The Muffin Killer

So as it turned out, the body was found with a muffin down its throat. Now as much as I love a good muffin (who doesn’t) I truly didn’t expect to find one in the throat of a corpse, at 3 o’clock in the afternoon. You may be forgiven for thinking this poor man was simply eating a muffin at the time of death (two hours earlier) but he wasn’t. The post-mortem examination had found that the delicious baked good was forcefully pushed down the victim’s cold, clammy corpse after the moment of death. Do we have a possible Jack the Muffer on our hands? Yes that was a terrible pun, but I only jest. Perhaps I spend too much time in the company of my air-headed companion, Bernard, whose ridiculous manner I confess to detest, and only barely tolerate. He is dulling my once sharp, dry intellect on his stone of complete stupidity.

For example he made the comment, upon entrance to the scene of murder, that the windows and the wallpaper created a rather pleasant décor, in his strange fancy accent that gives him an air of indifference, constantly.   The rest of us surpassed any romantic notions we once harboured the moment we left High School, but not Bernard. He still insists on revelling in the supposed beauty of the world around him in a manner that would seem endearing…for a twelve year old girl.

But enough about him, as invigorating as you probably find the subject, where were we? Ah yes, the peculiar murder. It was the old crow that called us, the one who resides in the old farmhouse just outside town. Her son had been staying over from Filllydelphia, and she had woken one morning to find him stone cold dead, in a rather compromising position with that muffin stuck deep in his oesophagus. Being a typical older mare she screamed hysterically, probably afraid that the killer was still nearby.  By the time she managed to come to her senses and call us around, the victim had been dead for around three hours. A bit suspicious, you say? Why didn’t she call us earlier, you inquire? Well my dear friend (May I call you friend?) a bit of patience and all these answers shall be yours.

So- we had arrived upon the crime scene, discovered the body and, upon closer examination, the muffin. The suspect was probably long gone, so we were left with no choice other than to attempt to find some clues before CSI confiscated every out-of-place dust mote. Being the senior officer, this duty was left to me, whilst Bernard questioned the mother of the victim. Although I wasn’t present, I can imagine how the conversation may have gone-

“So mademoiselle, how are you zis fine afternoon”

“Errr..but of course, you must be very upset….vas he your only son?”

“….You have zee most cultured taste in home décor Madame, I consider myzelf  a bit of a connoisseur of the often neglected art of home decoration, may I ask vere you found zat wonderful wallpaper, with an almost perfect mixture of zee classical and zee modern….”

Suffice to say, the interview probably did not yield many results helpful to our investigation. Despite my excellent investigative skills, the killer had been meticulous in their act, and had not left a single clue for even a keen-eyed detective such as myself. Did this mean that we gave up? No! I didn't earn this shield cutie mark from simply folding at the first sign of difficulty! Instead we said our goodbyes to the victims mother, headed to the local coffee and donuts shop, and mulled the case over a lukewarm cappuccino. After all, it was the end of our shift, and we couldn't be expected to work overtime; even on a murder investigation. We weren't paid enough for that.

It was at that moment, in that small, grimy coffee shop frequented only by policeponies such as ourselves, that I had an epiphany. This couldn't have been a sporadic act of violence, that muffin suggested there was a motive, and that it had been  left as I kind of signature typical of serial killers....but had there been other murders with the characteristic blueberry muffin left in the victims throat? This required further investigation, so i told Bernard to go through the police archives tomorrow, whilst I had a relaxing day off.

What? Negligence you say? Is a pony not allowed a day off? Fine, you are entitled to your opinion, but do try and keep quiet while I try and remember what happened next: my memory has quite the habit of leaving out details here and there, and sometimes I wake up without a single inkling of what had occurred the day before. Ah, the curse that is old age! Be glad you are still young, it is a time to treasure and make great use of, which is probably why are listening to an old police officer ramble on about nostalgic times gone by....But it interests you, does it not? I have to say I shared your enthusiasm with the case,  that very evening I spent my time tossing and turning, contemplating the implications of this mysterious muffin, and whether or not our elusive killer would strike again.

That evening, after I had said my goodbyes to Bernard, who was off on some tangent about the fragility of life and probably shouldn't have drunk so much coffee, I swore I could see a dark shape following me. Perhaps it was the coffee, perhaps it was my overactive imagination, perhaps it was simply the stresses of my job, but out of the corner of my eye I could see the shape of a pony slipping from shadow to shadow, (which isn't difficult, considering how dark Ponyville can be in the evenings) stalking me as I made my way home. Then as I reached the warmth and relative safety of my house, and turned around to shut the door, I could swear I saw two eyes, pointing at absurdly different angles, one towards me and one into the darkness. Those eyes haunted my dreams that night.

The next morning I heard a sharp RATATATAT at my door. I made the presumption that it was the mailpony, and quickly rushed downstairs, eager in my anticipation for the latest edition of "Playpony mag."..Now don't give me that look, the monthly subscription was a birthday present. Now you've gone and made me lose track of what I was saying....Ah yes, the knock on the door. I opened it hurriedly, and was completely surprised to see not a pony in sight.  Looking down towards my welcome mat, I noticed a lone blueberry muffin. Just sitting there, The  early morning breeze rustled my mane as I stood there for a good 10 minutes, scrutinizing this delicious pastry. My stomach rumbled, deeming this example of culinary perfection edible, and  I ate it in one bite.

Chewing slowly and thoughtfully, contemplating how might have sent me such a thoughtful gift, crumbs dropping everywhere (mother always said I was a messy eater)  I suddenly came upon something tasteless and bland amongst the innards of the baked goody. I discovered it was a small piece of paper when I rolled it around with my tongue, and promptly spat it out. It was a small, worn, saliva covered note, and upon it was a message written in the spider scrawl handwriting typical of ponies manipulating a pen with their teeth.

"sp hat muffi you are trying to unt t once est ye et  omorrw ether old nor  uners can stop me now

~The muffin mare"

A rather cryptic message, no? Evidently however had wrote it was not granted the good fortune of a successful education. What was a uners anyway? The final line could have led to no other confusion. This was our murderer. He or she had sent us a warning. That probably meant he/she was scared of being discovered, and a scared murderer is not an idle murderer. She may strike again. But when? Or where? I was going to find out.

I was about to send the note back to crime labs for testing, when I heard yet another sharp knock at my door.  This time it was that fool, Bernard, red faced, panting and mane windswept.

"How do you know where I live?"

"Of course I know vere you live, eejit, anyvays I have un message très important! Ze muffin killeh has struck again!"

Great, and on my day off. Perfect, just perfect.