No real leads there; nothing that qualified as a clue of any kind. I hadn’t really expected anything, but my job and my adoptive father had taught me well that due diligence paid off from time to time. This was just the beginning.
The next step, Weiss’s e-mail address, was a little harder. With a certain amount of slightly illegal maneuvering, I got into AOL’s subscriber list and found out just a little more. The same address in the Design District was still given as his home address, but there was also a cell-phone number. I wrote it down in case I needed it later. Other than that, there was nothing helpful here, either—surprising, really, that an organization like AOL fails to ask simple and vital questions, like, “Where would you hide if Dexter was after you?”
Still, nothing worth doing is ever easy—another fascinatingly stupid cliché. After all, breathing is fairly easy, for the most part, and I think many scholars would agree it pays handsome dividends. In any case, I got no real information from the AOL file, except the phone number, which I set aside to use as a last resort. The telephone company’s records would tell me much the same thing as AOL’s, but there was a chance I could track down the location of the cell phone itself, a trick I had done once before when I very nearly saved Sergeant Doakes from being surgically modified.
For no particular reason I went back to YouTube. Perhaps I just wanted to see me one more time, relaxing and being myself. It was, after all, something I had never seen before, and never expected to see. Dexter in action, as only he can do it. I watched the video one more time, marveling at how graceful and natural I looked. What a wonderful sense of style I showed as I swung the saw up toward the camera. Beautiful. A true artist. I should do more film work.
And with that, another thought popped into my slowly awakening brain. Beside the screen, the e-mail address was highlighted. I really didn’t know much about YouTube, but I knew that if an e-mail address was highlighted, it led somewhere. So I clicked on it and almost immediately an orange background came up onscreen and I was on a YouTube personal page. And in large fiery letters across the top of the page, it said THE NEW MIAMI. I scrolled partway down to a box that said VIDEOS (5), with a row of thumbnail shots of each video. The one showing my back was number four.
In an effort to be methodical and not simply watch my riveting performance again, I clicked on the first one, which showed a man’s face twisted into a grimace of disgust. The video began, and again the title appeared on the screen in fiery letters: THE NEW MIAMI, #1.
Then there was a very nice sunset shot of lush tropical vegetation—a row of lovely orchids, a line of birds landing on a small lake—and then the camera pulled back to show the body we had found at Fairchild Gardens. There was a terrible groan off-camera and a somewhat strangled voice said, “Oh, Jesus,” and then the camera followed his back as a piercing scream ripped out of the speaker. It sounded strangely familiar, and for a moment that puzzled me, and I paused the video, rewound, and played the scream again. Then I had it; it was the same scream that had been on the first video, the one we had seen at the Tourist Board. For whatever strange reasons, Weiss had used the same scream here. Possibly it was just brand continuity, like McDonald’s using the same clown.
I started up the video again; the camera was moving through the crowd in the Fairchild Gardens parking lot, picking out faces that looked shocked, disgusted, or merely curious. And again the screen whirled and lined up the expressive faces in a row of boxes against a background of the opening sunset shot of the vegetation, and the letters supered in on top:
THE NEW MIAMI: PERFECTLY NATURAL
If nothing else, it removed any lingering doubt I might have had about Weiss’s guilt. I was quite sure the other videos would show the other victims, complete with reaction shots of the crowd. But just to be thorough, I decided to watch them all in order, all five of them—
But wait a second: there should only be three spots, one for each of the sites we had found. One more for Dexter’s great performance and that would be four—what was the other one? Was it possible that Weiss had included something else, something more personal that might give some clue to where I could find him?
There was a loud clatter in the lab, and Vince Masuoka called out, “Yo, Dexter!” and I quickly clicked off the browser. It wasn’t just false modesty that made me reluctant to share my wonderful acting work with Vince. Explaining the performance would be far too difficult. And just as my monitor went blank, Vince pushed in to my little cubby, carrying his forensic kit.
“You don’t answer your phone anymore?” he said.
“I must have been in the restroom,” I said.
“No rest for the wicked,” he said. “Come on, we gotta go to work.”
“Oh,” I said. “What’s up?”
“I don’t know, but it’s got the uniforms on-site almost hysterical,” Vince said. “Something down in Kendall.”
Of course awful things happen in Kendall all the time, but very few of them require my professional attention. In retrospect, I suppose I should have been more curious, but I was still distracted by the discovery of my unwilling stardom on YouTube, and I really wanted to see the other videos. So I rode along with Vince exchanging half-conscious pleasantries and wondering what Weiss might have revealed in that last, unseen video. And therefore it was with a very real sense of shock that I recognized our destination when Vince pulled into the parking lot, turned off the engine, and said, “Let’s go.”
We were parked at a large public building I had seen before. In fact, I had seen it only a day ago, when I had taken Cody to his Cub Scout meeting.
We had just parked at Golden Lakes Elementary School.
