The Blood in the Trough

Chapters

Chapter 1- The Quiet of Old Town
Chapter 2- The Autopsy of the Red Mare
Chapter 3- The Rippling Pond
Chapter 4- Surgical Studies
Chapter 5- Police Proud

Chapter 1- The Quiet of Old Town

The stallion at the desk rubbed his eyes wearily with his hooves. The candle on his desk flickered weakly, having melted down to its nub, barely illuminating the writing implements and the few pieces of paper littering the dull wooden surface. With exhaustion from the long day scrawled across his face, the lanky police chief, known by his colleagues as Rusted Key, looked upon his inglorious kingdom in the fading light.

Before him lay the office of the Old Town police station. At one desk sat his… deputy?.... lieutenant?... his second in command, Spit Polish, an overweight, well-meaning stallion, light gray of coat and blue of mane. Rusted himself was, of course, rust red of coat, with a mud brown mane sprouting from his scalp.

Adding to the contrast of the two stallions, where the chief's desk was in a state of slight disorganization and barrenness, Polish's desk was crowded, but organized. The desk of a bureaucrat, Rusted thought ruefully.

The office itself was neither as clear as the desk of its chief, nor as organized as its second officer. It was cluttered, dimly lit, and usually a very sleepy place. Spiders had free roam of the upper corners, lazily spinning ever-growing webs. The lamps were dim, some sort of attempt at saving a bit of fuel, not that they were too low on funds yet.

Rust languidly got off his chair, turned his neck until a few satisfying cracks reached his ears, and turned to Spit Polish. "Heading below. Checking on the bird and tank." Spit Polish gave a simple reply: "Nearly done." With that, Rusted Key gave a nod, and headed downstairs.

The downstairs area held two vastly different worlds: the world of the salt lickers, and the world of the Old Town police coroner. One was rarely used, the other constantly occupied. One was frequently neglected, the other constantly washed down and sanitized. One was home to shouts, curses, and grumbles, the other to breaking bones and dropping liquids. However, they both held one similarity: neither place was being used for their intended purpose.

The generously titled coroner of the station was a griffin by the name of Gendril. The only reason he was in this position was because of his inability to find a medical school that was willing to teach him. His solution? Borrow some medical texts from the library, kill a few rats, and… hope that no blood splatters on the pages.

"Easy, now…" the avian chimera muttered through his beak. Gendril had a strange look for a griffin. Where many examples of his kind had clear avian and leonin features, often distinguished by different colors, Gendril was a plain golden brown, with no clear indication where the lion ended and eagle began.

Further separating him from his chimeric kind was his pursuit of medical knowledge, rather than the standard thirst for gold.

Knowledge that he was currently practicing.

"Incision made in the chest, removal of skin and muscle layer complete, ribs exposed." He gingerly reached for the bone hammer, lightly tapping on the sternum. "Rib cage is now broken open. Internal organs exposed. Now making an attempt to sever the… aorta, using an undercut incision."

Gently, with more than a little trepidation, he brought the scalpel to press against the large artery, unaware of the door opening behind him.

Careful—

*knock knock*

"Agh!"

"How're you doing?"

The knock sounded on the open door, causing Gendril to jump, losing control of the scalpel and cutting the large artery at just the wrong angle, creating a small fountain of blood that splashed in the griffin's face.

Standing in the doorway was a smirking Rusted Key. Gendril treated the chief with a great amount of respect, seeing as it was because of him that he had this position as coroner in the first place. One might even charitably call them friends. The only thing that kept them from crossing that line from colleagues to compatriots was a tension that refused to go away: respect on Gendril's part, and a slight fear on the part of Rusted. What that fear was, however, he couldn't figure out.

He let out a huff, and slowly turned to face his superior. "Can I help you?", he said flatly.

Rusts' smirk quickly dropped, replaced with a look of concern. "You okay?"

Gendril closed his eyes, let out a sigh and then glared at the pony. "I'm not hurt, but I would really appreciate it if you wouldn't barge in like that! I'm studying!"

Rusted quickly lifted a hoof in a placating manner. "Okay! Okay! I'm sorry. I'll try not to do that again."

The griffin rushed over to the nearby basin to wash off the blood on his face. As he waited for Gendril to clean himself, Rusted Key took a moment to take in the laboratory.

Compared to the rest of the station, the lab was practically cutting edge. Steel counters, a large metal examination table with a magic-powered overhead light, a high-pressure water hose for cleaning, grates in the floor for water and various other fluids to drip down, a magical freezer unit for storing bodies, a closet well-stocked with bleach, rags, mops, various other cleaning supplies, not to mention a large basin with which to wash your hooves (or in this case, talons) and medical tools. Hay, there was even a small shower! All in all, probably the most impressive, most expensive, and, in Rusted's mind, most worthless part of the station. The station hadn't seen a murder victim in years, decades even, and this space had been a constant drain on resources, so he was more than happy to let Gendril put it to use. Better to let a wannabe doctor make use of it than let it just sit there and throw bits down the gutter.

He liked Gendril well enough, he supposed. He respected him, maybe teased him a little. But there was just one nagging fear that kept him from calling Gendril a friend: he was a griffin, and thus a predator at heart. He had seen Gendril at work sometimes, and each time he swore a look of hunger came into the chimera's eyes, as if he was starved for flesh.

Thank goodness for Grimm, he thought.

"So to what do I owe the pleasure of your abrupt visit?"

Rusted shook himself from his reverie. "*Ahem* Well, I was just checking on you, seeing how it is getting fairly late."

Gendril slowly blinked. ".... What time is it?"

"7:45, last I checked. Sun's going down."

Gendril's expression turned sheepish. "I had lunch at 11:30…."

The smirk came back onto Rust's face. "Which means you've been down here for-"

"Eight hours." Gendril finished the sentence, slapping a talon to his beaked face. "Sweet Celestia, time goes fast down here."

"I'm surprised there are still any rodents down here, with all the work you do. Are you hungry?"

The griffin rubbed the back of his head. "Well…"

Rusted sighed, and internally shivered at the griffin's response. "Again?"

Gendril shrugged. "Less cleanup."

Rusted swore, for almost a moment, he saw a smudge of blood, likely one that he missed in his cleaning.

"Fair enough. Clean up here, sign out, get a light dinner and get some sleep. You'll need it if you're gonna try the college tomorrow morning."

The griffin gave a mock salute. "You got it, Chief."

"In the meantime, I need to check on the salt lickers in the cells. See you tomorrow."

As the train came to a total stop, a light blue changeling with red eyes got up from his seat with a bit of difficulty, stiff from the long train ride. Standing up, he was reminded of the weight of the Polaroid camera attached to the cord hanging around his neck. He put his saddlebags on his back, and stepped off the train with a group of other passengers.

Stepping away from the station, he pulled a map from his saddlebag, and began looking. "Let's see, that way leads to Restaurant Row, this path goes to the palace… which way is it?"

"Pardon me, good fellow! Which way might you be headed?"

His head jolted up, hearing someone address him, a stallion with a rather refined accent. Looking towards the source of the voice, he saw two ponies approaching him. One was a pale, slender mare with a light pink mane. The other was a pale stallion with a well-styled blue mane, groomed moustache, suit and a monocle.

”Oh! I'm looking for Old Town. Would you happen to know how to get there?”

The stallion's expression morphed to one of surprise. "Old Town? You're sure you're looking for Old Town?"

"That's right. A family is hosting me there for the duration of my stay here in Canterlot."

"Ah. I see. It's not a very tricky route, but if you get lost, ask a nearby guard for help. What you want to do is…" From there, the well-dressed stallion gave the directions, with the changeling nodding all the while.

"Thank you so much, Mister…?"

"Oh! Where are my manners? You may call me Fancy Pants. Might I have your name as well?"

"Oculus, sir."

"Well! Good evening to you, Oculus. I hope you enjoy your stay in Old Town."

"I hope so as well. Good evening, Fancy Pants."

The sun at last went down, and the lamps of Old Town came to life with little more than a light sputtering. The night owls of the precinct made their ways onto the streets, passing through like shades in the lamplight.

