by Jeff Lindsay
I thought about Chase and his odd performance all the way down to my car. There was clearly a little bit more to the man than I had suspected, a depth of feeling that he kept well hidden behind his everyday mask of self-involved inanity. Or his several masks, since he certainly hid all kinds of things about himself, like why he disliked Jackie so much. Probably all part of being a Leading Man. He would have to hide everything that didn’t fit perfectly with his macho-but-sensitive public image. So he couldn’t let anyone know it if he liked fluffy little white dogs, or liked to read romance novels. If the public learned about it, that sort of thing could cost him his career. They might think he was a sissy, or worse—even a Liberal! It wouldn’t do.
But in all truth, it didn’t matter, not even a little bit. It was just one more of the dozens of dopey contradictions making up the many-sided mess that was humanity, and all things considered, it was much less interesting than thinking about what Rita might have cooked for dinner.
I started my car and put Chase out of my mind as I nosed out into the merry brutality of Friday-night traffic in Miami.
FOUR
BECAUSE I HAD STAYED SO LATE AT THE CRIME SCENE, dinnertime had come and gone when I finally got home. The foyer inside the front door was crowded with three tall stacks of cardboard boxes that hadn’t been there that morning, and I had to hunch in beside them to close the door. Rita and I had recently taken advantage of the collapsed real estate market and bought a foreclosed house, larger than our current one, and equipped with a swimming pool. We had all worked ourselves up into an absolute lather at the thought of our palatial new house, with more room for all, and our very own pool, and even a brick barbecue in the back. And then—we waited.
The local office of the bank gave us a number to call. We called the number, and our calls were shunted away to an office in Iowa, where we were offered a complicated recorded menu, put on hold, and then disconnected. We called back, trying all the selections on the menu, one after another, until we finally reached a nonrecorded human voice, which told us they couldn’t help, we had to go through the local office, and hung up.
We went back to the local office, who explained that their bank had just been bought out by a larger bank, and now that the merger was complete everything would be quick and simple.
We called the home office of the new bank, where we were offered a complicated recorded menu, put on hold, and then disconnected.
Those who know me best will tell you I am a mild and patient man, but there were more than a few moments in our epic struggle with our nation’s great financial system when I was sorely tempted to pack a few rolls of duct tape and a fillet knife into a small bag and solve our communication problem in a more direct way. But happily for all, after eighteen encounters with different Assistant Vice Presidents for Repeating Annoying Redundancy, Rita stepped in and took over. She had spent her career in the world of big-dollar bureaucracy, and she knew how Things worked. She finally found the right person, called the right number, filed the correct form, got it to the correct office, and the paperwork entered the system at last.
And then we waited.
Several more months went by while the bank busily lost the papers and forgot to file forms, and then sent us threatening letters demanding outrageous fees for all kinds of things we had never done and never even heard of. But miraculously enough, Rita was persistent and firm and the bank finally ran through its entire arsenal of reptilian bureaucratic blunders, and reluctantly allowed us to close on our new house.
Moving day was now approaching rapidly, only two weeks away, and with her customary savage efficiency Rita had been spending every free moment stuffing things into cardboard boxes, taping them shut, labeling them with Magic Markers—a different color for each room in our new house—and stacking them in well-ordered piles.
But as I squirmed past the boxes and into the living room, where Lily Anne was sound asleep in her playpen, I discovered that tonight Rita had done a great deal more than simply fill boxes; one quick sniff was enough to fill my nostrils with the lingering aroma of roast pork, one of Rita’s signature dishes. There would almost certainly be a plate of leftovers waiting for me, and at the thought of it my mouth began to water. So I hurried through the living room and into the kitchen.
Rita stood at the sink, pale blue rubber gloves pulled up onto both hands as she scrubbed the roasting pan. Astor slumped beside her, drying dinner plates with a sulky expression on her face. Rita looked up and frowned. “Oh, Dexter,” she said. “You’re finally home?”
“I think so,” I said. “My car is out front.”
“You didn’t call,” she said. “I didn’t know if— Astor, for God’s sake, can’t you go a little faster? And so I didn’t know when you’d be home,” she finished, looking at me accusingly.
It was true. I hadn’t called, mostly because I forgot. I had been so distracted by Chase, and Jackie, and thinking about the dreadful, fascinating mess in the Dumpster, that it just slipped my mind. I suppose I took it for granted that Rita would know I was coming and save me some dinner.
But from the way she was looking at me now, I began to think that perhaps that had been a mistake. Human relationships, especially the whole Being Married Thing, were foreign territory for me. It was clear I should have called to say I would be late—but could the consequences really be this calamitous? Was it really possible that there was no plate with Dexter’s name on it, filled with succulent roast pork and who knows what other wonderful things? A fate far worse than death—at least, worse than someone else’s death.
“We had a really bad one today,” I said. “We got the call late in the day, after lunch.”
“Well,” Rita said, “I do need to know when you’re coming home. That’s enough, Astor. Tell Cody to take his bath.”
“I want a bath, too,” Astor snarled.
