Police Captain Angel Batista placed his phone on the desk. Its face was now dark and quiet, but the words kept repeating in his head - 'he's alive.'
He's alive, and he's arrested.
On the computer screen in front of him, a smiling man he had once called his best friend stared back at him with happy, almost lively eyes. Batista leaned back in his chair. His office was dark. Right now, that was exactly how he wanted it to be. Slowly, moving as though his limbs were filled with sludge, he took hold of the case. His case. Her case.
He'd spoken big to Bishop, but the truth was that there wasn't much. Barely any, in fact. He'd shredded most of it himself, and what was left was nothing if not conspiratorial theories. After all, even when he'd had her right next to him, he couldn't exactly believe the words she was saying.
Dexter Morgan - serial killer?
No. Dexter was his friend! Batista had no reason to suspect him of anything worse than doughnut-stealing, much less murder. Sure, Dexter did seem to have a passion for blood, and he was a bit aloof, but nothing in the man Batista had once known was anything so cold and callous as a mass murderer.
But he wanted him to be.
It was wrong, it was stupid, really, but if he was a serial killer, then she'd been right. Then, she wouldn't have died in vain. Then… he had good reason to go to the cold north of Iron Lakes.
Carefully, Batista leaned onto his desk, kneading his fingers into his temples. Iron Lakes. Cosy little town. He'd never been so high up before, not that he'd ever wanted to be, but if Dexter really was up there, then he had no choice but to go. Whether Dexter was a killer or not, Batista wanted to meet him. Supposing that it was him, of course. It might just be a lookalike.
Whatever the situation, Batista sure as hell didn't want to tarnish the memory of his former best friend.
"Dexter…" Batista glanced up at the picture again. "What the hell are you doing?..."
But the night was young, and he had somewhere to be. Getting hold of the first best ride up north was easy for the Captain of Miami Metro Homicide, but actually getting his butt off the chair and leaving his house was another thing. He had lots of things to do. Pack, kiss the wife, tell his kids he'd be back soon enough…
His eyes lingered on the phone. For some reason, his fingers felt uneasy. And then he remembered.
The idea struck him somewhat unexpectedly, especially so considering that he hadn't talked to him in close to ten years. He'd left Miami right around that time, hadn't he? Something about both Debra and Dexter dying at the same time just got to him, which was surprising considering that it was, well… him.
Hopefully, he still had the same phone number. Tapping the all-too-familiar numbers into the dial, Batista nervously brought the phone to his ear. If he didn't want to, then he'd understand. There was little proof for anything, and if it really was Dexter, then…
A final beep and a click gave way to a voice that seemed much more mature than Batista could remember it. "Yeah, this is Vince Masuka, how may I-,"
"Masuka?" Batista replied, almost surprised by the strange weight in his voice.
A few seconds passed on the line. "...Angel?"
"Heh, the one and only." Silence. "I was just-,"
"Is this about a case or something? Unless it's a national killer of some sort, I haven't got anything with it, and even then I think you'd know better than to ask me to go down there. I'm just-," There was a sigh. "Sorry, sorry. You're not… This isn't official, is it?"
Batista wasn't sure what to say, so instead, he brought up his hand to scratch the back of his head. "I'm… not sure yet." He pulled his lips tight. "All I know is that it's-, it might be about…" The name got stuck in his throat like an unyielding lump. He tried to clear his throat but it wouldn't go away. Finally, he took a deep breath. "I have reason to believe that Dexter is still alive."
"...You're fucking kidding." Silence. "Holy shit, you aren't…? Motherfuck."
"I can't be sure yet. He's… All I'm asking is if you want to come up north with me. Iron Lake. He's not going anywhere, and I kind of need your help. If you're up for it, that's it. You really don't have to, especially if you're not-,"
"Hey, let me speak before you go saying shit like that! Okay, okay, okay…" A deep breath. "Yeah, I'm up. As interested as an Argentinian hooker. Iron lake… I'm pretty sure I know where that is, yeah. I could probably pick you up at the nearest airport if that's cool with you."
"Only if you have the time to," Batista said, suddenly feeling a lot calmer. "I'll be there in the morning."
"Gotcha, gotcha. I'll bring you a nice overcoat so you don't freeze your balls off, eh? Huhuhuh."
"Thanks, Vince." With a single press of a button, he hung up the phone.
If the situation was as dire as it seemed to be - or, rather, if Chief Bishop's intuition was as sharp as it seemed, then they would need all the help they could get. Dexter was a seasoned forensic expert. Of all the guys in their department, he might very well have been the most overqualified, Masuka included. The only reason Batista knew any of that was because, well, after his death, researching every minute detail about his friend had been his only real way of coping.
If he hadn't found Louisa, he wasn't sure what would've come of him. Maybe he would've left too, just like Masuka.
Shaking his head, Batista quickly left his house, stepping into his car. Off to Miami Airport.
