A/N: Thanks again to Mike91848 for proof reading.
-Story Starts Here-
Dexter is a mystery. Perhaps even as mysterious as I am to him. I think about that as I cut Rent-A-Cop's hand off. He screams, and I ignore him. Like screams have ever stopped me. If I'm ever about to be killed, I'm not going to scream. Not that I intend to get killed. The hand is off, and I don't have much time. Rent-A-Cop is bleeding very fast. I have to run about to keep him from dying. This is a lot harder without nurses. They truly are under-valued. But I can't think about that right now. Rent-A-Cop is bleeding. It was a controlled amputation, so my preparation did help a lot. Soon, Rent-A-Cop is sleeping quietly, and his wrist has stopped bleeding so much. I switch my bloody rubber gloves for a new pair. Before it was for sanitation, now it's for keeping my prints off and me out of jail. I make sure he has antibiotics before I leave. I don't know how long it will take Dexter to find this place, but I can't have Rent-A-Cop die from infection.
I put his hand in a cooler. It felt odd, dealing with such fresh flesh. The hand is bleeding, messy. I don't like it. There's a reason why I kill the way I do. I walk out into the empty parking lot to the car I stole tonight. The sun will come up soon, I need to hurry. Luckily I have everything I need in the back of the car. A beach lounge chair, a pale and shovel, an umbrella, a camera, and a beach ball, already inflated. I'm all set for a fun day at the beach. Or, at least I'll make sure Mr. Hand is.
I'm careful to avoid suspicion. Why is it that when someone doesn't want attention from the police, they drive erratically? No, I do the speed limit, don't run any yellows, no illegal U turns. I'd look bad if a cop got a look in my cooler. By the time I get to the beach, the sun is just peaking up over the ocean. I can't carry all my stuff at once, So I only take the umbrella and chair. I'm careful to avoid cameras. It's a new age, and we are always being watched. But, sometimes, I really don't want to be watched. Now is a good example.
I carry the chair and umbrella to where two palm trees cross. I look at the spot. It's the spot from Dexter's photo album. It has hardly changed. I set up the chair and umbrella, then return for the other items. I place the towel over the chair, and the ball off to the side. The shovel in the pale, and the pale on the chair. Now for the final touch. I look around and make sure no one is watching. I reach down and take the hand out of the cooler, and place it on the chair, propped up against the back. Blood comes out due to the up-right position. It looks very nice really. I pick up the camera and snap a picture. It's one of those old-time cameras. The kind that gives you an immediate picture. I place the picture in the pale, and leave. The less time I spend there, the less likely I will be seen there. Although people have a hard time describing me. I tend to be so average looking, it's beyond their descriptive skills.
I drive the car back to the bar parking lot and switch it for my own. The sun is up now, and the heat is starting to kick in. I have no work today, and I intend to make the most of it. I want to find out a little bit more about Harry Morgan. I wonder what all Google will tell me?
As it turns out, quite a bit. Harry was apparently a hero. A cop for Miami Metro, loved and highly respected. What I want to know is, why did Harry adopt Dexter? Surely he must have seen plenty of accidents in his days. It's unlikely that ours was the first with children. So Harry was a good guy, but I want to know when he was a bad guy. I go to the city hall, they have a bunch of records in the basement. Several very interesting records. Harry had an anger problem. He became increasingly more enraged at criminals wiggling out of the judicial system. I'm going to take a wild guess and say that he taught Dexter to kill those who escape. Just a hunch...
Another interesting thing, my mother was a confidential informant for him. There are some very interesting tapes. How Harry wanted Laura, my mother, to steal some cocaine to put a dealer behind bars. How my mother said she couldn't, and Harry said she had to. She did. Or she tried, but a chain-saw got in her way. I'm guessing Harry feels responsible for her death.
The final piece that I found was hard to get. It was his explanation for taking Dexter, but not me. Short and brutal; Dexter was young enough to recover. I wasn't. Well, he was half right. I'm guessing that he grew attached to Dexter, and by the time that Harry found about Dexter's need, he wasn't willing to give him up. And that frustrates me. Emotion. Some stupid emotional bond with no logic behind it what-so-ever is what separated me from Dexter. Harry didn't want to give up Dexter, that was all. I'm pissed.
