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Where The Hood At

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Chapter One: “The Long Bright Dark”




OPEN ON MARTIN HART staring directly at us, seated at a TABLE. He’s 56, tall, broad. He has thick gray hair, close-cropped, a hard face. He wears a well-made suit, and there’s a kind of physical intensity in his bearing. He simmers–

Cigarette burns and gouges pock the table’s linoleum surface, and behind Hart is only a green plaster WALL, empty except for its upper right side, in which half a BULLETIN BOARD is in frame, and on it, half of a WANTED POSTER can be seen–

CHYRON: Louisiana State Police CID / Statement of Hart, Martin Eric. / May 1st, 2012

DETECTIVE PAPANIA: What’d you think? You, paired up with him?

HART (into camera): What’d I think? Hmm. Well you don’t pick your parents and you don’t pick your partner. You know they used to call him “The Taxman” for a while? He’d come out of Texas so nobody knew him. Seemed a bit… raw-boned to me. Edgy. Took about three months til we got him over to the house for dinner. Around our big 419. That’s what y’all want to hear about, right? Dora Lange? Kids in the woods?

GILBOUGH: Yeah sure. But, uh, talk about Cohle. We heard some stories. Kinda a strange guy, huh?

HART: Strange. *laughs*. Yeah.

Cut to outside Hart’s house, 1995. Rust is in his car drinking from a flask and smoking a cigarette

HART: Rust’d pick a fight with the sky if he didn’t like its shade of blue. But when we finally got him over to the house – this is when that case was hot – the bastard looks like he was on his way to firing squad.


The same interrogation room, but the chair is EMPTY. A NEW MAN steps into frame, sits down. Recognize RUSTIN COHLE, 51, twenty years older, taking Hart’s place across the table, staring at us. Same wall with a corner of the BULLETIN BOARD behind him, same piece of a WANTED POSTER–

He hasn’t lost any hair, but it’s streaked with steel gray, wild, unkempt and in need of a trim. He’s leaner. In the intervening years he’s shed pounds, and now his cheeks are sunken. He almost looks emaciated, lupine. He’s unshaven, wearing rumpled clothes. NOTICE covering Cohle’s left inner forearm, a colorful, slightly-faded TATTOO of FLAMES with a PAIR OF DICE at their apex–]

CHYRON (typed): Louisiana State Police CID / Statement of Cohle, Rustin Spencer. / April 26, 2012

[Cohle clears his throat, his voice gravelly, when he finally speaks it’s as if in answer to a question-]

COHLE (into camera): Dora Lange. The “Occult Ritual Murder”. You thank The Advertiser for that.

Cohle pauses and lights a CIGARETTE.

PAPANIA: Could you hold off…
GILBOUGH: You can’t do that in here no more.

COHLE: Don’t be assholes. You wanna hear this or not?

Cohle lights the cigarette, they hand him a mug for the ashes

COHLE: Vermilion sheriff requested assistance with the 419, cane fields outside of Erath. I’d been on the job about three months til then, two previous cases were open and shut. It was January the third, 1995. My daughter’s birthday. I remember.


Red clouds and a red sunrise. A heavily wooded VALLEY surrounded with denser FOREST, the OZARKS fencing the horizon in dun-colored spikes. Blobs of GRAY SNOW litter the dark soil. A crisp, ruby light–

HART: Hart and Cohle, state CID.

A uniformed SHERIFF’s DEPUTY leads TWO MEN IN TRENCHCOATS and suits, MARTIN HART and RUSTIN COHLE, c. 1995. Hart’s hands are stuffed in his pockets, and Cohle carries a CRIME SCENE KIT and a LEGAL-SIZED PORTFOLIO

HART: Who found her?

DEPUTY: Farmer and her son.

HART: Well let’s keep em here, and let’s tape off this road, and, uh, gimme your log.


