Summary: The rain does not let up as the FBI sideline the Miami Metro Homicide Department on the Heisenberg Case. Meanwhile, Matthews tries to help Homicide save face by putting Darryl Perry on trial and shipping him off to jail.
Down on the Upside
"We're like the lightning in the rain."
-Heisenberg
'Sounds of Thunder'
It's hard to say much of anything about places you just were, especially when there are simply no words to describe the situation that just occurred. I stand in front of the Printworks building, staring open-mouthed at the crumbling brick wall in attempt to mirror the sheer shock of Debs' face, who wears that terrifyingly bright highlighter jacket once more. She blinks away from her gaze due to a particularly large droplet of water splashing her face, and I snicker at the brunette's misfortune, who, being known for her disproportionate response to such situations, sends a terrific thwack at my bicep.
"You prick," Debra says, smiling.
It's all we can do to keep ourselves entertained and slightly lighthearted, considering the circumstances: The Mayor of Miami was just assassinated by one man with a shotgun, the FBI are about to sideline the entire department to set up their own, and there are two dead police officers who are currently having their heads reconstructed by a Mortician. One by the name of Benjamin Moser, but that is entirely irrelevant to the fantastic pile of possum crap we've gotten ourselves into.
But hey, at least we've got the Tamiami Slasher.
Except... he's not the real deal.
"Special Agent Brenda Recht," a woman in a suit and pencil skirt walks up to me and says, seemingly unfazed by the pouring rain, "This is our counter-terrorism specialist on loan from Homeland Security," she points to a rather muscular man in a rather nice suit without a tie and a shirt with two top buttons unbuttoned. The most notable thing is the rather effeminate pinkie ring he wears on his right hand, "Kyle Chutsky."
"Hey, buddy," he says jovially, clapping my back as if we are old schoolmates.
"Uh... hey, buddy," I respond. Perhaps it is the shock of actually hearing Heisenberg speak still weighing on me, but I'm feeling more inclined to say that someone, somewhere along the way of my route between the Printworks, my apartment, and the Printworks again had somehow knocked me out and juiced me up with some heroin because this I'm starting to feel like I've fallen into Wonderland.
Weren't the Homeland Security types supposed to be the type that a less principled man would call 'assholes'? Why, then, is this man treating me like we spent two days in a foxhole together during Desert Storm?
"You must be Detective Moser, right?" He asks, I nod, "You got that natural Detective look," he says, referencing the jacket and the hood, "I hear you're some sort of genius or something."
I scrunch my face in a modest manner, "People exaggerate," I reply in my natural 'good-natured Dex' voice. Chutsky smiles and nods at me:
"And you're..." He turns to Debs, who stares at him as a scientist would a particularly interesting specimen, "Officer Morgan?"
"That would be me," she responds after a long and awkward pause, before she instinctively moves a little closer to me. Apparently, I am not the only one to notice it:
"Don't worry, I won't bite," he says, and Debs just sends him an annoyed smile before the man continues speaking, "I'll need to help the FBI set up a task force from the Department to help with catching this sonuvabitch. We could really use someone like you, Officer, who's had experience with Vice."
"No," Debs responds in a curt manner, "I'm not putting on fetish gear and strutting Calle Ocho again, alright?"
"No, no, never," Chutsky says in a placating manner, "Just to help with our Vice contacts who might know a way into the mobs our 'Heisenberg' friend's been running with."
"And what about Dex?" She asks, "He's my partner."
"Transfer him to that Sergeant Coulter's group," Chutsky looks at me with what I assume is sorrow, though his scarred countenance does a very poor job at portraying it, "Sorry, buddy, but you know how it is. It's a task force, and I need men for it, not geniuses."
Well. I don't know whether to be flattered or offended.
"I'll be in touch," Chutsky says to Debs, moving away, presumably towards the inside of the building, where Forensics is searching for clues. It may or may not lead them to Heisenberg's blood, so he will likely be found out within just a few hours because of my timely shot.
But who knows? I've been wrong before.
"Man," Debs sighs, "That guy's a prick."
"Well, apparently, so am I," I reply.
"But you're a much better-looking prick," she grins and leans back against the Mercedes.
"Thanks," I reply hollowly.
That leaves a few problems, however. Without any sort of jurisdiction on Heisenberg, and with our 'games' rising, I will have no ability to pursue legal avenues to thwarting whatever he may be planning next. Furthermore, I am no longer the only one in contact with the man. If Harry remembers anything about the texts, he will have me turn over my phone to him so they can monitor for any incoming messages from my friend... and who knows what will be said?
I can't imagine.
But, on the bright side, this throws me off the radar, and I can recede back into the shadows, where I work best: establishing contacts, making friends-things Dexter does not like but must get used to.
"Damn it," I mutter, pretending to be truly dismayed at the Mayor's passing, and Debs puts a hand on my shoulder in what I assume is a soothing manner. "I'm going back to the station. Report to Coulter."
"Okay," the brunette says softly, discreetly grasping my hand, "I'll see you there, alright?"
I've never been able to accuse myself of dragging my feet, but considering my socks are now soaked from all the water seeping through my shoes, I'd have to say this is the first time I really have. For some odd reason, it feels like I lost something. A skirmish, a battle, maybe even a war, despite nothing has even happened yet. This is simply the beginning for something much larger. And that makes me feel uneasy, so I drag my feet to the the driver's side seat and head away from the crime scene.
But I do not go to the station; instead, I travel to Coconut Grove and find myself entering the outside courtyard of Carlos Guerrero's new home after going through a gratuitous number of bodyguards searching my person, who try taking my service pistol off me when Guerrero himself peers out the door and into the courtyard of his home:
"Let the Detective through," he says, waving away a rather unfriendly-looking guard from me. I give said guard a patronizing sort of smile before moving on to Guerrero, who greets me in his usual fashion, "Hello, Detective, what can I help you with?"
