Dexter x Stitchers
This contains both Dexter and Stitchers [SPOILERS] so readers beware!
This fanfiction is written primarily from Dexter's perspective following the events of Season 4, where Rita is killed by the Trinity Killer, coupled with a parallel timeline that sets Stitchers in Miami instead of L.A. from Kirsten's perspective, jumping right into the early events of season 1. The FBI enlists Stitchers help on the Trinity Killer case, and Kirsten stitches into Rita. 'Ships include, but are not limited to; Dexter/Kirsten, Deb/Quinn, Deb/Camille, Deb/Fisher, Camille/Fisher, Batista/Laguerta, Batista/Maggie, Cameron/Kirsten.)
Miami Metro was lit warmly with the morning sunshine, the case board was plastered with photographs of the Trinity Killer's murders, and the tip-line telephones rang loudly over the speculating conversations of determined policemen.
Detective Joey Quinn sat at his desk, listening intently to the audio file playing on his laptop and scowling, his worried mind deep in thought.
"This is Dexter Morgan, 3319 Meadow Lane."
"What is your emergency?"
"I just got home and found my wife dead in the bathtub."
"Did you say your wife is dead?"
"Yes, I did. She had an approximately 1-inch incision midway up her right thigh, dissecting the femoral artery-"
Forensics Specialist Vince Masuka, equipped with an eclair in one hand and licking the remains of donut from the other, overheard the 911 recording and approached Quinn's desk.
"Hey, is that-" Masuka began, but he was cut off when Sergeant Angel Batista walked up behind them, also intrigued. "What is this?"
"It's Dexter's 911 call," said Detective Quinn. "Here, listen."
Quinn replayed the audio file for the two men. It wasn't until Dexter began describing the incision that Batista leaned in and tapped the trackpad on Quinn's laptop, stopping the playback.
"Alright. That's enough," Batista said, his tone firm and disapproving. "Dexter was obviously in shock."
Quinn wasn't convinced. "'Midway up her right thigh'? 'Dissecting her femoral artery'?"
Batista was quick to defend the blood spatter specialist. "Habit of precision."
"His wife just died," Quinn said in disbelief. "He sounds like he's submitting a lab report. Seriously, the next door neighbor, the guy with the, you know, forehead? He was more broken up about Rita than Dexter was."
Masuka looked around uncomfortably, taking the opportunity to fill his mouth with donut to excuse his absence of input on the heavy subject. Batista sighed, shaking his head. "So?"
"So it's weird, that's all," Quinn said, shrugging, closing the laptop.
At that moment, Maria Laguerta, the Lieutenant of Miami Metro Homicide, approached Quinn's desk to break up the meeting.
"What are we working on here?" Her tone was authoritative, and she suspiciously eyed the three of them as she crossed her arms.
"Not Rita," Masuka said quickly, wiping off eclair crumbs.
Laguerta looked expectantly at Batista for an explanation, who gave in immediately.
"It's Dexter's 911 call," he said, frowning.
Laguerta tensed up. "Did you hear me or not? I said the case is with the FBI now." She looked around, gravely meeting eyes with each offender before she left, strutting off in her click-clack heels, shutting the door to her office behind her.
Quinn cracked a smile. "You should have taken her on a honeymoon," he said to Batista, chuckling. Batista rolled his eyes, excusing himself from the conversation.
Now that he and Quinn were alone, Masuka leaned in.
"You were right about one thing-that neighbor Elliot being all broke up about Rita. I'm thinking now that there's some things I shouldn't have told Dexter."
Quinn blinked. "What? What shouldn't you have told him?"
"About a significant exchange of saliva I witnessed, as in, a kiss." Masuka looked around to make sure no one was eavesdropping.
"Elliot and Rita?" Quinn leaned in, his brow furrowed.
"Yeah," Masuka nodded.
"And Dexter knew."
"Yeah." Masuka looked down, guilty. "If I'd known she was gonna… I should have kept my big mouth shut."
200 feet underground beneath the Chinese restaurant, Jade Fog, the former CIA assassin and current leader of the Stitchers program Maggie Baptiste stood against the railing, going over the Trinity Killer case file to mentally prepare for the briefing. The lab was quiet; the filter inside the massive tank in the center of the gallery floor whirred softly, bubbling. In the other room, the quantum computer hummed steadily. The corpse cassette was occupied by a petite, pretty blonde woman.
The Stitchers director poured over the photographs from the crime scene, observing the reports from Miami Metro Homicide's lab. The file is thick with notes, Maggie thought, but that is typical of these jobs that come through many hands - first the local station, then federal investigators, and now the National Security Agency, who has delegated the assignment to the Stitchers Program. Just our luck.
Just then, the cranking pulley system and accompanying ding! of the elevator caused Maggie to look up just as the doors opened.
Kirsten Clark, the Stitcher and newest recruit to the program, and her roommate and talented computer hacker Camille Engelson stepped out, engaged in a mostly one-sided conversation.
"So you do see what I'm saying, right?" Camille jabbed at Kirsten, who rolled her eyes.
"Camille, I get it-"
"Good morning," Maggie addressed the pair as they approached, interrupting. She gave them a firm stare, her dark eyes intimidating.
"Good morning," Kirsten and Camille said in glance-exchanging unison.
Maggie checked her watch. "I trust you're both ready for a new assignment, but I want everyone to be here for the announcement."
Kirsten stepped up to the corpse cassette and peered inside. The woman was young, and beautiful, and her blonde hair and soft feminine features reminded Kirsten of her mother. Kirsten's mind traveled back to distorted memories of her mother, the last time she ever saw her Kirsten had been soaking in a tub, hooked up to her father's makeshift stitch machinery, and on the receiving end was her mom, who lay on the bed, convulsing in her coma. She felt the electric shock pulsing through her, and the terror as she entered her mom's unconscious memories. The fear of being lost in someone else's experience. The reality sunk in that her own experience has been tainted, dismantled, paralyzed. She needed to find out more about the alleged suicide of her stand-in father figure, Ed Clark, and her real parents stitching research, and what part Kirsten was meant to play in this murder-mystery riddle that had become her life.