Without saying anything, the deputy leads Hart and Cohle to the dark, slumped shape. The deputy tries not to look at it, but can’t help himself–

ANGLE ON BODY: (depicted as mercifully as possible) A white FEMALE, naked, posed kneeling over a LARGE TREE ROOT, her HANDS folded as if in prayer. Head down, a CROWN of ROOTS and THORNS is set on her scalp. A PAIR OF LARGE, DARK WINGS have been attached to her back. The WINGS drape over her ribs, their feather-tips sunken into a small patch of dirty snow–

Cohle puts on a pair of latex gloves and looks from the body to the TREES around it- NOTICE a PENTAGRAM freshly carved into the pine tree beside the body–

ON HART and COHLE’S FACES as the deputy steps aside. Hart looks vaguely horrified. Cohle’s face simply tenses and his eyes sharpen. Cohle puts on a pair of latex gloves and moves past Hart to get closer–

HART: Go ahead.

Cohle crouches to examine the body

DEPUTY: You ever see something like this?

HART: No sir. 8 years CID.

DEPUTY: Them symbols. They’re satanic. They had a 20/20 on it a few years back.


DEPUTY: No sir.

HART: We’re gonna need more men for a grid search. Set up a parameter wide as possible on those three roads. Post up. Take license plates of anything that passes.

Deputy nods and walks away

HART (into radio): I-23.

RADIO: Go ahead I-23.

HART: We’re gonna need investigators on that 419. All that you can spare for a canvas.

RADIO: Roger that.

Hart walks over to Cohle

HART: Tell me what you see.

COHLE: Ligature marks on her wrists ankles and knees. Multiple shallow stab wounds to the abdomen. Hemorrhaging around throat. Lividity at the shoulders, thighs and torso. She’d been on her back a while; before he moved her.

Hart goes to take a picture, Cohle takes out his pad. Notice Cohle doesn’t care about his pant knees as he writes on that big LEGAL PAD he’s brought

2012 HART (V.O.): That’s why they called him “The Tax Man”. The rest of us had these little note pads or something, and he had this big ledger. Funny him walking door-to-door with it, like the tax man. Which ain’t bad as far as nicknames go.

As Martin speaks, there is a withheld affection in his remembrance. Clearly, he has a complexity of feelings about Rustin Cohle, but ‘respect’ is part of that


COHLE: Of course I’ve always taken a lot of notes. I mean you never know what the thing’s gonna be, do you? A little detail somewhere way down the line makes you say “ah!:… breaks the case.


HART: You know I’ve seen all the different types. We all fit a certain category. The bully. The charmer. The surrogate dad. The man possessed by ungovernable rage. The brain… And any of those types can be a good detective. And any of those types can be an incompetent shitheel.

PAPANIA: Which type were you?

HART: Oh, I was just a regular type dude… with a big-ass dick.


HART: A lot of it had to do with how they manage authority…


Hart is labelling each part of the crime scene

HART (contd): It could be a burden in authority, in vigilance. Like a father’s burden. It’s too much for some men. A smart guy who’s steady is hard to find. I was alright. Better than some. But, you know, I knew how to talk to people and I was steady. Rust?

ON Cohle’s face as he studies the body, takes notes–

HART (V.O.) (CONT’D: Now his Texas files were classified or redacted, and he wasn’t big on talking. Except when you wanted him to shut up. But he was smart.

Cohle writes furiously, scans the environment around the body-


HART: Yeah. Second week we were together I saw where he was living. Kinda made me feel for the guy.


Cohle opens the door, and from Hart’s POV, we take in the ROOM. It’s empty except for a couple BOXES. Depressingly bleak and completely unadorned. A MATTRESS on the floor. A CRUCIFIX above the mattress. No TV. STACKS OF THICK BOOKS in various spots on the floor

COHLE: I’d offer you a seat, but, uh…

HART: Don’t mention it. I can’t stay.


HART: I tell you guys, and believe me, past a certain age a guy with no family can be a bad thing.


Hart leads the canvass towards the body. Cohle is staring at the body alone with his notes. He looks at one of the “devil nets” collected for evidence, then looks up at the other ones hanging from the tree


COHLE: We’d encountered a meta-psychotic. Which I had to explain to Marty what meta-psychotic was.


