Work Text:
They say that every man has his equal, every serial killer his match. Or maybe no one said that; Dexter simply thought it, because he had met his. It hadn't been a particularly special day that they'd first come face to face, so to speak. No warning signs. He hadn’t even brought donuts to work.
He was still on edge, of course, but he was starting to get used to that: the cacophony of incessant voices had become a dull, steady roar in the back of his mind, and he could almost ignore the ache that set into in his teeth at the faintest whiff of blood. It had been nearly a month and a half since he’d murdered his brother. Forty days, since his last kill. That was long enough for a biblical flood, but currently Lake Dexter was dammed and dry, cracking to pieces as parched as desert. Add to that the body parts that were slowly rising up like specters from their watery grave, the sister who jogged every night and jumped at loud noises, and Dexter was ready to hurl himself into the ocean and lose himself among the remains of his former playmates.
Until Miami Metro pulled him right back out, of course, along with the rest of his body of work. At the rate things were going, it wouldn’t be long until every last reinforced garbage bag was fished out, dripping forth brine and rot, to face the daylight it had never been intended for.
“Hey, did you hear?”
Dexter barely repressed a flinch as a voice interrupted his reverie. Depressed Daydreaming Dexter was not Dexter at his best.
“Body count’s up to thirteen,” said Masuka, grinning luridly. “Makes the Ice Truck Killer look like a baby.”
Dexter rolled his eyes. Ice Truck Killer. Bay Harbor Butcher. Who came up with these names anyway? Putting a name on what he did made it seem so public, when really it was something intimate, a private affair between him and the knife.
“That’s exactly the sort of negative thinking that gets you nowhere,” Angel was saying when he tuned back in. “We’ll solve this case. The universe already knows what we need: it looks they’re sending in outside help on this one.”
“FBI?” asked LaGuerta, rolling her eyes. “Well that figures—”
“No, bigger.” Angel looked around at the other officers. “This thing went all the way to Interpol—”
“Interpol,” said Doakes flatly. “A little Miami killer is important enough to trouble the entire world’s police force.”
“—or something, because somehow, this is amazing, but… It’s gotten L’s attention.”
“L? The L?” Doakes demanded.
“That’s the one,” said Angel. “There’s not a case he hasn’t been able to solve. The Tawny Bay Case in Britain, the Kira Case in Japan—just a few days ago, he solved this huge case in China. This serial killer had been traveling the country for years, body count nearing the hundreds, and L caught him in a week.”
“But no one knows who he is!” Doakes leaned forward over his desk. “What’s his name, what does he look like, hell, we don’t even know how to contact him! How did we pick him up on a case like this?”
Angel shrugged. “I guess he must have found out about it somehow, and decided it sounded worthwhile. They say he only takes cases that interest him, you know.”
LaGuerta and Doakes exchanged glances.
“James,” she told him, “you should try to get involved with this case. It could be a big break for you, working with the kind of legend L is.”
Doakes waved her off. “I still don’t understand what a big shot like L is doing down here in Miami.”
“Thirteen bodies,” said Masuka, patting his monitor with a certain gruesome pride, “more to come. This is news.”
“But not L-worthy news,” Doakes protested.
“When is he coming, do you know?” asked LaGuerta.
“Not him in person, obviously,” said Angel, “but Watari might be here as soon as today.”
Dexter couldn’t listen to his anymore. He stood up suddenly, no other goal in mind but to get away. His brother was dead, he hadn’t killed anyone in ages, and an infallible detective was suddenly on his tail. And just when he thought things couldn’t get worse, as he walked across the room, Doakes looked up at exactly the right moment to catch his gaze.
“Scared, psycho?” murmured Doakes under his breath. “This guy’s never failed.”
“You know, Sarge,” said Dexter, “I still don’t understand why you have it in for me. What have I ever done?” That you know about, anyway.
“You just watch out,” said Doakes. “You may fool everyone else, but you can’t fool me, and you sure as hell aren’t going to fool L. Maybe you have the right idea, running before he gets here.”
“Running? Oh, not at all.” Forcing a laugh and a tight little smile, Dexter veered his path toward the water fountain. “Just a bit thirsty,” he said. “Want anything, Sergeant?”
Doakes rolled his eyes, and Dexter held back a sigh of relief as he walked past. Sergeant Doakes: yet another problem that had to be made to go away. Somehow.
