Special Methods 2

Part 1 of 3 / Part 2 of 3 / Part 3 of 3

Special Methods / From the Past
by Heather Sparrows

Part 2 of 3

Ichabod returned to the City Watch to report to Commander Crawford, who listened attentively and made notes. He kept himself calm, as if he had expected no other outcome, but at the same time he made it clear that Baltimore Police was working the case under a lot of pressure.

"Our own search has shown no results so far." he recapitulated. "There is pressure from the Council. – We cannot have Cattrell playing this game forever. And I cannot stall procedures much longer without presenting any results."

"In your opinion – how much longer?" Ichabod asked.

Crawford thought for a moment.

"I think the Council will give us three more days." he finally answered. "The public wants to see one monster punished at last. Whether it is the right monster in this case, and whether another monster may still be loose, is of no concern to them."

"So with your permission, I’ll go back to the asylum tomorrow and hope he’ll keep his promise." Ichabod said.

"It is one more chance we have." Crawford agreed. "We must grab for every straw in reach, like the drowning man."

*****

Ichabod went to the small hotel room he had rented and threw himself on the narrow bed. His head was spinning, and at the same time he was very tired.

He thought of Jonathan. What was the boy going through? He did not dare to imagine. This would be detrimental. He had to keep to the facts. What was it Dr Cattrell had said in parting? "He may keep the boy well at the moment" – and what exactly did that mean?

Ichabod could not help but to think of how the boy might feel. Frightened out of his wits? Abused, hurt? – God, they had to find him, simply had to –

He felt he would panic if he did not stop. For the first time, he felt sincere doubts about being the right man for this task ... What if he actually was a bit insane? Why had he remembered the boys who had been taunting him as a child just now? – That strange doctor – he had pushed him far. Ichabod felt as if he had been mentally raped, drained, abused – and yet it had been a strangely fascinating conversation. The insight and the mental capacities of this man were absolutely uncanny. Ichabod knew he would be playing a dangerous game ... It would cost all his strength, everything that was Ichabod Crane would be put to the test ... But he had to. He wanted to save the boy!

He thought of Robert and felt how sadly he missed him. He missed the warmth of his lover’s body, the comfort of holding him in his arms, touching him and being touched, his kisses. He would have liked to hear Robert’s opinion of the case. And Katrina’s and Mary’s opinion. It would be good to have them all here – his lover, his wife and her lover. But this was impossible, of course.

//Calm down, Crane. Use your brains.//

He read his notes again, until he finally fell into a light, restless sleep.

*****

It was cold. But not entirely dark. It smelled musty. Of earth. He was in a place deep down below. And it seemed forever. Had he ever been elsewhere? Had there been other people, except the big man? The big man thought he was God, but he was the Devil...

He had screamed and cried as if he would never stop. But he had stopped in the end, and had started to think. Brick walls around him. One brick wall. A round brick wall around him. He should have been nicer to the man, he should have let him caress and touch. But he could not. It had been nasty. Oh, the man had been so friendly, but when he refused, the big man had become nasty, beat him and put him down there. Would he come back?

Jonathan was hungry and cold. And frightened. But there had been the sun, there had been his father, his mother, his grandma. There had been rain and puddles and he and Joseph Schneider walking through them, Mr Roberts scolding them – would they miss him? He missed them, he missed them all bitterly, even dry, boring Mr Roberts, who always looked like a scarecrow in his grey suit and who kept himself so erect one could think he’d swallowed a stick. It was better to think of Mr Roberts than to think of Mother ...

Jonathan Van Rijn decided. He wanted to see his parents, his friend, all the people around him again, he wanted to see the sun, walk again through puddles. Maybe if he was nice to the big man now, when he came back, he would let him out again ...

*****

The next morning, Ichabod presented himself early at the asylum and was asked to wait by a warden, this time in the corridor. Dr Chilton obviously had another visitor.

From the visitor room Ichabod heard his agitated voice.

"Madam, this is completely out of the question! Even if I had him taken out of the high security ward I could never allow you see him alone! Never! This man is more dangerous than you could ever imagine!"

"Dr Chilton, believe me, I would not have come and asked this of you if I saw another way! But I want to know where my child is, and if this – this man can tell me where my boy is, I will answer his questions!" answered the voice of a woman. She sounded despaired and determined at the same time.

"I repeat, this is out of the question!" Dr Chilton’s voice again. "Does your husband know you are here, Mrs Van Rijn? And your mother-in-law?"

The woman did not answer, and Dr Chilton continued, with a note of false comfort in his voice.

