Chapter Text
Tonight's the night.
The conversation of a busy Miami sidewalk had settled to a dull roar as the sun set. All that remained was the ever-present noise of cars along the street, tires ripping the wet pavement, and people that couldn’t sleep chattering inside of bars or out on patios in the cooling night air. The air stank with a midnight storm that had rolled through, leaving its wet mark on the city and trapping everything under a dense blanket of humidity.
Proof of this dew-made blanket settled across the broad, flat metal of car hoods, making them glitter like Christmas tree ornaments. The condensation kept the sweat on his arm damp, sticking down hairs, making it itch and tickle as each strand slowly freed itself.
One-twenty-eight. Thought they’d never let me go.
Long-gone dinner rumbled like a ghost in his stomach. A particularly busy Miami summer in the peak of a heatwave meant he’d been kept far longer than he wanted, chasing down a hundred different killers and countless more files and samples that kept getting in the way of what he really wanted to be doing.
He looked at the car across the street from the bar. Illinois plates. It probably got here at one in the morning, like it had every night for the last four.
Good. He’s still here. Monsters were creatures of habit, as he very well knew, and Oliver Beaumont had formed a strict routine around his newest hunting grounds.
Another couple wandered out of the bar as he lingered by the car, faces hard to make out in the harsh back lighting. Both were too short for him to care. I wonder if Officer Clark still comes here. Maybe he has a companion now, doesn’t need to. Maybe they come here together, who knows. Do couples go to bars together? Is that something you do in a relationship?
The pair vanished down the street, hopefully going home to sleep, like normal people would be doing at this hour. The rest of the people outside continued their patio drinking and merry-making.
Is it different if it’s a gay bar?
Oliver Beaumont. Just moved down from New York City, if you took him at his word. A lawyer, cared for his ailing mother for years, decided to move down someplace warm after she passed away. Looking for a pair of soft arms to fall into. It was a little impressive; a few nights ago, this well-rehearsed life came spilling out of him as easily as the truth. To get him, he needed proof beyond any shadow of doubt, and an empty beer bottle would deliver just that. Unfortunately, this also meant having to go in there, and while there was certainly nothing wrong with it, if anyone he knew saw him, it would spur some people to investigate his social life far closer than he wanted them to.
It would stop them from asking why I don’t have a girlfriend. Maybe it could be a decent cover. Eh, but then they’d start asking why I don’t have a boyfriend instead.
After making sure he wasn’t talking to a New York native, he went on and on about the food, the night life, the smell of the city. Frankly, many people probably found Oliver charming, but he just found him outright annoying. Kept them both out ‘til two-thirty in the morning, when Oliver finally stood up and asked if he wanted to go home with him.
But that was a death sentence.
It was a simple game of ‘spot the difference’; to find a repeat offender, you had to find something similar across two or more crime scenes to link them. For his usual prey, it almost always ended up being method and victim above all – monsters were creatures of habit, as he well knew. There was a certain kind of person they wanted to kill, and a certain way they liked doing it.
Two people were found dead and dumped in two different alleys roughly a month apart from one another. Two is hardly an epidemic, and when it’s thrown in with all of the other violent crimes across Miami, it doesn’t really warrant more than an eyebrow raise and a murmur of how it’s a ‘damn shame’. Both went no where; the man and woman had nothing in common with one another other than being from out of town and turning up dead in the same way.
Both were strangled, so the police assumed crimes of passion – scorned lovers, most likely. It wasn’t an unreasonable assumption; movies made it seem like choking someone to death was no big deal, that a healthy person could be killed by a twenty-second-squeeze around the throat, but it took time. You had to hold firm as they clawed and squirmed and slapped and hit and screamed and cried and tried anything in their power to live, to breathe. You had to keep holding on as they slowly faded, as they passed out, as they seemed dead, because they might still have a heartbeat thrumming against your palms as you constrict. It was a lot of work, especially for a stranger, if you just wanted them dead. Stabbing, shooting, even hitting them with your car – anything was faster, if the end goal was just death. Strangling usually meant they wanted to watch the life leave their victim’s eyes. Most would naturally assume a vendetta, and love gone sour had a way of doing that to people.
