Astonishing. Doakes' instinct told him there's something not quite right with Sherlock just like my Dark Passenger sensed the strange visitor is…different. I smile and muse over Doakes' discomfort, especially when the cause is not yours truly for once.
"That's all I need, another Anderson," Sherlock said with a growl. He paused, holding the dead woman's shoe in his hand, and glared at Doakes with cold, pale eyes.
I knew that look. I've often thought to warn Doakes away with that very same cold, empty stare, but I need to stay hidden. I can never let my mask slip and give me away for the monster I truly am. Sherlock, however, doesn't seem to worry about that at all. He doesn't care if people see him for what he really is.
How I envy him.
"What did you say?" Doakes took a threatening step toward Sherlock, who remained cool and confident while staring at Doakes with narrowed eyes.
I found myself moving to intercept him. What was I doing? The unusual action seemed natural, like a reaction as if I was moving to protect…family.
"James, give it a rest!" LaGuerta stepped in front Doakes and glared at him with a warning eye.
He focused his pointed stare on her a moment before stepping down and turning away muttering something unpleasant under his breath.
Good thing Doakes listens to LaGuerta. I'm not sure what my new friend from London would have done, but judging by that look on his face, it probably wouldn't have been pleasant for Doakes.
.
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As he gave the corpse a thorough examination, Sherlock felt comfortable in his element of mystery and clues that no one else knew to look for. There were a precious few things that made him feel this kind of exhilaration and he didn't like squandering the moment. It was almost as if something lurked inside him drinking up every ounce it could get.
Unfortunately, his revelry was shattered as soon as Sergeant Doakes opened his mouth. Hatred washed over Sherlock like fire, and it took everything in him to keep from leaping to his feet and doing something he probably wouldn't have regretted later.
Still, he wasn't about to let the idiot win, so he held his ground and studied every minute detail that is Sergeant Doakes. He was about to announce rather loudly that Doakes wets his pants every time he lifts weights at the gym, a revelation that was sure to provoke the desired embarrassment, when LaGuerta intervened.
Sherlock kept on eye on his new nemesis as the man turned and walked away in a huff. Thank God. He went back to examining the dead woman's shoe and sighed when he learned everything he was going to learn from the corpse.
Needing more data and even more important, needing to think, he abruptly stood up. As he mulled over all the evidence in his quick thinking mind, he paced to and fro generating the expected strange stares from everyone around him.
None of that mattered to Sherlock. He was used to that sort of reaction from the idiots. Besides, he knew that he was about to impress them with what he had learned in so short a time.
He spun on his heel and stopped face to face with Lieutenant LaGuerta. "This is not a one-time incident," he said with a sincere confidant air about him. "It's the work of a serial murderer."
.
.
Oh no. Those were the first words to cross my mind at Sherlock's declaration. The Dark Passenger snarled its disapproval.
I half listened to Sherlock as he described the evidence to LaGuerta and Deb, explaining how he came to that conclusion. It was genius really, but he could cancel my appointment with my chosen playmate and the Dark Passenger was not pleased. At. All.
I had been very meticulous about keeping the killer's victims separate, so a link between them couldn't be made. But Sherlock made that connection and he's asked to look at the forensics gathered on the two bodies he read about in the paper.
Steve Dayton is destined for my table, to meet his end in my play room and I'm not about to let this consulting detective get in the way.
Maybe my new friend was dangerous after all.
I look at my watch. 7pm.
It was getting late and I needed to prepare Steve's final destination. If he's going to end up in my slide collection, it will have to be tonight. "Listen, I've got to go," I said to Deb as I gathered my equipment.
"Dex? What?" asked my dear sister.
"I almost forgot about going to Rita's tonight." I lied as smoothly as ever.
"Alright. See ya later then," Deb said with a knowing wink.
With a convincing smile, I turned to leave but as I did, I caught Sherlock watching me with a cold, calculating gaze. I nodded a smile at him.
He only narrowed his eyes.
.
.
Dexter lied to that woman, Sherlock saw right through it.
Shortly after Dexter made his hasty escape from the crime scene, the other detectives determined that they had seen all there is to see and left to return to the Miami Metro station.
Lieutenant Morgan and Sergeant Batista offered Sherlock a ride to the station that he accepted only after he made it clear to the both of them that he needed silence to think.
As he settled into the back of the car and shot Batista a cold glare that effectively made the man fall quiet, Sherlock found his thoughts pondering about the curious Dexter Morgan. There was something about Dexter Morgan and though he could sense that something as soon as he laid eyes on Dexter, he just couldn't place what is was. Yet.
Why would Dexter lie to, Sherlock presumed, his sister? There was that quick flash of surprised fear that flashed across Dexter's face when Sherlock revealed the corpse as the victim of a serial murderer. That particular look of surprise wasn't the usual look he gets when he shows off. No. That was the look of a secret unexpectedly uncovered.
Was Dexter involved with this murder? That was a very real possibility and Sherlock suddenly had to know everything there was to know about Dexter Morgan.
Arriving at the station, Sherlock followed Debra and Batista up the two floors to the Homicide Division of Miami Metro. Batista made a round of introductions, but Sherlock could have cared less. He nodded his way through the monumental waste of time and asked for a place where he could work.
"Right this way," said Masuka, the annoying forensics investigator, and he beckoned Sherlock over to his office. "You can work in Dexter's office since we all know he's out getting some." He gave Sherlock a knowing wink. "I'll go get the stuff from those other cases for you."
Sherlock didn't really know what Masuka hinted at by the wink, so he didn't answer and frowned as he entered the small laboratory. He flipped on the light and stood in the middle of the room, taking in every detail from the microscope to the same trays.
Every item, every detail in that room was mentally stored in Sherlock's memory and subjected to instant examination. There was something missing. No personal touches, Sherlock noted. Usually people set out family photos and the like, but the only photos were the blood spatter images on the wall.
This was the first time Sherlock saw an office with none of those personal touches present. Almost as if the man that worked there was a ghost. Interesting.
Sherlock also observed that the lab was incredibly clean. More than it needed to be. There wasn't a spot of dust or a stain on the counter. No object lay out of place, all items visible have been neatly placed in perfect order. Intriguing.
Finally, Masuka returned with the evidence from the other murders. He sauntered into the small lab and set the items on the desk. "If you need any…"
"Shut up!" Sherlock interrupted with an impatient abruptness. "A game is on!" He smiled and glanced up at the blood spatter photos.
Dexter Morgan. Blood Splatter Analyst for Miami Metro Homicide. Murderer? Fascinatingly brilliant!
.
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To be continued.