Old Town was a historic section of Canterlot that many considered infamous, though if asked why, they would not be able to give a straight answer. This view of infamy was mostly held by the especially snobby of the Canterlot upper crust, who saw it as a boil on the backside of their fine city. They had even taken to calling it by another name: the Trough. For the more easygoing Canterlot resident, it was less of a constant annoyance, and more a place to be ignored. If someone asked for directions to it, a look of surprise was customary. To them, it was the place that never caught up to the times, the place with gas lamps, old fashions and archaic business. Nothing happened there. Especially true when you took into account that it was quite out of sight. No one coming to Canterlot for a casual visit or tour was likely to find it, as it was behind Canterlot Castle, and lower down the mountain as well.

There were a few prides that Old Town held- low costs, a distinguished medical university, not to mention historical acclaim, being sanctioned by Princess Celestia as a reminder of how far Equestria had come where technological and social progress were concerned. It had since been a place of great interest to the more historically-minded creature. But along with these prides, it had it's stains- gangs of young colts and fillies looking to cause mischief toward outsiders, sometimes whores could be seen standing on the corners, and it had a tendency toward neglect.

It was a slow place. Nothing happened there. It was a narrow place. Nothing could hide. It was sprawling. It was dark. But above all else-

It was quiet.

Officer Dim Lamp wearily made her rounds. It was well past midnight, likely 2:00 am or thereabouts, and she was good and ready to declare that all was well. She held a police lamp in her mouth, illuminating the path before her, some of the light reflecting from the stone to show her light yellow coat and short, dark pink mane.

As she swept the light back and forth, her eyes caught sight of a pony collapsed by a weakly glowing street lamp. Great, she thought. Another salt licker. She turned towards the pony, put the lamp in her hoof, and called out in a thick Trottingham accent, "Oi! Yew alroight?!” She received no response. She rolled her eyes and trotted closer. At this distance she could see that this pony was a mare with a red coat and pink mane, who was currently lying belly down, facing away from the street.

"Damn salt lickers, passin' out an' makin' me-"

She froze.

Blood.

The pony was bleeding. Profusely, if the puddle she was seeing was any indication. She dropped her lantern and immediately galloped over.

"MISS! Talk to me, say sumthin'!"

No reply.

The moment she came up to this mystery mare, Dim's eyes widened in horror. The mare's eyes were wide open. Her body was still. No breath entered her lungs. Dim Lamp touched the mare; long cold. And the blood… was that?...

Her evening meal found it's way onto the stone path. She shakily wiped her mouth and reached for the bag hanging from her side. From the bag, she pulled out a blue crystal which she placed on the ground. Then, steeling her resolve, she reared up on her back hooves, and, bringing her full weight to bear, smashed the crystal.

With a sound like thunder and a blinding flash, the stillness of the night was no more. Any who cared to look would now see a bright blue ball of light now hovering over part of Canterlot. And if anyone in Canterlot cared to see where it originated from, they would feel a jolt of fear. For they knew what it meant.

The impossible. The unthinkable.

The quiet of Old Town…. had broken.

Author's Note

Welcome to my first story! I hope you enjoy it!

Chapter 2- The Autopsy of the Red Mare

"And this is how you found her?"

Rusted Key and Dim Lamp were standing in the police station's laboratory, with Rusted having just gotten his first look at the body under the white sheet that was now stained red with blood.

Dim had not yet gotten a chance to wash after carrying the body back to the station. As such, she stood trembling before the chief, covered in blood and fecal matter from when the mare's bowels had eventually evacuated.

"Y-yes sir. I-i fought she moight be, w-wunna them salt lickers a-all passed out like. Then I saw the blood."

"Then you went over to see if she was alright, saw that she was dead, smashed the alarm crystal, and rushed her over here."

"Y-yessir."

Rusted sighed. "So now we just wait for Gendril to arrive and give his autopsy. In the meantime, go get yourself cleaned up."

The alarm crystals the police used served a dual purpose. First, it acted as an alarm for the Old Town residents, a deterrent to keep everyone inside their residences while the police handled the situation. Second, it would wake up any sleeping police staff and alert them to get to the station immediately. They hadn't been used in years, but everyone living in Old Town still knew what it meant.

A few moments later, after Dim took the chance to use the hose to clean herself, a knocking came from outside the laboratory door. "Chief?! It's Gendril! I saw the blue light! Is everything okay?"

Rusted went over to the door and opened it, revealing the griffin on the other side, clearly half-awake, likely running on adrenaline.

Rust gave a brief smile, and immediately turned serious. "Good, you're here. Gendril, I have a job for you."

"What do you need me to do?"

The chief pointed to the fabric covering the corpse. "Underneath this sheet is a body. This mare has been killed, and has been dead for a while. The body was cold when Officer Dim Lamp came across it. I need you to examine her and determine the cause of death and anything else you can find. Do you understand?"

Gendril's eyes widened. "Examine the body? Determine cause of death?! Sir, I've only dissected rats before! I'm not even a proper medical student! How do you expect me to-"

Rusted placed his hooves on Gendril's shoulders. "I know. It's a lot to ask of you. You're inexperienced. I understand. However, as of this moment, you are the only expert we have available, and, technically, this is your jurisdiction as our house coroner. But, most importantly," and at this point he looked Gendril dead in the eye, his gaze a disquieting blend of confidence and desperation, "I know you can do this. It's time to move beyond the rats and examine a proper body. Now… are you ready?"

Gendril was silent for a moment. Then, he took a deep breath in, and said, "Show me the victim."

As he made his way over, beckoned by the chief, his mind started racing. What would he find beneath the sheet? Was she butchered? Was it a simple wound? Were her eyes still open, or had they been closed? Why was Dim Lamp so scared? His heart was pounding, stomach cramping, and his breath seemed to catch in his throat. All too soon, he found himself before the table, staring at the blood-soaked sheet.

Gendril carefully removed the sheet, and then had to cringe away. He could smell the blood, potent in its metallic scent. Gritting his teeth and taking a few deep breaths, he slowly turned back to the body at the table.

She was fairly pretty, he supposed, blood red coat, light pink mane, lithe body. She was likely young seeing from the lack of wrinkles or lines. He took note of her cutie mark: a red heart, overlaid by a- shattered golden ring? Interesting.

And then, he stepped back, took a shaky breath… and began his examination.

"V-victim is a biological m-mare, likely late twenties, r-red coat, pink mane. Cutie mark depicts a broken ring overlaying a red heart. May indicate a profession of housebreaking, though information is limited at this time. Injuries present on the mare include… bruising near the temple, single deep laceration to the throat, and three deep lacerations to the belly. Of note, a segment of the small intestine appears to have been pulled out of place and exposed. Likely cause of death: severing of the… hmmm… either the cartoid artery or jugular vein. It seems likely the killer knocked the victim unconscious before killing her. Implement of slaughter…" At this, Gendril fell silent, and then gave a sigh before covering the body. "I'm sorry. I need a moment to think."

"Don't worry about it." Rusted said with a hint of pride in his voice. "You did great."

The entire time that Gendril had been speaking, the chief had been watching him closely. He noticed how Gendril was hardly able to speak at first, seemingly stuttering, yet, as it went on, he became detached, more clinical, gaining the same hungry gleam in his eyes that he had seen between the coroner and his dissected rats.

It was at this point that a knock sounded on the door.

"Come in," Rusted said gruffly.

At the beckoning, the door opened, and in stepped a rather nervous Spit Polish.

"Sorry to disturb you sir, but a crowd has gathered outside."

While the emergency crystals' main point was to keep residents in their domiciles, nothing prevented them from stepping outside after the floating ball of light went out. Hence why a crowd of concerned residents found themselves outside the police station doors, with a very confused Oculus among them, camera around his neck. Near the front of the crowd stood a unicorn stallion, wielding a pen and notepad in his magical grip. He was a blue stallion with an ink-black mane, bearing the name Side Article, and he was a reporter for the local paper, The Old Town Lamp. He seemed pensive, almost afraid to find out what might have happened to warrant activating an emergency crystal as they had.

The murmuring of the crowd was brought to an abrupt halt, as the doors to the station opened, revealing the chief of the police, with a very stern look on his face.

