'Judas'
Guilt is a beast pacing behind a locked door. It snarls and howls; it whimpers and whines. There's always desperation, a need to be acknowledged. I've learned to lock all my guilt away; I've learned how to deny its existence. But, now, it's gnawing at me, begging for release. It doesn't make sense. Why now, after all this time? Why has it suddenly decided to creep up and bite me? I think I know the answer, but I can't bear the truth of it. Guilt is an entirely different kind of monster.
Deb enters her office three hours before anybody's shift starts to find Matthews sitting in her desk chair.
"Sir." She tries to sound indifferent, but it comes out shaky.
He leans back nonchalantly, resembling a modern version of a Roman Emperor.
"Debra." The newly reinstated Deputy Chief smiles at her in a way that reminds her of her father. It absolutely drips with disappointment. He glides backward in the chair and slowly rises to his feet. Within moments, he's a breath away, imposing his power over her.
"Debra, your father was a good man. A good cop. And, you know, you're just like him. I've put all my faith in you and you've served me well."
She bows her head. "Thank you, sir."
"So, you can imagine how disappointing it would be if it turns out that I did the wrong thing."
"I'm…not sure I follow, sir."
He shoves his hands into his pockets and breathes in deep.
"Do you know who Hector Estrada was?"
Debra's heart drops to her stomach. "A Cocaine dealing crime lord?"
"That's not all. Hector Estrada was one of the three men responsible for the murder of Laura Moser."
"…Dexter's biological mother?"
He smirks like he's just learned the greatest secret. "That would be her." He turns away from her, facing the back wall and standing completely erect.
"I'm sure you know all about Maria's theory on your brother being the real Bay Harbor Butcher."
"Pardon me, sir, but where is this going?"
Matthews picks up a picture from her desk. It's her favorite shot of her and Dex; the two of them smiling big into the camera without a care in the world. She remembers that day well, remembers how safe she'd felt with his arm around her. Her big brother, her consummate protector and her oldest friend.
"This is going wherever you decide it should, Lieutenant." He puts the picture back down in a gentle manner. "…it's strange, don't you think? That Maria and Estrada would die together in a goddamn shipping container?"
Deb stays silent, terrified that if she speaks, she'll give herself away.
"Now, it's easy to say that it's all a coincidence. But, you see, Morgan, I'm a skeptic by nature. There's no such thing as coincidence."
He puts a hand on her shoulder and leans down to whisper into her ear.
"Tell your brother to watch his ass. Something might just come up to bite it."
I haven't told Deb about Hannah's message, but I did tell her about my detour to LaGuerta's house. It hasn't been touched by anybody since the murder and for that, I'm grateful. LaGuerta, like Doakes, was a loner by nature and that works well for me. I stuff the warrants into my briefcase, smiling as I do it. We're safe until Hannah returns and I already know what I'm going to do about her.
My heart lurches with the thought, but I have no other option. At that moment, I get a text from dispatch. Double murder in Hallandale Beach; it's just another day in the neighborhood.
The flashbulbs go off from just inside the house, the most morbid kind of paparazzi. Two bodies, one male and female, both naked and laid out on the living room floor like a new exhibit. Blood is everywhere; a trail of it leads from the bedroom to the living room, mapping out the movement of the corpses. Deb swipes a hand across her mouth and comes to stand beside Dexter.
"Jesus." She says.
"More like Judas." He replies as he points his index finger in the direction of the male vic.
Scratched into the man's cheek is the word 'Judas' and Deb's entire body stiffens at the sight.
"It looks like it was carved with a letter opener." Dexter goes on, oblivious to her discomfort.
Masuka, who stands on the opposite end of the bodies, nods. "Murder weapon was a blunt instrument; something like a baseball bat."
"This blood trail suggests that the victims were dragged into this position from the bedroom and the blood stains on the bed suggest that the murder was committed there."
"Infidelity." Deb cuts in.
"That'd be my guess, LT."
She walks to the mantle, studying the photographs that line it. The man in all the photos isn't the dead man on the ground.
"Cheating wife."
That's when Ramos parades in wearing a big smile.
"Lieutenant."
Deb glances over at him. "What is it?"
"Neighbor says she saw the husband fleeing in his car at 3:25 this morning. She says he was covered in blood."
"Make? Model?"
"Champagne Toyota Corolla."
