Author's Preface: None of these characters are mine. I'm just borrowing them for a bit. Dexter Morgan and the rest are by Jeff Lindsay, but this story is based on the Dexter TV series by Showtime. Oh and this story takes place before Season 1 of Dexter. This story is dedicated to Erik King for his portrayal of Detective James Doakes.

Motherfucker, I swear softly to myself as I hear the squawking code on the police radio. I yank the steering wheel around, ignoring the honking horns and loud curses as I cut across the lane and push down on the accelerator even as I hit the police lights. That shuts them up. Yeah, that's right. Police, you dumb bastards, I snarl at them. What do they know? All they have are minor little problems, small inconveniences, and all that petty shit. Me? I can't even get to the office and get my first cup of coffee in the morning before I get fucking grief, I glare at the still squawking radio.

Just another typical day in Miami, I think to myself darkly.

Dexter: Doakes' Prologue

The unis are busy stringing up police tape and I take a quick glance around the parking lot for the news vans. I grunt in mild surprise and pleasure when I don't spot any. What do you know? I guess the fucking newsies must sleep in late and drive leisurely into the office and get a nice cup of their coffee before they come out to harass us cops. They're like a bunch of vultures circling for fresh meat. Can't last of course. The newsies can sniff out a bloody scene like this faster than sharks. 'If it's bleeds, it leads,' I remember is their damn motto.

I park the car and pop the door to hop out, searching for the lead officer. I see the distinctive fedora first.

Angel Batista. As near as I can tell, Angel only takes off the thing when he's in bed or in church. And I retain serious doubts about the first. Why he wears it is a mystery. He isn't balding noticeably so it isn't for vanity and it can't provide that much shade from the sun.

I stride forward, flash my badge at the uniform and he waves me through. "Batista!" I call out in a bellow.

"Doakes," Angel replies with an affable smile and a nod. I grunt.

I like Batista. I really do. As a person. As a cop though, I have doubts. Angel is competent enough; but he seems too easy going, too genial, too likeable. It's a nice quality for a friend or a buddy. But not a police officer.

Because cops can't be pleasant, they can't be friendly, they can't be nice guys. They have to be mean and nasty and total bastards to get the job done and catch the bad guys who are even bigger and nastier bastards.

Angel worries me. Because he might not have the stones to do it. I trust him to run an investigation from behind a desk, but I'm wary if he has to back me up in the field.

"What do we got?" I demand bluntly, getting to business.

"Four bodies. We got two guys over here," Angel points towards the sheet covered corpses, "another one there," a thumb jerk at another corpse that hasn't been covered yet, "and another one around back. We got a blood trail that we think belongs to the fourth vic. Looks like he was dragged there."

"What do you think?"

Batista reached up and tilted his hat back a bit and chewed the inside of his cheek. "Drug deal gone bad. These guys all got drug possession and selling charges on their sheets, along with a bunch of other stuff; mostly small time crap like drunk and disorderly and DUI's."

Lovely. Just what I need to perk up my fucking day. I have to solve the murders of a bunch of lowlife scumbags who probably got blown away by another bunch of lowlife scumbags. Frankly, I'd like to wash my hands of this whole affair and let them waste one another. But these fuckers have a tendency to not pay attention to any accidental bystanders. So it's best to cut them off and prevent that shit from happening.

I eyed the deserted surroundings. Well, at least these guys aren't total sociopaths in not lighting it up in a crowded spot … or more likely they just didn't want to get caught.

"Any security cameras? Witnesses?" I ask, already knowing the answer.

"De Nada on both buddy," Batista said shaking his head in negation.

Of course. It couldn't be that easy now could it? Doakes sighed to himself. This might become a cold case. Hopefully, the morons would get drunk or high and start bragging about it and it might reach the ears of a few of Doakes' informants. Amazingly enough, a lot of these stupid idiots would cheerfully confess to all sorts of heinous crimes to each other. As if they were trying to show just how bad muthas they were. He could just hear his ex-wife snort and proclaim that it was more like little boys whipping out their little dicks and proudly measuring them for one another.

Batista suddenly straightened and waved a c'mere gesture with a broad grin. "Oh good! Morgan's here."

Doakes blinked. "Who?"

"Oh that's right, you haven't met him. He was on vacation when you transferred in."

Doakes turned to see a white guy approaching the taped off area. He was perhaps an inch or so taller than him, Doakes judged and a solid build. Brown hair, not extraordinarily handsome but nice features. He fished into his pocket and extracting an ID card strung on a lanyard that he looped over his neck. He showed it to the patrol officer who obligingly lifted the tape, allowing him to duck under.

"Dexter!" Batista summoned the guy and proceeded to slap an affectionate hand on his shoulder. "Dex, this is Detective Sergeant James Doakes. Doakes, this is Dexter Morgan, one of our best CSI guys."