"It would be better if you went home now, Mrs Van Rijn. Think of your husband and the old lady. Do you want to upset them even more? We are working on the case, so you will help us most if you let us do our work."

The door opened, and a small, dark-haired woman came out. She was perhaps in her mid-thirties and pretty, but now her face was haggard, and she had deep shadows under her eyes. She hurried along the corridor, brushing past Ichabod without seeing him, ignoring the warden who followed her to see her out.

For a moment, Ichabod wanted to call after her, but he decided to remain silent. What would he have said to her? That Baltimore Police was actually working on the disappearance of her son, but to no avail so far? – But he was now more determined than ever to go back to Dr Cattrell and play his game – even if it would cost him a lot.

Dr Chilton received him in a bad mood – regarding what he had overheard, Ichabod thought he would.

"For how long does Captain Crawford think he can play this game? For how long am I to be his usher for visitors he sends to Cattrell, disturbing our routine and upsetting my patients?" he asked testily. "Well, I have complained to the Council, and this fruitless nonsense will be over soon!" he added triumphantly, and Ichabod almost thought to hear the clatter of surgical instruments in his voice. Even more than yesterday, he found the head of the asylum unfeeling, pompous, and overbearing. He wanted the dangerous Doctor off his back, put to trial and hanged as soon as possible, to get back the dead body to dissect the brain. And why not try to study him a bit as well while he was still alive? Whether Dr Cattrell actually could give valuable information which would perhaps save a life did not seem to interest Dr Chilton in the least. But Ichabod kept himself calm and did not show his aversion against the doctor.

"Commander Crawford wishes me to make one last try with Dr Cattrell." he said.

"I do not see of what use that might be." Dr Chilton answered. "You had your chance yesterday. Did he dismiss you? – By the way, I am entitled to know about the content of the conversation. I want a copy of your notes!"

//I saw it coming.// Ichabod thought. //Alright. I’ll give him the formal answer.//

"I am afraid I cannot divulge the results of my questions to Dr Cattrell to you. These are police procedures, and as long as the case is not closed, the statements of a witness are confidential." he said firmly, looking Dr Chilton straight in the eye. There had maybe a trace too much arrogance in his voice.

"You little –!" Dr Chilton stopped himself in time, thinking that this impertinent, pesky young constable would report to Crawford if he did not cooperate, and maybe this would throw a bad light on his position as head of the asylum ...

"I could demand from Commander Crawford he reveal the statements to me!" the doctor said, but he sounded defeated. "I could deny you access to my patient – but why should I waste any more of my precious time arguing with some – constable?"

Ichabod merely bowed, and with a last contemptuous look at him, Dr Chilton rang for the warden. Ten minutes later, Ichabod found himself again in front of Dr Cattrell’s cell.

*****

Dr Cattrell stood at the same place as the day before, burdened with his chains, unsmiling, but friendly.

"Good morning." he greeted Ichabod. "So kind of you, Constable Crane, to come again."

Ichabod returned the greeting. He looked in the direction of the neighbour cell, which he had found empty today, which astonished him, because he had anticipated another attack from Miggs.

Dr. Cattrell followed his gaze.

"Miggs is dead." he explained. "Did our charming Dr Chilton not tell you?"

"No." Ichabod shook his head. "What happened to Miggs?"

"He swallowed his tongue." Dr Cattrell answered, and Ichabod suspected that the Doctor had been involved somehow in the unfortunate Mr Miggs’ sudden demise.

//But why? Did he want to punish Miggs, because he threw his sperm into my face? – No – I think he did it because Miggs violated the Doctor’s rules – //

"Dr Cattrell," he began matter-of-factly, "I have come because –"

"Was I right?" Dr Cattrell interrupted him. "Do you want to come to terms with Young Ichabod by saving Jonathan?"

//He is right.// Ichabod thought. //But how on earth does he know? – The truth – he might know when you lie – but maybe he will give truth for truth?//

He took a deep breath.

"Yes, Dr Cattrell, you are right." He answered.

//"Do not let him into your mind ..."//

The Doctor nodded. His strange maroon eyes took the young constable in, and the meaning of his look was inscrutable.

//What if he only has his fun toying with me, with us for nothing?// Ichabod thought. //The days go by, and each day is a day the boy loses – and he is gaining time, postponing his trial and execution. But he must know he cannot play this game forever –//

"If I had nothing to trade at all, or if I thought it was too late already, I would not waste Commander Crawford’s and your precious time, Constable Crane." Dr Cattrell finally said, as if he had guessed Ichabod’s thoughts. There was a mild reproach in his voice.

"Then tell me what you know, Dr Cattrell!" Ichabod asked urgently.

