Right to Silence

by Lily Luchesi

  Finnigan found himself laughing. “You’re telling me that werewolves are real? Look, Mr. Quinn, with all due respect, I know I am just a country bumpkin to you, but I assure you I am not stupid enough to believe your story.”

  He saw Linwood get a very odd expression on his face, one that was a cross between smug satisfaction and alarm.

  “Rule number one you need to recall when dealing with me: you do not ever call the things I say stupid. You will be proven wrong quite quickly if you do,” Mr. Quinn said, his voice deepening with anger. “Werewolves are not just fairy-tale fodder. Now that you are within this select group of people who know the truth, you have options.

  “First option— and the one I think you won’t take —is to agree to never speak of tonight ever again, and go back to your little practice and live a boring albeit safe life.

  “Second option: you help me get rid of the werewolf corpse in your office and you then allow me to teach you everything there is to know about this life, the paranormal community living within London, and you join us in helping save the human race from these abominations.”

  Finnigan was silent, trying to take in what the coroner had just said. “You’re trying to tell me that there are more than werewolves out there. That London is crawling with monsters. I take it back: you don’t think I’m stupid, you think I’m as mad as you are! Constable, are you buying any of this?”

  He turned towards the officer, who looked him dead in the eye and said, “I have no choice but to believe it, because I know it’s true.”

  Finnigan ran his hands through his short blond hair. “Okay. Okay. I can’t deny that something very strange just happened. I saw a man come in with a wolf bite, and saw his face change and his body grow hair. A lot of hair. I know I can’t have imagined it. To think, however, that there is a whole host of odd creatures living in London, is ridiculous.”

  “Is it? Come on, Michael, think,” Mr. Quinn said, using his Christian name without asking. Finnigan was unsure if he should reprimand him or not. “If there’s one, there are usually more.”

  “Isn’t that what they say about cockroaches?” Finnigan countered.

  Quinn snapped his fingers. “Precisely! They’re swarming in the bowels of London, festering like a pile of insects. And there are so many more creatures out there than just werewolves: ghosts and vampires just scratch the surface.”

  Finnigan was silent, contemplating. He could not deny what he saw, but he was a man of science, not a man of myth and legend. Could werewolves and vampires be real?

  “Look, I can’t say I know exactly what’s happening here, but I would like to take you back to my office to help you dispose of the body. Perhaps, after an autopsy, I can think clearer on what exactly afflicted the patient.”

  Mr. Quinn scoffed. “Devil take me, you people really are quite stubborn. Ah well, I don’t think you’ll take nearly as long to convince as the constable here did. Come on, we’ll get him in the carriage and do the autopsy tonight.”

  “Tonight?” Finnigan asked.

  “Yes, unless you had other plans for your evening?” Mr. Quinn’s bright eyes were intimidating, and Finnigan felt butterflies in his stomach just looking at him.

  “No, sir, I don’t. Come, then, let us commence with the autopsy.” Finnigan left the room before his new companion did, but he was not too far away not to overhear Linwood and Quinn’s short conversation.

  “Don’t think I didn’t recognize that expression on your face, Quinn. Don’t be foolish.”

  Mr. Quinn laughed. “When have you ever known me to be foolish?” The coroner joined Finnigan outside the building and opened the carriage door for him.

  “Did Linwood say we could take this?” Finnigan asked, concerned.

  “We have a standing agreement, he and I. He doesn’t get in my way, and I keep London safe in a way that he can’t so he is able to keep his position.”

  “So, you’re saying you’re a spoilt infant, eh?” Finnigan smiled.

  Quinn smirked as he took the reins. “In a simple and crude way, yes: I do always get what I want.”

  The drive to the practice was short, and they could smell wet dog as they re-entered the building.

  “That is most disgusting,” Finnigan commented. “Is that the patient?”

  “Yes. Usually only vampires can smell this scent, but after death the stench becomes permeating, which is why cremation of the remains is recommended,” Quinn explained. “However, I did agree to assuage your doubts by helping you perform an autopsy on the victim. So, come, Finnigan. There isn’t a moment to waste.”

