"He's eating right now, so just wait a few minutes." That's what Logan, one of the few officers of the station, told them. So, while Dexter ate his lunch, Angela showed them around town, introducing important places for them to link events to. It was both useful and educational, especially the tuna sandwiches. Far from the kind of grub they had back home, but good enough for a quick meal.
But despite the objectively nice situations and food, the atmosphere remained strained. Angela was unhappy, and there was nothing Batista could do to alleviate it.
It was obvious that there was something strange going on, but pinning it all on Dexter was inhumane. After all that had happened to him, having some leniency was the only possible mercy.
He wanted to trust her - of course he did! He wanted her to be right just as much as he wanted his former wife to be right. He wanted Doakes to be innocent as much as anyone, but if it came at the cost of Dexter, then they couldn't possibly be sloppy. It had to be right. They had to have solid, complete and absolute proof. But they didn't have that.
If the Butcher killed that druggie, then they would have found evidence of it. A slit on the cheek, signs of being tied with plastic wrap, the damn kill room, anything!
But they didn't.
Batista sighed to himself. Below, his feet moved him instinctively as he followed Angela back to the station. Sometime in the past hour, a stone had settled deep in his gut. There was only one explanation, but it wasn't one he liked.
He didn't want to talk to Dexter.
It was simply so that it would probably be awkward. How was he supposed to tell his former friend that he suspected him of being the Butcher? Even worse, he couldn't even tell him that he was in the safe, legally speaking. Socially, his personal life was a bit compromised. The reasons as to why Dexter had run away and changed his name were unknown to him. Knowing Miami, he might even have been running from a killer.
But now, whatever that reason was, it had been for nothing. Everyone in town would soon know who he was, if only because Angela would make sure of it. She was just as headstrong as Deb, which was, by all means, an achievement.
For the second time that day, the Police Station reared on the horizon like a grinning cobra. The lack of sleep hit Batista like a sledgehammer.
They entered.
Angela led them back inside her office, with one wall filled with missing posters, where she quickly set up a camera to face where Dexter would sit. Batista looked at it unhappily. "Say, can't we skip that thing? This is… We're all cops here, sure, but he's our friend." She looked at him as though he'd suggested skinny-dipping off the Niagara falls. "I'm sure he'll tell us more if there isn't a camera pointed in his face."
For a few seconds, she wouldn't reply. "Last time I turned off the camera for him, he told me where to find all those girls over there." In a simple movement, she jerked her thumb at the stunning number of missing posters. There had to have been at least twenty of them.
"...What? What does that-,"
"I haven't looked yet, but…" Her face twisted in confused resentment. "I don't think he was making it up."
Masuka stared at her strangely. "What, you think he killed all these-,"
"No, I don't. I'm sorry I made such an impression on you, but I don't believe that Jim would kill innocent runaways. It isn't in him. But he…" She took a seat on the opposite side of her desk, her eyes moving to watch the posters as a terminal patient watches the hospital window. "All these years, I've known that these girls weren't just going missing. They were dying. Being killed. Now I've got a suspect, but… He's left. He packed all his stuff and left in the middle of the night."
Batista wasn't sure how to respond. "I… know how that feels."
She nodded mechanically. Then, she took a deep breath before standing up. "Well, I guess this has waited too long already. I can't imagine how this must feel to you two." With those simple but grim words, she stepped out of the room. Noticing that the atmosphere had shifted, Batista and Masuka shared a look. There was a nervousness in Batista that he couldn't recall ever feeling. A nervousness that moved through his toes and up his chest and into his fingers.
To keep himself from doing something strange, he folded his hands.
Outside, just beyond the little office, he heard keys jingle and a cell door slide open. That rattling sound was unmistakable. "Out," he heard Logan say.
He couldn't hear his footsteps. Even though he could see Logan moving towards them, bringing someone with him, Batista couldn't hear Dexter's footsteps. It was like he wasn't even there. Then they moved into view and Batista's eyes locked with Dexter's.
Shivers ran down his spine like melting icicles across his back. Something was wrong. Something was very wrong.
