Dexter 3 - Dexter in the Dark (9 page)

If this second retreat was not caused by something in
front of me, then what caused it? What if it was some kind of weird interior
erosion? Perhaps my new status of impending husband-hood and stepfatherness was
overwhelming my Passenger. Was I becoming too nice to be a proper host? This
would be a fate worse than someone else's death.

I became aware that I was
standing just inside the yellow crime-scene tape, and a large form was lurking

in front of me. “Uh, hello?”
he said. He was a big, well-muscled young specimen with longish, lank hair and
the look of someone who believed in breathing through the mouth.

“How can I help you,
citizen?” I said. “Are you, uh, you know,” he said, “like a
cop?” “A little bit like one,” I said. He nodded and thought
about that for a moment, looking around behind him as if there might be

something there he could
eat. On the back of his neck was one of those unfortunate tattoos that have
become so popular, an Oriental character of some kind. It probably spelled out
“slow learner.” He rubbed the tattoo as if he could hear me thinking
about it, then turned around to me and blurted out, “I was wondering about
Jessica.”

“Of course you
were,” I said. “Who wouldn't?” “Do they know if it's
her?” he said. “I'm like her boyfriend.” The young gentleman had
now succeeded in grabbing my professional attention. “Is Jessica
missing?” I

asked him. He nodded.
"She was, you know, supposed to work out with me? Like every morning, you
know. Around

the track, and then some abs. But yesterday she
doesn't show up. And same thing this morning. So I started thinking, uh…“
He frowned, apparently at the effort of thinking, and his speech trickled to a
halt. ”What's your name?“ I asked him. ”Kurt,“ he said. ”Kurt
Wagner. What's yours?“ ”Dexter,“ I said. ”Wait here a
moment, Kurt." I hurried over to Deborah before the strain of trying to

think again proved too much for the boy.
“Deborah,” I said, “we may have a small break here.”
“Well, it isn't your damned pot ovens,” she snarled. “They're
too small for a body.” “No,” I said. “But the young man
over there is missing a girlfriend.”

Her head jerked up and she rose to standing almost on point
like a hunting dog. She stared over at Jessica's like-boyfriend, who looked
back and shifted his weight from foot to foot. “About fucking time,”
she said, and she headed for him.

I looked at Angel. He shrugged and stood up. For a moment, he looked like
he was going to say something. But then he shook his head, dusted off his
hands, and followed Debs over to hear what Kurt had to say, leaving me really
and truly all alone with my dark thoughts.

image

Just to watch; sometimes it was enough. Of course
there was the sure knowledge that watching would lead inevitably to the surging
heat and glorious flow of blood, the overwhelming pulse of emotions throbbing
from the victims, the rising music of the ordered madness as the sacrifice flew
into wonderful death…All this would come. For now, it was enough for the
Watcher to observe and soak in the delicious feeling of anonymous, ultimate
power. He could feel the unease of the other. That unease would grow, rising
through the musical range into fear, then panic, and at last full-fledged
terror. It would all come in good time.

The Watcher saw the other scanning the crowd, flailing
about for some clue to the source of the blossoming sense of danger that
tickled at his senses. He would find nothing, of course. Not yet. Not until he
determined that the time was right. Not until he had run the other into dull
mindless panic. Only then would he stop watching and begin to take final
action.

And until then-it was time to let the other begin to
hear the music of fear.

HER NAME WAS JESSICA ORTEGA. SHE WAS A JUNIOR AND lived in one of the
nearby residence halls. We got the room number from Kurt, and Deborah left
Angel to wait at the kilns until a squad car arrived to take over.

I never knew why they were called residence halls instead of
dormitories. Perhaps it was because they looked so much like hotels nowadays.
There were no ivy-covered walls bedecking the hallowed halls here, the lobby
had lots of glass and potted plants, and the halls were carpeted and clean and
new-looking.

We stopped at the door of Jessica's room. It had a small, neat card
taped at eye level that read ARIEL GOLDMAN & JESSICA ORTEGA. Below that in
smaller print it said INTOXICANTS REQUIRED FOR ENTRY. Someone had underlined
“Entry” and scrawled below it YOU THINK?

