Dexter x Stitchers: Chapter 2
Kirsten sat expectantly on the couch in the house she shared with her roommate, coworker, formerly-spy-turned-best-friend Camille, who just happened to be getting out of the shower. The door to the bathroom opened and steam rolled out into the hallway and living room; Camille sauntered out in just a tucked towel, humming, the fresh smell of coconut shampoo wafting in after her. She flipped her phone screen around to show Kirsten a pair of boots. "These boots are to die for, but they're five hundred bucks!"
Kirsten looked up from her phone and feigned a smile. "Oh, Camille, our hot water heater is on the fritz, so take it easy with those long showers."
Camille smirked. "You have no sense of time with your temporal dysplasia," she said laughing, "how do you even know how long I take in there?"
"Today, it was-" Kirsten held up her phone, the stopwatch app visible on the screen, "twenty-three minutes and seven seconds."
Just then, someone knocked at their door. Thud thud thud.
Camille was still staring at Kirsten with disbelief.
"Okay, timing me in the shower is mega creepy. Mega," she said as she moved to answer the door. "Like, now I need another shower."
She opened the door to reveal a dashing young man with a great smile who promptly answered, "Hello," in a charming accent, "Is Kirsten home?"
Camille smiled devilishly. "Why, no she is not," she replied flirtatiously, leaning against the doorframe.
"Liam?" Kirsten leapt up from the couch and appeared behind Camille in the doorway.
"I knew there was no point in trying to surprise you, but I hope you're happy to see me?" Liam said, a smile spreading across his face. Camille stepped aside to let him in.
"Of course I am," Kirsten said. "Um, but I have to go," she said, eyes flickering to Camille.
"Well I don't!" Camille said mischievously, shutting the door.
"Yes," Kirsten said firmly, "We do. It's for work, it's urgent."
"Well, whatever you have to do," Liam said, setting down his backpack on their sofa. "Do you mind if I wait here til you get back?"
"Uh, yeah, make yourself at home." Kirsten smiled weakly and dragged Camille out the door.
The funeral home was quiet, and only Debra and Dexter were standing together with Rita's casket.
"It was my fault," Dexter whispered under his breath, his shoulders racking with repressed grief.
"Dex," Deb shot him a serious look. "You've got to stop saying things like that. No wonder the FBI is interviewing you."
"I wasn't there to protect her," Dexter said, his tone almost a growl. Deb reached out to console him.
"Dexter," she said. "It's not your fault, okay? Listen, I've got to get changed," Deb said, stroking his arm. He nodded. "I'll be right back. People are going to show up any minute, so I'll leave you alone with her."
Dexter stood there, alone, with Rita.
He ran a finger over her pale, perfect cheek. "Rita…" he whispered.
"I hope you don't mind that I chose that dress," he continued, leaning over to tell her. "You were wearing it when… we first met."
I don't deserve to be here, Dexter thought. I was never really honest with you, Rita. I'm a serial killer, that's what I am. I know I led you to believe I'm a human being, but I'm not. That was a lie. He placed his hand over Rita's heart.
Dexter's face didn't show a hint of his emotions. He wasn't sure if he was really feeling anything, except his constant, insatiable dark hunger that just became... unignorable.
He tore himself away from Rita's casket. He pretended to wipe away a tear as Lieutenant Laguerta walked in with Sergeant Batista. Can they tell I'm faking? he thought as he embraced them both briefly.
"Dexter," Batista said, locking eyes with Dex, "I'm so sorry for your loss. Anything you need, just ask." He touched Dexter's arm consolingly. Dexter smiled, a bit awkwardly, and tried to push past them, but Laguerta reached to stop him.
"Hey, Morgan," She said, using the formal tone she reserved for workplace relations, "I hate to do this to you on such a dark day, but Detective Fisher stopped by in regards to the Trinity Killer investigation, he needs to speak with you at your earliest convenience today. Give him a call." In Laguerta's hand was a business card - Detective Quincy Fisher, Federal Bureau of Investigations.
Dexter took the card, pocketing it. "Um, yeah," he said. "Thanks." He shuffled past them, mentally preparing for the eulogy he was about to deliver.
"Spill now," Camille demanded of Kirsten as soon as they got in the elevator that plunged deep under Jade Fog into the stitch lab. "Who is Liam?"
"He's my boyfriend," Kirsten said flatly. "Sort of." She seemed to be blowing the whole thing off, but Camille was giddy and now extremely curious.
"You've had a boyfriend this whole time, and this is the first I'm hearing about him?" She said enthusiastically. "So what's he like? Where's he from? What's he do? How'd you meet? C'mon, sista'! Gimme the details." She rested her chin on her folded hands, attention locked on the passive, evasive Kirsten.
"Well, not this whole time," Kirsten began. "But when he's back, it's like he never left, if that makes sense. I don't sense the time that we've spent apart, I only know that we're together now, so we just pick back up where we left off. He was on a fellowship this past year, I'm assuming he just finished it. Now, can you please spare me from the twenty questions game just this once? I'd really like to focus on work," she said, timed perfectly for the opening of the elevator doors. Ding!
Cameron, Linus, and the other technicians looked up briefly towards the elevator door as Camille and Kirsten entered the lab. Maggie, seeing their arrival, waltzed out of her office and cleared her throat.
"Good morning, everybody," Maggie began, her tone serious as ever. "We're on crunch time with the remaining hours left on Rita's body, so Kirsten, I want you to suit up and be ready to stitch as soon as possible. Camille, get ahold of Fisher and find out when he's meeting with Dexter Morgan. Everybody get some breakfast, it's gonna be a hell of a day." She nodded to her team who all glanced around at each other, shifting under the silence. "Any questions?"
Camille piped up, "Yeah I've got one!" She turned her gaze on Kirsten wickedly. "Since when does Kirsten have a boyfriend?!"
