Spritsy

January 3rd, 1995

Vermillion Parish, Louisiana 

The morning sky bled crimson, clouds bruised and smeared across the horizon like the aftermath of some divine reckoning. The sun rose slow and mean, casting a rust-colored glow over the sugar cane valley. A place so thick with trees it felt like the land was trying to keep secrets. Beyond the tree-line, the Ozarks loomed like ancient sentinels, jagged and dun-colored. Fencing the world with quiet menace. The air hung heavy with stink of swamp and rot, a brackish perfume of mud, mildew and something older. 

There they stood, in matching CID wind-breakers and a chest full of questions - Martin Hart and Rustin Cohle. Two men drawn into something they couldn't yet name. The forest seemed to lean in closer, listening. The crows silent, the wind held its breath. 

Rust crouch beside the woman's body, naked and posed in prayer with ritualistic care. A crown of deer antlers on her head like a grotesque halo. On her back, a spiral of blue paint bloomed like a wound, vibrant and obscene against the pallor of her skin. 

"Jesus Christ." Marty grimaced. The local deputy sheriff of the parish held his wide-brimmed hat in his pudgy hands.

"Y'ever seen anythin' like this 'fore?"

Marty shook his head slowly, Rust already up and looming over the corpse like a fly. Marty chews his cheek as the deputy gives him rundown of how it was discovered. He's worked with Rust for a couple months now, but this is the first time something wasn't going to be open and shut. This is the first time he's watched Rust dive in headfirst - no fear, no repulsion, no hesitation.  

"Twelve years CID, never seen anythin' like this."

Rust didn't flinch. He opened his notebook, the one the precinct called the Taxman's Book, and began to sketch. His hand moving like a machine, capturing every detail with grim reverence. Marty stood nearby, his face a mask of disbelief and revulsion. He'd seen bodies before, plenty, but never like this. 

This wasn't murder, this was theater - this was scripture written in blood and bone. 

----------------------------

March 5th, 1995

FBI Field Office - Baltimore, MD

"We're moving you down to the Louisiana CID office." 

The words land with the weight of a verdict. You blink once, then twice, slow and deliberate. Like you're trying to catch the meaning before it slips past. The air in Director Wolfe's office is thick with varnish and authority, the scent of old wood and older secrets clinging to the mahogany between you. You almost ask why, almost. But restraint is a blade you’ve honed, and you know better than to swing it recklessly. Instead, you sniff, a quiet involuntary gesture that betrays your unease more than any question could. 

You've been relocated before, nothing serious. From Honolulu to Atlanta to Baltimore to now - this. You’ve learned not to unpack too deeply. Something is different though and Wolfe watches you with that commanding patience, his fingers tapping a slow rhythm on the desk, each beat a reminder of who holds the leash. You make a motion with your mouth, trying to find the professional wording, 

"It's nothing disciplinary," he says, voice trailing like he's halfway through a lie, "Just something we need you to look into." 

You know what it means. Someone or something fucked up along the way and the FBI is releasing its bloodhounds into the woods to sniff it out. 

"Will I be in the New Orleans office?" You ask, crossing your legs.

"No. You'll be independent, on behalf of me. You may utilize our resources, of course, but this isn't something we're putting all our manpower in, yet."

Strange. 

Wolfe slides a manila-colored folder towards you and you pick it up carefully. You open it slowly, unsure of what you'll see inside. You trail over the incident report, first responder notes, the 911 call transcript, the photos. You notice the folder is surprisingly light for how gruesome the case is; only a couple chain of custody forms, evidence submission sheets, lab reports that were still pending results, a small canvass report and a detailed sketch of the crime scene. You see the names of the assigned detectives; Rustin Cohle and Martin Hart. The case happened in January yet no leads, nothing substantial anyway. That raises eyebrows, makes the Bureau uneasy. You start to understand. 

You've seen crazy shit before, things that were taken straight out of Ed Gein's wet dream. It's no surprise something like this happened in Erath, Louisiana. Small townsfolk tend to get creative when they're bored. But why send you out there when they have their own CID? Why make a fuss and bother the Bureau over something detectives can handle? Maybe they can't. Maybe there's more that Wolfe won't say, he rarely does. 

"Sir, if I may," He nods and you continue, "Why are we working a homicide in the middle of nowhere, sir?" 