"We have a name for the suspect?"
Ramos flips open his notepad. "Patrick Lewis."
"Good. Put out a BOLO. Find this motherfucker."
Deb and I stop for lunch at our favorite barbeque place. We order two pork sandwiches and then, we sit watching each other, waiting for someone to make the first move.
It ends up being me. "Did you get the disc?" I ask.
Deb leans down beneath the table to dig into her purse and comes back up holding the evidence of her involvement in my secret world.
She drops it on the table, where it resounds with an ominous click.
"What do we do with it?"
"We destroy it." I clench my jaw as I place my index finger on the case and slide it over to my end of the table. I tap out a nervous rhythm on the plastic surface. "Did anybody see you take it?"
Deb shakes her head. "I don't think so." She pauses and her eyes shift away from me to study the restaurant's patio. It's dotted with normal people doing normal things, enjoying lunch, enjoying life. And, there's us, the killers in the crowd, working to cover our asses.
"Look, Dex…you need to be careful."
"Careful of what?"
She leans forward across the table, wearing an anxious expression that I've seen too often lately.
"When you…do what you do…watch yourself. Matthews is suspicious."
"What? How?"
"He knows it's not a coincidence that LaGuerta and Estrada are dead together…in a shipping container." She raises her eyebrows and suddenly, I'm cold inside.
"I'm the common denominator." I breathe out slowly. "Does he suspect you?"
"Not at the moment. But, Dex, if he starts…"
"Deb, relax. It'll be okay. He's got nothing on us. There's nothing at the crime scene to suggest any foul play. I made sure of it. He's blowing smoke."
She doesn't look even close to convinced. I've said this exact thing to her before and it certainly didn't end well that time.
My eyes squeeze shut of their own accord. Behind them, there's gunfire and blood and the whirring of a chainsaw. An extraordinary mother bled out in a bathtub, unable to escape her husband's evil. Two good cops are dead because they decided to follow their instincts; dead because of me.
The Code offers no help in the department of chain reactions. There's no backup plan for when the disease starts to spread.
Yet, I still manage to give Deb my best attempt at reassurance.
"You have to trust me. Nothing's going to happen."
Her face hardens. "What about Hannah?"
"What about her?"
"I imagine she didn't break out of jail so she could take a trip to fucking Aruba."
"What do you mean?"
"I mean, she's probably on the goddamn warpath, asshole. She's coming for us."
I swipe my fingers across my lips. I was never one for nervous habits, but Deb brings them out in me.
"If it happens, I'll take care of it." I swallow my unwillingness. "I swear."
Jackson Hoyt had five hundred dollars in his wallet and Hannah finds herself thanking God, something she hasn't done since she was in the sixth grade and her father left home for a month. That was also the year she met Wayne, the cute boy who went to the high school two blocks from her house. He was fifteen and she remembers his pretty smile, his magnetic charm. For three years, they were mere acquaintances until Wayne showed up outside her bedroom window one night, asking her to run away with him.
Hannah tightens her grip on the steering wheel, desperate for escape once again.
Wayne's voice infiltrates her empty spaces, anyway.
"Every day is like Christmas day; an unwrapped present."
She recalls the crinkling of the fortune when he crushed it in his fist. That's when Dexter's voice decides to break in, too.
"Maybe we can start a new tradition….this year and the year after that and the year after that."
"You poisoned Debra."
"I can never trust you…"
Hannah beats the wheel with the palm of her hand.
"Fuck." She hits it again and again, until her nerves explode in pain.
Dexter was going to pay; one way or another, he was going to pay.
Deb and I return to the station to find Ramos waiting for us.
"We got Lewis, LT. He's in interrogation room 2." He says to Deb. His tone is calm.
"All right."
She walks away with her hands in her pockets and judging from her posture, she's spiraling on the inside. Guilt and fear are weighing down on my little sister. And, there's nothing I can do.
"Mr. Lewis, I'm Lieutenant Debra Morgan. Do you know why you're here?"
She stands behind the chair, her hands in her pockets, her shoulders stiff, and her head high.
"They told me my wife was dead. They said I killed her." Lewis looks like hell; his sweater vest disheveled and dirt stained and his glasses sitting slightly crooked on his face.
"And, did you, Mr. Lewis? Did you kill your wife and her lover?"
