Chapter 7 Chapter 5 The Deranged Night Walker

There is a saying that there is no peace for the bad guys.That's literally talking about me.I've just sent little Zander off to the west, and poor Dexter is getting very busy.Rita's honeymoon plans were in full swing, and at the same time, I was busy at work as if to join in the fun.We encountered a murder that usually happens in Miami, and this time the murderer was very cunning. I stared intently at the blood spatter analysis test for three full days. On the fourth day, things got worse.I bought donuts for the office, a habit of mine, especially after my night out.The reason is that after my nightly collaboration with the Dark Walker, not only do I feel extra light for a few days, but I also develop an appetite and feel hungry all the time.I'm sure there's some deep psychological significance to this phenomenon, but before thinking about it, I'll have to grab a jam donut or two before my savage colleagues in the forensics department leave them behind.Donuts are in the lead, and psychoanalysis can take the back seat.

But I barely managed to grab a mulberry-filled donut this morning and nearly broke my finger in the process.The whole corridor was gearing up to go to the crime scene, and the excitement made me realize that it was a bloody case, and I was a little unhappy, which meant working overtime and staying somewhere far away from civilization and Cuban sandwiches, I don't know where to settle for lunch.Given that I've been eating less donuts, lunch has become extra important, and I've got to get to work for that too. I grabbed the portable blood splatter kit and headed out the door with Vince Masoka.Regardless of how small Vince is, he snatched two precious donuts, filled with Bavarian cream and coated with chocolate icing. "You're a bit too capable, great hunter," I said, nodding at his loot.

"The gods of the forest have treated me well," he said, taking a big bite. "This season, my people will not go hungry." "You won't, I will," I said. He smirked at me, it was so fake, as if he had learned it from the facial expression manual provided by the government department. "The roads are hard in the jungle, you know that, little grasshopper?" he said. "Yeah," I said, "first you have to learn to think like a donut." "Ha." Vince laughed.This time it was even more fake than his smile just now, as if he was reading the pinyin of laughter. "Ah, ha, ha, ha." He laughed again.The poor guy is faking everything to look like a human being, like me, but not like me.No wonder I feel so comfortable with him, and no wonder he and I take turns bringing donuts to the office.

"You'd better get a human skin." He motioned to my shirt.It was a bright pink and green Hawaiian dress with a picture of a hula girl. "The taste needs to be improved." "It's on sale." I said. "Huh," he said again, "Rita's going to be shopping for you soon." Then suddenly he stopped that horrible smirk and changed the subject, "Listen, I think I found you a really good one." catering plan.” "Does he make stuffed donuts?" I asked, wishing nothing more would be said about my looming big day.However, I have asked Vince to be my best man, and he takes the job very seriously.

"That guy was super famous," Vince said, "and he catered for the music channel awards and all the other celebrity parties." "He sounds expensive," I said. "Oh, he owes me a favor," Vince said, "I think we can get him a discount. Maybe down to $150 a person." "Vince, I thought I could afford more than one guest." "He's been in South Beach Magazine," he said, a little aggrieved. "You should at least talk to him." "To be honest with you," I said, which meant I was starting to lie, "I think Rita wants something simple, like a buffet."

Vince was really angry. "You talk to him first," he repeated. "I'll talk to Rita about it," I said, hoping that this would be the end of the conversation.The rest of the way to the crime scene, Vince didn't talk about it again, maybe it was over. The situation at the scene was simpler than I expected, and I felt much better after I got there.First, it's on the campus of the University of Miami, my dear alma mater.Throughout my life of tirelessly pretending to be a human being, I have always reminded myself to show warm affection for such places.Second, there seemed to be little blood for me to analyze, which greatly reduced my workload.It also means I don't have to deal with those nasty wet, red things - I don't actually like blood, which may seem odd, but it's true.But when I'm at a crime scene, there's a moment where it's really rewarding, and that's simulating the crime, putting the details together and simulating the crime.The skills I learned from it are unmatched.

As usual, I strolled over to the yellow tape used to seal off the site, enjoying a moment of relaxation in a busy day.My foot came within a foot of the tape. In an instant, the whole world turned bright yellow, and there was a feeling of being tottering and crumbling, which made people sick.All I could see was the cold light of the blade. In the dark back seat, where the Nightwalker stayed, there was a dead silence, a feeling of vomiting, mixed with the sharp noise of the butcher knife across the chopping board, a feeling of panic and tension, intuition Tell me something is wrong without knowing what and where it is.

My eyesight is back and I look around and see nothing unusual.A small group of onlookers were blocked behind yellow tape. Some police officers on patrol, a few plainclothes detectives, and my colleagues from the forensic department were searching the bushes with their hands and feet.This is all very normal.So I turned to my infallible eyes. what happened?I asked silently, closing my eyes and looking to the Night Walker for an answer.It had never been so disturbing.I'm used to getting advice from my night buddies, and more often than not, I've been to a crime scene for the first time and I've been greeted with admiration or amused comments.But this time there was only distress and distress.I don't know what's wrong with this.

