Major spoilers for Dexter S2, S3 and S4.
See earlier chapters for disclaimers etc.
By Marcus L. Rowland
Miami Metro Police Department
“So let me get this straight,” said Ziva, “You have had four serial killers in four years? And all of them involved this department?”
“Five if you count the creeps we think shot Dexter’s sister and the FBI guy,” said Vince Masuka, “but they’re basically just robbers that kill their victims. Now, the Ice Truck Killer had style, he gift wrapped body parts. The Bay Harbor Butcher, he was neat about cleaning up after himself. But the Skinner was pretty gross, just dumped the bodies anywhere. This new guy that Lundy was after is just weird.”
“That’s right,” said Vince, “Would you like to see some crime scene photos?”
“If it is permitted.”
“Hey Dex, do you have the Ice Truck file in there?”
Dexter Morgan poked his head out of his office, and said “It went back to records. Why?”
“I was just telling Agent David about the case. Reminds me, how’s Debra?”
“She’s not a good patient. I’ll be seeing her this evening, I hope, once the Lieutenant’s through with me.”
“Going out with the boss… you bucking for promotion?”
“It’s not my idea,” said Dexter, disappearing back into the office.
Masuka lowered his voice. “Debra was engaged to the Ice Truck Killer – Dexter and LaGuerta saved her from him.”
“It sounds like she has been unlucky in love.”
“You could say that about both of them. Dexter had a fling with a total psycho a couple of years back, Lila something; she ended up trying to set fire to him and Rita’s kids. That would have been around the same time as the Bay Harbor case, well before Dexter was engaged to Rita, of course.”
“But they are married now?”
“Yeah, and they have another rug rat, brat called Harrison. They’re living the American dream.”
“I hope to become American soon,” said Ziva, “although I have no plans for marriage or children any time soon.”
“It isn’t compulsory,” said Masuka. “Although if you’re in the market…”
“I believe that the correct expression is “In your dreams.”
“Sounds about right,” Masuka said sadly.
“Tell me more about this Butcher…”
Miami-Dade Public Library
“Don’t I know you?”
Tony DiNozzo looked up from the microfiche reader he was using, and saw a man in his early sixties who looked vaguely like a younger version of Sylvester Stallone. He searched his memory and said “Should you?”
“We’ve met somewhere… Baltimore PD, right?”
“Used to be. Tony DiNozzo.”
“Thought I remembered you… you were our contact in Baltimore when we came to pick up a pusher we were extraditing. I’m Sonny Crockett, used to be with Metro Vice until I retired. You gave us one hell of a tour of the city.”
“I remember,” said Tony, vaguely remembering their visit. “You worked with… don’t tell me… Ricardo something, right?”
“Tubbs. He’s in New York these days. What brings you to Miami?”
Tony hesitated for a moment then said “I’m with NCIS these days. We’re tracing a body that may have originated in Miami.”
“NCIS? I worked with them a couple of times. Dead sailor?”
“A civilian, found by a navy ship. Can’t really discuss the details.”
“Especially not with an old fart like me,” said Crockett. “You know Mike Franks?”
“He’s retired,” said Tony.
“How about his probie… um… Gibbs?”
“He’s still around.”
“Tell him ‘hi’ from me. He’ll remember why.”
“Will do.” Tony thought for a second then said “maybe you can help me with something, if you have a little spare time.”
Crocket took a chair from a nearby table and sat. “I’ve got nothing but these days.”
“What can you tell me about serial killers in Miami?”
When you’re a spy, any pre-arranged meeting is a moment of weakness. You’re out in the open, often at a time and place someone else has chosen. When the people you’re meeting are cops, you have to take a few precautions. An open-air bar is usually a good place; plenty of escape routes, and difficult to bug. Usually…
“Let me get this straight,” I said. “You think that someone inside your department set up Doakes to take the fall as the Bay Harbor Butcher, and killed this Marten?”
“Yes,” said Lieutenant La Guerta.
“What about you, Dexter? What’s your take on this?”
“It’s odd,” said Dexter Morgan. “Marten spelled his name with an ‘en’, and so do you. Marten instead of Martin, Westen instead of Weston or Western.”
