Dexter is Delicious: A Novel

by Jeff Lindsay

  Deborah watched him go, a series of unpleasant thoughts obviously running through her head. She looked back through the window in the door to the interrogation room. Chapin was seated again, in his opening pose, leaning over the table. “Fuck,” Debs said. “Fucking Chambers.” She shook her head. “This wouldn’t have happened if that asshole Deke was here.”

  “He’d be here if you hadn’t ditched him,” I said.

  “Go fuck yourself, Dexter,” she said, and she turned away and followed after Chambers.

  Miami is a city with an overcrowded court system, and the public defender’s office may well be stretched thinner than all the rest of it. This is one of the very good reasons why Dexter has been careful to save his money over the years. Of course, the capital cases get priority, but then, there are so many of those that someone facing a mere murder charge had better be able to afford his own attorney, because the public defender’s office, once a nest of hardworking liberal idealists, has become a small and temporary burnout stop for young lawyers hoping to make a splash. It takes a really special case to get anything more than their flustered, part-time attention.

  So it was a pretty good indication of how high the profile of our case was when, less than an hour later, a smart young woman fresh out of Stetson Law School showed up to represent Victor Chapin. She wore a very nice business pantsuit, the latest Hillary Clinton model. She walked with a swagger that said she was the Avatar of American Justice, and she carried a briefcase that probably cost more than my car. She took it and her attitude into the interrogation room and sat down across from Chapin and, laying the briefcase on the table, she said crisply to the guard, “I want all the microphones and recording devices turned off, and I mean now.”

  The guard, an elderly guy who looked like he hadn’t cared about anything since Nixon resigned, just shrugged and said, “Yeah, sure, okay,” and walked out into the hall and flipped the switch, and the speaker went silent.

  Behind me somebody said, “Fuck!” and I realized that my sister had returned. I glanced over my shoulder, and sure enough, Deborah was glaring into the now-silent room. I wasn’t sure if we were speaking to each other, since I had disobeyed her direct order and failed to go fuck myself, so I just turned back around and watched the peep show. There was really very little to see: Chapin’s brand-new attorney leaned in toward him and spoke rapidly for a few minutes. He looked up at her with growing interest, and eventually he talked back. She pulled out a legal pad and took a few notes, and then asked him a few questions, which he answered with increasing animation.

  After only ten or fifteen minutes the attorney stood up and went to the door, and Deborah went to meet her as she stepped into the hall. She looked Deborah over from head to toe with something that was not really approval. “You are Sergeant Morgan?” she asked, with icicles forming in the air as she spoke.

  “Yes,” Deborah said grimly.

  “You are the arresting officer?” the attorney said, as though that was another term for “baby rapist.”

  “Yes,” Deborah said. “And you are?”

  “DeWanda Hoople, public defender’s office,” she said, like everybody would know that name. “I think we’re going to have to let Mr. Chapin go.”

  Deborah shook her head. “I don’t think so,” she said.

  Ms. Hoople revealed a world-class set of front teeth, though it would be an exaggeration to call it a smile. “It doesn’t matter what you think, Sergeant Morgan,” she said. “Plain and simple, in one-syllable words, You Don’t Have a Case.”

  “That little shit is a cannibal,” Deborah snarled, “and he knows where I can find a missing girl.”

  “Oh, my,” Ms. Hoople said. “I assume you have some proof of that?”

  “He ran from me,” Deborah said, a little sulky, “and then he said he didn’t eat any of it.”

  Hoople raised her eyebrows. “Did he say any of what?” she said with sweet reason dripping from her tongue.

  “The context was clear,” Debs said.

  “I’m sorry,” said Hoople. “I’m not familiar with the statutes concerning context.”

  Knowing my sister as well as I did, I could see that she was about to explode, and if I had been Ms. Hoople I would be backing away with my hands held out in front of me. Deborah took a very deep breath and said through her teeth, “Ms. Hoople. Your client knows where Samantha Aldovar is. Saving her life is the important thing here.”

