Jeff Lindsay - Double Dexter

And that next man came in like he d been waiting his whole life for just the right cue line to his dramatic entrance. I heard a stiff and rhythmic clumping in the hall as Hood s last two words still hung in the air, and then the real happiest man in the world came in.

I say man, but in truth it was really no more than three-fourths of a flesh-and-blood Homo sapiens. The prosthetic clatter of his steps revealed that the living feet were gone, and twin metal pincers gleamed where his hands should have been. But the teeth were still human, and every single one of them was showing as he stumped in and gave a large manila envelope to Hood.

Thanks, Hood said, and Sergeant Doakes just nodded and kept his eyes fixed on me, his supernaturally happy smile stretching across his face and filling me with dread.

What the fuck is this? Deborah said, but Hood just shook his head and opened the envelope. He pulled out what looked like an eight-by-ten glossy picture and twirled it onto my desk.

Can you tell me what this is? he said to me.

I reached over and picked up the photo. I did not recognize it, but as I looked at it I had a brief and unsettling moment of feeling that I had lost my mind as I thought, But that looks like me! And then I took a steadying breath, looked again, and thought, It is me! Which made absolutely no sense, no matter how reassuring it was.

It was me. It was a picture of Dexter: shirtless, half turned away from the camera, and stepping away from a body sprawled on the pavement. My first thought was, But I don t remember leaving a body there. And it doesn t really say good things about me to admit it, but my second thought, as I looked at my bared torso, was, I look good! Muscle tone excellent, abs in good shape no sign of the very slight spare tire that had been settling around my waist lately. So the picture was probably a year or two old which did not explain why Doakes was so pleased with it.

I pushed away my narcissistic thoughts and tried to focus on the picture itself, since it apparently represented a very real threat to me. Nothing occurred, no hint of where it had been taken or who had taken it, and I looked up at Hood. Where did you get this? I asked.

Do you recognize the picture? Hood said.

I ve never seen it before, I said.

But I think that s me.

Doakes made a kind of gurgling sound that might have been laughter, and Hood nodded as if a thought was actually forming in his bony head. You think, he said.

Yes, I do, I said. And it really doesn t hurt; you should try it sometime.

Hood pulled another photo out of the envelope and flipped it onto the desk. What about this one? he said. You think that s you, too?

I looked at the picture. This one showed the same setting as the first, but now I was a bit farther away from the body and pulling on a shirt. Something new had come into the field of focus, and after a moment of study I recognized it as the back of Angel Batista s head. He was bending over the body on the ground, and the little lightbulb over my head finally went on.

Oh, I said, and relief flooded in. This was not a picture of Dexter caught in the act of shuffling off somebody s mortal coil; it was Dexter on Duty, a mere workaday nothing. I could explain it simply, even prove it, and I was off the hook. Now I remember. This was like two years ago, a crime scene in Liberty City. Drive-by shooting three victims, very messy. I got blood on my shirt.

Uh-huh, Hood said, and Doakes shook his head, still smiling fondly.

Well, I said, it happens sometimes. I keep a clean shirt in my bag just in case. Hood kept staring at me; I shrugged. So I changed into the clean shirt, I said, hoping he would understand at last.

Good idea, he said, nodding as if he approved of my solid common sense, and he threw one more picture onto the desk.

What about this one?

I picked it up. It was me again, very obviously me. It was a close-up shot of my face, in profile. I was looking off into the distance with an expression of noble longing that probably meant it was time for lunch. There was a slight dusting of beard stubble on my face, which hadn t been there in the first pictures, so this one had been taken at a different time. But because it was so very tightly focused on my face, I couldn t make out anything at all that would tell me more about the picture, or when it had been taken. On the plus side, that meant there was no way it could be used to prove anything against me, either.

So I shook my head and flipped the picture back onto my desk.

Very nice picture, I said. Tell me, Detective, do you think a man can be too handsome?

Yeah, said Hood. I think he can be too fucking funny, too. And he flipped one last photo onto the desk. Laugh this one off, funny boy.

I picked up the picture. It showed me again, but this time standing face-to-face with Camilla Figg. There was an expression of startled adoration on her face, a look of such fond longing that even a dolt like Hood could read it without help. I stared, scanning for clues, and finally recognized the background. This had been taken at the Torch, where Officer Gunther had been found. But so what? Why was this large and stupid thug showing me pictures of me, nice as they were?

I flipped the photo back onto the desk with the others. I had no idea I was so photogenic, I said. Do I get to keep them?

No, Hood said. He leaned over me to the desk and the odor of unwashed detective overlaid with cheap cologne almost made me gag. Hood scooped up the photos and straightened as he stuffed them back into the envelope.

With Hood a few feet away from me once more, I managed to breathe again, and since my curiosity was coming to a boil, I used the breath for something practical. They re all very nice pictures, I said. But so what?

So what? Hood said, and Doakes made another one of his tongueless but joyful sounds; there were no actual words to it, but the garbled syllables had a distinct overtone of gotcha that I did not like at all. Is that all you got to say about your girlfriend s photo collection?

I m married, I said. I don t have a girlfriend.

Not anymore you don t, Hood said.

She s dead. And as if they were wired together and controlled from offstage, Hood and Doakes showed all their teeth in unison in a blinding display of enamel and carnivorous happiness. These were in Camilla Figg s apartment, Hood said. And there s hundreds more of em.

He pointed a finger the size of a banana right between my eyes.

All of you, he said.

Somewhere in this world it is quite possible that children laughed without a care and played with unworried joy. Somewhere, gentle breezes probably blew across a field of grass as innocent young lovers held hands and strolled through the sunlight. And somewhere on this grubby little globe it is even remotely possible that peace, love, and happiness were abounding in the hearts and minds of the righteous. But right now, in the present location, Dexter was Deep in the Doo-doo, and happiness of any kind was a bitter, mocking fable unless your name was Hood or Doakes, in which case you were in the best of all possible worlds. See the funny Dexter? See him squirm? See the sweat pop out on his forehead? Ha, ha, ha. What a funny, funny guy. Oh, look his mouth is moving, but nothing is coming out except meaningless vowels. Sweat, Dexter. Stutter and sweat. Ha, ha, ha. Dexter is funny.

I was still struggling to find a consonant when my sister spoke up. What the fuck are you trying to pull here, shithead? she said, and I realized that those were the exact words I had been searching for, so I closed my mouth and nodded.

Hood raised his eyebrows, and his forehead was so low they almost merged with his hair. Pull? he said with exaggerated innocence. I m not pulling nothing. I m investigating a murder.