Summary: Two-part chapter. Harry lets Debra take point on the very case that could lead to Dex's downfall. Matthews tells the press that he believes Tony Tucci is the Killer, against Harry's advice. Dexter attends therapy sessions with a psychiatrist after the higher-ups learn about his panic attack at the Ice-Truck crime scene. Rita's ex-husband is released from jail due to overcrowding, and Dexter finds some friends in high places.

Down on the Upside


"By us or by them, everyone gets got."

-Debra Morgan


'Bodysnatchers'


There's something surreal and disconcerting about walking up to your own crime scene with a detective's badge around your neck and a service pistol at your side, and watching your colleagues see a side of you that you'd never have expected them to see. And what's worse, they see you at your most absolutely deplorable. Even some of Unis, who are usually all smiles at the most disconcerting crime scenes look queasy and have a slight green tinge to their faces.

I pass through the Police Tape; I did not bring doughnuts for this situation, partly because I wanted to be there to see the faces of my colleagues should they have already found out who the murderer is, and partly because I don't think anyone would want a doughnut after this.

I walk to the entrance of the building, taking little notice of the exceptionally grim-looking faces of the Uniformed Cops as well as Homicide Officers alike. Even Batista, who is often quite impassive when it comes to the depths of human depravity is sweating a little, holding his trademark fedora over his heart as he utters a prayer in Spanish.

"Angel! Cómo estás?" I ask, unable to hide my disappointment in myself.

"Oyé," he begins after he finishes praying, claps my back, and leads me up the stairs, "You and I have seen some fucked-up things while working together, right, Dexter?" I nod my affirmative, "This is a cut above all that shit."

I hope that pun was unintended, Angel:

"How so?" I ask, surveying what information the police already have on the killer as Batista leads me towards the stairwell.

"This guy makes the Ice Truck Killer look like a pansy. This guy was fucking butchered. I mean, Miami's got its fuck-ups, but conjo; be reasonable! Who the fuck wants to work at two in the morning on a Friday? Whoever did it dragged me away from my wife to see this shit."

Sorry about that. Sudden-onset brain lesions that rendered my ability to judge whether or not Miami Metro will be on the job past Thursday nights useless are to blame, I'm sure of it.

Batista leads me up the staircase to the second floor, where we happen upon a crowd of Forensic Techs whispering to each other in hushed voices, no doubt about my handiwork. I grit my teeth and pass through them into an even bigger crowd of Unis and Homicide Officers staring at the sight in the middle of it all. Finally, I get through and see Debs, Harry, LaGuerta, and Masuka all working with rather solemn looks on their faces.

I try to appear as impassive as possible, but right now, the only appropriate action I can think of in response to my stupidity is to take out my Beretta and shoot myself in the temple. Raising my eyebrow and curling my upper-lip in what I hope comes off as a 'disgusted' expression, but I'm not totally sure, as I feel arousal more than anything else, I try to look upon the body. All that blood...

I stop in front of my canvas of art, rubbing my forehead, looking at the slit throat, the missing eye, ear, fingers, the cuts all over his chest and arms and legs. Sometimes I scare myself. But it's not fear that my merry compatriots feel, it is absolute, complete, stomach-churning, revulsion; so much revulsion it could induce the vomit-equivalent of an enema. I let out a slight gust of air and let my eyes rove all around the body.

It was fun while it lasted; wasn't it?

"Takes 'butcher' to whole new level, am I right?" I joke weakly; Batista gives me a look and mouths 'What the fuck?', while Debs shoots me a glare and I flash an apologetic look back. Harry just shakes his head and continues to stare at the body, at a loss. Masuka steps over to me and hands me a camera:

"You wanna just keep this camera?" He asks, "You end up taking all the pictures anyways."

I nod dumbly and take the camera from him, unscrew the cap and wait at the ready for the elder Morgan to give me my orders. Debra rocks back and forth on her heels, her chin resting on her hands in a thinker's pose, and, naturally, he jitters makes me nervous as well. For some reason, I can just picture that they're all coming to the realization that dashing, docile Dexter did this. But, of course, I quash these feelings because I know I didn't leave any traces of evidence behind.

"What's up with the pictures?" Batista asks.

LaGuerta sniffs in disdain, "Looks like pictures of people having sex."

"Well," Batista scoffs, apparently affronted by the fact that LaGuerta doesn't think that he could distinguish the act of coitus, "I mean, why are they here?"

"Could be an obsession," I reply, being helpfully unhelpful by steering them away from thinking about a person like me, "Sort of a peeping-Tom deal. Maybe got jealous of the guy who had his girl and chopped him up."

Harry doesn't give me an order, so I start to take blanket pictures of the entire body, taking solace in the task of zooming and focusing the lens to take the perfect picture-to accentuate the slight wounds (fillet knife), the missing appendages (tin snips), the missing ear and eye (scalping knife and a scalpel respectively)-as I try to ignore all that is going on around me.

Why did I do this?

I have never felt an urge to deviate from my Code before, never did not kill a person who wasn't fully, one-hundred percent deserving. And yet, Jaworski, who I now know is-was-a rapist and a murderer... I cut into him like a savage. These cuts, these missing fingers and ears and eyes thrown into a bucket as if they were refuse (I stop to take a picture of the bucket); they are not me. Wholly and simply. I've never felt the need to cause pain. Maybe spread fear, but beyond the cut to the cheek and the knife to the heart, I've never needed to do more than that. So why now, why did I suddenly feel the urge to kill; why did I suddenly want to be like my shadow brother, the Tamiami Slasher? What purpose did it serve, and why was the Passenger so forceful about this one?

Of course, the damn thing doesn't answer. All I can feel are its tired and happy footsteps-scaly and grating-receding towards its throne, where it lets out a contented belch and goes to sleep.

Fantastic. Now I definitely don't know why I did it.

I rub my eyes, thoroughly hating myself right now, before putting the camera back up to my face, taking a picture of the socket that once held Jamie Jaworski's eye; the optic nerve rests at the back end of the eye socket.

The silence is killing me. And making me paranoid.

It's almost as quiet as when I normally cut up the bodies, which is what I'd probably be doing right now if I hadn't been caught by my shadow brother. I sigh again in a rather melancholy manner. Somehow sighing seems to fit quite perfectly with the somber mood of the group around me and it only seems to be intensified as the first tell-tale signs of a Miami storm is coming in.

