“Why did my husband decide to take his own life?” asks the first woman.

“What?” Sylvia says. The woman is crying so hard, Sylvia can’t understand her.

“Why did my husband decide to take his own life?” the woman repeats.

“He was bipolar,” Sylvia says.

The next woman walks to the microphone.

“I have a strained relationship with my daughter,” she begins. “And I want to know …”

“Your daughter is strange,” interrupts Sylvia.

I have met Count Dracula. The real one. Some years ago, while researching an article about Transylvania, I was introduced to the charming and erudite man who was heir to the region spoken of in Bram Stoker’s book. Having been exiled to Germany with his family throughout the Ceausescu years, the authentic count had returned to reclaim his legacy, and was in the process of restoring his baronial castle, which nestled in the shadow of the Carpathian mountains.

He recounted how, in 1992, while still fighting to reclaim his birthright, he’d wandered into a cinema showing Francis Ford Coppola’s awkwardly titled Bram Stoker’s Dracula. He watched the perverted version of his heritage on screen with a growing sense of frustration. When Gary Oldman, playing Dracula, introduced himself with the line, “I am Vlad, prince of Szekely”, the real count could contain himself no longer. He stood up and shouted across the auditorium: “No, you are not! I am!”

‘The officers’ darkest moment reportedly came in November 1992, when they shot and killed three dozen children who darted out of a dark alley holding toy guns. Following the incident, Henderson traveled to the San Pedro, CA marina where all 34 officers docked their houseboats. He found them passed out with bottles of Wild Turkey in their left hands and .44-caliber Magnum handguns in their right.

“I dragged every one of those sorry bastards into the shower myself, brewed 28 gallons of coffee, and made them drink it. By the time I was done, it was 3 a.m. and I was completely exhausted, but I got them back on the right track,” Henderson said.’