As he headed back for his seat, paper cup in hand, the door jerked open and missed him by an inch. Then Debra rushed in and did collide straight into him - only an awkward dance step allowed him to keep most of the water in his cup.
“Whoa, Deb,” said Dexter lightly. “Where's the fire?”
She gave him her patented ‘Whatever, Dex’ look, and turned to the rest of the room. “Captain’s coming,” she announced, ignoring her brother. “He’s got that Watari guy with him. Get ready.” Then she headed for her desk, as around her, everyone tried their best to look busy.
True to Deb’s word, Dexter spotted Matthews coming down the hallway not a minute later, followed by a dark figure who could only be Watari. He was dressed from head to toe in black; even his face was obscured in the shadow of a black hat that looked remarkably like a fedora. Really, a fedora. Who did he think he was, Carmen Sandiego?
“Briefing room in two minutes,” said Matthews shortly, before he turned and walked away. Something had him agitated. Watari followed at a far more sedate pace, carrying nothing but a shiny black briefcase in one black-gloved hand.
“Damn,” said Masuka, after he was sure they had gone. “Doesn’t he get hot wearing all that black in Miami?”
#
“…and although L’s methods are considered by many to be unorthodox,” Matthews glanced at Watari, as though struggling to hold back what he felt on this matter, “there has never been a case that L was unable to crack. Please give him, and Watari, your full cooperation.”
At his cue, Watari stepped forward, already opening his briefcase. A sleek silver laptop went on the podium; Watari hooked it up to the projector with practiced motions, bent the microphone down to point at its speakers. When he pulled open the lid, it was to reveal the ornately serifed L, black against a white background, that was the symbol of the greatest detective in the world.
The cops waited in expectant silence for a moment, then another.
“L,” Watari finally prompted. His voice was an old man’s: stern, but weary. “L, it’s time.”
“Ah, Watari.” It was a clearly synthetic voice that came from the computer, distorted to preserve the well-kept secret of L’s identity. It was cheaply done, sounding nothing like human, but perhaps that was the intention. “你办事，我放心.”
“That’s gratifying to hear,” said Watari evenly, though he was clearly holding on to his patience with slacking grip, “but we are no longer in China. This is Miami.”
“Oh yes, the Ice Truck Killer case,” said L. “I haven’t looked over your files yet. So many things to do.”
“No, L, that one has been closed. Right now we’re investigating the Bay Harbor Butcher.”
“Another serial killer so soon, really? What is it about Miami? Something in the water?”
Something in the blood, actually, Dexter thought, leaning back. He was trying not to gloat, but how could he help himself? This was L, the most brilliant detective mind in the world? This disorganized, robotic voice hiding behind a letter and an elderly fashion rebel? Something within him relaxed as he realized that this investigation, at least, was one thing that he didn’t have to worry about.
“L, please try to focus,” said Watari urgently. “There have been fourteen confirmed bodies so far, some of them very recent. This is an important investigation.”
There was a sound; even riding through the waves of digital distortion, it was obviously a sigh. “Very well, let me pull up the files. Are they listening right now?”
“Yes, L. They’re listening.”
L continued without abashment. “Greetings to the Homicide Division of the Miami Metro Police: I would like to come in and work with you on this case directly.”
Watari looked down sharply at the screen, but kept his silence.
“You mean—face to face?” said Doakes finally, when no one else dared to speak.
“Yes. In light of recent events, it seems only right. Of course, I have lived too long covering my tracks to throw caution entirely to the wind now. I will hand-select a limited task force after reviewing your personnel files. Those selected will meet with me in person, at a place of my choosing. The rest of you may contact me through Watari, as usual.”
The cops glanced at each other uneasily; L had not made a favorable impression so far.
“I’ve glanced briefly at the case files. I will review them in more detail later on, but for now, I want everyone to focus on identifying these bodies. Forensics, I want an estimated time of death for each body, as accurate as possible. We want to find out if there’s any kind of pattern to these killings.”
“Er, L,” said Masuka, raising his hand. “I don’t know if you’ve gotten that far in the case file yet, but we don’t have bodies—just a lot of body parts.”
Another sigh, an exhalation of static and buzzing. “I have the files and photos here. From what I’ve seen, it’s pretty clear how one would put these parts together. Oh, no, actually I’ve already found a mismatch. Watari, have you connected the projector?”