"Boyfriend?" Cameron squeaked, whipping around to face Kirsten with undisguised disappointment.
Kirsten replied curtly, "I think Maggie meant any relevant questions."
"Correct," Maggie agreed. "Get to work."
The group began to disperse, but Maggie turned back and added, "Camille, let's talk in my office."
Linus snickered, but then he turned to Cameron and mouthed 'Boyfriend?'
Cameron shrugged, dropping his gaze.
"How's Harrison's sleeping pattern?" The gentle black woman clicked her pen, running down her clipboard.
"Same," Dexter said, interlacing his fingers. "Unfortunately, he cries about three times a night."
Harrison played animatedly with toy airplanes on the carpet of the therapist's office. These private sessions were mandated by Deb who believed Harrison (and Dexter too) could benefit from careful observation and clinical psychological help after being found in a pool of his mother's blood.
"Have you noticed any particular stressors in his environment? Anything that may have changed since the incident?" She asked questions in an unassuming way, writing softly on Harrison's chart.
"Well, we haven't been staying in the house, it just doesn't feel right without Rita," Dexter said, pausing for dramatic effect, taking a moment to make eye contact with the professional. See, I'm deeply sad, I'm lost without her. "We've been crashing at his Aunt Deb's for the past few days, which really hasn't been easy on anybody, least of all Deb."
The counselor chewed on this information for a moment. "I think you're doing everything you can, Dexter Morgan. Harrison will recover so long as you're there to console him and show him right from wrong. If you'd like, that can be all for today."
Ha, Dexter thought morbidly. If you only knew...
"Yes, thank you, doctor," he said, scooping up Harrison. Glad that's over. "C'mon, lil' buddy!" Time to make sure Daddy doesn't get caught doing what he does best.
Once Dexter had Harrison secured in his car seat, he fished the business card out of his pocked that Laguerta had given to him at Rita's funeral, staring at it. What do they know already, these detectives from the Stitch lab? Dexter felt a familiar panic welling up in his chest and the pit of his stomach. He tried to organize the facts in his head so that he could reassure himself he hadn't missed anything, that there was nothing that could tie him back to Arthur Mitchell, but in truth, he had been uncharacteristically sloppy in his handling of the Trinity Killer out of a misguided adoration and respect for the man. A man who had since been chopped to tiny pieces on Dexter's table, who deserved it perhaps more than any who had come before him. But nobody could find out, so the investigation would stay dangerously open to revealing Dexter's darkness, his secret life, the bodies of his victims.
It all started when he thought Mitchell had unlocked some secret to maintaining the balance of his dark passenger and an ordinary life, and that Dexter thought he could learn from Mitchell how to better embrace his own dark passenger and integrate it into his life.
Dexter slammed his fist down on his steering wheel, causing Harrison to fuss. That bastard. If only I had realized sooner he was every bit as cruel and cold and unfeeling as the others I've killed before him.
Then there would be no Kyle Butler, my loose end. Dexter had appeared to Mitchell and his family when first vetting him as a potential kill target using the alias Kyle Butler, a risk that Dexter wouldn't ordinarily take. That became Dexter's biggest mistake. Mitchell's wife, son, and daughter could identify him, and that would mean the end for Dexter.
Imagine, little wild-tempered Jonah, pointing the finger at blood-spatter-analyst me and screaming, "That's Kyle Butler! That's him right there! You lied to us!" while Deb and the detectives at Miami Homicide stare on in horror, as the gears finally click and they realize I'm a monster, the monster who kills monsters, but a monster nonetheless.
Fuck, fuck, FUCK.
"Right, only relevant questions from here on out, I get it," Camille began formulating her defense. "Spare me the lecture."
Maggie crossed her arms and in a hushed tone simply said, "Boyfriend?"
Camille laughed. "Oh so the Magster likes to dish! Okay, so his name is Liam, and he is drop-dead-delicious."
"What do you know about him?" Maggie quizzed, unaffected.
Camille shrugged and shook her head. "Nothing! He just showed up at our door this morning like a little slice of heaven! Meanwhile, Kirsten has never mentioned him."
"Okay, find out everything you can about him, I want a full report," Maggie said conclusively, and began to preoccupy herself with other work.
"Actually, I'm not comfortable with that-" Camille began to protest.
Maggie stopped and stared at Camille. She could be very intimidating when she wanted to be. "Excuse me?"
"Well when you first recruited me to spy on Kirsten we weren't-"
"What, friends? We pay you to complete your assignments which right now is to vett Liam, not to 'spy' on Kirsten, but to protect her."
Camille shifted uncomfortably. Maggie took that as a sign that the conversation was over and dismissed Camille with the flick of her wrist.
Stone-cold bitch, Camille thought bitterly as she stormed out of Maggie's office.
The detectives at Miami Metro Homicide poured into the station that morning. Morale was low, but that didn't stop Joey Quinn from approaching Deb's desk to ask her about yesterday's sexcapade.
"Hey, Deb," he said as walked up cautiously, trying to gauge her mood.
"Quinn," she said, pulling herself together. With Dexter and Harrison crashing at her apartment, her stress levels were high. "What can I do for you?"
He sat down opposite her across the desk. "Just like that, huh?" He said, grinning.
"What are you talking about?" She didn't look him in the eyes.
"You don't want to talk about it? About yesterday, and what happened?" He prodded.
"No. Nothing happened. Just forget about it," she said tensely, shuffling some files around on her desk. "So if you could please, just let me-"
"I get it, Deb, it's weird, we had sex," Quinn said, his voice a hushed whisper.
"No, Quinn, I really don't think you do." She stood up and sauntered off, leaving him sitting there, dumbfounded.
Deb burst into Dexter's lab to talk to him, but found only Masuka, who was visibly startled by her sudden entry, whirling around from his microscope with a guilty expression.
"Hey, Masuka, have you seen Dexter?"