Rusted Key surveyed the crowd, catching the confused eyes of Oculus, and the pensive stare of Side Article. He said, in a loud voice, "Everyone! Please return to your business! The police have this matter well in hoof. There is no cause for concern at the current moment. Side Article, if you would step in please, I will answer your questions inside."

Mumbling and whispering, the crowd started to depart. Oculus made his way to follow the throng, but a voice stopped him in his tracks.

"Are you a photographer?"

Oculus slowly looked back to the station to see a griffin looking at him through the station doors.

"Er… yes? I suppose you could call me a freelancer."

"How steady?"

"Relatively."

"Squeamish?"

Oculus smirked. "Not sure where this is going, but I lived under an insect that spat immobilizing goop and possessed a head with a ridiculous range of motion. I'm kinda desensitized to the grotesque."

"What's your name?"

"Oculus."

The griffin smiled. "Come inside, please, Oculus."

Oculus suddenly felt very apprehensive. What did this griffin want that he would ask if the changeling was squeamish?

Side Article observed this exchange, and turned to the chief, brow raised.

Rust sighed. "Come inside. We've got a lot to talk about."

Side Article had a decent relationship with the police. He had an understanding with Chief Rusted Key- he reports on the salt lickers and keeps his nose clean, maybe lends an ear to the chief's salt-driven ramblings from time to time, and Rusted gives him free reign of the office.

Thus far, Side had honored that agreement.

But curiosity reared its head.

"Care to tell me why that crystal was activated?"

At the moment, there were six creatures seated around the large table in the office area, dimly lit by several candles. On one side sat the chief, the second in command, the coroner and the officer that called the emergency. On the other side sat a changeling photographer and the unicorn reporter.

Rusted turned to Dim Lamp and gave a slight nod. With the blessing from the chief, she took in a deep breath, and began her explanation. From there, each of the police personnel gave their side of the story. As it turns out, each of the other three officers, aside from Gendril, had been relatively close to the station when the crystal was smashed. Thus, they were able to get to the station before Dim had arrived with the body. Gendril talked about his "autopsy" of the mare, and with that, the story was told. Silence fell over the table once they were all finished.

The silence lasted a full minute before the silence was broken by another question from Side Article.

"Do you think it was a griffin?"

Gendril sent a harsh glare and a rather rude gesture his way.

Rusted grimaced. "We can't rule out the possibility."

Gendril turned to Oculus. "That's why I asked for your photography skills."

"Wait! You want me to photograph a dead mare?!"

"More precisely, a close shot of the wounds, and a picture of her face."

"Why!?" The changeling's expression had shifted to one of horror and panic. "I came to this place to take some time away from the hive and explore the oldest part of Canterlot! I didn't ask for this! Why do you need me to do this?!"

"I need a way to examine the body, even after decay sets in and I need to put it in the freezer. I also need photographic evidence of injury, and we need someone to identify the mare." Gendril looked Oculus dead in the eye. "At this moment, you are the only photographer I can trust. You're not a news photographer, you're a freelancer. So we can trust you not to leak any photographs you take here to the press. Not only that, but we can guarantee your safety while under our employ. But most importantly," and at this he leaned in close, "you've already said you could do something like this."

Oculus thought back and realized that this was what Gendril meant when he asked if Oculus was squeamish. He then thought over the injuries the griffin coroner had mentioned. Cut throat, torn belly, exposed intestines- he weighed the image in his mind, and thought: 'Not as bad as it could be'. He sighed. "Let's do it quickly."

Gendril let out a breath. "Thank you."

As the griffin and changeling went down the stairs, Rusted turned to Side Article with a serious expression. "Once you get the headshot, you put an article in the paper asking for information about the mare. Tell them that if they have any information, talk to the Old Town police. But, under no circumstances are you to mention murder, or the injuries. Do you understand?"

Side's expression had shifted multiple times throughout the conversation, from pensive to curious, to horrified, to fretful. He turned to look at the chief, the one who he trusted and who trusted him, and said, "Okay. I'll do my best."

Oculus found himself staring at the body, both the mare herself, and the injuries she bore. He had already taken the necessary pictures, with a great deal of hesitancy when it came to the close shots, but he noticed that something seemed… off.

As a changeling, he had the ability to taste different emotions, both those that other ponies gave off, and those that others received. To any who knew changeling anatomy, or even just knew their basic changeling facts, this came as no surprise. They fed on love, and still could post-reformation, so it stood to reason they could taste other emotions and feelings. It was likely a way to choose their targets before The Metamorphosis, as they called it. If a pony left a bitter taste behind them, they weren't likely to have much love. If there was a saccharine sweet taste, it signified an overabundance of lust. Sour indicates jealousy, rotten disgust, peppery anger and so forth. Even love had different flavors, depending on the object of affection: simple love is sweet and filling, parental love is like a warm spiced beverage, love of money is metallic, so on and so forth.

But what many did not know was that even the recently deceased could hold the tastes about them. And from the mare he got the senses of overwhelming lust, jealousy, and… hatred, mixed with nearly overwhelming panic.

"Are you okay?"

Oculus shook himself from his reverie. "Sorry. Just… getting a lot of emotions off this mare. Whoever killed her… I think it was a crime of passion."

"What makes you say that?"

"Lust, jealousy and hatred. She's no longer capable of feeling emotions, but I can still taste the emotions of others that were near her."

Gendril frowned thoughtfully. "Noted. Rule out murder, file under mareslaughter. Let's get these photos upstairs to the ponies who can put the images to use."

With that, they covered the body once again, and left the room, closing the door behind them.

Side Article sat at his desk, deep in thought, pen poised over paper.

It was about 6:30 in the morning, 4 hours since he found out about the slaughter that had taken place. At the moment, he was meant to write an article asking for information about the mare beneath the sheet. No more, no less.

And yet…

He sighed, and looked at the office in which he sat. As his name would imply, he did not have a prestigious position at the office, often relegated to reporting on the more inconsequential drivel: flower competitions, store openings, nothing of any weight or import, at least to his mind.

Befitting his station, his office was cramped. One might even say claustrophobic. There was barely enough space to move around, most of it taken up by the large, lightly polished wooden desk.

Not that one would be able to tell that it was polished.

His desk was crowded, most of it taken up by crumpled paper: false leads, useless information, stories he couldn't use, and other notes of the sort.

He looked at the state of his desk and office and just… thought.

He thought of the trust the chief had placed in him to get information and not spread anything about the mare’s death.

He felt the cramped confines of his office.

He thought about the friendship that would break if he wrote a full article on the crime.

He saw the useless papers on his desk.

He thought about the panic that would follow should the information be put out into the world.

He eyed his notes on the biggest story anyone in this town was likely to cover in decades.

He thought about his responsibility to write the articles that would get lost amongst the bold headlines.

He thought of the story that could be his salvation from the doldrums he faced in this cramped, suffocating office.

To Tartarus with it. Sorry, Rusted.

He began to write his masterpiece.

Chapter 3- The Rippling Pond

HORROR BREAKS THE QUIET!!!

Rusted couldn't help but scowl at the headline attached to the article that had caused him so much misery in the last few days.

Side Article had shown no discretion when writing the story. Each officer was mentioned by name, even mentioning Gendril's status as the police coroner. That would probably cause some problems down the line, but for now that was a future concern. He had also mentioned the wounds in detail, claiming it was likely a griffin who was to blame. He had clearly put a lot of faith in his story selling well.

And the gamble had paid off in spades.

Side Article's latest story had not only made the front page, but had gained attention from all of Canterlot. All eyes were now on Old Town, with much of the upper crust now patting themselves on the back, smug with the knowledge that they had been correct in calling the Trough an abhorrent place best blown off the mountainside.

All over the mountain, whispers were exchanged: do you remember the light over Old Town?; Did you hear of the murder in Old Town?; Rotten place; shame about that mare.

Not to say that everyone was caught up in worry. Some took the article with little more than a raised brow. For them, it could be explained away as just an overinflated incident of dehydration gone horribly wrong, and that was that. It just felt slightly too fantastical, to have so violent a death right under the Princesses' noses. They passed it off as hatred toward the griffin population coming through the press, and nothing more; for them, it just seemed like pageantry: paid actors and makeup to fake a death.

