Chapter 21: The Skinner's Hunt
The Miami Metro briefing room reeked of burnt coffee and bureaucratic desperation. Crime scene photographs lined the whiteboard like a gallery of nightmares—women flayed with surgical precision, their skin removed in careful sections that spoke of medical knowledge and infinite patience.
Detective Debra Morgan stood at the front of the assembled task force, her voice carrying the controlled fury of someone who'd seen too many monsters and not caught enough of them.
"Four victims in six weeks," she announced, pointing to the photos with mechanical precision. "All women, ages twenty-five to thirty-five, all found in remote locations with extensive ante-mortem torture. The media's calling him 'The Skinner,' and for once their tabloid bullshit is actually accurate."
Elijah sat in the back corner, officially present as David Chen, forensic equipment consultant, unofficially calculating probabilities with supernatural precision. Dexter had arranged his inclusion through strategic name-dropping—David's "expertise in evidence preservation" might prove valuable for such an unusual case.
Omniscient Locator: George King, serial killer known as "The Skinner."
The vision hit immediately: industrial district, abandoned warehouse with refrigeration units, eight miles northeast of their current location. A man in his forties methodically organizing instruments in glass cases, trophy skin stretched on frames like obscene artwork.
Cost: $2,400.
The knowledge burned in Elijah's consciousness like acid. He knew exactly where the Skinner was, what he was doing, probably what he planned for his next victim. But he couldn't share this information directly without revealing his impossible abilities.
He needed to guide the investigation subtly, providing breadcrumbs that would lead them to George King without exposing his meta-knowledge.
The anonymous email account took fifteen minutes to create, routing through VPN servers and proxy chains that would frustrate any attempt at tracing. Elijah composed his message with careful precision:
Check industrial warehouses near Port of Miami. Subject uses refrigeration equipment to preserve trophies. Focus on facilities with recent utility usage but no legitimate business activity. Look for modified cold storage units.
He hit send and watched the digital breadcrumb disappear into cyberspace, carrying information that would either save lives or expose him as impossibly well-informed.
Twenty minutes later, Debra's phone rang in the briefing room. She listened with increasing intensity, scribbling notes on a napkin while barking questions at whoever had called.
"Anonymous tip," she announced to the room. "Specific enough to be credible, vague enough to be suspicious. But it's our only lead." Her eyes swept the assembled detectives. "SWAT's prepping for warehouse raids. If this pans out, we might actually catch this bastard."
Elijah maintained his expression of professional interest while his stomach clenched with anxiety. His information was accurate—George King was definitely using refrigerated warehouse space—but the Skinner was smart enough to have escape routes and backup locations.
Probability Assessment: Will the raid successfully capture George King?
23% probability of successful capture. 81% probability Skinner escapes but abandons current location.
Cost: $6,000.
The numbers were frustrating but predictable. George King had survived as a serial killer for months by staying ahead of law enforcement. A anonymous tip wouldn't be enough to corner him completely.
But the follow-up calculation made Elijah's blood run cold:
Probability Assessment: Will George King target someone connected to the investigation as retaliation?
81% probability within 48 hours.
Cost: $6,000.
The Skinner would escalate. Someone close to the investigation—probably someone connected to Dexter or Debra—would become his next victim. Elijah had just painted a target on people he was trying to protect.
The warehouse raids unfolded with tactical precision. SWAT teams hit three locations simultaneously, finding evidence at the second site—modified refrigeration units, surgical instruments, and DNA evidence linking George King to multiple victims.
But no George King.
Elijah watched from a distance as crime scene technicians processed the warehouse, knowing his anonymous tip had provided them with crucial evidence while simultaneously escalating the danger to everyone involved.
That evening, his phone buzzed with a text from an unknown number:
Miguel kills Ellen Wolf tonight. Corner of 5th and Washington, 11 PM. This is your last chance to act without consequences multiplying.
