Summary: About three weeks after Dexter makes detective, the Dahlia copycat killer has all but stopped killing, leading many to believe that he's left town, but the murder of a prostitute leads Harry and Debra to believe that the killer is still in Miami. Meanwhile, the murder leaves quite an impression on Dexter, who has been experiencing severe coughing fits, a tender throat, insomnia, and weight loss over these past few weeks; Brian and Deb both recommend he see a doctor.

Down on the Upside


"The moment you think you understand a great work of art, it's dead for you."

-Oscar Wilde


'Problem Child'


January 30, 2005

Oscar Wilde said once that the moment you see think you understand a work of art; you've killed it. But is that really true? Can art really be that simple; it's alive until we understand it? I hope it isn't. If it were, then the entire world would lose meaning. Water wouldn't be water, beauty wouldn't be beauty, blood wouldn't be blood.

I grab for a bar of soap, nearly losing the slippery little thing as I bring it close to my chest to steady it. Showers have been the one good thing I've had for the past few weeks. I thought that after three weeks of being a detective, my life would be looking great-I have a good job, a good home, a good family and a woman to hide the monster inside me-what I find, instead, is my own degrading health: severe coughing fits, weight loss, my bones ache, and insomnia. All that bad stuff, I guess. I've lost ten pounds in the over the past few weeks, and I have no idea why.

Brian sees the sudden change in me and has said to see the doctor, but I don't know if I want to. It's probably just a bad bug going around, my immune system's been letting me down a lot lately, but hey, what can you do?

I turn off the water and dry myself, walking to my room, and looking at the suit I'm expected to wear to the gallery. I don't particularly like suits, but I've found I can live with them. I reach down for the sports coat laid out on my bed, before finding myself wracked in a coughing fit, which causes me to bend over for a few moments until a sharp pain in my chest recedes, but not before I knock something over off my nightstand. I try to swallow, but my throat is tender. It must be a really bad cold I've caught.

I look down to see what I fell on the ground, it's an old, cracked kaleidoscope lined with blue and purple stripes. I grab at is if I had just burned the Bible, holding the old cylinder delicately in my hands. I look inside to see shattered colors and broken patterns, before sighing in relief and bringing it down to my chest. All is well; I have enough time to flash a small, sad smile at that beautiful little thing before I wrap on the sports jacket and walk out of the room, off to find my date.


"What do you think of this one, Dex?" She asks slowly. I look to see a picture of four prostitutes hanging on the cream-white walls behind it, all smoking cigarettes and conversing on a street corner, which I identify as Calle Ocho, at night. It's a somber and beautiful photograph, but to me, it's the same old drivel.

"Uh...It's okay, Eliza," I reply, nodding at the painting and her. Eliza is a Forensic Scientist in Vice; she approached me a few weeks ago, asking for a date, and I accepted. Who am I to deny a girl a bit of Dexter Moser, and who am I to deny myself the opportunity to look more normal? She's brunette, of average height, and quite attractive. Her personality, on the other hand, has made very little impression.

We're currently standing in an art gallery that my sister and a friend of hers opened up with a bit of spare money. It's surprising how many people enjoy their work-I had thought the Mosers and Morgans were the only ones that would be coming.

"I think it's absolutely delightful!" she exclaims in a falsely sweet way, "it's a fantastic look into the world of prostitutes!"

She looks enamored by the photograph, maybe because she's in Vice. They tend to be more sympathetic to hookers than most Homicide guys, and certainly more sympathetic than I am. I smile, nodding at her, as we move on.

She's alright, I guess.

Next we come up to an oil painting of a man sitting in a room, looking out into the blackness outside his window. This is disturbing, something I really enjoy, it's the existential 'bullshit'-as my father would've liked to say-that really gets me contemplating my own life; its vices, its strengths, its beginnings, its ends. This is a beautiful painting, a work of art.

"No," Eliza shakes her head, "this one isn't nice at all. It's too depressing."

"How are you enjoying yourself, Dex?" A lilting voice comes from behind me; I turn to see my sister is the source of the sweet noise.

"Very well, thank you, Dee," I grin.

"Dee?" Eliza grins, "like Dexter and Dee Dee?"

You'd be surprised how often that lame joke comes up at social gatherings where both Dee and I are present.

"Something like that, Eliza," I nod before introducing the two, "Eliza Taggart, Deidre Moser. Deidre Moser, Eliza Taggart."

"Pleasure to meet you," Eliza puts on courteous, beatific smile in the presence of the blonde, "this is a fantastic gallery you've got here, it must have cost a fortune!" Eliza adds indicating the chic cream walls, the hardwood flooring, and the soft lighting that feels something like the afternoon glow.

"Thank you very much, Ms. Taggart," Dee responds, matching Eliza's courteous smile, "it's actually a lot cheaper than you think."

"Well, I'll leave you here to get to know each other," I deflect, eager to be out of Eliza's presence, "I think I see a painting that deserves a glance or two."

"Which one?" Dee asks, looking around at the many different paintings.

"That one," I point at a painting on the far side of the gallery. It's not so much a painting as slashes and swirls of red and blue paint over a black sheet. Eliza nods in the affirmative, standing by and conversing with my sister while I move to that painting.

It's a work of art, really. There are liquid droplets of red, like blood, spatters of it, mixing with whirl tides of blues and slashes of greens, melding and forming into a sort of drip pattern-like a Jackson Pollock-it's a mind-numbing array of colors and dashes and people and places inside what appears to be nothing more than scribbles. This painting means everything, the chaos, quiet, confused, of the material and nihilistic culture of America-the very representation of a world where men like me have been left behind, casting droplets of red blood across the inky blackness of the world, among the blues and greens of the 'civilized' man. I assume I must be looking at the painting in awe, or with an agape mouth, because people have begun to stare.

"This would be the painting you'd like," a familiar female voice intones; chuckling.

I turn to see Debra Morgan standing to my side, gazing at the painting as well. Harry stands off to the side, conversing quietly with my mother:

"It's... beautiful, in it's own way," I shrug, smiling at the tall woman.

"I wouldn't know," Deb snorts, looking slightly abashed, "I don't know the first fucking thing about art."

"And I do?" I question lightly.

"Well, how am I supposed to know? You we're the one who helped me with my Art History homework back in college."

"You mean, helped you cheat?" I drawl.

"Ha, ha, Dexter; you're a fucking comedian," she moves in closer and her voice drops to a whisper, "so you're dating Taggart the braggart, huh? How's that working out?"

"You want the truth?" I ask quietly.

"Preferably," she intones with a crooked grin.

"She's annoying," Deb laughs at that; it's not overly loud, just enough to get my attention, rather than everyone else.

"Well, I hear she's learned a few tricks while working with the detectives. She use any on you, yet?" The brunette waggles her eyebrows suggestively, her crooked grin, if anything, grows wider; my eyebrows raise in shock:

"I think this passes the realms of appropriate conversation in polite company," I deadpan before turning back to the painting. Deb just shakes her head, clearly enjoying the discomfort she thinks she's caused me, and looks at the painting for a long time. It really is awe-inspiring, in a minimalist sort of way.

"You two have certainly been looking at this one for a while," Eliza's voice registers behind us, looking on the painting, "I know your sister painted this," she indicates the placard underneath that says: Artist: Deidre Moser, "but her picture of the prostitutes was much better. No offense, but this is just a bunch of splotches of paint. It's like a, like a-" she trails off, trying to find the right words.

"-Like a fingerpainting?" Deb supplies Eliza the answer, who freezes for a moment:

"Not exactly the words I was looking for," she shrugs in response, looking at me as if Deb had just slapped me, "but something of the like."

"Well," Deb retorts, she directs a thinly-veiled insult to the Vice Scientist, probably out of respect for Dee, "I think it's beautiful."

"Really?" Eliza questions, seemingly unaware of Deb's tone, "Different strokes, I guess-" she pauses to laugh, "-no pun intended."

Deb's response-sneer is veneered in a sickly sweet smile. Ah, the joys of watching woman squabble over the pettiest of reasons. Deb's been friends with Dee since the girl was born, and now she's ready to rip this woman's head off for simply stating her opinion. The thing is, Art's like a kaleidoscope, you can look in at the artist's intentions and see a million different meanings for a million different people, but people are often unaware that art is, at best, a fractured medium, and that things that maybe garbage can be beautiful; it all depends on the beholder. It's the reason why we have so many wars, and why people are so at loathe to depart from their ideals. But, hey, maybe it isn't a bad thing at all...