“Yes,” said Watari, checking the cable just to be sure.
An image came up on the screen: a bloody torso, an arm, a foot. “I see the report has this set identified as coming from one body.”
Dexter recognized the parts as if he’d shaped them out of clay himself; the foot and torso went together, but the arm came from another body, another kill. They had been months apart, close to half a year, though he supposed he could see how anyone would make that mistake, this far into the decaying process.
“Actually, it’s two bodies,” said L. “The Butcher’s style has evolved between these two kills. I would say that he was in a drastically different frame of mind when he made the incisions on this arm than when he was cutting up the torso. Everyone, please be more careful in future sorting. Compare DNA samples on every part if necessary. Any questions?”
The atmosphere in the room lightened with tentative hope; for the same reason, Dexter felt the need to close his eyes and massage his temples. L was sharper than he seemed, despite his lack of organization. For the other officers, this was a cause for relief. For Dexter, this was yet one more reason to look over his shoulder at night.
“No questions? Very well,” said L. “I will have my selections for the task force by tomorrow morning. Anyone especially wishing to join should speak with Watari. Thank you in advance for your diligent efforts to solve this case.”
And the screen went black.
#
Later, by nothing but luck (and perhaps a bit of sneaking around) Dexter found Watari where he'd been set up in a spare office. The man was arguing with his laptop.
Dexter positioned himself next to the doorway and leaned his head back against the wall, ears pricked.
“I told you that I wasn’t interested in this case, Watari,” came the synthetic voice, laden with reproach.
“L. Ever since the close of the Kira Case, you’ve been refusing everything that’s come up. Even the China Killer—”
“I don’t want to talk about this.”
Watari let out a frustrated sound. “And offering to meet the police in person, what were you thinking?”
“The same thing I was thinking the last time I revealed my identity. The same thing every police and investigative organization thinks when they are forced to work with a giant letter as my proxy.
“And what’s that?” said Watari, though he sounded like he didn’t want to hear it.
“Maybe you can’t catch a killer without risking your life,” said L. “Last time I revealed myself, I did so with every expectation that I would not survive. Maybe this time I actually won’t.”
If that’s what you’re looking for, thought Dexter, I can certainly oblige. Never get caught. That’s rule number one.
#
“Can you believe he picked me, Dex?” Debra demanded. If anything, she sounded angry at this development, as she swiped through her closet. “How does this shirt look?”
“Deb,” Dexter laughed lightly; he had showered and changed fifteen minutes ago, and was now sitting on the counter, drumming his feet like a little boy. “We’re going to meet this guy for an investigation, not a date. Besides, if you think he shouldn’t have picked you, why are you bothering to dress up?”
“Well—” Debra seemed at a loss for words. She threw the shirt back into the closet. “Anyway, this is fucking crazy. I’m the last person who should be on this task force.”
“Why? My sister is talented and smart. It runs in the family.”
“Yeah? Okay, you want me to find a serial killer? I was fucking dating one, all right? And I didn’t even know it until he was duct taping my wrists together—fuck!” A handful of hairpins went clattering to the ground.
“Deb—”
“Look, all I’m saying is that he picked the wrong person. I’m as blind as they come, I think I’ve proved that by now.”
You may have dated Brian, but L picked me for his task force, thought Dexter. Shows that anyone can be blind. “Come on, Sis, leave the hair. Let’s just go, all right?”
“You go ahead,” she said. “I’ll be right there.”
“No, no, no,” said Dexter. “Come on, we’ll go together.” He took her by the shoulders and gently steered her toward the door, rolling his eyes when she snagged a brush and a mirror on the way. “It’s brother-sister bonding time.”
“Driving to a murder investigation is our bonding time,” Deb repeated.
“Yes, well. In this family, we take what we can get,” said Dexter, and pushed them both outside.
#
Dexter hadn’t been sure what to expect as they headed up to L’s room in intervaled groups of twos and threes. Someone starched and suited, perhaps, with salt-and-pepper hair, wire-framed glasses, and a calabash pipe.
L failed his expectations completely.
If the world’s greatest detective had sounded distracted and impatient on the phone, he certainly looked it in person. His eyes were baggier than a raccoon’s, his hair a dark, disorderly creature that sat atop his head and went where it pleased. He stood there half-curled in his baggy shirt, his ratty jeans, like an armadillo pried out of his shell and made to stand up straight.
