Rustin Meets with Camille

Location: 593 VanBuren Street, Bushwick, Brooklyn

Time: 7:37 PM

The humid Brooklyn night presses in like a vice. Flashing blue-and-red lights strobe across brick and broken glass. 593 VanBuren Street stands eerily untouched between two horrific crime scenes, both cordoned off with yellow NYPD tape. Apartment buildings on either side are a charnel house: neighbors eviscerated, drained, some burned postmortem. The street reeks of copper, gas, ash, and panic.

Forensics techs, beat cops, and plainclothes detectives sweep the scene in grim silence. Murmurs pass between uniforms. The word “massacre” floats like smoke. One officer turns his head and vomits.

Rustin can hear the radio chatter. “Detective Sargent Vento is on scene. The Sargent is incident commander.” He looks through the chaos. She’s standing off to the side talking to a uniform he doesn’t recognize. Behind her is Detective Tim Bradford, a friend. Rustin saved his daughter Taylor from Zane only a few weeks prior. He meets Rustin’s gaze and looks exasperated, shaking his head.

Rustin steps through the crime tape, his coat flicking embers from a trash fire to his left. A uniform tries to stop him—until he flashes his credentials. Camille spots him and waves him over. Her dark eyes narrow as he approaches, fingers resting casually on her holstered sidearm.

“Detective Cohle. Funny seeing you at one of my crime scenes… again.”

“I was actually on my way over to 593, following up on one of my cases, light skinned African American female, early 20’s, Natalie Archer. She’s not involved is she?”

“Not as far as I know, 593? Sent a uniform named Jacobs in there to do a check. So far nothing.” She answered.

“I heard this scene was intense.” Rustin added.

Camille glances around as if she’s looking for someone.

“It’s a bloodbath. Two buildings. 14 dead. All civilians. Still sorting through ID’s. Whatever happened, it wasn’t just a domestic gone bad. Something tore through them like… like wolves.”

Her voice dips—instinctually suspicious, though Rustin’s memory tampering has blurred her real suspicions. He keeps his expression passive.

Rustin turns and gestures to an older man beside him—a pale figure in priest’s garb with silver-rimmed glasses and hollow eyes.

“This is Father Callahan. He’s with the Archdiocese. Trauma liaison. Observing tonight.”

Camille offers her hand. “Detective Sargent Camille Vento.” She holds his hand a second longer than she should. Her eyes flick upward. Doubt. A mortal shouldn’t feel like that. “You’re cold, Father.”

Father Callahan’s eyes widened, almost insulted. “Is that so. Not sure what you’re inferring, detective. Perhaps it’s my Irish blood. Poor circulation and before ya ask, no it’s not because of whiskey.”

“I wasn’t thinking it was padre.”

“Good.” Father Callahan nods confidently as he steps away.

“Hey Cohle. Something is off with your priest. Can we talk later?”

Rustin smiles. “Sure. Would it be ok if I checked on my lead?”

“Alright. I’ll give you ten minutes, Be careful. If you find something—”

“Of course. I’ll let you know right away.”

A short six minutes later…

“GAS LEAK! MOVE BACK. CLEAR THE BLOCK!”

People scatter. Camille spins, eyes wide. Uniforms shout. Seconds before—

KA-BOOM.

Flames tear into the night sky. 593 erupts in a thunderous explosion, followed by the shriek of crumbling masonry and shattering glass. Smoke fills the block. Gas-fed fire rolls across the adjacent rooftops, consuming evidence and erasing the Kindred stain left by Natalie and her spawn.

“What the hell happened in there, Rustin?” Camille yells, arms animated.

I knocked on the door, No answer. I thought I heard some sort of struggle inside so I kicked in the door. Your uniform was face down in the kitchen. Place stunk like gas. I went to check on the kid but as I got closer I heard some sizzling sound, probably a faulty outlet. It was sparking so we had to get out quickly. The rest? Well you see it.” Rustin lowers his head. “Never made it to the kid.”

“Damn it.” Camille scowled. “At least you got out.”

“Yeah but.”

“No no. Don’t do that Cohle. Look, I know you have paperwork to file. How about we meet for coffee tomorrow morning?”

“Tomorrow morning? Oh. Yeah. I wasn’t planning to be in tomorrow, have a doctor appointment and some errands. I could spare some time in the evening, though. 1900 work?”

“Yeah. Some place off site and private if you don’t mind. There are some things I’d rather not mention in the office.”

“How about Coopers, East Village.”

“See ya then.”

Rustin nods and steps away.

………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………..

Low lights. Red leather booths. Jazz humming from the bar’s vintage turntable. Shadowy corners and amber whiskey glasses. A single booth near the back. Camille Vento is waiting—black jeans, leather jacket, sharp bob haircut slightly wind-tousled. She’s drinking an old-fashioned, but it’s mostly untouched. Her eyes scan the room. She doesn’t twitch, but she’s on edge.

 Rustin Cohle arrives with his jacket in his hand. His posture is relaxed, his expression unreadable—watching her carefully. He slides into the seat across from her like a ghost taking shape.

“Thanks for meeting. Can I get ya a drink?”

“Sure. Woodford neat.”

The waitress brings over the glass.