...it definitely leaves me with city stocked full of murderers.

"What do you think, Dex?" Eliza asks, looking at me and indicating the painting.

"I-" I stutter, who do I side with? I agree with Deb, but a painting's not a good enough reason to get my squeeze angry at me. Fortunately, my mother, having heard the conversation, takes pity on my poor soul and ushers Eliza away:

"Come on, Ms. Taggart, there are a few people I'd like you to meet," Eliza nods, giving me a demure smile:

"We'll talk later, won't we, Dex?"

"Uh, sure!" I call back, watching my mother drag the woman away with a mixture of relief and awe:

"So, what do you think about it?" Deb asks, looking seriously at me.

"It's art. It's beautiful," I reply, gazing upon those magnificent bloody splotches on the the inky canvas.

"It is, isn't it?" Deb asks, smiling without any real reason that I can identify. I remain silent, as we look upon this kaleidoscope of life for a few moments longer.


"I can't believe you bought it," Eliza grins, eating a little bit of the Flan we're sharing. She's referring to the Jackson Pollock my sister did. I shrug looking back at the brunette:

"Well, Dee's my baby sister, I'd do a lot more than buy a painting for her," I reply, taking a bite and forcing myself to swallow it down. For some reason, I haven't felt hungry for the past few weeks, sometimes I want to retch after I eat.

"Cute," Eliza quips, spooning a bit of the Spanish dessert into my mouth, "Dexter Moser, the big Homicide hotshot's got a soft spot for his baby sister. Heartwarming, really!"

I chuckle, her particular brand of sarcastic humor really rubs off on me well, surprisingly. I suddenly feel a slight pain in my chest, and find myself letting out a few clearing coughs and wiping my mouth:

"You're looking really pale lately, Dex," Eliza says quietly, looking genuinely worried at my discomfort, "are you sure you're alright?"

"Just a bug, or something," I answer, "nothing a few days rest can't fix."

"Maybe I shouldn't be feeding you food, then," she snarks in good humor.

"Why not? We could be sick together," I reply suavely.

"Oh, and share a bed, and watch old romantic comedies?" She asks, raising an amused eyebrow.

"Hey, I'm not the one who suggested it," I raise up my hands, 'charming Dex' is in rare form tonight.

"Oh, you tease!" She slaps at my shoulder playfully before taking a sip from her wine, "but it does sound like an idea," she licks her lips suggestively. Crap. I hope she doesn't actually go for the bait.

"But you need to be at work, from what I hear, Vice needs you bad. Don't wanna take you away from them," I wink.

"Vice," she sighs, "what a department!"

"Hey, Homicide's got its fair share of nuts, too. You meet Masuka?" I ask.

"Yeah. I have. Can't say it was much of a pleasure," she intones, her glossy lips upturn into a pretty little smile, "and you guys have got Morgan's father as Lieutenant, right?"

"Yep," I respond brightly.

"He as much of a hardass as they say he is?" She asks interestedly.

"Nah, he's a big softie," I deny with a grin.

"Hey," she starts, "what is it between you and Morgan, anyways?"

"Huh?"

"You two are always hanging out, talking about stuff, you even help her on cases, don't you?" I nod, waiting for her to continue: "You two ever..."

"Uh, no," I cut her off quickly, why do people keep asking me these kinds of questions? "I grew up across the street from her, she's like a sister to me."

"Is that all?" She questions playfully, "a lot of people say that you two aren't exactly platonic."

"Well, a lot of people don't know what they're talking about. Hence the reason we're wining and dining," I respond truthfully. Eliza seems to like the truth, so I'll lay it out for her.

"So you're wining and dining me now?" She cocks her head to the side and puts her index finger to her lips in a mock-thinking pose, "well, I find truthfulness to be an endearing quality in men."

"Middle name's honesty," I lie, grinning at the subtext. Eliza stifles a giggle:

"You are a tease, Dexter Moser," she exclaims, I smile and shrug in response.


I don't know why we're here, but we are. Usually sex never enters the equation for me, women seem to realize how hollow I am once they have sex with me, and then I have to start all over again, so I like to distance myself from sex. Yet here Eliza and I are, in my apartment, completely alone. Brian and Rita are at her house, so the neighbor's home is unoccupied as well:

"Nice little place you've got here, Moser," she spins, taking in the sight of my apartment.

"It's good for me," I shrug, "great location, too," I add, taking a seat on my couch. Eliza looks around at the apartment for a moment before her frost-colored eyes settle on me. She takes a few breaths and sighs:

"You look sick, Dex," she says quietly, "you're working too hard."

"Working too hard?" I snort, "there hasn't been a decent case since the Dahlia murders and I'm not even on that case."

I'm taken by surprise as she closes the distance between us, cupping my cheek as she kneels onto the couch, straddling my legs. The brunette gives me a wistful stare; obviously she's enjoying this. Eliza straightens out my shirt, smoothing it with her small hands, running up and down my chest and leans in close to my ear:

"But fuck if you aren't sexy," she whispers out breathily, nibbling on the lobe of my right ear.

I have to stop this somehow, but how can I do it without making her suspicious? Eliza cuts off my musings with a sudden kiss; her lips are soft, and her eyes are entrancing. She breaks off after a few seconds with a little lopsided smile, watching my eyes with her own pretty blues, before she dives in for seconds. This time, she closes her eyes, apparently its something people like to do, so I close mine as well.

I need to think, how do I get out of this one? I'm running out of time, she's unbuttoning my dress shirt. Before long, I can feel the cold air of my apartment hitting my bare chest, but Eliza abruptly stops. I open my eyes, dazed; she's looking down at the scars-three on the chest from stab wounds in Edinburgh, a long spindly gash from Bosnia, two on the sides from bullets in Slovakia, and countless others from the hell that was Vladivostok-could it be that my body saves me where my mind has lost all cogent thought?

"Jesus, Dexter, were you a bad sushi chef, or something?" She questions, genuinely surprised at the sheer amount of scar tissue on my abdomen.

"Something like that," I reply softly. I can say whatever I want about Eliza, but she's exceptionally aware of other people's feelings and innately understands that this a sort of topic I wouldn't like to discuss. Instead, she does something all the more stranger.

She leans down and licks the long, sideways scar I received from a fight a long time ago, letting her tongue trail along it, slowly, as if her mouth were taking a leisurely stroll. It's a bit weird, but strangely arousing.

"What are you doing?" I ask, looking down at her in what I think is a confused manner.

"Sex is an art, Dexter," she raises a single eyebrow, "you make it up as you go along."

"Sex is an art?" I repeat; I think she notices the tinge of skepticism in my voice, and Eliza looks up to me:

"A cynic? I love cynics," she breathes out, lowering herself to my waist, "let me show you."

I try to pull away, but the quiet, grating sounds of my zipper being sufficiently unzipped leaves me motionless. I haven't got a shot in hell, so I just let my head loll back and groan a bit as Eliza does strange and wondrous 'artsy' things to me.


A few hacking coughs erupt from my chest; they're really painful this time. Maybe I will have to go see a doctor soon, there's no way this can be good. I find myself kneeling on my bathroom floor, feeling sore all over and my lungs have suddenly decided to do mortal battle with some sort of pathogen and my sanity.

Eliza sleeps in my room, she passed out a few hours ago after we made 'sex an art'; I, on the other hand, couldn't get much sleep. I don't know why, sudden-onset insomnia, maybe. But then the coughing started and I rushed to the bathroom to take care of the fit so Eliza wouldn't wake.

I stand up after the fit passes, and approach my sink slowly, turn on the tap and watch water spew out from it. I cup my hands and run it under the water, watching it fill up, then I bring it to my mouth. I take a few swishes and spit it out, noting how the water comes out tinged red. I stare at the muddled water as it goes down the drain.

What's wrong with me?


I awake quickly to the loud noise of my cell phone ring tone. I shift to my side, moving Eliza's arm off my waist; she sleeps next to me on her stomach, utterly passed out. Either I performed that well or was just that boring. I look at the phone, it's Deb:

"Moser," I say groggily into the receiver.

"Jesus, Dex, I know you've got today off, but...you've gotta see this," Deb's excited voice registers on the other side of the line. Eliza shifts slightly in bed, and opens her eyes, before asking groggily:

"Who's that, Dex?" Her words comes out as a nearly-drunken slur.

