"I am a vampire, of an unexpiring empire of fantastical phantasms who languish in the anguish of exquisite exsanguinations. Banned forever from the sun, we band forever under the moon, we pallid paladins, morose and remorseless remoras of man, filled with the undistilled dreckful nectar of their necks, until we are full, and forever unfulfilled."

Turner stopped his recitation from the murdered man's diary to look at his partner, who responded with:

"What a pretentious fuckhead," followed by muttered curses in Italian.

A knock on the mobile home's doorframe drew their attention, and a balding, heavyset man stepped up into the trailer, file folder in hand. "Excuse me, gentlemen. I'm Detective Morris, lead investigator."

Turner's partner pulled a billfold from his jacket pocket and flashed it at the officer. "Special Agent Carver, FBI." He aimed a thumb at his African-American associate. "This is Special Agent Turner."

After a round of gloved handshakes, Morris said, "This is a real mess, a god awful mess. Things like this don't happen in Wyoming, let alone Cheyenne. Either of you ever seen anything like this before?"

"Too many times," Carver said with a shake of his head.

Morris' eyes widened. Turner waved his partner off. "Not in person. Historically, yes, but nothing this decade, and certainly not in the United States."

"Yeah, we did research before we got here," Carver said. "In the fifties, a cult ran through Chile, Ecuador, and the like, performing exorcisms on autistics and epileptics, and when that failed..." Carver mimed plunging a stake into his own heart.

"Jesus." Morris indicated the file he was holding. "You think this is similar to that?"

"No," Turner said. "Just a simple murder, made to look like something else."

"How can you be sure? He was stabbed through the chest with a wooden stake."

"Do you have the photo of the murder weapon?" The officer pulled it from the file. "It was probably a dowel bought from a hardware store, and sharpened later. Note how it's smooth and polished. Were there any fingerprints?"

"No. It was wiped down, and we think that the killer wore gloves."

"If these were religious zealots, they wouldn't buy something off a store shelf. They'd have whittled down a tree branch, or else the stake would have been engraved with carvings or painted. If the murderer believed that they were driven by some divine hand, the murder weapon would have been treated with some reverence that would be evident."

"What about a schizophrenic; someone believing Mr. Harris was evil? The victim was known for telling people that he was a vampire."

Carver stopped his disapproving inspection of their environment to look at the officer. "Wait. He was saying this in public?" More muttering as Carver retreated further into the back of the RV.

"To answer your question," Turner said to Morris, "if you've had any experience with mentally disturbed people, you'd know they don't use gloves or worry about forensics."

"If anyone was mentally disturbed, it was this guy," Carver said, tossing his hands in the air. "I mean, look at this place. Just look at it."

Turner couldn't help but inspect the man's home once more. It had been an expensive recreational vehicle once; not so much anymore. Blackout curtains draped heavily-tinted windows, and the color theme pulled from the red and black palettes, with occasional touches of purple and gold. Bargain-bin silks covered all the furniture, and above the bed, written in the victim's blood, were the words: DEATH TO THE UNDEAD! Turner's gaze shifted from the room to one of the detective's photos. "I don't remember seeing that one in the file you sent us."

"Hmm? Oh, yes." Morris turned his file so Turner could see the picture of the goblet better. "We found this in the cabinets after you contacted us. We think he kept this to drink blood. Human blood, our tests have shown."

Carver peeked in the file folder. "I'm guessing that's not real gold, right?"

"No. It's a copper-plated chalice with plastic gems around it."

"That's what I figured. I'm done here," and Carver brushed by the others to exit the RV.

"We haven't run DNA yet," Morris continued to Turner, "but we've identified one blood type; O negative, same as the victim. We haven't asked his girlfriend if it's hers yet. That's what I came out to tell you. She was on the East Coast visiting her parents at the time, but she's here now. I was about to talk with her, but I didn't know if you wanted to be there, or even take the lead."

Turner shook his head. "This is your case; our only interest is national security. The victim had access to the entire state capitol building. No one's used his I.D. since his passing, and his access card was deactivated, but we still have to file a report. Nine-eleven and all. Just a few questions when you're done."

"Sure, that's fine, although this is one time I wouldn't mind the feds taking over." They exited the trailer into the sheriff's impound lot.  The noonday sun beat on them, causing the detective to dry his forehead of sweat with a blue handkerchief before he coughed into it. "Sorry. The smoke from the wildfires..."