COHLE: This is gonna happen again. Or it’s happened before.

HART: What do you think you know?

COHLE: It’s fantasy enactment. Ritual. Fetishization iconography. This is his vision. Her body is a paraphilic lovemap.

HART: How’s that?

COHLE: An attachment of physical lust to fantasy and practices forbidden by society.

HART: You get that from one of your books?

COHLE: I did. Her knees are abraded. Rug burns on her back. Cold sores, gumline recession, bad teeth — there’s decent odds she was a prost’. He might not have known her, but… this idea goes way back with him.

HART: You got a chapter in one of those books on jumping to conclusions? You attach an assumption to a piece of evidence, you start to bend the narrative to support it. Prejudice yourself.

COHLE: Wait and see on the ID.

HART: Alright.

COHLE: This kind of thing does not happen in a vacuum. I guarantee this wasn’t his first. It’s too specific.

Hart watches him– Silence for several beats- this dark assemblage flirts with absurdity- the two suited men sitting near that horrible corpse, being quiet like schoolboys or nervous suitors–

Hart seems perturbed, finally speaks-

HART: Listen, this is, uh, stupid time to mention this but you gotta come to dinner. Can’t put Maggie off anymore so you just gotta.

Cohle thinks–

COHLE: Alright.

Close up on Hart’s face deep in thought

HART: Gordon. Thanks for coming

COHLE (V.O.): Anyway that evening, wasn’t even sundown, he decided it was a good time to invite me to dinner. Which I got a problem with. Because I’m thinking about Marty’s wife and his two kids and how it’s my daughter’s birthday and I know…

Older, haunted, Cohle continues his story–

COHLE: There’s nothing I can do about it, maybe not today, maybe not tomorrow but… I’m gonna have a drink.


Rust knocks on the door, Marty’s daughters yell in excitement

HART (to daughters): You’re gonna meet him! I gotta get the door.

Marty answers his front door. It opens onto Rust, his shirt and suit disheveled. Bleary-eyed and frightened, he stands on the porch with a cheap BOUQUET in hand

HART: Hey.

His dark hair mussed, Rust shakily holds out the bouquet. CLOSE ON his face- wet, red eyes, red nose


COHLE (V.O.): People out here, they don’t even know the outside world exists.


COHLE: Might as well be living on the fucking moon.

HART: There’s all kinds of ghettos in the world.

COHLE: It’s all one ghetto, man. Giant gutter in outer space.


HART: Today, that scene… That is the most fucked up thing I ever caught. Can I ask you something? You’re Christian, yeah?


HART: Well what do you got the cross for in your apartment?

COHLE: That’s a form of meditation.

Hart is knee-jerk offended at Cohle’s nonchalance about the Son of Man–

HART: How’s that?

COHLE: I contemplate the moment in the garden. The idea of allowing your own crucifixion.

HART: But you’re not a Christian so what do you believe?

COHLE: I believe that people shouldn’t talk about this type of shit at work.

HART: Hold on, hold on. Three months we been together I get nothing from you. Today, what we’re into now, do me a courtesy ok, I’m not trying to convert you.

COHLE: I’d consider myself a realist, but in philosophical terms I’m what’s called a pessimist.

HART: Ok, what’s that mean?

COHLE: It means I’m bad at parties.

HART: *laughs* let me tell you, you ain’t great outside of parties either.

Hart scowls at Cohle, prodding him on. Cohle continues, relucant–

COHLE: I think human consciousness is a tragic misstep in evolution. We became too self aware. Nature created an aspect separated from itself, we are creatures that should not exist by natural law.

HART: Well that sounds god-fucking-awful, Rust.

COHLE: We are things that labor under the illusion that having a self. This secretion of sensory, experience, and feeling. Programmed, with total assurance, that we’re each somebody. When, in fact, everybody’s nobody.