But they were wrong. These people hadn’t wronged someone; the only “wrong” they committed was having a drink at the bar after a long day. They’d never met their grim reaper before he walked through the door and asked if that seat next to them was taken. The only reason they’d died was making the mistake of thinking Mr. Oliver Beaumont was there for the same reason they were.
But that Illinois plate. It was a little funny – the stereotype was that a killer always returned to the scene of the crime. I never do – there’s nothing left to ever come back to. Seeing an out of state license plate wasn’t out of the ordinary, and the first time around, it warranted nothing but a mental note: ‘they’re a long way from home, I wonder what brings them to Miami?’ But by the second scene, it suddenly became noteworthy: a long way from home, and rubbernecking at two deaths despite them being far from one another. A little poking brought up the owner of the plate, one Oliver Beaumont. A little further digging showed why he’d hurried down to Miami and spun a story about New York and his rental car and dead mother; this wasn’t the first time he tried it. The woman got away, and with a few connections, he got off free enough to come down to Florida and try his hand at it again.
Thus, the beer bottle, in an effort to match the unidentified DNA under the second victim’s fingernails. An entire evening spent listening to Mr. Beaumont tell tales of his new photography hobby, the lies through his teeth about the Big Apple, the attempts at flirtation that might have been tempting to others at the bar – but both of these men were trying to fill a different, shared need.
Another pair popped out, chattering excitedly. One man giggled, conjuring thoughts of excited hyenas eyeing a meal. There’s a lot worse ways to spend my night, I guess. Watching happy, boring drunk people is a better sight than—
The thought fizzled out. Ugh. Too late at night to try and think of other scenarios, too late to think at all. He rubbed his eyes, letting his vision blur and slowly refocus. The salt of sweat from his fingers stung, but hey, maybe it would help him stay awake. Lots of late nights getting out of the lab long after the sun went down only to prowl the streets at night for a black car with Illinois plates.
Thankfully, the man owning that out-of-state car never went to trial, and some high-up friends of this informally-retired lawyer had made sure the upload of his DNA to the larger database was firmly at the bottom of anyone’s priority list, and therefore was kept far away from the Miami Metro PD and their assumedly Florida bad guys. He was practically gift-wrapped; Oliver Beaumont had killed one man, most likely at least two and probably more in Illinois, and he wanted to do it again – the police were none the wiser.
He decided early on that he’d make this one special. Something about this one – maybe the audacity to encroach on his own hunting grounds, coming from out of state – spurred on a special craving. Harry always taught him not to play with his food, but everyone deserved a treat now and then; his just happened to come in the form of some dramatic irony.
An easy kill, just for him. A good hunt.
Just what I need after a long week.
As the world came back into focus, he finally slunk across the street, checking for oncoming traffic. It would be safer to just wait for him at home, set up the kill room there, make quick work of it all, but that risked him the presence of another hunter’s intended prey, and that would make everything much more complicated. Besides, he seemed to go home whenever he damn pleased, and falling asleep waiting around for his target was not good. Best move was to bring him back home himself – also happened to be the most satisfying.
Hope I can make some convincing bait.
The couple was still by the door, just barely far away enough to ignore him, and he slipped inside without notice.
It was… unpleasant.
That wasn’t a fair assessment, really, but any place with a large amount of drunk people and noise was unpleasant.
At least my shoes aren’t sticking to the floor.
His eyes fluttered to the bar, Oliver’s favourite spot. Easy to sit by people when there’s an empty stool next to them, easy to pick up people you sit by. Simple math. Less simple; there was no Oliver, no matter how many times he looked.
Maybe he’s just in the bathroom. He put his back on a wall, looking out at the various clientele. I’ll catch him as he’s paying, tell him I reconsidered his offer, and he’ll drive us back to his house.
The man was versatile, he had to give him that. Man, woman, no single vacationer was safe in the city of Miami until this Chicago killer was out of the picture. Couldn’t wait to get him on the table and find out why he picked them – just for convenience, or did he have something against them?
