ugly angels spoke to me. the blame, i heard them say, was mine.

the double image, anne sexton

THIS CORPSE IS FAMILIAR TO HER. She stared down at it with a deep frown, a feeling of déjà vu passing through her. A shiver runs up her spine. The cold and sterile room has always been unsettling to her. She hates it. The doctor moves around frantically, looking for the file on the very corpse lying on the table in front of them. Her frown deepened as she watched the woman flit about the room, rummaging through files. With a deep sigh, she leaned back against the wall, holding her notepad tight against her chest. Her eyes moved to meet Lon's. She rolled her eyes in frustration while Lon offered her a sympathetic smile. His hand patted her shoulder in reassurance. "There she is!" The doctor exclaimed, pulling the file out from under a box of take-out food. Chinese, by the looks of it. Oil stains the manila folder holding the autopsy report. Elaine hopes that, when she dies, her file doesn't get lost under a box of take-out. "Bella-Jo Walters, poor gal. Only twenty-five, huh. My daughter went to school with her and now she's in medical school while poor ol' Bella-Jo is gettin' cut up in my office." Elaine shifted uncomfortably against the wall. It wasn't pleasant to think about. Not that much in her job was pleasant to think about. But this was worse. She wonders if girls like her sister were meant to be dead. If her sister had been dead even before she was born. Always destined to be mutilated. It's not something nice to think about. "Apparently they used to call her BJ on account of-"

"What did the autopsy say?" Lon interrupted, finally having enough. His hands held his own notepad, resting loosely against the front of him. There's a thick tension in the room, palpable and nearly tangent. He can feel Elaine growing weary and uncomfortable. He knows she hates these kinds of cases, the ones where the victim is younger like this. Most of their cases are missing persons, older people who have wandered off and gotten lost or some kid staying with a friend because their momma didn't let them eat candy before dinner. That's what she preferred. She didn't like these cases, hated being on them. Made her lose even more sleep than normal. Her hand raised, rubbing her eyes and smudging her mascara.

Clearing her throat, the doctor opened the file. "Right, well, she died from strangulation with a rope, it seems." Taking her pen out from her coat pocket, she approached the corpse. Her pen began to point along the ridged marks that cut into the girl's neck. "You can see the ligature marks here. But we also did a tox screen on her, finally came back this mornin'. Seems she had meth and LSD in her system." Elaine and Lon shared a look before opening their notepads and jotting down the information. "Which is odd, 'cause I always knew her to be a drinker, but I didn't know she was into all of 'at."

"Could be the killer laced her with it." Elaine mumbled as she quickly wrote her notes and thoughts.

"Could be." The doctor shrugged her shoulders. Moving on, she brought her pen towards the girl's thighs, just below her genitals. "There's clear marks of sexual assault. Seems the rape happened before she was strangled." The pen motions towards the bruising on the inside of her thighs.

Taking a step forward, Lon looked over the bruising. His eyebrows furrowed in confusion. "What the hell's that?" He grabbed a pair of latex gloves and pulled them on. His hands moved the rubbery skin of the girl's left thigh, exposing three crescent-shaped cuts in her skin. "Looks like our guys might've left some DNA in her. No sign of semen?" The doctor shook her head. "You swab these cuts here?" The doctor shook her head again. Backing away from the corpse, he began prying the gloves off of his hands. "Get them cuts swabbed, see if there's any DNA that can be pulled from 'em. Hopefully he was too occupied with gettin' his rocks off that he was sloppy 'nough to leave some evidence behind." He tossed the gloves into the trash, reclaiming his spot next to Elaine. "You get those swabs back and we'll take an updated autopsy report." The doctor nodded, grabbing a sticky note and jotting down the instruction before shutting the file. "Alright, doc, thanks again. Call us in when you get that swab back."

The two detectives turned and left the room, silence filling the halls they walked down. Elaine's frown persisted as her mind continued to drift back to the girl on the slab. Why they'd thrown this case on her desk, she still didn't know. Maybe they thought it'd be easy. Hell, maybe it was easy. Maybe she just wasn't built for all of this. She'd gone down this road to get revenge, but what did she have to show for it? Nothing. A fancy badge and a nicer uniform, but what else? Nothing to show for it all. Nothing that could bring her closure or an avenue for happiness. Would she even want it? Would happiness even do anything for her other than make her feel guilty? Guilty that she is the one experiencing happiness when she never deserved it. Meanwhile, her sister is a rotted carcass in the dirt.

