Part of the new intro to Silence of the Lambs in which Harris talks about the real person who inspired him for Hannibal
"Once upon a time Argosy magazine asked me to go to the Nuevo Leon State Prison at Monterrey, Mexico, to interview an American under death sentence for killing three young people: [...] The prisoner was Dykes Askew Simmons, a former mental patient. When I sized him up I saw a white male, mid-30s, about 1.8m, 79kg, eyes grey and hazel. Distinguishing marks: a bad Z-plasty repairing a cleft lip, and small scars on his head. He had the eyes of a fierce turtle. These he covered most of the time with a pair of black sunglasses.[...]
Simmons had tried to escape a year or so earlier, bribing a guard to leave a door unlocked and provide him with a pistol. Simmons handed over the money and approached the forbidden door, to find himself betrayed and the door still locked. The guard stuffed the money in his pants and shot Simmons. He lay bleeding heavily into the cracked dirt. He did not bleed out because a very skilled prison doctor saved him.
When I asked about Simmons' medical treatment, the warden unlocked the prison medical office and introduced me to the doctor. Dr Salazar was a small, lithe man with dark red hair. He stood very still and there was a certain elegance about him. He invited me to sit.
The furniture was spare. We sat on stools. A cabinet against the wall held labelled jars. There were few instruments. Needle and thread, a steriliser, bandage scissors with blunt tips and, curiously, a speculum - an instrument for examining body cavities. The doctor answered my questions about the gunshot wounds and how he staunched the bleeding. Dr Salazar made a steeple of his fingers beneath his chin and looked at me.
-"Mr Harris, how did you feel when you looked at Simmons?"
"I was trying to see if he fitted any eyewitness description of the killer."
-"Did you allow yourself an impression beyond that?"
"Not really."
-"Was he responsive to your questions?"
"Well, yes, but I couldn't tell much. He's got a pretty thick skin. He's got his answers down pat."
-"Pat answers to the questions he expects. Was he wearing his sunglasses in the cell?"
"Yes."
-"Dim in there, isn't it?"
"Yes."
-"Why do you think he wore them?"
"Maybe to hide a little bit."
-"Would you say the sunglasses add an element of symmetry to his face? Improve his appearance?"
"I didn't really think about it, Doctor. He looks like he's been beat up a lot, around his head."
Dr Salazar closed his eyes, perhaps seeking patience, and opened them again. Dr Salazar's eyes were maroon with grainy sparks like sunstones.
-"Did he turn his face askance when he talked to you, about 10 degrees to his left?"
"Maybe he looked away, people do that."
-"Do you think Simmons is ugly? That's not a very good job on his lip, is it?"
"No."
-"Will you be seeing Simmons again, Mr Harris?"
"I think so. They're going to let us take some pictures out in the compound with his car."
-"Do you have sunglasses with you?"
"Yes."
-"May I suggest that when you question him, you do not wear them?"
"Why?"
-"Because he can see his reflection in them. Do you think that Simmons was tormented on the school playground because he was disfigured?"
"Probably. It's customary."
The doctor seemed amused. -"Yes. Customary. Have you seen pictures of the victims, the two young women and their little brother?"
"Yes."
-"Would you say they were attractive?"
"They were. Nice-looking young people from a good family. Good manners, I'm told. You're not saying they provoked him?"
-"Certainly not. But early torment makes torment easily ... imagined."
He looked up at me and his countenance changed, seemed to pop wider, like a moth flashing the owl face printed on its wings. "You are a journalist, Mr Harris. How would you put that in your journal? How do you treat the fear of torment in journalese? Might you say something snappy about torment, like: It puts the hell in hello!'?"
At this point a guard rapped on the door and stuck his head in. "Doctor, the patients are here." Dr Salazar rose. "You'll have to excuse me," he said. I thanked the doctor and invited him to call me if he were ever travelling in Texas - we'd have a drink, lunch, something. Looking back, I cannot recall any trace of irony in his reply: "Thank you, Mr Harris. Certainly I will, when next I travel."
In the prison corridor outside his office, two guards and a nursing sister from a nearby convent waited with a small group of townspeople. There were men and women in pressed work clothes and huaraches [Mexican sandals], well-scrubbed for their doctor visit. They were patients from outside, people from the neighbourhood whom the doctor treated free. A warden walked me out. I thanked him for his time, and said I appreciated the doctor's help. I asked how long Dr Salazar had worked there.
-"Hombre! You don't know who that is?"
"No. We talked about Simmons."
The warden turned to me on the steps. "The doctor is a murderer. As a surgeon, he could package his victim in a surprisingly small box. He will never leave this place. He is insane."
"Insane? I see patients going into his office."
The warden shrugged and spread his open hands. "He is not insane with the poor."
I went home and wrote my article about Simmons. Way ran on to way. I covered crimes in other parts of Mexico and didn't see the doctor again.
