Darkly Dreaming Dexter

Darkly Dreaming Dexter is the first in Jeff Lindsay’s novel series. Dexter Morgan from the childhood has got his opinion and he not cause trouble to another people, so he was independent kinder. When he grew up, he become a perfect gentleman: he has a shy girlfriend, and seems to lead a quiet, normal life bordering on the mundane. Despite the fact that he can’t stand the sight of blood, he works as a blood-spatter analyst for the Miami police.
But Dexter also has a secret hobby: he is an accomplished serial killer. So far, he’s killed 36 people and has never been caught because he knows exactly how to hide the evidence. And while that may lead some people to assume he’s not such a nice guy, he tempers his insatiable hunger for brutality by only killing the bad guys. Flashbacks reveal that his foster father, a police detective named Harry Morgan, recognized early on that Dexter was a violent sociopath with an innate need to kill, and taught him how to kill people who have gotten away with murder as a way to channel his homicidal urges in a “positive” direction. Harry also taught the boy to be a careful, meticulous killer, to leave no clues, and to be absolutely sure his victims are guilty before killing them. Dexter’s well-organized life is suddenly disrupted when a second, much more visible serial killer appears in Miami. Dex is intrigued, even delighted, by the fact that the other killer appears to have a style reminiscent of his own. Yet he can’t help but feel that the mysterious new arrival is not merely invading his turf but reaching out to him as well. This new killer seems to be doing more tha copying Dexter—he seems to be saying, “Come out and play.” Dexter’s secret life makes for a lonely existence… even a lovable monster can be intrigued by the prospect of finding a friend.
Introducing one of the most witty and orginial narrators in years, Jeff Lindsay’s Darkly Dreaming Dexter is a fresh, surprising, and brilliantly executed novel.

I opened my eyes. My head was pounding hideously. I could almost see the other room superimposed on this one. And in this other room tiny Dexter sat right there. I could put my feet on the spot. And the other me sat beside me, but he was not me, of course; he was some other someone, a someone I knew as well as myself, a someone named–“Biney . . . ?” I said hesitantly. The sound was the same, but the name did not seem quite right. He nodded happily. “That’s what you called me. At the time you had trouble saying Brian. You said Biney. ” He patted my hand. “That’s all right. It’s nice to have a nickname. ” He paused, his face smiling but his eyes locked onto my face. “Little brother. ” I sat down. He sat next to me. “What–” was all I could manage to say. “Brother, ” he repeated. “Irish twins. You were born only one year after me. Our mother was somewhat careless. ” His face twisted into a hideous, very happy smile. “In more ways than one, ” he said. I tried to swallow. It didn’t work. He–Brian–my brother–went on. “I’m just guessing with some of this, ” he said. “But I had a little time on my hands, and when I was encouraged to learn a useful trade, I did. I got very good at finding things with the computer. I found the old police files. Mommy dearest hung out with a very naughty crowd. In the import business, just like me. Of course, their product was a little more sensitive. ” He reached behind him into a carton and pulled out a handful of hats with a springing panther on them. “My things are made in Taiwan. Theirs came from Colombia. My best guess is that Mumsy and her friends tried a little independent project with some product that strictly speaking did not actually belong to her, and her business associates were unhappy with her spirit of independence and decided to discourage her. ” He put the hats carefully back in the carton and I felt him looking at me, but I could not even turn my head. After a moment he looked away. “They found us here, ” he said. “Right here. ” His hand went to the floor and touched the exact spot where the small other not-me had been sitting in that long-ago other box. “Two and a half days later. Stuck to the floor in dried blood, an inch deep. ” His voice here was grating, horrible; he said that awful word, blood, just the way I would have said it, with contemptuous and utter loathing. “According to the police reports, there were several men here, too. Probably three or four. One or more of them may well have been our father. Of course, the chain saw made identification very difficult. But they are fairly sure there was only one woman. Our dear old mother. You were three years old. I was four. ”