Lon stopped his steps, startling her out of her thoughts. He checked his wrist watch, sighing quietly. "El," his voice grabbed her attention, finally getting her gaze on him, "don't go drinkin' now, alright? We got'a go talk to Barker Ray in the mornin' up in Baton Rouge." She held her hands up in mock surrender before turning and approaching the elevator. The ride up to their floor was filled with a tense silence. Her mind searched for the words to fill the void, but nothing was appearing. After seven years of partnership, they'd run out of things to discuss. She knew every detail of his wife, of his two children. He knew every detail of her day, of the bottle of vodka that was normally finished before the night was through. There was nothing left to say anymore.

The doors of the elevator slid open on their floor. The two made their way to their desks, the office nearly empty now. Her eyes couldn't help but fall on the detective to the right of her desk. Lon bid her a good night as he tossed his jacket on and pulled his car keys from his pocket. Grabbing her own jacket, she neared the half-conscious detective. "Burnin' the midnight oil, Rusty?" She leaned her hip against his desk, watching his dull eyes turn towards her. Her own eyes looked down at the open file in front of him. Photos of a pale corpse stared back at her. Like her case, it was a young woman. Unlike her case, this woman was tied to a tree, antlers tied to her head. Her eyebrows furrowed as she stared down at the photo. Reaching out, she moved the photo to the side, looking at the one underneath it. "Christ." She whispered as she looked over the marks left on the girl's skin. The man next to her remained silent as he watched her look over the photos. Fishing into his jacket pocket, he pulls out his pack of Camels and his lighter. Her eyes lift back up towards him, at the dark circles that paint under his eyes, at the worry lines that crease his forehead. She's sure she looks just as rough as he, just as tired as he. He doesn't sleep well, neither does she. "You and Marty ever go to Susie's Diner? Up on Riverview Road?" He shook his head. Her hand shut his manila folder and plucked the cigarette from his fingers, taking a drag. "Looks like you and I got a date."

†

"So you and Cohle were close?"

"I guess. In a sense."

"In what sense?"

A scoff. "You work next to someone for so long, you get to know 'em." Arms crossed over her chest. "Y'all askin' a lot'a questions 'bout Cohle for two fellas wantin' to replace the lost files on the Lange and Walters cases."

"We just want to make sure there wasn't any bias in the filing of either cases."

"Bias?" Another scoff. "Lon filled out most of the file. So, if you're lookin' for bias, you might wan' talk to him."

"We are."

"Then why the hell're we havin' this conversation?"

"Detective Greenwood, what can you tell us of how you became aware of the details of the Dora Lange case?"

†

Her fingers flipped through the gruesome photos. Smoke billowed around their table. Some from her, but most from him. Occasionally, she reached out to pluck his cigarette from his fingers to take a drag herself. The waitress neared them, setting their plates down with a smile and an 'enjoy!' He watched her every move, watched her flip through the photos and linger on certain ones. He noticed that every three drags he took of his cigarette, she'd reach out to take one of her own. A woman of subconscious patterns. He especially noticed that she kept returning to one particular photo. The one of the spiral on the girl's back. Her finger ran along the spiral. Leaning back in the booth, she glanced between him and the photo. "This that girl from Erath?" He nodded. He noticed the tears she quickly blinked away. "And this is you and Marty's case?" Another nod. Chewing her bottom lip, she slowly nodded herself. Her hand slid the folder back towards him, a frown settling on her face.