One-thirty.
Something didn’t feel right.
The man was erratic with his leave times, but one thing had been consistent; for the past five nights, Oliver never left before two. Maybe he wanted to let the alcohol sit, maybe he just wanted to give it at least an hour before he gave up, but regardless, he was at least consistent in his inconsistency.
One-thirty-one.
I’m being paranoid. He’s just in the bathroom.
He’d get in the car with him, only have to tolerate a few minutes of his fake New England stories and lurid comments, and then package him up nice and neatly for the fish. The hunter becomes the hunted, the prey becomes the predator – killed by the very thing he kills. It was perfect planning.
One-thirty-two.
Dexter poked his head out of the bar, scanning the sidewalk for any signs of life, his eyes catching on lights, on people drinking, on a few eyes looking him over – remember to smile and nod – and the rows of cars still out at this time of night. After a moment of standing there, he noticed something much more worrying than a few bystanders watching him:
Nothing.
The absence of a car.
“Shit.”
He started walking, eyes trained on the empty spot.
When had he slipped out? The car was still there when he went in – was he on the patio this whole time and Dexter hadn’t noticed?
He was at the bar. His pace picked up. He could’ve slipped out the back, been discreet – but why would he bother unless he was up to something?
He couldn’t let this one get away – it was stupid to try and play this game with him, and now he had an extra five minute walk as punishment, in this heat—
Was he with the laughing man?
He stopped.
He tried to remember the other half of that couple; on the taller side, shortish hair, white. That’s all he could really tell from behind, but it fit him fine, and would explain why he never noticed him leave.
Most important part of the night and I walk right by him.
If that really was him, that meant he wasn’t alone.
“Fuck.” Dexter leaned against the crying brick of the building to his right, putting his hands through his hair.
I can’t get him now, not when there’s a witness. If I’d gotten here sooner—
He couldn’t control his day job. What he could’ve controlled was taking this guy out three days ago, when he first had the chance.
Saving people isn’t my job, it’s a happy by-product. I just need to get some sleep.
He couldn’t save everyone in Miami; there would always be death. There would be a lot more if he got caught doing something that might implicate him, and that was bound to happen if he stuck his nose in this hornet’s nest. He couldn’t risk a witness, no matter what.
Dexter started walking again, a steady if slow pace back to his car. He could already feel the nice, cool touch of the pillow under his head, the firm mattress, the inviting sheets barely covering him. The rattle of the A/C unit providing soft ambiance. He’d try again tomorrow.
That guy looked pretty small compared to him. Probably easy pickings – and he’s probably lonely, going with a stranger.
Work might be bad again in the morning, but the sooner he got to bed, the later he could stay up tomorrow to take this monster off the street. He might make it to three bodies in Miami, but he’d never make it to four.
If he took him back to his house, they could already be there.
He paused to cross the street, checking for oncoming traffic yet again. One more crosswalk, and he could head for home, for a well-rested day tomorrow, for a nice extra-curricular. For safety, for a sure-thing…
Five minutes, much less to knock him out. Maybe he can buy himself some time if he puts up a decent fight, but—
...for a workday including a man found strangled and dumped in an alleyway for the crime of having a few drinks on vacation.
Fuck.
Dexter sighed, and started running.
---
The black car with Illinois plates sat in the driveway, silent, already cooled. The neighbourhood was quiet, but a deep unease already settled into Dexter’s stomach, and he hated it. He wasn’t used to being so close to his victims when they were actively doing the very things he punished them for – something about it seemed… vile. Distasteful. Perverse, even. There was an innocent man in there.
‘Plan’ wasn’t exactly the word he’d use to describe what had distilled in his mind on the short drive over – ‘goal’ was a lot closer. An unsettling weight on everything made it hard to think. He slipped on his gloves, only knowing he had to stop whatever was happening in that house from happening. Maybe he could say he was in the neighbourhood and heard a scream, nevermind why he was in the neighbourhood to begin with, or how he heard a scream from inside his car, or why he responded to it by breaking and entering instead of just knocking.