I rub my eyes as I walk into the foyer of his Spanish-styled home, "The FBI has come in on the Heisenberg Case; they apparently had some guy from Homeland Security come down from Washington to head up a task-force before this turns into requires an anti-terrorist team."
"So?" The man asks, limping towards a room at the far end of a long hallway which appears to be built entirely out of well-polished mahogany wood.
"That means I am off the case. The guy who's running the case now says that he 'needs men and not geniuses'. I didn't know which way to take that particular quip." I reply.
"Best not have taken it at all," Guerrero says, turning around and staring at me seriously, "Flaring tempers and lack of respect does no one good, Detective. It is a valuable lesson, one that took me far, far too long to understand."
We walk into his office, which is a very normal looking sort of office, complete with the desk, one large executive chair, and two smaller chairs on the other side of the desk which I assume I am supposed to take. Once Guerrero sets aside his cane and sits in the chair, I repeat his action and take my own seat, noticing an open bible in front of him:
"I never took you to be the religious kind," I quip lightly, unsure of what else to say right now.
He looks over the large holy book with a fond smile, "I'm not really, no. The only books of the Bible I ever found worth reading were Proverbs and Ecclesiastes. Solomon, who wrote part of Proverbs and all of Ecclesiastes, was a man who knew what life was all about. And in a way, that makes him a much more admirable character than Jesus could ever claim to be." He stops and stares out the window in contemplation for a moment, perhaps waiting for me to say something.
"So, what do you need? I will try my very best to help you," Guerrero says once he realizes I won't pursue the topic any further.
"Contacts," I say.
"Contacts?" The elder man asks, as if his interest is piqued, "What sort?"
"People who know the drug game. Preferably someone who knows their way in and out of the Russian Mob so I know where Heisenberg is even before he does." I say, "And maybe a few dollars to keep the media from fussing so much about other things when the Mayor just died."
Guerrero pauses for a moment, before grabbing out a paper and piece of paper and scribbling something on it. He folds it and then hands it to me, telling me that I should get in touch with this number soon, because that man can give me all the support I need up to hiring henchmen.
"Is that all, Detective?" He asks lightly, looking back down at his Bible.
"Yes. Yes, that's all," I reply, before leaving the office and heading out the door whilst passing by the man who searched me with a sly smile and I return to the precinct, where Debs waits for me where I've been. I state that I had been getting a spot of lunch and questioning a source for what he might know about the Russian Mob and the new man that's been working for them, and his current whereabouts.
It is then that I report to the other side of the homicide department, where at least two other crews of Detectives and Officers work, which makes me idly wonder why our Unit got both the Tamiami Slasher and Heisenberg to deal with. One of the two units is led by a Sergeant Peters, whom I don't know very well, but we've had a good working relationship. The other, as already stated, is led by Sergeant Coulter, the fat man who always seems to sweating and drinking Mountain Dew, who I walk up to with a few case files in hand:
"I think Harry's kicking me down here after that guy from Homeland Security takes over the Heisenberg Case," I say, and Coulter raises an eyebrow, and presumably sets his jaw, though it is difficult to tell because said jaw is layered with extra fat and skin, making it extra hard to see:
"What'd you do?" He asks with a rather flatulent smile.
I sigh and scratch my forehead, "I dunno," I reply in a meek manner, "The guy he said he needed men not geniuses. And then he said he'd like Officer Morgan on his task force."
The elder man bursts out laughing, "Jesus, Dex, he picked Morgan's girl over you? I mean, she's a rising star, and all... but over you? That's like passing up Michael Jordan for Isiah Thomas-"
"-You know Isiah Thomas beat Jordan's Bulls in the playoffs three times in a row, right?" I ask.
"And then Chicago went on to win six times, your point?" He questions lightly.
"Rendered moot," I supply.
"Alright, alright; I guess most of your Unit is going to be on that Heisenberg Case," Coulter says, still laughing a little bit, "So, if they really are taking you off LaGuerta's Unit and putting you on mine, I'd be more than happy to accept you on it. I need geniuses; I could care less about men. But, let's go ahead and ask Harry what he's going to do before jumping to any conclusions."
"Sounds like a plan," I reply, taking the files back to my desk on the other side of the office.
After dropping the files on my desk, I pass by my fellow Unit-members who all appear to be part of the 'task-force'. They all stand by Mr. Chutsky and Special Agent Recht, both of whom give me a severe look as if I have committed a mortal offense by passing into their line of sight. I raise my eyebrows at the barely concealed annoyance at my person being in the direct vicinity of their 'game-plan', but soon pass with a light smile, hoping that it might somehow ease tensions of which I am truly unsure how I sparked. However, the elder man's face does not change, or, at least, I can't tell much, because he's wearing his sunglasses inside the building. And Recht almost always looks pretty impassive about everything. So, rather than waste my time among the unwelcoming, I hurry into Harry's office:
"Lieutenant," I say respectfully, "Since practically everyone in my unit except Masuka and I are on the FBI Task Force, you want me to head over to Coulter's Unit and introduce myself there?"
"Wait, Chutsky doesn't want you?"
"Apparently not," I reply, "I'm fine with just that, though. I'll take a few floaters over Heisenberg any day. Maybe I can take my Sergeant's Test, as well."
Harry smirks, "Silver lining in everything, right, Dexter?" He asks. "In any case, stay out of the task-force's way. I know you're different..." he trails off and and I am suddenly struck with a little fear. He knows? Knows I'm different? What does that mean?