Dr Cattrell only clicked his tongue and shook his head.

"I have no good perspectives, Constable Crane." he continued. "The boy may be saved, I go to the gallows. – Oh, do not bore me with a sermon about how I could lighten my burdened conscience!" he added, when he saw Ichabod open his mouth to cut in. "This would be beneath you, Young Man, and fruitless as well, because the boy himself and his welfare are of no interest to me."

"So what is it you want, Dr Cattrell?" Ichabod asked, trying to keep his voice polite and calm in the face of Cattrell’s cruel frankness. Besides, he tried to suppress his outrage. How could the Doctor think he would give him a sermon?

"You might as well argue that if the boy dies and his abductor is not caught, I shall go to the gallows anyway, and you are right. I know quite well I cannot bide for time forever, Constable Crane, but I want to play this game properly once, before I go to my doom. And you, Young Man, seem to be a worthy partner."

//Partner. Not opponent. Me – his partner? His accomplice? In what?//

Ichabod’s anger surfaced for the first time.

"No more enigmatic remarks, Dr Cattrell, please. – What is it you want? I am not permitted to grant you anything from the authorities. If you aim in that direction, I suggest you talk directly to Commander Crawford, for I am not his messenger boy!"

"Do you know you are beautiful when you are angry?" Dr Cattrell asked with a light smile.

//Goodness! He even knows –// Ichabod thought. This remark, an attack from a complete different angle, made him almost loose his nerves. //He mocks me because I sleep with men. Cheap!// But he stood his ground, outwardly calm, coldly looking back into the inscrutable maroon eyes. He did not know how long he would be able to stand this ...

After a while which seemed endless, Dr Cattrell continued to speak, his eyes unblinking, the stare of a beast of prey, his well modulated voice calm and even.

"I want to play this game fair. I will ask you a few questions, which I expect you to answer truthfully. I will know when you lie." He made this last remark matter-of-factly, as if there could be not doubt whatsoever about his words.

"In return, I will tell you all I know about the boy’s captor and where to find him and the boy. – Quid pro quo, Constable Crane!"

Ichabod hesitated.

//Just as I thought all the time ...//

"Time is running out now, Constable Crane." Dr Cattrell remarked quizzically. "Tick –

tock – tick – tock – for Little Jonathan, for me, for Jacky Crawford and for you. – I am waiting for your answer, Young Man!"

//"Do not let him into your mind ..." – Too late ...//

Ichabod took a deep breath.

"Ask your questions, Dr Cattrell."

Dr Cattrell bowed his head politely, like a fencer in the old times, before beginning a duel. Appreciating and assessing at the same time.

"Tell me, Constable Crane, where were you born? Where did you live? Who were your parents?"

//Why on earth is he interested in my life?// Ichabod thought.

"I was born in a small village in Massachusetts. My father was the local reverend." he answered.

"What kind of a man was he?" Dr Cattrell’s voice was friendly, but demanding.

"He was very strict, very distant." Ichabod answered.

"And your mother?"

"She was good and friendly. She loved life. And nature."

//Keep the answers as short as possible ...//

"Your parents’ marriage – was it a happy one?"

Ichabod shook his head decidedly. "No. They were not happy together."

"Why not?" That soft voice with the demanding edge again.

//You cannot fool him.// Ichabod thought. //He knows how to ask. What to ask ... Maybe he sees it in your face –//

He hesitated for a moment, before he continued.

"My mother’s beliefs differed from those of my father. She was very open to life, to nature. She knew a lot about herbs and plants and how to cure diseases with them."

"In other words, she was what people call a witch." Dr Cattrell bluntly said.

"Yes!" Ichabod said firmly, trying to suppress a trembling in his voice.

"And your father? How did he take to your mother’s beliefs?"

"He was angry about her. I saw him open the Bible and push her into a chair at the table to make her read it. "

"And surely he ordered you to read the Bible as well."

"Yes."

"And what happened to your parents, Constable Crane? Did they live unhappily ever after?"

Ichabod closed his eyes for a moment. That cultured, friendly, gentle, and yet needling, drilling voice!

//Sleepy Hollow again – damn it! – Or should I be grateful?//

He swallowed.

"My father accused my mother of witchcraft, she was tortured and executed." he answered. His voice was without emotion.

"How old have you been when this happened, Constable Crane?" the Doctor asked on.

"Seven. I was seven."

Dr Cattrell nodded, as if he wanted to say //Didn’t I know it?//

"Anything else, Constable Crane?" the gentle voice prodded. "Is there more?"

