The apartment building now had fewer police and far more Wardens milling about. Yam was ‘detained’—that is to say that he wasn’t allowed to go anywhere at the moment—while the new evidence was being examined. Warden Hammerhelm had set up something of a command center in the lobby of the apartment building, so at least Yam got to enjoy the air conditioning while he waited.
He watched the big mare as she moved about and had a keen awareness that he did not know her. They had only met a few times, but he knew nothing about her and had no clue as to her feelings about him. Some Wardens resented detectives, feeling they were intruders, while others welcomed a helping hoof.
“This is some good work,” Warden Hammerhelm said as she held up a piece of paper pinched between her clawed thumb and the central, knobby knuckle on her leathery batlike wing. “If you are reading this, I can only assume that the worst has happened and I have been discovered, blah, blah, blah.” The big brutal mare waved the paper around in a dramatic fashion, coughed a dry, dusty, smoky cough, and then focused her baleful gaze upon Yam, whom she towered over.
“So, our headshrinker was caught having an affair with somepony and was blackmailed. She doesn’t mention who she was caught with, but my guess is that both parties involved in the affair were compromised. Once caught up in these events, she starts doing some bad things, as detailed in her journals. Her ability, her talent to gain trust is ruthlessly exploited as they begin product testing on foalnapped or otherwise unwanted foals. Time passes, guilt sets in, and Miss Penny decides to make a break for it after being complicit in countless crimes. She feels bad about it, but also admits to enjoying the lavish lifestyle that she lives with the extra money she makes from her illicit activities. Which explains how she was able to afford such a swanky apartment in this part of town.”
To show that he was listening, Yam nodded.
“Now she’s dead… found in the tub with her fetlocks sliced wide open. Those cuts go right down to the bone… while most suicides only graze the surface. As a unicorn, she would have had to exert an extraordinary amount of willpower to keep her magic going through so much pain.” Warden Hammerhelm stepped away from Yam and began to pace the length of the lobby. “Twice. She would have had to somehow do that twice, because both right and left fetlocks are gashed. What bothers me even more is, she was a therapist. She had to know about suicide methods. You never cross the road, you go up the street if you want to bleed out quick. Something about this bothers me, but it may or may not be relevant.”
Warden Dread Drop, who had been quiet this whole time now had something to say and his words made Warden Hammerhelm pause in her pacing. “She wasn’t totally lost. Clearly she felt some guilt, as evidenced, and she worked to keep the foals sedated and comfortable. As awful as it was, it could have been a lot worse. Miss Penny worked to minimise suffering, at least from what we’ve been able to gather so far… though this might be an effort on her part to soften the opinion of her crimes. We only have her journals to go on and the stash of pharmaceuticals.”
“A gentle monster is still a monster.” Yam’s opinion came out in a soft mumble and his words made both Wardens turn to look at him. Emboldened, he had more to say and for this he spoke with greater clarity: “An ogre that lulls a foal into a secure sleep before boiling them in a pot is still an ogre… and ogres deserve no sympathy.”
The Wardens both turned to look at one another and then back at Yam. A police officer present coughed, but said nothing. Warden Hammerfell resumed her pacing, her heavy, serrated hooves clicking on the fine marble tiles. “We approach a crisis… whatever scientific evidence was gathered during this product testing will set off a firestorm of ethics debate. Ponies will want to know if it is right to use the data… especially if it is medical practices or products that can save lives. We still don’t know what they were doing, or where.” Turning about, she focused her predatory gaze upon Yam. “We may have the means to find out though.”
“I don’t mind helping, but I do have a missing pony to find.” Yam offered up a bold nod to Warden Hammerhelm. “I do suspect that Honey Dew was somehow caught up in all of this. Miss Penny was in Ag Tech’s employ. Honey Dew’s mother said that Ag Tech was paying the bill to keep Honey Dew leveled out. We don’t know if she was helping them or moonlighting for some other outfit.”
“Yes,” Warden Dread Drop hissed out the word. “She does nothing to make that clear. Quite infuriating, if you ask me. All this confession and still so much ambiguity.”
“What would a company like Ag Tech have to test on foals?” Yam asked as the thought percolated into his mind.
“Food products… breakfast cereals… I don’t know.” Warden Hammerhelm now had a thoughtful expression on her face. “Nutritional supplements and additives?”
