If We All Knew What We Shared the World With….
Chapter 5: If We All Knew What We Shared the World With….
There are few things more disconcerting than the inner machinations of a serial killer. Vicious hunters with the innate ability to blend into society like a normal pony. Some of them do it for the thrill. Calling on instincts from long ago, when ponies had to be able to take a life to save their own. Throughout most of evolution, ponies have, for the most part, been herbivores. Herd animals, looking out for their own, avoiding predators and migrating from place to place to keep safe, warm, and well fed.
But some ponies have a theory. That some of our genetic lineage is… deviant. Outside the norm, if you will. That there are parts of our brain, parts of our minds, that remembers what we once shared the world with. Those horrible, grand creatures which once roamed our landscape with no care as to the lesser beings they trod upon. Some of them would interact, manipulate, even corrupt weaker beings for their own needs. It is believed that long ago, some part of our psyche was mutated by such a beast, introducing a simple concept, one that, until that point, and rarely since then, we have needed to call upon: the ability to comprehend and commit murder.
Some would argue that any being capable of sentient thought and emotion is capable of murder. That it just comes more naturally to some species than others. Yet most of our evolution, up to the point of early civilizations points at our need to take lives for nothing other than absolute necessity, survival, or protecting our young. Now, murder is committed for greed, for the thrill, sometimes for something as simple as sending a message. Where in our history did we evolve the need to sunder a fellow his mortal coil simply because we wanted attention?
A common theory is that the primal being of Chaos, Discord, is to blame. An easy enough solution. Introduce an element of violence into a species that has no base need for murder, and thus opening the door for all host of psychopaths, assassins, and violent types to roam free.
Me, personally? I’ve always believed that with the ability to maintain conscious thought comes with it the burden of choice. And murder is a decision, split-second or no. Some part of you is aware of what you’re doing, what you’ve chosen to do. People say that in times of crisis they can’t control themselves, that they react instinctively. I tend to believe them. But where in your instincts does it say to kill someone?
If I knew that I probably wouldn’t be doing this job.
-------
The morning after a good meat binge is always uncomfortable. Some ponies refer to it as a food coma. I call it my stomach remembering I wasn’t born an omnivore, and protesting. Not violently, thank Luna, but enough that I walk around funny for a good part of the morning and can’t see as straight as I’d like.
“Good morning sunshine! It’s time to work!” Paperweight trotted into the office/my apartment, calling out in a cheerful sing-songy voice full of chalkboards and hate. Mostly chalkboards. “Come on, Spy, we’ve got a meeting to get to, and I’ve got a whole bunch to tell you about the journal!”
Let me tell you a little something about biology. Herbivores shouldn’t eat meat. Hell, the first time I tried it (and went completely overboard), I had to have my stomach pumped. Since then I’ve had my teeth done, and a few visits to some rather uncouth unicorns and zebras that performed some rather choice spellwork so I could actually digest and process the stuff. I’ve heard there are faster, more efficient ways to do so, but they require a lot more bits than I usually have at one time. So the slow, steady process of converting me into an omnivore began. Now, here’s the kicker: even as an omnivore you shouldn’t overindulge on meat. Not only is your body designed to maintain a balance of nutrients from many sources, but that much grease can kill you. It’s like a hangover if the headache and sensitivity to light and sound existed solely in your stomach.
“Paperweight, could you please keep it down? At least let me get my bearings? I’ve only been up for like half an hour…” I should have known better. Really, I should. But some things a pony just never learns.
“What was that? Talk LOUDER? OK!” she cheered, right in my ear. “I mean, I could ALWAYS be QUIET, but then SOMEPONY wouldn’t LEARN his LESSON about CANNIBALISM!” Her voice had gone from cheery to downright mad. Just thoroughly pissed off. I knew she didn’t approve of my eating habits, but she didn’t have to be so damn mean about it.
Then, suddenly, pony in my face. “Spy, WHY do you let yourself eat meat?! It’s barbaric! Those are sentient creatures! Put on this planet with free will and lives to live and you snack on them like hay fries!”
Remember when I said I never learned? Yeah, that’s an ongoing thing. Because if I had, maybe the next thing out of my mouth wouldn’t have been: “Hey, it’s not like I killed them.”
Hoh boy. You wanna piss of an anti-omnivore activist? Say that. Those words exactly, when they’re yelling at you about your despicable dietary decisions.
