Disclaimer: I don't own Sleepy Hollow or its characters. Just this little story.


Prologue

It was by odd chance that Ichabod encountered a newspaper from Hartford, Connecticut miles away in New York City. It was by an even more freakishly odd chance that he happened upon this particular edition of that paper, dated the first of March, eighteen hundred.

The body was already cold when he discovered it in this particular alley, a notorious little spot in a seedy and dangerous neighborhood. There was a nasty gash across the man's temple, from a blow that was more than likely the cause of death. Streaks of blood covered the side of his face, beginning at the wound and ending in a pool on the ground beneath his head. At first glance there didn't appear to be any other injuries to the body. The man looked to be in his mid-thirties, was of medium height and build, and he was well dressed save for his shoes, which were missing; lifted no doubt by a vagrant that had either killed the man for his property or merely come upon the body and seized an opportunity.

Ichabod sighed and withdrew his ledger, pen and ink. He wrote down his observations of the wound, the man's description and dress, the position of the body and its surroundings. When he'd finished writing he knelt down and began to search the clothing on the body, rummaging through his pockets in hopes of finding papers or some evidence of the man's identity. Any money that had been on the victim's person was no doubt gone, looted along with his shoes.

In the inside pocket of the victim's coat he found the newspaper, rolled up and tucked away. He withdrew it and saw that it was open to a page somewhere in the middle. The name of the paper was written across the top of the page, along with the date; it was a six-day-old paper. Ichabod wrote this down, as well as the name and city. Then he jotted down a note beside that, theorizing that the man was probably from out of town. He, at least, had never seen a Hartford paper on sale here in the city.

At first glance this appeared to be a case of a tourist who, unfamiliar with the city, had wandered into the wrong neighborhood and paid the price for it. There were too many people living below the poverty line, many of them homeless, and the majority of these folks lived and loitered in this vicinity. They were desperate people and any one of them might have attacked a well-dressed man for his money and things, particularly if it was a man that was clearly out of his place.

Still, Ichabod had learned better than to form a conclusion based on initial impressions. All possibilities had to be considered. This man may have had shady dealings with disreputable associates, or perhaps he had an enemy for some other reason.

He finished taking notes in his ledger and was about to ring his bell to summon the other nearby constables for help when the name "Ely Crane" printed in the middle of the page of the paper caught his eye. His heart skipped a full beat then began to thud so loudly it made his head throb. Gingerly he lifted the newspaper and smoothed it out, then read the headline in disbelief.

Reverend Ely Crane, Respected Clergyman of the First Presbyterian Church of Hartford and Pillar of Community, Dead at Age 65.