I'm tired of looking through all these files. Reading about the stupidity of a man that died ten years ago. I drive home. If I wasn't such as expert at bottling rage, I'd probably get in a crash. But I get home, and I push most of my rage away. So, Harry took in Dexter in hopes that he can be normal. When it turned out he wasn't normal, Harry trained him to be a judge, jury, and executioner all in one. My stomach turns at that thought. So, good and noble hero Harry Morgan took in a lion, taught it as a dog, and proclaimed it as his son. Sad fact is, it's still a lion. Dexter doesn't care if he kills good or bad people. He just wants to kill. He's abiding by the rules of a man long dead. He needs my help to break free of this lie.
I remember when they tried to sell me that lie. They told me what to do and not to do. This is right, that is wrong. I never bought it. But the salesman for morality did a better job on Dexter it seems. That's why his fake life is so important to him. I wonder just how much of his life is dictated by Harry. Probably all of it. But I'll free him of that lie.
It's getting late. I cook a quick dinner and eat. I'll need to keep my strength up for tonight. Tonight will be the soccer field. I'm going to need some shoes and a soccer ball, but that should be it. Easy enough to pick up on my way back to the hospital. I'll need more cough drops too. I'm going through them like crazy. But God damn it, my throat hurts. A lot.
Walmart again. My God, is there anything this place doesn't have? I get a nice pair of black Puma soccer shoes, and a soccer ball. Cough drops. Because it feels like someone spent the last day rubbing my throat with sandpaper. It's late enough to take a vehicle from in front of a home. Which I do. A nice shiny red truck. Now it's back to Angel of Mercy Hospital. I hope Rent-A-Cop is doing okay, I haven't checked on him since this morning. It would put a damper on the game if he died so soon. I walk down into the basement. The stairs clank, but once I'm on the ground I'm silent.
"Please...Please don't hurt me." He sounds uncomfortable. I don't say anything in response. He is lying still, blindfold still in place. I don't want him to get too use to my voice. If something goes wrong, he could make it out of here alive. And who will be responsible for getting him a new hand? Me, that's who. That's why he can't get use to my voice. I clear my throat though. I have to, it just hurts and tickles and is horrible. He is still begging for mercy. This hospital's name is a misnomer, because he isn't getting any mercy.
I check his pulse and fluids. I keep him clean and healthy. I give him a few shots, to prepare for the next amputation. "What is that? What are you putting in me?" He is clearly panicked by the shots, but remains still after the initial jump. I don't respond. I'll speak only when necessary. Now isn't one of those times. I kneel down next to his right foot. I remove his shoe and he whimpers in fear. There's nothing to worry about, I have to go grab my tools before I can remove his foot. Instead I put on one of the soccer shoes I got. It looks good. Now I continue with the amputation. He screams again, and I ignore him. Really, he should be thankful I'm a doctor and can make such surgical cuts. I don't give him morphine though. I want him to want death by the time Dexter gets here. I want him to beg Dexter for death. Right now, that means putting him in a lot of pain as his right foot is removed. I put the foot in the cooler and run about to stop the bleeding, close the arteries, give him antibiotics, and a sedative so he'll sleep.
It's still dark when I get to once-was a soccer field, now it appear to be a high class hotel. Doesn't matter, I need sleep. I should have spent yesterday sleeping, but I wasn't tired in the morning, and I was too mad in the evening. Now I'm exhausted. My cold is getting better, I don't need a relapse. I make things quick. I place the foot on a stone bench, and the soccer ball next to it. I take a picture, place it under the ball, and leave. It's time for bed. Which is exactly what I'll do. As soon as I get home. Which means I first have to switch out cars again. Sometimes this whole car-switch thing is such a pain in the ass. But I'm sure it's saved my ass several times. I remember reading about several people linked to my crimes with their cars. I wonder if any of them ever got convicted?
