Fishbowl
Setting: "Let's Give the Boy a Hand"

A/N: Some borrowed dialogue.

I adjust in my chair for the thousandth time, continue alternating between squeezing and rolling the remote around my fingers. It's been eight hours of this. I feel like an animal in a circus cage, desperate for something, anything that isn't this, but there's nothing except an endless amount of footage and this fucking chair and the tin foil remains of my dinner on the desk. I can still smell the relish and the mustard.

It's just an empty fucking street. Dear, sweet fucking christ, it's not even facing the crime scene. I will never ever see anything here. Even if the killer does drive by, how would I ever know? The resolution's too poor to make out plates or faces anyway...

And I'm the only one on this floor. Everyone else has gone home, probably to dinner and significant others and the hope that Doakes' extra patrol units will find something. I will never find a break here but that isn't stopping my desperation for one.

Then again, as fucked up as it is, part of me doesn't want to find anything. LaGuerta dumped this steaming pile of crap in my lap, and as petty as it is I don't want to find anything that'll justify all this. I want her to admit this is a waste of time and put me back out on the ground where I belong, send these tapes to the techs where they belong.

But I doubt she'd ever decide to do that without a push. I've gotta find a lead somehow, someway. There's got to be something somebody missed, but I can't think of anything. While I was eating my hot dog I pulled out the file and went over everything again, but I found nothing. The best theory we've got is Dexter's vague as hell 'places that have changed,' but, I mean, fuck, there's barely a square mile of Miami that isn't completely flipped around every few years. But frankly it's not like anyone else had a better idea.

And Tucci is running out of time.

I dig a couple fingernails into the remote's buttons.

If it really is 'change,' then why a fucking office riverwalk that used to be a soccer field? Why a beach that changed its name? They're both the kinds of places a kid would go. A parent. Is this the Ice Truck Killer working out some childhood trauma? Or am I just reaching for the lowest hanging fruit? That's always the first impulse with any psych profile— pin it on the parents, on a fucked up childhood. But just because it's cliché doesn't mean it's not true...

"Ugh," I exhale aloud, forcing myself to stop squeezing the remote. I'd kill for a lead. Any lead. For my sake, and for Tucci's.

I need outside help. I've been thinking that since everyone left and I'm still thinking it now. I need my phone.

I grab my bag and shift it toward me, glance up to check the screen— where there's still nothing —before digging around for my phone. When I find it I flip it open expectantly, but there's no response. When I hit the power button it lights up for a moment, then shuts down again.

Dead.

Fucking perfect...

I look around, remembering there's a landline in here. It's sitting right next to the tin foil. I grab it and pull it forward, dial Dexter's number, then set the modem on my knee.

It rings four times before he answers. "Morgan."

"Save me," I say.

His breath hits the receiver. "What?"

I adjust the phone. "You've gotta help me find a lead, Dex." I take a breath. "I will pay you one million dollars if you help me figure out where the next piece of Tucci's gonna show up."

"I'm afraid I'm lost on this one, Deb," he says. "It's like it's staring me right in the face, but—"

I cut him off again just to emphasize, "One million dollars."

He sighs. "You don't have a million dollars."

The reply is automatic, "I'll steal it from evidence. I've been stuck in a goddamn fishbowl all day. I wanna be part of the hunt." I exhale. "I'm almost off duty..."

"Sorry, sister," he says, not sounding particularly sorry at all.

I blow out another breath. "Two million dollars." He's silent. I keep pushing, "I know you made a list of locations. Just pick your favorite spot. We'll stake it out together."

Long pause. It sounds like he's doing something in the background. Probably preparing dinner or something.

Asshole.

"Come on," I prod. "I wanna play."

Still nothing. Then, "Deb, I gotta go. We'll compare notes tomorrow, okay?"

The line goes dead before I can say anything, or even process what he said.

I pull the phone away. Glare at it.

"Dammit, Dexter," I say to no one, then set it back in its cradle. I look up at the screen again. Yet more cars, the occasional pedestrian. A black sedan sits at a traffic light, then rolls by. The time stamp reads 7:03.

I shift the phone back onto the desk.

Dexter's list was my best shot. He's the one who came up with the idea so I can only assume he has the best guess as to our next crime scene. I'm still not even entirely sure how he came up with it, and I was hoping maybe he'd be willing to share if I got him alone, away from Doakes and everyone else. Even if none of his locations turned up anything, at least it'd be doing something instead of just sitting here.

But no, he has better things to do. Probably Rita, specifically.

I check my watch again. Twenty minutes.

I can do it.

I cross my legs.

I keep watching, thinking about Tucci. I still can't believe he's alive. He went missing just over a week ago. Where is the killer keeping him? Is he feeding him? Is he knocking him out before he cuts or does he just strap the poor bastard down so he can saw away as he pleases? Why did he keep him so long before he started doing this? Why is he doing this? Why grab Tucci of all people? Is it just because he was unlucky enough to be there at the wrong time on the wrong day?

What if this is a childhood thing? What if all these dead hookers are his mother, and he's leaving us his metaphorical father in pieces?

Does he want us to save him? Is that why he's still alive and only being cut once a day? Is my brother right? Does he want us to figure it out?

Figure what out?

If we're supposed to be getting clues to his location from the Polaroids or the crime scenes, then I've got no fucking ideas at all. And neither does anyone else.

Then again, maybe I'm just thinking too much into this, taking my psych classes way too seriously. Maybe the only reason he's keeping him alive and doing this slowly is because it's all just a game to him, and it amuses him to know that we know that Tucci's alive and there's nothing we can do to save him. Maybe there is no message to find at all, and he just wants us to think there is. He's probably getting off on LaGuerta's fuck up. Who knows, maybe he's even showing all this to Tucci, showing him what incompetent assholes we are just before sawing into him...

I curl my fingers.

I hate feeling so helpless to do anything. Trapped in here, unable to contribute meaningfully to the investigation. But even if I was out there, even if LaGuerta herself handed me the reins to this investigation, I still wouldn't have a clue what to do. He hasn't left us anything. Not a single, meaningful clue.

I glance at the time stamp again.

7:19. The foot had been found by now.

I check my watch again. It's late. I might as well stop here.

I reach forward and hit eject. Once the tape spits out I flip the TV off, shove the VHS back into its case, then get up to stack it with the other tapes and CDs I've already gone through. The amount of footage sitting in the boxes that I've yet to watch is almost nauseating.

I stretch, grab my blazer and my bag, throw them both over the same shoulder, walk out. The station's dead as I head out of my little fishbowl to shut off my desk light and check to make sure I didn't leave anything, check my email, find nothing. Once I'm satisfied I head for the stairs, glad for the chance to get my blood flowing again.

As I walk down all I can think about is Tucci, scared and alone and missing two appendages. In less than 12 hours he's gonna end up losing another, and there's fuck all I can do about it. Any of us can do.

I shove the door to the lobby open, wave back to the night security guy before heading for the exit.

Jesus christ I hope we find him.