03x10 - Revealed

[bunniefuu]

I've been waiting an hour.

Yeah?

Think that has something to do
with the fact

that you can't give directions?

I got here just fine.

Well, yippee for you.

So, what'd the rangers say?

Hiker on his way out this morning
leaves the trail to take a leak.

He's just got the lizard out
when he practically trips over a body.

You sure know
how to talk to a lady, Seely.

Well, maybe next time they'll send
a man to do a man's job.

Then what are you doin' here?

Oh, and by the way, nice shoes.
Practical.

You got a guess how long
he's been dead?

Okay, I would put time of death
anywhere between a month ago

and last Wednesday.

You said guess.

Seems pretty straightforward.

He uh, took a header off that cliff,

tumbled down through this vegetation
and uh, met his maker.

Well, not right away, he didn't.

Dried blood,
and there's drag marks there.

Looks like he crawled for a few feet
before he finally bled out.

He survived the drop.
This guy was one luckless bastard.

Gee, Seely, don't get all misty on me.

I just call `em as I see `em.

Check out his clothes, those boots.
I mean, this is high tech gear.

A lot of these guys hike the Appalachian
Trail from Georgia to Maine.

So you gotta wonder, where's his pack?

No wallet, either.

You know what?
Gimme a hand. Here.

Wait a minute.
Say cheese.

Nobody goes in there
until the M.E. arrives.

- Nigel. Nigel, it is so good to see you.
- Good to see you.

Let's not jump to any hasty
conclusions here.

If I was looking for
the whackadoo conspiracy version,

I would have called Jordan in.

I am somehow both flattered
and insulted by that,

so uh, so what happened, Wood?
Someone go out the window?

Yeah, uh, that's how we found it.

Uh, that's what I'm trying to tell you.
This is kind of a crazy crime scene.

Could you come this way, please?
Over here. / Okay.

Um, I'd appreciate if you handle this
with a little bit of sensitivity.

I don't know if you know this or not,
but I'm up for promotion this year,

- so if word got out--
- Yeah, Woody, Woody, Woody.

I promise I'll keep an open mind, okay.

And anyway, sensitivity's
my middle name.

Sweet Mary in the manger!

Look at all that blood.

Guy's name is Samuel Burnham.

He is forty-eight years old.

He called nine-one-one
at four fifty-two this morning,

said he was being att*cked by an intruder.

Two uniform officers showed up
seventeen minutes later.

They knocked, but there was no answer.
They had to bust the door down.

Now, the door was bolted from the inside,

and the only way out is
through that window out there,

and it is a hundred and
fifty foot drop down to the pavement.

He's completely exsanguinated.

Exsanguinated. I'm gonna take a wild
guess and say that means his blood is gone?

Just uh, arterial spray.
But from where?

Nigel, this is the part I'm gonna ask you
to chill out about before you react, okay?

Because just because
something looks a certain--

- Don't do that. Don't do that, Nigel. D-
- Whoa! Those are--

- Don't say it.
- Bite marks.

I asked you not to say that.

Must have hit the carotid artery.

Alright, Nigel, I don't think
you're following me here.

Okay, I need you to tell me
those are not bite marks, okay?

Because if they are bite marks,
then that means that our k*ller is a--

Vampire.

There goes your promotion.

Doctor M.

- Detective Hoyt just called me.
- Oh, did he?

He seemed concerned that
his case might be made a mockery of,

something about being afraid that he'll
be quoted in the Weekly World News

on the same page
as the photo of Bat Boy.

So I'm officially reminding
you that this is reality.

People are k*lled by other people,

not werewolves, not mummies
and absolutely not by vampires.

Well, that's a rather narrow
world view, in' it?

Okay, that's it.
You're off the case.

But why?

Because you're too excited about this.

I'm not about to turn this morgue
into an episode of "The X-Files."

I'm a man of science, Doctor Macy,

but there are more things
in heaven and earth

than are dreamt of in your philosophy.