Deborah raised an eyebrow at me. “Party
girls,” she said.

“Somebody has to do it,” I said.

She snorted and knocked on the door. There was no answer, and Debs
waited a full three seconds before knocking again, much harder.

I heard a door open behind
me and turned to see a reed-thin girl with short blond hair and glasses looking
at us. “They're not here,” she said with clear disapproval. “For
like a couple of days. First quiet I've had all semester.”

“Do you know where they
went?” Deborah asked her. The girl rolled her eyes. “Must be a major
kegger somewhere,” she said. “When was the last time you saw
them?” Deborah said. The girl shrugged. "With those two it's not
seeing them, it's hearing them. Loud music and laughing all

night, okay? Major pain in the butt for somebody who actually studies
and goes to class.“ She shook her head, and her short hair riffled around
her face. ”I mean, please.“ ”So when was the last time you heard
them?“ I asked her. She looked at me. ”Are you like cops or
something? What did they do now?"

“What have they done
before?” Debs asked. She sighed. “Parking tickets. I mean, lots of
them. DUI once. Hey, I don't want to sound like I'm ratting them out or
something.”

“Would you say it's
unusual for them to be away like this?” I said. “What's unusual is if
they show up to class. I don't know how they pass anything. I mean,” she
gave us

half a smirk, “I can
probably guess how they pass, but…” She shrugged. She did not share her
guess with us, unless you counted her smirk. “What classes do they have
together?” Deborah asked. The girl shrugged again and shook her head.
“You'd have to check like the registrar,” she said. It was not a
terribly long walk to see like the registrar, especially at the pace Deborah
set. I managed to

keep up with her and still have enough breath to ask her a pointed
question or two. “Why does it matter what classes they had together?”
Deborah made an impatient gesture with her hand. “If that girl is right,
Jessica and her roommate-” “Ariel Goldman,” I said.

“Right. So if they are
trading sex for good grades, that makes me want to talk to their
professors.” On the surface, that made sense. Sex is one of the most
common motives for murder, which does not seem to fit in with the fact that it
is often rumored to be connected to love. But there was one small thing that
did not make sense. “Why would a professor cook them and cut off their
heads like that? Why not just strangle them and throw the bodies in a
Dumpster?”

Deborah shook her head.
“It's not important how he did it. What matters is whether he did.”
“All right,” I said. “And how sure are we that these two are the
victims?” “Sure enough to talk to their teachers,” she said.
“It's a start.”

We arrived at the registrar's office, and when Debs
flashed her badge we were shown right in. But it was a good thirty minutes of
Deborah pacing and muttering while I went through the computer records with the
registrar's assistant. Jessica and Ariel were, in fact, in several of the same
classes, and I printed out the names, office numbers, and home addresses of the
professors. Deborah glanced at the list and nodded. “These two guys,
Bukovich and Halpern, have office hours now,” she said. “We can start
with them.”

Once again Deborah and I stepped out into the muggy
day for a stroll across campus.

“It's nice to be back on campus, isn't it?” I said, in my
always futile effort to keep a pleasant flow of conversation going.

Deborah snorted. “What's nice is if we can get a definite ID on
the bodies and maybe move a little closer to grabbing the guy who did
this.”

I did not think that identifying the bodies would really move us closer
to identifying the killer, but I have been wrong before, and in any case police
work is powered by routine and custom, and one of the proud traditions of our
craft was that it was good to know the dead person's name. So I willingly
trundled along with Deborah to the office building where the two professors
waited.

Professor Halpern's office was on the ground floor just inside the main
entrance, and before the outer door could swing shut Debs was already knocking
on his door. There was no answer. Deborah tried the knob. It was locked, so she
thumped on the door again with the same lack of result.

A man came strolling along the hall and stopped at the office next
door, glancing at us with a raised eyebrow. “Looking for Jerry
Halpern?” he said. “I don't think he's in today.”

“Do you know where he is?” Deborah said.

He gave us a slight smile. “I imagine he's home,
at his apartment, since he's not here. Why do you ask?”

Debs pulled out her badge and showed it to him. He didn't seem
impressed. “I see,” he said. “Does this have anything to do with
the two dead bodies across campus?”

