Alright, so I got a PM from a reader about the note in my last chapter.

To clarify, the note was not aimed at the majority of the reviews I'm receiving. The ones I was talking about are from one or more individuals who are going around leaving disgusting/demeaning/rude/disturding comments on my stories. Basically really bad trolling. These comments have been deleted because I don't want to look at them, and I don't want my readers to have to see them. They are not constructive in any way, they aren't even annoying flames, which I can easily ignore. They're the product of bored, disturbed individuals who need to piss off.

I apologize if anyone else thought the note had been aimed at them.

Anyway, LOOK! I made a post on-time! Hooray! And no issues with this one!

So proud of myself. :)

It's also long, and hopefully kind of interesting at least.

Her stomach growled as she stepped out of the tiny mom-and-pop bakery with two to-go cups of cheap, fragrant coffee and a bag of fresh pastries.

Two days had gone by since the incident. Two days in which the homes of the slaughtered Hessians had been turned upside-down. Two days in which every house they entered had been found already ransacked by another, unknown, party. It was too weird to be any kind of coincidence; it didn't fit any of the DB's personality profiles. These were ruthlessly organized individuals with falsified human attachments who needed to blend in. Most of them lived alone, and nearly all of them lived very Spartan lives. Yet every single home, office, car, personal space of any kind looked like a tornado had gone through it. Nothing appeared to be missing…

Then again, if it was missing, how would we even be able to tell? Abbie thought to herself, crossing the street to her SUV.

She could see Crane inside, concentrating intently on the device in his hands. His face, still a brilliant painting of blacks, blues, reds, and greens, was contorted with that concentration as he attempted to defeat the devilry of modern technology.

"I'm sorry," Abbie quipped as she opened the driver-side door with one hand, while the other balanced the cardboard drink carrier and the pastry bag. "I don't recall you having permission to play with my phone."

He slid her an exasperated sort of glance. "You were taking your time in there, and you had one of those… textual messages from the Captain."

She rolled her eyes heavenward. Lord, give me the patience to… actually, just give me all the patience, for both our sakes. "And you just thought you'd try and answer it, even though you'd probably wind up doing irreparable damage to the phone's settings."

Ichabod sniffed, turning his shoulder to her as he fiddled with the touch-screen. "I take offense to your tone and implications, Leftenant. I've been practicing."

"Crane, gimmie the damn phone or I will shoot you."

Huffing, he tossed the phone to her and Abbie was pleased to see he hadn't even figured out how to get past the passlock. Not because he didn't know her password, she thought with a grin, but because he still could barely work a mouse, let alone a touchscreen. "Here—breakfast." He threw him the bag of pastries, then held out the drink carrier for him to hold while she got settled. He set that gingerly on his lap, extracting her cup with the utmost care while she buckled up.

"I should think that having been here nearly six months," He was pouting now, his voice petulant. Abbie rolled her eyes and gulped the scalding coffee. "I deserve a little more confidence from you."

"Crane, the last time I left you alone unattended with my tech, you started a video chat with an amateur pornstar and downloaded some racist hillbilly's vlog."

The time-traveller flushed furiously and hid his shame in his coffee cup. "That was months ago, and it was an accident."

"Shut up and eat your donut holes." His bruised and lacerated face lit up with childish delight as he opened the bag to find she had, indeed, purchased the delicious balls of glazed dough that he had become so fond of. Placated, he popped two into his mouth and sat chewing them contently while she opened up the message from Irving and sipped her coffee at a much more reasonable pace. "The Captain says they've finished with the last of the Hessians' homes, and the CSI teams haven't found a fucking thing to help us."

"Isn't it odd-" Ichabod spoke through a mouthful of donuts. Covering his mouth with the side of his hand, he swallowed before continuing. "-that not a single soldier had any sort of… contact list? Or anything concrete tying them to one of the others?"

Abbie frowned. "Covering their tracks. They wouldn't want a dinner guest to pop in to their study to make a quick call, and accidentally come across a filed labeled 'fellow terrorists and minions of the almighty Moloch' on their desk."

Ichabod nodded, and shook the bag slightly to unearth more donut holes from beneath the other pastries. "Yes, but even members of secret organizations have some kind of… list, or file, or even a bloody scrap of parchment with a manifesto or at the very least, the name of a fellow soldier. Something. How else are they to recognize fellow… patriots, as it were?"

