Chapter 7
Debra
I paused in front of Dex's door, gathering my thoughts. I didn't have to do this. There was still time to turn around. I could come up with some excuse for missing dinner, even though I'd been the one to push for the invitation. But no, much as it killed me to admit it, I needed his help. The trail was growing colder by the hour, each moment putting the Butcher further beyond my reach. It was time to swallow my pride and go to my brother.
Well, some of my pride, anyway. I'd decided beforehand what I would and would not say, and I was determined to stick to that plan. I'd folded too often under pressure. I would tell him I'd been looking into the Butcher case again because I thought Doakes was innocent, but not that I'd been working with LaGuerta on this. I also wouldn't tell him directly that I knew he was also working on the case; I wanted to see how long it would take him to trust me and volunteer the information once I showed an interest in the Butcher. Running over these resolutions one more time in my head, I took a deep breath and knocked sharply on the door.
It opened a moment later to reveal Dex's smiling face.
"Hey, Deb. The steaks are about ten minutes away from done." He waved me in, and I took up my usual spot leaning against the counter, setting the six-pack in front of me. It was unlikely that Dex would let his guard be lowered at all by alcohol, but it was worth a shot.
"They smell great. And, hey, thanks for the invite—I feel like it's been a long time since we've really talked." He nodded, making a non-committal noise as he prodded the sizzling slabs of meat.
"So what's this case you want to talk about that we can't discuss at work?"
"Uh, that can wait until we're eating." Chicken, I thought to myself. "So what else is up with you besides blood and case files?
He stared blankly at the steaks for a moment. "I took Rita and the kids out on the boat last weekend. Angel and I went out for some drinks after work two nights ago." He glanced at me as he made unnecessary adjustments to a pot of some kind of boiling vegetables, clearly checking to see if these
brief facts would placate me. All my personal conversations with him usually went like this—no give and take, just him throwing out verbal scraps until I gave up trying to pry him open. I remained silent, opening one of the beers and continuing to look at him expectantly. Come on, surely investigating the Bay Harbor Butcher case was filling up his evenings, too. It would be so much easier if he would say something before I did.
"I don't know, Deb. Just the usual stuff. What about you? Anything new on the… dating front?" He must have been reluctant to talk about his own activities if he was trying that angle—my sex life was usually the last thing he wanted to hear about.
"No, not really. I'm taking some time for myself."
"That's probably a good idea."
"What, you're saying I used to be a complete slut?" I said, teasingly, and rolled my eyes when he looked alarmed. "Relax, Dex, I'm joking. Since you're so interested, I'll call you the moment I pick up some hot guy in the gym again and give you all the details, ok?"
He shook his head, smiling wryly. Did I really have to ruin this evening by bringing up the Bay Harbor Butcher? Yes—I would stick to my plan. No letting myself worm out of it.
Still, I retreated into small talk and banter for most of the evening, trying to figure out how to approach the subject. When our plates were nearly clear and there was no more putting it off if I wanted to talk about the case tonight, I decided I would just have to go with the direct approach. I'd always been best at that, anyway.
"So, that case I wanted to discuss with you… it's the Bay Harbor Butcher case." Had it been my imagination, or had he hesitated slightly before spearing the last piece of meat on his plate?
"What about it?"
"Well, LaGuerta's still pretty broken up about the whole Doakes being the Bay Harbor Butcher thing." That was as close as I would get to the truth about LaGuerta's role in all this.
"Makes sense. You guys have been spending a lot of time together, right?" I hadn't mentioned that to him. Nice to know he wasn't completely oblivious to my life.
"Yeah, she needs someone to talk to, you know? And there aren't a lot of people besides the two of us dumb enough to have spent lots of one-on-one time with someone who was apparently a serial killer," I said, with a self-deprecating laugh. The words stung more than they would have two months ago, since it looked like I was once again the only one in that category. "But all that got me thinking about some of the details of the case."
Dex glanced at me sharply while he gathered the plates, but didn't say anything in response.
"I mean, some of it seems strange, doesn't it?"
"Not really." His back was to me as he washed our dishes. My brother the neat freak. "The trophies were in his car, they found his prints all over a set of knives, and he was found with the body of the last victim. When you combine that with all the incidents he had on the job with pulling his gun too early and using unnecessary force, I'd say it's pretty much case closed." His words were punctuated by the sound of his cabinets snapping shut as he put the dishes away.
"But that's just it, it all fits too neatly."
"Evidence always fits neatly, unless you're missing some piece of the puzzle." He was leaning against the counter, and didn't seem inclined to close the distance between us. "I don't think we were with Doakes. I know it's hard to accept, but—"
"It's more than just hard to accept. I mean, Doakes could be a hard-ass, but a serial killer? You knew him, too. Do you really think we all could have worked side-by-side with him for years without having any idea?"
