Pie and I cruised around the apartment complex we found the latest victim (I had since learned his name to be Swiftwind) in search of any suspects. We poked around the inhabited apartments, and found nothing of use. Aparently, as soon as those good people saw anyone that even resembled a police officer, they went blind, deaf, and dumb.

“It’s no use, Detective,” said Pie after having the door slammed in our face for the hundredth time. “Nobody knows anything.”

“I’ve been saying that for years,” I snorted. “Apparently, that makes me a cynical asshole.” Just as we turned to leave, we saw something that might gift us with the suspect we’d been searching for. A few doors down, fiddling and fumbling at her lock, was a unicorn mare. A unicorn mare with a knife in her right hand, both of which were covered in blood.

“You!” called Pie, moving at a decently brisk pace to our suspect. “Hands in the air, now!” The mare, whose mint-green skin, dark blue jeans, and teal blouse were all splattered with blood, turned to face Pie. She tried to play it cool, but I read her like a book. Eyebrows down and pushed together, narrowed lips, and a slight glare of the eyes, all flashing for a fraction of a second: The microexpression for anger.

“Leave me alone,” said the mare, still struggling to get into the apartment. Pie grabbed her right hand, and, as she shook free, I caught a flash of something else. Slightly wrinkled nose, a raised upper lip, combined with a slight squint. It came as quickly as the anger, maybe even quicker, but this was definitely disgust.

“CCPD! Drop the knife, now!” said Pie. “I won’t say it again!” She reached to her hip and grabbed a pair of cuffs, which she slapped onto the unicorn’s wrists. After a bit of wrestling, she managed to pry the knife from the unicorn and slip it into an evidence bag. Then, surprisingly, Pie shoved the mare against the wall, and started to pat her down.

“Hey! Get off me!” shouted the mare. “You can’t do that! You can’t just search me! I have my rights, dammit!”

“Actually, she can,” I said. “The rights you’re referring to protect you from unlawful search and seizure. Based on all that red on you, I’d say she could argue for probable cause.” Pie finished her pat-down, and came out with a wallet, a cell phone, and an ounce of coke.

“Oh, this doesn’t look good for you,” I said. The mare was, understandably, nervous, and very pissed off.

“That’s not mine!” she shouted, as if that line ever worked. “You can’t do this!”

“Look at my face,” I said, pointing to it. “Do I look like I care whose blow this is? You and I, and the pushy-shovey lady, we’re all going to have a nice little chat, and you’re going to have to sit tight and deal with it.” Pie handed me the contraband, which I slipped into another evidence bag. She was about to start walking out when I cleared my throat loudly to remind the idiot of something she should already have known to do.

“What?” asked Pie. She studied my glare for a moment before realization dawned on her. “Oh, right. You!” She tapped the suspect on the side. “Name?”

“My name?” said the mare. “First name’s Howbout, last name’s Fuckyourself. Middle name is You.”

“Her name is Lyra Heartstrings,” I said, after glancing at her ID.

“Lyra Heartstrings, you’re under arrest for drug possesion,” said Pie. “As well as the murders of Scarlet Force, Aiden Aigo, and Swiftwind. You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say or do can and will be used against you in a court of law. Uh…”

“Attorney,” I said impatiently.

“You have the right to an attorney, thank you, Detective,” said Pie. “If you cannot afford an attorney, one will be provided for you. Do you understand these rights as they’ve been read to you?” Heartstrings grunted some form of confirmation, which was enough for me to wave Pie forward.

“Time to see what she knows,” I said, following them out. Of course, I would be doing just that. Listening to a suspect is so boring. It’s much more entertaining, and effective, to see another person lie.

Pie booked Heartstrings and put her into an interrogation room, all cuffed and angry for me to interview. Pie led me through the station, and, to my pleasant surprise, I never once ran into Celestia. Not that she could do much of anything to stop me, I’d just rather not deal with her.

“So, are you gonna do the thing?” asked Pie, leaning against the interrogation room’s door. Heartstrings was just on the other side, still in her confinements and still covered in blood.

“What thing?” I asked.

“The super-cool ‘tell when you’re lying’ thing!” she said excitedly. I rolled my eyes, amazed at how she managed to reduce my complex, practiced science to the realms of a party trick.

“Just sit there, shut up, and let me talk,” I ordered. “Don’t talk to her unless I tell you to, got it?” Pie nodded, opened the door, and followed me in. I walked into the grey, soulless interrogation room, which contained nothing more than a steel table, two chairs, and a suspect. Pie stood behind me as I took a seat across from Heartstrings, still cuffed and fuming, and we stared at her for a few seconds before either of us said anything.

“Lyra Heartstrings,” I said. “Or do you prefer Ms. Fuckyourself?” I saw that flash of anger again, solidifying that expression in my head, which was the only purpose of such a smarmy comment. Besides, of course, how entertaining it was.

“Do you know who I am, Ms. Fuckyourself?” I asked. “I don’t imagine you do. Doctor Twilight Sparkle, Private Investigator. I’m here to uncover the truth.”

“What truth? I’ve been telling the truth the whole time,” said Heartstrings. “The coke isn’t mine. I just got back from hunting with my dad up north, and I didn’t have time to clean up.”

“See, she’s not lying about the coke,” I said. “It really doesn’t belong to her. The hunting trip is bullshit, though.”

“It’s not,” said Heartstrings, making far too much eye contact. I sighed, deciding to wear her down.

“In that case, you wouldn’t mind telling me exactly how it went down?” I asked.

“Friday morning my dad called me up to go hunting,” she said. “I drove up there, he has this little cabin a few miles north, I met him there. We didn’t start until Saturday at 11:30. We grabbed our rifles, we went out into the woods, and we grabbed two turkeys that day. Sunday, we went back out, didn’t get anything until 6:30 P.M., when I shot a deer. Me and my pops went to bed early, about 9, and woke up at the crack of dawn. I went out by myself and shot two more deer. The last one didn’t go down easy, and I had to finish it with my knife. I fucked up while cutting, and I got myself coated in blood. I drove home, went to unlock my door, and Officer Pushy arrested me.”

“Hm. Seems believable enough,” I said. For a fraction of a fraction of a second, a smile flashed on her face. “Now, could you tell me that story in reverse order? Start with your arrest and work backwards.”

“Uh… I got arrested. B-before that, I shot two turkeys, and…” struggled Heartstrings. “I-I…”

“Let me stop you there,” I said. “You’re lying. Liars only rehearse their stories in chronological order, which makes it nearly impossible for them to tell it backwards. Another thing, you were making too much eye-contact.”

“I thought people looked away when they lied,” said Pie. And here I was thinking that she actually did read my books.

“Common misconception,” I said. “No, liars tend to make more eye contact, to see if you believe the story.”

Author's Note

No more content exists for this story. It will remain incomplete.

Though, if you're curious as to who the killer was going to be it was going to be Rarity, a unicorn-supremacist who had her hands (specifically, her fingertips) burned after orchestrating a gas fire to kill her abusive earth pony parents as a child.