The lack of sound as he crept through the door could’ve meant many things. They’d probably only been there ten minutes, maybe less. They could just be asleep, but it didn’t seem like most people would bring someone back home just for sleep. A little part of him hoped they were anyway, but then again, how would he explain picking the front door then?
A distant thump.
He quickened his pace, trying to keep his steps quiet. He needed to keep his presence a surprise as long as he could – an unseen predator had the greatest advantage, and his target was bigger, stronger, and probably a whole lot angrier than he could manage flatly.
Passing the kitchen, he hesitated. A knife block sat full by the sink beside a pair of floral-print rubber gloves. Hand to hand combat was riskier, but bringing in a weapon might make it more dangerous if Oliver took it from him. Besides, it would lead to many more questions if the man was stabbed ‘in a panic’ by a knife from another room.
I don’t want to deal with getting blood out of the carpet anyway. The slight weight of the needle container in his pocket was tempting, but if he was going to try and convince the witness that it was all a spur of the moment thing, having a heavy-duty tranquilizer in your pocket was a hell of a coincidence – a veterinarian making a house call by cutting into a quiet suburb? With a kill kit in his car?
He continued down the hall.
A sliver of an open door, the smell of wine wafting out. More thumping. The sound of something sliding around on carpet. Gurgling, panting. A struggle.
The light was on. Dimmed.
In the slit of the door, he could just make out two figures engaged in a struggle: one below, on the floor, supine, legs kicking, straining weakly, and one above, straddling, grabbing. Squeezing. The man on the floor made sticky back-of-the-throat sounds, clicks, attempted gasps through a closed airway. A dark spot on the carpet by the bed with a wine glass glinting, broken.
If he didn’t get him good from the start, there’d be a fight, and disregarding any added danger from an angry killer denied a victim, Dexter might lose, and Oliver would be free to run off into the night. He’d be in the wind, and the witness would insist on filing a report, and Dexter would have a lot of questions to answer.
Or maybe he wouldn’t. Maybe the witness would just want it all to go away, forgotten and left behind in Miami as he headed for home. Club Havana would be removed from his mind, as would be the man he met there, and the man that saved him.
Saved him. This isn’t my responsibility; I’m not Deb. This goes sideways, it could all be over.
Or I could be a hero, no one suspects a hero.
A big unknown was growing weaker on the floor, buzzing and drowning out all avenues of thought. Kill him now, maybe the witness keeps it to himself and flees. That’s still a huge liability, no matter where he flees to. Don’t kill him now, and maybe the witness stays quiet, but Oliver is free to run off to the next city, strangle more vacationers, and rob Dexter of his meal.
He was supposed to be better at thinking on his feet than this.
I need to get him off the guy, or I’ll have a bigger problem and a lot more to think about.
Dexter slipped off his belt as quietly as he could manage, and crept up. Just over Oliver’s shoulder, he could see the face of the victim clearly, red and strained. Eerily familiar, but he’d never seen it make that kind of expression before. Who are you?
He looped the belt around his target’s neck, yanking back as hard as he could, earning a surprised gasp cut short by the leather. The man on the floor took in a breath before starting to hack, holding his throat and struggling to back away. Oliver, meanwhile, reared back, making Dexter stumble slightly but still keep a firm grip. Meaty hands started flapping at him, bruising him inevitably – people usually accept ‘I don’t know’ as an answer for those – as Oliver started trying to stand.
Uh oh.
The much larger man leaned back and let himself fall off his perch from his knees onto his back – or rather, onto Dexter’s chest, sandwiched between him and the floor. The air came out of him, and very suddenly he felt a spike of adrenaline that should’ve come sooner. Sure, he played sports as a kid – he knew what it felt to get the wind knocked out of him – but that didn’t make it any less panic-inducing that a known killer a full head taller than him was now ripping free from his grip and turning around.
Breathless, diaphragm in spasm, Dexter started crawling – if he could just get away, just a little, he could get some air and figure something out. He only got about a foot forward in his scrambling before he felt hands close around his leg.