"Is that Eliza Taggart's voice I hear?" Deb asks, sounding dangerously like she's teasing, "Dex, you fucking dog!"

"Yeah, yeah," I say to her and mouth 'It's Deb,' to Eliza, who nods and kisses my shoulder and remains quiet, "what's up?"

"Fuck me, we got a dead hooker," Deb replies.

"Since when is that a new thing in Miami?" I question.

"But it's the way he killed her, Dex," Deb explains, "LaGuerta won't hear me out on this but I fucking think this is our Dahlia guy."

"Does the M.O. match?" I ask.

"Not exactly, but I can tell, it's done in the same fucked-up way that only the same fucked-up mind could come up with. I can just feel it in my gut that this is the same guy," Deb's always liked to talk about that-the gut feeling. I don't know what it means, but it's something she equates with being a good cop because Harry told her she needed it to ever be a 'good' cop. I don't have gut feelings; I don't want to have gut feelings. Sound rationality, proving beyond a doubt that someone deserves my knife is what helps me sleep at night, not fanciful notions about a police 'sixth sense'.

"So, why are you asking me? I'm not even on the case," I try to disengage from the conversation.

"Because, Dex, you understand this crazy shit. You get those hunches...so, I'm thinking, if I got a hunch from this, you probably will, too, am I right?" She asks, sensing my disinterest over the phone, "oh, come on, Dex!" My little neighbor whines, "I'll fucking buy you lunch if you want. So, pretty please?"

"You've got yourself a deal, Ms. Morgan," I grin, maybe this is worth checking out. I can come right home afterwards, anyways, right?

"Bastard," she snorts, "you make more money than me and you're making me pay?"

"Hey," I deflect good-naturedly, "you offered."

"Fuck off, asshole," she retorts, but I can tell she's probably smiling as she curses me.

"Fucking off," I reply, before ending the call.

"What's this?" Eliza asks, holding up the old kaleidoscope.

"It's a gift," I reply, watching her look through the eyehole, she'll only see cracked colors, though.

"It's broken," she responds after a moment of meditation.

"Yeah, I know it is," I reply, getting out of bed, "it broke a few years back."

"And you still keep it?" She questions.

"Well, it was a gift," I reply, "do you want to take a shower first?" I ask, she shakes her head:

"Your house, you get first shower," I shrug and nod, shuffling towards the bathroom to take a shower; I smell like a mixture of sex and sweat, and my mouth tastes like blood from the coughing fit during the night. Eliza walks out of my room and I hear the television turn on as I shut the bathroom door behind me.

The shower is nice, brushing my teeth leaves me feeling refreshed, like I haven't been ravaged by some unnamed illness for the past few weeks. I finish quickly, walking out with a towel around my neck while Eliza watches the news, interested.

I slink by her and start making breakfast for two, turning on the stove and look down at the electric heater as the white lines turn a molten red to show that it's on. I don't know why, but I have an irresistible urge to touch that molten line, even though I know it will burn my finger.

But I do it anyways, touching it for the slightest moment before snatching it back, a nice little welt left on my right index finger to remember it by. I stare at the burned finger, smiling slightly without knowing why, and only one thought pervades my mind:

Everything burns.


Miami has a way of making murder seem so illogically mundane. There are beheadings, cases of dismemberment, violent rape, drug shootings, you name it; it all eventually looks the same to you. So mundane, without meaning or sense-just murder for the sake of murder. It's like people have forgotten what murder really is and turn it into a half-hearted game of 'Finding Ted Bundy 2'. But it's wrong, what they say, that passion: the nonsensical, illogical feelings they feel that leads up to the release of blood, that proves they're murderers. They have a reason. I can't say I have a reason for why I do what I do, but, at least, I can go home at night and feel like I haven't done anything completely wrong. I'm just a killer, I don't murder, I don't even hate or have a real reason to kill who I do-there's no moral or legal reason why I do it, I just do.

These people are murderers, and you think that's awful, but I sometimes think it's better that the world is full of murderers rather than killers like me. These men have an endgame, a reason as to why they do what they do; I don't. If you ask me, it's the men who have no purpose or endgame; those want to see the world collapse that are truly terrifying. I duck under the ticker tape of blocking off the crime scene, only to be stopped by a cop:

"Who the fuck are you?" Asks a County Sheriff Officer as I pass underneath the yellow ticker tape.

"Detective Moser, Miami Metro Homicide," I reply casually, showing him my badge. The Officer nods and lets me continue until I hear a familiar voice call for me:

"Dex, over here!" I search for the source of the voice, finally settling on the tall, lanky figure of Debra Morgan in hotpants and a tank-top, waving at me from the doorway to a motel room. I raise my eyebrows and engage in the slightest nod of my head, indicating I've seen her, and walk over to the walking Playboy advertisement.

"You're looking nice today," I say gentlemanly; of course, Deb sees the sarcasm laced into it and gives me a narrow look:

"Fuck you, Dexter," she says, not really intending to harm, setting down her hooker purse on the dresser.

"So, this is where Johns come to get down and dirty with Debra Morgan," I sigh wistfully, looking around the room before looking back at her with a completely serious face, "I expected more chains."

Deb snorts:

"Cherri is a very sweet gal, sugar," she jokes in response, "she knows she's the last time any of her clients will ever see a whore, so she tries extra hard to treat her Johns right."

"Cherri?" I ask derisively, "you don't look like a Cherri. Your's must've been popped years ago," I grin and duck as a rolled up T-shirt comes flying my way:

"Don't make me hurt you, asshole," she says dangerously.

"Alright, alright," I reply while moving towards the bed and taking a seat on its edge.

"Could you," Deb starts off in a overly-sweet voice, reapplying makeup to her face, "take a look at the body for me?"

"Why can't you yourself?" I ask.

"Because LaGuerta's got my interviewing hookers who haven't seen anything, and if even they have, they sure as motherfuck aren't going to tell me," Deb snarls, opening a cigarette pack, and slapping it against her palm a few times until one of the small tar-cylinders come out.

"You shouldn't smoke," I warn, "it'll mess you up."

"Fuck off, Dex, I'll do what I want," she dismisses my protest with the wave of a hand; a lighter seemingly magically appears in her palm as she lights the cigarette.

"Fine," I relent, "just don't complain when you've got lung cancer."

We're silent for a moment as she takes a drag:

"What's your gut telling you?" She asks after a minute.

Nothing.

"Nothing yet, I have to see the body first," I reply, "the stuff I do for you...this lunch had better be worth it."

"Thanks, Dex," she grins, knowing I won't bow out of my promise as I open the door and close it behind me, not particularly eager to be out in the muggy Miami air. I walk in the general direction of the crime scene, which I assume is where all the officers are crowding at. Suddenly the crowd parts, opening up like the Red Sea for the Israelites, but instead of thousands of those who deserted Goshen, there's only the shiny, bald head of Detective James Doakes emerging from the sea of faces, who seems to be making a beeline for me.

"You ain't got no call to be here, Moser," he exclaims angrily, his strides are purposeful. Is this really a man who was trained in Spec-Ops? He doesn't know how to handle his emotions at all.

"I was in the neighborhood, thought I might stop to take a look," I reply amiably as he stops in front of me, no one really seems to be paying attention, aside from a few prostitutes, LaGuerta, and Harry.

"Cut the cute shit, Dexter," Harry reproaches sternly, looking at us like two petulant children, "I gave you the day off, so why are you here? You should be getting rest, you know that."

"Don't blame me," I raise my arms up as if to say that I'm not at fault, "Cherri called me."

Harry instantly shuts up and motions me over to him. I give Doakes an apologetic look; I am trying to act nice, it's not my fault he can't reciprocate. Doakes gives me a dark glare and shakes his head, following me to the Lieutenant:

"Dexter, get Cherri out here," he orders.

"Dressed like that?" I question.

"Tell her to change," Harry answers exasperatedly, I nod, turning back to the motel where Deb's room is.

Once I reach the door, I knock, hearing a sultry rendition of Deb's voice come out of the room:

"Yeah, sugar?" She asks.

"Deb, get changed," I say, not in the mood for games with my 'best friend', "Harry wants to talk to you."

"Fuck," she mutters loud enough to be heard through the door, "dad's gonna tear me a new one."

"I doubt it," I reassure her, "he likes working with you, you know?"