“And?” I said impatiently.
“Nothing really, it just seems strange.”
“Dexter,” said LaGuerta, “How much sleep have you had since your sister was shot?”
“Umm… maybe not enough,” said Morgan. “I’m sorry; I guess I’m having a little trouble staying focused, between that and the baby teething.”
I tried again: “What do you think about Doakes?”
“Yeah… I’m sorry, Lieutenant, I still think he was the Butcher. He was behaving really strangely those last few months, anyone will tell you that.”
“Okay,” said Sam. “Small difference of opinion here. Any suggestions as to how we resolve it?”
“James wasn’t perfect,” said LaGuerta, “but I’ve never been able to see him as someone who would kill like that. In a fight or a rage, maybe, but the Butcher was a cold calculating killer.”
“I think I can agree that he gave that impression,” said Morgan. “He’d been giving me a hard time for months, but I was as shocked as everyone else when the FBI told me he might be the killer, it didn’t seem to be the sort of thing he’d do. But maybe he had two sides to him, or thought that he was helping the police by getting rid of criminals?”
I asked “Was there any reason to think he might have been framed?”
In my ear Fiona’s voice said “You’re being watched. Black Chrysler rental parked on the street in front of the bar; can’t see the driver.” I looked around casually, and spotted the glint of a camera lens through the half-open window. No sign of a gun, I couldn’t see a face behind the tinted glass. Sam raised his eyebrows slightly, and I knew he’d heard her too.
LaGuerta said “He called me, claimed he had evidence that identified the real killer. I should have made him turn himself and his evidence in, but I kept quiet about it. That compromised my role in the investigation and meant that nobody ever followed up to find out what he’d found.”
“What about you, Dexter?”
“His prints were all over the surgical tools that were used to cut up the bodies. The FBI found a box of microscope slides in his car; it had blood from every one of the victims, and more that we’ve never been able to identify. Some of them had his prints too. Why would he have that? How could he have it if he hadn’t killed them?”
“Good questions,” said Sam. “Did you bring the case files?”
“The little the FBI didn’t take.” LaGuerta reached into a large purse and produced a bulky file folder. “This is the Bay Harbor case.” Another file. “This one is a copy of Doakes’ departmental records. I couldn’t get access to his military records. Dexter?”
Morgan reluctantly produced a much thinner file from a shoulder bag. “Fingerprint and DNA evidence for Doakes. I don’t have the records for the victims. Or anything on the hand they’ve found, it isn’t our case.”
“We’ll take a look,” I said. “See if we can spot anything you’ve missed. If it looks like we can help I’ll get back to you in a day or two.”
“In other words,” said LaGuerta, “'Don’t call us, we’ll call you.'”
“So far it’s a free consultation. If we actually find anything that looks like it means something we’ll talk again.”
“It would be good if we could put this to rest once and for all,” said Morgan.
“We’ll see what we can do,” Sam said, his voice oozing sincerity. It took us a couple more minutes to get rid of them. The black Chrysler was still there when they’d gone. The window was closed.
“Another beer?” asked Sam.
“Not for me. Maybe something non-alcoholic.” I got out my phone and said “Got anything, Fi?”
“A woman, dark hair. She got out of the car while you were distracted by the cops, went into the rest room. I didn’t get a good look at her.” Sam heard her over his earphone.
“Better get in there and take a look. You can go in there without attracting attention.”
“No need,” said a voice I remembered. “Shalom, Michael.”
I turned, and said “Sam, I’d like to introduce you to Ziva David. Ziva, Sam Axe.”
“Charmed,” said Sam, a question in his eyes. Probably wondering how many weapons she was carrying.
“Formerly of Mossad,” Ziva said quietly, “now with NCIS.”
“That’s a hell of a career change,” said Sam. “Buy you a drink?”
“Lemonade would be good.”
Fiona got up from the table where she’d been watching us, and came over to us. “Ziva,” I said, “This is Fiona Glenanne. Fi, Ziva David.”
“We’ve met,” they said together. Neither of them sounded happy about it.
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