Summary: Dexter attends his first Cancer Support Group meeting, where a pretty, young Englishwoman catches his eye. The Guerrero Murders take a turn towards interesting Dexter and a new murder sends shockwaves through Miami Metro, galvanizing Debra when she realizes that the killer is tracking prositutes.
Down on the Upside
'A man should not strive to eliminate his complexes but to get in accordance with them: they are legitimately what drives his conduct in the world.'
-Sigmund Freud
'Vertigo'
"My name is Hector," the Hispanic man on the left side of the circle of chairs starts, "and I've got lung cancer. Stage three. They say I got a few years to live, at best." A few people make dry-heaving sighs, as if truly saddened this man they don't even know has a death sentence hanging over his head.
"Sometimes, I don't really know what to say," the man continues, "I feel... numb, you know? Some days it's like one of them Cancer doctors've give me them drugs, and I just sit there. I don't hear nothing, you know? I don't think I see nothing, too. Other times, man all I can say is me cago en diez on this shit, man. It's fucked up, I know."
Some people laugh, clearly trying to make the man feel good about himself, and I join in by force of habit, but the Coordinator of the group, a thin man with a graying goatee, motions for silence as he begins:
"It isn't fucked up, Hector. It's... just a new state of being."
I stop paying attention. It's been two weeks since Jeremy Downs killed himself in Classroom 124A of Delle High School. Since then, I've started to come to this Cancer Group, mainly at Doctor Kuhlmann's request. Of course Dexter the Dark would rather be in his killsuit rather than a black rayon shirt and khaki-colored jeans that he wears to this meeting, but what can I do?
I know. This is not my element. It reeks of weakness; of sadness; of broken souls trying to reforge themselves, trying to find the perfect glue through a fractured ideal. But, once again, there is little I can do about it. Two weeks is a surprisingly short amount of time, but long enough to get used to the supremely depressing.
And over these past few weeks, Rita and I have become... friendlier. Well, I doubt we've really become friendlier, she simply thinks we've become best friends since our chat outside the church. In fact, the sudden Dexter-Rita parade has surprised quite a few of our acquaintances. Naturally, it delights my brother, who seems to want nothing more than his baby brother and baby girl get along well, but it seems to confuse two people who are, admittedly, huge parts of the persona that surrounds Dexter Moser: Eliza and Debs.
Eliza is simply uncomfortable with it, and possibly annoyed by it, if the last movie we went to are any indication. Rita jabbered at me for about two-and-a-half hours, and me, being the docile paragon of humanity I am, engaged her in conversation. This, of course, seemed to leave little room for our respective dates to talk to either Rita or I, and it eventually led to Eliza and Brian exchanging exasperated looks at each other.
And Debs simply seems surprised; she had probably thought no one else threatened her position as Dexter Moser's best friend. She certainly has nothing to worry about; I do not plan on making friendship bracelets with the blonde, but it is rather funny to see an irked Debra, even if it often promises pain.
"I'm Derrick," Another reedy mess of a man begins, clearly the cancer has taken its toll on him, "I have Renal Cell Cancer."
As for work, Harry has been trying to interfere to help out Debra in every way that couldn't have him accused of nepotism, but Sergeant LaGuerta seems to be hell-bent on either booting Debs out of Homicide or completely and irreparably ruining her career before she throws her out. Either way, things don't look good for a stressed Debs.
In fact, she doesn't look very good at all lately. Pale, sickly, with a constant frown on her face, she looks like me only without cancer. I would say I'm concerned about her well-being, but then I'd probably be lying; these past two weeks have made me realize I don't care much for anyone.
Yes. I'm an asshole. Sue me.
"Hello," a soft, lilting English voice interrupts my thoughts. Huh. It's not often you hear an accent like that in Southern Florida, "My name is Lila Tournay," I look up to see a very pale and very pretty woman with raven black hair gazing languidly upon us. "And I..."
Well, if she has cancer, she must not have had it long, if her perfect hair is anything to go by. And, naturally, I suddenly feel the urge to rub my own head, where my hair has been cut to a fine-length so no one will notice it's all falling out, so I follow through and run may hand through my once-thick head of Velcro-like fibers.
"It's alright, Lila," the Coordinator begins, "You're in a circle of friends. We won't judge you."
"I have... Ovarian Cancer," she finishes spryly, "Very early stages." What a shame! Her eyes rove around the group of Cancer patients until they land upon mine. There's an almost imperceptible widening of her eyes, as if she sees something in my eyes. I very nearly look the opposite direction, and it takes me all my self-control to keep from averting my eyes.
The Passenger, the dark little corner of my lizard brain issues a warning, telling me to be wary of this pretty, porcelain doll of a woman. But that corner of my lizard brain has often treated me well for listening to it, so I decide that I should keep a wary on this one.
Lila barrels through her opening speech of sorts and before long, I find that the meeting has ended and we are left to enjoy the refreshments the volunteers have laid out for us on a table by the wall. I go immediately to the doughnuts, spotting a bear claw. I love bear claws. But, just as I'm about to grab it, a voice interrupts me:
"You probably don't want to eat those, they're always stale," I turn around to see Lila standing beside me, "they get them at discount prices because the doughnuts are three days old." I grimace, looking at the bear claw only a few inches away before deciding, rather painfully, not to take it.
"Lila Tournay," she extends a delicate hand out; I shake it gently, fearing that if I grasped too hard, I might shatter her figurine hands.
"Dexter..." The Passenger's warning bubbles up through my spine once more, "... Morgan." Morgan? Could you imagine that? If I were Harry's son and Debs's brother? What a strange life that might have been!
"Dexter Morgan," Lila says thoughtfully, "What a strange name?"
"No less strange than Lila Tournay?" I ask.
She laughs; her smile is beatific, "No, I suppose not." I grin at her and reach out towards the coffee and she shakes her head once more, "bad brew," is all she says, and I recoil from the coffeepot. But, just as I'm about ask her where I might find a decent coffee around the dilapidated-looking warehouse where we meet, my cellphone rings. I check the Caller ID, and see it's Debs, probably with something on a case:
"Would you excuse me for a moment?" I ask; Lila obliges, letting me answer, "Debs," I say in an expectant manner.
"Dexter," the brunette replies in a terse manner across the line, "It's a long story but I need you here."
"Where is here?" I ask.
Debs sighs, "Down in Southbeach. We've got a murder."
"Can't this wait until morning? I'm kind of in the middle of something-" But, Debs has always been a bull-in-a-china-shop sort of person, and will not seem to accept no as an answer:
"Dex," she does not ask politely; she commands me to do her bidding, "Be here." She adds a hasty 'please' so as not to offend Best Friend Dex.
"Well, if you put it so nicely, I'll be more than happy to help," I reply magnanimously.
"Thank you," The Officer responds without seeming to mean it very much, before hanging up. I look at Lila apologetically:
"Duty calls," I say, she nods understandingly. "Sorry."
The raven-haired woman shakes her head, "No, no, it's no trouble. Will you be here next week?"
I nod, "For a few weeks, at least," I say before leaving the disused warehouse and out to Southbeach once Dispatch sends a text giving me the address to the house, which I easily recognize as Carlos Guerrero's home address from his police profile.
Could my friend the mystery murderer have killed again? The possibilities are endless. But my stomach grumbles loudly as I step into my little black Toyota Celica, which I picked up in Seattle when I had first come back to the United States.
It is decided, something to eat first.
I step out of my car, which I nosed into a nice spot about five blocks away from the actual crime scene. It's amazing just how hard it is to find a parking space in Southbeach, which is probably a reason why I decided to move to the Bay Harbor Islands, which isn't quite as overpopulated. I make sure to hold the box of Sadie's Doughnuts steadily as I walk towards the flashing blue and red lights of patrol cars, the box in one hand, an apple cruller in the other.
The awful doughnuts at the Cancer Meeting had left me hungry, and I, unfortunately, have dusted off a bear claw, and am now finishing the aforementioned cruller.
It is a miracle of nature that I am not diabetic.
I finally reach the crime scene and come across the short form of Vincent Masuka, Forensic Investigator Extraordinaire.