Now, my beliefs may trend
towards the fringe, yeah.

But, please, trust me when I'm telling you
that I'm just like you.

I only want to uncover the truth.

I'm gonna be watching you like a hawk.
No paranormal rantings, you understand?

Consider this your first warning.

- Uh, hey, Nigel.
- Yeah?

There's some guy waiting
in the conference room who's all upset.

Uh, something about his friend
getting k*lled by a vampire.

Yeah, just tell him I'll be right there.

No. Five minutes.

I want to see these bite marks first.

Uh, me, too?

Okay. So--

Damn.

You find anything in his pockets?

Trace Evidence
Besides liquefied tissue?

Not even a gum wrapper.

Think someone picked him over.

Well, then why leave
behind a gold ring?

He's got a wife out there somewhere.

With our luck, he'll be from out of state.

People come from all over
to hike the Appalachian Trail.

But not without ID, they don't.

God, this really stinks.

You got that right.

Tell me you found some photos
in that camera.

The memory card was badly damaged.

There are picture files on it,
but so far,

I've only been able to
reconstruct one of them.

I'll take it.

You said he was found
at the base of a cliff?

That's right.

Was that the cliff he fell off?

Yeah. And it looks like
he had some help.

I can't believe it.

We were gonna have lunch today.

Samuel Burnham Case
He called yesterday, despondent.

Said everything had fallen through.

Why don't we start from the beginning?

I've been Sam's agent going
on twenty-five years now.

- His agent?
- Sam was a writer.

He wrote books about wacky phenomena.

You might have heard of his first one,

"Roswell Revealed."
It was a big hit.

I must have missed that one.

His next five didn't fare as well.

I mean, "Big Foot Revealed,"
uh, "Loch Ness Monster Revealed"--

I get the picture.

Poor bastard's career
was circling the drain.

But he said this time,
he was really onto something.

He tapped into this whole Goth subculture

of weirdos who actually
believe they're vampires.

My hand to God.

Of course, most of `em are
just disillusioned wackos,

but he claimed he found this one guy

whose story was gonna put him
onto the best seller list.

Wait. Are you suggesting
that he actually found a real vampire?

Guy by the name of Dark.
Alistair Dark.

Called last week
and said he'd just gotten

this Dark character to agree to
be the subject of his new book.

It's too bad.
He had a great title for the book.

"Vampires Revealed."

How did you know?

Lucky guess.

Okay, so what?

Boston Police Precinct
So what?

This photo was taken by our John Doe.

Someone is clearly looking down at him,

yet this someone doesn't try
to help him or alert the rangers?

Well, it could be he didn't want
to get involved.

Oh, come on, Seely. Whoever he is,
he's involved up to his neck.

Okay, say you're right.

Mister uh, Shadow here pushed our guy.

What do you want me to do about it?

Set up a lemonade stand on the trail
and quiz every hiker that walks by?

Hey, who needs beverages?
You'll just win them over with your charm.

The victim's been dead up to a month,
yet all I've got is a silhouette.

Whoever this guy is,
he's long gone.

The last thing John Doe did before drowning
in his own blood was take this photo.

We need to pick up where he left off.
We owe him that much.

I've got no evidence of foul play,

no time line,
no ID on the victim or the witness,

which is all Mister uh,
Shadow is right now.

You want me on board Cavanaugh,
give me something to work with.

Forensic Laboratory

I'm starved for good news.
Tell me you've got some.

Uh, the sketch artist came up
with a computer composite of his face.

I ran his prints through NCIC.

No criminal record, no m*llitary service.

What about Missing Persons?

Nope.
If he's missing, no one's noticed.

But take a look at this.

Can you enhance the image
to get a better look at his face?

Sorry, he's completely backlit
by the sun.

Man, we cannot catch a break here.

Not off this picture, anyway.

Meaning?

