The Blood in the Trough

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.