLLOW the little dog down another corridor,
	the music starting to fade behind us...

						DR. QUINN (contd., V.O.)
			 Billy hates his own identity, he always
			 has - and he thinks that makes him a
			 transsexual. But his pathology is a
			 thousand times more savage... He wants to
			 be reborn, Clarice. He will be reborn...

	At the end of this final corridor, the cellar widens into a
	low-ceilinged chamber, with two additional doorways, and in
	the center of this is the gaping circle of the oubliette.
	Precious sniffs her way over to the edge - excited, tail wag-
	ging - than BARKS happily as we hear a hoarse, ghostly moan
	from below.

						CATHERINE (O.S.)
			 Pleeeeeeeease.....!

										DISSOLVE TO:

	INT. DR. QUINN'S CORRIDOR - DAY

	MOVING ANGLE - CLOSE - on Dr. Quinn's slippered feet, which
	rest on the shelf of a rolling hand truck. RISING along his
	tilted form, we see that his ankles are linked by steel re-
	straints... his legs, waist, upper torso, and arms are bound
	by heavy canvas webbing... beneath the webbing is a strait-
	jacket... and over his face is a hockey mask.

						PRENTISS (V.O.)
			 Bad news, Gideon...

	WIDER ANGLE

	shows that Dr. Quinn, on the handtruck, is being pushed down
	his corridor by Barney, and back into his open cell.

						PRENTISS (contd., V.O.)
			 Gourmet magazine has rejected your
			 recipe for braised kidneys...

										CUT TO:

	INT. DR. QUINN'S CELL - DAY

	Prentiss lounges on Dr. Quinn's cot, casually reading his large
	stack of private correspondence, and making notations with his
	gold pen on a little pad. Another orderly mops the floor.

						PRENTISS (contd.)
			 Perhaps you should have been less specific
			 about what kind.
				(to Barney)
			 Stand him by the toilet. Then leave us.

	Barney props the hand truck into position, then both orderlies
	go. Prentiss finishes another letter, sighs happily.

						PRENTISS (contd.)
			 Such a lot of correspondence! I can
			 hardly wait to analyze it in more
			 detail... But first things first.

	Tossing letters onto the cot, he rises, crosses out into the
	corridor, and bends to remove a small tape recorder from under-
	neath Clarice's desk. He waggles it triumphantly at Dr. Quinn.

						PRENTISS (contd.)
			 I thought she might be looking for a
			 civil rights violation in Migg's death,
			 so I bugged you... Not a word to me in
			 all these years, Gideon. Then Campbell
			 sends his bit of fluff over here, and you
			 just turn to jelly. It's too pathetic.

	SIDE ANGLE - TWO SHOT -

	As Prentiss, back in the cell, leans tauntingly close to the
	front of Dr. Quinn's mask.

						PRENTISS (contd.)
			 You still think you're going to walk on
			 some beach, and see the birdies? I don't
			 think so, Gideon... I called Senator
			 Ruth Martin, and she never heard of any
			 deal with you. She never heard of Cla-
			 rice Starling, either. They scammed you,
			 Gideon...

	CLOSE ON Dr. Quinn's glittering eyes, behind their slits.

						PRENTISS (contd.)
			 When Campbell gets through milking you,
			 he's giving you to Baltimore Homicide
			 for the Raspail murder. And they're
			 preparing some special surprises for you
			 right now, in my electroshock room.

	DR. QUINN'S POV (FRAMED BY EYE-SLITS) -

	first looking at Prentiss's moving lips... then LOWERING to his
	soft, white, inviting throat...

						PRENTISS (contd.)
			 The Starling bitch wants you to rot here,
			 in this little box, till your teeth fall
			 out and you're soiling diapers. You've seen
			 the old ones, Gideon. They weep when their
			 stewed peaches get cold. That'll be you,
			 too. Unless - you trade with me.

	FAVORING PRENTISS - as he sits chummily on the table.

						PRENTISS (contd.)
			 There never was a deal with Senator Mar-
			 tin - but there is now. I've been on the
			 phone for hours, Gideon, on your behalf.
			 Here's what you get: if you identify Buf-
			 falo Bill, and the girl is found in time,
			 Senator Martin will have you transferred
			 to Brushy Mountain State Prison, in Tenn-
			 essee...

	CLOSE AGAIN ON DR. QUINN'S EYES -

	as they shift restlessly, away from Prentiss - then suddenly
	lock onto something. They widen with interest.

						PRENTISS (contd., O.S.)
			 The Governor has already agreed. You
			 get books, a view of the woods, and
			 plenty of exercise time...

	DR. QUINN'S POV - EXTREME C.U. -

	On the cot, carelessly left there, lying half-hidden under the
	letters and the rumpled sheet... is Prentiss's gold pen.

						PRENTISS (contd., O.S.)
			 And best of all, you'd be out of Ray
			 Campbell's reach, forever. The Senator
			 will verify these terms on the phone,
			 and guarantee them in writing...

	BACK ON DR. QUINN -

	as he stares a moment longer at the pen, then shifts his eyes
	towards Prentiss. We can almost hear his brain clicking.

						PRENTISS (contd., O.S.)
			 In exchange, I get your full cooperation
			 in publishing a professional account of
			 this - my successful interviews with you.
			 You publish nothing. And I get exclusive
			 access to any material from Catherine
			 Martin... So. Do you accept my demands?
				(pause)
			 Answer me, Gideon.

	A beat. Dr. Quinn is silent. Prentiss sticks his face INTO
	SHOT, almost intimately close to the mask. He is agitated.

						PRENTISS (contd.)
			 You'll answer me now, or by God, you'll
			 answer to Baltimore Homicide. Who is
			 Buffalo Bill?

						DR. QUINN
				(pause; then softly)
			 I'll tell the Senator herself. But only
			 in Tennessee...

										CUT TO:

	INT. JOHNS HOPKINS - GENDER IDENTITY CLINIC - DAY

	MOVING ANGLE - as the very impatient Campbell, clutching a
	folder, strides down a hall beside DR. DANIELSON - early 50's,
	severe, in a lab coat. Nurses, doctors, glance as they pass.

						DR. DANIELSON
			 I'm not having a witch hunt here, Mr.
			 Campbell! Our patients are decent,
			 non-violent people with a real problem.

						CAMPBELL
			 Dr. Danielson, the man we want was never
			 your patient. It would be someone you
			 refused because he tries to conceal a
			 record of criminal violence. Please,
			 Doctor - time is eating us up. Just show
			 me the ones you've turned away.

	Danielson enters a cramped, stainless steel nurse's gallery, with
	Campbell following, and pours himself a cup of coffee.

						DR. DANIELSON
				(adamantly)
			 Examination and interview materials are
			 confidential. We've never violated an
			 applicant's trust, and we never will.

						CAMPBELL
			 You want to see a violation? This is a
			 violation...

	He takes a black & white photo from his folder, slaps it down
	in front of Danielson. From our angle, we can't see it clearly.

						CAMPBELL (contd.)
			 Her name is Kimberly Jane Emberg, she
			 was just ID'd. I met her on a slab in
			 West Virginia. And sometime tomorrow,
			 or tomorrow night, he's going to do the
			 same thing to Catherine Martin.

						DR. DANIELSON
			 That's a childish, bullying stunt, Mr.
			 Campbell. I was a battlefield surgeon,
			 so you can put away your picture.

	Burroughs sticks his head in, looking for Campbell.

						BURROUGHS
			 Phone, Ray. Director Burke.

						CAMPBELL
				(snaps)
			 In a minute!

	Burroughs hurriedly retreats. Campbell strains for patience.

						CAMPBELL (contd.)
			 Look... search your own records, if you
			 prefer. You can do it a lot faster than us,
			 anyway. If we find Buffalo Bill through
			 your information, I'll suppress it. No-
			 body has to know this hospital cooperated.

						DR. DANIELSON
			 I doubt very much that the FBI or any 
			 other government agency can keep a secret,
			 Mr. Campbell. Truth will out... And then
			 what? Will you give Johns Hopkins a new
			 identity? Put a big pair of sunglasses
			 on this building, and a funny nose?

						CAMPBELL
			 Oh, that's clever, Dr. Danielson. Very
			 humorous. You like the truth? Try this.
				(right in his face, enraged)
			 He kidnaps young women and kills them
			 and rips their skins off. We don't want him
			 to do that anymore. If you don't help me,
			 just as fast as you can, then the Justice
			 Department is going to ask publicly for a
			 court order, We'll ask twice a day, just
			 in time for the morning and evening news.
			 And each one of our press conferences
			 will focus on Dr. Danielson, over at Johns
			 Hopkins, and how we're still hoping for
			 his cooperation. And every time there's
			 any news on the case - when Catherine Mar-
			 tin floats, when the next one floats, and
			 the next one - why, we'll just issue
			 another press release about good ol' Dr.
			 Danielson, over at Johns Hopkins - complete
			 with all his humorous fucking remarks.

						DR. DANIELSON
				(pause; stiffly)
			 It may be that - I could confer with my
			 colleagues on this. And get back to you.

						CAMPBELL
			 Would you, Doctor? That would be so kind.

										CUT TO:

	INT. THE SURVEILLANCE VAN - DAY

	Campbell is on the scrambler phone. Burroughs watches silently.

						CAMPBELL
				(on phone; stunned)
			 Transferred...?

										CUT TO:

	INT. FBI BUILDING - OFFICE OF THE DIRECTOR - DAY

	HAYDEN BURKE, the FBI Director, swivels in his big chair. Lean,
	late 40's, very distinguished. His desk is flanked by flags.

						DIRECTOR BURKE
				(on phone)
			 Already airborne for Memphis. Senator
			 Martin's meeting him at the airport.
				(uneasily)
			 Ray - did you make some soft of promise
			 to Quinn, in the Senator's name?

	Listening to the answer, he looks uncomfortably across his desk
	at PAUL KRENDLER, the Deputy Attorney General - 40, very tanned,
	modish haircut. Krendler is irritable, impatient.

						DIRECTOR BURKE (contd.)
				(on phone)
			 We're going to have to talk about this,
			 Ray. The Senator's mad as hell. Paul
			 Krendler's over here from Justice, she's
			 asking him to take charge in Memphis...
			 I know that... But you're still in com-
			 mand of the task force, and Quinn's plane
			 can still be ordered back. It's your call,
			 Ray - but I want it now.

										CUT BACK TO:

	INT. THE SURVEILLANCE VAN - DAY

	Burroughs starts to make an objection, but Campbell stills
	him with a hand motion. He is taut, frustrated. Long pause.

						CAMPBELL
				(into phone)
			 Let him land.

									 CUT TO:

	INT. CLARICE'S DORM ROOM - DOORWAY - DAY

	Clarice opens her door, stares out at Campbell. She's just
	slipping on her blazer, over her shoulder holster. She's
	furious.

						STARLING
			 Prentiss has killed her, hasn't he?
			 That slimy little bastard! We were so
			 close with Quinn - and now her last
			 chance is gone.

						CAMPBELL
			 Let's get some coffee and talk.

										CUT TO:

	EXT. FBI ACADEMY GROUNDS - QUANTICO - DAY

	MOVING ANGLE on Clarice and Campbell, as they walk along a side-
	walk, sipping from paper cups. The surveillance van trails them
	slowly, radios CRACKLING.

						CLARICE
			 Are you in trouble over this, Mr. Camp-
			 bell? Can Senator Martin do something
			 to you?

						CAMPBELL
			 I'm 53, Starling. If I found Jimmy Hoffa
			 on national TV, I'd still have to re-
			 tire in two years. It's not a considera-
			 tion. But you are...
				(beat)
			 You've done enough. If I keep you out of
			 school any longer, you'll be recycled.
			 Cost you six months, at least. I can
			 guarantee you readmission here, but that's
			 about it.
				(He stops, looks at her)
			 Now's your chance, Starling. Go back to
			 class. Leave Bill to me.

						CLARICE
			 If you didn't want me chasing him, you
			 shouldn't have taken me to that funeral
			 home.

	He looks at her steadily, then nods. They walk on.

						CLARICE (contd.)
			 Quinn is still the key, I know he is.
			 Whatever he told me about Bill is just as
			 good now as it was before.

						CAMPBELL
			 Or just as worthless. But I want you in
			 Memphis, close to him. Maybe when he gets
			 tired of toying with Senator Martin, he'll
			 talk to you again. There's a plane wait-
			 ing for you now at the airstrip.

	She smiles at this acknowledgment; he never thought she's quit.

						CLARICE
			 I lied to Quinn. I'll need some kind of
			 peace offering... Can I get the drawings
			 from his cell?

						CAMPBELL
			 Good idea. Meantime, try to get a feel
			 for Catherine Martin. Her apartment, her
			 friends... how he might've stalked her.
			 I'm going to the other two clinics, Min-
			 nesota and Ohio.
				(He crumples his cup, tosses it)
			 Now's the hardest part, Starling. Use
			 your anger, don't let it keep you from
			 thinking. Just keep your eyes on Catherine.
			 We've got less than 30 hours.

						CLARICE
				(hesitates)
			 Mr. Campbell... can those cops down there
			 handle Dr. Quinn?

						CAMPBELL
				(grimly)
			 They'll use their best men. But they
			 better by paying attention...

										CUT TO:

	INT. AIR NATIONAL GUARD HANGER - MEMPHIS, TENNESSEE - DAY

	CLOSE ON Dr. Quinn. Behind his mask, the alert, searching eyes.

						CAMPBELL (contd., V.O.)
			 He will...

	OFFICERS PEMBRY AND BOYLE -

	two sturdy, well-armed, veteran prison guards - are checking Dr.
	Quinn's restraints with clever, careful fingers.

						BOYLE
			 Welcome to Memphis, Dr. Quinn. I'm
			 Officer Boyle, this is Officer Pembry.
			 We aim to treat you just as nice as you
			 treat us. Act like a gentlemen, you'll
			 get three hots and a cot.