"Yeah, I'll bet," she snorts derisively, before the door opens, revealing Deb in full police garb, "take me to your leader," she jokes hollowly, letting me lead her through the crowd to her father, who looks upon her impassively. He stares at us for a moment, before motioning for Deb off to the side of the motel. I wait awkwardly in the crowd until Harry turns back and points at me:

"You too, Moser," he calls, and I comply. In a flash, both Deb and I are standing in front of a disappointed-looking Harry, who shifts glances from Deb, who stares at her shoes, fidgeting slightly, to me, who stares him straight in the eyes.

"Debra," he starts, deliberately quiet, so not as to attract attention to us, "care to tell me why you called Dexter in on his off day?"

"Hey, it's alright, Lieutenant, I can lea-" I try to explain, but Harry cuts me off:

"I wasn't talking to you, Detective," he growls soberly, before turning back to Deb, awaiting an answer patiently:

"I-I-" Deb stutters, looking over at me, pleading with her eyes for me to save her somehow.

"She wanted me to verify a theory she has," I answer for her.

"Still not talking to you, Moser," Harry's voice conveys more annoyance; folding his arms, he never breaks eye contact with Deb, who's trying to avoid his severe gaze.

"No one will listen to me," Deb begins, her voice small, "I have a theory and you and LaGuerta shove me back into my room like a dirty, backalley whore."

"So you ring up Dexter, Deb, he hasn't been feeling well for the past few days," Harry reprimands; I feel that it's the chivalrous thing to do to step in and defend my friend's metaphorical honor:

"Hey, lay off her, I'm fine," of course, my cursed body decides to betray me at that exact moment, as I feel another coughing fit coming over me; it takes all my self-restraint to keep any more than one cough from escaping my mouth.

"Yeah, sure," Harry retorts, "that's what's with the coughing, weight loss, and bloodshot eyes, right? Can't fool me, Dex."

"I said I'm fine," I find myself growling as well, "I'm a big boy, I could choose for myself whether I wanted to come to the crime scene or not. Don't blame Deb."

"I'm not, I'm just questioning my daughter's judgment," Deb remains silent through all this, and for a moment, I feel like Harry and I are fighting for a daughter we've both laid claim to, he pushes me off a few feet from Deb so she can't hear; leans in close, dropping his voice to a whisper "and there's a reason why I'm her father, not you. Don't try to do me any favors."

"You're definitely not acting like it," I growl back and give Deb a reassuring smile, but she refuses to look up. The woman needs some self-esteem, and Harry's not helping, "look, Harry, the territorial pissing may have worked on me or a son, if you had one," I say, hardly believing that I, a serial killer, could know more about parenting than my mentor, who stares at me level. People are starting to notice; I have to end this soon, so I drop my voice to a whisper, "but Deb's low on self-esteem. You could try reassuring her, rather than cutting her down."

Harry backs off of me; he ponders my words for a moment, before turning and walking back to Deb:

"What's your theory?" He asks, sighing.

"This is the Dahlia Killer, I just want to see if this hunch goes anywhere. Dexter's got experience with Forensics, and it's on his time, I just want to see if I can confirm it," Deb says it so quickly that it seems like a long, nonsensical sentence made up of mashed-together words.

Harry looks at me, rubbing his forehead exasperatedly:

"And you're fine with this?"

"Why wouldn't I be?" I joke, "I'm an insomniac with no social life."

Harry looks conflicted, before nodding:

"Deb, I'll let you in on the Homicide Briefings for this Case; you're with Dexter on this one. But Dex, I still expect you to do your real job with Detective Batista, alright?"

"Aye, aye, Lieutenant," I salute him cheerily. I turn to Deb and smile, "see, that wasn't so bad?"

She looks up, a mixture of shocked and dazed, but most of all, happy. Seeing her grin like that is nice, like how I think a father must feel when they do something exceptionally courageous for their family.

"Thank you, Dex," she says gratefully, "I don't know how I'd..."

"Don't mention it," I cut her off softly, "let's go see that body."


"This is some fucked-up shit, socio," Batista mutters, looking down at the corpse, which is covered by a white sheet, "not for the faint of heart."

"I've definitely seen worse, I'll bet," I reply, smirking. Batista shakes his head:

"I wasn't talking to you, brother," he indicates Debra, who looks at the crime scene, fascinated, like a student at a master's workshop, "I was talking to the pretty one."

"I'm not pretty?" I ask incredulously, feigning a hurt expression, Batista just grins.

"Hey, if it makes you feel any better, I think you're pretty, Dex," Masuka's voice comes from behind me as he pushes past the Morgan and I, but he stops abruptly once he sees Deb, turning to her, "Vince Masuka, Forensic Investigator."

"Debra Morgan," she replies, "your bosses' daughter." Masuka clams up, before turning awkwardly to Batista:

"Alright, let's unwrap this bitch!" He calls out magnanimously; Deb gives me an incredulous look while Batista and I give her an apologetic one. Deb's got a soft spot for the 'streetlight people', so it isn't hard to see that she'd be a little offended by Masuka's blatant disregard for human life. Not that I agree with her, a bag of flesh is a bag of flesh. Souls complicate things, better to think of the dead as dead, and the slide as still alive.

"Vince, watch your mouth," I reprimand for her.

"Jesus, Detective Buzzkill, would you like to readjust your tampon?" Masuka asks, grinning.

"Just open the fucking bag, burro," Batista snorts as Masuka bends to his knees:

"Dex, you have Forensics experience, right?" I nod at the short man's question, "wanna help me out on this one? Just take a few pictures, analyze the wound?"

"And the Blood Spatter?"

"Yeah, we're kind of lacking right now," Vince sighs, before folding his hands in a caricature of a girl's high school yearbook photo, "be a bro?"

"Fine," I reply, "hand me that camera."

"Well, lets see what's behind sheet number one," Masuka says, lifting it off.

For a moment after seeing the body, I'm rooted to the spot. My eyes go wide; I can hardly believe what I'm seeing. The 'hooker' is no more than fifteen, if I can estimate her age by her body; what's ghastly about the scene, however, is not her age, but the fact that she's been beheaded, and her arms have been cut off.

In her lap, her severed head sits over her hands, cradling the head like one would a newborn baby. She was crying when she died.

"Have we got an I.D.?" I ask, trying to shake away the million different thoughts burgeoning in my head. Deb winces, looking at the grotesque picture laid out for us by the killer.

"No, nothing yet, once we get her back to the lab, we'll be able to find out for sure," Masuka replies.

"I think this is a new girl, none of the others seem to recognize her," Deb says, probably pushing past her disgust.

"The purse is filled with condoms, and her attire seems to be that of a working girls," says LaGuerta from behind Batista, but I'm already thousands of miles away, in the foothills of Bosnia.


February 22, 1995

A warm jacket is around my shoulders, I carry an AK, trusty little weapons, they are. I've been staying in a small, remote hamlet near the center of the country for nearly seven months now. I've become accustomed to the language, and now have begun to learn Serbian, which is a useful language to know in early 1995. This is a dangerous part of the world, I suppose, but we've been kept relatively safe.

A band of men and I are hunting together; two are U.N. Peacekeepers assigned to this location, one is an American like me, and four others are Bosnian. They are good people, driven to moral ambiguity by the very nature of this war, but good people nonetheless. We carry three wild pigs on our backs. That should be more than enough to feed the entire village, which totals about forty in all.

The icy tuft of snow cascades down upon me, stinging my face. Being from Miami, it took me some time to adjust to the cold Eastern European winter, but I've come to enjoy it. Sometimes the sharp pain you feel from breathing in such frigid air serves as a reminder that you're alive, despite all the mayhem around you, and that's valuable.

People in America can go to sleep without fear. When has Brian or Debra ever gone to sleep with a perennial sense of dread? When did I ever go to sleep fearing I wouldn't wake up? Never. People in the civilized world lose all semblance of self because they have no fear. That these people, constantly in a state of war, can recognize that makes them so much more valuable than the family I left behind, they shove dead people into boxes, I'll fight.

We sing an old Serbian folk song that the village men taught us months ago, laughing and joking in multiple languages to and from one another.

"Hey, Kalashnikov," the other American, who has identified himself as 'Python' for the revolver he carries, starts in Serbian. He calls me Kalashnikov because of my AK, "how's Natasha in bed?"

