فصل 28

CHAPTER 28

Jack Crawford declined Dr. Danielson’s coffee, but took the cup to mix himself an Alka-Seltzer at the stainless-steel sink behind the nursing station. Everything was stainless steel, the cup dispenser, the counter, the waste bin, the rims of Dr. Danielson’s spectacles. The bright metal suggested the wink of instruments and gave Crawford a distinct twinge in the area of his inguinal ring.

He and the doctor were alone in the little galley.

“Not without a court order, you don’t,” Dr. Danielson said again. He was brusque this time, to counter the hospitality he’d shown with the coffee.

Danielson was head of the Gender Identity Clinic at Johns Hopkins and he had agreed to meet Crawford at first light, long before morning rounds. “You’ll have to show me a separate court order for each specific case and we’ll fight every one. What did Columbus and Minnesota tell you—same thing, am I right?” “The Justice Department’s asking them right now. We have to do this fast, Doctor. If the girl’s not dead already, he’ll kill her soon—tonight or tomorrow. Then he’ll pick the next one,” Crawford said.

“To even mention Buffalo Bill in the same breath with the problems we treat here is ignorant and unfair and dangerous, Mr. Crawford. It makes my hair stand on end. It’s taken years—we’re not through yet—showing the public that transsexuals aren’t crazy, they aren’t perverts, they aren’t queers, whatever that is—” “I agree with you—”

“Hold on. The incidence of violence among transsexuals is a lot lower than in the general population. These are decent people with a real problem—a famously intransigent problem. They deserve help and we can give it. I’m not having a witch hunt here. We’ve never violated a patient’s confidence, and we never will. Better start from there, Mr. Crawford.” For months now in his private life, Crawford had been cultivating his wife’s doctors and nurses, trying to weasel every minute advantage for her. He was pretty sick of doctors. But this was not his private life. This was Baltimore and it was business. Be nice now.

“Then I haven’t made myself clear, Doctor. My fault—it’s early, I’m not a morning person. The whole idea is, the man we want is not your patient. It would be someone you refused because you recognized that he was not a transsexual. We’re not flying blind here—I’ll show you some specific ways he’d deviate from typical transsexual patterns in your personality inventories. Here’s a short list of things your staff could look for among your rejects.” Dr. Danielson rubbed the side of his nose with his finger as he read. He handed the paper back. “That’s original, Mr. Crawford. In fact it’s extremely bizarre, and that’s a word I don’t use very often. May I ask who provided you with that piece of … conjecture?” I don’t think you’d like to know that, Dr. Danielson. “The Behavioral Science staff,” Crawford said, “in consultation with Dr. Alan Bloom at the University of Chicago.” “Alan Bloom endorsed that?”

“And we don’t just depend on the tests. There’s another way Buffalo Bill’s likely to stand out in your records—he probably tried to conceal a record of criminal violence, or falsified other background material. Show me the ones you turned away, Doctor.” Danielson was shaking his head the whole time. “Examination and interview materials are confidential.”

“Dr. Danielson, how can fraud and misrepresentation be confidential? How does a criminal’s real name and real background fall under the doctor-patient relationship when he never told it to you, you had to find it out for yourself? I know how thorough Johns Hopkins is. You’ve got cases like that, I’m sure of it. Surgical addicts apply every place surgery’s performed. It’s no reflection on the institution or the legitimate patients. You think nuts don’t apply to the FBI? We get ‘em all the time. A man in a Moe hairpiece applied in St. Louis last week. He had a bazooka, two rockets, and a bearskin shako in his golf bag.” “Did you hire him?”

“Help me, Dr. Danielson. Time’s eating us up. While we’re standing here, Buffalo Bill may be turning Catherine Martin into one of these.” Crawford put a photograph on the gleaming counter.