Finally, home again. Bed. Too far. The couch will do. God, I'm working too hard. But it's for Dexter, so it's okay.
Have you ever woken up pissed off? I do that a lot. Especially so when I wake up to another voice. Like today. I groggily open my eyes. I didn't get enough sleep last night. Day? Hell, I don't know. I look at the sound, the TV. Easier to shut up than a real person. I reach for the remote so I can go back to sleep. "It is believed to be the work of the Ice Truck Killer." I stop. That's me. What does the media have to say about me? "Counting the hand that appeared yesterday on Petri Beach, this makes two body parts. With us now is Hank Phillips, a criminal psychologist, to discuss what this might mean.", says the perky blonde anchor woman. The camera zooms out to show a man with brown hair and an over the top haircut. "Hank, you specialize in this kind of stuff. What could he be trying to tell us?"
"Well, first of all, thank you for having me. Now, he is leaving gruesome body parts in common places used for fun and relaxation. I believe he is trying to corrupt how we spend our spare time. To mock our way of life." Hank is coming off strong. I almost feel sorry for them. They are missing one hell of a piece of the puzzle. A piece only Dexter has.
"Before he only killed prostitutes, but now he's changed, why?"
"Well, I'm not even completely convinced this is the same person. You're right, it is a radical change, and people like him don't like to change. This is probably someone new, perhaps inspired by the Ice Truck Killer, but not him." Wrong. I don't mind changing things up if it's for a friend. A brother.
"Tell me, do you have any idea where and what he might leave as his next body part?"
"Well, he is running out of limbs. He's already done a foot and a hand, he'd have to move up the arm or leg next. Or, and I'm hoping I'm wrong, he'll leave us a head next." Wrong again, mister failed psychologist. I plan on moving up the leg. I'm a good doctor, but keeping someone alive post-decapitation is a bit out of my league. And he needs to stay alive. "As for where, if I knew, I'd be telling the police right now. But if he follows previous patterns, it'll be a family-friendly location. Maybe the zoo or a movie theater." Double-fail. Honestly, who employed this guy? He needs to get fired.
"Thank you for coming, we'll be right back after these messages." I decide now will be a good time to get up and dressed. I go into my bathroom and do my morning ritual. They don't all involve killing. I brush my teeth, shower, brush my hair, dress, and get a big bowl of cereal along with a cup of coffee, and return to the TV. I guess this will be how I spend the rest of my day. Since it's already almost noon. Considering that my first time sleeping in the last two days lasted only six hours, I woke up too soon.
But the news is on, well a news commentary it seems, and they are doing a recap. Good, I didn't get around to watching it yesterday, so I have no idea how they took the hand. "So, in case you've been under a rock for the past few days, it appears we have a new twist in the Ice Truck Killer case. First, a night watchman for a hockey stadium, Tony Tucci", a picture of him pops into frame, "was accused of being the Ice Truck Killer, a state-wide man hunt for this guy was called." So my frame job worked. Temporarily at least. "Then we found a hand on the beach - show a picture." A picture of my nifty work pops up. It does look good. "and guess what? The hand belongs to Tony Tucci! It is believed that the Ice Truck Killer is responsible for this bizarre case as well." Clearly the police force took a reputation hit. That's what they get for falling for such a crappy lie. Of course it was just a frame job. How stupid are the police? To think that Tony Tucci, the rent-a-cop, is me! That he makes such perfect cuts and leaves the bodies out in the open, but still without a trace of evidence? That alone is crazy. What's more is that they think he placed the body at his place of work, during his shift, took the video, hid it in his home, and then jumped town? Honestly, it's an insult to my intelligence.
