Dexter Morgan Quotes

I'm a very neat monster." ~Dexter Morgan

It’s like, everything really is two ways, the way we all pretend it is and the way it really is

There is nothing like a crisis to define who you are.

And as we should all know by now, anytime you predict failure you have an excellent chance of being right.

She looked up and ran her eyes over me, slowly, while I stood and wondered why. Had she forgotten what I looked like? But she finished with a big smile. She really did like me, the idiot.

I waved to everybody. Some of them even waved back. They knew me, had seen me go by before, always cheerful, a big hello for everybody. He was such a nice man. Very friendly. I can’t believe he did those horrible things . . .

It took me a moment. I blinked, and suddenly it swam into focus and I had to frown very hard to keep myself from giggling out loud like the schoolgirl Deb had accused me of being. Because he had arranged the arms and legs in letters, and the letters spelled out a single small word: BOO. The three torsos were carefully arranged below the BOO in a quarter-circle, making a cute little Halloween smile. What a scamp.

That left either magical powers or coincidence, and although I have nothing at all against Harry Potter, coincidence got my vote.

The more I heard it in my thoughts, the more sense it made. And beyond sense, it became a kind of seductive mantra.

Millions of years ago, the first lizard crawled out of the water and hit the second lizard over the head with a rock. Thus, the first serial killer was born.

Dexter the Magnificent, who doth bestride the world like a Colossus, many lovely corpses at his feet, brought to you in live color just in time for the evening news. Oh, Mama, who is that large and handsome man with the bloody saw? Why, that's Dexter Morgan, dear, the horrible man they arrested a little while ago. But Mama, why is he smiling? He likes his work, dear. Let that be a lesson to you--always find a worthy job that keeps you happy.

I will leave with your head in a bag. I already have the bag.

No matter where we go we take ourselves and our damage, with us. So is home the place we run to, or is it the place we run from?

Is that why you're crying?" (...) "It's just hormones," she said. "I didn't want anyone to see." I skipped over the image of anyone seeing her hormones and tried to focus on the heart of the matter.

Still a monster, of course, but I cleaned up nicely afterwards, and I was OUR monster, dressed in red, white, and blue 100 percent synthetic virtue.

I find others, those who prey on the innocent and do not play by the rules, and I make them go away in small, carefully wrapped pieces.

There are no secrets in life; just hidden truths that lie beneath the surface.

There's lots of bad guys out there. I can't catch them all. To be truthful, she couldn't catch any of them unless they hurled themselves off a building and into the front seat of her car.

But it's different for a girl, and Astor is at the age- It's not too dry, is it?" She said, frowning at my plate. "It's perfect," I said. "It is dry; I'm sorry. So I thought maybe if you would talk to her," Rita finished. I truly hoped she meant talk to Astor and not the pork chop.

It made me feel almost giddy, like a high-school girl watching the captain of the football team worked up his nerve to ask for a date. You mean me? Little old me? Oh my stars, really? Pardon me while I flutter my eyelashes.

Vince and I had reached the point where there was nothing else we could think of to do with the taco wrapper, and since he refused to draw straws for the privilege of telling Deborah, I'd been forced to make the call to give her the news that we'd come up blank. And three minutes later, here she was, striding into our lab like avenging fury. "Goddamn it," she said before she was even all the way in the room, "I need something from you!" "Maybe a sedative?" Vince suggested, and for once I thought he was right on the money.

Tonight's the night. And it's going to happen again... and again.

I love Halloween. The one time of the year when everyone wears a mask, not just me

I had never been more alone than I was in my admiration for the real killer's work. The very body parts seemed to sing to me, a rhapsody of bloodless wonder that lightened my heart and filled my veins with an intoxicating sense of awe.

Dexter,' Debs said, jerking her head at me. 'Get some smelling salts or something. You and Deke help her up.' (...) Deke looked at me anxiously, reminding me very much of a large and handsome dog who needs a stick to fetch. 'Hey, you got some of that smelling stuff?' he said. Apparently it had become universally accepted that Dexter was the Eternal Keeper of the Smelling Salts. I had no idea where that baffling canard had come from, but in truth, I was completely without. Luckily, Mrs Aldovar apparently was not interested in sniffing anything.

Man has always been drawn to the sea. But it's an unnatural setting for us, a place of great danger. Tides, currents, waves, wind, each presenting their own hazards, none of which can be ignored. The slightest lapse of judgment can be a mistake you might never recover from. But a good sailor doesn't fight against these elements. A good sailor works with them, using them to his advantage. While others less fortunate might be forever cast adrift, often in several pieces. He always comes home safely.