						PEMBRY
			 But we ain't pussy-footin' with you,
			 buddy ruff. You get cute, try to bite
			 somebody? - we'll tie your asshole in
			 a knot. You savvy?

						DR. QUINN
			 Oh yes, Officer Pembry. I certainly do.

	The officers turn away, Boyle signing a clipboarded form.

						PEMBRY
				(under his breath)
			 Shit, he's just an ol' broke-dick. Won't
			 be no trouble as all if he don't flip out.

						BOYLE
			 Dr. Prentiss...?

	NEW ANGLE - WIDER -

	as we see that we're in a vast, dusty hangar. Parked to one
	side: an EMS ambulance and four highway patrol cruisers; a dozen
	troopers stand quietly chatting and smoking over there. Pren-
	tiss is pacing impatiently, casting anxious glances towards the
	open hanger doorway.

						BOYLE
			 If you'll please sign right here, sir,
			 we'll have us a legal transfer.

	Prentiss instinctively pats his shirt pocket for his gold pen;
	it's gone. He searches other pockets, with growing unhappiness.

						BOYLE (contd.)
			 Use mine.

						PEMBRY
			 Here they come.

	TWO BLACK STRETCH LIMOSINES

	glide smoothly into the hangar, stop. Secret Service agents pour
	out of the lead car, form a cordon. A driver opens the rear door
	of the second car, and Krendler steps out, followed by the Sena-
	tor's assistant, with a briefcase, followed, as last, by the Sen-
	ator herself. Barely glancing around, she strides towards Quinn.

	NEW ANGLE - DR. QUINN AND SEN. MARTIN -

	as she stops, struck by the bizarre spectacle of his restraints.
	The others instinctively keep a distance, but Prentiss, with the-
	atrical relish, unstraps and removes Dr. Quinn's mask.

						PRENTISS
			 Senator Martin, meet Dr. Gideon Quinn.

	They stare at one another for a long moment: the Senator tense,
	almost haggard, the madman with his unearthly poise.

						SEN. MARTIN
			 Dr. Quinn, I've brought an affidavit
			 guaranteeing your new rights... You'll
			 want to read it before I sign.

	He assistant unsnaps his briefcase, reaches for the form.

						DR. QUINN
			 I won't waste your time and Catherine's
			 time bargaining for petty privileges.
			 Clarice Starling and that awful Ray
			 Campbell have wasted far too much al-
			 ready. I only pray they haven't doomed
			 the poor girl... Let me help you now,
			 and I'll trust you when it's all over.

						SEN. MARTIN
			 You have my word. Paul?

	Krendler raises a pad, poised to take notes.

						DR. QUINN
			 Buffalo Bill's real name is William
			 Rubin. I met him just once. He was refer-
			 red to me in April or May, 1980, by my
			 patient Benjamin Raspail. They were lovers,
			 but Raspail had become very frightened.
			 Apparently Rubin had murdered a transient,
			 and - done things with the skin. He thought
			 if I could cure Billy, then Billy'd be
			 safe from the police, and he's be safe
			 from Billy... Obviously, he was wrong.

						KRENDLER
			 We need his address, a physical descr-

						DR. QUINN
			 Did you nurse Catherine?

						SEN. MARTIN
				(pause; startled)
			 What...?

						DR. QUINN
			 Did you breast-feed her?

	He flicks his tongue obscenely.

						KRENDLER
			 You son of a -

	The Senator stills him with a hand. She is trembling.

						SEN. MARTIN
			 Yes... I did.

						DR. QUINN
			 Toughened your nipples, didn't it...?
				(a beat; then rapidly, bored)
			 Six foot one, strongly built, about 190
			 pounds. Hair brown, eyes pale blue. He'd
			 be about 35 now. He said he lived in Phil-
			 adelphia, but may have lied. That's really
			 all I can remember, Senator - but if I
			 think of any more, I'll let you know.

						SEN. MARTIN
				(to the others)
			 Let's go with it.

	They start towards the car, but he calls out, stopping her.

						DR. QUINN
			 Senator Martin...! You can't trust Ray
			 Campbell or Clarice Starling. It's such
			 a game with these people. They're de-
			 termined to get the arrest for themselves.
			 The "collar," I think they say.

						SEN. MARTIN
			 Thank you, Doctor. I'll keep it in mind.

						DR. QUINN
			 Oh, and Senator...? Love you suit.

										DISSOLVE TO:

	INT. MR. GUMB'S BASEMENT - DAY (DIMLY LIT)

	CLOSE ON scraps of food - peas, chicken bones - lying on the
	cement floor of the pit, near the foil tray of a TV dinner.

						CATHERINE (O.S.)
				(muttering, feisty)
			 Close enough to fuck is close enough
			 to fight...

	CATHERINE

	is hunched over in concentration. The plastic toilet bucket is
	on her lap, and she has yanked down its cotton string.

						CATHERINE (contd.)
			 Get my legs round your neck, you goddamn
			 creep, I'll send you home to Jesus...

	HER FINGERS

	are tying a chicken bone to the bucket's handle, where it meets
	the string. The other end of the string is tied to her wrist.

	SHE STANDS -

	gathers the coiled string in one hand, and swings the bucket by
	its handle, calculating this distance up to the basement floor.

						CATHERINE (contd.)
			 Okay, Precious. Time for a treat...

	She hurls the bucket upwards.

	AT THE LIP OF THE OUBLIETTE -

	the bucket sails out, bounces LOUDLY, then falls back inside.

	ANGLE ON THE DOG, PRECIOUS -

	who is elsewhere in the basement, worrying a toy. She cocks
	an ear, making a low GROWL, then sets off to investigate.

	DOWN IN THE PIT -

	Catherine swings the bucket again, trying another cast.

	THE BUCKET LANDS

	two feet beyond the pit's edge, rolls a bit, stops.

	PRECIOUS TROTS UP -

	then pauses, staring curiously towards...

	VERY LOW ANGLE (DOG'S POV) -

	the enticing chicken bone, six feet away. It twitches as Cath-
	erine tugs on the string, edging the bucket back towards the pit.

	PRECIOUS

	with her tail wagging, BARKS - greedy but suspicious.

	CATHERINE -

	staring upwards, pulls again, even so gently, at the string.

						CATHERINE
				(softly)
			 Preeeeecious...! C'mon, boy, nice yummy
			 bone... c'mon, you little shit...

	PRECIOUS

	edges reluctantly closer... then suddenly rushes in, seizing
	the bone in her teeth. She tries to run away with it, but Cath-
	erine is pulling her towards the hole, working her like a hooked
	fish. Her toenails scrabble as she tries to stop.

	CATHERINE

	stares desperately, unable to see how she's doing.

						CATHERINE
			 Hang on, boy... hang on...

	PRECIOUS

	still fights for the bone, GROWLING, as the bucket rocks precar-
	iously on the edge of the pit. A long, seesaw battle... until
	finally, when one of her forelegs slips momentarily into the hole,
	she panics and lets go. The bucket flops over the edge.

	CATHERINE

	crouches, covering her head as the bucket bounces off her.

						CATHERINE
			 Nooooo...!

	THE LITTLE DOG

	furious, BARKS down at her, then trots away in disgust.

	CLOSE ON CATHERINE

	as she sinks to the cold cement. She slaps aside the foil tray,
	the scraps of food, sobbing in utter despair.

										DISSOLVE TO:

	INT. CATHERINE MARTIN'S APARTMENT - LIVING ROOM - DAY

	CLOSE ON a framed photo of Sen. Martin and Catherine, held in
	Clarice's cotton-gloved hands. Powdered fingerprints on the
	glass.

	CLARICE

	glances up from the photo, smiles disarmingly at -

	A YOUNG STATE TROOPER -

	sitting in Catherine's easy chair. He smiles back at her, then
	relaxes, returns to his newspaper. He also wears gloves.

										CUT TO:

	INT. KITCHEN

	Clarice closes the refrigerator door, glances around

	A BIG REEL-TO-REEL TAPE RECORDER

	has been set up on the breakfast counter, attached to Catherine's
	phone. Two new red phones are hooked up as well.

										CUT TO:

	INT. BATHROOM

	Clarice slides open the medicine cabinet's mirror, looks in-
	side. She reaches in, pokes carefully amongst the lotions.

										CUT TO:

	INT. ATTIC CRAWL-SPACE

	A ceiling hatch bangs open, sending up dust clouds. Clarice,
	lit from underneath, pokes her head through, looking around.

										CUT TO:

	INT. BEDROOM

	Flat on her back, Clarice wriggles out from under Catherine's
	bed. She sits up, brushing dust from her face and hair.

										CUT TO:
	
	INT. BEDROOM

	CLOSE ON an open, multi-tiered jewelry box, resting atop a
	bureau, as Clarice's fingers pick through costume jewelry.

	CLARICE

	closes the box, and is just turning away when a figure suddenly
	looms INTO SHOT, giving her a bad start; she cries out softly.

	SENATOR MARTIN

	is revealed, staring at her suspiciously.

						SEN. MARTIN
			 Who are you, please? I thought the police
			 were through in here.

						CLARICE
			 I'm Clarice Starling, Senator. FBI.

						SEN. MARTIN
				(softly, very angry)
			 Clarice Starling...
				(calls out)
			 Paul? Would you come in here, please...?

	Krendler enters from the hallway, looks at Clarice.

						SEN. MARTIN (contd.)
			 Miss Starling, you may know the Deputy
			 Attorney General, Mr. Krendler. Paul,
			 this is the trainee that Ray Campbell
			 sent to Quinn... She lied to him, pre-
			 tending to have my authority, and thus
			 jeopardized this entire investigation.
			 Now she has the further gall to invade
			 my daughter's privacy, again without per-
			 mission. If her little games have
			 killed my baby...

	Overcome, she hurries from the room. Krendler shuts the door
	behind her, points sternly at Clarice.

						KRENDLER
			 You're out of line, Starling, and you're
			 off this case. Back to Quantico.

						CLARICE
			 Sir, Mr. Campbell instructed me -

						KRENDLER
			 Your instructions are what I'm giving
			 you now. Ray Campbell answers to the Di-
			 rector, and the Director answers to me.
			 My God, Campbell's losing it...! He
			 shouldn't even be on this, with his wife
			 sick as she is... How the hell did you get
			 in here, anyway? He gave you - what? -some
			 kind of special ID? Let's have it.

						CLARICE
				(stubbornly)
			 I need the ID to fly with my gun. The gun
			 belongs in Quantico.

						KRENDLER
			 Gun. Jesus. Turn in the ID as soon as
			 you get back. The gun, too. Be on the
			 next plane, Starling, there's one in 90
			 minutes.

	Clarice, burning, starts for the door, then turns back.

						CLARICE
			 Mr. Krendler... Dr. Quinn trusts me. Or
			 at least, he used to. If I could just -

						KRENDLER
			 Quinn has already named Buffalo Bill.

	Clarice reacts, surprised. Krendler takes a folded computer
	sheet from his pocket, shoves it at her. She takes it, reads.

						KRENDLER (contd.)
			 He gave us a perfectly good description,
			 and we're on it now, so we won't be need-
			 ing your little novelty act any longer -
			 or his, either. He's under close guard at
			 the courthouse, pending a prison transfer.
			 The next plane, Officer.

						CLARICE
			 Sir, doesn't this "William Rubin" strike
			 you as - I don't know - kind of vague?

	Krendler moves in very close to her, pale with anger.

						KRENDLER
			 Do you need a police escort, Starling?
			 Or do you think you can find the airport
			 by yourself?

						CLARICE
			 Yes sir. I can find it by myself.

										CUT TO:

	EXT. SHELBY COUNTY COURTHOUSE - DAY

	The old courthouse is a massive Gothic stronghold, with an
	armada of police cruisers parked at the curb.

	CLARICE

	climbs from her rented car, SLAMMING the door angrily. Holding
	a rolled-up pile of papers - Dr. Quinn's drawings - she starts
	determinedly up the steps. A nearby commotion makes her pause.

	DR. HERBERT PRENTISS -

	in a sea of interviewers and mini-cams, is preening grandly.

	CLARICE -

	carefully avoiding his gaze, slips up the steps and inside.

										CUT TO:

	INT. COURTHOUSE - GROUND FLOOR - DAY

	SGT. TATE, a Memphis policeman, is studying Clarice's ID. He
	looks up at her from his command desk, a bit doubtfully.

						SGT. TATE
			 Are you with Mr. Krendler's people?

						CLARICE
			 I just left him.

						SGT. TATE
			 Access to Quinn is strictly limited.
			 We've been getting death threats.
				(hesitates again)
			 Log in, and check your weapon.

	He picks up a phone, murmurs into it. As he does so, Clarice
	glances around this main ground floor lobby.

	HER POV -

	The building looks like an armed fort. Cops with shotguns guard
	the front door, both ends of the hall, the foot of the stairs,
	the single elevator. More of them are coming and going.

						MURRAY (V.O.)
			 Shoot, we haven't had this kinda
			 security since the President came
			 through town...

										CUT TO:

	INT. ELEVATOR - MOVING

	Clarice and OFFICER MURRAY, a young patrolman, ride up in an
	old-fashioned, CREAKING, metal-cage elevator. He is excited.

						MURRAY
			 Every cop in Tennessee wants a look at
			 this guy. 'Sit true what they're sayin'
			 - he's some kinda vampire?

						CLARICE
				(beat)
			 I don't have a name for what he is.

										CUT TO:

	INT. HISTORICAL SOCIETY ROOM - 5TH FLOOR

	Pembry, at a desk by the door, looks up from examining the
	unrolled pile of Dr. Quinn's drawings.

						PEMBRY
			 You know the rules, ma'am?

						CLARICE
			 Yes, Officer Pembry. I've questioned
			 him before.

	He waves her on her way, but retains the drawings for now.

	MOVING ANGLE - WITH CLARICE -

	as she crosses the big, spare, white octagonal room. A massive,
	temporary iron cage has been installed; Officer Boyle sits facing
	its barred door. He rises, nods, moving away to allow her privacy.

