The Rookie

The lonesome wail of a distant siren cut through the cold night air, adding to the city's dismal atmosphere. Det. Marchetti blew the steam off his coffee with a sigh, taking a slurp before ducking under the plastic yellow tape stretched across the alley. It was thicker than mud and only half as tasty, but it was the best cup the 42nd precinct could brew. Besides, he wasn't in a position to complain. There were worse things in this life than bad coffee; a sentiment that the body at his feet would probably share, if it could talk.

After twelve years on the force, Marchetti was no stranger to blood, guts, and gore. He'd seen it all: stabbings, shootings, hangings, poisonings, and more. Once, he and his old partner had even investigated a death by spork, which was not nearly as amusing as it sounded. Marchetti clenched his jaw at the thought of his old partner, filing it away in a box, as he surveyed the scene in front of him now. After studying the gruesome state of the alley, Marchetti had to admit this one was new.

The body of a white male was sprawled face down across the glistening asphalt, limbs outstretched like a starfish. His head was turned to the side, a shaggy bowl cut covering part of his face. Even in death, it was a frozen mask of pain and terror; wide eyes, furrowed brow, jaws hanging open in a silent scream. All the John Doe had on was a pair of lumpy, loose-fitting briefs tied with a drawstring, but that wasn't the oddest thing about him by far. Every inch of his back from ankles to neck was covered in perfectly round puncture marks. Either this guy fell into a Burmese tiger trap, or someone had turned him into a living pincushion with oversized needles.

"Det. Marchetti!"

Marchetti's piercing blue eyes flicked up at the sound of his own name, just in time to see a young woman jogging toward him. Her face was as red as her close-cropped hair from running, the brass shield on her hip flashing as her black trench coat flapped open with every stride. Marchetti held back an eyeroll as he straightened up, sipping his coffee with a grimace before shuffling over to meet her.

"You're late, Rookie," he grumped, "Bad look for your first night on the job. What happened? Forget to set your alarm clock?"

The young female detective scowled at Marchetti, making her freckles bunch up over her ski-slope nose. "Traffic," she snapped. "There was a bad jam on Williamsburg Bridge; I wound up ditching my cab and hoofing it the rest of the way. And for the record, Detective, I prefer 'Ava'... or Det. Cahill, if that's your style."

A grumble of derision bubbled past Marchetti's tonsils, despite his efforts to hold it in. It was just his luck, getting saddled with such a smart-mouthed little bitch. Marchetti had nothing against women working on the force - his former partner was a woman, after all - but it would be nice if this one had half a brain. It didn't matter that her old man was a legend in the department. Cahill was greener than Kermit the Frog on St. Patrick's Day, and she couldn't find her way out of a wet paper bag. Chief O'Malley was punishing him for sure. The old fart probably still blamed him for what happened to Esperanza.

Marchetti shook his head, trying not to think about his old partner right now. It was hard, though, especially with Cahill staring at him like that: hands on her hips, chin jutted out defiantly, eyes narrowed in a glare. Liv Esperanza was never like that. Even when they were at the academy together, she was the essence of calm; always the voice of reason, the Yin to his Yang and the ice to his fire. On top of everything, she was smart as a whip. Things just weren't the same without her... and every time he looked at Cahill, he missed Liv just a little more.

Again, he forced his personal feelings into a box, offering Cahill a pair of latex gloves from his coat pocket. He'd have time to wallow in self-pity later; for now, there was work to do.

"Got a John Doe," he murmured, moving back to the body while Cahill gloved up, "approximately twenty-five years old. Hope you haven't had dinner yet."

Doctor Hayes - The M.E. - was kneeling by the body by the time Marchetti got back to it, recording the stiff's liver temp for his records. "Rigor hasn't set in yet and the body's still warm," he mused, "He's been dead for less than an hour... and I'd put him closer to thirty." The coroner's deep-set brown eyes sparkled with mischief when Cahill entered his field of vision, the edges of his mouth tugging upwards in a warm grin. "Nice of you to join us, Ava," he quipped, "Did you take the scenic route?"

"Hey, gimme a break, Nate," Cahill huffed, popping a squat beside Marchetti, "Not my fault nobody in this city knows how to drive. I'd swear the cabbie I had tonight got his license from a Cracker Jack box."

Her wisecracking personality fell away a second later, replaced with intense concentration, as she looked over the body. At least she kept her mouth shut while getting her bearings, which was a plus.

"Guy wasn't exactly dressed for a night out," she remarked, indicating the victim's weird underpants. "Where's the rest of his costume?"

Marchetti raised a dark brow at her. "Costume?" he parroted, more skeptical than curious.

"Yeah," Cahill responded bluntly, "He's got on a pair of braies - medieval style tighty-whities - and they look hand-sewn. Odds are he made 'em, and if he did then you can bet there's a costume to go with 'em."

Doc Hayes glanced down at the braies, pursing his full lips in thought. "Good eye, Detective," he said, clearly impressed, "Never would've pegged you for a historical fashion buff, though."