“I’m L,” he told them as they filed into the room. He rubbed a bare toe against the opposite leg. “Everyone else is already here.”
Dexter could see through the doorway that the other officers were indeed present, sitting gingerly on sofas and a few folding chairs, each trying his hardest not to be the one to point out that the supposed L was, well, a teenager. Dexter wondered if this was sort of test that L had devised: put his name on a raggedy boy and wait to see if anyone was brave enough to question what they’d been told.
“Please put your cell phones and other transmitting devices on that table,” said L, pointing.
Debra shot him a weird glance, but Dexter motioned at her to comply.
“Now that we’re all here,” said L, “we can begin.” Contrary to his words, however, L moved through a doorway and out of sight. The assembled officers of Miami Metro were silent as Dexter and Debra took their seats; together, they could hear in minuscule detail the click and clatter of china and the chime of silverware. L returned with a tray, not laden with refreshments for the rest of the team, but with a single cup and saucer, a bowl of sugar cubes, and a slice of chocolate cake on a dish. Without a word of explanation, L strode over to his chair, clambered up onto the seat, and crouched there, knees tucked up against his chest.
“Do any of you have family?” he asked without preamble. “A wife, a boyfriend, someone you go home to at night and talk to about your work?”
Debra flinched. The other policemen just met him with puzzled silence.
“Anyone?” L asked, dipping a silver spoon into the cup and giving it an idle twirl. “Do I have to ask you one at a time?”
“I have a girlfriend,” Dexter volunteered. “Rita. I don’t talk to her about work, though. Blood spatter’s not exactly the most romantic thing in the world, and I think it scares her.” Take that, he thought. Psychopathic serial killer is the only one of us to have a healthy relationship.
“I see. Anyone else?”
Angel opened his mouth, but before he could say anything, Deb jumped up out of her seat. “All right, already!” she snapped. “I did, okay? I dated the Ice Truck Killer, how’s that for my policing skills? I don’t know why the fuck you thought I would be a good addition to your task force, but there you have it. Fooled so badly by a serial killer I fell in love with him, that’s me.”
L looked at her blankly, like a boy studying a particularly strange bug. Afraid that the genius detective would say something harsh, Dexter prepared himself to step in when the unexpected happened: L smiled. He picked up his teacup and looked into it with that strange expression on his face, and sighed.
“My best friend was a serial killer,” he said, taking a cautious drink. He paused to purse his lips and hastily plop in a sugar cube. “He was my first friend, in fact. He pretended to work with the investigation so he could get access to the case, and access to, well, me. Officer Morgan,” he looked up at Deb, met her gaze squarely, “serial killers are charismatic—they must be, to avoid capture. Fooling people is what they do best.”
“Well, at least I’m not the only one,” she said, shakily, as she sat back down. “Why… why are you asking us this anyway?”
“I’ve had some time to investigate, and there is an extremely high probability that the killer is either in Homicide, or is getting information from within the department. In my experience, normally tight-lipped policemen may be too open with their spouses… or even their children.”
“Why would you think that the killer is one of us?” asked Dexter, then cursed himself for speaking out of turn.
L turned the searchlight of his eyes over to Dexter, scrutinized him for a long moment before answering. “We’ve ID’d many of the victims. The majority of our hits came from prison records, and it’s clear what kind of person we’re looking for. ‘I’m only killing people who deserve it,’ that’s likely what our killer is thinking. He probably believes that he is justified in what he does—that he is doing society a great service.”
Well, I kind of am, thought Dexter. I’m taking out the trash.
“So he has a god complex,” said Doakes, and L froze, spoon clattering against the side of his cup. The entire room seemed to jump at the sound, even the sofas.
“Did I say something wrong?” Doakes demanded.
“Yes, you did,” L replied momentarily, in a perfectly calm voice, as though his already pale skin hadn’t dimmed a few more shades just a moment ago. “I’m quite familiar with the god complex, and I don’t believe that that’s what we have here. I find it highly likely—23% chance, maybe—that our killer abides by a certain set of rules, of standards. He kills efficiently, cuts the bodies up into neat pieces, and disposes of them in garbage bags. Most serial killers are caught because they enjoy what they do too much, so they slip up, make mistakes.”
“Are you saying that he doesn’t enjoy killing?” demanded Angel. “Because the amount of bodies alone would suggest otherwise.”
