Dirt Doesn’t Stay Buried

I walked into the precinct like I hadn’t just spent the morning inside a serial killer’s fan cave. I walked in like I didn’t have Nico Barrett’s dried blood still under my fingernails. Like my heart wasn’t punching the inside of my chest with every step.

I walked in like I still trusted the people here.

Which was a lie. But I wore it well.

The front desk sergeant gave me a look half pity, half curiosity then immediately looked away. That’s how you know the gossip was already making rounds. Dead kid. Meat mask. Crazy art shrine. And me? Somehow always in the middle of the horror show.

Good.

Let them talk.

Let them know I was the one still standing.

Marcus was waiting in the squad room, pacing in front of the whiteboard we used to track cases. Two fresh crime scene photos were pinned in the corner. Caleb Dorn. Nico Barrett. They looked like footnotes now tragic bullet points on a growing body count.

I dropped a file on the desk.

“Medical examiner confirmed it,” I said. “The meat mask on the mannequin? It was Nico’s face. Peeled off, stitched, and shaped.”

Marcus winced. “Jesus.”

“Greaves has a fan club,” I muttered. “And someone out there’s got lifetime membership.”

He nodded. “I spoke with IA. They’re reopening every detail of the Skull Artist investigation. Said there might’ve been” he hesitated, “some errors in the original files.”

I raised a brow. “Errors?”

“Redactions. Missing transcripts. Evidence logs that don’t add up. Lana… someone tampered with the case files.”

Of course they did.

Of course the first time I ever caught a serial killer, someone upstairs made sure the paperwork told a different story.

“You know what this means, right?” I said, my voice barely above a whisper. “The people dying now… they’re not random. They’re part of the cover-up.”

Marcus gave me that same tired look I used to see when we were rookies the one that meant we’re in deep, and no one’s coming to save us.

An hour later, I stormed into Captain Ronning’s office without knocking. He looked up like I was a raccoon that just ran through his garden.

“Close the door,” he said, already irritated.

I did but not gently.

“You told me this case was closed. You told me Greaves was locked, tight, forgotten,” I snapped.

“He is,” Ronning said. “We’ve had no indication he’s been involved in anything.”

“Except for sending meat-themed love letters through an art program and inspiring a death cult.”

“That’s circumstantial,” he grunted.

“No. That’s strategic. Someone tampered with the original investigation, and now the bodies are back. This isn’t about Greaves anymore. It’s about everyone who helped bury his sins.”

He stood up slowly, walked around the desk, and got in my space.

“Careful, Cross. You’re poking holes in a roof that’s already leaking. Start pulling too hard, and it’s not just you who gets crushed when it caves in.”

I stared him down.

“Then let it fall.”

Later that night, I met up with Juno in the parking garage under city hall. She had that look on her face like she’d done something that could get her fired or killed.

She handed me a flash drive.

“What’s this?” I asked.

“The unredacted file. All of it.”

My eyes narrowed. “How the hell did you get it?”

“I hacked the internal archive node,” she said, then paused. “And maybe borrowed a password from the commissioner’s assistant’s laptop while they were on a Zoom call.”

I blinked.

“Juno… that’s—”

“Illegal. Yep. You’re welcome.”

I smiled. First time in days.

We sat in her car, laptop balanced on the center console, the city lights flickering above us like judgmental stars.

Inside the folder were photos we’d never seen. Transcripts of Greaves’ confessions that never made it to court. Names of officers who visited him off the record. Names I recognized.

One in particular.

Detective Darren Hoyt.

My first mentor.

Dead now. Suicide, back in 2019. Or so they said.

I remembered how he looked when he walked me through my first crime scene. Calm. Cold. Almost numb. He told me once, “Every case you touch will leave a scar. Some just cut deeper.”

Turns out he had scars I never saw.

“This file…” Juno said quietly. “It’s not just old evidence. It’s a map. Someone wanted Greaves buried. Someone helped him.”

“And now that person’s cleaning house,” I said. “One body at a time.”

I copied the files to my drive and tucked it into my jacket.

“You think Greaves will talk?” she asked.

“He already is,” I replied. “Just not with words.”

---

I didn’t sleep that night. I walked my apartment with the lights off, pacing in shadows like a ghost in her own home. The file haunted me. Not just the images those were bad enough  but the gaps. The places where whole pages were torn out. Where names were replaced with black blocks.

Who was protecting Greaves?

And more importantly, who was still out there helping him now?

I sat on the couch and stared at my badge. It felt heavy.

Like guilt.

---

The next morning, Marcus called me from the field.

“Lana,” he said, voice tight. “We got a problem.”

“Another body?”

“No. Worse.”

My chest locked.

“What happened?”

“Someone broke into Juno’s apartment. Wrecked the place. Took her laptop, external drives, backup batteries everything. But didn’t touch a dollar, jewelry, or tech.”

My blood ran cold.

“They knew what they were looking for,” I said.

“She’s okay,” he added. “Shaken, but okay. She called it in.”

“Did she tell them what she found?”

“No. Not yet.”

I looked at the clock. It was 7:13 AM.

They were moving faster now.

Sloppier.

Or maybe just bolder.

Either way, we were running out of time.

---

By midday, I was back at Hillcroft.

Round two with the devil.

This time, I didn’t bother with pleasantries.

“You lied,” I said, tossing a printout of the redacted file onto the table.

Greaves looked at it, then smiled.

“I never lied,” he said calmly. “I just... curated.”

I leaned over the table. “Did Hoyt help you?”

He smiled wider.

“That man bled art,” he said.

I slammed my palm down. “Give me a name.”

“I gave you a path,” he replied. “You’re the one who chose to walk it.”

My fists clenched.

“Tell me who’s killing for you now.”

He leaned in, eyes boring into mine like needles.

“They’re not killing for me,” he whispered. “They’re killing because of you.”

I froze.

“What?”

“You inspired them. Your obsession. Your fear. Your hunger for truth.”

He smiled again. “You made them brave.”