I glanced at the wire-covered clock on the wall behind me. We had twenty minutes left. I asked Edward to tell me what he knew as quickly as he could, and he obliged.
Edward first became aware that his wife was something more than human about a year before her death; or, as he put it, her alleged death.
Listening to all of this in stunned silence, I could only sit back and watch the man closely, looking for any signs of instability. I found none. If anything, he seemed perfectly normal, often speaking eloquently and with touches of humor.
His wife's change had occurred nearly three years ago, when she had been jogging around the reservoir in Silver Lake one evening. Everyone had warned her against jogging the reservoir, which doubled as an idyllic lake; that is, if you removed the chain link fence, barbed wire and dozens of off-limits signs. But his wife had always been fearless and, really, Silver Lake was mostly considered harmless. The reservoir was nestled among some of the nicer Hollywood fringe homes, often occupied by those who had found some success in show business.
One night, she didn't come home. Edward had immediately gone looking for her, circling the reservoir, until he finally found what looked like a bundle of clothing in the bushes. The bundle turned out to be his wife. She was a mess, her neck torn open, her clothing ripped, blood everywhere. How she wasn't dead, he didn't know.
She was rushed to the hospital where she spent many days recovering. And recovering rapidly, he added.
"What do you mean by that?" I asked. I didn't read many vampire books. Or watch many vampire movies. I had only a vague idea of what vampires were, and outside of some very strange events a month ago, I would have laughed at the entire notion. Would have. But not now. Indeed, I had seen something during my last case that was still haunting my dreams to this day.
And now this....
"It means that she healed far faster than she should have."
"What did the doctors say?"
"Not much, but they were stunned."
Someone sat near me, a woman reeking of a lot of perfume. Another inmate was led into the room, shackled similarly to Edward. He sat a few seats down and picked up the phone. The woman sitting next to me immediately began weeping. Edward and I ignored them as he continued recounting his tale.
Life rapidly turned strange in the Drake household. His wife seemed to have developed an aversion to sunlight. She was both stronger than ever before and sickly, too. At least, sickly during the day. One night she had come home from shopping. She had purchased three porterhouse steaks and had apparently torn into the packaging on the way home. The steaks were still there but he was certain she had drank the blood that pooled at the bottom of the Styrofoam trays.
About a month later, with his wife's midnight runs to the store continuing, coupled with her aversion to sunlight - not to mention an alarming number of missing cat posters popping up in the neighborhood - Edward had concluded that his wife had been changed into something supernatural.
Into something that scared the hell out of him.
We both looked at the time. Ours was running out. He fast-forwarded one year later when their marriage was crumbling. I asked why he would stay married to something that scared him. He mentioned the kids. He also mentioned something else, something that surprised me, but probably shouldn't have.
"I knew I had to kill her," he said. "So I was biding my time."
"But she was your wife."
"She had been my wife. But she had turned into something else. Something not very nice."
"I've looked through the police report," I said. "There were many instances in past years of the police coming out. Claims of abuse."
Edward shrugged. "Yeah, we fought. And we fought passionately. Did I hit her? Yes, once or twice. I was never proud of it. I sought counseling."
"The police paint a different picture."
"They had to. They had to explain a series of events that would otherwise be unexplainable."
"The detective and prosecutors claimed you abused her, beat her up, accused her of cheating often, and then finally killed her in a fit of rage."
"Some of that is correct, but not to the extreme they made it out to be. My killing her was, however, very planned."
He had spent many months verifying his suspicions. He needed to be sure. He'd notice she quit casting a reflection. Her photos came up blurry and amorphous, as if she wasn't there. She quickly quit taking photos altogether. He watched her avoid meals, only to come home late at night, satisfied. He watched her avoid all sunlight, claiming she now preferred the night. She slept all day and neglected the kids. Edward feared for the kids' safety. He feared for his own safety. He feared for anyone's safety who was in contact with his wife. He tried to talk about this to her, but she laughed it off. He tried repeatedly until one day she had thrown him against a wall, warning him to back off. She made new friends, too. Creepy friends. Evil friends. Friends he couldn't believe she would permit around the kids.
And she was cold to the touch. Always so cold.
Edward had decided he needed to do something about it. He read up on how to kill a vampire. A silver stake or dagger, or anything silver and pointed through the heart.
Edward lapsed into brief silence and I saw the tears in his eyes. After a moment, he said, "I had loved this woman. I had been crazy about her. But something happened to her. Something wicked. And she seemed to welcome it, revel in it. And she was hurting people, too. I couldn't confirm it, but I knew she fed each and every night. On whom, I did not know. On what, I couldn't imagine."
He took in a lot of air. We were down to our last few minutes. Already I saw the guard watching us. He would be coming in any minute now.
Edward continued. "More than anything, I sensed a great...evil coming through her. As if something very dark was now calling her body home. Maybe she could have fought it. I don't know. But it was in her, and this thing didn't give a damn about her, or anyone."
"So you decided to kill her."
"I had to kill her. To kill it."
"So you used a silver butter knife?"
"Why not? A knife is a knife. It was heavy. Had a thick handle, long blade. I thought it had been pure silver."
So one day, with the kids in school, he had come home for lunch from work. He had walked calmly into his bedroom, where his wife lay unmovingly on the bed, the curtains tightly drawn. When she slept, she rarely moved, and, in fact, rarely breathed, if at all. She was dead to the world, and he simply walked over to his nightstand, opened the top drawer, and removed the silver butter knife.
He had stepped to her side, where he looked down at the woman he had once loved with all his heart. He'd spent only a few seconds standing by her side, when he raised the knife, positioned it over her chest, and plunged it down as hard as he could.