Masuka relaxed a little. "Oh, he had a meeting with some detective on the Trinity case. Real pressing stuff. Said he needed me to cover for him til he got back. Typical Dexter."
"Great, thanks," Deb said irritably. She stormed out of the lab.
Fisher sat in his office at the Miami Police Department Classified Division, twirling a pencil, his feet propped up on the desk as he poured over a case file that read Ed Clark in bold print at the top. He had images of Kirsten and her house, a house that once belonged to the late Ed Clark, paperclipped to crime scene photos. Fisher had been assigned to investigate Ed's death which is what had lead him to Kirsten in the first place. He recounted the events of that day, trying to piece together some answers.
Kirsten didn't react at all when I told her Ed Clark had died, Fisher thought. But now that I've gotten to know her, she doesn't feel things like ordinary people do, but she has great intuition - and she refused to believe that Ed's death was a suicide. He dropped his feet back to the floor and bent forward over his desk, staring at Ed's lifeless body in the photographs. I'm starting to think she's right. This whole thing goes a lot deeper than I originally thought.
Initially, Fisher had begun investigating Kirsten as a suspect, because of her unusual behavior and uncanny ability to know things she shouldn't know - that was, until he found out about the Stitcher's program. It gave Kirsten an alibi for most of her mysterious life. Fisher still wanted to dig deeper; for starters, Ed Clark wasn't Kirsten's real father. Her real father had been a lead scientist on the Stitchers technology when it was first developed, and Kirsten had been groomed for the program from a young age before her father's disappearance.
Just then, Fisher's cell lit up with an incoming call. He didn't recognize the number.
"Detective Fisher," he answered, tapping his pencil on the desk.
"Hello," came the eerie calm voice on the other end, "This is Dexter Morgan."
Fisher perked up. "Ah! Just the man I need to see. Can we get together today?"
Dexter hesitated. "Um, yeah, sure. Of course. How's eight o'clock sound?"
"Sure, whatever works for you," Fisher said, making a note. "Where at?"
A mischievous grin played on Dexter's face. "How about Chinese?"
"Chinese?" Fisher's brow furrowed. This guy is sharp - did he already figure out where the Stitch lab headquarters are? Jeez, I gotta be careful. This guy could be dangerous.
"Yeah," Dexter said innocently. "I've been wanting to go to this little place in the city, it's called Jade Fog. You heard of it?"
"Uh," Fisher said, rubbing his brow. "Yeah. Okay, Jade Fog at eight o'clock. I'll see you there."
"Sounds good."
"Thanks for calling, Mr. Morgan."
"Please," Dexter smiled, "call me Dexter. I'll see you later."
Fisher hung up his phone and laid it back on his desk. He sighed, mulling over Dexter's bizarre behavior, his mind wandering to the details of the Trinity Killer case that was now the responsibility of the Stitcher's team. The pattern indicated by the investigation Ted Lundy scraped together before his murder was detailed in the case file marked 'Trinity Killer' that was also in the stack of work on Fisher's desk. Dexter is a player in this game, I just can't prove it yet.
Minutes later, his phone rang again. He checked the display: Kirsten Clark.
"Detective Fisher," he said, relaxing back into his office chair.
"Hey Fisher, it's me," Kirsten began, "I know you're on some sort of, um, agency thing, but I was right, and you were wrong. Ed Clark didn't commit suicide, he was murdered."
Fisher sat straight up in his chair. "Kirsten, we can't talk about this over the phone, I'll have to meet with you in person," he said sternly, a tinge of worry in his voice. "I'll head down to the lab once I finish up my work here."
"Okay," Kirsten said flatly. "We're about to stitch into Rita again. After that, Cameron and I are going to Arthur Mitchell's house to interview his family. We're trying to connect Rita Morgan to the Trinity Killer."
"What?!" Fisher shouted. "Please tell me Maggie is accompanying you. We can't risk jeopardizing a case this big."
"Enough with the lectures," Kirsten said, unamused. "Yes, but after that Maggie will be busy meeting with Lez Turner - who, as you now know, has been withholding information about the Ed Clark case and is probably involved in the 'suicide' cover up. But we've got this, don't worry about us."
Fisher sighed. "Alright. Be careful. Don't do anything stupid."
"Goodbye detective," Kirsten said with a dose of sarcasm.
Hanging up his phone and tossing it back on his desk, Fisher pulled the Trinity Killer case file from the stack of files and spread it out beside the Ed Clark file, studying the two cases with a serious expression. What does Lez Turner know that he isn't telling us?
After a while, a knock on his office door made Fisher look up suddenly. "Come in," he said loud enough that the knocker could hear.
A familiar office page peeked in, extending an envelope addressed to 'The Office of Detective Quincy Fisher' in his direction. He smiled and thanked her, taking the envelope, and she darted back out of the door, heading back to her post. Fisher pried into the letter, pouring over the official document.
He was being transferred to Miami Metro's Homicide Unit effective immediately to continue his work on the Ed Clark investigation. Enclosed were the details of his office and transfer. He was to report to Sergeant Batista or Lieutenant Laguerta before the end of the day to get acquainted. Fisher ran a hand through his hair. What a fucking day!
"Alright," Cameron said, waltzing into the lab, affixing his headset to his ear and lightly tapping the microphone. "Time for Round 2."
"Remember," Fisher said to Kirsten as she was climbing into the tank, "We need answers about Arthur Mitchell. Clues to where he might be headed, anything that could help us predict where he's going to strike next."
"Got it," Kirsten replied, lounging back against the headrest.
"Lights at 20 percent," Cameron ordered; a technician lowered the lights.
"Inducing stitch neurosync on my mark," he shouted, taking his position behind the main controls. "Three...Two...One...Mark!" He pushed both levers forward and Kirsten was flushed into the brain of Rita Morgan for the second time this week.
