Dismembered 🔪 Dexter

01. The Killers of Miami

Adam Wallace: Dentist. Husband. Father of two. Rapist.

I knew there was a connection between the almost identical kidnappings and murders. That connection was Adam Wallace. The police hadn't seen it. The teenage girls seemed completely unconnected: different schools, different ages, same dentist. Wallace had began obtaining addresses from files and stalked the houses. The first few nights were stakeouts, and then finally, when mom and dad were asleep across the hall, he used his Googled expertise to removed the window frame. A tripled dose of meperidine, and the girl would be out, or at least groggy enough they couldn't scream. An added bonus: no one would suspect the highly praised family dentist for being the culprit of those missing painkillers. With fresh cleanings and a few fixed cavities, Wallace took the girls to a storage locker he rented. Cash only. Don't tell the wife.

By the time the girls were awake, they were already tied up and gagged. Wallace worked quick and then after a simple strangling, the job was done. Clean up was where Wallace got truly messy. A quick, middle-of-the-night river dump and Wallace brushed the dirt off his hands, going back home to the wife and kids.

Another slip up: he wore gloves. This may seem like a precaution rather than a mistake, but certain brands of latex gloves are made specially for dentists, orthodontists, and hygienists. A quick camera knockout and a pair of bolt cutters, and his "getaway" locker told all. There was a massive stash of the gloves, in addition to traces of bondage.

The sick fuck. He deserved what was coming to him.

"Does the wife know you're here?" I mumbled to myself as I watched Wallace. He said something that made the sleazy girl next to him giggle. He draped his arm around her shoulder while another scantily clad woman cozied up to his other side. I took another sip of the water I had asked for. Water in a shot glass looked close enough to tequila so downing a few didn't look weird or out of place.

Blending in is essential. Sure, most people in a bar like this are drunk enough not to notice, but, on the off chance someone does notice something, acting tipsy is a good cover for any "odd behavior."

Wallace finally excused himself from the girls and stood up, chugging the last bit of liquor in his glass. Each of the girls jutted out pouty lips when he told them he was leaving and I rolled my eyes. You could tell he had money just by a glance: expensive suit, Rolex, real suede shoes. He was only in his thirties, and maybe I could find an attractiveness in him. If only he wasn't a kidnapper, rapist, and murderer.

I had taken mental note of the exact spot in which Wallace had parked. It was several rows from the doors, which worked conveniently for me. I took a back exit to make sure I was at his car before him.

I watched from behind a beige Sudan as he fumbled for his keys. It was time for me to take action. I emerged from behind the Sudan and put on my best "party girl facade." That seemed to be his type. Other than young kids, that is.

I pretended to stumble into him, which grabbed his attention as he caught me from my fake fall. "Sorry, I'm so sorry." I said frantically, slurring my words. He bought it with a not-so-discreet glance at my entire body. I was dressed the part in a fitted dark purple dress that fell mid-thigh. He gave a sly side smirk.

"Had a few too many to drink tonight?" He questioned.

"You got me." I said, putting my hands up in mock surrender. He laid a hand on his compensating-for-something truck next to my head, caging me in.

"Yeah. I did." He responded, eyeballing me again. "You need a ride somewhere? It's not safe to have you on the roads." And it's not safe for you to be alive.