	INSIDE THE CAGE -

	a cot and a small table, each bolted to the floor, and a flimsy
	paper screen, hiding a toilet. Dr. Quinn sits at the table, his
	back to her, studying the Buffalo Bill case file. He now wears a
	green prison jumpsuit. A small cassette player is chained to the
	steel table.

						DR. QUINN
				(without turning)
			 Good afternoon, Clarice.

	She stops at a striped police barricade, before his bars.

						CLARICE
			 I thought you might want your drawings
			 back... Just until you get your view.

						DR. QUINN
			 How very thoughtful... Or did Campbell
			 send you here for one last wheedle -
			 before you're both booted off the case?

						CLARICE
			 Nobody sent me. I came on my own.

	He spins in his swivel chair, stops neatly. A coy smile.

						DR. QUINN
			 People will say we're in love.
				(beat)
			 Pity you tried to fool me, isn't it?
			 Pity for poor Catherine. Tick-tock...

	He spins again in his chair, playfully.

	MOVING ANGLE - FAVORING CLARICE -

	as she circles the cage, trying to keep his face in sight.

						CLARICE
			 Dr. Quinn, you find out everything. You
			 couldn't have talked with this "William
			 Rubin", even once, and come out knowing
			 so little about him... You made him up,
			 didn't you?

						DR. QUINN
			 Clarice... you're hardly in a position
			 to accuse me of lying.

						CLARICE
			 I think you were telling me the truth
			 in Baltimore - or starting to. Tell me
			 the rest now.

						DR. QUINN
			 I've studied the case file, have you...?
			 Everything you need to find him is right
			 in these pages. Whatever his name is.

						CLARICE
			 Then tell me how.

						DR. QUINN
			 First principles, Clarice. Simplicity.
			 Read Marcus Aurelius. Of each particular
			 thing, ask: What is it, in itself, what
			 is its nature...? What does he do, this
			 man you seek?

						CLARICE
			 He kills w-

						DR. QUINN
				(sharply, as he stops)
			 No - ! That's incidental.

	CLOSE ANGLE - TWO SHOT -

	as he rises, pained by her ignorance, and crosses to the bars.

						DR. QUINN (contd.)
			 What is the first and principal thing he
			 does, what need does he serve by killing?

						CLARICE
			 Anger, social resentment, sexual frus-

						DR. QUINN
			 No, he covets. That's his nature. And
			 how do we begin to covet, Clarice? Do we
			 seek out things to covet? Make an effort
			 to answer.

						CLARICE
			 No. We just -

						DR. QUINN
			 No. Precisely. We begin by coveting what we
			 see every day. Don't you feel eyes moving
			 over your body, Clarice? I hardly see how
			 you couldn't. And don't your eyes move
			 over the things you want?

						CLARICE
			 All right, then tell me how -

						DR. QUINN
			 No. It's your turn to tell me, Clarice.
			 You don't have any more vacations to sell,
			 on Anthrax Island. Why did you run away
			 from that ranch?

						CLARICE
			 Dr. Quinn, when there's time I'll -

						DR. QUINN
			 We don't reckon time the same way, Clarice.
			 This is all the time you'll ever have.

						CLARICE
			 Later, listen, I'll -

						DR. QUINN
			 I'll listen now. After your father's
			 murder, you were orphaned. You were
			 ten years old. You went to live with
			 cousins, on a sheep and horse ranch in
			 Montana. And - ?

						CLARICE
			 And - one morning I just - ran away...

	She turns from him. He presses closer, gripping the bars.

						DR. QUINN
			 Not "just," Clarice. What set you off?
			 You started what time?

						CLARICE
			 Early. Still dark.

						DR. QUINN
			 Then something woke you. What? Did you
			 dream...? What was it?

	IN FLASHBACK -

	The 10-year old Clarice sits up abruptly in her bed, fright-
	ened. She is in a Montana ranch house; it al almost dawn.
	Strange, fearful shadows on her ceiling and walls... a win-
	dow, partly fogged by the cold; eerie brightness outside.

						CLARICE (V.O.)
			 I heard a strange sound...

						DR. QUINN (V.O.)
			 What was it?

	THE CHILD RISES -

	crosses to the window in her nightgown, rubs the glass.

						CLARICE (V.O.)
			 I didn't know. I went to look...

	HIGH ANGLES (2nd STORY) - THE CHILD'S POV -

	Shadowy men, ranch hands, are moving in and out of a nearby
	barn, carrying mysterious bundles. The mens' breath is
	steaming... A refrigerated truck idles nearby, its engine
	adding more steam. A strange, almost surrealistic scene...

						CLARICE (contd., V.O.)
			 Screaming! Some kind of - screaming.
			 Like a child's voice...

	THE LITTLE GIRL

	is terrified; she covers her ears.

						DR. QUINN (V.O.)
			 What did you do?

						CLARICE (V.O.)
			 Got dressed without turning on the
			 light. I went downstairs... outside...

	THE LITTLE GIRL

	in her winter coat, slips noiselessly towards the open barn
	door. She ducks into the shadows to avoid a ranch hand, who
	passes her with a squirming bundle of some kind. He goes into
	the barn, and she edges after him reluctantly.

						CLARICE (contd., V.O.)
			 I crept up to the barn... I was so
			 scared to look inside - but I had to...

	THE LITTLE GIRL'S POV -

	as the open doorway LOOMS CLOSER... Bright lights inside, straw
	bales, the edges of stalls, then moving figures...

						DR. QUINN (V.O.)
			 And what did you see, Clarice?

	A SQUIRMING LAMB -

	is held down on a table by two ranch hands.

						CLARICE (V.O.)
			 Lambs. The lambs were screaming...

	A third cowboy stretches out the lamb's neck, raises a bloody
	knife. Just as he's about to slice its throat -

	BACK TO THE ADULT CLARICE -

	staring into the distance, shaken, still trembling from the
	child's shock. We see Dr. Quinn, over her shoulder, studying
	her intently.

						DR. QUINN
			 They were slaughtering the spring lambs?

						CLARICE
			 Yes...! They were screaming.

						DR. QUINN
			 So you ran away...

						CLARICE
			 No. First I tried to free them... I
			 opened the gate of their pen - but
			 they wouldn't run. They just stood
			 there, confused. They wouldn't run...

						DR. QUINN
			 But you could. You did.

						CLARICE
			 I took one lamb. And I ran away, as
			 fast as I could...

	IN FLASHBACK -

	a vast Montana plain, and crossing this, a tiny figure - the
	little Clarice, holding a lamb in her arms.

						DR. QUINN (V.O.)
			 Where were you going?

						CLARICE (V.O.)
			 I don't know. I had no food or water.
			 It was very cold. I thought - if I can
			 even save just one... but he got so
			 heavy. So heavy...

	The tiny figure stops, and after a few moments sinks to the
	ground, hunched over in dispair.

						CLARICE (contd., V.O.)
			 I didn't get more than a few miles
			 before the sheriff's car found me.
			 The rancher was so angry he sent me to
			 live at the Lutheran orphanage in
			 Bozeman. I never saw the ranch again...

						DR. QUINN (V.O.)
			 But what became of your lamb?
				(no response)
			 Clarice...?

	BACK TO SCENE -

	as the adult Clarice turns, staring into his feverish eyes.
	She shakes her head, unwilling - or unable - to say more.

						DR. QUINN (contd.)
			 You still wake up sometimes, don't you?
			 Wake up in the dark, with the lambs
			 screaming?

						CLARICE
			 Yes...

						DR. QUINN
			 Do you think if you saved Catherine, you
			 could make them stop...? Do you think,
			 if Catherine lives, you won't wake up
			 in the dark, ever again, to the scream-
			 ing of the lambs? Do you...?

						CLARICE
			 Yes! I don't know...! I don't know.

						DR. QUINN
				(a pause; then, oddly at peace)
			 Thank you, Clarice.

						CLARICE
				(a whisper)
			 Tell me his name, Dr. Quinn.

						DR. QUINN
			 Dr. Prentiss... I believe you know
			 each other?

	NEW ANGLE -

	as Clarice turns, startled, and the fuming Prentiss seizes her
	elbow. Pembry and Boyle are beside him, looking grim.

						PRENTISS
			 Out. Let's go.

						PEMBRY
			 Sorry, ma'am - we've got orders to have
			 you put on a place.

	Clarice struggles, pulling free of them for a moment.

						DR. QUINN
			 Brave Clarice. Will you let me know if
			 ever the lambs stop screaming?

						CLARICE
				(moving closer to the bars)
			 Yes. I'll tell you.

						DR. QUINN
			 Promise...?
				(She nods. He smiles)
			 Then why not take your case file? I
			 won't be needing it anymore.

	He holds out the file, arm extended between the bars. She
	hesitates, then reaches to take it.

	VERY CLOSE ANGLE - SLOW MOTION -

	as the exchange is made, his index finger touches her hand,
	and lingers there, just for a moment.

	DR. QUINN'S EYES -

	widen, crackling at this touch, like sparks in a cave.

						DR. QUINN
			 Good-bye, Clarice.

	CLARICE -

	hugging the case file to her chest, stares back at him as the
	men crowd in on her, pushing her away.

	HER POV - MOVING -

	as Dr. Quinn, head cocked in a smile, slowly recedes...

										DISSOLVE TO:

	INT. GARMENT SWEATSHOP - DAY

	MOVING ANGLE - MR. GUMB'S POV - as he pushes a rolling rack
	of completed leather garments, each wrapped in plastic, down
	as aisle. SOUND of many sewing machines, all clattering at
	once, as he passes row on row of work tables. The seamstres-
	ses, mostly black or Hispanic, glance up as he passes, then
	quickly avert their eyes, his presence disturbing them in some
	nameless way.

	A THIN FOREMAN -

	in a flowery shirt, sees him approaching. He rises from his
	desk and comes over cheerfully, as the rack rolls to a stop.

						FOREMAN
			 Hello, dear! Punctual as always. And
			 what have you brought us today?

	He seizes one of the dangling jackets, pulling up the plastic
	wrapper. He examines it, stroking the sleeve.

						FOREMAN (contd.)
			 Oh, marvelous... You know, I always
			 say you're the Leonardo of leather.

						MR. GUMB (O.S.)
				(a harsh whisper)
			 Oil.

						FOREMAN
			 Pardon...?

						MR. GUMB (O.S.)
			 You're leaving oil on the skin.

	The foreman quickly releases the jacket.

						FOREMAN
			 Of course... You'll be wanting your -

	Mr. Gumb's hand reaches INTO SHOT, snatching an envelope from
	him. The foreman is watching him walk away, as a seamstress
	comes over to take the rack of garments. The foreman is vaguely
	troubled, but shakes it off. He strokes the jacket again,
	admiringly.

						FOREMAN (contd.)
				(to seamstress)
			 I wish we had a dozen like him...

	SOUND UPCUT - Glenn Gould playing Bach's Goldberg Variations...

										CUT TO:

	INT. MEMPHIS INTERNATIONAL AIRPORT - LOUNGE AREA - DUSK

	Clarice, in a line of other passengers, is moving slowly to-
	wards a departure ramp. Through a huge plate glass window, we
	can see her plane. She glances back over her shoulder at

	A PAIR OF UNIFORMED COPS

	brawny and impassive, their arms folded, waiting to make sure
	she board the flight.

	CLARICE

	sighs, turning wearily back towards the jetway. The BACH
	CONTINUES, as we...

										CUT TO:

	INT. SHELBY CO. COURTHOUSE - HISTORICAL SOCIETY ROOM - NIGHT

	CLOSE ON a steaming, rather elegant dinner tray, being carried
	by Pembry, as he approaches Dr. Quinn's cell.

						PEMBRY
				(shouts)
			 Ready when you are, Doc!

	IN THE CELL -

	The BACH is issuing from the cassette player. Beside it, on
	the table, the pile of Dr. Quinn's drawings. The top one is an
	accurate, sensitive portrait, from memory, of Clarice. Beyond
	the table, we see Quinn's shadowy form, seated behind the paper
	screen. He calls out from there.

						DR. QUINN (O.S.)
			 Just another minute, please!

	PEMBRY

	grunts, sets the tray down. Boyle joins him, handing him a riot
	baton and a Mace cannister, which Pembry fastens to belt clips.
	Boyle is similarly armed, and carries a ring of keys.

						PEMBRY
			 Sumbitch demanded lamb chops for
			 dinner, extra rare.

						BOYLE
				(laughs)
			 What you reckon he'll want for breakfast
			 - some fuckin' thing from the zoo?

	INSIDE THE SCREEN -

	Dr. Quinn sits fully clothed on the toilet - swaying slightly,
	eyes closed, lost in the music, tongue working in his cheek.
	Suddenly, like magic, a little shiny piece of metal protrudes
	from his lips. He plucks it out, opens his eyes.

	IN EXTREME C.U. -

	He is holding the pocket clip from Prentice's disassembled
	pen - a straight, thin strip of metal, with a circular collar
	at one end, a square edge at the other.

	DR. QUINN -

	lines up his thumbnail just shy of the square edge, then braces
	it against the stainless steel toilet rim. He pushes down, hard,
	using both hands for leverage. After a moment he smiles, holding
	up the result, and twirling it before his eyes.

	IN EXTREME C.U. -

	the straight end of the clip now forms a tiny right angle, and
	the circular end anchors nicely between his fingers.

	OUTSIDE THE CELL -

	Pembry and Boyle turn as the toilet FLUSHES, and Dr. Quinn re-
	appears, looking jaunty.

						PEMBRY
			 Okay, Doc, grab some floor. Same drill
			 as lunchtime.

	Dr. Quinn sits on the floor, legs straight, then wriggles back-
	wards. He stretches his arms behind him, hands and wrists through
	the bars, with two bars between them, and clasps his hands.

