1. All In The Family
The whole idea of a family never used to mean much to me. I'd always felt like a stranger in a strange land, a three-legged alien among two-legged humans. Sometimes like a wolf among sheep. Harry was my guide, Debra was my . . . I don't know what. Nothing made any sense. Until Harrison landed on my doorstep. Then everything changed. Family suddenly meant something. I'm still not sure what, but something. Something good, I think. But I'm not sure.
That's why Elvira Krump was so fascinating. And so puzzling. She had a real family, a brother and two sisters, her only family in the world. But she killed them all, not because they were murderers or rapists or even fibbed on their Facebook accounts; certainly not to prevent the death of innocents, like with Brian. For no particularly good reason I could fathom, certainly not because they deserved it. I didn't understand. Still don't. I mean, her own flesh and blood! Hell, I couldn't kill Debra for all the tea in China, and we don't even share an ounce of flesh or a drop of blood. How could Elvira kill, essentially, a part of herself without a reason?
So I decided to ask her.
I met her at the Florentine Arms Apartments, one of her many real estate holdings. Stan Cooke, AKA Dexter Morgan, was there to view an apartment. Clean, one-bedroom in older building, new carpet and paint, utilities included, lots of character, the ad had said. Translation: a dilapidated dump. Elvira was the ultimate slumlord, a beat-up old bag, about four-foot-eleven, with a flinty glint in her eyes and a pronounced hunchback. But she looked tough, and dangerous. I had to be careful.
"Pleased to meetcha, Mr. Cooke," she said like she was chewing gravel, then slipped into sales mode. "When you see something like this," her hand swept the air indicating the old but well-maintain building lobby, "you know you've found quality."
If only the apartments were half as good.
"I can't wait to see the apartment," I replied with enthusiasm.
"You won't be disappointed, honey."
Neither will you, I forced myself to think, not say. I just nodded and smiled.
Her running monolog of the apartment was more like a tour of the White House. ". . . the fine detailing . . . comfortable proportions . . . touch of history . . . quality materials . . . old-world craftsmanship . . ." No mention of the fact that the place was a dump. Rats, cockroaches, roof leaks, inoperable plumbing, broken door locks, that annoying stench, etc., etc., etc. Then she led me into the "sunny, spacious bedroom." An oversized closet with one small, broken window looking out into the bottom of a tiny, three-story, trash-filled lightwell. She stopped abruptly.
"Kee-riced! What's going on!" she barked. I guess she didn't like the improvements I'd made the night before, the plastic-covered walls and floor and table. The assortment of knives and power tools on the plastic-covered dresser, either. "I'm very sorry, Mr. Cooke. I'm going to have to kick the fat ass of that useless shit-head I pay good money to maintain the building. Been drinking again . . ." But that was never going to happen. She was so enraged, she didn't even notice the needle.
When she woke, she looked around, then locked her eyes on me. "If you wanted to fuck me, honey, you didn't need to tie me up. Just ask." She gave me a smile with a mouthful of crooked, fossilized teeth. Just the thought of sex with Elvira made my goodies retract up into my body and not come down for a very long time.
"Sorry to mislead you, but I only wanted to ask you a question." I sighed. "How could you kill your family, your brother and sisters? Your own flesh and blood."
"How you know about that?"
"I have my ways. Just answer."
She thought for a moment, then laughed. "Well, I tell you, honey, family's the most over-rated commodity on the planet. Spent my whole life trying to get rid of the damn freeloaders. Finally did it. Like getting rid of the proverbial millstone around my neck. All of them."
"You didn't feel anything for them?"
"Oh yeah," she said, suddenly overwhelmed with grief, "I felt something. A double-barbed pain in the ass." Then she laughed again. "A little advice, honey, if you have any family, drown them before they have a chance to reproduce."
"Huh . . ." was all I could say. I'd asked the wrong person. She was obviously less human than I was. I pulled down my visor and turned on my reciprocating power saw. "Well, Ms. Krump," I said, "thanks for your help. And, because you must miss your dearly-departed loved-ones something awful, I'm going to reunite you with them . . . for eternity."
As the saw approached, she smiled up at me with those teeth again and said, "See you in Hell, honey!"
I'll never forget her cackle.
2. The Homecoming
Saturday was a madhouse.
Cody and Astor's grandparents could no longer take care of them. Age-related health problems and all. So they were coming to live with me and Harrison. I'd hired a prima-donna architect and a money-grubbing contractor to convert the living room and kitchen of the adjoining apartment into bedrooms for the kids and a lockable Sanctum Sanctorum for me, a home office. If I'd known in advance what a hassle getting permits from the city was going to be, I'd've just moved. Been simpler. But by the time you get run over by the bureaucratic steamroller, it's too late. You've already spent too much time and energy and money to back out.