But the Lieutenant quickly recovers, "I know you care, and that's why you want to take this guy out yourself. But we've been sidelined. Just stay calm, and help out with whatever murders we get that are non-Heisenberg-related."
"Well..." I start, "Can someone please tell me why I'm being treated like the Antichrist by the Feds?"
The elder man shrugs, staring that ice-blue stare at me. "I couldn't tell you why, I'll talk to the Major about it, but until then, just buck up and work with Coulter's guys. Take Masuka with you. Oh, and Dexter? If Debra asks you for any help, don't give it to her. The Feds are asking for one-hundred percent cooperation, and this Chutsky guy's got a system. He'll know when Deb is being fed by you."
It's a hard decision to make, considering that Debs asks me for help quite frequently, "Aye aye, LT," I reply, before leaving the room. Debs will have to rely on her own intuition: if Harry discourages helping her for the good of both his daughter and myself, I will comply. Harry knows what he is talking about.
I am sure of it.
I keep a low-profile on the way back to my desk, ignoring the severe gaze of the Feds and one James Doakes, a concerned one from Debra, and a confused one from Angel, collect my files and call out for Masuka, who is currently being invaded by multiple FBI Forensic mooks who are setting up equipment of their own:
"Vince, you're with me. Coulter's unit."
The Asian scientist nods gratefully and follows me out the door without so much as casting a backwards glance at the ill-fated 'Heisenberg Task Force'; they won't gather so much as a modicum of evidence without me, and I find that incredibly hysterical. Chutsky is so certain that he can find Heisenberg without me, and the irony is that he may not even be able to catch a whiff without me.
Is it strange that such a thought fills me with a sort of poisonous joy?
Masuka and I slink into Coulter's particular group of cubicles and desks, which has been slightly quieter without Daniels or Frings around, but I suppose I can make up their workload. I find the overlarge Sergeant and report to him:
"Lieutenant gave the go on our temporary transfer to your Unit, Sergeant," I begin respectfully.
"Stop with the Sergeant bullshit," Coulter says, "We work as a Unit here and I'm not as much a prick as LaGuerta so just call me Coulter."
"Alright, then, Coulter," I reply, using his preferred name, "What do you want me to do?"
"Seems like Miami's all murdered-out now that the Mayor's been reported dead, so no crime scenes for you. But, your new partner, for the time that Batista is on that task-force, is Deke over there," Coulter points out a sullen and unrealistically handsome young man who sits at one of the cubicles scribbling circles onto a notepad. The Sergeant's voice drops a little to a whisper, "He is the nephew of the Vice's Major, and was part of some great drug case a few years back while he was still a Narco, so he's practically untouchable. But he's stupid. Like, really, really dumb."
"That's very reassuring, Coulter," I reply.
"Well, who knows? Maybe your smarts will offset his stupidity, his people skills may offset yours, and then you might equal one fully-functioning human together."
I scrunch my forehead in mock-anger, "And what's that supposed to mean?"
"Whatever you'd like it to mean. Now go and mingle, I've got more important things to do than babysit you and that flat-faced fuck over there," he indicates Masuka with a fond grin.
"In some circles, that might be considered racist," I quip.
Coulter gives me a serious look, "I some circles, pointing that out might force me to give you an emergency rectal exam, you Irish prick."
A moment of tense silence ensues before he grins and skips off, which looks admirably comical considering that his fat sort of jiggles as he does it. I turn to Deke and offer a hello, to which he merely gives me a disinterested once-over and returns to his circle scribblings. Two of the other Detectives snicker at me and mouth 'Good luck' to me, and I send a rueful grin back to them and sit at the empty cubicle, going over case files.
This continues until it is time to check out, which I do very gratefully as Deke is perhaps the dumbest lump of clay that ever had the misfortune of being made into a human. He simply wore that idiot look between consternation and apathy and stared over my shoulder at the files, as if I should jump up and tell him everything there is to know about whatever murder it is that I was reviewing. Coulter was not lying when he said the man is like, really, really, dumb.
Fortunately, I return home without any further problems by avoiding the Heisenberg Crew altogether, but am greeted with two of my stupidly somber-faced siblings: Brian and Dee, standing outside my door. Apparently they must have heard about the Mayor's death and how that was my case:
"Sorry, Dexter," is the first thing that comes out of the sweet little blonde thing's mouth, and Brian gives me a look of sympathy and claps my shoulder hard. Probably some sort of moral support maneuver that he had been learning alongside that fellowship of his.
I snort in a sarcastic manner, "I got to save a mob boss, and let the mayor die. Funny how karma works that way."
"Any leads?" My elder brother asks, following Dee and I as we move towards my apartment door.
"I don't know," I reply, "They sent some suits and a guy from Homeland Security down to take over. I'm off the case. Probably pissed off the Major, too. Genius Dexter could save the Russian businessman, why couldn't he save the two coppers or the mayor?"
My siblings follow me to the island counter-top in front of my fridge and I pick out drinks for all of us. Since Debs insists on staying around my apartment more often, I have been forced to stock up on beer, which, no doubt, my brother would enjoy. Orange juice for Dee, her favorite. And, last, but not least; for me, water: the drink of the gods.
"So the mighty Dexter has fallen out of favor, then?" Brian asks, reinforcing that look of sympathy as he pops open the bottle of beer and takes a long swig. Dee gives him a slight swat at the arm, similar to one of Debra's arm-punches, but significantly less damaging. "What?" the eldest of us three exclaims, annoyed by our sister's flyswatting ability.
"Brian! A little tact?" She says through gritted teeth, which elicits a chuckle or two from me. A miracle, considering how humorless I feel right about now.
"What? It's not like moping's gonna get him anywhere," Brian replies.
