No Rest for the Wicked
folder
1 through F › Dexter
Rating:
Adult +
Chapters:
9
Views:
1,920
Reviews:
3
Recommended:
0
Currently Reading:
0
Category:
1 through F › Dexter
Rating:
Adult +
Chapters:
9
Views:
1,920
Reviews:
3
Recommended:
0
Currently Reading:
0
Disclaimer:
I do not own Dexter, nor any of the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.
Civil Servant
8. Civil Servant
“And high velocity projected blood-spatter is typically caused by?” I asked.
Jonathan shifted uncomfortably. Using an interrogation room for this definitely made this worse than any examination he’d had before. Still, despite the beads of sweat on his forehead, he answered slowly and deliberately: “High velocity projected blood-spatter is typically caused by gunshots, but can be caused by other weapons if the assailants exerts an extreme amount of forc– ”
“So a guy beating another with a steel pipe would create high-impact blood-spatter?” Batista asked, his voice accusing. I was impressed; Angel had picked up a lot from the brief introduction I had given him. A quick learner and honest cop, it shouldn’t take much longer before Angel would be walking around with a golden shield around his neck.
“Well…” Jonathan continued, “it is possible, but rare. The droplets would have to be moving with over 100 feet per second, which is unlikely to happen in a beating. More likely you’d get some medium-velocity projected blood-spatter,” he said, meeting Angels gaze challengingly, keeping Angels next objection from being spoken out loud. “As for gunshots,” he continued, “They are easily recognizable because they usually have both back and front-spatters,” he continued and added in a condescending tone to Batista, “that’s towards and away from the source of the impact, respectively. This, of course, depends on whether the bullet stopped after entering the victim’s body or travelled through it. In most cases, the back spatter is much smaller than the front spatter, because the blood will travel in the direction of the bullet.”
“Now, if this ridiculous examination is over,” Jonathan said, “I’d like to get back to work.”
“Your report got a killer off the hook, Mitchell,” Angel said, “If you don’t start checking for mistakes before you submit your report, then you’re putting killers right back on the street.”
It wasn’t fair, of course. Jonathan had made an excellent report. But, he’d left it on my desk, and seeing who would go to trial, I changed a couple of words, strengthening the case of the murderer.
Because that’s what Andrew Schermer was; a killer. And, not a new one.
Things were lining up neatly; Andrew Schermer was wanted for burglary, suspected of murder, and convicted of embezzlement. Unlike the courts, I was certain that he was guilty. But, if Andrew was locked away, I would have to go another long while with the Dark Passenger hounding me.
Poor Jonathan. He’d never know.
***
My mini-van was nothing if not inconspicuous, especially in a residential area. Undoubtedly, there were dozens of soccer-moms parking in these streets every day. But, I wasn’t dropping off some kid for practice. I was waiting.
Andrew Schermer liked a good workout. I could see him running his laps, and I had to admit he was in pretty good shape; he’d likely give Deb a run for his money should they decide to run laps together. Still, it didn’t matter how fast he could run or how strong he was; he was mine.
When Andrew stopped running his laps, I let my senses heighten; a predator in the wait. He took his water bottle and drank a bit before showering himself in the rest of the water. Never quite got the point of that, to be honest. But, probably no one got the point of wasting perfectly good drinking water by pouring it into ones hair.
When he gathered his things, I got out of the car and began following him. He took the same route home every time he’d been out for practice… Another two hundred meters and he’d stop in the usual alley to take a smoke, just as I had planned for.
Of course he stopped, patted his pockets a moment and found his cigarettes and lighter. Disgusting habit, really. Still, I had made sure to close my distance. “Hey,” I called out, “can I bother you for one?” I asked, nodding towards the pack in his hand. A moment of confusion, then he shrugged and handed me one along with his lighter. I lit it, feeling the filthy smoke enter my mouth and travel through my airways. Still, I didn’t show my discomfort. I handed back the lighter with a quick ‘thank you’ and watched him lean his head forward so the tip of the cigarette met the flame.
Now!
I slid the needle into his neck and the cigarette fell to the ground, unlit. I threw away my own cigarette as I grabbed the now-unconscious man. Thankfully, I wouldn’t have to drag him far; this alley was the back-entrance to an old warehouse, and as any abandoned building, it had warranted my dear friends in Narcotics to raid it only two days ago. No one was using the building, and guess what? Dazzling Dexter had the keys.