Construction was finally finished and the furniture had been delivered. I could relax, at least until Cody and Astor arrived. Harrison seemed to miss the construction, though. Jamie said he liked all the excitement and noise. And he especially liked it when the architect and the contractor fought, shouting at each other and throwing things, which was often. I was just relieved it was over. But I was completely unprepared for the amount of stuff Astor and Cody brought with them. I was concerned there wasn't enough room.
"My closet isn't big enough for all my clothes, Dexter!" Astor complained. So I let her have the hall closet. And part of mine.
"There isn't enough wall space to hang my baseball posters on," Cody whined. So I let him use the living room and my bedroom walls. From then on, every time I undressed, I felt like I was in a locker room being watched by a bunch of overpaid jocks.
I like little kids, so I'm usually pretty easy-going around them. But I realized Cody and Astor weren't really little kids anymore, especially Astor, like Rita had said. They'd reached an age where ice cream and pancakes and tickling didn't work anymore. They were becoming difficult, slowly mutating into alien adults. And I wasn't as good at dealing with adults.
But I tried to think of us as a family. That was important to me, even though I still didn't really understand the concept. And no matter how difficult things got and how frustrated I got, I promised myself I wasn't quite ready to take Elvira's advice and drown them. But I was tempted . . .
And Deb was a lifesaver. She came over, often, to help. She actually had far less patience than I did, but I saw her as an ally. Just her presence gave me strength in my times of need. Like those occasions when certain water sports tempted me.
I don't know what I would've done without her.
3. Resurrection Blues
Things were a little tense on Monday morning at work. Especially for me, after a weekend of non-stop family bliss.
Something was up and everyone knew it. They could feel it. So could I. Debra and LaGuerta and someone from the Mayor's office had been in closed-door meetings the week before with a bunch of suits. FBI or Homeland Security or some other Federal agency, we guessed. Feds for sure. All super hush-hush.
"Come on, Dex," Masuka pleaded, "you must know something. Your sister's head of the goddamned division, for Christ's sake."
"Sorry, Vince," I said, "she tells me less than anyone. Afraid of looking preferential."
"Preferential, my ass! That's what family's for."
"Right," Angel added, "family's everything. Besides, you saved her life. Twice. She owes you tremendo, my friend."
"Sorry, guys," I shrugged, "can't help. She may be my sister, but . . ."
"But she's a cop first," Quinn interrupted. "Totally understand. She's all cop, all the time . . ." a smirk crossed his face, ". . . except in bed."
"Uh, you're talking about my sister . . ." I growled.
"Oh, sorry . . ."
Just then, LaGuerta and Deb came out of the elevator followed by a herd of suits. As they walked passed us, LaGuerta said, "Okay people. Everyone in the briefing room. Now."
"Shit! This is it," Masuka said as he slashed a finger across his throat, "they found out about the triple-x-rated screenplay I submitted to Showtime . . ."
Once everyone was assembled, LaGuerta spoke, "What you're about to hear does not leave this room." Her eyes scanned the room, stopping briefly, but intensely, on each of us. I glanced at Deb for some kind of a sign, but she looked away. Not good. "Let me introduce Special Agent Alex Cross of the FBI."
"Shit, I knew it," Angel mumbled.
"Yeah," Quinn groaned, "we're fucked for sure . . ."
"I'll be brief and to the point," Cross began. "The Bay Harbor Butcher is still out there. James Doakes was the wrong man." He scanned the room, from face to face, looking for reactions. Debra looked uneasy. LaGuerta looked triumphant, that 'I told you so' look on her face. As for me, I just mimicked my fellow workers' shock. I saved my real reaction for when I was alone. No one even noticed me have a minor coronary.
"But we had evidence," Masuka said, "fingerprints and DNA and blood trophies and knives and body parts and, and . . ."
". . . and a shit-load of evidence," Angel finished.
"All circumstantial," Cross answered, seeming bored.
"So how do you know the Butcher's still out there?" Quinn asked.
"Science," Cross replied matter-of-factly. "Let me introduce Intelligence Analyst Michelle Ramsey, who'll explain how we know. Shelly."
A stunningly beautiful young woman with long blond hair and mysterious green eyes stepped out of the crowd of suits. She could've been a fashion model. Or a centerfold – minus suit, plus staples. She smiled and made eye contact with each of us. They must've all taken the same seminar on public speaking.