Abbie nodded slowly. "I get you, but maybe there's some kind of… other place where these guys meet. And recruitment is kind of like… passed down through the family, or down by brainwashing, or what?"

"Still, I simply cannot accept that at least one of them did not make note of their nefarious companions and activities somewhere. It's just not probable, in this age of technology especially, that not a single one has contact information for one of the others."

The lieutenant tapped her fingers on the wheel. "Remember that Gunther guy? From the thing with Solomon's book?" Ichabod nodded. "He said even he didn't know how many Shadow Warriors there were."

"Yes, but he did have ways of contacting those he did know."

"Alright English, I get what you're saying." Abbie rubbed her lip as she scrolled through her messages. Another pinged in her inbox, this from one of the techs at the lab. "Hey, looks like one of our uniforms found a building with working cameras near the scene, and they pulled some pictures off it."

Crane's brows lifted beneath his bangs in interested surprise. "Are they clear pictures?"

Abbie pulled a face and gave a short jerk of her head. "Not really. Bad quality, long-distance… wait…" She squinted, hard, and Ichabod gulped down another donut, peering over the console between them at her phone. "Wait… I might know this guy." She enlarged the picture, and turned her phone, her eyes narrowed nearly to slits.

Ichabod wiped his mouth with one of the thin napkins from the bag, cringing when he accidentally brushed his nose with his thumb. "You recognize one of them?"

The lieutenant shrugged. "Maybe… it's hard to tell, and I don't really know the guy." She turned off her phone, and set it in the cup holder before turning the key in the ignition.

"Who is he?"

"Well, if he's the guy I'm thinking of, he's a small-time drug dealer Jones busted a couple years back, when I had just joined the force. I remember the guy, mostly because he gave me the heebies." She waved off Ichabod's blank look and the question she knew was coming the moment he opened his mouth. "He was a creepy guy, and when Jones and his at-the-time partner were muscling him past my desk, he stopped screaming police brutality and just kind of… stared at me." She shuddered at the memory. "It's been years, but the coloring, the height of the guy in the pic… I don't know…"

Ichabod nursed his coffee, thinking. "Would it be illegal for us to pop in and get a look at the man? Perhaps we'll recognize him?"

Abbie pursed her lips. "Not illegal, per say. He could holler harassment, technically, but there's no reason he should—not that we'll give him." She plugged the name the tech had sent her—Ryan Fredrickson—into the computer built-into her dash, and pulled up his information. "Says here he lives at-"

The radio crackled to life. "All units, we have a possible homicide reported at 2532 South 117th avenue."

Over the computer, Abbie and Ichabod exchanged a look; on the screen, under the ID picture, was the suspect's address—2532 S 117th AVE.

By the time they pulled up the street, four other patrol cars, the mobile CSI lab, and the coroner's van had arrived. She parked halfway down the street, and waited by the hood of the SUV for Ichabod to come around from the passenger side before approaching the tape. She flashed her badge at the uniform that approached them when Ichabod lifted the tape out of her way. The uniform's eyes flashed to Ichabod as he and Abbie ducked beneath the tape. "You must be the professor. From England."

The back of Abbie's neck prickled. Crane just looked confused. "Erm… yes. Professor Crane, I'm… ah-"

"Consulting. Yeah." The uniform smirked, and Abbie wanted to punch him in the face. "Detective Morales told us all about you."

Abbie grabbed Ichabod's elbow and pulled him away from the uniform. "Don't you have a scene to secure, officer?" While the young man looked at least a little chastised, he still had that damn smirk on his face. "Asshole…" She muttered.

"What on earth was that about?" Crane asked, gently brushing her fingers from his elbow with the opposite hand.