The other men let out barking laughs; even the U.N. guys smile:

"Very forceful, if you ask me," I grin, replying in Serbian, "but quiet. She doesn't want to wake up Liza."

Now both Python and I let out our own laughs. It's times like these that I forget how angry I am; how little the world makes sense, how unable I am to understand who I am or why I do what I do, instead I just let myself be carried off in waves of camaraderie with men I'd have never known if I hadn't been brave enough, or stupid enough, to leave my little corner of South Florida.

"Liza, what a beautiful little girl," one of the Village men says, "sometimes I forget she is not yours."

"She's certainly controlling me like she is mine," I reply in jest, "but, I love them because of it."

My words come as a surprise to me, but all the men smile. Python looks up from his revolver, dusting some snow off it:

"Good for you," he says in English, "you're lucky. We're all looking for that special someone, looks like you found her."


January 31, 2005

We're all looking for that special someone, there's truth to that statement indeed.

"What did you say?" Deb asks, looking down at the bloodied body.

"I didn't say anything," I reply, looking confusedly at her.

"Yeah, you did, Dex," she replies, "didn't sound like English either."

"It's Serbian," I dismiss it, "I heard it a long time ago."

"Serbian? How the fuck do you know Serbian?" Deb asks, raising an eyebrow. She waits for me to answer, but I don't, so she sighs and continues, "Well, what does it mean?"

"Nothing," I exhale, "nothing at all."


February 22, 1995

My feet crunch through twigs and branches and melting snow stained a brilliant color wheel of shades of red. I can barely believe what I see. There are bodies everywhere, shot like dogs, left strewn in the snow outside their homes, like forgotten hunks of rotten meat. The Serbian men behind me let out a guttural roar, charging ahead with no concern for their well-being into the seemingly deserted village.

"Stay back!" Python calls angrily, but they do not heed his warning and run straight for their homes, to see if their wives and children are still alive, their frantic voices loud and hysterical.

We can't blame them, but we know better. The village probably isn't empty. Our suspicions are confirmed when we hear four shots ring out, and the frantic voices stop. McAllister, one of the U.N. Peacekeepers, tells us to use the houses as cover, and to not hesitate when we see an enemy combatant, but to shoot upon sight. Python and I take the left house; whilst McAllister and Downing take the right.

I keep the AK at the ready, holding the assault rifle carefully, firmly, like Harry taught me to once when we went to the Shooting Range. We approach from the sides, moving quickly from house to house, making sure no one sees us. Two of the men who rushed in before us lay collapsed and bloodied in the center of the village, next to the old well where all our water comes from. Two more hide behind a house close in front of us. One of them looks injured. They flag us over, but Python and I notice two soldiers in trackpants and poorly-made body armor stand guard over the village square, armed with handguns.

Python taps my shoulder as we make aim for the guards, on the other side of the village; I can make out the two forms of McAllister and Downing aiming at two other guards that we can't see from our vantage point. McAllister looks to me and makes a slight nod, at which moment all four of us exit cover and fire at the men guarding the square. Blood spurts from the wounds as they fall over, collapsing into the snow like all of their victims.

We rush over to the two injured men:

"Are you alright?" I ask in Serbian to the injured man, who appears to have never been in our hunting party, he nods, grabbing at his thigh.

"It's nothing serious, I was shot in the leg. Nothing a little rest can't fix," He replies, putting pressure on the leg.

"How many men are there, do you know?" Python asks.

"There are only four we saw, I don't think there are any more, it's a small village," the uninjured man replies, "but our families..." he trails off.

"They only left four men," the injured man affirms, "but, there was a larger party that killed everyone."

Python sighs and shakes his head. Suddenly I remember something, and a wave of terror washes over me, as I get up.

"Hey, hey! Where're you going?" Python asks in English, his voice dead serious, all traces of jaunty whimsy gone.

"I have to find them," I can't think, I need to find...them.

"They are gone, friend," the injured man tries to say, "they are all gone!"

I ignore him, rushing to McAllister and Downing, down the village square, having completely forgotten about personal safety. As I reach them, I turn the corner, running through the maze of small houses, down the path I've become so used to walking leisurely down upon.

"Hey, mate!" Downing calls, his Welsh accent does even seem funny to me anymore, sheer terror has replaced everything I feel, "where are you going?"

I ignore him, taking a left, a right, until I find a small house. I slow to a walk as time slows to a mind-numbing crawl in front of me. There is a little girl, no more than six years-old, her head and hands chopped off laid out tastefully in her lap, her body rests, propped up against the wall of the house. I walk over, slipping in a particularly muddy patch of snow and crawl to her, delicately holding the beheaded girl's shoulders. She was once so full of light, the most delightful girl I've ever had met, and her world ends with a chop to the neck.

It's horrifying.

On her knees is a cracked kaleidoscope. I bought it in Berlin, for the few brief days I spent there, and gave it to the little girl as a present four months ago. It's been broken, the men destroyed it. I grab at it, afraid that it, that it-I look inside it to see cracked and broken patterns of color and light.

It's been destroyed.

I hear footsteps behind me, but don't turn around. I know it's McAllister and Downing.

"Jesus, mate," Downing exhales queasily; I hear the distinct sound of retching as I stare at the body. I remember all the times when we played, when I taught her hide-and-seek, when I played a little bit of soccer with her...all of that is gone.

"Come on, Dex," McAllister says, he uses my real name, which solidifies the sheer gravity of the situation, "they'll be back, we've got to get the survivors out of here."

"Hold on," I say, getting up, pocketing the broken kaleidoscope.

"Dexter!" The U.N. Peacekeeper orders sternly, "if Liza is dead..."

I ignore him.

"That's something you don't want to see," he barks, "believe me when I say that," he finishes more softly. I stop, for a moment, looking back at the elder man, before I open the door and walk inside.


"...Dexter," I've stopped paying attention, it's so...familiar. That kill. Could it really be coincidence?

"Earth to Dexter!" I flinch as Deb waves her hand in front of my face:

"Huh? What?" I ask.

"Jesus, you went into a fucking trance or something there," Deb says, looking at the body.

"Yeah, like you were fucking making love to it, or something," Doakes sneers, having materialized nearby the body.

"Ah, Detective, always so chipper," I scowl; sometimes it's best to engage in Doakes's pointless hate, it makes me seem more like a normal person, but not enough to pique any more of the bastard's interest.

I swallow, heading to the body. There, another problem arises, alongside the strange smell it gives off, but I don't pay attention:

"There's no blood, Masuka," I say, looking down at the area where the head was cleaved off; it looks like a frozen piece of meat, actually.

"I know, this is...this is bizarre," Masuka intones in a sick sort of awe, scratching the back of his head in confusion, "it's like a slab of meat," he touches the body, "it's cold."

"So, what does that mean?" Deb asks, LaGuerta gives her a severe glare, apparently only Homicide Detectives are allowed to ask the questions.

"Cell crystallization," both Masuka and I say, looking at each other, "the body was stored at a subfreezing temperature before it was dropped off here."

"Someone froze the body?" Batista questions incredulously.

"No, well...yes," I stutter; I can't think straight, "could have been a morgue, or in a storage freezer, who knows? It has to have been someplace cold, that's for sure."

"Ugh, does anyone smell that?" Deb wrinkles her nose as she steps closer to the body, "it smells like-"

I pay attention to the smell, and immediately recognize the pungent and unique stench emanating from the corpse:

"Formaldehyde," I cringe, "an embalming agent, we use it all the time whenever we're preparing a body."

"Formaldehyde and no blood, sounds like a restoration gone awry," Masuka titters in that perverse way of his.

"No, it's too unique," I reply, "there's no way we could keep these bodies this cold out in the Miami sun, not without a refrigerated van to carry the bodies back and forth. See the knife wounds?" I point at the slashes at the corpse's wrists and legs, "definitely done pre-mortem, woman probably bled out."

"So?" Doakes growls menacingly.

"Meaning the murder definitely wasn't done here," I reply, "no blood, and the bodies still cold, and embalming agents. Sounds like we're looking for a crazed doctor or mortician."

"Something the Moser family has experience in?" Deb supplies, trying to be helpful. I nod.

"I'll ask my brother if he can give me any ideas on what it might mean. But we're not too friendly with other Funeral businesses, so I can't guarantee success on that," I stand up, as LaGuerta nods, and take off my gloves whilst strolling away.

