Dexter's Final Cut by Jeff Lindsay Page A

offered.
    “Most serial killers don’t even think about getting caught,” Deborah said. “They stay in one place, even in one neighborhood.”
    Robert looked at me. “Really?” he said.
    I nodded. “Yup, pretty much,” I said. “So if this one doesn’t, it’s for an important reason.”
    “Okay. So why?” Robert said.
    “He could be chasing something—or someone—specific,” I said.“Or …” A very small idea popped into my head. “Those are all cities that have a lot of conventions,” I said.
    “Right,” Deborah said. “We can cross-check the lists, see if anything matches.”
    “What are you saying?” Robert said. “He could be going to all these conventions, like, he’s a Shriner or something?”
    Deborah shook her head wearily, and I took pity on her and came to the rescue. “Shriner sounds plausible,” I told Robert patiently. “He could make his getaway on one of those little tricycles they ride in parades.”
    “The case files are coming by e-mail,” Deborah said. “But I got detectives in two different cities wanting to fly down here and shoot somebody.”
    “Tell them to stay home,” I said. “We have enough of our own shooters in Miami.” I looked around the room, and it felt a little bit empty. “Where’s Jackie?”
    Debs waved a hand. “She had an interview,” she said. “Matthews told her she could use the conference room.”
    Before I could arrange my face to show that I was impressed by Matthews letting anyone use his conference room, Robert blurted out, “Interview? With who?”
    It might have been my imagination, but it seemed to me that his face lost a little bit of color, and he definitely looked unhappy.
    “She didn’t say who,” Deborah said. “One of the magazines, I think.”
    “Magazine,” Robert said. “Like a local one?” he added hopefully.
    “The captain would never let her use the conference room for a local magazine,” Debs told him, and she said it with such a complete lack of expression that I realized she had picked up on Robert’s apprehension and was playing him a little.
    “Shit,” he said. “They should have— She really didn’t say which one? I’ll be right back,” he said, heading for the door. “Gotta call my agent.”
    Debs and I watched him go, and I said, “You have a very nice wicked streak, sis.”
    She nodded, stone-faced. “It passes the time,” she said. She turnedto her computer, and after scrabbling at the keyboard for a moment, she said, “Case files are here.” She frowned and hit a few more keys, mumbling, “Goddamn it” under her breath; my sister had many sterling qualities, but computer competence was not one of them. Even so, after a moment her printer began to whir, and she pushed back from the computer with a look of satisfaction.
    “New York got here first,” she said.
    “Naturally,” I said, and I leaned forward to look at the pages as the printer spit them out. The first few pages came out quickly; they were standard typed cop report, and Deborah snatched them up and began to read eagerly. Page three took a long time to print—a photograph, probably of the victim as she had been found—and I waited impatiently as it came out one line at a time. It finally sputtered all the way out and I grabbed it eagerly.
    Nowadays, digital technology has made police photography much more colorful and detailed than in days of yore. My adoptive father, Harry, had been forced to look at grainy black-and-white pictures of dead bodies. It can’t have been nearly as much fun. Because of the high-resolution color cameras we use now, I could see the wonderful rainbow of pigments left by the various punches, bites, and slashes on the body, ranging from bright pink down through the spectrum to deep purple. In fact, the image was clear enough that I could make out the mark of individual teeth in one of the bites, and I made a mental note to tell Deborah to check dental records for a match.
    I studied the picture