"Master! I bring you gifts!" I open the box of doughnuts, letting Masuka take his pick of a glazed doughnut.
"At such hours? Padawan, you will either go far or collapse of heart attack on your way there!" He nods approvingly as he bites into the doughnut and gives me a horribly fake smile.
I give him a nod as Batista walks up and snatches the second bear claw, "Thanks, socio!" He gives thanks.
"De nada." I reply, "What've we got?"
"Shooting and a fire. Double Homicide, attempted third," Batista says thoughtfully whilst munching on his doughnut with gusto, "Victoria and Rose Guerrero, mother and daughter were killed; shot in the temple-" Batista brings up his unoccupied hand to his temple and mimics a gun discharging a bullet into his head, "-Carlos Guerrero, the third victim is alive, it's as if they left him to burn. His legs are cooked."
"Yummy," I snort, "Anyone up for barbecue?"
"That's fucked, Moser," comes a voice from within the police tape that I instantly recognize as my fellow Detective; James Doakes.
"Ah, James!" I exclaim in a falsely jovial manner, "Would you like a doughnut? I still have long johns, if that's what you're into."
"Fuck you, Psycho. Lieutenant wants you inside. Your case, he and his girl shouldn't be doin' your fucking work for you." Doakes says; I nod, leaving the doughnuts with a Uniformed Officer and tipping my metaphorical hat to Batista and Masuka.
"Hey, Moser, have fun in there," the Asian man remarks with a devious smile.
I look at him quizzically as Batista brings his hands to his chest and clasps them together in an exaggerated manner, "Dexter, your corazon is in there!" He says. I feel around my own chest for my heart in a nonplussed manner. It is a small organ, but I don't think I would enjoy the two minutes I'd have left to live without it.
"Nope," I say, locating the rhythmic beating inside my chest, "found it."
"Not that kind, Dexter," the Cuban shakes his head, "your real heart!"
Now I have no clue what he's talking about. I literally just located my heart for him and he still denies that I've found it. It's clear that logic won't move the detective, so I simply try to understand what he's saying, "Huh?" I ask.
"Heard Morgan calling you," the scientist grins, "sounded like a whole lot of subtext, if you catch my drift."
I don't catch his drift. "Huh?" I ask again.
"Moser, would you fucking hurry it up?" Doakes asks from the periphery of our conversation, exasperated. I nod, having Batista follow me into the palatial home while Masuka sets up the Forensics equipment.
As I walk into the house, I come across a rather strange sight in the foyer: Carlos Guerrero; mob leader and drug kingpin laying strapped onto a stretcher and being carted away. We make eye contact for a moment, my clear, empty greens and his jaundiced, emotionally drained browns. He lifts a hand at me and begins speaking softly in a dialect of Spanish that I am not used to. I strain to hear the man, but can only make out words that would mean things like dog, police, and kill out of them.
Guerrero grabs my arm with a surprising amount of force once his arm passes by mine, and he says something, but I can't make it out still. He looks at me in the most heartbroken manner, and even I am surprised that a man like the one I had met only two weeks ago could turn into this mess, lolling in and out of consciousness with his body charred from the thighs down. But the Latina EMT sedates the man and apologizes as they cart him away.
"What did he ask me?" I question to Batista afterwards.
The man gives me a solemn look in response, "He wants you to kill the man that did this. There is no honor in killing a man's wife and daughter and letting him live. The man who did this does not deserve a trial, all he deserves is death."
I look around the large entrance hall to the marble stairs leading up to the second floor where fire fighters still loiter around and the roof seems to have developed the same char as Guerrero's legs and smile wryly, "That's probably all he does deserve."
"Yeah, you can say that again, socio," Batista says somberly, "No matter what a man does... there isn't anyone who deserves this."
"Dex!" Debra's voice calls from somewhere above me; I look up to see her standing at the railing above us, "Get the fuck up here!"
"Debra! You're in a public place!" Harry admonishes, walking to the railing, "It's your case, Moser; you should be up here."
"On it," I say, not wanting to keep someone with a temper like Harry's waiting.
"And someone get the fire fighters out of here; we've got a crime scene to investigate," Harry barks, spurning Batista into action as I bound up the marble staircase two at a time. I walk up to Debs, ignoring the burnt pieces if furniture, walls, and ceiling as I speak:
"Well, I'm here. What's it that couldn't wait till morning?"
"That," she says with a rather disdainful sniff, pointing to two burnt corpses, one spread out on what was once a divan, and one lays on the floor. Something tells me that she is not as sympathetic to Guerrero's plight as Batista is. "Double Homicide. Names are Victoria and Rose Guerrero."
Harry moves on towards the first floor, where, no doubt, the reporters are beginning to show; this leaves Debra and I free reign of the crime scene:
"What do you make of it, Dex?" She asks, looking at the teenage girl.
"Well, she was clearly killed by a shot to the temple, but if you look closely, it looks like they messed with a her a little bit first," I say, feeling around the throat.
"Why is that?"
"She has a broken Hyoid bone; it's generally a tell-tale sign of strangulation," a sign that I usually try to avoid when dispatching my own victims, "And the burning was done post-mortem."
"So?"
"Why burn a person when they're already dead, especially like this?"
Masuka saunters over to the bodies, snapping pictures, "What do you mean, Moser?"
"This isn't the same type of burning that got to Guerrero; it's like they were positioned close enough to the fire but not enough to suffer the same third degree burns as her father," I note the rather splendid color that comes to the girl's skin, as though it were an appetizing piece of pork, "In any case, that's all conjecture. What we've got here for sure is that both of these women were shot point blank with the same weapon. Rose was sitting here," I indicate a small couch she is laid out upon. "From the looks of things, the killer snuck out from behind them, using something like test fishing wire, something that isn't too heavy but can strangle someone with little trouble. While she is being strangled, killer pulls out a gun, possibly a Magnum, by the looks of it and fires."
I pause, looking down at the gunshot wound on the victim.
"What?" Debs asks.
"That makes sense, except..." I start, before I point to the exit wound, which is at the back of the head.
"Except that it makes no sense," Masuka remarks, snapping a picture of the exit wound.
Debs looks at the body in a quizzical manner: "If he was strangling her from behind, why did he shoot her from the front?"
"Maybe he let her go and moved to the front to shoot her?" Masuka supplies.
"No ligature marks on her neck, Dex," Debs replies, "so he didn't spin the rope around to keep her on a leash as he move around."
I crouch to the girl's level, putting my chin on my hand in a thinker's pose, "Then why wouldn't she try to move away as he let her go? It's a natural human instinct to run, especially when surprised; so why didn't Rose do the same?"
I stand up, and make a gun-shape with my hand, pretend to fire into Rose's head, and try to estimate where the bullet might have landed. Strangely enough, I find it on a linear, diagonal path towards the ground from Rose's head, which lays lolled back on the divan head rest.
"What, Dex?" The brunette asks, interested, as I move towards the back of the divan, and look at the bullet hole in the ground.
"This." I say, pointing to the little splintered hole in the flooring, "It's linear with how her head is positioned now. They didn't move the body, they just left it here."
Masuka continues snapping pictures with a blank face and Debs nods, before looking at me questioningly, "They?" She asks.
I ignore her for a moment and move to the side of Rose, pretending to have been strangling her. I raise up another imaginary gun and fire in the direction where Victoria Guerrero's body lays, which would create the blood spatter on the walls behind her corpse now.
"They." I smile, "Two of them. Possibly more, but at least two. Killer One strangles Rose from behind; Killer Two shoots her from front. Victoria Guerrero walks into the wrong place at the wrong time and Killer Two doesn't have enough time to react, so Killer One shoots Mrs. Guerrero from behind the divan, leading to that blood spatter on the wall over there."
"So," Deb begins, "You're sure about this? Two killers?"
"Not a hundred percent, but it's over fifty," I shrug nonchalantly.
Debra snorts, "Over fifty for you is a hundred for anyone else. Come on, Dex, let's go tell Dad."