"I'm more blood splatter analysis," the lab tech quietly corrects Batista and seems to almost belatedly remember to stick out a hand for Doakes to take and shake.

Doakes was surprised at the strength in the grip. He took a closer look and noticed how fit Morgan looked. All of the lab techs that he had met were geeks who weren't exactly the most physically fit of individuals; either being extremely skinny or overweight. Morgan had some solid muscle on his frame; he looked fit enough to be a uniform cop.

"Yeah, yeah. Blood trails, blood sprays, that kinda stuff. This is right up your alley Dex," Batista proclaims genially, steering them towards the bodies.

I scowl as I watch Morgan set his kit down and begin examining the area carefully. Almost reverently, even. Shit, what a goddamn weirdo, I think to myself as I walk away to get some unis to canvass the area. Doubt it will do any good, but that's what good police work is; actual legwork. He wasn't holding his breath for the lab geeks to wring out anything useful for him for it to do any fucking good.

A week had passed since the Motel Shootings and I hadn't gotten anywhere with interrogating friends, family, and even enemies of the four dirtbags. I study the lists again, combing for somebody to question again, when…

"Hey."

I flinch, grabbing for my holstered gun before I recognize what's-his-name, the Blood Guy standing behind me. He has his hands raised up soothingly. "Sorry about that, didn't mean to startle you…"

I frown and slowly force myself to relax, sliding my half-drawn gun back into the holster. But my heart is thumping, my pulse is racing, I can feel my blood pounding…

In one of his hands is a file folder. "Got my report all typed up for you Detective. Hope it helps," he says with the same genial smile as he lays it on my desk.

I don't move, I don't even breath as I watch him walk away. Don't turn your back on him Doakes, keep your goddamn eyes on him—I hear my combat instincts whispering. He snuck up on me. I didn't even realize it until he was already there, well within his reach. If he had wanted to, he coulda killed me. I shake my head. Stop it. Stop it. He's a lab weenie. He's a cop for cryin' out loud!

But those dead eyes gazing calmly at me. He didn't even blink or recoil reflexively when I went for my gun—like he wasn't afraid. He wasn't afraid.

Once he was out of sight, I sat back down heavily and stare at the file folder for a long moment, wondering why I had reacted that badly. Why I had freaked out so badly. My hand was shaking as I carefully snapped the safety holster back onto my gun.

Damn.

I curse as I stalk into the PD. Another fucking dead end! I'm out of leads and running on fumes. I need something to find the Motel Shooters or else I'm going to have to put it in the cold case file...

"Hey, wanna doughnut?" I hear a muffled voice on the other side of the closed doors of Homicide Division. I frown at the vaguely familiar voice.

"Oh sure, thanks!" a second voice responds eagerly.

I identify Batista easily enough with a faint snort. If there was the stereotype that all cops scarf donuts down like starving hyenas; Batista only manages to reinforce it. The man could be shot multiple times, bleeding out on the damn pavement and all it would take was a waving a doughnut under his nose and he'd jump up to shove it down his throat.

Forget the defib paddles, EMTs should stock up on Krispy Kremes.

I shove the door open and stride through to see Batista chewing merrily away. "Hey Doakes! Free doughnuts!" he calls out. I fight the urge to tell him not to talk with his mouth full.

The person holding the doughnut box turns and I see dead eyes gazing at me. I could see myself dying in them. Being cut, mutilated—"What the FUCK are you doing here?" I yell.

Everyone stopped and looked at Doakes in shocked surprise. He saw open mouths, wide eyes everywhere he looked.

Well almost everyone, Doakes noted sourly.

Dexter Morgan didn't make a face, didn't even blink. "OK, you don't eat doughnuts. Good to know," he said blandly.

"Close the door Doakes," LaGuerta orders.

I silently obey.

"Sit down."

I grimace as I take the chair in front of the desk. This feels like a private dressing down. I mentally review my open cases for which ones haven't had…

"I understand you've been having some friction with one of our forensic specialists?"

I scowled. For once, I don't think that Morgan is the one who went tattling to LaGuerta though. Doesn't fit. Morgan isn't the type to care. Instead, I folded my arms across my chest. "It's my business with Morgan."

"I'm making it my business Sergeant! I'm the Lieutenant here!" LaGuerta angrily snapped. Then she bit back her next response and visually reigns in her temper. "Doakes … you're a good cop. One of the best I know. A tenacious investigator," she began.

I settle back, feeling a mulish expression forming on my brow.

"Yeah, but," she stressed, clearly noticing my response with some amusement. "You're not exactly one of the most popular cops either. You probably got told this a lot since preschool but you don't work or play well with others."

I cracked a brief smile at that.