						DR. QUINN
			 I'm ready when you are, Officer Pembry.

	Pembry comes around the cell to squat behind Dr. Quinn. He tugs
	his hands farther out, rather roughly, handcuffs his wrists. He
	shakes the cuffs, making sure of them, then nods to Boyle.

	NEW ANGLE - AT CELL DOOR -

	as Boyle picks up the dinner tray, and Pembry crosses around.
	Pembry takes the keys from Boyle, unlocks the cell door, and
	pushes it inward. Boyle goes inside with the tray.

	DR. QUINN

	watches as Boyle approaches the table, above five feet from
	him. Boyle has to set his tray down on the floor to clear off
	some of the mess of drawings. The MUSIC plays on.

	VERY CLOSE ON -

	Dr. Quinn's hands, outside the bars, as the makeshift key, held
	between the tips of his right index and middle fingers, searches
	for the keyhole of the cuffs. And finds it.

	NEW ANGLE - FAVORING BOYLE -

	as he finishes clearing the drawings, then turns back towards Dr.
	Quinn, stooping to pick up the tray.

	BOYLE'S RIGHT HAND -

	is just inches from the tray when Dr. Quinn's hand darts INTO
	SHOT, snapping a handcuff onto his wrist.

	BOYLE

	looks up, astonished, to find himself right in the grinning face
	of Dr. Quinn - who just as quickly rolls sideways, and snaps -

	THE OTHER CUFF

	around the bolted leg of the table. And suddenly all natural SOUND
	and MOTION are suspended, as the MUSIC soars much louder, each
	separate note of it now echoing distinctly, and we see...

	VARIOUS ANGLES - EACH BLURRING INTO STOP-ACTION -

	Pembry starting into the cell, reaching for his riot baton...

	Dr. Quinn smashing against the cell door, driving it into Pembry,
	pinning him across the chest, against the door frame...

	Boyle, on one knee on the floor, digging desperately in his pants
	pocket for his handcuff key...

	Pembry's hand, mashed against his body by the door, as he strains
	frantically to reach the baton at his waist...

	Pembry's eyes, widening in horror as he stares at...

	Dr. Quinn's bared teeth, flashing towards him...

	Dr. Quinn gripping Pembry's face in his jaws, shaking it like
	a dog shakes a rat...

	Boyle finding his key, but in his terror dropping it...

	Dr. Quinn yanking the mace can and riot baton from the dazed
	Pembry's belt, spraying him in his bloody face, then clubbing
	him to his knees...

	Boyle, mouth open in a silent scream, finding his key again, un-
	locking the handcuff, but then, as he starts to rise, seeing...

	Dr. Quinn standing over him, with the riot baton raised high; he
	swings it viciously down, again and again and again... Then nor-
	mal SOUND and MOTION are restored as we go to -

	CLOSE ANGLE ON -

	the cassette player, and the portrait of Clarice, both now
	flecked with blood. In addition to the Bach, we now hear soft
	PANTING, close by, and whimpering SOBS in the b.g.

	ANGLE ON DR. QUINN

	eyes closed, lost in a favorite passage of the music. His bloody
	fingers drift airily with the notes, as his breathing slows to
	normal. He opens his eyes, sighs contentedly, looks down.

	HIS POV -

	By the sprawled legs of Boyle lie various objects that spilled
	from his pants pocket - coins, a comb, a big pocketknife.

	DR. QUINN

	picks up the pocketknife, examines it happily. About a four-
	inch blade. He becomes aware of the WHIMPERING, O.S., turns.

	LOW ANGLE ON PEMBRY

	as he crawls, with torturous slowness, towards the command desk,
	and the phone. He is crying, but frantically determined.

	PEMBRY'S POV - PARTIALLY BLURRED, THEN CLEARING -

	Above the desk, hanging from pegs, are his and Boyle's holstered
	revolvers...

										CUT TO:

	INT. COURTHOUSE - GROUND FLOOR LOBBY - NIGHT

	The bronze arrow above the elevator swings towards "5," then
	indicates a stop there, at the top floor.

	FAVORING SGT. TATE -

	at his command desk, as he stares at the indicator. Another cop,
	JACOBS, sits on the desk's edge, flipping through a magazine;
	many more cops can be seen beyond them, idling in the lobby.

						SGT. TATE
			 What is this shit...? Did some-
			 body go up to five?
				(Jacobs shakes his head)
			 Call Pembry, ask him what -

	A GUNSHOT, and then, moments later, TWO MORE quick ones, echo
	down the nearby stairwell. Sgt. Tate jumps to his feet, grabs
	a radio mike, as the other cops stir, confused and noisy.

						SGT. TATE (contd.)
				(into mike)
			 CP, shots fired on five! Repeat, shots
			 fires on five! Outside posts look sharp,
			 we've got a... Ho-ly shit.

	THE BRONZE ARROW

	has begun to descend. Down to 4, then past 4...

	BACK ON SGT. TATE

	as he reacts. The other cops, behind him, are now in a full
	uproar, shouting, pulling out guns.

						SGT. TATE (contd.)
				(to the others)
			 SHUT UP...! Guard mount, double up on
			 your outside posts. Bobby, get the vests.
			 Rainey, Howard, cover that fucking ele-
			 vator if it comes all the way to -

						A COP (O.S.)
			 It stopped!

	THE BRONZE ARROW -

	has, indeed, frozen at 3.

	SGT. TATE

	lifts the microphone again.

						SGT. TATE
				(into mike)
			 Seal off a ten-block radius. Get me
			 the SWAT team and an ambulance, double
			 quick. We're going up.

										CUT TO:

	INT. STAIRWELL - NIGHT (DIMLY LIT)

	HIGH ANGLE on Sgt. Tate as he leads a five-man squad, all in
	bulletproof vests, up the stone stairs. They move fast but
	carefully, covering each other from landing to landing with
	drawn revolvers, shotguns. The distant Back MUSIC makes a
	ghostly echo in here...

										CUT TO:

	INT. THIRD FLOOR CORRIDOR - NIGHT (DIMLY LIT)

	A thin rectangle of light on the floor from the open elevator
	door. We can't see inside. The MUSIC sounds closer.

	SGT. TATE

	approaches very cautiously, gun aimed. The other cops, behind
	him, fan out silently to set up angles of fire, checking the
	various office doors - all locked - as they creep up.

	MOVING ANGLE - OVER TATE'S SHOULDER -

	as he reaches the side of the elevator, hesitates, then spins
	to point his gun inside. It's empty. He backs away.

						SGT. TATE
				(shouts at ceiling)
			 Pembry? Boyle...?

										CUT TO:

	INT. HISTORICAL SOCIETY ROOM - NIGHT (BRIGHTLY LIT)

	ANGLE on the door, from inside, its lettering reversed on the
	frosted glass. The Bach is VERY LOUD. After a moment the door
	is shouldered open, hard enough for the glass to shatter, Tate
	following his gun inside, moving low, then other cops appear-
	ing behind him in the doorframe. They all freeze, staring in
	utter horror.

						SGT. TATE
			 Oh no... no...

	THEIR POV -

	is a brief snapshot from hell. The two uniformed bodies, one
	sprawled on its back near the door, the other still in the
	cell, have been savaged by a knife. Blood and gore everywhere.
	The faces are unrecognizable.

	SGT. TATE -

	struggles for control, as the other cops move grimly around him,
	into the room. He pulls his walkie-talkie from his belt.

						SGT. TATE (contd.)
				(into mike)
			 Command post... Two offi-
				(a beat; clears his throat)
			 Two officers down. Prisoner is missing.
			 Repeat, Quinn is missing... He's stripped
			 the bed, might be making a rope, check all
			 windows. Where the fuck is my ambulance?

	IN THE CELL -

	a cop angrily punches OFF the music. Jacobs kneels with his
	fingers on Boyle's neck.

						JACOBS
			 Boyle is dead, Sarge. His gun's gone...

	AT THE OTHER BODY -

	a cop gently removes a revolver from the bloody fist. Murray,
	the young patrolman, brings his ear reluctantly close to the
	gory face. A bloody bubble appears there; the wreckage GROANS,
	very softly.

						MURRAY
			 This one's alive!

	Tate crosses, kneels to see for himself. Murray looks green.

						SGT. TATE
			 Take ahold of him where he can feel
			 your hands, son. Talk to him.

						MURRAY
			 What's his name, Sarge?

						SGT. TATE
			 It's Pembry, now talk to him, God
			 dammit.
				(into radio, looking around)
			 Boyle's dead, Pembry's read bad. Quinn
			 is missing and armed - he took Boyle's
			 gun...

	The other cop, checking the cylinder of Pembry's gun, holds
	up one finger to Tate.

						SGT. TATE (contd.)
				(into radio)
			 Pembry got off one round - there's a
			 chance Quinn was hit. We heard a
			 total of three shots fired, so he's
			 got four left... He's got a knife, too.

										CUT TO:

	EXT. STREET IN FRONT OF COURTHOUSE - NIGHT

	VARIOUS ANGLES on a floodlit scene of barely controlled pan-
	demonium. Flashing red lights, men shouting commands, SIRENS
	in the distance. SWAT members, in full gear, leap from a black
	van... fan out... swarm up the steps... EMS orderlies unload
	a gurney from an ambulance... Cops kneel for cover behind cars,
	aiming guns and rifles up at the windows...

										CUT TO:

	INT. HISTORICAL SOCIETY ROOM - NIGHT

	A trio of EMS orderlies work fast over the body, already strapped
	on its gurney. Then bandage a big plastic airway into place, over
	the butchered face, checking for a pulse at the neck. Young Murray
	crouches, sickened, gripping a bloody fist.

						MURRAY
			 You're just fine, Pembry, lookin' good,
			 buddy, you're gonna make it...

	One orderly massages the heart. Another is popping a plasma bag,
	ready to insert the needle, when the body starts convulsing.

						ORDERLY
			 Downstairs - let's go!

	Quickly the gurney is elevated, wheeled out of the room, with
	cops rushing forward to open the doors, help push, SWAT men
	are running by in the hall, automatic rifles at the ready...

										CUT TO;

	INT. THE ELEVATOR - DESCENDING - NIGHT

	Sgt. Tate, riding down with Jacobs, has his radio out.

						SGT. TATE
				(into mike)
			 Ten-four, Lieutenant. I'm on the ele-
			 vator, bringing it down. Pembry and
			 Boyle are both cleared, top three
			 floors secured, main stairwell secured.
			 He's somewhere on -

	A spot of blood falls on his cheek. He and Jacobs stare at each
	other. Another spot hits his shoulder. They look up.

	THEIR POV -

	Blood is dripping slowly from the corner of the service hatch.

	SGT. TATE

	motions for silence, as both men draw their guns.

						SGT. TATE
				(into mike)
			 Uh, we're pretty sure he's somewhere on
			 two, sir... That's all for now, over.

										CUT TO:

	INT. GROUND FLOOR LOBBY - NIGHT

	The elevator doors open, and Tate and Jacobs hurry out, step-
	ping quickly to the side. Tate reaches back in and -

	CLOSE ANGLE -

	locks the elevator into position, with its doors open.

	OTHER COPS

	are rushing up to them, curious, as Tate frantically pushes
	them aside, gesturing for silence.

						SGT. TATE
				(whispers)
			 He's on the roof of the elevator!

										CUT TO:

	INT. THIRD FLOOR CORRIDOR - NIGHT

	Two SWAT officers, PETERSON and KUBELL, turn a key, unlocking
	and opening this floor's elevator doorway. The shaft is dark.
	Lying prone, they inch up to the edge, Peterson extends a mir-
	ror, on a long pole, out into the shaft.

	IN THE MIRROR (DISTORTED BY THE ANGLE) -

	is a distant figure, in a green prison jumpsuit, lying on his
	stomach, atop the elevator. A shiny revolver is near one hand.

	PETERSON

	whispers into a radio, as Kubell carefully tips an assault rifle,
	with a flashlight taped to its barrel, over the edge.

						PETERSON
			 I see him... There's a weapon by his
			 hand. He's not moving...

						RADIO VOICE
			 Can you get the drop?

						PETERSON
			 We got the drop.

						RADIO VOICE
			 One warning. Then take him out.

	Peterson nods to Kubell, who switches ON the flashlight, as
	Peterson shouts down the shaft.

						PETERSON
			 QUINN!! PUT YOUR HANDS ON YOUR HEAD!!

	IN THE MIRROR -

	the green figure shows no movement.

	ANGLE ON THE COPS AGAIN

	as Peterson mutters to Kubell.

						PETERSON (contd.)
			 Put one in his leg.

	VERY CLOSE ON

	the figure below, as Kubell's gunshot ROARS, echoing hugely
	in the shaft, and a slug rips through the jumpsuited leg.
	The figure doesn't stir.

	PETERSON

	staring down the shaft, raises his mike again.

						PETERSON (contd.)
			 No movement.

						RADIO VOICE
			 Okay, Johnny, hold your fire...

										CUT TO:

	INT. GROUND FLOOR LOBBY - NIGHT

	A small army of cops is now covering the elevator doorway,
	from both sides. Tate crouches next to the SWAT COMMANDER.

						SWAT COMMANDER
				(into radio mike)
			 We're coming into the car, we're opening
			 the hatch. Watch his hands. Any fire
			 will come from us. Affirm?

						PETERSON'S VOICE
			 Got it.

	The SWAT commander hands his radio to another cop, then looks
	at Tate. A long, tense moment. Then he waves a signal.

	MOVING ANGLE

	as we follow a picked team of four SWAT cops, in full body ar-
	mor, rushing into the elevator car. Two men move to the cor-
	ners, aim assault rifles at the ceiling. A third man sets a
	stepladder in place, and the fourth man, armed with a big
	Colt, hurries up the ladder and unclips the hatch.

	CLOSE ON

	the service hatch, as the hinged cover drops open, and a body
	tumbles through, dangling head first, until it's caught at the
	waist. We see the back of the head.

