Iron Lake was a small community with small opportunities. There were no chain stores in view, and most of the work seemed to be done by solitary individuals with an admirable passion. Even this early in the day, it was clear that most people with any responsibilities were up and about, going to school or working hard.
It was quaint, not that Batista could ever consider moving to such a cold place.
The only reason he could imagine Dexter would move to a place like that would be that, simply, it was small. Not much drama or murders or killing or blood. Such a want for quiet was in line with the Dexter Batista knew, but was it in line with who Dexter was supposed to be?
Quiet and small. If someone went missing, the news would reach every schoolboy and their grandma before the sun went down. Not the best place to kill people. With the Butcher's habits, at least half a dozen would be dead by now. For that matter, what had led her to the Bay Harbour Butcher case specifically? He hadn't really gotten that from her yet, but that was all in due time. Surely, she had a massive swath of information that only needed cursory, supplementary opinions from people who once knew him.
That was what Batista hoped, at least.
Masuka, for his own part, seemed thoughtful. He'd talk a whole lot for small bouts of time, and then he'd grow silent, with the only hint of his thoughts being the reflective, unhappy look on his face. It was not an expression Batista liked seeing on him, but at the same time, he knew he had a similar facial expression as well. It was only to be expected. In a few minutes, they would meet their old friend, reuniting under the worst circumstances possible.
On the horizon, the police department loomed. The GPS on his phone buzzed. "This is the place."
"Right," Masuka replied as he nosed the cart into the small parking lot. The slim number of patrol vehicles clearly mirrored the town's situation. And yet, despite how small the station was, so tottery compared to the one Batista heralded from, there was an air of solemn dread that Batista could only remember experiencing in the aftermath of Doakes' death. A black, transparent pressure that whispered It was one of us. It was one of us all along.
Batista stepped out of the car, leaving his suitcase behind but bringing his bag. It had everything he would need right now.
Masuka stepped out to stand right next to him. They shared a glance. No words would leave their mouths. Nothing they could say would alleviate that heavy load on their shoulders.
With stale steps, they moved to the front door. Batista reached out to open it, but his hand stalled. Something in his chest tightened. A knot knitted itself and all of a sudden he couldn't breathe and the cold air seemed way too cold, way colder than it had ever been before. Behind this door, he would find all the answers. He would find his wife's killer. He would find his best friend. He would find the Bay Harbour Butcher.
…Allegedly.
So many different hopes and wishes were mixed inside his heart. Please let Dexter be a savage killer. Please let it be a lookalike. Please let Dexter be alive.
Please… Don't be what you aren't.
His hand hovered over the doorknob, and before he knew it, the doors opened in front of him. A dark-eyed and black-haired woman watched him with a face that spoke of a tiredness of the soul. She had the kind of look Batista had only ever seen on women whose men had gone missing for weeks, years, only to be found dead. There was no hope in her eyes. Only a black fire of vengeance.
Batista hated the realisation that she probably saw a similar fire in his eyes.
"...Captain Angel Batista," she greeted coldly.
"Chief Bishop," he replied. The air between them froze in professionalism.
Then, a hand was stretched between them as a bald man an inch shorter than Angela smiled at her. "Vince Masuka, FBI. Like, as in forensics." He smiled at her with artificial charm. "Unless you think I look more like an agent?"
She clearly suppressed a surprised frown, glossing over his indecent remarks by taking his hand and shaking it once. "Pleased to meet you, Masuka."
"Oh, please, call me Vin-,"
"Chief Bishop, if you don't mind, could we meet Dex-, Morgan?" Batista said, interrupting Masuka.
Angela didn't seem to mind in the least. "By all means, please. Step inside." She held open the door, letting Batista and Masuka slide inside, though she almost slammed the door in the bald man's face. The inside of the department was, like almost all police departments, clogged with things and papers and all manner of personal or professional paraphernalia. The big difference between this one and Miami Metro would be that it was more… Homely.
The walls were half-wooden, the desks were placed naturally and openly, and everything seemed to herald from the '70s at least. Probably more so 50's. In other words, it had a certain small-town charm.
The first point of interest in the station was a small reception that was manned by a middle-aged woman in a wheelchair. Normally she'd probably have quite a bit to say, but with the atmosphere so thick one could cut it with a knife, she seemed just about as silent as everything else. They simply walked past her without saying anything. The second point of interest were the two teenagers that sat on a bench holding hands. Unlike what the tender expression would usually require, their faces were both twisted in indignation and anger.