I would normally follow at a brisk pace, but suddenly something feels very familiar as I stand up, causing me to pause as I survey the area of destruction. And I can feel the Dark Passenger's sibilant chuckle as I am pulled back into one of my memories.
December, 1997
Life goes on, I suppose.
I've been given a new chance at life by a man who says he works for the Russian government. Probably KGB. I hear they like to do this sort of thing with willing illegals. It's rather funny, when you spend a year in a maximum security prison for stealing; it gives you some perspective on the whole world. And, when someone gives you the choice of doing secret Peacekeeping mission (no doubt to keep the Post-Soviet Eastern Bloc from erupting into more wars) in exchange for no prison, you jump on that and don't let go until they let you go.
They do not care who I am. I do not have a name, or an identity; I am simply to work for them for three years, of which I am nearly done with the first, and then, I have to leave. Sounds like a raw deal, I know, but it's better than a Russian prison.
For the past few weeks, we've been escorting a group of Egyptian refugees who survived the Luxor Massacre and planned to give them passage into Germany. Of course, there is a bit of a language barrier, as I can only speak bits and pieces of Arabic, and often have to use a translator to speak to them. They aren't people meant to be put in these kinds of situations, they are skittish, easily frightened, and quite often stupid.
A girl abandoned camp to go looking for flowers in the middle of the night while we were in Serbia, even though I had specifically said that there are dangerous people in this area. Her mother went following after her once she had seen she was missing without alerting any of us. By the time we had noticed both of them were missing in the morning, they were long gone.
We took a detour of two days looking for this girl and her mother, practically draining our rations, when I caught wind that there is a group of cannibals out and about in the woods we were in who went insane during the harshest years of the Bosnian War. When we did finally find the mother and daughter, they were exactly as we expected: charred, half-eaten, and resting in sweet repose.
Two of the men from the group vomited. We buried them and moved on.
"Dexter? Hello?" Debra asks, waving her hand in front of my face as I blink, "Jesus, I thought you weren't coming back."
"I'm fine, Debs, let's go tell Harry," I reply, as we leave Masuka to finish taking photos and forensic evidence and reach Harry, who appears to be busy. He quickly tells us we can leave, but that he wants to be kept informed on the theory of ours that Debs presents to him, so we have to write up a thorough report to file on his desk by tomorrow morning.
I don't pay much attention, though; when the Dark Passenger has me remember a specific memory, it is usually a warning. So why did I remember the Cannibals in Serbia? Is there something special about it that I am to remember, or is it the eerie similarity between the two crimes and how they were perpetrated?
Almost as if they had me in mind.
A sense of dread climbs up my spine as I look over the vast patch of suburban land that I must cross to my car. A nameless fear, something to corner me with, to back me into a corner, to have me run from Miami and never look back. This fear creeps, moving up slowly through my back and brain and out to the rest of my body. And for a moment, I am gripped by something and it turns my legs into stone, so I content to stand at the brink of my past and look a while.
That is, until Debra interrupts me thirty seconds later:
"Dex," Deb says, "I kinda still don't have a car and got a ride here from my dad. You think you can give me a ride back to the station?"
I nod, "Sure, it's a bit of a walk, though. Couldn't find a good place to park nearby."
"I'm up for a walk," the brunette says quickly. I nod again, leading her down a few streets towards where my car is.
We walk in silence for a little while before Debs smiles slightly and ruffles my short hair, which seems kind of awkward, considering she is shorter than I am: "Nice work back there, Q-tip."
"Q-tip?" I question.
Deb snorts, "Your hair. I think it looks better when you let it grow out a bit." Well, that's out of the question, "This makes you look sick. Like a fucking cancer patient, or something." I wince slightly at her quick diagnosis; the Officer is quite bright, even though she knows about cancer as much as she knows Quantum Decoherence.
"Well, maybe it completes the look," I joke, "I can scare suspects into confessing by threatening to give them Hep-C."
My female companion punches me in the arm deftly, causing me to grimace and flinch, "Maybe you should've given thought to becoming a female boxer." I say, nursing my arm and rubbing my shoulder soothingly.
"What? And get my face mashed in every night?"
"It'd fix up your chin," I quip lightheartedly and flick the woman's chin as she punches me in the arm again.
"Jackass," she says, before rubbing my arm herself, this time, "Are you okay, Dex?"
"Why wouldn't I be?" I ask, slightly enjoying the ministrations on my sore shoulder. Debs stops and looks up at me:
"Because you're not," she shrugs simply, turning me to face her. "I know you aren't. I know you better than anyone, trust me when I tell you that, and I can tell when you aren't all there."
"Well..."
"Come on, you look pale, you cough like you have lung cancer, you keep zoning out and you still ignore me even though you know you can't lie to me."
I'm sure I can't lie to you, Debra. It isn't at all like I haven't been doing it to you our whole lives. I remain silent even as we step into my car. She just stares at me for the longest time while I start the car and head towards the Venetian Causeway.
One of the great things about Miami at night is that traffic significantly lessens. In the mornings, traffic is delightfully homicidal: people cut each other off, swear at each other, extend middle fingers, and often threaten empty, vacuous threats. And of course, you'll often find yourself next to a Viagra-pumped geriatric in his '68 Impala and a gangbanger in his Camaro IROC-Z. At this time of night, however, people usually confine themselves to clubs in Southbeach or their homes on the other side of the Causeway. We had towards Flagler Street, where our precinct is located, and Debs just stares at me the whole time.
I try to turn up the radio and ignore her, but it does little to distract a persistent Debra Morgan:
"So, what? You're going to turn up the volume and listen to the radio and think that I'll just stop asking?"
"Something like that," I reply.
"Come on, Dex. Talk to me."
I snort, "No need to. Nothing to talk about."
She raises an eyebrow in response, "Nothing? Nothing at all?"
"Nope," I assure her, "Nothing. Nothing at all. Why don't you tell me something that's bothering you?" I decide to entreat her as we pull into a parking space in the lot of our precinct because she clearly looks like she could use a conversation, "I know you, too, Debs. There's something bothering you as well."
Clearly that's not what she wanted me to say because the brunette stops cold, and tries to work her mouth for a moment in complete confusion before it clamps down shut and she gives me a smoldering glare. For a moment, I think I can literally see my life flashing before my eyes. Her lip curls and nearly wrenches the car door off its handles as she opens it. The brunette turns around long enough to give me one last malevolent stare before speaking:
"Yeah," she says coldly, which I find remarkable, as she speaks through a clenched jaw, "You are."
And then she stomps off towards the door to the building, not even waiting for me, despite that we are supposed to work on the report together. I sigh, turning off the car and following in the poor girl's wake.
It's morning again. I shift in bed, not wanting to get up, mainly because sleep does not come often these days, and a particularly vivid dream kept me from sleeping well. Now this may not seem all that abnormal, but I am not a normal person. As far as I am concerned, I do not dream. And yet, there it was, such a vivid, vivid, dream. Of rushing towards a woman, someone, anyone, and strangling her.
And it was such an exhilarating feeling, watching this poor, unsuspecting creature fall to the ground. Dragged her some place cold and narrow. Cold and narrow. Picked my tools, flailing little girl. And then, silence.
But that perfect silence of the early morning air, that sublime moment of Zen, is shattered when there comes a knocking at my door, and I am nothing if not a polite monster, so I force myself to get to the door and open it.
And then, the weirdest sense of deja vu hits me. There is Brian waiting for me with what appears to be a tupperware container full of food and Debs stands impatiently behind him.
"Brother; Debra," I greet in a greatly exaggerated mechanical voice.
"Rejoice, little brother," Brian says in a happy manner, "you will not have to make breakfast for yourself today."
What a shame; I love making myself breakfast, I like the methodical normalcy of it all. I sometimes like to think it is what normal people do to keep from murdering each other. Brian holds up a bag of what appears to be leftovers from dinner last night.
"Ma's?" I ask hopefully.
"Brother," Brian winks, "Do you think I'd feed you anything but the best?"
"I distinctly remember a time when you fed me a urinal cake in the third grade."
"Yeah, but you're not eight years old anymore."
I snort in response, "You might still be ten, though."
