They arrived at the Cheyenne Emergency Management Operations Center by noon. The building remained unoccupied, save for times of crisis or bi-monthly training. They were promised the offices for five days, though Turner did not expect to be around that long.

The main room sported thirty workstations that faced a series of large, flatscreen monitors on the far wall. Inside, four people worked; one, a young woman shy of thirty, left the group to greet them. "Welcome, gentlemen. My name's Alicia Waters, your government liaison. I wasn't informed who would be arriving."

Turner shook her hand. "I'm Turner, and this," he said, directing an open palm to his companion, "is Caravaggio."

"An honor. I've heard so much about you both." She nodded deferentially to Turner and flashed an extra wide smile to his brother. While Caravaggio spent extra moments in pleasantries, Turner appraised the woman, noting her excited smile, her fine sense of style in clothing, and the faintest hint of a Puerto Rican accent. He was sure Caravaggio was noticing other things.

"We're close to being set up here," she said. "We wish to do everything possible to help find who did this."

"We already know," Caravaggio said. "The girlfriend."

"Really?" Alicia was taken back. "You're certain?"

"Yup."

"Do you know the reason why?"

Turner nodded. "For money. She's after the life insurance."

Caravaggio's eyes narrowed. "We sure?"

"She emphasized, 'eternally beloved' before I left."

"That bitch," Caravaggio snorted. "God, what a bitch."

"Life insurance?" Alicia inquired. "I'm not familiar with that."

Turner ran a hand down his suit jacket to wipe away imaginary wrinkles. "Well, we can't be certain until we see paperwork, but there were other things. Right now, our biggest issue is finding her accomplice."

"Okay, well, we can help with that," and Alicia introduced the other members of their team. There was Herb, a lanky, computer technician who set up the temporary servers; Ginger, a five-foot records expert; and Stu, a data analyst who sported an earring and frightened expression. It was obvious that they had never encountered vampires before, and none approached to shake hands; only Ginger offered a little waist-high wave. It seemed as if they were trying to discern the difference between Turner's kind and their own, as if they expected the two to have fangs. Alicia dealt assignments to the others, having them search Leandra's credit card, phone, and GPS records for patterns. As the team went off to work, she turned back to the two men.

"I'm sorry. I'm not in charge; the two of you are. I figured you wanted to get started."

"More than fine," Turner said. "You know your team better than we do."

"Great." She beamed as she escorted the men to a smaller office with four desks. A broad window overlooked the main room. "I don't know if either of you have ever done one of these investigations before..." Turner nodded; Caravaggio shook his head. "Well, some of our data comes from public records, so we can compile that now, but others, we access from intelligence agencies or private corporations, so one of you will have to authorize permissions."

"I'll authorize," Caravaggio volunteered before pointing at Turner. "He'll go through the records. He loves that shit. Gets him off."

"Okay..." Alicia seemed unsure how to respond, but with Turner's nod of agreement, she retrieved a file folder from a desk. "We just need you to fill in the name of the person being investigated." She returned with several forms, handing them to Caravaggio, and pointing to various areas. "Just print the suspect's name in the places with the X's, and then sign on the bottom for each one."

"Sure, no prob." He scribbled a few moments before pausing. "Wait. Do I use my real name, my designated name, or the bullshit badge name they gave me today?"

"Designated name is fine."

"Good. It looks better." He signed 'Caravaggio' with a flourish on each page as Alicia helped Turner set up his log-in at a desk. Soon, Turner was sifting through the preliminary details of Leandra's life while Caravaggio handed the forms back over to Alicia.

"I just wanted to say," she added, "that we are sorry for your loss. Did either of you know the family?"

Turner shook his head while Caravaggio drawled, "Nah, but that's not unusual. Most of us don't cross paths that often."

"I understand. If there is anything else I could do to help..."

"Actually, yes," Turner said. "We could use the latest records on the victim, his well-being checks, who his mother is, any flags that came up in his file, that sort of thing."

"Of course," and she left. In the five minutes that she was gone, Turner discovered that Leandra was thirty-three, a public relations associate at an architectural firm, had no criminal record, and twenty-nine thousand in savings. In the same time period, Caravaggio found that the drawers on his desk worked, and that his stapler made a banging sound every time he slapped it.

Alicia returned with a journal in hand. She addressed Turner, saying, "As you know, sir, all records require oversight before release, but due to the circumstances, you should be able to access Mr. Young's file soon. As to his mother, if she is still living, they will not release anything but a cursory summary; it's a confidentiality issue. They still have the right to privacy, but some basic details will be sent to you momentarily; information that we here are not cleared for, so you are required to keep any information about Mr. Young's parent from the others in this room, myself included."

"Understood," It was a standardized speech Turner had heard before.

"Sure," Caravaggio said with a shrug, "My lips are sealed. Promise."

"Well," she said, "you don't need to keep them sealed for everything; just this." Caravaggio laughed, and Alicia ran one foot back and forth lightly across the floor before saying, "And if I could ask a favor...?"