"Things may be improving," Quinn drooled.
"Hell, yeah," Masuka agreed, "little miss hottie!"
She waited patiently for the room to relax, a little, then began. She nodded to one of the stuffed shirts behind her and an image appeared on the projection screen. "What you're looking at is a graph of disappearances of murderers – wanted, convicted and even suspected – in the Miami area over the last twenty-five years. Superimposed in blue is a similar graph of the nation as a whole. As you can clearly see, both rates were about the same until roughly eleven years ago when Miami's rate went up dramatically, while the nation stayed the same. That's when we theorize the Butcher went into action. And as you can also see, Miami's abnormally high rate remained high even after James Doakes was, uh . . . apprehended." You mean blown up and incinerated, don't you? She paused to gauge reactions, then sailed into a long, unintelligible, mind-numbing lecture on statistical analysis.
I can't believe it, I'm going to get the chair because of a PowerPoint presentation on statistics!
"How can someone so hot," Masuka whispered, "be so incredibly boring?"
"Incredibly fucking boring," Quinn added.
". . . so, what this tells us," she droned on, " is that . . ."
"Um, let me take it from there, Shell," Cross interrupted, looking even more bored than the rest of us. "From our exhaustive statistical analysis, we're forced to conclude one of the following: Either the Butcher had an accomplice who just continued on. Or a copycat vigilante took his place. Or you got the wrong man and the Butcher's still out there. We won't, uh, bore you with the details, but our analysis of the continuing pattern of targets, frequency, lack of bodies, total absence of any evidence, yadda, yadda, yadda, conclusively points to the latter. The Butcher's still out there."
He looked at his watch. "So here's what's going to happen," he said, "we're going to begin a two-pronged attack to get the bastard. The hunt for the real Bay Harbor Butcher." The hunt for Dexter Morgan, he really meant to say. "First, the Bureau's going to cover Miami with a high-tech matrix designed to detect him. And second, you're going to assist us using old-fashioned legwork and paper shuffling to fill in the gaps." He took a moment to let it sink in, then, "We'll take the lead, of course."
LaGuerta stepped forward. "And there will be full cooperation. Is that understood!" She glared at each of us again.
"Uh, what does this high-tech matrix involve," Masuka asked.
Thank you, my fellow lab geek, for asking the question I wanted to ask but didn't dare.
"I'm afraid that's classified," Cross said with a scowl. "But if I could tell you, boy, it'd knock your fucking socks off." I could tell Masuka was displeased. Not nearly as much as me, though.
"I thought there was supposed to be full cooperation," Angel said.
"Since the Butcher is, presumably, an unknown resident of Miami," Cross replied, "it's best to have one-way full cooperation at this time." He was drowned out by low grumbling.
"Enough!" LaGuerta said. "They'll be meeting with each of you individually to detail your involvement. So, unless Deputy Director Cross has something else, this meeting is over."
As we shuffled out, Masuka leaned over to me and whispered, "Boy, indeed! Round-eyed pig!"
4. The Back Burner
My favorite moonlight obsession was officially cancelled. My killing days were over. At least until the FBI lifted its matrix, whatever that was. Probably reverse-engineered alien technology from the UFO that crashed at Roswell. Whatever, it was going to be tough times for ol' Dex. Like someone addicted to cigarettes suddenly dropped on a desert island without tobacco. The withdrawal pains were going to be excruciating. Except, unlike the nicotine fiend, instead of easing with time, they'd get worse. And never end.
I had to focus on work and family. And sublimate my urges and pain. It wasn't easy. I felt like a balloon about to pop. Sitting at my desk, in my new home office, trying to find a solution, it was like I was under attack from all sides. As if the bombshell at work wasn't enough, Astor's pounding rock music in one ear and Cody's pounding video game explosions in the other began to exceed Chinese water torture on steroids. I should have had my Sanctum Sanctorum soundproofed! I began to panic.
"I wonder if serial killers ever snap?" I moaned.
You already snapped, son, Harry said, when you were three. Remember?
"Right," I said aloud, but drowned out by the noise. "How could I forget?" I'd already snapped and gone on a killing rampage. But that was the problem . . . I wasn't finished yet! "So what do I do?"
Try hunting. Always worked for me.
"Sorry, dad, my game's pretty much out of season this week."