"Look, Morgan happens to be one of the best forensic specialists around. He's the top blood splatter analyst in Florida. That's the entire state. We're lucky to have him. He gets consulted on cases not just from our precinct but from across the state and even nationally. And the Commissioner likes that. The prestige is good for us. So, if the Miami-Dade PD has to consider losing one of the top nationally regarded forensic specialists or a mere police sergeant; who the fuck do you think they're going to pick … SERGEANT."

LaGuerta sighed and closed her eyes, massaging the bridge of her nose absently. Finally she opened her eyes and looked directly at Doakes. "You don't like him. Fine. But you do have to work with him on occasion. So you keep it professional."

Doakes grimaced and fidgeted in his seat. "Fine," he gritted out.

LaGuerta broke out in a weary smile, "Glad to hear it. Now get out of here, I've got paperwork to do."

Keep it professional huh? I think to myself as I stalk back to my desk. Fine. I am a detective after all. Nothing unprofessional about doing a little detective work on a suspect after all…

Nothing.

I've checked him out top to bottom for nearly a fucking month. His record is completely clean. In fact, he's so clean, he squeaks. This guy could be a fucking cub scout troop leader.

His father was a highly decorated detective in the Miami-Dade PD with a bulging file of commendations and successfully closed cases. Mom used to be a police file clerk before she retired to become a housewife. Hell, his sister is a freakin' police officer herself. I flipped through her rather thin file. Well, she just graduated the academy and was assigned to Vice. I smirk slightly. Must be a looker to get handed that. And does not like too much, I decide seeing all of the transfer requests in her name which constituted over half of her file's size. His grandfather and great-grandfather were regular beat cops. Hell, the whole family is like that. They're all cops.

OK, maybe I overreacted. Maybe I was tired and cranky. Didn't have my coffee that morning, I remembered. Damn. I hate this. I fucking hate this. I might have to apologize to the creepy bastard. Fuck.

"DOAKES! We got a homicide!"

Shit. If it's not one fucking thing, it's another…

I stare down at the body with a scowl and faintly queasy stomach. And that was saying something considering how much bloody gore I have seen on the job. I growl, "This is pretty fucked up shit."

Batista walks up. He glances down and then averts his gaze, clearly fighting his gag reflex and reports, "The CSI guys are on the way."

I nod. "Good. I want them to photograph, analyze, spectrograph, and whatever shit the geeks need to do. The more they can tell us, the better."

It was a measure of how desperate he was that he was willing to allow the forensics techs here. This kind of freaky sick stuff was not your common, everyday murder—Doakes had a bad feeling that this was the work of some psycho sicko out there and normal police canvassing and questioning of associates of the vic wasn't going to cut it here. They needed information. Any information that the geeks could dig up for them.

Batista glances down. "Jesus, I hope she was dead before the asshole—" he breaks off, struggling to control his heaving.

I breathe through my mouth, struggling not to smell the decomposing flesh and find myself praying for that too. But cynically, I doubt it. The sick motherfucker would probably get off on this— I break that thought off. I'll get him, I silently promise. I'll find the bastard who did this to you and throw his ass in jail for the rest of his miserable life…

Glancing up I see Morgan strolling forward, that banal smile on his face. Then it happens. I see it. For a second, I see his eyes light up as he studies the body. I actually see him reacting. Not this … this fake shit.

Son of a bitch. Son of a bitch!

You aren't a creepy bastard Morgan. You aren't a pervert. Or a deviant. Or eccentric. No, I can tell. There is something in you. Something dangerous. Something I don't like. Something that scares me. Something that makes everything that I am, every instinct I have as a cop to scream that I should take my gun out and shoot you dead. Because it's either me or you. Me or you, you son of a bitch.

I don't care who your damn Daddy was or how great a cop he was. I don't care if the Lieutenant thinks you shit gold. I don't care if the rest of the fucking Miami-Dade Police Department likes you over me. I don't care about any of that.

Except proving what you are. What I know you are.

And I will prove it Dexter Morgan. And then the whole world will know just what sort of monster you are.

And you won't be able to hide anymore…

A/N: A friend of mine was always singing praises for the TV series Dexter so out of curiosity, I borrowed Season 1 of Dexter but I found it a trifle bit disturbing after a few episodes. Glorifying a serial killer as the hero was not something I cared for. Being a vigilante is one thing, but the way Dexter commits his crimes and the way he takes his blood samples for souvenirs was just too much over the top for me.

In all honesty, I actually prefer Marvel Comics' Punisher over to Dexter. He kills his victims too, but he just shoots them. Bam. It's over. He doesn't get off on torturing them or keeping mementos. I don't particularly like the Punisher either but like I said, I prefer him over Dex.

I did find myself compelled to watch to the finale and wasn't too surprised to find myself not really caring to spent more money to watch more of the series. Surprisingly, I found myself staring at a blank computer screen and starting to type out a story based on James Doakes of all people.