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Darkly dreaming Dexter :: Lindsay Jeffry P.
Страница: 14 из 160“Depends on what, Vince?”
“On who heis and what it he's doing,” he said. “Ha-ha.”
I shook my head. “Sometimes you work too hard at being inscrutable,” I said. “How does the killer get rid of the blood?”
“Hard to say right now,” he said. “We haven't found any of it. And the body is not in real good shape, so it's going to be hard to find much.”
That didn't sound nearly as interesting. I like to leave a neat body. No fuss, no mess, no dripping blood. If the killer was just another dog tearing at a bone, this was all nothing to me.
I breathed a little easier. “Where's the body?” I asked Vince.
He jerked his head at a spot twenty feet away. “Over there,” he said. “With LaGuerta.”
“Oh, my,” I said. “Is LaGuerta handling this?”
He gave me his fake smile again. “Lucky killer.”
I looked. A small knot of people stood around a cluster of tidy trash bags. “I don't see it,” I said.
“Right there. The trash bags. Each one is a body part. He cut the victim into pieces and then wrapped up each one like it was a Christmas present. Did you ever see anything like that before?”
Of course I had.
That's how I do it.
CHAPTER 3
T HERE IS SOMETHING STRANGE AND DISARMING about looking at a homicide scene in the bright daylight of the Miami sun. It makes the most grotesque killings look antiseptic, staged. Like you're in a new and daring section of Disney World. Dahmer Land. Come ride the refrigerator. Please hurl your lunch in the designated containers only.
Not that the sight of mutilated bodies anywhere has ever bothered me , oh no, far from it. I do resent the messy ones a little when they are careless with their body fluids-nasty stuff. Other than that, it seems no worse than looking at spare ribs at the grocery store. But rookies and visitors to crime scenes tend to throw up-and for some reason, they throw up much less here than they do up North. The sun just takes the sting out. It cleans things up, makes them neater. Maybe that's why I love Miami. It's such a neat town.
And it was already a beautiful, hot Miami day. Anyone who had worn a suit coat was now looking for a place to hang it. Alas, there was no such place in the grubby little parking lot. There were only five or six cars and the Dumpster. It was shoved over in a corner, next to the café, backed up against a pink stucco wall topped with barbed wire. The back door to the café was there.
“On who heis and what it he's doing,” he said. “Ha-ha.”
I shook my head. “Sometimes you work too hard at being inscrutable,” I said. “How does the killer get rid of the blood?”
“Hard to say right now,” he said. “We haven't found any of it. And the body is not in real good shape, so it's going to be hard to find much.”
That didn't sound nearly as interesting. I like to leave a neat body. No fuss, no mess, no dripping blood. If the killer was just another dog tearing at a bone, this was all nothing to me.
I breathed a little easier. “Where's the body?” I asked Vince.
He jerked his head at a spot twenty feet away. “Over there,” he said. “With LaGuerta.”
“Oh, my,” I said. “Is LaGuerta handling this?”
He gave me his fake smile again. “Lucky killer.”
I looked. A small knot of people stood around a cluster of tidy trash bags. “I don't see it,” I said.
“Right there. The trash bags. Each one is a body part. He cut the victim into pieces and then wrapped up each one like it was a Christmas present. Did you ever see anything like that before?”
Of course I had.
That's how I do it.
CHAPTER 3
T HERE IS SOMETHING STRANGE AND DISARMING about looking at a homicide scene in the bright daylight of the Miami sun. It makes the most grotesque killings look antiseptic, staged. Like you're in a new and daring section of Disney World. Dahmer Land. Come ride the refrigerator. Please hurl your lunch in the designated containers only.
Not that the sight of mutilated bodies anywhere has ever bothered me , oh no, far from it. I do resent the messy ones a little when they are careless with their body fluids-nasty stuff. Other than that, it seems no worse than looking at spare ribs at the grocery store. But rookies and visitors to crime scenes tend to throw up-and for some reason, they throw up much less here than they do up North. The sun just takes the sting out. It cleans things up, makes them neater. Maybe that's why I love Miami. It's such a neat town.
And it was already a beautiful, hot Miami day. Anyone who had worn a suit coat was now looking for a place to hang it. Alas, there was no such place in the grubby little parking lot. There were only five or six cars and the Dumpster. It was shoved over in a corner, next to the café, backed up against a pink stucco wall topped with barbed wire. The back door to the café was there.