Tonight's the night. And it's going to happen again and again. But it won't happen again for my very special playmate. Allison Gobel age twenty-nine, has had many titles. Loving daughter, straight A student, Head Cheerleader, Prom Queen, but my personal favorite Black Widow. Allison has been married three times in the last seven years. The first was to a Mr. James Hudson twenty-nine. A wealthy banker whose father was a successful stockbroker. Allison and James eloped after six weeks of dating. The happy couple enjoyed thirteen months of happy bliss before James had an unfortunate car crash. James car had been in the shop the weekend before and it seems the mechanics overlooked the loose break-line. The widow Hudson was distraught of course. But I imagine the sizeable life-issuance helped the mourning process.
Regardless in less than fifteen months, Allison Hudson became Mrs. Ralph Bryson. Mr. Bryson was a thirty-four year old divorcee medical doctor who left his previous spouse after she gave birth to a child of neither of their race. She had gotten nothing in the separation due to her infidelity. He on the other hand got Allison Hudson on the rebound. Once again Allison eloped after dating for five weeks. Mr. and Mrs. Bryson enjoyed six months of happy bliss before once again tragedy struck poor Mrs. Bryson. The police report states that a disgruntled spouse of a former patient of Mr. Bryson, who hadn't survived surgery, had kicked in the Bryson's elegant high class door in, slashed Mrs. Bryson's forearms with a kitchen knife stolen from the Bryson's kitchen as she defended herself, before cutting the throat and stabbing Mr. Bryson in the sternum. When police arrived Mrs. Bryson was covered in her husband's blood mixed with her own which she claimed got on her when she embraced her dead husband. The lack of evidence, namely the missing kitchen knife led investigators inconclusive data toward any suspect.
Once again Allison became a grieving mourner. After two weeks in the hospital to treat her wounds, and another five months of grief counseling, she received her late husband's sizeable estate which she in turn sold. However after twenty-three months Allison has once again found happiness. Stanley Hackworth, thirty-five, was a partner at his father's law firm. Allison and Stanley eloped after seven weeks of dating. Three months into the marriage, Mr. Hackworth surprised his loving wife with a cruise to Hawaii for her birthday. The cruise was a four week venture. During the third week it was reported that Mr. Hackworth took his own life when he leapt off the cruise into the Pacific Ocean. The grieving Mrs. Hackworth was devastated when the cruise returned to Orlando Florida that she sold her home and moved to Miami.
This is when she came under my radar. I saw her latest husband's obituary in the paper. After reading that this was the Mrs. Hackworth's third husband to perish I deemed her a potential playmate. I hacked into the Police Database using a library computer. Her first husband James Hudson was in a fatal car crash after his break lines came loose. Not enough evidence to suggest foul play. Looking at the crime scene photos of the second husband Ralph Bryson, was literally a little more cut and dry. I'm a junior in College studying to become a forensic specialist in blood-spatter analysis. Blood never lies. Judging from the blood on the wall from the victim's throat, the attacker would have had to be smaller in stature to the victim contrary to the statement that the attacker was roughly the same size of the victim. Further examining the cuts of the then Mrs. Bryson, I could see that judging from the direction of the slices to her arm that the attacker would have been behind her if not self inflicted. Highly unlikely the wound was in self defense.
Due to this I spent last weekend driving up to Orlando to the home of the Bryson's. Due to the homicide the house of still currently for sale and empty. So I waited till the all neighbors lights went out before I snuck up to the door and unlocked it with my lock picks. I walked to the kitchen and while holding the crime scene photos as a guide I surveyed the crime scene. Using a forensic kit I "borrowed" from school, I sprayed the kitchen then shined a blue light to search for any blood stains. There was none to be found. I surveyed the living room to find nothing. I moved upstairs where I found evidence of a giant puddle coming from the husband due to the photographs. The splash pattern from the cut to the throat suggests that the attacker was several inches shorter than the victim, roughly the size of the wife. But I still couldn't find any blood from the wife. I checked the bathroom where I found evidence of blood that had been on the sink and a pit of splatter that hit the mirror. Not where the wife had claimed she had been attacked. Judging from the placement of the splatter on the mirror, the wife had been hunched over the bathroom sink when she had been cut. Not in a defensive stance, but more like she wanted to make sure the blood got in the sink and didn't get everywhere.