Meaning, I was able to reconstruct
three more of the photographs.

Bug, you rock.

And I determined the order
in which all four were taken,

based on where they were stored
on the memory card.

Ansel Adams, he's not.

Yeah, right.

Great. A tree.

As tree photos go, it's not half bad.

Yeah, what's behind door number three?

Something a little more interesting.

What if this guy is also this guy?

We were wondering the same thing.

I'm gonna go finish
autopsying John Doe.

Bug, I need you to determine
time of death.

No, I am not going over his clothes again.
I draw the line.

Forget about the clothes. Your mission,
should you decide to accept it,

is to track down Grizzly Adams here.

I'm all over it.

Boston Polece Precinct
Only six people in the greater Boston area
with the last name of Dark,

none of them Alistair.

Alistair, there's a name that'll get
your ass whupped in the playground.

I bet it's an alias.

Maybe we should narrow our search
to people from Transylvania.

I'm just saying.

Come on.
Don't tell me you believe all this crap.

Let's just say that I've uh, seen
some pretty strange things in my life.

I'm sure you have.

And as somewhat of a misfit,

I can't help but consider myself
a kindred spirit--

minus the bloodsucking part,
of course.

Yeah, well, I'm wearing my crucifix,
and I had garlic for lunch today,

so don't you get any ideas.

In the meantime,
we've got a lot of legwork to do.

This is Samuel Burnham's datebook.

We're gonna track
his last forty-eight hours,

everyone he called, every place he went,
everyone he saw.

Looks like this is the one to start with.

Burnham had an appointment
last night at ten o'clock

with some guy named Frank Jones.

Chatham Blood Bank,
how may I direct your call?

Hello?

Appalachian Trail - Trail Head

You want answers about this guy,
you've come to the right place.

His name's Amos Tibbs.

Wow, that was easy.

So you recognize him?

Hell, yes, I recognize him.

There's not a month goes
by I don't get a complaint about him.

What kind of complaints?

Well, Tibbs has got a cabin off the trail,
but the AT's not always marked.

Sometimes hikers wander off
onto his land.

Other times, he harasses people
on the trail.

How about telling me
who took this photo?

The hiker that was found dead.

So this uh, Amos Tibbs,
can you take me to him?

Sure. You and what army?

Appalachain Trail

Tibbs's shack is just up ahead.

For the record, Doctor Maguire,
I think you taggin' along is a bad idea.

Couldn't help myself, Detective Seely.

Excessive commitment to my work.

This is no place for a lady.

Looking past the sexist pig aspect
of that comment, I agree with you.

I'm definitely a city girl.

Well, at least we have
one thing in common.

Oh, you're a city girl, too?

That was a warnin'!
Next sh*t, I blow your head off!

This is Boston PD!

Put your weapons down and come out
with your hands up!

- Stay.
- Amos! Don't go do nothin' dumb.

These men just want to ask you
a few questions.

I'll let my shotgun do the talkin'!

And you get the hell off my property!

We can't do that, Amos.

Anybody sets foot on my land,
does so at his peril!

Ow! Oh, my foot, my foot!

- Come on, move out.
- Yeah, he's hit now.

You sh*t me!

Yeah, you're damn right, I did.

Rubber b*ll*ts,
but it still smarts, doesn't it?

Chatham Blood Bank
There now.
That wasn't so bad, was it?

Now, take the paperwork to the nurse
outside and get yourself a cookie, okay?

Gentlemen, you'll have to roll up
your sleeves.

I can only take you one at a time.

No, thanks. I just gave last month.
Frank Jones,

Detective Woody Hoyt, Boston PD.

You had an appointment yesterday
with Samuel Burnham, fortyish, stocky?

Yeah, yeah.
Strange guy. A writer.

Asked me a bunch of questions.
Said he was researching some book.

Questions?
What kind of questions?

Blood stuff.

Said he wanted to know
if it was possible

to add elements to human blood
to aid in longevity,

or immortality, as he put it.

