Grade: A

I’m one of those readers who’s pretty good at figuring out the killer after only a few chapters (some of us can knit, some can play the piano with their toes, I’m mothafucking Columbo, yo). Sometimes I can pinpoint the killer from reading the back blurb. It can be really frustrating to know the identity of the killer from the first few chapters and have to wait for the main character to catch up with you. With this book, Mr. Lindsay very helpfully provides us with the identity of the killer on page one. Darkly Delicious Dexter. Deftly Discerning Dexter. Deviantly Delightful Dexter. Our Dementedly Dashing Dexter is a serial killer in the vein of Patrick Bateman, except he’s… well, he’s a very nice guy. And he only kills people who “deserves” killing. Oh, and Bret Easton Ellis is a pretentious one-note hack and an asshole. Though Dexter is a chillingly unemotional sociopath and enjoyed killing small furry animals as a child, I instantly liked him. He’s charming, clever, funny, and… well, he’s really nice. He’s the kind of guy you’d see on the news and be surprised at how handsome and harmless he looks even though he has killed 36 people. There would be neighbors saying, “I am just absolutely devastated. He just seemed so… nice.” But Dexter is a monster. Sure, he’s the kind of monster you’d want to tie up and lick all over, but he’s still a monster. A hot, gorgeous, murdering one. Not that this book is perfect or anything. Lindsay seems to delight in reminding us that Dexter is craaaaazy. Yes, Dexter is crazy. That’s why he’s a serial killer. We get it, yes. Thank you, Mr. Lindsay. If you hadn’t told us a hundred times in a row that Dexter is a loon, we never would have gotten it. What, Dexter’s crazy? You don’t say! I was also a little confused as to why Dexter speaks in the vernacular of a 19th century English schoolmarm. Can anyone explain this to me?

Dexter Morgan is a blood splatter expert for the Miami-Dade Police crime lab. He’s very good at his job; in fact he’s a little too good. Folks say that Dexter gets “feelings” about things, especially when the culprit is a serial killer. What nobody knows, not even his only sister, is that Dexter moonlights as a serial killer himself. His prey of choice are the dregs of society and his favorite kind are child rapists and murderers. Old Dex figures it his civic duty to rid Miami of such monsters, while at the same time satisfying The Dark Passenger, the fiendish, gleeful voice inside of him that compels him to maim and kill from time to time. Over the years, Dexter has gotten quite good at pretending to be human, or at least appearing like he cares about people. He even has a girlfriend named Rita, an ex crackhead who seems to be as messed up as he is. All and all, Dexter seems to be living a good life, when he’s not killing people, that is. But all of it turns to shit when a string of vicious murders strikes the city of Miami, targeting prostitutes. His sister Deborah, an ambitious police office who wants to become a homicide detective, begins pestering him to help her figure out the case. But Dexter, the deliciously clever Dexter, finds himself mystified, if not a little baffled by the murders. The method of each one, the execution, right down to the dismemberment of the bodies appear to be uncannily similar to his own M.O. As if that’s not enough, each murder is preceded by Dexter vividly dreaming of the episode. For the first time in years, Dexter begins to doubt his own capacity to keep his own insanity in check. Who is the true killer? Could it be Dexter himself?

The story is told in a first person narrative from Dexter’s point of view, yet he speaks of himself in the third person from time to time. This only serves to emphasize how detached he could be from the Dexter that he portrays from day to day. You see, Dexter can walk, talk, and sound like a human, but has never been a human being in his entire existence. That opportunity was taken from him at a very young age. Deborah’s father, the man who raised him, believed Dexter was different. He figured this out when he discovered Dexter enjoyed killing the neighborhood pets and creating a graveyard for them. He feared that Dexter will soon graduate to killing people, but instead of having him locked up, he figured that Dexter’s “dark side” could be used for good. He told Dexter that he could choose what or who to kill and as an old-school cop, he figured Dexter could only help him get rid of the scum of Miami. Thus a serial-killing superhero was born, stalking the streets of South Florida at night like Batman, choosing his victims carefully yet with relish, capturing them like an expert game-hunter, and torturing them for hours on end at his own leisure before dismembering them and burying them somewhere. Like a good serial killer, Dexter enjoys collecting a little memento to remember them by. For each scumbag that he kills, he retains a tiny sliver of their blood that he keeps on a glass slide and keeps them in a private collection at his home to take out and savor on his own time.