The ride up north was a tense one. The only thing he could bear reading was the Bay Harbour Butcher case file. The thing was extensive and thick, including excerpts from family members of victims, alongside those victims' criminal records. Of course, not all of them had one, but the interviews of their family members and family usually revealed one tidbit or another.
Just little things. A sister would talk about how he always came home late. One of his friends would say he spent the night with his family while his family said he'd slept over at his friends' house. Inconsistencies that painted the picture of a liar.
And all of it, strangely enough, made Batista wonder.
How in the world did the Butcher find all of them? Sure, being a cop might have helped, but some of these were truly subtle. A sewage worker who kidnapped in broad daylight to chase them through the dark gutters? It was all so strange, it almost seemed as though the Butcher could sense killers instinctually.
At least his modus operandi was consistent. Pricked in the neck and injected with M99. One slice across the right cheek to collect a blood sample. Butchered and placed in plastic bags.
A strange thought hit him. Ten thousand feet above the air, he had an idea he hadn't had before.
He brought up his computer. Aeroplane mode was on, but through the airline, he at least had a rudimentary connection. Enough to connect to the files of a certain case. It wasn't a big case or anything - as a matter of fact, it had been surprisingly small considering that this was Miami.
Two victims, a male and a female, killed and butchered and placed in plastic bags. And then… Placed in a trailer? For all to see? Batista remembered the case well, if only because the answer had been so… Anticlimactic. After all of it, the boy simply went ahead and told them that Jesus Christ, our Lord and saviour, killed and butchered those two people. It was unlikely, but then again, according to what they could find, they had been keeping and murdering refugees.
In other words, they were prime for a butchering.
Everything else struck true as well. A slash on the cheek, a pinprick in the neck… Ah, no, wait - an insect bite. How clever. Sometimes, Batista couldn't help but think his whole department was stupid. Either that, or they were the blindest cops this side of the Atlantic.
…But nothing about the case points to any certain killer. Neither Doakes nor Dexter seemed to take any particular interest in the murder. The only strange thing about it would be that they were brought on dry land. The only reason for that would be if someone else knew who the Butcher was and had purposely recovered the bodies just to fuck with him.
And it was at about that point that Batista hit a dead-end. His mind simply couldn't come up with any possible suspects. It had been fifteen years ago, after all. How was he supposed to remember one case out of the dozen he'd had that day?
And still, something nagged at him that it was important. That he should make good to remember it.
If the Iron Lake police department had a printer, he might have to ask to borrow it.
But, for now, he should get a few Zs before the plane taps down.
Getting rest hadn't exactly worked out as he'd wanted, but the good news was that Masuka was indeed there to pick him up.
"Hey, hey, Angel! Over here, meatloaf!"
Moving towards his old friend and coworker, Batista couldn't help but think, I didn't put on that much weight, did I?...
"Man, look at you… If you're wondering what the time is, it's five-to-seven. In the morning. And you look like you could use a snooze." Masuka gave a snort of a laughter. Batista looked him up and down. He wore an eccentrically coloured sweatshirt alongside a pair of simple but insulating jeans. "Oh, right. Here you are."
A thick coat was pressed into Batista's hands, snapping him out of his thoughts. "This is…"
"Now listen here, this thing cost me one night with Aunt Purity, so you'd better treasure it like your right ball! By the bye, I'll need it back when you go home. I, uh, forgot to bring my own jacket." He gave a characteristic grin that wrinkled the corners of his eyes. "Right now you kinda haven't told me anything, and since Iron Lake is like two hours away, how about you fill me in a lil' on the way there, huh?"
Batista felt the case file in his bag grow heavy. "That's… I don't think you'll like it, Masuka."
"Like it?" Masuka smiled disarmingly and started moving towards the exit. "Listen, what I don't like is you being all vague and me being an unknowing tag-along. To be honest, I'm not really here for your sake. Sure, if you called I'd probably show, but…" His smile dropped, leaving a face so serious and collected that Batista almost stopped in his tracks. "I'm here for Dexter. If he's alive…" A dark shadow flitted over his knitted brow. "I need to be there for him."
And in the darkness of Masuka's eyes, Batista recognized something. Some little flicker of a doubt, an almost-dead ember of a long-held regret. "Yeah. I… I understand that."
Ten years ago, neither of them had been able to be there for Dexter when he'd needed it the most. Nobody faulted them for any of what happened, but somewhere deep inside, they felt as though they'd betrayed their friend.
In mutual silence, they moved through the airport, picking up Batista's baggage before finally leaving.
"Come along now, my little page-boy, and you'll get to take a trip in daddy Masuka's kid-mobile!" With such a statement, Masuka proudly presented a nondescript family car. Modern. Spacey. Not quite big enough to be considered an SUV, but close to it. Masuka smiled. "Heh, yeah, my fianceé didn't wanna get a real road-buster, so we, erm, compromised. I guess."
