"You tampered with evidence. What were you thinking, Sam?" scolded Detective Sherbet.

"I was thinking about finding our killer."

We were in his glass office. Some of the officers on duty were watching us from outside the office. One or two were shaking their heads in a way that suggested they did not approve of me or of the department using my inferior services.

"Your men don't like me," I said.

"They see it as a slap in the face, a blow to their ego," said Sherbet, sitting back in his chair. He laced his thick fingers over his rotund belly. The rotund belly was looking a little more rotund these days. This time, however, I shielded my thoughts from him. He didn't need to know what I thought of his belly. He went on, "They don't understand why I brought you in, so they see you as a sort of indictment on their own abilities."

"If they only knew," I said.

"Truth is, sometimes I wish I didn't know, Sam. I mean, isn't this kind of stuff supposed to just be in books and movies?"

I said, "Someone told me recently that if enough people believe in something, put their attention on something, then that something becomes a reality."

Sherbet immediate shook his head. "That doesn't make sense," he said, which didn't surprise me much. Detectives lived and died by things that made sense. Cold hard facts. "Who told you this?"

"My guardian angel. Actually, my ex-guardian angel."

Sherbet blinked. "Please tell me you're kidding."

"Sadly, no. He visited me over Christmas. Expressed his undying love for me, in fact."

"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."

"Right."

"Have you ever heard anything like that, Sam?"

"Not quite like that."

"What have you heard?"

"That some people act as donors."

"Willing donors?"

"Some of them," I said.

"And some not so willingly?"

"Would be my guess," I said.

Sherbet started shaking his head, and he didn't quit shaking it until he spoke again. Finally, he said, "So, what else do you know about our killer?"

"He's got blue eyes."

"That's it?"

"That's it."

"No other psychic hits?"

"He hangs the bodies upside down to drain."

"Like a butcher."

"Yes," I said.

"Which makes sense if he's a blood supplier; after all, he wouldn't want to waste a single drop."

"Blood is money," I said.

"Jesus. Where did he kill his victims?"

I shook my head. "Hard to know. Brian Meeks regained consciousness while hanging upside down."

"Jesus," he said again. "And you saw this, what, through his eyes? From touching his stuff?"

"That's how it seems to work."

"Do you have any fucking idea how crazy we sound?"

"Some idea," I said.

Sherbet shook his head. "Did he - or you - see anything else while he was hanging upside down?"

"Yes."

"Don't say it, Sam," said Sherbet, and I think he caught a glimpse of my thoughts.

"More bodies," I said.

"I asked you not to say it."