Ichabod hesitated. There was a pause. //How can he possibly –? Isn’t that enough?//

"Constable Crane?"

//Oh please!//

"They took her away during the night." Ichabod whispered. "I was still a boy, I did not know then – I wanted to look if she was back. I thought she would come back. And so I got up and looked for her –"

He stopped.

"And what did you find?"

//Very few people know. Katrina. Robert. And Mary. The others who have known, my father, my foster parents, are dead now.//

"What did you find, Constable Crane?" Dr Cattrell’s voice was calm, but relentless.

"The cellar." Ichabod’s voice was almost inaudible. "I was not allowed to go there. But I wanted to find her –"

"And what did you find?" The question again.

"A room with machines and instruments. I did not know what they were for then –"

"What machines and instruments?"

"Torture instruments." Ichabod whispered.

"Go on." Dr Cattrell merely said.

Ichabod closed his eyes. He had never told anyone in such detail ...

"There was something in the room like a statue. An iron maiden. And she had human eyes. I tried to open the thing – and when it opened, my mother was in there. – She was dead."

"What did you feel, Constable Crane?"

Ichabod looked at his tormentor.

"Nothing." he said, bewildered. "I fainted."

"What did you feel?"

"Nothing, I told you!"

"You are not fainting now, Constable Crane. What do you feel now, thinking of what happened? That moment, what do you feel?

//No, no, please no!//

"What do you feel?"

Something opening – a last door – a door with locks and bolts – a door to a flood of pain – drowning.

"It is not true." Ichabod said in a small voice. He stepped back, not from Dr Cattrell’s cage, but from an iron maiden containing his mother’s dead body, twenty years in the past.

"Please, it is not true, please! I want my mother! Let her not be dead! I want her so much – He killed her! He will kill me as well –" Ichabod whispered.

"And what do you feel?" The calm, emotionless voice of Dr Cattrell – relentless, cruel.

The thin small boy with the dark frightened eyes drowning in pain – the young man opening his heart to him, extending a hand, pulling the boy to himself – finding words –

//Together we can make it, Ichabod – not going insane –//

He smiled and felt that his cheeks were wet. Ichabod wiped his face with his hands, but stopped when he saw the Doctor’s face.

He, Constable Ichabod Crane, was not in Troubridge, Massachusetts, seven years old, finding his mother’s dead body. He was in an asylum, questioning a dangerous, maybe insane criminal, to find out about another dangerous criminal, to save the live of a boy –

And the monster stood still, his eyes closed, as if savouring the young man’s anger, pain and despair, and also his victory.

//He cannot feel for himself. He had to know my emotions. He can feel them only in waking them up in other people –//

"Thank you, Constable Crane." Dr Cattrell said.

//And that’s all?!//

Ichabod’s dark eyes became cold, his face hard. It was a change some of the people Ichabod had questioned had been able to witness. And they had found that they had underestimated the modest, almost shy young constable.

"Now it’s your turn, Doctor!" he demanded. "Quid pro quo. Tell me about John Galloway!"

Dr Cattrell opened his eyes. There was something like interested amusement – and a bit of respect in them. And he played the game fair.

"John Galloway was one of my patients. He works as a carpenter, and he came to me, because he had had an accident at the construction site where he worked then. A beam had fallen on his shoulder and dislocated it. He seemed content with what I had done for him, for two months later he came to me again and had a gash in his skull closed. He told me he had had a fight with another worker and he had been sacked from the construction site where he had worked. Half a year later I needed the services of a carpenter in my house and thought of Galloway. He did his work very well. We talked, and from this day on he really began to interest me. A remark about boys he made aroused my suspicion. – You see, Constable Crane, I am not married, I don’t have a family, so I can indulge in my little whims. I began to follow him, and I found out my suspicion was true: he paid street urchins to abuse them."

//If he cannot feel, and he says, Jonathan’s fate is of no concern to him, why did he kill one child molester and watched a man who is another one?// Ichabod thought. Aloud he said: "And what makes you think the boy is still alive, Dr Cattrell?"

"Your turn again, Constable Crane." Dr Cattrell answered with a smile. "How and where did you live after your mother’s death?"

//Again!// Ichabod thought, but he saw he had no choice.

"I lived with my father."

"How did he treat you?"

"He beat me a lot. I had to learn chapters from the Bible and he made me recite them in the evening, every day. And when I made a mistake he beat me."

"Did your father live alone with you?"

"There was the housekeeper, Miss Avery."

"How did she treat you?"

"She drank. – I had to help her with the work in house and kitchen, and I could never do anything right."

"Did she beat you as well?"

"Yes."

"Did you go to school during that time?"