Everything was blurry, spinning. Snippets of conversations. Dexter's voice, and how it struck a chord within Rita, how much she loved him, adored him. A warm tingle swelled up in Kirsten's body - a mix of love, jealousy, maybe even guilt. It was quickly overwhelming her; she didn't know how to process the sensations.
"I'm gonna throw you right into the point of death," Cameron's voice sounded apologetic on the other end of the communications line. "You ready, stretch?"
"Yeah, please, I can't focus here," Kirsten said, closing her eyes. When she opened them, she was there in the kitchen of the Morgan family home. Bills on the counter were addressed to 3319 Meadow Lane. "I'm inside the kitchen," Kirsten said absently.
The lock on door rattled, and then the door opened and Rita walked in, holding her son, Harrison. She put her purse down, carrying Harrison into the bedroom to look for her I.D. "Rita's here with Harrison. She feels like something isn't right," Kirsten said, raising a hand to her temple. Stitching came naturally to Kirsten but even for her it was difficult to maintain clarity inside the memory. Rita walked back into the kitchen, Harrison on her hip, still on the search for the missing I.D. Suddenly, Rita heard a noise - running water. Kirsten, having stitched into this memory before, watched Rita go unknowingly into the arms of Arthur Mitchell, Trinity Killer.
Kirsten held her breath. Here he comes.
Rita stepped cautiously towards the bathroom door that hung slightly ajar. She pushed it open with one arm, holding Harrison still in the other. Inside, the mirrored cabinet hung open, and the bathtub faucet was running water at full force. She reached up and shut the cabinet, but at once screamed, for in the reflection could be seen a fully naked older man, wild eyed and murderous, standing in wait for her in the bathroom of her home.
"She sees him," Kirsten blurted out breathlessly, her heart racing frantically in rhythm with Rita's as Arthur Mitchell clasped his grimy hands around her mouth and neck, stifling her scream, and forced her out of her clothes and into the bathtub in an oddly practiced routine. He reached over, picked up the razor blade, and plunged his hand under the water in the tub. The slice caused Rita and Kirsten to shout out in unison, and Cameron's quick, worried response felt strangely out of place; "You okay, stretch?"
Kirsten stepped closer to the bath, staring hard at the sick bastard who clung pathetically to Rita's thrashing body as blood filled the tub. He held up the hand mirror to watch as Rita began to fade. "Kirsten?" Cameron said, panic growing in his voice.
Kirsten reached forward and touched Rita, grabbing her hand, wishing she could pull her out of this awful bloody tub, this fucked up ending. Instead, Kirsten was pulled down into Rita's consciousness, and the room spun rapidly. Kirsten surged with pain, thrashing inside the tank at the Stitch lab. "Her vitals are all over the place!" The nurse said over the communications panel.
"Kirsten!" Cameron shouted.
"I'm okay," she replied, shielding her eyes from the light. Sunlight. She was inside a different memory.
"I'm outside," she said, her voice detached. Dexter smiled up at her from the lawn, and it was like the clouds parted around him. Rita walked up and gave him Harrison to hold, and he held him up and smiled proudly. Dexter really loves Harrison, Kirsten and Rita thought.
"Outside?" Cameron gave the others a confused look. Camille laughed and swirled her finger beside her temple, the universal sign for crazy.
Rita was experiencing her life flashing before her eyes, and so was Kirsten. Scenes from all stages of her life, and intimate experiences with all of her lovers - it was overwhelming. Kirsten cried alongside Rita in her final moments. And that was it, suddenly she was back in the tub with a violent man, the disgusting reality of her conclusion dawning on her, and Kirsten felt Rita's electric-hot anger pour over her, a rage so deep she thought it might split open her chest. Angry at her helplessness, and the injustice, and this man, this fucking stranger.
And then Arthur leaned in close, a detail Kirsten hadn't observed previously, and whispered in Rita's ear: "Dexter's next."
Maria Laguerta sat in her office, combing through police reports and finalizing closed cases with her stamp of approval, when the tall, dark, and handsome Detective Fisher sauntered into her office, a box of files and office supplies under one arm, his other hand reaching to adjust his tie as he approached.
"Hello, I'm Detective Quincy Fisher," he said, extending a hand to shake hers. Laguerta accepted with a smile and nod.
"Yes, we've been expecting you, detective," she stood up from her seat, leading him back out of her office. He followed dutifully. Deb looked up from her desk in the main office as Laguerta lead him to his own desk among the other homicide detectives. Deb recognized him immediately, and watched scrupulously as Laguerta gave him the long-winded spiel she saved for new recruits, going over expectations, rules, codes of conduct, human resources, and facilities. After she seemed to be wrapping things up, Deb took her cue.
"Detective Fisher?" She called out to him, standing up from behind her desk and running over to where Laguerta was familiarizing Fisher with his new workspace.
Fisher set his box of things down on his desk, looking up at Deb with a smile. "Debra Morgan!" He greeted her warmly.
Laguerta's suspicious gaze swapped between Deb and Fisher. "You two have already met, I take it?" She raised an eyebrow at Deb.
"Uh, yeah," Deb started defensively, "He came in here the other day to ask questions about the Trinity Killer case." She turned her attention to Fisher. "Aren't you a detective for the FBI? What are you doing here?"
"Yes, I am assigned field work for a specialized criminal justice department that is federally regulated," Fisher said, wording his answer carefully to not raise Laguerta's suspicion.
Deb was unphased. "What about that thing you told me and Dexter, that team that takes dead-"
"I brought all my case files with me when I transferred - I'm assuming I'm expected to finish up my work on these unclosed files while helping out with the homicide department here in Miami as much as I can. I did a lot of homicide detective work during my time in the classified department." Fisher cut her off, shooting her a look that said shut-the-fuck-up-please.
Deb smirked, catching on. She crossed her arms and just said, "Oh, hmm. So you're working with us now?"