	SGT. TATE

	shoulders through the SWAT cops for a closer look. He turns
	towards the SWAT commander, astonished.

						SGT. TATE
			 That's Pembry!

										CUT TO:

	INT. EMS AMBULANCE - MOVING

	In the rear chamber, a young EMS ATTENDANT is braced against the
	vehicle's sway. Behind him, the stretchered form of his patient,
	and, through a curtained opening, the driver. SOUND of the siren.

						ATTENDANT
				(into radio mike)
			 He's comatose, but his vital signs
			 are good. Pressure's 130 over 90...
			 Yeah, 90! Pulse 85...

	Behind him, in slightly BLURRED FOCUS, the bloody figure sits
	slowly upright...

						ATTENDANT (contd.)
			 His convulsions have stopped, but he's
			 got so much loose skin on his face,
			 it's hard to tell if -

	Suddenly he stops, becoming aware of a strange HISSING. He
	turns, puzzled...

	THE POCKETKNIFE BLADE -

	in Quinn's fist, flashes high in the air...

										CUT TO:

	EXT. SIX-LANE FREEWAY - NIGHT (ARC LIGHTS)

	MOVING ANGLE on the EMS ambulance, as it races along normally,
	its SIREN blazing, the heavy flow of traffic parting to make way
	for it. Then suddenly it begins to weave erratically, changing
	lanes, before drifting dangerously to a full stop, almost side-
	ways. Cars swerve to avoid hitting it, HONKING angrily...

	CLOSER ANGLE

	on the stopped ambulance. After a long, still moment, the wind-
	shield wipes come one, incongruously, then stop. Then the SIREN
	is shut OFF, and the flashers. The ambulance starts rolling again
	- at first jerkingly, then with increasing speed. We follow it
	for several more moments, until is passes - and we LINGER on...

	A BIG GREEN INTERSTATE SIGN -

	that read "Memphis International Airport / 2 miles."

	CLOSE ANGLE - THROUGH AMBULANCE WINDSHIELD

	Dr. Quinn's face is slowly REVEALED, as he wipes across it
	with a fistful of gauze, tossing it aside...

										DISSOLVE TO:

	EXT. MONTANA PLAIN - DUSK - (IN FLASHBACK)

	MOVING ANGLE, rushing with dizzy swiftness over the prairie,
	over waving grasses... a long passage... before we come at last
	to the girl Clarice, sitting with her lamb, hunched in despair.
	She rises, her face tear-stained, and turns from us. Holding
	the lamb, she starts back the way she came...

										CUT TO:

	EXT. COUNTRY DIRT ROAD - NIGHT - BRIGHT MOONLIGHT

	MOVING ANGLE, very rapid, down this road... coming at last to
	a stopped highway patrol car. Clarice, with her lamb, is stand-
	ing in the car's headlights. She starts wearily towards the
	sheriff...

										CUT TO:

	EXT. RANCH BARNYARD - NEAR DAWN

	CRANE ANGLE - sweeping rapidly DOWN into the barnyard towards
	the arriving highway patrol car, as it stops... RUSHING to
	the little girl as she steps from the car, holding the lamb.
	The dark figure of the rancher ENTERS FRAME. As he roughly
	takes the lamb from her, we HOLD on a CLOSEUP of her face -
	stunned, blank. She EXITS FRAME...

										CUT TO:

	EXT. BARN - NIGHT

	MOVING ANGLE - Clarice's POV - as she walks towards the open
	barn doorway... It looms CLOSER... The rancher is revealed,
	a shadowy figure, pinning the lamb on the killing table. His
	knife hand sweeps up high, then holds... He turns TO CAMERA,
	his face breaking into the light - and it is the face of Dr.
	Quinn. He smiles his terrible smile at the young Clarice...

										CUT TO:

	INT. FBI DORM - PAY PHONE IN HALLWAY - NIGHT

	MOVING ANGLE - coming in very CLOSE on the adult Clarice's face
	- shocked, devastated - as she stands alone by the dangling
	receiver...

										CUT TO:

	INT. SHOWER STALL - FBI DORM - NIGHT

	CLOSE ON a shower head, as water suddenly blasts out. Clarice
	moves INTO SHOT, as she scrubs her face and hair compulsively,
	almost desperately, unable to get clean...

						ARDELIA (V.O.)
			 They found the ambulance...

										CUT TO:

	INT. CLARICE'S DORM ROOM - NIGHT

	Clarice is hunched on her cot, in a bathrobe, her hair wet. The
	Buffalo Bill case file, a think bundle, rests by her feet. Ar-
	delia hovers anxiously nearby.

						ARDELIA (contd.)
			 In the parking garage at Memphis airport.
			 The crew was dead. He killed a tourist,
			 too. Got his clothes, cash... By now he
			 could be anywhere.

	Clarice looks up. Her eyes are red-rimmed with exhaustion, and
	something close to despair. She reads Ardelia's thought.

						CLARICE
			 No. He won't come after me.

						ARDELIA
			 Why not?

						CLARICE
				(bitterly)
			 It would be rude. And he wouldn't get
			 to ask any more questions...

	Ardelia sits beside her, touches her arm.

						ARDELIA
			 Clarice - you did the best anybody could
			 have for Catherine Martin. You stuck your
			 neck out for her and you got your butt
			 kicked for her and you tried. It's not
			 your fault it ended this way.

						CLARICE
			 The worst part - the thing that's making
			 me crazy - is that Bill is right in front
			 of me. Only I can't see him...
				(touching the case file)
			 Quinn said, everything I need to catch
			 him is right here, in these pages...

						ARDELIA
			 Quinn said a lot of things.

						CLARICE
				(shakes her head)
			 He's here, Ardelia.

	Ardelia stares back at her. SOUND UPCUT - the low throb of a
	washing machine...

										CUT TO:

	INT. LAUNDRY ROOM - ACADEMY DORM - NIGHT (VERY LATE)

	Clarice has spread out the case file across two washing ma-
	chines. Ardelia, cross-legged on a dryer, studies another pile
	of forms. Nearby is their laundry basket, detergent box.

						ARDELIA
				(surprised)
			 Hey, is this Quinn's handwriting?

	She holds up the map, with its location markings for the kid-
	napping and body dump sites. Clarice takes it, looks.

	INSERT - THE MAP -

	with newly inked words in Dr. Quinn's precise, elegant hand.

						DR. QUINN (V.O.)
			 Clarice, doesn't this random scatter-
			 ing of sites seem overdone to you?
			 Doesn't it seem desperately random
			 - like the elaborations of a bad liar?
			 Ta... Gideon Quinn.

	NEW ANGLE - TWO SHOT

	as Clarice looks up at Ardelia, puzzled but excited.

						CLARICE
			 "Desperately random." What does he mean?

						ARDELIA
			 Not random at all, maybe. Like there's
			 some pattern here...?

						CLARICE
			 But there is no pattern. There's no
			 connection at all among these places, or
			 the computers would've nailed it! They're
			 even found in random order.

						ARDELIA
			 Well, except for the one girl.

						CLARICE
				(beat)
			 What girl?

						ARDELIA
			 The one that was weighted down. Where
			 is she...? Fred something.

	They search among the inserts. Clarice finds the graduation photo.

						CLARICE
			 Fredrica Bimmel, from Belvedere, Ohio.
			 The first girl taken, but the third body
			 found... Why?

						ARDELIA
			 'Cause she didn't drift. He weighted
			 her down.

						CLARICE
			 But why? He didn't weight the others.

	Clarice moves, on fire, unable to keep still.

						CLARICE (contd.)
			 The first, what the hell did Quinn
			 say about... "First principles," he said.
			 Simplicity... What does this guy do, he
			 "covets." How do we first start to
			 covet? "We covet what we see - "

	She stops, turns. She grabs the photo of Fredrica from Ardelia,
	stares at it. She looks up, trembling.

						CLARICE
			 "- every day."

						ARDELIA
				(softly)
			 Hot damn, Clarice.

						CLARICE (V.O.)
			 He knew her...!

										CUT TO:

	INT. FBI BUILDING - OFFICE OF THE DIRECTOR - DAY
	Clarice and Campbell are seated in front of Director Burke,
	who's at his desk. Another chair is empty, because Krendler is
	pacing. All four are nearing their boiling points.

						CLARICE (contd.)
			 Maybe he lives in this, this Belvedere,
			 Ohio, too! Maybe he saw her every day,
			 and killed her sort of spontaneously.
			 Maybe he just meant to... give her a
			 7-Up and talk about the choir. But then -

						KRENDLER
			 Starling -

						CLARICE
			 But then he had to cover up, make her
			 seem just like all the rest of them.
			 That's what Quinn was hinting!

						KRENDLER
			 The market in Quinn hints is way down,
			 today, okay? I've got two good men dead
			 in Memphis, and three civilians. I've got -

						CAMPBELL
			 Who the hell's fault is -

						KRENDLER
			 - a U.S. Senator who's half out of her
			 head because her daughter's going to be
			 murdered today! And all because of
			 your mind games with fucking Quinn!

						CAMPBELL
			 If you hadn't interfered, he'd still
			 be in custody in Baltimore!

						BURKE
			 Ray -

						KRENDLER
			 You sent in a green recruit, with a
			 phony goddamn offer -

						CAMPBELL
			 You're just trying to cover your ass
			 for letting him escape!

						BURKE
			 THAT'S ENOUGH! All of you...

	A long silence, as they all struggle to regain composure.
	Campbell, who was at the point of striking Krendler, finally
	retakes his seat. Burke looks sadly at Campbell and Clarice.

						BURKE (contd.)
				(very reluctantly)
			 Starling, I'm afraid I have no choice.
			 You're suspended from the Academy.
				(Campbell starts to interrupt)
			 Not another word!
				(to Clarice)
			 This is pending a reevaluation of your
			 fitness for the service. I promise you'll
			 get a fair hearing.
				(pause)
			 Ray... you're ordered to take compassionate
			 leave. You'll spend the rest of the day
			 briefing the AG's office, then transfer
			 command of the task force, effective by
			 1800 hours.
				(beat)
			 I'm sorry, Ray... Go home. Take care
			 of Bella.

	Clarice and Campbell stare back at him, drained. A long and
	very painful silence. Not even Krendler looks happy.

										CUT TO:

	EXT. SIDEWALK OUTSIDE FBI BUILDING - DAY

	Clarice and Campbell walk out slowly, stand there a moment,
	not knowing what to say, not wanting to face each other.

						CLARICE
			 All his victims are women... His ob-
			 session is women, he lives to hunt
			 women. But not one women is hunting
			 him - except me. I can walk in a
			 woman's room and know three times as
			 much about her as a man would.
				(beat)
			 I have to go to Belvedere.

						CAMPBELL
			 You heard them. I don't have that
			 authority anymore.

						CLARICE
			 You do until six p.m.

	He stares at her sadly. He looks, for the first time, defeated,
	old beyond his years.

						CAMPBELL
			 Ohio is cold ground. Picked over, ten
			 months ago. Our people worked it, so
			 did the locals.

						CLARICE
			 But not from this angle. Not thinking
			 he knew her. You've got to send me!

						CAMPBELL
			 I'm Bureau for 28 years, Starling. I
			 won't disobey orders, not even now.

						CLARICE
			 But I just became a private citizen.
			 I can go anywhere I want to.

						CAMPBELL
			 With ID and a gun...? Impersonating a
			 federal agent is a felony.

						CLARICE
			 He's going to kill her, Mr. Campbell.
			 This morning, or maybe at noon, but
			 today, and Belvedere's our last chance.
			 I'm flying there, right now, unless
			 you stop me. You want my ID? Here -
			 take it...

	He stares at her, a long moment. Catherine's life. Clarice's
	passion, and future. His loyalty to the Bureau. Call it.

						CAMPBELL
				(pulls out his wallet)
			 There's about $300 here... And a hot-
			 line code number. They'll patch you
			 through to me, wherever I am.

	She raises her hand to him. She wants to touch him face, or
	his neck, but can't. Finally she takes his money and card.

						CLARICE
			 Thank you.

	He watches, frightened for both of them, as she backs away,
	smiles, then turns, racing towards the surveillance van.
	SOUND UPCUT - the scratchy recording of Fats Waller SINGING,
	as we...

										CUT TO;

	INT. MR. GUMB'S CELLAR - DAY (DIM LIGHT)

	CLOSE ON the needle of the Victrola, on the spinning record,
	as Mr. Gumb's fingers lift away. MUSIC continues in b.g.

						MR. GUMB (O.S.)
				(calling out)
			 Preeeeecious...!

	CLOSE ON the moth cage, as Mr. Gumb's fingers search through
	the humus, and find a plump new cocoon, lifting it out. The
	door of the cage is left open, and one or two of the adult
	moths flutter out.

						MR. GUMB (contd.,O.S.)
			 Precious, come on Precious! Busybusy
			 day today...

	CLOSE ON a clean towel, beside the sink. The cocoon is gently
	placed in readiness alongside four shiny skinning knives.

						MR. GUMB (contd.,O.S.)
			 Momma's gonna be sooo beautiful!

	CLOSE ON a stainless steel Colt Python, with a six-inch bar-
	rel, as the cylinder is spun, and the hammer gets a practice
	cock. The metallic CLICK is deep and loud. A note of alarm
	has entered Mr. Gumb's voice.

						MR. GUMB (contd., O.S.)
			 You come here this minute, you little
			 scamp!

	LOW ANGLE on Mr. Gumb, wearing the kimono, as he walks through
	his sewing workroom. His back is to us; he is looking anxiously
	under the furniture. He stops, straightens. Genuinely scared.

						MR. GUMB (contd.)
			 Precious...?

	LOW ANGLE - OVER THE PIT OPENING -

	towards Mr. Gumb, as he stops at one of the doorways of the
	oubliette chamber. He stares inside; his face in shadows.

						MR. GUMB (contd.)
			 Sweetheart...?

	From the distant bottom of the pit, we hear Catherine's voice.