He exhales something like a laugh, but there’s no humor in it. Just calculation. Your neck prickles and Wolfe's smile doesn't reach his eyes. 

"Don't worry about that, Agent. Just keep yourself busy and do as you're told." 

You refrain from making a face, slowly nodding instead, quietly muttering, "Yes sir." 

Wolfe inhales as if relieved, shuffling in his seat, "For now, go home and pack everything you need. You'll be there for a while so keep that in mind. You're expected to be in Baton Rouge by 0800 on the 9th. Everything else is being taken care of as you're aware. Lodging, itinerary, documents, all that stuff." He waves a hand as if the topic itself was mind-numbingly boring. You know the routine, you know what you're supposed to do. He doesn't need to coddle you like someone green. 

"That's all for now, Agent. I'll keep in touch while you're there and update you on what I expect." 

You rise slowly from the chair, Wolfe leans back in his as the leather groans beneath him. You thank him lowly and turn to leave, the case folder tucked under your arm. As you walk towards the door, Wolfe calls your name and you stop without facing him. 

"“Upon arrival, conduct a silent assessment of the detectives assigned. Should their performance fall short, you’ll relieve them and proceed yourself." Your brows furrow and you slightly turn to see Wolfe from the corner of your eye, "And understand this: if you can’t move it forward either, I’ll find someone who can. I won’t tolerate dead weight.”

Dead weight.

You almost laugh. 

"Of course, sir." 

You leave his office with the taste of something bitter on your tongue. Not fear, not quite. But something close enough to make you wonder what the hell you're walking into. You pack as light as you possibly can with enough clothes to last up to 3 weeks and your garment bag of uniforms, you throw in extra pantyhose for good measure. You stuff the rest in a duffel bag; a notebook with the pages still clean, a Bureau‑issued day planner, a microcassette, printed maps of Vermillion Parish, your nice pen that you never let anyone borrow, cigarettes. You keep your SIG and mags in their own box and fit it neatly inside the suitcase along with your Bureau windbreaker. You keep your spare handcuff key taped to the inside of your shoe. 

You pack Goose into the passengers seat of your Crown Victoria, his meowing whiny through the kennel. You toss a couple treats through the holes and he quiets immediately.

"Sorry stinky, I'll stop in a little while so you can stretch your legs."

Your trunk is stuffed with bags and field equipment, a small matchbook from a bar is thrown lazily onto the floor. When you throw the case file onto the dash, a small neatly folded paper slides out: 

Be careful. Not everyone wants this seen through.

- W

You purse your lips, eyes darting as though being watched. You crumple the note and stuff it into your pocket, reversing into the street and starting your over 20 hour drive to Baton Rouge. 

You've driven for two days, by the time you reach Louisiana it's early morning and humid out. You're tired, weary and running off cigarettes and bad coffee. Your legs ache and every time you blink there's a searing sting from the highway glare. You've already taken the liberty of checking into your government issued housing (a fairly decent one story condo), dropping off Goose, and calling Wolfe via payphone. To which he's already up your ass about checking in to the State Police HQ in Lafayette within the hour. So you shower and change and haul yourself back into the car, making your way there. You rehearse the names of the detectives and mentally catalogue what you know about the case. You remind yourself to evaluate the two as much as the case. 

The Louisiana State Police HQ. A large, four-story brick building, built in the 1950's, with weathered red bricks darkened by decades of humidity and summer storms. The American flag out front is slightly faded and snaps in the Gulf breeze. Just underneath is a just as tired state flag that looks like its half a storm away from dissolving completely. The parking lot is crowded with patrol cars that dawn old blue-and-red light bars, a few rusting pickup trucks belonging to off-duty officers, and one confiscated Camaro sitting in the impound corner. The HQ sits near a strip of cheap greasy diners, a couple of pawn shops, and a bail bonds offices. Spanish moss hangs from nearby oaks, the air tinged in low tide. 

You smooth the front of your work pants, brushing off the small fuzzies and cat hair. The inside of the precinct is exactly how you expected. Dingy blue fluorescent lights buzzing overhead, linoleum floors scuffed from boots, a front desk with thick glass partition. A corkboard displays wanted posters, community announcements, and a faded 'DARE to Keep Kids Off Drugs' flyer. You approach the glass and the receptionist hardly looks up, she darts her eyes as you flash the leather credentials wallet, your badge gleaming under the lights. 