  Getting more blankets from the back cupboard, Finnigan and Quinn wrapped the corpse up in a makeshift body bag and carried it to the back of the carriage. “Don’t you have your own transport?” Finnigan asked.

  “No. I specialise in my position, so that when there are corpses that require my level of expertise, Linwood is quite happy to deliver them to me personally. I have not gone and fetched a corpse myself in over a year,” Quinn revealed.

  Finnigan glanced back into the carriage. “I do hope those were enough blankets to keep the corpse from leaving blood all over the cab.”

  Chapter Two

  They arrived at the coroner’s office shortly. It was a place with which Finnigan supposed he should make himself comfortable. He was, after all, a physician in London. Patients were bound to pass away, and he might be seeing Mr. Quinn quite often in the future. That thought excited him more than it should have.

  The corpse was carried to an examination room and Quinn got out gloves and masks for the both of them. “Come, and you will see what I mean by the fact that this man’s biology changed at the very base level.” With practiced ease, Finnigan watched as Quinn began his dissection. “When a werewolf or any other kind of shifter bites a human, enzymes from their saliva enter into the victim’s bloodstream and begin infecting them. After a short period— a timeframe Parliament has termed to be two to twenty-four hours, depending on the amount of saliva that entered the body and what kind of shifter it was —the victim is fully turned, and usually goes on to infect more people.”

  “Wait, are you telling me that our own government is privy to all of this and has performed controlled studies on turning innocent humans?” Finnigan asked, eyes wide.

  “Not all of Parliament,” Quinn explained. “There is a small percentage that is in the know and many laws have been passed regarding hunting that seem harmless, but are actually a way for people like myself and Linwood to protect the mortal population of England.”

  “But— but —you claim that they did studies. How?” Finnigan asked.

  Quinn sighed. “Volunteers, some. Most were known criminals sentenced to death, however. They would have died all the same, so it doesn’t matter how they died, does it?”

  “It most certainly does!” Finnigan protested. “Some of these so-called ‘capital offences’ should not be punishable by death, least of all a death at the hands of scientists performing inhumane experiments on them!” Finnigan felt his heart-rate increasing and tried to calm down. Were Quinn to ask why he was so upset, he could find himself in deep trouble. Trouble he could not get out of, lest he be one of the unfortunate souls wrongly placed in gaol Death Row.

  “You need not be so vehement,” Quinn said. “These were all murderers, I assure you.” Quinn turned his startlingly blue eyes on Finnigan briefly and then went back to work, saying, “I do agree with you on some points. Hanging for such petty offences as horse stealing is quite excessive. I believe that some offences should not be punished quite so harshly.” He paused and then made a wordless exclamation of triumph. “Here, Finnigan! Look closer!”

  Finnigan leaned in and looked at the innards of his patient, immediately noticing one significant thing. “His digestive tract is quite small. And I can see the high level of acidity that is not normally present in healthy men.”

  Quinn sighed again, sounding exasperated. “If any human had such a high level of acidity in
their tracts or stomachs, they would be dead or in hospital, Doctor. You know that. However, canines’ stomachs and tracts naturally produce this much acid. And look here.”

  Quinn drew Finnigan’s attention to the ears of the patient, which were full of short, coarse hair, far too much to be considered normal. Quinn unceremoniously yanked open the jaw of the patient, and Finnigan swore he could hear the muscle creak, rigor having begun to set in.

  “Count his teeth,” Quinn commanded. “Go on.”

  Finnigan frowned, not liking being ordered about, but did as he was told. And then counted twice, because he was certain he had made a mistake. There were forty-two teeth in that mouth, which was impossible. Adult humans only had thirty-two.

  “No, you did not make a mistake,” Mr. Quinn said. “There are ten extra teeth...making this man have the exact same amount as a wolf does. Now, I am going to extract some blood and allow you to examine it under that microscope over there.” He pointed to another table and Finnigan walked over to it, glancing into the little glass eyehole.

  “There are twice as many red blood cells here than in any blood I have ever seen!” he exclaimed.

