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January 3rd, 1995

The CID office carried a hum of subdued chaos in the late evening, phones ringing intermittently, footsteps against scuffed linoleum, the low murmur of voices. It had been an all-hands-on-deck kind of day, the kind that turned everyone into gossiping shades under buzzing fluorescent lights.

Rust sat at his desk, papers splayed across the chipped surface, his long fingers working methodically as he clipped stacks of notes together. The constant background chatter rippled through the room, louder in the quiet spots.

"You hear about the scene?"
"Ask Cohle."
"You mean The Tax Man?"
"You know he's IA, right?"

Rust didn't look up. He heard it all, of course, the undertones of suspicion and intrigue floating just above the surface. IA, one of the conspiracies that arose with his sealed files. It's far from the truth but Rust was just fine letting them believe whatever they wanted to. He could feel their eyes on him from time to time, darting glances between clipped conversations, but he kept his focus sharp and his hands moving.

Across the room, Marty stood in Major Quesada's glass-walled office, half of the blinds closed, the muted glow from inside cutting lines through the room. Marty looked tired—haunted, even—his posture stiff, his hands shoved into his pockets as he recounted the day's findings.

"I mean, you never heard any shit like this before," Marty said, shaking his head as if trying to clear an image that wouldn't leave him. "She had… antlers. Um… Fuck. This is—this is the real thing. Some Halloween shit."

Major Quesada leaned back in his chair, his expression grim, fingers steepled as he considered the weight of it all. Nobody liked what this case already felt like: dark, visceral, and the kind of thing that would make people lose sleep. But for Quesada, the problem wasn't just the case itself—it was the politics, the bureaucrats, the media spin. A mess like this didn't just threaten lives; it threatened careers.

"Well, we're gonna have to do a press conference," Quesada said eventually, glancing through the blinds toward Rust, still working in the corner. "What about him? What do you think?"

Marty paused, eyes narrowing as he searched for the words. "Smart. Aloof. Doesn't care about making friends." He shrugged, the tension easing just a hair. "But he's already running with it. He's got a real—"Marty tapped his temple with two fingers, "real mind for it. Yeah."

Quesada tilted his head, skeptical but not dismissive. "So you'd keep him on then?"

"Both of us, yeah. I would." Marty didn't hesitate.

"All right," Quesada said, a reluctant nod following the words. It was clear he didn't much like Rust—most didn't—but he wasn't about to question Marty's judgment. “You're still lead. The incident room is yours. And, uh, you do the briefing tomorrow."

"Yes, sir. Thank you."

Marty exited the office, his footsteps heavy as he made his way back to his desk. He dropped into his chair across from Rust with a groan, muttering under his breath, just loud enough to carry across the wood-grain expanse of their shared desk.

"Fuck that prick."

Rust glanced up briefly, eyes shadowed, his expression unreadable. He made no comment, just went back to clipping his notes, the faint snick of metal on paper marking his quiet approval—or perhaps just his indifference.

The murmurs in the room didn't stop.

"Antlers and shit."
"That's my point, I wanted you to see her."
"Yeah, you don't mark up a body like that…"
"She had antlers? What does that mean?"

And then, suddenly, Rust spoke. His voice cut through the low hum of the office like a blade—clear, calm, and loud enough for everyone to hear.

"It was a crown."

The room fell still. Conversations died in mid-sentence, eyes darted toward Rust, and for a moment, all you could hear was the distant buzz of a ceiling light flickering in protest.

Marty leaned back slightly, his hand instinctively finding the coffee cup on his desk. "We'll do the briefing tomorrow, guys. Early." His voice carried enough authority to pull the tension back down a notch.

Steve Geraci, a beat cop with too much mouth and too little sense, huffed a noise from his corner. "My guy does the AP Wire—asked about Satanism." He scoffed, glancing toward Marty, his tone half teasing. "It got Speece here. You're gonna have his nose up your ass."

Another detective, Bobby Lutz, piped in, shaking his head with something almost like sympathy. "Major was saying somethin' about a press conference."

Marty smirked, lifting his coffee cup in mock salute. "Well, guess I can count my blessings, fellas. Thanks for that."