"Why, yes."

"Did you like it?"

Ichabod smiled a bitter smile.

"Why do you smile now, Constable Crane?"

"Because the question is difficult."

"And this makes you smile? In how far is it difficult?"

//Devil.// Ichabod thought. //Is this actually worth everything? – But the boy ...//

"Constable Crane?"

"Wait! Just a moment please, Dr Cattrell! – It is difficult – I liked learning, but –"

"Yes?"

"— the other children –"

"What did they do?"

//Nothing can be hidden –//

"They ran after me calling me ‘Witches Spawn’ and ‘Gypsy Bastard’ – my mother had been a gypsy. They threw stones at me and mud."

"How do you feel, Constable Crane?"

//Again ...//

"Sad. Lonely. Helpless. Angry."

Abruptly, Dr Cattrell changed the subject once more.

"I told you, Galloway and I talked one day while he was working for me. He made that remark about boys. He told me he once had read in a book, in Old Greece men had been allowed to have boys in their house, to train and educate them, and he would like to do this himself. – Amazing thoughts for an un-educated construction worker, don’t you think, Constable Crane?"

"Unusual." Ichabod agreed. "And dangerous."

//You have to pay a lot of attention to remain with him ...//

"Why dangerous?" Dr Cattrell asked immediately. "He said nothing but ‘train and educate them’. Why do you think this dangerous, Constable Crane?"

//Every word a trap ...//

Puzzled, Ichabod fell silent.

"You told me about the other children, who pushed you out of their community." Dr Cattrell continued. "Have you been the only one to be treated like this?"

"Yes, I was the only one."

"I see. – And what about the people who trained and educated you, Constable Crane? Your teacher. He must have seen how they treated you. Did he admonish the other boys? Punish them? Defend you?"

"No."

"No?"

"No, he did not defend me. He punished them when they were too loud and behaved too unruly."

"And with regard to you? How did he behave towards you – the outcast?" Dr Cattrell emphasised the last word ever so slightly.

//Outcast, yes. That’s the right word...//

"Did he punish you as well?"

"He –"

"Yes?"

"I remember – he used the same words James Galloway used – as you told me: ‘I’d like to educate you properly’."

"And did he, Constable Crane? What did he do?"

//Damn! He is right! Yes, I want to save Jonathan from that man, because it is personal! Because of what happened to me ...//

"What did he do, Constable Crane?"

Ichabod remained silent.

"Did he abuse you?"

Ichabod nodded.

"What did he do exactly? Did he go all the way?"

Ichabod did not answer, which seemed to be enough for Dr Cattrell – for once.

"And what did you feel, Constable Crane?"

Ichabod smiled a bitter, tortured smile. But he knew the answer.

"I was ashamed. And it hurt. But I also felt good for something at least."

He managed to look into the chained man’s strong face. The gaze of the maroon eyes was steady, inscrutable, the features open, attentive, serious. A slight quiver of the nostrils. The alert beast of prey –

"Did you ever try to run away?" he asked.

Ichabod shook his head.

"Why not?"

//There was nowhere to run ...//

"Because I thought he would really like me one day." Ichabod answered. A tear rolled down his cheek, and to his surprise, Dr Cattrell’s manacled hands made a gesture as if to touch the young man’s face.

"And did he?"

Ichabod shook his head.

//Even now it hurts so much ...//

"I hoped, I wanted it so much – but he just used my body."

"You were lonely. You gave all you had to give for a bit of warmth and care – your body was taken and nothing was given in return." The words were compassionate, but the voice remained calm, even, without emotion.

Ichabod turned around to the rough brick wall, lifting his head, so the tears he felt come up would not drop down on his coat.

It sounded so trite, so flat – and yet there was so much pain behind it.

//As if you had ever been the only one this has happened to! Ridiculous, Crane! – The boy, Jonathan – you have to help him –//

He faced the Doctor again.

Dr Cattrell stood, his eyes closed, taking a deep breath.

"This is what Galloway thinks," he continued, without looking at Ichabod, "- that ‘love’ can be taught. He will teach and educate the boy to ‘love’ him. But you would not call it ‘love’. You would call it training – in the sense of training an animal."

//Goodness ...//

"How do you know?" Ichabod asked.

Dr Cattrell opened his eyes, looking directly at Ichabod.

"He told me, Constable Crane. – And what does it imply? – Come on, Young Man, think for yourself!"

Ichabod overcame his bewilderment quickly. It was not easy to follow Dr Cattrell, but he tried.

"It takes time – education will take time." he said.

"Right! Well done!" Dr Cattrell encouraged him.

