Kyle and I got out of the sedan and hurried toward the Cathedral of St John the Baptist. A gold-and-white banner over the main door proclaimed, ‘One Faith, One Family.’
The twin spires of the church rose high over the city of Savannah.  The style was French Gothic: grand arches and traceries, impressive stained-glass windows, an Italian marble altar. It occurred to me that the neo-vampire culture admired Gothic clothing, trappings, so why not architecture? I was taking everything in - everything. But nothing had clicked yet.
The murder had been discovered less than two hours ago. Kyle and I were in the air minutes after we heard the news from the Savannah police. The story was already all over the TV.
The sweet smell of incense was in my nose. I could see the victim
as soon as we entered the cathedral. I groaned and felt a little sick to my stomach. It was a twenty-one-year-old male, which I had known
from the early reports; an art history major at the University of Georgia named Stephen Fenton. The killers had left Fenton’s wallet and money. Nothing had been stolen - except his shirt.  The cathedral was large and could probably hold as many as a thousand worshipers. A flow of light from stained-glass windows created a pattern of colored light and dark patches on the floor. Even from a distance, I could see that the victim’s neck had been torn open. The shirtless body was toned and sculpted, just like the others.  It lay at the foot of a Station of the Cross, the thirteenth. The floor was stained with blood, but not much liquid remained.
Did they drink the blood here in the cathedral? Was this about sacrilege? Religion? The Stations of the Cross?  Kyle and I approached Stephen Fenton. A body bag was already laid out in the nave. Technicians from the Savannah Police Department stood by. They were restless and angry, anxious to do their work and get out of there. We were holding them up. The local medical examiner was doing his examination of the body and told us he was certain two people had attacked Fenton - he had found two different sets of teeth marks.
Kyle and I knelt over the body together. I pulled on a pair of plastic gloves. Kyle almost never used them. He rarely seemed to touch evidence at a crime scene. I had always wondered why. His instincts were good, though.
But if we were both so good, why didn’t we have any clue as to where the killers had gone, or where they might strike next? That was the question that nagged me more and more at each murder site. What was this gruesome rampage about?
“The/re so goddamn impulsive,’ ............