As the days and then weeks crawled passed, I needed a kill and I needed it bad. It got so bad, I had to take up meditation. But none of that useless Tibetan stuff. More like repeating, over and over, 'I will not drown Harrison,' 'I will not drown Cody,' 'I will not drown Astor' and, well, you get the idea. I thought being surrounded by family would help ease the urges, ease the pain. But it didn't. It made it worse. I needed to be alone in my formerly-small, orderly, semi-lived-in, museum-quality apartment, but that sanctuary was gone forever. Until the FBI left town, or I could find out how their high-tech matrix worked so I could evade it, the S.S. Dexter Morgan, serial killer extraordinaire, had hit the rocks and was dead in the water. Satisfying my obsession would have to just bubble on the back burner. Indefinitely.
It probably would've been easier just to kill myself . . .
5. Getting To Know You
As much as I could get away with, I stayed in my private lab at work with the door closed and the blinds down. That way, the others couldn't hear my teeth grinding or see my face contorted in perpetual disgruntlement. Or tempt me to kill them. I needed relief. But how? Drugs? Not likely. Too dangerous for a psychopath with kids. I needed something else. But what?
As I sat pondering the solution, Deb stormed in, slamming the door behind her. She looked uncomfortable. Or worried. Or mad. I couldn't tell which. Probably all of the above.
"Well, you got your damned marching orders yet?" she asked.
"Not so far. Probably not much use for an old-fashioned blood spatter geek in the big, bad, high-tech matrix."
"Christ, I hope not! They're sucking the whole division dry. We'd have a hard time investigating a fucking j-walker!"
"Yeah, and it might all be for nothing."
"Huh? What do you mean?"
"I mean, they're basing their entire investigation on a bunch of numbers in a computer. Who knows, the programing may be wrong. The algorithms may be wrong. The data may be wrong. The input may be wrong. And, yes, the results may be wrong. 'Garbage in, garbage out,' as the chip-heads say."
"Are you serious, Dex? Could this whole thing be a wild fucking goose chase?"
"Anything's possible." And starting a subversive rumor can't hurt.
She smiled and gave me a quick hug. "I don't know what I'd do without . . ." She was interrupted by a tap on the door.
"Yo," I said and the door opened. It was Intelligence Analyst Michelle Ramsey, in all her radiance. Deb let go of me and gave her an artic once-over.
"Oh, am I interrupting something?" Ms. Ramsey asked.
"No, I was just leaving," Deb said with her very best fake smile, and left.
"Bye," I said and turned to Ms. Ramsey and gave her my very best fake smile, too.
"I'm so sorry, Mr. Morgan," she said, "I didn't know you were, you know . . ."
"Oh, uh, we're not. She's just my sister."
"Really! I didn't know. No one told me. And you don't, you know, look alike."
"That's because I'm adopted."
"What a coincidence! So am I. My folks couldn't have kids so they adopted. Six. Three boys and three girls."
"We should start a club," I said with my usual sarcasm, but she didn't seem to notice.
"Are you, uh, married. Kids?"
"I'm . . . a, uh, widower," I said, always uncomfortable with the label, "but three kids. Two boys and a girl."
"Three kids! How wonderful! I love kids. I'd love to meet them sometime. I'm the only one in my family without kids . . . or married. You know, career and all."
"Right."
Before I knew what was happening, she got me to invite her home for Pizza Night. At first, I was afraid it was a mistake. Then it occurred to me, the closer I got to Intelligence Analyst Michelle Ramsey, the better my chances of learning the secrets of the diabolical matrix.
"By the way," I said, "call me Dexter. Or Dex. 'Hey You' works, too."
"Of course, Dexter. And call me Shelly."
"Okay. Sooo . . . I guess you're here to fill me in on the gory details . . . your mission, should you choose to accept it, Mr. Phelps . . . uh, sorry." I grimaced slightly.
"Oh, don't apologize. I loved Mission Impossible – the TV series, not the movies. One of the reasons I joined the FBI."
"Really?"
"Really."
This may be easier than I thought . . .
6. Sleeping With The Enemy
The kids had decided that Pizza Night would be our first official event as a family, albeit, a reconstituted family. Deb arrived bearing gifts, a big bag of tacos. Beer, too. Shelly arrived, also bearing gifts, a cake that would've put Marie Antoinette to shame.
"What the fuck's she doing here!" Deb whispered to me, apparently less than thrilled. She was probably just upset that the kids were more excited about the cake than her stuff. She should have known, kids are born with an addiction to sugar. I know I was.
"Just trying to soften her up to get information out of her," I said, truthfully, but trying to sound like I was joking.
"I don't know, bro . . . sometimes I think you're not as clueless as you seem."
"Thanks. I think . . ."