The worst affected, however, had to be the residents of the precinct themselves, especially the griffins. Because of its low prices and near dirt cheap lodgings, many of the more destitute griffins of Equestria found themselves settling there, many staying until they could more comfortably stretch their wings and leave, while some planted their roots there and opened up their own businesses: bakeries, butcher shops, money lending and so forth. Because of the killing, and the distinctive cuts to the belly that could have been a griffin's talons, every chimeric resident bearing the distinctive heads, claws and paws were greeted with dirty looks and muttered threats at the tamest.

Others… got it worse.

"Another vandalism, sir."

Rusted shot an exasperated look at Spit Polish. "Another griffin establishment?"

Spit, rather awkwardly, replied, "Yes, sir."

"Who is it?"

"Grimm's butchery, sir."

Rusted slammed his face into his desk. Of course they would go after Grimm. He was just the most well known butcher in Old Town. Plenty of knives and hooks with which to kill a pony, and as a butcher he already had a stigma around him. He had already been labeled a suspect due to the nature of the injuries. But there was just one problem: there was no motive. Rusted knew Grimm, and, despite his profession, he was a kind bird and a gentle soul. He sold no speaking beast, but rather various fowl, mutton and pork. And while he did sell the offal, that was a common practice among butchers, nothing new. Also, he had an alibi: he was an old griffin, and not awake at the approximated time of death.

Rusted brought his head back up and sighed. "Anything else?"

"Yes, actually. There's a mare here to see you. Claims to know our mystery mare."

If Rust had to say one good thing about the article, it had at least asked anyone with information to step forward and divulge to the police. And it seemed to finally be paying off. The chief immediately straightened up and said, "Well, send her in! It's about time we got some information on the mystery downstairs!"

As Spit stepped out to bring in the mare, Rusted Key once again surveyed his domain. In stark contrast to that fateful evening, the office was now bustling. Including him, there were twelve in the room overall, and they were all busy going through files, analyzing current information, and compiling, then eliminating suspects.

It was still rather slow-paced, but it was the sluggishness of shaking off the early-morning cobwebs after a long rest.

A new vigour had been instilled, and was just waiting for a chance to burst forth. This, Rusted could feel.

Hoofsteps made themselves known as Spit came back with the mare in tow. Rusted, in turn, sat up a little straighter, and turned to face his guest.

He could not keep a look of confusion off his face.

The unicorn mare before him was- purple. Dark purple in coat, light purple mane, even purple eyes that were, at the moment, wide with shock. The cause of his confusion, however, was the mare's touched up face and choice of dress. If he didn't know better than to not make assumptions, he would have guessed she was a whore.

Before he could even open his mouth to introduce himself, the mare's eyes hardened, and she rushed forward and slammed her hooves on his desk.

"Where is she?!"

The mare spoke with an accent not too dissimilar to Dim Lamp, though less guttural, and a bit more airy. The chief, while taken aback, knew there was only one thing this mare could be talking about. "S-she's downstairs."

This new unnamed mare took in a prolonged breath, and said simply, "Show me."

"What? No! Ma'am, I can't just show you the body!"

"I am the only one of us willin' to speak abou' 'er, an' Oi ain't tawkin 'til yew show 'er te me."

One of us?, he thought. So it's a group the mare was with? Interesting.

Rusted sighed. "Can I really not convince you to not go down there?" 'Nod. Just nod and we can move straight to the information without the need for tears or any other mess.'

Unfortunately, he didn't get his wish. The mare vehemently shook her head, the hard glare never once falling from her face– she would not take "no" for an answer. Rust sighed once again, then stood up from his desk. "This way."

The two officers and fretful mare made their way down the stairs and found themselves in a wide hallway with four doors, two on either side. On the left was the uniform room and the cells. On the right was the laboratory and evidence lockers. Once they reached the door of the lab, Rusted Key and Spit Polish turned to the mare. "Are you sure you want to do this?"

For the first time since her arrival, the mare seemed to hesitate. If Rust had to guess, she must not have thought this whole thing through. He gave a silent prayer, hoping beyond hope that she would ask to be escorted back upstairs. He watched with bated breath as she closed her eyes, tremulously inhaled…. and nodded.

With that, and with much reservation, the chief and his second opened the door to the lab. The table was empty, and the space was clean. Gendril must've put the body in the freezer, Rusted reasoned. He stepped over to it, passing the rack of medical tools on the counter by the wash basin. He stood in front of the freezer unit, and saw a small piece of paper left by Gendril marking which pullout contained the body. He pulled the handle and opened the door, revealing the rack holding the corpse still covered in its stained sheet.

He turned to the trembling mare and said, "Just pull out the rack and pull back the sheet. Not too far though. You don't want to see the injuries."

The mare shakily nodded, and reached out her magical grasp to grip the rack and slowly pull it out. Then, once the body was out, she gently lifted the top of the sheet, and gazed upon the face of the mare.

The freeze had not been kind. The red of the coat had faded, giving it a color closer to pink, and the hair seemed fragile, as if it would snap if touched.

She then lifted the portion closest to the flank… and saw the cutie mark.

"Oh, swee' Celestia. Red…."

She stood there, despondent, for nearly half a minute. Rusted Key and Spit Polish exchanged a glance, at which point Spit Polish cleared his throat. "*Ghem* Well, there you have it. I understand this must be very hard for you. You're probably asking, 'Why her?' Well, erm, if you could come with us now, we can fix a cup of tea and talk. Yes, that sounds like a marvelous idea. N-now, why don't we just give Miss Red her cover and-"

He never got to finish his sentence. In a move that shocked them both into silent indignation, the mare took the sheet in her magic… and ripped it off the corpse.

The rest of the corpse looked just as bad as the head: red fur turned pink, the hoof tips swollen and turning blue. Most prominent, however, were the wounds. The blood had congealed and turned black, causing a stark contrast between it and the fur. The intestines had been pushed back into the belly, but neither of the wounds had been closed, leaving black gashes that no mortician could ever hope to properly close and disguise. The mare stared at the wounds for a full seven seconds, with nary a breath, then quietly, gingerly, placed the sheet back over her, rolled her back into the freezer, and closed the freezer door.

One hour later, and Rusted found himself pondering the file now in front of him, brow furrowing ever further.

The mare had been nigh inconsolable, and only calmed down after a good five minutes of sobbing. After that, they returned to the office area, and the mare began her explanation. Her name was Warm Touch, and it turned out that she and the mystery mare were friends and colleagues in their line of work. They apparently often took lunch together, and shared gossip. She gave any piece of information she thought would help: likes, dislikes, points of pride. By the end of it, they had plenty of information to go off of… and Rusted had a feeling pieces were falling into place.

He took another look at the file opened before him.

Name: Pretty Red
Age: 28
Description: Unicorn; Red coat, pink mane
Mark: Red heart overlaid by a broken gold ring
Occupation: Prostitute
Relations: Mother- Joyous River (weather pegasus); Father- deceased; Warm Touch- work colleague
Cause of death: Severed blood vessels in throat
Notes: Made a name for herself by servicing specifically married stallions, likely responsible for at least 5 different spousal separations. Of note, she seemed to take pride in it while most of the other prostitutes saw it as an unfortunate side effect of the work. Often bragged about her "exploits" and how she couldn't wait to "break another ring." On one occasion, a seamstress by the name of Graceful Design confronted her about her husband's affair with Red, to which she replied, "Ooh! Not every day I get to see the jealous type." Has been described by Warm Touch as a "mental sadist", "nasty piece of work" and "infernal gossip."
Conclusion: Suspect list now should include any jealous mares affected by Pretty Red's shenanigans. Backed up by the impromptu emotive forensics from photographer Oculus. Panic unclear as of this moment.

Rusted leaned back and sighed. While he had no love for the ones who ran the prostitution business, he had known a couple of workers in the profession, and they were decent enough ponies. Just struggling to make ends meet. He was also aware that some chose that market because they genuinely enjoyed it, or were good at it.