  But Ms. Hoople just smiled wider. “Not more important than the Bill of Rights,” she said. “You’re going to have to let him go.”

  Deborah looked at her and I saw that she was almost trembling as she fought to control herself. If ever there was a situation that clearly called for a strong right fist to the nose, this was it, and it was not normally my sister’s way to ignore that call. But she struggled, and she won. “Ms. Hoople,” she said at last.

  “Yes, Sergeant?”

  “When we have to tell Samantha Aldovar’s parents their daughter is dead and this guy could have saved her but we had to let him go,” Deborah said, “I want you to come with me.”

  “That’s not my job,” Ms. Hoople said.

  “It shouldn’t be mine, either,” Deborah told her. “But you just made sure it is.” Ms. Hoople had nothing to say to that, and Deborah turned and walked away.

  TWENTY-TWO

  I DROVE HOME THROUGH THE RUSH-HOUR TRAFFIC AT THE usual snail’s pace, and I will admit that I was pondering. So many strange and baffling things going on at once; Samantha Aldovar and cannibalism in Miami and Deborah’s strange emotional meltdown and the troubling reappearance of my brother, Brian. And perhaps strangest of all was the New Dexter who stood facing all these challenges. No longer the Sly Master of Dark Delights, now amazingly transformed into Daddyman, Champion of Children and the Family Way.

  … And yet here I was spending all my time away from my family, in a pointless chase after bad people and a girl I didn’t even know. I mean, a job is one thing, but could I really excuse neglecting my new child for all these extra hours just to support Deborah’s Freudian search for a missing family? Wasn’t it just a little bit of a contradiction?

  And now, even more bizarre and unsettling, as I pondered these things, I began to feel bad. Me, Dark Dead Dexter, not merely feeling but feeling bad; it really boggled the imagination. I had been patting myself on the back for my amazing transformation, and yet in reality I had turned from the Happy Slasher into just another absentee parent, which was no more than a different kind of abuse. Aside from the fact that I hadn’t actually killed anybody lately, what was there to be proud of?

  Feelings of guilt and shame washed over me. So this was what it was like to be a real human parent. I had three wonderful kids, and all they had was me. They deserved so much more. They needed a father who was there to guide their steps and teach them about life, and they were stuck with someone who apparently cared more about finding somebody else’s girl than playing with his own. It was horrible, inhuman. I had not really reformed at all—I had just changed into a different kind of monster.

  And the older two, Cody and Astor—they still lived willingly in a desire for darkness. They looked to me to teach them to chase through the shadows. I had not only neglected to do that, but far worse, I had never even begun to steer them away from wanting to do it. Guilt upon guilt: I knew that I had to spend real quality time with them, bring them back to the light, show them that life held joys deeper than any knife could go. And to do all this, I had to be there, do things with them, and I had failed.

  But maybe it wasn’t too late. Maybe I could still make my mark with them. After all, I could not change completely just by wanting to, bursting from my wicked cocoon and emerging as a totally new human father. It took time to learn how to be a human, let alone to be a parent, and I was very new at this. I had to give me a little bit of credit—I had much to learn, but I was trying. And kids are very forgiving. If I could really start now and do something rare and special, as a way to sho
w them that things had changed and that their Real Father had arrived, surely they would respond with gladness and respect.

  And with that resolved I felt instantly better—Dex-Daddy was back on track. As if to prove that things were falling into place just the way a wise and compassionate Universe wanted them, I saw a giant toy store in a strip mall on my left, and without hesitation I pulled into the lot, parked, and went in.

  I looked around the store and what I saw was not encouraging. There were rows and rows of violent toys, almost as if I had wandered into a store designed for the children of the old Dexter. There were swords, knives, light sabers, machine guns, bombs, pistols and rifles that shot plastic bullets and paintballs and Nerfs, rockets that blew up your friends or your friends’ whole city—aisle after aisle of training devices for recreational slaughter. No wonder our world was such a mean and violent place—and no wonder there were people like I had been. If we teach children that killing is fun, can we really be surprised if now and then someone is smart enough to learn?

