Dearly Devoted Dexter by Jeff Lindsay Page A

homicide.”
    “You think,” I said.
    “Yeah,” she answered, and then she concentrated on driving and I let her. High speeds always remind me of my own mortality, especially on Miami’s roads. And as for the Case of the Stuttering Dispatcher—well, Sergeant Nancy Drew and I would find out soon enough, particularly at this speed, and a little excitement is always welcome.
    In a very few minutes Deb managed to get us over near the Orange Bowl without causing major loss of life, and we came down onto the surface roads and made a few quick turns before sliding into the curb at a small house on N.W. 4th Street. The street was lined with similar houses, all small and close together and each one with its own wall or chain-link fence. Many of them were brightly colored and had paved yards.
    Two patrol cars had already pulled up in front of the house, their lights flashing. A pair of uniformed cops were rolling out the yellow crime-scene tape around the place, and as we got out, I saw a third cop sitting in the front seat of one of the cars, his head in his hands. On the porch of the house a fourth cop stood beside an elderly lady. There were two small steps leading up to the porch and she sat on the top one. She seemed to be alternating weeping with throwing up. Somewhere nearby a dog was howling, the same note over and over.
    Deborah marched up to the nearest uniform. He was a square, middle-aged guy with dark hair and a look on his face that said he wished he was sitting in his car with his head in his hands, too. “What have we got?” Deb asked him, holding up her badge.
    The cop shook his head without looking at us and blurted out, “I’m not going in there again, not if it costs me my pension.” And he turned away, almost walking into the side of a patrol car, rolling out the yellow tape like it could protect him from whatever was in the house.
    Deborah stared after the cop, then looked at me. Quite frankly, I could think of nothing really useful or clever to say, and for a moment we just stood there looking at each other. The wind rattled the crime-scene tape, and the dog continued to howl, a kind of weird yodeling sound that did nothing to increase my affection for the canine species. Deborah shook her head. “Somebody should shut that fucking dog up,” she said, and she ducked under the yellow tape and started up the walk to the house. I followed. After a few steps I realized that the dog sound was getting closer; it was in the house, probably the victim’s pet. Quite often an animal reacts badly to its owner’s death.
    We stopped at the steps and Deborah looked up at the cop, reading his name tag. “Coronel. Is this lady a witness?”
    The cop didn’t look at us. “Yeah,” he said. “Mrs. Medina. She called it in,” and the old woman leaned over and retched.
    Deborah frowned. “What’s with that dog?” she asked him.
    Coronel made a sort of barking noise halfway between laughing and gagging, but he didn’t answer and he didn’t look at us.
    I suppose Deborah had had enough, and it’s hard to blame her. “What the fuck is going on here?” she demanded.
    Coronel turned his head to look at us. There was no expression at all on his face. “See for yourself,” he said, and then he turned away again. Deborah thought she was going to say something, but changed her mind. She looked at me instead and shrugged.
    “We might as well take a look,” I told her, and I hoped I didn’t sound too eager. In truth, I was anxious to see anything that could create this kind of reaction in Miami cops. Sergeant Doakes might very well prevent me from doing anything of my own, but he couldn’t stop me from admiring someone else’s creativity. After all, it was my job, and shouldn’t we enjoy our work?
    Deborah, on the other hand, showed uncharacteristic reluctance. She glanced back at the patrol car where the cop still sat unmoving, head in hands. Then she looked back to Coronel and the old lady, then at the front