"But how long will he be patient?" Ichabod continued. "When will he dismiss his ‘experiment’ as failed?"

"I should say this depends on how much resistance the boy shows." Dr Cattrell answered. – "How long did you live in this miserable circumstances, Constable Crane?"

Another abrupt change of subject. – //Will this never end?// Ichabod thought.

"When I was ten, my father died. And the doctor from the next village came for the death certificate, because our own doctor was ill. – He and his wife took me in as their foster son."

Dr Cattrell nodded, thoughtfully.

"Tell me about the doctor and his wife, Constable Crane. Did they beat and abuse you as well?"

"No." Ichabod’s voice sounded warm when he spoke. "They were very good and decent people. – They had lost their own son. The Doctor took me home with him. And she – his wife – when she first saw me, she took me into her arms! I was scrawny and dirty and frightened, and she loved me just because I was there!"

"You filled a need." the soft voice said.

Ichabod breathed deeply to calm himself. He did not want to show how much the unconditional love of his foster mother had meant to him and meant to him still.

"She filled a need as well." he answered the Doctor. "And they never made me feel as if I was just – a substitute."

"Then you probably were not." his advocatus diaboli said. "I assume you were not asked whether you wanted to go with the Doctor?" he continued.

"I asked him, in fact!"

"So you had given up on your teacher?"

Ichabod thought for a moment. "Yes, I think so."

"And your teacher? How did he react, hearing you would go away with that Doctor?"

"He was not pleased, but he didn’t do anything."

"He did not fight for you, as you maybe had expected?"

Ichabod thought again.

"I do not know whether I expected him to fight for me. I wanted to get away. He did not protect me from the other children as well. He just – did it with me."

Dr Cattrell nodded again.

"But the Doctor and his wife, they cared well for you?"

"They gave me everything! Not only food and clothes and a good education – Father taught me how to swim!" A smile cleared Ichabod’s face in remembering.

"You are beautiful when you smile, Constable Crane."

Ichabod shook his head as if to reject the compliment, which again had caught him unawares, like a blow.

"Dr Cattrell –"

"Was this difficult for you?" the Doctor interrupted him. "Was it difficult for you to trust him? To have confidence in yourself?"

Ichabod shook his head again after thinking for a moment.

"I was afraid of people, but never of water."

"So did you like it, or did you just do it to please your Father?"

"I liked it."

He relaxed a bit and put his ledger in which he had scribbled some notes about John Galloway down on the floor. Unconsciously, he hugged himself.

"Tell me the rest of the story, Constable Crane." the Doctor asked him in his abrupt manner. He came as near to the bars of his cell as his chains would allow him.

"The Doctor sent me to school. He liked me. He also let me help with his patients. He taught me about medical things and herbs and plants. He sent me to University later." Ichabod was not aware that he spoke more like a ten-year-old boy than a grown-up.

Dr Cattrell nodded again, as if impressed. "So I get it that there have not been any more problems with teachers and other children in your ‘new life’?"

"No. I even had a friend."

Ichabod smiled again, as if remembering his friend. Dr Cattrell, however, for the time being was more interested in what he had said about his further development.

"Where did you attend University? And what did you study?"

"Harvard. Medical Sciences, Natural History and Philosophy."

Dr Cattrell gave an appreciating sound, but then shook his head.

"And why are you a constable now, Mr Crane, instead of being the hopeful aspirant to a brilliant university career in some field? Or instead of having taken over from your foster father, living the quiet life of a country doctor? – I presume that the latter option was his plan for you. What went wrong, Mr Crane?"

//The question everyone will ask. And rarely anyone understands – //

"You are right, Dr Cattrell. But there was an incident at the university – a prank – a student died – it was an accident – but it was obvious that they sent the wrong student away for it – someone who was poor, instead of the real culprit, who came from a rich family."

"Was it you who was sent away unjustly?"

"No."

"But you were close to the student who was sent away?"

"No."

The maroon eyes held Ichabod’s, and the Doctor seemed to believe him.

"So this act of injustice, done to another student who was not even your friend enraged you so much you left Harvard?"

"Yes."

"And your foster parents? How did they take this?"

Ichabod hugged himself again.

"Mother was already dead. And Father and I had an argument. He said he regretted having taken me in, when he saw that I would neither listen to him nor to the professors at Harvard, and that I would not go back to the university. I left the house and we never spoke to each other again. Long after his death I received one of his diaries, where he had recorded how he found me and had taken notes about my development. There was also a letter. He asked me to forgive him his harsh words."

"What did you feel when he said he regretted having taken you in as his foster son? What do you feel now?"