There is a dripping noise coming from somewhere in the pipes on this floor; I didn't notice it the first time I was here, probably because I was too enamored with the possibility of having Jaworski on my table, but now the sound burns, and with each drip, I can feel my sanity shattering around me.

"Jesus," Debs finally breaks the silence, "Well, we know this isn't the fucking Tamiami Slasher; does that mean we've got another one of these sick fucks?"

You know words can hurt 'sick fucks', too, Debra.

I remain silent. My method is too far removed from my friend's; it would be idiotic to try to convince them otherwise. So, I content to take more pictures with my jaw firmly set as Masuka slides next to me:

"Why so sour, Moser? Interrupted while playing eat the sausage with that Vice girl?" He asks, grinning, which is immediately wiped off his face when I shoot him a murderous glare; Debra and Harry do the same, "Oh. Uh. I guess you really were... I'll just go do my work now."

I nods, "Good," I reply sourly as the Asian man awkwardly ambles off.

The Detectives start putting out ideas that are so off-base that I start to feel slightly better about my chances of surviving this ordeal, but it doesn't change that I must be careful.

I sniff the air, detecting something I had not noticed before.

Jaworski smells. And not like decay, though that may start settling in early, considering that it's a humid Miami night and it's about to start raining. He just smells like death. I perhaps didn't notice it the first time around because the Passenger acted as a noseplug for all that grossness, but now that Dexter has been reduced back to his state as a mere man, he smells and he does not like.

"God, he reeks," I put a hand up to my nose and grimace.

"Nice of you to notice," Debs says sarcastically, and a little too scathingly. I wonder for an instant if I've angered her again somehow, but she continues in a much softer manner, "So, what do you think?"

"It's like you guys are saying," I try to remain as vague as possible, "He was strangled, he was tortured, and the most probable cause of death is the wound to the jugular vein. But, it could've been anything really. Revenge, money, drugs? We can't know for sure until we I.D. this poor bastard."

Debs scoffs, "Well, that wasn't vague at all..."

"Well, what do you expect? The man has half his face cleaved off; I can't work miracles." I say, slightly exasperated, which surprises both Harry and Debra.

"Jesus, Dex; I was just joking."

"Don't," I respond simply, and Debra gives me a questioning look before I turn away from her to Harry, "I got all the pictures I need. I'll just look around for any forensic evidence, alright?" The Lieutenant nods and lets me loose around the second floor. I do a very quick sweep of the second floor, trying to see if I have left anything, but, thankfully, I find nothing. So far, it looks as though I am safe.

But nothing is set in stone. I have to find some way to turn this crime away from prying eyes. I have to establish a motive, a person of interest, or I have to railroad the investigation until it is impossible to get anywhere without stepping on one's own toes.

"Debra," Harry says; Debra looks at him, "This one's yours, Officer Morgan. Under Doakes's supervision, of course."

Debra positively beams as Harry is called away from the crime scene by LaGuerta to talk to someone, perhaps a higher-up who has realized the Homicide Department has been overloaded with cases as of late.

"Dex," Debs catches my attention; her eyes are sparkling, a sure sign of her total commitment to this, "We're gonna catch this fucker. I know we will. You and me. We're gonna bring him in."

Shit.


They I.D. the body as Jamie Jaworski at precisely 9:32 in the morning. Masuka pours over the body like the rain pours over the Miami skyline, as if the corpse of a raping coward will give him some answer, but I was clean this time. I used Garrote instead of M99, so the best that they can tell is that Jaworski was strangled from the ligature marks, but that's about it. They might be able to tell what knives I've used, but nothing too serious. So long as Debra doesn't find something even I've left unaccounted for, I should be safe.

I should be safe.

I play along with them and offer them helpfully unhelpful hints, trying to delay the inevitable process of identifying the M.O. behind the killer. It looks like I will have to do more research on my friend Jamie Jaworski to find a suitable cause as to why he might've been killed.

But, unfortunately, my tenacious best friend is already getting closer and closer, making my fifteen-step lead only five, once she discovers Jaworski was suspected of raping and murdering a girl but got of on a faulty search warrant. It doesn't take long for us to get authorization into searching Jaworski's dilapidated Coconut Grove home, where, we, of course, are forced to encounter that wild, stupid dog again. He spends all his free-time barking at me, which wouldn't normally faze me, considering all animals behave that way around me, but given the circumstances... if they find out that this was a vigilante kill rather than a person who got overzealous with his kitchen knives, this could look a little more than suspicious. Batista just smiles and shakes his head as the dog continues to bark at me at its absolute peak in ferocity, saying something along the lines of 'Man's best friend, am I right, socio?', to which I grin a very faked grin and nod with gusto.

Debra's reaction, on the other hand, does not carry quite as much wit to it:

"Holy fuck, that dog does not like you!"

"I've noticed," I reply.

But it's strange that Debs doesn't notice that all animals hate me, considering there was a four month stretch where I couldn't go to the Morgan household when we were teenagers because Deb had taken in a stray pug that would whimper and pee everywhere if I ever came over. Needless to say, given my attachment to Harry and his daughter, the dog didn't stay long.

I didn't kill him. I swear.

And, just as Jaworski's home was a gold mine to me, the chains, dirt, grime-all part of the BDSM decor that his interior designer no doubt recommended-has all the 'real' cops honed-in on them as well. Doakes tells us to bag anything that could be considered pertinent to the case, at which Debs replies that anything in the house could be pertinent to the case, judging by the hovel Jaworski stuck himself in.

"Explains the stench on the guy," Masuka replies blithely, looking around at what appears to be a pair of nipple clamps, "That's lovely," he says with a grimace, noting that there is apparently something icky and slimy on it.

"Bag it," Doakes says unsympathetically, which, apparently, is hilarious because everyone else begins laughing, so I join in as well.

"Dex, come over here," Debs waves me over to the table, the very table were I had found Jaworski's little hobby. She's following my phantom self's steps from two days ago, almost to a T. Is Debra really this good? Or am I getting soft? "Interesting choice of reading."

She points to a BDSM mag with a Queen of Hearts bookmarking one of the pages. Debs opens it to the bookmarked page which is filled with ads of pictures of women in latex outfits, their breasts, with über-realistically drawn nipples, exposed in what I assume is supposed to be an arousing manner. Vince ambles over to us and nods at the drawing:

"Nice tits," he says, before snapping a picture, "for later."

