Dexter by Design
Jeff Lindsay
Doubleday, 2009
U.S. hardcover, first edition
ISBN 978-0385518369
304 pages; $25.00

The fourth novel in the Dexter series by Jeff Lindsay is somehow just not as much fun as the first two novels, although not as much of a letdown as the third book, Dexter in the Dark. Could it be that Lindsay has lost his way in the face of fame and fortune, what with a successful Showtime series based on his character? Or is it that there is nothing more to be mined from the notion of a sympathetic serial killer, one who only kills people who really deserve it?

Dexter by Design starts with Dexter and his new wife, Rita, enjoying their honeymoon in Paris, France. At least Rita’s enjoying it; Dexter is essentially being dragged around by his hair, pretending that he’s having a good time, disguising the fact that he can’t wait to get back to Miami where he can find someone to kill without much risk. The stage is set for the rest of the novel when Rita and Dexter attend an art exhibition entitled “Jennifer’s Leg,” which consists of video loops of Jennifer gradually cutting away the flesh from her own leg. My willing suspension of disbelief got unwilling right here, in the first few pages of the book, simply because I can’t imagine anyone doing what this “artist” allegedly did and not passing out from lack of blood, if not dying from it. That means that, by page 13, I was already wary of what was coming next.

For good reason, as it turns out. Dexter returns home to a series of apparent murders in which corpses are arranged with their intestines removed and replaced by collections of items meant to demonstrate the joys of vacationing in Miami: a fruit basket, a collection of items that might be used to enjoy sun and surf, or a few bottles of iced beer, ice included. Dexter’s sister, Deborah, who has recently learned what Dexter’s favorite recreational activity is and, as a police detective, has some trouble with it, thinks that Dexter should be able to solve these murders simply by association. And Dexter’s Dark Passenger – the part of him that is a homicidal maniac – does indeed have a few ideas on the subject; the killer appears to believe that he is creating some form of art. Unfortunately, Dexter can’t come up with enough insight to prevent Deborah from being knifed by a suspect, which is where the real trouble starts.

Dexter winds up doing what his father told him he could never do: he kills an innocent man. At the time Dexter is doing his killing, he is unaware of this, but that doesn’t matter, for he has breached one of Harry’s Rules by killing a man without being absolutely certain of his guilt. Consequences follow rapidly, including a video loop of Dexter at play being posted on You Tube, threats to Dexter’s children, and the imminent possibility of Dexter’s own arrest.

The rest of the novel plays out rather dully; there are no real surprises here, though Dexter’s trip to Cuba with his sister’s boyfriend offers unexpected amusement. The freshness and humor of the first two books in the series simply aren’t present in this chapter in Dexter’s life. In addition, the whole notion of murder as art has been done much better elsewhere, as in Jose Carlos Somoza’s The Art of Murder (reviewed here). Maybe it’s time for me to stop reading the Dexter books and take a look at the television show, which I’ve heard is excellent. Perhaps it sustains the conceit of this series better than the books do.