						CATHERINE (O.S.)
			 She'd down here you sack of shit.

	Mr. Gumb's fist flies to his mouth, and he sags against the
	doorframe. A little groan escaped him; the dog answers with
	a series of YIPS.

	UPWARD ANGLE, FROM THE PIT BOTTOM

	as Mr. Gumb's dark shape leans cautiously over the edge.

						MR. GUMB
			 Precious, are you all right?

	REVERSE ANGLE ON CATHERINE -

	crouched to one side, clutching the dog to her chest. Seeing
	Mr. Gumb, the dog squirms frantically, BARKING.

						CATHERINE
			 Get me a telephone. Lower it down to
			 me. Do it now, mister! I don't want
			 to have to hurt this little dog.

	UPWARD ANGLE

	on Mr. Gumb, as, with a cry of fury, he whips the Colt from
	inside his kimono. The muzzle gleams as he takes aim.

	CATHERINE

	yanks the dog up, into his line of fire, screaming at him,.

						CATHERINE
			 You shoot motherfucker you better kill
			 me quick or I'll break her fucking
			 neck, I swear to God!

						MR. GUMB (O.S.)
				(wails)
			 Nooooooo!

	Tucking the dog under one arm, she grabs its muzzle, twisting
	the head. The dog WHINES piteously.

						CATHERINE
			 Back off, you son of a bitch! Back off!

	UPWARD ANGLE

	as Mr. Gumb cries out again - a terrible, inarticulate scream
	of rage and anguish. But then he slowly lowers his gun.

	REVERSE ANGLE

	on Catherine, as she maintains her grip.

						CATHERINE (contd.)
			 That's better... Now get me a live
			 telephone. Get a long extension and
			 lower is down here... And you better
			 do it fast, too, 'cause I think her
			 leg's broken. She's in pain, mister,
			 she need a vest.

	MR. GUMB

	stares down at her, a long beat, breathing heavily.

						MR. GUMB
			 You think she's in pain? You don't
			 know what pain is. But you're going
			 to find out...

	And abruptly he vanishes. SOUND of his footsteps, rushing off.

	CATHERINE

	begins shaking, hands and arms twitching uncontrollably. She
	hugs the little dog tight to her chest, buries her face in
	its fur, sobbing...

										DISSOLVE TO:

	EXT. RESIDENTIAL STREET - BELVEDERE, OHIO - DAY

	HIGH ANGLE as a rented sedan pulls up to the curb, stops. After
	a moment Clarice climbs out, a bit stiffly. Double-checking
	this address, she glances up from a folded street map to -

	AN OLD, THREE-STORY WOODEN HOUSE

	in a row of similarly shabby homes, all backing onto a narrow
	river. A path of boards, laid over mud, leads back along this
	house towards the brown water. SOUND of hammering from there.

										CUT TO:

	EXT. BIMMEL HOUSE - BACK YARD - DAY

	An awesome huddle of pigeon coops sprawls by the brackish water.
	The birds' COOING mixes with the HAMMERING. A tall, gaunt man
	in a knit cap is obsessively pounding nails into a new coop.

	CLARICE

	approaches him, and the man lowers his hammer. He has red-
	rimmed eyes of watery blue. His face is deeply seamed.

						CLARICE
			 Mr. Bimmel...?

	He stares back at her, warily.

										CUT TO:

	INT. BIMMEL HOUSE - STAIRCASE - DAY

	HIGH ANGLE - LOOKING DOWN - as Mr. Bimmel leads Clarice up a
	steep flight of steps. The bannister is worn, sags a bit.

						MR. BIMMEL
			 I don't know nothin' new to tell ya.
			 The police been back here so many
			 times already... Fredrica went into
			 Columbus on the bus to see about a
			 job. She left the interview o.k.
			 She never come home.

	Clarice pauses, at the landing, to look at a framed photo: the
	familiar graduation portrait. Others pictures show Fredrica as
	a young girl, toddler, infant - plump and hopeful at each age.

						MR. BIMMEL (contd.)
			 Her room's how she left it. Just shut
			 the door when you're done.

										CUT TO:

	INT. FREDRICA'S BEDROOM - DAY

	CLARICE'S POV - MOVING SLOWLY - as she takes in flowery chintz
	curtains... posters of Madonna and Blondie... a twin bed, with
	worn, stuffed animals on the pillow... . a big sewing machine in
	the corner.

	CLARICE

	turns, absorbing nuances. There is loneliness here, an echo of
	desperation under this steeply pitches ceiling. A shrill MEOW,
	and she looks down...

	A BIG TORTOISESHELL CAT

	is rubbing against her ankles.

	CLARICE

	picks up the cat, scratches behind his ears. She glances up.

	IN A FULL-LENGTH MIRROR -

	she and the cat stares back at their own reflection...

										CUT TO:

	Clarice, sitting at the desk, turns the pages of a high school
	yearbook. The cat is curled on her lap...

										CUT TO:

	Clarice, kneeling by the old Decca record player, flips through
	LPs and singles. The cat has wandered off...

										CUT TO:

	Clarice pulling a string to light up the closet. She is sur-
	prised and intrigued to see an extensive wardrobe, groaning
	from the rod. A shelf above the rod is stacked high with sewing
	supplies, in clear plexiboxes. She flips through the hanging
	clothes, pulls out one dress, on its hanger, for a closer look.

	THE DRESS

	is very big, to fit Fredrica, but beautifully cut. Some of the
	seams still look unfinished. She turns it around, sees a blue
	tissue dressmaker's pattern still pinned to the back.

	FAVORING THE SEWING MACHINE -

	as Clarice turns, looks towards it. She hangs the dress on the
	closet door knob, crosses to sit at the machine. She takes off
	its dust cover. She runs one hand over the cool metal, as a
	taunting memory forms in her mind.

						DR. QUINN (V.O.)
			 Billy wants to change, too, Clarice.
			 But there's the problem of his size,
			 you see...

	She turns, looks again at the unfinished dress. Suddenly she
	straightens, her attention riveted by something...

	CLARICE'S POV -

	On the printed pattern, down at the lower back of the outlined
	dress, are two bold black triangles. We RUSH CLOSER to there
	shapes, before jumping back to -

	CLARICE

	who stares at them, starting to tremble.

						DR. QUINN (V.O.)
			 Even if he were a woman, he'd have
			 to be a big one...

	IN FLASHBACK -

	those missing triangles of skin on the dead girl's back, in
	the funeral home in West Virginia...

	CLOSE ON CLARICE

	as she jumps to her feet, with a fierce joy.

						CLARICE
			 Sewing darts. You bastard.

										CUT TO:

	INT. BIMMEL PARLOR - DOWNSTAIRS - DAY

	Clarice paces, in an exuberant rush, amidst the worn furniture.

						CLARICE
				(into phone)
			 He's making himself a "woman suit," Mr.
			 Campbell - out of real women! And he can
			 sew, this guy, he's really skilled.
			 A dressmaker, or a tailor -

						CAMPBELL (V.O.)
			 Starling -

						CLARICE
			 That's why they're all so big - because
			 he needs a lot of skin! He keeps them alive
			 to starve them awhile - to loosen their
			 skin, so that -

						CAMPBELL (V.O.)
			 Starling, we know who he is! And where
			 he is. We're on our way now.

						CLARICE
				(pause; surprised)
			 Where?

										CUT TO:

	INT. FBI TURBOJET - FLYING - DAY

	Campbell sits at a communications console, with Burroughs, in
	headphones, by his side. This forward section of the cabin is
	crammed with hi-tech equipment, all lit up and WHIRRING. Through
	a window we see clouds, part of the jet's wing.

						CAMPBELL
				(into speaker phone)
			 Calumet City, edge of Chicago. I'll
			 be on the ground in 45 minutes with
			 the Hostage Rescue Team. I'm back in
			 charge, Starling. He's mine.

	INTERCUTTING -

	as Clarice reacts; her happiness for Campbell is tinged with
	disappointment at being so suddenly out of the hunt.

						CLARICE
				(on phone)
			 Sir, that's great news. But how -

						CAMPBELL
			 Johns Hopkins finally came up with a
			 name for us. We fed him into Known
			 Offenders, and he came up cherries.
				(takes a paper from Burroughs)
			 Subject's name is "Jamie Gumb," AKA
			 "John Grant." Quinn's description was
			 accurate, he just lied about the name.

	INSIDE THE JET - MOVING ANGLE -

	from the rear of the cabin forward, as we slowly PASS the
	twelve-man HRT. They're seated in full gear, hardshell armor,
	quietly checking and rechecking their bulging cases of wea-
	pons - silencer automatics, shotguns, stun grenades...

						CAMPBELL (contd., O.S.)
			 This Gumb's a real beauty. Slaughtered
			 both his grandparents when he was twelve,
			 and did nine years in juvenile psychi-
			 atric. Where, Starling, he took vocational
			 rehab, and learned a useful trade...

	INTERCUTTING -

						CLARICE
			 Sewing...

						CAMPBELL
			 Take a bow. Customs had some paper on
			 his alias. They stopped a carton two
			 years ago at LAX - live caterpillars from
			 Surinam. The addressee was "John Grant."
			 Calumet Power & Light's given us two
			 possible residences under that alias.
			 We're hitting one, Chicago SWAT's taking
			 the other.

						CLARICE
				(eagerly)
			 Chicago's only about 400 miles from
			 here. I could be there in -

						CAMPBELL
			 No, Starling, there isn't time. And
			 you've still got crucial work to do in
			 Ohio. We want him for murder, not kid-
			 napping. I'm counting on you to link him
			 to the Bimmel girl, before he's indicted.

	Clarice tries hard to swallow her disappointment.

						CLARICE
			 Yes sir... I'll do my best.

						CAMPBELL
				(pause; gently)
			 Starling - you've earned back your place
			 in the Academy. We never would've found
			 him without you, and nobody's ever going
			 to forget that. Least of all me.

						CLARICE
			 Yes sir. Thank you, sir...

	CAMPBELL

	switches off, feeling bad for her. On the console near him, the
	fax machine starts to CHATTER. He turns, looks.

						BURROUGHS (O.S.)
			 Here he comes, Ray.

	CLOSE ON

	an emerging sheet, as Gumb's face is printed out. We see just
	his hair, then the top of his forehead, before we...

										CUT TO:

	EXT. BIMMEL BACK YARD - DAY

	Clarice walks slowly across the yard, absorbing all this news,
	before suddenly leaping into the air and pumping her fist in
	triumph, with a happy yelp. Then she sees -

	MR. BIMMEL

	staring at her in surprise. He sits by his coops, smoking.

	CLARICE

	somewhat embarrassed, crosses over to him.

						CLARICE
			 Mr. Bimmel... did Fredrica ever mention
			 a man named Jamie Gumb, from Calumet
			 City? Or John Grant?
				(He shakes his head)
			 Did she know any men that sew?

						MR. BIMMEL
			 She sewed for everybody. Stores, ladies,
			 whatever. I don't know about men.

						CLARICE
			 Who was her best friend, Mr. Bimmel?
			 Who'd she hang out with?

										CUT TO:

	EXT. AN ISOLATED RUNWAY - O'HARE AIRPORT - DAY

	The FBI turbojet is parked, its gangway down. Campbell, Bur-
	roughs, and the HRT squad, carrying their bags of weapons,
	CLATTER rapidly down the metal steps...

						STACY (V.O.)
			 Freaked me out. Get your skin peeled
			 off, is that a bummer...?

										CUT TO:

	INT. SAVING & LOAN - BELVEDERE - DAY

	STACY HUBKA - short, perky, early 20's - sits nervously at
	her desk, talking to Clarice, who jots in her notebook. In
	the b.g. beyond them, bank tellers, lines of waiting cus-
	tomers, MUZAK.

						STACY (contd.)
			 They said she was just rags, like
			 somebody -

						CLARICE
			 Stacy, did Fredrica ever mention a man
			 named Jamie Gumb? Or John Grant?
				(Stacy shakes her head)
			 Do you think she could've had a friend
			 you didn't know about?

						STACY
			 No way. She had a guy, I'da known,
			 believe me. Sewing was her life, she
			 was really great at it. Poor Freddie.

						CLARICE
			 Did you ever work with her?

						STACY
			 Oh sure, me'n Pam Malavesi used to help
			 her do alterations for old Mrs. Lippman.
			 Lots of people worked for her, she had
			 the business from all these retail stores?
			 But she was like, totally old, it was more'n
			 she could handle.

						CLARICE
			 Where does Mrs. Lippman live? I'd like
			 to talk to her.

						STACY
			 She died. She went to Florida to retire,
			 like two years ago? She dies down there.

	Clarice reacts, disappointed at the ending of this trail.

						STACY (contd.)
				 (beat; shyly)
			 Is that a pretty good job, FBI agent?

						CLARICE
			 I think so.

						STACY
			 You get to travel around and stuff?
			 I mean, better places then this?

						CLARICE
			 Sometimes you do.

						STACY
			 Freddie was so happy for me when I got
			 this job. This - toaster giveaways, and
			 Barry Manilow on the speakers all day -
			 she thought this was really hot shit.
			 What did she know, big dummy...

	Suddenly she's fighting tears. Clarice reaches to hug her.

										CUT TO:

	EXT. RESIDENTIAL STREET - CALUMET CITY, ILLINOIS - DAY

	WIDE ANGLE on what appears to be, at first, a calm, ordinary
	neighborhood of working class two- and three-story houses. But
	the street is strangely quiet, deserted. After a few moments,
	we become aware of movement - armed, dark-clad figures creep-
	ing swiftly and in silence from shrubs to garage corners, from
	parked cars to porches, appearing and then disappearing...

										CUT TO:

	INT. MR. GUMB'S CELLAR - DAY (DIM LIGHT)

	CLOSE ON Mr. Gumb, as he settles a big pair of infra-red night-
	vision goggles over his eyes. Moths flutter past his face. His
	mouth is set in a grim line...