“Do you have any reason to think it would?”
Deborah said.

“N-n-n-o,” he said, “not really.”

Deborah looked at him and waited, but he didn't say anything more.
“Can I ask your name, sir?” she said at last.

“I'm Dr. Wilkins,” he said, nodding toward
the door he stood in front of. “This is my office.”

“Dr. Wilkins,” Deborah said. “Could you please tell me
what your remark about Professor Halpern means?”

Wilkins pursed his lips. “Well,” he said,
hesitating, “Jerry's a nice enough guy, but if this is a murder
investigation…” He let it hang for a moment. So did Deborah.
“Well,” he said at last, “I believe it was last Wednesday I
heard a disturbance in his office.” He shook his head. “These walls
are not terribly thick.”

“What kind of disturbance?” Deborah asked.

“Shouting,” he
said. “Perhaps a little bit of scuffling? Anyway, I peeked out the door
and saw a student, a young woman, stagger out of Halpern's office and run away.
She was, ah-her shirt was torn.” “By any chance did you recognize the
young woman?” Deborah asked. “Yes,” Wilkins said. "I had
her in a class last semester. Her name is Ariel Goldman. Lovely girl, but not

much of a student."

Deborah glanced at me and I nodded encouragingly.
“Do you think Halpern tried to force himself on Ariel Goldman?”
Deborah said. Wilkins tilted his head to one side and held up one hand. "I
couldn't say for sure. That's what it looked

like, though."

Deborah looked at Wilkins, but he didn't have anything
to add, so she nodded and said, “Thank you, Dr. Wilkins. You've been very
helpful.” “I hope so,” he said, and he turned away to open his
door and enter his office. Debs was already looking

at the printout from the registrar.

“Halpern lives just a
mile or so away,” she said, and headed toward the doors. Once again I
found myself hurrying to catch up to her. “Which theory are we giving
up?” I asked her. "The one that says Ariel tried to seduce Halpern?
Or that

he tried to rape her?“ ”We're not giving up
anything,“ she said. ”Not until we talk to Halpern."

DR. JERRY HALPERN HAD AN APARTMENT LESS THAN TWO miles from the campus,
in a two-story building that had probably been very nice forty years ago. He
answered the door right away when Deborah knocked, blinking at us as the
sunlight hit his face. He was in his mid-thirties and thin without looking fit,
and he hadn't shaved for a few days. “Yes?” he said, in a querulous
tone of voice that would have been just right for an eighty-year-old scholar.
He cleared his throat and tried again. “What is it?”

Deborah held up her badge and said, “Can we come
in, please?”

Halpern goggled at the badge and seemed to sag a
little. “I didn't-what, what-why come in?” he said.

“We'd like to ask you a few questions,”
Deborah said. “About Ariel Goldman.”

Halpern fainted.

I don't get to see my sister
look surprised very often-her control is too good. So it was quite rewarding to
see her with her mouth hanging open as Halpern hit the floor. I manufactured a
suitable matching expression, and bent over to feel for a pulse.

“His heart is still
going,” I said. “Let's get him inside,” Deborah said, and I
dragged him into the apartment. The apartment was probably not as small as it
looked, but the walls were lined with overflowing

bookshelves, a worktable stacked high with papers and
more books. In the small remaining space there was a battered, mean-looking two-seater
couch and an overstuffed chair with a lamp behind it. I managed to heft Halpern
up and onto the couch, which creaked and sank alarmingly under him.

I stood up and nearly bumped into Deborah, who was
already hovering and glaring down at Halpern. “You better wait for him to
wake up before you intimidate him,” I said. “This son of a bitch
knows something,” she said. “Why else would he flop like that?”
“Poor nutrition?” I said.

“Wake him up,” she said. I looked at her to see if she was
kidding, but of course she was dead serious. “What would you
suggest?” I said. “I forgot to bring smelling salts.”

“We can't just stand
around and wait,” she said. And she leaned forward as if she was going to
shake him,

or maybe punch him in the nose. Happily for Halpern,
however, he chose just that moment to return to consciousness. His eyes
fluttered a few times and then stayed open, and as he looked up at us his whole
body tensed. “What do you want?” he said.

