The Silence of the Lambs

It's nothing. It was just a scratch.
Dr Lecter, whose head is in that bottle?
Why don't you ask me about Buffalo Bill?
- Do you know something about him?
- I might if I saw the case file.

- You could get that for me.
- Why don't we talk about Miss Mofet?

You wanted me to find him.
His real name is Benjamin Raspail,
a former patient of mine,

whose romantic attachments ran to,
shall we say, the ex otic.

I did not kill him, merely tucked him
away very much as I found him,

after he'd missed three appointments.
- If you didn't kill him, then who did, sir?
- Who can say? Best thing for him, really.

His therapy was going nowhere.
His dress, make-up...
- Raspail was a transvestite?
- In life? Oh, no.

Garden-variety manic-depressive.
Tedious, very tedious.

I now just think of him
as a kind of experiment.

A fledgling killer's
first effort at transformation.

How did you feel
when you saw him, Clarice?

Scared at first, then exhilarated.
Jack Crawford is helping your career.
Apparently he likes you and you like him.

I never thought about it.
Do you think Jack Crawford
wants you, sexually?

True, he is much older, but do you think
he visualizes scenarios, ex changes,

fucking you?
That doesn't interest me and, frankly,
it's the sort of thing that Miggs would say.

Not any more.
Thank you, Barney.
What happened to your drawings?
Punishment, you see, for Miggs.
Just like that gospel program.