"Touché, brother of mine," my brother pushes past me and Debs stands outside, giving me an awkward smile:
"Sorry..." she begins awkwardly, "About last night."
"No harm done," I say quickly. There are many things in the world I do not like, and I one of them is having Debra angry at me, so if she offers an apology, I may as well accept and save us both a lot of trouble later.
"But, Dex," she leans in to whisper, "You know you gotta talk to me someday."
I let the pretty brunette in and she immediately stalks over to my fridge, pulling out some Orange Juice and uncapping it, moving seamlessly from the fridge to the cupboard where I keep my cups. Brian stops, observing her for a moment:
"Wow, she knows this place better than I do." He whistles.
"I don't think that's something to be proud of," I reply as Debs gives me a nonchalant 'go fuck yourself' sort of smile.
Soon, all three of us are sitting at my couch and watching the morning news as we eat, "See, Debs?" I ask, "Isn't this better than a strict McDonald's and Ramen Noodle diet every day?" Debra smiles and nods her head bashfully:
"I'm not much of a cooker."
Brian gives her a sideways look whilst taking a sip of his coffee, "Yeah," he says in a mock-snide manner, "I noticed."
"Well, let's throw you a fucking parade!" Deb drawls, causing Brian to chuckle and me to wince:
"Please, Deb," I say whilst rubbing my forehead, "It's seven in the morning, can you watch the language?"
"Don't be a pussy, Dex." She replies, taking a swig of her Orange Juice.
"Thank you," I respond with a distinct sense of hopelessness as Brian continues to imitate a hyena.
But, just as we settle into a comfortable silence of TV news and forks hitting plates, my phone rings, and a second later, so does Debs's. There is another crime scene to investigate up in Davie, and just close enough to Broward County territory that we're bound to catch heat from them. I copy down the address and rush to the bathroom, flossing quickly and tossing on freshly cleaned clothes; consisting of a dark button-up and black jeans as Debs and I head out to my little car. I tell Brian to lock up once he's finished and then, off we go.
Broward County is situated just atop Miami-Dade County, which makes me wonder why no one decided to call Miami Metro the Miami-Dade Police Department, but someone must've had their reasons. In any case, Broward Police yokels do not like their Miami counterparts; mainly because we investigate real crimes, while they investigate facsimiles of them. After all, who kills anyone in Fort Lauderdale? Such a mundane city that the only crime anyone could really imagine coming out of it is loitering by one of the retirees that has a stroke in the middle of a field somewhere.
Debs and I step out of my car and survey our surroundings. A cheap motel. A cheap motel and a murder in South Florida can only mean one thing:
"Hookers," I say dispassionately. Debs sighs and rubs her forehead with her thumb and index finger:
"Yeah," she says, breathing deeply, "Definitely hookers."
We walk up to the police tape that surrounds the crime scene, when a rather unfriendly Broward Uni stops us. He has a slanted, low-brow sort of face that makes him look incredibly unintelligent, so much so that I am surprised when I actually realize this man is, wonder of wonders, capable of speaking:
"And you are?" He asks in a quiet, meant-to-be intimidating voice, but Debs and I only give him disinterested stares:
"Detective Moser, Miami Metro Homicide; Officer Morgan, Miami Metro Vice."
"Morgan?" He asks; surprised. And not in a good way.
"Yes," Debs says, clenching her jaws and rising up to her full height, like a cat readying itself on its haunches to strike, "Officer Morgan. Is there a problem with that?"
The Uni seems to be about ready to throw some rather colorful language at the brunette when he notices me giving him a polite stare. It's what I like to call the 'Get out of my way' Dex face, used very rarely, and really only on nights when the Passenger and I 'become one'. The lowbrow moron seems to get the hint that I am just as willing to tear out his lungs with a farming scythe as I am to shake his hand and backs away slowly, letting both of us through.
"You have gotta show me how to do that," Debs remarks with an emotion akin to awe as we leave the Uni behind.
"Do what?" I ask. Debra just smiles and pushes me lightly.
We come across Masuka, Batista, and Doakes, who immediately makes himself disappear once he sees me making my way towards the group.
"Dex!" Masuka calls, "Got that bullet you want, it's all shattered, but we think there might be a print on it."
A print? A print? There is no way this guy would have been so careless. No way at all.
"A print?" Debs echoes my disbelief, but with a distinct tinge of happiness to it, "A motherfucking print?"
"Yes," Masuka says in a secretary-esque voice, "That is what I said, isn't it, Morgan?"
"Dex, this is fucking great!" Debs grins widely, "If we can get one of these fuckers, we can use him to find the other, am I right?"
She is right, "It's a dilemma; less jail time for our guy with the print if he rats out the careful one." I say, in complete awe and shock. The brunette notices my displeased countenance and stops her parade long enough to cock her head to the side and give me a quizzical look:
"And for some reason, you don't seem to like that," she says, letting her previously upraised arms come flopping down to her sides. "What's up, Dex?"
I shrug; I expected more, is all. "Seems a little anticlimactic when you think about it." I choose to say instead.
"Well, would you rather catch the fucker anticlimactically or leave him out there to kill a few more people?" Deb asks in response. I nod, and she grins, clapping my back, "So just sit back and fucking enjoy this for once; would you?"
Debs asks to be filled in on what's going on around here, of which Batista starts explaining:
"Dead hooker. Apparently the third one done exactly like this within the past two months. All victims were prostitutes in their late twenties. Drains the blood, freezes them, chops them up, and leaves them as a present for us to deal with. The hijo de puta."
"So then, we've got..." I start, trying to establish a lay of the land.
"... A serial killer?" Debs finishes my question for me, her mind probably filled with all sorts of anxious ideas on how this might advance her career once she gets into Homicide.
"Calm yourself, Miss Morgan," I say soothingly, "Wait till you're on Homicide first before going after the big-girl case. Besides, it doesn't look like this one is going anywhere for quite some time."
"Why not?" the Officer asks, clearly confused.
Masuka laughs in that horrible way of his, "'Why not?' she asks!" he snorts, "Because, Morgan, the Broward Boys hate your dad's guts." Batista and I nod sagely, as if lamenting a regrettable story from another time, before Debs was even cognizant of there being a Broward County PD.
"Why do they hate him?" the woman in question asks, "He never told me about it."
"Yeah he probably wouldn't have, because it happened when you were five years old." I reply.
"Then how do you know?" Debs interrogates, turning on me.
I shrug, "Harry told me about it when I was a teenager and we went hunting."
"Oh," she says simply, though I can tell that she is slightly hurt that Harry couldn't speak to her, his biological daughter, over me, the neighbor's kid.
Batista relates to the brunette the story of how Broward County and Miami Metro began their blood feud, which started in 1982, when I was seven and Debs was five. Of course, both of us were little more than aware that crime even existed, even though Debbie's daddy Harry was a hotshot detective, and we would much rather play kickball with Brian and Ben, nine and eleven respectively, than pay attention to police politics. Harry Morgan, a Detective who had a burgeoning family was assigned to a missing persons case that reeked of foul play.
It was supposed to be an inter-county display of camaraderie that forced Detective Morgan and Detective James Moon of the BCPD as partners. They worked well together, and even established some sort of friendship, which was something that ran low during the eighties in Floridian Law Enforcement. But, as with all such stories, another person was kidnapped, and as they got close to nabbing the perp, someone screwed up and spooked him. Killed the girl he kidnapped and went on his merry way, probably to Zihuatanejo, or some other place like Miami-warm beaches and awful memory.
To this day, no one knows really if it was Moon or Harry that screwed up the investigation, but it appears that both had gotten heated over it, and they were forced to separate. Naturally, the Broward County boys supported their own Detective and ours did so with Harry. And we vilified the other department's liaison. Either way, both Moon and Morgan are Lieutenants of their respective Homicide Department, and one does not see the territoriality going away, especially when the murder has practically been done on the Miami-Dade/Broward border.
Debs snorts at the entire story, "That's bullshit. Police fucking politics shits on our investigation once again! Hoo-fucking-ray." She says. One must admire that mouth of hers and how she can think of so many clever additions to a simple four-letter word.
