Ash Report

Ulrich stepped into the sunlight and scorched his paper skin. The blood inside his ice blue veins, facilely apparent on his gaunt figure, boiled as his insides churned. The gas built up until, abruptly, his limbs blew apart and his torso severalized scattering across the front yard where they continued to burn until all that remained was ash. Nobody was around to witness it. No one else would willingly be up at this hour. As the dust of what once was Ulrich began to dissipate in the wind the sun took a temporary trip behind a cloud. The shade could not save him now.

…

“Figus, what have we got?”

“Well, the house is empty. There are no signs of a struggle. The neighbors say they haven’t seen Ulrich Budwin in weeks, but he was logging into his remote job until yesterday evening. I had Vlad interview the coworkers and nobody knows him well, or is especially close with him. One guy said, and I quote, ‘he was a good worker, but very quiet. I don’t know much about him.’ I think we can rule this a suicide and wrap this up before midnight snack.”

“That feels a little too neat don’t you think”

“Sometimes, people just decide it’s their time Detective. Not everything is a crime scene.”

I knew that he had a point but I was not ready to give up on Ulrich. Here was a kid with all the markers for potential success: a full-time job, current payments on his house, no debt. Everybody we spoke to liked the kid. Why, with no warning, would he walk into the sunlight? Even if he wanted to kill himself, that is such a brutal and unnecessary way to do it. Fuck, I’ve seen depressed teens who ended it more painlessly by running chest first into a tree. Something didn’t sit right. “I’m gonna take a look. See if you can gather up anymore dust.”

The moonlight faded into the blackness of Ulrich’s open front door as I approached. The house was one story, no windows, and an attached garage with additional fortifications. It might even be nicer than mine. What more could you want? I looked down to see a black welcome mat with no writing, which was unhelpful. It forced me to call inside. “Any officers still in the buildings?

“Ya.” Vlad responded casually.

“Mind giving me a warm welcome?”

“No problem boss.” Vlad came up to the doorway and continued, “please come in detective.”

“Thanks.” I pushed past Vlad and went right to where I usually begin my search, the fridge. It was full of blood of every type, even O-, Ulrich was a man who appreciated the finer things. “Nobody would kill themselves with O in the fridge.” I muttered to myself.

“What?” Vlad had heard me in the distance.

“Nothing!” I shouted back, gruffly, hoping to dissuade him from acknowledging my self-talk going forward. The kitchen was clean. Stainless steel appliances with dark marble counters and black tile floors. Red accents on cherry wood cabinets and matching red dish towels. Every slot was filled in the knife block. Not a hair out of place. “Was Ulrich bald?” I called out to Vlad.

“Yes,” Vlad replied. “He was 245.”

“So young.”

“What?”

“Nothing!” I brushed my hand over my own bald scalp and returned to the details. The hallway to the bedroom had photos of Ulrich spanning the last couple centuries. As the years went on, you could tell he had begun to isolate. The photos of him in what appeared to be his sixties to one-seventies were full of family and friends. The laughter and love that is contagious from the manicured wall of photographs of a life well lived. But as they went on, the photo participants dwindled until it was just Ulrich and a woman, possibly his bride, and then, eventually, him alone.

The bedroom was bleak and desolate. His coffin was half-rotted pine. The fragrance was a mix of the ancient forests and disease. Lucky bastard. There wasn’t much of note here. Except, if you looked closely, the depression of the floor to the right of Ulrich’s coffin indicated that another one used to rest there, but had since been moved.

I meandered into the office and examined his work setup. The officers had made sure to not move anything until I arrived. Next to his computer, a half-full glass of blood sat coagulating. I gave it a long sniff. Yep, that was O. The computer was unlocked, and unmoved from Ulrich’s last interaction. He had multiple programs open and about two-hundred thousand tabs on his internet browser. It was a shame that he would never get to see those through.

I opened his v-mail, and what I saw was a confirmation of what the other clues had suggested. A message from a ‘Victoria,’ which read as follows:

“Ulrich, you completely disgust me, and not in the good way. The century I spent with you was the worst mistake of my entire life. Each decade that passes without you I realize how lucky I am that I escaped your claws when I did. I despise you, and I resent you using my turning day as some invitation to send me a message and beg my forgiveness or pity. I am every bit as angry at you as the day I left, and it is never going to simmer or wane. Not in one-hundred years, not in one-thousand years, and not if the hunters kill every last one of our kind besides us leaving you as my only option for company. This will be the last time I write you, and I sincerely hope that you will never message me again. I would rather step into the sun than spend one more minute of my eternity thinking about you.

“P.S. Please die.”

As I walked out of the house I shouted, “Figus, you were right. Midnight snack is on me. I’ll buy you some O.”