"I'm going to pretend I didn't hear that," I deadpan; Debs nods in disgust and Vince grins at both of our repulsed reactions.

"I'm starting to think this wasn't just crazed obsession about a guy who got the one that got away."

"You might be right," I reply, snapping a photo of the computer.

"Hey, he circled this ad," Deb points out a large advert for everyone's favorite rape/BDSM/snuff-film site:

"'Scream Bitch, Scream'," I drawl, trying very hard to conceal my disappointment in Debra's competent police work, "I'm sure that's a totally normal site." I don't know how else to convey that sentence except in a manner of complete and total sarcasm.

"Yeah, and Masuka is the Second-fucking-Coming," Debra retorts, before writing down 'Scream Bitch, Scream-Jaworski' on a notepad she brought with her to the crime scene.

Well, the one thing I can take solace in is that once they see what Jaworski was actually capable of, they'll stop feeling so sorry for him.

When I get back to the station, a little bit after everyone else because I say that I am staying for some extra-sweeping of the house-mainly to make sure I didn't leave any trace evidence, but I do feel much better once I get back to the office, an I find Debra and Doakes analyzing the 911 call that got the police down to Coconut Grove in time to find my handiwork. It's funny, because the voice they are analyzing clearly belongs to a heavily-stereotyped, Southern black man, also known as the 'Bubba'. However, my shadow friend was not African-American, from what features I could pick out from last night- long, almost curly hair, kind of like mine before chemotherapy, of course-indicative of what's more likely to be a white male rather than an African-American.

"I see one o'dem dere bodies. Sho' was groosum!" The soft, earthy tones of the what most of white America thinks black people sound like hits my ears as I walk inside the HQ. I blaze right past the growing group listening to this fake bayou-born African-American voice tell the operator about how he was in Eye-rack serving time in Bag-dad, and how he ain't seen nothin' so frightenin' in all his life.

"Hey, hey, hey! Dex!" Debra calls after me, "Where are you going?"

"To work on my case," I deadpan.

"Wait, you aren't gonna work on this case?"

"Nope. Don't care." It's a bad lie, I know, but I really don't need to work on it with you, Debs, as much as I enjoy your company.

"Why not?"

"It ain't my turn to care," I reply in that same Bubba voice that is being vomited out Doakes's computer and try to leave a stunned Debs behind, but, of course, I yet again underestimate her tenacity:

"And why the fuck isn't it your turn to care?" She catches up to me and says this as she grabs me by the left shoulder and flings me around.

"Never was. Not my case." Please, Deb, just let it be; I've got other things to take care of at the moment.

"But it's mine," she says, almost in a hurt manner, "Doesn't that matter?"

I am about to reply when I am cut off by a gruff "Moser!". This turns out to be Harry calling to me from his office, "My office, now."

"We'll talk about this later, Debs," I put my hand on the brunette's shoulder; she makes a point of grasping my outstretched hand and nodding, putting on a sweet smile that makes her look much prettier than than the perpetual frown she usually wears as I head towards the elder man's office.

"Dexter," he says, once we're inside and the door is shut, "The Captain heard about your panic attack at the Ice Truck Crime Scene. He wants you to see a Police Psychologist." Great. A shrink to add to the list of my worries. But I realize it is best for me to comply, so I answer with a few obligatory 'yes'es and find that I am scheduled for a three o'clock meeting with a psychiatrist named Emmett Meridian.

So, by the time three o'clock rolls around, I find myself rolling up to Meridian's small Art-Deco building on a corner street off Brickell, and for a moment, I just stare at the building for no real reason. I wonder why I'm even going. I don't need a therapist, what I need is assurance that I am not found out. But, I eventually go in.

Meridian is a tall man, well-built and in his mid-to-late-forties. His hair is graying, and he sits with the grace and posture one would expect one of these scientists of the mind to.

"So, Dexter, is it?"

"Yeah," I reply.

"Hmm... uncommon name, there."

"I get that quite a lot."

"I'd assume you do," we both chuckle until Meridian gives me a straight, deadpan look, as if he's searching my face for something, "So, what did you come here for?"

"I don't know, it's a requirement to keep working," I reply.

"No, no, not why were you sent here. Why, for what, did you specifically come here?"

"I was hoping you could tell me that."

"Sorry, but the only person who can identify your problems is you," he replies nonchalantly, "so, you have to tell me what you think the problem is."

"Well, I get caught in traffic a lot," Meridian levels a slightly annoyed, slightly amused glare at me. I know I'm supposed to tell him something exceedingly important about my childhood that will lead me to some revelation about my character, but even I don't know that. And I don't feel, so how could I ever come to a revelation? "Well, maybe if you tell me something about yourself, then I'll have something to go off of."

Meridian gives me a long look before he speaks: "Now, you see, I can tell you're not used to being in a submissive position," Guilty as charged, "But yet you pretend to be. I've been told you're a detective with absolutely no aspirations of going further than that; you dress to be completely unassuming. One would easily think, at first glance, that they could walk all over you."

"But?"

"You just turned my question on me as a way of flipping control. If you know something about me, you can construct a lie exaggerate your story to fit more in line with mine."

Astute. I don't like this guy.

"So I ask you again," Meridian crosses his legs and brings his hands together, "why did you come here?"

Silence.

"Okay," Meridian says, leaning forward, "Let's start with you. What happened that had you sent here?"

Okay, that one's easy, "I... had a panic attack at a crime scene. A really big one."

"Why do you think you did?"

I sigh, "It's all a blur, really. I guess I just wasn't used to seeing kids like that."

"Like what?"

"You didn't hear?" I question lightly, "Two boys, eyes and tongues cut out." Meridian grimaces at that as I continue, "Something strange happened. I couldn't breathe and couldn't think. I don't even know if I remembered who I was."

"So, how'd you break out of it?"

"A friend of mine. She calmed me down."

"Who is she?"

"My best friend, Debra," Or, at least, as close as Debs can be to being a monster's best friend, "I've known her since grade school. She and I both got on the Force at the same time, but she was sort of forced into Vice while I got into Homicide."

He nods, and leans forward, folding his hands as he speaks, "Why do you think she was the one that was able to calm you down?"

I shrug, "I haven't really much thought about it."