While technically illegal, he couldn't begrudge someone trying to get food on the table. And besides, much as he might want to put an end to the practice, it would just mean more paperwork, and innocent ponies being put in jail (if one considered unwitting complicity innocent). All in all, it was too murky a crime, and Rusted honestly couldn't care less about it, so long as no one got hurt.

Pretty Red, on the other hoof, seemed like a genuinely horrible pony. Actively trying to break homes, just for the sake of another boasting point? His mind wandered back to his school days, when some of the colts would keep score of how many fillies they slept with. He shuddered at the thought, and resolved himself to address the prostitution issue once this whole affair was settled.

Well, he mused, it seems Gendril guessed right on the mark.

He sighed once again and stood up. They had gotten all the information they could for the moment, and they now had to deal with the body. They couldn't just leave the body in the freezer, funeral arrangements had to be made.

It was time to put Pretty Red to rest.

Gendril was itchy, uncomfortable, and very apprehensive. He was seated in a rather nice office, placed before a well-polished desk, behind which sat a distinguished female Earth pony, looking over a document.

He was dressed formally, in an old suit that was just a bit too small. He was developing an itch under the collar, but he dared not scratch, so high was the tension in his mind. This was his time to see whether or not the college would take him. The pony before him, the dean of the college, raised her head up and looked him square in the eye.

"It says here that you never completed your high school education."

Gendril winced. "That's correct. I was expelled for failing to keep up with my other classes."

"I see. I take it you chose to focus on the sciences, and neglected the 'less important' topics like literature and history?"

He grimaced. "That's correct."

She sighed. "I'm afraid I can't accept your application with your education as incomplete as it is. Your grades from the Applewood Community College are decent enough, but the expulsion from your high school is what's really holding you back here. I must ask: why do you want to be here?"

Gendril sighed. "I want to be a doctor. And not just because it's my passion. So many griffins from my home are so obsessed with gold that they neglect the community around them, so focused on being the wealthiest that they can't even see how destitute they really are. Maybe, if a griffin like me can rise above all of that, maybe that can be a wake-up call for everyone else."

"Doesn't Princess Twilight have a griffin student at the School of Friendship?"

"Gallus? I won't deny he's done some great things since he joined that school. It's significant, the things he's done. I want to leave my own unique mark on the world."

"Is it true you're working as the coroner for the police?"

And there's the big question, Gendril thought, cursing all the while. Why in Equestria did Side Article drop my name?! ".... In an unofficial capacity, yes."

Her eyes narrowed. "You, a high school dropout and untrained medical student, are helping to investigate a murder case?"

Gendril glared at her, riled by the insult. "Give a creature books, tools and time, and they can learn anything. And by the way, it’s mareslaughter, not murder."

"Self-taught?" She sneered. "Do you know what kind of training is required for an official coroner before they can set to work? Much more than a couple library texts and a few dissected rats."

"Oh, I don't know. I'd say I did a fine job on the autopsy."

"Fantastic! You figured out the cause of death! What about the weapon? What caused those lacerations?"

"I…I'm not sure yet. I need to look at the pictures again."

"Well then," she slid the paper back across the table to him, "you'd best get back there. There's nothing for you here."

Gendril roughly grabbed the paper, and stormed out of the room. As the door closed behind him, he heard the dean spit out, "Coroner. Celestia help us all…"

Gendril walked quickly down the hall, seeing red and mind whirling. ‘How dare she! At least I'm trying to help! At least I'm contributing to solving the case!’

‘She has a point though’, a small voice said in the back of his mind, ‘you aren't qualified to be a proper coroner. And besides, you haven't figured out what caused those lacerations.’

'I know! And that's what bothers me the most! Whatever it was that caused those lacerations, it wasn’t-'

"Oof!" "Oh!"

His train of thought was rather brutally derailed when he suddenly found himself colliding with another creature at alarming speed. Both bodies tumbled to the ground, though thankfully not on top of each other, and he thought he heard a clattering sound of some kind. He grumbled, getting off the floor and brushing himself off before looking at the creature he had unintentionally bowled over.

He saw before him a female hippogriff, bearing a black coat and talons, along with a rather striking burgundy mane. She seemed to have been wearing a pair of square-rimmed spectacles with thin copper frames, which had landed on the ground a few feet away, mercifully undamaged. She was surprisingly dressed rather modestly- a long black skirt covering her back legs down to her fetlocks, a white, long-sleeve, button-up blouse covering her torso and leaving her talons exposed.

He straightened himself up, and extended a talon. "Need a hand?"

"No, but my spectacles would be nice," the hippogriff stated flatly. She got up herself, straightened her clothing, and made a point of blinking rather owlishly in the direction of the golden-brown blob.

"Ah, right." Gendril picked the eyewear up off the ground and handed it to this new chimera. "May I ask for the name of the creature that I appear to have collided with?"

With practiced ease, she snatched the spectacles from his grip with one hand and placed them before her eyes, blinking once again to readjust her sight. “You may, and the name is Gentle Cut. I’m a student here.” She then stopped, and stared at him. Gendril started to feel that itch again, as he became, once again, self-conscious of his tight suit and newly ruffled appearance. It was then that he saw his application on the ground, face down. Unfortunately, his shift in focus drew Gentle’s attention to the paper as well. Gendril’s stomach dropped in fear and anger as she snatched the paper off the ground and began to read it.

"Hm, Gendril Lessel… Applewood Community College, high school expulsion." She glanced back at him, and took in his attire once again. "Based on the clothing, and not looking where you were going…" She inhaled sharply through her beak, visibly wincing. "You had a meeting with the dean, didn't you? How bad did it go?"

Gendril shook his head. "Abysmal. Needless to say, I'm not enrolling here anytime soon. Also, I'd appreciate it if you gave that back." He stretched out his talon, gesturing for the paper. She blinked, then her eyes widened, and she hurriedly thrust the paper to Gendril's chest. "Oh my goodness, I am so sorry! U-um, i-i-it's just that sometimes I forget boundaries, privacy… I am so sorry!"

Gendril blinked. Up until that point, she had spoken in a tone of… condescension. Yet now she seemed flustered! Stammering, tripping over her words, and going red in the face! He almost found it… cute. Shaking himself from his thoughts, he cleared his throat. "*Hem!* Well, just, uh, try to refrain from that with me?"

"Oh! Of course! Right, got it!"

A silence fell between the two raptorous creatures- a silence that became awkward rather quickly. Gentle Cut was the one to break it. "I… noticed that you didn't finish high school… I'm guessing you're trying to get into med school despite that." Gendril sighed. "And that's the key word: trying. I've gone to three different medical universities, and been rejected each time. That damn expulsion had been a constant thorn in my side. I've had to make do by supplementing study with experimentation. Rats are rather plentiful here."

The hippogriff furrowed her brow, and her gaze turned toward open space. Gendril remained silent, recognizing deep thought when he saw it, and allowed Gentle Cut her time. Eventually, she slowly, hesitantly, spoke. "I think… I might be able to help you. Somewhat."

"What do you mean 'no trains out'? I need to return to the Hive!"

"Your papers show you were staying in Old Town at the time of the death a few days ago. As of the start of the case, no residents or visitors of Old Town are allowed out of the city."

Oculus was standing at the Canterlot train station, arguing with the impassive stallion at the ticket booth. His brow knotted in frustration, he stamped his hoof. “I am well aware of the case, but the fact of the matter is, I only arrived the evening of death! I have nothing with me but my camera and the bits I need for a train back down the mountain to the Badlands! I have no intention to remain in this city when I don’t have enough to pay for food or lodging in the larger Canterlot area, and when the only house that will take me,” and his voice gained a tinge of fear, “is in the same precinct in which someone was killed!”

“And it is doubtful that such will happen again. However, as it stands, I cannot let you purchase a ticket to anywhere else until the matter is resolved. If you wish to send a letter to the Changeling Hive, however, you are perfectly within your rights to do so.” The ticketmaster’s eyes narrowed. “Now would you please cease your shouting and leave the line? You’re causing a scene, and there are a lot more ponies behind you.”

Oculus jolted back, and then looked sheepishly behind him. There were four ponies standing behind him, clearly waiting for their turn at the desk, and behind them stood a crowd of about twenty ponies, all with looks of curiosity or concern on their faces. Oculus blushed, and quickly left the line, stammering apologies all the way. In time, the crowd was left behind him, and, with much trepidation, he plodded his way back to Old Town.

