//------------------------------// // Chapter 12: Truth and Shadows // Story: Memoirs of the Mindless // by Writey the writer //------------------------------// Chapter 12: Truth and Shadows “How did you convince them? It’s the only machine they fully regulate and they just hoofed it over?” Print said, genuinely impressed with Clue’s work. Two stallions passed them carrying the bulk of the ACD between them into the office.Clue simply smiled. “I said that it was a valuable asset to the case,” he said. “When they weren’t fully convinced, I said that if there were any more Red-Mane deaths, their department would be liable at not fully cooperating.” He gave a toothy grin. “It’s not entirely a lie either,” Print said, now smiling too. “They didn’t ask why?” He shrugged. “Who needs to know? If it helps, they don’t care. Dealing with murderers is more than their department normally has to deal with.” He spoke louder as one of the technicians walked past.  “We’ll just have to make sure Clock doesn’t use it. ” The mare didn’t respond. Either she didn’t hear or didn’t care, probably both. Clue had asked for the ACD to be set up in the private office. Nopony would see Clock breaking his only assigned rule. Clue leaned into the office then popped his head back out. “Where’s Clock?” he asked. Print frowned. “He’s decided that the best way to find Red-Mane is to get to know the area she’s in-like look at the buildings and the general layout,” she said. “So, why are you frowning?” “On paper its fine,” she said. “What he’s really doing is walking around an area of Canterlot which is notably hostile to police and which has a killer with nothing to lose who expressed clear enthusiasm in bleeding him dry. To really make sure he’s in for a safe trip, he’s doing a patrol with an officer who only graduated one month ago.”  Clue nodded. “Safe and sound. Why didn’t you stop him?” Print reached into her pocket and pulled out a scrawled note which she handed to Clue. It read, ‘Print. Looking around area with some rookie officer (just like you, huh?). I’ll be back before lunch. S.Clock.’  “It’s nice of him to leave a note at least,” Clue said. “It’s something.” Print looked around the room: the office at her disposal. The officers were in their own group at one station, the radio crew and administrators were at others. Print took a deep breath. “What do you think we should do?” Clue followed her gaze across the room. “You’re in charge, but if you really want my advice. I’d say send patrols out in threes. Each one has a radio. Comb the area asking anypony if they have seen anything. With luck we may get a lead, if not, it looks like we are doing something while Clock gets to work.” Print sighed and rubbed a hoof across her face. “I really have no experience with this.” “Don’t worry.” Clue put a hoof on her shoulder. “You’re in charge because you can handle pressure, and you are nearly as qualified as Clock for knowledge of Red-Mane. Just speak. They are here because they are ready to listen.” Print nodded, faking a smile. She walked to the centre of the room. “Alright, listen up.” *   *   * “What tips would you give an aspiring detective?” Blue Radish asked. Clock thought for a moment. One month ago, he would have said that you couldn’t be a detective without significant experience.  Print flew in the face of that, having been only been working for the police for seven months. No additional training was required. Just chuck her in the big league and solve crimes by the side of a stallion who had been in the biz for more than twenty years. That fact halted his mental train. He’d been doing this for that long, and Print had still picked up a clue that he hadn’t. Maybe it wasn’t such a bad idea that she had been thrown at him. She clearly had some talent for the job. He tried to think of an answer, realising he hadn’t said anything for a while. “Be lucky. Work hard. Scrutinize everything, mentally or physically. To get to my position, you just have to stand out in applications, or do something of considerable significance in your superior’s eyes. Their word is worth more than a well written application.” Radish nodded. “You make it sound easy.” “It was for me.” She chuckled. “Well you’re Clock. One of them anyway. Two great detectives solving crimes across Equestria.  A duo who work independently cleaning up the scum. It’s not difficult to see why it was easy for you.”   