Chapter 4: Among Wolves
The Miami Metro Police Department smelled like burnt coffee and desperation.
I pushed through the glass doors at 8:14 AM, donut bag clutched like a shield, and nearly collided with a woman who looked ready to commit murder herself.
"Where the fuck have you been?"
Debra Morgan. My sister. The inherited memories provided fragments—her voice, her temper, the way she chewed her lip when stressed. But seeing her in person was different. She was tall, athletic, with dark hair escaping a hasty ponytail and eyes that broadcast every emotion she'd ever felt.
Right now those emotions were fury and relief, fighting for dominance.
"I texted you like eight hundred times," she continued, jabbing a finger at my chest. "You missed poker night. LaGuerta reassigned me to parking enforcement for three hours because I covered for your disappearing ass. Do you know how many parking tickets I had to—"
"I brought donuts."
She stopped mid-rant. Stared at the bag. Back at me.
"Chocolate glazed?"
"And the ones with sprinkles."
Her expression softened exactly one degree. "You're still an asshole. But a marginally less terrible one." She snatched the bag and started walking. "Come on. We've got a case. A weird one."
[SOCIAL INTERACTION: SUCCESSFUL]
[RELATIONSHIP STATUS — DEBRA MORGAN: BASELINE ESTABLISHED]
[NOTE: SHE BELIEVES YOU ARE DEXTER. MAINTAIN CONSISTENCY.]
I followed her through the bullpen, cataloging faces against inherited memory. Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead. Desks cluttered with case files formed a maze around us. Phones rang. Keyboards clattered. The background noise of justice being processed.
"Morgan!"
A heavyset man with a warm smile intercepted us near the coffee machine. Angel Batista. Detective. Good cop. Better friend, according to Dexter's memories.
"You look like death, hermano." He clasped my shoulder with genuine concern. "Late night?"
"Couldn't sleep."
"Tell me about it. My wife's got me on this diet—no carbs after six. I'm dreaming about bread, man. Actual bread dreams."
I found myself smiling. Not the practiced mask-smile from the mirror—something more natural. Angel's warmth was infectious.
[FACADE CHECK: SMILE]
[RATING: GENUINE — PROCEED]
"Hey, Dexter!" Another voice cut through the ambient noise. Vince Masuka emerged from behind a partition, lab coat spotted with something I hoped was coffee. "Did you hear about the body? Completely drained. Like a vampire victim. I'm thinking we're looking at some kind of blood cult situation. Maybe ritual sacrifice. You know what they say—" He leaned in conspiratorially. "—the freakier the crime, the freakier the criminal's bedroom."
"Nobody says that," Debra muttered.
"I say that."
"You don't count."
Masuka clutched his chest in mock offense. "Your words wound me, Detective Morgan."
"Your jokes wound everyone, Vince."
Despite myself, I felt something loosen in my chest. This was... normal. Workplace banter. Human connection. The kind of thing I'd taken for granted in my previous life.
[URGE METER: 30% — STABLE]
[OBSERVATION: SOCIAL BONDS PROVIDE MINOR URGE REDUCTION]
The moment shattered when a shadow fell across my path.
"Morgan."
I turned. The man blocking my way stood six feet of coiled hostility. Sergeant James Doakes. Former Special Forces. Current pain in Dexter's ass. His dark eyes drilled into me with an intensity that made my pulse spike.
"Doakes."
"Something's different about you today."
The words hung in the air like a challenge. Around us, the bullpen continued its morning rhythm, oblivious to the standoff.
[THREAT ASSESSMENT ACTIVATED]
[SUBJECT: JAMES DOAKES]
[SUSPICION LEVEL: 2 — BASELINE INTEREST]
[NOTE: DOAKES HAS MAINTAINED SUSPICION OF ORIGINAL DEXTER FOR YEARS]
[WARNING: DO NOT ESCALATE]
"Different?" I tilted my head, channeling every ounce of Dexter's practiced awkwardness. "I used a new conditioner. Debra said my hair looked flat. Is it... is it still flat?"
Doakes' eyes narrowed. "You're a creepy motherfucker, you know that?"
"So I've been told."
For a long moment, neither of us moved. Then Doakes snorted—not amused, just acknowledging the deflection—and shouldered past me.
"Stay out of trouble, Morgan. I'm watching."
"He always is," Harry's voice murmured in my skull. "James Doakes looked at your face and saw something the others missed. He doesn't know what you are. But he knows you're not what you pretend to be. Be careful with him."
I exhaled slowly. One minute in the building and I'd already brushed against the biggest threat to Dexter's cover.
"Don't let him get to you." Angel appeared at my elbow, voice low. "Doakes is a good cop, but he's got issues. Sees enemies everywhere since he came back from... wherever Special Forces guys go."
"I'm fine."
"Sure you are, hermano." He didn't sound convinced. "Come on. LaGuerta's about to brief."
The conference room filled quickly. LaGuerta stood at the front, sleek and polished, every hair in place despite the early hour. Lieutenant María LaGuerta. Political animal. More concerned with press coverage than actual justice, according to Dexter's memories—though that assessment might have been colored by personal dislike.
"Listen up." Her voice cut through the chatter. "We've got a body. Or rather, we've got body parts. Found at four AM in a refrigerated truck at the marina. Female victim, late twenties, provisional ID suggests she was a prostitute working the dock area."
Crime scene photos appeared on the overhead projector. I studied them with professional detachment while the Dark Passenger stirred with something uncomfortably close to appreciation.
The body had been dismembered with surgical precision. Each piece wrapped individually in plastic. Arranged in the truck's cargo area like products on display.
"No blood at the scene," LaGuerta continued. "The victim was drained completely before being cut apart. Forensics estimates she's been dead approximately seventy-two hours, but the refrigeration complicates time of death analysis."
[FORENSIC ANALYSIS MODE: ENGAGED]
[KILL SIGNATURE DETECTED]
[METHOD: PROFESSIONAL — SURGICAL PRECISION]
[DISPOSAL: STAGED FOR DISCOVERY]
[ASSESSMENT: THIS KILLER WANTS AN AUDIENCE]
"Dexter." LaGuerta's eyes found me. "I need you at the scene. Full workup. If there's blood we missed, find it."
"Yes, Lieutenant."
But I already knew they wouldn't find blood. Whoever did this was too careful. Too clean.
Too much like me.
My lab was a sanctuary.
Microscopes, centrifuges, glass slides, reagent bottles—the tools of blood spatter analysis surrounded me like old friends. Dexter's hands knew this space instinctively. Every drawer, every instrument, every procedure.
I sat at the desk and let myself breathe.
[SAFE ZONE DETECTED]
[ENVIRONMENT: LOW THREAT]
[RECOMMENDATION: USE THIS SPACE FOR RECOVERY AND PLANNING]
The crime scene photos spread across my desk told a story I didn't want to read. The precision. The display. The complete absence of blood at a crime scene involving dismemberment.
This wasn't just a murder. It was a message.
And every instinct I possessed—both inherited and my own—said the message was meant for Dexter Morgan.
"You see it, don't you?" Harry's voice was soft. Almost proud. "Another monster. But not like your usual prey. This one is showing off. Demonstrating skill. Seeking... recognition."
"From Dexter."
"From you. In this life, that's the same thing."
I stared at the photographs until the images blurred. Somewhere in Miami, a killer was leaving breadcrumbs. Inviting a response.
The question was whether I'd accept the invitation.
My phone buzzed. Debra.
"Scene's secured. Get your ass down here. You need to see this."
I gathered my kit and headed for the door.
The monster was calling. And Dexter Morgan—whoever that was now—needed to answer.
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