"He's been transferred here because he's a good cop," Laguerta said, "But he's been known to find himself at odds with his superiors." She stared Fisher down for a moment, who shifted uncomfortably. "I suppose you'll need a partner, won't you," She said in a cheery tone, changing the subject. Fisher relaxed, unpacking his case files and loading them into the drawers of his new desk in the central headquarters of Miami Metro Homicide Unit.
"I suppose I will," he smiled.
Kirsten hung up her phone and sauntered back around the side of the car where colleagues Cameron and Maggie were waiting for her.
"What was that all about?" Maggie pried, shooting Kirsten a cryptic look. Cameron raised his eyebrows.
"I called Fisher, it was about Ed Clark. So, are we going in?" She nodded towards the family home of Trinity Killer Arthur Mitchell.
"This situation requires tact and discretion," Maggie cautioned the two rookies.
"Maybe you should wait outside," Cameron teased at Kirsten, ribbing her.
"Maybe you should bite me," Kirsten shot back.
The three of them strolled up to the porch and rang the doorbell on the Mitchell family home. Sally, the Trinity Killer's wife, opened the door nervously. Her wild eyes scanned the trio. Maggie smiled politely.
"Hello, Mrs. Mitchell, we're here on official business, can we ask you a couple questions?" Maggie said pleasantly, displaying her badge and trying to seem warm. Kirsten and Cameron smiled too, playing along. The woman cracked the door open wider and allowed them into the house.
Seated on the sofa was Arthur's son, Jonah, and daughter, Rebecca, who exchanged a worried glance when the team walked into the room. Their mom gestured for Kirsten, Maggie, and Cameron to have a seat opposite them on the loveseat and chairs. Sally sat in the furthest chair and wrapped her shawl up around her shivering shoulders.
"Well?" She said snidely. "We've been through this a dozen times now. Let's get it over with," Sally started. Jonah, his hair cropped short, ran his hands over his head and let out a sigh, dropping his eyes to the floor. Rebecca just stared at Cameron like she'd never seen a man before, barely blinking.
"I'm so sorry to put you through this again," Maggie said sympathetically. "I'm Maggie Baptiste, and these are my assistants Kirsten Clark and Cameron Goodkin."
Mrs. Mitchell pointed to her children. "This is Jonah, my boy, and Rebecca, our sweet girl. My name's Sally. What can we do for you?"
"Sally," Maggie began calmly, "do you have any idea where your husband might be?"
Sally rolled her eyes. "I'll tell you the same thing I've been telling the police and the detectives. I wish I did! He just left."
Jonah scoffed. Kirsten shot him a look and their eyes met. Jonah immediately looked away again.
"Was there anything suspicious prior to his disappearance?"
Sally, Jonah, and Rebecca exchanged a look. "No," Sally said. "Nothing unusual."
Maggie wasn't deterred. "We have the sketches of the friend who appeared in Arthur's life mere weeks before his disappearance - this man," she said, pulling out the three sketches and leafing through them so everyone could see, "Kyle Butler." She spread the images out on the coffee table. "Now tell me, who was he?"
Sally sighed. "Kyle Butler was a friend he met doing construction volunteer work for local shelter groups. He would probably know more about Arthur's whereabouts than any of us." Her voice was shaking slightly, from nerves or rage or both.
Maggie collected the sketches and put them back in her folder. "And do you have any idea where we can find Kyle Butler?"
The wife shrugged dismissively. "No. Now is that all?" She got to her feet.
Maggie reluctantly stood up, and Cameron and Kirsten followed suit. "We'll be in touch. Thank you."
The three of them hustled out of the eerie Mitchell homestead and back towards their cars. Maggie smiled at the two of them briefly and exhaled. "Well, we need more info on Kyle Butler, and that was a dead end," she said flatly. "I'm out of ideas. We need to find Kyle Butler, so we can find Arthur Mitchell."
"So," Cameron said, unlocking his car so he could toss his jacket inside, "We head back to the lab?"
Maggie shook her head. "No, that's all for today. Good work. We'll pick up tomorrow. I'm afraid we're at a standstill on this case. Don't get emotionally attached," she said, looking at Kirsten. "I'll see you both in the morning." She got into her car and drove away.
Cameron and Kirsten looked at each other in disbelief. Cameron cracked a smile and opened up the passenger door for Kirsten to get inside. She stepped into the car, getting comfortable in the seat as Cameron strolled around to the driver's side, hopping in and starting the engine.
"Do you want to stop by the store or anything on your way home?" Cameron asked casually as he buckled his seat belt and adjusted the air settings.
"Actually, there is one thing I wanted to do," Kirsten said airily, remembering the sensation she had felt yesterday before stitching into Rita for the first time; remembering how Rita reminded her of her mom and visions of their time together she had from childhood.
"Yeah, anything," Cameron said enthusiastically, "You name it."
"Jeez, even his passport picture is delicious," Camille said out loud to herself. She flipped through the pages which were littered with stamps. "Wow, world traveler," she remarked, clicking her tongue. She pulled his tablet out of his bag and started going through the recent photos, all of him in humanitarian projects or soccer games or meeting mayors. "Seriously? Is this guy for real?"
Just then, Liam opened their front door, sweaty from a run, eyes bright. Camille spun around, stuffing the tablet back into his bag, trying her best to play it off casually.
"Oh hi! It's Liam, right?" She said in her overly cheery voice. "I'm Camille, we kind of met earlier unofficially."
"Well, it's nice to meet you officially," he said, sounding genuine.
"Out for a little run, I see," Camille smiled, gesturing to his sweaty muscle tee and running shorts.
"Yeah!" He replied, mopping his face with his shirt. "Just a short one today, the hills around here are a challenge."
Camille eyed his abs hungrily when he lifted his shirt. "Um, can I get you anything? A drink?"
"Sure, tap's alright," Liam said, collecting some of his things and running hands through his hair. "Thanks again for letting me stay here, this place is like a palace compared to where I've been staying the past year," he called from the living room as she filled his glass with water from the faucet.