The carpet pulled up the corner of his shirt and burned his skin with the rough yank back into place, and a very pissed off Oliver Beaumont rolled him up to face the ceiling. A solid mass settled over him, and hands gripped tight around his throat like a python – less the kind to crush his windpipe and watch him choke on his own blood, more the kind to watch him slowly fade. He started saying things, probably asking who the hell he was – maybe just cursing him, Dexter wasn’t exactly engaged with that part of their interaction at the moment.
After some futile pawing at the grip on his throat, he remembered the original plan, original consequences now unimportant. A hand shot down to reach his leg pocket, but the massive thigh hugging one side of his body blocked his path, smothering that idea. His legs kicked uselessly, managing an ineffective knee in his attacker’s back a few times and nothing else besides thumping and scraping.
So this is what it feels like. It became harder and harder to hear his heart in his ears, but it was set off like a rabbit’s, a little engine desperate to survive. He hated it.
It can’t end here, not like this, this is embarrassing—
Something long and thin hit his shoulder.
Anything for an edge – he grabbed at it and felt its length, its flared base, its pointed and broken end.
Something sharp—
Without any further though, his arm struck out, nesting the new tool deep, deep into Oliver’s neck. Almost immediately the hands loosened, one leaving entirely to now grip the gushing out from around the edges of the broken stem of the wine glass. Dexter’s stomach grew warm with the dripping, and he grabbed the bedframe, pulling himself away.
The stranger was sitting up now, nearer the stain on the carpet, making high-pitched sounds of fear and something like disgust as they both watched Oliver wet his hands completely with his neck. A particularly loud shriek sounded as Oliver slumped back, nearer to the cowering man, taking a firm grip of the stem.
Least you could do is pull it out, make my life easier after all the mess you caused.
Out it came. With it, a new, thicker flood, spilling out into the carpet. A red hand swept out wide, grabbing the stranger’s shirt and yanking hard, staining his front as the flow continued with the beat of his heart, spattering the poor man’s face as Oliver coughed. Dexter lunged – he didn’t work this hard to save the witness just for him to end up stabbed anyway – and grabbed a handful of neatly-combed hair, pulling as hard as he could.
That seemed to do it. With one last gush from the movement, Oliver fell onto his back. Dexter grabbed hold of the man now covered in a killer’s blood and pulled him away, their eyes never leaving the man growing fainter on the floor.
A struggle.
Gurgling, panting.
The sound of something sliding on carpet.
Thumping.
Silence.
Dexter’s grip was still around the witness’s bicep, so he gave it a tug to get his attention. Two wide, teary, prey-like eyes suddenly bore into him, relief obvious. There was something familiar about them.
Okay, you’re a regular, average, concerned citizen that just happened to walk in on a crime. A hero, you’re a hero – calm, take charge, but show you’re human. Act a little spooked.
Thankfully, he didn’t have to fake the adrenaline-tremor in his voice. “Are you okay?”
The only response was a nod – several nods, actually, but fast and frantic enough to count as one. He turned his attention back to his rapidly-cooling attacker and moved forward to pounce – and wrap his arms around Dexter.
...at least he’s not scared of me, after seeing me do… that.
“That—it all just happened so fast…” His voice felt uncomfortably hoarse. Hopefully he could just tell people at the station he was coming down with something. “He was—he was choking you—”
The man now wrapped around him and covering him in even more blood sobbed over his shoulder, his voice dry from panic and face slick with the lessening terror.
Not my strong suit. He tried a few pats on the back, tossing a rub in for good measure. “You’re okay, we’re safe. You’re safe.”
More blubbering—it sounded like ‘thank you’ was part of it, but it was hard to tell. Something in the voice made Dexter’s ears burn.
Ok, lean more ‘saviour’, maybe. He’s a mess, maybe he needs someone strong.
“He’s… not gonna get back up.”
A loud sniff, and a head coming back over his shoulder to look at the heap. “Is—” Those eyes again. “Is he dead?”