Listen,” Deborah said. “This isn’t about politics or public relations.” “I know that,” Chambers said, but Debs rode right over him. “I got a guy in there who knows something,” she said. “And I got him feeling all alone and naked and scared to death and ready to break, and I’m going to fucking break him.” “Morgan, you’ve got to do your job right and—” Deborah turned on Chambers as if he were personally hiding Samantha Aldovar. “My job is to find this girl,” she said, poking Chambers in the chest with her index finger. “And that little asshole in there is going to tell me how.” Chambers

Mr. Morgan,” Mrs. Hornberger said sternly. All eyes automatically swiveled to her, and even Rita stopped talking. Mrs. Hornberger looked at us each individually, to make sure we were all paying attention. Then the smile came back to her face, and everyone breathed again. “We were discussing Cody’s … conceptual difficulties … with socialization.

This is Dexter Morgan,” I said, and I realized I had unconsciously copied his stentorian tone. I cleared my throat to show that I didn’t know I’d done it, and said, “I have some very important information to give you,” I said. “Um, about my case.

The African American man rolled his eyes, but Robert said, “He’s just kidding, Renny. Dexter Morgan, this is Renny Boudreaux!” He pronounced it “boo-drow,” and since I am a man of the world and recognize a French name when I hear one, I nodded to him and said, “Enchanté, m’sieu.” Boudreaux stared at me and then, with a look of wonder on his face, he said, “Is that French?! Goddamn, you are smooth. I like that. French, that’s— Tell me, Dexter, you ever fuck a black man?” I really wanted to believe I had misheard him, but he’d said it so loud and clear that there could be no mistake. So I just shook my head and said, “Not yet, no. But the day is young.

The large golden clock on the wall said it was exactly two thirty-six when the elevator doors slid open and Rita stepped out. “Oh, Dexter, you’re here already,” she said. I never really know what to say to that kind of painfully obvious remark, even though it seems to be very popular, so I just admitted that I was, in fact, right here in front of her, and she nodded and hustled over to the receptionist. “We have an appointment with Larry Fleischman?” she announced breathily. The receptionist, a cool, stylish woman of around thirty, cocked her head at the appointment book and nodded. “Mrs. Morgan?” “Yes, that’s right,” Rita said, and the receptionist smiled and dialed a number on the phone on her desk.

We followed Captain Skinny inside, and as we stepped into the lobby the cool air hit me with a force that numbed my lips and made time slow down. But we all made it over to reception somehow without slipping into hypothermic shock. The man at the desk inclined his head at us with great gravity and said, “Good afternoon, sir. Do you have a reservation?” I nodded back and said we had, in fact, reserved a room—and Rita leaned in front of me and blurted out, “Not a room, it’s a suite? Because it’s supposed to be, I mean, and anyway when we got it—online? And Dexter said—my husband. I mean, Morgan.” “Very good, ma’am,” the clerk said. He turned to his computer, and I left Rita to go through all the little rituals of registration while I took Lily Anne and followed Cody and Astor over to a large rack holding pamphlets for all the many charming and glamorous attractions this Magic Isle held for even the most jaded traveler. Apparently, one could do almost anything in Key West—as long as one had a couple of major credit cards and an overwhelming urge to buy T-shirts. The kids stared at the dozens of brightly colored brochures. Cody would frown and point to one, and Astor would pull it from its slot. Then their two heads came together over the pictures as they studied the page, Astor whispering to her brother and Cody nodding and frowning back at her, and then their eyes would snap up and they’d go back to the rack to pick another one. By the time Rita had us registered and came to join us, Astor held at least fifteen brochures.

Kraunauer smiled, and now the wolf fangs were out for all to see. “Let’s just put it this way,” he said. “If you’re still sitting here in TGK tomorrow at this time, it means I’m dead.” He closed the folder and allowed his smile to get much, much broader. “And I don’t plan on dying anytime soon, Mr. Morgan.