HART: I wouldn’t go around spouting that shit if I was you, people around here don’t think that way. I don’t think that way.

COHLE: I think the honorable thing for our species to do is deny our programming. Stop reproducing. Walk hand-in-hand into extinction.

A beat where Cohle seems almost wistful–

COHLE: One last midnight, brothers and sisters opting out of a raw deal.

HART: So, what’s the point of getting out of bed in the morning?

Cohle looks out the window as he speaks, almost to himself–

COHLE: I tell myself I bear witness. The real answer is that it’s obviously my programming. And I lack the constitution for suicide.

HART: My luck I pick today to get to know you. Three months, I don’t hear a word from you and…

COHLE: You asked.

HART: Yeah. Now I’m begging you to shut the fuck up.

Back to silence. As Hart grinds his teeth, Cohle stares out the windows at the ISOLATED FIELDS and RAMSHACKLE HOMES, the ELECTRICAL LINES against the DESOLATE VALLEY, BROKEN FENCES, several tense beats —

COHLE: I got a bad taste in my mouth out here. Aluminum. Ash. I can smell the psychosphere.

HART: I got an idea. Let’s make the car a place of silent reflection from now on. Okay?

Outside, the car passes a cheap, OLD BILLBOARD with a WOMAN’s PORTRAIT on it and the legend ‘10-11-87: DO YOU KNOW WHO KILLED ME? $10,000 REWARD. STACY GERHART – AGE 14. 337-976-5236’

COHLE: What should I bring for dinner?

Horrified to be reminded of the dinner invitation, Hart re-composes himself–

HART: Bottle of wine’d be nice, I guess.

COHLE: I don’t drink.

This a final straw of disappointment for Hart–

HART: Well no, of course not Rust. Listen, when you’re in my house I want you to chill the fuck out. Don’t even mention any of that bullshit you just said to me.

COHLE: Of course not Marty. I’m not some kind of maniac. Fuck’s sake.


The headquarters is four-story administrative building with FLAGS out front, lots of PATROL and UNMARKED cars, all late-80s TAURUSES. The head field office of the CID is on one of the building’s floors. Hart and Cohle pull into the lot. The sky is overcast, grey, gloomy.


The field office is a large, open floor with CUBICLES, TYPEWRITERS, a RECEPTIONIST, and a few PLAINCLOTHES DETECTIVES at their desks, using the phones. Specifically, STEVE GARECI has a phone in his hand, and is sitting across the desk from CHRIS DEMMA. To the left of the desk, with a cigarette in his mouth, is DETECTIVE FAVRE and another plainclothes detective. There are files on the desk, and a cup with pencils in it. The detectives are all looking in Cohle’s direction, as the camera pans away from them.

DETECTIVE GARECI (V.O.): What’d you hear?


DETECTIVE GERACI (V.O.): You the Tax Man? You know he’s IA.


A boss’ OFFICE. Cohle and Hart are sitting in two chairs that face the desk, and behind it, MAJOR KEN QUESADA, Command Inspector of Louisiana State CID, late 40’s, chubby, wears a Knights of Columbus ring he likes to rub–

HART: I mean you never heard any shit like this before, she had… antlers.


HART: This is, this is a real thing. This is… Halloween shit.

QUESADA: Well we’re gonna have to do a press conference. *nods towards Cohle* what about him, what do you think?

HART: Smart. Aloof. Doesn’t care about making friends. But he’s already running with it. He’s got a real mind for it. Yeah.

QUESADA: So you’d keep him on it?

HART: Both of us, yeah, I would.

QUESADA: Alright. You’re still lead. Incident room is yours, and, uh, you do the briefing tomorrow.

HART: Yes sir. Thank you.

As HART walks out of the office, COMMANDER SPEECE walks in.

HART (to SPEECE): Hello sir.

SPEECE walks past HART, ignoring him and saying nothing.


HART: Fuck that prick.

In the background there is talk about the murder in the background, “strange markings”

DETECTIVE: She had antlers, what does that mean?