"That's the world we live in, Debra," Batista says, "my dad was in the NYPD; it's all politics that forced him and my kid sister down here. And, there was the divorce, but it was mostly that he and his Lieutenant got into a fight and he was sent away down here."
"Huh," the brunette says thoughtfully, "Doesn't make it any less of a mound of horseshit, Angel."
"Speak of the devil," I say pointing to Harry, who comes strolling towards Lieutenant Moon with a rather severe look on his face. Debs rushes over to her father and stands at his side like a cute cub as Harry levels his own glare at the Broward County Homicide Lieutenant.
"Well," I say, "this is going to take a while."
"You got that right, socio." Batista responds with good-natured hopelessness.
"Well then," I reply, "I'm going to take a seat."
Just as I am about to turn away, I see a man pass me with a Vice jacket. So MMPD sent down their Vice Unit as well? If so, that means that-
"Dexter!" I hear Eliza's soft voice call from off to the side. I turn to meet her eyes and notice she is sitting all alone at a completely unoccupied bench. Who would be so unkind to leave such a fair damsel all alone?
"Hail, fair lady!" I say jovially, walking towards her, "How fares thee?"
"Quite well, actually," Eliza mimics a British accent and pulls me down to sit next to her. She runs her hand up and down my back in a slightly sensuous manner. Dark, deadly Dexter would have no time for such trivialities, but Cancer-Man Dexter, Dexter without a cause finds himself enjoying it, which seems to dismay my shadow half. I don't blame them, this pedestrian action should have no effect on me.
"How are you?" She asks, still rubbing my back.
"Quite well, actually," I reply with a mischievous grin, causing Eliza to smile her own small, dangerous smile as well and peck me on the lips:
"That's fantastic to hear," the brunette says into my ear, "Because I want you to meet my parents."
And suddenly, I drop the ball. How could Eliza do this to me? Our relationship was going so perfectly, she even got past the part that no other woman has conquered yet: Sex. She stayed, even where everyone else saw something defective in me, something morally deranged in my sexual mannerisms. And now, she has to ruin it by bringing her parents into the equation?
Parents are the worst thing for a dating monster like me. They are worse than pets because they can almost smell the freakishness that emanates from me, the difference being that they can voice their disdain in words, whereas Fido can only bark a few times before someone tells him to shut up.
"I don't think that's a good idea, Eliza," I say, the very idea makes my insides flare and I cough lightly a few times.
She pouts in response, "Why not?"
"Well, what if they don't like me?" I ask. It's a valid question; people don't like other people for dumb reasons quite often. However, Eliza makes it sound like I have just asked if the Pope is a Jew. She opens her mouth to speak, but then clamps it shut; has she really not thought of this? I would think this is the first place any guy would go during this sort of conversation, but Eliza seems to regain her bearings and chastises me lightly:
"Come on, Dexter-dummkopf," Eliza only uses German, her mother's native language, when words can't express just how spectacularly stupid I am being, "Why would my parents hate you? They'll love you, I'd bet on it."
Well, thanks for the vote of confidence, Ms. Taggart, but my track record says you are about to lose some shinies.
"Are you sure? I mean, they won't strangle me with Schnitzel if I don't impress?"
Eliza gives me a pointed look, "That's racist, Dex," she admonishes politely. "Besides, we may be eating Schnitzel, but no strangling unless it gets stuck down your fat gullet."
"Yes," I give her a shark-like grin, "Talk dirty to me!"
"Oh, you!" She pushes me lightly and grins along with me before continuing: "So, is that a yes?"
I wish it could be a no, but I doubt Eliza would take kindly to that answer, so I simply say "Of course" and she gives me a great, big hug as Debs voice cuts across our lovey-dovey session:
"Dex! Dad got the BCPD to fuck off, let's get back at it." She says, walking up to us. "Masuka says that a tech just called him, they got the bullet test back and it's waiting on his desk. Make sure to remind that asshole that he's got it."
"Okay," I say, before standing up far too quickly for my chemotherapy-addled body and feel another coughing fit about to come upon me. I turn, scrabbling around the table which houses the bench on which Eliza and I were sitting, trying to find the napkin dispenser. I find it, and quickly rip it out and bring it to my mouth as the first wave of spasmodic coughs wreak havoc on my lungs.
There is a wet squelch sound that comes with far too many of the coughs to keep either brunette from looking too unconcerned with me. They both grimace as I whoop slight bits of phlegm, but mostly blood into the napkin. However, they don't see the blood, which I guess is a positive, even if my mouth tastes like iron now.
But, of course, being a serial killer, I assume I don't have very good karma, which is the only way I can tease out the logic behind Debs's next request:
"Give me that," She says, pointing at the napkin. Ah, I've seen this before. It's the Morgan Method, how both Harry and Debs manage to get others to do their bidding. First comes announcement of desire, as you saw before.
I clutch the napkin to my chest protectively, "You're asking me for a napkin I coughed all over. You know, you could just ask for an autograph."
Then comes exasperation, "Fuck you, Dexter, I am not in the mood for your goddamn games!"
"Well, I don't want you looking at my napkin," I reply petulantly, like a child.
Third, angry repetition with honorifics, "Dexter Moser, give that napkin to me."
And finally, the coup-de-grace, Debs levels a Harry-stare at me in the most unnerving way she can muster. And might I say, it does work very well, but that might also be coupled with the fact that Eliza stands beside her, looking every bit as worried as my 'best friend' looks angry. And for some reason unbeknownst to my supercomputer of a brain, I hand the napkin to the taller brunette; Debra takes one look inside the folded napkin and her lip curls in disgust.
"What. The fuck. Is this?" The officer asks, breaking her sentence into slow, nearly equal parts, as if she were talking to someone exceptionally slow.
"Blood," I supply nonchalantly.
"Blood? Fucking surprise there, innit?" She asks sarcastically, before punching me in the shoulder. "I thought the doctor said you were alright."
I heave a sigh, "I am alright, the infection's just taking longer than it should to go away."
"Oh yeah, because that's exactly what the blood is saying, isn't it?"
"Being snippy won't change anything, Debra," I use her full name to convey just how monumentally annoyed with her I am, which stops the brunette cold, "it's just taking longer than usual. A few more weeks, and I'll be fine."
"Maybe you should go see the doctor again," Eliza suggests hopefully, while Debs still tries to work her mouth, clearly unsure of what to say.
"If I did, I wouldn't be Dexter-dummkopf." Apparently the cuteness of such a statement leaves neither Debs nor Eliza amused.
And so, I find myself in front of a body with sheeting all over her. It's a prostitute, as we all expected. But we're all in for a shock as Batista lifts up the sheet to reveal a frozen mass of cut-up body parts.
"Holy shit," Batista mutters, "Looks like how Guerrero's niece was cut up."
"Not exactly the same," Doakes materializes out of nowhere to let out that low, menacing growl of his, "cuts are different."
No blood. Again. How could this happen again? Just a cold piece of meat. It's even more impressive than Guerrero murders, he didn't even use embalming fluid. Just cell crystallization. I don't know if it's the same guy, there are some marked differences between the Guerrero murder and this homicide, but if it is, he's certainly stepping his game up. The air grows thicker around me and I can feel my breathing can become more shallow. Cut up like that, this woman. It's... familiar.
And it feels good; like seeing this dead, bloodless woman has caused my brain to release endorphins, like a cocaine high. I feel good. The world slows down, the body seems to take up all the space in my line of sight; only Debs remains the one person I can see out the corner of my eye.
"Dexter?" I am brought back to the real world because of Batista's addressing me, "What do you think?" He asks me.
I nod, "Doakes is right," I say, "Different method of exsanguination, cuts are different parts of the body, and-" I pause to sniff the air, "no embalming fluid. That's not to say it isn't the same guy, it's just... different, is all."
"Different?" Eliza asks, interest perked, "different how?"
I am about to begin to speak when Doakes cuts across me in a rather harsh tone, "I'm sorry," he begins, "but who the fuck are you again?"
"Eliza Taggart," the perky brunette replies with a heartwarming grin, "Vice's Forensic Scientist."