Ichabod wiped his forehead with the back of his hand. He felt drained, completely drained.

"He had given me back life, and now he said it had been a mistake on his behalf. He was disappointed in me. Of course, Mother had not been dead that long, she had been suffering so much, and we had not been able to help her. Father missed her, as I did – but why had he to pull away the floor under my feet?"

What do you feel when you say this, Constable Crane?"

"It hurts. It still hurts so much." Ichabod’s voice was hardly audible.

"And you did not relent?"

"Not after what he had told me!"

"Of course not. – And do you still think your decision to give up your studies, which had deeply disappointed your father, was right?"

"Yes!"

"You did never regret it?"

"No!"

The dark, glowing eyes, the wild hair, the fine pale face, the almost pleading gesture with open palms – how exquisite this young man was ...

Dr Cattrell approached the bars even more.

"Do not try to lie to me, Constable Crane!" And admonishing finger.

"I could not stay at the university! I could not bear the injustice! I tried to find justice and reason somewhere!"

"With the New York Police?" Mocking, teasing.

Ichabod did not answer. He felt cornered, helpless.

Dr Cattrell had reached the bars. His voice was low, melodious.

"You know, Constable Crane, that deep inside, when you are trying to please the Burgomaster and the New York Chief of Police, or even Jackie Crawford, in reality you are trying to please your father the Reverend who made you learn Bible quotes by heart and beat you for each mistake, who had the power to kill you, as he had killed your mother!" Dr Cattrell spat out the last words, and every single one was like a blow.

"You know you are still trying to show your Foster Father that your decision was right? – You know that you are trying to please your teacher, who put his thing into your innocent little asshole? Whom you gave all you had, and who never loved you for it anyway?"

"Stop it!" Ichabod cried, but Dr Cattrell went on, relentless.

"You are married, Constable Crane, I see it from the ring on your finger – but the man you do sleep with on the side now – do you try to please him as well?"

Everything began to sway – cold, nauseating dizzyness – Ichabod gave a strangled sound and turned away from Dr Cattrell, but only for a moment. When he turned back to the Doctor, his dark eyes blazed, and Cattrell felt with relish the strength and passion radiating from the young man.

"The answer to the first part is yes, I am married, Doctor Cattrell! But I will not answer the second part! – And now you tell me where I can find the boy – and John Galloway!"

He was not sure whether he now had spoiled everything – refusing to answer questions ended the game – refusing an answer to the second part of the Doctor’s question could be interpreted as an answer –, or whether Dr Cattrell had heard his words at all, because the Doctor stood immobile, as if lost in thoughts...

//What a temper!// the Doctor thought. //And strength! And a sharp mind.// It would be a gift to have him in his bed, to explore the secrets of his slender body, to talk to him, long conversations – a worthy opponent – and one day – a quick death. If he had behaved, there would be no suffering for him. And more secrets of this wonderful body would be explored. He would eat Ichabod Crane’s heart. And his brain. – But would it not even be better to keep him alive – ?

A commotion at the entrance made both the Doctor and the Constable turn their heads.

"Dr Cattrell –" Ichabod immediately turned again to the man in the cell. His voice was pleading, urgent.

But Dr Cattrell looked past him, facing the small group approaching them.

"Dr Chilton, I presume." was all he said.

Dr Chilton came hurrying along the corridor, accompanied by Norton and another, even taller and burlier warden, presumably the man Dr Cattrell had called Mr Sanders. Dr Chilton’s face bore a look of righteous outrage and excitement at being able to exert his power.

"Visiting time is over, Constable Crane!" he announced triumphantly.

"I am not finished." Ichabod objected.

"In my opinion you are finished. The Council has put an end to this fruitless nonsense!"

"Commander Crawford –"

"Commander Crawford has not been cooperative, so I did not see any reason why I should be cooperative any longer! You can tell him this!"

Dr Chilton produced a paper from his breast pocket and handed it to Ichabod. It was an order of the Council, approved by the Magistrate, to take up legal procedures against Dr Tiberius Cattrell. As the accused had already admitted to the murder of ..., the trial would be held tomorrow at nine o’clock ...

"A copy of this document will have reached Commander Crawford by now." Chilton added. "The Council will not tolerate further impediment of the legal procedures – which means that you can go back to New York and make yourself useful in catching a few burglars and arrest some drunken louts, Constable Crane!"

Ichabod rarely had wished so much to slam someone against the nearest wall than this overbearing pompous little fop with his bad teeth. He suppressed his anger and tried to reason, although he doubted that Chilton would even listen to him any longer. And even if he listened, would Dr Cattrell answer his last question, or even get the chance to do so?