"I know. I heard about it on the news as we flew in. Pretty far away, but I can smell it."

"Yeah. Anyways," Morris said as he pointed to where they had exited, "this one is just too damn strange for my tastes. The only good thing was that we were able to bring the entire crime scene to our lab." The sheriff indicated the trailer's interior. "Is there anything else in there you need, or..."

"No, we're finished."

Morris shut the door and locked it before applying a new sticker to seal the trailer shut. As the sheriff noted and logged everything, Turner checked on his partner, who was by the front of the RV, inspecting his hair in the rearview mirror. At least he wasn't smoking. Turner tapped the trailer twice to get Carver's attention, and then pointed to the back door of the sheriff's office, where the three re-entered the building.

Turner found the investigation of Leonard Harris' murder to be exemplary. The case file contained extensive and detailed notes, all paperwork was filled out in immaculate handwriting, and Morris' questioning of the victim's girlfriend was compassionate while probing for facts and discrepancies. Turner and Carver watched the interview through a television feed in the detective's offices. An hour's conversation with Leandra Pascole yielded several things: that she was out of town at the time of the killing; that she couldn't imagine anyone wanting to harm Leonard; that they frequented various goth clubs in the state, including one where they had met; that he hadn't been acting any differently or mentioned any threats; that some of the blood in the cup was hers; and that they were very much in love. She was shaking and shaken, and when the conversation concluded, she excused herself to the restroom to fix her mascara. On her exit, Turner approached.

"Excuse me, ma'am. I'm sorry for the loss you've endured, but we have a few more questions, if you don't mind."

Holding a tissue to her reddening nose, she nodded. "Oh course. I... uh, who are you?"

"I'm Special Agent Turner with the FBI." He showed his badge and pointed to his partner. "This is Special Agent Carter."

"FBI? I don't understand."

Turner gestured towards the detective's break room. "Just a few questions. Please."

She nodded her consent, and Turner led her to a table and chairs, taking a seat across from her. "Would you like something to eat or drink?"

"No, nothing, thanks."

"I'm sure you haven't eaten." He indicated the vending machines and the coffee maker. "You should probably have something."

"If you say so. A diet soda, please."

"Sure," Carter said. He looked at the soda machine, patted his pants pockets, checked his jacket, and left the room.

"I don't understand," she repeated. "Why is the FBI involved?"

"It's standard procedure. Your boyfriend worked as a night custodian at the state capitol, allowing him access to all parts of the building, including several secure locations."

"So, what? You think this was terrorism?"

"Unlikely, but we are required to explore all avenues."

Carter returned with a uniformed officer who fed the vending machine. Turner waited for the dispensing noise to subside before continuing. "Had you noticed anyone around his place, or anyone else asking questions?"

"No."

"Had he mentioned anything strange at work, anything out of the ordinary?"

"No. He never talked about his job. It was just cleaning."

The police officer left. Carter brought the can to the woman. He hovered over Leandra, reaching over her shoulder to place the can in front of her. His eyes focused on Turner, who nodded, before Carter moved back to the vending machine. Leandra opened the can, sipped, and placed the soda back on the table.

"Better?" Turner asked.

"Yes, thank you," she said.

"Good. You mentioned in your previous interview that the two of you visited some underground clubs. Is it possible that there were some dangerous people there, perhaps some individuals inclined towards violence?"

"No, not really. I mean, there were occasional fights, and every now and then, there'd be some bloodletting, where people would cut themselves and let others drink from the wounds, but nothing unusual."

"Nothing unusual? You don't consider bloodletting unusual?"

"It was in one of the more serious clubs, but the people are relatively harmless."

"I don't know if you're aware, but there are some indications that his death may have had some relation to the whole vampire ethos he was perpetuating."

She twisted the tissue between her hands, staring at it before meeting Turner's gaze. "You're with the federal government, right?"

Carter snorted. "That's what the "F" in FBI means."

She nodded, and looked around to make sure that no one else was in earshot. "So, you know he was a real vampire? That's why you're here, right?"

Turner remained impassive, while Carter struggled to maintain a straight face. Turner shook his head. "Ma'am..."

"It's true." Her hands darted across the table to grab his wrist. She held him, squeezing tight. "He was over fifty years old, and he burned in the sun. He needed blood to survive, and didn't show up on film or in mirrors."