“Safe to say.” Strong, not casual, ugh.
“Oh God…” He let go slightly, looking down at the mess made of his shirt. Glad he can’t see his face right now. “Oh God, I have a dead man’s blood all over me—”
“Hey hey hey—” The last thing I need his him panicking. “It’s not that big a deal—”
“You stabbed him and I—I gave you the glass and then you stabbed him and now his blood is all—all over me—”
“It—it was self defense!” He swallowed hard; the adrenaline dried his mouth, too. “We didn’t do anything wrong.”
“Right, it—” More of the same, fevered nods. “It was self-defense, it—you had to, you had to do it, or he would’ve killed you and then come around and killed me too, we had to do it.”
“What even happened? How did—how did you end up here?” I mean, I know already, but might as well hear how he hunted tonight.
“We—he bought me a drink, a-and he was—I mean he seemed, he seemed like he was nice, and he was cute and when he asked if I wanted a glass of good wine, it felt—God, I am such a fucking idiot—”
“No you aren’t, stop that.” He watched the man hide his face in his hands. “He’s the bad guy here, don’t blame yourself.” Or maybe do, might help you come to my side.
“God...”
Time to put all that practice acting human into action. Dexter turned his head to look at the body, widening his eyes, flickering over his feet, his hands, his head – just any part of him, so long as it was quick glances. He let his mouth hang open a bit, trying to sell horror. “It… this doesn’t look good.”
After no response, he looked over to see the man just staring at the corpse.
Glad I put all that work in, thanks. “There’s two of us, one of him, and I mean—except for some bruising, the only one with any wounds is him, and he’s dead, in his own home…”
“His own home…” That got him to look back at his new co-conspirator.
“I—and I don’t know about you, but I live here, and even if the police believe us, I mean—he seemed nice when you met him, didn’t he? He’s bound to have friends, they won’t wanna believe that we killed him because we had no other choice..."
The best way to convince someone you were being honest was to tell the truth. All he could do now is give another firm yank on the heartstrings, remind this man of the debt he now owed, and hope he took the bait.
“This could—this could ruin my life, I-I didn't even do anything wrong—”
“Hey, take a deep breath.” Now it was Dexter’s turn to receive a rub on the back. It was weird to hear a voice so clogged with mucus telling him to calm down, but at least he was winning pity. “We need to call someone—”
“Do you have any idea how this looks? Look at you! You’re soaked—”
“Look at you, you’re not any better!” Scared almost out of his wits and he still has a mind to mouth off at me.
“That’s my point. We need to get out of here.”
“It’s not—”
“Listen to me.” He was already in this deep, might as well make the full push. “I work with the police, I know how they work, and this is gonna be a big problem for the rest of our lives.”
Cogs that had been humming in the back of the man’s mind seemingly came to the front, distress spread across his face – he didn’t like where all this was going, but something other than Dexter seemed to be dragging him along. He looked back and forth – the body, the killer, the bloody glass, the stranger, the monster, the… other monster, but he didn’t know that part.
Sniff. His voice dropped down like he was scared to make too much noise, meek. “Then do we… do we just leave…?”
“No. No, we should clean up.”
“Clean up? I don’t know how to—”
“I know.” It sounds like I’m arguing with myself. Dexter finally stood, looking down at his soaked Henley with mild disgust. “We can make it like neither of us were ever here.”
His new accomplice slowly got to his feet, gesturing. “What do you mean, look at the mess! There’s a fucking dead body, I’d say that’s pretty good—”
“Stop—” A harsh plap; Dexter’s gloved palms slapped firmly into the stranger’s cheeks, holding his head fast and forcing eye contact. The startled gaze was exactly level with his own, growing more fearful the longer Dexter glared, “...talking. I know what I’m doing. We can fix this. We can—we can do this, but you gotta help me, okay?”
The clean-shaven face was slightly sticky in his hands, a reminder that he was a big, loud, mobile piece of evidence. Just need him to think it’s too late to turn back.
“Okay?” He shook the head in his grasp slightly and earned sweaty hands around his wrists as a reward.
