Dexter's Final Cut (Dexter 7)

“Is it, I mean,” he said, “um, a murder? Blood work?”

“I’m afraid so,” I said. “I need to work with some samples from a crime scene.” And because Dexter is actually not very nice sometimes, I added, “The killer slashed through the femoral artery, so there was blood everywhere.”

Chase took a long breath in through his teeth. He let the air back out again, took off his sunglasses and looked at them, then put them back on. I watched him for a moment, and it may not say good things about me, but I was enjoying the way he had gone slightly pale under his tan. Finally he swallowed and took in another long breath. “Well,” he said. “I guess I’d better tag along and watch.”

“I guess so,” I said.

Chase swallowed, took another breath, and stood up, trying very hard to look resolute.

“Okay,” he said. “I, uh. I’ll just look over your shoulder …?”

“All right,” I said. “I’ll try not to splatter too much.”

He closed his eyes, but he followed.

It was a small triumph, but it was just about the only one I got for the rest of the week. As I trudged through my daily routine, Robert trudged along with me. He did not really get directly in my way too often, but every time I turned around he was there, a frown of concentration on his face, and usually some kind of inane question: Why did I do that? Why was it important to do that? Did I do that often? How many killers had I caught by doing that? Were they serial killers? Were there a lot of serial killers in Miami? A lot of the time the questions were completely unrelated to whatever I was doing, which made the whole thing seem even more pointlessly annoying. I could understand that it was a little hard for someone like him to frame intelligent questions about gas chromatography, but then, why watch me do it in the first place? Why couldn’t he just go sit in a sports bar and text me his questions while he sipped a beer and watched a ball game?

The stupid questions were bad enough. But Wednesday, he took things to a new level of persecution.

We were in the lab once more, and I was looking into the microscope, where I had just found some very interesting similarities between tissue samples from two different crime scenes. I straightened up, turned around, and there was Chase, frowning thoughtfully, with one hand massaging the top of his head and the other covering his mouth. And before I could ask him why on earth he was making such a ridiculous gesture, I realized that I was doing exactly the same thing.

I dropped my hands. “Why are you doing that?” I said, keeping most of the irritation out of my voice.

Chase dropped his hands, too, and smiled, a cocky little smile of triumph. “That’s what you do,” he said. “When you find something significant. You do that with your hands.” He did it again briefly, one hand on his head and the other over his mouth. “You do that,” he said, letting his hands fall away, “and then you stand there and look really thoughtful.” And he made a half-frowning face that said quite clearly, I am being really thoughtful. “Like that,” he said.

I suppose I might well have been doing that and many other things my entire professional life without knowing it. There are very few mirrors in a forensics lab to show me what I looked like as I worked, and frankly I preferred it that way. We all have unconscious patterns of behavior, and I have always thought mine were just a little bit more restrained and logical than those exhibited by the mere mortals surrounding me.

But here was Chase, showing me quite clearly that my mannerisms were just as ridiculous as anyone else’s. It was unbelievably infuriating to have him copy me right back at me, and it still didn’t explain the most important part of the question. “Why do you have to do it, too?” I said.

He shook his head, one quick jerk to the side, as if I was the one asking stupid questions. “I’m learning you,” he said. “For my character.”

“Couldn’t you learn Vince instead?” I said, and even to me I sounded peevish.

Chase shook his head. “My character isn’t gay,” he said quite seriously.

By the end of work on Thursday, I was very willing to become gay myself if it meant that Chase would stop copying me. I watched him as he aped everything I did, each small unconscious tic, and I learned that I slurped my coffee, washed my hands too long, and stared at the ceiling pursing my lips when I was talking on the phone. I have never had any problems with my self-esteem; I like Dexter very much, just the way he is. But as Chase’s performing-monkey act went on and on, I discovered that even the healthiest self-image can erode under a barrage of constant, solemn mockery.

I did my best to soldier on. I told myself that I was following orders, and this was all part of the job and I really had no choice in the matter, but it didn’t help. Every time I turned around, there was a mirror image of whatever I was doing, but with a neat mustache and a perfect haircut. Worse than that, every now and then I would turn and see him simply staring at me, with an otherworldly expression of abstract longing on his face that I could not decipher.

The days wore on and his presence became more and more exasperating. It was bad enough to have him following, watching, copying me—but even setting all that aside, I found it impossible to like Robert Chase. I admit that I rarely manage to achieve the kind of warm personal bond that humans routinely forge, mostly because I do not actually have human feelings. Even so, I fake it very well; I have survived among people my whole life and I know all of the rituals and tricks of social bonding. None of them worked with Chase, and for some reason I found myself reluctant to keep trying. Something about him was wrong, slightly off, unattractive, and although I could not have said why, I just didn’t like him.

But I had been commanded to tow him through the stormy waters of my life in forensics, and so tow I must. And I have to admit that at least Chase was diligent. He showed up every morning, almost exactly at the same time I did. Friday morning he even brought in a box of doughnuts. I must have looked surprised, because he smiled at me and said, “That’s what you do, right?”

“Sometimes I do,” I admitted.

He nodded. “I asked around about you,” he said. “They all told me, ‘Dexter does doughnuts.’ ” And he grinned at me as if alliteration was some kind of wonderfully clever form of wit.

If I had been irritated by him before, now I was positively seething. He had gone beyond mere mockery; now he was “asking around” about me, prying into my character, encouraging everyone around me to unload about all of Dexter’s quirks and peccadilloes. It made me so angry that I could calm myself only by picturing Robert duct-taped to a table, with me standing happily above him clutching a fillet knife. Still, I ate his doughnuts.

That afternoon provided the only relief I’d had all week. And it seemed only fitting that it came in the form of a homicide.

Robert and I had just returned from lunch. I had allowed him to persuade me to take him for some Real Cuban Food, and so we’d gone to my favorite place, Café Relampago. The Morgans had been going there for two generations—three now, if you counted the fact that I had taken my baby, Lily Anne. She loved the maduros.

In any case, Robert and I had dined lavishly on ropa vieja, yuca, maduros, and, of course, arroz con frijoles negros. We had washed it all down with Ironbeer, the Cuban version of Coke, and finished with flan and a barrage of cafecitas. Robert had insisted on paying, perhaps trying to buy his way into my affections, so I was in a slightly mellower mood when we returned to our job. But we didn’t get a chance to settle into our chairs to reflect and digest, because as we strolled in, Vince came rushing out clutching the canvas bag that held his kit.

“Get your stuff,” he said, hurrying past. “We got a wild one.”

Robert turned to watch him go, and his air of relaxed confidence seemed to drain out and puddle at his feet. “Is that … Does he mean, um—”