"So, who's in the cassette?" A familiar voice snapped her back to the present. She took a deep breath, startled. It was Cameron Goodkin, the young, great-looking, brilliant neuroscientist who initiated the stitches and monitored her placement in the dead person's memory map, whose voice was often a lifeline for Kirsten to pull herself out of ego-consuming stitches.
And, last but not least, Linus Ahluwalia, socially awkward communications technician, and Cameron's best friend.
Kirsten blinked. How long had she been standing here, just staring at this dead woman?
Fuck my perception of time, Kirsten thought, whipping around to hear Maggie's case briefing.
"Now that everyone's here," Maggie began, glancing at her clipboard, "I'd like to introduce you all to Rita Morgan. Thirty-six years old at the time of her death. Married, with an infant son."
"Yikes," Cameron muttered, scratching his head.
"Cause of death - an incision to the femoral artery. She bled out in the bathtub of the family's home where her husband found her that evening. They were about to take their honeymoon."
"Shit," Camille said, crossing her arms.
"Brutal," Linus agreed.
Kirsten couldn't stop looking at the poor woman, lying there cold and expressionless, mostly naked except for a wedding ring and tiny medical instruments, wires that traced back to the stitch tank.
"Kirsten," Maggie said, "I'd like you to get in the tank as quickly as possible. We've only got twenty four hours to get a read on Rita's brain. We've got a serial killer to catch."
"Whoa, hold on," Cameron laughed nervously. "A serial killer?"
Camille cracked a smile. "No fucking way, are we tracking Miami's Most Wanted? The Trinity Killer?" She scoffed, her excitement apparent.
Maggie smirked. "Come on, we'll continue the briefing in the conference room."
Debra Morgan stared at the bulletin board display, hoping to deduce a lead of some kind in the case, sipping her coffee from the tiny styrofoam cup.
"Fucking bastard," she said under her breath.
"Who, me?" Quinn inserted himself smoothly, derailing Debra's train of thought. He flashed a charming smile.
Deb rolled her eyes and grinned at her partner, but she quickly snapped back to the serial killer she so desperately wanted to catch. "How are we gonna find this guy?" She said, exasperation in her voice.
"We're not gonna find him, the FBI will," Quinn said, shaking his head. "Deb, let it go-"
"Like fuck I'll let it go, Quinn," Deb spat out, "Rita was my fucking sister-in-law." She clenched her fist. "I want to find her killer and make him pay for what he's done."
"Which is exactly why you should let it go," Quinn locked eyes with her. "You're too emotionally invested to get involved."
Debra chewed on the thought, crossing her arms. "Yeah, you're right. Fuck," she sighed. "I'm going to call Dexter, excuse me."
"Yeah, sure, no problem," Quinn laughed, placing his hands in his pockets as he watched Deb saunter out into the hallway, dialing on her cell phone.
Dexter Morgan, Blood Spatter Analyst and Serial Killer, curled on his side in bed, deep in sleep, became slowly aware of the sound of his cell phone ringing.
Riiing! Riiing!
Dexter's eyes opened.
Riiing! He grabbed his phone from the bedside table. Debra Morgan was displayed on the caller ID, which elicited a groan and accompanying eyeroll from Dexter. He swiped to answer and raised the phone to his ear.
"Dexter Morgan."
"Dexter, how are you doing?" She sounded worried.
"Hey, Deb. I'm fine." He rubbed his face, swinging his legs out from under the blanket.
"You heard they turned Trinity Killer's case over to the FBI? It's a national security issue, apparently. The rest of us are just fucking sitting at Miami Metro dicking around and they're in here fingering through all our files."
"What?" Dexter stood up, stepping into his pants and belting them. He searched for a shirt. "What does the FBI want with the Trinity Killer case? We were closing in on him," Dexter smirked. But no one's ever going to find him.
"Exactly," Deb said, defeated. "They want to swoop in and take all the glory. FBI: Fucking Bunch of Idiots. Are you coming in today?"
Dexter looked out the window. The Trinity Killer is dead because I killed him. So why do I feel empty, still?
"Yeah, I'll see you in twenty minutes."
"Dexter, I'm here if you need to talk-"
He hung up.
"Stations everyone!" Maggie barked across the lab as the Stitchers team assembled at their respective workstations. The corpse of Rita Morgan was prepared in the corpse cassette and Kirsten Clark was getting zipped into her catsuit. The two attendants helped her up into the tank.
"Okay, stretch," Cameron smiled up at Kirsten, using his affectionate name for her. "The fish tank is a toasty 98 degrees."
His voice was reassuring as Kirsten slipped into the warm water, reclining into the tank's ergonomic design, and felt the water shifting around her.
"Let's dim the lights," Cameron directed, and Kirsten closed her eyes.
"Remember," Maggie said, "Any leads as to where the Trinity Killer might be headed."
"Got it," Kirsten replied with her eyes still shut, her voice flat and emotionless.
"Okay," Cameron said, "I need a go, no-go for stitch neurosync. Life sci'?"
"We are a go," came the quick reply.
"Sub-Bio'?" "Go."
"Engineering?" "Go."
"Medical?" "Go."
"Communications?" "Go."
"Kirsten, comm' check?" Kirsten shivered in anticipation. "Check," she said.
"Initiate stitch neurosync on my mark. Three, two, one, mark!" Cameron's face lit up with excitement as he pressed the levers that synchronized the stitch.
Kirsten was jolted into the dead consciousness of Rita Morgan. Everything was blurry and disorienting at first, and spiralling in and out of focus. Kirsten strained to tune in to the feelings that were pouring over her, to decypher the overload of sensory information.
"Where are ya'?" Cameron's voice gave her something to focus on and she managed to stabilize the memory.
She looked around her; a kitchen, a living room, a hallway leading to bedrooms. "I'm in Rita's home."
The bright inside of the Morgan family home was cluttered with children's toys and filled with people at a dinner party gathering. Friendly faces shared laughter, stories. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary.
"She was… hosting a dinner party," Kirsten spoke into the communication headset, but her voice seemed somehow distant, disembodied. "Thanksgiving," she concluded, after observing Rita and presumably her husband preparing the turkey in the kitchen. Kirsten took note of the faces - and badges - she saw in attendance. "The Morgans must know a lot of cops," Kirsten observed.