"Dr Chilton, five more minutes please!"

"You have wasted enough time! – Out!" Dr Chilton pointed to the exit with a dramatic gesture.

The two burly wardens advanced on Ichabod, took his arms and half dragged, half carried him away from Dr Cattrell’s cage, down the corridor, accompanied by the screams, ramblings and shouts from the other inmates.

In the general ruckus no one had taken any notice of Dr Cattrell, who now raised his strong voice over the noise.

"You forgot something, Constable Crane!"

//How did he –?// Ichabod did not finish the thought. He reacted quickly. With one movement, he shrugged out of his overcoat, leaving the wardens with the empty garment, stormed back to Dr Cattrell, who held Ichabod’s ledger through the bars of his cell. The young man snatched it from his hands, clutched it to his chest. Everything happened so fast that neither Dr Chilton nor the wardens noticed that Dr Cattrell’s manacled hands touched those of the young constable for a moment. It was a touch on purpose, a caress –

//He could as well grab you and break your fingers, tear out your arm or whatever –// Ichabod thought, then the wardens were upon him again, and this time hard hands grabbed him so painfully, he almost dropped the ledger he was still clasping against his chest. He was dragged out of the ward for good now – to the entrance – and pushed out, dragged through the inner yard through the exit, and pushed so hard into the street that he fell and scraped his hands and knees.

Something flew into his back. It was his overcoat. He hastily put it on again, collected the ledger, got up and brushed off his knees.

//Could he –?//

Ichabod went along the way back to town and opened his ledger. The piece of crayon he had used to take his notes must have become lost during his hassle with the wardens. Or Dr Cattrell had it. At least he had used it.

On a free page Ichabod found a hastily scribbled address and one single word:

47 North Street

hurry

Ichabod closed the ledger and started to run. He dodged passers-by, rounded corners, crossed streets without looking. Coachmen shouted after him, he inadvertently pushed a dignified elderly gentleman aside with one shoulder. The man shouted after him, about young men who had no manners – he had not heard the young constable’s breathless apology.

He burst into a tobacco and wine shop near the Watch House and asked for a pen and paper. Hastily he scribbled a note, and the merchant’s apprentice was sent to deliver the message, addressed to Commander Crawford immediately.

The boy, happy about the generous tip, was barely on his way, when the young man hurriedly left the shop again, after having asked directions for North Street.

Ichabod knew that what he intended to do was foolish. It would have been much more sensible if he had gone to the Commander himself and let him handle the procedures. Maybe Dr Cattrell had given them a false hint after all. But in his heart, Ichabod knew that the Doctor had given him the truth. And why did he ask him to hurry, after acting all the time as if there would be no hurry at all? He felt that Jonathan must be in immediate danger now. Dr Cattrell allegedly knew that man, John Galloway, and maybe he had good reasons to think that the boy would come to harm now. His instinct told Ichabod that there was no time to lose ...

*****

The boy ... well-nourished, well dressed, educated – so beautiful – and spoiled. He had hoped this boy would see sense, would see what he could do for him. Brighten his education, teach him about Old Greece – about the bravery of the Spartans, about their Gods, their art ... The others had been uneducated, dirty – ah, you could never trust them! One had played the game – and had tried to run away at the first opportunity. He had had to punish him severely – and the little bastard had gone away for good – to Hades. – Could he dare to give Jonathan another chance? Oh, Jonathan would play the game for sure now, give him pleasure, if he took him out, not to be put into the cellar again – but for how long? They were all ungrateful, greedy, selfish little bastards, unable to appreciate the gifts he could give them, the experience, the knowledge ... He was not sure about what to do with Jonathan yet. But it would be a waste to keep him downstairs any longer ...

*****

Half an hour after it had been delivered, Commander Crawford found the message. He had been summoned by the Burgomaster on behalf of the complaint Dr Chilton had lodged and had been informed that Dr Cattrell would now be put to trial immediately. Reading Ichabod’s note, he lost no further time and ordered two of his sergeants to go to 47 North Street and to arrest an individual called John Galloway on the suspicion of having abducted ten-year-old Jonathan Van Rijn.

Part 1 of 3 / Part 2 of 3 / Part 3 of 3

H I N W E I S :
Diese Fanfiction dient zur Unterhaltung und ist ohne jedes finanzielles Interesse.
Verantwortung und Copyright verbleiben bei den jeweiligen Autoren.

Die Figuren aus den Romanen Red Dragon, The Silence of the Lambs und Hannibal gehören Thomas Harris.
Keine Verletzung von Urheberrechten ist beabsichtigt.