The face full of pony I was currently observing was obscured by a facefull of hoof.
“OW. Sweet Mother of the stars that HURTS!” I held my now-bleeding and possibly broken nose in my hooves, curled up on the ground. “Remind me to send you in first when we find this psychopath.”
“And what if he kills me? Are you gonna eat me, too?” she growled.
I shook off some blood, and got to my hooves. “No,” I sneered, looking her in the eye. “I’ll donate your remains to Slip Stitch.”
Her eyes got wide. “You wouldn’t dare.”
“Hey, I eat chicken. Imagine what other horrible things a pony like me could do. Next thing you know I’ll be laughing at one of your jokes. Oh god, what kind of monster am I?!” I curled myself up and cried crocodile tears, pretending to be distraught over such atrocities.
I could practically hear her expression flatline. Beeeeeeeep. “Very funny. Now get in the car before I do something truly monstrous to your unmentionables.”
“But you just mentioned them.” WHACK. “OW!”
If my nose wasn’t broken before it sure as hell was now.
---------
Thank god my assistant is a unicorn. There are few things I would trust people without magic to fix. A broken nose isn’t one of them. Mind you, we still had to drop off at the emergency room, but I was at least bleeding a lot less.
We’d driven there mostly in silence, until she pulled into the parking lot. “Ok, ok. I’m sorry I broke your nose.”
I nodded, slowly. “And I’m sorry I made fun of your ethical standings.” At least, that’s what I tried to say. A broken nose makes these things more troublesome than they’re worth. She got the idea, though.
A brief hoof-shake later, and it was business as usual. Well, except the part where Paperweight was calling Inkblot to reschedule our appointment for later so that I could get my nose splinted properly. Apparently, office utensils don’t make for a permanent solution. After the gruesome, uneventful, and entirely unnecessary waiting period in the lobby, a nurse called us back to have a doctor look at my muzzle.
Paperweight sat in a corner of the room while a stallion in a lab coat sat me on the bed and took a chair in front of me. He looked every bit the doctor: well-polished, glasses, and his cutie mark was a pair of crutches. Aside from that last detail, I could swear I’d seen him before… “Greetings, Mr… Spy. I’m Doctor Stitch.”
The reaction was immediate, and, to an outsider, possibly hysterical. Paperweight instantly crawled under her chair and hid behind her magazine, and I threw myself behind the bed. “Leave me alone! I’m not a good test subject!”
The room was quiet for a bit after that. Then the good doctor sighed and said, “I see you’ve met my brother.”
Had Paperweight not said it, I would have: “Oh dear Celestia there’s two of them!”
The doctor groaned, and laid his clipboard on the counter. “My name is Cross Stitch. And I can assure you I’m nothing like my… eccentric younger brother. As proud as I was that he followed me into practicing medicine, I have to say that your reactions don’t surprise me. Now, let me look at that nose and I’ll be out of your mane.”
It took us a couple of seconds, but we finally crawled out from our hiding spots. Cross Stitch just sat down and waited patiently (heh) for us to get back to our seats. The doctor took my jaw in his hoof, and turned my head side to side. “That looks pretty nasty. How did that happen?”
I pointed a hoof at Paperweight. Before she could say anything in protest, I told him, “She likes rough sex.”
I would have paid money for a camera. Hell, I’d have re-broken my nose. Paperweight didn’t say anything outside of a series of angry and confused consonants. “Wh-n…I- we didn’t… rrrr!”
The doctor looked bemused. “Don’t worry, you’re not the first mare I’ve met with an… enthusiastic approach to lovemaking.”
I was smiling so hard it hurt. Part of me wondered what bone of mine Paperweight would break next. “Nah, it’s actually not like that. She did break it, but we weren’t doing it.”
He looked almost disappointed. Paperweight just fumed, although at least a little mollified that I corrected myself. Cross Stitch grabbed the top part of my jaw, gently, and pulled my mouth open. “I need to make sure you aren’t bleeding into your throat. Ahhhhh-“
I opened my mouth the rest of the way for him. “Ahhhhhh-“
“DEAR CELESTIA!” He cried out, and fell backwards. For a second I was going to ask what was wrong, then I remembered two things: one, I hadn’t brushed my teeth since my burger and wings last night. Two, I had canines.
