Jeff Lindsay - Dexter by Design

By the time we got back to headquarters I had learned some wonderful things about the approaching football season and what we should have done during the off-season but had somehow, inexplicably, managed to bungle once again, which would certainly lead to another season of ineptitude and shameful losses. I thanked him for the ride and the vital information and fled for my computer.

The database for automobile registration is one of the most basic tools of police work, both in reality and in fiction, and it was with a slight sense of shame that I went to it now. It really just seemed too easy, straight out of a rather simple-minded television drama. Of course, if it led to finding Weiss I would somehow overcome the feeling that this was almost like cheating, but for the time being I really kind of wished for a clue that would call for something a little more clever. Still, we work with the tools we are given, and hope that someone asks us later for constructive criticism.

After only fifteen minutes I had combed the entire Florida state database, and found three small bronze-colored vehicles with the letters OGA on their license tag. One of them was registered in Kissimmee, which seemed like a bit of a commute. Another was a 3 Rambler, and I was reasonably sure that I would have noticed something that distinctive.

That left number three, a 1995 Honda, registered to a Kenneth A Wimble on NW 98th Street in Miami Shores. The address was in an area of modest homes, and it was relatively close to the place in the Design District where Deborah had been stabbed. It really wouldn't even be a terribly long walk —so that, for example, if the police came to your little nest on NE 40th you could easily hop out the back door and amble a few blocks over until you found an unattended car.

But then what? If you are Weiss, where do you take this car? It seemed to me that you would take it far away from wherever you stole it. So probably the very last place on earth that he would be was the house on N W 98th Street. Unless there was some connection between Weiss and Wimble. It would be perfectly natural to borrow a friend's car: Just some casual butchery, buddy —back in a couple of hours.

Of course, for some bizarre reason, we don't have a National Registry of Who Your Friends Are. One would assume that this administration would have thought of that, and rammed it through Congress. It would certainly make my work easier now. But no such luck; if they were indeed chums, I would have to find out the hard way, by a personal visit. It was merely due diligence in any case. But first I would see if I could uncover anything at all about Kenneth A Wimble.

A quick check of the database showed that he had no criminal record, at least not under that name. His utilities were paid, although payment on his propane bill had been late several times. Digging a little deeper, going into the tax records, I discovered that Wimble was self-employed, and his occupation was listed as video editor.

Coincidence is always possible. Strange and improbable things happen every day, and we accept them and simply scratch our heads like rubes in the big city, and say, “Gollee, ain't that somethin'.” But this seemed to be stretching coincidence past the breaking point.

I had been following a writer who had left a video trail, and now the trail had led me to a video professional. And since there comes a time and place when the seasoned investigator must accept the fact that he has stumbled on something that is probably not coincidence, I murmured, “Aha” very quietly to myself. I thought I sounded quite professional saying it, too.

Wimble was in on this in some way, tied up with Weiss in making and sending the videos, and therefore, presumably in arranging the bodies and finally in killing Roger Deutsch. So when Deborah had come knocking at the door, Weiss fled to his other partner, Wimble.

A place to hide, a small bronze-colored car to borrow, and on with the show.

All right then, Dexter. Mount up and move out. We know where he is, and now is the time to go get him; before he decides to put my name and picture on the front page of the Miami Herald. Up and away. Let's go.

Dexter? Are you there, buddy?

I was there. But I suddenly found, oddly enough, that I really missed Deborah. This was exactly the kind of thing I should be doing with her —after all, it was bright daylight out there, and that was not truly Dexter's Dominion. Dexter needs darkness to blossom into the real life of the party that he is deep inside. Sunlight and hunting do not mix. With Deborah's badge I could have stayed hidden in plain sight, but without it... I was not actually nervous, of course, but I was a little bit uneasy.

However, there was no choice at all. Deborah was lying in a hospital bed, Weiss and his dear friend Wimble were giggling at me in a house on 98th Street, and Dexter was dithering about daylight.

And that would not do, not at all.

So stand, breathe, stretch. Once more into the breach, dear Dexter. Get up and be gone. And I did, and I headed out the door to my car, but I could not shake the strange feeling of unease.

The feeling lasted all the way over to NW 98th Street, even through the soothing homicidal rhythm of the traffic. Something was wrong somewhere and Dexter was headed into it somehow.

But since there was nothing more definite than that, I kept going, and wondering what was really chewing at the bottom corner of my brain. Was it really just fear of daylight? Or was my subconscious telling me that I had missed something important, something that was getting ready to rear up and bite me? I went over it all in my head, again and again, and it all added up the same way. The only thing that really stuck out was the thought that it was all very simple, perfectly connected, coherent and logical and right, and I had no choice but to act as quickly as I could, and why should that be bothersome? When did Dexter ever have any choice anyway? When does anyone really have a choice of any kind, beyond occasionally being able to say —on those very few good days we get —I choose ice cream instead of pie?

Nevertheless, I still felt invisible fingers tickling at my neck when I parked the car across the street and halfway down the block from Wimble's house. For several long minutes I did nothing more than sit in the car and look up the street at the house.

The bronze-colored car was parked in the street right in front of the house. There was no sign of life, and no large heap of body parts dragged to the curb to await pick-up. Nothing at all but a quiet house in an ordinary Miami neighborhood, baking in the midday sun.

The longer I sat there in the car with the motor off, the more I realized that I was baking, too, and if I stayed in the car a few more minutes I would be watching a crisp dark crust form on my skin.

Whatever faint tremors of doubt I felt, I had to do something while there was still breathable air in the car.

I got out and stood blinking in the heat and light for several seconds, and then moved off down the street, away from Wimble's house. Moving slowly and casually, I walked around the block one time, looking at the house from the rear. There was not much to see; a row of hedges growing up through a chain-link fence blocked any view of the house from the next block over. I continued around the block, crossed the street, and walked on back to my car.

I stood there again, blinking in the brightness, feeling the sweat roll down my spine, across my forehead, into my eyes. I knew that I could not stand there a great deal longer without drawing attention.

I had to do something —either approach the house, or get back into my car, drive home, and wait to see myself on the evening news.

But with that nasty, annoying little voice still squeaking in my brain that something was just not right, I stood there a little longer, until some small and brittle thing inside snapped, and I finally thought, Fine. Let it come, whatever it might be. Anything is better than standing here counting the droplets of sweat as they fall.