Abbie shook her head. "Nothing, let's just focus on the task at hand." He nodded shortly and as they stepped onto the porch, he slowed his steps so she would enter first. "Damn…"

Ichabod found himself sharing her whispered sentiments. Barely two feet in the door, and he could see this residence would be in an identical state to the others, minus the body lying in the archway that led to the tiny kitchen. There were clothes strewn all around the floor; papers, shoes, discs, a broken chair, at least a dozen bullets (that weren't embedded in the walls), and plenty of blood covered the old, cracked, wood-patterned linoleum that had been used in this entrance/hallway/living area/dining room. The Englishman started forward as Abbie turned to speak with one of the techs, his hands clasped behind his back as he studied the small, poorly-kept apartment and the chaos it had been reduced to. Though he was still plagued by his old-fashioned sense of impropriety, he had been to Miss Mills' apartment. While it was small itself, he believed at least two of this man's apartments could fit comfortably in hers. Despite the obvious signs of struggle and search in this apartment, he sensed on a normal day it was quite a pigsty. Abbie's apartment was cheerfully cluttered, without being uncomfortable. This apartment smelled like sweat, unwashed clothing, bad food, and dirt beneath the age-old scent of violent death. Abbie's apartment smelled like coffee, laundry detergent, and the vanilla-scented candles she liked to burn. Ichabod wondered briefly if the coldness of this apartment had anything to do with the dead body, just like he was sure the warmth of Abbie's apartment had everything to do with the woman that lived inside it. He edged carefully through the mess, and around the investigators, taking everything in. Frowning slightly, he pulled a one of the annoying, foul-smelling latex gloves from his pocket.

For months now he'd been carrying them, ever since Abbie had nearly had a heart attack when he'd picked up a letter-opener at a crime scene. Thankfully, that hadn't been the murder weapon, yet he'd not only been lectured by her, but Irving, the chief medical examiner, and two members of the CSI unit by the time they'd closed the case.

As much as he completely despised these uncomfortable blue gloves, it was easier to carry around a few pairs just in case. He pulled it onto his hand before kneeling next to a pile of vandalized books, trying to focus on the matter at hand and not his outrage over the state of the books. He was thumbing through one when he heard Abbie's unmistakable steps behind him. Since she was quiet, he remained the same, setting aside the current book in favor of another. "What're you seeing that I'm not?" Was her simple question.

Ichabod closed the book and lifted it to Abbie. When she took it, he pulled another glove from his pocket and put it on his bare hand. "Three layers of disorder."

Abbie was flipping through the book now, her expression thoughtful. If anyone else had said something like that, she would have given them a look, snorted, and said there was no possible way they could know that. This was Ichabod though, and she'd learned not to question his deductions. Instead, she just nodded and said "Alright. What are the layers?"

Ichabod stood and waved his hands, palms-down, over the mess. "This man lived in squalor. Under the chaos, you can see that the rooms were already a mess. He's very disorganized, there are empty beer bottles and canisters, take-out boxes, stale laundry." He swiped a finger over the dilapidated bookcase that had been cleared off in a hurry—the disks, books, and various items the shelves had held were now strewn over the floor—and came away with a thick smear of dust on the tip of the glove. "Dirt." Clasping his hands behind his back again, he nodded to the shabby leather suitcase in the entranceway. "Then there are the unmistakable signs of someone packing in haste. And lastly, a search." He bent and picked up an old VHS tape with a faded case, and studied it for a moment, before tipping it towards Abbie. "'Yank my Doodle, it's a Dandy'?"

Abbie's eyes went wide and she snatched the video away from the soldier. "Jesus, Crane." While he simply looked perplexed, Abbie's face felt like it was on fire and she quickly tossed the tape back onto the shelf. "Just… don't touch anything, okay?" Shaking her head, and feeling mildly unclean now, she gestured for him to lead the way out of the room, into the hallway. "Come look at this." The ME had pulled the body out of the closet now, and he was lain out on a blue tarp. Chief Examiner Richard Berenski, with his shaggy gray hair, wire-rimmed glasses, hanging jowls, and his stupid Hawaiian shirts that he wore under his smocks (or in this instance, since they were at the scene, under the gray jacket with SHPD printed in yellow on the back), was one of her favorite people in the department. He'd been good friends with Corbin, and was still dear to Abbie. He sent her an easy smile as she crouched across the body from him. "Show Crane the wound."

Berenski nodded to Ichabod. "Professor." He peeled back the victim's bloodied jacket and nudged aside his shirt, showing Ichabod the gaping would directly over the man's heart. "TOD was approximately oh-two hundred this morning. Got a puncture, approximately an inch-and-a-half long here. We'll still have to do an autopsy, but I've no doubt this was the wound that killed him."

Ichabod nodded slowly. "Did it pierce him through?"