His hands were bound with a pair of cuffs, but not even they made a sound. It was like the air around him was simply frozen, preventing all sounds from uttering themselves. Like a lizard on ice. Seemingly unbothered, Logan moved him inside the office. Throughout the entire thing, their eyes were locked. But not because Batista wanted to look him in the eyes. Rather, he simply couldn't pull his eyes from the swirling black voice that resided in those hollow cavities. He could almost feel himself getting sucked in there, consumed and absorbed.
"I guess you three know each other, so introductions aren't really in order," Logan said. Since nobody replied to his comment, he couldn't really bring himself to say anything either. "...Right."
Moving easily, Logan sat Dexter down on the chair in front of them before chaining his hands to the bottom of the desk. Finally, before leaving, he poked a button on the camera, starting it. A little green light started blinking, and with a wave and an uncertain smile, Logan left. Leaving the three of them alone.
Dexter watched them idly. Then, with a voice as cold and smooth as the back of a snake, he said, "Well? Are you going to sit?"
"Oh, uh," Batista said. "Sure." He sat down. Masuka sat next to him.
The man before him wasn't Dexter. It had been ten years, sure, but ten years wasn't all that long, all things considered. Even after ten years, Masuka still made dirty jokes. Even after ten years, Batista was still Batista. But Dexter, somehow, wasn't Dexter. He just wasn't.
That ever-present glint of life and humour in his eye was dead. It was dead and rotting and it left a stench of apathy in its wake. The Dexter that sat before him viewed him with the eyes of a cold-blooded serpent. He didn't even seem to see them as people at all. Analytically, his eyes moved from one to the other, taking in their features, deciphering their very thoughts.
"So, uh… It's been a while, Dexter." Not even a greeting and a disarming smile would wipe that look of callousness from Dexter's face. "I guess you're wondering what we're doing here."
"You're here because Angela told you her completely unfounded suspicions." His voice was slick. Cool. As though he'd foreseen their arrival down to the very minute. "But I'd bet you're more so here to meet me again."
"Uh, yeah," Batista replied intelligently. "Why wouldn't we?"
Dexter blinked at him. He glanced at Masuka, who showed an expression of cautious determination. Dexter opened his mouth to say something but quickly closed it again. "...You aren't angry that I left?"
Batista could feel his brows furrow. "Why would I be? You… You were in a bad place, man. And even before that, with Rita… Maybe it isn't my place to say it, but I understand how it feels to lose someone like that. If I'd lost my sister too, then…" He chuckled dryly. "Changing my name and fleeing the state wouldn't be out of the question."
The answer seemed to take Dexter by surprise. "...Right. I guess that would be… No, that's the normal response, I think. Erm." He suddenly shook his head and breathed deeply before bringing up his face and all of a sudden Batista wasn't looking at some lizard that wore the mask of his friend, rather, he was looking at Dexter. Just as he once was. A charming, slightly goofy smile hung on his face. A light in his eye flickered softly. "What can I do except welcome you to Iron Lake?"
"Uh, thanks? No, wait, this is…" Batista, likewise, took a deep breath. "Dexter, we need to talk about a few things." In his heart, his conviction shivered under the gaze of his friend. "About… what you are."
For a single moment, during a mere fraction of a second, Dexter's amicable face slipped. Batista barely had time to register what was beneath it before the mask popped back on again and he smiled at him as though he didn't quite understand the question. "Don't tell me Angela sold you on that bogus theory of hers?" He scoffed. "I would've thought the two of you would know better than that."
Surprisingly, before Batista could try to reply, Masuka leaned in. "Why did you leave, Dexter?"
"Why did I…?" A flash of familiar pain flashed through his dark eyes. It was pain of a kind Batista was all too accustomed to. Usually, that pain wasn't all that obvious, especially not in Dexter. But he'd seen it there before.
When Rita died.
'It was me.' That's what he had said at the time. Because of those simple words, everyone who had the slightest reason to get involved all decided that, for some damn reason, Dexter did it. Dexter - the man who practically adored his wife. Sure, Dexter had always been a bit reluctant to show his emotions, but anytime he spoke of Rita, Batista could see that shining love in his eyes. It was more clear on some days than others, but on the day she died, so too did that love die.