He started the walk by going down the Restaurant Row. For nearly a full 15 minutes he walked, a few turns here and there, eventually leaving his back to the palace. As he walked, the streets started off crowded, but the throng of ponies left him behind once he turned left to go down the Old Town main road. The beginning of Old Town was marked by a stone statue- the image of a young mare with a wind-blown mane and a ruffling long-hemmed nightshirt frozen in a silent gale. He supposed it might have been a stunning sculpture at some point, but there was one thing that held it back: the mare only had one eye. The other had been broken off in an act of vandalism from some young hooligan years ago, and now the mare stared out with that lone eye, seemingly piercing through the flesh to gaze upon the spirits of those who approached her. With a nervous shake of his head, and after a quick snap of his camera, Oculus hurried on.

The street took a decline, lamp posts dotting the street on either side. He passed by a small inn, a few restaurants, nothing much on the outskirts. He began to lose himself in his thoughts, muttering to himself as buildings began to come closer together and streets began to split. Windows became grimy, the occasional rat would scuttle in the darker streets, and the shadow of the mountain above made everything slightly dimmer. A small Celestial chapel with a tiny earthen cemetery, a postal office- he made a note to send a letter to his family in the Hive- a small library, and a bakery a couple doors down. Finally, he took a left toward the residential area. Several blocks later, passing by homes in varying states of disrepair, he came to a charming, well-kept two-story house.
Oculus sighed, went up to the door, and knocked. After a few moments, the door opened, revealing a stallion wearing a white shirt and gray vest, spectacles perched on his muzzle, magnifying eyes that widened in surprise. “Mister Oculus? Back so soon? I thought you intended to leave!”

Oculus grimaced. “Intended, yes. Unfortunately, I’m not allowed to leave right now. Mister Lens, I truly hate to impose, but could I stay here until this whole matter is resolved? I’m afraid I don’t know anyone else in this city very well aside from you, and I’d rather stay with someone I know.” The stallion, Clear Lens, tightened his lips a little, then sighed. “Well, you were supposed to stay the full month, so I can’t exactly refuse. Come in, the room you were staying in is still as you left it.”

“Thank you so much, sir.”

It was on a grey Thursday morning that Pretty Red's ashes were buried. The small earthen cemetery beside the Old Town Celestial chapel did not have enough earth for full-body burials, so cremation was the much more common practice. There was not much ceremony to the burial, just a few words from the local priest, Pious Whisper, a disoriented procession to the grave, brief respects, and burying the urn. Only a hoof full of ponies showed up- a couple of Red's friends, Rusted Key, and an eggshell white pegasus mare with a braided golden mane with dark blue highlights. Surprisingly, her mother never showed up, though no one could say for sure why.

It was the reception now, and Rusted was standing by himself against a wall of the chapel. "Small" did not do its miniature size justice. It could seat 12 worshippers comfortably, and 30 without room to breathe. Now, with only 5 active souls in occupation (and a meager 50 incorporeal souls), it was incredibly quiet. Rust was all too ready to leave, but, out of nowhere, the pegasus stranger approached him.

"You're Chief Rusted Key, correct?"

"That I am," he grunted.

She flashed him a look, a mix of sympathy and pleading. "Well… please find your killer quickly. I hate to think that a killer is roaming free."

The mare quickly excused herself, exiting the chapel and taking wing. Rusted also took his leave, making his way past the residential area to get to the police station. And, as he walked, water droplets began to fall from the sky, slowly and sporadically.

And the quiet returned to Old Town.

Chapter 4- Surgical Studies

"And as we can see, each section-or lobe- of the brain performs different tasks. The frontal lobe, for instance…"

The room was small, a simple sideroom compared to the other university classrooms, only really large enough to host 15 students, with standing room only for the professor. Such as was happening here.

“.....the occipital lobe, on the other hand, is responsible for dreams. Though that is not it's only role.”

Standing before a blackboard was a wizened unicorn stallion, his blue coat faded to a light purple, and his mane completely white. Yet he still carried an air of vigor and purpose, showing no hint of a slowing walk or trembling hoof. His eyes carried a constant spark of eagerness, a longing to spread his knowledge to others.

Amongst the small pool of students sat a griffin, sitting in rapt attention, mentally repeating the terms as if in a mantra: frontal, occipital, parietal, temporal, cerebellum, stem. He had, of course, learned this portion of anatomy already. Hard not to, when he had already dissected a rat and read a text on it. But he was still listening in, at least in part. Gendril was also going over his itinerary for the day.

[img]data:image/png;base64,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[/img]Attend lecture
[img]data:image/png;base64,iVBORw0KGgoAAAANSUhEUgAAAEgAAABICAYAAABV7bNHAAAA1ElEQVR4Ae3bMQ4BURSFYY2xBuwQ7BIkTGxFRj9Oo9RdkXn5TvL3L19u+2ZmZmZmZhVbpH26pFcaJ9IrndMudb/CWadHGiden1bll9MIzqd79SUd0thY20qga4NA50qgoUGgoRJo/NL/V/N+QIAAAQIECBAgQIAAAQIECBAgQIAAAQIECBAgQIAAAQIECBAgQIAAAQIECBAgQIAAAQIEyFeEZyXQpUGgUyXQrkGgTSVQl/qGcG5pnkq3Sn0jOMv0k3Vpm05pmNjfsGPalFyOmZmZmdkbSS9cKbtzhxMAAAAASUVORK5CYII=[/img]View operation (WATCH CLOSELY!)
[img]data:image/png;base64,iVBORw0KGgoAAAANSUhEUgAAAEgAAABICAYAAABV7bNHAAAA1ElEQVR4Ae3bMQ4BURSFYY2xBuwQ7BIkTGxFRj9Oo9RdkXn5TvL3L19u+2ZmZmZmZhVbpH26pFcaJ9IrndMudb/CWadHGiden1bll9MIzqd79SUd0thY20qga4NA50qgoUGgoRJo/NL/V/N+QIAAAQIECBAgQIAAAQIECBAgQIAAAQIECBAgQIAAAQIECBAgQIAAAQIECBAgQIAAAQIEyFeEZyXQpUGgUyXQrkGgTSVQl/qGcG5pnkq3Sn0jOMv0k3Vpm05pmNjfsGPalFyOmZmZmdkbSS9cKbtzhxMAAAAASUVORK5CYII=[/img]Visit Grimm
[img]data:image/png;base64,iVBORw0KGgoAAAANSUhEUgAAAEgAAABICAYAAABV7bNHAAAA1ElEQVR4Ae3bMQ4BURSFYY2xBuwQ7BIkTGxFRj9Oo9RdkXn5TvL3L19u+2ZmZmZmZhVbpH26pFcaJ9IrndMudb/CWadHGiden1bll9MIzqd79SUd0thY20qga4NA50qgoUGgoRJo/NL/V/N+QIAAAQIECBAgQIAAAQIECBAgQIAAAQIECBAgQIAAAQIECBAgQIAAAQIECBAgQIAAAQIEyFeEZyXQpUGgUyXQrkGgTSVQl/qGcG5pnkq3Sn0jOMv0k3Vpm05pmNjfsGPalFyOmZmZmdkbSS9cKbtzhxMAAAAASUVORK5CYII=[/img]Go to work

He sighed inwardly. While he had gotten another look at the photographs, he still had nothing conclusive. He had a hunch, but nothing to back it up. Maybe the operation would provide some clue or inspiration.

"Mr. Lessel! A question for you!"

Gendril brought his head up. "Yes, Doctor Clot?"

"Let us say you drop a ceramic plate and break it. What is the mental process that leads to you cleaning the mess by sweeping up the pieces?"

He pondered for a moment. "Hmm… I see the mess, the image is processed by the occipital lobe, thereby activating the frontal lobe to run through a series of solutions, deciding upon the solution to sweep up the pieces and throw them away, and thereby executing the action."

"Clinical, dry as a textbook, and overall correct!"

