by John Pirillo
"Exhibit Four. Conclusive evidence. A missive directly from the Queen, allowing you full co-operation from the government in your investigation."
Holmes raised his hands and clapped them, smiling proudly at Watson.
Watson took a humorous bow, and then sat back down at his chair, beaming.
Mrs. Hudson leaned over and brushed his cheek with a kiss.
"And one more thing, Holmes."
"Yes?"
"I failed to mention this earlier about Myron's strange behavior. When I returned the second time shortly after I left, Myron's lips had small spots of blood smeared on them, as if they had been hurriedly wiped."
"Interesting," Holmes stated, then placed a small plate in front of the design he had made.
"What now?" Watson asked. "Have you discovered something?"
Holmes smiled. "I have discovered that we need to finish our dinner," Holmes replied with the hint of a mile.
What Watson didn't hear said, but knowing Holmes well enough, had been left unsaid, was what they would do after...they had finished.
Chapter Ten: The Morgue
Inspector Bloodstone stepped into the morgue, scowling, rubbing at his eyes, his fatigue creating dark shadows under his eyes. Constable Evans rubbed at his own eyes, much like his father, Inspector Bloodstone, had just done before he unlocked the door. He didn't look all that much better. They had both gotten little sleep these last few days.
The Inspector turned to Holmes and Watson. "What is so damned important that we must do this at such an ungodly hour?"
"Would you have been sleeping otherwise, Inspector?" Holmes inquired.
"Sleep might as well be in the Chinas as often as I get to visit it these days," he growled.
"Time is of the essence, Inspector," Holmes replied.
He stepped past the inspector, with Watson following closely. "Which cooler, Watson?"
"The body isn't scheduled for the funeral, which in this case is cremation, because Freddy had no relatives that could be contacted," Constable Evans said.
"So it should be here," Watson declared, going straight to the door that he and Myron had opened earlier that day for the autopsy.
He swung it open and then stood silently, not moving.
The others stepped around him to look.
The body was gone.
Watson turned about to face the Inspector. "Was there a pickup earlier?"
The Inspector shook his head. He glanced at his son, who rushed from the morgue.
"This doesn't mean a thing, Watson," the Inspector insisted. "Myron often works late and sometimes escorts bodies to the local funeral parlor when necessary."
"Agreed," Holmes replied.
"But what?" The Inspector asked, knowing that was the next question.
"But it seems rather convenient that Myron would do so under the circumstances."
"What circumstances?"
Holmes went to the oven of the morgue where bodies are sometimes cremated when other circumstances demand it. He opened it. "Watson."
Watson came and looked. "It's still hot and I see some remains still glowing from the heat of their burn."
Watson peered inside more closely. "Inspector, do you have a lamp handy?"
The Inspector went to a cabinet and pulled out a Tesla lamp. He switched it on and handed it to Watson, who held it inside the furnace. The shape of a body could be seen overlaying the other ashes in the oven.
"Holmes."
Holmes handed Watson a pair of surgical tongs. Watson inserted it into the oven and pulled out a ring that had been laying unseen from the normal view.
Watson turned about to reveal it. "This is the ring that Freddy was wearing on his left hand."
The Inspector's eyes narrowed.
Holmes suddenly tensed. "Inspector, I smell something rather ripe."
"It's a morgue; ripe things are here."
"Not that kind," Holmes insisted.
He began sniffing the air.
Watson and the Inspector both turned to watch him as he moved about the room, until he came to a closet. "What's in here?"
Constable Evans came back inside. "There was a pickup earlier today."
"Who scheduled it?"
"Myron."
"When?"
Constable Evans looked at the time signature, then at Watson. "You left about seven, did you not?"
"Yes."
"The pickup was about an hour after that."
The Inspector and Holmes exchanged meaningful glances.
Watson, unable to stand the suspense anymore, went to the closet door and flung it open. The corpse of a woman fell forwards into Watson.
"God help me!" He cried out, dodging from the path of the collapsing corpse, which fell to the floor and made a loud smacking sound as the rigid body struck it.
He turned her over, holding his nose as he did so with his free hand.
"The spine of her neck has been severed and she is missing the entire left side of her rib cage and the interior," he noted as he examined closer.
He turned to Holmes with a glance that said much. Holmes turned to the Inspector.
"I'd like Watson to do an autopsy on this woman immediately."
"Very well. This is a bit unusual procedure though."
Holmes ignored him and turned to the Constable. ""Where does Myron live?"
"I'll take you there."
"Excellent."
Holmes turned to Watson.
Watson nodded. "Don't worry; I'll be quite thorough."
Holmes nodded to him and then headed for the exit. "Coming, Constable?"
Constable Evans hurried after him.
"What about me? The Inspector demanded.
Holmes paused, looked back and smiled. "Go home and get some sleep, you're beginning to sound like Watson when he's a grouchy bear!"
Watson and the Inspector both gave each other scowls as Holmes and the Constable exited the morgue.