"But still-" Dee begins, I interrupt:
"No, Brian's right," I say.
Brian smirks, "See? Dexter knows how to take things. By the way, what the hell did you do to your hair? You're pale as a corpse, and chopping off all your hair just isn't very you." I move towards the fridge, looking for any meat I might have to cook for my dear siblings, who have taken time out of their day to console distraught Dexter, and I must be a good host.
"You want chicken?" I ask.
"Yeah, sure," Brian replies, "You look like a cancer patient."
My hand freezes on the fridge door handle and I feel my entire body lock for a moment. This is obviously not a good course of action, because Brian has always been able to read most of my moves pretty well. I quickly close the fridge once the locked feeling passes and turn to Brian and Dee with the chicken breast in hand:
"Yeah, it's a new style, you know?" I reply with a purely faked grin.
Brian searches my face for a moment, my halt at the fridge must have alerted him that something was wrong, before he seems to put two and two together: "You don't...?" I remain silent and stare at him, which is evidence enough for my brother:
"Jesus Christ, Dex," he spits, "When the hell were you going to tell us?"
I smile softly as Dee looks between us with an expression of mild confusion evident in her sea-green eyes. "Preferably never," I joke.
"Not a good time to be clever, brother."
"What the hell are you two talking about?" Dee asks, totally confounded.
"What is it?" Brian asks, "What stage?"
"Would you tell me what you two are going on abou-" Dee begins as I speak:
"-Leukemia," I reply softly, Brian scrunches his face in displeasure, "Stage One."
Dee stops dead, and we all stare at each other for one, very long, very awkward moment. The youngest of us looks back and forth between Brian and I before she leans back in her chair, completely unsure of how to take this.
"How long have you known?" Brian asks, breaking the awkward silence.
"Two months now."
"Jesus..." My brother says.
"Dex," Dee says, putting an arm on my shoulder, "Why couldn't you tell us? We're your family... I know you've gone through a lot, not just today, but over the years... and I know you don't like to be babysat, but..." She trails off.
"But we're here to take care of each other," finishes Brian.
If I were a real human, I would break into tears at the beauty of family and how desperately I love having and needing one. But, thankfully, I am not a real human, so such a thought never occurs in my mind except in the merest passing fancy.
"You're not alone," Dee says, "Why go through this like you are?"
Because I am alone? Because you'll never understand me? Because I prefer to not think about miserable and impractical constructs, rather than whine and angst about it like a emotional teenage girl? See how ridiculous that sounds? I don't want to waste your time or mine when we could be solving our own problems.
Of course, I am nowhere near that brave in reality, so I refrain from saying anything at all, and instead cause myself the equivalent of optical vertigo by trying to focus my attention on both siblings, both of whom sit on on opposite ends of the countertop.
"I want to take a look at this, Dex," Brian says, "come down to Jackson Memorial in a few days, I have a friend who might be able to give a second opinion."
And that's that. No matter how I try to persuade him otherwise, Dee and Brian are dead-set on me meeting my brother's friend at Jackson Memorial, and once my mother and Ben get wind of this particular bit of news, as they no doubt will, the pressure to see him will only get stronger. So, sufficiently cowed, I agree to my bully of a brother's terms, and continue throughout the night talking about Cancer, which I certainly don't want to, until both my lovely siblings leave me in peace.
And I go to bed feeling practically defeated.
Woken in the middle of the night, I find my phone ringing. It is not any number I recognize, but I pick it up anyways, considering I am up and may be able to yell at whoever called me at this ungodly hour:
"What?" I yell into the receiver.
"My, my, that's no way to treat a fellow traveler," a voice I instantly recognize from the Printworks yesterday, Heisenberg, says, "Especially when he's the only other one in the world like you. Wotcher, Dexter."
English slang? But he has an American accent. I recognize the voice from somewhere, but I simply can't tell where, so I remain silent and let Heisenberg continue:
"I heard they took you off the case," he says.
"And how would you know that?" I question.
"Well connected, I guess," he replies, and I have the vaguest feeling that the killer shrugged his shoulders whilst saying that.
I rub my eyes, "Well, your connections are right. I'm off the case. No fun for you."
"Ah, but we both know that's wrong, Dexter," Heisenberg says, no doubt with a smirk playing on his lips, "You're just going to hunt me down with or without the police's help. It's why I like you so much; I admire your tenacity. And it's why you like me; you admire lack of restraint. am I right?"
"You would be correct, in some ways," I say hastily.
"We're like the lightning in the rain. We're each other's raison d'etre." He replies.
"Probably," I affirm.
"Well," he begins awkwardly, as if expecting me to have been more open to conversation, "if they're going to be fools and put the idiots in charge of this case, the mediocre," the voice on the other line begins, "then I will make them the fool until they realize they need you. Cheerio, dear friend, and sorry for the terrible mess I'm about to make."
The line goes dead. I should probably get up and find out what's going on, and I should probably-oh, fuck it. I haven't got a single clue to go off of and what can I do, make a citizen's arrest? I've got no way to get near this guy.
I'm going back to sleep.
And of course, in another hour, I am awoken by yet another call. This time, it's dispatch, giving me an address somewhere in Liberty City. I look outside and see that the rain has taken a turn for the worst as I sigh and get ready to go out. When I get to the crime scene, still yawning and rubbing my sleep-deprived eyes, Deke, my new partner, with the intelligence of a rock, stares at me, nonplussed:
"Long night?" He asks simply; I nod:
"The longest. And probably going to get even longer now. What've we got?"
"An interesting one," Masuka says, walking from where I presume the crime scene is, "Guy performed a double tap on one victim. The other looks like he took a shotgun blast to the back. Problem was, the vics were cops."