COHLE: It was a crown.

No one acknowledges him

HART: You do the briefing tomorrow guys, early.

DETECTIVE LUTZ: My guy does the AP wire asked about Satanism.

DETECTIVE DEMMA: It got Speece here. You’re gonna have his nose up your ass. Major was saying something about a press conference.

HART: Guess I can count my blessings, fellas. Thanks for that.


COHLE: Hey, you mind if I skate? I got some names from Vice, prost’ farms. Check around on our DB.

HART: You want me to go with you?

COHLE: Nah. Just something to do.

HART: You go ahead, I’ll take care of the paperwork.

COHLE (V.O.): Like I said, I’m feeling a lot of stuff hit me at this time.


COHLE (V.O.): My daughter’s birthday, this dead woman, and um… figured I’d work the case. Y’know, until Dicillo called or we got an ID. State Vice gave me some addresses to follow up on, so far nobody’d talked to me.

Cohle pulls into a small bar, and watches a blonde girl walking in the parking lot from his car


Angle on Cohle, approaching the back corner table. He smiles and addresses the women. One thin and blonde, the other pear-shaped, a brunette–

COHLE: Evening ladies. I was hoping to ask y’all a few questions.

BLONDE (cop alert): Aw, come on man.

COHLE: I’ll get the next round.

BLONDE: You making trouble for us, sir?

COHLE: No I’m just looking to get some information on a woman. Maybe you know her?

BLONDE: Hold on.

The blonde (Lucy- 20s), upends her beer, draining it. She slides the empty pint glass to Cohle, includes the brunette (Annette) in her gesture–

BLONDE: We’ll take two large Long Island Iced Teas, please.

COHLE: Ma’am.


Martin Hart (36) enters a darkened house, obviously late at night. He walks to the hallway, sipping his drink, still wearing his trench coat, which perhaps overtly suggests his role as investigator. He pauses in the doorway of his girl’s room —

Martin’s POV, watching his two girls sleep in the blue darkness. On his face, sipping his drink, something unsettled in his gaze, perhaps connected to the woman’s body found that day, perhaps connected to Rust’s philosophies–


ANGLE ON Cohle returning to the table with two large drinks–

COHLE: I’m Rust, by the way.

ANNETTE: I’m Annette, she’s Lucy.

COHLE: Either one of you know a woman, about your age, works the same places. 5’5”, blonde, like you.

LUCY: What kind of tits did she have?

COHLE: Medium. A little larger than yours. Proportion to the body natural.

ANNETTE: Gee, I don’t know. We see a lot of girls like that around.

COHLE: Any girls like that you hadn’t seen around lately? Missing like?

ANNETTE: People come and go. What do you want them for?

COHLE: I wouldn’t bust somebody for hooking. Or drugs.

At the word “drugs”, Lucy’s eyes dart to her purse, and Cohle clocks the tell–

COHLE: I’m murder police.

LUCY: Somebody got killed?

ANNETTE: There’s a girl named Liza, another called Destiny, but I saw Destiny yesterday at McDonald’s.

COHLE: What about Liza?

ANNETTE: She’s here.

Cohle hands Annette a ten-dollar bill–

COHLE: Annette, can you grab us a couple more drinks from the bar.

She glances to Lucy, who nods, then walks to the bar. Cohle leans towards Lucy, hushed

COHLE: You get pills pretty easy?

Lucy’s face twists in panic–

COHLE: Relax, I want some.

LUCY: Speed?

COHLE: No. Quaaludes. Anything barbital.

LUCY: Uppers are easier to get and they last longer, too.

COHLE: Yeah, but it’s not like that.

LUCY: What’s it like?

COHLE: I don’t sleep.


Maggie is sleeping alone in her underwear. She wakes up to see Marty isn’t in bed. ANGLE ON Maggie, 35, entering the living room from the hallway, still wearing Martin’s old FOOTBALL JERSEY which she sleeps in. She goes to the KITCHEN NOOK, starts coffee. As she waits for it to brew, she watches her husband, a sadness in his eyes–

She moves to him, nudges him awake


Hart’s eyes flutter and he shoots up in the chair, as if in the middle of a nightmare

MAGGIE: Hey, Lone Ranger.

