The city of Canterlot was deserted in the early hours of the morning. Homes were dark, aside from the occasional reading lamp for the ones who couldn't find refuge in sleep. Street lights buzzed away with their magical light for no one. The light filtered into a small second story window of Apartment 445, illuminating a cork bulletin board. Illegible writing was scribbled on random sheets of paper, and tacked on along with pictures of seemingly random events. The only connection between them were long strands of red silk, looping between events like a spider’s web of conspiracies. Fallen behind a desk, hidden by the darkness was a certificate of passing the conditions required to be a detective, having long been neglected as the recipient cared no longer for the minuscule value of the paper.
A hooded stallion jogged past the residence and as he did so, kicked an unseen bottle into the nearby streetlamp. The clatter was enough to be heard from the second story room, and it woke the light slumber of the young stallion sleeping in the dark room. rubbing his eye with his hoof, he used his magic to put on his glasses and walked to the single window of the room hoping to see what woke him. By then the hooded pony had already made his way past the corner, and instead the woken detective focused his attention at the distant flashing lights of a police wagon. It wasn't all too surprising to see that something had happened at the time. The city was a mess; he should know, being part of the police force. Despite being a city enjoying the boom of economical success, it couldn't find any way from becoming like any other large city, complete with criminals. Some were better at what they did than others, but they were all the same. They thought the same, they all worked the same way. Only once in a blue moon did one end up doing something unthinkable, something that we didn't expect.
Lying back on his bed and replacing his glasses back to where they were, the pony resumed his position, hoping that he could gain a few hours before he would have to prepare for work. He began to mull over random subjects, each more unsettling than the last. However, the pony fell asleep and wasn't disturbed until the next morning.
The walk to work was as dull as always, with the quick stop at the coffee shop. When the police detective arrived at the police station he made his way to his desk, only stopping to pick up the latest report on his case from the analyst department. His desk was cluttered, stacks of papers leaning precariously over the empty space beyond the surface. He shoved some papers away, leaving an open space to lay the file down and he sat down.
Sipping his coffee absentmindedly, he opened the file. He gasped as he saw the contents despite having drunk something, causing his colleagues to peer at him as he struggled to overcome his coughing fit. Paper clipped directly to the inside of the folder was a picture of a mangled body, along with the autopsy that was performed on the body. The coffee was forgotten as the detective pored over the file and its relation to his own case.
Disgusted after reading it, he sat back to think. This was the fourth time in the recent months they’ve found a butchered body, as if suddenly a serial killer moved into the city. It pained the detective to not know how to solve the case. It was as if the killer acted on sight, choosing whomever he thought looked funny, or anyone who kept eye contact for too long. There was no relation between the victims, spread between large distances and done on random dates.
Because of his reputation to be untraceable, the city has begun to realize the true meaning of having a killer among them that could not be identified. Ponies started moving back to other homes, ponies began to blame the police for not stopping the killer, and the detective feared the worst case scenario of a huge number of victims before the killer would be stopped, or if he even will be apprehended at all.
He ran his fingers through his hair with frustration, looking through the evidence he had collected. His search yielded no progress, and he was left with a day of no progress despite his efforts. He left that day unsure of his own ability more than ever. Never had he and his colleagues been stopped by a case like the one he was working on. It was as if by chance he left no evidence of his identity. As if he accidentally left the bodies in a place where no one would discover them until a week later.
As he made his way to the site of the murder through the busy midday streets, the detective found himself wondering why the pony was selected as a victim. More troubling, he wondered if he himself would be somehow randomly selected. When he finally arrived he had almost forgotten the notion, as ridiculous as it was. There was no one in the park that day, having been cordoned down by the police. There wasn't anyone watching the police work, which disappointed the detective, as serial killers have been known to return to the murder scene to examine their work.
Initial reports of the victim’s death suggested blunt trauma injury, and the blood splattered asphalt told it all. Forensic scientists had already searched every inch of the ground, and had found nothing. The cloth turned out to be from the victim’s shirt, the splintered piece of wood to be mulch from the playground on the other side of the park. Despite the chances of him actually finding anything useful, the detective began asking the scientists for anything.
After three hours of scouring ponies and places for anything to further develop the condition of the case, he came up empty handed. Grabbing another coffee on the way back to the station, he spent another few hours revisiting other victims of presumably the same killer. Data showed no relation of any of the murders based on location, age, gender, or race. All the murders occurred late evening or early morning, when the streets were empty and anyone who didn't have night vision capabilities couldn't catch anything. Scenes of the murders were spread around the city like an amateur throwing darts, and the occupations of victims varied with no correlation.
When he got home he began the routinely procedure of ending his day. After dinner the tired detective brought out the case files some more to review them, only to realize he was just staring at the papers absentmindedly. Any attempt he made to focus was wasted. He rubbed his eyes, before checking the time on his phone.
Deciding a walk would be for the best for his concentration, he made his way outside after grabbing a jacket on his way out. The downtown area was quite lively, as ponies were enjoying their nights. He made his short walk to the harbor, just in time to observe the sun dip under the horizon. there were only a few other ponies aside from himself; the jogger wearing the hoodie or the couple enjoying each other's presence. Walking back was different. The cold chill that kept to the ground was easily noticeable, and only a few ponies were left on the streets.
He stepped inside the coffee shop with an impromptu reason, other than that he was hungry. A cashier with glazed eyes was ready to take his order without emotion. Waiting for shift to end, undoubtedly. Only ordering a light snack was sufficient, and he sat down to eat the morsel. He watched as a pony jogged into the building, breathing heavily. The detective watched with amusement as the pony opted to not buy anything and sit in the corner, only to be told by the cafe owner that he needed to buy something.
Finishing his snack, the detective made his way outside. By now the street lights were lit, and there were only one or two ponies walking. As he walked back he took notice of the trash in the alleyways that was piling up. The discarded hoodie, the old cardboard boxes, the occasional bag of trash.
When he made his way home he grasped the feeling of discomfort, for once not feeling safe in his own home. He quickly took a shower and sat in his study, finally feeling refreshed to solve the case. As the hours went by, the windows along the street became dark, but his was still lit. Something felt off. He focused his efforts to the case, feeling like he was missing something. Something that was subtly playing against him, like a inside joke he wasn’t a part of.
For the first time, he thought he actually feared for his own life. Never had he felt like the killer was truly undetectable, and had free reign. He vaguely remembered the factor that a suspect may attempt to turn the tables by trying to hunt down the pony assigned to their case. This always proved to be ineffective, but it didn’t relieve the worry he was experiencing.
Unable to shake this feeling, the detective went to bed. As he lie there, he theorized all the ponies the mysterious killer could be. He wondered who would have such a serious case of an antisocial personality disorder to do what he did. Maybe it was biological. The detective fell asleep, wondering what made the killer tick, and wasn’t woken that night.
The streets of Canterlot were almost deserted that night. The street lights buzzed with a chemical light, illuminating the path of the lone figure jogging that night. He wasn’t wearing his hoodie like he usually did, despite the chilly air. As he made his way to Apartment Building 445, he stopped to unlock the door and enter its dark threshold. Briefly illuminated by the light shining through the second story bedroom window, the killer did his work and the detective didn’t wake up that night.