He didn’t say anything and continued walking. They had been working for most of the morning and had only one encounter with 'scum'. It was a drunk who was probably still trying to find his way home. This place brought back memories of being on the beat as a younger officer. He had shown potential from an early age, but every officer, apart from those with connections, started off on the beat. Even with connections, Clock was on the beat. His father’s voice rang in his ears: The beat makes an officer. Pushing papers makes a pussy with badges. He smiled absently as he walked. His father had a way with words. Blunt and effective, like the butt of a gun. The radio on Radish’s belt gave a burst of static and a voice called out. “Blue Rad, call in, over.” She levitated it up to her lips.  “Blue Rad here, go-ahead, over,” she said. There was a pause before the voice spoke up again. “Been a few reports of a disturbance at Hoofstruck Apartment Block, one report mentioned a gun shot,” it said. “Check it out and call in. Most calls came from fourth floor, apparently its room forty-six or forty-seven. We’re sending an armed team to check it out if there were shots fired, but I want you as a first response.” “Blue Rad here, heading there now, over.” She put the radio back onto her belt. *    *   * A few minutes later, they arrived at Hoofstruck Apartments. Blue Rad pushed the doors open and entered the block. She walked toward the elevator and held a hoof toward the button. “Always take the stairs,” Clock said. He stood in the doorway to the staircase. “If power goes out and we need to get there in a hurry, we’re screwed.” She retracted her hoof and walked toward him. “But it’s faster,” she said. It wasn’t really a complaint as she knew he was right. She even remembered being told that at The Academy by her instructor. “And my hooves hurt from walking so much.” Clock didn’t respond. She groaned louder as the elevator door opened with a ring and a mare hobbled out. They climbed the stairs quickly. As always, any disturbance could be something more serious. All too often, in this part of the city, it was something serious.  Especially with the possibility of a gunshot. The staircase was grimy with water leaking through one of the windows and the lights flickered occasionally. Clock pushed open the door with the black ‘4’ above it and stepped into the hallway. He ran his eyes across the numbers on the door as he walked around the corner. He stopped in his tracks when he saw the pool of blood coming from the forty-eighth door. A hoof lay out of the doorway with the door left wide open. Regaining his composure, he dashed forward. “Rad call for back-up and parameds,” he called. He pulled out his baton as part of his beat equipment. He walked up to the doorway and glanced in. A green-coated mare lay in the entrance hall. He frowned when he saw the large laceration across her throat. That was Red-Mane’s work. He had no evidence to base this on, but he knew it in his gut. Just as much as he knew that the mare was dead. “Cancel the paramed, Rad,” he said. “Is it bad?” she asked in a low voice. He turned back toward her. She had gone terribly pale. He remembered that she head only been on the beat for one month. This may have been the first body she had seen. Still, she would have to get over it. “Just stay near,” he said. “You don’t have to look.” He entered the apartment, carefully stepping over the body and around the pool of blood. Nothing else seemed to be disturbed. He noticed the knives all were present in the block in the kitchen. The killer brought their own weapon. His mind screamed Red-Mane again, this time louder. She could be in this apartment, and she was armed. He gripped the baton tighter and looked around the corner. The only other room was a bedroom and it was empty. He relaxed and lowered his baton. Whoever came here knew what they wanted. It couldn’t be a robbery as nothing was touched. Unless the killer came and lost their nerve after killing, but that didn’t seem likely given the nature of the wound on the green mare. The pony that did that knew what they were doing. It was well aimed to kill as quickly as possible. “Rad, get the security footage of the building, and get an ID of the two mares,” he shouted into the hallway. Rad appeared in the doorway and took one glance at the body then looked away immediately. “T-two mares? How do you know it was a mare that did this?” she asked. “I…” He paused. Red-Mane was plausible, but not the only possibility. Yet in his mind, he was certain it was her. “A hunch,” he said. “Get the ID.” Rad nodded and turned back down the corridor, purposefully keeping her eyes high to avoid looking at the body. What had happened to him that he could look at a body and not feel sickened? Cruelly, he began comparing himself to Red-Mane. How far away was he from taking joy in a kill? But he already knew that answer to that. He would take great joy in killing Red-Mane. By his hoof, or hanging, he would love to watch her die. He realized he had begun to smile as his mind played a scene of her death. *   *   * Pinkie looked at the flat renting agreement. The archive in Canterlot Library had revealed it was Hoofstruck Apartment Block. She felt a smiled creep across her face. She had used a library to help track down Speckled Print.  