“So we need to find a link or relevant information… but these things might not be connected at all except through coincidence.” Warden Dread Drop flexed his wings, an impressive, terrifying display, and he worked the cricks out of his neck. “One thing is for certain—”
“And that is, Warden Dread Drop?” Warden Hammerhelm waited with perked ears and an arched eyebrow.
“The guilty want to be caught. Those with troubled minds seek relief. It only confirms what I believe and justifies my existence. We Wardens are the only relief that these troubled souls will have and we must save them from themselves. For those that are too far gone to feel guilt and do not have troubled hearts from the wickedness they commit, we must save society from them. Days like this one… I feel… I feel…”
“Vindicated?” Warden Hammerhelm suggested.
“I don’t know if that is the right word.” Warden Dread Drop grunted, shook his head, and looked his superiour in the eye while she paced the length of the lobby. “Many question if we Wardens are necessary or if our power is overreaching. Days like this one, after seeing that confession, I feel justified. Those guilty with troubled minds want our help. If only she would have trusted us enough to come to us for help. We might have saved her life and spared her soul before she plunged headlong into trouble.”
“Indeed.” Warden Hammerhelm turned to look at Yam. “I want you to go and check on Miss Penny’s strongbox that she mentioned. Take the access code and the writ enclosed with her letter. I don’t trust the police to do it and my Wardens are spread thin. This is far outside of regulations and under normal circumstances, it is something I would never do, but the police are actively hostile towards us.” The big brutish mare glanced over at the officer present and her lip curled back into a frightful snarl. “That one resents us for treading on his turf.”
“You’ll be disciplined for violating the regulations and I will be too for allowing you to do it… if I allow you to do it.” Warden Dread Drop gazed at his superiour through his mirrored goggles and his statuesque face showed no sign of whatever it was he was feeling. “Yam is conscripted though, and he has shown himself to be extraordinarily trustworthy. At best, we’ll be lectured for being lax. At worst…” His words trailed off and the big stallion let out a smoky, sulphurous snort.
“Mister Spade, if you would please go and fetch the contents of that strongbox, I would be most appreciative.” Warden Hammerhelm ignored her companion and focused entirely on Yam. “Warden Dread Drop and I must continue our vigil here at this location and keep an eye on the Warden Cadets that are filtering through the information we’ve obtained thus far.” Lowering her voice, she added, “We must also keep a watchful eye on the officers coming and going.”
“Right, just so long as I get my rent paid,” Yam muttered in response. Giving his hat a quick adjustment, he knew a bad scene when he saw one and he hurried off before Warden Dread Drop could voice any objections.
The bank was an enormous swanky spire of faux golden metal and mirrored glass, a dazzling display indeed in the desert sun. At least twenty stories tall, it was an impressive structure with an even more impressive accent that decorated the front of the building: a massive golden anchor stretched at least two thirds of the height of the building. In golden letters along the shaft of the anchor were the words, ‘The Mariner’s Trust.’
It was the sort of bank that the wealthy and the want-to-be wealthy put their money into so they could brag. It was conspicuous consumption done with investing. In Yam’s own private opinion, it was everything wrong with the finance industry in Equestria. Being a detective, he didn’t trust banks, not in the slightest, and so many of his cases caused him to venture into mighty financial fortresses with inviting glass double doors.
In Yam’s not-so-humble opinion, the Crown should be the only institution trusted with banking, and allowing private financial institutions to exist was a dreadful mistake. The Crown, Yam felt, had an obligation to serve its subjects, while private enterprise was only dutiful to their own bottom line.
This place was as predatory as an anglerfish and to entice ponies to come inside, there was a whole slew of offers. Free appliances, free memberships, exclusive prices at participating retailers, it had a little bit of everything to draw somepony in. None of it was actually free, Yam reasoned, somepony had to pay for it. Toasters did not grow on trees, after all, and those retailers had to be compensated somehow. The lone toaster on display had a gold anchor on the end opposite of the push down button and below the anchor were the words, ‘Mariner-Tech, equipping the kitchen of tomorrow.’
What a world… products that advertised themselves. Yam snorted in disgust.
Moving away from the display, Yam went to go and talk to one of the clerks.
