Jeff Lindsay - Dexter's Final Cut

“Who the fuck do you think it is?” snarled somebody who could only be Deborah. “Open the fucking door!”

I opened the fucking door and Deborah shoved furiously past me and into the room. She stopped when she saw Jackie slumped on the couch, red eyed and runny nosed and, it must be admitted, not really looking her very best. Debs turned back to me, and for the first time seemed to notice that my attire was somewhat informal. She shook her head, still clearly smoldering about things in general and looking for something to scorch. As usual, it turned out to be me.

“Nice panties,” she said, glancing pointedly at my boxers. “You plan to chase this guy like that?”

I truly wanted to tell Deborah that I wasn’t going to be chasing this guy at all, not without a scuba tank-but I couldn’t. Debs knows what I am, and in her limited way she almost approves-but Jackie did not, could not, and that would have made the conversation very awkward. And I was still closing my mouth when that tiny, mean-spirited uncertainty crept back in, the completely ridiculous, illogical thought that I might have killed the wrong person. So instead I simply said, “Does it really look like the same killer?”

Deborah glared at me. “How many of these freaks you think we got running around?” she said, and I had a very uncomfortable moment before she added, “I haven’t seen the body yet, but it sounds the same.”

“Oh,” I said, with a small flutter of hope. Jackie snuffled loudly, and I remembered why. “Do they have a positive ID?”

“The driver’s license picture matches up,” Deborah said. “It’s her, no doubt. Kathy Podrowski.” And she looked at Jackie and said, rather unnecessarily, “Your assistant.”

Jackie made a sound somewhere between a moan and a retch, and Deborah turned back to me. “We both know what this means,” she said. “And we both know what we have to do about it.”

“Yes,” I said. “You have to tell the officer in charge what we’ve been sitting on.”

“That’s right,” she snarled.

“Um,” I said. “Who has the lead?”

Deborah’s face got even angrier, which was impressive. “Anderson,” she spat.

I blinked. “But that’s …” I said, but Debs shook her head bitterly.

“Two drive-bys this week, plus a ritual beheading, and the cannibal thing in the Grove,” she said. “So Anderson comes up in the rotation again, because I am busy covering up this psycho bullshit and when Captain Matthews finds out I’ll be lucky if I only get busted down to Code Enforcement and- Shit , Dexter!”

There was a faint sound of throat clearing from the couch, and we both turned to Jackie. She was sitting up very straight, knees together, one hand held at her throat. Her eyes were red rimmed, but she had stopped sniffling and was clearly trying to control her emotions. “If it could hurt your career …” she said tentatively.

“Don’t even say it,” Deborah snapped.

Jackie looked puzzled, then shocked. She shook her head. “Oh, no,” she said. “I was just … I was going to say, I can tell them it was my fault. Which it is, because your orders were to do what I asked, and …” She raised a hand, then dropped it to the couch beside her. “I just … I don’t want anybody else to get hurt,” she finished weakly. She met Deborah’s glare for a moment without blinking, and then she glanced away. “It’s my fault,” she said, and she looked so small and vulnerable that I wanted to kill things for her.

Deborah didn’t seem to feel the same way. “It doesn’t matter what you tell them,” she said harshly. “I’m a sworn officer and I am supposed to know better.” She stared at Jackie, but Jackie didn’t look up, and after a moment Deborah’s look softened just a bit and she said, “It’s not your fault. I’m the one who- I do know better than this, and I did it anyway.” Deborah straightened up like she was getting ready to face a firing squad-which she was, administratively speaking. “I fucked up. I had the responsibility, so I take the heat,” she said. She took a deep breath, turned away, and headed for the door with such a precise march step that I could almost hear “Colonel Bogey” playing.

“Deborah,” I said. She looked at me bleakly with one hand on the doorknob, but I couldn’t think of anything to say to make it better. “Um … good night …?”

Debs looked at me without expression for what seemed like a long time. Then she just shook her head, opened the door, and left.

I went over and put the chain and the security lock back on. I stood there for a moment, thinking about what Kathy’s death meant. Whether the chat with Deborah had sent a jolt of adrenaline into my brain, or I was just coming fully awake, I began to see small and troubling inconsistencies. If somebody was able to get into Kathy’s room, wouldn’t it be just as easy to get in here, into our room? And even more basic: Why Kathy? She was not blond, not young, and definitely not attractive. Her body had not been dumped somewhere public, and Debs said there was blood coming under the door, which did not fit the way the other victims had been butchered. Of course, Patrick could have been rushed, might have had to hurry more than he liked, and so-

But no: absolutely not. It truly was impossible, and I pushed the thought firmly away. It was not Patrick, could not be Patrick. I had killed him and no other, and Patrick was dead and gone, half eaten already by hungry sea life. And no matter how popular the notion was on TV at the moment, I refused to believe that he had come back from the dead. It was very definitely not Patrick.

So who was it?

Who had killed Kathy, and why?

And what, if anything, did I do about it? After all, it really wasn’t my problem. Kathy had hated me, and I had no reason to care. Her death, no matter how unpleasant, had absolutely nothing to do with me, and there was no reason at all I should give it a second thought.

Of course Jackie was upset, but she would find a new assistant. She should be more worried about losing the role that had brought her to Miami. Because Deborah really would have to report the threat of a stalker. Even if I told my sister that the stalker was no more, she could not very well tell another detective.

And so Debs was probably right-she was in trouble. How much trouble would depend on a lot of things, like what kind of spin she gave it when she told Matthews what had happened. There were possibilities; by emphasizing very carefully that she had been following orders, assisting the production, and that she had given Detective Anderson the relevant information but he had been busy making a complete mess of the investigation, it could be done. Deborah might come out of it unharmed. Of course, it would have to be done very subtly, but still-

And as that word “subtly” passed through my mind, I sighed. Deborah was as subtle as a steam shovel. She would not have even an inkling of how to go about something like this. I might be able to script it for her, but she could never perform it as written. I knew my sister well, and although she had vast ability as a cop, she had absolutely none as a politician. She had never been able to make herself play the game properly, and she wasn’t going to start now. Besides, she had already worked herself up into a masochistic frenzy and was clearly almost eager to take the bullet here, because it was the Right Thing to do-as if that ever really meant anything.

No: The way things stood right now, Deb’s goose was cooked. And when that happened, Dexter was bound to end up as dessert. I was supposed to know where the line was, just as clearly as she did, and I had just as certainly crossed it. I wasn’t sure what my punishment would be-Code Enforcement had no forensics department-but it would almost certainly be something unpleasant. Suspension, probably loss of pay-and just when I needed the money most.