"He had a current photo on his work I.D.; a driver's license."

"That was during his final transition. He said there are stages."

"I see," Carter said as he approached with a smile. Turner knew the look, and the types of questions that would soon be asked. "And, if you don't mind my asking, you seem like a lady of some class. Why would you be with a guy who thought he was a vampire?"

A smile crept out for a moment. "He was young in body, but old in experience. Vampires are experts on the human body; blood flow and nerve endings." A sigh before she said, "The sex was amazing."

"Really." Carter grinned. "So, he was a vampire sex god content to live out his immortal life scrubbing toilets as a janitor?"

"A sanitation engineer, and it wasn't his choice." Her hands released Turner. "He was forced to take the job."

"Forced by who? The other vampires, I suppose?"

"Yes. There was a war amongst their kind, where many were killed off, and the survivors went to work for governments around the world."

"Of course. Sure. That makes sense." Carter tried to speak without laughing. "It's always hard to find jobs after a war, so if you do, best to find one that offers a pension. Work twenty years, receive a payout for all eternity. Genius." He faced Turner. "Okay, so, I'm done here. I'm going to the car." With that, Carter left the room, grumbling under his breath.

Leandra lowered her head, but her eyes flicked up to catch Turner's gaze. "You think I'm crazy." 

"No. Maybe a little... trusting. Just because he said he was a vampire..."

"Once he allowed a beam of sunlight to land on his arm, and the skin started to blister."

"The power of suggestion. There's a magic trick where a volunteer is blindfolded, and a match is lit. A piece of ice touches the person's arm, and blisters would occur."

"What about video? We tried recording him. He didn't show up on camera."

"Do you have any proof of that?"

"How could I? He didn't show up on camera."

"I don't doubt what you saw. I'm just saying that with technology today, a camera could be rigged to remove him from the image, in order to convince you..."

"So you don't think he was crazy, but a liar."

"I'm not saying that," Turner said, standing. "I didn't know the man, and I'm not trying to defame anyone's memory. It's not our case. Our only concern is for any national security issues, and I don't think that applies here. I am sorry this happened, and we extend our sympathies to you."

As he exited the room, she called out, "I'm not crazy. He was a vampire, and we were meant to be together for all eternity. He called me his eternally beloved. Please look into it. You'll see I'm telling the truth. They're real, and if they're not here already, then they'll be coming soon."

Turner spoke to Morris before leaving, explaining that nothing found comprised national security, and he wished the investigator good luck before departing. In the parking lot, Carter leaned against their car, smoking a cigarette while trying to chat up two women passing by on the sidewalk. He flashed his badge and said something, and his comment was met with laughter. At Turner's approach, he called out, "I'll catch you all later." He looked at Turner and pointed at them. "I'll catch them later."

Turner opened the car door and took the driver's seat, and Carter dropped in next to him. "Toss it," Turner said. There should have been no discussion on the matter.

Carter held the cigarette outside. "You should love the smell of tobacco in the morning. Smells like victory."

Turner shook his head. He couldn't afford a fight in the parking lot. One of them had to worry about appearances. He turned the key and awoke the engine. "Carter."

"What?"

"The name on your badge. It's Carter, not Carver."

Carter blew smoke out of the passenger window as he retrieved his billfold. A quick inspection before he tossed it on the dashboard. "How am I supposed to know that? You know I never learned to read."

"Which explains a lot."

"I don't know why they keep changing it. You always get to stay Turner."

"That's because I don't try to stand out."

"Can't help it if I'm memorable."

"And I don't invent stupid things, like Ecuadorian epileptics."

Carter's laugh dissolved into a cough, prompting another drag from his cigarette. "He ever repeats that story, he'll just come off as a crazy old racist."

"My point is, our goal should be to get in and out without anyone remembering that we were there."

"A philosophy I live by." He patted his breast pocket. "That's why I always keep the roofies on hand." Carter raised a hand. "Fine. Mea culpa. I'm just angry, is all. I had to cut my hair for this. Serious, though. Tell me that what you saw in that trailer didn't piss you off."

Turner looked away. "I can't."

"Exactly. And you're with me on this? That she killed him?"

"Not her, specifically, but she found someone to do it."

Carter shook his head and flicked ashes off the tip on his cigarette. "Christ, what a fucking idiot. I can't believe that he told her he was a vampire."

"That's not the worst of it," Turner said. "I think she knows we are as well."