"Yes," Maggie replied over the communications feed, "Rita's husband works at Miami Metro Homicide, so I'm sure many of his closest friends are detectives."
The memory skipped forward a bit, and Rita and her husband were carrying pans of food… outside? Kirsten was pulled by the memory, by Rita, her flashing smile and cute apron, her stress, her flirting.
"Thanks again for letting me use your oven, Elliot," Rita said over her shoulder as she pushed open the door to the neighbor's house.
"Oh, anytime," Elliot replied. His smile was over-friendly.
So it's not her husband, it's the neighbor, Kirsten observed, noting Rita's wedding band and Elliot's lackthereof.
"Tell me what you're seeing," Cameron's persistence made Kirsten smile.
"Um, she had to use the neighbor's ovens so they went to his place," Kirsten said through the confusion. The memory was still hazy.
Rita was shutting the door to the oven and spun around to grin at Elliot and he reached for her waist, pulling her into his embrace to plant a kiss on her lips. She didn't struggle or resist; Rita gave in to the guilty pleasure.
"Looks like an affair," Kirsten said, her usual expressionless tone. Cameron and Camille exchanged looks inside the Stitch lab.
Rita pulled away after a minute. "Elliot, I can't,"
"I'm sorry," Elliot said, dropping his head, "I didn't mean to. I just feel this connection with you, Rita, I know you feel it too-"
The stitch changed, suddenly.
"I'm in a doctor's office now," Kirsten said to the stitch team. The door opened and Dexter walked in, saw Rita there with their son in the baby carrier, and came to kiss her on the cheek.
"I'm sorry I'm late," Dexter said, stress apparent in his voice. "It's just one of those days." Rita gave him a disappointed look and a weak smile.
"I think it's couples counseling - Rita's husband just walked in," Kirsten said to the team.
"Well, it's okay," Rita began, "You're here now-" but just then, Dexter's cell phone rang.
He apologized and answered it quickly: "Morgan." Rita looked crushed. She averted her eyes as he finished the call.
"I'm kind of in the middle of something, can it wait?"
A pause, and then, "Okay, yeah, no, I'll be there," Dexter said, hanging up. "That was work," he pointed a thumb towards the door. "I better go."
"Let me guess," Rita said, obviously miffed, "Crime scene?" She sighed. "Dexter, we have an appointment."
"I know, but it's an emergency." Dexter wasn't budging.
"So is this." Rita said curtly.
"Why?" Dexter sighed. "We're doing better. I'm… being all open, and-"
"I kissed Elliot." Rita blurted out.
"You what?"
"Well, actually, he kissed me, mostly." Her eyes were rimmed with tears. "Look. I was waiting to tell you. In therapy. So let's just go to our session so we-"
"No, I told you, I can't." Dexter seemed weirdly unaffected by the news.
"Dexter, please." Rita begged him.
"I… got to get to work." He turned around and left the office in a hurry.
Kirsten shook her head as the stitch pulled her in another direction and she tried to describe what had just happened. "Dexter showed up for counselling but got called away to a crime scene, so Rita confessed to kissing Elliot but they didn't have time to talk about it, and now… Everything's changing again…" Kirsten's train of thought trailed off as she was launched into another memory of Rita's.
"You okay, stretch?" Cameron's voice called out to her.
"Yeah, no, I'm fine," Kirsten said.
Now she was in Rita's bedroom, where Rita lay reading a book awaiting Dexter's return. The door to the bedroom squeaked open, and in walked Dexter, trying to be silent until he realized Rita was awake.
"Hey," he said quietly, "It's late. You can't sleep?"
"I stayed up," she said pointedly. "So we could finish our talk."
Dexter sighed. "Can it wait? I have a huge day tomorrow."
"No, it can't." Rita put a bookmark in the pages of her book and leaned towards Dexter as he unbuttoned his shirt, preparing for bed.
"What, are the two of you-" Dexter started.
"No, no," Rita spat out. "It was just a huge mistake. And I am so, so sorry."
Dexter seemed nonplussed. "Well, okay then." He stripped his pants off and gets in bed, pulling the blanket up around his waist. "Apology accepted."
"Shouldn't we talk about this?" Rita wasn't convinced.
Dexter, head now laying in his pillow, said, "I thought we just did."
"You didn't say anything," Rita prodded him.
"I'm putting it behind me," Dexter said, groaning. "Isn't that what I'm supposed to do?"
"I mean, I'm glad," Rita said, deflated, "but if I were you, I would be hurt, angry, disgusted."
Dexter rolled over to face her, locking eyes. "Is that how you want me to feel?"
Rita looked off, breaking his gaze. "No," she whispered.
"Then, good, see?" Dexter pecked her lips with a kiss. "Everything is okay."
Kirsten scoffs. "Her husband is unaffected by the affair. She wants him to talk to her about it but he's distant."
"Good work, stretch, I'm going to move you closer to the night of her death," came Cameron's reply.
Kirsten recognized the same kitchen interior. "I'm still inside the Morgan's home."
Rita was watching something through the window. Kirsten stepped up to peek through the blinds and could just make out Dexter walking over to the neighbor's porch. Elliot was outside sitting on the steps and quickly got to his feet. Rita and the unseen Kirsten gasped in unison as Dexter swung a punch and clocked Elliot. "Oh, Dexter," Rita whispered.
The men exchanged words and Dexter headed back towards his home. Moments later, the front door swung open, and Rita prepared an ice pack for the fist Dexter was nursing as he walked in.
"Your hand," Rita said, offering him the ice pack.
"You… saw?" Dexter's expression didn't change.
"I saw." Rita smiled, but Dexter sighed.
"You're not mad?" He said carefully.
"No, not mad," Rita said.
"What are you?"
"Glad, that you cared that much."
Rita leaned down and kissed his knuckles and left her hand to rest on his, holding the ice pack in place. Dexter leaned down and kissed her knuckles, too, and they shared a laugh.
"I can't believe you hit him though!" Rita grinned.
"I know," Dexter smiled back.
"I didn't see that coming."
"I didn't either," Dexter pulled her in for a kiss on the lips.
"I guess Dexter was upset about Rita's affair after all. He punched Elliot two nights before Rita died," Kirsten said to the stitch team, feeling that fuzzy disembodied feeling again as the stitch flung her into the more recent memories.