"And you're here, why?" He asks.
"Was called to a crime scene," she replies nonchalantly, giving the Detective her own sort of middle finger. "I'm giving my opinion."
Did I mention that I might be in love with this woman right now?
"Oh, and I'm Dexter's girlfriend," okay, that little snippet of information I could've done without. Doakes licks his chops in a predatory manner:
"Moser's, you say?" He gives me a sideways glance before nodding and walking towards me, mouthing: 'Nice work, psycho' in a totally non-confrontational manner.
Eliza raises a questioning eyebrow, "That was bizarre," she says as the Detective stalks off, apparently assuming that he's gotten a good grasp of crime scene by saying the cuts are different and questioning my 'girlfriend'.
"That guy's bizarre." Masuka says with a grin.
"So, anyways, before that enlightening interrogation," I start, "we were at how the crime scene is different. Well. If you look at the cuts on Amy Guerrero, you can see that the killer didn't take too much care as to where he was slicing. This... this is ordered. Neat. This guy knew exactly where he wanted to cut and why."
"Dexter's right," Batista agrees, "We've had two murders along the Tamiami Trail that fit more in line with the killer's M.O. than the guy who chopped up Guerrero's daughter. Still, the similarities..."
"Striking." I say simply, completely unaware of the stupid grin on my face.
If beauty is in the details, Miami Metro's Homicide Department's newest case's perpetrator is the Picasso of murder. Of course, no one but maybe Batista might share my interest in Blood Spatter, but how much work these cuts must have taken! Unbelievable. Just hours of silence, periodically disturbed by the sound of a bone saw... what I wouldn't give to be that man. But, unfortunately, I am not that man. And because of him, I have been given absolutely nothing to do. And when I am given absolutely nothing to do but wait for AFIS to spit out a name off the fingerprints on the bullet that killed Rose Guerrero, I realize that beauty is what can be done whilst involving the least amount of people. Without blood, there is no need for Dweeby Dexter to get involved in the case, especially because he has his own to worry about.
But that doesn't mean he can't be afforded his own free time because of this 'Tamiami Slasher', as the press has now taken to calling the man, and his ability to make hooker cold-cuts. And because of that, I sit at my computer, ignoring that nameless dread that came from Rose's murder and the sheer exhilaration that I felt when I saw that dead woman whilst aimlessly searching through old cold cases on my laptop to see if anyone might present a good candidate for Dexter's table.
I stop searching for a moment to take a look outside the Blood Lab I am currently occupying and see all sorts of cops, uniformed and otherwise, running around frantically with reports and bullet analyses and fear that the next moment might be their last. Paranoia appears to be the natural state of humankind, and it is a feeling that I pride myself on being free of for the most part. But, as of late, paranoia has seemed to take a hold of me like it has the other shadows running on towards oblivion.
Now, normally I don't believe that there is a man around every corner waiting with his knives and bags of chemicals to drown me in, but ever since these Guerrero murders started up, along with the cancer, I haven't exactly been feeling great. Everything about these two cases seem familiar, as if the killer is trying to warn me, specifically me, of something in my past, despite that I have taken careful steps to make sure no one ever finds the professional need to question Dexter Moser's past. Yet, still, there is a part of me that cannot shake that feeling. That someone, somewhere, is waiting for special, wonderful me. Waiting to do something. A part of me wonders if this is what the key to the human puzzle is, being trapped in a constant state of fear, always wondering if the boogeyman is right behind us and we just don't know, always feeling that we are already carrion and invisible vultures hang right above us, waiting to swoop in. I assume that this is what years of murder does to a person, it makes us more cautious, and in the process, much more paranoid. It's a bad job, really, and I don't recommend it unless you really have to, because no one wins in this game, the difference between us and our victims is that we die more slowly.
And now I'm depressing myself. Fantastic.
I flip through a photo of a potential rapist/murderer with a pretty rocking mohawk. No. Too conspicuous. Someone will notice this guy's gone missing too soon.
I suppose I'm the very picture of existentialist angst right about now, literally feeling dread everywhere I go, and I can't explain why. Even the Passenger ceases to speak to me, I just feel a nervous skittishness that normally tells me to run, run as far away as possible. Nothing settles the feeling that those crime scenes were intended to for my eyes, not even looking for potential tablemates. Still, it does not surmount my all-consuming feeling of complete wonderment in the presence of his crime scenes. I want to understand why these murders looks so similar; I want to understand him.
And it doesn't help that someone is trying to sneak up on me, a microcosm of how my life is going right now. I quickly, albeit casually, switch windows to a blood report that needs printing:
"Debs," I say, "You're not very good at sneaking up on people."
I hear her soft response, "How did you know it was me?"
The Passenger told me, "I can see your reflection on the screen." I choose to say instead, watching as Debra shrugs and walks up behind me with a telltale grin on her face; she stops right before the chair I am sitting in as I press 'print', waiting for the papers to spit out the printer on the other table.
Then, something strange happens: she hugs me. Around the throat, placing her head onto my shoulder.
Of course, she is doing this to exasperate me. But, being a mostly emotionless android of a man, I usually do not know how to respond in these situations the way that someone like Brian would; I only have the Passenger for guidance. It rears its head, like an overprotective mother, telling me to reach for the box-cutter in my pocket and disentangle myself from the brunette's grip. However, I know she does not intend to strangle me, so I let my Ego override my Id and politely ignore her attempts to annoy me.
"What'cha doing?" She asks, trying very hard not to sound intrusive, I assume.
"Blood work," I reply nonchalantly.
"Oh, okay," she says, completely uninterested by my fascination with blood reports, "Dad's dropped his name as a favor to get to speed up on the Prints, with luck, we should get a suspect by the end of the day." She states in a happy manner that is uncharacteristic of Post-Vice Debra Morgan.
"And that's got you on a sugar rush, why?"
She breathes out heavily, "Because, brother of mine," Debs smiles as she mocks the playfully mechanical way that Brian and I greet one another, "We've got one of these fuckers nailed. The other one's bound to come out of the woodwork once we question the first prick. So, yeah, I'm the happiest fucking girl in the state of Florida."
"If the guy can even be found, that is," I try to curb the Officer's enthusiasm, but she just grips all the more tightly and lets out a wry smile, "if he's got any brains, he'll have gotten out of Dodge by now."
"Well, shit, Dexter; you told me yourself a few years back that Police Work is twenty percent brains, eighty percent luck, so let's hope the eighty percent wins out, yeah?"
Debra Morgan, the paragon of optimism. Sometimes its useful for when Dee is feeling down and she needs another girl to talk to her, but for the most part, it makes me want to punch her until she understands that the eighty percent rarely wins out.
"I'm also twenty percent human, eighty percent medianoche sandwich; you don't see anyone confusing me for a porkchop." I supply with an air of disinterest as I print out the paper.
"Really?" Debs asks in a sarcastic manner, "I though for sure I'd eaten a part of your leg before."
"Watch what you're suggesting, girlie," I continue to banter; Debs has the decency to blush upon realizing what she has suggested. "It's a little too saucy for me." I finish.
"Shit, Dex," she says, looking at her watch, "We have to go."
Go where? I've been given absolutely nothing to do, why would I be going anywhere?
"Go where?" I voice my concerns quite aptly.
"Guerrero's woken up; Dad wants us to head to the hospital and clear him, see if we can get any info off him."
But I don't want to. I look up into Debs's pleading eyes and realize I have to because this is my case and this is a new development... maybe I really should've considered Forensics over Detective work. I put the printed blood work-up into the file labeled 'De Lacey Homicide - Blood Report' and stand up as Debs lets go of my throat.
"Lead the way, Debbie," I quip spryly; Debra nods and leads me towards the elevators.
The University of Miami's Hospital is perhaps Florida's top medical facility. Of course, I suppose I speak with some form of bias, considering I get my chemotherapy sessions done here and Brian is an attending in the Medical ICU, and sometimes does Hospice work. But, still, in my not-so-humble opinion, it is one of the best in the state, if not the best hospital.