This place stank of wealth: fine perfumes, masculine colognes, expensive tobacco from cigars as well as pipes, and the scented laundry soap used to wash fine apparel. The carpets were silky underhoof and the air that came blowing out of the decorative brass vents was as sweet as wildflower-strewn mountain meadows. The pungent aroma of exquisite, expensive ink tickled Yam’s nostrils. This place was an assault upon the nose; bewildering, disorienting, and disarming.
Yam could see why a pony would want to keep their money here, even the poor ones. To stand shoulder to shoulder, wither to wither with the wealthy and to be a part of all of… this. Even a pauper would get to visit this palace once in awhile in order to conduct their bank business and that’d be a real treat. There was complimentary coffee and tea, along with pastries and teacakes.
The bank was selling an image of affluence, the illusion of superiourity to all those who did their business here. Yam saw through it all; sure, he wasn’t the smartest pony, certainly not the cleverest, but he knew subterfuge when he saw it, and he was looking at it right now. As he approached the counter, he saw tasteful, subtle signs advertising once in a lifetime opportunities that would lead to steady gains and eventual wealth, such as investing in Mariner Firearms, Mariner Oil and Chemical, Mariner Aeronautical R&D, Mariner Global Shipping, or Mariner Communications, the transcontinental communication company that promised to bring the telegraph of tomorrow.
“Everything checks out, Mister Spade. Miss Penny had one of our economy strongboxes down on subfloor five in subsection cyan,” the clerk said in a soft, passive voice that was filled with false warmth and grating faux-sincerity. “Here is a key. The box is not kept in a vaulted room, it is more of a locker, really, and you will not need an agent to let you into the subsection where it is located.” She blinked, batting her perfectly mascaraed eyelashes at him once. “Will that be all?”
“Say,” Yam said to the clerk as he had a profound thought. “What about her accounts. Does she still have them?”
“I cannot give you access to them—”
“I didn’t ask for access, just if she still had them.” Yam peered at the clerk and noticed the heavy crows feet in the corners of her eyes, the evidence of stress or smiling. She hadn’t smiled once since meeting him, and he wondered how stressful it was to be a bank clerk. “Be a doll, will ya, and help a fella out.”
“Miss Penny withdrew her accounts a few days ago. A considerable sum. It’s dangerous for a mare to have that much money… it is an invitation for trouble, if you ask me. She withdrew several thousand bits worth of savings as well as her checking account.”
Yam’s eyebrows collapsed and his eyes narrowed while his brows buckled. If she had that kind of scratch just lying around, where was it? Why was there no sign of it in her apartment? He was going to have to mention this to the Wardens, and no doubt, they would be grateful for this kind of information. Yam saw another complication as well: if one’s bank shared ownership within the same corporate structure as the outfit one worked for, the moment that one’s funds were pulled, your employers would know when something was up.
To Yam, it was all a clever, clever way to control one’s employees and keep tabs on them.
“Thanks, you’ve been a big help. I’ll be going now.” Offering a polite nod, Yam scrammed.
The subfloors were a maze of passages that were all colour coded. It didn’t quite smell so nice down here, it was musty, dusty, and a bit mildewy. Bare electric light bulbs hung from the ceiling and there were no windows down here below the ground. It had taken a while, but Yam was now staring at what he had come for, the strongbox. It was a small one, with a secure square door and a curious circular keyhole that fit a round key, the likes of which he had never seen before.
The key was somewhat magnetic and it clung to the plate where the opening was. Using his lips, he wiggled the key until it clicked and it slid right in with smooth mechanical perfection. It did not turn, which was odd, and Yam wasn’t sure how to operate the key. Not knowing what to do, he pushed on it, thinking that it needed to go in further before it would turn.
There was a click from the lock and then the spring-loaded door popped open. Yam stepped back, blinked when his eyes began to water, and a quick sniff told him that there was something sweet in the air, something fragrant. The sweet smell became cloying and his knees began to wobble. Now panicking, Yam began to back away, but the smell grew stronger. Inside of the strongbox was a phial of some fuming potion, and when the door had sprung open, the stopper had been pulled out.
Turning about, Yam tried to run but instead tumbled down to the tile floor that was in desperate need of sweeping. His body felt heavy, his eyelids heavier, and his legs refused to work no matter how much he tried to will them to cooperate. Breathing became increasingly difficult, and his lungs were filled with a crushing emptiness that could not be remedied.
There was nothing worse than being powerless.