Twilight would be proud. A sound from the alley behind made her turn quickly. The alleyway was empty. A bottle rolled out from behind a bin a few meters in front of her. Part of her said it was blown by the wind. Another part of her suspected she was being followed. She turned back to the building. She had the feeling of being watched shortly after she left the safe house. She approached the building and pushed open the door. She glanced behind her before entering, looking down the alley. Everything was still. Maybe there wasn’t a shadow, or maybe they were just good at being a shadow.  Either way, there was an apartment to investigate on the fourth floor. Pinkie walked in and straight toward the elevator, hitting a small braille-covered button. She rode the elevator to the fourth floor where the doors opened with the ring of a bell. She stepped out into the corridor and walked around until she found the forty-eighth apartment. She stood outside the door for a moment. It was of sturdy construction and probably couldn’t be broken down. The lock was tough and probably couldn’t be simply jarred or scraped open. The bolt in the door was too deep to pry open as well. There was no spare key under the rug or in a light as some careless ponies do. Can kill a pony in a few seconds, but stopped dead by a door. One set of skills can be made redundant by any situation. The door to the stairwell opened and Pinkie ducked around the corner before anypony stepped out. It could have been one of the building’s residents, perhaps, but no hoofsteps followed the opening of the door, neither did the door close. She smiled. The shadow was waiting. She could wait too. After a minute, the hoofsteps came. They were quiet. Each step was purposefully slow as if walking through a minefield. They were stopped just around the corner, outside of the fourty-eighth room. There was a brief rattle of keys and then the cocking of a gun. The lock clicked and the door was pushed open. Pinkie glanced around the corner. A green-coated mare stepped inside. She had a handgun. Pinkie crept forward toward the door. The mare must have thought she had gone inside. Was she protecting this place or its occupant? Pinkie reached into her cloak and pulled out a knife. She wouldn’t stand a chance at range, but if she could get close enough she could finish the mare before she even pulled her gun. She leaned around the corner. The mare wasn’t in the entrance. Pinkie took a breath and advanced in. If she could get close, she had the advantage. She realised her mistake shortly after entering the apartment. The mare would know the layout, she would know the blind spots and the best places to hide, and it had been awfully quiet when Pinkie entered. It was not the sound of somepony looking about. Sure, the mare was quiet when she moved, but she was far from silent. “Don’t move, Red-Mane.” The voice was delicate. It was also close; the mare was just beside her. “I want you to-“ Pinkie spun, swinging the knife in the mare’s direction. Attack quickly, before she adjusts, before she has a chance to monologue or shoot. The wild slash tore wound in the mare’s foreleg as she raised them to protect her face. The mare wasted no time and fired a shot. Pinkie’s foreleg jolted as the bullet buried itself deep, but didn’t pass through. The pain didn’t come immediately. The adrenaline masked the pain under a feeling of enormous pressure on the limb. Pinkie stabbed straight forward. Her luck held out as the blade passed cleanly between the mare’s forelegs and into her throat. Almost immediately, she fired again. This shot missed entirely as it hit the wooden floorboards. She dropped the gun as she fell in the doorway into a pool of her own blood. She spluttered for a second as the blood poured from her mouth then she stopped. Pinkie’s foreleg began to throb. The bullet probably only stopped because it had struck bone. She could dig it out while she was here, but there would be a chance that she could be linked to the scene or worse, she could pass out from the pain. Pinkie grabbed a kitchen-towel and tied it around her foreleg. Under the cloak, it would not draw too much attention. It also wouldn’t bleed too much. The police would be alerted by the gunshots and would probably be here soon, she had to work quickly. She moved into the bedroom, wincing at the pain that erupted in her foreleg. There was a note on the bed. It was a message to Print. That was probably why she wasn’t here. It was warning her of Red-Mane and Greenbill. Pinkie stuffed the note into