“You take forever,” Rita said. “Cody will be in and out in ten minutes and then you can take all the time you want.”
“With his gross germs all over the tub!” Astor said.
Rita raised an arm and pointed. “Go,” she said sternly.
“I’m sorry,” I told Rita, as Astor stalked past me, looking like Miss Preteen Rage of 2013. “Um, we just got really, uh, tied up, and— So, is there any roast pork left?”
“It’s practically bedtime,” Rita said, slapping the roasting pan into the dish drainer. “And we were supposed to watch that new penguin movie tonight, remember?”
As she mentioned it, I did, in fact, remember that we had talked about having some quality family time, watching a DVD together. Normally, I would have accepted it as one of those annoying tasks that I simply have to perform in order to maintain the polite fiction of my disguise: Daddy Dexter, Pillar of Family Life. But under the circumstance, it seemed to me that Rita was avoiding the only subject of any real interest—was there, in fact, some roast pork left?
“I am sorry,” I said. “If it’s too late, maybe we could, um … Is there? Some pork left for me?”
“Pork?” Rita said. “That isn’t— Oh, of course there’s some pork. I wouldn’t let— It’s in the fridge. But, Dexter, really, you have to be a little more …” She fluttered one hand, and then began to pull off the rubber gloves. “I’ll heat it up for you. But Cody has been wanting to—I suppose we can see the movie tomorrow night, but still …”
She hustled over to the refrigerator and started taking out the leftovers, and a great sense of relief washed over me. In fact, as the microwave began to heat my dinner and reignite the wonderful aroma, I actually felt smug. After all, I was getting an excellent dinner without having to watch another animated movie about penguins. Life was good.
It was even better when I finally sat at the kitchen table with my plate and began to ply my fork. There were fried plátanos as well as roast pork, and tortellini in a garlic sauce, instead of the more traditional rice and beans. But I lost no time bemoaning the fall of an institution. I set to with a will, and in only a few happy m
inutes I was sated, and already sliding into the dopey half-asleep state that follows when you add a good meal to a clean conscience. Somehow, I managed to make it onto my feet and stagger to the couch, where I sloshed onto the cushions and began to digest my meal and think profound Friday-night thoughts.
Because I was in such a deep state of contentment, I pushed away all the nagging disagreeable trivia of the week and concentrated on more pleasant things. I thought about the body in the Dumpster, and it occurred to me that a Dumpster was an odd place to dump a body that had been so thoroughly and distinctively whittled away—especially a Dumpster right there on the edge of the campus, a few blocks from the busiest part of downtown Miami. As I know very well, it is incredibly easy to put a body where it will never be found—especially here in the tropical splendor that I call home. Practically right outside my front door was a delightful aquatic graveyard that was nearly bottomless. And then there was the Everglades, with its lovely gator holes, and the scrublands so full of sinkholes—South Florida was truly a corpse disposer’s Paradise.
There were so many wonderful options for dumping bodies, even for someone with the most limited imagination. And so, in my experience, when the leftovers are placed where they must be discovered, it is usually because discovery is an important part of the entire artistic statement. Look what I did; can’t you see why I had to do it?
I did not see, not yet—but just the thought of that word, “see,” reminded me of the most disturbing detail: the semen in the eye socket. There was no mystery about how it got there, but the why of it was clearly the most important piece of the puzzle. It was the consummation, the literal climax to the whole event, and understanding what made it necessary was the key to knowing who had done it.
And as I pondered this in my pork-induced demi-doze, a soft and sibilant voice that had not been fed and so was not at all sleepy whispered one sly question in my inner ear: Was she still alive when he did it?
The shock of that thought brought me upright. Had she been alive at the end, when he ripped out one eye? Had she been watching with the other eye as he began his ultimate violation? I tried to picture it from her point of view: the unbearable pain, the shattering knowledge that Things had been done that could never be repaired, the slow and brutal approach of that final ocular indignity—
Deep in the shadows of Castle Dexter I felt the Passenger jerk upright and hiss an uncomfortable objection. What, after all, was I doing? There was absolutely no point to such a meaningless act of imagination, and I was in very grave danger of trying to feel empathy, a completely human flaw of which I had only academic knowledge. And I knew nothing about being a mutilated, helpless victim, either. On the whole, I had to believe that was a good thing.
No: It was the predator’s perspective that was important for understanding this—an angle that was far more natural for me. I sent a silent apology to the Passenger, and changed my mental point of view.
All right: The basics of stalking, capture, bondage, all the other bits of foreplay were standard, uninteresting. Then the real work begins, and I leaned back on the couch and tried to see how it had happened. Around me in our little house I could hear the clamor of bath, brushing, bedtime, and I closed my eyes and tried to shut it out while I concentrated.