"Good morning, ma'am. I'm here to-" 

She waves a thick hand with scorching red nails at you, "Sign in and go ahead inside." 

You blink and tsk under your breath, signing the sheet sloppily and pushing past into the bullpen. Rows of metal desks clutter inside cubicles with case files, Styrofoam coffee cups, and ashtrays. The air smells of cheaply burnt coffee, Newports, and the faint tang of gun oil and boot polish. Police radios crackle with dispatch calls, typewriter keys clank, and there's an occasional slam of a file drawer. It's all familiar and yet so different from Baltimore. As you walk down the hallway word of your arrival has already spread like wildfire. Your heels click against the tile as you walk, conversations dip then resume in hushed tones and a few officers pretend not to stare but they make it painfully obvious. One plainclothes openly watches you, you recognize from the file its Detective Chris Demma. Most try to glance from their desks, some offering curt nods and letting their eyes linger too long. 

Someone quietly chuckles and you hear, "Cohle's gonna hate this," followed by hushed laughter. More officers whisper as you pass,

"Great. Feds." 

“She’s gonna cry by lunch.”

“Didn’t know the FBI was hiring secretaries as agents now.”

"Hope she brought bug spray." 

You've grown accustomed to it, the sidelong stares and smirks that carry more suggestion than respect. Even here, among men sworn to uphold the law, the same crude undercurrent runs as in the suspects you interrogate. You refrain from rolling your eyes, scanning across the office till you see them - Marty and Rust. A bubble of intrigue flares as you watch them. from where you are you can tell Marty is going to be a stubborn bastard. Rust even more so. At the far end of the room, the two detectives are locked in a low, heated exchange almost oblivious to the shift in the room. Their posture suggests argument, though the words are lost in the hum of radios and air conditioning. You approach with the caution of someone stepping into a cage like some hunter circling a wounded animal. They notice you before you speak and their conversation dies mid-sentence. Both men turning with a wary stillness. This is where you get your first good look at them. 

"They're gonna eat her alive." Someone says faintly, though your mind might be putting words in their mouth. 

Marty Hart wears his southern charm like a badge, though it's more frayed than polished. Blonde hair combed just enough to pass inspection, blue eyes that gleam with confidence, or arrogance, depends on who's looking. His smile is wide but unsettling, chipped teeth flashing in a way that makes people wonder if he's laughing at you or with you. You can tell he's the type of man to fill a room with his presence, who thrives on being the center of attention, who tosses lame jokes and expects everyone to laugh - even when they land sour. He's used to being indulged, to setting the tone. 

Though physically, he's on edge. His shoulders are tight, hunched forward as if bracing for a fight, his shirt sleeves are rolled and flared from restless movement. There's a certain roughness about him, too many late nights. He's everything you've already seen and know how to handle. 

Then there's Rust Cohle. 

Rust doesn't look like the kind of man who takes up much space. He's lean, almost underfed-looking, the kind of thinness that suggests long nights and skipped meals rather than vanity. But there's a wiry strength about him, the endurance kind rather than the training kind. Sinew coiled tight along his arms, a body built for persistence, not show. He stands next to Marty with folded arms, defensive as though bracing against the world. His stance is closed, guarded but he shifts his weight with restless agility as if he could spring into action at any second. His eyes are the first thing that unsettle you. Bleary, bloodshot and heavy-lidded, they carry the exhaustion of someone who hasn't slept properly in years. The more you stare the more you see that behind the haze is a sharpness, a predator's watchfulness, he's cataloging every detail without ever letting on. 

There is a raw, unpolished handsomeness about him, that kind that cuts. Sharp cheekbones, shadowed jaw lined with day-old stubble, and his hair hangs just a tad too long like grooming is an afterthought.  

You extend your hand, professional and steady. Rust studies it without expression, his gaze flat and unreadable, the kind you see in suspects who've already decided what they'll give you and what they won't. But it's okay, you've already read both their files anyway. Well, as much of Rust's file that wasn't redacted. 

"Morning Detectives, I'm Special Agent-" 

Cohle cuts across you, his tone dry, almost dismissive. 

"Yeah. We know who y'are. We're not supposed to hand this over till next month." 