He smiles as she finally falls into the chair across from him. She flips open his file, skimming through his neighbors' statements.
"I have no idea what you're talking about."
The Lieutenant laughs out loud. It's cold and humorless.
"Yeah, I'm sure you don't." She turns the file around so he can read the words on the page.
"That's funny, Mr. Lewis, because your neighbor Rosa seems to think that she saw you speeding away from the crime scene at 3 in the morning, covered in what looked like blood and carrying a baseball bat."
"She didn't see shit." He licks his bottom lip. "No one saw anything."
"Saw what, Mr. Lewis?"
Silence permeates the room for a long minute. Then, Debra lets go.
"You know, Mr. Lewis, they say confession is good for the soul." The word 'Judas' burns bright in her mind, blinding her to everything else.
He smirks wide. "I hope not. I hope they're both rotting in hell."
"Did you send them there, Mr. Lewis?"
He bows his head low and wrings his hands on the tabletop. "Traitor." It's a heated whisper. Deb barely catches it.
"Who?"
"Billy. That stupid fuck." Lewis raises his head. Tears shimmer in his eyes. "And fucking Kelly. Goddamnit!" He slams his hand into the table. The sound bounces off the walls and back toward them. Deb stays still, breathless.
The tears begin to fall one by one. Deb watches mesmerized, knowing without a doubt that this is what remorse looks like. She wishes she could show her own.
I'm so sorry, Maria. She wants to scream it. She wants the world to know her truth, wants the people in the station to see it and understand it. She'd do anything to take it back.
"I did it, all right? I bashed their fucking brains in and you know what? I hate myself for it. Fucking bastards hurt me and I'm the one who's sorry."
Deb pushes herself backward from the table, focusing on the screeching noise the chair legs make as they scrape along the marble tile.
"Thank you for your honesty, Mr. Lewis." She gives him a pitying smile and turns away, walking out of the room without looking back.
"Hi, I'm Joey…and I'm an alcoholic. I've done some bad things. Actually, a lot of bad things. Alcohol seems to take the edge off, you know? It's hard to remember what a fuck up you are when you're lights out drunk. There's a lot of anger and a shitload of hatred. Hatred of myself and all the shit I've done; all the shit I always seem to get away with. And, suddenly, I've stopped getting away with it and it hurts. It hurts to see my friends look at me like I'm worthless and tell me to get it together. I want to get it together. I really do."
We leave Deb's rental at the station and take my car. She's shaken up from the interview with Lewis, so I stay silent. The atmosphere is thick and after a few minutes, Deb reaches her hand across the console and puts it over mine. Her fingertips wrap around and press into my palm and I want to scream. Every moment I spend with Deb hurts and I can't stand it.
"Dexter, I want you to take me to the cemetery."
The world outside seems to pause in that breath. Everything stops. I can't believe what I'm hearing.
"Why?"
"You know why."
This is strange. I've never done it. I've never felt the need to apologize to a gravestone, but I'd do anything to help Deb, so here I am, walking through rows of dead cops and dead members of their families. Rita's grave is here, too and it takes all of my energy not to collapse with the thought.
We come to LaGuerta's stone and Deb falls to her knees, resting her hand on the slope of the slab and running it along the rounded edge.
Her voice comes through on a cloud of misery.
"I'm sorry." She says. "I'm so sorry, Maria."
Deb bows her head and I can see the glimmer of a tear in the dying sunlight. I follow it down her face and to the grass. A burning sensation blooms in my chest. I've never felt it before, so I can't identify it. Whatever it is, I don't like it.
By the time I return to the real world, Deb's on her feet and studying me like I'm a puzzle she can't put together. And, of course she can't; I'm missing too many pieces.
"Are you going to be all right?" I ask.
She nods at me, but I can see her uncertainty. I'm the only person she's never been able to hide from. As we walk side by side back through the columns of the dead, I raise my eyes to the sky, wondering if the unlucky few are wishing hell upon me.
I'm sorry.
We all want forgiveness. Confession is good for the soul and God forgives. You will be absolved of your sins if you are truly sorry. And, I am. I'm sorry for everything I've done to those closest to me. I'm sorry for the pain I've caused my sister. We all want forgiveness, but it doesn't change anything. The dead can't be brought back to life. I'm the only person I can't run from. And, I'll never forgive myself.