A few faint chuckles drifted through the office, though nobody lingered long in the moment. Rust had already returned to his work, unbothered by the looks, the whispers, or the faint hum of nerves his presence seemed to inspire.

For Marty, it was just another night on the clock. He leaned back, coffee in hand, muttering half to himself, half for Rust's benefit.

"Christ… what a day."

---

April 26th, 2012

Rust sat slouched back in his chair, long fingers balancing the cigarette between two knuckles as smoke drifted toward the low ceiling. The ashtray they'd given him—a Styrofoam coffee cup with a bit of water in the bottom—had already started to collect streaks of gray and black. The room smelled faintly of stale smoke, even though the windows were cracked open to let in the thick Louisiana air.

"So, Marty decided it was a good time to invite me over for dinner," Rust huffed out a long plume of smoke before tapping the cigarette against the rim of the mug, watching the ash drop like it owed him something.

"Which I got a problem with," he continued, words slow and deliberate. "All right, because I'm thinking about Marty's wife, and his two kids, and how it's my daughter's birthday."

For the first time in the session, Rust's eyes flickered—his gaze shifting somewhere distant, far past the two men sitting in front of him. He blinked once, slow, the weight of that pause settling heavy into the room.

"And I know…" He trailed off, his voice dropping low, quieter than before. He looked back, his face hardening, resignation set into the lines around his mouth. "There's nothing I can do about it. Maybe not today, maybe not tomorrow, but…"

He stopped to take another long drag of his cigarette, the ember glowing red, a faint crackle barely audible before he exhaled, smoke curling through the streaks of sunlight cutting through the blinds.

"I'm gonna have a drink," he admitted, the words coming out plain, unremarkable in delivery but heavy in truth. "Didn't plan to do it on the actual day, but… it's just what happened."

Rust turned his head slightly, staring at a spot on the table that wasn't there. He flicked the ash again, this time letting it fall a little longer before speaking.

"Anyway," he muttered, almost as if trying to shake himself out of the thought, "that happened a bit later."

He drew another pull from the cigarette, eyes narrowing as if he were watching something over the horizon that nobody else could see.

"Like I said, I'm feeling a lot of stuff hit me at this time—my daughter's birthday, this dead woman…" His voice softened on the last words, the faintest hitch catching the edge of the syllables before they evened out again. "And, um… Figured I'd work the case, you know?"

His gaze finally shifted back to the two detectives, his expression flat, unreadable, though his eyes carried that glint of exhaustion, old and hard.

"Till DiCillo—the forensic guy—called. Or we got an ID." He sniffed faintly, a humorless laugh buried somewhere beneath. "State Vice gave me some addresses to follow up on."

Rust sat back a little further, tapping the cigarette once more, his fingers starting to idly roll it against the rim of the cup. His words slowed again, like he was letting each one weigh its turn.

"So far, nobody'd—" he hesitated for half a beat, "nobody'd talked to me."

---

January 3rd, 1995

The bar was sat on the edge of nowhere, neon signs buzzing faintly against the dark, oily smear of the night. Trucks rumbled in and out of the lot like silent giants, headlights sweeping over gravel and faded paint. The air carried the thick tang of diesel, cheap beer, and cigarette smoke—the unmistakable perfume of a place where people came to disappear.

Rust parked his car toward the back, lights off, his silhouette swallowed by the night. He waited, the silence in the car stretching long. It was the kind of place where time didn’t matter—where every hour was some shade of midnight. After a while, he saw her: a girl stepping down from a truck cab, tall heels crunching on gravel. Blonde hair, short skirt, eyes rimmed dark. She pulled a jacket around her shoulders and made her way to the door.

Rust waited a beat, then stepped out.

Inside, the bar was dimly lit, stained and sagging around the edges. The jukebox rattled out a muffled country tune, something about heartbreak and hard miles. A few men sat huddled at tables, their laughter heavy and mean. The bar itself was a long stretch of wood, scarred and sticky, a bartender wiping it down with an old rag.

Rust spotted the blonde girl—Lucy, he'd learn—at the bar, leaning in close to a brunet as they exchanged banter over drinks. He approached casually, hands in his pockets, his movements deliberate but relaxed, sliding into their periphery like he’d always been there.

"Evening, ladies."