The room I used had once served as an office, probably for some night watchman, but no one had bothered maintaining it in the last decade or two. Still, the new ‘plastic-look’ I had refurnished it with likely wouldn’t inspire interior decorators everywhere. However, the naked man restrained to a piece of wood on top of a desk would no doubt have intrigued them, had they seen.
I was starting to wonder whether I had given him a larger dose than needed, because he took an unusually long time waking up. Eventually, though, he opened his eyes and stared blearily into the lamp directly above him. I’d tightened the plastic enough that he couldn’t turn his head.
“Smoking is a filthy habit, you know?”
“Who are you?” he asked, surprisingly composed considering most people would be more interested in why they were drugged and tied down, but to each his own.
“I’m a person who remembers Gina Barculo and Theresa Bleecker.”
“W-wha– I– don’t know who the hell you’re talking about,” he tried in desperation.
“Oh, but you do.” I said, disinterested, making a quick slice through the air with my knife. My dear victim couldn’t see the movement or he might’ve realized what would soon happen.
“You can’t prove it,” he said certainly. “The police tried.”
“The police follow certain rules,” I said, moving into his sight. “I don’t.”
”You gonna kill me?” he asked, unexpectedly calm.
“Yes.”
“Did you know them?”
“Would it make a difference?”
“I guess not.”
I wished that every victim I had were this calm about it. Sure, when I started cutting in him, he screamed and tried to escape, but at no point did he doubt that he deserved it, or that he had in fact reached his end. Quite liberating, actually.
Getting the body to my car was surprisingly easy. No one questioned a guy taking out several heavy-duty trash bags, especially if he looked a bit hung-over. Wild parties were hardly a rarity in Miami and someone had to clean it up.
And, I had.
I always made sure not to follow a particular pattern in the dates of my killings. If anyone suspected and found that, say every Friday or the second Thursday to fall on an uneven date after full moon, dear ol’ Dexter had play-dates, I could get caught before I knew it.
I did have to go sailing the same day I had performed the kill, though, and it hadn’t been more than a few hours when I was suddenly out on the open waters, an open beer bottle to my lips and waving at the people in the distance. I changed my course a little; had to get to my very own secluded spot in the bay…
Another kill, another slide, and this one would be the second-of-last slide before I had to get a new box. I had been nice and thorough in my work, that’s for sure.
“And high velocity projected blood-spatter is typically caused by?” I asked.
Jonathan shifted uncomfortably. Using an interrogation room for this definitely made this worse than any examination he’d had before. Still, despite the beads of sweat on his forehead, he answered slowly and deliberately: “High velocity projected blood-spatter is typically caused by gunshots, but can be caused by other weapons if the assailants exerts an extreme amount of forc– ”
“So a guy beating another with a steel pipe would create high-impact blood-spatter?” Batista asked, his voice accusing. I was impressed; Angel had picked up a lot from the brief introduction I had given him. A quick learner and honest cop, it shouldn’t take much longer before Angel would be walking around with a golden shield around his neck.
“Well…” Jonathan continued, “it is possible, but rare. The droplets would have to be moving with over 100 feet per second, which is unlikely to happen in a beating. More likely you’d get some medium-velocity projected blood-spatter,” he said, meeting Angels gaze challengingly, keeping Angels next objection from being spoken out loud. “As for gunshots,” he continued, “They are easily recognizable because they usually have both back and front-spatters,” he continued and added in a condescending tone to Batista, “that’s towards and away from the source of the impact, respectively. This, of course, depends on whether the bullet stopped after entering the victim’s body or travelled through it. In most cases, the back spatter is much smaller than the front spatter, because the blood will travel in the direction of the bullet.”
“Now, if this ridiculous examination is over,” Jonathan said, “I’d like to get back to work.”
“Your report got a killer off the hook, Mitchell,” Angel said, “If you don’t start checking for mistakes before you submit your report, then you’re putting killers right back on the street.”
It wasn’t fair, of course. Jonathan had made an excellent report. But, he’d left it on my desk, and seeing who would go to trial, I changed a couple of words, strengthening the case of the murderer.
Because that’s what Andrew Schermer was; a killer. And, not a new one.