"Cops?" I ask. Again? More cops? Was this what Heisenberg meant by his 'mess'?
"Yeah," The scientist replies, "I don't think you'll be able to get much out of it, either. Seems like this guy is Heisenberg, and even if it isn't, the FBI is eating up any murder that even looks similar to the bastard's kills."
"You don't think this is Heisenberg?" I ask.
"Oh, no, I definitely think it's him," Masuka replies, "But they're really unorganized. One day and the case already seems to have been more under control when you were leading it."
Well, that was mainly because his fascination with me kept him restrained, trying to impress. Without me to see his body of art, Heisenberg's going to lash out until I can get back on the case or start really chasing him down on my own.
"Well, I'd better get a look at the body before Chutsky and his crew get down here, then," I tell the short man, who nods:
"Alright, Coulter's over there looking at the body. The Feds are gonna be coming any minute, and I've been hearing some things about you, so lay it low."
"Some things about me?" I question, "What things?"
"Oh, you know, the crazy things Doakes usually likes to say about you: how you're a weirdo, and a psycho, the whole nine yards. See this, though, apparently Special Agent Recht is a friend of Doakes-I know, he has a friend, right? Fucking weird, I tell you-and Chutsky is apparently an old military buddy. No one knows what level, but it had something to do with Spec Ops. The thing is, they're listening to Doakes. If they believe him, they might have it out for you."
Well, just another thing to add to the ever-growing list of 'Dexter's Worries'.
I jog rather briskly to the yellow ticker tape that surrounds the corner the two beat cops were shot dead upon and hunch myself over so I can keep the rain from splashing all over me. I do not do a very good job of it, as my hood ends up soaked and my face feels like I was slapped by Aquaman anyways. I finally make my way to Coulter, who wears one of those hideous high-visibility jackets that Debs, due to the rain, now wears almost religiously whenever she goes outside, albeit the Sergeant's is certainly a plus size:
"What have we got, Coulter?" I ask, remembering to use his name rather than his title.
"Not much to go off of, the victim pretended to have been stabbed, was found lying on the ground in blood. He hid the shotgun behind this pair of trashbags," Coulter indicates a recently disturbed garbage heap, "We found a few shotgun shells over there to prove it, the same ones that ripped into Office Marquez over here. Winchester, on the other hand, was the first to go down, taken down by a double tap from a nine-millimeter."
I look down at the bodies, immediately struck with a bit of disappointment: "You're familiar with Occam's Razor, right, Coulter?"
The large Sergeant nods. "I've heard of it; whatever brand of logic offers the least amount of assumptions is usually the simplest, and correct, way to diagnose a problem, or an effect."
"Exactly. We're looking at a double-tap, which we saw with the Mozambique Drill Heisenberg pulled on that drug runner, and a shotgun blast: how Daniels, Frings, and the Mayor died. Simplest solution, the one that requires the smallest leap of logic, is that Heisenberg did this, and the Task Force'll have a field day with it." I reply, standing and moving away from the crime scene as the rain spatters my face.
"Where're you going?" Coulter calls out.
I turn around and give the man a tired but impish smile. "Going to go back to sleep."
Which is exactly what I do. I won't be able to leave the crime scene as a matter or protocol, so I just sit in the rented Mercedes and drift off into a dreamless sleep quite easily. I am awoken nearly forty-five minutes later when Debra taps on my window. I jerk awake to see the woman grin at my annoyance:
"What?" I ask irritably, lowering the windows.
Debra points towards the crime scene. "Looks like Chutsky wants some of that magic 'genius' of yours to help us out with the crime scene."
"Really?" I ask. "It was pretty obvious. Even Coulter was able to figure out before I came by. It doesn't require genius, just a small brain."
"Oh, yeah?" The brunette asks, wrinkling her nose as a droplet of rain splashes upon it, "And what's that that's 'pretty obvious'?"
"It was Heisenberg. Now let me go to sleep," I reply, starting to raise up the windows when Debs gives me one of those Harry-glares she's been getting so good at lately and I am forced to comply, as it always means pain for me.
"Come on," she says as I let out a very audible groan; I am very at loathe to go back out into the rain, but nonetheless, I do so: when Debra wants something from me, she will browbeat me until I do what she wants, and I'd rather avoid all the arm-punches that come with that.
"Fine," I snarl, exiting the car and moving towards the corner where the crime took place. The rain comes down in spades as Debs looks at me with a serious glint in her eyes:
"Those kids that Perry blinded are out of the hospital," she says quietly, matching me stride-for-stride as the already miserable night air grows even more somber.
I choose my next words wisely, "How are they?" I ask.
"How do you think?" Debra asks, sending me a sideways glance.
Huh. An unfortunate future for completely innocent children. I pride myself in being above that nonsense of hurting children, as if I am fulfilling some moral obligation by not killing them, just as I am by choosing to kill only those who have committed the same deed I have. If there was anything that made a man deserve death, it is the willing choice to harm children: those who do not know how to defend themselves, the innocent, the stupid and naïve. And, even I must say it, the Tamiami Slasher could chop up as many hookers as he wants, but the moment one kills a child, they have forfeited all rights to continue their dark and dashing ways. It is a sort of categorical imperative for me. If a man slaughters a child, he is dead and doesn't even know it.
But I will not kill the Slasher.
For all we know, he is still Darryl Perry, sitting in a jail cell, talkative as ever. I doubt it, and the rustling of wins and the sibilant chuckle in the back of my head would agree with me. Perry is not the killer, but the real killer is in the wind, and appears to have stopped now that someone else is taking all his credit. I find it bizarre that he wouldn't come to take credit for his own kills, that he would let Perry take the fall. Yes, I know it sounds sensible, but we are not a sensible brood. It is the frailty of genius, I guess: we need an audience who knows we are the authors of such discord.
