The Silence of the Lambs Page #7

CLARICE:

Sir, what is it? There's something

you're not telling me.

CRAWFORD:

(beat)

Miggs has been murdered.

CLARICE:

(startled, upset)

Murdered...? How?

CRAWFORD:

The orderly heard Lecter whispering

to him, all afternoon, and Miggs

crying. They found him at bed check.

He'd swallowed his own tongue...

Chilton is scared stiff the family

will file a civil rights lawsuit,

and he's trying to blame it on you.

I told the little prick your conduct

was flawless.

(beat)

Starling...?

CLARICE:

I'm here, sir, I just - I don't know

how to feel about it.

CRAWFORD:

You don't have to feel any way about

it. Lecter 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 Crawford hanging up. She stares

at her receiver, stung by his abruptness.

CLARICE:

Well God damn it! You old creep.

Creepo son of a b*tch. Let Miggs

squirt you and see how you like it.

She slams her receiver into its cradle.

ANGLE ON CRAWFORD

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. CRAWFORD'S BEDROOM - NIGHT

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

as Crawford enters his tidy bedroom.

CRAWFORD:

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 CRAWFORD:

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

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

very labored. Crawford 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

location. 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

brightness. 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 cement, 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?

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