Cahill's cheeks flushed and her green eyes shifted to the ground. "I dated a guy in college who was into LARPing," she muttered, "...and no, I don't wanna talk about it." A moment later, her gaze shifted to the victim's right hand, her shame dissolving into curiosity. Before Marchetti could ask what caught her eye, she carefully lifted the hand off the ground.

"His thumb's broken," she observed, bending the floppy digit. "Maybe the killer stomped on it?"

Marchetti would give her this much: her attention to detail was impressive.

Doc Hayes moved closer, examining the victim's hand for himself. "Nope," he murmured, "the bruising's inconsistent with the sole of a shoe... plus, there's no impressions from a heel or toe. I'd say it was crushed in some kind of vice." After scanning the vic's left hand, Doc Hayes shook his head. "That thumb's broken, too. Poor guy's been through the ringer, for sure."

"Yeah, but nobody dies from broken thumbs," Marchetti grumped. "What's the C.O.D., Doc? He bleed to death, or what?"

"It's possible," Doc Hayes agreed, "None of these wounds look deep enough to be fatal, though. I'll know more once I get him back to the morgue."

"Great," Marchetti sighed, "so, what're we thinking here? Robbery? Kinky Time gone wrong? Bad prank?"

"I'd say none of the above," Cahill muttered, "this guy wasn't just murdered; he was tortured first. We might be looking at a mob hit... or a serial killer. Either way, whoever did this is one sick puppy."

"You've been watching way too much TV, Rookie," Marchetti grumped, "Ain't no mafia hitman that's this sloppy. Also, a serial killer? Puh-leez! I've seen some psychos in my day, believe me, but this? This ain't serial!"

Cahill got to her feet with a scowl, stripping off her gloves. "At least I'm contributing to the investigation," she snapped. "What've you done so far, besides sit there like a baboon, scratchin' your fat ass and drinkin' coffee?!"

Marchetti bristled as he straightened up, hiding a wince as his knees twinged. There were so many things he wanted to say, but all of them could be grounds for suspension... or worse. Cahill was lucky he valued his career more than her.

"This is why I prefer to work alone," he growled, stomping off toward the yellow tape. Marchetti hoped she got the message loud and clear, but Cahill's reputation proceeded her. He'd heard around the bullpen that she always had to have the last word, and this time was no exception.

"Gee, I thought that was because people tend to die around you!?"

Marchetti ground his heel into the asphalt - jerking to a stop - his paper coffee cup crumpling under his fist. Every other officer at the scene froze solid and buttoned their lips, their eyes darting from Marchetti to his new partner. Even the crime lab monkeys stopped fiddling with their little baggies and swabs, looking too scared to even breathe. The only one who seemed clueless about the shitstorm she'd just summoned was Cahill.

Slowly and deliberately, Marchetti turned back around to face her. When their eyes met, that stupid, smug look on her face disappeared in two seconds flat. If Marchetti didn't know any better, she looked almost sorry. Like she pitied him. And that just made him angrier.

"Make fun of me all you want, Rookie," Marchetti growled, "go ahead: tell me how fat and lazy I am right to my face." He felt his eyes sting as he pointed a harsh finger at her, embarrassed at how much it was shaking, "...but if you even joke about that again, I guarantee it'll be the last thing you ever do! Capiche?!"

"I... sorry," Cahill murmured, scratching the nape of her neck as she dropped her gaze. "I-I didn't mean-"

"Fuhgeddaboudit," Marchetti mumbled, tossing his coffee cup with a shrug. He didn't care if she was following him or not back to his unmarked Lincoln Mercury - in fact, he hoped she wasn't - but her footsteps echoed behind him a minute later. Cahill was already in the passenger's seat by the time he slid behind the wheel.

"I really am sorry," she insisted, "Didn't realize it was such a sore subject. The other guys at the 4-2 tend to talk, and-"

"Look, I said drop it, so drop it already," Marchetti sighed, turning the engine over. Cahill quickly threw her seatbelt on as he pulled away from the curb. She didn't say anything for a while, but he could feel her eyes on him the entire time he wove in and out of traffic.

"Where are we headed?" she finally asked.

"NYU," Marchetti answered curtly, "I got buddy who's a History professor there. The vic's old-timey skivvies gave me an idea."

By the time they made it to NYU's campus, the sky was just starting to lighten. Marchetti and Cahill made a beeline for the campus library, dodging a handful of drunk students doing the walk of shame back to their dorms, where Prof. Sam Gascoigne was already waiting for them.

"Good to see you again, Dave," Sam greeted, wringing Marchetti's hand warmly when he arrived, "I heard about Liv; how you holdin' up?"

"I'm holdin'," Marchetti grumped, eager to change the subject, "This is my new partner, Det. Ava Cahill; Rookie, meet Sam Gascoigne."

Cahill shot Marchetti a dirty look before accepting Sam's handshake, "Nice to meet you, Professor," she said, "I wish it were under better circumstances. We've caught a fresh case, and apparently Det. Marchetti believes you can help us solve it."

Sam was clearly intrigued - Marchetti knew he would be - as Cahill showed him the pictures Doc Hayes sent her of the body. After thumbing through them a few times, Sam's thin lips all but disappeared in a tight line.