										CUT TO:

	EXT. STREET IN CALUMET CITY - FRONT YARD - DAY

	An HRT cop, prone beneath a hedge, is joined by a 2nd HRT Cop,
	who throws himself to the grass beside him. They both take aim
	with their scoped rifles at -

	TELEPHOTO ANGLE (WITH RIFLE CROSSHAIRS) -

	The front door of a big, nearby, split-level house...

										CUT TO:

	INT. MR. GUMB'S CELLAR - DAY (DIM LIGHT)

	CLOSE ON a fuse box, as Mr. Gumb reaches in, flips a switch.
	The lights go out. SOUND of a second switch, and the cellar
	is bathed in a green glow...

										CUT TO:

	EXT. STREET IN CALUMET CITY - NEIGHBOR'S HOUSE - DAY

	A little boy, riding his tricycle in his driveway, is suddenly
	startled to find himself staring into the grim face of -

	A MEMBER OF THE HRT -

	crouched by his garage, armed to the teeth. As the little boy
	starts to cry, the cop pulls him into the shadows, covering
	his mouth.

										CUT TO:

	INT. MR. GUMB'S CELLAR - DAY (GREEN LIGHT)

	Mr. Gumb, in his kimono and goggles, creeps silently through
	his workrooms - knees bent, painted toes places ever so deli-
	cately, the Colt held aloft - as more moths flutter past him
	in the eerie light...

										CUT TO:
	EXT. STREET IN CALUMENT CITY - DAY

	A florist's van turns the corner, comes slowly down the street
	and stops at the curb in front of the split-level. The driver,
	in a gray deliveryman's uniform and cap, climbs out of the cab,
	walks briskly to the panel door, on the street side of the van,
	and slides it open. He leans in, comes out with a long, thin
	red-ribboned floral box, starts calmly towards the house...

										CUT TO:

	INT. MR. GUMB'S CELLAR - DAY (GREEN LIGHT)

	MR. GUMB'S POV - MOVING ANGLE - on the top of the oubliette,
	a glowing green circle in the dark, as it draws closer and
	closer... and then Catherine comes INTO VIEW, at the bottom
	of the pit. She is crouched, exhausted, staring straight up
	at him - but she can't see him in this infra-red darkness.
	Precious is curled into her stomach, asleep. The futon is up
	to Catherine's waist, but there's a clear shot at her head
	and neck.

	MR. GUMB -

	looking down at her, smiles...

										CUT TO:

	EXT. STREET IN CALUMET CITY - SUSPECT'S HOUSE - DAY

	MOVING ANGLE on the "deliveryman," seen from behind, as he
	mounts three steps to the split-level's front porch. Tucked
	into the small of his back if a 9 mm. automatic.

	CAMPBELL AND BURROUGHS

	have slipped out of the van, and are crouched behind it now,
	with drawn guns, watching tensely as -

	THE "DELIVERYMAN"

	settles the floral box in the crook of his left arm, reaches
	out with his right hand towards the buzzer...

										CUT TO:

	INT. MR. GUMB'S CELLAR - DAY (GREEN LIGHT)

	Slowly, savoring the moment, Mr. Gumb aims the big Colt, which
	is already cocked, using both hands... He is just about to
	squeeze the trigger, when we hear his DOOR BUZZER, surprisingly
	loud and close by. He turns, startled, and sees -

	A DUSTY BLACK METAL BOX -

	the extension buzzer, mounted high on the wall, which is making
	the hideous, grating JANGLE. It finally stops, but not before
	waking Precious, who starts frantically BARKING, O.S., as -

	MR. GUMB

	raises his gun again, spinning back towards -

	HIS POV - THE PIT BOTTOM -

	where Catherine, hearing but still not seeing him, quickly
	yanks the futon over both herself and the dog. Instantly the
	two of them become one squirming, indistinguishable mass.

	MR. GUMB

	bites his lip, his aim wavering, as he can't decide where to
	safely place his shot. The maddening BUZZER sounds again, even
	more insistently, and he cries out with frustration and fury.
	But as the BUZZER continues, he reluctantly uncocks his gun,
	looking up angrily towards his front door...

										CUT TO:

	INT. MR. GUMB'S FRONT DOOR - DAY

	The door opens, on a chain, and Clarice peers in, smiling.

						CLARICE
			 Good afternoon... I wonder if you
			 could help me. I'm looking for Mrs.
			 Lippman's family?

	Mr. Gumb frowns out at Clarice. For the first time ever, we
	get a well-lit view of his bland, pale-eyed moon of a face.

						MR. GUMB
			 They don't live here anymore.

										CUT TO:

	EXT. FRONT DOOR OF SUSPECT'S HOUSE - CALUMET CITY

	The "deliveryman" yanks a 12 lb. sledgehammer from the floral
	box, swings it with all his might against the door knob, blow-
	ing it through as -

	MOVING ANGLE

	Campbell and Burroughs race towards the door, guns up...

										CUT TO:

	EXT. MR. GUMB'S FRONT DOOR - DAY

	Mr. Gumb starts to close the door, only to have Clarice push
	back against it, politely but firmly. She holds up her ID.

						CLARICE
			 Excuse me, but I really do need to
			 talk to you. This was Mrs. Lippman's
			 house. Did you know her?

						MR. GUMB
				(beat)
			 Just briefly. What's the problem, Officer?

										CUT TO:

	INT. SUSPECT'S HOUSE - CALUMENT CITY - DAY

	A bedroom window disintegrates as a flash grenade is shot
	through it, EXPLODING on the floor. An instant later, a
	black-clad HRT cop dives through the shattered glass, rolls
	across the floor, comes up on one knee swivelling his sawed-
	off shotgun...

										CUT TO:

	EXT. MR. GUMB'S FRONT DOOR - DAY

	Clarice and Mr. Gumb, still eyeing each other through the
	door crack...

						CLARICE
			 I'm investigating the death of Fredrica
			 Bimmel. Who are you, please?

						MR. GUMB
			 Jack Gordon.

						CLARICE
			 Mr. Gordon, did you know Fredrica when she
			 worked for Mrs. Lippman?

						MR. GUMB
			 No. Wait... Was she a great, far person?
			 I may have seen her, I'm not sure...

										CUT TO:

	INT. SUSPECT'S HOUSE - CALUMET CITY - DAY

	MOVING ANGLE as Burroughs moves quickly down a hallway and
	enters the living room, where Campbell is standing, with his
	gun held down by his side, surrounded by several other cops.
	Burroughs shakes his head: Nothing here...

										CUT TO:

	INT. MR. GUMB'S FRONT HALLWAY - DAY

	Mr. Gumb glances briefly over his shoulder, towards his
	kitchen, then turns back to Clarice with a smile.

						MR. GUMB
			 Mrs. Lippman had a son, maybe he could
			 help you. I have his card somewhere.
			 Do you mind stepping inside, while I
			 looks for it?

						CLARICE
			 Thanks.

	ANGLE FAVORING THE COLT PYTHON

	which rests on a counter, just inside the open kitchen doorway.
	THROUGH this doorway, we watch as Mr. Gumb, at the end of his
	front hall, slips the chain. Clarice enters, closing the door
	behind her.

										CUT TO:

	EXT. FRONT YARD OF SUSPECT'S HOUSE - CALUMET CITY - DAY

	MOVING ANGLE - towards the front door, as frustrated HRT cops
	file out of the empty house, rifles slung across their shoulders.

	WE PICK OUT CAMPBELL -

	walking across the grass towards the van, when all at once he
	stops in his tracks, shaken by a sudden flash of intuition.

	CAMERA RUSHES VERY CLOSE

	on his stricken face...

						CAMPBELL
			 Clarice.

										CUT TO:

	INT. MR. GUMB'S PARLOR - DAY

	Clarice, pulling her notebook from her shoulder bag, glances
	around the musty-looking room.

						MR. GUMB (O.S.)
			 That horrible business, I shiver
			 every time I think about it...

	Overstuffed furniture, porcelain figurines. One archway onto
	the front hall, another onto a dining alcove, and through
	there, the kitchen. Mr. Gumb is crossing to a rolling desk,
	raising the top. He bends over, begins poking through cubby
	holes. His tone is casual, neutral.

						MR. GUMB (contd.)
			 Are they close to catching somebody,
			 so you think?

						CLARICE
			 I think we may be, yes.

	Mr. Gumb stiffens, almost imperceptibly. His back is to her,
	as he continues opening drawers, rustling papers.

						CLARICE (contd.)
			 Mr. Gordon, did you take over this place
			 after Mrs. Lippman died?

						MR. GUMB
			 Yes. I bought the house from her, two
			 years ago.

						CLARICE
			 Did she leave any records here? Tax or
			 business records? Maybe a list of em-
			 ployees?

	CLOSE ON MR. GUMB'S BACK

	as he continues his rummaging.

						MR. GUMB
			 No, nothing at all. Has the FBI learned
			 something? Because the police here don't
			 seem to have the first clue...

	Out of the folds of his kimono crawls a Death's-head Moth. It
	creeps slowly to the center of his back, raising its wings.

						MR. GUMB (contd.)
			 Do you have his description yet, or
			 some fingerprints...?

	CLARICE -

	unaware, is still glancing around the room. For several agoni-
	zing moments, we think she won't see the moth - but then she
	turns, does see it, and her eyes freeze. A beat of pure fear.
	A tremendous struggle to keep her voice calm.

						CLARICE
			 No... no, we don't.

	Very carefully, she drops her notebook back into her bag, lowers
	the bag to the floor. With her fingertips she brushes back the
	edge of her blazer, loosening its drape.

	MR. GUMB

	turns back towards her cheerfully, holding out a business card.

						MR. GUMB
			 Ahhh. Here's that number.

	CLARICE

	keeps her distance. They are about ten feet apart.

						CLARICE
			 Good, thank you. Mr. Gordon, do you
			 have a phone I can use?

	MR. GUMB

	is about to reply when the moth suddenly flies up from behind
	him, flutters past his face. He turns, looking at it. He looks
	back at Clarice, his mouth still open.

	HER EYES

	are unmoving, locked on his.

	HIS EYES

	stare back at her, widen. And they know each other.

						MR. GUMB
				(softly)
			 In the kitchen. I'll show you.

	CLARICE

	whips her gun out, gripping it in both shaking hands.

						CLARICE
			 Freeze!

	MR. GUMB

	slowly tilts his head to one side, smiles at her.

	CLARICE

	tries to force more authority into her voice.

						CLARICE
			 Okay... Okay, Mr. Gumb, you're under
			 arrest. Down on the floor, hands
			 and legs spread, move it.

	MR. GUMB

	turns, then all at once, in two quick steps, he is gone, dis-
	appearing into his dining alcove, then kitchen.

	CLARICE

	hesitates, just a split second, to shoot him in the back -
	and then it's too late.

						CLARICE
			 Shit!

										CUT TO:

	INT. MR. GUMB'S KITCHEN - DAY

	Clarice hurries inside, moving low, swivelling her gun.

	HER POV - MOVING -

	The kitchen is empty. To one side, a door still shuddering on
	its hinges...

	CLARICE

	rushes to this - pauses - then elbows the door aside, aiming
	her gun down -

	AN EMPTY STAIRWELL -

	brightly lit, leading to the cellar. Two doors facing the
	bottom, both open. No sign of Mr. Gumb.

	CLARICE

	hates this, hates this, which door, it's a trap, what to do:
	she is very scared, but suddenly hears -

	ANGLE OF THE STAIRWELL AGAIN -

	the distant SCREAM of Catherine Martin, somewhere down there
	in that killing maze.

	CLARICE

	rushes through the doorway, and down the stairs.

	BEHIND HER, ON THE KITCHEN COUNTER

	there's an empty space; the Colt Python is gone.

										CUT TO:

	INT. MR. GUMB'S CELLAR - DAY

	MOVING ANGLE - WITH CLARICE - hurrying down the steps. More
	SCREAMS; they seem to be coming from the left door. Clarice
	goes that way, entering a brick-walled passage - pipes over-
	head, naked bulbs. The lighting, though dim, is incandescent;
	Mr. Gumb has switched off his infra-red system. Clarice comes
	to a T-shaped intersection, stops. Another SCREAM, again to
	her left, and the BARKING of a dog...

	CLARICE

	follows her gun around the corner, looking right.

	EMPTY PASSAGEWAY -

	but doors opening off it - he could be lurking behind any of
	them. She looks left... sees an opening onto some kind of
	chamber. The noises are LOUDER, coming from there.

	CLARICE

	moves cautiously towards this chamber...

										CUT TO:

	INT. OUBLIETTE CHAMBER - DAY (DIMLY LIT)

	Clarice moves in, hugging the wall, gun swivelling...

	HER POV - MOVING -

	the open top of the pit... beyond it, the other two doorways,
	opening onto this room - Jesus, he could come through either one
	of them, or come up behind her... She moves to the pit, looks
	down, very briefly, sees Catherine SCREAMING, hysterical, and a
	little white dog BARKING...

	CLARICE

	kneels, staring up from one door to another, she can't cover them
	all, she's totally exposed - and what's a dog doing there?

						CLARICE
			 FBI, Catherine, you're safe.

						CATHERINE
			 Safe, SHIT, he's got a gun! Getmeout.
			 GETMEOUT!

						CLARICE
			 You're all right! Where is he?

						CATHERINE
			 GETMEOUT!

						CLARICE
			 I'll get you out! Just be quiet so I can
			 hear. Shut that dog up.
				(still swivelling)
			 Is there a ladder? Is there a rope?

						CATHERINE
			 IDON'TKNOW! GETMEOUT!!

						CLARICE
			 Catherine. Listen to me. I have to find
			 a rope. I have to leave this room, just
			 for a minute, but -

						CATHERINE
			 NOOOOO! You fucking bitch don't you LEAVE
			 ME down here, DON'TYOU-

						CLARICE
			 Shut UP!
				(then, louder)
			 THE OTHER OFFICERS WILL BE HERE ANY MINUTE!
			 YOU'RE PERFECTLY SAFE NOW!