The scene was inside their bedroom again, and Rita entered through the door and saw Dexter standing at the window, peering through the blinds. He turned to face her.
"We should go the Keys tomorrow," Dexter said flatly. "For our honeymoon."
"No I'm not sure that's-" Rita stammered.
"You can fly down in the morning. I'll follow you after work. Have a spa day. Indulge. Please?"
"Dexter," Rita tried to derail him again, but he was determined.
"I know you're upset, you have every right to be. Having to pick up another husband from jail... " Dexter dropped his head.
Kirsten smirked. "She had to pick her husband up from jail the next night."
"Y-you think I'm upset because you're like Paul?" Rita said, shaking her head.
"I'm worse." Dexter said as he met her eyes. "I know."
"Dexter, whenever they picked up Paul it was a relief. Life got easier. Without you…" Rita smiled. "You're the most important person in our lives. What's upsetting me is the idea of losing you. You have your demons. I accept that. Because I know that you don't have to be a slave to them."
Dexter brow furrowed. "I wish that were true," he said.
"It is," Rita caressed his face with both hands. "I know you. Better than you know yourself. You can conquer whatever darkness there is in you, I know you can."
Dexter kissed her, and with his eyes closed, said, "I want to be that man."
"You already are." Rita kissed him back.
"Please," Dexter said. "Please fly to the Keys tomorrow morning. Truly, there's nowhere I'd rather be." He kissed her again.
"God, Cameron, get me out of here. This is getting sappy and it isn't what we're looking for," Kirsten urged, feeling like a third wheel.
"We have to be getting close," Cameron said back. "We're inside the day she was murdered now. I'll push you ahead a few hours."
The memory now centered around Rita and Harrison, in Rita's car. Rita was on her phone leaving a message to Dexter.
"Hey sweetie, I'm a dope," Rita began, laughing slightly. "I was in such a rush to get Harrison organized I forgot my I.D. for the plane, so I'm zooming home for it. Means we'll be on a later puddle jumper, but we'll still be there waiting for you. Oh, and I know you're not into this stuff but… the moon tonight is gonna be amazing. So take a moment. You deserve it. We love you. Bye."
She hung up her phone, careened into the driveway and put the car in park. She pulled Harrison up out of the car seat and carried him up to the door, flipped through the keys on her keyring until she found the door key and let herself into her home.
Rita set down her purse and began to look for the I.D. in her bedroom, the kitchen, and the living room. Kirsten, invisible, watched Rita as she grew more aggravated. She heard water running in the bathroom, and slowly went to investigate, Harrison on her hip.
The bathroom cabinet mirror hung open, and the water was running from the bathtub faucet. Rita reached to close the mirror, but her heart leapt out of her chest-
In the reflection, behind her, she saw a man. A naked, older man.
"Whoa," came Kirsten's involuntary response. She quickly fumbled to recap what she was seeing. "Rita forgot her I.D. and drove home, found an old naked guy in her bathroom."
Rita got out one scream before the man put her in a chokehold, cupping her mouth. She screamed against his hand, and Harrison began to cry, clinging tightly to his mother.
"Put down the kid," the man's husky voice was void of all emotion. Rita obliged very slowly.
Harrison screamed, sitting on the cold tile, all alone.
"Take off your clothes," the man instructed.
Rita began to sob. "Please," she cried. "No, please."
He tightened his chokehold, cutting off her cries.
"Oh, god," Kirsten said, watching the encounter. "He's… The man is Trinity. He's making her take off her clothes."
"Disgusting," Camille's voice piped up over the communication line.
"Seriously," Kirsten agreed.
The man, using the chokehold grip to drag a now-naked Rita over to the tub where the water was already overflowing and stepped in, urging Rita to get in too.
"Get in the bath," the old man said, and Rita sobbed uncontrollably as she was forcibly lowered into the tub with the man right behind her, his arms and legs locking around her.
Harrison's wailing didn't cease.
"He made her get in the bathtub with him," Kirsten said, disgust in her voice.
"That's where they found her, in the bathtub," Maggie replied.
"Oh, please," Rita cried harder than ever. "Please, don't-"
The man tightened his grip to silence her, and Rita gagged, gasping for air.
He reached over, picking up a razor blade he had prepared beside the bathtub. Rita's eyes grew wide with panic, fear. She squirmed, but the man's grip was locktight, and he reached down with the blade and sliced her thigh. She screamed into his arm, pain searing through her body. Blood filled the bathtub in seconds.
"He killed her with a razor blade, slicing her thigh," Kirsten said.
The man then took a hand mirror and held it out in front of Rita and she bled out, shining the reflection so he could watch her face as she died. Rita groaned and whimpered.
Her breathing started to fade. The tub was stained blood red.
'I'm bouncing," Kirsten shouted, feeling the memory collapsing as Rita's consciousness faded.
Kirsten typed the bounce password and sat up out of the tank, eyes opening.
Cameron came bounding up beside the tank, the others right behind him. They all looked up at Kirsten expectantly, eyes wide. Kirsten took a couple deep ragged breaths before speaking.
"Let's catch this fucker."
"Detective Quincy Fisher, I'm here with the NSA," Fisher flashed his detective badge at the Miami Metro Homicide front desk. "I need to speak with Dexter Morgan, is he available?" The receptionist nodded, and pointed Detective Fisher in the direction of Dexter's lab.
The door to Dexter's forensics office swung open, and the tall dark haired man smiled.
"Hello, Dexter Morgan?" Fisher began, extending a hand for the usual handshake.
Dexter eyed him suspiciously, but stood up, taking his hand. "Yes, who are you?"
"I'm Detective Quincy Fisher. We've recently acquired the Trinity Killer case jurisdiction and I'd like to ask you some questions, if you have time."
Dexter sat back down at his desk and motioned for Fisher to do the same. "Sure," Dexter said, leaning forward, seemingly sincere. "How can I help you?"
Fisher crossed his legs, clearing his throat. "Your wife, Rita… Her body was ordained by the FBI as part of their official investigation. And trust me, no harm or disrespect will come to your late wife and she's on her way to the mortuary right now to be prepared for her funeral, but Rita was in a government facility where the memories of the recently dead are, um, how do I put this," Fisher stumbled briefly, "reviewed by a team of experts."