I don’t enjoy it as much as I need it, thought Dexter. I do what I have to.
L picked up his spoon, resumed stirring. “No,” he said, looking straight at Dexter. “I think he does what he has to.”
He let that sink in as he steadily added sugar cubes to his cup. Took another sip, grimaced. “I would like to interview you separately,” he said, adding more sugar. “One by one, to see if the killer is among us.”
“Wait,” said Deb, “You still haven’t explained why you would think the killer is in our department.”
“A large proportion of the victims have passed through Homicide and either slipped through the justice system or waited in jail for a few years before being released. More convincingly, I analyzed the data from the presumed killer’s perspective. In the past five years, every criminal who has escaped your department has disappeared mysteriously; several of them are among the identified victims. This is not true of any department other than yours.” L stood, motioned to a doorway. “Please, one by one. I will conduct my interviews in the other room.”
So saying, L set his cup on his tray, picked it up, and carried it out.
#
“So,” said Dexter cheerfully as he entered the room. “Any luck so far?”
L looked at him blankly. “Please, have a seat.”
“I was just wondering,” Dexter muttered, casting his gaze about the room as he searched out a distraction. He spotted the fork and plate, and spoke without thinking. “So… you finished your cake, huh?” He nearly kicked himself afterwards.
L gave him another blank look. He opened his mouth, but Dexter cut him off. These were the rules of the game. You don't let your opponent have the first word, at any cost.
“By the way, L, I couldn't help but wonder. What you said to Deb earlier, about your best friend? How he tricked you into thinking he was one of the good guys, when he was actually the killer?”
“Did I say that?” L wondered. “It’s harder to fool an experienced investigator than you would think. When we were working together, I estimated probabilities at him, saying things like, ‘There’s now a 17% chance that you’re the killer.’ But I knew all along that he was the one: the 17% meant simply that I didn’t have the right proof, and so I couldn’t tell him that I was sure.”
Dexter winced. He really hoped this guy was exaggerating his abilities.
“There’s nothing more frustrating than knowing a man is guilty and not being able to convict him,” L continued. “The justice system has its limits, but I’m sure you know that too well.”
“Excuse me?” Dexter demanded, shoulders tensing.
“Being a blood spatter analyst,” L clarified, without a hint of a smirk. “So much rests on you.”
“Ah. Of course.” Dexter struggled to keep control of the conversation. “But if you knew he was the killer, how did you let him get to be your best friend?”
“He was my peer in… so many ways. He was one of the only people who thought like me, who understood me. But in the end, I caught him. I had to.”
“You mean you turned him in,” said Dexter. “How could you do it? He was the only one who was like you, and you killed him.”
“I suppose you could say that,” said L, placidly.
“But how can you live with yourself afterwards? Knowing you destroyed the one person who saw you, the real you, and didn’t turn away?”
L looked at Dexter curiously, and Dexter realized that he had moved into dangerously personal territory.
“By remembering what you live for.” L said finally. “You serve justice, and you always have. The work doesn’t end just because someone you care for is gone, and you’re responsible.”
“You have to say goodbye,” said Dexter wonderingly. Why hadn’t he thought of that?
“And what about you?” asked L.
“What?”
“Is there anyone you have to say goodbye to?”
“My… brother,” Dexter admitted cautiously. “I never even knew I had a brother, and by the time I found out, it was… too late. It was pretty devastating. It seems like we would have had a lot in common, if only I had known sooner.”
“That’s hard to say.” L was watching him intently. “Siblings related by blood might otherwise be completely dissimilar in every way.”
“Yes, well. In some cases, blood can be the strongest connection of all.”
“You would understand that better than anyone.”
“What?”
“Being a blood spatter analyst,” said L, and this time the corner of his mouth did twitch up towards a smile.
“Right,” said Dexter. “You know, I’ve been meaning to ask about that. There’s not much blood spatter to investigate in these garbage bags, unless you’re interested in how hard the killer threw the body parts in. Why exactly am I here?”
“You have talent,” said L simply. “And you’ve had your job approximately as long as the Bay Harbor Butcher has had his.”
“What are you—?”
“So you would know more about the relevant cases,” L deadpanned. “You’ll probably recognize a large number of the victims, and, who knows, maybe you’ll remember details that could help our current investigation.”
“Ah,” said Dexter, with a weak smile. “I sure hope so.”