"Oh yeah? Which is where exactly?" She said casually, handing him the drink. He greedily took a few sips before answering.
"A hut in Peru, and before that, a yurt in Southeast Asia."
"A yurt? By choice?" Camille teased. "Why?!"
"Well, I am a cultural anthropologist, so I need to immerse myself in different ways of life so I can contribute something positive to the local community." He smiled up at her. "And you?"
"Me?" Camille laughed. "Oh I don't do anything to help mankind, I'm completely self-absorbed. So where does Kirsten fit in all your good-doing?"
Liam hesitated. "She... doesn't. At least not the way I'd like her to." He set his glass of water down on the table, sinking into a chair to untie his shoes.
Camille raised an eyebrow. "Oh?"
"We met three years ago, I've asked her on a few trips, but she has her own goals of course. So we ended up spending a lot of time apart." He said, sadness creeping into his voice.
"That's terrible." Camille didn't know what to say.
Liam pepped back up, though, continuing: "Fortunately, time doesn't mean anything to her so we just pick up where she left off. I love that about her. Don't you? She lives in the moment, as we all should."
"Yep," Camille said through gritted teeth. "Just one of the things that makes Kirsten so damn loveable!"
Cameron and Kirsten pulled up to the cemetery where Kirsten's mother was buried. The air was still as the sun was going down, and they were pretty much alone in the waning light and silence of the graveyard. Cameron shut his car door quietly and walked around to Kirsten's side as she was stepping out.
"I'll let you be alone," Cameron said, gently touching her arm. Kirsten shook her head.
"No, come with me, Cameron," she said softly, although emotionless.
He tucked his hands into his pockets and trailed behind her as they walked under the roofed mausoleum, and Kirsten didn't need to look for her mother's name among the deceased listed on the wall; she went straight to her mother's plaque, having visited here many times.
Kirsten's mind went back to when her adoptive-dad Ed Clark had brought her here to mourn her mother, but she couldn't feel anything. Much like she couldn't now.
She reached out to touch the portrait of her mother that hung below her bold-print name and lifespan, to touch her mother's face.
She felt something.
Not emotionally, physically, felt something. A click within the small picture frame, like there was some kind of mechanism inside.
"Cameron?" Kirsten said over her shoulder.
"Yeah," he said, stepping forward to stand beside her. "What's wrong?"
She pried at the picture frame - it budged slightly. Cameron glanced at her. "What are you doing?"
"I swear, I heard something latch, or unlatch, when I touched her picture," Kirsten said, still pushing at the edges of the photograph. Suddenly, it spun upwards on an axis, revealing a small hole that it had been concealing, inside which was a tiny envelope.
Kirsten snatched the envelope out triumphantly, holding it up to observe it. "Ed must have left this for me," she said speculatively.
Cameron stared in disbelief. "What is it?"
She popped open the tabs on the envelope and dumped its contents into her palm: a small bronze key.
"A key," she said, puzzled. "But to what?"
Cameron chuckled darkly. "The mystery continues."
"What do we got?" Angel Batista said to Joey Quinn as he walked up to the crime scene that evening. Being officially unassigned from the Trinity Killer case meant the detectives were eagerly checking into the fresh unsolved murders the city of Miami had to offer.
Quinn dismissed the paramedic he'd been talking to. "Um, we've... got a head."
"A head?" Batista said, almost laughing.
"Yeah, just the head, a clean decapitation. Probably some kind of drug killing."
"Nice." "Hey let me ask you a question. Hypothetical. Say you're newly married, and you accidentally discover your spouse has a savings account with a whole lot of money. Is that something you're expected to share?"
Quinn looked around to make sure no one was listening, and lowered his voice to say, "Fuck, no. That's your money. You tell the lieutenant to keep her fucking hands off it."
Batista hesitated. Damn. "Take me to the head."
"Alright," Quinn smiled. "This way."
Quinn and Batista caught up to Deb and Masuka who were busy detailing the crime scene.
"She was still alive when they cut her heard off," Masuka began. "Excision of the tongue and eyes was post-mortem."
"You were right," Batista said, kinda laughing. "She's just a head."
Quinn cracked a smile.
"Yeah, unless they buried her standing up," Deb said with a chuckle.
Batista bent down to examine the decapitated head, and Quinn took the opportunity to tuck in a loose piece of Deb's shirt into her slacks, to which she replied by swatting his hand away.
"What are you doing?" She barked at him under her breath.
"What! I was trying to help out, you're looking a lil' ragged," Quinn teased playfully.
"I'm exhausted," Deb agreed, "with Dexter and Harrison staying at my apartment I can't get any sleep."
"You know, you're welcome to crash at my place, if you want." Quinn offered, smiling.
His charm was hard to deny, but Deb was in denial. "Um, no thanks, detective."
"Okay," he said, putting his hands up defensively and removing himself from the conversation.
"So do we got an I.D. on her yet?" Batista stood up, brushing himself off.
"Not yet," Deb said, "But we've sent samples of DNA off to be analyzed."
"Do we at least have a team looking for the rest of her body?" Batista said, rubbing a thick hand across his brow.
"Yes sir," Quinn replied, "We're about to go join the search party and let the medics do the wrap and clean-up here."
"One second," Deb said, leaning forward and snapping a shot with her camera. "I need a few photos of this crime scene before we pack up."
Cameron and Linus sat at Cameron's industrial-suite apartment, Linus on his laptop. Cameron had promised to keep Kirsten's key-discovery a secret; she had demanded it before getting out of the car when he dropped her off at her house, and Cameron honestly couldn't say no to her - just like he couldn't say no when she had dragged him to a shoe store after visiting her mother's grave and refused to tell him why she needed five-hundred-dollar boots. Now he was lamenting to Linus about Liam, Kirsten's mysterious boyfriend, as he cooked dinner for the two of them.