No blood; what monster would think that's a good idea. No blood. It blows my mind. No, hot, messy, gooey blood; none at all. Just meat. It's clinical, precise, ordered. It makes no sense. Why would a killer go through all the trouble?

I have to go. I feel another coughing fit coming on and I need to be away from this.

"Where are you going, socio?" Batista asks.

Anywhere. Away. Somewhere but here. I can't think straight.

"Back to the station. I came here; I gave my professional advice, but it's still my day off, amigo," I reply casually, "the only reason I'm even gonna be at the station when you get back is because I want lunch."

I start coughing slightly as I stroll back to my car, feeling at least a little bit better that I don't have to see that body again.

"Are you leaving, Dex?" Harry calls, having just finished speaking to a throng of reporters who've gathered around the crime scene.

"No, I'm heading back to the station, I haven't got much else to do today, I'll stick around help."

Harry moves towards me:

"Would you," he starts casually, "would you watch Debra for me? Since you offered to be her partner on this one."

"I didn't offer anything," I smirk nonchalantly.

"Yeah, well, you did when you said for me to take it easy on her," he smiles, I nod, the smirk never leaves my face:

"Well, I said the truth."

"I never said you didn't, Dex," Harry replies, "I love Debra as much any father could. It's just...you know she can be a little overeager, right?"

"All too well," I quip, Harry snorts softly; a quiet exhale of air-a mixture of disbelieving and amuse, a trait he shares with his daughter:

"Yeah, she's always been a bit of a problem child, just don't get too exasperated with her. Remember what I've told you."

Harry taught me a lot when I was younger, some of them being the ability to fake emotions. He never understood how messed-up I really am, and I doubt he ever will, but he was the first of my teachers, and it's a big reason why he's almost as important as my real stepfather to me.

"Aye, aye, sir," I salute, grinning. Harry raises an amused eyebrow before clapping my back:

"See you at the station, Dex," he closes as LaGuerta calls him over to the crime scene and I make my way back to my car.


February 27, 1995

We are approaching the Russian Border. It didn't take long to get the paperwork in order, the country is accepting a limited amount of refugees from this war and we were lucky enough to be some of those limited amounts.

McAllister and Downing have stayed on in Bosnia, but Python, the two living villagers, and I have been in the back of a beaten old truck crawling to the border.

"I remember when you gave that to Liza," Python starts somberly, pointing at Liza's kaleidoscope, which I grip tightly in my right hand, "she was the happiest I've ever seen a child."

"Huh," I nearly choke, remembering when I gave the small wooden scope to the girl, "I found it in Berlin, it was cheap and looked nice. Liza loved it, so I gave it to her."

"Hah, she always was a problem child," he grins, remembering simpler times.

"Yeah," I say quietly, fondly, "she was a problem child. I wonder, how we can just accept something like this. He kills a little girl, I kill a grown man. What's the difference. Are we just supposed to accept that this happens?"

"It would be naïve to suggest otherwise," Python replies, "but I can't tell you why. We have to live with what we are every day. The man who did it will get what he deserves, it's simply karma."

"No, he won't. He'll go on living and a problem child ends up without her head. Karma doesn't exist."

"Then what does?" Python questions, trying to engage me in a conversation; this is the first time I've talked much since the attack.

"Chaos, fire, something of the like," I finish softly.

We remain silent, both of us are probably running through memories of the beautiful little girl and my suggestion about what is and isn't real in our minds until Python breaks the silence:

"What are you going to do once you get to Russia?" He asks jovially, trying to lighten the mood. He's trying to make me forget that both Natasha and Liza were the victims of an unnecessary war, even though I've by now accepted that death is a necessary part of an unnecessary war. I focus on a slight tear in the tattered cloth covering the truck over us. This part, cut open reveals an overcast Bosnian morning. It's cold.

"Probably go to Vladivostok," I reply at length, fingering Liza's blue and purple-striped kaleidoscope, "I came here trying to understand criminals. There are a lot of criminals in Vladivostok."

"Frauds, maybe," Python replies in jest, "and corporate jackasses, and petty thieves, but not the criminals you're looking for. They want money. All they want is fucking money. The men you want are the real psychos. Like the ones-the ones..." he trails off.

"Back at the village?" I supply.

"Back at the village," he echoes, as we hit a pothole in the road, causing him to break off in the middle of speaking for a moment. Once we pass it, he continues on as if he hadn't been fazed by the jump, "they're the ones that just want to see the world collapse on itself. You want to understand what these fuckers are thinking? Find those guys, the ones who just...want to see everything burn."


Robert Albright. I've known he was next for weeks. He's not a real criminal, as Python would have said, but he's a murderer, alright. He is an affluent lawyer, unmarried, in his early thirties; a good lawyer, but not so well known that he'd attract too much attention if he disappeared. Besides, he deserves whatever's coming for him. He was a mild-mannered lawyer who saw his neighbor's beautiful wife, Julie Gunn, and became covetous. When he coveted his neighbor's wife, he became obsessive. When he couldn't have her, he became a rapist and a murderer.

And no one even thought to look at him. He was just the mild-mannered neighbor. It was no secret that Scott and Julie Gunn were on the verge of divorce, and in a moment of complete and total 'insanity', 'Scott' swatted at her head with an antique vase.

And went to jail for it.

I take a sip of coffee as I look over Mr. Albright's nearly squeaky clean record. It's wonderful to know that I can get these files from Camilla for no more than a donut or coffee. Other than a few speeding tickets, Albright's clean. I have my suspicions, but I need proof, and after lunch with Deb, my day's looking quite open.

"Hey, Dex," speak of the devil, I swivel my chair and shut the case file to see Debra Morgan walking my way, "you'll never believe what Masuka told me to tell you."

"And what's that?" I ask, as she stops short of my chair.

"Our hooker's not a fucking hooker," she grins.

"Not a hooker, what do you mean? She was at that hotel, and was dressed like a working girl," I reply, trying to rationalize why she would be found with rolls of condoms in her purse if she weren't a hooker.

"Masuka ran her dental records, apparently we already got it back."

"Already? Usually finding something like this takes the whole day rather than-what-five hours?" I ask, taking a look at my watch.

"Yeah, Masuka said he put it on rush order, or some bullshit," Deb remarks distractedly before moving to the topic she really wants to speak about, one she's much more interested in, "but get a load of this, Dex. Our hooker is Amy Guerrero, fucking Carlos Guerrero's niece!"

"Carlos Guerrero?" Batista asks, interest immediately piqued by the name, "his niece?"

"Uh... hate to break the party up," I start, "but who are you talking about?"

"Carlos Guerrero," Batista's face falls when I don't recognize the name, "he's probably one of the most powerful drug lords in Miami. No one can touch him, though, never gets his hands dirty-just reaps the benefits."

"The man with the plan, huh?" I ask. I hate the man who makes the plan and never gets his hands dirty. It's so weak, so cowardly.

"Yeah, something like that," Deb replies, "Jesus, how do you not know who he is? We've been trying to stick something to that fucker for years."

"I've practically been on Homicide since I started working, Deb," I reply nonchalantly, "if he doesn't get his hands dirty, and I don't stick my nose into the affairs of other departments, it wouldn't be surprising that I don't know about the guy."

"Whatever," Deb replies, "just wrap that huge brain of yours around that for a moment and then tell me what you think."

"Deb, you're a good cop, too, you know that?" I question; I can't understand for the life of me why she's so insecure, "you can think for yourself. Wrap your huge brain around it and you might find you yourself can come up with some good ideas."

She needs some confidence, really. Instead, she grins at my compliment, and bends over slightly, grabbing at my wrists and pulling upwards:

"Come on, Dex," she calls, pulling me both out of restive state and my chair.

"Whoa, come on where?" I ask.

"You're the one who wanted lunch, dumbass," she snorts, still holding my left wrist. Batista smiles, nods, and walks towards Hale and Sodoquist, two other Homicide officers, leaving us alone.

"Oh. Right," I say, picking up the case file and my coffee with my free hand, whilst Deb drags me towards the elevator.


"Dex, you need to go see a doctor about that cough," Deb orders sternly, like a mother admonishing her child, "you sound like a fucking geriatric with a case of bronchitis."

"Deb, I'm a grown man, I don't need to see a doctor," I reply, beating my chest slightly, "it's just a little cough, it'll go by itself."

"Ah, whatever, Dex," she relents, "it's just...that cough sounds really bad."

