"Law and Disorder"
STANDARD DISCLAIMER: The Doctor Who characters belong to the BBC. The Law and Order characters (including a special guest appearance by Detective John Munch of Law and Order: Special Victims Unit) belong to Dick Wolf and NBC Television. I'm not making any money from this.
AUTHOR'S NOTE: I hope you've read my other fics first, because this one builds on those. Yes, this is all just a clever plot to get you to read all of my fics - bwa ha ha ha ha!
Oh yeah, thanks to Warinbabylon for her shoe size consultation, amongst other encouragements!
"It's on me today," Detective Lennie Briscoe told his partner as the vendor ladled a portion of onions simmered in tomato sauce onto a hotdog.
"Thanks. I'll catch you next time," Briscoe's partner, Detective Ed Green replied, grinning. Though they appeared to have next to nothing in common – Briscoe was white, middle-aged, and jaded while Green was black, young, and enthusiastic – when it came to solving homicides, they were a perfect match. Just as Green was about to take a bite of his hotdog, his cell phone rang in his pocket. Sighing, he pulled it out and flipped it open. "Green." Briscoe paid the vendor and received his own hotdog. He took a bite and watched his partner listening to the person on the other end of the phone. "Got it," Green finally said, flipping the phone shut and stowing it back in his pocket.
"What've we got?" Briscoe asked.
"Dead museum curator," Green replied, taking a bite of his lunch as they strolled away from the Sabrett stand with its distinctive yellow and blue umbrella. "Museum of Natural History."
"My second wife was always saying I could use some culture," Briscoe replied. The two detectives quickly finished their lunch and headed for the museum.
The Crime Scene Unit was already there when Briscoe and Green arrived at the museum. A security guard led the two detectives to the victim's office, a small room packed with antique-looking furniture and filing cabinets; the only modern touches were the cordless telephone and the computer sitting on one of the desks. There was a window air conditioning unit which was turned up full blast, making the two detectives shiver in their long gray trench coats. The victim, a thin woman with long ash blonde hair, was sprawled face down on the floor as CSU members gingerly worked around her in the confined space of the office, gathering evidence and taking photographs. Medical Examiner Elizabeth Rodgers, a middle-aged woman with shoulder-length red hair pulled back from her face in a severe ponytail, was kneeling by the body, shaking her head.
"Well?" Briscoe asked without preamble. Rodgers came to her feet, sighing.
"I couldn't even begin to give you a cause of death… or even a time of death. She's very cold, but rigor hasn't set in yet. She has three stab wounds, two on either side of the chest – " she put her hands on her own chest to demonstrate, indicating spots about an inch beneath each breast – " and one in the back of the neck, probably inflicted postmortem. From what I can see so far, none of these wounds should have killed her, though the neck wound would have left her paralyzed for life. I'll be able to tell you more after the autopsy." Green nodded.
"All right," he agreed, scribbling something on his notepad.
"Who's our lucky winner, by the way?" Briscoe asked.
"Doctor Eva Newton," Rodgers replied, snapping off her rubber gloves. "Caucasian woman of indeterminate age, probably late thirties or early forties. The security guard said she's worked here for as long as anyone can remember. She's in charge of Special Collections." As the crime scene investigators began preparing the body for removal, a small, bespectacled balding man with a white shirt and a plaid bow tie hurried up to the detectives, wringing his hands.
"Poor Eva!" he moaned, his eyes riveted to the body. After a moment, he turned back to the two detectives. His brown eyes, made beady by his powerful eyeglasses, sparkled with unshed tears. "Are you the detectives? Who did this to her?" He looked back down at the body. "Oh, poor Eva!"
"We don't know yet," Briscoe replied. "And you are?" As the man answered, Green wandered away to look at something that had caught his eye on the dead woman's desk.
"I'm one of her co-workers… Andrew Parker," the new arrival moaned, still wringing his hands and staring at the victim. "I can't believe anyone would want to hurt Eva!"
"So, she didn't have any enemies?" Briscoe asked.
"No!" Parker said, sounding shocked by the very suggestion. "Everyone loved Eva!"
"At least one person didn't," Briscoe deadpanned.
"Lennie," Green called. "Come see this."
"Hang on a second," Briscoe told Parker. The man nodded wordlessly. "What've you got?" Briscoe asked his partner, moving to stand by him at the desk.
"The security guard told me she was in anthropology, but this looks like math… a lot of math," Green said, holding up a diary. "And look," he continued. "Some of the pages are torn out, right before the last entry." Briscoe took it, frowning. Every entry looked like an incredibly long, incredibly complicated algebra equation, a jumble of numbers, Greek lettering, and other symbols that he didn't even begin to recognize. At the bottom of the last page, set a few inches below the last paragraph like an absentminded doodle, were two lone Greek letters; one that looked like the letter "O" with a horizontal line through it and another that Green recognized from college calculus courses as the summation symbol. The two letters were surrounded by an emphatic red circle.
"It's Greek to me," Briscoe said, shrugging and handing it to one of the crime scene people. "Bag it and tag it." Green picked up a hand held tape recorder from next to the computer keyboard, briefly rewound the tape inside, and hit play. It was a woman's voice, speaking in a musical language with long liquid vowels and soft flowing consonants.
"Is this Greek too?" Green asked Parker, who had appeared at their side, frowning.
"That's Eva's voice, but I never heard her speak that language," he told them, looking puzzled. "I've done some work in linguistics, and I don't even recognize that language!"
"Yeah, my first wife spoke a language that no one else could understand too," Briscoe cracked. He handed the tape recorder to another crime scene worker. "Bag it, tag it, and send it and the diary to the brains in linguistics. Maybe they can figure it out. So tell me, Mister Parker," Briscoe continued confidentially, "When was the last time you saw Doctor Newton alive?"