Dark red. That's what he equated her with. That's how he sees her. She is always surrounded by a hue of red. On her better days, maybe it grows lighter - a shade of pink. On her worse days, she is nearing black. He sees the other detectives avoid her gaze, avoid talking to her like they do him. There's a tension in the way they talk to her, talk about her. When they're crowded together in the break room, whispering like a group of schoolgirls, frightened that she might somehow feel her ears burning. Maybe he feels a sort of connection with her because of that. Because they treat him the same, like a science experiment. Like he's bound to snap at any moment. And maybe that's why he lets her call him Rusty. It felt... nice to have a nickname. A nickname that wasn't mocking him. "That symbol," her voice pulled him from his thoughts, "you guys identify it?" He shook his head. "You mind if I see your notes?" Her head nodded towards his ledger. Without a word, he slid the ledger towards her. A part of him doesn't like it, letting her this close. Letting her have a glance into his thoughts. But there's something in her eyes that he can't read. Was it a crave for revenge? Was it rage or maybe hunger? He's not sure. All he knows is that he recognizes it, sees it in himself some days. It's dissipated some since Texas, but not completely.

Her fingers flip through the pages, not stopping until she finds the sketch of the corpse. She reads through his notes. Flipping the page, her entire body goes rigid. The sketch of the stick structure found at the scene is dark and bold on the page. Her grip on the ledger tightens as she stared down at the sketch. Watching her, he sees the red darken. He sees it in her eyes, in her everything. The way her jaw clenched, the way her blinking becomes rapid, the way her chest rises as she takes deeper breaths. "You don't have any plans after this, right?" He shook his head. "Let's take a drive to my place."

Slapping the ledger shut, she tucked it under her arm and climbed out of the booth. Her hand dug into the front pocket of her jeans before tossing out a ten dollar bill onto the table and waving for him to follow her. Which he does, almost faithfully. Like a dog obeying his master. He's not sure he likes this feeling. Three months of knowing her and he's not sure where she fits into the mix. Marty... he's his partner. Forced to be around him. But she... his desk neighbor. No attachment necessary. There's no reason for her to continue bothering him, to continue the use of a nickname with fondness. But he doesn't complain. Don't bite the hand that feeds you. He's thankful for the distraction. Needs it after the night before at Marty's house. He follows her out to her car, climbing into the passenger seat.

The drive is quiet. The radio softly plays an Aerosmith song. He lights a cigarette and she makes no move to steal it from him. The road is uneven and bumpy, filled with potholes and sad excuses for paved over spots. It's not unlike the road back to his place. A lonely, empty shell of a room. He wonders if hers is the same. A mattress on the floor, few photos on the wall. A table to eat microwave dinners at. These images swirl his mind as they grow closer to her street, to her house. He's never put much thought to her. Shaking his head, he deemed that a lie. Something about her feeds his curiosity. The way she pushes his buttons by rummaging through his desk, by invading his privacy. If it were anyone else, he wouldn't stand for it. But he sees something familiar in her eyes - something he only sees when he looks in the mirror. And he finds he doesn't mind it so much anymore.

She pulls into the driveway, putting the car in park. "C'mon." Her voice carries as she pushes herself out of the car, grabbing his ledger and stuffing it back under her arm. The key sticks in the lock of the front door. A soft curse slipped from her lips as she yanks the doorknob froward before finally pushing the door open. He snuffs his cigarette out on the bottom of his boot before tossing it into the ashtray next to the front door. The moment his body crossed the threshold, he felt like an intruder. The living room is strangely decorated, photos lining the walls, furniture where it should be. His body goes rigid at the sight of Barbie dolls littering the spot on the floor next to the couch.

A woman rounds the corner, a small smile on her lips. "I put her to bed at eight, like usual. We had spaghetti for dinner, so leftovers are in the fridge."

Nodding her head, Elaine smiled at the woman. A wider smile than he's seen her give anyone other than Lon. A part of him wondered what made her smile. It's such a rare sight. One he's only been privy to twice - including this moment. "Thanks, Nora. Means the world to me." The woman bid her goodbyes to Elaine, nodding and waving to Rust before leaving the two. "My neighbor. She looks after my kid."

"Didn't know you had a kid." He muttered as he looked around the room, taking it all in. Committing every detail to memory. His feet carried him towards the wall of photos. One of a younger Elaine and an even younger woman who looked a bit like her. Her sister. Marty had told him about Elaine and her sister and how she was still raw about it.

"An unfortunate night with an old coworker." She responded as she neared the kitchen. "You want a drink? Got whiskey and vodka. Or water or orange juice if that's more your speed."