Dexter blinked. "Reviewed?"
Fisher fidgeted uncomfortably. "There is a neuroscientist who can fuse a living person's brain with the stored memories of a deceased brain and it allows us to experience the events leading up to their death. We use it to discover the truth in inexplicable homicide cases, such as Rita's. It's called 'stitching.' This is classified information, what I'm telling you right now." Fisher tugged at his collar, loosening his tie slightly. "No kidding, I could lose my job over this. But I can tell you know how to keep a secret."
Dexter leaned back in his chair, mulling it over. "So Rita was somewhere in a lab hooked up to a living person that can... see? What Rita saw? And this is going to help you catch Trinity."
He looked up at Fisher who smiled. "You've got the gist."
"So what do you need from me?" Dexter's tone was unreadable.
Fisher hesitated. "Well, thanks to the efforts at the stitch lab, we managed to clear your name from the FBI's list of suspects. The description of the attack we gleaned from Rita's memories verifies that you were not there at the time of the murder. However, we're still curious why the Trinity Killer would target Rita. Do you know of any interactions she might have had with an older white male?"
"No, none that I can think of," Dexter replied. What all did they see in Rita's memories?
Just then, the door to Dexter's lab opened again and his adoptive sailor-mouthed sister entered.
"Oh, fuck, sorry Dex, I didn't realize you were meeting with someone-" Deb started to see herself out, but Dexter took the opportunity to weasel out of the detective's questioning.
"Detective Fisher, this is my sister, Detective Debra Morgan," Dexter stood up to make the formal introduction. "And Deb, this is Detective Quincy Fisher, one of the detectives now on the Trinity Killer case."
Fisher also stood, extending a hand for Debra. She smiled and shook his hand, making eye contact as she said, "Nice to meet you, Detective Fisher. Anything I can help you with? Dexter and I both worked on the Trinity Killer case up 'til now, so we might be able to point you in the right direction." Deb wasn't masking the bitter tone in her voice. She hated that the FBI had pulled the rug out from under Miami Metro and took over the whole operation.
Smiling, Fisher seemed unphased by her hostility. "I just finished telling Dexter here some highly classified information. Can I trust you to keep this among department officials only?" He addressed Deb with a serious expression.
She smirked, intrigued, and stifled a laugh. "Uh, yes," she said, "go on."
"The FBI took Rita's body to a lab where one of our experts was stitched to her brain and she observed your sister-in-law's memories-"
"The stitcher's a 'she'?" Dexter interrupted. I've got to find this 'stitch' lab, he thought.
Fisher glossed over the slip. "Um, the point is, our team has discovered that your brother did not kill his wife, Rita-"
Deb flared up. "Well no shit, Sherlock. Dexter loved Rita. Are you done pouring salt into fresh wounds?"
Fisher threw his hands up defensively. "I wasn't finished! We just need to get all the details of the story, like... why Dexter suddenly wanted to take his honeymoon with Rita," he said, turning to look at Dexter.
"Did you feel like she was in danger?" Fisher's voice grew darker with each question. "Threatened somehow? That she'd be safe, in the Keys, with Harrison? Did you know the Trinity Killer was going to target your home? Break in and kill your wife?"
Dexter didn't break. His expression remained the same. Debra's face was twisted in anger, and she jumped to Dexter's defense, her voice escalating. "Now you listen here, you scummy fuck-for-brains dickbag detective, my brother-"
"Deb, please," Dexter raised a hand to interject. "Detective Fisher, I think we should meet another time to go over the details."
Fisher laughed cynically. "Okay, alright. We'll do it your way."
He moved towards the door, smoothing out the lines of his suit jacket. "I'll be in touch. Deb, pleasure meetin' you," he winked at the tall brunette detective who rolled her eyes in return. The detective departed, and Dexter and Deb exchanged glances of disbelief.
"What an... asshole." Deb said after a minute. They both watched him through the blinds as he casually sauntered out of the office.
That evening after work, Dexter drove to Debra's apartment, one that had once belonged to him. He had been staying with her since Rita's death. It was too painful to live in the house where he had found Rita. It was truly still a crime scene, thick with Rita's blood, a delightful mess…
Deb's apartment was messy, but it made Dexter smile. Some things never change.
He locked the door behind him, dropping his things on the floor near the desk and taking a seat. Dexter pulled out his laptop and opened it on the desk, quickly pulling up a search for "Stitching" that amounted to nothing. He rested his head in his hand, tapping irritably with the other hand.
Debra walked out of her bedroom, leaving the door cracked slightly and tiptoeing down the hall. She spotted Dexter and waved excitedly, and then motioned towards the door,
"Just got the little man down for a nap," she whispered.
Dexter's mind lingered on Harrison. "I'm so glad he's safe," Dexter replied.
"Yeah, for real. Fucking miracle," Deb smiled half-heartedly. "So what are you gonna do about that dick FBI detective and his fucking team or whatever?"
"I'm gonna meet him again," Dexter said nonchalantly. "I assume he'll call me."
The way he blew it off made Debra uneasy. "Dexter, this is serious," she said as she sat down on the edge of the desk. "If he calls you, you call me, got it?" She gave him a tense stare.
"Listen, Deb, I don't need your help-"
"Dammit, Dexter! You do!"
In the distance, Harrison cried softly, awoken by the shouting. Deb rolled her eyes.
"Great, fucking great," she mumbled, turning on her heel to go ease him back to sleep.
Dexter sighed, and returned to the search bar, this time typing "Detective Quincy Fisher" which yielded some promising links. Dexter learned that Detective Fisher closed many high profile homicide cases over the past year. Probably with the help of the stitcher program,Dexter thought. How does stitching work? This new element in the forensic equation, the idea that a person's memories can survive beyond death, and worse, determine someone's guilt. Dexter dug deeper, searching the record database for Quincy Fisher to obtain his home address.
At least I never leave brains behind that could be 'stitched.'
He closed his laptop.
Kirsten entered the house that night, noticing the door was unlocked, and called out to her roommate. "Camille?"
