CHAPTER 20

I STOOD AS CLOSE AS I COULD GET TO THE TABLEAU without actually touching it, just looking. The little altar had not been dusted for prints yet; nothing had been done to it at all, although I assumed pictures had been taken. And oh how I wanted a copy of one of those pictures to take home. Poster sized, and in full, bloodless color. If I had done this, I was a much better artist than I had ever suspected. Even from this close the heads seemed to float in space, suspended above the mortal earth in a timeless, bloodless parody of paradise, literally cut off from their bodies—

Their bodies: I glanced around. There was no sign of them, no telltale stack of carefully wrapped packages. There was only the pyramid of heads.

I stared some more. After a few moments Vince Masuoka swam slowly over, his mouth open, his face pale. “Dexter,” he said, and shook his head.

“Hello, Vince,” I said. He shook his head again. “Where are the bodies?”

He just stared at the heads for a long moment. Then he looked at me with a face full of lost innocence. “Somewhere else,” he said.

There was a clatter on the stairs and the spell was broken. I moved away from the tableau as LaGuerta came in with a few carefully selected reporters—Nick Something and Rick Sangre from local TV, and Eric the Viking, a strange and respected columnist from the newspaper. For a moment the room was very busy. Nick and Eric took one look and ran back down the stairs with their hands covering their mouths. Rick Sangre frowned deeply, looked at the lights, and then turned to LaGuerta.

“Is there a power outlet? I gotta get my camera guy,” he said.

LaGuerta shook her head. “Wait for those other guys,” she said.

“I need pictures,” Rick Sangre insisted.

Sergeant Doakes appeared behind Sangre. The reporter looked around and saw him. “No pictures,” Doakes said. Sangre opened his mouth, looked at Doakes for a moment, and then closed his mouth again. Once again the sterling qualities of the good sergeant had saved the day. He went back and stood protectively by the displayed body parts, as if it was a science-fair project and he was its guardian.

There was a strained coughing sound at the door, and Nick Something and Eric the Viking returned, shuffling slowly up the stairs and back onto the floor like old men. Eric wouldn't look at the far end of the room. Nick tried not to look, but his head kept drifting around toward the awful sight, and then he would snap it back to face LaGuerta again.

LaGuerta began to speak. I moved close enough to hear. “I asked you three to come see this thing before we allow any official press coverage,” she said.

“But we can cover it unofficially?” Rick Sangre interrupted.

LaGuerta ignored him. “We don't want any wild speculation in the press about what has happened here,” she said. “As you can see, this is a vicious and bizarre crime—” she paused for a moment and then said very carefully, “Unlike Anything We Have Ever Seen Before.” You could actually hear her capitalize the letters.

Nick Something said, “Huh,” and looked thoughtful. Eric the Viking got it immediately. “Whoa, wait a minute,” he said. “You're saying this is a brand-new killer? A whole different set of murders?”

LaGuerta looked at him with great significance. “Of course it's too soon to say anything for sure,” she said, sounding sure, “but let's look at this thing logically, okay? First,” she held up a finger, “we got a guy who confessed the other stuff. He's in jail, and we didn't let him out to do this. Second, this doesn't look like anything I ever saw, does it? 'Cause there's three and they're stacked up all pretty, okay?” Bless her heart, she had noticed.

“Why can't I get my camera guy?” Rick Sangre asked.

“Wasn't there a mirror found at one of the other murders?” Eric the Viking said weakly, trying very hard not to look.

“Have you identified the, uh—” Nick Something said. His head started to turn toward the display and he caught himself, snapped back around to LaGuerta. “Are the victims prostitutes, Detective?”

“Listen,” LaGuerta said. She sounded a little annoyed, and a small trace of Cuban accent showed in her voice for just a second. “Let me esplain something. I don't care if they're prostitutes. I don't care if they got a mirror. I don't care about any of that.” She took a breath and went on, much calmer. “We got the other killer locked up in the jail. We've got a confession. This is a whole new thing, okay? That's the important thing. You can see it—this is different.”

“Then why are you assigned to it?” asked Eric the Viking, very reasonably, I thought.

LaGuerta showed shark teeth. “I solved the other one,” she said.