“Promise not to faint again?” I said.
Deborah elbowed me aside. “Ariel Goldman,” she said. “Oh
God,” Halpern whined. “I knew this would happen.” “You were
right,” I said. “You have to believe me,” he said, struggling to
sit up. “I didn't do it.” “All right,” Debs said.
“Then who did it?” “She did it herself,” he said. Deborah
looked at me, perhaps to see if I could tell her why Halpern was so clearly
insane.

Unfortunately, I could not, so she looked back at him.
“She did it herself,” she said, her voice loaded with cop doubt.

“Yes,” he
insisted. “She wanted to make it look like I did it, so I would have to
give her a good grade.” “She burned herself,” Deborah said, very
deliberately, like she was talking to a three-year-old. “And then she cut
off her own head. So you would give her a good grade.”

“I hope you gave her at least a B for all that
work,” I said.

Halpern goggled at us, his
jaw hanging open and jerking spasmodically, as if it was trying to close but
lacked a tendon. “Wha,” he said finally. “What are you talking
about?” “Ariel Goldman,” Debs said. "And her roommate,
Jessica Ortega. Burned to death. Heads cut off. What

can you tell us about that,
Jerry?“ Halpern twitched and didn't say anything for a long time. ”I,
I-are they dead?“ he finally whispered. ”Jerry,“ said Deborah,
”their heads were cut off. What do you think?" I watched with great
interest as Halpern's face slid through a whole variety of expressions
portraying

different kinds of
blankness, and finally, when the nickel dropped, it settled on the unhinged-jaw
look

again. “You-you think
I-you can't-”

“I'm afraid I can,
Jerry,” Deborah said. “Unless you can tell me why I shouldn't.”

“But that's-I would
never,” he said.

“Somebody did,” I
said.

“Yes, but, my
God,” he said.

“Jerry,” Deborah said, “what did you
think we wanted to ask about?”

“The, the rape,” he said. “When I
didn't rape her.” Somewhere there's a world where everything makes sense,
but obviously we were not in it. “When you didn't rape her,”
Deborah said.

“Yes, that's-she wanted me to, ah,” he said.

“She wanted you to
rape her?” I said.

“She, she,” he
said, and he began to blush. “She offered me, um, sex. For a good
grade,” he said, looking

at the floor. “And I
refused.” “And that's when she asked you to rape her?” I said.
Deborah hit me with her elbow. “So you told her no, Jerry?” Deborah
said. “A pretty girl like that?” “That's when she, um,” he
said, "she said she'd get an A one way or the other. And she reached up
and

ripped her own shirt and then
started to scream.“ He gulped, but he didn't look up. ”Go on,“
said Deborah. ”And she waved at me,“ he said, holding up his hand and
waving bye-bye. ”And then she ran out into the

hall.“ He looked up at
last. ”I'm up for tenure this year,“ he said. ”If word about
something like this got

around, my career would be
over."

“I understand,”
Debs said very understandingly. “So you killed her to save your
career.” “What? No!” he sputtered. “I didn't kill her!”
“Then who did, Jerry?” Deborah asked. “I don't know!” he
said, and he sounded almost petulant, as if we had accused him of taking the
last

cookie. Deborah just stared at him, and he stared back, flicking his
gaze from her to me and back again. “I didn't!” he insisted.
“I'd like to believe you, Jerry,” Deborah said. “But it's really
not up to me.” “What do you mean?” he said. “I'm going to
have to ask you to come with me,” she said. “You're arresting me?”
he said. “I'm taking you down to the station to answer a few questions,
that's all,” she said reassuringly. “Oh my God,” he said.
“You're arresting me. That's-no. No.”

“Let's do this the easy
way, Professor,” Deborah said. “We don't need the handcuffs, do
we?” He looked at her for a long moment and then suddenly jumped up to his
feet and ran for the door. But unfortunately for him and his masterful escape
plan, he had to get past me, and Dexter is widely and justly praised for his
lightning reflexes. I stuck a foot in the professor's way, and he went down
onto his face and slid headfirst into the door.

“Ow,” he said. I
smiled at Deborah. “I guess you do need the cuffs,” I said.