Title: "The Pursuit of…"

Pairing: Brief reference to Dexter and Rita, but no "screen time" for Rita

Rating: M

Summary: Dexter and Debra's pursuits bring them uncomfortably close to one another's secrets. Set a few months after seasontwo. The point of view alternates between Debra and Dexter.

Disclaimer: The characters and premise of this story are owned by Showtime and Jeff Lindsay, not me. Check out the third season of Dexter, beginning on Showtime on September 28th, or Lindsay's Darkly Dreaming Dexter for the real thing!

General Notes: My story is based on Showtime's version of Dexter. To break down the rating, I'd give this a strong M for violence, an M for language, and a very light T for sexual content (just a very brief reference). This story contains numerous spoilers for seasons one and two. Although I've been reading fanfiction in various fandoms for five or six years, this is the first work of fanfiction I've ever written. Reviews or comments of any kind are appreciated!

Notes for This Chapter: None.

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Chapter 1

Debra

A year ago I'd have said LaGuerta was the last person I'd ever want to share drinks with on a Friday night, but, since the end of the Bay Harbor Butcher case, that was exactly what we'd done every week. Our friendship hadn't been intentional, and we were still too unalike and too continually at odds for it to be a peaceful one. We weren't the kind of friends that went on shopping dates or gossiped about coworkers. But everyone else was constantly giving her the sideways "there's the freak that trusted a serial killer" look I knew so well, and the shock of it all had left her a much more reserved person that I could respect, if not always like. And, of course, I'd been the only one to offer her any kind of support as she tried to commemorate Doakes's life. It had been sort of inevitable.

But it wasn't simple pity that made me accept her first invitation to go to the bar down the street after work one evening; I needed someone who understood what I'd gone through as much as she did, and LaGuerta was the only other person around who'd known a serial killer intimately. Plus the fact that the rest of the office seemed to feel I'd been sleeping with the enemy during my time with Lundy left me nearly as ostracized as LaGuerta.

So we found ourselves once again sitting in a tiny booth with a beer-stained table and half-finished drinks between us, assaulted alternately by the obnoxiously upbeat music playing through the speakers and the stink of too many sweaty bodies crowded into one place.

The conversation had fallen into a morose lull when she lifted her glass to her lips for a moment, seeming to steel herself. "I've been going through the case files on the Bay Harbor Butcher these past few weeks."

I winced.

"Yeah. Sure, that makes sense. I wouldn't tell anyone else—they wouldn't get it, you know?—but, fuck, I spent hours going through the files on the Ice Truck Killer after the case was closed. I kept trying to force myself to make what I was reading fit with my memories. Even after being strangled, tied up, and nearly hacked to pieces by Rudy, it took me a while to really accept that this monster and the man who had said and done all the right things and been so God damned perfect were the same person." I took a deep breath, trying to steady myself. Even now, thinking of that night on the boat and afterwards sent a shiver under my skin despite the Miami heat.

"I think I know what you mean, but that's not why I'm doing this. Debra, James wasn't the Bay Harbor Butcher, I am absolutely certain of it." She must have seen the doubt in my face, because she hurriedly continued. "Just hear me out. I've gone through all the files and compared them to my own notes. Like I tried to tell everyone, he could not physically have been there to commit some of these murders! He was with me. I know my books aren't admissible as evidence now, but there are his service records, too—He was out of the country when some of these bodies were dumped."

"Maria…" She continued on, undaunted.

"But no, that wasn't enough for anyone. So I kept digging. I can't do anything more to show that it couldn't have been James who committed these murders, but if I could find evidence of the real killer, that might change things. There was no trial. Whoever did this is still out there and we can still make him pay. I can still clear James's name." Her voice, so fervent and determined throughout, wavered on the last few words. I'd never thought that I would be glad I had nearly been Rudy's last victim, but at least the experience had made it impossible for me to completely deny what he had been, even if I still struggled to make sense of it at times. I tried a logical approach.

"No bodies have been found since the case was closed."

"So he moved or found a better dumping ground."

"But the slides…"

"James was trying to get the slides tested at a lab in Haiti. They weren't his, I'm sure of it. He must have found out who the Bay Harbor Butcher was and taken them. We still know the killer is still one of our own, so James probably wanted proof before accusing him."

"Why wouldn't he just go straight to Lundy?" I tried, still feeling an internal twinge at speaking that name. She gave a short laugh with no humor in it.

"Because James could be really pigheaded. They're saying he had a need to dispense 'personal justice,' and that's true. He always did things on his own when he could, and he sometimes bent the rules to make things right. I was his partner; I know."

I hated to keep pushing this when she was already in so much pain, but the sooner she accepted what Doakes had been, the better it would be for her in the long run. LaGuerta had never struck me as someone who needed to be coddled, and she certainly never did anything to spare me. I might as well return the favor.

"There was a dismembered body found with him at that cabin." The trump card, I thought.