"That's not all." I snap my attention back to the TV. He must be getting to the foot now. "This morning, a foot with a soccer ball was found in a similar fashion. This time it was placed in front of a hotel, which seems out of place, given the soccer shoe and ball. The lot however, was once a soccer field. It is still unclear why he didn't choose a lot that is presently a soccer field, but some suspect it has something to do with change." It's almost funny how hard they try to complete an impossible puzzle. If I wanted the public to get what I was saying, they would. Instead, I'm only talking to one person here. "We also have some more, very disturbing news about this case." Oh, what else do they have? "It appears that both the foot and hand are from the same body!" I thought they already knew that. "The same, living body. The police have reason to suspect that Tony Tucci is being kept alive for the amputations." They got me. Yeah, Tony's alive. I thought they would like that though. It means that they might, but won't, be able to save him. Normal people just don't think sometimes.
I put my empty bowl and cup in the kitchen and grab some more cough drops. This cold is really starting to bug me. The guesses about my work keep on coming. Some say the hand means that there is too much sex associated with the beach, that we can't keep our hands off of each other. Others think it means that our youth text too much, that they use their hands to communicate in their relaxation time. The foot they think means how our world changes, but we don't. That we travel too much and have become far to comfortable to call a hotel room our home. Kill a man and you're a monster. Kill a man, and put a body part in the open in a ritualistic fashion, and you're Picasso.
I wonder, did Dexter figure it out? I'd like to think so, but I doubt he looks through the pictures often. Still, he has to be getting it. I'm sure he has some sense of familiarity when he got to the beach, maybe not the hotel though. I'll have to go to the pumpkin patch next. Luckily, that place has remained a pumpkin patch. Who knew they were so popular? It's getting late. It's time to pay Rent-A-Cop, Tony, a visit.
I switch cars at a bar and go straight to the hospital. There is nothing I need at Walmart this time around. The stairs are loud as I walk down them, alerting him to my presence. As soon as I hit the ground though, I'm quiet as a mouse. "Please...Kill me already. Kill me." Begging for death, how perfect. I walk past him and to a table with a box of cough drops on it. I pick it up and cough. I go to grab a cough drop out of the box. Empty. Great, my throat is killing me. "Please..." Tony is pleading. Pleading does as much help as screaming. I don't just change my plan just because someone asks nicely. Honestly, what does he take me for? I'm a sociopath, but I'm not erratic. I sanitize and suit up in surgical gear.
Tony is crying. I sigh, which makes him cry more. That's pathetic. He deserves to die. But he won't, not by my hands. I give him more shots. His cries are frantic now, he knows what is coming. He knows he is about to lose another piece of himself. Literally. I clear my throat as the pain is coming back. Great. I should have stopped by Walmart to pick up more cough drops. The shots have kicked in. I can tell because Tony can barely move. He's awake, just paralyzed. It's hard to perform an amputation with the patient jumping around. I take my tools and begin the slow and careful process of removing his right leg, cutting it along his knee. Carefully, surgically, and the leg is off and in the cooler. Tony isn't moving, but there are tear streaks running down his cheek. I'm sure this must be painful. Pity I don't care.
Once again, I'm buzzing around trying to keep Tony alive. It's hard. Killing people is a lot easier. A nurse would be amazing right now. I believe Dexter has some medical knowledge. Comes with his job. If I ever have to do something like this in the future, maybe he could help. I'm sure he could learn, he's smart. But not today, and that's okay, because Tony has stopped bleeding out. He is crying again, the paralysis is beginning to wear off. I give him a sedative and he's out. Off I go to the pumpkin patch. I only pause to search my pockets for another cough drop. Just wrappers. Frustrated I throw one wrapper across the room before walking out. I'm in pain, my throat hurts damn it!
It's not my greatest work. It seems so plain. Just a leg in a hay wagon. Still, I take the picture and leave it. It'll be sure to scare the hell out of some little children going for a ride. It was Halloween yesterday, and I'd imagine that this place will still be busy today. I've never known why though. Why are pumpkins scary? Normal people make the weirdest, tenuous connections sometimes.
And, it's Monday. Monday means work. Work means I have to get home to shower now.
And with another day of work, comes another day of Martha. Martha is pissing me off, as always. She is talking about how nice her son's Confirmation was. How he is such a good Catholic. How God has a special place in heaven for him. That's nice. With all my grand deeds, I'm sure Satan is saving a nice place in hell just for me. She changes topics to something a little bit more interesting. "So did you hear about the Ice Truck Killer? How he is now leaving body parts around? And he poses them in some sick displays."
