The original Screenplay by Ted Tally
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.