Really? What'd you tell him?

That it's not possible.

Well, yeah, but uh, couldn't one
theoretically lengthen one's lifespan

with a constant source of blood,
highly oxygenated, of course, uh,

renewed on an almost daily basis?

Yeah, I guess, but that would require
an almost continuous supply of fresh blood.

What is this about?

Shortly after you met with Mister Burnham
yesterday, he was m*rder*d.

m*rder*d?

Wow. That's awful.

Yes, it is.

Well, thank you for your cooperation.

Sure, no problem.

Uh, Mister Jones, just one more thing.

You had never seen Sam Burnham
before yesterday?

No. Never.

Thanks.

"Just one more thing, Mister Jones"?

He's lying.

He met Burnham four other times.
I've read it in the appointment book.

Gonna go find out who the hell
Frank Jones really is.

Boston Police Precinct
You're in a lot of trouble, Amos.

- That so?
- That is so.

Yet another epic battle of big city macho
versus backwoods macho is waged.

Just a matter of time before one of them
marks his territory.

My money's on Seely.

We found your friend, Amos.

Why'd you push him off the cliff?

Didn't push nobody off nothin'.

I never seen him before in my life.

Then uh, why'd he take a picture of ya?

Yeah, I remember him now.

He come runnin' out of the woods
when I was clearin' my traps.

Asked if I could help him.

Said he was in trouble.

Told him I weren't no charity
for helpin' lost id'gits.

That's when the other one come out
after him.

- Other one?
- Yeah. Introduced hisself as Mike.

Mike?
Yeah, and what did Mike look like?

Dark hair, lots of muscles.

And he was gimpy.
Right ankle, I'd guess.

Okay, you said this Mike came out
after him.

The two men weren't together?

Mike had his hand in his pocket,
like he had a piece in there.

This other fella clammed up real fast,
like he was scared of this Mike.

He apologized and
then they go on their way.

Must have taken that

without me knowin' it as they was
headin' off. / When was this?

Tibbs didn't see him take his picture.
Odds are, neither did Mike.

Well, Mike didn't know
he had a camera.

John Doe took those pictures
because he knew Mike was gonna k*ll him.

- And you didn't call the police?
- He was leaving us a trail of bread crumbs.

Alright, we know
where John Doe winds up.

Mm-hm. And Tibbs's cabin is here,
about four miles away.

Okay, this landscape, this tree.

We need to figure out
where he took these photos.

How? This trail covers
two thousand miles.

And since we don't have a timeline,

there's no way to know where these
were even taken.

Devan, what does this
look like to you?

- What?
- This little speck here.

We've got him.

- You got who?
- Alistair Dark.

Oh, the vampire? / Oh, there's no
such thing as vampires, remember?

That's your second warning.
Who you got?

We're not too sure.
He's using a fake name.

Frank Jones, who, as fate would have it,
was m*rder*d three years ago,

body washed up on the banks
of the Charles.

Half of his blood was missing.
At the time, nobody thought anything of it.

They just figured he bled out in the water.

But shortly after he dies, our new
Frank Jones gets a job at a blood bank.

Frank Jones, there's an unusual name.

Yeah, well, be that as it may,
but since Jonesy started working there,

the facility's reported mysterious losses
of its blood supply--all type O-positive.

The same blood type
as our new Frank Jones.

You're gonna need a lot more
than a blood type to nail this guy.

He k*lled a man by puncturing two holes
in his neck and draining all his blood out.

I mean, motive, opportunity
and m*rder w*apon would be nice.

We've spoken to Frank Jones.

Now we're gonna go pay a visit
to his alter ego, Alistair Dark.

How do you plan on doing that?

Uh, the last four times Burnham met him
was at some Goth club named Azmandeus.

Goth club, huh?

Let Nigel do all the talkin'.

Azmandeus Club

So glad you decided to go undercover,
Woody. You're blending right in.