"Yes." I wasn't sure how to respond to such a blatant statement. Why was he so calmly calling Doakes the Butcher when I knew he was still investigating the case? What could make him do that but a desire
to keep me from figuring out what he was doing and trying to get involved? I felt a stab of anger. Did my own brother really think so little of my investigative abilities that he would lie to my face?
Forcing myself to calm down, I decided to try a new tactic. Dex had always been so good at getting into the minds of killers; maybe if I could move this quickly derailing conversation in that direction and get him thinking along those lines I could get some insights, even if it meant pretending we were talking about Doakes. It felt awful to discuss Doakes as though he had really been guilty, but my brother seemed to be managing this little charade without a problem. I would too.
"Ok, fine. You're probably right. Doakes was the Butcher." He relaxed a hair. "It's weird to think about, isn't it? Working with him on all of those crime scenes? Even on his own victims. That must have been pretty fucking weird for him, too." It was easier than I'd thought it would be; we still knew the Butcher was one of our own, so all this still applied. My new approach also seemed to have thrown Dex off a little. Good.
"I'm sure it was." He drifted over again and sat down in the chair across from me.
"I mean, imagine working every day with the people hunting you down," I continued, warming to my subject. "Probably attempting to steer the direction of the investigation away from you, even tampering with evidence to throw us off the track. No wonder he was on edge all the time."
"Must have been hard." Maybe I was finally getting something genuine out of him—that had sounded almost sincere.
"A fucking lonely way to live."
"Serial killers don't get lonely, Deb. Part of the definition of being a sociopath."
"Stressful, then."
"I guess."
"So… how do you think he dealt with that?"
"Apparently by producing garbage bags full of body parts." I winced. "I'm sorry, Deb, but I'm not sure what you want me to say. I can't get into Doakes's mind."
"Why not? That's what you always do."
"I just can't on this one." He hesitated, his face unreadable. "It's like you said… weird to think about. I think it's best if we stop brooding on it and move on with our lives and work."
He meant I should move on with my life and not bother him while he did his work, I thought, bitterly. I tried one last ditch effort.
"I still think it doesn't fit. I can't imagine Doakes offing himself, that's another thing that bothers me about all this. He never just gave up like that."
"He never liked to give up control, either."
"But don't you ever think that—"
"No, Deb, I don't. Why are you so fixated on this case? Did LaGuerta ask you to talk to me about this?"
"Not everything I do is because someone else put me up to it! I'm doing this because I want to. I'm investigating this case because I believe Doakes is innocent."
"Deb—"
"I could not have been completely unaware of the fact that I was working with a serial killer! It could not have happened to me twice!"
The silence stretched, long and awkward. Where had that come from? Had that been why it had been so easy for LaGuerta to convince me that Doakes was innocent? Because I'd already wanted to believe it so I didn't have to feel so lousy about being duped twice? I hated my tendency to have these kinds of revelations aloud, in front of other people. My hands were digging into the cushions of Dex's couch, and I couldn't make myself look up from my own distorted reflection on the glass-topped coffee table. I saw vaguely out of the corner of my eye my brother moving towards me and a moment later felt the couch sink slightly as he sat beside me.
"Not knowing what Rudy and Doakes were doesn't make you a bad cop or a bad person, Deb." I remained silent, and after a few moments felt a tentative touch on my shoulder.
"The Hell it doesn't. A real cop would have some sense that she was with the person she was hunting. Rudy said that."
"Consider the source." I couldn't help the slight chuckle that drew from me.
"I know. But maybe he was right."
"He wasn't. You're a good cop. I've seen your insights be spot on time after time. Remember the ice truck being in plain sight? That was you. And you put as many of the pieces on the Bay Harbor Butcher case together as anyone. And—other times. You're smart, and you have good instincts. You'll make a great detective someday."
I was almost comforted by his words, would have been comforted by them if the complete hypocrisy of what he was saying hadn't struck me at that moment. I was such a great cop in his eyes, and yet he didn't want me working with him on the Butcher case? I was abruptly angry again, and to my embarrassment it was the teary-eyed angry that I dreaded rather than the swearing, fist-clenching anger I so often took refuge in. Screw the plan. I had to get out of here.
"You don't mean any of this." I brushed his hand off and got up from the couch in one movement, striding across the room to grab my keys.
"Deb, I really do—"
"Bullshit. But fine. Don't ask for my help. Whatever. I'm used to it."
"What are you talking about?" There was a slight edge of exasperation and bewilderment to his voice. My brother the actor, apparently.