We finally end up at the corner after a minute of walking an contemplating and meet Harry, who stands there, waiting for me. Debra veers off-course towards Chutsky, but Harry has me stay behind:
"Be careful," he says, dropping his voice low, "The Department can't afford anymore screw-ups, not anymore, not after yesterday. And this is not good for us. A walking shadow is killing cops and Mayors? Matthews needs to put someone's head on the table, and it looks like it's going to be Perry."
"But we haven't even proven that he's the Slasher, yet," I protest lightly.
Harry nods vigorously, "I know. But the Commissioner is not happy with the way things have run over the past few months and now we have to get a conviction on the table and turn some of those names black."
Harry is referring to how when a crime is solved, the victim's name is penned onto the Department board in black rather than red.
"Let's hope the Slasher doesn't come back then if it isn't Perry," I reply.
It most certainly isn't Perry, but Commissioner Wallace and Major Gordon will have to get ready when our favorite Jack The Ripper-reincarnation returns for another moonlit date with a woman of the night.
"Yeah, let's hope," the elder man replies, "Now go and talk to him; if you have anything good, give it to the guy. I want Homeland Security and the FBI off of us just as much as everyone else. The sooner we catch Heisenberg, the sooner he's gone, right?"
I nod in agreement, hunching over to unsuccessfully shield myself from the rain again as I make my way to the Homeland Security Task Force, made up of practically all of LaGuerta's Unit (sans a Dexter, of course), a few FBI Agents, and a couple of men from the agency that this Task Force takes its name from, including Chutsky. They all stand around the bodies lethargically, looking exceptionally like rabbits with Myxomatosis to me, twitching and flailing uselessly as the tidal wave that is Heisenberg threatens to wash them away.
They really haven't a shot, do they?
"Hey, buddy!" Chutsky calls out in a jovial voice that makes me want to skin small puppies, "what do you think?"
"Oh, so you need the 'genius' now?" I question; I think I've earned the right to be a little passive-aggressive.
The elder man scratches his forehead, abashed, "I didn't mean it that way, you know?"
I nod, "No offense taken," I reply, looking at the scene, "probably lured them in by pretending to have been stabbed or shot. Did we get any calls into the station around the time of death?" I question. Chutsky smiles and sends an obligatory glance to an FBI agent who looks a mite frightened, no doubt green, and he immediately tenses upon seeing the elder man's gaze directed towards him:
"I'm on it, sir," he says very respectfully, visibly shaking, before walking briskly away from the place where the bodies were left.
Chutsky turns back to me, "Anything else?"
"Definitely points to Heisenberg in terms of the nature of the crime. We've seen him use a Double-Tap technique before on one of the earlier victims, a drug trafficker, and well, you saw what he could do with a shotgun. Speaking of which, Sergeant Coulter said there were a few stray casings left strewn around the victims, do we have anyone up on doing a ballistics examination on the casings here and what we found at the Gibson Crime Scene?"
Chutsky gives another person a mild gaze, this time an on-hand Forensic Scientist, though I am unable to determine if they're FBI or Homeland. This person also snaps to attention at a look from him, before saying something and stalking off into the twilit night.
"But," I remark, "Heisenberg has left us clues for every single murder he's committed, or at the very least, how to stop the next one. So far as I can tell, there's nothing here that would point me in the direction of another victim." Does that mean Heisenberg will be sending me the information to his next kill in private?
"Maybe the shotgun shells are a clue?" Sergeant LaGuerta asks, finally making her presence known in the group. I had almost been surprised, considering the Sergeant usually wastes all of our time vomiting useless questions out endlessly.
But, rather than convey the true irritation I feel at the thought of one of the many idiots surrounding me interrupting my thoughts, I choose, instead, to put her down a bit more gently: "It's a start," I say, "but I doubt it. Bullets being a clue are too much of a police cliché. He's usually much more subtle, and much less."
"Well, thanks for not making any sense, there, Dex," Debs snorts; I ignore her and continue thinking. I should withhold some information from them, because I feel that this is not a game for them to play anymore. It is a game for us. Heisenberg and I.
Lightning flashes and thunder crashes.
Yes. Heisenberg and I. The lightning in the rain.
"Then what is it?" Chutsky asks, "What do you think?"
"A copycat. Someone with a similar skill-set. There's always been a clue. This is just an execution." I finish.
The Detectives send Chutsky a relieved look, as if to say 'you were right'. Debs gives me a strange look, then to the Homeland Man and then back at me again. I imagine that if I were a normal human being, I would be exceptionally confused at this point:
"What?" I ask.
"That's what I said," the scarred man replies, "your guys just wanted a second opinion."
I nod slowly, grinning slightly at how they're just a step behind. "Well, there's your second opinion," I say lightly, "Copycat. No doubt for me."
Except it certainly isn't a copycat. Shotgun spray is consistent with the left hand, which requires a certain degree of ambidexterity, but a double tap is difficult to do with your weaker hand. And, yet, all indications are that Heisenberg is ambidextrous, which is often seen only on military guys such as Doakes or Chutsky, or members of Paramilitary groups such as myself. So, either we have a copycat with the same shooting mechanics, or this is Heisenberg.
My, my, we really are slow on the uptake aren't we? It's almost too much fun.
There is a clue, I know it. But it is not here. For all I know, Heisenberg hasn't told it yet or the clue may be obvious, but the message in this is not how to stop Heisenberg... it is who he's going to kill if we don't catch him, and the Police Department will never catch him. Not with masterfully set up executions like these.