Sorry, I didn't get the memo.

You sew those pants on yourself?

Mmm, An O. Just my type.

I've been known to have
an O effect on the ladies.

Okay. Okay.

And you look like a B.
That's yummy, too.

B-positive, darling.

Mmm, even better.

You two are really startin' to creep me out.
We're looking for Alistair Dark.

Do you know where we could find him?

In the crypt, where else?

Thank you.

Later.

Alistair Dark. Or should we say Frank?

I'm sure you know by now,
Frank's been dead for three years.

Yeah, we've been meaning to talk
to you about that.

Wow, check out those fangs.

Can't say I noticed those last night.

I just ate.

!sis, darlin',

why don't you get some libations
for our friends here?

Alright, Frankie, let's go.

Hey! Freeze, Frank!
There's nowhere to go.

- Whoa, whoa--whoa-whoa-whoa.
- Al- Alistair, no-no--

Come on, man.
Get down from there.

- Crazy, man?!
- Agh.

That's a hundred foot drop.
What the hell were you thinkin'?!

Boston Police Precinct

I can see your reflection right there
in the mirror.

Now, I couldn't do that
if you were really a vampire, right?

You invited me here.
Besides, this is a two-way mirror.

There's people behind it.

- Two of them, by the smell.
- Grab a seat.

Never invite a vampire
into your own home.

That's warning number three.

So we know you're not Frank Jones,
so who the hell are you?

Dark. Alistair Dark.

Your real name, please?

Alistreta Constantine Lazaro Darkona.

Alright, Alistrator. Where you from?

Romania.

- What happened to the accent?
- I watch a lot of TV.

- You got an ID, driver's license?
- Don't drive.

- Passport.
- Unnecessary.

Unnecessary.

- How'd you get into this country?
- In the hull of a ship.

Okay, and when did that happen?

It's been a while.
Hard to remember, exactly.

Let's forget about exactly.
Let's work with a ballpark figure.

Seventeen thirty-four.
October, I believe.

What's up with the apple, Count Shockula.

I thought you people only drank blood.

Well, you thought wrong, Frankenberry.

Where were you at five a.m.
Saturday morning? / I don't remember.

I think you do.

I think you were in Samuel Burnham's
apartment and I think you k*lled him.

- Why would I do that?
- I don't know.

Maybe you didn't want him
writing a book on you.

Maybe he found out you were a phony.

To tell you the truth, I don't really care.

That's a good story.

My, my, this is getting interesting.

We found Samuel Burnham

dead in his bathtub from two puncture
wounds in his neck,

two puncture wounds I believe you made
with those pearly whites of yours.

You're making a very serious mistake.

Zip it, Choppers.
Those two men who smelled you

behind the mirror are gonna
forensically pin this m*rder on you.

Now, we'll try and have
this all wrapped up by sunrise.

I'd hate to see what happens
when the sunlight hits you.

It's a man, a man falling out
of the sky. / Yup.

I thought John Doe took
a swan dive off a cliff.

This guy is not John Doe,
and he isn't exactly falling.

He's skydiving.
That bulge on his back is a parachute.

So are you saying this is our man, Mike?

Yup again. Yeah,
Tibbs said that Mike had a bum ankle.

Maybe it was from a hard landing.

I pulled tissue samples from John Doe

and cross-referenced his biological data
with local insect activity

and came up with a time of death.

That's my Bug.

Eleven days, four hours.

Four hours?

Well, give or take.

And using this timeline,
I was able to narrow it down

when this photograph was taken.

The FAA then provided us with a list
of planes that flew over this area

within a twenty-four hour time frame.

Eh, and how are we supposed to tell
which one of these planes he jumped from?

Twelve of the thirteen made it back safely.

Just under two weeks ago,

a Cessna Four-one-four
crashed off the coast of Maine.

The plane was never recovered, but
the pilot's body washed up on shore.

