Triskaideka

Cold Case supported his brother as they limped out of the woods to where Raspberry was waiting. She paced nervously and kept glancing around every time a tree branch so much as rustled. When the two emerged, she ran towards them and began sobbing uncontrollably.

“They’re dead! They’re all dead!” she cried. Sirens began wailing and red and blue flashing lights could be seen in the distance.

“You didn’t call the cops, did you?” Redeemer asked.

“Well yeah, what else was I supposed to do?”

“We gotta make this quick,” Cold Case said. “Is there anything, and I mean ANYTHING, you can tell us about what happened?”

“Because the cops ain’t gonna believe anything you tell them,” Redeemer added, inspecting his wound. The horn hadn’t gone deep enough to puncture anything important.

“I saw another pony!” Raspberry shouted after babbling incoherently. “It-it-it was gutting my friends, and it-it-it was—” She broke down into another series of incoherent gibberish. Redeemer gave her a firm shake, but she only started to sob harder.

“Deem, we gotta go,” Cold Case said as the police cars came into view.

“We were never here,” Redeemer said to Raspberry, holding her close to his face before letting her go. Together, the brothers jumped into their parked car, and with tires squealing, raced away.

“That thing is evil, man,” Redeemer said as he drove the vehicle away from the crime scene. “I think we’re dealing with some dark magic or something.”

“Yeah, there ain’t much else that can tank a headshot.”

Once back at the motel, Redeemer threw off his blood soaked jacket and began tending to his wound. “So you think some pony may have picked up Crypt Key’s little “Franken-Hoof” project?”

“It’s possible,” Cold Case replied, wrapping bandages around his own torso. “We’re gonna have to get back out to those woods tomorrow, and see if there’s anything left of that old house.”

“Place is gonna be crawling with cops.” Redeemer winced as he poured high proof alcohol on his wound. He took a swig from the bottle then fished through his jacket for something. When he found it, he tossed it at Cold Case.

“What the Hell is this?” Cold Case asked in disgust, holding up the tattered scrap of fur.

“Part of the thing’s face. I want you to take it to the coroner in the morning; see if it matches any of the vics,” Redeemer replied, plopping down on his bed. Within minutes he was asleep.

Cold Case sat down in front his laptop, and began going over the newspaper articles again. After a few hours, he found himself dozing off. A beep from his laptop awoke him and he rubbed his, trying to get them to focus. A new article had been posted and a notification noise had gone off. Cold Case refreshed the page and the October 30th issue of the Manehatten Times appeared on the screen.

Officers Gun Down Nightmare Night Killer

Late last night, police responded to a frantic 911 call that detailed a masked stallion with a machete, just outside the city border; the same location as the previous night’s attacks. When officers arrived, they could not locate the 911 caller or any other survivors.

After an hour long search, police encountered a suspect matching the description they’d received over the phone. The suspect approached police wielding a weapon, and did not respond to verbal warnings. Officers opened fire and brought the suspect down.

Read more on A2…

Below the text was a picture of police bagging up a cheap Triskaideka mask that was covered in blood. Sheriff Alcatraz stood at the back of the photo, looking quite pleased. Cold Case started getting bad vibes from the article. What happened to Raspberry? She was standing right there when the police showed up. And the stallion in the costume was dead when they arrived; decapitated—not shot. Looks like Alcatraz needed a scapegoat to make himself look good to the public.

Cold Case clicked on the next page. The article stated seven bodies were found, but none matched Raspberry’s description. There was nothing about a huge chunk of pony pelt being found either.

He debated if he should wake his brother, but there wasn’t really much they could do. They’d have to wait until morning before they could question the police.

--V—v—V--

“Is everything alright, Agent?” The coroner had been running back and forth between eight corpses when Cold Case made his way down the stairs. “You appear as though you’re in pain.”

He gave Cold Case a quick prod in the chest, and he almost fell to his knees. “Yeah don’t do that!” Cold Case said quickly and painfully. “Bar fight last night, think I may have a cracked rib.”

“Huh, crazy life you FBI live,” the coroner said, stepping back to his work. “I’m surprised you’re here. You are aware the case has been solved, correct?”

“I’m not so sure,” Cold Case said, grabbing a pair of gloves. He looked over the eight bodies, and none of them were Raspberry’s. “Which one is Triskaideka?”

“That’d be this stallion,” the coroner led him to a corpse that had freshly been cut open. “Cause of death: one bullet to the heart. Most normal death I’ve seen all week.”

Cold Case looked at the stallion and could see no other trauma to the body; all the organs were intact. “Did we get an ID?”

“Yep,” the coroner replied. “Say hello to Booker Bronze. The sheriff tells me he was a rookie to the force.”

“Wait, he’s a cop?”

“Was a cop, and yes.”

“Isn’t he a bit young? These murders have been going on nearly a hundred years, and the colt barely looks a day over eighteen.”

“There have been several odd deaths over the years, but I hardly think they’re all connected. We do know that this week’s crimes were the product of this stallion.” The coroner spoke smugly, and waited for Cold Case to reply.

Cold Case reached into his jacket pocket and removed a plastic bag. Inside was the piece Triskaideka’s face his brother had gotten the night before. The coroner looked at it, trying to figure out what it was.

“What have you there?” he asked.

“Just something I need you to analyze,” Cold Case replied. “Just let me know how many ponies it’s made up of and how old each section is. Maybe then you’ll see a connection.”

The coroner’s face went white as he took the sample. “Um, I’ll have the results in a few hours…where…where did you get this?”

“From the crime scene—seems the cops weren’t very thorough with their investigation.”

Without another word, Cold Case left the morgue and went to meet his brother at the police station. The black sports car was parked out front, and Redeemer sat with the seat reclined and his hooves on the steering wheel.

“What’s up? You waiting for me?” Cold Case asked as he approached the car.

“No, I’m waiting on our buddy Al. Receptionist said he ain’t in today, but that’s his car right there.” Redeemer pointed at a well-maintained, black, antique car that was parked in the front row. It stood out from the surrounding vehicles; predating them by many years.

Cold Case glanced at the complex and saw the blinds of one of the offices snap shut. “Yeah, something ain’t right here,” he said, looking back to his brother.

“No kidding,” he replied. “So what’d the coroner have?”

“Anxiety mostly,” Cold Case answered with a laugh. “Eight bodies is a lot for one coroner.”

“So any idea who the scapegoat was?”

“Yeah, it was a cop,” Cold Case replied.

Redeemer’s jaw dropped and he sat upright in his seat. “This whole thing stinks,” he said, taking out his gun. “I’m gonna go get some answers.”

Cold Case kept his weight against the door so his brother couldn’t get out. “Rushing a police station with a gun probably isn’t the best way to do that.”

Redeemer settled back into his seat and holstered his gun. “They stick a dead cop in a costume while that THING is still out there? Are they that concerned about their public appearance, or are they trying to protect it?”

“There isn’t much we can do in broad daylight,” Cold Case said, opening the passenger door and climbing inside the car. “We can poke around those woods some more though.”

“Yeah, maybe now that it’s light out we can find that damn house foundation.”