"Hit me," Caravaggio chirped.

Alicia handed Caravaggio the journal and a pen. He opened it, looked inside, and laughed some more. "Sure, I'll sign." He opened the book at random and flashed it to Turner, showing him pages full of signatures.

Turner waved the journal off, and Alicia nodded. "Thank you, anyways, sir," she said.

Caravaggio kept the journal in the air between himself and Turner. "Why you got to be a prick? Sign the chick's book."

"Really, it's fine, sir," Alicia emphasized to Turner. "I understand. It's not for everyone."

Caravaggio muttered something and scowled at Turner before asking, "From what I'm seeing here, I'm guessing you'd be wanting our..., sorry, my... real name."

"If you don't mind, yes, please."

"Course I don't mind. I'm not a prick." With long, flowing strokes, he filled a quarter of the page with his signature. He reviewed the earlier pages. "Damn, girl, you got some names in here. Some really heavy hitters."

"Yes, until last week, I was stationed for three years in Europe. Mostly logistics, but I had the chance to meet many interesting individuals."

"I can see that. Oi," he called to Turner, thrusting the book forward again with one finger pointed at a particular signature. Turner examined where Caravaggio indicated, glared at his brother, and then took the journal and pen. After signing, he returned them to Alicia, who smiled and offered a minute bow of appreciation. Caravaggio started to make another remark when one of the men's computers displayed an alert.

"Am I fucking reading this right?" Caravaggio banged keyboard buttons.

Turner raised a hand to silence Caravaggio. To Alicia, "You need to leave."

"Of course. Understood." She spun around and hastened away.

Once out of human hearing, Caravaggio snarled, "A father?" His eyes lit up and he smiled. "Wait. Holy shit. I mean, holy shit. You know what we got here. A Ren-thing. An actual Ren-thing."

Turner nodded. "It would explain a lot."

"Damn straight. I never heard of a real one. You?"

"Martin's mentioned it before. He said Reverse Renfields are more common, with eighty-plus instances confirmed. As for Renfield Actuals, I think there's only been two cases reported."

Caravaggio nodded to himself. "Yeah, and what's the other one called, the death one...?"

Turner sighed. Their memories allowed perfect recall of their every millisecond, but it required some effort on their behalf, the type Caravaggio could never muster. "Cotard's."

"Exactly. We got a real Renfield along with Cotard's, which would explain that shithole he was living in."

For once, Car might have been right. "It says they're having the father come in for an interview. Perhaps I should do it alone. Keep things calm and professional."

"Yeah, probably for the best. If I meet that man, I might lose my shit." Caravaggio sat in quiet contemplation for a moment before saying, "Nope, fuck it. I'm going in there."

Walter Prescott sat at the table, broken and despondent. A handsome older-looking man, with sorrow marring his features with creases and tears. He didn't look up when the two men entered or when Turner dropped the file on the table. Caravaggio chose to stand in the corner, arms crossed.

"First and foremost,' Turner said, "on behalf of all of us, I wish to extend our deepest condolences for your loss. We cannot imagine what you are going through. We do have some questions, but we will try to make this as quick as possible." Receiving a nod as consent, he continued. "Now, I just want to confirm a few things. You brought him into the fold in the early sixties, correct?" Another nod. "And it seems close to the cutoff before we implemented background checks. Is that right? We need you to verbalize for the record."

"Yes."

"And the conflict during that time, did you participate?"

"No. I took the stand of a conscientious objector. It was a time of peace, love, and happiness."

"For some, not all. Were you informed of what was going to happen, the plans for the future, and all that?"

"Yes."

"And your son. What was his opinion?"

"I don't know. Why is this relevant?"

"Just details of the case that indicate that there may be a correlation. That this might have been payback for someone he might have angered during that time."

"That's ridiculous. It's not possible."

"It very well may be. You were not involved. What about the rest of your family?"

"They joined in. I asked to be left out. My wish was granted."

"Because they respected that you were a conscientious objector."

"Because I am a terrible fighter, and no good at deceit."

Turner looked in the file. "I can see that. Now, I have your well-being reports for him over the last year. You stated that he was in good health, and because of this, Mr. Young was offered the chance to move out of his janitorial duties and into something more befitting of us. Your emails stated that he was happy where he was and that you thought he could be most effective to us in the role he played. However, his updates on the state senators were sparse at best, incoherent at worst. You stated in several reports that he was doing fine, but from what I saw in his trailer, he had been suffering from a long-term depression, possibly a year or more. If you had been checking in on him, how is that possible?"

"I don't know. I guess he hid it well."

"But he was gay, correct?"

"Of course. We loved each other very much, but we separated so he could have some measure of independence."

"Was he bisexual, perhaps?"

"No. At the time he was with me, he never expressed any interest in women."

"Well, of course he didn't," Caravaggio snapped, but a hand in the air from Turner waved him off.

"I'm sorry," Turner said, "but we found evidence that he had a girlfriend."

"What kind of evidence?" Prescott asked.