"Ah." That's it? Ah? I expected more from you, Dr. Meridian, "Let's talk friends. You have any? Aside from Debra, of course."

"Yeah, a few," I reply.

"Girlfriend?"

"Yes."

"Sex life?"

"What sex life?" I joke, "Yeah. I've got one."

"You sound disappointed by that," Meridian says, folding his hands and putting them underneath his chin to make the perfect face of consternation, "Are you?"

"It's personal."

"This is therapy. Everything is personal. We share personal things."

I sigh in a playfully histrionic manner, causing the elder man to smile slightly, "I have a girlfriend. Her name is Eliza. I think we've had sex at least twenty times now, and while she seems to, I don't enjoy it very much."

"You don't?"

"I've never really understood the hype behind it. It doesn't feel that great."

"It doesn't feel that great," the psychiatrist begins with a knowing grin, "or you just don't want to give up that control to another person?"

I smile. Guilty as charged again. And I still don't like this guy.


Control. Meridian talked about it a lot, and I know he's right. I find it a little sad that I'm so easy to read, but thankfully, I hide what I can't have anyone else read quite easily; it's a learned skill, and one that'll help me go far. I appear to be open and honest, but I'm really a lying little scamp. Wonderful. But when I got into my car, I couldn't help but feel slightly like I was being followed. I checked around and saw no cars that appeared to be honed in on me, but the Passenger bids me be watchful. And when the Passenger is in a state of alert, so am I. The only cars that seemed to go the same way as I did was a black BMW M3 and a white Toyota Avalon. But both pass by without a care as I exited off the Palmetto Expressway.

It's probably paranoia.

And Masuka is jumping around me like a happy puppy, and somehow, I don't think this bodes well for me. Naturally, that doesn't help my paranoia level. I look through the file he's slammed down on my desk. I was even cleaner than I expected; there are no drugs, no hairs, no fibers from anything I wore... so then why does it look like Masuka's just been asked to marry the Prince of England?

"What are you so happy about, there's nothing here." I deadpan.

"No, nothing here," Masuka grins, "But you know that friend of yours in Narcotics?"

"Quinn?"

"Morgan somehow got in contact with him and found out that place was a drug rat hideout," my heart sinks at that.

"That means-" I trail off, feeling the noose tightening around me.

"-tapped with fiber optics, Grasshopper!" I resist the urge to stab the Forensic Scientist in the gut with the box cutter in my pocket. "You give me a ride there and you can see what sickfuck did this, too."

Debra, you are not making this easy for me!

Now, I don't claim to believe in a higher power, but it's entirely possible that some intelligent being upstairs either really hates me or is completely and entirely bored with the rest of humanity. I couldn't even begin to understand why he'd be so bored as to mess with me, the most unimportant man in the world, as he's got AIDS, world hunger, and two wars to take care of, but I suppose I am an evil on less of a grand scale, and he wants to go easy to hard in his quest to end all strife in the world. And naturally, I don't claim to believe in a benevolent God, but I am beginning to believe in a malevolent one, as I am quite sure that the only god that could force me to endure a forty-five minute drive through lunchtime Miami traffic with Vince Masuka is of the devil's brood himself.

But, thankfully, the never-ending slew of perverted jokes and comments about Debs's rear come to an end without me committing ritual suicide. But, that only lets the fear that I may be committing ritual suicide by going into the place that holds my secret. I should be packing my boat, I should be getting rid of all my slides and tools and bolting away from Miami, maybe to another coastal town and catch a boat out of the country, but I have to know. I have to know for sure. Besides, there's no sense in running. It would only delay the inevitable.

I walk straight into a gaggle of grim-faced Unis. You would think these people would be happier to have 78-degree weather and all this sunshine, but stoic and slightly angry they remain.

This is the price of idiocy; the price of being reckless and resting on the laurels of the Dark Passenger. I didn't stake out this building, I didn't know that it was fitted with fiber-optic cameras, and had I done my research, had I followed the Code, this situation would never have come up. But, I sought after vainglorious pursuits and decided to kill on a whim, something so far outside Justice, something so far outside my Code.

Something... spontaneous? Something I didn't have control over. Something... human?

Ha, funny way to realize that.

But, I have trapped myself in a corner, and there is no choice but to walk into the maw. After all, if anyone deserves to arrest me, it is Debs; not Batista, or LaGuerta, and certainly not Doakes!

Once we reach the third floor, I walk to my perceived 'best friend', who is doing her absolute best to get stuck onto the 'no doughnuts' list. She looks up, surprised:

"What, I thought 'it ain't your turn to care'?" She asks, sliding close.

I shrug, "You'd be surprised when it suddenly becomes my turn. You're about to catch your first criminal ever," I say, pointing to the computers that are being set up by Forensics to view the what's been recorded on the cameras, "How could I resist?"

"You came to see that? You know, this might lead to nothing, right?" She asks, still surprised.

Well, not exactly. I came because you're going to arrest me in a few minutes. But, that will come when it comes. And if I have made so many mistakes two nights ago, I may as well have made the mistake of being caught by the camera as well. So it will probably lead to something, just not the 'something' you're expecting.

"Of course I did, when it comes to you or Harry, or my family, it's always my turn." I poke the bridge of her nose playfully and suddenly have the overwhelming urge to be close to her as this may be the last time she ever sees me as Dexter rather than 'That Monster'. And so I move closer and wrap an arm around her shoulder and tell Debra that I'm proud of her and how she's been working on the case, at which she absolutely beams.

"You know, Dex," she says at length, "I think I can almost sympathize with the guy who did this."

"You can?"

"It's fucking weird, I know, but after you left for the Shrink yesterday, I found something on that BDSM website that Jaworski had marked down." I nod, "And it was a rape film site. Mixed in with a few snuff films as well. And Jaworski was in one of them."

"How do you know?"

"That fucking hideous tattoo of his."

"Ah," I nod.

"And someone else knew as well."

"Knew?" I ask, "knew how?"

"Remember those pictures Batista and LaGuerta were talking about?"

"Yeah?"

Deb sniffs lightly, "He raped and killed two women that I know of. Those pictures weren't put there because the guy was obsessed, or because he wanted the girl. This could only be one of two things: a loved one who wanted revenge, or a vigilante. One that has some sort of twisted set of principles."

I swallow, and it feels like I gulped an extremely large, frozen meatball.