Surprisingly, dinner went without the slightest snag. Even Deb and Shelly seemed to get along. But what really amazed me was how well Shelly got along with the kids. Frankly, they loved her.
"You have such beautiful hair," Shelly said to Astor.
"Are you, like, serious?" Astor replied, pulling at her hair. "This ratty stuff."
"Absolutely. It's all a matter of technique. Let me show you." She took Astor into the bathroom and fiddled with her hair. Astor was dazzled. "I'll come by this weekend, and show you how to turn yourself into a rockstar." Astor floated on Cloud Nine for the rest of the week.
And Cody. "Dexter says you're really into baseball," she said to him, pointing at all the posters and memorabilia everywhere. "Well, one of my brothers coaches for the Marlins. I'll have him get you season tickets and let you meet some of the players. He'll get you an autographed ball, too." Add Cody to Cloud Nine.
And Harrison. Well, his needs were still pretty basic. But she had them totally covered. On the floor playing with him. Better than me. Telling him really good stories. A lot better than me. Less bloody, too. One more passenger for the Cloud Nine express.
Later that evening, after the kids were in bed and Deb had gone, Shelly and I sat on the sofa, talking.
"You have a fabulous family, Dexter," she gushed. "You're so lucky. I hope I can spend more time with them."
"Any time you want. Frankly, they love you. I'm still learning to be an accidental dad."
"You're doing great. In my case, growing up in a big family and having billions and billions of nieces and nephews helped."
"I guess, but . . ." Suddenly, she reached over, pulled me closer and kissed me on the lips, long and passionate. I froze, stunned.
What's she doing! This is a disaster!
"I'd like to spend more time with you, too," she said, the words flowing from her lips like warm honey.
"Uh . . . okay . . . me too . . ." I had no idea what was happening or what to do. Or say. Then she stood up and wandered into my bedroom, with me helplessly in tow.
I was terminally conflicted. Was she making it easier for me to squeeze information out of her about the matrix? Or was I in danger of letting her see behind my mask? I didn't know. What I did discover, though, was that whichever way it went, there was going to be one unexpected dividend: La Pasión, as Angel would say. Not comfortable sex like with Rita, or violent sex like with Lila, or spiritual sex like with Lumen. No, with Shelly, it was plain old animal sex. And, boy, was she good!
7. The Illusionist
They say the best defense is a good offense. Well, that may work for war and football, but it doesn't work for a serial killer. No, the best defense is a really good illusion. Misdirection, as the magicians say. And when have I ever been above good old deception to avoid my brothers – and sister! – in the criminal justice system?
It was time to get the FBI and their damned matrix off my back. It was time to get back to satisfying my need, my obsession. I was desperate. And desperation has always been the real mother of invention. So, I had a plan. I figured if I could get the entire Miami Metro Police Department to accept Doakes as the Bay Harbor Butcher, I could get Cross & Company to believe it was yet another poor soul, specifically, one Virgil Perkins. Now, Virgil was one of my early kills, but he was about to rise from the dead. Through the magic of creative forensics. And I was going to put the Feds hot on his trail. Forever.
I set up a sloppy kill-room in an old abandoned building on Magnolia Street. It was mostly used by teens at night for sex and drugs. My assumption was that the matrix was simply tracking known murderers, not bugging every square inch of Miami looking for suspicious activity. Even the FBI with a gazillion-dollar budget must have its limits. But if I was wrong, I was dog meat.
So, risky or not, I carefully targeted a guy I'd been watching for some time, who'd been killing homeless transients. Just for fun, as far as I could tell. After I pulled off my bit of wizardry, they'd find his victim's bodies buried in his basement and a Tupperware bowl of pickled ear lobes in his fridge. But he wasn't a known murderer or even suspected, just a model citizen, so he wouldn't be on the radar, the matrix. At least, that was my theory. My hope.
I lured my subject to my fake kill-room with the pretense of being one of his homeless victims-to-be, and cut him into a few big chunks, part of the performance. Even slashed his cheek to look like Virgil took a blood trophy. Which, actually, I did. Couldn't help myself. Then I dropped a couple of hairs into the blood and transferred a few fingerprints to the knives. All compliments of the evidence room at Miami Metro. Fortunately, Virgil had been arrested for a slug of minor violations in his youth. And, more fortunately, Miami Metro never throws evidence away. Ever.
Then I waited. As expected, shortly after midnight, a mob of polluted teens staggered in. When they entered the room, with my back to them, I waited just long enough for them to see me working, then jumped out the window, making sure they saw long, red hair dangling out of the Freightliner cap I was wearing backwards. Virgil's trademark. As I ran down the alley, I could hear screams from above. Someone puking, too.