I tried to contact the plane's owner,
but I'm getting the runaround.

Turns out it's Harold Fallon.

Harold Fallon, the real estate mogul.

Great. We didn't even make it past
his receptionist.

Well, you should have let me
do the talking.

Certain things women
just shouldn't try to do.

Anybody ever tell you you're a pig?

Yes. Yes, they have.
I believe it was you.

Let's face it, we're gonna have to go
through his lawyer to get him to talk.

Maybe. Maybe not.

Eh, Mister Fallon, a word, please.

It's alright.

- How can I help you, Officer?
- It's Detective. Seely.

This is Doctor Maguire from the
M.E.'s Office.

Mister Fallon, we'd like to ask you
a few questions about a plane of yours

that crashed off the coast of Maine.

I've already spoken to the NTSB
regarding the crash.

Unless the wreckage
has been recovered, then--

Why'd the plane make a flight
from Miami to Boston once a month?

It was a company aircraft doing
company business, nothing more.

- What are you moving, Mister Fallon?
- Moving?

Flight plans list the pilot
as the only occupant.

I doubt you had him just flying back
and forth for the hell of it.

I have wide-ranging
business interests, Detective,

among them significant real estate
holdings in Miami.

What I'm moving is paperwork.

So, if it's just paperwork,
why not fly a smaller plane?

You have a Cessna Three-ten
in your fleet that burns half the fuel.

Well, I couldn't expect you
to understand all the factors

that went into making that decision.

After all, what do you know
about running a business?

Nothing. But I know this.

Another man was on that plane
besides the pilot.

Really? Well, that's news to me.

He parachuted out
before the plane crashed.

We've got a feeling he took some
of your paperwork with him.

Then again, what do we know?

Alright.
Okay, I'll see you back here.

Well? / That was Devan.
Fallon wouldn't talk.

One more photo.

It has to be significant.
All the other ones are.

If we just knew why he took it.

Look, I have no idea why,
but I have some idea where.

The FAA said that Mike's plane
followed the Appalachian

Trail for around eleven miles
before veering east.

Which means he bailed out
somewhere around here.

Well, we can't exactly check every tree
in nine miles of woods, Bug.

Oh, well, we don't have to.
This is a scrub oak.

They only grow at elevations
at above two thousand feet,

which would be this area here.

That's still a lot of territory.

What are the odds
of finding just one tree?

Well, a lot better
if I'm along looking for it.

There's a naturist camp around there.

I know the area quite well.

A naturist?

Naturalist.

- Birds and things, you know?
- Yeah, yeah.

Trace Evidence

Are you boys staring at my teeth?

Where'd you get these things?

Using the bite marks from the apple,

- I reverse-engineered a plaster mold.
- I don't understand.

Why don't we just do a DNA test on the
saliva and match it to the bite marks?

There wasn't any saliva on the bite marks.

He hit the carotid artery, remember?

So four or five quarts of blood pumped
through that wound in less than two minutes,

washing the saliva out.

Which is why I redirect
your attention to exhibit A.

So his teeth are real?

Not to open with a clich?

but I've got good news and I've
got bad news.

Which would you like first?

Alright, let's start with the good news
then, shall we?

Dark's fangs are an exact match
to the wound in Samuel Burnham's neck.

Then we got him.

Oh, Woodrow.

After all our adventures together,

one would begin to suspect
that you would anticipate the bad news.

Welcome to Vampirama-dot-com.

Based out of Utah, where, for the low,
low price of three ninety-nine ninety-nine,

you--yes,
you--can be the proud owner of...

- You've got to be kidding me.
- How many of these have they sold?

Six hundred and thirty-one
since the site's been up,

each set exactly identical to Dark's.

Now what are we supposed to do?

We go back to the crime scene.

Appalachian Trail

Isn't this glorious?

The color, the light.

Air that cleanses the stench
of death from one's nostrils.

Uh, yeah, it's great.

