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“Organized crime?” His eyebrows shot up. “That's the best you could come up with?”

“You'd prefer 'demons opening dimensional gates under Manhattan'?” I shot back.

“Point taken.” He helped me secure the journal and other compromising items, movements precise despite his obvious discomfort. “But you do this often? Just... lie to your own people?”

Something in his tone made me pause. “You think I enjoy it?”

“Didn't say that.” He met my gaze steadily. “Just trying to figure out how someone who clearly values truth ended up building his career on carefully crafted bullshit.”

The sirens were closer now, red and blue lights starting to paint the walls. I didn't have time to unpack everything wrong with his assessment.

“Sometimes the truth gets people killed,” I said finally. “Sometimes the lies protect them.”

His expression softened slightly. “And who protects you?”

Local PD burst through the door with admirable enthusiasm and terrible tactical awareness. Sean shifted seamlessly into federal agent mode.

“Agents Cross and Kelly, CITD,” I announced, showing credentials. “This is now a federal crime scene. We'll need your officers to establish a perimeter and keep civilians back.”

The next hour was a careful dance of procedure and misdirection. The CITD forensics team arrived with their usual efficiency, and I watched Sean adapt to their presence with surprising skill. He asked the right questions, made the right observations, all while carefully steering them away from anything too supernatural.

“Signs of struggle are minimal,” Dr. Martinez noted, examining the body. “Toxicology might tell us more about why the victim remained compliant during the attack.”

I caught Sean's slight tension at that observation. We both knew toxicology wouldn't show the kind of compulsion used here.

“Check for residue around the wounds,” I suggested, knowing they'd find traces of sulfur but attribute it to something more mundane. “And we'll need detailed photos of the cutting patterns.”

“Already on it.” Dr. Martinez's team worked tirelessly, documenting everything except what really mattered. “But I have to say, Agent Cross, these wounds are... unusual.”

“Ritualistic killers often develop unique signatures,” I offered, the lie smooth from practice.

Sean drifted closer, pitching his voice low. “We're not going to find anything useful in the official channels, are we?”

“No.” I watched the forensics team bag evidence that would end up in reports that explained nothing. “But we needed to do this by the book. Establish the pattern through proper channels.”

“So when more bodies drop, we have documentation.”

“Exactly.”

He was quiet for a moment, watching the organized chaos of a federal crime scene. “You're good at this,” he said finally. “The balance between what they need to know and what they can't handle knowing.”

“Had a lot of practice.”

“That's not actually comforting.”

I smiled despite everything. “Welcome to my world.”

The scene processing continued with methodical thoroughness, every piece of evidence carefully cataloged and completely missing the point. I maintained my professional mask, directing attention where it needed to go, keeping the investigation firmly in the realm of the explainable.

But this was another dead end, and we both knew it. Whatever answers we needed wouldn't be found in official reports or forensic analysis. They'd be in that journal we'd secured, in the symbols that hurt to look at, in the patterns only visible if you knew where ancient forces left their marks.

“We should check for more evidence of supernatural activity,” Sean murmured as the teams started packing up. “Thatsulfur trace wasn't natural. Maybe there's some leftover hex bags or sigils the cleanup crew might've missed.”

“After they clear out,” I nodded to the forensics team.

His shoulder brushed mine, the contact brief but deliberate. “Just us? No official backup?”

“Would you trust them with what we might find?”