"You were right to call me," he said, giving Cahill back her phone and taking off his glasses to polish them. "Unfortunately, I know exactly what happened to this poor young man: someone strapped him to an Iron Chair. Here, hang on a sec." He turned to the shelf behind him and ran his finger along the books, stopping when he found the one he was looking for. After pulling it out and flipping through the pages, he set the book on the table in front of Marchetti.

The picture looking back at Marchetti immediately made his skin crawl: a cramped little chair made out of wooden slats, with a metal plate lining the seat. Every inch of the thing was covered with iron spikes, all filed to a deadly point, and it came fully loaded with curved metal bars meant to clamp down on a person's wrists, ankles, lap, and chest. The size, shape, and location of those spikes matched the wounds on their John Doe's body almost perfectly, and explained why there weren't any marks on his front.

"There are many variations throughout Europe and Asia," Sam explained, "and they've been used for centuries, most notably during the Medieval Era and the Spanish Inquisition. I wouldn't be surprised if you found a few bad burns on his rear, too."

"Burns?" Cahill asked.

"You heard me," Sam sighed, "it was common for a fire to be built under the seat, to, um... 'enhance' the user's discomfort."

"Ouch," Marchetti mumbled.

"That explains the wounds all over him," Cahill mused, "What about his thumbs? They were both crushed."

"Thumb screws," Sam nodded, flipping to the next page, "another favorite of Medieval dungeons... but neither the chair nor screws are inherently fatal. These devices were designed to inflict maximum pain, not kill."

"Makes sense," Marchetti grumped, "you can't get information out of someone who's dead. Any idea where someone would get their hands on this stuff today?"

Sam scratched his blond scalp with a dry chuckle, "well, you wouldn't find them at Ikea," he said, "They were probably homemade, like your victim's clothing. That, or your victim died in 15th Century Spain, and his body fell down a hole through time to the streets of New York City." Clearly he meant it as a joke, but after a few seconds, Sam's brown eyes widened with horror. "Oh crap," he murmured.

He took off running out the door that same second, not giving Marchetti or Cahill any explanation. Both detectives pursued him at top speed, although Cahill was slightly ahead of Marchetti. He was getting too old for running anyway... or maybe he should lay off the pastries a little.

By the time they caught up to Sam, he was on the rooftop of a building on the other side of campus. He'd ducked into a pigeon coop before they could catch their breath, but when they followed him in there wasn't a pigeon in sight. Sam had converted the flimsy wood and chicken wire structure into a mini workshop. Among the scattered tools, screws, and wires littering the bench inside was a little metal box; like a drone controller frankensteined together with a portable fan, a digital alarm clock, and parts of a computer keyboard.

"No, no, no," Sam moaned, poring over the laptop beside it worriedly, "This can't be right... Tell me this isn't happening!"

Following his instincts, Marchetti put a hand on his hip, unsnapping the strap on his gun holster. "Sam, what's goin' on?" he asked, "if you know somethin' about our John Doe, you'd better come forward."

"I don't know who he is!" Sam snapped, guilt crossing his anxious face, "...but I might know where he came from. Or, more accurately... when."

He tore at his sandy scalp, clearly upset, then slammed his laptop shut. "This wasn't supposed to happen, but it makes sense," he muttered, "It's the Pauli Exclusion Principle: two objects of equal mass cannot occupy the same quantum space at the same time! I should've realized that earlier."

"Wait," Cahill muttered, "you're saying you traveled through time... to 15th Century Spain... and brought our John Doe back with you?! That's insane!"

"It's not insane," Sam shot back, "...and I didn't do it on purpose! I think he was sent here to my time when I traveled to his! I swear, Dave, I didn't mean to kill him!"

Marchetti stared at his friend in utter shock. He knew Sam was smart - probably the smartest person he knew besides Liv - but there was only one thought on his mind when he heard Sam's confession.

"Show me how it works," he insisted.

Sam blinked at Marchetti, confused and abhorred. "Dave, no," he blurted, "I'm never using this thing again! It ripped a person through time and killed him, without me even knowing about it! Why would you ever-?!"

"I said show me!" Marchetti barked. "If it really works, then maybe-!"

He cut himself off, not wanting to finish his sentence. Lethal or not, if that machine worked like Sam said, then he could go back to that night. He could spot that second gunman before they ever had the chance to get the drop on him... and Liv would still be with him, where she belonged.

"Marchetti," Cahill murmured, "Dave... look at me."

Reluctantly, Marchetti tore his gaze off Sam and locked eyes with Cahill. He held his composure - just like he was trained to - but her face still swam before his eyes.

"Even if you try to go back, you can't change what happened," she murmured, "Det. Esperanza is dead; I'm sorry."

"I could still try," Marchetti muttered, "I owe her that much."

"At the cost of another innocent life?!" Cahill barked. "Let the dead rest," she added softly, "I'm not her, Dave, I know... just gimme a chance. Please."

Marchetti clenched his jaw, letting her words sink in. Half a second later, he drew his service revolver and fired - sinking two shots into the time machine.

"Okay, Ava," he muttered, "Let's start over."