The silence that follows is thick, the kind that makes the air feel heavier than the heat pressing against the windows. Rust strides past you without so much as a glance, blunt and unceremonious, the soles of his worn thudding against the linoleum as he beelines for the Major's office. The door creaks open and you catch the low hum of voices of Rust and Quesada embroiled in a terse exchange, words sharp and clipped like rusted wire. 

Your fingers curl into a loose fist at your side, more reflex than intention. Marty lets out a dry chuckle, the kind that doesn't reach his eyes. 

Bastard. 

"You'll have to forgive my partners manners, ma'am," he drawls, the cadence slow and syrupy, "he's not what you'd call a people person." 

Somewhere behind Marty another detective, maybe Favre, calls out, "I'll fucking say," followed by a chorus of laughter from everyone else. 

Marty extends his hand and you take it. His grip is firm, lingering just a beat longer than necessary. His gaze flicks over you - quick, clinical, practiced. A man who's sized up more suspects than he's had hot meals. You notice the white band of skin on his ring finger is lighter than the rest of his tanned body. You offer a close-lipped smile. You exchange common pleasantries, though neither of you mean it. 

"I'm not here to take the case off your hands, Detective. Not yet." 

Marty cocks his head, the steel-blue of his eyes narrowing with quiet scrutiny. The air between you thickens, humid with the unspoken weight of jurisdictional tension. 

"I'm merely here to observe and form my own impressions. Perhaps offer some assistance." 

He starts to reply, lips parting, your eyes unintentially drifting to the faint yellowing of his teeth - years of coffee and Camels etched into enamel. A man who lives in his vices. Then from the office doorway a voice cuts through the room like a blade. 

"We don't need your help." 

Rust stands in the threshold of the Major's doorway, lean and spectral. Eyes like storm glass, cold and bitter. The air shifts with his presence all heavy with the faint scent of stale cigarettes. You smack your teeth and turn to face him. 

"As I understand it, Detective," letting the title roll off your tongue like spit on a hot pavement, "you still don't have any idea who killed this woman or why. Hell, you barely could figure out her name." 

"We were waitin' on the lab for results." Marty says quietly. 

Rust doesn't flinch, he hums low in his throat like the sound of a tuning fork stuck wrong. His lips twitch downward, eyes narrowing into slits. You can feel the weight of his stare like he's dissecting you with a scalpel made of silence. 

"So what," he says, voice dry as dust, "they send the new bird down to assist? You fuck up back home and now you're booted to the swamp? Gimme a break." 

Marty leans against the desk, arms crossed watching with the kind of interest reserved in bar fights and bad marriages. You can tell he's waiting to see if you'll fold or bite back. You smile, not warm or polite, just enough to show teeth. This is always your favorite part. 

"Detective Cohle," your voice is smooth but firm, "I was requested by the Bureau. They believed you two needed..." 

You pause, searching for a word that won't completely blow the fuse, just light it, "... guidance." 

A snicker echoes behind you, someone in uniform, probably young, probably green. You feel the heat rise in your neck, not from shame but from the sheer absurdity of trying to play nice in a room full of wolves. 

Rust’s jaw ticks, but he doesn’t look away. Good. You take a half‑step closer, lowering your voice just enough that only he and Marty can hear it.

“And for the record,” you add, tone cool as a scalpel, “if I’d fucked up, Detective, I wouldn’t be here. They don’t send failures to clean up other people’s messes.”

The words hang between you, heavy and electric. Marty’s brows lift, a slow grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. Rust’s expression doesn’t change, but something in the air does. A shift, subtle and dangerous, like the moment before a storm breaks. You turn slightly, catching Rust's gaze again. 

"I'm not here to babysit. I'm here because someone upstairs thinks this case is slipping through your fingers. And if I'm being honest, I agree." 

Rust steps forward, almost like he's walking into a confession booth. His voice drops to a murmur, deep and dark like the ocean.

"You think you're here to fix us?" You can see the long swoops of his lashes from how close he gets, "This place’ll eat you alive, Agent. You won’t even feel the first bite."

You hold his stare, "then I'll make sure to bleed where it counts." 

Rust quiets and the corner of his mouth twitches into something that might be respect or maybe just amusement. Marty makes a small choked sound behind you, you think its a stifled chuckle. Rust doesn't blink and he turns, walking past you and taking his seat at the desk across Marty. 