He will kill cops. As many as he wants. And no one will stop him. He is a genius. Three, four, five more deaths and suddenly everyone will be cowed.
Except, of course, for Dexter. Because he does not care how many cops Heisenberg may kill. All that matters to him is winning the little game we've set up. They are my pawns, and the various mobs are his. All to be used and discarded.
Finally, I see them as I should: tools. Useful to a degree, and then useless. The mediocre. Merely playthings. My soldiers; my useless, irresponsible, so wholly replaceable soldiers. I smile slightly upon them as Chutsky dismisses me, having the rest of LaGuerta's group to disperse to get ready for another long day.
Working in Coulter's Unit isn't too terrible, actually. Deke is a moron, true as the Sergeant said, but with LaGuerta's Unit completely eaten up by the Heisenberg case and my freedom to move outside of it makes my day much easier, especially because the impossible happens: we have a murder-free day.
This bit of fortuitous news comes after one of our most violent days in the death of four officers, two body guards, and one mayor. In one day, one day, Heisenberg has increased his killcount by 240 percent. And all of this was done with a handgun and a shotgun. The man possesses a bit of skill neither the Tamiami Slasher or I can replicate, and it's perhaps why the Slasher has disappeared into the night and let Perry take the blame: why take the fall if you're not even the biggest game out there?
So, I set to helping out with writing up cases and teasing out some of the niggling problems with our older cases for the rest of the day, only exiting briefly to get lunch from one of the trucks outside, all of which remain open even in the pouring rain.
Once out in the wet grayness of the world, walking towards the lunch trucks a few blocks away, the rain soaking through my coat and sinking into my skin with a bone-chilling sort of coolness, I pull my phone out of my pocket alongside the phone number Guerrero gave me yesterday. From the looks of it, it appears to be a regular Miami phone number, nothing off about it, so I dial.
Two rings pass before the phone is picked up and a rough, scratchy voice answers:
"Samir," he says. Middle-Eastern by the name, African-American by the accent. I'd venture to guess either Algerian or Sudanese.
"Carlos Guerrero gave me your num-"
"-You the Detective?" He interrogates quickly, gruffly.
"Yes," I reply.
"You after that cop-killer?"
"Yes."
"I may do some things that are illegal," Samir says, "but ain't no call to be murdering police like it ain't no thing. You need me to help you track down this guy?"
"Depends," I start, "What do you do?"
"Why, I broker information, son," the voice replies, "usually at the point of a gun. If it ain't your thing, you ain't got to ask me for help."
"Why would you tell Police that?"
"This is a burner phone, brother. I ain't stupid enough to talk to murder police on my own cell."
"Ah." I say. "Getting my hands dirty isn't a problem. What I need is for you to make sure you can find the guy."
"Oh, I'll be able to, don't you worry, boy."
"Good. How will I get in contact with you?" I ask.
"Easy enough. Once I got some information and you prove you ain't tryin'a arrest me, I'll call you for a face-to-face."
The line cuts dead immediately. Interesting. Hopefully Guerrero's recommendations are good and this Samir character pays off. I put my phone away and continue on towards the lunch trucks and receive a medianoche sandwich, which isn't anywhere near as good as the Café Relampago, a favorite of both the Mosers and Morgans, it will suffice for me.
And so I amble on through the day, seeing very little of Debra or any of my other normal compatriots as they have all seemed to have disappeared, whisked away to the bowels of the station, or something of the sort.
And just before I make my graceful exit, I find that Harry wishes to speak to me about something, calling me to his office. Stepping inside, I find papers and books and old files scattered about, as if Harry had suddenly turned into his daughter, throwing things haphazardly around the room without any rhyme or reason.
"What's wrong?" I ask, immediately sensing by the state of the room and Harry's face that something is very, very off.
He turns to me, and just stares at me for a long time. "Let's go out for a ride, Dex," he says, practically pulling me out of the office.
This, of course, leads me to worry. Harry has long been my own personal Superman, if Heisenberg is getting to him, I need to console him somehow, but the answer is not one that is particularly consoling: Heisenberg will kill cops. Randomly and without prejudice. Anyone could be next. A patrolman, a Sergeant, his daughter, even Harry himself. At this point, there is only one safe man, and his name is Dexter.
"What now?" The elder man asks once nestled into the relative safety of the drug-runner's former car.
I give him a questioning look, "What do you mean?" I ask.
"Don't play dumb with me, Dexter," Harry snarls, "The Major wants you out of sight, out of mind, but this Heisenberg guy doesn't care about what the Major wants. He wants you, am I right?"
I am always the first to say that I never cease to be amazed by Harry's exceptional intuitive and deductive skills, but sometimes, even I must groan. If Harry knows what Heisenberg is really after, if he knows this isn't just a grudge against the Police Department, then I've lost the lead I have in actually catching this guy.
"And no matter who is on that Task Force. Homeland, FBI, Doakes, Angel, Debra... they won't catch him unless you're in the group. But Chutsky can't let you on, can he? Not without raising a shitstorm between the Feds and this Department."
"And I don't think he likes me very much. Apparently Doakes has been telling his stories again."
Harry ignores the last quip. "So, then, we have to make sure to influence this case as much as possible without interfering with it."
I look at the Lieutenant with an emotion akin to amazement. This is Harry, the Harry who tried to guide me as best he could through the dangerous and wild world, the Harry who I looked up to as a second father-sometimes as a first father, too-the Harry who could do no wrong, Saint Harry, Superman Harry... and now he wishes to be, excuse the awful pun, Dirty Harry?
"There's no other way to catch him," Harry says, "You know I wouldn't do this unless I could see no other way."
But, Harry, you're playing right where I want you. In fact, you're in even better position than I though you'd be! Fantastic.