  I wandered through the havoc factory until I finally found a small corner of the store labeled EDUCATIONAL. There were several shelves of crafts, some science kits, some board games. I looked it all over carefully, searching for something that hit just the right tone. It had to be educational, yes, but not dull or geeky, and not something that you did by yourself, like the kits. I needed something that was inspiring, but fun for us all.

  I finally settled on a quiz game called Head of the Class. One person asked questions and everyone else took turns answering—perfect. It would bring us all together as a family, and we would all learn so much—and enjoy doing it. Cody would even have to speak in full sentences. Yes, this was it.

  As I headed for the register I passed a shelf stacked with talking books, the kind with the row of buttons you push to make sound effects. There were several with fairy tales, and I immediately thought of Lily Anne. What a great way to hook her into a lifetime of reading enjoyment—I could read her the stories while she pushed the appropriate button on cue, and all while reading classic fairy tales. It was much too good to pass by, and I picked three of the most promising fairy tales.

  I took the box and the books to the register and paid. The game was almost twenty dollars with tax, but I truly felt it was worth it, money well spent, and I did not regret the expense.

  It was already dark by the time I turned my car down the street where I lived. Three-quarters of a lonely moon guttered low on the horizon and called to me in a voice of longing, making plaintive and playful suggestions about what Dexter could do with a knife and a night like this. We know where Chapin lives, it whispered. We could cut him to the canines and make him tell us many useful things, and everybody would be happy….

  For a moment I rolled with that seductive tug, the intoxicating whirl of the dark tide as it flowed around me and pulled at my feet. But then I felt the weight of the game and the books I had bought, and it pulled me out of the rising surge of moonlight and back to the dry land of New Dexter. No more; I would not give in to that moon-voiced urge. With a few harsh words I pushed the Passenger back in its place, deep in cold storage. Go away, I told it, and with a reptilian sniff it coiled itself away. It had to understand that I was not that man anymore. I was Dex-Daddy, the man who comes home filled with longing for Lily Anne and all the clean and common comforts of domestic life. I was the breadwinner, the pathfinder for small feet, the shield against all harm. I was Dex-Daddy, the rock upon which Lily Anne’s future would be built, and I had Head of the Class to prove it.

  And as I slowed to a stop in front of my house and saw Brian’s car already parked there, I realized that apparently I was also Dex-Dopey, because I had no idea what my brother was doing here again but I did not like it, whatever it was. He stood for all I had been and did not want to be anymore, and I did not want any of that anywhere near Lily Anne.

  I got out of the car and circled slowly around Brian’s little red car and I caught myself looking at it as if it were the real danger. That was stupid, of course. Brian’s style did not run to car bombs, but to the quick slice with the sly knife, just like the old me. I was not like that anymore, no matter how much I felt it pulling at me as I approached the front door and heard squeals of childish glee from inside the house. Of all the mounting absurdities this was the worst; that I should feel resentment, suspicion, even so-very-human anger, because the kids were clearly having a good time without me.

  And so it was a very confused Dex-Daddy who pushed open the front door to see his little family-plus-brother gathered in front of the television. Rita sat at one end of the couch holding Lily Anne, Brian sat at the other end, with Astor between them, all with large smiles stretched across their faces. Cody stood between them and the TV holding some kind of grayish plastic thing, which he was waving at the TV as he jumped up and down and the others cheered him on.

  As I came in all eyes but Cody’s swung to me and then back to the TV without any real recognition of what I was—all eyes but Brian’s, which stayed fastened on me, his large and phony smile growing larger as he watched me trying, and failing, to figure out what was happening in the living room of my very own hearth and home.

  And then a great burst of cheering from the crowd ended in a prolonged, “Aawwwwwww …” and a suddenly frowning Cody jerked himself away from the screen.