"Don't worry about it, Miss Morgan," I chastise lightly, "just eat your crab."

We sit in silence for a moment before Deb speaks:

"So, any ideas on this guy?" Deb asks, sucking the meat out of a crab shell.

I love seafood. It reminds me of when Harry, my father, Ben, Brian, and I would go fishing for a cross-family dinner. Of course, Harry probably often felt lonesome, since Deb was a girl and was expected to help the women prepare the vegetables, so I'd always fish by him. For some reason, I always felt closer to Harry than I did Norman, even though I loved my father.

"It's not about ease of disposal anymore," I reply at length, staring at the crab leg she holds in her hands, watching interested, as Deb brings it back to her mouth and sucks out the rest of the meat. It never ceases to surprise me just animal we all are underneath our aura of civility. There are forks, knives, and spoons to eat with, but we all know the most enjoyable way to eat is with one's own hands. Maybe we'd even eat like dogs, face-first into our food, if we could.

"What do you mean?" Deb says, after chewing the meat and swallowing it. I find myself staring at a stray bit of crab juice on her chin. I point to it, and instead of wiping it away with a napkin, Deb licks it right up off her chin. Animals underneath, indeed.

"Prostitutes are easy to kill. They're out at night, they aren't around where many police officers would be, you know, the basic Police Academy stuff. But Amy Guerrero is the niece of a powerful drug lord, meaning it would be-" I almost finish the sentence, but Deb does it for me, excitement coming in spades out of her voice:

"much harder to get her out of sight!" Deb exclaims, grinning.

"And the fact she was made to look like a hooker lends more credence that this isn't a crime of opportunity," I continue, "somebody's trying to get into Guerrero's head."

"Murdering his niece would do that," Deb snorts whilst sucking on a lemon.

"But that also means it's not the guy behind the Dahlia murders," I say, which disarms her, "that guy used them because it's easy to pick them up and easy to dispose of them. This guy has something else to tell us. It's more than just a need for him, and it's not about the fame, though this will garner him just that."

"Then what is it?" Deb asks, she's stopped chewing, interested in my train of thought.

"A message, or something. Possibly to the police, possibly to the mob itself."

"And what message is that?" She questions, leaning in close, a sure sign of Deb's continued interest.

"I don't know," I shake my head, shrugging. Deb leans back, sighing. I may say I don't know, but a small voice in my head tells me I already know the answer:

Everything can die. All people, places, art, anything. Everything burns.

Suddenly a burning feeling rises in my chest, I cough a few times into my napkin. It's a heaving cough, and it doesn't sound dry anymore. Deb cringes at the cough, I look into the napkin, and see blood forming into a distinct pattern around where my mouth was. I fold the napkin before Deb can see it.

The weight loss, the insomnia, and now the bloody coughing; maybe it wouldn't be such a bad idea to see the Doctor.


I told Harry I'd be a little late to work today because I was going to see the doctor. He said to take as much time as I needed which is both a blessing and a curse; it's certainly not how one envisions spending your birthday: cooped up in a patient waiting room at 10 A.M.

There is a man next to me whispering nonsensical jumbles of words and phrases to himself as he rocks back and forth; an elderly couple complaining rather loudly about why they have to disclose whether they've ever had a sexually transmitted disease on the patient form; and a father in front who seems more interested in the newest issue of 'Car and Driver' than his three children, the eldest of which, a girl around ten years old, stares at me and picks her nose quite graphically.

It's a miracle I don't murder them all.

I try to focus on the newscast on the TV at the far corner of the hospital waiting room, which is a little too low on volume to accurately hear, but it looks important, and keeps flashing to pictures of a Bank of America. Three other patients stand close to the TV. It must be interesting in some way, so I stand up and move towards them, anything is better than the people I'm stuck next to:

"What's that on the news?" I ask one of them, a balding Cuban man.

"Bank robbery. Big one. Some unlucky bastard lost about three million dollars," he replies distractedly, turning up the volume and folding his arms:

"It is believed the vault in question belongs to Mr. Carlos Guerrero, who is a millionaire entrepreneur," the news reporter states, giving us all pause. "Mr. Guerrero could not be reached for comment."

"No way," I begin, completely taken off guard.

"Entrepreneur," the balding Cuban man speaks again, albeit in a sarcastic manner, "that's what they call drug dealers these days?"

"Drug dealers?" I question, "he into drugs?"

"Very," the man snorts in response, "heard his niece got chopped up into bits yesterday, too. Maybe God's finally giving the puto some of his just desserts."

"Dexter Moser!" A nurse calls out from the doorway.

"Uh, I'm right here!" I reply, walking towards her

"Follow me," she says, smiling in that plastic way nurses do. She leads me down a hallway where other sick patients are, coughing and sneezing; it's a literal death trap. It was one of the reasons I stopped myself from going into Medicine, but a relatively low number on the list of reasons why I didn't.

She leads me into an examination room and tells me to wait there for the doctor.


"So, Dexter, take a few deep breaths for me," Doctor Kleinman, my physician says jovially.

I comply, taking a few deep breaths, as he asked me to do, watching as his smiling countenance droops into one of confusion. He stops, taking off his stethoscope for a moment and stares at me with a face of consternation:

"How long have you been smoking, Dexter?"

"Smoking?" I question, "I don't smoke."

Kleinman gives me a searching look:

"Do you have any aches, anything at all besides the constant coughing?" He questions, writing down something I can't see on his clipboard:

"Well, aside from blood in my coughs," I start, "I've lost a lot of weight, can't sleep well. And my body aches."

"Aches? Like how?" He queries, writing down more notes.

"I don't know, a deep aching from my bones," I reply, "I generally feel weak."

Kleinman gives me a worried look...

...And suddenly I find myself in an MRI machine, it buzzes around me, the soft whirr whirr of the machine, along with its constant banging makes it difficult to think. I now know that this isn't a simple cold, but I think I understood that a while ago once I started bleeding with every cough. What could it be that it's got my doctor so worried?

Bang!

Bone aches.

Whirr, whirr, bang! Whirr.

I have a sneaking suspicion I know what it is; it doesn't take a genius to figure out why he's so worried. I can only hope I'm wrong.

Bang!


"Dexter," an unfamiliar doctor starts sympathetically, my worst fears, however, have been confirmed because I'm because I'm being told the information by an Oncologist. He is in his early forties, married, I wager from the pictures of a pretty middle-aged blonde woman all over his desk and the gold band around his left ring finger; his once brown hair is starting to turn black, he has piercing blue eyes and a rigid face, as if cut from stone. His lips are thin, sallow, and yet manage to keep a friendly air and an easygoing smile about them. If I had been anyone else, I'd probably feel at ease with him.

I sit back in my chair, and stare around the room, at the man's Medical License. Donald Kuhlmann. Huh. German descent. I could've been one of these White Coats, too, but in some ways, I'm glad I didn't:

"Mr. Moser, are you listening to me?" He questions, staring me dead in the eyes: ice blue meets swamp green.

"Leukemia," I respond hollowly, saying it myself makes seem all the more real, and all the more terrifying, "early stages; inoperable."

Kuhlmann smiles ruefully:

"Now I know this sounds really bad, Mr. Moser," he begins, his hands splayed outwards, gesturing in a soft, restrained way, "but what we've learned about Leukemia has skyrocketed in the last ten years, and it is the early stages of the disease, so it can be combated."

"So with chemotherapy, I can get better," the Doctor nods slightly, "if it works. If it doesn't..."

"That's a hazard, Mr. Moser, if Chemotherapy doesn't work, then it may be that the disease spreads and-"

"metastasizes. And then, I die, right?"

Kuhlmann looks at loathe to answer, but I reassure him:

"You don't have to lie to me," I begin, "I almost went to Med School, I know a little something about Cancer. And death doesn't scare me as much is it used to, or probably as much as it should." The Doctor looks taken aback at my frank response:

"That's a possibility," I flash him a deadpan look and he corrects himself, "probability. Chemo is the only real option at this point, as well as bone marrow transplants."

I look at him expectantly, waiting for him to continue.

"We need to start chemotherapy as soon as possible," he begins, "it will be painful, I won't lie to you, Dexter, but we can't risk it. I'll give you two days to tell your family, alright?" I stare it him, before slumping:

"Alright."