"Yeah. They have a hand and a foot so far, right? And it's from the same person?" I'm a busy doctor, I don't have time to follow some serial killer case. So I may not have all the facts.
"What's more is that they say he is keeping that poor man alive. Can you imagine that? Everyday losing another body part!" She is clearly disturbed about Tony being alive. Illogical really, he could be saved for all she knows. "I don't buy it though. The police always say stuff like that. It's like, they get a hair and tell who killed who and with what and why. There's no way that Tucci is alive, I don't care what some little scientist says." Clearly she is not scientifically literate.
"You'd be surprised, there are people who spend years studying about that stuff. They know what they're doing" Honestly, how can someone be that stupid? We have science and technology. We know how the body works, and how decomposition and blood flow works. If you are trained properly, you can tell how long a body part has lacked blood.
"I still don't believe it. I think they just want to keep out hopes high so everyone will keep looking" Yes, Martha, it's a conspiracy. I really need to hurry up and finish her foot so she will leave again.
The day is long, it seems everyone is missing some body part or another. But finally it quiets down a little past four. It's almost time to leave, thank God. So here I am, sitting in my office, thinking about where next to place another part of Tony. I hadalready decided on taking the arm. I saw a nice park in one of Dexter's pictures. That'll be my next place.
I'm spinning around in my chair. I hope Dexter gets there soon. I don't know how much longer Tony can live through this. It's four fifty-five.
Four fifty-six.
Four fifty-seven.
Four fifty-eight.
Four fifty-nine. Close enough to five. I pack up and leave the hospital. To go to another hospital. But first Walmart. A picnic blanket and basket. That's enough. It's back to the bar to switch cars again. I'll have to hurry through this so I can be home in time for a nap. The sleep deprivation is starting to get to me, and there is only so much coffee you can drink in one day. I enter the building and begin to walk toward the stairs to Tony. The door opens again and I freeze. Has Dexter come at long last? A flashlight shines, it has to be him. I don't go down the stairs. Instead I go around, so I'll have an aerial view of Dexter and Tony. I have my camera in hand. I want Dexter to know this isn't a trap, that I won't get him caught. I wait for Dexter to reach Tony, my finger ready to take the picture.
The stairs clatter as he walks down. He sees Tony, and walks towards him. He is just standing at the foot of the table. "Please...Just do it...Kill me. I'm ready." Tony is begging for death. Dexter looks off to the side to a set of sharp tools, waiting. "I'm ready." Tony repeats again. Yes, he is ready. "Just don't cut me anymore." Dexter stands there. He stares. Doesn't talk, doesn't move towards the tools or exit, just stares. "Please don't cut me anymore." Tony is crying again. Good manners and the tears of a pathetic man don't affect me. I imagine the same goes for Dexter. "Just kill me, it's okay." Dexter just stares. I'm getting worried. Does he disapprove? Can he really only kill bad people? Even when a person is sitting there, begging for death?
Or is it just his ritual altogether? He has a pattern, his own ritual. I can't throw him a kill like this, it's outside his comfort zone. He has no idea what is happening, or why. I should have known. Next time, though, next time I'll make it right. I pick up my camera, and snap a picture. Very incriminating evidence. Dexter, hovering over a crying Tony in a dark basement, surrounded by sharp objects. Send it in anonymously to the police, and Dexter gets twenty-five years to life. But I need him to see that I won't. I don't want him to get caught. He needs to understand that. So I leave the camera and the picture and run out of the building. No, my little brother will be safe with me. I'll free him from himself. I'll show him that there is no point in following a dead man's law. Soon, Dexter soon.
It's not fifteen minutes later that police swarm into the building. They'll search for evidence, anything to put a face on the Ice Truck Killer. They won't find anything. Tony is gone, away to the hospital for me to put back together again, and I'm one step closer to my reunion.