I no sooner got home, than I got a call. Report to a crime scene. Magnolia Street.
A week later, we were called into the conference room for another meeting. All the usual players: Cross, Shelly, LaGuerta and Debra. The stuffed shirts, too.
"Well, we got a lucky break," Cross began in that terse, stuffy way of his. "The Butcher fucked up. Got caught in the act. No time to sanitize the crime scene. Eye witnesses, too. And thanks to your Olympic-caliber work, we now know his identity: a scumbag named Virgil Perkins. The MO completely matched the Butcher's known – what? – signature. All unpublished, so it couldn't be a copycat. And he left enough evidence, including fingerprints and DNA, to sink the Titanic. Now all we have to do is catch the son of a bitch. And that's your job, not ours. So, we'll be folding up our tents and hitting the bricks back to DC," he paused to chuckle; I guess he thought he was being funny. "The guy's been off the charts for a long time, but that just makes sense. Shelly."
"Right," she began. "Our analysis shows that the disappearance rate for murderers jumped around the time Virgil Perkins disappeared. Initially, we thought he was probably a victim, but now it seems clear that he simply went underground to better avoid capture." Shelly, you should seriously consider a career change. Maybe running a babysitting service or something you actually have an aptitude for. "So, we were lucky that he picked the wrong location and got caught red-handed . . ."
"And, especially lucky," Cross interrupted, "because his victim wasn't in our database, so the matrix wasn't tracking him." Aha, I was right! "I'd sure like to know how the S.O.B. finds killers that law enforcement doesn't even know about. You'll have to ask him when you catch him, which I'm sure you will. And soon."
The rest of the meeting was a lot of awkward goodbyes and backslapping and butt-kissing. As we left the room, Masuka grabbed me and said, "Maybe little miss hottie'd like to stay here and work for me. Learn from the best."
"Works for me, Vince," I said. You couldn't possibly make her any dumber.
8. Back In The Saddle Again
It took the FBI a week to 'fold up their tents and hit the bricks', as Cross had so hilariously put it. No one at Miami Metro was going to miss them. Except, maybe, me. Sort of. I definitely wasn't going to miss the stodgy Special Agent Alex Cross or the boring Intelligence Analyst Michelle Ramsey or the gaggle of stuffy stuffed shirts. Certainly not the big, bad matrix. But I'd somehow grown fond of the warm and wonderful Shelly. So had the kids. A lot. She promised to keep in touch, but you know how those things go. Washington's a long way from Miami and she'd probably be sent all over the country on assignments. Only time would tell.
But that was the least of my concerns. Number one on my list was keeping from exploding. I needed a kill, a real kill, not the fake one of two weeks before. And I'd found the perfect playmate: Milford Montague, a wolf in sheep's clothing, if there ever was one. A respected community leader tirelessly working to stop teens from using drugs. By pushing drugs containing deadly poison. He figured when word hit the streets that drugs were killing teens, they'd stop using drugs. Obviously not a parent. Even I knew that wouldn't work on a sixteen-year-old. Too much like a challenge.
But somewhere in the middle of his heroic campaign, he made a discovery: it was profitable. Seductively so. Needless to say, he didn't deserve to live. So I lovingly prepared my kill-room on the third floor of an elegant old Art Deco office building in South Miami, temporarily vacant, waiting for termite fumigation. Perfect location. I'd lined the room with pictures of the teens he'd saved from drugs.
He woke with a gurgle. "Where am I?" he gasped. "What's going on?"
"Just rewarding you for your tireless community service," I said, sweeping my arm toward the photographs on the wall, "for your selfless work keeping kids off drugs." I slashed his right cheek and watched the blood trickle out. I put a drop on a glass slide and held it in front of my face for a moment to savor it. Goosebumps covered my body. It'd been so long! I picked up my favorite knife, one I'd gotten from Harry, and began my sacred ritual.
"How could you hurt kids?" I said with a mixture of somber condemnation and righteous indignation. My specialty.
"I can explain!" he pleaded, " I was just . . ." That was as far as he got before I waved the knife in his face and . . . the door burst open. Black-clad, black-hooded, rifle-toting storm troopers poured in.
"On the floor!" a powerful voice commanded. But I'd already frozen in place. The most I could do was close my eyes and raise my hands in the air. In hindsight, that must have looked threatening because I was still holding the knife. I heard a puff and felt pain. I dropped the knife and looked down. There was a dart sticking out of my chest.
