It does stretch a little probability, doesn't it? Dexter tucks the little fact into the back of his mind, cataloged for later observation.

"Hmmm..." Dexter gazes across the line of photos, trying to pick out details that he could twist to his explanation. He barely manages to look for a whole moment before the conference room doors slam open aggressively.

And there is Deborah, looking like a centerfold in a police outfit, save for the utterly unattractive scowl upon her face.

"Dexter," she says his name in kurt greeting, before her eyes flick to Hannibal. "You're the new guy, right?" she doesn't wait for him to answer, and turns her gaze back to big brother. "Dexter. This is shit, these asholes are chasing thier tales and I need to get this bastard!"

She drops herself into the seat next to Dexter, seeming utterly content to ignore Hannibal for her own purposes. Rude, yes, but also quite uncomfortable with her next thoughtlessly spoken words.

"You need to do that thing you do. Close your eyes and call up the damn psychic hotline or whatever you do."

Oh, wonderful. Dexter feels a slight heat on his neck-- he doesn't much like people knowing about his 'ability', and they way she's put it is even worse.

"It isn't a psychic hotline," he responds with irritation and indignity. Honestly, how many times did he have to tell her that?

"Whatever. Do your thing, Miss Cleo."

Dexter levels his sister with a rather flat stare, and shifts his gaze carefully to Hannibal. He never much enjoyed being rude, himself... such an unfortunate blemish on what could be a perfect mask.

"I'm sorry Doctor Lecter, as you can see, my sister can be a little stubborn. If you don't mind...?"

Please mind.