"I mean, who has time to research social and cultural phenomena around the world, and work out," Cameron said, ranting.
"What's his last name?" Linus prompted.
"Granger," Cameron said quickly, wiping his hands on his apron, "Liam Granger."
Linus scrolled through a few social media platforms before reaching his conclusion. "Well?!" Cameron prodded impatiently, opening the oven to peek in at the food baking inside.
"Everything checks out, man," Linus frowned at his pal. "He's this, like, humanitarian-athlete guy. See for yourself," he said, spinning the laptop around.
The oven timer went off. Ding ding! "Oh!" said Cameron, "That's our food."
"Screw the food, you know what we need?" Linus said, sensing his friend's gloom.
"To do a thousand sit-ups and start a foundation for starving children?" Cameron said bleakly, referring to Liam.
"We need a real bro night!" Linus's face lit up. Cameron stared at him blankly. "C'mon, man, when's the last time we had a real bro night, just me, you, some beer, some video games, junk food, and bad kung fu movies. What do you say?"
Cameron smiled warmly. "Thank, man. Yeah," he said, laughing. "That sounds good."
Back at her house, Kirsten opened the door to see Camille and Liam casually making conversation in the kitchen. Camille leaned back to get a view of the doorway and waved with a big grin, "Hey Kirsten!"
"Hey guys," Kirsten closed the door behind her and strolled into the kitchen. Liam promptly kissed her on the cheek, spatula in hand. Kirsten fetched the bag from the shoe store and offered it to Camille who seemed confused for a second, but the realization dawn on her. "No," Camille began, tearing into the package and pulling out the very same boots she had lusted over earlier after her shower.
"The boots?! From you?! For me?! Shut up!" Camille squealed, rubbing one of the boots on her cheek.
"You said you wanted them," Kirsten said matter-of-factly.
"Want them? I want to marry them, but they're way, way too expensive! I can't-you shouldn't have-"
"It's fine," Kirsten said, smiling. "Liam fixed the water heater, which saved us a bunch of money, so it's fine, trust me."
"Okay," Camille said, grinning back at her friend. "I know you're not a hugger, but-" She embraced Kirsten tightly, who awkwardly let the hug happen to her.
"And you," Camille said, pointing a boot at Liam as he finished the dish he was preparing, "Thank you handsome! For the water heater, and for making Kirsten more awesome than she already - was? is? Are those fried cheesy rice balls?"
Liam smirked, offering the plate of cheesy rice balls, each with its own toothpick. Camille took one with a wink. "Gimme your balls."
Suddenly, Kirsten's phone rang. She stepped into the next room to answer it with some privacy - it was detective Fisher.
"Hello?" She answered.
"Kirsten, hey, it's Fisher. Can you and Camille come back me up on this interview with Dexter Morgan?"
Kirsten's eyes lit up. "Yes, of course, we'll be right there."
"But I didn't tell you where it was at!" Fisher laughed.
Kirsten shook her head in annoyance, sighing with a small laugh. "Where's it at?"
"The Stitch Lab. Well, the Jade Fog."
"Wait," Kirsten said, thinking that over. "Is he on to us?"
"He knows about what we do, he's got to be curious. I'm sure he's been doing some research of his own. We have to find out how much he knows."
"Alright. We'll meet you there."
Kirsten came back into the kitchen; Camille was trying on her new boots, Liam was cleaning up the dishes he had dirtied to make the rice balls.
"Fisher just called, he wants me and you to go with him to interview Dext-"
"Haha, whoa, girl talk!" Camille said, cutting her off with a nervous glance at Liam, who seemed instantly suspicious. "Sorry about that, just one sec," she said, grabbing Kirsten's arm and dragging her into the living room.
"Fisher wants us to come with him to interview Dexter Morgan?" Camille said in a rushed whisper.
"Yeah, we need to go, like now," Kirsten said in a regular voice, gathering her things. Liam, overhearing, walked into the room.
"Is everything okay?" He said, crossing his arms.
Kirsten and Camille exchanged a glance. "No," Kirsten piped up, "Camille and I - we, uh, we work at a company, one that creates video games." Camille nodded enthusiastically in agreement. "I just realized there's a major glitch in one of the levels."
"We have to go reprogram," Camille said with a defeated laugh.
"Can dinner wait?" Kirsten said with a frown.
Liam looked taken aback. "You're gonna leave me again," he said flatly. Kirsten sighed.
"It's just a game!" He said, exasperated.
"A very important game," she said, kissing him on the cheek. Liam didn't budge; his face was tense, upset.
Camille followed Kirsten out, and Liam could overhear her saying, "I mean, these boots are like, really - who needs a man?" before the door shut behind them.
"Is that what this is about?" Dexter Morgan said, his voice a menacing whisper. Fisher and Camille looked at each other nervously on the other side of the interrogation table. They shifted uncomfortably in their seats. Kirsten was undaunted, unshaken. She maintained her fierce eye contact with Dexter, who seemed unafraid to glare back.
Dexter slammed both fists down, his temper flaring. Camille gasped. "Are you fucking serious?" Dexter shouted. "Are you suggesting I have anything to do with my wife's death? That I would slice her artery, let her bleed out in the bathtub-"
"Mr. Morgan, please," said Fisher, exchanging a wide-eyed look with Camille.
"We know that you were at Arthur Mitchell's house," Kirsten said quickly, her tone very grave.
Dexter froze. They know about my involvement with the Trinity Killer and his family? His thoughts raced. If they find out I had Arthur Mitchell on my table that evening-
"At the time of your wife's death," She elaborated, prompted by his silence. "You were at Arthur Mitchell's house." Dexter felt his heartbeat quickening, but he kept his composure cool. Yes, but how much do you know? Dexter thought.