"What do you think it is?"

"We said all the girls were tourists, so it might've been a family member in Miami, but the two girls we tried to charge him for didn't have family anywhere nearby Southern Florida. One family was from Minneapolis, the other from Oklahoma City. And as far as I can tell, they haven't made any trips down here since the they I.D'd the bodies."

"So you think it was a-"

"-Vigilante. Yeah. He's fucking brutal, yeah, that's for sure, and he's a killer, so we have to hunt him regardless... but, we couldn't get to him, and the fucked-up motivations aside, the guy did the right thing."

"Which was?"

"I don't know, create some justice? I know that it was a fucking shitbag of a way to do it, and I'd never agree with butchering people like this-we're cops, we don't get to choose who lives and dies-but, I watched that video, and something in me feels better that this fuck is down."

"Well, no matter what you do," I reply, "If you're messing with the law, one day, you're going to get your just desserts."

"Yeah. By us or by them, everyone gets got. The question is, who does a better job at it? Us, or him?"

I smile and pull her closer. Maybe she won't totally hate me once she finds out, but that might be wishing too much.

"Morgan!" Doakes calls, "We're ready!"

Well, judgment day. I've always been ready for this moment to come, but I usually thought that I'd feel something more than this. I don't feel much of anything, actually. Just a sort of contentedness. I know that somewhere behind all that is the Dark Passenger, screaming wildly for me to go running, but I just haven't got the willpower to do so when Debra is so close to finding out everything.

And she agrees!

How bizarre is that?

We move over to an area where a set of computers are running through the fiber-optic camera's memory. Masuka grimaces, punching a few things into a keyboard, before Debra asks what's wrong.

"Looks like the first and second floor cameras were damaged," He replies; is my luck suddenly looking up? "Either the drug rats or the rain got to them-this place is pretty badly exposed to the elements-, I don't know, we'll have to take a look at them, but that also means that our guy isn't likely to be on camera. I'll run the third and fourth floor just in case."

And the malevolent god is suddenly becoming benevolent. The fiber-optics don't work on the second floor! And I never stepped foot into the third, I just hid in the stairwell. Maybe I won't have to go to jail, maybe Debra won't have to learn who I am. Maybe neither she nor Harry will have to drag me in to the Department, tag me, and throw me away into a cell to be forgotten.

Maybe.

And the third floor tapes yield nothing but Jaworski ambling towards the stairs and never coming back up. Of course, they hear Jaworski's screams, but our conversation, or at least, the part the Passenger and I took in it, was quiet, unrushed, controlled. And thus, thankfully, the dulcet tones of the Passenger and I did not reach the camera on the third floor.

And, just like that, I am not walking the plank, standing at the gallows, stomping into the maw, charging into the valley of death; I am standing there, completely innocent, with nothing to tie me to the case anymore. I am at a loss, all the lies surrounding me, the ones I had come so dangerously close to letting go of come back, raising up the wall of half-truths and mostly-lies, so that for anyone else who can see, I'm alive inside. Debra looks at me and sighs, shrugging her shoulders:

"Well, it was worth a shot," she says, defeated.

I try to reassure her, "Hey, it doesn't matter, Debs. Whether it's by us or them, everyone gets got, right?"

The brunette smiles, "Come on, asshole. I'm hungry."

We take a quick lunch at a small Cuban restaurant, both of us get a medianoche sandwich, which I happen to love, and I take her back to the station, one hand on the wheel, the other on the crispy sandwich as we shoot down Biscayne Boulevard.

"So, it's going to be impossible to catch this guy, isn't it?" Debra asks, rubbing her forehead.

"I don't know," I say, "He could be on the next block; he could be halfway around the world by now."

"LaGuerta and her boys will be laughing it up now, I'm sure," the brunette practically spits, "Can't even solve this case."

"Debs," I reply, "You did everything you could, you couldn't do any better if you'd gotten Sherlock Holmes in on the case. You did good. It's just that our killer was careful. He didn't make any mistakes."

Knock on wood.

"You really think so?"

"Of course," I reassure the brunette, who just laughs in that half-scoff, half-giggle way of hers when she's nervous and slumps lower in her seat to catch some sleep.


"You're looking considerably less bleak today, Dexter," Meridian says whilst wearing a big, fat, fake smile. I don't know why, but there's something about him that rubs the Passenger the wrong way. Probably because he's trying to invade that holiest of holies, the absolute most sacrosanct part of myself that no one else belongs in: my inner world, the Castle of the Great Dark Dexter-my mind.

"I'm feeling considerably less bleak today," I reply nonchalantly. That's not entirely true, considering I had enough radioactive drugs jammed up my veins to kill a small horse. It leaves me feeling ill in the stomach and looking slightly pale in the face, but one can't sweat the small stuff, can he?

"But still not happy." I would normally assume he is phrasing this as a question, but his tone of voice does not seem to match the question. "You just feel less poorly. Let's talk about that. What makes you happy, Dex?"

I stop to think for a moment, and remember snipping off Jaworski's fingers, "Working with my hands," I reply.

"Detective work was a good field to go into, then. Lot of hands-on work there, right?"

I nod blankly and fake a smile, the 'joking Dex' facial expression, "Right."

"Do you do a lot of hands-on work outside of being a detective?"

"Oh, all the time."

"What do you do to, you know, relax, take stress off?"

I pause again, thinking about watching the fluids of my latest tablemate's inner-eye leak out onto his chest and into some of his wounds: "I hunt a lot. Pheasants."

"What about people? Who makes you happy?"

"I spend a lot of time with my brother, Brian. And Debra."

"Not your girlfriend?"

"I guess not."

"Your brother and a childhood friend."

"Yes."

"So," he begins, gesturing wildly, "you'd say that they're the people who are closest to you?"

I shrug, "I guess so."

"And how well do you think they know you?"

Well. That's a tough question. Obviously both don't know me very well at all. Both probably wouldn't enjoy me as much as they do if they knew who I really was. Debra may have said that she understands the killer's motives, but she certainly wouldn't take it well if she found out I were the killer after all. And Brian might have an even poorer reaction. Cancer as an excuse might work for him, but not for long, and Debs would never allow that to stand because that's who she is; just, big-hearted, kind... nothing like me.

"Not that well, I guess."

"Because?"

"I don't like to talk about myself."