This evidence damned the wife's statement to the police, but didn't condemn her innocence. The Code dictates that I must be sure of her guilt. The Code leaves no room for doubt. The only thing that could prove her guilt would be the kitchen knife. I returned to my car and erasing and shred of my presence. The wife must have dumped the knife before the police arrived. Police procedure is to check within a mile radius of the crime for a murder weapon. So I would check outside that radius for the knife. After driving around for forty-five minutes I saw an oddly placed tree branch sticking out of the ground near a park three miles from the Bryson household. I got out of my car to check the branch. It was obviously placed there on purpose, like a marker. After digging with my hands I found a garbage bag incasing a small object. I opened it to find a kitchen knife covered in what appeared to be dried blood. And the best part was I could see a partial print on the handle of the blade.
When I returned to my university that next Monday I managed to sweet talk my way past the my Forensics Professor's teaching assistant to get access to his lab. I ran the blood and examined the print based off a copy of Allison's fingerprints I hacked off the Police Database. The blood came back as positive from the husband, and the fingerprint was a match for Allison's. As I read the results I smiled, Allison Gobel, you're about to find yourself on my table.
Knowing that Allison had killed her second husband it's no stretch of the imagination that she also killed her first and third husband. All it would take was to loosen up James Hudson's break line and push Stanley Hackworth off the side of the cruise ship. Allison Gobel will be on my table this weekend. This week being finals before Christmas I can't spare a weeknight. All week during my test I had the Dark Passenger whispering in my ear to pick a knife and ride the world of another Black Widow. When Friday arrived I was the first out the door after the last test of the day. Tonight's the night.
I waited outside Allison's apartment building for two hours before she strolled out. She strutted up wearing designer clothing that probably costs more than my own car. I followed her car for twenty minutes before she arrived at a night club. While she was boozing it up, I parked my car at an open all night supermarket, three blocks from the nightclub. I walked back toward the club and quietly snuck into Allison's fancy Bentley. I locked the doors back up and snuck into the back seat.
As I waited two hours, the Dark Passenger whispered in my ear, my heart-rate increasing. This was when I truly felt alive. On the hunt is the only time in my life where I actually feel. As I lay there poised, ready to strike, my cell phone vibrated, "Shit" I whispered. I took my phone out in my leather gloved hand and stared at the number. I didn't recognize it so I ignored it. I slipped back into my cargo pants as I heard the sound of Allison giggling and saying goodbye to all her friends, for the last time.
She opened the door of the Bentley and got in. She turned the car on and the sound system instantly bombards me with Pop music thundering in my ears. I wait till she pulls out of the parking lot and turned into traffic. While she drives she sings along to the music. If she spells banana one more time I'm slitting her throat.
As she pulls up to a red light she bellows in a fit of drunk giggling, "B-A-N-A-N-A!" I darkly muse that someone's going to get her throat slit.
She pulls into her driveway and puts the car into park. Before she turns off the car I suddenly spring out from the back of the car and wrap my fiber wire around her throat and pull.
Allison chokes, "What the hell?" As she vainly tries to escape
I pull on the wire cutting off her air supply, "Don't struggle. Your mine now."
Allison asks as I pull tighter, "What do you want?"
I reply, "I want you quiet. Do exactly as I say. Now drive."
Allison reaches out and puts the car into reverse and pulls out of the driveway. For the next thirty minutes I direct her to the outskirts of Miami. While driving Allison has struggled for breath and not so silently sobbed. I notice on her left hand she has three wedding bands on her ring finger. Three trophies. I can relate. A little to public for my taste though.
I smiled before telling her to turn off the highway. Our destination happened to be an old abandoned chapel. The sign read "Shotgun Pete's 24 Hour Wedding Chapel". Allison put the Bentley into park. I release my noose from around her neck. She lets out a cry, ragged breathing as she placed her hand over her throat.
I pushed open the back door of the car and threw open her car door. Before she could react I forced my leather gloved hand around her throat and squeezed. She violently kicked her legs as I dragged her out of the car. I shove her to the ground.