And everything went black.
9. Turnabout Is Fair Play
When I woke, I couldn't move, at least not very much. And I felt sticky. Slowly opening my eyes revealed that I was lying on a table, my kill-table to be precise, strapped down with packing tape, my packing tape. I looked around. On my left was Special Agent Alex Cross. On my right was Intelligence Analyst Michelle Ramsey. Somehow, I wasn't surprised. They must've 'hit the bricks' but left the matrix on. Except Milford Montague wasn't on the official radar. It didn't make sense.
"How?" I managed to ask.
"You're damn smart, Morgan," Cross said, "and damn clever. But your luck ran out."
"The matrix . . ."
"Hell no! The matrix had nothing to do with it. Your plan would've worked if you'd picked someone else besides Virgil Perkins." He chuckled. "You see, before you killed him – and we assume you killed him years ago – he'd been locked in a mental institution. He was considered so dangerous, they tagged him with one of those sub-dermal RFID microchips with GPS tracking, you know, like they use on dogs and cats, and kids, so they can be found. Cutting-edge, back then. Just in case he escaped. Which he did. But, typical of brain-dead bureaucrats, no one remembered that he'd been tagged. Until you put on your little bit of theater the other night."
Cross leaned against the wall, then continued. "But we found out about the tag in some old records. So we figured he'd be a snap to catch. And he was. But you can't imagine our surprise when we found his gift-wrapped, sawed-up, rotting remains at the bottom of a swamp in the middle of the Florida Everglades. My usual practice before I started burying at sea. "So we knew we'd been had. By a master!"
Remember what I told you, Dex, Harry said from the corner of the room, nothing stays buried forever.
"But given the planted evidence," Cross continued, "the perp had to be someone with access to old evidence. And aware of our activities, trying to throw us off. Someone at Miami Metro. Homicide. And it was almost certainly someone in forensics, so that boiled it down to only two people we had to investigate: you and that creepy perv, whatsizname. Shell?"
"Vince Masuka," Shelly replied. "So we didn't say anything to anyone at Miami Metro. And when we looked into the background of our suspects, one name jumped out: Dexter Morgan.
"Why?"
"Oh, I don't know. Maybe your mother's grizzly death in front of you. Or your psychopathic brother the Ice Truck Killer. Or your legendary mysterious comings and goings. Or Kyle Butler's obsession with the Trinity Killer. Or . . . do I need to go on?"
"No." I tried to smile, but couldn't. "But how'd you know about my, uh, you know, Kyle?"
"We're the FBI," Cross said, totally deadpan, "we know everything."
"Of course." I thought for a moment, then, "So, why am I taped down to my table?"
"Oh," Shelly giggled, "we just thought it'd be kind of funny for you to see what it felt like to be one of your own victims. You know, turnabout and all that. Are we wild and crazy or what!"
"And people say bureaucrats are dull." I actually laughed. "So, what happens now?"
"I'm afraid you're in deep doo-doo, Dex," she said as she leaned over and kissed me on the lips.
10. A Horse's Head In Your Bed, He Said
Later that night, I was taken to a really small room in a really big industrial building and my hands chained to a table. Cross, with Shelly at his side and someone I didn't know, came in and sat on the other side of the table.
Cross spoke first. "This is Mr. . . . hell, you don't need to know his name. He wants to offer you a . . . uh, let's just call it a deal."
"Do I want door number one: life in prison," I mused, "or door number two: an institution for the criminally insane?"
The nameless man leaned forward and stared at me. "Well, those are certainly possibilities, Mr. Morgan," he said. "So's door number three: the electric chair. But I was actually thinking of door number four: something a little less hassle for everyone. You see, we aren't exactly the regular FBI. We're a special division. Above top secret. Conspiracy nuts refer to us as 'black ops.' Even the President and Congress don't know about us. And, let's just say, we do things a little different, sometimes." Cross chuckled again. "Okay, all the time!" They both laughed.
"We're prepared to make you an offer you can't refuse. And we'll even toss a horse's head in your bed, like they say in the movies." He and Cross both laughed again. Shelly rolled her eyes.
"No thanks," I smiled back, "I'm more partial to human heads." From their reaction, they probably thought I was kidding.
"Anyway, we could use someone with your special talents. Your ability to track down the scum of the earth, people law enforcement can't find, sometimes doesn't even know exist. And your ability to hand down justice on them without a complicated legal hassle or search warrants or trials or whatever. And your ability to dispose of them without leaving at trace . . . at least in recent years. Frankly, our little, uh, family, could use someone like you."
