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“Good heavens,” the constable says. He eyes me and Brom and looks back to Crane, frowning. “What happened?”
“A young girl named Lotte,” Crane says. “She jumped from the roof. There are many witnesses who saw it happen.”
“Dear God,” he says, making the sign of the cross and bringing out his quill and ink and a piece of paper. “What did you say her name was? Lotte?”
“Yes,” Crane goes on, hesitating. “I don’t know her last name, but I believe you can find that out. Her parents or family need to be informed.”
“Of course, of course,” he says, writing it down. “Where and when did this happen?”
A pause. I can hear Crane swallow. “It happened this morning around nine-thirty a.m. At the school where I teach. Sleepy Hollow Institute.”
At the mention of the school, the constable stiffens, and then slowly puts down the quill, taking a moment to sit back in his chair. “I see.”
“You see what? Why didn’t you write that down?” Crane reaches over and taps the paper impatiently.
The constable glares at him. “I didn’t write it down because it’s none of my business.”
“What do you mean?” I ask, standing beside Crane.
“A suicide is none of my business,” he says, folding his arms. “If you don’t think any foul play was involved, then it’s out of my hands.”
“But you seemed to make it your business until he mentioned the school,” Brom speaks up.
The constable squints at Brom. “You. You know, when I saw you a couple of weeks ago, I didn’t put two and two together. But you’re Abraham Van Brunt. You know we turned this whole town over looking for you years ago. We thought you’d been murdered. Taken. Beaten by marauders. And here you are just waltzing back into Sleepy Hollow like you had only left for an evening stroll.”
“You should be happy that one of your beloved citizens is back,” Crane snipes at him. “Or would you have preferred him to turn up dead?”
“Easy there…” the constable says, raising his hands. “What did you say your name was?”
“I didn’t,” Crane says, staring down his nose at him with disdain. “Professor Ichabod Crane.”
The constable leans back further in his chair. “Well, Mr. Crane, what do you suppose I do about this girl’s death?”
“Lotte,” I tell him, hating how blasé he’s being. “Her name was Lotte.”
“Go to the school and collect the body,” Crane says. “Run an autopsy.”
“An autopsy,” the constable laughs, getting to his feet. “For a suicide with witnesses?”
“She may have been drugged or poisoned,” Crane explains.
“May have isn’t good enough for me,” he says. “Besides, that’s a matter for the school. What goes on at the institute doesn’t involve me unless the Sisters bring it to my attention. Until then, I stay out of their hair.”
“But they’re just going to sweep this under the rug,” I say. “You watch, I bet they won’t come into town and tell you about it.”
“And that would be their prerogative, Ms. Van Tassel. Now, if you don’t mind, there’s a murderer on the loose. Seems the three of you don’t seem too concerned about that.”
“Should we be?” Crane asks, egging him on. “What are you doing to keep Sleepy Hollow safe from another attack from the horseman?”
The constable rolls his eyes. “Enough with the ghost stories. The headless horseman is just the legend of Sleepy Hollow, nothing more. This is a murderer, a sick human. I expected more from a teacher, quite frankly.” He tilts his head. “Then again, you do teach at that school. You’re a queer bunch up there, that’s all I’ll say.”
“Please, just pay the school a visit,” I say, putting my hands together. “Look around. What if this happens again?”
“Another suicide?” he laughs. “Is your academic schedule really so difficult? No. I know my place, and my place is protecting the citizens of Sleepy Hollow. That school is legally outside of the town’s boundaries and my jurisdiction as it is. If you really want to take it up with someone, take it up with Pleasantville police. Pay a visit to the pickle factory while you’re there.” He comes around the desk and gestures to the door. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I have a murderer to catch.”
“Well, he was very rude,” I mutter as we leave the station and step back onto the street, the door swinging closed behind us. Normally the constable is fairly even-keeled and friendly.
“Rude and as useless as tits on a bull,” Crane says, putting his hand on my lower back. “But he’s probably right about the school being out of his jurisdiction. Perhaps we should take it up with the police in Pleasantville. Perhaps they’re not as intimidated by the Sisters as the constable seems to be. If we get Snowdrop another day, we could make it back to campus before dark.”