“Don’t even do that,” Dr. Danielson said. “That’s a childish, bullying thing to do. I was a battle surgeon, Mr. Crawford. Put your picture back in your pocket.” “Sure, a surgeon can stand to look at a mutilated body,” Crawford said, crumpling his cup and stepping on the pedal of the covered wastebasket. “But I don’t think a doctor can stand to see a life wasted.” He dropped in his cup and the lid of the wastebasket came down with a satisfactory clang. “Here’s my best offer: I won’t ask you for patient information, only application information selected by you, with reference to these guidelines. You and your psychiatric review board can handle your rejected applications a lot faster than I can. If we find Buffalo Bill through your information, I’ll suppress that fact. I’ll find another way we could have done it and we’ll walk through it that way, for the record.” “Could Johns Hopkins be a protected witness, Mr. Crawford? Could we have a new identity? Move us to Bob Jones College, say? I doubt very much that the FBI or any other government agency can keep a secret very long.” “You’d be surprised.”

“I doubt it. Trying to crawl out from under an inept bureaucratic lie would be more damaging than just telling the truth. Please don’t ever protect us that way, thank you very much.” “Thank you, Dr. Danielson, for your humorous remarks. They’re very helpful to me—I’ll show you how in a minute. You like the truth—try this. He kidnaps young women and rips their skins off. He puts on these skins and capers around in them. We don’t want him to do that anymore. If you don’t help me as fast as you can, this is what I’ll do to you: this morning the Justice Department will ask publicly for a court order, saying you’ve refused to help. We’ll ask twice a day, in plenty of time for the A.M. and P.M. news cycles. Every news release from Justice about this case will say how we’re coming along with Dr. Danielson at Johns Hopkins, trying to get him to pitch in. Every time there’s news in the Buffalo Bill case—when Catherine Martin floats, when the next one floats, and the next one floats—we’ll issue a news release right away about how we’re doing with Dr. Danielson at Johns Hopkins, complete with your humorous comments about Bob Jones College. One more thing, Doctor. You know, Health and Human Services is right here in Baltimore. My thoughts are running to the Office of Eligibility Policy, and I expect your thoughts got there first, didn’t they? What if Senator Martin, sometime after her daughter’s funeral, asked the fellows over at Eligibility this question: Should the sex-change operations you perform here be considered cosmetic surgery? Maybe they’ll scratch their heads and decide, ‘Why, you know, Senator Martin’s right. Yes. We think it’s cosmetic surgery,’ then this program won’t qualify for federal assistance any more than a nose-job clinic.” “That’s insulting.”

“No, it’s just the truth.”

“You don’t frighten me, you don’t intimidate me—”

“Good. I don’t want to do either one, Doctor. I just want you to know I’m serious. Help me, Doctor. Please.” “You said you’re working with Alan Bloom.”

“Yes. The University of Chicago—”

“I know Alan Bloom, and I’d rather discuss this on a professional level. Tell him I’ll be in touch with him this morning. I’ll tell you what I’ve decided before noon. I do care about the young woman, Mr. Crawford. And the others. But there’s a lot at stake here, and I don’t think it’s as important to you as it ought to be.… Mr. Crawford, have you had your blood pressure checked recently?” “I do it myself.”

“And do you prescribe for yourself?”

“That’s against the law, Dr. Danielson.”

“But you have a doctor.”

“Yes.”

“Share your findings with him, Mr. Crawford. What a loss to us all if you dropped dead. You’ll hear from me later in the morning.” “How much later, Doctor? How about an hour?”

“An hour.”

Crawford’s beeper sounded as he got off the elevator at the ground floor. His driver, Jeff, was beckoning as Crawford trotted to the van. She’s dead and they found her, Crawford thought as he grabbed the phone. It was the Director calling. The news wasn’t as bad as it could get, but it was bad enough: Chilton had butted into the case and now Senator Martin was stepping in. The attorney general of the state of Maryland, on instructions from the governor, had authorized the extradition to Tennessee of Dr. Hannibal Lecter. It would take all the muscle of the Federal Court, District of Maryland, to prevent or delay the move. The Director wanted a judgment call from Crawford and he wanted it now.

“Hold on,” Crawford said. He held the receiver on his thigh and looked out the van window. There wasn’t much color in February for the first light to find. All gray. So bleak.

Jeff started to say something and Crawford hushed him with a motion of his hand.

Lecter’s monster ego. Chilton’s ambition. Senator Martin’s terror for her child. Catherine Martin’s life. Call it.

“Let them go,” he said into the phone.