"Who the fuck is that?" the boy said, pointing a big, fat finger at Batista. "Did you seriously bring in some out-of-state guys for this shit? My dad isn't some fucking killer!"
The girl patted him on the thigh before turning to Angela and giving her a glare that could kill. Unexpectantly for a woman so fierce, she didn't respond to the gaze. She simply turned away. Going by that small interaction, Batista could easily assume that they were related domestically. Sure, their genetic make-up didn't match, but the interaction was far too alike a mother-daughter pair to think of anything else.
Then, if she wouldn't do anything to curb these youths' feelings, it was up to Batista. He was probably the oldest there anyways, so he had a duty to make sure everyone kept cool. Ignoring the wishes and wants of youths was typically not a good idea.
With well-trained expertise, Batista moved over to the two and presented his hand. "Captain Batista of Miami Metro; it's a pleasure to meet you."
The boy glanced hatefully at the limb before grabbing it. "Harrison. Are you the guy who's gonna shoot my dad or something?"
Batista blinked at him. Twice. In his head, thoughts ran with the speed of spooked horses. "You-," Trying to pull himself together, he coughed into his hand. "...Are you really Harrison Morgan?" The youth glared at him but didn't deny it. "...Coño." He shook his head. Pull yourself together, man! With this, there was absolutely no doubt that the man they had arrested here was, in fact, none other than Dexter.
Unsure how else to respond, Batista went down on one knee, placing himself at their eye-level. "This might sound weird, but I used to work with your dad. We were… friends."
"Yeah? Well, what does that matter now if you're gonna kill him anyways?"
Batista held up both hands in surrender. "I'm not-, we're not here to do anything to your dad. Chief Bishop called us since we knew him way back when. She… thought we might be able to help."
Only now did the girl speak up. "Help her arrest an innocent man?"
Batista's smile only grew a little strained. "Of course not! That's the last thing we want to do. I just…" He turned back to Harrison, studying his face, connecting it to the giddy little boy his sister had once babysat. "You don't remember me, do you? From when you were little?"
"Am I supposed-," before Harrison could finish speaking, the girl at his side elbowed him in the side. "...No, I don't. Sorry. My memories of my early years are… fuzzy."
Batista's smile turned sad. An image of a bath of blood flitted through his mind unbidden. "That's for the better, I suppose." It was only a shame he couldn't remember all the love his dad had for him, how much he cared for him… "Then, I guess you've been with him all these years, huh?"
The boy gave a conflicted expression. "No, he left me with my step-mum. Hannah McKay."
…Hannah McKay. Hannah McKay…?
"Hannah McKay?!" Batista said a bit louder than he intended to.
Harrison stared at him, wide-eyed before suddenly showing a glimmer of hope. "Did you know her?"
"Know her? Well, uh…" He furrowed his brows. She was the girl Deb had been assured killed someone, right? Not just that, but she knew she'd kill again. At least, Batista was pretty sure of it. Deb's intuition was rarely wrong, but this time had been different. The woman had gone on a road trip with her killer boyfriend, but there hadn't been any proof to convict her. And then, one day, she'd just up and disappeared. Batista turned his gaze on the boy in front of him. "...No, I didn't know her. I only heard about her from Dexter." He glanced away. "...He said she was a good woman."
Harrison visibly deflated. "Is that so?... Well, nice to know he cared for her, I guess."
Fiddling with the hem of his coat, Batista turned back to him. "She wouldn't happen to-,"
"She died a few years back."
"Ah," Batista replied. All the better. "My condolences."
The boy nodded. A finger poked Batista's shoulder and he turned back to find Masuka looking down at him. Now words needed to be exchanged. Silently, Batista stood back up. For some reason, he felt calmer. Better. Talking with Harrison, although it had been far from necessary, stalled for time. More importantly, it showed that there was at least someone who didn't think Dexter was a killer apart - from Masuka.
With such feelings in his heart, he turned to Angela. "Chief Bishop, before we speak to Morgan, could we go over the evidence?"
Although she seemed a bit stunned, she nodded regardless. "Of course, follow me to my office."
There, she presented what evidence they had gathered so far in the murder of Matt Caldwell. "A couple of screws… and a note?" Batista couldn't keep the astonishment out of his voice as he turned over the hand-written note in his hand. At his side, sitting on a simple stool, Masuka carefully examined a number of titanium screws.
