Dog Day Afternoon

After a gruesome murder, Dexter just find the killer before he or she strikes again. Only problem: no evidence, and the only witness and helper of this case is...a dog. A vicious looking dog that just so happens to like Dexter. To make matters worse, Dexter might like it back.

Something about death is...artistic.

You die, you become stiff, then soften up and melt into your surroundings, ready to be shaped into something new. Nature molds you; takes the exact nutrients that made you and use it for plants, food, and life. The cycle never breaks, no body coming back from the dead and eating themselves. Just the same cycle, over and over, and it's amazing.

Blood is also a work of art. Especially when it splatters.

"Dexter, vamanos! We got a fucking mess over here!"

Batista calls from the crime scene. I place the gloves over my hands and go to investigate.

To say this crime scene is messy is an understatement; it's fucking filthy. From porn mags to some disturbing videos, we say the victim is one sorry son of a bitch." He denounces, slapping his gloves off in fervor. I nod and grab my kit.

Batista was right; whoever lived here is a disgusting piece of shit. Trash strewn all over the floor, stacks of porn mags with varying genres, the prominent one being extreme torture porn. Rap groups like Insane Clown Posse litter the blood-stained walls of this trashy apartment in CD's and paraphernalia. Bones and corpses of animals are stashed like furniture in his room, kitchen and bathroom; the freshest corpse just two weeks decomposition. The worst of this are his videos.

One video is of him rapping about murder, covered in what appears to be blood, waving his knife around for emphasis. A pit bull cowers at his feet while he raps, flinching when his master gets too close. From the battle wounds and noticeable chunks of fur and flesh missing, that dog was one of his victims. With any luck, it just might be the one we found in the bathtub, rotting.

"I slit your throat like I did my pit. And just like that, your corpse is my bitch!"

And one of these dogs died from their throat being slit. A confession.

This victim is starting to look less and less like the Boy Scout his mother portrayed him to be.

Being professional, I mapped out the blood splatter and trajectory with ease, cataloging the time frames of each blood splatter. I swab the walls, kitchen, room for DNA; chances are this room might have more animal blood than it does human. For an animal killer, the odds are not looking well in his favor. If anything, once the press gets the scoop about this, PETA might send this killer flowers.

The victim is Carl Varnelli; age 26. Eviscerated and hung from the ceiling fan like a slaughterhouse cow. Organs, fingernails, finger pads, and both of his arms, are missing. Carved in his back, are the words,

DON'T FEEL SO GOOD TO BE TREATED LIKE YOUR PETS, HUH ASSHOLE?

Can't say he didn't deserve this.

"Dexter! We got a live one!"

What?

Grabbing my kit, I follow the voice and enter the boiler room of the apartment.

There, eating one of Carl Varnelli's arms, is a dog. A living, breathing, healthy, dog. When it noticed our presence, it stopped its meal and growled. It's defensive; one false move and it might be either me or that jackass that thought it was a good idea to come down here without a gun that will be choking on our own blood from a ripped jugular.

"Hey, girl," the EMT cooed. His hands were raised, and he's inching towards the dog.

"I don't mean any harm, sweetie. I just want to get a look at you."

The dog looked at him and looked back at me one of her ears pricked up. Is she buying it?

Before any of us could react, the dog pounces on the EMT and rips into his shoulder. He's screaming, I'm frozen in place, watching this unfold. I'm witnessing a murder and I can't seem to move my feet and help. Then, I hear laughing. The dog wags her tail and is licking the EMT. The EMT is laughing and scratching her ears, happy to be alive. A giant tear is at the man's shirt, revealing his wifebeater and muscle. She wanted me and him to know she could've killed him if she wanted, but didn't.

She was toying with him.

"What's your name, huh? You're such a good girl!" The EMT, oblivious to the threat, fingers the dog's neck for a collar. "Your name is...DMX?"

She barks.

Who names their dog after a rapper?

She looks at me, then hops off the EMT and comes to me. Her tail wags so fast it's a blur; she smiles her doggy smile and for once, I'm disturbed.

Here I am, a serial killer. I've been repelling dogs with my dark side that only they can sense. And now this creature, who was just feasting on a human being's arm, is being friendly to me. It's surreal.

"I can't fucking believe this!" Batista swears. He paces back and forth outside the apartment, oblivious to the curious eyes of the cops.

"No DNA, no incriminating evidence of forced entry, no video surveillance, no un contaminated blood samples, no motives, no suspects, no witnesses! Here is this fucking house of horrors, piled with evidence, yet it's useless! All we got is the victim, and right now, if he was alive, I'd kill him myself. All we have to show for it is a dog."

"Detective Batista," one CSI spoke, "From the timeframe, she was a witness to the murder. With any luck, she might lead us to some clues, possibly the killer."

"So our smoking gun is a dog? Hijo de puto... If only that bitch could talk."

The dog barks, wagging her tail while staying close by my side. She won't socialize or be with anyone unless I'm there, and right now all eyes are on me.

"Looks like our star witness likes Dexter." Someone said.

"Can you blame her? She's got good taste," LaGuerta interjects, looking me up and down like I'm a piece of meat.

Fuck me.

"Dex? That's the first time I've ever seen you with a dog. I think I have an idea," Batista scratches his chin with a smile.

Again... Fuck. Me.