Well. That went well, you think. Could’ve been worse. He could’ve smiled.

"You three in the conference room, now!" 

Quesada is barking across the bullpen, you hardly flinch and the rest of the officers snicker lowly. 

Inside the room is steeped in fatigue, the air is stale and the blinds half-broken. The table is scarred with coffee rings and ashy cigarette burns like its hosted more failure than breakthroughs. Rust and Marty sit across the Major, their expressions sour and expectant. You sit opposite of them, composed in your pressed charcoal suit and ivory blouse. It's silent for a moment before Quesada exhales like he's been holding it in for weeks. 

"It's been twenty seven days," he starts, voice exhausted, "no leads, no suspects, no movement. The Bureau is watching and they are not impressed, neither am I." 

Marty shifts in his seat, jaw clenched, "That ain't our fault. It was January, huntin' season. Half the parish was shooting each other in the woods. The ME was drownin' in bodies.” 

Quesada ignores him, "So as of today, we will be assigning a Special Agent," he gestures towards you, "effective immediately." 

Rust doesn't move but his eyes flick to you, sharp and cynical. 

“Understood, sir. I’ll assist where needed.”

Marty scoffs, "so that's it? We're getting benched?" 

"You're not benched," Quesada snaps, "you're partnered, but if it doesn't get rolling then you will be fucking benched and reassigned to something that you can handle. And none of us want that, especially not with Cohle on this case." 

Rust leans back, ignoring the dig and drapes his arms over the chair like he's lounging. 

"So we're the warm up act and she's the headliner." Rust states it like its hardened truth gospel. 

You eye twitches at how stubborn the two boneheads were acting, "I'm not here to take credit. I'm here because this case is running out of time." 

Rust huffs something like a laugh out of his nose, "and they think a pressed suit and a federal badge is gonna fix that?" 

"I think they're hoping I'll find something you missed." 

Marty leans forward, "You think we're incompetent, is that it?" His nostrils flare and you have to resist the urge to tell him yes. You tilt you head, staring at both of them. 

"I think you're exhausted and that this needs a fresh pair of eyes before it gets buried." 

Quesada clears his throat, "She's got full access, FBI resources, jurisdiction. You will share everything with her." 

Suddenly, Rust leans forward and drops his arms on the table, almost leaping over, "You ever work a case like this?" 

You don't blink, "I've worked worse." 

He studies you for a beat longer, "we'll see." 

Quesada hands you another manila folder with documents for you to pile over. Marty grumbles and crosses his legs then uncrosses them, "So that's it?"

Quesada inhales deeply like he's trying not to blow a fuse. He turns his head and you observe the deep tire lines of his face, the greying of his mustache, he's desperate.  

"It's your playing field now, Agent." 

You nod and bite your cheek. Quesada dismisses you all and you collect the folder and tuck your notebook under your arm. You turn without another word and you exit the precinct, the hot humid air slapping you in the face, it's high noon and you already hate it here. You cross the parking lot, heels clicking against the pavement and you're already sorting through the timeline in your head. Twenty seven days, no leads, a staged body and a message no one's deciphered. Messy. 

But you can't help but wonder, why hasn't he killed again?

You reach your car and unlock it, sliding the file into the passenger's seat. As you're about to climb in you hear rushed footsteps behind you.

"Hey!" 

Marty's voice, sharp and irritated.

You turn slowly, Rust just a few steps behind the blonde, cigarette tucked behind his ear and his hands stuffed into his pockets. Marty stops short, "you really think you're gonna waltz in here and tell us how to do our jobs?" 

You lean against the car door, arms folded, "no I think I'm going to do mine, if that happens to overlap with yours - great." 

Rust tilts his head, observing you like some puzzle he can't solve. 

"You look like a press release, all polished and packaged. Bet your shoes cost more than my rent." 

You glance down at them, shiny glossy. 

"They're comfortable." 

Rust smiles but it isn't meant to be charming, "comforts a luxury in this line of work." 

"I wouldn't know, I've never had the luxury of being comfortable." 

That quiets him for a beat and Marty looks between you two, exasperated. 

"Just work with us okay? Try not to step on our toes is all I'm sayin'". 

You huff a humored laugh, "Of course, detectives." 

You open your car door and slide in. Rust watches for a moment longer before turning away. You drive off and the weight of Dora Lange's death presses against your thoughts.