"Whiskey." He called back. The need to drink was settling into his skin, deep into his bones. The more he looked at these photos, at those dolls, the more the need grew. It spread throughout his body - to his liver, to his lungs, to his stomach, to his heart. Every part of him was craving a drink, anything to dull this ache that had settled in his chest, in his throat. Behind him, he can hear her movement in the kitchen. But he can't tear his eyes from the photo of the little girl. An exact replica of Elaine if he'd ever seen one. The thing about his daughter was that she, too, was an exact replica of her mother.

"Your drink, sir." Her voice was suddenly directly to his left. Looking down at her hands, he notices two glasses. One for him, one for her. Hers is much fuller than his. Taking the glass, he ignored the way their fingers brushed. He ignored the unsettling feeling in his gut. Chalks it up to seeing another young girl that reminded him of his own daughter. She waved him into the dining room and set his ledger down on the table. He took his seat across from where she'd set her glass. Opening the ledger, she points to the sketch of the stick structure they'd found at the crime scene. "This," her finger lands on it, "what is it?"

Shrugging his shoulders, he leaned forward in his chair. "Not sure yet. I think that the killer is using it as a connection to his fantasies. Not his first, too detailed and meticulous. Definitely not his last." He takes a swig of his whiskey and finds himself at home with the burning it causes in his throat. "Must be part of his fetish."

Chewing the inside of her cheek, she slowly nodded. Pushing herself up from the chair, she made her way down the small hallway out of his view. His eyes look around at the simple decor of the house. Just looking at it feels overwhelming. If he thinks too hard on it, he sees his old house in Texas. Hears his daughter's laughter and the clack of his wife's heels. But he doesn't hear any of it. Only the crickets outside and the quiet thudding of her boots on the hardwood floor as she returns. His eyes widen slightly as she sets a familiar stick structure on the table in front of him. Gently grabbing the structure, he turns it in his grasp, looking over every detail. This confirmed his suspicions. This wasn't his first killing. It most certainly will not be his last. His fingers run along the jagged wood and worn twine that holds it all together. "Found in 1985, a few miles outside Madisonville. Girl had been raped and stabbed. No antlers 'r nothin', but... that was there. And that spiral had been carved into the nape of her neck. Cops said some local kids probably. I never believed it."

His eyes finally look up at her, at the darkened red that surrounds her. He doesn't say anything, but he knows the girl is her sister. Had already read the gory details of the girl's cold case. Gently setting it back on the table, he grabbed his glass and took a swig, emptying it. Elaine made her way behind him, grabbing her bottle of whiskey and setting it on the table between them. "I'd have to see the case file, but... sounds like our guy." He grabbed the bottle and poured more into his glass. Glancing at the clock on the wall behind her, he could faintly read a little before three in the morning. "Might be a power fantasy. Likes to tie these girls up and hurt 'em. Maybe he thinks he loves 'em, using them as a way of expression. That he's making them more beautiful in his eyes." Her jaw clenched under his words as she grabbed her glass once more, downing the rest of her own whiskey. She repeated his actions, grabbing the bottle and replenishing her glass. "Why do you have this, though? Can't imagine the local cops let you keep it."

"They wanted to throw it away. So it magically vanished from the evidence room." A small smirk played on her lips, barely hidden behind her glass. Throwing back the liquor, a faint wince crossed her face. Vodka she could drink like water. But whiskey was always her worst vice. Leonard's favorite - what got that little girl who sleeps in the next room into the world. Not her favorite drink but it would do. She doesn't really feel like sharing her vodka with him, anyway. Grabbing the neck of the bottle, she pours a little more into her glass. Her vision is growing fuzzy at the edges, at the finer details. Whiskey always took its toll on her, got her to her destination quicker than most other liquors. "You got any family? Any siblings out yonder in Texas?"

His eyes glance up at her as he downs the last of his second glass. She slid the bottle towards him, letting him refill it. Bringing the glass up to his lips, he shook his head. Her eyebrows raised slightly. "Only child, huh?" A soft chuckle escaped her lips. "I'm sure Marty's told you all 'bout my problems." He remained silent, found it better to keep quiet and not initiate. She's already braver than he, being open about it all. "That girl up in Madisonville was my sister. So... you'll understand if I get a li'l nosy on y'all's case, if you don't mind."

