The Skull Artist

Chapter One

They say you only get one shot at proving yourself. But what they don’t say is—sometimes, that shot is soaked in blood, wrapped in regret, and aimed straight at your head.

I’d been sitting in this damn office for forty-seven minutes. Not that I was counting, but trust me, I was. The clock on the wall ticked like it was mocking me, each second dragging a sigh out of my chest. This was supposed to be the moment. My moment. Promotion board meeting, round three. My coffee was cold, and my hands wouldn’t stop shaking. Not from fear. I don’t get scared easily—not anymore. It’s just... anticipation. Rage. Hope, maybe. I don’t know. Maybe all three.

Captain Ronning was late. Again. And it didn’t help that every time I came here, I sat in the same damn seat, staring at the same crooked photo of him shaking hands with the mayor like he’d just solved world hunger. All he did was survive bureaucracy, which, honestly, might be a harder job than what I do.

I shifted in my chair and stared down at my boots. Black. Polished. Military issue. I never served, but my brother did. Before he ended up face down in a ditch because the government forgot to care about the soldiers they break. He always told me, “Keep your boots clean, and the dirt won’t stick.” It stuck anyway.

The door creaked open. Finally. Ronning walked in like he wasn’t fifty goddamn minutes late, dropped a file on his desk, and sighed.

Never a good sign.

I straightened. He didn’t sit down. Another bad sign.

“Cross,” he said, his voice low, gravel in his throat like he chewed cigars for breakfast. “This isn’t the conversation I wanted to have today.”

I almost laughed. Welcome to my entire career, sir.

“Then let’s make it quick,” I replied, deadpan. “Yes or no?”

He looked up, eyes squinting, like my bluntness was a surprise. It shouldn’t be. I don’t sugar-coat. I don’t kiss asses. I solve cases.

“You’re not getting the lieutenant badge,” he said.

Just like that. Knife to the chest. Twist. Pull.

I didn’t flinch.

“Why?” I asked, even though I already knew.

“Politics,” he said, shrugging. “And the board doesn’t like your... attitude.”

“My attitude?”

He waved his hand like it was supposed to dismiss the insult. “You don’t play well with others. You bend rules.”

I leaned forward. “I bend them because the rules are broken. You want me to follow protocol while a girl bleeds out in an alley and we wait six hours for a warrant?”

“Lana—”

“I’ve closed more cases in the last twelve months than half this department combined,” I snapped. “But sure, let’s talk about my tone.”

He sighed. A real one, this time. Almost like he felt sorry for me. Almost.

“There’s another reason,” he said. “And it’s not coming from me.”

He slid the folder across the desk. My name wasn’t on the cover. Just a case number. One I knew better than my own reflection.

SK-087: The Skull Artist.

I froze. That case was supposed to be dead. Buried. Just like the ten victims we never fully identified.

“No,” I said before he could continue. “He’s locked up. Case closed.”

Ronning shook his head. “We got a body this morning. Same signature. Meat art. Blood writing. This time it spelled ‘hello.’”

My stomach twisted. Not fear. Not again. Not now. I thought I was past this.

“You think it’s a copycat,” I said, but my voice cracked on the last word. I hated that.

“We’re not sure,” he said. “But the commissioner thinks if anyone can close this, it’s the person who caught him the first time.”

I stood up, fists clenched. “I didn’t catch him. I just got lucky.”

“You survived him,” he replied. “That’s more than most.”

I turned toward the window, breathing through my nose. Outside, the city looked gray and tired. Just like me.

“This isn’t just a case,” I said. “This is a trap. For me.”

He didn’t argue. That was the worst part. He knew I was right.

“You solve this,” he said quietly, “and the badge is yours.”

I laughed. A bitter, hollow sound.

“Right. So, let me risk my mind, my life, and everything I’ve rebuilt... for a promotion.”

He didn’t say anything. He didn’t have to. The answer was obvious.

I took the folder, walked out, and didn’t look back.

Back at my apartment, I dropped the folder on the kitchen counter and stared at it like it might bite. The apartment was quiet, too quiet. I used to live with someone. A man. Good guy. Couldn’t handle my demons. Left a note on the fridge that said, “I love you, but I can’t love all the parts you keep buried.”

I didn’t blame him.

I opened the folder. First crime scene photo: a young woman, early twenties, posed like she was dancing. Arms lifted, back arched, but her skull—gone. Skin peeled in long, artistic strips, arranged in spirals around the body. Blood used to paint the floor like brush strokes.

Same as before. Exactly.

The Skull Artist had a thing for turning flesh into art. Said he was revealing the truth underneath. That’s why he removed the skulls. To him, the skull was the purest form of human beauty. He called it the “sacred core.”

I’d interviewed him three times during the original case. Each time, I walked out feeling like I needed to bleach my soul.

His real name was Vincent Greaves. Former art professor. Lectured on pain and beauty. Wrote poetry that made no sense unless you were broken inside.

I reached into my desk and pulled out the recorder I hadn’t touched in years. The last tape I made after Greaves was arrested. I’d never played it back. I’d been scared of what I might hear.

I pressed play.

His voice poured out, soft and cold.

“Detective Cross. You think you’ve stopped the story. But stories don’t end with the writer in chains. They end when the message is complete. And mine... is far from over.”

I shut it off.

He wasn’t wrong.

Tomorrow, I’ll go to the prison. I’ll look him in the eyes again.

But tonight, I’m going to pour myself a drink, sit in the dark, and remember what it felt like to be whole—before I ever heard the name Skull Artist.

And maybe, just maybe, I’ll start preparing for war.

Because if this really is the sequel...

I refuse to be the victim this time.