On the other side of the cramped desk, Angela nodded. "I realise it may not seem like much, but the circumstances under which it was found decided its nature. That screw," she pointed at one of the many screws, identical to the rest, "was found in the burnt remains of Ji-, Morgan's house. It is believed that Matt Caldwell's remains were burnt so thoroughly that only the titanium bolts in your hands remained. Why would Morgan have them if not-,"
"Let me get this right," Batista said, putting a bit of strength into his voice. "You received the bolts and the note in the same anonymous letter, which could really have been sent by anyone. And then, in the remains of what was clearly arson, you find the remaining screws?"
"Yes," Angela said simply.
Never before had Batista felt more like plucking his own eyes out. "...You said you had footage of an interrogation?"
She nodded once again. "I'm not sure how well you will understand it, but his behaviour made me assured of his guilt."
Batista turned to Masuka. They shared a look.
"...Sure. Go ahead."
The entire interrogation took less than 20 minutes to watch, and by the end of it, Batista was heavily considering filing a report on her. Before he could say anything, Masuka crossed his arms and exhaled deeply. "Well, there you have it. Guess his sense of blood hasn't dulled a bit in all of these years, huh?"
Angela's eyes narrowed by a fraction. "What do you mean?"
The bald man shrugged nonchalantly. "It's simply that I can't disagree with anything he's saying. Is there any way you can prove those screws were there before the fire? This is the most obvious case of framing I've ever seen. Someone clearly has it out for him!" With such a statement, he threw his arms in the air, apparently fully ignorant of the way Angela's face slowly grew red.
Carefully, she bit out, "You haven't talked to him yet. It may seem like a long-shot, but I am assured that-,"
Batista held up a hand, silencing her. "Whether he killed Matt Caldwell or not is unimportant, and it isn't what brought us here. Please, explain the circumstances that led you to believe Morgan is the Butcher."
With this, she seemed to puff up a little more, her face gaining confidence. Then, carefully, with all the methodology of an amateur policeman trying to imitate what they read in the textbooks, she explained how she made her case.
And it all hinged on pinpricks and ketamine. "After all, as we know, the Bay Harbour Butcher used ketamine to incapacitate his-,"
"...He didn't," Masuka said quietly, barely louder than a whisper. "He used M-99. Ketamine is-, it's completely different." Carefully, eyes as sharp as needles, he took hold of the crime photos she had dug up. "Sure, it's in the right place, but… Nothing else matches."
Batista frowned to himself. "The ritual doesn't sit right. You say the Butcher was rushed by oncoming police, but that isn't possible. I've seen the kind of kill-rooms he fashions. Putting up one of those must take hours, not to even speak of removing one. And to then forcibly make someone overdose? It just doesn't match up. The Butcher never killed innocents, even if it would have been for personal reasons. I agree that the needle marks are similar, but it's not going to hold up in court." His frown deepened. "It isn't even going to hold up with me."
She blinked at them. "Huh? B-, but, you… Didn't you have evidence? A case against him?..."
With a melancholy heart, he reached into his bag and pulled out the thin case file. It was hardly anything, and far from decisive. Especially not on its own. As it was, they held Dexter on moot charges. The only thing Batista couldn't understand was why Dexter hadn't simply told her this. Or maybe he had, and she simply hadn't listened. Looking at her, that was certainly possible. Regardless, he slid the file across the desk and over to her. She attacked it with intense vigour, only to deflate the instant she realised it wouldn't prove anything.
"B-, but… Don't you think it's weird? She had a feeling about it, and then she died! I looked into Matt Caldwell's history, and he once caused an accident that killed five innocents. And then this with the druggies, it's just… It all surrounds him, you know? All of it. It can't be a fucking coincidence!"
And all of a sudden she reminded him so much of Debra. Slowly, Batista curled his hands into fists. "It's the very definition of circumstantial. It won't hold up."
It wasn't the answer she wanted and it was obvious. "...I'll let you meet him. But I can't let him go yet. Kurt Caldwell hasn't been found. This situation is complex, and I won't fault you for not believing me. But…" She bit her lower lip. "When you meet him, please don't tell him about anything we've talked about." Her eyes shone with black fire. "For just a day or so, let him think he's at a dead-end."
Batista averted his gaze. "...We'll see."
After all, he couldn't control what Masuka said.