There was no way he could have done it himself. Unless he wasn't who he was supposed to be.
"I got tired of it all. The death, the killings…"
"So you flew up here to… sell guns?" Seeing Masuka try his hand at interrogating was interesting, to say the least.
Dexter smiled tiredly, showing no little amount of irritation at the typical situation. "Yes, I did. It wasn't my first choice, but anything else…" He shivered. Or maybe he faked a shiver. In the lull between words, Batista gathered his courage to ask what had been on his mind for a while.
"Dexter." The man turned to him. His face was so old. Older than it should have been. Older than Batista could ever remember it being. The words almost got lodged in his throat again, but he had to push through. Not for Dexter's sake. Not for Angela's sake. For LaGuerta's sake. "Are you the Bay Harbour Butcher?"
The man before him gave him a blank stare. No forced smile, no shake of the head, no reaction at all except a stunning apathy.
Dexter glanced at the camera. Somehow, Batista could see him make up his mind on something. "Could you turn off the camera?"
"Why?" Masuka asked sharply. "So you can tell us where to find more bodies or something?"
He gave a grimace. "No." His expression reverted back to blankness, accentuated by a hint of curiosity. His eyebrow perked. "Did she check out the-,"
"Not yet," Batista said. If he said any more than that, Angela might have his ass for dinner. "Why do you want us to turn off the camera? Is there something you don't want to put on the record?"
Something in Dexter's expression shifted. Although his features remained neutral, there was something fierce in his eyes. Something protective. "It's personal." He looked away at the missing posters. "It's something I don't want to ask Captain Batista." He looked back. "I want to ask Angel about it."
Batista paused. He looked over at Masuka and poked him in the side.
"Ow! Why-,"
A glare expressed his thoughts better than words could and Masuka hopped to his feet, his fingers slipping over the camera to press the button Logan had pressed before. The light flashed before turning off. In the room adjacent to the office, Batista caught the eye of Angela. There was a sense of understanding there. She didn't stop them.
When Angel looked back to Dexter, he found an almost completely different man sitting there. Someone relaxed. Someone calm. Someone… fond.
He smiled at them. "Maybe it sounds weird, what with the circumstances, but… I'm glad to meet you both again. Angel. Vince." He almost seemed about to give a laugh before pulling himself together and shifting in his seat. The handcuffs around his wrists clinked. Angel had almost forgotten they were there to begin with. Taking a breath, Dexter once more met Angel's eyes. "Could you take care of Harrison for me?"
"What?"
An earnest plea. "I understand if you can't. Harrison probably won't want to move away from here. This is where he's got all his friends, after all. Still, he's been on the run before, so leaving one more time will probably be okay." A strange look of melancholy took hold of Dexter's eyes. "He won't be able to stay here for long anyway."
"Whoa, whoa," Angel said, holding up his hands. "What the hell are you talking about?"
Drawing in a mighty breath, Dexter leaned back in his chair, craning his neck to regard the ceiling. "I'm not a good dad, Angel. Not for Harrison." Angel didn't have time to retort before he continued. "Even when he was just a little kid, I'd always have things to do other than care for him. Day in, night out, I just… wasn't there for him." Bitter regret tore at his voice. "Giving him away was the best thing I ever did for him."
Angel glanced out of the office to where the teenage boy sat. "You don't mean that," Angel said quietly. "You were a great dad, Dexter! Where is this-,"
"Angel, do you remember when you were a boy? You were growing up, and you were so sure that you wouldn't become like your dad, that when you suddenly found yourself with all his worst traits, you thought there must have been a mistake or something? But that's just how it is with kids and parents. I just… I never thought that I'd see it from the other perspective." Somehow, his voice grew even heavier with guilt. "If I keep him with me, then… He'll just become a monster like me."
In his eyes, a fierce glow resumed. "All I can do is make sure he doesn't do that. I-, I need you to take care of him. He can't continue bouncing from foster home to foster home, eternally thinking his father left him." Angel felt his throat grow dry. "He can't become like me."