#
“There has been some speculation about a connection between the Bay Harbor Butcher and the Ice Truck Killer. Some have even suggested that the Ice Truck Killer was the Bay Harbor Butcher’s protégé. However, their styles are too different. One is discreet, putting all of his efforts into not getting caught. The Ice Truck Killer, on the other hand, is flashy and attention-seeking.”
“L,” Dexter demanded, “What are you doing here?”
L looked around with some puzzlement, as though surprised to find himself in the middle of a bustling police station. “I’m investigating,” he said. “Are those donuts for me?”
Dexter tried his best for calm as he lifted the lid of the box for L to pick one. L just smiled, shut the lid, and took the whole box. “As I was saying, it is more likely that the Ice Truck Killer was using his kills to get the Bay Harbor Butcher’s attention. That would explain the blood-draining technique, the very public locations he chose to leave the parts: he was simply showing off.”
Don’t get caught, Dexter thought, forcing himself not to give away the chill that had run down his spine. “Why would one serial killer show off to another?” he asked aloud. “I’d think they’d be pawing at the ground, trying to establish their own territory.”
“Hm, so you think the Ice Truck Killer was trying to intimidate the Bay Harbor Butcher? Try to scare him away and leave him Miami as his killing ground?”
“Could be,” said Dexter.
L considered this. “Doesn’t fit,” he said finally. “The only way he could scare the Butcher this way is by saying something like, ‘Look, I can get you caught.’ But his methods are much more likely to get himself captured. Not to mention…”
L pulled out a crime scene photograph.
“This one looks kind of like a present, don’t you think?”
Dexter looked around. “Look, are you sure you should be here? What happened to keeping your identity a secret? Anyone could see you. The Bay Harbor Butcher could see you! You did say he was one of us, didn’t you?”
L shrugged. “I’ve decided. The Butcher is ruled strictly by his code. As long as I don’t fall under his list of criminals, he won’t kill me.”
“Not even to protect his own life?”
“Not even then,” L confirmed. “You know, I feel a lot better than before. Strange as it may sound, I think our discussion helped. I’ve let go of the past; I value my life again. I wouldn’t have come here if I wasn’t sure the risk was low.”
Great, thought Dexter, I’ve renewed the confidence of the person who’s hunting me. “You’re still taking a risk, though,” he said out loud.
“Let’s go to your office,” L suggested. “I want to see where you work.”
“Sure,” said Dexter, while his mind screamed at him not to give the detective even one more clue. “Maybe seeing all the pictures of blood will give you some ideas.”
“Are all your pictures of blood spatter?” L wondered. “Don’t you have any of your family? Your brother?”
“I’m not really a pictures kind of guy.” Dexter waved to Sergeant Doakes, who glowered at first, then just stared as he realized who was trailing his favorite psychopath. He even started to get up, as though to protect L bodily from Dexter, but then Dexter was ushering L into his office, and it was too late.
“Now I have you right where I want you,” said Dexter brightly. Right where he wanted him, except that they were in the middle of a building full of armed cops, who had all seen L walk in.
“Hm?” L looked up curiously, not a hint of fear in his face. He was so arrogant; there had to be some way to use that against him.
“I had some more ideas about the case,” said Dexter, digging around for the appropriate files. “I wanted to run them by you first, before I showed anyone else.”
“Okay,” said L. “Please go ahead.”
“I was going through the body parts photos, and I noticed that on this head, there appears to be an incision in the right cheek. I looked at what other faces we had, and this cut always appears to be present.”
“Go on.”
“I’m not sure about this, but the amount of blood residue suggests that the victims were still alive when the killer made the cut—that maybe it’s the first cut the killer makes, every time?”
“It’s quite possible,” said L. “The killer seems to have a ritual—a pattern of making his kill that he very rarely alters.”
“Oh,” said Dexter. “You already noticed the cuts.”
L shrugged. “I value your input. You know—I think I consider you a friend. My second friend, ever.”
“Well, considering what happened with your first friend,” said Dexter, “That’s not too reassuring.”
“Yes, well, it seems the people I admire most have a certain similarity to their personalities. That must be why they’re all serial killers and investigators.”
“Well, you had the serial killer friend,” said Dexter lightly. “Now you have an investigator friend.”
“Actually,” L interrupted, “my first friend was both.”
Dexter froze.
“He was also excellent at tennis,” L added, almost thoughtfully. “I miss that. Do you play?”