Chapter Eleven: The Hunt Is On Again
Marilyn Mabel Abercrombie was late. Late to get home. Late to get even close to home. She had stayed out late with some of her friends from the office, where she and they had been chatting, while sharing coffee and tea. They often did that, all being married, it was the only time they ever really had to themselves. She was the only one who was not married. She blamed it on her weight; it wasn't attractive to most men, but she had never had a lack of men interested in her for some reason, though she couldn't understand why.
Perhaps it was her lack of interest in men that drove them off. Or even that attracted them. Men were silly about that. They found a challenge more interesting than just a plain friendship freely offered.
Lately, she'd found herself more attracted to the same sex, though it often caused her to feel conflicted. It just wasn't acceptable to feel that way, even if you never acted upon it.
Sure, she had been naughty like most young girls and exchanged kisses with her girlfriends to see what kissing was like, but it had never been anything...well, sexual.
Why she was thinking about all of that now, she had no idea, maybe it was her sense of being so alone, even lonely. She lived in a flat off Perkins and Strong. It was a modest neighborhood with working class people living there. Small families and single older women like herself who had not married, or never would be. Spinsters they were termed, which she found offensive. Just because you were a woman didn't mean you had to have a man; and it certainly didn't make you a bad person.
Maybe it was her anger at herself and the world she lived in that blinded her to the sounds behind her, approaching stealthily, but steadily. And a sniffing sound, almost like what a dog does when it's surveying something new with its nostrils.
Then she caught a scent in the air. An odd one.
She stopped, puzzled by the scent. It was hauntingly beautiful, fragrant and attractive and yet mixed in with the smell was an offensive blur of odors she couldn't identify. How can something be offensive and attractive at the same time? She
asked herself. Then she smiled. "Ask a man," she said outloud, letting a small chuckle out.
She froze.
Another sound. Closer.
She began to become agitated, not frightened. She wasn't afraid of anyone or anything. She carried a silver tipped cane umbrella, which she had used on more than one occasion to fend off muggers, and the occasional drunk seeking to touch where he should not.
"I know you're there," she said, her voice tense and angry.
Chapter Twelve: Dinner is served
Sniff. Sniff.
Tasty.
Very tasty.
Sniff.
Follow.
Close.
Not too close.
"Hello!"
He smiled, his fangs thrusting around his curled lips.
Sniff.
Close, but not too close.
They continued to move forward, but looking back.
This one was tasty. Very tasty. Almost as much as the male one had been.
He crept forward, the wicker basket clutched tightly in his left hand, which he kept human while his right hand sprouted nails, long claws that could rend a door to pieces if need be.
Sniff.
Stopped.
Waiting.
"I can't see you, but I know you're there!" They cried out.
Sniff.
Fear.
Intense fear.
He smiled and then sprung for his meal, forgetting all caution.
As he leaped through the air he saw too late the cane sweeping down at his head. It struck him on the skull. He slammed to the pavement and laid there, his skull hammering with pain. The cane struck him again and again.
Sniff.
Darkness falling.
It was already dark.
More darkness.
He no longer felt hungry any more.
He let go.
The sound of sobbing and horror was the last thing he heard before the final blow sent him away. That and the distant sound of police whistles.
He tried to move but one more time and a last, crushing blow struck his skull.
This time he went away to never come back again.
Chapter Thirteen: Myron's Flat
Myron sat in front of his fireplace, seated on a modest rocking chair, with a makeshift cushion made from a pillow. He had his hands in his lap, which was covered by a warm blanket. His eyes seemed feverish, his forehead sweating. He muttered to himself, but not loud enough to be heard by anyone else but him.
He glanced out his lone window, almost as if expecting someone to be there watching him. He shook off the feeling of dread he suddenly felt and looked back into the fire. The fire was soothing to him. Something about its nature was kindred to his spirit. Those of the police station he mingled with had no idea of his true sensibilities, his true nature. But he was well aware. He had been for years.
He had fought it.
Fought it since his father had told him of it.
"It's a rare condition, son. One that few ever get, and even fewer survive. You will be scorned by those who find out and hunted like an animal."
It had frightened him so much that he had done everything humanly possible to drive those words from his mind and the images they had caused to surface from God only knew where.
He didn't understand why he had to be cursed with such a rare condition. How did God decide that he was the One, and not some other? Was it God who chose? Or something darker? It caused him to spin out of control for awhile. He became a drunk for a time, sought retreat in opiates. But none of it helped. He would wake up at night screaming in terror. Not only of what he could become, but of what he might do.
Finally, he had made a very hard choice for himself. One that carried a lot of pain even to this day. He had turned his back on his father. He had to. He couldn't look at the man, knowing what he knew now. Not anymore.
He didn't want to be like him; but some things he couldn't fight. This night had been one of them. He feared that he might have made a mistake; but he couldn't think about what it might have been.
He had incinerated the victim's body and substituted another corpse for it, knowing that the state run funeral home would never look closer than to acknowledge that it was from the Yard and had to be cremated and the ashes tossed to the wind.