  “Great try, Cody,” Brian said without taking his eyes off me. “Really, really great.”

  “I got high score,” Cody said, an astonishingly long speech for him.

  “Yes, you did,” Brian said. “Let’s see if your sister can beat that.”

  “Course I can!” Astor shouted, leaping into the air and waving another of the plastic things. “You’re toast, Cody!”

  “Would somebody tell me what on earth is going on here?” I said, and even to me it sounded forlorn.

  “Oh, Dexter,” Rita said, looking at me as if I were something very common and she was seeing me ground into her carpet for the first time. “Brian is just—Your brother bought the children a Wii, and it’s very—But he can’t just,” she went on, turning back away from me to look at the TV. “I mean, it’s way too expensive, and—Can you ask him? Because—Oh! Good shot, Astor!” Rita actually bounced a little bit with excitement, causing Lily Anne’s head to roll slightly, and it was clear that I could take off my clothes and set myself on fire and no one but Brian would even notice.

  “It’s really quite good for them,” Brian said to me with his Cheshire Cat smile. “Very good exercise, and they develop their motor skills. And,” he added with a shrug, “it’s an awful lot of fun. You should try it, brother.”

  I looked at my brother with his huge, phony, mocking smile, and I heard the moon call from the street, promising clean and happy fulfillment, so I turned away from him and saw the children and Rita all wrapped in the joy of this wonderful new experience, and suddenly the box under my arm—Head of the Class, almost twenty dollars with tax—felt as heavy and useless as an old oil drum filled with fish heads. I let it drop to the floor, and into my head popped a brief cartoon picture of Dexter running from the room in tears to flop facedown on the bed and cry away his tattered heart.

  And happily for the worldwide image of tough-but-caring fatherhood, the mental picture was so ridiculous that all I did was take a deep breath, say, “Oops,” and bend to pick up the package.

  There was no room for me on the couch, so I walked past the cozy group sitting there, watching them twist to see around me so they would not miss a single riveting second of Astor’s epic television battle. I put my game on the floor and sat, uneasy in the easy chair. I could feel Brian’s eyes on me but I did not look back; I simply concentrated on forming and maintaining a facade of polite excitement, and after a few seconds he looked away, back at the TV, and as far as the rest of the room was concerned, I had disappeared as completely as if I had never been.

  I watched Cody and Astor take turns with their expensive new game system. Somehow, no matt
er how animated they got, I could not feel any real enthusiasm. They switched to a different game that involved killing things with a sword instead of a gun, and even the use of a blade sparked absolutely no fire in my breast. And of course, they were so thoroughly happy that only a true curmudgeon could possibly object—which merely meant that I could now add “curmudgeon” to my résumé. Dexter Morgan, BS. Blood-spatter Analyst, Reformed Slasher; Currently employed as killjoy. I almost wished Debs could have been here—in the first place, because Brian would leave, but more important, so I could say, “See what you’re missing? Kids, family—Ha!” And I would give a bitter chuckle that underlined the ultimate fickleness of all family.

  Astor said, “Ooooooooohhh,” in a very loud and high voice, and Cody jumped up to play. It was clear to me that it wouldn’t matter what I did—they would never truly appreciate me or learn what I had to offer. They were far beyond fickle—they were insensible, like kittens, predatory little things, distracted by the first bit of string or shiny bauble that rolled across the floor, and nothing I could ever say or do could possibly make any kind of dent in their willful ignorance.

  And then they grew up—into what? Into murderous dead-eyed pretenders like Brian and me, ready at the drop of a hat to stab each other in the back, literally or figuratively. Where was the point? Because they would clatter through childhood leaving a wake of random chaos and by the time they were old enough to understand what I had to say they would be too old to change. It was enough to make me renounce my new humanity and simply slip outside into the liquid moonlight and find somebody to take apart—no finesse, no careful selection, just sudden and cleansing savagery and release, exactly like Brian did it.