"You were part of the team that raided Arthur Mitchell's house, Mr. Morgan. We know you didn't kill your wife," Fisher said, his voice steady. "We're just looking for a reason Arthur Mitchell might have targeted your wife."
Dexter shrugged. "Because he's a serial killer?" Because of me, he thought. "I don't know, I'm sorry I can't be of more help to you guys," Dexter said. "Are there any further questions?"
"Not at this time," Fisher said, getting to his feet and extending a hand for Dexter to shake. Kirsten and Camille stood also, smoothing their clothes. Dexter watched their body language carefully, but he couldn't read them.
Did they believe me?
After the interview, Fisher, Camille, and Kirsten compared mental notes outside the restaurant. "He has to know more than he's letting on. He did something to provoke the Trinity Killer, that's why he wanted Rita to leave for the honeymoon, where she'd be safe," Fisher said, thinking out loud. "If she would have made her flight, she'd be alive."
"Dexter was acting really defensive," Camille noted. "He seemed to be coming from a place of guilt rather than loss."
"Do you think that this Kyle Butler guy is related to Dexter?" Kirsten said, tilting her head. "You know, the one we're all trying to find but nobody knows who he really is?"
Camille and Fisher shrugged. "I don't know," Fisher said. "I feel like we're stuck on this one. Someone's not telling us what we need to know, and so we're spinning our wheels here." He nodded to the two girls and waved goodnight. "Thanks for coming out. We'll get together tomorrow to continue this," he said, hopping into his car.
Kirsten got into Camille's car, and the pair drove back to their house, unaware they were being tailed.
Dexter stayed a safe distance away from their car, but he had to know more about this Stitchers mystery. That's definitely the same girl from the restaurant the other day, Dexter thought as he trailed Kirsten. The Stitcher...
They pulled up to their house and parked before they went inside. Dexter's car was parked in a shadowy space across the street. He picked up his binoculars.
Who are you, Kirsten Clark?
Detective Joey Quinn opened up the door to his swanky apartment and smiled at his partner Debra Morgan.
"Hey," he started. "I'm glad you called." He leaned in to kiss her but she backed up into the hallway.
"Hey fuckpuddle what are you doing?!" Deb swore at him, flaring up.
"Just giving you a kiss hello," he retaliated innocently, stepping aside to let her come in.
"I came over here to sleep, not to have your fat little sausage fingers all over me," Deb spit out, disgusted.
Quinn chuckled.
"There's no room for me at my own place unless I want to curl up inside the toaster oven," Deb said, relaxing as she plopped down on his couch. Quinn shut the door and latched it.
"I'm really trying to be a good sister because we all know Dexter's always been the best brother but... it is fucking exhausting." She sprawled out on the sofa.
"I'm sure," Quinn said. "Well, look, you're welcome to stay here for as long as you want, as often as you want, and I promise to keep my fat little sausage fingers off you." He wiggled his fingers at her.
"You better." Deb smiled.
Quinn handed Deb a pillow and blanket. "How's your brother?"
"You know," She said, pulling the blanket up over her.
"I heard the FBI interview went well, that has to be a load off," Quinn said.
"Why would that be a load off?" Deb shot back.
"Nothing, nevermind," Quinn laughed.
"They're looking for someone named Kyle Butler who's a friend of Arthur Mitchell's. They think if they can find him he can lead them to Mitchell." Deb slid her jeans off underneath the blanket and tossed them into the floor.
Quinn scoffed. "Let me guess, they can't find him."
"Not yet, but they got sketches done, trying to get a positive I.D." Deb replied.
"Kyle Butler, now why does that name sound so familiar?" Quinn pondered.
Deb gestured with her right hand, putting in her retainer with her left. "Well that's the weird thing, we worked that case, remember? A dead Kyle Butler?"
Quinn remembered suddenly. "Right, he got his head smashed in! Went unsolved. Any connection?"
"I don't know, I'm sure the FBI will find a way to fuck it up." She pulled the blanket up around her, snuggling into his couch. "Will you get the lights?"
"Yes ma'am." The living room went dark.
Maggie stood properly in her office with the stuffy Lez Turner, his silver hair coiffed up.
"So what did you find on Liam?" Lez pried. He narrowed his eyes at her.
"I had Camille check his credentials. They all check out," Maggie said. "Perfectly."
"Too perfectly?" Lez said, raising an eyebrow.
"A year ago, Liam was awarded an NSF post-doctorate fellowship in emerging third-world countries," Maggie began.
"Impressive," Lez retorted.
"Worrisome," Maggie continued. "Here's a photo of him receiving the award." She handed over her tablet.
Lez zoomed in on a man in the background, standing behind Liam to the left. "You think it's him."
"It's hard to tell from the picture, but my gut says yes, and if there's even a chance," Maggie said, trailing off.
"I'll take care of it," Lez said, smiling professionally. "You-"
"I'll keep an eye on Liam." Maggie said firmly.
Lez nodded, exiting her office.
Kirsten stood on her back porch, drinking a glass of wine, holding the key she had found in her mother's headstone out in front of her. The night was cool, and Kirsten's head was fuzzy from the eventful day. She didn't hear the door open behind her, or Liam's footsteps as he approached.
"What's that?"
Kirsten spun around. "A key to something."
"A key to what?" Liam smirked, stepping closer to her.
"I'm not quite sure yet," Kirsten said, putting the key in her pocket.
"Kirsten Clark," Liam said, laughing, "You continue to be an unexpected mystery to me. A beautiful one."
She smiled. "I mean it, Kirsten," he continued, "You're beautiful, just like this, no layers of make-up, no fancy dresses, just you."
"Thank you," Kirsten said, her voice lacking emotion.
"You may not feel it the way I do when we're apart," Liam said in a low voice, "But I know how right it feels when we're together."
"Me too," Kirsten said innocently.
Liam sunk to one knee, presenting a jewelry box. Inside, a ring.
Kirsten's mouth hung open.
"Will you marry me?"