He was thorough in covering his tracks. He had had years to practice it. Since his teens actually. Perhaps that was what had eventually turned his mind to becoming a coroner in the police field. What more perfect opportunity could he ever have?
A pounding on his door startled him from his thoughts.
He groaned. His whole body ached. It always did. His system had to throw off the effects of what he had eaten and that was the only way it ever occured; with much overheating of his bodily functions. Sometimes he felt close to death. His nature was divided and he knew it; but he had no choice.
If he didn't do what he had done; he might turn in the direction his father had succumbed to. He both feared and loathed such a possibility. Knowing what his father had become had been the most frightening moment of his life and a turning point for him.
The pounding came again.
He threw his blanket to the floor and stood. He almost fell back. He caught himself, and stumbled towards the door. He saw stars for a time floating before him and felt so dizzy he might stumble and fall, but somehow he was able to keep on his feet, even though he felt like he was wading through thick wet sand to do so.
The pounding was redoubled. "Coming!" He shouted. "Drat you!" He cursed.
He reached the door and flung it open.
Sherlock Holmes and Constable Evans stood there.
"Myron Combs?" Holmes inquired.
"I am."
Holmes stepped aside so Constable Evans could take his place.
"I'm sorry, Myron, but you're going to have to come with us."
"What's the meaning of this?" Myron demanded, feeling even more feverish than before. What was happening to him?
"Murder in the first degree," Holmes stated matter-of-factly.
Myron felt consciousness flee him like a bird hurtling into the skies to escape a fox. It fled and he sought the relief of another world as his body dropped towards the floor.
Chapter Fourteen: Discovery and Accusation
The hospital room was small, but it fit the Inspector, Watson, Holmes and Constable Evans fine enough. They stood about the small bed, upon which Myron lay. He was hooked up to a fluid bottle.
"You were severely dehydrated, Mister Combs," Holmes told him.
Watson nodded. "If Holmes and the Constable hadn't arrived when they had, you'd more than likely be dead now."
Myron gave them a nod. "I'm not so sure that would have been any worse than I feel now."
"What happened, Mister Combs?" Holmes asked, politely, but firmly. "When did you decide that your work was less important than your meals?"
Myron had to look away from Holmes. The man's stare was like that of a Medusa, freezing his thoughts and his blood.
"Myron," Watson said gently, putting a friendly hand on his arm. "Please. Talk. A life hangs in the balance on what you do or do not say now."
Myron sighed with relief. "You always were the better man than I, Watson."
Myron eyed the fluid drip in his arm, and then looked up again after gathering his thoughts.
"It's been a long road," Myron said softly, his face creased with conflicting emotions. This moment reminded him of when he had broken away from his father. Tragic, but necessary at the time. And now he was being faced with another momentous decision. One that would forever change his life. "I'm not sure where to start."
The Inspector gave him a severe look. "Be careful what you say, for this is not a friendly meeting, Mister Combs. Everything you say will be recorded and can be used against you in a court of law."
"Then you must know about....?" Myron asked with yet another sigh. He closed his eyes.
"I am at peace with my life for the first t
ime in years." He opened his eyes. "It has been hell to live with my secret all this time without being able to talk to anyone about it. Hell! I've died a thousand times!"
The Inspector growled. "And it's with deep regret we can only execute you one time for the murders you've committed."
Holmes turned to the Inspector. "But he is not the murderer, Inspector. He is merely a werewolf."
"Merely a...," the Inspector hollered. "He's a dratted werewolf for God's sake; they eat human beings. Rend them apart!"
Holmes waited for the Inspector to settle down again and then spoke, "I'm sure he can explain, can't you, Mister Combs?"
He turned to eye the bed ridden man. Myron gave him a blank look.
"Come now, Mister Combs, surely you can do better than that?" Holmes asked.
"Why?"
"First, Watson found no trace of your bite marks on the corpse at the station."
Myron nodded.
"But he did find teeth marks, matching your own prints, on the corpse in the closet."
"How did you come to that conclusion?" Myron asked.
"Your jaw is narrow and thrusts forward to accommodate your...shall we say, extra teeth?"
"All of us have that," Myron admitted.
"Yes, but they do not all have small jaws as your own."
"I examined the first corpse quite thoroughly," Watson jumped in. "The man that had been bitten had quite a large neck. Your jaws, even if distended, would not stretch far enough, nor be able to bite hard enough to sever his neck and spinal column."
Watson smiled. "You may be a werewolf, Myron, but you're a poor man's version, I'm afraid."
Myron laughed. "I don't know whether to feel insulted or jubilant."
"I would suggest you merely tell the truth," Holmes iterated.
"I will do my best," Myron agreed.
"Excellent. In my opinion," Holmes continued. "You could not have performed that murder."
"Third, the corpse you ate from is one Winifred Cordwainer, who had been interred at the station some weeks ago and had been waiting for transit to the state run crematorium."
"True enough," Myron agreed. "I sent a homeless person's body in her stead. We have a steady flow of them, so it wasn't hard."