Some woman outside the police tape is kvetching at Deb in Spanish about how ineffective and racist the police are. Deb doesn't understand much Spanish, which is normally fine, but come on, Deb. You live and work in Miami. I'd think by now you'd at least have a working knowledge of the language; it would totally make you a better cop. Deb tries telling her to slow down, but the woman leaves in a huff. Some kid on a bike says, "She's saying you fuckin' cops don't do nothin'." Deb says, "Oh, really? She has such a flippant attitude towards double negatives?" Ah, if only. What she really says is, "Grandma really talks like that?" "Not exactly, but you get the point, right, bitch?" Whoa, dude. If my mom ever heard me talk like that to an authority figure, I would have had a boot so far up my ass I would have been tasting leather for a week. Deb looks incredulous as the kid rolls away, and walks over to Dexter. "Fucking people don't want our help." What tipped you off? Looking at Eva's body, Deb mentions that she had a little girl. "I know," says Dex. "This stuff never gets to you?" Deb asks. "I'm more of a crying-on-the-inside kind of guy." Masuka cracks that the hatchet job in front of them "makes the Ice Truck Killer look like a goddamn artist. Oh, right. Sorry, Morgan." "What?" she says, trying to appear normal. "I'm so over that." Of course you are. Except for the "Of course you are" part.