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surprisingly few details in Sergeant Doakes's file. The few that I found left me gasping for breath: Doakes had a first name! It was Albert—had anyone ever really called him that? Unthinkable. I had assumed his name was Sergeant. And he had been born, too—in Waycross, Georgia.
There was nothing in the refrigerator remotely worth eating, unless you were a feral dog. Very disappointing: Dexter is a healthy boy with a high metabolism, and facing what was sure to be a difficult day on an empty stomach was not a happy thought. I know family comes first, but shouldn't that mean after breakfast? Ah, well. Dauntless Dexter would make the sacrifice once again. Pure nobility of spirit, and I could expect no thanks, but one does what one must.
What is it with him and food omg? I mean I get it obvi but like aren't you a psycopathic serial killer too ??
I was engaged and still didn't get it. And I never would, either, which I usually regard as a blessing. I have always felt that it was preferable to think with my brain, rather than with certain other wrinkled parts located slightly south. I mean, seriously, don't people ever see themselves, staggering around drooling and mooning, all weepy-eyed and weak-kneed and rendered completely idiotic over something even animals have enough sense to finish quickly so they can get on with more sensible pursuits, like finding fresh meat?
Perhaps Dexter's dutiful but uninspired brain pictured him as Sherlock Holmes, able to examine the wheel ruts and deduce that a left-handed hunchback with red hair and a limp had gone down the road
He literally does that in the showww. literally at EVERY crime scene he describes what happens by just looking 💀. and here they can just call it out ?? I want my money back frankly
“Do you have anything to drink?” he asked, a rather abrupt change of subject, I thought. “I think there's a bottle of water in the backseat,” I said helpfully. “Drink,” he repeated. “Some vodka, or whiskey.” “I don't generally keep any in the car,” I said. “Fuck,” he said. “Just get me to my hotel.”
There were no guarantees that I would come up with anything, but I was committed to trying. I would give it my best effort, poke around at the problem for a few hours and hope that someone might wrap a secret message around a rock and throw it through my window. Perhaps if the rock hit me on the head, it would jar loose some kind of idea.
I would bring Cody along and show him all the wonders that unfold in a Night of the Knife. He was far too young now, but he would start small, learn to plan, and move slowly upward. Harry had taught me that, and now I would teach it to Cody. And someday, perhaps he would follow in my shadowy footsteps and become a new Dark Avenger, carrying the Harry Plan forward against a new generation of monsters. Life, as I said, goes on.