What?I will ask again.But there was no answer other than the rustling of the invisible wings as they flapped.I put it aside for a moment and walked back to the scene. The two bodies had obviously been burned elsewhere, as no grill large enough to burn two medium-sized women so thoroughly had been found nearby.It was two morning joggers who found them by the lakeside path.The lake runs through the University of Miami campus, and there is a small road around the lake.From the little blood evidence, I think their heads were taken after they were burned. One detail caught my attention.The corpses were neatly laid out, their charred arms folded across their chests in an almost devout look.Where the original head was, a ceramic bull's head was placed squarely on top of the body.

The situation always elicits an interesting comment from the Night Walker, usually a few happy whispers, a chuckle, and sometimes even a sense of jealousy.But this time, when Dexter said to himself: Aha, a bull's head!What do we say?The Nightwalker immediately responded violently, and that response was: Not a word. Not even a sigh, not a whisper. I asked again impatiently, but still didn't even spark a spark. The night walker seemed desperately trying to hide behind any place that could cover his body, and would sneak away if he had the chance. I opened my eyes in amazement.I can never remember a time when Nightcrawler was speechless on our beloved subject, but here he is, defeated and trying to find a place to hide.

I looked back at the two charred bodies with some newfound respect.I can't figure out what the point of this is, but since it's never been like this, I should check it out. Angel Batista was surveying the other side of the path on all hands and knees, sifting through everything I could neither see nor be interested in seeing. "Did you find it?" I asked him. He didn't even look up. "Find what?" he said. "I don't know," I said, "but it must be around here." He reached out a pair of tweezers, picked up a piece of grass, stared at it for a while, and then put it in a plastic bag.He said: "What's the matter, who would put a ceramic bull's head?" "Because if you put chocolate, it will melt." I said. He still nodded without raising his head: "Your sister thinks this has something to do with Shantley's religion." "Really?" I said.I wasn't expecting this, and it made me a little angry.This is Miami after all, and whenever there is a religious ceremony and it has something to do with animal heads, Shantley should be the first thing that comes to mind.It's an African-Cuban religion that combines Yoruba animism and Catholic teachings and thrives in Miami.Animal sacrifice and symbolism were commonplace to its followers, which should explain the two bull heads.Although only a small number of people actually believe in Shantery, many local families will have a small candle or two or a few agate necklaces bought from incense shops.The usual attitude toward this kind of thing is that even if you don't believe it, you might as well show some respect. As I said, I should have thought of it right away.But my non-blood sister, now a full-fledged homicide officer, thought of it first, even though I was the smarter one. I was relieved to learn that Deborah was in charge of the case, because that meant the investigation wouldn't make outrageously stupid mistakes.I also hope this case makes her time more efficient.She's been spending the day and night watching over her wounded boyfriend, Kyle Chutsky, lately.Kyle lost an arm or both during his latest encounter with the Mad Surgeon, who specializes in turning humans into peeled potatoes.It was he who deftly amputated many of Officer Doakes's less-than-essential limbs one by one.He didn't have time to finish Kyle's operation.Deborah made the whole thing her holy mission, and after she shot the wonderful surgeon down, she devoted herself to nursing Chutsky, and devoted herself to the task of bringing him back to life again. career. I'm sure she's already at the absolute heights of morality, no matter who she's compared to.But the thing is, her sabbatical isn't doing her group any favors.Not least of all, poor and lonely Dexter feels deeply neglected by the only living relative he has. So everyone was happy to hear that Deborah had been assigned to the case.She was talking to her boss, Commissioner Matthews, at the end of the lane, and must be giving him ammunition to deal with the media later.The media just refused to take pictures of him from what he thought was a beautiful angle. At this time, interview vehicles had already lined up, and a large number of reporters began to take pictures in the surrounding area.One or two local reporters were standing there, grabbing the microphone, and telling in a sad tone that two fresh lives were brutally ended in this way.As always, I will always be grateful to live in a free society where the media has the sacred right to show footage of the dead on the evening news. Director Matthews carefully stroked his already perfect hairstyle with the palm of his hand, patted Deborah on the shoulder, and went forward to talk to the media.I went to my sister. She stood still, watching Matthews' back.He's talking to Rick Sanger, the guy who's a crime news mouthpiece.His principle is "when there is bloodshed, it makes the headlines." "Hey girl," I said, "welcome back to the real world." She shook her head. "Hey, hooray," she said. "How's Kyle?" I asked her, my training telling me that was the appropriate greeting. "Physical?" she said. "He's fine, but he always feels like a piece of shit. Those bastards in Washington won't let him go back to work." I can't judge Chutsky's ability to return to work because no one knows exactly what he does.I only vaguely know that it is related to a certain department