"How long has he been out here?" she asked a tall, not unattractive man in his early forties who was talking to a reporter from the local news station.

"About four, five hours now. Chito there pegged the time of death at around twelve midnight." He pointed to an outlandishly dressed man with unkempt silvering hair standing about twenty meters away beyond the cordon of police officers and reporters. With him was another police officer with whom he seemed to be having a serious discussion with. As if he sensed he was being watched, Guillermo Ruiz, - Chito for short - turned to them and nodded curtly before ambling over with a slight limp. Starling noticed the cane he used to support himself when the terrain got too rough.

Flashes of camera lights blinded her temporarily and left her seeing spots for several moments. She reached out a hand to help the older man as he stepped over a marker, her thumb rubbing at the parchment-like skin at the back of his hand and glanced at the pale corpse through the dancing colours plaguing her vision.

"Morning, Richard."

"Officer Starling," said Ruiz warmly, clasping her right hand in both of his larger ones, an impressive trick, that, considering he had to balance himself on one leg and keep the cane from falling. "What do you make of this, eh, Cuffs?" his mellifluous voice regarded her with an almost paternal protectiveness that never failed to amuse her, considering the endearingly absentminded lab technician was the one who needed the protection, rather than her.

"Cuffs" was a strange term of endearment - she had yet to ask him for its origins - the older man had given her when on her first meeting with him on another case, they exchanged mobile numbers. After he saved her number under Cuffs, to distinguish her from his niece Clarice (9 years of age) and another officer Starling of the Greater New Orleans Police Department, she had, in retaliation, jokingly added his contact number under the name "Richard," as in "Gere," the actor, with whom he bore more than a passing resemblance to, if only the actor had more intellect.

His light blue-grey-brown eyes were hidden behind a pair of gold-rimmed glasses, and the hands that gripped hers were surprisingly strong, belying the eccentric harmlessness of his appearance. A faded white scar graced the back of his hand, near the nut-brown knuckles, a souvenir from one of his younger self's more unfortunate experiences with a mother razorback lurking in the swamps.

"No idea. You're the lab rat. You tell me." said Clarice, pushing aside a strand of wet hair that had fallen into her eyes and getting down on one knee for a closer look. The reporters with their cameras were still clicking away.

"There really isn't much that I can tell aside from the initial crime scene assessments. Male Caucasian in his early thirties. Direct bullet wound through the heart, powder burns and bruising at the site of entrance, shot at close range. They're still looking for the shell casings of the piece that did him in. Other than that, we'll just have to wait until the boys can get him back to the lab for the formal autopsy."

"So, who gets this one?"

"Night. Madrigal won't be too happy about this. He and those bastards on day shift have been trying to worm in on our crime scenes."

"Can't imagine why," said Starling. "You would think that they'd at least be a little grateful not to have to deal with the amount of paperwork we seem to get stuck with all the time."

Ruiz seemed to ruminate on this. "I think it's more a matter of pride and reputation," he told her after a few seconds. "We're a strange breed Officer Starling. Scientists. Mad, the whole lot of us. Completely mad. Or oddballs, if you prefer."

Starling gave him a plucky grin. "You could say that again," she gestured towards the Adidas football shoes that completely clashed with the brown of his slacks and that outrageously loud green Hawaiian shirt underneath a cream coat, looking rather out of place with the other Timberland or Caterpillar clad officers. "World Cup fever?" Ruiz let out one of his trademark cheerful-but-unreadable smiles. He hadn't shaved and a five-day growth of salt and pepper hair graced his pale cheeks.

"Chito!" one of the CSI hollered over the noise of the pelting rain. "I think we've got something."

"Will you excuse me for a minute," Ruiz said to Starling, turning and going over the body, where he and the young investigator were engaged in serious conversation. The young man showed him something he had fished out of the mud near the body, holding it out and unfolding it at the senior CSI with gloved hands and Ruiz narrowed his eyes, seemingly scanning something in the flat, square-ish object. He looked thoughtful, rubbing at his lower lip with his index finger before nodding his head curtly as the younger man dropped the article, whatever it was, in a clear plastic evidence bag.

Ruiz shoved his hands into his pockets and slowly hiked up the small plot of slightly raised land where Starling was perched, observing the chaos of the scene somewhat detachedly. She glanced at him inquiringly, concerned at the drawn expression on the older man's face.

"It seems we have a problem," he said slowly, searching for words.

"What's wrong?"

"Morris over there has found something of the victim's which was of some use in identifying him. His wallet."

"You did? Correct me if I'm wrong, but isn't that supposed to be a good thing?"

"In other cases, yes. But in this one . . .Clarice, it's Christian Venci," Ruiz wrinkled his brow, suddenly thrown deep into thought. Starling quickly scanned her mental archives, trying to place where she had heard the name before, wondering why it seemed so familiar.

"Oh shit," she exhaled. Christian Venci. Venci the notorious playboy and enfant terrible of the New Orleans theatre scene, Venci who seemed to be in several perpetually unstable relationships, Venci who had a different woman on his arm each time his picture was taken. Venci whose cooling corpse lay not fifteen feet from where she was standing. Not much of an actor, the bulk of Christian Venci's reputation had been based solely on the fact that he came from an affluent and old family, whose influence reached high enough to guarantee the untalented shiftless lout a permanent spot in the theatrical company. Apparently that same familial influence – however high - wasn't enough to guarantee the continued existence of its most disreputable scion.