That, however, does not change the fact that I hate hospitals. With a passion. In some ways, I must be a masochist, considering that I had planned on becoming a doctor and now I spend all my days looking at dead people and their blood. There's something about working in a hospital, however, that I find soothing. It's the same as with blood, ordering it, tagging it, analyzing it- it all makes me feel good. I guess, had I been a slightly more normal person, something about curing illnesses, ordering them, analyzing them would've called out to me as well.
But blood is blood, I am a detective, and I can't change that.
"Fancy meeting you here, brother," Brian says, wearing a white coat that makes him look especially dweebish, "I assume you are enjoying swinging your big-boy badge around?"
"Only as a Moser could," I respond deftly.
"Fantastic," my brother grins before turning to Debs, "And the Morgan! How lucky for me to see you again!"
"Well, I wouldn't call it lucky. You know Guerrero is part of our investigation." Debra responds, using the stony 'cop face' that her father has mastered so well.
"Was I supposed to know that?" Brian asks, "Now let us examine that claim for a moment-" I bop the elder man on the head with my badge:
"Big-boy badge says 'take us to Guerrero'." I say; Brian grimaces:
"Whatever you say, brother," Brian leads us to Room 308, where the man lays resting.
Guerrero does not appear to be in anywhere near tip-top shape. In fact, he looks like he's died, but when I sit next to him, he stirs and looks at me: "Ah," He says, "Detective Moser, isn't it?"
I nod, "Mr. Guerrero," I respond respectfully.
"I apologize for not being in a presentable state, but, with the conditions of our visit, I hope you will find that oversight... permissible." He says, indicating his pale and sickly form, draped over with a hospital gown.
"Naturally," I reply without missing a beat, "We just have a few questions and we'll let you rest."
"We?" He asks, before looking to my side to see Debs sitting there rather uncomfortably, "Oh. Your partner?" He asks.
"Officer Morgan," Debra introduces herself, which sounds uncharacteristically robotic, coming from her.
"Morgan?" The Drug Lord asks, "Not Lieutenant Harry Morgan's daughter?"
Now the brunette looks incredibly uncomfortable, "Yes," she says after a long pause.
I find it interesting to watch two people who have such vastly different ideologies and perspectives of the world they live in speak. Guerrero is a dishonest man living a dishonest life, and that's what allows him to pull off the manufactured caring father facade so well; Debra, on the other hand, is an honest woman through and through, which leads, understandably, to feelings of dissonance when placed in situations that require tact. I naturally tend to gravitate towards Guerrero's line of thinking, but that does not stop me from appreciating the sheer honesty that radiates off the woman next to me.
Is it weird to say that if I were a real human, I'd want to be like Debs?
In any case, there's no use in wanting; I am a Guerrero and not a Morgan in spirit. Pinocchio is not a real boy. Never will be. Wishing otherwise gets me nowhere.
"He has a beautiful daughter," the man says in a respectful way, but I am not sure if he is being sincere.
Debs flushes; she does not like compliments, "Thank you," she continues to speak in that awkward, mechanical tone of voice.
"Well, Detective, what," he pauses to cough a few times, and I myself feel a few coughs coming on, "would you like to know?"
"We'd like to ask if you saw one or two men," Debs takes the first question, and I am only too happy to let her question the men as I bend over to take a few quick coughs, which does nothing to assuage that burning feeling in my chest.
"Two," the crippled man says after a moment of contemplation, "One is a common hitman. The other, he was something different."
"Different?" I ask, "Different how?"
"Tell me, Detective," he says suddenly, as if he isn't paying attention to any certain conversation that we've been having, "have you ever been in love?"
"In love?" I question, wondering where that thought had come from, "No, I don't think I have."
"Not at all? Not even in the slightest?"
I nod, "I'm not..." I sneak a glance at Debs, who still looks incredibly uncomfortable, but her discomfort is covered by interest in my discomfort, "-Maybe I've been in love. Once. Years ago."
"Where is she now?"
I sigh, "Somewhere," I reply, "Somewhere I can't go. I don't know where she is, these days."
"Ah," he says, seeming to understand that I am not comfortable talking about these things with Debra in the room, "I think I would appreciate our discussion more in solitude."
I nod to Debs, and she stands, clearly not wanting to leave, but, bless her soul, she does. I watch as she opens the door and stands outside it, like a vigilant guardian. The man seems to be slipping in and out of consciousness. Brian said he's stable for now, but he's also suffered some massive trauma, and it is expected he'd ramble a bit, but what's this about?
"So... where is she really?" He asks in between a fit of coughing.
I don't want to tell him; it would relinquish control, and Harry once told me something about control: The moment you make one minor misstep, once you lose control just a little bit, you lose everything. I like control; I need control. It's what allows me to function as a perfectly manufactured human being, and I am not ready to give up that control to a overglorified cocaine pusher.
"She's dead, isn't she?" Guerrero asks. Some people say that when one is close to death, they become the most discerning they've ever been. Maybe it's true for Guerrero also. But it doesn't matter, I am only reduced to dumbly nodding.
"You know," he begins, "I lied to my wife all the time. And I lied to my daughter. I thought that by keeping secrets from them, I could keep them happy. But I was wrong. Don't lie to the people who love you, don't keep secrets from them. I know that sounds simple, but-" he's rambling, there's no way Guerrero would say all this in a sane state of mind, but somehow, I feel like he really is speaking to me. "-it's not. You have to keep the people who care for you close, because otherwise you'll lose them, and..."
"And?"
"You die." He says simply, before he switches his train of thought again, "Find them both and kill them. Cut them down like dogs. They are the worst that humanity has to offer. Women and children," Guerrero spits in disdain, "They deserve justice. Make them pay. Especially the second one. He is not human at all."
"Then what is he?"
"Something... more."
A slow smile spreads across my face.
I lounge around my apartment in a state of disorientation. I sit there, on the couch, watching the TV as a sense of vertigo comes over me. And it's a very strange feeling. Like the world is always slightly askew. Like we are on a sinking ship, and we'd better get off the wreck before we drown. Who is this man that he can evoke something so foreign, something so alien to Dexter Moser's world? Fear. I do not feel it. I never have, even when half-sick with the thrill of cutting down a body, even when the police surround me on all sides.
There's nothing to fear. And yet, this feeling of vertigo is all-consuming, all-pervasive; my mind has been thoroughly caught in its own riot of dread. And I can't for the life of me figure out why. And that's why I can't wait much longer until AFIS spits out a name, because all I will think about are these crime scenes until I know for sure. I need to know for sure.
It's an obsession, I know. And obsessions are unhealthy for someone like me. And I know that this is probably coincidence, and I am looking into this too deeply, but once I can prove it, I can go back to being mundane Dexter.
So I find myself driving to back to the MMPD department headquarters in the dead of night and pull into an empty space in the parking lot. The building is still illuminated with people working on this new Tamiami Slasher case, so I should be able to drop in and review the Forensics files until AFIS gives us the ID of the prints on the bullet.
"Working late, Dex?" Batista asks as I walk into the Homicide HQ.
"Something like that," I respond as the elder man nods and gets up to refill his coffee.
I quickly walk into my office, slinking behind Harry and Debs, who are working together 'off the clock' on the Tamiami Slasher, and review the finer points of the case, but there isn't anything that I can find. And after an hour, all I find is that it's going to be difficult to go to sleep tonight, and that there are some similarities, but it all could be coincidence.
But the Passenger is not satisfied by that answer; it tells me to be watchful, to be vigilant, to-
"Dex? You still here?" Masuka asks, holding a file.
"Is that-?" I interrogate, completely ignoring his question. The Asian man nods with a grin:
"Your guy's supposed to be a man by the name of Ernesto Ramos. Was believed to be a Santería hitman; he's a slippery fuck."
I grab the file out of his hands, turning the page to see a well-built Latino man staring back at me. This isn't my guy, I can tell by the Dark Passenger's disappointed murmurs, but maybe he can lead me to my guy.
"Still," I find myself replying whilst on autopilot, "Not slippery enough to avoid this."
"It's good science, brother," Masuka quips lightly, "There isn't anyone in the world that can outrun good science."