Work is eventful what with the bank robbery, but I don't notice much, because I'm lost in my own thoughts. I've thought about dying many times before, especially during my stint in Vladivostok, and I've never been afraid of it. I like to say that if I died, I'd go to hell, but I don't believe in hell, so what fear do I have in dying? That I die without having done something meaningful? That's a fear, yes, but I find myself wishing, sometimes, that our lives were meaningless. That it all amounts to nothing except maybe fire.

Maybe I'm just a cynic.

But I can't help but wonder if I'll leave anything behind for my family to remember me by, except for being that nasty little cancer boy who killed criminals.

I pass by Deb, who is sitting at Batista's desk, answering the phone; she has practically left Vice since Harry let her work with me on the Guerrero case.

"And I want it to say..." she shuts up as I pass by, "could you hold for a minute, please?" She turns to Batista's computer and starts typing something down; I pay very little attention as she returns to her phone call, instead fixating on Robert Albright's Case File.

I need something to set my world right. I need a kill. Something to prove that not everything in the world changes. I need...order.

Bang!

The noise of the MRI machine comes back to me, and I can hear it all around, getting louder. I become intensely aware of everything around me: the sweat gliding down the side of my face, Deb's exasperated sighs to whomever she's talking to on the phone...

Whirr, whirr,

Masuka trying to balance a pen on his lip, Harry ruminating over the Guerrero file in his office, LaGuerta and Batista quietly conversing in Spanish in the corner over a cup of coffee.

Whirr, Bang, whirr, twang!

And Doakes. He pretends to be working on a write-up, but I can feel his lidded gaze resting on me every other minute. Like he's seeking, probing, trying to find a crack in the model human being, something that will expose the darkness.

The noises of the machine get louder; rising to an octave above a deafening roar in my ears. I'm sick. In two ways now. Close to spiritual and physical death. I close my eyes and breathe in the chaos, maybe it isn't order I need, but a kill I can sink my talons into. Something dirty and grimy and so, so, bloody! A saw will do nicely. Oh, so nicely!

"Dex," I jump a little in my seat, turning to Deb,

"What's up, Deb?" I ask.

"You want to grab a drink after work?" She asks, "my treat?"

I don't really want to grab much of anything. Maybe go home and curl up in my bad and contemplate death a bit more, but a drink? Nah, not tonight.

"Tonight's a bad night," I cringe in what I assume is an apologetic manner.

"Well, I don't care," Deb orders, she rarely takes 'no' for an answer, but she seems a little too emphatic for me, "you're coming with me."

I choose not to fight:

"Okay," I reply.

"So, Angel told me that you went to see the doctor today; how was that?"

"Good," I grunt, not wanting to speak of the awful meeting.

"So?" She questions exasperatedly, "what is it?"

"Just an infection," I snort, I'm taking medicine, I should be better in a few days, "just an infection," I repeat, looking down at the Case File in my hands. How many monsters will go free if I die? I look down at my hands, to see my knuckles turn white round the case file.


"Just cranberry juice?" Deb asks, snorting, looking out the window of the car, "lightweight."

"Somebody has to drive you home," I reply, "you aren't exactly the most restrained of drinkers. You want me to drop you off at your place first or do you want some coffee?"

"Coffee," she slurs, "my head fucking hurts, and I've got none at my place, can we stop by yours?"

"Alright," I relent, taking a left and making course for my apartment.

I help her out of the car once we reach my building; she swoons rather theatrically and staggers out of my grip.

"I'm-I'm...I'm fine," she says, grinning in the way drunks and murderers do as she hobbles up the stairs. I keep a rear guard to make sure she doesn't fall over. I follow her.

Whirr, bang, bam, crash!

The noises come back; they crescendo alongside the soft Atlantic waves moving to and fro against the dock, soft, but uncompromising. I find myself becoming intensely aware again, uncomfortable, like I'm being watched. I turn around for a moment to make sure there are no bogeymen behind me, waiting with their knives and tumors and bags of chemicals, like a meth lab on display. I watch Deb saunter in front of me, sweat on the nape of her pale, cream-white neck, dripping down, down, underneath her shirt.

And then I hear screams, women and children crying as their heads are cut off, placed upon their laps like a sick joke, blood spurting into beautiful little patterns upon the pale white snow, almost as pale as Deb's neck. People are dying there on Deb's neck. She needs someone to take them off, to get them off her snow-white skin.

She always was a problem child.

I could so easily wrap my arms around her throat, squeezing, squeezing until she gave in. I could so easily have her wake up on a table, plastic-wrapped and ready to be chopped up into nice, little, pale, snow-white Morgan pieces dropped off forever into the abyss of the Biscayne Bay. And I could just as easily wrap my arms around her throat, turning the drunk woman around and tell her I have cancer, and lick her lips, bite her shoulder, dance upon the bed in a pity party of colors from a broken kaleidoscope. Death or love, if Deb knew what I was thinking as she staggers to the door, she'd be mortified by one, and mortified and possibly flattered by the other. They're two polar opposites to her, but the same to me. It's primacy, natural love-murder or sex. I shake my head, breathing the salty ocean air.

Maybe I'm just as much of a problem child as she is.

"Dex," she whines drunkenly at my door, "you have the key."

I nod, walking calmly to the door, having forgotten the noises and ocean waves, having forgotten Deb's snow white neck and the blood-stained snow where another beautiful problem child fell into the dust of the earth, never laughing or looking through that cracked kaleidoscope again.

I open the door to a tidal wave of noise. People stand everywhere in my cramped apartment, my mother, my brothers, sister, friends, Harry. I turn back to Deb, pretending to be surprised, all traces of her drunkenness now gone. She's a good actor.

"Happy birthday?" She says, completely sober now.

"So you weren't drunk, were you?" I question.

"Please," she raises an eyebrow, dismissive, "it'd take more than a few shots to knock me out like that."

"Hey," starts Harry, moving from the crowd, "happy birthday. Your brother let us in, hope you don't mind."

"No," I reply, subconsciously wanting to make sure my precious box of dreams hasn't been found, "don't mind at all."

People file single line to congratulate me for turning thirty on the very same day I find out I have a potentially life-threatening illness. If it weren't me that was the subject of it, I'd find the irony delicious.

"Hey, brother, happy thirtieth!" Brian calls, waving me over to the living room where he, Ben, and Dee all stand and quietly converse with Batista and Masuka.

"Thanks, Brian," I smile as my mother comes towards me with a large cake, a big '30' candle in the center of the large sheetcake:

"Wow, is it yours, ma?" I ask, pointing at the cake. My mother makes the best cake in the world, it's one of the comforts I missed while outside the U.S.

"No, unfortunately," Laura laughs at the sudden crestfallen looks coming from all her children, "we've had so much work around the funeral home these days, so I didn't have a chance to make one of my own, so we had Deb order it. I'm sorry, baby," she coos whilst rubbing my shoulder soothingly.

"Alright!" Harry calls, ushering everybody, totaling twenty in all, out the door, "everybody outside, we'll be eating there!"

"Dexter, would you like to carry the cake?" My mother asks politely. I nod, taking it from her hands as Brian lights the candles with a match that seemed to materialize out of nowhere:

"For more dramatic effect as you walk to the tables," he grins. I smile back, looking down at the pretty flames dance on the wax of the candles for a moment. My mother leans in and kisses my cheek:

"My boys, all grown up," she says smiling, looking from me, to Brian, and then to Ben. I think for a moment, I should tell them what I discovered is eating away from the inside, but, better judgment wins through and I keep my mouth shut. They'll find out eventually. They'll all find out everything eventually. Because nothing's static. Nothing isn't changing. Everything can be seen through a multicolored kaleidoscope as it decomposes in the hands of problem children like Deb, Liza, even you and I. Everything, even lies and even the truth, decays.

Yep, everything burns.


Notes: I know, I promised to get the WF chapter out before this one, but that chapter requires a lot of work to pull off well. So, here's a DotU chapter that I think delivers in its own way. We've had a bit of a set up for the antagonist, who will be making a slight appearance next chapter; a little bit of Dexter's backstory in this 'Universe' (we also see he's a bit nutso near the end of the chapter); as well as bringing out Carlos Guerrero, who will play an interesting role throughout the fic to Dexter, if I do say so myself. The chapter title was also changed, I had originally planned it to be named 'Kaleidoscope' but thought that 'Problem Child' fit the the theme of the chapter just as well, it also sounded more catchy, in my opinion. Thanks for reading, and please leave a review if you can.

Geist.