The whole class, Gendril included, shared a chuckle at that. Doctor Blood Clot was something of an honorary professor and university secret. He was not a professor in any official capacity, but he was a world-class surgeon, an expert in his field. And it just so happened that he liked to demonstrate his prowess by teaching others, whether by book or scalpel, even those without proper registration to the university. He was something of an eccentric, "a teddy bear surgeon", as some put it. Was it a massive loophole in the university's system? Absolutely, but it was a loophole the staff were unwilling to correct. And for creatures in a similar position to Gendril, he was nothing short of a gift from Celestia herself.

Gendril had been introduced to the good doctor by Gentle Cut. They had shaken hoof and claw, introduced themselves, exchanged questions and answers, and he had almost immediately been given a schedule and rough syllabus. And now he sat, a week later, with the latest class finishing up. Soon, he would get a chance to see a surgery up close, and, hopefully, find a missing piece of this whole mystery.

"Well, would you look at the time! I do beg your pardon fillies and gentlecolts, but I have a surgery to attend to. Take some time this evening to study the major structures of the nervous system, and I will see you all in a few days. Class dismissed!"

In the murmuring and shifting that followed, Doctor Clot gathered his materials, placed them in his satchel, and headed out the door, Gendril following close behind.

Walking over to the university's operating theater, the griffin and pony duo took a moment to talk.

"So how is the mystery coming along?"

"I'm pretty sure you of all creatures should know that I can't answer that question."

"You can't blame a pony for his curiosity. Although, I'd like to help in some way, if you would hear me out for just a moment."

Gendril looked at him quizzically. "I can't give you a place in the investigation, if you were wondering. I don't have that kind of authority."

"Never even crossed my mind. I'd like you to be my assistant for this operation."

Gendril screeched to a halt. "What?!"

"It's nothing major: passing tools, putting organs into ice, that kind of thing. I have one stipulation, though." At this, he turned and looked him dead in the eye. "Observe. Everything. Every cut, every motion, blade placement, all of that. I assume you know your basic surgical tools?"

Gendril swallowed, and shakily nodded his head. "Yes, sir."

"Good! Then I won't need to specify too much about the tools at use. The current operation is an organ donor, recently deceased. A stasis spell was placed upon time of death, and will cease upon operation start. Blood has been vacated, replaced with a saline fluid." The doctor started trotting, speaking more rapidly. "Heart doesn't last long; that goes first. Then lungs, liver, kidneys. Anything else is by demand. Understood?"

"Yes, doctor!" Gendril kept pace.

"You will have several medical containers near you. Each will hold one organ. They will be labeled, so pay attention to which organ you are putting where."

"Yes, doctor!"

"Look sharp, Mister Gendril! We've arrived."

A set of double doors stood before Gendril, with a small set of stairs on either side for observers to climb to the seats. He would have taken the stair on the left at this point, maybe found a front row seat if he was lucky, had he not been offered a more…. personal view. Doctor Clot went through first, while Gendril followed close behind.

The first thing that struck him was the quiet buzz of low conversation: brief “good afternoon"'s, and "how do you do"'s, and other inconsequential chatter. Ahead of him he saw a gurney with a sheet, covering a mass that he assumed to be the body. Near the gurney were two white smocks, clearly meant for the operator and assistant, and a large surgical light hovered above the gurney, held in place from its grounded pole. Several ponies were already waiting on the floor, though he wasn’t sure who they were. He then noticed that the lighting in the room was rather dim, and, striding forward behind the doctor, he saw that the light came from several strategically placed candles, providing just enough light for the audience to be comfortable, or so he assumed.

As he came up to the gurney, Doctor Clot sorcerously gave Gendril his smock, which he hurriedly donned. After donning his own, the doctor turned to the light, and switched it on.

For a brief moment, Gendril was blinded. Then, as his eyes adjusted to the pure white light above the concealed cadaver, he saw the tools upon the surgical tray, held by a wheeled cart. They were pristine: clean, clearly sharp, glittering in the light like silvered jewels. He saw before him forceps, needles, a pair of shears for cutting bone, and many different sizes of scalpels. He looked at those tools….. and saw beauty. However, his attention was pulled away from the tools when Doctor Clot moved in front of the gurney, and addressed his— now silent— audience.

“Fillies and gentlecolts, good morning to you all! I do hope everyone is seated comfortably and paying close attention, because this will not take long, but it is no less important. The subject today is one Mr. Watered Gaze, former resident of Baltimare and organ donor, placed under stasis spell half an hour after death. Upon the first cut of the scalpel, the stasis spell will fail. After that, each organ will have a limited amount of time for transplant. As such, they will be immediately placed on ice and rushed to Canterlot General by our fine paramedics, without whose presence this operation would not be possible. May we give a round of applause for them?”

At this, Doctor Clot turned, and gestured to the other ponies on the floor, while the audience burst into a polite applause. Gendril couldn’t help but stare at this. Why was there so much…. theatricality going on? This was supposed to be for learning, right?

“And with me today, assisting with this surgery is a student of the college, Mr. Gendril Lessel!” Gendril was split from his line of internal questioning by the sudden realization that everyone was now looking at him, giving that same polite applause. What is going on here? Gendril was puzzled.

“Mr. Lessel, the small scalpel, please.”

For a brief instant, Gendril stared at the doctor, blinking dumbly, before turning his gaze to the tray of tools and picking out the smallest tool. Slowly, he turned it in his hands, before holding it out to his professor, handle out.

The doctor took the scalpel in his magical grip, stood next to the donor, and addressed the audience once again.

“Pay attention everyone! You’re about to witness a master at work!”

With that, he slowly brought the scalpel to the dead stallion’s chest…. and began the surgeon’s dance.

The “surgery” had been a success. Each organ had been quickly sent to the necessary locations, and, at that moment, were being utilized in likely life-saving transplants on the other side of the mountain. Gendril, on the other hand, was hurriedly making his way down the street, satchel slung over his shoulder, partially lost in thought.

Scalpel provides very clean cuts, not like the lacerations on Pretty Red. Could lend credence to a talon slash from some disgruntled griffin, but it doesn't feel right. I need to look at those pictures again.

Grateful as he was for his chance at the Canterlot University of Medical Science, he had been pulled away from his work at the station. He absolutely needed to apologize to Rusted Key for lagging behind. Working the apology in his mind, he found himself walking up to probably his favorite place in Canterlot: The Grey Feather Butchery, the workplace of a personal friend, Grimm.

The building was simple wood and white plaster; nothing spectacular, though the new graffiti certainly drew the eye. Streaks of red, curses, scratches, all adorned the walls of the building. And painted over the double doors were the words, "Fucking Crows".

Gendril held back a scowl, took a deep breath, and opened the doors. The front was clean, but simple; just the kind of front you would expect from a butcher. The only thing different was that the front was a bit more bare than usual. All the different meats usually on display in the glass display case were now absent. A set of white curtains were set over the entryway to the back and no one was at the counter. Gendril walked forward, and rang the service bell on the desk.

*ding*

"One moment!" The voice that called back was hoarse and cracked. "Who is it?"

"It's Gendril!"

A few moments later, the curtain was pushed aside, revealing a griffin that was clearly aged, with many white feathers going dull and gray. His front was covered by a leather apron, the same tan color as his hind legs. His eyes were deeply bloodshot, yet he smiled. "Hah! If it isn't my favorite doctor!"

"Give it four to six years, and it might just be true," Gendril said, smirking.

"Hahaha! Well, how can I help you today?" Grimm grinned broadly.

"Could I have a quarter pound of lamb, 2 ounces of pork and…"

Gendril hesitated. Unconsciously, he rubbed the back of his head as he grimaced. The smile on Grimm's face slowly dropped into a serious frown. He closed his eyes. "How much?"

"... three tablespoons."

"Reason?"

"Insight and clarity of mind. I just need a small edge for this."

"You're sure about this?"

Gendril frowned. "I screwed up. I should have done the closer examination when I had the chance, and now I only have pictures. I think I may need a bit of creativity at this point. I know the risks, I know your policy."

Grimm breathed in deep.

".... fine. Food first, plenty of water after. Be smart. I'll get your order ready."