At this point, Vince spoke up, "What the hell are you saying? Whether it's a foster home or Angel, he'll still think you abandoned him, right? Angel, you can't-,"
"I'll take care of him." Somehow, it felt as though the desperate fire in Dexter's eyes had alighted something in Angel's chest. Whatever Dexter was, whatever he had done, he was still Angel's friend. He was worthy of all the sympathy and help Angel could muster. "I don't know how much of a dad I can be, but I'll do my best."
Angel was looking at Dexter, but somehow, it felt like he was looking at someone else entirely. The smile that now appeared on Dexter face was, for all intents and purposes, genuine. That was the first thought Angel had. Looking at this smile, this effortless, easy smile, he had the sense that no other smile he had ever seen Dexter make was quite as real as this one. Not the polite smiles, not the have-a-doughnut smiles, not the you're a real friend smiles.
That thought led to another one. Namely, if this smile was genuine, what did that make every other smile? False? Impure? Dishonest?
…Had everything else been acting?
And yet, despite his grave thoughts, that all-too-real smile on Dexter's face never faded. As the seconds passed, it only seemed to grow broader. His posture relaxed, his eyes grew softer. And something about it felt familiar. As if he'd seen that sudden expression before.
…Yes, he had, hadn't he?
Although he wasn't a fervent opposer of it or anything, Angel had his fair share of experience with the electric chair. As Chief of the Homicide department, a significant number of his arrests may one day find themselves strapped to that chair. To most such people, they rejected it until the very end. They fought and they struggled and they pleaded for their lives, begging to be spared.
But there was a minority who did not. A minority of people who quietly accepted their deaths. A small group who slept like babies on death row. Who confessed and said everything with a smile on their face. Who accepted death.
Smiling, with the truth shining in their eyes.
That was the very same expression Dexter held.
And Angel hated it. He hated it and he loathed it and he wanted to punch Dexter in the face just to wipe it off his mug. But he couldn't move. His fingers were folded atop the desk and he couldn't move at all. Sweat beaded across his brow and he couldn't bring himself to wipe it off. He couldn't even say anything. It was like his mouth had been braided shut with steel wire.
"Vince, you can start the camera again. I'll… I'll talk."
Angel almost told Vince not to. In the depths of his inner mind, the cop-part of his brain shouted that he wouldn't like what he was about to hear. That this was the end. And still, bound to his chair by terror, he couldn't move. Vince, moving quietly, turned the camera back on with a click. Once the light was blinking once more, once Vince sat back down on his chair, Dexter spoke.
"I plead guilty to all charges pressed against me."
Silence. The storm had passed overhead, and in the very eye of it, Angel felt his heart stop.
"N-, no you don't," Vince protested pathetically and flew to his feet. "Wh-, what are you even saying all of a sudden?" A trembling smile found its way onto his lips, if only as a reaction to the absurdity of the situation. Angel almost wanted to agree with him. "You're not some fucking killer! Dexter, the evidence they have against you is moot and shit - it's all circumstantial! Even if they paid off fifteen hookers to squawk your name you'd be able to get out of this scot-free!"
The relaxed, confident smile Dexter presented was more than enough to shut Vince up again. "Thanks, Vince, but it's okay. This has been a long time coming." Regret once more painted his features. "I'm… tired of running."
There were so many questions swirling inside Angel's head. So many demands and exclamations and you-need-to-tell-me's. But there was only one he truly needed to know. Only one question he couldn't bear leaving unanswered. Drawing up himself, he spoke softly.
"...Did you kill Maria?"
Dexter stared at him. Unblinking. "I-,"
Injecting every bit of repressed anger and mourning he still had into his words, Angel repeated, "Did you kill Maria Esperanza di Alma LaGuerta, yes or no?"
Dexter's mouth slowly closed. The smile was gone, but his eyes still shone with truth. He spoke only one word.
"Yes."
Angel had reached across the table, grabbed Dexter by the cuff of his jacket and dragged him atop the desk before he even realised what he was doing. Fist reared back, he held Dexter's face close, feeling very closely how the only thing stopping him from throwing Dexter to the floor and jumping atop him was the cuffs chaining the man to the desk. Angel breathed heavily. He wanted to punch him. He wanted to pound him into the dust. He wanted to strike and grind him until only a pile of broken bones and flesh remained. But he couldn't.