HART: Hey.

MAGGIE: Why are you out here, huh? Why didn’t you come to bed?

He’s still groggy, coming out of sleep, and doesn’t pick up on her dejection

HART: Um. Caught up. Bad one yesterday. Just couldn’t sleep.

MAGGIE: You had that woman from Erath?

HART: Yeah.

MAGGIE: Saw it on the news.

Marty sips his coffee

MAGGIE: Girls’ll be up soon. Missed you the last couple days.

HART (checks watch): Oh shit. I gotta shower. I got a debriefing today and maybe a press conference later.

He jumps out of his chair, gives Maggie a peck on the cheek, and walks down the hallway —

On Maggie, trying not to be hurt, understanding by now that it’s not personal, that her husband’s job changes people. She moves back to the kitchen and begins making breakfast


HART (to receptionist): Hey beautiful

RECEPTIONIST (laughing): Morning, baby.

Close up on Rust writing on the white board

RECEPTIONIST (O.S.): Marty, how you want your coffee, doll?

HART (O.S.): Strong and black, just like you.

COHLE: Prints came back. Dora Kelly Lange. Priors for shoplifting, possession, and solicitation. Address outside of St. Martinsville, landlord said she hadn’t lived there in almost a year. She’s got an ex Charlie Lange who’s doing 8 in Avoyelles for bad checks. Mom’s outside of Breaux Bridge, DMV license expired. And Dicillo called.


CORONER: She was washed clean. Not a print on her. We got marks on the wrists and ankles. She was bound by half-inch rope, maybe 10, 20 hours. Evidence of vaginal intercourse. Bound upright. Hadn’t eaten in a day, maybe more. Toxicology hit for lysergic acid and amphetamine.

COHLE: Crystal and LSD.

HART: How much LSD?

CORONER: Hard to say. Have to wait for a mass spec.

HART: So she was drugged, bound, tortured with a knife, strangled… posed out there?

Coroner shrugs in apparent agreement. Cohle moves towards the evidence table

COHLE: What about this stuff?

CORONER: Well, the “crown” for lack of a better word: rose thorns, switchgrass, wrapped around a bent branch. And the horns are deer antlers. Again, no prints on anything. The symbols are painted with acrylic basic blue using a thick glove finger.

COHLE: Any ideas what any of this means?

CORONER: I don’t know. It’s all primitive. It’s like cave paintings. Maybe you oughta talk to an anthropologist.

[Coroner exits the room, Cohle bends down to eye level with the evidence]


HART: All the trouble this guy went to, seems real personal.

COHLE: I don’t think so. It’s iconic. Planned. And in some ways it was impersonal. Think of the blind fold.

Cohle and Hart start walking back to their car, passing a small strip of STORES with BROKEN WINDOWS, CARDBOARD patches, KUDZU and IVY growing wildly over everything, HIGH GRASS breaking through the side walks–

COHLE: This place is like somebody’s memory of a town, and the memory’s fading. It’s like there was never anything here but jungle.

HART: Stop saying shit like that. It’s unprofessional.

COHLE: Oh is that what I’m going for here?

HART: I just want you to stop saying odd shit, like you smell a psycho’s fear or you’re in someone’s faded memory of a town — just stop.

COHLE: Given how long it’s taken for me to reconcile my nature I can’t figure I’d forgo it on your account, Marty.

The two men stare at each other, the potential for violence humming in the air, placed there by the horror they just toured. That is, unable to discuss feelings, both men veer toward anger–

Then, as if remembering their actual purpose, they deflate. They reach the car and open the doors–

HART: You get any sleep last night?

COHLE: I don’t sleep. I just dream.