“Oh, yeah. Sorry, I should have warned you,” I said sheepishly. He gave me a horrified look, and turned pale.
“I… I’m going to go get a… specialist for you…” he said slowly, running out of the room.
Paperweight turned on me. “And this is why you’re a horrible person.”
I just stuck my tongue out at her.
We ended up waiting a while, but eventually, another doctor came in. A griffin, this time. Paperweight took the opportunity to excuse herself. “How are you? I’m Doctor Isles,” she said matter-of-factly. Now, I don’t have much of a basis for attractiveness by griffin standards, but I guess you could say she was pretty. “Now, I understand that you have a broken nose?”
I nodded, and she put a talon under my chin to lift my head up. Gently, with her knuckle, not that ‘Claw at your throat so you do what I say’ thing. “Looks painful. Did you run into a door?”
I shook my head. “An angry mare. Twice.”
She smiled, and nodded. “You weren’t running around, were you?”
“Nah. She’d have missed if I was,” I smiled. This one was a lot cooler. Like I said, griffins and I get along. Not sure why. It’s a thing.
She paused for a second, and laughed. “Alright, say Ahhhh. Bleeding into your throat and all that jazz,” she explained.
“Ahhhhh…..” she took a tongue depressor and… well, depressed my tongue. Seriously, do I need to elaborate? “Da lass datah lan atta da woom.”
She nodded, getting a good look at my mouth. “I can see why. He still gets nervous around me. You might want to take a breath mint, though.” She eyed my canines. “Those are some nice chompers you got there. Where’d you pick those up?” She pulled the depressor out so I could talk normally.
“A zebra who doesn’t ask too many questions. With a really nice set of flanks.” Hey, I thought it was important.
Isles grinned. “Well, you’re not bleeding into your stomach or lungs, so that’s good. The splint isn’t half-bad, even if that is a pen. Let’s get you set up something proper.” She made a few notes, and walked out of the room. At which point I made a note of my own:
Griffin females have great muscle definition in their… legs.
-------
We were on our way out of the hospital faster than I’d thought. The doctor patted me on the shoulder. “Don’t come back to see me too quickly. But if you end up here again, ask for me personally. Doctor Silver Isles. I think you might be a little too… much for some of the other doctors.” She gave me a wink and a smile, which I returned in kind, and met Paperweight out in the lobby.
She looked back at the doctor, and back to me. “For Discord’s sake there’s more than one of you.”
I just chuckled and made my way back to the car. Paperweight climbed behind the wheel, and threw the journal into my lap. “I don’t know what your boss was doing, Spy, but that thing reads like a Mafioso black book. It’s almost all in code and shorthoof.”
I skimmed through some of the pages. “AA at 5/6 M. BRS at 1/2 A. What?” I thumbed through the rest of the book, and it was a lot of the same. Not all of it though. The rest was personal notes, observations, and scribbles I couldn’t make out. No one ever complimented Barrel on his hoof writing. “Listen to this one: ‘Observed LD and SB talking alone again. My suspicions grow.’ Looks like something was going on that he didn’t like. I’ve rarely encountered the guy, but he didn’t seem the suspicious type. Actually, more like the overconfident ‘Nothing Can Touch Me’ type.”
Paperweight nodded. “Makes you wonder what kind of chink in his armor someone had to hit to make him start sneaking around and writing in code.”
I shrugged. “The code doesn’t surprise me. I’ve been through lawyers' and accountants' books before, and there’s always some kind of coding to protect clients. Or to protect the company, or individual. Some people don’t like to be… associated with the people they work with. They try and keep at least a few degrees of separation between themselves and an unsavory client. Code is usually one of those degrees. It’s how this guy writes in code that bothers me. I usually don’t see fractions and shorthoof together like this. This must be something he only ever let himself see. Makes sense they found it on him. This kind of thing I wouldn’t trust anywhere but with me if I were a guy like him. So,” I said, closing the book and returning my attention to the road. “Where are we going?”
“I rescheduled our meeting with Lockdown. He and Inkblot are waiting at the office for us now,” Paperweight explained, taking a hard right into traffic. I almost flew out of my seat, and watched almost in slow motion as the journal flew out of my hooves. I bragged it in midair and shoved it into my hoodie pocket. I wanted to look at it in much greater detail. Also, this didn’t look like something I should be leaving around.