“Thanks.” Rustin says appreciatively.

“Jacobs.” Camille says, raising her cocktail.

Rustin does the same and feigns a sip.

“I’ve been trying to make sense of what the hell happened on VanBuren.” Camille began in a low tone.

“It’s a mess, but it’s closed. Gas leak, structural failure, toxicology. I saw the reports. You signed off.”

She eyes him over the rim of her glass. There’s something sharp behind her gaze, like she’s trying to catch him in a lie she doesn’t know exists.

“Yeah… and yet, I can’t shake the feeling that we missed something. Something big.”

Rustin tilts his head. “What kind of something?”

“I don’t know. It’s like. A lot of things just don’t add up.”

“I’m listening.” He encourages.

“Like the priest. Callahan.”

Rustin pauses before responding. “What about him?”

Camille folds her hands, rests her forearms on the table. Her voice is low, but firm. She’s not accusing—yet.

“He shook my hand. And it was like grabbing a bag of ice. Not just cold—dead cold. I’ve worked scenes with corpses that felt warmer.”

Rustin watches her with practiced neutrality, but inside his senses are alert.

“And I ran his name like I said. ‘Father Liam Callahan.’ There’s no record of him in the NYPD’s clergy support network. No past FBI involvement. Nothing. The man doesn’t exist. Or someone went through a lot of effort to make it look like he doesn’t. Outside of church records that is.”

“You think I’d bring someone unknown into a scene like VanBuren?”

“I think someone might’ve brought you someone unknown. Or maybe you knew more than you let on. That’s what I’m trying to figure out.”

Rustin exhales and leans back in the booth, folding his hands slowly. His voice is calm, but measured, like a doctor about to deliver a false diagnosis.

“Camille, you remember checking his credentials. Even called command. You verified he was with POPPA.”

Her brows knit. She blinks once—hard. The memory floats up… fuzzy… like a picture painted in fog. Her fingers twitch.

“I… I remember that. But it still doesn’t explain the cold.”

Rustin’s tone is soft, gently redirecting her. “The man has poor circulation, there’s a word for it.” He pauses, as if searching for the term. “Raynaud’s, I think. Trust me, I get how…uncomfortable a handshake with him can be.” He shrugs and smiles awkwardly. “What can you do?”

Camille lets out a long breath, clearly unconvinced. Her eyes scan his face for cracks.

“Maybe. But something about him doesn’t add up. It’s the same instinct I got standing in front of that blown-out building, hearing myself recite a report I don’t remember writing.”

She meets his eyes. Hard. Searching.

“You were up how long with no sleep? I’m surprised you could write anything at all. Especially after that chaos.”

“Believe it or not… I’ve seen worse.” She takes another sip of her cocktail.

“Anyhow, That suspect of yours, Natalie? I pulled her phone records before the scene got locked. She made three outgoing calls to the same number that night—no ID. I ran it, but the data was wiped server-side. Pro-level wipe. Not something a junkie does.

“Junkie?”

“How else do you explain a massacre like that. Had to be a psychotic break fueled by drug psychosis. No?”

“It sounds plausible…” Rustin pauses, feigning mild curiosity. “Think they were covering up something or protecting someone?”

“Hmm. Not sure about that. I mean their social media is all art and pictures. Strikes me as the photographer type.”

“Don’t know much about him yet. Just a name. Ethan.”

“So how did we get here then? Neither had criminal records. Everything I got supports her being an up and coming pianist who modeled part time. Something’s not right.”

“Camille, listen. I respect your instincts. If your gut has you asking questions, then you should. I just want you to cut yourself some slack. You’ve been under a lot of strain. The situation last night…” He trails off, remembering the carnage. “It was horrific.” Rustin leans forward catching her gaze, “Don’t be hard on yourself if some of the night happened on autopilot. We lost a good kid in that fire. Maybe we both could use a few days to return to baseline.’ You know. Clear our heads.”

“You think?”

 “I know it. Emotion is the death of logic. Best thing you can do is take care of yourself. Trust me”

He smiles, almost sadly.

“Not everything’s a conspiracy.” He pauses, staring absently as he rolls the amber liquid around the glass. “Even so, mind sending over the phone records you found? I’ll have to take another look at this case.” 

“…Yeah. Maybe.” Camille nods slowly. But something in her body language says she doesn’t buy it entirely. Not yet.

Camille sips her drink. Her demeanor seems tentative.

“Hey… have you seen Talbot lately?”

Rustin raises a brow, feigning neutrality. “I don’t keep his calendar. Why?”

“I just… I thought he might’ve called. You said you passed my number along right? We had a good talk last time I saw him. I figured, maybe…”

She trails off, feeling vulnerable, rare for her. Rustin observes the undercurrent. The implanted attraction is functioning, though it might also be evolving naturally—an emotional wildcard.

Rustin replies cool, supportive. “He’s not always good with phones. Wild man, that one. I’ll remind him.”

“I don’t want to seem pushy… But … Thanks.”

She exhales and finishes her drink. The storm inside her recedes slightly.

“I better get going.” He says leaving a 50 on the table. “My treat. I’ll call if I learn anymore. Do the same?”

“Sure. Be safe.”

“You too.”