No Rest for the Wicked

6. Help Yourself

“Hey, bro! What’s up?”

‘Deb,’ I thought wearily. , ‘This day is going to be a long one.’

“What do you want?” I asked in my friendliest possible voice, disappointed in myself that a slight edge of annoyance snuck its way into my otherwise flawless impression. “Vince’s bringing the donuts today, if that’s what you’re after.”

“Are you coming to the Lieutenant’s thing tonight?” she asked casually, though I sensed a hint of anxiety. LaGuerta had invited Doakes’ family, friends (I was very surprised, when I first heard that) and colleagues.

Somehow, when LaGuerta said to me,: “he would’ve wanted you to be there,.” I had doubted that Doakes would’ve truly wanted the man who’d imprisoned him, drugged him and ultimately led his murderer to him. Then again, I didn’t want to be impolite by refusing an invitation. “I suppose so. Why?”

“Then you’ve got to help me,” she said, pleading. , “I have no fucking clue what to do!”

I remained silent, waiting for her to proceed.

“Do you bring gifts or don’t you? Dress all in dark? Make a speech? C’mon, Dex, I really need you here.”

Funny how people ask me for advice on what one is supposed to do, as though I would know. “I honestly don’t know, Deb. Listen, just show up, show your support and you’ll do great. Alright?” I said lamely, trying to make it sound as though I was telling her something she didn’t already know.

“Alright,” She said. “See you at work.” She hung up.

I would be spending the day recreating the bloodsplatter of my newest colleague’s crime scene. It probably wouldn’t be all that difficult, I imagined. I knew the type of murder-weapon, and the projected blood left only doubt about minor details. Really, going through these motions were a mere formality, but it allowed me to avoid pinching my face in sorrow all day, whenever the name Doakes was brought up. Also, if my colleague had been confident enough to leave behind the bloodstained knife, then he probably had one or two tricks up his sleeve, and that made me nervous. The only cure for nervousness is certainty that you knew more than your opponent.

So, I had requested an identical knife – taking up a few dollars from our meagre budget – and began what the Service-minded Sergeant had once called ‘a crazy two-step knife dance.’ The knife went easily through the body of the dummy, spraying red-coloured liquid upon the walls.

I began my examination by first mimicking a member trained in US military knife-techniques, and while it did have some resemblance, there were blood projected in directions that would’ve been near-impossible to create with the quick stabbing motions that were so characteristic of people who only attacked to kill. No sense of artistry.

It took a great deal of experimentation before I had deduced the entire procedure, and I nodded with approval. The strokes – I deduced – were long, had moved in a circle not unlike that of a roundhouse punch, had been directed at the sides, the head, the groin and the wrist. Interesting, as stabbing motions usually happened in straight lines, rather than in curves. Based on the coroners report, the stabs would’ve happened in a quite rapid succession – my analysis of the spatter confirmed it – and both his report and my experience told me that a combination of any two of the strikes would’ve been fatal.

Seemed that this person likely had killed before, after all, but that he had never had to clean up after himself. ‘Interesting,’ I thought to myself, ‘If Doakes wasn’t dead, I knew who my suspect would be.,’

Then again, I was already scheduled to meet his family and I’m not one to deviate from a plan.

I realized that I’d never seen LaGuerta’s home before and was pleasantly surprised. How she could afford such a place on a cop’s salary was beyond me. Maybe she’d gotten rich on the stock market? No matter, I told myself, I was an apartment person anyway.

There weren’t as many people there as I would’ve expected – LaGuerta could convince people to see things her way most of the time, and Doakes had been her dearest friend – but I counted Deb, Masouka, and Angel from the department, LaGuerta herself and a group of people I guessed was Doakes’ family. It was strange, really, but I had never been able to see Doakes as a family man, but several of them seemed quite upset.

“His sisters,” Deb explained to me, “and his mom. Can you imagine that,” she said, turning towards me, “having a brother who’s a freakin’ serial killer?” she whispered.

“I’ve seen the look in your eyes when you’re wrestling me for the remote,” I responded jokingly.

“You ass.” Deb said, punching me in the shoulder. I winced. However it was possible, those thin arms and thin frame made her able to pack the same punch as a speeding truck.

“Dexter?”

I turned around and looked into LaGuerta’s mournful face and then my eyes moved to the woman at her side, “This is Awa Barak, James’ cousin.”

“My condolences,” I said, annoyed that I could never get the proper amount of sorrow and awkwardness. Awa, still dark-skinned but looking more middle-eastern than Afro-American, looked almost like a grieving widow. Her dark, brown curls framed a mournful face, set with emerald eyes and unpainted lips. Just standing near her made it clear to me that she wasn’t someone who beat about the bush.

“Do you think he did it?”

“Well,” I began, unsure about how to answer, “the evidence is compelling, but there are admit–”

“So no.” she said. It wasn’t a question. “Did you know,” she continued, “that the only person I have ever known James to hate, actually hate was you, Dexter Morgan?”

“He assaulted me, stalked me for weeks and harassed me. I’m not going to pretend him and I were buddies, but it does surprise me that I get that particular place of honour,” I said, smoothly I thought.

“Well answered,” she acknowledged. , “But, I would expect so. James wasn’t ever the diplomatic type,” she continued with a chuckle, “and you work in a lab to top it off. Knowing him, I’m surprised he didn’t slice you up while he was at it.”

The way she talked about the subject, having elegantly landed the conversation of the terror that was the Bay Harbour Butcher, while talking of her own cousin as a murderer, was frightening. She didn’t tense, freeze or pause while she spoke, even about this sort of topic. Admirable.

“So you think he did it?” I asked, somewhat uncertain.

“Let me put it to you like this, Dexter. : Even if he didn’t kill those people, he has killed other people and now that he's dead, buried and posthumously convicted, there’s nothing more to that story”

I want to say that I was shocked, but I am not quite sure if that was what I was feeling.

“Drink?” I asked.

“Help yourself.”