Both women turned. Anette, the brunet, looked startled, her lips parting with a faint "Oh." Lucy, though, was something else—her eyes sharp, guarded but unimpressed as they flicked up and down Rust's frame.

"Oh, come on, man," Lucy said, her voice cutting through the music with an edge of irritation.

Rust didn't blink, didn't bristle.

"I'll get the next round," he offered, his tone flat, devoid of charm but also of threat. He pulled a few bills from his pocket, holding them loose between his fingers.

Lucy smirked faintly, though her eyes stayed wary. "Heh. You makin' trouble for us, then?"

"No," Rust replied, still calm. "I'm just lookin' to get some information. On a woman. Might be you know her."

Anette tilted her head, curiosity sparking. "Who's that?"

"Hold on," Lucy cut in, the voice of experience. She didn't trust men who came asking about women. She leaned back slightly on her stool, giving Rust a harder look. "We'll take two large Long Island Iced Teas, please."

Rust nodded, signaled the bartender, and pulled up a seat across from them. "I'm Rust, by the way."

Anette answered, a bit warmer now. "I'm Anette. She's Lucy."

Lucy shot her a glare, but Anette ignored it. Rust leaned forward just slightly, cutting to business. "Either of you know a woman? About your age. Works the same places. About five-five. Blonde like you." He nodded toward Lucy, who frowned at the comparison.

"What kinda tits she got?" Lucy shot back, teasing, but the tension in her tone betrayed her suspicion.
Rust didn't blink. "Medium. A little larger than yours. Proportioned to the body natural."

Lucy frowned, realizing now that he wasn't here to waste their time. Her smirk faded, and Anette cut in hesitantly. "Gee. I don't know. We see a lotta girls like that around."

Rust pushed. "Any girls like that you haven't seen around lately? Missing-like?"
Lucy looked at him a little longer before shrugging. "People come and go. What do you want 'em for?"

"I wouldn't bust somebody for hooking or drugs," Rust said simply, his tone still even. "I'm murder police."

The word "murder" settled between them like something thick and leaden. Anette's face changed—her curiosity edged with a ripple of unease. "Somebody got killed?"
Lucy hesitated but finally spoke.

"There’s a girl named Liza. Another called Destiny."

"But I saw Destiny yesterday," Anette added quickly, "at McDonald's."
Rust turned his attention back to Lucy. "What about Liza?"

Lucy tilted her head toward the far side of the room. "She's here."

Rust followed her gaze. In the corner, a group of men sat laughing and shouting over a table cluttered with bottles and cigarette packs. Standing with them, half in their laps, was a young blonde girl—barely out of her teens, wearing too much makeup and not enough clothes.

Rust sighed quietly, leaning back slightly as the women sipped their drinks. He pulled a few more bills from his pocket, holding them out toward Anette. "Anette, go get a couple more drinks from the bar, will you, please?"

Anette shot Lucy a questioning glance. After a beat, Lucy nodded. "All right," Anette said, sliding off her stool and heading toward the bar.

Rust shifted then, turning to face Lucy directly as he sat closer, elbows on his knees. "You get pills pretty easy?"

The question hit like a hammer. Lucy tensed, her whole body stiffening as her eyes darted up to his face. "What?"

"Relax," Rust said quietly, not moving an inch. "I want some."

She eyed him suspiciously. "Speed?"

"No." Rust shook his head. "Quaaludes. Anything-barbital."

Lucy frowned at him, her suspicion lingering. "Uppers are easier to get. They last longer, too."

"Yeah," Rust said, staring down at the floor for a moment before looking back up at her. "But it's not like that."

Lucy tilted her head, confused now. "What's it like?"

Rust paused, his gaze going distant, his voice quieter now, lower. "I don't sleep."

For a moment, the noise of the bar seemed to recede. The jukebox rattled on, the laughter and clatter of glasses persisted, but none of it touched him. He sat there, still as stone, his face a mask that didn't quite hide the weight behind those three words.

Lucy watched him, her eyes narrowing like she was trying to figure him out, but she didn't ask. After a moment, she took a long sip of her drink, and Rust sat back slightly, his focus drifting past her to the far side of the bar where the girl—Liza—laughed too hard at something she didn't find funny.

"Yeah," he muttered, mostly to himself. "I don't sleep."