She wheeled us into the now-empty parking lot of Lock, Stock, and Barrel. The officer guarding the door wasn’t one I recognized, and I nodded to him as I trotted up. “Hey, have you seen Longarm?” I asked him. I honestly hadn’t thought about the guy until just now. I mean, I am kind of his partner.
He nodded, and pointed inside. We walked past him into the lobby, where Longarm was busy writing in his own notepad. “Longarm, what are you doing here?” I trotted up to him and shook his hoof.
He nodded to Paperweight. “The little miss called me up and told me about the meeting today. Look, I know you’re meeting him as client and detective, so I’ll just stay out here, but… did you break your nose?!”
I shook my head, and pointed at Paperweight. “She did.”
He raised an eyebrow. “Rough sex?”
“OW!” I barked, as Paperweight punched me in the shoulder. “That wasn’t ME!”
“I know,” she retorted, and trotted away. To god knows where, I didn’t ask.
Longarm rolled his eyes. “Just don’t die on me without letting me know first. I am at least a little bit responsible for you. And by responsible I mean I like my junk where it is, thanks. Tobacco-free.”
I shuddered at the reminder of a one Iris Jade, and we made our way to the elevators. I was just about to push the call button when a familiar oily voice spoke up to my left. “Rough morning, sir?”
“Sweet merciful moon!” I yelped, tripping backwards and landing on my side. Longarm, bless him, did his best not to laugh. I climbed to my hooves and glared at the newly arrived Inkblot. “Stop doing that!”
He smiled, genuinely, for the first time since I’ve met him. “Never.”
The elevator made its happy little ‘Ding’ sound while Longarm was still leaning on a potted plant, laughing his flank off. I climbed in, dragging my ‘partner’ into the steel cage, while Inkblot pushed the button for a high floor. After a few moments of silence, I asked, “So, Lockdown’s the one that hired me?”
“Quite the detective, sir,” Inkblot deadpanned.
“Oh stow it, Rorschach. Let’s just see the guy.”
Inkblot glared at me a little over his shoulder, but the elevator interrupted whatever his next thought would have been. “Your floor, sir.”
“And knock it off with the sir. It’s creepy.”
“Yes, sir.”
------
Longarm waited in the lobby while I knocked on Lockdown’s door. Inkblot stood a little off to the side, waiting patiently.
A moment later, I heard a bunch of heavy metal clicks, and the door swung open. “Ah, Mr. Spy,” said a voice from somewhere in the room. “Do come in.”
Inkblot followed me as I stepped into the office. It wasn’t particularly big, but it did scream one thing: practicality. A decent-enough sized room, with a desk, a bookshelf, and carpet, plus a minimal number of chairs. Everything was organized to be within easy reach, to serve a purpose, and nothing more. No decorations, save for the frames behind the chair that displayed Lockdown’s credentials, and a family portrait. Even the chair was rather basic and functional, while the ones on our side of the desk were simple, if comfy-looking. I took a seat, but Inkblot walked around the desk and stood next to his boss.
Which brings me to Lockdown. Most likely the head of the entire operation, even if they did call themselves ‘partners’, he was a dark orange stallion of rather normal stature with a black mane combed expertly back. He worse a simple three-piece suit, much like his attendant, and spoke clearly and concisely. I couldn’t see his flank from here, but I did notice the one decoration in the room: a large emblem of a safe on the top of the desk, masterfully painted. I assumed it to be his cutie mark. A perfect way to say: “This is MINE.”
“I imagine you have quite a few questions for me, about my activities, and our operation. Feel free to ask whatever you like, and I will answer whatever I like. After all, I can’t exactly hire a P.I. and not expect to get pokes from the question stick.”
He’s right, I had a million questions. But I took it one at a time, taking out my own pen and a pad of paper, using my wings to write. “Ok, let me ask you this: why did you hire me?”
“Because you are the only P.I. that I know that Barrel also knows who can account for his whereabouts the morning of the murder,” he said matter of factly.
“And another thing: how did you know where I was when the murder happened? You called almost an hour after the crime scene investigators got there. How could you verify my whereabouts so quickly?” I had a feeling I wasn’t going to like the answer.
He raised an eyebrow at me. “Don’t you remember? We install surveillance in the offices of everypony who works for us, or that we keep on retainer.”