But the message wasn't from an unknown number—it was from Elijah himself, sent to Dexter using a burner phone purchased that afternoon. His Omniscient Locator had revealed Miguel Prado's location at 10:30 PM, combined with his knowledge of canon events, providing perfect intelligence about a murder that was about to happen.
Miguel had crossed the line from Code-justified kills to personal vendettas. Ellen Wolf was a defense attorney whose only crime was doing her job effectively. Her death would represent Miguel's complete abandonment of any pretense of justice.
And if Dexter didn't stop him tonight, Miguel's threats to expose Dexter would become reality.
Elijah tracked both men's locations through the evening: Miguel moving toward Ellen Wolf's apartment with methodical purpose, Dexter racing across Miami after receiving the anonymous warning.
The confrontation happened exactly where Elijah had predicted. Miguel killed Ellen Wolf with the same surgical precision Dexter had taught him, but without the moral framework that made such actions justifiable.
When Dexter arrived and discovered what had happened, the conversation was brief and final:
"We're partners or we're enemies," Miguel had said.
Dexter's response came eight hours later.
The phone rang at 3:17 AM, Dexter's voice carrying the flat calm that meant he'd just finished killing someone.
"I need your help."
Elijah dressed in darkness and drove through Miami's empty streets to coordinates Dexter texted. The location was a construction site near the port—industrial, isolated, perfect for the kind of work that required privacy.
Miguel Prado's body lay arranged in careful position, staged to match the Skinner's methodology. Dexter had used his knowledge of George King's techniques to create a perfect misdirection—Miguel appeared to be the Skinner's latest victim rather than Dexter's.
"Brilliant," Elijah wrote on his ever-present notepad. "This connects Miguel to the Skinner investigation. Natural conclusion."
They worked in companionable silence, two men who understood the necessities of survival. Elijah helped position evidence, adjust details that would sell the deception to forensic analysis. His hands remained steady despite the magnitude of what they were doing.
Probability Assessment: Will this staging convince investigators that Miguel was killed by George King?
87% probability of successful deception.
Cost: $4,500.
High enough odds to proceed, low enough to maintain healthy paranoia. They finished their work as dawn approached, methodically erasing any trace of their involvement.
"You didn't ask if I was sure," Dexter observed as they walked back to their cars.
Elijah wrote his response carefully: You don't make uncertain kills.
Dexter nodded, understanding passing between them without need for further explanation. Miguel had become a threat to both their survival. His death was logical, necessary, and utterly without moral justification.
"I've crossed another line tonight. Not just witnessing murder or providing intelligence—I've actively participated in staging a crime scene. The Entity's corruption is complete. I'm no longer an observer; I'm Dexter's accomplice."
They sat in Dexter's boat as sunrise painted Miami's skyline in shades of gold and blood. Their clothes had been changed, evidence disposed of, alibis prepared. To any observer, they were simply two friends enjoying an early morning on the water.
"Do you ever feel anything?" Dexter asked quietly. "Guilt? Fear?"
Elijah considered the question with uncomfortable honesty. A year ago, the thought of helping stage a murder scene would have horrified him. Now it felt like Tuesday.
He wrote carefully: I feel everything. That's the problem.
Dexter didn't respond, but something in his expression suggested understanding. They sat together in shared comprehension—two monsters pretending to be human, succeeding just well enough to keep breathing.
Elijah's phone buzzed with a text from Walter: Jesse's in rehab. You're on distribution duty. Get back here.
The Entity's leash yanked him back toward Albuquerque, away from Miami's humid embrace and toward whatever fresh hell awaited in the desert. Jesse was trying to get clean, which meant Walt would be desperate to pull him back into the business.
And Elijah would help him do it, because survival required complicity, and complicity had become his specialty.
He looked at Dexter one last time before heading to the airport. "Thank you."
"For what?"
Elijah wrote his final note of the morning: For showing me that monsters can still be useful.
Dexter's smile was sharp as broken glass. "Anytime."
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