Close up on “The Daily Advertiser”, whose front page story reads “Occult Murder Outside Erath”

QUESADA: Occult. Now I don’t know if this shit is anything but crazy, but Speece and the superintendent, they’re paying attention. Newspapers are making hay. Church groups. Detective?

HART: Alright here’s what we got so far. Deceased’s name is Dora Kelly Lange, 28.

As Hart continues talking, the 2012 voiceover comes in over his words

GILBOUGH (V.O.): You stay busy now?

HART (V.O.): The business? Well yeah I got the security firm, P.I. stuff, routine. Lotta guys leave the job, cemetery within 10.


HART: No family, idle hands. Some advice: You make it out? You stay busy


HART: Hit the corners, ask about anybody she was seeing. Regular customers, meth dealers, rough johns. Anything. Any questions?


Cohle watches in slo-mo as a little blonde-haired girl looks at him through the window

COHLE: You believe in ghosts?

HART: What’d we say about silent reflection?

The car moves silently through a shady part of the town


COHLE: Catherine was there anything out of the ordinary between 10 and 1 AM? Out back?

CATHERINE: No, no, but, uh, sometime’s they uh dove hunt back there. They find a woman?


OLD MAN: Was it that Fontenot girl?

COHLE: Why would you ask that?

OLD MAN: Don’t know. Went missing round here years back. Last time something happened, just thought maybe it’s her.

HART: How was she, this girl?

OLD MAN: I don’t know

HART: Do you know where the family lives?

OLD MAN: They had a place, couple streets down. They moved after.


COHLE: Did you know the Fontenot girl? The one that went missing.

MINISTER: Her? Her family came to our service once or twice about six years back. Is that the girl, oh lord.

HART: No sir, it’s not.

COHLE: Excuse me *walks into church*

MINISTER: I want to ask y’all something, y’all think maybe this had something to do with those cats?

COHLE: What cats?

MINISTER: Two of them. One, and a couple weeks later another. Somebody cut em up, turned the insides out, and nailed them to the front door. Twice. Now I called the police, but we’re a predominately African-American congregation. I asked for it to be investigated.

HART: We aren’t those type of police, sir.

MINISTER: Well who is, then?

COHLE: Can I ask you something? Any of these look familiar to you? Seen em anywhere?

Cohle shows the minister his sketches of the markings on the girls’ back

MINISTER: No. Looks like something that might be carved into a tree or something.

COHLE: How about these?

Cohle shows the minister sketches of the “ornaments” found on the tree near the girl’s body

MINISTER: Now that looks like something my old aunty taught us how to make when I was a tike.

COHLE: What are they?

MINISTER: Some folks call them bird traps. Old aunty told us that they were “devil nets”. You put em around the bed, catch the devil before he get too close.

COHLE: That’s interesting.

MINISTER: She was a wonderful woman. Loved her some Jesus. But had a little Santeria in her, ya know? I always just thought it was something for children to do. Keep em busy.

Close up on a cross in the church

MINISTER (V.O.): Tell em stories while they tying sticks together.


Close up on a photo of a little girl

SHERRIF TATE: That’s all we got on that Fontenot girl.

COHLE: There’s nothing in here. It says “possible report made an error”.

TATE: That was five years ago. Ted was the sheriff back then. He’s set up in Gulf Shores now, I think.

HART: 10 year old girl goes missing and that doesn’t go state-wide?

TATE: Now hold on now, my understanding little girl went off with her birth daddy. Did you check her mom’s record? Possession, solicitation. I believe Ted knew the family. The feeling was little girl was better off with her daddy. Mom seemed to agree. She filed a complaint and then never bothered with it again. Took off with her boyfriend.

HART: R&I said you had a complaint these parts, ‘round December? Little girl getting chased through the woods.

TATE: Oh yeah! I pulled that one for you, too.

[Hands Marty a file, he opens it]

HART: What the hell is this?

TATE: Little girl said a “green haired spaghetti monster” chased her through some woods. Now we had her work with a sketch artist, and she told us that looked exactly right.