I stopped for a moment, stunned. Then I facehoofed. Of course I remembered: I remember the argument I had when they were installing it. “Ok, yes, I do remember. Sorry. But that leads me to my next question: why did you think it was a P.I. that killed Barrel?”
“Ah!” he said with some enthusiasm. “There’s the good question I was waiting for.” He pulled out a large folder and flipped it open, landing somehow on the exact page he wanted. “Here it is. Barrel’s last scheduled appointment merely said, ‘Meet With P.I.’ An hour after the appointment was listed, he was found dead.”
“Actually, Lockdown, he wasn’t.” The orange stallion and Inkblot both raised eyebrows at me. “After examining the blood on the ground, and some preliminary examination of the corpse, we realized that he was still alive when the call came in. And probably only died a little after the cops got there.”
Inkblot’s eyes narrowed, while Lockdown’s brow furrowed with concern. “Are you telling me…” the lawyer trailed off.
“Yes. Whoever did this left him there alive, to bleed out, while he was strung up like a puppet.” I just gave him facts. Neither Inkblot nor Lockdown were the kind of ponies that put much stock in emotions and condolences.
Inkblot looked furious. Lockdown just held his head in his hooves for a while. “Well then, what else can you tell us?”
I dug out a piece of paper in my notepad where I’d rewritten what we’d learned from the bottles of alcohol. “The guy’s not done,” I said, tearing out the paper and tossing it across the desk.
Lockdown looked at the paper, and picked it up with a shaky hoof. Inkblot glanced over his shoulder, and his expression darkened. “Sir,” Inkblot said. Nothing else. Just “Sir.”
“Yes, Inkblot. Well, Mr. Spy, allow me to preempt one of your questions. Or, rather, predict. I assume you want to know why I wanted a P.I. on this case when the cops were already all over it?” Lockdown asked.
I nodded. “It had occurred to me.”
The lawyer laid his hooves out, folding them in front of him on the table. “I will admit, my purpose in hiring you was… less than noble. I wanted somepony involved with the investigation that I had some control over. That could feed me information early enough for me to act on it without police interference. This, however, changes the game. That, and your deputizing.” I wasn’t surprised he knew. Of course he did. “Now, I ask only one thing. Catch the bastard. I don’t care how long it takes, or what you do. Just find him and put him somewhere he won’t be a threat. I have… pressing matters to attend to, now. Thank you for bringing this to my attention.” He pointed a hoof at the door. “Good day, sir.”
I still had a million questions, but I wasn’t stupid enough to hang somewhere I wasn’t wanted, needed, or allowed. Not with someone like Lockdown in such a sour mood. I climbed out of my chair, nodded goodbye to both of them, and walked out. As I reached the door, however, Lockdown called out a warning.
“And do make sure, detective, that he doesn’t reach nine. Celestia knows what happens at nine.”
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Well, there are more typos in it than I'd like, but, despite that, I don't know why this story doesn't have more upvotes.
3119791
Thanks for the kind words. I did a once-over of all the chapters, and corrected at least a few typos in each. Probably missed a couple,e but hey. What can you do.
3119994
You're welcome. And I know how that is; no matter how hard one looks, typos always seem to slip through...
I was slightly as a reader at first concerned by Spy eating meat, as it seemed to stray a bit too close to the canon party, but then I realized: since the reaction to Swift was more "...You eat meat?" and less "AIEEEE! ABOMINATION, DISEASE, PANIC!", the idea of ponies eating meat must be, if not well-regarded, reasonably well-known. So why not? This assuming, of course, that there isn't in fact a relation between this story's meat-eating pegasus and the main story's meat eating pegasi... :)
Oh, and I have to wonder who is in charge of hiring technical ponies for the DPD. "Yes, I thought that the singing, dancing coroner and the sex-requesting sometimes-eight-years-old lab technician were the best ponies for the jobs. Why do you ask?"
Sheesh, what is it about Detrot and crazy mare drivers, huh?
But yeah, echoing 3120320; you've got a meat-eater, and a crazy-driving sidekick, and it feels just a tiny bit too much like a straight copy of the original, personality quirks-wise.
3120320
Whoever it is must be the one and only pony capable of standing up to Chief Jade (Until poor Hardy comes back from the dead, anyway.)
... but where's Rizzoli?
God's least horny PI I guess?