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I FOUND JACK CRAWFORD ALONE in the cluttered suite of offices. He was standing at someone else's desk talking on the telephone and I had a chance to look him over for the first time in a year. What I saw disturbed me.
Normally, Crawford looked like a fit, middle-aged engineer who might have paid his way through college playing baseball ― a crafty catcher, tough when he blocked the plate. Now he was thin, his shirt collar was too big, and he had dark puffs under his reddened eyes. Everyone who could read the papers knew Behavioral Science section was catching hell. I hoped Crawford wasn't on the juice. That seemed most unlikely here.
Crawford ended his telephone conversation with a sharp "No." He took my file from under his arm and opened it. "Starling, Clarice M., good morning," he said.
"Hello." My smile was only polite.
"Nothing's wrong. I hope the call didn't spook you."
"No." Not totally true, I thought.
"Your instructors tell me you're doing well, top quarter of the class."
"I hope so, they haven't posted anything."
"I ask them from time to time."
That surprised me; I have written Crawford off as a two-faced recruiting sergeant son of a bitch. I have met Special Agent Crawford when he was a guest lecturer at the University of Virginia. The quality of his criminology seminars was a factor in me coming to the Bureau. I wrote him a note when I qualified for the Academy, but he never replied, and for the three months I have been a trainee at Quantico, he had ignored me. I come from people who do not ask for favors or press for friendship, but I was puzzled and regretful at Crawford's behavior. Now, in his presence, I liked him again, which I was sorry to note. Clearly something was wrong with him. There was a peculiar cleverness in Crawford, aside from his intelligence, and I have first noticed it in his color sense and the textures of his clothing, even within the FBI-clone standards of agent dress. Now he was neat but drab, as though he were molting.
"A job came up and I thought about you," he said. "It's not really a job, it's more of an interesting errand. Push Berry's stuff off that chair and sit down. You put down here that you want to come directly to Behavioral Science when you get through with the Academy."
"I do."
"You have a lot of forensics, but no law enforcement background. We look for six years, minimum."
"My father was a marshal, I know the life." I smiled a little.
"What you do have is a double major in psychology and criminology, and how many summers working in a mental health center ― two?"
"Two."
"Do you know about VI-CAP?"
"I know it's the Violent Criminal Apprehension Program. The Law Enforcement Bulletin says you're working on a database, but you aren't operational yet."