Of course, it had to be mere happenstance. People get killed all the time, even at elementary schools, and to assume this was any more than one of those funny coincidences that make life so interesting was to believe that the entire world revolved around Dexter—which was true in a rather limited way, of course, but I was not deranged enough to believe in it in a literal way.
So a bemused and slightly unsettled Dexter trudged after Vince, under the yellow crime-scene tape, and over to the side door of the building, where the body had been discovered. And as I approached the carefully guarded spot where it lay in all its glory, I heard a strange and near-idiot whistling sound, and realized it was me. Because in spite of the see-through plastic mask glued to the face, in spite of the yawning body cavity which was filled with what appeared to be Cub Scout uniform items and paraphernalia, and in spite of the fact that it was completely impossible that I was right, I recognized the body from ten feet away.
It was Roger Deutsch, Cody’s scoutmaster.
TWENTY-ONE
THE BODY HAD BEEN PROPPED IN THE RECESS AROUND the side door of the building, the door that served as an emergency exit for the combination cafeteria and auditorium of the school. One of the servers had stepped outside for a smoke and seen it, and had to be sedated, which was easy for me to understand after I took a quick look. And after a second, more careful examination, I very nearly needed a sedative myself.
Roger Deutsch had a lanyard around his neck with a whistle hanging from it. And as before, the body cavity had been scooped out and then filled with interesting things—in this case, a Cub Scout uniform, a colorful book that said BIG BEAR Cub Scout Handbook on the cover, and some other gear. I could see the handle of a hand ax sticking up, and a pocketknife with the Cub Scout logo on it. And as I bent closer to look, I also saw a grainy picture, printed on regular white paper, with BE PREPARED printed on it in large black letters. The picture showed a blurry shot, taken from some distance away, of several boys and one adult going into this same building. And although it was impossible to prove, I knew quite well who the adult and one of the children were.
Me and Cody.
There was no mistaking the familiar curve of Cody’s back. And there was no mistaking the message, either.
It was a very odd moment, kneeling there on the pavement and looking at a blurry, i
ndistinct picture of myself and Cody, and wondering if anybody would see me if I took it. I had never tampered with evidence before, but then again, I had never been part of it, either. And it was quite clear that this was meant for me. BE PREPARED, and the photo. It was a warning, a challenge. I know who you are, and I know how to hurt you. And here I come.
BE PREPARED.
And I was not prepared. I did not yet know where Weiss might be, and I did not know what or when his next move would be, but I did know that he had moved everything several notches ahead of me, and he had raised the stakes considerably at the same time. This was not a stolen dead body, and it was not anonymous. Weiss had killed Roger Deutsch, not just modified his body. And he had chosen this victim carefully, deliberately, in order to get at me.
It was a complex threat, too. Because the picture added another dimension—it said that I may get you, and I may get Cody, or I may simply expose you for what we both know you are. And on top of that was the sure knowledge that if I was exposed and slapped in jail, Cody would have no protection at all against whatever Weiss might do.
I looked hard at the picture, trying to decide if anyone else could tell it was me, and whether taking it was worth the risk. But before I could make any decision, the feather stroke of an invisible black wing brushed across my face and raised the hair along my neck.
The Dark Passenger had been very quiet through this whole thing so far, contenting himself with a disinterested smirk from time to time and offering no really cogent observations. But now the message was clear, and it echoed the one on the photograph: Be prepared. You are not alone. And I knew just as certainly as I possibly could that somewhere nearby something was looking at me and harboring wicked thoughts, watching me as the tiger watches its prey.
Slowly, carefully, as if I had simply forgotten something in the car, I stood up and walked back toward where we had parked. As I walked I casually scanned the parking area; not looking for anything in particular, just Dopey Dexter ambling along in a perfectly normal way, and under the nonchalant and distracted smile, the black smoke boiled and I looked for something that I knew was looking at me.
And found it.
Over there, in the nearest row of the parking lot, maybe a hundred feet away, right where it would provide the best view, a small bronze-colored sedan was parked. And through the windshield, something winked at me; sunlight off the lens of a camera.
Still so very careful-casual, even though the darkness was roaring through me with a knife edge blossoming, I took a step toward the car. Across the distance I saw the bright flash of the camera coming down, and the small pale face of a man, and the black wings rattled and crashed between us for one very long second—
—and then the car started up, backed out of the parking spot with a small squeal of rubber, and disappeared out of the lot and away into traffic. And although I sprinted forward, the most I could see of the license plate was the first half: OGA and three numbers that might have been anything, although I thought the middle one was either a three or an eight.
But with the description of the car, it was enough. I would at least find the registry of the car. It would not be registered to Weiss, couldn’t be. Nobody is that stupid, not in this day of nonstop police drama in all the media. But a small hope flickered. He had left quickly, not wanting me to see him or his car, and just this once I might have some small bit of luck.
