"Please stop. There's only so much I can handle." Sherbet massaged his temples. "We sound crazy, you know."
"Maybe we are," I said.
"Crazy, I can accept. Guardian angels, not so much. Can I really can read your mind, Sam?"
"Yes."
"And you can read my mind?" he asked.
"If I wanted to."
"My head hurts, Sam."
"I imagine it does."
He looked at me some more. As he did so, his jowls quivered a little. His nose was faintly red. "How do you do it?" he finally asked.
I didn't have to be a mind reader to know what it was. I said, "One day at a time. One minute at a time."
"If it were me, I would go bugfuck crazy."
We were quiet some more. The smell of coffee seemed to permanently hang suspended in the air of his office, although I could see no coffee cups. Outside his glass office wall, I could hear phones ringing, phones being answered, the rapid typing on keyboards.
"Back to you tampering with evidence," said Sherbet. "Officially, I have to ask you to never do that again."
"And unofficially?"
"Unofficially, I have to ask you what you learned."
"He's not a vampire," I said. "At least, I don't think he is."
"Then what is he? Why does he drain the bodies of blood?"
"Think of him as a supplier."
"A supplier? Of what? Blood?"
"Yes."
"For who?"
I didn't say anything. I let the detective think this through. As he studied me, I glanced around his small office. There was a picture of his wife next to his keyboard, a lovely woman I'd met just this past Christmas, a woman who was easily twenty years younger than Sherbet.
You go, Detective.
Finally, he said, "Are you implying he supplies blood to...vampires?"
"Maybe. I don't know for sure."
"Which begs the question: where do vampires get their blood?"
"We get it from all over, Detective. I get mine, as you know, from a local butchery."
"Animal blood."
"Right."
"So, this guy supplies human blood."