I sense sarcasm.

This whole outdoorsy thing
you got goin' on here,

where the hell did it come from?

I always pegged you
as the science nerd.

Well, what is science
if it's not an appreciation of nature?

Is this really the plan?

Crisscrossing back and forth
through a jungle?

What better way to locate our tree?

Well, how much of the territory
have we covered so far?

Uh, about a tenth of it.

A tenth?!

We're making excellent progress.

This is insane.

We're in two square miles of forest
looking for one tree.

Look, keep in mind
it is statistically unlikely

we'll have to search the whole area
before we find it.

We're never gonna find it.

I'm not even looking anymore.
I'm too busy thinking of the-

the blisters on my feet and every bug
that's taken a chunk out of my flesh.

Besides, a tree is a tree.

Leaves, branches, bark.
They're all the same.

You know, that is an ignorant
and an offensive statement.

Where are you going?!

We need to conduct this search
in a methodical manner!

I looks different from this angle,

but- but I think--

Ah.

Oh, ye of little faith.

That's odd.

This pile of rocks wasn't there
when John Doe took the photo.

You think someone put them there?
Why?

Maybe as a marker.

A marker for what?

Let's find out.

Where do you even get one of those?

What is that?

Oh my God. Is that what I think it is?

There's gold in these there hills.

Boston PD: Interrogation

Look familiar?

Where did you get that?

We found it buried in the woods.

It was left there by the guy
who ripped you off.

Calls himself Mike.

He pulled off the perfect heist.

You think your gold's at the bottom
of the Atlantic,

while Mike's off livin' large.

Why were you moving gold
from Miami to Boston, Mister Fallon?

I simply converted some
of my assets into bullion,

and now that you've found it,
I would like it back.

No can do.
It's evidence in a m*rder investigation.

What m*rder?

Actually, that would be murders, plural.

After Mike took out the pilot,
he bailed out of your plane.

Pulled a D.B. Cooper.

Then he k*lled somebody on the ground.

I don't know what you're talking about.

Then how about I fill you in?

A John Doe is hiking
the Appalachian Trail.

He snaps a photo of a skydiver.

It's not something
you usually see out there.

John heads to where the skydiver landed
to make sure he's okay.

But he picked a bad day
to be a Good Samaritan,

because Mike is not a nice guy.

Yeah, see, Mike offloaded two duffels
worth of gold from your plane.

We're thinking his plan was to bury one
and hike the other one out.

Problem is, he twisted his ankle.

So when John Doe shows up,
Mike pulls a g*n,

turns Doe into his own personal Sherpa.

And once Mike and the gold were close
to the trail entrance,

John Doe was expendable.

As I said, I don't know
anything about this.

We're not stupid and neither are you.

You wouldn't fly a load
of gold without security.

This was an inside job.

You tell us where we can find
Mike and everyone wins.

We get to solve a m*rder and
maybe you get to keep your gold.

So, unless you want your next colonoscopy
performed by the IRS audit team,

I suggest that you take the deal.

All I'm saying is that perhaps

Samuel Burnham's Apartment
we should consider the obvious
before we consider the mundane.

Mundane being the version
that doesn't have vampires in it?

Fine, then perhaps you can explain
how he saw us behind the mirror?

Lucky guess.
What about the fake teeth?

Clever ploy to avoid prosecution.

This is ridiculous. Why are we
even having this conversation?

Let's at least listen
to his theory, alright?

That's what this exercise is all about.

- Fine.
- Thank you.

Alright, so, what if it happened
something like this?

What if Dark changed his mind
about having a book written about him?

Perhaps he didn't want to be outed,

his true nature revealed
to the entire world.

So they had a fight.

Now, Burnham's afraid for his life.

How did Dark get
through the bolted door?

He didn't come in through the door.

Okay, well, now it's all startin'
to make sense.

Look, Burnham's powerless, mesmerized,
a deer in the headlights.