Because the face in front of him wasn't the carefree, lackadaisical Dexter it used to be. His eyes shone with remorse and sympathy.
"You hija de puta, I'll fucking-,"
The door burst open and Angela rushed in. "Captain Batista, that's enough!"
He looked over at her. Under his fierce gaze, she cowered slightly. But her hand was ready to grab her gun and Angel knew there was nothing to do. With a scoff and a grumble, Angel released Dexter, letting him collapse back into his chair. Likewise, Angel took his seat again. Inside, he could feel a storm of fire brewing. Dark clouds swirled in his mind.
She'd been right. She'd been right all along, and yet…
Why the hell did Dexter look so fucking apologetic about it?
He had the same expression you might have if you accidentally ran over someone's dog. Or if you dropped their wedding cake. Or if you messed up their report.
Angel was looking the man who killed his wife in the face, and despite the hatred and anger and grief cascading in his heart, he couldn't bring himself to direct it at Dexter. He just couldn't. As a matter of fact, he didn't know where to direct it at all. And now he just wanted to punch Dexter again, but when he looked up, he found Dexter's gaze locked onto Angela. She didn't seem too happy with the attention.
"So, you… You're really confessing?" she asked, almost as if she didn't believe it at all. In response, Dexter gave a single nod. "To-, to being the Bay Harbour Butcher? And to the murder of Matt Caldwell?"
Dexter gave another nod. "It was exactly like you said. I killed him because he once rammed his boat into another, killing five innocents." A pause. "And... and also because he killed my deer."
Angela stumbled back. "I-, I was right?"
"You were." Calling the expression Dexter gave her a 'smile' might have been an exaggeration.
"I can't believe this! I-, I…" Her eyes moved to the wall of missing posters. "Then, you…"
"Kurt is dead," Dexter said simply. "I killed him the night my cabin burnt down."
Somehow, the words didn't appear to sit right with the Iron Lake Chief of police. As a matter of fact, she seemed more upset than anything. Almost as though someone had dangled a bone in front of her face, only to pull it away at the last moment. And that was all very understandable - after all, knowing her obsession with the case, her greatest wish would have been to drag him in and lock him up for all eternity. Not to posthumously find out he's been killed. It was anticlimactic, as it were.
"Nice story - do you have proof about this whatsoever?" Vince snapped.
Turning to him, Angel once more watched with interest as Dexter's eyes turned solemn. "I disposed of anything that might incriminate me to Matt's murder. But with Kurt…" He furrowed his brows in thought. "If you look inside his trophy room, you'll likely find traces of his blood. I didn't have the time or resources to properly clean it up."
Angel felt something slick and disgusting turn over in his stomach.
There was no change. Angel should have known it, considering that he had seen so many criminals, but the way Dexter spoke of disposing of a human body was the same way one might describe taking out the trash. As though it was completely mundane.
Angela's face darkened. "You make me sick." Somehow, Dexter seemed hurt by the remark. She turned her eyes on Masuka. "Masuka, you're coming with me. We'll… check it out."
"Huh?" Vince blinked at her. "But-, but I have-,"
"Now," she growled.
Vince's eyes swam in confusion. That, and shock. He seemed completely stunned by the events that were taking place. "W-, wait, I just…" He gulped. "Can I ask him one question first? Just… just one." Her stare gave him the unsaid answer and Vince turned to Dexter, who had watched the exchange attentively. Vince squirmed under his gaze. "Were… Were we ever friends? You and me?"
Dexter's expression softened, mellowing out into a smile. "Yeah."
And before he could say anything else, Angela dragged him out of the room, leaving Angel and Dexter alone once more. He gulped. It wasn't that he was afraid of Dexter. Now that he thought of it, he couldn't even consider the possibility. Logically, the words his friend… former friend had spoken still lingered in his mind. Logically, he knew that it must be true. Everything pointed to it.
But he had to make sure.
Silently, he removed the files of the Bay Harbour Butcher case from his bag and placed them on the desk.
