And I can almost picture my coworkers’ disgust as it turns slowly to shock, and then grim but total condemnation as they find kiddie porn on the hard drive of Hood’s computer—I mean, they might find it, along with a series of torrid love notes written to Camilla Figg and her reply that she never wanted to see him again because of his sick thing about children, and anyway his breath was so horrible. It would be easy to conclude that Hood had killed her out of rage at the breakup and then tried to cover his ass by pinning it on poor guiltless Dexter—especially since he found all her pictures of me, and these hypothetical notes might reveal that he had never liked me anyway.
And at some point in this remarkable train ride into Hood’s inarguable guilt and shame, someone could very well pause and say, “But isn’t this all just a little too perfect? Isn’t there almost too much evidence against Detective Hood, who is no longer here to defend himself? Why, it’s almost as if somebody snuck into this foul shanty and planted fabricated evidence, isn’t it?”
But this pause will be a short one, and it will end with a disapproving shake of the head and a return to belief in the evidence, because it’s all there, right before their eyes, and the thought that someone might have planted it is too wacky for words. After all, who would ever do such a thing? And even more, who could do it? Might there really be one person who has the amazing combination of talents, cunning, and moral emptiness to pull off such a complete destruction of Detective Hood’s posthumous character? Was there really one person who might know enough about the case to manufacture just the right evidence, and have enough knowledge of police procedure to make it airtight? Who?
And Who might slide through the night like a darker part of the shadows and slither unseen into Hood’s house to plant it? And once inside, Who might have the computer know-how to take all this evidence off a flash drive—for example—and put it onto Hood’s little computer in such a way that it is utterly convincing? And Who, on top of all that, might do all this not merely so well but with such a truly clever, original, naughty sense of humor?
Is there really any Who anywhere who might be that good at all these dark and different things—and more important, wicked enough to do them? In all the world, might there possibly be anybody so wonderfully just like that?
Yes.
There might be.
But only one.