Gendril paused outside the station, taking a moment to admire the lamp with it's blue-tinted glass panes, and the slightly rusted sign bolted to the wall beneath it:

Constabulary for the C.H.D.
On the 5th of November, 750 ANM, this station was established to provide protection to this, the historical district of Greater Canterlot, for the memory of all Equestria.
May the lamps be lit eternal.

Gendril pushed through the door and made his way to the front desk.

"House Coroner Gendril, reporting for duty."

The stallion behind the desk responded, "Sign in please."

He did so, taking his clearance card from his satchel for authorization. With all the formalities done, he made his way back to the main office area, looking for Rusted Key all the while. A low chatter was going on, hushed words, murmurs, a fat cry from the new energy of two weeks ago. He found him, not at his desk, but instead talking to a couple other lower ranking officers. He made his way over.

“- to report?” “Nothing yet sir. All suspects we have tailed seem to be behaving normally. It’s possible this might have been a one-and-done.” "Possible. We just need Gendril to get his beak out of his books, and give us a hypothesis. Speaking of which…"

Gendril found himself halted in his tracks as Rusted turned to face him, an unamused expression on his face. After a moment, Gendril started. "Chief, I'm sorry I-"

"Spare it! Follow me."

The silence that followed was palpable. Every eye turned to the dumbfounded griffin and unenthused unicorn. The walk to Chief Rusted Key's desk was made in silence, with Gendril plodding behind the chief, feeling the eyes boring into the back of his head. Eventually, he found himself seated at his superior's desk, the pony sat across from him. Rusted glared behind him.

Does this business concern any of you? No? Then clear off!" The chatter resumed as it had before, with the stares abating at last. Gendril signed in relief, only to catch the stern glare of Rusted Key.

"Care to tell me where you've been the past week?"

Gendril swallowed nervously. "The university, sir."

"I see. And why were you there and not here?"

"... Sir, I really-" "Answer. The question."

"... I wanted to learn more than I could here."

Rusted sighed, rubbing his temple, before looking Gendril dead in the eyes. "Look. I understand that this is important to you. Tartarus, I gave you this job because it could help you with it, even if only slightly. But here's the thing: this isn't a normal job. You're not some underage colt standing at a register in some local supermarket. You're not bussing tables in some D-grade restaurant. You're the coroner of the police. And when we're in the midst of an active case, you need to be here! And right now, you are actively holding back progress. If you're not willing to take this seriously by the end of next week, then by Celestia, I may be forced to charge you with obstructing justice! Do I make myself clear?!"

Gendril’s words were stuck in his throat from the shock. He had known the chief for two years now, and he had never raised his voice like this before. He’d expressed annoyance or slight frustration, but never anger like this. With all words caught in his throat, all he could do was timidly nod. To which Rusted responded, quietly, “Then why are you still here?”

Like Cerberus himself was on his heels, Gendril bolted from Rusted’s desk, down the stairs, and into the lab, slamming the door behind him.Taking a few breaths in, he allowed himself to calm down before setting to his task. From a nearby cupboard, he pulled down a hot plate and a small frying pan, and set to cooking his pork. The lamb he placed in the top drawer of the freezer, a habit he’d gotten into from oftentimes rushing to the station from Grimm’s.

In time, the pork was ready for consumption. He brought the now warm pan to the center table, along with a needle to act as a utensil, and began to eat while trying to study the pictures. The longer Gendril looked, the more his brow furrowed in confusion. The pictures confirmed that the cuts weren’t clean, but they also didn’t seem large enough for talons. Gendril pounded a fist on the table in frustration, and hurriedly finished his meal before going to his bag and pulling out a small vial.

Gendril beheld the red liquid in the vial as if it were melted gold. Gingerly he removed the cork and took a tentative sniff. The copper scent of pig's blood filled his nostrils and flooded the roof of his mouth, putting his vision into sudden, sharp relief. He exhaled shakily. “I hope to Celestia I find something.” He downed the liquid in one gulp.
In an instant, his demeanor changed. His pupils began to dilate and constrict, until, finally, fully focusing. He became hunched, beginning to prowl restlessly around the room, and a light growl started coming from his throat. He found himself gazing at the pictures once again; and his expression shifted. First confused then surprised, then smiling.

“H-h-h-h-h-hee, I see! I see! Smaaaallll cut, very small cut! Or! Or-or-or! Is that a cut? Wait. W-w-w-w-wait. Wrong. Wrong, wrong, wrong! Fibers? What is-? Hold on… skull. Broken? Dented. There-”

*squeak*

Barely even thinking, Gendril lunged towards the noise, capturing a rat in his talons before it could run away. “Oh, hello there! Something to share, eh?” The rat squeaked and struggled pathetically in Gendril’s grip. “Oh, gooood point, good-good-good-good point. Let’s try something, shall we?”

*BAM-crack*

The rat went still.

“Hmm, death was wrong, skull broken, died that way. Now, can talons break skin? Let’s see-see-see… nonono, not really, no. Needs force there. Wait… oh… ohohohohoHOHOHOHO! I’ve got something!”

The neck of the rat gushed red as Gendril grabbed for the needle still on the table. “Let’s see… yes… yesyesyesYES! Torn! It’s torn! Wait…”

The rat lay, disemboweled and forgotten, as Gendril grabbed the pictures. “Small cut, wide entry. Hook, maybe?... Hook. Improvised, most likely. Weren’t planning murder? No, panic. Angry, lashed out, not thinking… h-h-h-hahahaha, tried to cover it up, eh? Clever… but not clever enough. I– w-woah. Light’s– getting brighter. Huh? I’m– holy Celestia, I’m parched.”

Gendril shook himself and dragged himself over to the basin, where he drank straight from the tap for a good fifteen seconds.

“... I need to talk to the chief.”

“... and that’s my hypothesis.”

Rusted leaned back in his chair, silent. The theory that Gendril just presented… was completely plausible. The blow to the head in anger, then panicking and trying to cover it up with a slash to the throat and three slashes from the same improvised weapon. It was, as Gendril aptly put it, “clever, but sloppy.” His brow creased in thought. “If the killer was angry, they wouldn't necessarily need to be strong to break the skull, just need a good amount of force. A hoof could certainly do the job if it connected to the temple. Let's focus on the weapon. You said the hook would have to be small, right?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And if it was improvised, it stands to reason that it may have been an occupational tool. No reason someone would find a hook on the ground. Couldn’t be a fishhook, we’re nowhere near any streams or other bodies of water with fish. Couldn’t be a stolen tool either. The panic indicates they didn’t think through the kill, lending even more credence to a mareslaughter charge. It doesn’t make sense unless they had it on them from the start. That narrows it down considerably.”

“Sir, didn’t you mention at one point that one of the suspects was a seamstress?”

Rusted’s eyes widened, and he slammed his hooves on the desk. “That’s right! It’s possible she left her business, forgot to put her tools down, ran into Pretty Red, got angry, and then killed her! In fact,” Rusted began talking more rapidly, “the motive is there! She was clearly jealous, even Pretty Red said so! It’s not too far a leap in logic that Graceful Design could accidentally kill her!”

“Well,” Gendril said slowly, “is it enough?”

“Not quite enough for a conviction. But there’s cause for suspicion, and that’s enough to warrant a search and interrogation. I’ll set up a team and head down to our suspect’s place of work, and we’ll see what we can find. In the meantime, you stay here and log your findings. Make sure to leave nothing out. I’ll be back soon,” and at this Rusted gave a hesitant smile, “and I hope we can soon consider this case closed.”

Gendril returned the smile. “You and me both, chief.”

“Side Article! There’s a letter here for you! Apparently it’s urgent?”

The reporter raised his eyebrow, facing the mare at the front desk. “Who’s it from?”

“Chief Inspector Rusted Key, I think.”

His brow rose up even further. “What could he be writing to me about, after my last story?”

The mare shrugged. Side Article rolled his eyes, opened the letter, and began to read.

“How’ve you been, blah blah blah, new story for me?...”

His jaw slowly dropped before curling up into a smile.

“... They did it. They actually did it.”

Author's Note

Critiques are welcome! Sorry it took a while for this to come out, I only recently finished another chapter for this story. I hope you enjoyed the chapter!

Chapter 5- Police Proud

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