  “Yes,” Quinn said, and Finnigan turned to see him hastily closing up the deep Y-cut he had made on the corpse. “All shifters run hot, and their blood has twice the red cells than humans. That is why vampires can’t drink from them: it’s like poison to their systems. Come here and touch the patient: he is in full rigor, yet he is still warm to the touch. Just like all shapeshifters.”

  The doctor stared down at the corpse, his mind trying to wrap around all of the information he had just received. He wanted to wake up in bed, and find out this was all a dream. However, his muscles ached from carrying such a heavy body, the stench of wet dog and ammonia was permeating his nostrils, and the clear blue-green gaze of Mr. Quinn was too intimidating to possibly be a dream.

  “Doctor, you are going into a mild state of shock,” Quinn’s voice broke through the haze clouding Finnigan’s mind. He felt hands on his shoulders again and he was led to one of the two chairs in the office adjoining the morgue. “Doctor, breathe in and out, slowly. Come now, through your mouth. This is quite normal, I assure you.”

  “Nothing is ‘normal’ about this at all!” Finnigan cried.

  “In a very short time, Finnigan, it will all be very normal to you. You will no longer hyperventilate at the sight of a werewolf. I was fifteen when my parents were killed by a vampire. I can tell you I cried, and my brother was forced to not only take care of me, but to acclimate both of us to hunting. We had to adjust rather quickly to this lifestyle, and I am certain you will adjust equally fast.”

  Like a spell being cast, the coroner’s words were acting as a calmative, breaking through the fog of terror and realisation and grounding him to Earth. Finnigan looked up and into the greenish blue of the coroner’s eyes. The tall man was bent over, hand on the back of Finnigan’s chair and the other hand at his throat, taking his pulse. His hands were dry, but the light pressure and cold touch sent shivers down the doctor’s spine and he drew a shaky breath. He could smell him, a mix of cloves and pipe tobacco.

  “Better?” Mr. Quinn asked, moving back. “Good.” The eyes that Finnigan had thought were so cold, brightened with warmth and they crinkled as he smiled.

  Finnigan was breathless, but it was no longer from shock.

  The moment was heavy, laden with things felt but unsaid, seen but unacknowledged. Was it only on Finnigan’s part, or was the coroner feeling something?

  Before he could think on it, he heard feet running down the hall and the constable appeared, looking a bit ragged and sweating.

  “Wolf spotted near Westminster,” he said breathlessly. “Sergeant Norris wanted to go, but I persuaded him to remain at his home.”

  Finnigan watched as Mr. Quinn stood up and began to reload his gun with what looked like silver bullets.

  “Hand me your firearm, Doctor,” he ordered.

  “How do you know I’m even carrying one, Mr. Quinn?” Finnigan asked, startled.

  “You’ve checked for it subconsciously three times since we’ve met this evening. Now, hand it over, please.” The coroner’s tone brooked no argument, and Finnigan handed him his revolver, which he began reloading with more silver.

  “It isn’t a full moon. Are werewolves not supposed to turn during the full moon?” he asked.

  “Shifters can turn whenever they want. It is only on the nights of the full moon that they have no choice but to turn,” Constable Linwood explained.

  Mr. Quinn handed him back his revolver and said, “Let us hurry: there is no time to waste. Bullet to the chest will kill a shifter of any sort. Werewolves usually need two or three, as you saw earlier this evening.” He turned to the constable. “Linwood, you can be on damage control with the residents.”

  “When it comes to you, Mr, Quinn, I’m always on damage control,” he commented, leaving the room before them. They followed and all got into his carriage, which still carried the heady odour of wet dog and rancid blood.

  “I am going to have to purchase an entirely new cab!” Linwood complained. “Really, you must acquire your own method of transportation.”

  The ride to Westminster was short, and when they got there they went separate ways: Linwood to see the general mood of the residents, and Mr. Quinn led Finnigan to where he thought a shifter might go to find people to infect.

