Hannibal Lecter, M.D. was a man of many tastes ranging from cultured to
bizarre. His years since his escape had not always allowed him to indulge
his tastes. But he tried as he could.
It had been two years since he had escaped from Memphis. In that two years, Dr. Lecter had been living in South America, enjoying the results of the money he had at ready hand. After two years, the first account had run dry. There were, of course, much larger accounts that Lecter possessed. However, he had discovered to his chagrin that his attempts to hide them from the IRS had also succeeded in blocking him from accessing the accounts remotely: he had to show up in person to get money out of them. He had, after a fashion, outsmarted himself.
So, he had taken out three ID's from those he had a stash of: one to enter the U.S. with, one to live in the U.S. with, and one to leave the U.S. with. And off he had went to a flight at Toronto Airport, where he crossed back into the United States for the first time in twenty-four months. The U.S. gate agent waved him through without a problem, believing him to be a Canadian citizen just down for a visit.
Then, problems had arisen. Specifically, that his exit identity's passport was a month expired. He was enraged with himself for making such an elemental mistake. He was loath to enter any type of federal building to have it replaced; he did not know if the FBI was still seeking him or not, but it was foolish to take the chance. Dr. Lecter's in-country identity did not have a passport, either, and he didn't like switching it around.
There wasn't much else he could do, except remind himself that he wasn't perfect and that this would always remind him to have enough money ready that he would never do anything this foolish again. So Dr. Lecter did the best he could do: he moved money from the trust funds to accounts available for him to use, contacted his best Brazilian forger, and asked how long it would take to have papers made.
"A few months or so," the forger said.
"That's awfully long," Dr. Lecter said.
"Long, yes. I need to do right, though," the forger said. "You know, you come to me for quality. I need to get I.D. Make computer records. Make ID. Then ship to you. Cannot ship direc' from Brazil to your door. Need to ship to Canada, then to U.S., then to you."
Dr. Lecter knew it all very well – he used this man because he was the best, and very very careful. Still, it was infuriating. But again, all that he could do was wait. So he rented himself a house in the country for a month in a location far from his normal base of operations. He negotiated a short-term lease on a Cadillac, even though they were not his favorite. And he settled in to wait for his papers, playing the role of a wealthy, retired doctor. Eventually, his fury at himself began to wear off, as this interlude in his life was relaxing and almost dreamy.
And he liked his espresso.
For the past several weeks, Dr. Lecter had visited a coffee shop in the city, not terribly far from his home. The coffee shop was a local one, and they had excellent gourmet coffee. Dr. Lecter particularly liked their espresso. They had several.
He also liked the young barista who served it to him. She was an attractive young woman, with very fair skin and black hair and eyes. The combination was stunning, he thought. As well, she was courteous and receptive to courtesy – often, she would put away an espresso she thought he would like until he came in. In discussions with her, Dr. Lecter had learned that she is a first-year medical student at the nearby medical school; the job at the coffee bar is necessary to help with school and living expenses. He enjoyed chatting with her about medicine as he took his espresso. Behind the pretty face lurked a sharp mind. Dr. Lecter thought she would make an excellent doctor. She was far too smart to be slinging coffee for a living.
Her name was Erin, and she wore a Medic Alert bracelet on one wrist. Dr. Lecter did not know at first what it signified. He did not need to ask; he was patient. Eventually, he was rewarded. The bracelet had flipped upside down when she handed him a cappucino, and a moment was all Dr. Lecter needed to memorize the number.
Dr. Lecter's current identity was that of another doctor he had killed before his incarceration. He had a driver's license in the name of Robert Lawson, a birth certificate, and a Social Security card. He did not have a passport and was loath to get one in this name; he couldn't be sure if the police had ever found where he had buried the original Dr. Lawson. Fortunately, Dr. Lawson's medical credentials were impeccable and easily updatable.
It had been two years since he had escaped from Memphis. In that two years, Dr. Lecter had been living in South America, enjoying the results of the money he had at ready hand. After two years, the first account had run dry. There were, of course, much larger accounts that Lecter possessed. However, he had discovered to his chagrin that his attempts to hide them from the IRS had also succeeded in blocking him from accessing the accounts remotely: he had to show up in person to get money out of them. He had, after a fashion, outsmarted himself.
So, he had taken out three ID's from those he had a stash of: one to enter the U.S. with, one to live in the U.S. with, and one to leave the U.S. with. And off he had went to a flight at Toronto Airport, where he crossed back into the United States for the first time in twenty-four months. The U.S. gate agent waved him through without a problem, believing him to be a Canadian citizen just down for a visit.
Then, problems had arisen. Specifically, that his exit identity's passport was a month expired. He was enraged with himself for making such an elemental mistake. He was loath to enter any type of federal building to have it replaced; he did not know if the FBI was still seeking him or not, but it was foolish to take the chance. Dr. Lecter's in-country identity did not have a passport, either, and he didn't like switching it around.
There wasn't much else he could do, except remind himself that he wasn't perfect and that this would always remind him to have enough money ready that he would never do anything this foolish again. So Dr. Lecter did the best he could do: he moved money from the trust funds to accounts available for him to use, contacted his best Brazilian forger, and asked how long it would take to have papers made.
"A few months or so," the forger said.
"That's awfully long," Dr. Lecter said.
"Long, yes. I need to do right, though," the forger said. "You know, you come to me for quality. I need to get I.D. Make computer records. Make ID. Then ship to you. Cannot ship direc' from Brazil to your door. Need to ship to Canada, then to U.S., then to you."
Dr. Lecter knew it all very well – he used this man because he was the best, and very very careful. Still, it was infuriating. But again, all that he could do was wait. So he rented himself a house in the country for a month in a location far from his normal base of operations. He negotiated a short-term lease on a Cadillac, even though they were not his favorite. And he settled in to wait for his papers, playing the role of a wealthy, retired doctor. Eventually, his fury at himself began to wear off, as this interlude in his life was relaxing and almost dreamy.
And he liked his espresso.
For the past several weeks, Dr. Lecter had visited a coffee shop in the city, not terribly far from his home. The coffee shop was a local one, and they had excellent gourmet coffee. Dr. Lecter particularly liked their espresso. They had several.
He also liked the young barista who served it to him. She was an attractive young woman, with very fair skin and black hair and eyes. The combination was stunning, he thought. As well, she was courteous and receptive to courtesy – often, she would put away an espresso she thought he would like until he came in. In discussions with her, Dr. Lecter had learned that she is a first-year medical student at the nearby medical school; the job at the coffee bar is necessary to help with school and living expenses. He enjoyed chatting with her about medicine as he took his espresso. Behind the pretty face lurked a sharp mind. Dr. Lecter thought she would make an excellent doctor. She was far too smart to be slinging coffee for a living.
Her name was Erin, and she wore a Medic Alert bracelet on one wrist. Dr. Lecter did not know at first what it signified. He did not need to ask; he was patient. Eventually, he was rewarded. The bracelet had flipped upside down when she handed him a cappucino, and a moment was all Dr. Lecter needed to memorize the number.
Dr. Lecter's current identity was that of another doctor he had killed before his incarceration. He had a driver's license in the name of Robert Lawson, a birth certificate, and a Social Security card. He did not have a passport and was loath to get one in this name; he couldn't be sure if the police had ever found where he had buried the original Dr. Lawson. Fortunately, Dr. Lawson's medical credentials were impeccable and easily updatable.