Jeff Lindsay - Dexter by Design

Perhaps the Passenger was not yet settled back in comfortably after its recent flight. Or perhaps it was still recovering from the trauma —although this didn't seem likely, judging by the growing power of my Need.

So why the sudden shyness? If something wicked transpired under our nose, I had come to expect a response beyond amusement.

It had not come. Therefore —nothing wicked had happened? That made even less sense, since we quite clearly had four very dead bodies.

It also meant that I was, apparently, on my own —and there was Deborah staring at me with a very hard and expectant glare. So back up a step, oh great and grim genius. Something was different about these killings, beyond the rather garish presentation of the bodies.

And presentation was exactly the right word —they were displayed in a way calculated to make maximum impact.

But on whom? Conventional wisdom in the psychopathic killer community would say that the more trouble you go to show off, the more you want an adoring audience. But it is also common knowledge that the police keep such sights under tight wraps —and even if they didn't, none of the news media would run pictures of such terrible things; believe me, I have looked.

So, who could the presentations be aimed at? The police? The forensics wonks? Me? None of those were likely, and beyond those and the three or four people who had discovered the bodies, nobody had seen anything, and there had been only the tremendous outcry from the entire state of Florida, desperate to save the tourist industry.

A thought snapped my eyes open, and there was Deborah staring at me like an Irish setter on point.

“What, goddamn it?” she said.

“What if this is what they want?” I said.

She stared at me for a moment, looking quite a bit like Cody and Astor when they've just woken up. “What's that mean?” she finally said.

“The first thing I thought about the bodies was that it wasn't about killing them. It was about playing with them afterwards. Displaying them.”

Debs snorted. “I remember. It still doesn't make any sense.”

“But it does” I said. “If somebody is trying to create an effect. To have an impact in some way. So look at it backwards —what impact has this already had?”

“Aside from getting media attention all over the world—”

“No, not aside from that. That is exactly what I mean.” She shook her head. “What?”

“What's wrong with media attention, sis? The whole world is looking at the Sunshine State —at Miami, tourist beacon to the world.”

“They're looking, and they're saying no fucking way am I going anywhere near that slaughter house” Deb said. “Come on, Dex, what's the fucking point? I told you —oh.” She frowned. “You're saying somebody did this to attack the tourist industry? The whole fucking state? That's fucking nuts.”

“You think somebody did this who isn't nuts, sis?”

“But who the hell would do that?” I don't know” I said. “California?”

“Come on, Dexter” she snarled. “It has to make sense. If somebody does this, they have to have some kind of motive.”

“Somebody with a grudge” I said, sounding a lot more certain than I felt.

“A grudge against the whole fucking state?” she said. “Is that supposed to make sense?”

“Well, not really” I said.

“Then how about if you come up with something that does make sense? And, like, right now? Because I don't see how this could get much worse.”

If life teaches us anything, it is to flinch away and roll under the furniture whenever anyone is foolish enough to utter those fell words. And sure enough, the dreadful syllables were barely out of Deborah's mouth when the phone on her desk buzzed for her attention, and some small and rather nasty voice whispered in my ear that this would be a great time to wedge myself under the desk in the foetal position.

Deborah snatched up the phone, still glaring at me, and then suddenly turned away and hunched over. She muttered a few shocked syllables that sounded like, “When? Jesus. Right” and then she hung up and turned a look on me that made her previous glare seem like the first kiss of springtime. “You motherfucker” she said.

“What did I do?” I said, rather surprised by the cold fury in her voice.

“That's what I want to know” she said.

Even a monster reaches a point where irritation begins to trickle in, and I believe I was very close to that point. “Deborah, either you start speaking complete sentences that actually make sense, or I'm going back to the lab to polish the spectrometer.”

“There's a break in the case” she said.

“Then why aren't we happy?”

“It's at the Tourist Board” she said.

I opened my mouth to say something witty and cutting, and then I closed it again.

“Yeah” Deborah said. “Almost like somebody had a grudge against the whole state.”

“And you think it's me?” I said, beyond irritation now and all the way to open-mouthed astonishment. She just stared at me. “Debs, I think somebody put lead in your coffee. Florida is my home —you want me to sing “Swanee River?” It might not have been the offer to sing that animated her, but whatever it was she looked at me for another long moment and then jumped up. “Come on, let's get over there” she said.

The? What about Coulter, your partner?”

“He's getting coffee, fuck him,” she said. “Besides, I'd rather partner with a warthog. Come on.” For some reason I did not actually swell with pride at being slightly better than a warthog, but when duty calls, Dexter answers, and I followed her out the door.

The Greater Miami Convention and Visitor's Bureau was in a high-rise building on Brickell Avenue, as befitted its status as a very important organization.

The full majesty of its purpose was reflected in the view from its windows, which showed a lovely slice of downtown and Government Cut, a swathe of Biscayne Bay, and even the nearby Arena where the basketball team shows up from time to time for some really dramatic losses.

It was a wonderful view, almost a postcard, as if to say, “Look —this is Miami: we weren't kidding.” Very few of the Bureau's employees seemed to be enjoying the view today, however. The office resembled a giant oak-lined bee's nest that somebody had poked with a stick. There could not have been more than a handful of employees, but they were flitting in and out of doors and up and down the hallway so rapidly it looked like there were hundreds of them in constant motion, like crazed particles in a whirring jar of oil.

Deborah stood at the receptionist's desk for two full minutes —a lifetime as far as her sense of patience was concerned —before a large woman paused and stared at her.

“What do you want?” the woman demanded.

Debs immediately flashed her badge. “I'm Sergeant Morgan. From the police?”

“Oh my God” the woman said. “I'll get Jo Anne” and disappeared through a door on the right. Deborah looked at me as if it was my fault and said, “Jesus” and then the door slammed open again and a small woman with a long nose and a short haircut came barreling out.

“Police?” she said with real outrage in her voice. She looked beyond us and then back to Deborah. “You're the police? What, the pin-up police?”

Of course, Deborah was used to having people challenge her, but usually not quite so brutally. She actually blushed a little before she held up her badge again and said, “Sergeant Morgan. Do you have some information for us?”

“This is no time for being politically correct” the woman said. I need Dirty Harry, and they send Legally Blonde.” Deborah's eyes narrowed and the pretty red flush left her cheeks.