"It's so nice to finally meet you, Kirsten," said an unfamiliar man's voice. Kirsten's mind immediately went to Arthur Mitchell, Trinity Killer, Rita's murderer, adult male who waits like a predator, lurking inside the house until someone comes home. But when the intruder stepped into the light, she scowled, her fear replaced with anger.
Instead, Lez Turner stepped into the light, his business suit and silver coiffe still in tact. He smiled darkly, waiting for Kirsten to say something.
"How'd you get in here?" She said, tilting her head.
"My old friend Ed Clark gave me a key to his house-" Turner began smugly.
"And your right to use it ended when Ed died and it became my house." Kirsten said matter-of-factly, her blonde ponytail swaying with sass.
A moment of awkward tension passed before he apologized. "Sorry," he said, smiling. "Can we talk?"
Kirsten seemed uninterested. "Look, Mr. Turner, it's been a long day, can we do this another time? I can't imagine what is so important-"
Turner interrupted. "Alright, then, I'll get straight to the point. The murder cases we handle are test runs for something bigger, the real purpose of the program."
"Test runs for what?" Kirsten blinked.
"I don't know."
Bullshit. Kirsten crossed her arms. "I don't believe that the director of a program like this doesn't know its true purpose. Why are you telling me this?"
Turner began to pace around their living room. "No one single person in the agency knows everything. That's how they keep the program safe. That's how they keep us all safe. Kirsten at some point you have to believe that the people around you actually have your best interest in mind."
"So we just keep doing what we're doing, ask no questions, until someone decides to let us in on the big secret?" Arms still crossed, Kirsten could see where this conversation was heading - the classic keep-your-nose-out-of-it lecture.
"Well, it's worked for me," Turner said smartly.
"Well I'm not you," Kirsten replied with a venom tongue.
"No, you're not." He turned to leave. "Thanks for listening."
"Wait!" Kirsten caught the door as he started to close it behind him. "Wait, I have to ask... Did Ed Clark commit suicide?"
Turner seemed to consider his answer before saying flatly, "No."
Kirsten felt relieved, but now the new mystery remained: "How did he die?"
"Protecting you." And with that, Turner shut the door closed behind him, leaving Kirsten to mull over the newly gleaned piece of the Stitcher's program puzzle that always seemed to directly interfere with her family.
Protecting me from what?
The next morning, Debra woke up early and headed out.
She rang Dexter to let him know where he could find her, since she couldn't find him.
"You've reached the voicemail box of 'Dexter Morgan.' At the tone, please leave your message."
"Hey Dex, it's Deb, Quinn called, and the FBI has released the crime scene at your house, so there are some things I want to do there and you don't have to worry about a thing. Call me if you need me, or if you just need a break from Harrison."
Debra pulled up to 3319 Meadow Lane, parking her car behind Quinn's patrol car. He was sitting there in the grass out front, waiting for her to arrive. He stood up, brushed himself off, and put his hands in his pockets, grinning.
"Aye, Deb," he greeted her warmly.
She smiled weakly in response, and together they went inside the former Morgan residence.
"I really didn't expect you to come," Deb said to Quinn once they got inside.
"We're partners," he said matter-of-factly. "I'm here. What are we looking for?"
"Nothing," Debra insisted. "Trinity wouldn't leave anything behind."
"What are we doing then?" Quinn followed her as she lead him into the bathroom crime scene.
Blood still stained the tiles on the floor, and filled the bathtub where they found Rita, and there were smears in the blood where Dexter found Harrison, sitting in a pool of Rita's blood.
Just like Harry found Dexter, soaked in his mother's blood. Deb shivered.
"I wanted to clean the place up." She said firmly. "Make sure Dexter doesn't see it like this."
"The FBI left it this way," Quinn protested. "They have people who will do that."
Deb handed him a pair of latex gloves, unquestioning.
He sighed, chuckled slightly and slipped them on.
"I didn't get anything out of Dexter," Detective Fisher announced, strolling into the lab. All heads turned to him, and he elaborated. "His sister interrupted our discussion. I'll drop back in on him tomorrow afternoon."
"You think he's hiding something?" Kirsten stated bluntly.
"Well, rushing her off to a honeymoon suite is suspicious," Camille mused. "If she would have made her plane, she might still be alive."
"So you think he knew she was going to get murdered, somehow?" Cameron seemed doubtful. "Are you sure it wasn't just a coincidence?"
"Unlikely," Kirsten said, her tone flat. "Maybe I can get more out of him if I question him myself." She stood up, slung her purse on her shoulder and headed for the elevator.
"Kirsten, stop, get back here!" Maggie trotted after her, catching her by the elbow. Kirsten spun around.
"Maggie's right," Fisher chipped in. "You'd be putting yourself in harm's way unnecessarily. Besides, you don't have any reason to insert yourself into Dexter Morgan's life. What if he's innocent?"
"That's what I'm going to find out." and with that, Kirsten jerked her arm loose and stormed off, spinning around to flash everyone a sardonic smile as the elevator doors shut.
Cameron looked at Linus.
Linus shook his head. "Dude, don't do it."
"I'm going after her," Cameron said, sighing.
Linus scoffed. "Of course you are, man."
Camille rolled her eyes. "Let's go, guys. We can't let her go alone."
Kirsten strolled out onto the street, arm raised to hail a taxi. It was only a minute before one swung over in front of her. She climbed in the back seat.
"3319 Meadow Lane," Kirsten said to the taxi driver.
"Got it," he replied, accelerating away from the crowded Chinese restaurant.
"This much blood, usually you call Dexter." Quinn laughed, ribbing Deb as they finished the last of the clean-up undertaking.
Deb smiled weakly. Quinn got the hint. "How you holdin' up?" He said, his tone gentle.
Deb sniffed. "Okay, I guess. I mean, you know my brother. It's a little hard to tell."
"No," Quinn said, putting an arm around her. "I mean you. How are you holding up?"
"Oh," Deb shrugged. "Fine." She wiped away a tear. "I'm not used to having to be the strong one, you know? It's always been Dexter. And now…"
"He's the strong one?" Quinn asked. "To me, it's always seemed the other way around."
"I swear to God, I can't even…" Deb started crying. "I can't even tell what he's thinking."
"Sorry," Quinn whispered, reaching to wrap her up in his arms. "I didn't mean to make things worse."