Berenski smirked, and rolled the victim over by lifting his shoulder, showing them the slash in the back of the jacket. "It's a nasty wound. From what I'm seeing, after the initial jab, the attacker pulled it out with a downward-sawing motion, cutting him open further."

"Do you have any idea what kind of blade may have been used?"

The old man barked out a laugh and nodded. "A sharp one."

"A blade." Ichabod scratched his chin as they headed back to the SUV. "Blades aren't a common murder weapon in this era, are they?"

Abbie shrugged. "Well, for Sleepy Hollow any murder weapon is uncommon. We weren't exactly a mecca of violent crime before you and the Horseman showed up." She watched him from the corner of her eye as he shuffled his feet nervously, and hurried to continue. "You generally need a license to carry a gun in this day and age, so they're harder to get a hold of than knives, but when have criminals ever followed the law? A sticker long, thick, and sharp enough to cut a guy open like that though?" She unlocked the doors of the SUV as they crossed the street, and clambered up into her seat as Ichabod slid himself gracefully into his own. "That's pretty uncommon." She paused, one hand on the wheel and the other lifting to point at her companion. "You're thinking the mystery swordsman from the office might be the guy that ganked our vic." At his blank expression, Abbie waved her hand. "Stabbed."

Ichabod nodded. "If blades are as uncommon in this world as you say they are, then perhaps."

Abbie started the SUV. "You know what's even more uncommon? Blades long enough to go all the way through a guy's chest, and guys strong enough to put them there."

They found themselves in the Archives again, not out of necessity but out of habit. It was so much quieter in there, and they didn't have to do their secret dance around Ichabod's origin, the Hessians, Moloch or any of it. They could speak freely here, and besides that, it was a more comfortable setting for Ichabod.

He hated to admit it, but even after so long in this time, he would find himself becoming overwhelmed by the assault on his senses. The quiet of Corbin's cabin, of the Archives, and occasionally of the lieutenant's apartment were welcome respites from this noisy world. Abbie was at their usual table on her laptop, looking for any crimes in the area where a sword of any kind had been used. He chose to revisit Corbin's notes, and do research from there while she worked.

They'd been at it for a few hours when the door opened, and Irving walked through. Abbie pushed herself to her feet while Ichabod untangled his legs from beneath him. "Captain."

Irving nodded to her, then to Ichabod, and lifted up the flimsy cardboard drink carrier. When she saw the Starbucks logo, Abbie thought she could kiss the man in her gratitude. "Thought you guys could use some fuel. What have you learned?"

"Thanks. Not too much, actually." Abbie took her drink from the carrier before he could change his mind from her lack of information. "We know the blade used in the murder was long and sharp enough to pierce completely through the chest, and the unsub had enough strength to do so. We know the victim was packing, and we've learned that he purchased train tickets to Maine yesterday around eighteen-hundred."

Irving nodded. "Was he a member of the Shadow Fighters?"

"Warriors." Ichabod murmured.

"What?"

Abbie bit her lip, trying to hide a smile as Ichabod seemed to shrink back from Irving's frown. "Ah… Shadow Warriors…" When Irving's expression didn't lighten, the Englishman took his coffee and shuffled away from the desk. "Thank you for the coffee, captain."

Irving frowned after the man's back, before flicking his gaze back to Abbie. "Well?"

Setting her expression to neutral, Abbie nodded. "We found the mark of the 5th Battalion on his right shoulder."

"So we've got a bunch of these German fucks' homes torn up," Irving tapped one of the files laid out on the desk. "And now one of said fucks dead in his torn-up home." He spread his hands in question. "What the hell is going on, lieutenant?" He tapped his hand against another file, this one concerning the soldier that had been skewered by the mysterious swordsman at the office. He lowered his voice unnecessarily. "Mills, I want to think the masked vigilante was just some kind eccentric good citizen. I want to think whoever is searching the homes of these dead Hessians is one of their own, just trying to destroy evidence to make it harder for us to track them down. What I don't want to think is that we have some crazy sword-wielding Batman out in the streets, making us look like incompetent fools while he wipes out Moloch's human sleeper cell under our noses." He pushed away from the desk. "Unfortunately, that's what I'm starting to think. Figure this out, Mills. Find our masked Musketeer, and lock him down before he puts anymore dead soldiers in my lap."

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