“Okay, yes, okay.” The man was easy to spook, at least. He let go, the leather making a slight tearing sound at separating from the wet skin.
“Good.” What can I have him do…
Already he was looking at the body again. Nothing with that, obviously.
“What’s your name?”
“My—” A very, very pregnant pause. Considering an alias? Confused why he asked? Just out of it? “David.”
“Okay, David. Take off your shoes and your overshirt and leave them here in the bedroom. I want you to go to the kitchen and get the rubber gloves on the side of the sink, put them on. Then I want you to take a towel and wipe down anything you touched while you were here. Even stuff you might not’ve touched, just wipe it down if you even think you could’ve gotten your prints on.” Easy job. I’ll check his work obviously, but… nothing with blood.
“I—I can do that.” The relief was clear; the man didn’t seem squeamish, but being in the bedroom any longer was the least palatable thing he could think of.
David, the newly named stranger, began to move away when Dexter grabbed his wrist firm. “If you miss anything, I mean anything, a speck of blood on the towel and smeared on the wall so fine that you can’t even see it, and you’re in deep, deep shit. Take your time. Don’t touch anything without wiping it down.”
They held each other’s gaze for a long, protracted moment. A twin set, but each look painted with different shades of the same desperation.
And David slipped off his loafers and his shirt, and left the room.
---
It was probably the worst cleanup he’d ever had to do. The race to keep the blood from soaking into the baseboard was already terrible, but the added mess of a man that decided to roam instead of just lying down and dying like a normal person made cleaning the spots off the wall that much more irritating. A little bathroom chemistry with a trip to the car for rubber gloves and he had the cure-all to the blood issue, but that still meant a lot of elbow grease. Oliver himself now sat wrapped neatly in a plastic furniture cover, prevented from leaking all over the rest of the carpet with a few added layers of taped-together trashbags to make sure. He’d get to a proper disposal when there wasn’t a scared little man wearing Dexter’s face walking around the place with his eyes raking over every inch of touchable surfaces.
That’s what it was, he’d realized on about the 8th visit from the annoying neurotic asking about the protocol for plush surfaces; the face was so familiar because it was his. It was paler, clean-shaven, covered in blood, and showing a lot more distress than Dexter would bother with no matter who he might be trying to convince, but undeniably the same.
But better not to mention that. Either David had also noticed that they stood the same height, spoke the same voice, wore the same skin, and had just decided to ignore it, or he hadn’t noticed, and he’d probably explode if Dexter brought it up.
He got halfway into scrubbing up the wine stain before deciding it wasn’t worth it. It would help sell the narrative of leaving in a hurry if he just left it. Instead, his attention turned to packing the bag that Oliver would never be using, putting the essentials of a getaway neatly together as he moved through the now-cleaned room—except for the body by the door.
“I think that’s everyth—are you robbing him?” The witness was back, wrists still up and afraid to touch anything despite the gloves. He seemed stunned; what, you can believe I’d kill a man and cover it up, but I’m above stealing?
“Technically, I guess. I’m making it look like he packed up and left in a hurry.” He swept a wide hand under the bed, searching.
“Oh.” He hadn’t been mouthy anymore, at least.
Come on, where is it? Dexter moved back to the dresser, crouching to check the bottom drawer.
“What are you looking for?”
“Something to sell it.”
Among the socks and underwear strewn about with little care for matches or wrinkles, his hand hit something flat and hard. Please don’t be a sex toy or something, a cigar box emerged from the pile of underthings with a sigh of relief. Inside, a slew of forgettable things you’d find inside a wallet or purse; a Blockbuster card, a yet-to-fade ticket stub for American Psycho, a tube of lip gloss, a receipt for a pack of Juicy Fruit and menthol cigarettes, and a library card.
A library card belonging to someone not named Oliver Beaumont.
Predictable.
“Go get a big pot and put it on the stove, and see if you can dig up some lighter fluid.”
A question clearly formed on David’s face before he turned to do as asked – as soon as the man had gotten his hands dirty, really dirty, with real crime, like obstruction of justice crime, he’d been a lot easier to deal with.