“But you're sure this is a brand-new killer, Detective?” Rick Sangre asked.

“There's no question. I can't tell you any details, but I got lab work to back me up.” I was sure she meant me. I felt a small thrill of pride.

“But this is kind of close, isn't it? Same area, same general technique—” Eric the Viking started. LaGuerta cut him off.

“Totally different,” she said. “Totally different.”

“So you're completely satisfied that McHale committed all those other murders and this one is different,” Nick Something said.

“One hundred percent,” LaGuerta said. “Besides, I never said McHale did the others.”

For a second, the reporters all forgot the horror of not having pictures. “What?” Nick Something finally said.

LaGuerta blushed, but insisted, “I never said McHale did it. McHale said he did it, okay? So what am I supposed to do? Tell him go away, I don't believe you?”

Eric the Viking and Nick Something exchanged a meaningful glance. I would have, too, if only there had been someone for me to look at. So instead I peeked at the central head on the altar. It didn't actually wink at me, but I'm sure it was just as amazed as I was.

“That's nuts,” Eric muttered, but he was overrun by Rick Sangre.

“Are you willing to let us interview McHale?” Sangre demanded. “With a camera present?”

We were saved from LaGuerta's answer by the arrival of Captain Matthews. He clattered up the stairs and stopped dead as he saw our little art exhibit. “Jesus Christ,” he said. Then his gaze swung to the group of reporters around LaGuerta. “What the hell are you guys doing up here?” he asked.

LaGuerta looked around the room, but nobody volunteered anything. “I let them in,” she said finally. “Unofficially. Off the record.”

“You didn't say off the record,” Rick Sangre blurted out. “You just said unofficially.”

LaGuerta glared at him. “Unofficially means off the record.”

“Get out,” Matthews barked. “Officially and on the record. Out.”

Eric the Viking cleared his throat. “Captain, do you agree with Detective LaGuerta that this is a brand-new string of murders, a different killer?”

“Out,” Matthews repeated. “I'll answer questions downstairs.”

“I need footage,” Rick Sangre said. “It will only take a minute.”

Matthews nodded toward the exit. “Sergeant Doakes?”

Doakes materialized and took Rick Sangre's elbow. “Gentlemen,” he said in his soft and scary voice. The three reporters looked at him. I saw Nick Something swallow hard. Then they all three turned without a sound and trooped out.

Matthews watched them go. When they were safely out of earshot he turned on LaGuerta. “Detective,” he said in a voice so venomous he must have learned it from Doakes, “if you ever pull this kind of shit again you'll be lucky to get a job doing parking lot security at Wal-Mart.”

LaGuerta turned pale green and then bright red. “Captain, I just wanted—” she said. But Matthews had already turned away. He straightened his tie, combed his hair back with one hand, and chased down the stairs after the reporters.

I turned to look at the altar again. It hadn't changed, but they were starting to dust for prints now. Then they would take it apart to analyze the pieces. Soon it would all be just a beautiful memory.

I trundled off down the stairs to find Deborah.

Outside, Rick Sangre already had a camera rolling. Captain Matthews stood in the wash of lights with microphones thrusting at his chin, giving his official statement. “. . . always the policy of this department to leave the investigating officer autonomy on a case, until such time as it becomes evident that a series of major errors in judgment call the officer's competence into question. That time has not yet arrived, but I am monitoring the situation closely. With so much at stake for the community—”

I spotted Deborah and moved past them. She stood at the barrier of yellow tape, dressed in her blue patrol uniform. “Nice suit,” I told her.

“I like it,” she said. “You saw?”

“I saw,” I told her. “I also saw Captain Matthews discussing the case with Detective LaGuerta.”

Deborah sucked in her breath. “What did they say?”

I patted her arm. “I think I once heard Dad use a very colorful expression that would cover it. He was ‘reaming her a new asshole.' Do you know that one?”

She looked startled, then pleased. “That's great. Now I really need your help, Dex.”

“As opposed to what I've been doing, of course?”

“I don't know what you think you've been doing, but it isn't enough.”

“So unfair, Deb. And so very unkind. After all, you are actually at a crime site, and wearing your uniform, too. Would you prefer the sex suit?”

