A/N: I'd just like to say that I don't know if dog pits existed in the New York constabulary at this time, but it would be jolly fun if they did. So here they are.

"So, did you kill…"

Ichabod looked down at the piece of paper in his hand.

"…Betty Rogers?"

"No, I swear it! I ain't killed anyone! Dun't even know who she is!"

"Nonetheless, it was your fingerprints that were found on the handle of the knife. You were the last person to touch it, and so I say, you killed her!"

The man shook with grief, and possibly remorse but Ichabod couldn't tell. He was a short, grimy individual, who looked like a murderer without even trying. He had a long, tangly beard, which looked to be the home of at least one colony of rats. His hair was fuzzy, save for a gleaming bald spot on the top of his head. Of the teeth still left in his head, those that remained were broken and yellowed. And above all, he stank.

The smell was akin to that of a corpse. Ichabod lifted a handkerchief from his pocket, clamping it across his mouth. The prisoner shifted uneasily in his chair. The questioning was getting nowhere. What he needed, was witnesses, alibis. Where had the suspect been when the murder was committed?

"Any alibi's, Mr Coldon?"

Coldon stared at him.

"I dunno, sir. What are they?"

Ichabod took a deep breath, nearly inhaling his handkerchief. He moved it away from his mouth, and turned away from the stench to ask his next question.

"Anyone who can vouch for you. Say you weren't at the scene of the crime, when it was committed?"

Coldon brightened.

"Oh yeah, sir! Me wife, kids. And some constable. He'd come round to nick my eldest for filchin' apples."

"Which Constable?"

A blank look came upon Coldon's face.

A few hours later, a similar line of men was assembled in the room. However, these were uniformed, supposedly respectable men. They were the police.

Ichabod stood at one end of the line, hands behind his back, beginning to feel sick from the smell of Coldon. The stink followed the little man as he wandered down the line, thinking over each face in front of him. The policeman shifted uncomfortably, unused to being peered at by such a person.

"Is he here, Mr Coldon?"

Coldon stroked his chin, which produced a noise like sandpaper rubbing against tree-bark. Then, with a sudden look of recognition, he pointed.

"Him! Tha' one, with the moustache!"

The man with the moustache looked around exasperated. The moustache crouched on his upper lip like a small mammal nesting. His eyebrows were also thick and bushy, so much so they curtained his eyes. He directed a huffy look at Ichabod.

"Yes. I do remember this swine. What of it?"

"Did you see him on the night of the aforementioned crime?"

"Certainly. I was there at his hovel all night, practically. His son had been caught stealing. There were a few," he coughed "other matters too."

There was a gruff chortle from the other men assembled. One of them jeered;

"Coldon's missus runs the whorehouse. Old Belham here is a regular!"

Belham shot the man a death stare. Ichabod raised his eyebrows. Coldon sniffed loudly and bit at his nails reflectively. There was a silence that lasted too long. Eventually, Ichabod swallowed, clapped his hands together once and broke the tension.

"Well, in that case, Coldon cannot be the murderer!"

Coldon smiled and nodded.

"Well who is?" Belham folded his arms, still red faced, but eager to embarrass someone else.

"That remains to be seen. The question now is, why were Coldon's fingerprints on the knife."

Coldon's face sagged. He stared pointedly at the floor. Every official eye turned to him.

"I was made to do it."

Ichabod leaned forward to hear the muted sentence.

"Pardon?"

Coldon stared at him, wild-eyed.

"I was made to do it!"

"By who?"

The man stared at him.

"HER!"

"Her?"

Coldon shook, seemingly terrified. Ichabod leaned back. The killer was a woman? Well, it was possible, if Lady Van Tassel had been any example. No mask so dangerous as that of virtue. His own words. But why?

"Mr Coldon, I need a description…"

"Never! She'll 'ave me killed! I never saw her face, anyhow! Let me be, sir, I don't know nothing that I'd tell ya!"

"Mr Coldon, it is imperative that you tell me all you know! Otherwise, how can the killer be apprehended?"

"I ain't no proper constable, sir!"

"Neither is he." Quipped Belham. A raucous cackle went up from the assembled policemen. Ichabod looked away toward the floor, straightening up in anger.

"Throw him to the dogs, Crane, and be done with it!"

"Yeah! He's no use. Women don't go about murdering."

Ichabod opened his mouth to complain when two of the heftier constables lifted Coldon by the armpits (not a job for the fainthearted) and marched him from the room. In a desperate attempt to earn his reprieve, Coldon shouted:

"A blue dress! A blue dress with a hood, sir, and long blue gloves!"

Ichabod raced after them, crying out desperately.

"Unhand him! He is crucial evidence!"

But it was no use. Drew, who had materialised from nowhere, grabbed Ichabod by the shoulder, and spun him round.

"Perhaps you should go back to your leave, Crane. I think your particular brand of, logic is not really appreciated by the law of New York."

Ichabod shrugged off the restraining hand with distaste, and glared at the insolent look on Drew's face. The sounds of a man being thrown to the dogs echoed down the halls of the municipal building, as the unfortunate Coldon met his end.