A warm hand clapped onto her rain-soaked shoulder as a distinctly masculine voice purred into her ear. She jumped, turning to face the newcomer who was a tall, strongly built man in his late thirties dressed in almost similar attire as she, in thick boots and denim jeans.

"Morning, Starling," the newcomer said, his unusual eyes twinkling at her. Even in the semi-darkness their clear greenness shone as if God had taken the most perfect pair of emeralds from the deepest mountains and placed them into the eye sockets of the infant Malcolm St. John.

"You're late. How can you be late? Your apartment's just five minutes from here."

"They called me in after you?" ventured St. John, an unapologetic grin on his boyish face that still sported patches of rough, early morning stubble. His dark brown hair appeared almost black under the harsh strobe lights.

"Bullshit. Carl said he'd phoned you before he did me."

"Alright, I had company," he admitted, shrugging lazily and looking not in the least bit sorry. "It was a Friday night, you know. Some people have lives to lead, too."

Starling snorted derisively. "I should have known."

"Jealous?"

"Not in a thousand years," she promptly retorted out of habit, unthinking. The split-second expression of blankness and reminiscence that crossed her face passed quickly enough for the normally astute St. John not to notice. If he had, the subsequent inquiry would have dredged up enough unpleasant memories for Starling, of the one that got away.

"Dammit. Carry on, St. John," she told him abruptly, shoving the flashlight and periphery tape at his chest. "I need a hard drink," she said by way of explanation at his expression of perplexed surprise. She strode off away from the lights and throng of people, towards her car. Inside, safe from the prying eyes of the public, Starling slowly lowered her forehead onto the top of the steering wheel, leaning on it for a few moments before exhaling tiredly and repetitively slamming her head back onto it.

It was a good thing the leather covering that came with the vehicle included a bit of rather thick padding.

**

Starling's apartment was located at the corner of Bourbon St. and Esplanade Avenue. Formerly used as slave quarters, the tiny motel had been completely refurbished into a series of sparse, but comfortable apartelles. Wrought iron metalwork on the terraces gave it a feel completely foreign and from a time long gone. Outside, in the early evening's sultry heat, waiters and musicians stroll to work in tuxedos. The velvet air is spiced with garlic cooking and gaslight glows against the spreading branches of the great oaks. The street itself is full of dogs, as practically all of its residents were belonging to the class of those who preferred an alternate 'lifestyle,' so to speak or are too old to have any children. Starling wondered which category her mostly batty neighbours placed her under.

She sighed as she balanced the stack of folders under her arm while her hands attempted to seek out the keys to all five locks, yet again cursing under her breath. She seemed to be doing a lot of that, these days. The Venci case caused a flurry of activity not seen in the precinct for a while, certainly the most amount of paperwork Clarice had handled since she started working at Lafayette.

Shoving the door open, Starling dumped the load onto the coffee table near the door, dropping her keys on top of it. The refrigerator was her first destination, taking an ice-cold Budweiser out of the freezer and placing it against the back of her neck. An old habit, one she found could remind her of her old life. Nasty things, these old habits. Always the little things that remain there to haunt you and remind you. Popping the tab, she tossed back half the can before slamming it down none too gently onto the Formica counter and going around it to the adjoining den of her three room flat.

Flopping onto the dirty beige couch she pinched the bridge of her nose in a miserable attempt at trying to stave off the impending headache. The phone rang, startling her.

"Starling."

"Hey, beautiful." It was St. John. The irrepressible golden boy of the Lafayette Police had, for reasons that still continued to defy her, taken an odd liking to the erstwhile FBI agent since day one and had thus been the only person who was permitted to approach her with anything other than the politeness of colleagues.

"Malcolm. What the fuck do you want?" she growled into the receiver, the angry throbbing in her head distracting her.

"Well, your royal grumpiness, me and the boys were out here at the Old Absinthe House and were wondering if we might bother you with an invitation of friendly camaraderie to join us for a long night of debauched drinking."

Another wave of mind-bending pain overcame her and she gritted her teeth to stifle the moan that threatened to creep out of her firmly shut lips. It's just a goddamn headache, Starling, you can deal with this.

"Hello? Hello? Clarice?" St. John's voice jolted her out of her agony and the pain slowly began to fade away.

"What? No, I'm here. Sorry, I've been having those migraines again."

"Again?" even though distorted by the miles of cable separating them, St. John was still able to convey the worry he felt. For this, Clarice was grateful and strangely, even a little annoyed. "But you've not had them since you first moved here. How long's it been? About two years?"

"Eighteen months."

"Ouch. She's been counting."

"Every day I spend here is a living hell, especially with you making my life miserable."

"You forget, woman. I seem to be the only person who can stand that infamous Clarice Starling prickliness."

"Which simply proves that you're dumber than the rest," she quipped, momentarily relieved that the infernal throbbing had receded.

"No, not dumber. Only more persistent. So, what do you say? Come on over. You never know, it might be fun," he wheedled.

Clarice sighed. "Well, I was actually hoping on catching up on some sleep, but I'll drag my extremely exhausted and overworked behind over if it'll shut you up."

"Good, cos I was planning to keep on ringing you until you finally agreed."

"St. John, you are such a bastard."

"But a handsome bastard, at that."

"More like a damn annoying bastard."

"Whatever. You know you still love me. See ya soon, Goldilocks."

"And don't call me Goldilocks, you degenerate. You know how much I hate that--" the sound of beeping interrupted her in the midst of her attempted tirade. "Well shithouse mouse," she glared at the receiver. "Bastard hung up on me."

**

Old Absinthe House, 238 Bourbon. 8:30 p.m. Day 1