her cloak pocket and fished around in the drawers pulling out random scraps of document and anything that looked vaguely useful—anything that could help locate Print. She shut the drawers and left the apartment. The bound wound had begun to bleed through the makeshift bandage. She stepped around the body, careful not to stand in any of the blood to leave a trail, and walked back toward the elevator. If any of the police were coming, they would always take the stairs. She rode the elevator down. The door to the stairwell closed as she stepped out. With luck, she had just avoided a run in with the patrol. She left the building and crossed over the road, back into the alleyway—back into the shadows. *   *   * There was a small amount of local anesthesia in the safe house for a reason Pinkie didn’t fully understand. The tools of torture could also be implemented in constructive ways when it came to removing the bullet. Pinkie sat on one of the surgical tables, her back propped up against the wall. She had gathered a tray of possibly useful equipment. She had no medical experience, but a great deal of anatomical knowledge. She hoped it was enough. She raised the needle to eye level and tapped the end, although she had no idea why. It was just something professionals did. She wiped the area around the wound with rubbing alcohol wincing as some entered the wounded. She buried the needle into the skin and the plunger was lowered. She got a flashback of the mare who was lying in the hay back in old Canterlot. The image resurfaced of the colt pulling at her trying to wake her up during the fire. After a while, the numbing came and she felt it would be safe to operate. She raised the scalpel above the wound, her hoof shaking. This was a lot more difficult than she had imagined. It wasn’t as easy to fix as it was to destroy. She pressed the blade a centimeter away from the bullet wound and cut across to the other side. Fresh blood welled from the wound and flowed into the older wound. Despite the anesthesia, the blood was warm against her skin. There was no pain, but instead there was a great pressure on the limb. She lifted a small clamp off the tray and used it to widen the incision by twisting a bit. She held the clamp steady in her mouth as she reached for a pair of scissor forceps. Using the forceps, she swabbed the open wound with a cotton pad. With the blood gone, she could see the top of the bullet shining out from the gore. She reached in with the forceps and dislodged the bullet from the surrounding flesh and dropped it beside her. She dropped the clamp allowing the incision to close. Although light-headed, she swabbed the area with rubbing alcohol again and sewed up the wound and then wrapped it in a bandage. A combination of fatigue, tiredness, and blood-loss made sleep rapidly follow as she placed her head against the wall. *     *     * When Pinkie awoke it was night. The moonlight was twice-filtered by the clouds and the tinted windows as it reflected off the chrome surgical table. Her head ached terribly, but it was nothing compared to her foreleg. The anesthesia must have worn off a number of hours ago. The few traces of it clung to the end of her nerves and were slowly dragged away. It felt like the bullet had instead been replaced by a hot coal which burned through her flesh. She was certain it would become infected if it wasn’t already. The inflammation around the wound was to be expected post-op, but the red hue felt more like a warning before a greater pain. Like the tide receding before a tsunami, this was the bare-shoreline before fever. She rolled off the table. After lying in that position she felt like a mannequin with stiff and only vaguely natural movements. She sat down at one of the desks in the backroom. The desk was covered in all the papers that she had grabbed from Print’s apartment, including the list of ‘Specialists’ provided by Greenbill. Pinkie picked up the list. One of them was labelled as a ‘chemist/doctor/pharmacist’. The questionable job title was a little unnerving. One pony could be all three things, but surely the idea of a specialist is to specialize. Either way, soon the infection would come and the fever would impede any logical decision or movement. She could remember back when she lived on the rock farm. When she was seven, she spent a good part of the summer in bed. Wild fantasies and ideas ran through her head as part of the hysteria that accompanied the fever. In particular, she remembered that she would hook up the entirety of the farm to solar panels and give her family free electricity. It was a bizarre thought which was not native to the mind of a seven year old. Even now, she felt herself slipping back into childhood. The fatigue that initially