Lily Anne Morgan. Dexter’s DNA, living and moving on through time to another generation, and more, into the far-flung future, a day beyond imagination—taking the very essence of all that is me and moving it forward past the clock-fingered reach of death, sprinting into tomorrow wrapped in Dexter’s chromosomes—and looking very good doing it. Or so it seems to her loopy father. Everything has changed. A world with Lily Anne Morgan in it is so completely unknown: prettier, cleaner, neater edges, brighter colors. Things taste better now, even the Snickers bar and cup of vending machine coffee, all I have had for twenty-four hours. The candy bar’s flavor was far more subtle than I had known before, and the coffee tasted of hope. Poetry flows into my icy cold brain and trickles down to my fingertips, because all is new and wonderful now. And far beyond the taste of the coffee is the taste of life itself. Now it is something to nurture, protect, and delight in. And the thought comes from far out beyond bizarre that perhaps life is no longer something to feed on in the terrible dark frenzy of joy that has defined me until this new apocalyptic moment. Maybe Dexter’s world should die now, and a new world of pink delight will spring from the ashes. And the old and terrible need to slash the sheep and scatter the bones, to spin through the wicked night like a thresher, to seed the moonlight with the tidy leftovers of Dexter’s Dark Desiring? Maybe it’s time to let it go, time to let it drain away until it is all gone, vanished utterly. Lily Anne is here and I want to be different. I want to be better than what I have been. I

I was still wrapped in my pink cloud of satisfaction a little before ten o’clock, when the phone on my desk rang. I stepped over and picked it up with a cheerful, “Hello, Morgan!” and was rewarded with the surly voice of my sister, Deborah. “Where are you?” she said, rather unnecessarily, I thought. If I was talking to her from a phone attached to my desk by a long wire, where would I be? Maybe cell phones really do destroy brain tissue. “I’m right here, on the other end of the telephone,” I said.

Mr. Eissen, the man in the wonderful suit, tapped one fingertip on the table. He did it very quietly, but everyone got silent and sat up a little straighter. Eissen gave me a microscopic smile. “Robert,” he said, emphasizing the name slightly, and then adding, “Robert Chase.” He gave a slight, dismissive shake of his head. “Robert is a well-known actor, Mr. Morgan.

LISTEN,” ROBERT CHASE SAID TO ME AS WE WALKED DOWN THE hall together toward my lab. “We need to get a few ground rules straight, all right?” I looked at him, seeing only his profile, since he was staring straight ahead through his sunglasses. “Rules?” I said. “What do you mean?” He stopped walking and turned to face me. “It’s Derrick, right?” he said, holding out a hand. “Dexter,” I said. “Dexter Morgan.” I shook his hand. It was soft, but his grip was firm. “Right. Dexter,” he said. “And I’m Robert. Okay? Just Robert.” He held up a warning finger. “Not Bob,” he said. “Of course not,” I said. He nodded as if I had said something thoughtful and continued walking down the hall. “Okay,” he said, holding up the palm of his hand and waving it. “I’m just a regular guy. I like the same things you like.” That

She stared at me with a slight frown. “He’s waiting for you,” she said. “In the conference room. Go right in.” It was not much of a zinger, but Gwen had never been known for her sparkling sense of humor, so I gave her my best fake smile anyway and said, “Wit and beauty! A devastating combination!” “Go right in,” she repeated, with a face that might have been carved from stone, or at least very hard pudding. I breezed past her and went through the door and into the conference room. Captain Matthews sat at the head of the table, looking earnest, manly, and at least semi-noble, as he almost always did. Sitting to one side of him was my sister, Sergeant Deborah Morgan, and she did not look happy. Of course, she very seldom did; between her carefully cultivated Cop Scowl and her general outlook of surly watchfulness, the most cheerful expression she had ever managed in my presence was a look of grudging acquiescence. Still, this morning she looked very much displeased, even for her. I turned my gaze to the other three people sitting around the table, hoping for some clue to my sister’s malaise. Sitting

Ahem,” he said carefully. “Since we’re all here, um. So anyway.” He nodded at Deborah. “Morgan,” he said, and he looked at me. “And, uh—Morgan.” He frowned, as if I had insulted him by choosing a name for myself that he’d already said, and the beautiful woman snickered in the silence. Captain Matthews actually blushed, which was almost certainly something he hadn’t done since high school, and he cleared his throat one more time. “All right,” he said, with massive authority and a sidelong glance at the woman. He nodded at the man in the impressive suit. “Mr., ah, Eissen here represents, um, BTN. Big Ticket Network.” The man nodded back at Matthews with a very deliberate display of patient contempt. “And, um. They’re here, in town. In Miami,” he added, in case we’d forgotten what town we lived in. “They want to shoot a movie. A, um, TV show, you know.” The man in the sunglasses spoke up for the first time. “A pilot,” he said, without moving his face, parting his lips only enough to reveal a blinding set of perfect teeth. “It’s called a pilot.” The beautiful woman rolled her eyes and looked at me, shaking her head, and I found myself smiling eagerly back at her, without any conscious decision to do so.