"Why not?"

"I don't want to be a burden," I smile inwardly at my quick lie.

"Don't want to be a burden, or don't want to open up to someone else because you lose the control then?"

Why, man, he doth bestride the world like a colossus! He's good, far better than the psychological hacks I've seen through my college studies as well as my time outside the country. And he raises a good point. I keep control to keep my world from collapsing. I saw what happened when I lost control of myself and how sheer luck had saved me. Unfortunately, I might be more open to letting go of the control had I not been given this keen insight that my days are numbered. Whether it's me or them, everyone gets got, as Debs said.

"I have a problem," I shrug, smiling. "I can't open up."

"Why not? Is there a reason that you can't have a close, intimate relationship with your brother or your friend? Because it's harmed your family life, your friendships, and your relationship with your girlfriend."

"No." I say, "None that I can remember." Well, that's not entirely true, but the good doctor doesn't need to know that.

"Okay," he says, rubbing his hands together, "we're going to try a deep relaxation technique. Maybe if you can just let go of that control for a few minutes here, with time it'll become easier to do so with everyone in your life."

Now, I usually think these meditation techniques are the byproduct of psychological psuedoscience, rather than the study of observable behavior, but my parents raised me to be a rational, open-minded young man, so I'm willing to try it once. In any case, I don't particularly think I have much of a choice; whether or not I want to give up the control, which I don't, I have to do this so Dim Dexter can maintain the appearance of being normal.

Meridian gets up and shuts off the lights, before telling me to close my eyes and breathe deeply, in and out.

"Think of a time when you didn't have control. Think of a time when you were absolutely helpless."

I close my eyes, thinking about how stupid all of this is and that I could be having a sandwich right now. And then I am climbing up on a ladder. I've been climbing up this ladder all my life, and I wonder if I've just been wasting my time. And as I climb another rung, scenes flash through my mind; Harry telling me to never lose control, a Slavic Man in the Siberian wilds telling me to hide, to manage every facet of myself so that no one will ever suspect.

"Dexter, I'm your friend," Debra says, standing over me in her hooker outfit, which she seems to suddenly fill out quite attractively, "Why couldn't you tell me what you are?"

I couldn't tell you. I can't tell anyone. I try to move around but find myself chained to the table I rest upon.

"Are you even human?" She asks, leaning down towards me, lips brushing against mine.

"No," comes the pubescent voice of Jeremy Downs, "You're like me. You're just-" a shadow of a man, of two men, form around him, "-fucked up."

Daddy?

"Don't look this way, son!"

Daddy?

"You are my son, and you are loved."

Daddy?

"Don't ever lose control, son; you lose it, and you lose everything."

Daddy, don't leave me! Voices... bombard me from all around, and I feel the sensation of discomfort, of wetness. And I look down at my small, misshapen hands, too small for a thirty year-old man; they are covered in red. Sticky, hot, gooey, red blood! Blood, blood, so much blood.

Bodysnatchers! Bodysnatchers! Killers, thieves, addicts! Everywhere! They're everywhere!

And the world constricts and those two boys that lost their tongues and eyes come rushing back to me, their yodels and cries of utter anguish return full-force. There's so much blood around me. I look up and see... something. I try to scream, but nothing comes out. I need to get out, I feel myself slipping, losing control.

I can't lose control. Not now. Not ever.

"I have... I've got to go," I splutter out quickly; feeling terribly, terribly ill as I rush to the door:

"Dexter!" Meridian calls out, but I ignore him and practically run out of the office and to my car, only the faint sounds of 'Dexter' and 'Daddy' still ringing in my ears.

What the fuck happened back there?

But I don't have enough time to even think as I someone rings me up the very second I turn on the car. It's Brian's number, so I can rest assured that the Homicide Department didn't find yet another scrap that could incriminate me in Jamie Jaworski's murder; I answer:

"Hey, Brian," I speak, calming myself down from whatever happened inside Meridian's office.

"Dexter?" An uncertain, soft female voice comes from the other line. I sit up a little straighter once I recognize it's Rita, rather than my brother:

"Rita? What's up?" I shift the gear lever into 'Drive' and stop at the stoplight that would turn me onto Brickell.

"Dexter, could you please come over? Brian and I need you here,"

"Wait; what's wrong?" I ask, feeling a little alarmed at the blonde's hushed and urgent tone of voice.

"It's my ex-husband, he got out of jail because of overcrowding. Can you please come over?"

I nod quickly, even though Rita can't see me, "Yeah, sure. I'll be there in thirty minutes. You want me to get Debs?"

"Can she come?" Rita asks hopefully.

"I'm not entirely sure, but I think she'll be more than willing to come down with me if Paul's involved."

"Thank you, Dex," she says gratefully, "bye."

"See you soon," I say before dialing Debs's number. It rings once and then Deb answers:

"Dex? What's up?" She says, almost breathlessly.

"You sound tired," I quip amiably.

"I was just running," she replies, sounding defensive.

It seems like a good excuse, but I don't particularly care, "Are you up for a ride down to Coconut Grove?"

"Why?"

"Rita's ex is out of the can," I respond, taking a left onto Brickell and towards Debra's apartment in Bal Harbour, "Overcrowding. I assume he's harassing her and my brother, so I figure maybe the cop who did a number on him the first time can get him to leave."

"How soon can you be here?" Debs asks, her previously breathless tone replaced by that of a hardened Police Officer's.

"Ten minutes if I speed."

"Well, I wouldn't want you to get hurt..." the brunette scoffs.

"Noted," I say, before punching the gas and cutting our call short.

It is only then I allow myself to linger upon the thought of what happened in Meridian's office. It's hard to describe, but yet again, I believe it was another panic attack. Leave aside the way I feel from the constant stream of chemotherapy over the past few days and how this investigation has done nothing to soothe my nerves, the constant panic attacks are not helping. My throat feels raw, I feel like I have to throw up, and my head feels like a balloon filled with far too much air. Talking to Rita and Debs did something the stave off the maladies, but they've returned full force now that all I've got to enjoy is the silence. My stomach gives a little turn, no doubt from the chemotherapy session last night having finally taken its effect. I grunt and grimace, but of course, that would do nothing to settle my ailing abdomen.

