Jeff Lindsay - Dexter by Design

So a bemused and slightly unsettled Dexter trudged after Vince, under the yellow crime scene tape, and over to the side door of the building, where the body had been discovered. As I approached the carefully guarded spot where it lay in all its glory, I heard a strange and near-idiot whistling sound, and realized it was me. Because in spite of the see-through plastic mask glued to the face, in spite of the yawning body cavity which was filled with what appeared to be Cub Scout uniform items and paraphernalia, and in spite of the fact that it was completely impossible that I was right, I recognized the body from ten feet away.

It was Roger Deutsch, Cody's Scout master.

THE BODY HAD BEEN PROPPED IN THE RECESS AROUND THE side door of the building, the one that served as an emergency exit for the combination cafeteria and auditorium of the school. One of the servers had stepped outside for a smoke and seen it, and had to be sedated, which was easy for me to understand after I took a quick look. And after a second, more careful examination, I very nearly needed a sedative myself.

Roger Deutsch had a lanyard around his neck, with a whistle hanging from it. As before, the body cavity had been scooped out and then filled with interesting things —in this case, a Cub Scout uniform, a colorful book that said Big Bear Cub Scout Handbook on the cover, and some other gear. I could see the handle of a hand axe sticking up, and a pocket knife with the Cub Scout logo on it.

As I bent closer to look, I also saw a grainy picture, printed on regular white paper, with BE PREPARED printed on it in large black letters. The picture showed a blurry shot, taken from some distance away, of several boys and one adult going into this same building. And although it was impossible to prove it, I knew quite well who the adult and one of the children were.

Me and Cody.

There was no mistaking the familiar curve of Cody's back. And there was no mistaking the message, either.

It was a very odd moment, kneeling there on the pavement and looking at a blurry, indistinct picture of myself and Cody, and wondering if anybody would see me if I took it. I had never tampered with evidence before, but then again, I had never been part of it, either. And it was quite clear that this was meant for me. BE PREPARED, and the photo. It was a warning, a challenge: ” know who you are and I know how to hurt you And here I come.

BE PREPARED.

I was not prepared. I did not yet know where Weiss might be, and I did not know what or when his next move would be, but I did know that he had moved everything several notches ahead of me, and he had raised the stakes considerably at the same time. This was not a stolen dead body, and it was not anonymous. Weiss had killed Roger Deutsch, not just modified his body. And he had chosen this victim carefully, deliberately, in order to get at me.

It was a complex threat, too. Because the picture added another dimension —it said: I may get you, and I may get Cody, or I may simply expose you for what we both know you are. On top of that was the sure knowledge that if I was exposed and slapped in jail, Cody would have no protection at all against whatever Weiss might do.

I looked hard at the picture, trying to decide if anyone else could tell it was me, and whether taking it was worth the risk of removing and destroying it. But before I could make any decision, the feather stroke of an invisible black wing brushed across my face and raised the hair along my neck.

The Dark Passenger had been very quiet through this whole thing so far, contenting himself with a disinterested smirk from time to time, and offering no really cogent observations. But now the message was clear, and it echoed the one on the photograph: Be prepared. You are not alone. And I knew just as certainly as I possibly could that somewhere nearby something was looking at me and harboring wicked thoughts, watching me as the tiger watches its prey.

Slowly, carefully, as if I had simply forgotten something in the car, I stood up and walked back toward where we had parked. As I walked I casually scanned the parking area; not looking for anything in particular, just Dopey Dexter ambling along in a perfectly normal way, and under the nonchalant and distracted smile the black smoke boiled and I looked for something that I knew was looking at me.

And found it.

Over there, in the nearest row of the parking lot, maybe a hundred feet away from me, right where it would provide the best view, a small bronze-colored sedan was parked. And through the windshield, something winked at me; sunlight off the lens of a camera.

Still so very careful and casual, even though the darkness was roaring through me with a knife edge blossoming, I took a step toward the car. Across the distance I saw the bright flash of the camera coming down, and the small pale face of a man, and the black wings rattled and crashed between us for one very long second ...

Then the car started up, backed out of the parking spot with a small squeal of rubber, and disappeared out of the lot and away into traffic. Although I sprinted forward, the most I could see of the license plate was the first half: OGA and three numbers that might have been anything, although I thought the middle one was either a 3 or an 8.

But with the description of the car, it was enough. I would at least find the registration of the car. It would not be registered to Weiss, couldn't be. Nobody is that stupid, not in this day of nonstop police drama in all the media. But a small hope flickered. He had left quickly, not wanting me to see him or his car, and just this once I might have some small bit of luck.

I stood there for nearly a minute, letting the wild wind inside me settle back down into a neatly coiled and steadily purring thing.

My heart was pumping as it seldom did in the light of day, and I realized that it was a very good thing that Weiss had been just a little bit shy, and had taken off so readily. After all, what would I have done otherwise? Pulled him out of the car and killed him? Or had him arrested and flung into a squad car, so he could begin to tell everyone who would listen all about Dexter?

No, it was just as well that he had escaped. I would find him, and we would meet on my terms, in the suitable dark of a night that could not come soon enough for me.

I took a deep breath, plastered my best phony working smile back onto my face, and walked back to the pile of decorative meat that had been Cody's scout master.

Vince Masuoka was squatting by the body when I got there, but instead of doing something useful, he was simply staring at the stuff shoved into the cavity and frowning. He looked up as I approached, and said, “What do you think it means?”

“I'm sure I have no idea,” I said. I just do blood spatter. They pay detectives to figure out what it means.” Vince cocked his head and looked at me as if I had told him we were supposed to eat the body. “Did you know that Detective Coulter is in charge of the investigation?” he said.

“Maybe they pay him for something else” I said, and I felt a small surge of hope. I had forgotten this detail, but it was worth remembering. With Coulter in charge, I could confess to the murder, hand him videos of me performing it, and he would still find a way not to prove it.

So it was with something approaching good cheer that I went back to work —tempered with very real impatience to get it finished and get back to my computer to track down Weiss. Happily, there was very little blood spatter on site —Weiss appeared to be the kind of neatnik I admired —and therefore there was almost nothing for me to do. I finished up shortly and begged a ride back to headquarters with one of the squad cars. The driver, a large white-haired guy named Stewart, talked about the Dolphins all the way back, apparently not really caring if I spoke back.