Jeff Lindsay - Dexter is delicious

"You are the arresting officer?" the attorney said, as though that was another term for "baby rapist."

"Yes," Deborah said. "And you are?"

"DeWanda Hoople, public defender's office," she said, like everybody would know that name. "I think we're going to have to let Mr. Chapin go."

Deborah shook her head. "I don't think so," she said.

Ms. Hoople revealed a world-class set of front teeth, though it would be an exaggeration to call it a smile. "It doesn't matter what you think, Sergeant Morgan," she said. "Plain and simple, in one-syllable words, You Don't Have a Case."

"That little shit is a cannibal," Deborah snarled, "and he knows where I can find a missing girl."

"Oh, my," Ms. Hoople said. "I assume you have some proof of that?"

"He ran from me," Deborah said, a little sulky, "and then he said he didn't eat any of it."

Hoople raised her eyebrows. "Did he say any of what?" she said with sweet reason dripping from her tongue.

"The context was clear," Debs said.

"I'm sorry," said Hoople. "I'm not familiar with the statutes concerning context."

Knowing my sister as well as I did, I could see that she was about to explode, and if I had been Ms. Hoople I would be backing away with my hands held out in front of me. Deborah took a very deep breath and said through her teeth, "Ms. Hoople. Your client knows where Samantha Aldovar is. Saving her life is the important thing here."

But Ms. Hoople just smiled wider. "Not more important than the Bill of Rights," she said. "You're going to have to let him go."

Deborah looked at her and I saw that she was almost trembling as she fought to control herself. If ever there was a situation that clearly called for a strong right fist to the nose, this was it, and it was not normally my sister's way to ignore that call. But she struggled, and she won. "Ms. Hoople," she said at last.

"Yes, Sergeant?"

"When we have to tell Samantha Aldovar's parents their daughter is dead and this guy could have saved her but we had to let him go," Deborah said, "I want you to come with me."

"That's not my job," Ms. Hoople said.

"It shouldn't be mine, either," Deborah told her. "But you just made sure it is." Ms. Hoople had nothing to say to that, and Deborah turned and walked away.

I drove home through the rush-hour traffic at the usual snail's pace, and I will admit that I was pondering. So many strange and baffling things going on at once; Samantha Aldovar and cannibalism in Miami and Deborah's strange emotional meltdown and the troubling reappearance of my brother, Brian. And perhaps strangest of all was the New Dexter who stood facing all these challenges. No longer the Sly Master of Dark Delights, now amazingly transformed into Daddyman, Champion of Children and the Family Way.

… And yet here I was spending all my time away from my family, in a pointless chase after bad people and a girl I didn't even know. I mean, a job is one thing, but could I really excuse neglecting my new child for all these extra hours just to support Deborah's Freudian search for a missing family? Wasn't it just a little bit of a contradiction?

And now, even more bizarre and unsettling, as I pondered these things, I began to feel bad. Me, Dark Dead Dexter, not merely feeling but feeling bad; it really boggled the imagination. I had been patting myself on the back for my amazing transformation, and yet in reality I had turned from the Happy Slasher into just another absentee parent, which was no more than a different kind of abuse. Aside from the fact that I hadn't actually killed anybody lately, what was there to be proud of?

Feelings of guilt and shame washed over me. So this was what it was like to be a real human parent. I had three wonderful kids, and all they had was me. They deserved so much more. They needed a father who was there to guide their steps and teach them about life, and they were stuck with someone who apparently cared more about finding somebody else's girl than playing with his own. It was horrible, inhuman. I had not really reformed at all-I had just changed into a different kind of monster.

And the older two, Cody and Astor-they still lived willingly in a desire for darkness. They looked to me to teach them to chase through the shadows. I had not only neglected to do that, but far worse, I had never even begun to steer them away from wanting to do it. Guilt upon guilt: I knew that I had to spend real quality time with them, bring them back to the light, show them that life held joys deeper than any knife could go. And to do all this, I had to be there, do things with them, and I had failed.

But maybe it wasn't too late. Maybe I could still make my mark with them. After all, I could not change completely just by wanting to, bursting from my wicked cocoon and emerging as a totally new human father. It took time to learn how to be a human, let alone to be a parent, and I was very new at this. I had to give me a little bit of credit-I had much to learn, but I was trying. And kids are very forgiving. If I could really start now and do something rare and special, as a way to show them that things had changed and that their Real Father had arrived, surely they would respond with gladness and respect.

And with that resolved I felt instantly better-Dex-Daddy was back on track. As if to prove that things were falling into place just the way a wise and compassionate Universe wanted them, I saw a giant toy store in a strip mall on my left, and without hesitation I pulled into the lot, parked, and went in.

I looked around the store and what I saw was not encouraging. There were rows and rows of violent toys, almost as if I had wandered into a store designed for the children of the old Dexter. There were swords, knives, light sabers, machine guns, bombs, pistols and rifles that shot plastic bullets and paintballs and Nerfs, rockets that blew up your friends or your friends' whole city-aisle after aisle of training devices for recreational slaughter. No wonder our world was such a mean and violent place-and no wonder there were people like I had been. If we teach children that killing is fun, can we really be surprised if now and then someone is smart enough to learn?

I wandered through the havoc factory until I finally found a small corner of the store labeled EDUCATIONAL. There were several shelves of crafts, some science kits, some board games. I looked it all over carefully, searching for something that hit just the right tone. It had to be educational, yes, but not dull or geeky, and not something that you did by yourself, like the kits. I needed something that was inspiring, but fun for us all.

I finally settled on a quiz game called Head of the Class. One person asked questions and everyone else took turns answering-perfect. It would bring us all together as a family, and we would all learn so much-and enjoy doing it. Cody would even have to speak in full sentences. Yes, this was it.

As I headed for the register I passed a shelf stacked with talking books, the kind with the row of buttons you push to make sound effects. There were several with fairy tales, and I immediately thought of Lily Anne. What a great way to hook her into a lifetime of reading enjoyment-I could read her the stories while she pushed the appropriate button on cue, and all while reading classic fairy tales. It was much too good to pass by, and I picked three of the most promising fairy tales.

I took the box and the books to the register and paid. The game was almost twenty dollars with tax, but I truly felt it was worth it, money well spent, and I did not regret the expense.

It was already dark by the time I turned my car down the street where I lived. Three-quarters of a lonely moon guttered low on the horizon and called to me in a voice of longing, making plaintive and playful suggestions about what Dexter could do with a knife and a night like this. We know where Chapin lives, it whispered. We could cut him to the canines and make him tell us many useful things, and everybody would be happy…