I thank the Forensic Scientist, still on autopilot, and walk out of my office and straight to Debs and Harry:
"AFIS got our guy," I say, both of them look up, surprised, "When are do you want us to go pick him up?"
Harry blinks, "I didn't know you were still here, Dex."
"I wasn't, I went home but I realized I left some blood work back here so I came back. Masuka just dropped this off a few minutes ago. Our perp's a guy named Ernesto Ramos, supposedly a Santería Hitman, but he's been able to set himself up as a 'self-made man'."
Debs looks absolutely stoked and her father notices, "Go." He says, and that's all we need.
Of course, however, that's not all he said. And that is why Debs and I sit in my car at one in the morning on Collins Avenue, rubbing our eyes tiredly and lounging around as we wait for the Unis to arrive on scene. Well, only Debra lounges, having cited leg pain so that she could turn in her seat, splay her legs across the gear lever, my lap, and out the window of the door to lie back and sleep. I, on the other hand, try valiantly to stay awake, rubbing my eyes and slapping my cheeks to keep myself in the land of the living, to the point were I have to fool my own brain into thinking I am out stalking a new victim so I can slip into Dark Dexter mode and ward off the sandman.
"You should stop trying so hard," Debs says, shifting slightly, her eyes still closed, "You aren't keeping yourself awake, you're just making yourself more sleepy."
We turn to her, completely aware of our surroundings now, "I'm fine, Deb." We say.
The brunette peeks one eye open and scoffs lightly, "If you say so." She says. "God, why the fuck are they so late?" We rest our elbows on Debs's shins and hold our head in anticipation. "Dex, that's uncomfortable," Debra grimaces, shifting ever so slightly. She puts on her very best Harry-glare when I look back at her blankly:
"Well, no one asked you to put your legs here," I say as she tries to sit up unsuccessfully, and grabs my hands to right herself.
"Will you let me have them back?" She asks playfully.
"Why, of course; they are your's, after all, right?"
Before the Officer can answer, a large van pulls out next to us, four armored Unis step out of the back and Debs is suddenly in a rush to sit prim and proper in her seat.
"You should stop trying so hard," I mock her earlier statement, and the brunette flashes me a delicately formed middle finger in response before she exits the car. She lightly, and I stress lightly, admonishes one of the Unis she knows for his tardiness, to which the man actually apologizes; maybe Debs's supermodel looks can be utilized from time-to-time.
Suddenly I feel very woozy and experience that same sense of vertigo that occurred in my apartment, and nearly feel myself falling. I grasp for anything and end up slapping the roof of my car rather deftly to keep balance. Breathe in, breathe out, calm yourself.
"Dex, are you okay?" Debs asks, looking rather worried. I would be touched if I could be touched.
We prep lightly for about five minutes before we enter the lobby of a newly-constructed high-rise condo, which is the last known address of Ernesto Ramos. I am, on a few occasions, surprised by the lives our marks lead, but the opulence of Ramos's living leaves me with a slightly bitter taste in my mouth. There are things far more important in the world than money, or a penthouse on Miami Beach, but this man does not seem to know that real killers do.
And it disappoints me. One can only hope his partner is a little more interesting.
We pass by a few gentlemanly looking blokes on the way to the receptionist's desk at the other end of the white marble lobby; Deb mouths a strangled 'Wow' at the sheer luxuriousness of the building and the Unis look a little lost. A man stands at the elevator with a stack of DVDs. What a man is doing with a stack of DVDs at one in the morning is anyone's guess, but I think if I were in the mood to disclose it, my interpretation might be pretty close to accurate.
The elevator dings open behind me as we begin to speak to the receptionist:
"Uhm," she begins uncertainly, "how can I help you, sir?"
"Detective Moser from Miami Metro Homicide; these are Officers Morgan, Rose, Royo, and Dussler. We're looking for a man by the name of Ernesto Ramos in connection with a murder case." Suddenly the woman blanches and stares past me.
There is the unmistakable sound of someone being pushed and a bunch of DVDs clattering to the floor. In a moment, we turn back to see the figure of Ernesto Ramos making a run for the doors and out into the midnight traffic of Miami Beach.
Soon enough, we are chasing him down Collins Avenue. Perhaps Dexter before Cancer would have very little trouble taking down Ramos, but I have been crippled by the disease, and in my debilitated state, I must pace myself and run alongside Debs. And my chest still burns. I try to speed up and begin to catch up towards the hit man, but it feels like pins and needles are being stuck to my legs. It feels like my bones are shattering all around me and I feel blackness creeping around my periphery.
But still, I run. I must make sure. Dexter can never be too cautious about the company he keeps.
Finally I outpace Debs and catch up to Ramos, but at this point I feel so weak that the most I can muster is a feeble bear hug around the burly man, which is, surprisingly, enough to knock him to the ground. Debs catches up behind me with her handcuffs prepared and takes over for me.
I stand off to the side, trying to soothe my burning insides and shattered frame when that vertigo returns full-force and I feel myself fall to the ground, darkness encroaching on everything; the last thing I hear is Debs voice call out "Dex!" distantly.
I used to love to hunt with Harry. He always knew, in some way, that I was different from the rest of the kids he knew. In fact, I think that's one of the reasons why Harry took me on as his own personal mission from God to help me. The thing is, Harry loves Debra like a daughter, but he respected me enough that we treat each other as equals. He taught me how to blend in with others because it feels, in some ways, that Harry had seen some of himself within me. Naturally, he is stronger than I am; he channeled whatever pain it was that he felt into a career. It's not healthy, I know, as he constantly seems to regret never being able to spend time with his daughter, but it is healthier than what I do.
A long time ago when I was a teenager, while hunting, Harry told me to try and keep control. He told me there are so many things in the world that I couldn't control, but the one thing I could control was myself. And if I couldn't master that, then, well, what was the point of life at all?
It was a lesson I took to heart. I don't know why Harry decided to impart that fortune-cookie advice to me, but it set the groundwork for who I was to be for next fifteen years.
"Someday, you might find people you don't want to keep secrets from, and then, tell them. About you, about how you feel. But until then, you keep that control to yourself."
Is there anyone I want to tell? About me? About how I feel?
The first sensation that comes back to me is touch. I feel comfortable, as if I am not laying on the hard ground. Then comes smells. All sorts of aromas, mostly of foods from nearby restaurants, make my mouth water. And from that comes taste. And finally, with the opening of my eyes, there comes sight.
And what a sight it is! Debra's face looms above me, and I find the worry it conveys to be quite flattering. I shift, realizing I've somehow been moved to the backseat of my car and am now resting on my best friend's lap. Her eyes widen in recognition:
"Dex!" She says, almost breathlessly, "What... what's wrong with you?"
And that sense of falling, that overwhelming sense of vertigo returns. Debs cradles my head in her arms; they're surprisingly strong. Her great, big brown eyes rove around my face, searching for any hint of emotion. If there was anyone I wanted to tell the truth, if there was anyone who deserved to turn me in, to spit on me, to kill me, it's her. She deserves to be the one I tell the truth. She's earned it.
And so tell her the truth:
"I have cancer."
Her arms slacken.
"Are you ready to tell us about yourself?" The director of the cancer group nods my way.
"My name is Dexter Moser," I say, noticing the slight widening of Lila's eyes. "I have AML, or Acute Myeloid Leukemia. The prognosis looks good, but it's still testing me."
"Testing you?" The director asks, "Testing you how?"
"My family, my friends."
"Ah."
But the truth is is that I made the right decision. Debra does not understand everything yet, but she is content with me having told her the truth, which apparently counts for something. But, it's scary as well.
"Have you kept your family and friends at a distance all your life, Dexter?"
"You could say that."
"So, then, telling them the truth must be extremely frightening."
You'd be right again. I've opened back the tent flap a tiny bit for Debs to peak through, and yes, it scares the hell out of me. But there's this sense of vertigo, like we're all falling anyways, and it's best to grab onto someone to fall with.
Because we're all falling. But to what, is the question.
Notes: This is the rewrite of Chapter four. Drop me a line or two in the reviews on whether you thought this was a suitable replacement.