She shuddered. “That's not the point. You've been holding back something about this all along and I want it now.”

For a moment I had nothing to say, always an uncomfortable feeling. I'd had no idea she was this perceptive. “Why, Deborah—”

“Listen, you think I don't know how this political stuff works, and maybe I'm not as smart about it as you are, but I know they're all going to be busy covering their own asses for a while. Which means nobody is going to be doing any real police work.”

“Which means you see a chance to do some of your own? Bravo, Debs.”

“And it also means I need your help like never before.” She put a hand out and squeezed mine. “Please, Dexy?”

I don't know what shocked me more—her insight, her hand-squeezing, or her use of the nickname “Dexy.” I hadn't heard her say that since I was ten years old. Whether she intended it or not, when she called me Dexy she put us both firmly back in Harry Land, a place where family mattered and obligations were as real as headless hookers. What could I say?

“Of course, Deborah,” I said. Dexy indeed. It was almost enough to make me feel emotion.

“Good,” she said, and she was all business again, a wonderfully quick change that I had to admire. “What's the one thing that really sticks out right now?” she asked with a nod toward the second floor.

“The body parts,” I said. “As far as you know, is anybody looking for them?”

Deborah gave me one of her new Worldly Cop looks, the sour one. “As far as I know, there are more officers assigned to keeping the TV cameras out than to doing any actual work on this thing.”

“Good,” I said. “If we can find the body parts, we might get a small jump on things.”

“Okay. Where do we look?”

It was a fair question, which naturally put me at a disadvantage. I had no idea where to look. Would the limbs be left in the killing room? I didn't think so—it seemed messy to me, and if he wanted to use that same room again, it would be impossible with that kind of nasty clutter lying around.

All right, then I would assume that the rest of the meat had gone somewhere else. But where?

Or perhaps, it slowly dawned on me, the real question should be: Why? The display of the heads was for a reason. What would be the reason for putting the rest of the bodies somewhere else? Simple concealment? No—nothing was simple with this man, and concealment was evidently not a virtue he prized too highly. Especially right now, when he was showing off a bit. That being the case, where would he leave a stack of leftovers?

“Well?” Deborah demanded. “How about it? Where should we look?”

I shook my head. “I don't know,” I said slowly. “Wherever he left the stuff, it's part of his statement. And we're not really sure what his statement is yet, are we?”

“Goddamn it, Dexter—”

“I know he wants to rub our noses in it. He needs to say that we did something incredibly dumb, and even if we hadn't he's still smarter than we are.”

“So far he's right,” she said, putting on her grouper face.

“So . . . wherever he dumped the stuff, it has to continue that statement. That we're stupid— No, I'm wrong. That we DID something stupid.”

“Right. Very important difference.”

“Please, Deb, you'll hurt your face like that. It is important, because he's going to comment on the ACT, and not on the ACTORS.”

“Uh-huh. That's really good, Dex. So we should probably head for the nearest dinner theater and look around for an actor with blood up to his elbows, right?”

I shook my head. “No blood, Deb. None at all. That's one of the most important things.”

“How can you be so sure?”

“Because there's been no blood at any of the scenes. That's deliberate, and it's vital to what he's doing. And this time, he'll repeat the important parts, but comment on what he's already done, because we've missed it, don't you see?”

“Sure, I see. Makes perfect sense. So why don't we go check Office Depot Center? He's probably got the bodies stacked up in the net again.”

I opened my mouth to make some wonderfully clever reply. The hockey rink was all wrong, completely and obviously wrong. It had been an experiment, something different, but I knew he wouldn't repeat it. I started to explain this to Deb, that the only reason he would ever repeat the rink would be— I stopped dead, my mouth hanging open. Of course, I thought. Naturally.

“Now who's making a fish face, huh? What is it, Dex?”

For a moment I didn't say anything. I was far too busy trying to catch my whirling thoughts. The only reason he would repeat the hockey rink was to show us we had the wrong guy locked up.

“Oh, Deb,” I said at last. “Of course. You're right, the arena. You are right for all the wrong reasons, but still—”

“Beats the hell out of being wrong,” she said, and headed for her car.