"Are you sure its not him Abbs?"
Abbie sighs, still trying to process what she'd seen the night before.
"I'm sure Brooks, it's definitely not him."
Despite knowing full well that the men in custody was not the one who murdered Corbin, she still found herself intrigued if not somewhat drawn to him. She stared curiously through the two way mirror. He was definitely handsome, but his clothes were bizarre. He sat dressed in a ragged outfit that looked straight out of the 18th century.
A loud bang brings Abbie out of her thoughts. She looked to see his fists still clenched on the table.
"I demand that you let me go! What right do you have to keep me here?!"
Although she was curious, this was definitely not her guy. She leaves the room when the captain enters to interrogate him.
Abbie wants nothing more than to yank her arm loose from Brooks's grip, but he seems determined to make her identify Corbin's killer. This would not be a problem, had she not already told him several times that the man from before was not. Her. Guy. Still trying to wrap her head around what she had seen last night, Abbie sighs and decides to humor him one last time. She lets herself be pulled to the holding cells, arm still in his grasp.
"Abbie I'm telling you this has got to be him!"
Abbie ignores the fact that it seems like he's trying to convince himself more than anyone else.
"I'm telling you Brooks, it's not him. The man I saw had a strange mark on his hand. Like a bow."
The man's head jerks up so fast that it almost seems painful. Abbie barely manages to conceal her surprise.
"This man, did he carry a broad axe?" The man asks.
Abbie's eyes narrow suspiciously, no longer sure that he wasn't involved. "Yes, did you know him?"
The man nods his head, a look of sheer panic on his face. His reaction so strong that even Abbie found herself frightened.
"When was the last time you saw him?"
He looks her dead in the eye as he says, "When I cut off his head."
Abbie stands quietly behind the glass, running through the scenario in her head for what felt like the millionth time. When the Captain walks in she notices his glare but chooses to ignore it. She knows that he doesn't want her involved, but there's no way she'd let this go. Corbin was her partner, and more than that, he was a friend.
She snaps out her thoughts when the interrogation starts. He states that his name is Ichabod Crane and she tries not focus on the strangeness of it. Everything about him interested her for some reason. Unfortunately, after stating his name Abbie starts to wonder if he's a lunatic. She listens on in disbelief, starting to understand that this man really does believe he fought in the revolutionary war.
The interrogation gets them nowhere, as he somehow passes the polygraph without a single hitch, despite everything he said being completely impossible. Possible mental illness aside, Abbie still needed to ask him a few things before he got locked up. Upon receiving orders to transport him to a mental institution, Abbie takes advantage of the time she has to question him herself.
"So you're really from the 18th century huh?" She glances over at him she drives.
He nods his head curtly as he observes the bizarre motor vehicle he sits in. Simply getting him into the thing had been a feat, his tall lanky form making it all the more difficult to squeeze into the small squad car.
"So you're like a regular Doctor Who. Thats pretty cool. Have you gone to any other time periods?" Abbie tries to make her sarcasm friendly, but it is clear that he finds no humor in it.
"While I have no idea what you just said, I am to assume that you are attempting humor at my expense. I must say I do not find it humorous at all."
Abbie ignores his curtness as she rethinks her approach, afraid that he will remain silent, and no longer be of use in her investigation.
"Look, you do know what you said is impossible right? You can't be from the 18th century, it makes no sense."
"Oh yes, thank you for informing me that none of this makes sense!" He spits out furiously. "Perhaps I am dreaming! I would be glad to know that I am not, in fact, in the future and that everyone I care about is not actually dead!" He's breathing heavily by the time he finishes his rant.
"Alright Crane, I'm sorry. I know what its like to be called crazy, believe me, but how in the hell did you get here, if you are actually from the 18th century?"
He looks at her, his last name on her tongue making him slightly more comfortable. "That, Leftenant, I do not know."