I stood there for nearly a minute, letting the wild wind inside me settle back down into a neatly coiled and steadily purring thing. My heart was pumping as it seldom did in the light of day, and I realized that it was a very good thing that Weiss had been just a little bit shy and had taken off so readily. After all, what would I have done otherwise? Pulled him out of the car and cut him into a dozen neat pieces? Or had him arrested and flung into a squad car so he could begin to tell everyone who would listen all about Dexter?
No, it was just as well that he had escaped. I would find him, and we would meet on my terms, in the suitable dark of a night that could not come soon enough for me.
I took a deep breath, plastered my best phony working smile back onto my face, and walked back to the pile of decorative meat that had been Cody’s scoutmaster.
Vince Masuoka was squatting by the body when I got there, but instead of doing something useful, he was simply staring at the stuff shoved into the cavity and frowning. He looked up as I approached and said, “What do you think it means?”
“I’m sure I have no idea,” I said. “I just do blood spatter. They pay detectives to figure out what it means.”
Vince cocked his head and looked at me as if I had told him we were supposed to eat the body. “Did you know that Detective Coulter is in charge of the investigation?” he said.
“Maybe they pay him for something else,” I said, and I felt a small surge of hope. I had forgotten this detail, but it was worth remembering. With Coulter in charge, I could confess to the murder, hand him videos of me performing it, and he would still find a way not to prove it.
So it was with something approaching good cheer that I went back to work—tempered with very real impatience to get it finished and get back to my computer to track down Weiss. Happily, there was very little blood spatter on-site—Weiss appeared to be the kind of neatnik I admired—and therefore there was almost nothing for me to do. I finished up shortly and begged a ride back to headquarters with one of the squad cars. The driver, a large white-haired guy named Stewart, talked about the Dolphins the whole way, apparently not really caring if I responded.
But by the time we got back to headquarters, I had learned some wonderful things about the approaching football season and what we should have done during the off-season but had somehow, inexplicably, managed to bungle once again, which would certainly lead to another season of ineptitude and shameful losses. I thanked Stewart for the ride and the vital information and fled for my computer.
The database for automobile registration is one of the most basic tools of police work, both in reality and in fiction, and it was with a slight sense of shame that I went to it now. It really seemed just too easy, straight out of a rather simpleminded television drama. Of course, if it led to finding Weiss, I would somehow overcome the feeling that this was almost like cheating, but for the time being I really kind of wished for a clue that would call for something a little more clever. Still, we work with the tools we are given, and hope that someone asks us later for constructive criticism.
After only fifteen minutes I had combed the entire Florida state database, and found three small bronze-colored vehicles with the letters OGA on their license tag. One of them was registered in Kissimmee, which seemed like a bit of a commute. Another was a 1963 Rambler, and I was reasonably sure that I would have noticed something that distinctive.
That left number three, a 1995 Honda, registered to a Kenneth A. Wimble on Northwest Ninety-eighth Street in Miami Shores. The address was in an area of modest homes, and it was relatively close to the place in the Design District where Deborah had been stabbed. It really wouldn’t even be a terribly long walk—so that, for example, if the police came to your little nest on Northeast Fortieth, you could easily hop out the back door and amble a few blocks over until you found an unattended car.
But then what? If you are Weiss, where do you take this car? It seemed to me that you would take it far away from wherever you stole it. So probably the very last place on earth that he would be was the house on Northwest Ninety-eighth Street.
Unless there was some connection between Weiss and Wimble. It would be perfectly natural to borrow a friend’s car; just some casual butchery, buddy—back in a couple of hours.
Of course, for some bizarre reason, we don’t have a National Registry of Who Your Friends Are. One would have thought that they would have made that a vital part of the Patriot Act, and rammed it through Congress. It would certainly make my work easier now. But no such luck; if Weiss and Wimble were indeed chums, I would have to find out the hard way, by a personal
visit. It was merely due diligence in any case. But first I would see if I could uncover anything at all about Kenneth A. Wimble.
A quick check of the database showed that he had no criminal record, at least not under that name. His utilities were paid, although payment on his propane bill had been late several times. Digging a little deeper, going into the tax records, I discovered that Wimble was self-employed, and his occupation was listed as video editor.
Coincidence is always possible. Strange and improbable things happen every day, and we accept them and simply scratch our heads like rubes in the big city, and say, “Gollee, ain’t that somethin’.” But this seemed to be stretching coincidence past the breaking point. I had been following a writer who had left a video trail, and now the trail had led me to a video professional. And since there comes a time and place when the seasoned investigator must accept the fact that he has stumbled on something that is probably NOT coincidence, I murmured, “Aha,” very quietly to myself. I thought I sounded quite professional saying it, too.
Wimble was in on this in some way, tied up with Weiss in making and sending the videos and, therefore, presumably in arranging the bodies and finally in killing Roger Deutsch. So when Deborah came knocking at the door, Weiss fled to his other partner, Wimble. A place to hide, a small bronze-colored car to borrow, and on with the show.
All right then, Dexter. Mount up and move out. We know where he is, and now is the time to go get him—before he decides to put my name and picture on the front page of the Miami Herald. Up and away. Let’s go.