"I'll see you at work tomorrow." I stormed out of the apartment, making sure to slam the door behind me. Childish, but I didn't care. Dex made no move to follow me. Typical.
--
My hands were still trembling from a welter of emotions I couldn't clearly define or separate any longer when I pulled into the parking lot of my building. Betrayal, rage, hurt—I wasn't sure where each one ended and the others began, so I just focused on forcing them all down and regaining some kind of control.
My crudely constructed plan hadn't amounted to much, and now I'd blown it for good with my tantrum. An insidious voice whispered that, maybe if I would keep my cool more often, Dex would be more willing to trust me. I fought to crush that, too.
"Ok, new plan," I whispered, leaning my forehead against the cool steering wheel.
--
It was crossing the line, I knew. But my anger, usually fast-burning, had smoldered this time instead, its warmth hatching excuses and justifications. Dex wasn't being fair to me, and his little hypocritical performance last night made his lack of trust worse—as though I was a child to be coddled and lied to. Another pair of eyes looking at the evidence couldn't hurt. Camilla's patronizing smile aside, I might catch something my brother, for all his expertise and instincts, had overlooked. And, the most appalling excuse of all, I might be the one to bring this guy to justice rather than my brother, a victory I felt I had earned. This last thought disgusted me slightly, but not enough to turn me from my course. Besides, all questions of pride, both Dex's and mine, were irrelevant next to the undeniable possibility that seeing what evidence he currently had would increase my chances of tracking down the Butcher without
lessening his. And anything that brought anyone closer to capturing this guy was good, right? Justifications for the justifications, but I was done debating with myself.
I still had my key from when I'd stayed with Dex after Rudy. He'd never asked for it back, apparently trusting me not to do precisely what I would be doing in a few moments.
"Enough with the inner guilt-trips," I muttered, slipping my key into the door. To my relief, it turned and clicked easily. He hadn't changed the locks.
I'd been in here by myself before, of course, but the cold lines of the apartment felt strange and hostile now that I was here without permission after last night's scene. Dex was at work and would be away for hours yet, but my neck still crawled slightly as I sat down in his desk chair, turned on his computer, and, while I waited for it to boot up, started opening drawers. They were entirely free of clutter, and I found what I was looking for on the second try: a stack of photocopied case files much like the ones that were currently covering nearly every flat surface in my apartment.
The first two were dead girls, one from a few months ago, the other only days old—but clearly not Butcher victims. The MO and victim profiles were all wrong. Disappointed, I set them aside. But the third file stood out: Edward Hagerman. Clipped to it were all kinds of supplementary materials Dex had clearly collected on his own, some of them obviously related to Hagerman, others with less clear purposes. Candid photographs of Hagerman, schedules of his movements, maps of his company's building and an abandoned chemical factory, a few cryptic notes in my brother's handwriting, reports on chemicals that could break down bodies, some DNA reports… But the Hagerman file didn't indicate that he was a serious murder suspect, or even missing. It had been opened merely as a formality in a case I hadn't worked on, but that I vaguely remembered, from six months or so ago. The same would have been done for everyone in the lab Hagerman worked at, and this file had been closed almost as soon as it was created. The case had never been solved.
That last thought suddenly clicked with what I'd seen moments before, and I eagerly grabbed the other two files again. Yes, the older file was on the victim from that case, and the newer one was thought to be related. Was Dex a few steps ahead of the formal investigation on the latest victim? Had Hagerman disappeared, making him a likely candidate for the murderer of these girls and the latest Butcher victim?
I accessed the account Dex had created for me on his own computer when my laptop had died while I was staying with him, logging into the Miami PD databases. I brought up the latest information on Edward Hagerman, frowning when I saw that it hadn't been modified since the paper file had been
closed. Some quick Googling and online newspaper searches turned up no evidence that Hagerman was missing, a fact which was confirmed by a quick call from my cell to his lab. I hung up when, after navigating through several menus and a receptionist, a smooth, cultured voice introducing himself as Dr. Hagerman asked how he could help me.
I sat staring at nothing for several moments, chewing on my lower lip, fighting an urge for the cigarettes I'd been trying to quit, and attempting to make sense of what was before me. My mind remained curiously blank, as if it didn't want to put the pieces together.
I turned slowly through the stacks of pages. Now the schedules and sparse notes seemed to make sense. Dex was definitely convinced that Hagerman had murdered these girls, and, as I examined the neat chain of evidence laid out before me and made some educated guesses about who the DNA reports belonged to, I found myself increasingly persuaded as well. Dexter was nothing if not thorough, and it looked like he'd built an airtight case against Hagerman. So why hadn't he shared any of this with the rest of the force? I knew the death of the latest victim was still actively being investigated. Dexter was committing a crime just by withholding all this material he'd uncovered. My stomach twisted unpleasantly. A natural reaction when you find that your brother's obstructing justice, I told myself.