From his corner, Caravaggio leaned forward. "The actual girlfriend."

Prescott placed his hands in his lap. "I never knew of any of that."

"Did you know that he was in the grips of a major depression?"

"No."

"Really?" Turner asked as he flipped through his notes. "Because most of what he had purchased was bought within the last year. Furniture, décor..."

"I don't recall seeing anything out of the ordinary."

Caravaggio stared at the ceiling and groaned, "Oh, my God..."

Turner prepared to chastise his brother when he reconsidered. "You know what?" He looked at Caravaggio. "Go ahead."

"Serious? Because I'm not going to be nice."

Turner shrugged. "You rarely are."

"Okay." Caravaggio strode forward to grab an open chair and sit. "I'll tell you exactly what happened. You found some young kid, a twink or a street rat, and maybe he likes guys or he don't, or he don't know yet, but who cares. It doesn't matter if he's attracted to you; what's important is that you're attracted to him, so you start pumping out pheromones, so he can't help be attracted to you, regardless of what he likes."

"No, he had been with men before me. He said so."

"That don't mean shit. I've fucked plenty of men, plenty have fucked me. That don't make me gay. Just means I was broke, or else bored and there was no else around. So, now this kid's all hot for you, and you find him pretty, so then you rush to make him one of us before the background checks start. You might have even enhanced him after the new rules went into effect and lied about the date."

Turner inspected his manicure. "He stated that it was impossible that the decedent's death was because of the war. It would make more sense if he wasn't even one of us then." He looked in the file again before a casual wave to Prescott. "And he seems to have a thing for lying on paperwork."

Caravaggio pointed at Turner. "Yup. So, as you upgrade him and when he was at his weakest, you said something like, 'I'm the love of your life,' or "We'll be together always' or whatever other shit you slung at him, and for a while, you're cool with it. You got someone naive and pretty who does whatever you say and lets you bang them at will, so life's good.

"And then, what always happens, happens. You get bored with the same face day after decade, so you tell him that you both should see other people, meaning you want to see other people, so you cut him loose..."

"It wasn't like that. We --"

"You get him a job, visit every so often, and leave him to his own devices. The dude's all fucked in the head now. You told him that you'd be together forever. It's a fact in his mind where he cannot comprehend anything else.

"Somewhere along the way, he runs into some chick who sets his pecker all a-flutter, and now he doubts everything. He thought he was gay, that he would be loved by you forever, and when you didn't, he began doubting everything else you told him and starts to believe all the film stuff; garlic and sunlight and mirrors shit."

Caravaggio pointed at Walter. "You Renfielded his ass. You used him up and dumped him on the world, where his natural urges came roaring back and he went fucking nuts, just like the guy in that book. That's why we don't choose the same sex unless we know for sure. Closet cases happen all the time, at least eighty by my recollection, but an actual Renfield... "Caravaggio tsked. "Your fuck-up made history."

"From there, things spiraled downhill," Turner added. "His mental unraveling turned into a full-blown depression with Cotard's Syndrome, to where he believed that he was dead. He convinced himself that he was a generic, pop culture vampire, so he became ashen, his pulse slowed, and his limbs became cold. He figured he wouldn't show up on camera or in mirrors, so he refused to allow himself to be seen. Yes, we can control these things at will, but his subconscious was in charge, and the more he believed, the more symptoms he showed, and the more symptoms he showed, the more he believed.

"The thing I don't understand is that this had to have built up over time, and yet you submitted quarterly reports stating that Young was in good health. I don't understand why you lied. You could see he needed help."

Prescott slumped further in his seat. "I knew he wasn't well. I was hoping I could snap him out of it."

"How?" Turner scanned the papers before him. "From your travel itinerary, it shows that every three months, you were in his town for a day or so before leaving and filing a positive well-being check. I don't understand why you didn't contact us before letting him descend further. He could have been helped."

"Helped how? There's no cure for Cotard's, is there?"

"He was suffering from depression. We could have helped put him out of his misery," Caravaggio said. "I would have been more than happy to help him."

"That's exactly why I didn't say anything," the father said. "I know the rules. There can only be so many of us, and someone not contributing is not tolerated. There would have been the mandatory therapy, but we all know how it would have turned out; the same as it did now. I was trying to allow him a little more time, a few more days of happiness. Is that so wrong?"

Caravaggio nodded. "Uh, yeah. Actually, yes, it was very wrong. Instead of being dispatched in a dignified and relaxing manner with wine, women, and song, he went off showing people what he could do, attracting the attentions of some she-devil who got him to sign an Eternal Beloved contract, so now we got that shit to deal with."

Turner stood, pushed his chair back in, and picked up the file folder as he headed to the door. Prescott leaned forward. "And what of my son? Can I at least take him home with me?"

Caravaggio snorted. Turner held the door open for him as he passed through, but turned back to the father. "It's not our case and we are not going to let the authorities know what we find, so it will remain unsolved. As far as we are concerned, he can rot in Evidence Control until the end of all time," he said as he exited and shut the door.