Breathe in, out, focus; I picture the damage to the body, see how it must have happened, each wild bite and slash. The girl thrashes, terrified, eyes bulging, not knowing what will happen next but knowing it will be beyond horror, and in my imagination I raise up the knife—and I realize there is something atypical here, a first significant variation. Because it was My Imagination, I had pictured a knife going up—it is, after all, how I do it. It is a wonderful moment: to see the eyes widen, the muscles knot against the duct tape, the breath hiss laboriously in for a scream that will never get past the gag. I always use knives and other hardware, with never an exception. It is not merely an aesthetic choice, a pride in making neat and clean cuts; the thought of getting any vile body fluids on my hands is repulsive, unspeakable, a dreadful corruption.
From my professional experience, though, I knew very well that many fellow hobbyists prefer the hands-on approach, even require it for fulfillment. Picturing direct contact with pulsing wet leaking flesh gave me a feeling of creeping disgust, but I could at least understand it, and even accept it. After all, we must all try to be tolerant of others. Some of us want to get our hands, feet, and teeth into the work; some of us prefer the more civilized approach of working at a distance with cold steel. There is room for all; different strokes for different folks.
But this time it was something else. This time the killer had used a combination of techniques. The victim had been slashed and stabbed with some kind of blade, but the more meaningful damage, the real signature work, had been done with teeth, fists, fingernails, and other, more intimate body parts. It was an unusual approach, and it almost certainly meant something very important.
But what? I knew very well what knife work was about; it was the perfect way to take control, to cause neat and permanent damage. And then the biting—a desire for contact, for the most intimate possible interface with agony? Except that what had been done to the eye socket was far more than a twisted cuddle. It was a declaration of total power, a statement that I own you and I can do anything I want to you. And it was a commanding bellow of, Look at me! More: it was a punishment, a way to say that Your eyes did me wrong; you should have paid attention and seen me but you did not and now I will teach you and I will do this.
Down the hall the bathroom door slammed with cataclysmic force and my eyes jerked open. I listened for a few moments as Astor’s voice rose from whining to threatening and all the way up into shrill fury above Rita’s calm and commanding words, finally subsiding into a muted grumble of general discontent. The door slammed again; Lily Anne began to cry, and Rita’s voice turned soothing, and a minute later peace was restored, and I returned to my happy pastime of imagining intimate carnage.
The killer wanted to be noticed—by all of us, of course, which was why the body had been displayed so publicly. But far more important, he had wanted the victim to pay attention to him, truly and completely see him, appreciate his significance. I thought about that for a minute, and it felt right. You should have noticed me, but you didn’t. You ignored me and now your eye will pay for what your eyes failed to do.
I closed my eyes again and tried once more to see it, picture the way it would be: to make her feel Me and understand how stupid she was not to know that I was there and seeing her and needing her to see Me and she does not and so I take her and I teach her and I work her through the terror, the pain, the passion of carnage, and I feel the slow approach to fulfillment until at last she understands and she is ready and so am I and I see that beautiful battered head with its golden hair and my arousal grows and I am ready for the finale—
It must have been the roast pork. Combined with the extra-long workday, and the added stress of having Robert follow me around all week, the roast pork had simply worn me out. In any case, I fell asleep. But I did not fall into the timeless, dreamless darkness that usually rewards me when I close my eyes at night. Instead, the visions continued: I stand there above the still-living body and look down at what I have done, and I feel such a sweet rising pitch of bliss and fulfillment and I kneel beside the body and grab a fistful of beautiful golden hair and yank the head around so it must look at me. And the face turns slowly to me and I hold my breath as the features become clear and it is a perfect face, unmarked and filled with longing for me, for what I am going to do, and as I look down into the bottomless violet eyes I realize that this is Jackie Forrest, and what I am going to do suddenly begins to change.
And I put down my knife and look at her, look at the perfect curve of her lips and the spray of freckles across her nose and those deep improbable eyes and somehow her clothes are gone and I lean closer to her face and it leans up toward me and there is an endless moment of almost touching, almost completing s
omething that is just barely out of reach—
I opened my eyes. I was still on the couch, and the house had grown dark and quiet around me, but the image of Jackie Forrest’s face was still with me.
Why had I thought of her? I’d been having a very nice daydream about perfectly normal vivisection, and she had shouldered her way in and ruined it with her demands that I put down the knife and try something more human. I didn’t want to have her kind of fantasy; this was not me, not Dexter the Destroyer. She was forcing me to become some new and freakish being, a creature that rushed into passionate seduction and reveled in actual human feelings and a longing for something that was as far beyond the reach of the real me as if it was on Mars.
I know it was totally illogical, but I found myself vastly annoyed with Jackie, as if she had butted in on purpose. But to my much greater surprise, I found that I was still aroused in reality, and not just in my imagination. Was it from thinking of the victim—or from thinking about Jackie Forrest? I didn’t know, and that was even more annoying.
There was just something about her that I found intriguing, even compelling. It was not that she was a famous actress—I’d had no idea who she was, had to be told that she was, in fact, a star. Celebrity had never interested me before, and I was quite sure it didn’t now. And I was certainly far too set in my wicked ways to be interested in any kind of dalliance that was merely sexual. When Dexter has a fling, his partner’s afterglow lasts forever.