"Yeah, I've got a similar model."
They shared a tired, fatherly glance that said more than words ever could.
As might be expected, it was a very comfortable car to sit in. Springy, easy to handle and well-insulated. That latter part was certainly the most important since Batista had quickly found himself regretting not packing a thicker jacket. Without Masuka's overcoat, he would surely have perished by now. Simply walking across the parking lot had set his inner temperature five points below the norm.
For a few minutes, they drove in silence.
"So, uh… Care to explain how all this came about?" Masuka said, breaking the ice. "I mean, you kinda came right outta nowhere, and it's not like I haven't got lots of work to do, but-,"
"We think Dexter might be a serial killer."
Masuka almost crashed the car into a tree. Suddenly red, his face whipped to Batista before snapping back to the road just to make sure he didn't crash again. "P-, pardon the fuck?"
Batista swallowed. "We think-,"
Masuka held up one hand. "Okay, pause. Who the hell is we?"
"Chief Angela Bishop of Iron Lake PD. She… We met at a conference and talked about this or that. She told me she had a boyfriend. I… didn't think much more of it, but she contacted me last night to tell me that, well…" Assured that Masuka wouldn't believe him any other way, Batista brought up his email and presented the image.
Masuka stared at it for a few seconds too long to be truly road-safe. "That's-, uh…" He gave a sharp nod. "Nice catch. Not as hot or curvy as my girl, but, well, she's got an exotic charm, I guess. Didn't know he was into that stu-,"
"That's the woman who arrested him last night."
Masuka blinked at him. A car zoomed by a little too close. "He-..." He gulped. "You're serious?" Batista didn't answer that one. "Holy shit, you're serious. You actually think Dexter is-, not only is he apparently alive, but he's also supposed to be some-, what?" He grimaced oddly - Batista couldn't tell if it was supposed to be a smile or a frown. "You're telling he spent all these ten years by kidnapping girls and stabbing them in the throat for his guro followers on Grindr or whatever? Or do you think he's into bloodplay? I bet you think he'd ice-truck-killer drain their blood into a bucket to paint a whole room in it. Remember when that happened?" This time, Batista knew the face he saw was a sneer. "You think a guy who can't handle a room covered in blood would seriously fucking kill people?"
"No!" Batista exclaimed, instantly quieting his friend. "We just… it's a theory. We can't be-,"
"You arrested someone over a theory?"
Batista drew up his arms defensibly. "No-, just… Listen. Just listen for a moment, okay?" He grit his teeth. "I want Dexter to be innocent just as much as you do, but… Angela's known him for as long as we have. And she's certain-," He took a steadying breath. "Do you remember how Deb was? You know, she'd have a strange theory, like how maybe a killer was using an ice truck to get around, and everybody would call her an idiot until she got it right? This is the same. If she's sure that Dexter is the Bay Harbour Butcher, then-,"
The car screeched to a halt and Batista almost banged his head against the windowpane. For a second or so, he couldn't even understand what had happened. "Hija de puta, what the hell are you-,"
"Out."
He glanced at Masuka. A pair of ice-cold eyes rimmed by glasses stared back at him. "Vince, listen-,"
"Out!" he said, louder.
Not sure what was happening, Batista stepped out, almost expecting Masuka to drive away. But he didn't. Instead, he stepped out as well. On a more crowded road, simply leaving the car wouldn't work, but they were way out in the sticks by this point. "Masuka-,"
"You can say whatever you want about this or that, but if there's one thing that Dexter is not, then it's…" He frowned deeply and shook his head. "If you've got him arrested up there, all up in a cell with water and white bread, then I can't say anything except that you've got him on false charges." Batista couldn't ever remember seeing Masuka snarl. "If I get up there and find Dexter Morgan, just know that I won't rest with him being freed. I will personally contact each and every one of my superiors. You'll never hear the end of it. I don't want something like that to happen to you, Angel, but I will not let you sully Dexter's memory like this. Not after everything that's happened to him."
Batista could do nothing but lower his head. "I understand." Deep inside in his heart, he tried to strengthen his resolve. To place his priorities right and to make sure he was ready to do what he might need to.
Before he could say anything else, a hand fell on his shoulder. He turned to look at Masuka.
"But until then, I'll help you. I told you I'd assist in any way I could, right?" He smiled weakly. "Besides, if Dexter ain't using her, I might like to have a little chat with Chief Bishop." He giggled. "I've always had a fantasy of being pulled over and having to get out of it any way I can. Heh. Do you think they've done that one time or another? They gotta have. I mean, come on!"
The tension in the air melted and Batista found a smile rising to his face. "Unlike you, Dexter isn't a degenerate."
Masuka shrugged. "Hey, you never know!" He glanced back at the car. "Now, how about we get back on the road before that native hottie starts ringing for you?"
"Sounds good to me."
An hour later, they arrived in Iron Lake.