But after all, there was no alternative. I just had to make the best of it, and lie here like a lox until I was discovered—which seemed to me to be a long-overdue event. I had been sprawled here in direct sunlight for at least half an hour: Can a corpse get a sunburn? I was certain dead people avoided tanning booths—even in zombie movies—but here in the midday sun, was it possible for dead skin to tan? It didn’t seem right; we all like to think of cadavers as pale and ghostly, and a healthy sun-kissed epidermis would certainly spoil the effect. But now I hear a rising chorus of fuss and bother nearby: A metallic door thumps shut, hushed voices murmur urgently, and finally I hear the sound for which I have been yearning: the hurried clatter of approaching footsteps. They stutter to a stop beside me and a woman gasps and cries out, “Nooo!” At last: some real concern for my tragic condition. A trifle melodramatic, perhaps, but it’s touching, and would even be heartwarming, if only Dexter had a heart to warm. The woman bends over me, and in the bright halo of sunlight surrounding her head, I can’t make out her features. But there is no mistaking the shape of the gun that appears in her right hand. A woman with a gun—could this be Dexter’s dear sister, Sergeant Deborah Morgan, stumbling across her beloved brother’s tragically murdered self? Who else could possibly put on such a rare display of well-armed grief for me? And there is real tenderness in her left hand as it drops to my neck to feel for a pulse: in vain, alas, or whatever it is we say instead of “vain” nowadays. Her left hand drops away from my neck and she raises her head to the heavens and says through a tightly clenched jaw, “I’ll get the bastards who did this. I swear it.…” It is a sentiment I approve completely—and actually, it does sound a little bit like Deborah, but not quite enough. There is a hesitant, musical fluctuation in the voice that my sister would never permit. No,

Morgan,” I said into the receiver. And if I’d known what was coming I would not have said it so cheerfully. Someone on the other end made a throat-clearing noise, and with a jolt of surprise I recognized it. It was the sound Captain Matthews made when he wanted to call attention to the fact that he was about to make an important pronouncement. But what momentous declaration could he possibly have now, for me, before I even finished one doughnut, and why would he speak it on the phone to a mere forensics wonk? “Ahem, uh, Morgan,” the captain said. And then there was silence. “This is Morgan,” I said helpfully. “There’s a, um,” he said, and cleared his throat again. “I have a special assignment. For you. Can you come up to my office? Right now,” he said. There was another slight pause, and then, most baffling of all, he added, “Uh. Please.” And then he hung up. I

Well, shit,” she said. “I’d better get Duarte and get out there.” And then she straightened up and ran for the door without a single word of thanks for my arduous eight minutes of labor. I admit I was a bit surprised—not that my very own sister had failed to display gratitude, of course. That would be too much to expect. But normally she would have dragged a reluctant Dexter along with her for backup, leaving her partner to count paper clips. But this time it was Dutiful Dexter left behind, and Debs had gone to find her new French-speaking partner, Duarte. I supposed that meant she liked working with him, or maybe she was just being more careful with her partners now. Her last two had been killed on the job while working a case with her, and I’d heard more than one cop muttering that it was very bad luck to work with Sergeant Morgan, since she was obviously some kind of black widow or something. Whatever

Echeverria looked at me. Oddly enough, it was not a glance filled with warmth, camaraderie, and appreciation of my vast knowledge of sartorial standards. It was closer to the kind of look you give somebody you caught jaywalking to spit on nuns. Then he looked back at Deborah. “Okay,” he said. “So what the fuck.” He frowned and nodded at Jackie. “ ’Scuse me, Miss Forrest.” She showed him five or six teeth, and he looked back at Deborah. Apparently it was all right to say “fuck” without apologizing to my sister, because he said it to her again. “What’s the fucking deal here, Morgan?

Jackie gave a low gurgling laugh that made my toes curl and beamed at me. “Thanks,” she said. “Sergeant Morgan—your sister—we worked on it this weekend. At Bennie’s.” Bennie’s was a cop bar, a place where off-duty police officers hung out—and sometimes stopped in for a quick snort while on duty. The clientele was not known to be friendly to non-cops who wandered in. If Deborah had taken Jackie to Bennie’s, they had clearly bonded even more than I’d realized. “It’s a really good place for background,” Jackie said. “I have to send the writers there to see it.” She winked at Deborah. “We did tequila shots. She’s not so tough with a couple of drinks under her belt.” Debs snorted, but didn’t say anything.

Dexter Morgan is more like disguise and influence... and everything = fake.

And although I take no credit for it, I am presentable enough; I clean up good, as we natives like to say." [Dexter Morgan]

And when I added it all up, I realized what I had: a very strong possible maybe something or not, which might or might not be an actual threat or not. Or something.