Dexter stood back up and finished zipping up the suitcase, bringing it to the door. Just a little bit longer and he’d be rid of all this – David would go back to wherever he came from, and Dexter would get a tiny reminder from Oliver before cutting him up and making the fish very happy. This nightmare would be over, no more botched hunt and no more worrying about the cops, no more tiptoeing around the real reason he knew how to do what he did, everything would be fine again.
A little part of him did hate to see what it was doing to his unwitting accomplice. He’d undergone something traumatic, almost strangled by the hands of someone he’d probably planned to have sex with, only for a stranger to intervene and kill him. It was a lot – and now he’d had to help clean up, and the secret would have to stick between the two of them for the rest of their lives, and they’d probably be thousands or at least hundreds of miles away from one another.
Probably better for him that way, I’m getting the distinct feeling he’s scared of me.
“You work quick.” Dexter plopped the box, open, in the pot as David stood back up straight with a small can of lighter fluid.
“What are you doing?”
“Making it look like he knew he had something incriminating and tried to get rid of it before he left.” People feared the unknown almost as much as they feared death. A few details to ease his mind.
“What’s incriminating for him?”
“This is a box of stuff from other people.” Dexter grabbed the can, taking out the receipt and hosing everything else down in the flammable liquid. “People that are now dead.”
“It—he—this—you..?”
Maybe a few too many details. He didn’t bother looking over to see his stunned and horrified expression yet again – it was grotesque, seeing his own features curl up to look like that. His face wasn’t supposed to look like that. He turned the burner on and lit the paper, tossing it in the pot. “Uh… I had a feeling he’d done this before. People that kill for kicks usually keep things from their victims. He’s… well, strangling is bold—”
He watched the flames lick the edges of the pot, putting a lid on it. Don’t want to destroy it all the way. “I thought, well, if he’s bold enough for that, he’s probably bold enough to not hide his keepsakes very well.
“So I checked the obvious spots you hide something you don’t want people seeing, but aren’t that invested in: under the bed and the sock drawer. And—”
“I wasn’t the first?”
“How many things were in there?”
“Tell me.”
“Five. Five things.”
“Five.” David’s hand started moving to his forehead, but quickly slapped down on the counter with remembrance of deep, deep shit. “Five people, five people—”
“He didn’t get to six.”
David fixed on something beyond the white-tile backsplash, face slightly pinched and otherwise blank.
“Come on. Help me get the stuff into my car and we can leave.”
“David?”
“Do you mean the body?”
“That includes the body.”
While Dexter’s pool of experience regarding carrying a dead body with someone was zero, he had to admit, David wasn’t making something harder for once. No squirming away in disgust, no slipping hands, no accidental drops. They folded the five-time-killer into the trunk of Dexter’s car, and put the trashbag of soiled clothes alongside the suitcase in the back seat.
They stood there, David in his socks and a stolen t-shirt from Oliver to cover his bloody undershirt, and Dexter in a shirt dark enough to explain away the blood as some other liquid.
“He drove you here, I can drop you off somewhere.”
“I can’t go back to my hotel like this.”
He had a point. Both options were problematic for different reasons; he couldn’t drop him off at a hotel without getting cleaned up the right way first, but he couldn’t take him along to cut up and dispose of the body, either.
“God…”
“Do you live alone?”
Well that isn’t a good option.
“I could… get this off of me and get a cab back.”
“I don’t know if—”
“What, you don’t trust me in your house? What could I possibly do to make things worse?”
You could snoop. And you could also know my address, in addition to knowing I work with the police, and you’ll always have a clear image of my face on hand—
David shifted in his stance, shoving his hands under his armpits. “I’m exhausted and I want to get this over with. Can we please just go?”
If he was going to tattle, he wouldn’t’ve helped cover up so much.
“Please?”
“Fine. You can shower at my apartment—but then you’re leaving.” Dexter sat in the driver’s seat and waited for David to round the car before he turned the ignition.
“With pleasure.”