What I liked about Dexter is how delightfully brood-free he is. Sure, he wishes from time to time that he wasn’t a sociopath and could express love for his sister and girlfriend, but on the whole, he’s a pretty happy guy. He just seems to be gleeful and accepting about who he is, so he’s a lot of fun to read about. Not that he isn’t also creepy or anything. Dexter could be so cold and calculating that he literally made my skin crawl. There is something reptilian about the way he views the world; though he is constantly surrounded by people, he is a constant outsider, almost like a snake trying to figure how and when to strike. There is no cure for Dexter’s brand of craziness. There will be no happily ever after for him, no way he could ever shed the “crazy” and be an average joe with a house surrounded by a picket fence and 2.5 kids. And he’s okay with that. You see, Dexter will never be lonely because he’s never by himself. The Dark Passenger is his constant companion, always lurking in the background, always waiting to goad Dexter to kill again and again. They’re totally BFF. What’s most impressive about Dexter is the delicate tightrope of sane and FUCKING BATSHIT CRAZY that he straddles everyday. It is not without effort that he does it, but to watch him struggle against wanting to reach over and choke a bitch is really quite beautiful to watch.

I also really enjoyed the secondary characters of this book. One character who is particularly striking is Vince Masuoka, a fellow lab-tech of Dexter, who seems to be as crazy as he is. Like Dexter, he is perfectly affable, always cracking wise and making jokes, but there something very off about him. He’s the kind of guy who’s perfectly nice and yet you can’t get yourself to like him because you know there’s something wrong with him. He gave me the creeps. I also really liked Deb, Dexter’s sister. She’s a little naive and not as smart as Dexter is, but she’s also very perceptive. She serves quite well as Dexter’s foil and seems to be the only one who keeps from falling over the edge. She suspects that there’s something not quite right with Dexter, but he is also her brother, so she is perpetually torn between loyalty and wanting to do the right thing. She also seems to represent what little conscience Dexter may have. What I’d really like to see more of is Rita, Dexter’s beard (his words, not mine). For Dexter, she is really just one more piece of his well-stocked wardrobe. She’s the little costume he wears so he could pretend to be normal, though she’s not without her own issues. Like I previously mentioned, she was a crackhead, but she was also an abused wife and has to support two little traumatized children who are a little creepy themselves. I think the three of them, along with Dexter, could make up a fucked up little family of their own.

Aside from the colorful cast of characters, what I really enjoyed about this book is the conversational and beautifully engaging prose. Dexter’s voice is… gleeful. He just gets so excited about the blood and gore and killing that I just couldn’t help but get excited along with him. When he encounters the first crime scene, he was like a kid in a candy store. Or more appropriately, an art nerd in a museum admiring the masters. There’s a couple of scenes in this book where the killer openly taunts Dex and he… well, he gets aroused by it. He likens it to being a giggling schoolgirl waiting for the captain of the football team to gather up the courage to ask her out. Mr. Lindsay’s word choices as well as carefully crafted descriptions of the crime scenes brings to mind a love letter that the psycho is writing to Dexter. Like I said, I was excited along with him. It almost felt like a romance novel at one point. When Dexter found the decapitated head of a Barbie doll in his freezer, a present from the killer, I almost swooned along with him. Gah, maybe I’m as nuts as he is. Wonderful. I just wish I understood why Dexter talks like a prudish Englishman when he was raised in Miami. He doesn’t seem to be a fan of British literature or the Masterpiece Theater, so why does he talk like Merchant-Ivory reject? I also thought that Dexter tried too hard to be clever at times; yes, he’s supposed to be witty and all and the secondary characters comment on his supposed wittiness, but you know what? He’s not that witty. I mean, he’s cute and all, but he’s got nothing on Gil Grissom when it comes to one-liners.

All and all, I really adored this book. Dexter Morgan is my new favorite anti-hero. He’s deliciously crazy and is perhaps the sexiest, most charming serial killer in the history of fiction. You can’t help but like the guy, period. As for the story itself, Mr. Lindsay does keep you guessing. Just when you think you’ve figured out who the killer is, “ha ha, you’re wrong!”. The identity of the killer itself gave me a double-u-tee-eff moment, but I bought it. It fit. It made sense. I devoured every page of this book and afterwards, I found myself looking for more. I should probably be studying for my finals but damn it, I can’t wait to get started on Dearly Devoted Dexter. The writing is beautiful, Dexter is devilishly adorable, and one can’t help but get caught up in the fiendishly funny, yet oh-so-creepy web that Mr. Lindsay weaves for us. I’m sorry y’all, but I’ve totally got the lovejones for Dexter and if I don’t shake it soon, I believe I shall soon be Deeply Disturbed Dionne. Sorry, y’all. Couldn’t help that one.

ETA: There is a TV show based on this series called Dexter. Check your local listings.

This entry was posted on Saturday, November 25th, 2006 at 3:57 pm and is filed under Books, Grade: A, Suspense/Horror. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. Both comments and pings are currently closed.