"It's okay," Deb whispered, collapsing into him.
She suddenly kissed him,
and hard.
Quinn pulled away, confused but not complaining. "What are you doing?"
"I don't know," Deb said, and she kissed him again. This time he kissed back, and the two of them pressed up against the Morgans' kitchen counter, Deb quickly unbuckling Quinn's belt and slinging it onto the counter with a clang, hungrily unbuttoning his shirt and pushing it off his shoulders, then stripping off her own. They moved to the kitchen floor, sliding out of jeans and into each others' arms in the still-bloody house where her sister-in-law was brutally murdered. Deb straddled him as he lay on the floor, bare skin cool against the kitchen tile, and he reached up and unhooked her bra with one hand; it unlatched and she shrugged it off, exposing herself and grinning coyly.
Meanwhile, Dexter, with Harrison in tow, sat in his car like a silent prowler, stalking Detective Fisher. He had followed him from his apartment in downtown Miami to this Chinese restaurant, Jade Fog, all the while Harrison slept soundly in the backseat.
Fisher's been inside a long time, Dexter made a mental note. Is this some sort of cover for the stitch lab? A Chinese restaurant?
That's really the perfect cover, Dexter thought. Lots of people coming and going, lax security, under the radar.
He checked the time on his phone. Shit, he thought, I need to get ready for Rita's funeral. Just as he was about to start his car, a tall, thin girl with a sleek blonde ponytail came strutting out of the restaurant, arm raised in an effort to hail a taxi. The woman reminded him of Rita, briefly, but something else about her was curious. Dexter had been waiting out front of the restaurant for nearly an hour and never saw her go inside, yet here she was, coming out.
Is that the girl? The 'stitcher'?
Harrison started to fuss as he woke up, his crying getting louder. Dexter turned to comfort him, and when he turned back around to look at the girl, she was gone, her taxi speeding off into the streets.
Deb and Quinn lay panting in the kitchen floor. Debra ran her hand through her hair. She pulled herself up suddenly, grabbing her clothes. She stepped into her pants, and slid her arms through the holes of her shirt.
"Do you mind?" She spat out to Quinn who lay contently on the floor, watching her.
"What?" He said, smiling.
"Look somewhere else," she continued to get dressed, turning her back to him.
Just then, someone knocked on the door, a sharp thwack thwack thwack. Quinn chuckled, clutching his clothes and rushing to put them on as Deb walked through the living room and peeked through the blinds.
"It's some blonde," Debra said to Quinn in a hushed voice. She opened the door a crack.
"Hi, can I help you?" Deb said to Kirsten, who was trying to look around her into the house.
"I'm looking for Dexter Morgan," Kirsten stated flatly, "Is he here?"
"Who the fuck are you?" Deb asked callously, running her hands through her messy post-sex hair. "And how do you know Dexter?"
"I'm an old friend of Rita's," Kirsten insisted, smiling sweetly. "I wanted to offer him my condolences. Do you have any idea what happened to her?"
Deb scoffed in disbelief. "Yeah, she was murdered. Now's not a good time. Her funeral is this afternoon, I'm sure you can find Dexter there."
"It's really urgent-" Kirsten began.
"Please," Deb laughed in her face. "I'm his sister, and he's not home, and I can guarantee he doesn't want to talk to you, cause he barely fucking talks to me. Now get out of here."
Kirsten put her hand up to stop the door as Deb tried to close it. "Okay, fine, the truth is I'm working on the Trinity Killer case, I believe you spoke to my associate, Detective Fisher."
"Yeah, I remember that asshole." Deb wasn't laughing anymore. "You and he can both go fuck yourselves."
Quinn, now fully dressed albeit a bit ruffled, approached the door. "Whoa, whoa, Deb, what's going on? Who are you?" Quinn looked at Kirsten.
"Kirsten Clark, I'm working on the Trinity Killer case." She put out her hand, and Quinn melted right into it.
"Kirsten Clark, eh? I'm Detective Joey Quinn, it's nice to meet you," he said, holding the handshake a second too long.
Deb shot them both a dirty look and grabbed her keys, stormed past Kirsten, slamming the driver door shut and revving her car's engine to life; she sped off down the street before Kirsten or Quinn could get a word out.
"Dont mind Deb," Quinn said with a laugh, putting his hands in his pockets. "She's worked up over this whole situation. How can I help you, Kirsten?"
"I came here looking for Dexter. I have some things I need to ask him about his wife, Rita. I believe he knows something about the Trinity Killer he isn't telling us, and he may have known his wife was in danger before she died."
Quinn raised an eyebrow. "Whoa, that's a hefty accusation," he said.
"I'm not making accusations, I just need to speak with him," Kirsten said peering around Quinn inside the house. Quinn stepped out onto the porch, shutting the door to 3319 Meadow Lane behind him.
"Look, Kirsten, I'm on your side. Something's off about Dexter. I knew it when I reviewed the 911 call."
Kirsten lit up. "The 911 call that Dexter made?"
"Exactly," Quinn said, "I've got the audio saved to my laptop. Something just ain't right about it… He seems detached, unaffected. Cold, like he's giving a lab report, not like he just found his wife dead. I have my laptop in the car. If you wanna take this somewhere else, we can go listen to it."
"Yes, please," Kirsten followed him back to his car expectantly.
"Oh, did you not drive here?" Quinn asked her, a hint of laughter in his voice.
"No, I took a taxi," she said, matter-of-factly.
Quinn shook his head, laughing. "Alright, get in."
At that moment, the neighbor, Elliot, stepped out of his front door and onto the porch. Quinn and Kirsten both noticed.
"Excuse me a second, I need to question this guy-" Quinn started to say, but Kirsten was already unbuckled and out the passenger door, sauntering up Elliot's lawn.
"Hello, Elliot?" She said, waltzing right up to him. He looked between her and Quinn cautiously.
"Can I help you two?"
"Detective Joey Quinn with Miami Metro Homicide," Quinn said, flashing his badge.
"Um," Elliot started to say as he picked up toys from the yard, "I already talked to the FBI. I told them I didn't see anything. What did you need?"
"How well did you know Rita?" Quinn said firmly.
