Over the last week or so I’ve watched the entire first season of Dexter.
I’ve periodically been taken by the tales of serial killers, mainly on a regional basis. I read Buried Dreams about Gacy in Des Plaines, got caught up with the Filipino wackiness of Andrew Cunanan, who stopped off on the Gold Coast here in Chicago, created Killer on the Loose after the midwest spree killings on Benjamin Nathaniel Smith, and then of course there’s Dahmer of the Milwaukee-Chicago corridor.
So Dexter is an ugly, entertaining addition to the canon. It’s all make-believe. We are an odd culture, with the sanctity of the individual. Maybe I’m odd, too, but if I am, I’m not the only one.