of the government, and the secrecy is very high.Other than that I don't know anything. "Oh," I scrambled for the right polite words, "I'll be fine in a while." "Ah," she said, "I know." She looked back at the two charred bodies. "Anyway, it's a good way to change my mind." "There have been rumors that you think it's about Santley," I said, and she turned her head quickly to me. "You don't think so?" she asked curiously. "Oh no, maybe you're right," I said. "But?" she asked sharply again. "No buts," I said. "Damn it, Dexter," she said, "what do you think?" It should be a normal question.I've been known to often make fairly accurate guesses about some of the more disgusting killers we've dealt with.I can imagine the thoughts and actions of perverted murderers, and I have already become famous for this.It was natural, even though no one except Deborah knew it, and I was a psychotic murderer myself. But Deborah has only recently learned something about me, and she's not shy about taking advantage of me to help with her work.I don't care, I'm more than happy to help my sister.Isn't that what family members do?I also don't care to pay a little debt to the judiciary of society with those devil guys.Of course, unless that guy is keeping it for myself. But in this case, I can't tell Deborah anything.I was actually hoping that she would give me a sliver of information, because that might explain the rare, atypical avoidance of the Nightcrawler.But I really didn't want to tell Deborah the idea.But Deborah didn't believe me no matter what I said to the two charred sacrifices, she felt I was hiding something from her.Originally, my younger sister was suspicious enough, but when she was a policeman, I had to add the word "more". From the looks of it, she's convinced that I'm keeping a hand with her. "Well, Dexter," she said, "go ahead and tell me what you think." "My dear sister, I haven't found North at all," I said. "Nonsense," she said, "you don't say anything." "Never in my life," I said, "would I lie to my only sister?" She stared at me: "You don't think it's Shantley?" "I don't know," I said, trying to be as sincere as possible, "that's a good line of thought, but . . . " "I knew it," she snapped her fingers, "but what?" "Oh." I said.Then I suddenly remembered something, I don’t know what’s the use of it, but a sentence has already started, so I can’t say it, so I have to continue: “Have you heard of Shantel using ceramics? And cows...they don’t use goats ?" She stared at me for a minute, then shook her head: "No? That's what you want to say?" "I told you, Deborah, I've come to no conclusions. It's just an idea, just popped up." "Come on," she said, "if you tell me the truth—" "Of course I did," I protested. "Then, you are just talking stupid, even more stupid than mine." She turned her head and looked at Director Matthews again. jaw. Nobody can answer the question I really want to ask: Why is the Nightcrawler hiding?In the course of my career and my hobby, I've seen scenes that most people wouldn't even imagine unless they'd seen drunk driving videos in a traffic offender class.In either case, no matter how horrific, my shadow mate would make some succinct commentary on how things were going, even if it was just a lazy yawn. But now, with nothing more than two charred corpses and crudely crafted pottery, the Nightcrawler has fled like a panicked spider, leaving me here without a claim - a new experience for me , but I don't like it at all. Still don't know what to do.I can't find anyone to talk about Nightcrawler, at least not if I want to stay free.As far as I know, no one knows this topic better than I do.But how much do I really know about my lucky star?Am I really knowledgeable, or am I just exposed to the light of the Dark Walker for a long time?It's self-cloaking at the moment makes me anxious, as if I'm walking around the office without pants on.After all, I didn't know who the Nightcrawler was or where he came from, and none of that mattered at all. But somehow, now the question has become important. A small group of people gathered outside the yellow tape area that police had pulled up.There are enough people for the observer to stand unobtrusively in the crowd. He watched with calm hunger, with no expression on his face.He wears a makeshift mask that hides a hideous and sinister look.But for some reason, the people around him seemed to be aware of something, and they would look nervously at him from time to time, as if they heard tigers appearing nearby. Observers appreciate their unease, their silly sense of horror at what he's doing.That's the fun of power, and one reason he likes to watch. But the purpose of his observation at this moment is clear, he examines carefully, watching people grope around like ants, and feels the power gathering in his body.Walking dead, he thought, worse than sheep.And we are that shepherds. He watched with contentment the poor wretches they were showing, and he felt the urge of the predator again.He slowly turned his head and looked along the yellow tape—— There.There he is, in a bright Hawaiian shirt.He was indeed with the police. The observer carefully stretched out the tentacles towards the person, and when he touched the person, he saw that the person stopped suddenly and closed his eyes, as if asking a silent question—that's right.I see.The other party felt that subtle touch, this person has special powers, it must be. But what does this man want? He watched the other person straighten up, look around, then apparently put the matter behind him and walked towards the police. We are stronger, he thought.stronger than them all.They will find this out very sadly in the end. He felt more and more horny - but he had to find out more and wait for the right moment.Wait and watch. That's it for now.