"Okay," I say, feigning apprehension, "What do you want me to do?"
"I'll give you whatever information you need, even if it is just observing on some of the Heisenberg crime scenes-"
"-I won't need to," I reply, "He's not going to leave anything there. Not anymore. The clues are somewhere else, with something else. I have to figure out what the clues lead to, otherwise, well... no one's safe, really. We both know who he's started to target."
Harry remains silent, as if contemplating that last part. "Yes. We know." He says after a long while.
I take a right onto the Palmetto Expressway, aimlessly driving nowhere whilst thinking: "So, I get access to the information, but?"
"But, you're not working this case. Remember that. Keep your head low, use any informants you can scrounge up; try re-interviewing witnesses like Carlos Guerrero, but keep anything your playing close to your chest unless you're sure of something that's going to occur, then, tell me, I'l be able to get it through to Chutsky's Task Force."
I nod. "Okay."
And, as if it were the will of God himself, my phone rings. And it is not Debs, wondering where her father and I are, but an Unknown Number. Heisenberg. Speak of the devil. Harry is an ally, now. Should I tell him the truth?
"Are you going to answer that?" The Lieutenant asks.
I nod, "It's Heisenberg," I say distastefully, making a quick decision, "the texts I got when I saved Lebedev were also from an unknown number."
"Are you sure?" Harry asks, when I nod, he says to put the man of the hour on speaker-phone, to which I comply.
"Dexter," is the first thing that comes out of his mouth, in that sickly-sweet tone that is so familiar but so hard to place, "Do you want to play a game?"
"Would it be improper to say no?" I ask cheekily, causing Harry to give me a severe look and for the killer to chuckle a few times, before returning with a:
"Very."
"Oh, well, then. I guess I've no choice but to play then," I reply.
I can nearly feel Heisenberg's shark-like grin through the receiver, "Good. The rules are simple enough. It's a bit like hide-and-go-seek. You find what I want you to find, and the bloodshed stops. But that's all up to you."
"Up to me?" I ask.
"You see," he says, laughing slightly (a schoolgirl titter, if you ask me), "The longer you take to find the item in question, the more cops that die. And no, I won't go after your friends, or even the pretty little daughter of the Lieutenant you've been playing hide-the-sausage with. Oh, yes, hello Harry."
Harry stiffens in his seat, and I look at him sheepishly, hoping he had not heard the sentence before his name was mentioned.
He did hear.
Ouch.
But there are more important things to deal with aside from the fact that I am porking the man's daughter. And when there's something more important than that, you know it's deathly important.
"You think I wouldn't notice the difference between someone on speaker phone and someone speaking into the receiver during a normal call?" Heisenberg chides, and I can feel my lip curling as we pull onto I-95, moving farther and farther away from the precinct, on autopilot since the call started. "In any case, since you two are listening-"
"How do you know that we're alone?" Harry asks, finally.
"Dexter recently rented out a two-door car from your carpool. If you were taking more than two-people on your little joyride, then a police cruiser would be more apt, wouldn't it? And you have the windows of your car open, I can hear the traffic."
He is clever. I will have to watch him carefully.
"But," Heisenberg chirps, "I'm digressing. Since you two are listening, you should know that Dexter is your only chance of catching me. The rest of the people you employ? Fire them. This is a game of geniuses, they will only get burned by this. And because of this, our little game is going to raise the stakes. I will kill one cop, at random, every seventy-two hours until you-are you ready for this?"
I am dreading what 'this' may be, but I realize I have no option but to say yes. "Quite," I reply.
"Stellar," he quips, "You have to find the Tamiami Slasher."
And the pin drops, the crickets chirp, the audience goes silent. What could Heisenberg want with the Tamiami Slasher? Why would he want us to find him? Why? Why is he important?
"You needn't worry why he's important," Heisenberg says, as if he's been reading my mind, "Know only that you should catch him, and do what it is you must."
Fortunately, he hasn't gone all the way and revealed that I am a serial killer to Harry, but it begs to question how Heisenberg knows I am who I am. And how does he know about Debra? I mean, there are some signs, but how close has the man been that he can tell my darkest secrets? I must tread very, very lightly around this man. I don't know if I can even let him live as Harry wants. But, before I can say anything, Harry leans over to talk into the phone:
"But we already have the Slasher in custody," he reasons, and Heisenberg lets out a hysterical laugh, heaving and wheezing:
"Come on, Lieutenant, we both know neither you nor Dexter believe that inbred hillbilly is the Tamiami Slasher," he mocks. "No. No. Dexter, I want you to find the real Tamiami Slasher."
"You're smart," the killer snorts, "figure it out. But think fast. Think of how many lives you could save."
And the line cuts dead. Harry and I look back and forth from each other to the road and turn around, driving back to the precinct as the night sky turns darker and darker and the rain pounds down harder and a white flash of lightning blinds us and illuminates the entire Miami skyline for a millisecond. Lightning, just like flashes of genius, the same as us. There, and then gone, only the sound of thunder and legends to tell that the lightning or genius ever existed.
And so comes our flash of lightning, our stroke of brilliance, the moment that will give way into sounds of thunder. Two masterminds playing their game, trying to anticipate and understand their opponent's next move. Heisenberg and I: the lightning in the rain. If I am to beat him in our little millisecond of illumination, I ought to find The Slasher and turn the game on its head: I will need to take initiative.
And it is about time for me to do just that.
Notes: New chapter went by rather smoothly, this chapter really sets the tone for the rest of the fic, so I apologize if some parts were a little more on the dry side. As always, leave me a few of your thoughts on the chapter with a review. I love hearing from and responding to you, and I can't improve my writing unless I get some critiquing of some sort, right?
Geist.