  “Most werewolves just want to feed. Their appetites are only slightly easier to control than vampires’. This one, however, did not feed from the victim who came into your practice, Doctor, so we can safely assume that he or she is intent on creating new shifters, a new pack,” Mr. Quinn explained. “Human hearts, and certain animal organs, are the usual meal of choice to keep werewolves alive. Your patient had everything intact.”

  “That’s vile,” Finnigan commented. He was about to say more when Mr. Quinn shushed him rather rudely.

  “This way. Gun ready.”

  “What did you hear?” Finnigan asked, he himself having heard nothing but the usual sounds of London at night.

  “Your powers of observation are no better than the constable’s, I see,” Mr. Quinn said loftily. “Barely able to look beyond your own nose. How terribly ordinary. There’s a tuft of torn fur there, by that broken glass.”

  Just when Finnigan wanted to reply, there was a shriek that ricocheted off the building walls and then the two men were dashing towards the sound. When they turned a corner down a residential side-street, Finnigan very nearly swooned to a dead faint, but Mr. Quinn held his arm in a grip that felt like iron.

  “Steady. I need you.”

  There was a virtual bloodbath in the middle of the street. Thankfully, fear made most of the residents in the flats have their windows tightly shut, so few would actually witness the werewolf attack.

  One man lay dead, torso torn open and a bloody mess was made of his internal organs. What had not been consumed were strewn across the cobblestone street. The wolf was atop another man while a woman was screaming nearby.

  “Take care of the woman,” Mr. Quinn told him. “I will deal with the wolf.”

  Finnigan nodded absently while he made his way over to the young woman, who did indeed need taking care of. She had fallen, presumably during the chase the werewolf gave, and she was bleeding on her hands and a shallow wound was leaking blood down the side of her face.

  “Miss, Miss, come with me,” Finnigan said, gently taking her arm. “You’re in danger here.”

  “It killed my fiancé!” she cried, tears streaming from her eyes. “Oh, Francis!”

  Finnigan tried in vain to tug her away and out of danger, but her love for her fallen fiancé kept her rooted to the spot. He was facing away from the battle, but he could hear gunshots, growls, and howls. A few curses came from Mr. Quinn. He wished he could see what was happening, but this blasted girl would not cooperate.

  “Miss, I am a doctor. You need to listen to me and get moving! Go to Marylebo
ne Street and you’ll find the constable. He’ll help you. Now go, or do you prefer being dinner like your fiancé just was?”

  Something he said or his tone seemed to shake her from her grief and she ran, crying. He made sure she turned the corner without incident and then turned to the battle between Mr. Quinn and the werewolf. It was almost over, evidently.

  The wolf had scratched at Mr. Quinn, but his heavy clothing prevented any physical damage from being done to his person. The wolf was bleeding from multiple gunshot wounds, and Finnigan watched as the coroner deftly aimed his revolver and shot the wolf on the run, three bullets to the heart.

  The howl was nearly deafening, and Finnigan watched in shock as the wolf began to morph, slowly becoming human again in death. The man was naked, covered in blood and had five holes in his body, not counting the three in the chest. It was over. The smell of wet dog and blood was so thick Finnigan thought he could bottle it if he were so inclined.

  Finnigan went to Mr. Quinn. “Are you well?”

  The coroner nodded, breathless, but with a smile of exhilaration on his face. “Did you get the woman to safety?”

  Finnigan nodded.

  “Good.” Suddenly, his blue eyes widened and he cried, “Get out of the way!”

  They had forgotten about the third victim, who was now quite obviously not dead. He had been infected, and was now very hungry indeed. It leapt at them, and the coroner got them out of the way just in time, crashing into the street.

  Finnigan fumbled for his gun, unable to ever recall being so terrified except for his near death sentence the previous month. His father was in the British Royal Army and Finnigan was an excellent shot, but right then he was shaking so badly he did not think he could hit an elephant if it was four feet away from him.

  The wolf again leapt at them, and both of their bullets missed it, though Mr. Quinn’s managed to hit its ear, and in that minor distraction the two men clambered away from it, hoping that distance would help ensure their victory.