	Ignoring Catherine, whose shouts turn to sobs, she backs away,
	turns, picks one of the other doorways, moves into it quickly.

										CUT TO:

	INT. NEW PASSAGEWAY - DAY (DIMLY LIT)

	CLARICE'S POV - MOVING - down this passageway, towards a new
	room... pausing at the doorway, straining to hear... no sound
	except Catherine's CRYING, not in the b.g., and Clarice's own
	RAPID BREATHING. Then she crouches - LOWER ANGLE - bursts for-
	ward, through the doorframe, sidestepping...

										CUT TO:

	INT. WORKROOM - DAY (DIMLY LIT)

	Clarice weaves back and forth, half-crouched, gun out, back to
	the wall. Her face glistens with sweat, as she takes in...

	HER POV - MOVING NERVOUSLY -

	Mr. Gumb's sewing machine... his swivel chair... the old
	Victrola... Big moths are crashing into the light bulbs, over-
	head; they're everywhere. Suddenly, from just behind her, a
	CLICK and a HUM, and -

	CLARICE

	spins, almost shoots, before seeing -

	A SMALL REFRIGERATOR -

	with its thermostat just switching ON.

	CLARICE

	gasps for breath, fighting for calm. She turns again, slashing
	her free hand at the moths, moving quickly on...

										CUT TO:

	INT. SKINNING ROOM - DAY (DIMLY LIT)

	Clarice moves past the mannequins, all of them naked now...
	then quickly past the huge Chinese armoire, ready to shoot into
	it. Its doors yawn open; it is empty except for several padded
	hangers... She moves on, past the big sink, with its DRIPPING
	faucet... the counter, with its gleaming knives... the rows of
	chemical jars. At the end of this room is

	A CLOSED DOOR

	Clarice starts to open it, then hesitates. Looking around, she
	seizes a wooden chair, wedges it under the door know, sealing
	off this section of the cellar. With her back thus defended, she
	turns, softly retracing her steps.

										CUT TO:

	INT. WORKROOM - DAY (DIMLY LIT)

	Passing again through the workroom, Clarice pauses, seeing a
	half-curtained door, to one side, that she had previously
	skirted. She crosses to the door, listens and hears no sound
	inside, takes a deep breath and reaches for the knob. She
	twists it, and, as it turns, shoves hard and follows her gun
	inside, all in one quick move...

										CUT TO:

	INT. BATHROOM - DAY (BRIGHTLY LIT)

	An old-fashioned bathroom: tiled floor, sink, toilet - and a
	big, free-standing tub. An opaque shower curtain, suspended
	from an oval ring, hides whatever might be inside.

	CLARICE -

	centers her gun on the curtain, at chest height, and yanks it
	aside with her left hand. No one standing there. Something
	lower down catches her eye. She leans in, stares more closely,
	not understanding, at first, that she's seeing -

	A FEMALE HAND AND WRIST 

	sticking up from the tub, which is filled with hard red-purple
	plaster. The hand is dark and shrivelled, with pink nail polish
	and a dainty wristwatch. As -

	CLARICE
	is reacting with horror to this sight, the lights go out, to be
	replaced, a split-second later, by the eerie green glow of
	Mr. Gumb's infra-red system. Clarice cries out, turns blindly,
	reaching for the door, can't find it, free hand clawing desper-
	ately into what is, for her, utter darkness. SOUND of Catherine
	KEENING again, in the far distance. Clarice stumbles, goes to
	her knees, rights herself, finally clutches the door frame...

										CUT TO:

	INT. MR. GUMB'S WORKROOM - DAY (GREEN LIGHT)

	Clarice emerges from the bathroom in a half-crouch, arms out,
	both hands on the gun, extended just below the level of her
	unseeing eyes. She stops, listens. In her raw-nerved darkness,
	every SOUND is unnaturally magnified - the HUM of the refridg-
	erator... the TRICKLE of water... her own terrified BREATHING,
	and Catherine's faraway, echoing SOBS... Moths smack against her
	face and arms. She eases forward, then stops again, listens...
	She eases forward again, following her gun, and creeps directly
	in front of, and then past -

	MR. GUMB

	who has flattened himself against a wall, arms spread like a
	high priest, Colt in one hand. He wears his goggles and kimono,
	and under that - draping down over his naked arms, like some
	hideous mantle - his terrifying, half-completed suit of human
	skins. This is an exquisite moment for him - a ritual of supreme
	exhaltation. He smiles at Clarice as, completely unaware, she
	moves beyond him, exposing her back. Very slowly and quietly he
	steps out behind her, taking his gun in both hands, aiming...

	CLOSE ON

	the Colt Python as - in SLOW MOTION - his thumbs cock the ham-
	mer, the SOUND registering as a LOUD METALLIC CLICK, and -

	CLARICE

	spins, still in SLOW MOTION, flame already leaping from her
	gun muzzle, as we see -

	THE TWO FIGURES

	almost at point-black range, guns ROARING hugely, one FLASH from
	Mr. Gumb, and onetwothreefour FLASHES from Clarice, overlapping
	his, and then, as the ECHOES crash deafeningly -

	CLOSE ON CLARICE - LOW ANGLE -

	with NORMAL SPEED RESTORED, as the side of her face hits the
	floor, and she is gasping, stunned by the noise and flames;
	there is blood on her check, and an ugly powder burn, but she
	ignores them, twisting to yank her speedloader from her jacket
	pocket, locking it blindly onto her gun's cylinder, reloading,
	right in front of her face, then rolling onto her stomach,
	aiming her gun upward again, blinking her dazzled eyes, strain-
	ing to locate him in the darkness... Where is he, where...?
	Then, as the ECHOES finally fade, she hears something else -
	a tortured, sucking, WHISTLE from perhaps eight feet away...

	MOVING ANGLE - WITH CLARICE

	as she crawls forward, on her elbows, following her gun, until
	it bumps against Mr. Gumb's shoulder. He is lying on his back,
	chest a bloody mess. She slides her muzzle against his head,
	hard, but he doesn't move; another shot isn't needed. He stares
	upwards, through his goggles, bloody lips working. He tries
	to speak, but cannot. One hand reaches slowly upwards, the
	fingers twitching, as if to seize something, overhead... Then
	a final, ghastly groan, his hand drops, he is head. Clarice
	feels for a pulse at his neck, making sure. Then, and only
	then, does she permit herself to roll over, collapsing onto
	her back beside him.

	OVERHEAD ANGLE -

	down at the two faces - intimately close together, like lovers
	on their pillow. Then, as we PULL SLOWLY AWAY, we see that her
	staring eyes, and his dead gaze, are both locked onto -

	A DEATH'S-HEAD MOTH -

	perched on an infra-red bulb, overhead, its wings pumping slowly.
	SOUND UPCUT - wailing SIRENS, many excited VOICES, as we...

										DISSOLVE TO:

	EXT. MR. GUMB'S HOUSE - DUSK

	The front porch of the tall Victorian house is bathed in a glare
	of TV lights, police and ambulance flashers. Cars and vans and
	even a firetruck choke the street; cops, reporters, EMS workers
	and curious civilians swarm around the ineffective barricades.
	The BUZZ of their voices goes even higher as

	CLARICE -

	dazed, her face bandaged - comes out of the house, walking
	protectively beside Catherine, who is wheeled on a gurney.
	They are followed out by uniformed cops, then two firemen
	with an extension ladder. Catherine, blinking in confusion,
	is still clutching the little dog, and refuses to give her up
	even as she's trundled into an ambulance. Clarice sways with
	exhaustion; everyone seems to be shouting at her at once,
	pulling her sleeve. She tries to fight free of them, desper-
	ate for a familiar face.

	AN OHIO HIGHWAY PATROL CAR

	pulls up, stops, and Campbell climbs out of the back seat. He
	makes his way anxiously through the press of bodies, stopping
	when he sees Clarice.

	THEY LOOK AT ONE ANOTHER

	for a long moment, Campbell choked with pride for her, with
	sorrow for her ordeal, with love, but unable to find any words.
	And then he does.

						CAMPBELL
			 Starling... your father sees you.

	And then all at once she is sobbing, her knees giving way, but
	he is there to catch her, he is hugging her fiercely. HOLD ON
	them for a long beat.

						DIRECTOR BURKE (V.O.)
				(over loudspeaker)
			 Congratulations! You are now officers
			 of the Federal Bureau of Investigation...

										DISSOLVE TO:

	EXT. GROUNDS OF THE FBI ACADEMY - WEEKS LATER - DAY

	The forty members of Clarice's class, resplendent in their
	best dark suits and dresses, rise, cheering themselves, then
	turn happily to wave to their audience, as APPLAUSE mounts.
	Beyond them, on a gaily tented platform, the Director stands
	behind his podium.

	CLARICE AND ARDELIA

	look at one another solemnly. Ardelia holds up both fists, in
	a power shake, and Clarice taps them with her own. She is
	radiantly beautiful in a navy dress and pearls, the thin scar
	on her cheek almost healed. Ardelia turns, waving towards the
	crowd, the Clarice's thoughts are elsewhere. She turns, search-
	ing among the dignitaries on the platform, till she locates

	CAMPBELL

	who smiles back at her with quiet pride, and offers a little
	salute.

	CLARICE

	grins - more happy than we've ever seen her - then turns to
	wave towards the crowd with the others.

	MOVING ANGLE

	over the admiring sea of spectators, several hundred of them,
	still rising from their folding chairs, APPLAUDING in celebra-
	tion of these special young people, this perfect, sunlit day.
	SOUND UPCUT - rock music, laughter - as we...

										DISSOLVE TO:

	INT. ACADEMY DORM - REC ROOM - THAT NIGHT

	A LOUD party is underway - food, beer, dancing - as the new
	grads celebrate ferociously. Ardelia weaves her way through the
	crowded room, reaches Clarice, who is flanked by her special
	guests - Pilcher and Roden, the two ardent scientists. Ardelia
	has to shout at Clarice over the din.

						ARDELIA
			 Agent Starling! Telephone!

						CLARICE
				(surprised)
			 Agent Mapp! Thank you!

	She nods to Pilcher, leaves them. Roden, who is quite happily
	drunk, grabs the startled Ardelia around the waist.

						RODEN
			 Hel-lo, gorgeous! Let's get down.

	Ardelia looks at Pilcher, confused.

						PILCHER
			 Just ignore him. He's not a Ph.D.

										CUT TO:

	INT. DORM HALLWAY - NIGHT

	Clarice picks up the dangling pay phone, speaks happily.

						CLARICE
			 Starling.

						DR. QUINN (V.O.)
			 Well, Clarice, have the lambs stopped
			 screaming...?

	She freezes, stunned by the familiar voice. Then she turns,
	waving frantically towards

	ARDELIA

	who is just inside the rec room door, at the end of the hall,
	lost in conversation with Pilcher and Roden. Ardelia glances
	at her briefly but misunderstands, waves cheerfully back.

						DR. QUINN (contd., V.O.)
			 Don't bother with a trace, I won't be
			 on long enough.

	CLARICE

	turns back, gripping the phone more tightly.

						CLARICE
			 Where are you, Dr. Quinn?

										CUT TO:

	EXT. A CLEAR NIGHT SKY

	Very beautiful, glittering with countless stars.

						DR. QUINN (O.S.)
			 Where I have a view, Clarice...

	MOVING DOWN

	We see a rolling lawn, a curving bay. Boats ride at anchor,
	lights shimmering...

						DR. QUINN (contd., O.S.)
			 Orion is looking splendid tonight, and
			 Arcturus, the Herdsman, with his flock...

	DR. QUINN

	smiles into his mobile phone. He is stretched out on a lounger,
	on a tiled patio, languidly paring an orange with a penknife. His
	appearance is quite altered - a beard, glasses, lighter hair. He's
	has some cosmetic surgery, as well.

						DR. QUINN (contd.)
				(into phone)
			 Your lambs are still for now, Clarice,
			 but not forever... You'll have to earn
			 it again and again, this blessed silence.
			 Because it's the plight that drives you,
			 and the plight will never end.

						CLARICE (V.O.)
			 Dr. Quinn -

						DR. QUINN
			 I have no plans to call on you, Clarice,
			 the world being more interesting with
			 you in it. Be sure you extend me the
			 same courtesy.

						CLARICE (V.O.)
			 You know I can't make that promise.

						DR. QUINN
			 Goodbye, Clarice...
				(and then, softly)
			 You looked - so very lovely today, in
			 your blue suit.

										CUT TO:

	INT. DORM HALLWAY - NIGHT

	As Clarice reacts, the fill weight of his words sinking in.

						CLARICE
			 Dr. Quinn... Dr. Quinn...!

	But only a DIAL TONE comes from the phone. She is still staring
	at her receiver, in shock, as we -

										CUT BACK TO:

	EXT. THE MOONLIT PATIO

	Dr. Quinn sighs, sets his phone down, then rises. Popping an
	orange section into his mouth, he turns towards the brightly
	lit house. Stepping delicately over the sprawled body of a uni-
	formed security guard, he walks in through open french doors.

										CUT TO:

	INT. A BOOKLINED STUDY

	In a swivel chair, amidst the wreckage of his papers and books,
	is the writhing figure of Dr. Herbert Prentiss. The extreme
	intricacy of his bindings recalls Dr. Quinn's own former re-
	straints. His screams are muffled by the tape over his mouth;
	he stares at Dr. Quinn like a rabbit trapped in headlights.

	DR. QUINN

	considers him for a genial moment, then raises the little pen-
	knife. His eyes are twinkling.

						DR. QUINN
			 Well, Dr. Prentiss. Shall we begin?
						 





THE END





Main PageQuentin TarantinoMartin ScorseseJohn WooRobert Rodriguez
		Voting BoothMessage BoardComing SoonMovie SoundsMailing Lists
		E-mail The Webmaster