Imagine an FBI agent investigating the paranormal. Generic you say?
Now imagine that guy is a freaking sociopath and was kicked out. Already done?
Then imagine he became a vampire. That's even worse?
But then consider these facts; he's bat^#$ paranoid, believes hyper intelligent monkeys control the world and he's a lunatic pyromaniac.
That, is Vincent anderson, the most unlucky man on earth. And his story isn't pretty or any kind of sane for that matter
The car sped through the night, it's tires sending the road's gravel flying all around it. It was one of those nights, when every minutes stretches into hours. The old black Camaro was the only thing that shed light in the backwoods of the Ozark.
At the wheel, Vincent kicked the case's notes around his head for a while. There wasn't much he knew about it. It was just some odd disappearance in a hillbilly town. Usually not his cup of tea, but it had been a quiet week and he really needed to get out of the city.
Eventually, the woods gave away to a the village he'd been looking for. Calling it a village was almost an overstatement, it didn't contain much more than a motel, a bar and a general store. regardless, he would spend the next following days there.
After securing a room at the motel after a brief non-conversation with the Latino owner, he quickly transferred the little amount of things he carried with him; A laptop, two briefcases of files, a cooler full of ice and three larges duffle bags. Only one of which contained clothes.
He carelessly threw the bags onto the bed and set up the laptop onto the drawers. Before he could begin working, he'd need a headquarter. For the better part of an hour, he prepared his room, setting up all kinds of newspaper clipping, photographs and whole layers of conspiracy notes, stolen documents, sketches and many more.
When he was done, the entire back wall of the room resembled a corkboard that had been filled with crazy. The side wall were the bed had been previously now boasted a large rack of guns of all kind. Pistols, shotguns, automatic weapons, explosives. If anyone had seen it they would have understood one thing; restrain was not part of Vincent's vocabulary.
Dawn was almost upon him, so he closed the blind and used the bed to barricade the window further. It only took a few seconds after he laid down onto the couch for him to fall into torpor, the vampire's equivalent of sleep...
His cell phone’s alarm stirred him from torpor at three in the afternoon. There was still some sunlight outside but that wasn't a problem. When gorged in blood, he could stand the sun for roughly two hours before it began to hurt, enough time for sun to set and begin the investigation. It wouldn't be comfortable, but he would live.
Raising up, he stumbled his way to the fridge where he had left his supplies. There, a few packs of blood waited for him. He mixed himself a breakfast into a Styrofoam cup; two part O+ one part A- and one part B+.
Cold blood tasted nearly nothing unless it had just been drawn so it was better to get it to a good mix which depended on the drinker's tastes. That time, he drank more than usual, unless one used his powers, a vampire's need for blood was minimal.
He walked out into the fleeting daylight, wearing his federal attire and his nearly trademarked sunglasses which he wore even at night.
First stop, was the missing girl's house. Amelia McArthur had disappeared last week. Her parent had been trying to turn the whole place upside down to find her to no avail.
The place was a small country house with rustic decor. Mr. and Ms. McArthur were an old couple. They were in their late 50's yet had a fifteen years old daughter. The father had worked in construction all his life but had retired after an injury to his back. The mother ran a small bakery with her daughter.
He approached the door but didn't have to knock as the couple opened up the door, a policeman behind them. Who left right after speaking;
"I'll call you if I find anything" promised the Hispanic agent.
Seeing the man in business suit, shades, the missing girl's father asked him "Who might you be hoss?"
"Special Agent Anderson." The vampire declared, flashing a false ID. Which was only half a lie. He had actually been a FBI agent, his superior had kicked him out on "instability" charges.
"Please come in" the couple asked, a small amount of relief crossing their face to see the Feds had entered the scene.
They all sat down to a table, the house lady offered coffee and biscuits but their guest politely declined.
"I know you've probably been over all of this with the sheriff but what can you tell me about your daughter's disappearance?"
"She was supposed to be back at 10, she had gone to her friend Cindy's birthday. She never came back. They found her car a mile away from her friend's place. It seemed like she had it a tree. There was no body and the search party couldn't find anything..." recounted the husband as his wife began to sob quietly
"Did your daughter have any enemies?"
Shocked the girl's father replied "You think she was attacked?"
"No. No. I just have to consider every possibility."
"I don't think so... There were some bad blood between her and another girl at her school but nothing this serious."
"Do you know the girl's name?"
"Megan... Megan Park. If I remember correctly" Answered the woman.
"Alright" Vincent declared, taking notes upon his note pads. "Anything else I should know of?"
"Not that I can think of... Wait. There was one other thing. One of her ex boyfriend came back to town, three nights before she disappeared."
"Would you mind if I search your daughter's room before I go?"
"Not at all. It's upstairs, first room on the left."
After a quick search of the room, Vincent came out empty handed. No ectoplasm, brimstone, hex bag or any indicative clue. Her diary was blank on the last two days before the rapt.
"The plot thickens" murmured the false FBI agent to himself as he left the house.