accompanied the fever was setting in. She rang for the specialist to come with medication. From that moment it all seemed a blur and she couldn’t remember if she had asked for a specific type of medication or if it had simply been drugs. Either way, she passed out shortly after making the call and was lost in delirium. The fevered thoughts were cruel, not unlike her dream the previous night. Many were centred on Twilight’s death. Some were initially pleasant, but all ended with Clock. He was always a step ahead stopping her from reaching Twilight—always smiling in that twisted way that he does. Eventually, the black-cloud of fever dispersed and her sleep became mild. She was no longer haunted in her sleep, but neither did she rest completely. She came in and out as the days past, all the while, the specialist looked after the mare that Greenbill wanted to stay alive. *   *   * “Any ideas why there’s a dead mare in your apartment?” Clock asked, point blank. He was dripping wet after walking back to the station in the rain. They were all in the office, with Clock standing in the doorway. He knew in the back of his mind, that Print knew something—something that was connected to that mare and to Red-Mane killing her in that apartment. Print paused for a moment. “I-I…what?” she said, taken aback. Then he felt suddenly guilty if she had known the dead mare, but he drove forward, driving the knife deeper. She was keeping something from him. “While on patrol, there was a disturbance in Hoofstruck apartment block,” he said calmly. “In apartment forty-eight, a mare was found dead with an incision in her throat.” Print’s jaw tightened. “Call me paranoid, but I think it was Red-Mane’s blade that did it.” Under her breath, Print mouthed something. Her mind was racing. A friend. Red-Mane is coming. Clock shut the door with more force than he had intended, snapping her out of her reverie. “What did you say?” She didn’t meet his eyes. “Red-Mane is coming,” she said. Clock sat down at the table. A droplet of rainwater fell from his mane onto the table as he turned his head to face Clue. The new detective had remained silent since Clock had entered. He looked back to Print. “Tell me what you know,” he said. His voice was quiet. His partner, a friend no less, had hid something from him which resulted in another mare dead, and worse, Print had known Red-Mane was going to be at the apartment. It had been the perfect opportunity to catch her. The silence was perforated as Print began to cry. Clue moved to comfort her but Clock raised a hoof, stopping him. “Tell me what you know,” he said again, louder this time. She raised her head, looking straight at him. “I-I can’t,” she said. Clock stood, slamming his hooves on the desk. “Why not!” Print flinched but held her gaze. “It won’t leave this room,” Clue said. He ignored Clock’s stare as he wrapped a hoof around her. “I don’t care what it is.  If it helps us catch Pinkie then we need to know.” He stroked her mane with his hoof. “We need to end this.” There was a longer silence, and then she finally spoke. She told them everything they needed to know. About how she stole the money, omitting the part about Harrow, and how Greenbill was after her. She admitted her confusion with how Red-Mane was associated with a Manehatten drug lord. She admitted that she had no idea whether the ‘friend’ was the dead mare from her apartment. She admitted that she hadn’t told anypony because she was afraid she would lose her job and be branded a criminal. Clue only spoke to comfort and tease out the information. Clock hadn’t said anything. A vital opportunity to catch Red-Mane had slipped past them because Print was worried about her job. After she had proclaimed that there had to be another way and that Clock shouldn’t be bait. He could see that it was a stupid plan, but now that Print was the bait he felt sick. He was no longer the target. Through some affiliation that they couldn’t see, Red-Mane was working with a drug lord to bring down the mare who got away. Clock got up and left after she finished speaking. He knew where he was going. He knew who he was going to meet. He had worked many cases in his life. Often, you began to see familiar names. Greenbill’s was such a name. He had met the stallion before. In one sense, Greenbill was comparable to one of the Elements of Harmony: he was completely untouchable. His hooves were buried deep into the legal structures with money influencing the power figures. Clock, too, had taken such a bribe once. He had known Greenbill would get off without a charge, so he took it as a personal asset. Only it was not a bribe of money. A favour to one of the most powerful drug lords in Equestria was worth more than money, and he was going to call it in.