Suddenly, it all fell into place, and the sick feeling retreated slightly. The only reason he could have for delaying justice for this girl was for some kind of greater good. He'd only let this murderer Hagerman walk around free for a moment longer than necessary if he hoped that, by doing so, he might be able to bring down an even more heinous criminal.
As the thoughts became clearer, the feeling of nausea returned in a crashing wave.
Somehow, Dex knew this man was the next victim on the Butcher's radar, and my brother was going to try to bring down the most dangerous serial killer Miami had ever known by personally catching him in the act.
--
I couldn't move.
The plastic was tight against my skin, hot and confining above, while icy cold metal pressed into my back below. The ceiling of a white circus tent rose to a peak above me. I turned my head and saw rows upon rows of metal tables covered in pieces of bodies in various stages of decomposition. The Bay Harbor Butcher's victims, all laid out as they had been before our tent had lost refrigeration. How had they come back?
The detectives, officers, and technicians from the department—Angel, Masuka, LaGuerta, the Captain, even Doakes—moved silently among the bodies, prodding, taking measurements, collecting samples. Their motions were a precise dance, timed to slow, wavering circus music that was only just audible, its notes stretched out and distant like sound heard under water. I saw myself walking among them, my face blank and my eyes unseeing. But the real me was pinned and gagged on this table and, no matter how I struggled or tried to cry out, I couldn't make them notice me.
Then I realized two men were standing beside the table I was secured to. Dexter and Hagerman stood over me just as my brother and Rudy had a year ago when I'd regained consciousness in time to see Rudy's knife flashing down towards my chest and Dexter intercepting it. But there was no conflict between these two. Hagerman just smiled beatifically down at me, and I felt a thrill of horror when I saw an oozing red line marking his neck and spots of blood spreading across his white shirt at his elbows, shoulders, and waist. He'd already been dismembered. And this time it was not Rudy but my brother who held the knife above me, wearing a smile of his own that looked no different than the one he had on every day when he brought boxes of donuts to work. The investigators continued to move around us, still oblivious to our presence, their motions guided by that sickening song.
I tried to speak, but the plastic wrap clung to my lips and nose. It was smothering me. I tried to pull away, to escape, but I couldn't move or breathe, could only stare helplessly as my brother raised the blade. It glinted liquidly in the light for a moment, and then it was coming down, and I knew that this time there was no one who would stop it.
--
I woke up with one of those awful groans that wanted to be a scream, but couldn't pull itself entirely from my still half-asleep body. As consciousness returned fully and I was able to stop my thrashing, I found that I was shaking and covered in sticky sweat. The sheet had twisted around my body, confining one of my arms as the plastic wrap had in my dream.
My dream.
A deep shudder passed through my body, beginning at the base of my spine and radiating outward to the tips of my fingers and toes. I flipped on my bedside lamp, squinting against the dim glow and forcing the images to retreat deep into the darkness of my subconscious, willing them to fade.
Just a stupid dream. It meant nothing. I tried to distract myself by focusing on more solid worries, as I always did when such phantom fears and anxieties pressed on me. I still had to figure out what I was going to do with my insight into my brother's plans. There wasn't much time; on the printed schedule of Hagerman's movements, "Friday, 9:45 p.m. – H. leaves work" had been marked with a tiny red X. It was already the early hours of Friday now. Dexter had never been a procrastinator—I was pretty confident he meant to act tonight.
After the realization I'd come to at Dexter's apartment, his unwillingness to discuss any possibility of further investigation of the Bay Harbor Butcher case with me made more sense. He'd been trying to protect me by refusing to get me involved in his investigation. He'd known from the beginning this would come to a personal confrontation with the Butcher, and he hadn't wanted to even give me the option of putting myself in danger. My brother the hero. Again. I was torn between being touched by his gesture and angered by the fact that he would make me unknowingly endure the risk of losing my only family member in the world, a risk that he himself was clearly unwilling to take. At that moment, still shaken from the dream and knowing I probably wasn't thinking as clearly as I should be, I came to a decision.
Screw chivalry or brotherly affection or whatever the Hell was driving his choice. I wasn't letting him walk into this lion's den without backup.
Being faced with the flawless thoroughness of Dex's work had humbled me in some ways. He was more of a detective than I would ever be, and no doubt he had just as carefully strategized every moment of his encounter with the Butcher. I wouldn't interfere with his plans, but he wasn't doing this without a safety net, either.
When he confronted this pair of murderers, I was going to be there.