She looks up at me terrified and confused. I say to her in a emotionless monotone as I slowly walk around her in a circle like a lioness to a wounded gazelle, "Ok you have to listen. Do what I say."
As I get behind her I throw out my arms and wrap my noose around her neck again. She cries out as I drag her toward the door to the chapel. I throw open the doors after I drag her up the stairs. I release the noose again and step out of the way so she can see our destination. The old abandoned chapel was covered wall to wall in plastic sheets.
I grab her by the shoulders and pull her up till she can stand then shove her against a wall. Behind the alter was a cross. When I set up the Kill Room I had placed a picture of James Hudson on the left end of the cross. On the top was a police copy photograph of Ralph Bryson's corpse on a slab. And finally to the right of the cross was a picture of Stanley Hackworth. Her three victims.
When Allison saw the cross she cried and I smiled and then I shoved my needle with etorphine hydrochloride into her throat. She immediately went limp and fell to the floor. I put the M99 into my pocket went to work.
When Allison wakes up she is naked and wrapped in plastic sheets on a table behind the chapel's alter. Once she regains awareness she tries to scream but her mouth is tapped. I stand over her, wearing my kill apparel, a medical apron and gloves to shield myself from the coming blood.
I step up to her and painfully rip off the tape over her mouth, "What the fuck?" she cried.
I smiled, "And here we are. But you've been here before haven't you? Not here on my table no, but you've been in this spot. When you we're wed to these three men." I pointed up at the cross baring the pictures of her victims. This time she closed her eyes and refused to look up at them.
I command, "Look"
She mutters, "No"
"Uh yes." I reply
She shakes her head in defiance and says louder, "No….no"
I smile, "I bet you remember them. Till death to you part seems to happen to you quiet a lot doesn't it?"
Allison cried, "Please"
I reach out to grab her throat yelling, "OPEN YOUR EYES AND LOOK AT WHAT YOU DID!"
Allison shakes violently with her sobbing. But still she doesn't look.
I say quietly this time, "Look or I'll cut your eyelids right off your face."
She finally opens her eyes, Tears ran down her face as she looked up at the pictures the three men whose lives she ruined.
She whispers, "Please god….."
I end her sentence by slapping her, "Stop, that never helped anybody."
Allison pleaded, "Please you can have anything."
"That's good, beg. Did Ralph beg before you cut his throat and stabbed him in the chest?"
She cried, "No it wasn't me."
I grabbed her throat again and pressed her against the table.
"It wasn't" she kept saying.
I painfully pushed down on her temple before she finally whispered, "I couldn't help myself. Ralph found out I cheated on him. He was going to leave me with nothing. I just snapped. Please you have to understand."
I smirk, "I defiantly understand. See, I can't help myself either. But to do that for money. I could never do what I do for money."
She looked up me and asked, "Why?"
I answered, "Because I have standards."
I walked behind her and used my scalpel to make a cut under her right eye. She cried as I extracted a small drop of her blood and placed it on a blood slide. She watched fearful as I stared at my newly acquired trophy in wonder.
I walked back to my pile of knives and removed one. I walked back behind her head and pressed the knife against her throat, Allison shacking and sobbing, but right as I'm about to make my own small corner of the world a neater and happier place, my phone's shrill ring sounds throughout the abandoned chapel.
I scowled irritated as I pull the cell out of my pocket. The phone read that my father Harry was calling. Still holding the knife to Allison's throat I say, "If you breathe a word out loud I'll cut out your tongue."
Then I answer the phone, "Dad this isn't a good time right now."
Allison stares up at me as I reply in confusion, "Lieutenant Mathews, why do you have my father's phone?"
The next sentence to me shatters the neat and tidy world that is Dexter Morgan.
Dazed and too shocked to think I asked, "How's she?"
The response is a small blessing.
I tell Lt. Mathews, "I'll be right there." And hand up the phone.
Allison looks up at me seeing an opportunity for her own salvation, "What's wrong?"
Without even looking down at her I slit her throat.
All names that weren't from DEXTER I got from a Random Name Generator. So if any name is recognised it is purely a conicidence. This is a story i've wanted to write for two years and Im just now getting to. This will be a Dex/Deb story seeing how I don't think there is enough of that around. More to come
Dex-El of Krypton