A few more minutes of high-speeds, idiotic drivers, and a great churning stomach, and I find myself outside of Debs's building feeling admirably unsettled. I step out of my car long enough to feel bile rise up to my mouth, and immediately bend over to a grassy patch to relieve myself of the non-existent lunch I had this afternoon. It's yellow, with a bit of blood red of blood mixed in, and the general humor of it is very pukesque.

Yes, that's a word I invented just now.

I remain bent over and staring in mild horror at the contents of my stomach when I hear Debs's voice off to the side:

"Dexter! Are you alright?" She calls from a little ways away.

She must not have seen everything, but one can't assume too much, can they?

"I'm fine," I say, pushing her away as she tries to grasp me by the shoulders, "It's the drugs. It happens some times." Debra ignores my pushes and grabs me by the wrists to help me up, looking upon the vomit with a mixture of revulsion and pity. I hate pity.

"Jesus," she starts softly, transfixed by the expulsion of unwanted bodily fluids and food, before she turns back to me, "Why is this happening to you?"

"Karma," I respond in a playfully despondent manner.

Deb looks into my eyes, and I can see a soulfulness in hers that swells upwards, waiting to be unleashed upon the world. But what does she see in mine? There can't be anything in these mocking greens of mine. Nothing at all. Just noise, likely.

She smells nice.

"Come on," she says at length, "we need to get to The Grove."

I nod and move to the car; Debra asks me if I think I am okay to drive, to which I respond in the affirmative. We hurry to the other side of the city to where Rita's home is, managing to make it there in twenty minutes by breaking every conceivable traffic law I can. Debs adjusts her gun and badge as we both move quickly, our strides purposeful and in unison, to the front door.

I knock, and in a moment, Brian opens the door, looking rather peeved; thankfully, his face re-contorts from an expression of utter loathing to at least some form of happiness as he sees me standing there:

"Dexter, Debra," he greets jovially, albeit 'jovial' in a strained manner, "I think you'll need to come in."

The first thing we hear upon coming inside is a masculine voice shouting: 'They're my kids, too!'. Since, of course, I do not recognize that voice, it must be that of Paul's. It is confirmed when I see Rita seated at one end of the table, her expression midway between terrified and wrathful, and a shaggy blond mop of hair at the other end. This tuft of hair is Paul Bennett, Rita's ex-husband and serial rapist and abuser of his ex-wife. Sounds absurd, yes, but once again, it happens. Said rapist turns around, revealing a rather normal-looking face. Placid eyes, a set jaw, Roman nose and thin lips.

But, normal-looking doesn't always mean normal. Take it from Exhibit A.

"And you are?" He asks with what I must say is an inordinate amount of hate being directed at a person he's only met once in his entire life, and that one time is exactly three seconds ago.

I shrug, "No one," I reply, "Cable's out next door, I decided this was a pretty decent substitute-good, clean fun for the whole family."

"Oh, you think you're real funny, don't you?"

"People tell me so," I reply, "I don't like to think they lie about it. In any case, you might not remember me, as I couldn't give less of a crap about you, but you probably do remember my partner over here." I point at Debs, who, to this point, has been standing idly by Brian, acting as the perfect statue-the right amount of menace and beauty. Paul actually recoils at the site of the brunette:

"You," he mutters angrily.

"Yeah," Debs says, her eyes flashing and her voice develops a distinct hard-edged tinge to it, "Me."

"So, you're police," Paul states at me through gritted teeth.

"I suppose I am," I reply.

His eyes flash a little on their own, "Are you going to arrest me? Because I haven't done anything wrong. I'm clean, I'm sober-"

"Does it look like I care?" I ask in a disinterested manner and let a little bit of the Passenger to seep into my voice to add an icy-controlled spin on my tone, "I'm not interested in domestic disturbances, or your little junkie trips, I'm murder police." I deconstruct 'homicide' into it's basic elements to keep from confusing the poor crack-addict. And let's face it, no matter how hard this abuser thinks he is, a junkie cannot compete with someone like me.

"Then why are you here?" The Passenger inwardly smirks at the slight discomfort that radiates off the blond man.

"Well, because the nice man you've been chatting to is my brother."

"Aw, this is a real fair fight Rita; I just want my kids!" Paul says, unambiguously angry by this point.

Rita shakes her head and, at Brian's looks of encouragement, says in a more insistent voice, "I told you, Paul; I will give you supervised weekend visits, nothing more, nothing less. If you can show you can handle them, then maybe, maybe, I'll consider giving you more time with them."

"Sounds like a good deal, Paul," Debs says, clearly mocking the man, "I'd take it if I were you."

"I am in agreement." I affirm.

Paul looks slightly angry, but calms himself down enough to answer, "Okay, Rita, weekend visits with supervision. I'll prove to you that I can raise these kids, too. You don't need the police to supervise everything."

"But it does help," I quip affably, at which Paul shoots me a murderous glare, "I've got a friend who is a lawyer, I can have him set something up with you guys in a few days. Does that sound alright."

"It sounds great, Dexter," Rita says, nodding.

"Dexter?" Paul questions, grinning slightly, but immediately sobers and nods in the same manner his ex-wife just did, "Okay. That sounds fine."

"Perfect," I reply, clapping my hands together and heading towards the den as Paul blazes out the door, spending one long moment at the door to send a smoldering glare at Debs before he finally leaves. I came here, may as well spend some time with my dear brother and his significant other once Paul has left, "Do you get HBO here?"

"Yeah," Brian says, "The kids are out, but just keep the volume low."


Later on, Debra and I return to my apartment for a late dinner. She claims she just wants to see a movie, but I think she's concerned for my welfare after my projectile vomiting all over the lawn outside her building. It's unfortunate, because I need some way to grasp my world, because I need that control. This would've been the perfect night to do some research, or perhaps start to clean off the bodies of those little boys outside Mike Donovan's cabin in Opa Locka, but, Dexter with Cancer is a high-maintenance man, and must be regularly checked by Debra, or so she seems to think.

But, it clearly seems she's not in the right state either; Debra appears to have had a few too many beers at Rita's, so I guess, at best, we're both looking after the other's welfare. She sits and stares at the TV Screen for a while as I prepare a late-night dinner for two.

Something about cooking, especially cooking meat, has always been therapeutic for me. The way it gets cut and the trimming and the searing and the eating; it's very, very calming, like ordering blood in free time. Or sticking a Bowie knife through someone's chest. I could say that it's because I am an already-dangerous sociopath with a disturbing fetish, but I am more inclined to believe that some part of me is also a cannibal, however.