Things were lining up neatly; Andrew Schermer was wanted for burglary, suspected of murder, and convicted of embezzlement. Unlike the courts, I was certain that he was guilty. But, if Andrew was locked away, I would have to go another long while with the Dark Passenger hounding me.
Poor Jonathan. He’d never know.
My mini-van was nothing if not inconspicuous, especially in a residential area. Undoubtedly, there were dozens of soccer-moms parking in these streets every day. But, I wasn’t dropping off some kid for practice. I was waiting.
Andrew Schermer liked a good workout. I could see him running his laps, and I had to admit he was in pretty good shape; he’d likely give Deb a run for his money should they decide to run laps together. Still, it didn’t matter how fast he could run or how strong he was; he was mine.
When Andrew stopped running his laps, I let my senses heighten; a predator in the wait. He took his water bottle and drank a bit before showering himself in the rest of the water. Never quite got the point of that, to be honest. But, probably no one got the point of wasting perfectly good drinking water by pouring it into ones hair.
When he gathered his things, I got out of the car and began following him. He took the same route home every time he’d been out for practice… Another two hundred meters and he’d stop in the usual alley to take a smoke, just as I had planned for.
Of course he stopped, patted his pockets a moment and found his cigarettes and lighter. Disgusting habit, really. Still, I had made sure to close my distance. “Hey,” I called out, “can I bother you for one?” I asked, nodding towards the pack in his hand. A moment of confusion, then he shrugged and handed me one along with his lighter. I lit it, feeling the filthy smoke enter my mouth and travel through my airways. Still, I didn’t show my discomfort. I handed back the lighter with a quick ‘thank you’ and watched him lean his head forward so the tip of the cigarette met the flame.
Now!
I slid the needle into his neck and the cigarette fell to the ground, unlit. I threw away my own cigarette as I grabbed the now-unconscious man. Thankfully, I wouldn’t have to drag him far; this alley was the back-entrance to an old warehouse, and as any abandoned building, it had warranted my dear friends in Narcotics to raid it only two days ago. No one was using the building, and guess what? Dazzling Dexter had the keys.
The room I used had once served as an office, probably for some night watchman, but no one had bothered maintaining it in the last decade or two. Still, the new ‘plastic-look’ I had refurnished it with likely wouldn’t inspire interior decorators everywhere. However, the naked man restrained to a piece of wood on top of a desk would no doubt have intrigued them, had they seen.
I was starting to wonder whether I had given him a larger dose than needed, because he took an unusually long time waking up. Eventually, though, he opened his eyes and stared blearily into the lamp directly above him. I’d tightened the plastic enough that he couldn’t turn his head.
“Smoking is a filthy habit, you know?”
“Who are you?” he asked, surprisingly composed considering most people would be more interested in why they were drugged and tied down, but to each his own.
“I’m a person who remembers Gina Barculo and Theresa Bleecker.”
“W-wha– I– don’t know who the hell you’re talking about,” he tried in desperation.
“Oh, but you do.” I said, disinterested, making a quick slice through the air with my knife. My dear victim couldn’t see the movement or he might’ve realized what would soon happen.
“You can’t prove it,” he said certainly. “The police tried.”
“The police follow certain rules,” I said, moving into his sight. “I don’t.”
”You gonna kill me?” he asked, unexpectedly calm.
“Yes.”
“Did you know them?”
“Would it make a difference?”
“I guess not.”
I wished that every victim I had were this calm about it. Sure, when I started cutting in him, he screamed and tried to escape, but at no point did he doubt that he deserved it, or that he had in fact reached his end. Quite liberating, actually.
Getting the body to my car was surprisingly easy. No one questioned a guy taking out several heavy-duty trash bags, especially if he looked a bit hung-over. Wild parties were hardly a rarity in Miami and someone had to clean it up.
And, I had.
I always made sure not to follow a particular pattern in the dates of my killings. If anyone suspected and found that, say every Friday or the second Thursday to fall on an uneven date after full moon, dear ol’ Dexter had play-dates, I could get caught before I knew it.
I did have to go sailing the same day I had performed the kill, though, and it hadn’t been more than a few hours when I was suddenly out on the open waters, an open beer bottle to my lips and waving at the people in the distance. I changed my course a little; had to get to my very own secluded spot in the bay…
Another kill, another slide, and this one would be the second-of-last slide before I had to get a new box. I had been nice and thorough in my work, that’s for sure.