Cody, oddly enough, was the only one showing any kind of animation. He was very eagerly looking forward to his next Cub Scout meeting, even though it meant wearing his dreaded uniform shorts. But when I asked him why he’d had a change of heart, he admitted it was only because he was hoping the new den leader might turn up dead, too, and this time he might see something.
So the week dragged on, the weekend was no relief, and Monday morning came around again as it almost always seems to do. And even though I brought a large box of doughnuts in to work, Monday had nothing much to offer me in return, either, except more work. A drive-by shooting in Liberty City took me out onto the hot streets for several unnecessary hours. A sixteen-year-old boy was dead, and it was obvious from one quick look at the blood pattern that he had been shot from a moving vehicle. But “obvious” is never enough for a police investigation, so there I was sweating under the hot sun and doing things that came perilously close to physical labor, just so I could fill out the correct forms.
By the time I got back to my little cubby at headquarters, I had sweated away most of my artificial human covering and I wanted nothing more out of life than to take a shower, put on some dry clothes, and then possibly slice up somebody who thoroughly deserved it. And of course that led my slowly chugging train of thought straight down the track to Weiss, and with nothing else to do except admire the feel and the smell of my own sweat, I checked his YouTube page one more time.
And this time there was a brand-new thumbnail waiting for me at the bottom of the page.
It was labeled DEXTERAMA!
There wasn’t any realistic choice in the matter. I clicked on the box.
There was an unfocused blur, and then the sound of an orchestra that led into noble-sounding music that reminded me of high school graduation. And then a series of pictures; the “New Miami” bodies, intercut with reaction shots from people seeing them, as Weiss’s voice came in, sounding like a wicked version of a newsreel announcer.
“For thousands of years,” he intoned, “terrible things have happened to us—” and there were some close-up shots of the bodies and their plastic-masked faces. “And man has asked the same question: Why am I here? And for all that time, the answer has been the same …” A close-up of a face from the crowd at Fairchild Gardens, looking puzzled, confused, uncertain, and Weiss’s voice coming over it in dopey tones. “I dunno …”
The film technique was very clumsy, nothing at all like the earlier stuff, and I tried not to be too critical—after all, Weiss’s talents were in another area, and he had lost his first partner, and killed his second, who had been good at editing.
“So man has turned to art,” Weiss said with artificially solemn breathlessness, and there was a picture of a statue with no arms and legs. “And art has given us a much better answer …” Close-up of the jogger finding the body on South Beach, followed by Weiss’s famous scream.
“But conventional art can only take us so far,” he said. “Because using traditional methods like paint and stone create a barrier between the artistic event and the experience of art. And as artists, we have to be all about breaking down barriers …” Picture of the Berlin Wall falling as a crowd cheered.
“So guys like Chris Burden and David Nebreda began to experiment and make themselves the art—one barrier down! But it’s not enough, because to the average audience member”—another dopey face from the crowd—“there’s no difference between a lump of clay and some crazy artist; the barrier is still there! Bummer!”
Then Weiss’s face came on-screen; the camera jiggled a little, as if he was positioning the camera as he talked. “We need to get more immediate. We need to make the audience part of the event, so the barrier disappears. And we need better answers … to the bigger questions. Questions like, ‘What is truth? What is the threshold of human agony?’ And most important”—and here the screen showed that awful loop of Dexter Dumping Doncevic into the white porcelain tub—“‘What would Dexter do—if he became part of the art, instead of being the artist?’”
And here there was a new scream—it was muffled, but it sounded tantalizingly familiar; not Weiss’s, but something I had heard before, although I couldn’t place it, and Weiss was back onscreen, smiling slightly and glancing over his shoulder. “At least we can answer that last one, can’t we?” he said. And he picked up the camera and twirled it around off his face and onto a twitching heap in the background. The heap swam into focus and I realized why the scream had sounded familiar.
It was Rita.
She lay on her side with her hands tied behind her and her feet bound at the ankles. She squirmed furiously and made another loud and muffled sound, this time one of outrage.
Weiss laughed. “The audience is the art,” he said. “And you’re going to be my masterpiece, Dexter.” He smiled, and even though it was not an artificial smile, it was not particularly pretty, either. “It’s going to be an absolute … Art-stravaganza,” he said. And then the screen went dark.
He had Rita—and I know very well that I should have leaped up, grabbed my squirrel gun, and charged into the tall pine screaming a war cry—but I felt a curious calmness spread over me, and I simply sat there for a long moment, wondering what he would do to her, before I finally realized that, one way or another, I really did have to do something. And so I started to take a large breath to get me out of the chair and through the door.
But I had time for only one small breath, not even enough to get one foot on the floor, when a voice came from close behind me.
“That’s your wife, right?” said Detective Coulter.
After I peeled myself from the ceiling I turned and faced him. He stood just inside the door, several feet away, but close enough that he must have seen and heard everything. There was no way to dodge his question.
“Yes,” I said. “That’s Rita.”
He nodded. “That looked like you, with the guy in the bathtub.”
“That… I,” I stammered. “I don’t think so.”
Coulter nodded again. “That was you,” he said. And since I had nothing to say and didn’t want to hear myself stammer again, I just shook my head.
“You going to just sit there, guy got your wife?” he said.
“I was just about to get up,” I said.
Coulter cocked his head to one side. “You get the feeling this guy doesn’t like you or something?” he said.
“It’s starting to look like that,” I admitted.
“Why do you think that is?” he said.