"Don't mind at all." He mumbled under his breath as he downed the rest of his glass, setting it on the table and scooting it away. A silent claim that he was done for the night. Throwing in the towel. "Might drive Marty up a wall."

Another soft chuckle. "Marty loves me. Wants to strangle me half the damn time, but he loves me." Taking a final swig of her own glass and scooting it closer to his glass. "I'm the only one who doesn't give him shit for his little forgetfulness when it comes to filin' his shit. Also when he likes to flirt with witnesses." She started to frown, her arms crossed over her chest as she leaned back in her chair. Lifting her hand, she checked the time on her wrist watch. "Fuck," she hissed under her breath, "you can sleep on the couch if you want. Can't trust either o' us drivin' the way we been goin'."

His eyes slowly moved towards the couch across from the small television. It looks comfortable enough, probably more comfortable than his own bed. "Mind if I smoke in here?" He asked as he pulled out his pack of Camels.

"Take it outside." She motioned towards the front door. "Can't have my kid goin' to school smellin' like a gas station." Pulling out her own pack of Marlboros, she followed him outside onto the front porch. Before she could pull out her lighter, he held his out towards her, flame alit. Her eyes sent him a thankful glance as she took a deep drag. "Sorry to leave you stranded here, Rusty. I know you'd probably rather be home."

"Ain't nothin' there for me."

Slowly nodding, she couldn't help but look up towards him. In the past three months, she realized that she knew nothing about him. Had given him the nickname after Marty had told him how uptight he was. Maybe a part of her hoped that he would have snapped at her, cast her aside like the rest of her coworkers. But the first time she'd tried it out, he had remained silent. Maybe spared her a glance, maybe lit up his cigarette just like he was doing now. But she just knows that it didn't leave a black mark on... whatever this was. Friendship? Perhaps. She's never been good with friends. That was always Sally's specialty. The girl had never met a stranger. She could walk into a bar and walk out with ten new friends who adored her and fell to her feet, worshipping her like some god. But she... she'd never been good with others. Lon was probably the closest to a friend she'd ever had. Leonard... he was just a half-decent lay that had given her probably the best gift she could think of. As much as she'd contemplated getting rid of the thing that was slowly growing inside of her stomach. But she's glad she didn't. It was nice to finally have someone in her life that didn't look at her like she was the scum of the Earth. "You ever married, Rusty?" She takes a deep drag from her cigarette, slowly letting the smoke billow from her lips and dissipate in the night sky.

"Once." He muttered as he took his own deep drag. "You?"

She shook her head. "Almost once. Didn't work out." Leaning her back against the pillar in front of her door, she let her eyes watch him. The way his eyes remained so dull and near lifeless. She wonders if hers look the same. A frown plays on her lips. "Most people don't like me. That's fine with me, though. Guess I wear 'em down." His gaze flicked towards her, meeting her eyes. "They wear me down, too." Her cigarette presses to her lips as she takes a deep inhale. He wondered what exactly goes on in her brain. If she's like him, in some way. If some people aren't meant to be loved. Meant to be alone. There's a loneliness in her eyes, hidden deep behind the macho exterior she presents. And he hopes that, as her gaze refuses to drop his, she can't see he might just be cut from the same cloth.

"Some people aren't meant to be loved. Some of us are meant to be cogs in a wheel that keeps this shit-heel society going." She frowned at his words. "I think this whole fuckin' state is a vortex of miserable people who are destined to be fucked by the universe. This place can't breathe - won't breathe. It refuses to take in anything new. I think it wants to rot away."

Letting a plume of smoke spill past her lips, she slowly nodded. "I see why Marty likes you." With a soft chuckle, she snuffed the cigarette out on the bottom of her boot before tossing it into the ashtray. "I got'a get up in a few hours. Got'a take her to school and Lon and I got'a head up to Baton Rouge to talk to some suspects. So... get some sleep."

He opens his mouth to speak, but nothing comes out. Instead of speaking, he simply nodded, pressing his cigarette to his lips. Without another word, she left him out on the porch and retreated back into the house. Looking out across the night sky, he almost found it brighter than normal.