"I don't know exactly how to explain that yet, but I'm certain he was being framed. It's all too perfect. The killer is found dead by apparent suicide with his last victim conveniently right there? And a bag of murder weapons with his fingerprints all over them just happens to be picked up only a few feet off a pier at nearly the same time? But none of this is my point. It won't prove anything in anyone's mind, I know." I could hear the resigned frustration in her voice. "So it's not scenarios and alibis for the past murders I'm focusing on now. It's evidence of new murders. If I can show that the Bay Harbor Butcher is still active, everyone will have to realize that James is innocent."

I didn't know what to say before her blind faith in Doakes, so I dropped my gaze to the drink between my hands.

"Debra… will you help me? I'm not asking you to believe me yet, but I'll always be a step behind him if I keep trying to do this on my own. I'm done with the old files on the case. I need to find his new victims, and that means looking at the files of every murderer or suspected murderer that goes missing in Miami. It's impossible, I know, but I have to at least try, and I'll be twice as likely to track him down if you're with me on this. Please?"

I wanted to say no, told myself I should say no. Dragging this out would only make things more painful for her, not to mention working on this futile task in my spare time would pretty much put an end to any chance of me having a life outside the office for the foreseeable future. But the nearly beaten, helpless tone of her voice, so unlike the LaGuerta I'd known and hated for so long, got to me, and I found myself agreeing.

"A month. Ok? I'll help you for a month, but if nothing turns up by then…"

"Fine. That's plenty of time. This killer may be a monster, but he's also human—he's made some kind of mistake, and we'll find it." She was the most animated I'd seen her since the funeral.

I didn't share her certainty, but I nodded anyway.

"Thank you, Deb. Thank you." Her voice wavered again, but her eyes were steady.

--

It was obvious to everyone that LaGuerta had simply been going through the motions of her job since the federal finger was pointed at her former partner. And yet in some ways she was a better lieutenant than she had ever been in the past. After watching the thorough vilification of Doakes by the press—the faceless idea of a vigilante turned out to be easier for the papers and public to stomach than a flesh-and-blood man with a background in special ops and butchery—press conferences had lost all their appeal for her, as had the political games she'd once pursued with such ruthless enthusiasm. Now she oversaw the working of the precinct's cases with quiet efficiency, exercising her authority only when necessary in a largely hands-off approach that once would have been completely foreign to her nature.

But now I saw her attack the Bay Harbor Butcher case in her off hours with a passionate determination she'd never before shown for anything but climbing the ranks of the Miami PD.

We met after work three nights a week to go over the notes we'd made on the case files, and, despite my intentions, I found myself caught up in our work. I'd never have admitted it to her, but I, like everyone else, had initially suspected that LaGuerta might have tweaked her notes to provide Doakes with a more solid alibi. I knew how easy it was to blind yourself to the truth where love was concerned. After looking at her books, however, I was pretty certain she was being honest. It turned out the lieutenant had an anal streak that rivaled my brother's when it came to organization. I never would have guessed it by the fast-and-loose investigative style that had once been her signature. I tried to maintain some perspective, but her points seemed more and more convincing and her certainty increasingly infectious, even as we repeatedly came up empty handed as we searched the files for anything overlooked that might connect them to the Butcher.

That LaGuerta's promotion to lieutenant had been purely political had been an axiom around the precinct since the day it was announced, and I'd used numerous variations of the theme of "idiot" to describe her often enough behind her back. Her willingness to put on blinders and remain fixated on her own interpretation of events had been the bane of my existence for years, and her faith in Doakes was no different. Yet, if her investigative techniques lacked inspiration, even I had to admit that, on this particular case, she made up for that lack with a thoroughness to rival the best detectives in the precinct. I felt like I was in high school again as we filled books with scribbled notes and binders with photocopies made from case files, which we flagged with a rainbow of sticky notes.

We started by tracking down every member of the force that had left the precinct since the Butcher murders had seemingly stopped and investigating deeply enough to assure ourselves that none of them was our man—that was my idea, and I was proud that it had been something LaGuerta hadn't thought to do. To her credit, she accepted the idea without a belittling word. Fortunately, the number of Miami PD staff that had left in the past few months was small, and all of them had air-tight alibis for one or more of the Butcher murders.

Once we knew we wouldn't be wasting our time, we moved on to suspected murderers that had been released on technicalities, made deals for their freedom, or had been found innocent against all the expectations of the investigators. It was an enormous list, impossible even for two people to ever keep up with, but I spent hours each evening in front of my computer with piles of papers, attempting to trace the whereabouts of a selection pulled randomly from the files. Needless to say, most of them didn't appear to be eager to stick around Miami. If the Butcher was still active, he'd only be responsible for a tiny percentage of the suspects who'd gone missing. But I dutifully attempted to follow up on each lead, scouring the files and often the scenes themselves for any traces left by the most efficient serial killer Miami had ever known.

I knew the whole thing was a fool's errand, but, even after the deadline I'd given LaGuerta as the limit of my involvement had long since passed and we still had nothing but conjectures and tentative connections, I had no desire to stop. I was less than eager to dive back into the dating fray after Rudy and Lundy—both disasters in their own ways—and so found my evenings bleakly unoccupied by any activities, erotic or otherwise. Dex was still his usual distant self, and at the moment I didn't feel like attempting to scale the barriers he continually erected around himself.

The Butcher case was as good a distraction as any.