"You're kidding," I said with more than a little amused skepticism. "The FBI wants to hire a serial killer?"
"Ow, such an ugly moniker!" the man said.
"Why do you think we staged our little charade with Miami Metro?" Cross interrupted. "To put you out of business? Hell no! To recruit your ass!"
"So, as I was saying," the other man continued, "we don't think of you as a serial killer. No, we prefer to think of you as an independent assassin, a paid consultant. You could keep your day job in Miami – and your night job, too, if you want – and we'd give you assignments from time to time, a specific target or a series of mysterious deaths with an unknown target. You could turn down any assignment if it didn't meet your lofty standards. And, yes, your pattern of victims tells us you have standards." He glanced sideways at Cross. "Higher than ours, probably." That got a guttural rumble out of Cross.
"Your mission, should you choose to accept it, Mr. Phelps . . ." Shelly said in a deep voice. "And if you ever get caught, which I sincerely doubt, we have a 'get out of jail free' gold-card with your name permanently engraved on it."
"Uh . . . it must have occurred to you," I said, having difficulty not smiling, "that some people might say I don't exactly, you know . . . have all my, uh, oars in the water."
"Who does? Certainly none of us!" Cross said, also having difficulty not smiling. "Just as long as you continue to keep your big bad wolf on a short tight leash, we don't give a flying fuck at the moon." He winked at me, "You have standards, remember?"
"What about the hunt for ol' Virgil?"
"Oh, I don't know . . ." Cross mused, shrugging, "I suspect that some out-of-state police department is going to notify Miami Metro that he died in an unfortunate car accident during a chase. Nothing left but ashes. End of search. Case closed."
"Huh . . ." I said, a little dazed.
"So, what do you say?"
"Uh, can I think it over?"
"Sure, take as long as you want." He looked at his watch. "You have ten seconds . . . nine . . . eight . . . seven . . .
11. Back To The Future
Astor had designated Sunday as a day of celebration. She and Cody and Harrison and I had been living together for exactly one-hundred days without any major disasters. Any that she knew about, anyway. She wanted to celebrate the landmark with a spin on my boat, a romp at the beach and a big dinner at home with everyone's favorite food. And my special pancakes. She even invited Deb and Shelly. Jamie and Angel, and his daughter, too. It was a day to celebrate. And move on.
At one point, Deb pulled me aside and gave me a big hug.
"I just want you to know," she said, "I'm okay with you dating Brainiac." Code for Shelly. "You need some romance in your life. It's been too long."
"Deb, really," I gulped, "this isn't the . . ."
"And you need to get laid. You're fucking weird sometimes." She smiled and hugged me again.
And later, Astor pulled me aside and gave me a big hug.
"I just want you to know," she said, "I'm okay with you dating Shelly."
"You are?"
"Yes. She's wonderful and it's time to move on and stop living in the past. Mom would understand. She'd want you to be happy. I want you to be happy." She looked at me with sad eyes and sighed. "I know you're not." She smiled and hugged me again.
That night, in bed with Shelly, I couldn't sleep. Usually a soothing frolic with her worked better than sleeping pills and the Nightly Business Report, combined. But I had a lot on my mind. My obsession had taken an unexpected left turn into Bizarro World. My family life appeared to be coming together. At least the kids seemed to be adjusting, I think. And I seemed to be adjusting, too. A little.
Then there was my relationship with Shelly. Frankly, I enjoyed her company. Certainly La Pasión. And the way she pleased the kids. She was nothing short of amazing, but . . .
I was going to miss her.
You see, she was my first assignment. Turns out, she was a double agent, directly and indirectly responsible for the deaths of a lot of innocent people: agents, witnesses, informants, children even. I'd seen all the evidence. It wasn't pretty. She was a really ugly person. Inside. Not just empty and unfeeling, like me, but bad. Evil, if there's such a thing. A person without a moral compass, a Code of Harry. And the Code, with the blessing of the FBI black ops, said she didn't deserve to live. I wondered where she got her fabulous mask? Probably the same place Brian got his.
All things considered, though, she was definitely my kind of playmate, both in my bed and on my table. I was going to miss her. Not as much as Rita, certainly. Or Lumen. But I'd miss her just the same. So would the kids.
And, for the first time in my life, I saw a possible future. For both of us: the Human Dexter and the Monster Dexter. Maybe they could somehow learn to live together as brothers, as family. Or, at least, not hate each other so much. And resist the cause of all their pain and suffering: their . . . my . . . our ever-present Dark Passenger.
Probably not. But maybe . . .