Just kidding. Seriously.

Cooking does help bring some order back into my lately rather order-less world, which I take as a blessing. So I prepare some skirt steak I bought yesterday for both Debs and I.

"Do you need help?" The brunette questions, suddenly materializing before me.

"Not really, but you're welcome to watch."

So, that's exactly what she does, after turning on the radio, of course. I believe that it is a Curtis Mayfield song that is playing. You know, the really famous one? The one I always forget the name of... Oh, right, Move on Up is the name of it.

"Jesus, Dex," Debs whines, opening up the fridge, "Why do you never keep any beer around?"

I point the knife I had been using to relieve the meat of its undesirable parts at her in a playful manner, "Don't you think you've had enough?"

The brunette moves from the fridge to the countertop and pouts slightly, "No," she says, crossing her arms.

"Well, I hate the taste, so I don't keep any around," I reply, "I keep Gin for special occasions, but I think you're too smashed already."

She's already raiding my cupboards. For a moment, a spring of concern wells up within me; Debra rarely binge drinks, but she's looking to get thoroughly drunk tonight, it seems. The only time she drinks a lot is when something bad happens at work, as I've noticed she has no social life with the notable exception of me. I can understand why she'd drink, being best friends with a serial killer, whether you know it or not, is a pretty depressing life.

I flip the steaks and feel something scaly uncoil in the nether reaches of Castle Dexter as I watch her shuffle from cupboard-to-cupboard looking for a glass to drink from. It chuckles at the girl and gives me a little wink-and-nudge.

What is he doing? Does the Passenger want me to kill her?

Well, obviously, that won't happen. For one thing, it would be terribly messy to kill a drunk woman. Not to mention a spontaneous kill is what's gotten me into this mess and it would be a terrible waste of a perfectly good Debra to stab her in the back right now.

But the Passenger seems to shake his head and give me another wink-nudge.

"You're drinking more than usual. What happened?" I ask, setting the now-cooked meat aside on a plate to rest for a few minutes and wipe my fingers with a towel. Debra walks over to my living room and plops herself on the couch, taking a swig of the gin she prepared for herself:

"I was reassigned."

"From the Jaworski Case?" I ask, sitting next to her.

"Yeah," she says, "Back to the Tamiami Slasher because LaGuerta thinks she can do it better."

"Well, she's the Sergeant. You're a rookie when it comes to Homicide; don't worry, it's a dead case anyways. They'll never find out who did it; this guy was too clean. Too neat."

"But, that's the thing," Debs says angrily, "She's got a suspect."

She does?

"She does?" I echo my thoughts.

"Turns out the second floor fiber-optic camera was working, someone had just covered it over with a piece of paper. A fucking piece of paper. A piece of paper with a red smiley face on it."

"Okay, so?"

"Right, you're not on the Tamiami Slasher case," Debs says, "He left us a note that said the same thing at the American Airlines Arena, we found it after you left. Same color, same paper, same marker... same person. And he's fucking mocking us! A piece of fucking paper and the sound was such terrible quality that we couldn't even make out anything but Jaworski's screaming!"

I put a hand on her shoulder, trying to console the Officer, "But the method of cutting, the exsanguination, everything is different."

"But similar enough, Dad says," Debra replies despondently, "No matter how much I tried to tell him that this guy had a different reason for killing the bastard, we were stuck in front of the Captain, who has no patience for it. They wouldn't fucking budge."

Unbelievable. He was playing me the whole time, leading me through hoops, making me fear for my safety, when all along, there he was, stalking Jaworski just the same as I was. How did he know? And how do I keep him from knowing the next one?

"I'm sorry," I say. She places the beer down and leans into my shoulder. She seems to shiver a bit, so I take a blanket at the other end of the couch, unfold it, and cover her up.

"Thank you," the brunette says, "For everything."

I pat her cheek in a playful manner, "What are friends for?"

But she holds my wrist and my hand seems to act of its own accord, and stay rooted to her cheek, petting the pretty girl slightly. She spreads the hand that had been holding my wrist outwards and holds my hand, leaning into it.

She's drunk.

But it doesn't stop Debs from looking at me with those soulful green eyes of hers, like mine, but truly alive. She smiles slightly, half with drunken innocence of a woman who is completely smashed, half with the devious confidence of a completely sober woman.

And then, we kiss.

Which is an admirably stupid thing to do when I look at it logically. Debs will one day be investigating me, and what then? What happens when she finds out what I really am? I could care less what people like Masuka or LaGuerta, or Doakes, or even Angel think about me after that, but what about Harry and his daughter?

"You're drunk," I say afterwards, trying to backpedal out of the situation.

She snorts and looks at me in the eyes again, "So?" The brunette asks, and it's a pretty good question.

"I have a girlfriend."

"Who you clearly don't like very much."

"Cancer."

"It isn't terminal."

Damn it. Her grin spreads widely as Debs pushes me down onto the couch and kisses me again. Here I have two choices: the logical and the illogical. Logically, I would run, or make a lame excuse, or throw Debra off me; it's better to have her hate me for a little while than to see her face when they lead me to a cell. Illogically, I would continue with this insane course of action, and throw every warning to the wind, and, for lack of a better term, fuck the one person I can't. My father wouldn't approve if he were alive and knew, Brian wouldn't approve, Harry certainly wouldn't approve, hell, even I wouldn't approve. Control or no control? Meridian's message of Stoicism is leaving me with two choices: Do I snatch my body from underneath the fire and forsake Debra to keep her from being hurt, or do I snatch hers up in my embrace? This is a little conundrum, and it doesn't help that I only have a limited time to figure out the answer as my best friend-turned-charming rapist's tongue trails lower, lower.

And the Passenger cackles, and my decision is made: we do the illogical; we do that which we have no control over; I snatch her body, not mine, from the fire, and we just do.

And right there on the couch, too!


Notes: First part of a two-part chapter. Next chapter deals with Doakes and Dexter's game taking a little bit of a raise due to extenuating circumstances, Dexter trying to find a way to break up with Eliza, as well as some more mandatory psychiatrist meetings and such. Dexter and the Tamiami Slasher play their own little high-stakes game as well.

In any case, thanks for reading, and be sure to leave a review.

Geist.