Cut to a drawing of a man with green ears and what looks like spaghetti running down his face

TATE: You wanna call in the APB on that, you go right ahead.


COHLE: Listen boys, I’m gonna have to call “time out”, make a beer run

GILBOUGH: Why don’t you hold off on that for a while.

COHLE: Alright, well why don’t you get it then?

PAPANIA: We really don’t want to do that.

COHLE: ‘Cause it’s supposed to be admissable? Hmm? You wanna pick my brain. You work a room you buy a man a cheeseburger and a Coke, don’t you?

Cohle puts money on the table

COHLE: I’ll take a sixer of Old Milwaukee or Lone Star, nothing snooty.

PAPANIA: Why is this so important to you all of a sudden?

COHLE: ‘Cause it’s Thursday and it’s past noon. Thursday is one of my days off. On my off days I start drinking at noon. You don’t get to interrupt that.

Cohle blows the dollar bill across the table to Papania. He reluctantly gets up

COHLE: I’d appreciate a little hustle up on that.


QUESADA: Yesterday, at approximately 6 am, civilians came across the body of a female in a sugar cane field outside of Erath. Now this person we believe was murdered. And we are not yet in the position to release the identity of the victim or to offer details of the crime. Our investigators *gestures towards Rust and Marty* have several leads and hopefully will have a suspect for you in custody soon.


QUESADA (V.O.): Now this perpetrator will be apprehended, and he will know swift Louisiana justice.

HART (V.O.): Charlie. Let’s talk about your ex, Dora Lange.


CHARLIE LANGE: You wanna talk Dory? What’s she said I done now?

COHLE: We’re just curious if you knew what she’s been up to and maybe where she’s living.

CHARLIE: Nope. Got our divorce papers pushed through after I’d been here about a year. I don’t blame the bitch.

HART: She got a habit?

CHARLIE (laughing): A few. Weed, meth, juice, name it.

HART: Charlie, how’d y’all meet?

CHARLIE: Growed up together, dropped out the same time. Hitched up way too quick. You know how it is, you want a wife but only half the time.

Hart nods

COHLE: Why’re you saying you haven’t heard from her? She called up for you not too long ago.

CHARLIE: I mean she couldn’t help me anyway, not when she’s all fucked up.

COHLE: You see that’s exactly the kind of thing that we do wanna know about, Charlie.

CHARLIE: Oh. Alright. I need some scratch for my store, and Dory owes me money she ain’t got no fucking phone so… got a number to her friend Carla, got her to call me back, and she ain’t make no fucking sense.

HART: Carla’s full name and phone number.

Hands him a paper to write on

COHLE: What you mean she didn’t make sense?

CHARLIE: Like she could duck hunt with a rake. High, yeah? Talking bout she’s gon’ become a nun.

COHLE: Why a nun?

CHARLIE: I don’t know man, she was high. Fucked up. Talking about “she met a king”. Shit. Anyway…

Slides the paper with Carla’s address back across the table

CHARLIE: I don’t need no snitch jacket up in here.

HART (laughing): Give me a break. This is Avoyelles. It’s a goddamn day camp. Spend some time in Angola. *gestures to Charlie’s Aryan tattoos* Surprised you even got Aryan Nation here.

CHARLIE: What Dory do?

COHLE: Dory’s dead.

JUMP CUT: as though on a badly-spliced video-


A few minutes later. Cohle has a SIX-PACK of LONE STAR in front of him, along with his ash-mug and cigarettes. He pops a can and guzzles half of it with relish. Lights a cigarette–

COHLE: Thank you boys. We almost had a moment there.

Takes a long sip

COHLE: So you wanna talk the whole case through or just the end?

GILBOUGH: Whole story from your end if you don’t mind. Like he said, the files got ruined. Hurricane Rita.

COHLE: What he didn’t say is this is about something else. Something new, that one in Lake Charles, maybe?

GILBOUGH: Why do you say that?

COHLE: Get the details out of the paper.

GILBOUGH: Yeah we did. You know anything about that? About Lake Charl


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