Finally, Burnham has nowhere left to run,
and so he gives in.

He surrenders to his k*ller's cold embrace.

And when Dark's finished feeding,
he goes out the way he came in.

Leaving Burnham
in a state of half-death.

Doing his best to stop the bleeding,
he calls nine-one-one for help,

but by the time the paramedics arrive...

it's too late.

Fine.

Fine. Fine, then perhaps
one of you two can explain

how the door was bolted from the inside
when the paramedics arrived.

In the real world, there's only one answer
to a locked room m*rder.

su1c1de.

We know Burnham...
interviewed Dark earlier that evening.

We know he was depressed.

Now, this latest book was supposed
to be his ticket back to the big time,

but instead, he found out that
Dark was a hoax.

Maybe he stumbled across
the same website we did.

Anyway, all of his work was for nothing.

He was gonna be a loser again,
a never was.

But maybe there was a way out.

If he could somehow stage an att*ck

and make it look like Dark was
indeed a vampire...

that's what I call publicity.

Sure as hell beats Oprah's book club.

He dials nine-one-one, says
he's been att*cked.

He knows they're on their way.
Then it was time for phase two.

The only problem was, he must have
slept through anatomy class,

because his mistook his carotid artery
for his jugular.

Burnham's in panic mode now.

He knows the paramedics are
gonna be there any second,

but if they find the fangs,
the whole charade was for nothing.

So with what little strength he has left,

he makes his way to the window and
opens it and tosses out the evidence.

He staggers back into the bathroom,

collapses in the tub,
still holding the towel to his neck.

Then once it's saturated,

all of his excess blood
goes down the drain...

leaving his body exsanguinated.

Damn.

- That him?
- Yeah, that's him.

Let's get him.

- Stand right there.
- What'd I do? What's goin' on?

Hands on the car!

Put `em on the car!

Gimme the keys.

What, no parachute this time?

Who's the hiker?
What's his name?

I don't know what you're talkin' about.

The man you k*lled.

Who is he?!

Come on.

Boston PD: Interrogation

Tomato juice.
Sorry, we're fresh out of blood.

- I'd like to speak to my lawyer.
- No need, Marilyn.

We found the remnants of enamel fangs
on the street below Burnham's apartment,

so, sorry to disappoint you,
but you're off the hook.

I am?

He found out you weren't real, didn't he?

Oh, we also found Frank Jones's k*ller.

He's serving time in Delaware.

He actually admitted to
two other murders last January.

So the only thing illegal you've done
is use an alias to gain employment,

and while technically that's still a crime,
I'm willing to let it go,

`cause you obviously
have other problems.

- So I can go?
- You can go.

Hey, man.
I gotta ask you one more question.

What is your real name?

- Jeremy Shenkman.
- Shenkman.

- Is that of Romanian descent?
- Very funny.

I'm from Yonkers.

What about Alistair Dark?

I made him up to get laid.

I mean, that's how it started.

As it does with all great men.

I mean, the girls, they love the mystery
and the danger and

the whole world, you know?
Like this whole thing, and I fit in.

Finally, I fit in.
Because Dark is--

He's just a lot more interesting
than I am.

Good work.

Found it in Mike's apartment.

Go ahead, look inside.

Wow. Jeffrey Montgomery.

Community college professor.
Taught botany.

Every spring, he'd head out for a month,
hike the trail.

No phone, no contact.
Just him out in the wild.

You know, I'll always be a city boy,
but uh,

I can't help but respect him
for that, you know?

Any family?

Wife.

No kids.

I uh,

I figured you're better
at this kind of stuff than I am.

Thanks.

Nice doin' business with you, Doc.

Let's not make it a habit.

Yeah.

Mrs. Montgomery?

I- I'm sorry to be calling so late.

Uh, my name is Jordan Cavanaugh.

I am with the Boston Medical
Examiner's Office.

I am so sorry,
but I have some bad news--