Jeff Lindsay: Dexter by Design

I looked back up. Just like Rita had done, the rest of the crowd, with their unblinking eyes fixed on Jennifer, edged away from her path, and she finally came to a halt only a foot in front of her leg.

She stared at it for a long moment, apparently unaware that she was depriving an entire roomful of people of oxygen. Then she raised one hand off the crutches, leaned forward, and touched the leg bone.

“Sexy,” she said.

Rita fainted.

WE ARRIVED HOME IN MIAMI ON A FRIDAY EVENING, two days later, and the mean-spirited surge of the crowd in the airport as they cursed and shoved each other around the baggage carousel nearly brought a tear to my eye.

Someone tried to walk off with Rita's suitcase, and then snarled at me when I took it away, and this was all the welcome I needed. It was good to be home.

If any further sentimental greeting was necessary, I got it bright and early on Monday morning, my first day back at work. I stepped off the elevator and bumped into Vince Masuoka. “Dexter,” he said, in what I am sure was a very emotional tone of voice, “did you bring doughnuts?” It was truly heart-warming to realize that I had been missed, and if only I had a heart I am sure it would have been warmed.

“I no longer eat doughnuts,” I told him. I only eat croissants.” Vince blinked. “How come?” he said.

“Je suis Parisien,” I replied.

He shook his head. “Well, you should have brought doughnuts,” he said. “We got a really weird one out on South Beach this morning, and there's no place out there to get doughnuts.”

“Comme c'est tragique!” I said.

“Are you gonna stay like this all day?” he said. “Cause this could be a really long one.”

It was, in fact, a long one, made longer by the mad crush of reporters and other gawkers who already stood three deep at the yellow crime-scene tape strung up around a chunk of beach not too far from the southernmost tip of South Beach. I was already sweating when I worked my way through the crowd and onto the sand, over to where I saw Angel Batista-No-Relation already down on his hands and knees examining something that no one else could see.

“What's weird?” I asked him.

He didn't even look up. “Tits on a frog,” he said.

“I'm sure you're right. But Vince said there's something weird about these bodies.”

He frowned at something and bent closer to the sand.

“Don't you worry about sand mites?” I asked him.

Angel just nodded. “They were killed somewhere else,” he said.

“But one of them dripped a little.” He frowned. “But it's not blood.”

“How lucky for me.”

“Also,” he said, using tweezers to put something invisible into a plastic bag, “they got ...” He paused here, not for any reason connected with unseen objects, but as if to find a word that wouldn't frighten me, and in the silence I heard a rising whirr of stretching wings from the dark back seat of the Dexter-mobile.

“What?” I said, when I could stand it no longer.

Angel shook his head slightly. “They got —arranged,” he said, and as if a spell had been broken he jerked into motion, sealing his plastic bag, placing it carefully to one side, and then going back down on one knee.

If that was all he had to say on the subject, I would clearly have to go see for myself what all the silence was about. So I walked another twenty feet to the bodies.

Two of them, one male and one female, apparently in their thirties, and they had not been chosen for their beauty. Both were pale, overweight and hairy. They had been carefully arranged on gaudy beach towels, the kind so popular with tourists from the Midwest. Casually spread open on the woman's lap was a bright pink paperback novel with the kind of trashy cover that people from Michigan love to carry around on vacation: Tourist Season. A perfectly ordinary married couple enjoying a day at the beach.

To underline the happiness they were supposed to be experiencing, each of them had a semi-transparent plastic mask stuck onto their face and apparently held in place with glue, the kind of mask that gave the wearer's face a large and artificial smile while still allowing the real features to show through. Miami, the home of permanent smiles.

Except that these two had somewhat unusual reasons to smile, reasons that had my Dark Passenger burbling with what sounded like laughter. These two bodies had been split open from the bottom of the ribcage down to the waist line, and then the flesh had been peeled back to show what was inside. I did not need the surge of hissing hilarity that rose up from my shadowy friend to appreciate that what was inside was just a little bit out of the ordinary.

All of the standard-issue messiness had been removed, which I thought was a very nice start. There was no awful gooey heap of intestines or glistening horrible guts. All the dreadful bloody gunk had been scooped out. The woman's body cavity had then been neatly and tastefully converted into a tropical fruit basket, the kind that might welcome special guests to a good hotel. I could see a couple of mangoes, papayas, oranges and grapefruits, a pineapple, and of course some bananas. There was even a bright red ribbon attached to the ribcage, and poking up out of the middle of the fruit was a bottle of cheap champagne.

The man had been arranged with a somewhat more casual diversity. Instead of the bright and attractive fruit medley, his emptied gut had been filled with a huge pair of sunglasses, a dive mask and snorkel, a squeeze bottle of sunscreen, a can of insect repellent, and a small plate of pasteles, Cuban pastries. It seemed like a terrible waste in this sandy wilderness without doughnuts.

Propped up on one side of the cavity was some kind of large pamphlet or brochure. I couldn't see the cover, so I bent over and looked closer; it was “The South Beach Swimsuit Calendar'. A grouper's head peeked out from behind the calendar, its gaping fishy face frozen into a smile eerily similar to the one on the plastic mask glued to the man's face.

I heard the crunch of feet through the sand behind me and turned around.

“Friend of yours?” my sister Deborah asked as she walked over and nodded at the bodies. Perhaps I should say Sergeant Deborah, since my job requires me to be polite to someone who has reached her exalted rank in the police force. And polite I generally am, even to the point of ignoring her snarky remarks. But the sight of what she held in her hand wiped away all my political obligations.

Somehow, she had managed to come up with a doughnut —a Bavarian Creme, my favorite —and she took a large bite. It seemed horribly unfair. “What do you think, bro?” she said through a mouthful.

I think you should have brought me a doughnut,” I said.

She bared her teeth in a large smile, which did not help anything, since her gums were lined with chocolate frosting from the doughnut in question. I did,” she said. “But I got hungry and ate it.” It was nice to see my sister smile, since it was not something she had been doing much of for the last few years; it just didn't seem to fit in with her cop self-image.

But I was not filled with the warm glow of brotherly affection at seeing her —mostly because I was not filled with doughnut, either, and I wanted to be. Still, I knew from my research that the happiness of one's family was the next best thing, so I put the best possible face on it. “I'm very happy for you,” I said.

“No you're not, you're pouting,” she said. “What do you think?” And she crammed the last chunk of Bavarian Creme into her mouth and nodded down at the bodies again.

Of all people in the world, Deborah had the right to ask for the benefit of my special insight into the sick and twisted animals who killed like this, since she was my only relative and I was sick and twisted myself. But aside from the slowly fading amusement of the Dark Passenger, I had no particular clue as to why these two bodies had been arranged like a welcome message from a very troubled civic booster.