"Well, you know," Elliot seemed to hesitate. "We're neighbors"
"Yeah," Quinn nodded. "I just… couldn't help but notice how torn up you were about her the other night."
"She was a friend, you know, it was upsetting." Elliot stammered.
"A friend?" Quinn said skeptically. "I was told she might have been more."
Kirsten's eyes studied Quinn's face momentarily before flicking back to Elliot. How does Quinn know about Rita's affair? Did Dexter tell him? Kirsten thought.
Elliot looked at Quinn, and then Kirsten, and back at Quinn, before dropping his gaze to his feet in shame. "Fucking Christ," he managed. "Look, I don't know what you heard, but all me and Rita ever did was kiss, once. And it was nothing. I mean her husband was never around! Anyway, Dexter found out about the indiscretion and came over and punched me out."
"Hmm," Quinn replied. Kirsten smirked. So Quinn didn't know the whole story.
"Thanks, Elliot," He smiled dismissively and Elliot went back to cleaning up his yard.
Kirsten and Quinn got back in his patrol car and he fired up the engine. Kirsten opened her mouth to ask about the 911 call audio, but Quinn beat her to the chase.
"So, what did you want with that guy?" Quinn smiled at her. "You didn't ask any questions, but you rushed up there as soon as you saw him. What was that about?"
"I, um," Kirsten tucked a strand of her blonde hair behind her ear, "I recognized him."
"You… recognized Elliot?" Quinn pulled the car out into the road. He glanced at Kirsten's unreadable expression.
"From the FBI files," she lied smoothly. Quinn seemed to buy it, and Kirsten relaxed.
"So where are we headed?" She asked.
"Somewhere private," Quinn said sternly. "We can go back to my place."
"Actually," Kirsten interjected, "I know this great Chinese place…"
"Kirsten, where are you?" Camille shouted into her cell phone once the voicemail tone sounded. "We're getting worried. Call me back."
Maggie stood on the platform with her arms crossed, discussing something in quiet whispers with Detective Fisher.
Cameron paced back and forth around the tank, muttering occasionally to himself, checking his phone frequently. Linus sat in his desk chair, playing a game on his computer.
Ding! The elevator opened, and Kirsten walked in with Joey Quinn.
"Kirsten!" Camille shouted, "Where the hell have you been? We followed you to the Morgan's address but you weren't there."
Quinn's eyes widened. "What the fuck is all this?" He gestured around the room.
Cameron laughed nervously. "Welcome to the Stitch Lab."
Quinn walked around the tank as Maggie shot daggers at Kirsten.
"Um, Kirsten, you know you're not supposed to just tell anybody and everybody about what we do here, right?" Camille leaned in to sort-of whisper to Kirsten.
"I haven't told him anything about what we do here, but he's going to help us figure out what Dexter's not telling us," Kirsten said, lacking emotion in her voice.
"What's the tank for?" Quinn said as he rapped his knuckles against its glass wall.
"We insert Kirsten's consciousness into dead people's' brains," Camille said casually.
"Huh?" Quinn looked up at her. Maggie and Fisher seemed uncomfortable, but watched from the platform.
"We work for a secret government agency that hacks into the brains of corpses and reads their memories," Kirsten chimed in.
"No kidding," Quinn laughed. "Fucking bad ass. I'm in. What can I do to help?"
"I want you to figure out if Dexter came in contact with the Trinity Killer somehow," Kirsten said, taking the initiative. "He had to know that his wife was in danger. I sensed an urgency in his voice - he really loved her. He wanted her safe," Kirsten said, turning to face them all.
"I'll see what I can do," Quinn replied, scratching his head. "It's really out of my hands, though. If Laguerta finds out I've been snooping around on Dexter's trail she'll suspend my ass. The FBI took this case from our department; it looks bad on us if I continue pursuing it," Quinn said, leaning up against the stitch tank, arms crossed.
"If I may interrupt," Fisher said, sighing, "Kirsten, I just got off the phone with Dexter Morgan. I was discussing it privately with Maggie, but it seems appropriate to share, now…"
"Well?" Kirsten demanded.
"I'm arranging to meet with him after his wife's funeral."
Quinn blinked. "Uh, hello, I'm Detective Joey Quinn, and you are?"
"Detective Quincy Fisher," Fisher reached his hand out for Quinn to shake it. He did, reluctantly. The two locked eyes for a moment, but the tension subsided when Maggie spoke.
"Detective Quinn, I'm former CIA-agent Maggie Baptiste. A pleasure to meet you." She smiled politely. Quinn nodded in return.
"Well, I've got to get back to the office," Quinn said, taking his cue to leave.
"I'll be in touch if I hear anything from Dexter," he said privately to Kirsten, touching her arm and smiling sincerely. Kirsten shrugged his hand off and forced a smile back.
After he left, all eyes turned on Kirsten. "You can't bring people into the lab, Kirsten," Maggie scolded. "You put us all in jeopardy when you take these unnecessary risks."
"He's a detective, like Fisher," Kirsten retorted. "I don't see the issue."
Fisher and Maggie exchanged a look of exasperation.
Cameron, Camille, and Linus snickered.
"So, you're going to meet with Dexter tomorrow, Fisher?" Kirsten said, staring at him intently.
"Yes, and I'll let you tag along," he grumbled. Maggie patted his shoulder consolingly.
"I've got something from Quinn," Kirsten began, sitting down at the nearest desk and fishing out a USB storage drive. "It's just more evidence that leads me to believe Dexter Morgan knows more than he's telling us. This is his 911 call from the night he discovered his wife's body."
She loaded up the audio file of Dexter's 911 call:
"This is Dexter Morgan, 3319 Meadow Lane."
"What is your emergency?"
"I just got home and found my wife dead in the bathtub."
"Did you say your wife is dead?"
"Yes, I did. She had an approximately 1-inch incision midway up her right thigh, dissecting the femoral artery."
"Jesus," Camille muttered. "The guy sounds like a robot."
"Maybe he's in shock," Cameron suggested. "He did just find his wife dead in the bathtub of their home."
"He doesn't sound surprised to me," Fisher commented, trying to hide his disgust. "He sounds practiced."
"He had no emotion in his voice," Kirsten realized. Practiced emotion.
He's like me.