"Last evening," he replied immediately. "I stopped by here before I left for the reception."
"What reception?" Green asked.
"Oh," Parker said, shrugging. "There was a reception at the Rose Center for a lot of big name donors… I asked her if she was going, and she said she'd see me there later. That was the last time I saw her."
"What time was this?" Green asked.
"Let me think," Parker replied, frowning. "About seven, maybe. Six-thirty at the earliest."
"OK, thanks," Green said, handing him one of his business cards. "And if you can think of anything else that might be helpful, just give us a call."
"I sure will!" He watched as Dr. Rodgers and her team bore the body out on a stretcher. "Poor Eva!" he wailed, following them out the door.
"We'll need a copy of that guest list," Green said after a moment. Briscoe sighed.
"Yeah, with any luck, there weren't more than two or three hundred people there last night!"
"Look on the bright side," Green told him. "At least they'll all be celebrities and snobs!" Briscoe rolled his eyes.
"Oh goody, I can hardly wait!"
"Excuse me," a new voice said. It was polite, pleasant, English accented. Briscoe and Green turned to stare at its owner, a tall man in his thirties with blue-green eyes and wavy brown hair that hung down around his face. He was dressed in a dark green velvet Victorian frock coat with a patterned waistcoat and a gray cravat at his neck. With him was a beautiful young blonde woman who looked vaguely familiar to both detectives, but neither could place where they'd seen her before. "I've come to see Doctor Newton," the new arrival said. "But I was told she's been… well, you must be the detectives."
"Lennie Briscoe," Briscoe said, holding out his hand. "This is my partner, Ed Green."
"I'm the Doctor, and this is my daughter, Angelina," the man replied.
"Must've gotten cold out there," Green noted mildly as he released Angelina's hand. "Your hands are freezing!" The Doctor opened his mouth to say something, and his daughter promptly stood on his foot.
"Um, we've just had some sodas," Angelina said, looking uncomfortable. "Those cans tend to make the hands rather cold," she continued with an apologetic smile. The detectives noticed that her accent was a bit different than the Doctor's, more English in a way they couldn't identify.
"Now, listen," the Doctor said urgently. "This is very important. Before they autopsy her, I must know… how was she killed? What were the wounds like?" Green shrugged.
"She was stabbed twice in the chest," he said.
"That's it?" the Doctor asked, appearing relieved.
"No. She was stabbed in the back of the neck, too," Briscoe said, frowning. The Doctor winced.
"That settles it," he said heavily, sounding sad for the first time during the conversation. "She is indeed well and truly dead. It doesn't much matter what your medical examiner does to her now."
"Are you a friend of Doctor Newton's?" Briscoe asked suddenly.
"Oh yes, but I haven't seen her in ages. We were at the Academy together."
"Uh huh," Green said absently, writing on his notepad. "When was the last time you saw her?"
"Well, let me think," the Doctor said musingly. "It's been at least, oh… three or four centuries, I'd say."
"Centuries?" Green asked. He stopped writing and looked at the Doctor with raised eyebrows "Three or four centuries?"
"Yes, it would have to be," the Doctor said to himself, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. He glanced at the detectives. "I haven't been to a class reunion in at least that long."
"Yeah, me neither," Briscoe agreed, exchanging a glance with Green. "Maybe we should continue this talk down at the station." Angelina groaned.
"I'd be delighted," the Doctor said, beaming. Green firmly grasped one of his arms, Briscoe firmly grasped the other, and the two detectives led him from the room. "Have you got any suspects?" the Doctor asked, sounding interested.
"Oh yeah, plenty," Briscoe told him mildly. "We'd like you to confer with one of our experts, Doctor Elizabeth Olivet. Maybe you can help her put a profile together."
"Excellent. I'll be more than happy to help you sort them all out," the Doctor said obligingly.
"You do realize that they think you're a raving nutter, don't you?" Angelina asked him. He seemed not to hear.
"What we really should do first is make sure the Eye is safe," the Doctor was saying earnestly.
"The Eye?" Green asked.
"Why yes," the Doctor said sincerely, as though it were obvious. "The Eye of Rassilon. I'm sure that's why she was killed. Someone was after the Eye."
"We'll come back and look for the Eye later," Briscoe promised him in the soothing tones one uses to placate a possibly dangerously deranged lunatic. "Right now you have an appointment with Doctor Olivet."
Briscoe and Green watched the Doctor remove the contents of his pockets, placing them neatly on Briscoe's desk. So far, he had produced a Darth Vader action figure circa 1979 missing its cape and red lightsaber, a birthday card signed Thanks so much for that little hint! James Watson and Francis Crick, a little metal book with etched writing in an unrecognizable language, a mail order receipt from L.L. Bean for a pair of "Bean's Rugged Walkers" in Men's Size 10, and a small can of Silly String.
"Is he under arrest?" Angelina asked the detectives.
"No, Ma'am," Green assured her. "We just have some questions for him." The Doctor continued to remove items from his pockets.
"What's this?" Briscoe asked, picking up a long, cylindrical metal object.
"Sonic screwdriver," the Doctor answered shortly, digging around in his other pocket and producing a cricket ball, a harmonica, a "Who's Next" cassette tape missing its case, three blue packets of aspartame sweetener, a very large piece of lint, and a crumpled paper sack. Briscoe carefully examined the screwdriver.
"It doesn't look like it would be good for screwing anything in," he observed. "What use is it?"
"It was very useful against the Ice Warriors in London," the Doctor said absently, still feeling around in his pockets. At Briscoe's incredulous look, he waved his hand. "Never mind, you wouldn't remember that; it happened in another universe. All right, that's everything. Are you satisfied that I am unarmed and quite harmless?" Green picked up the crumpled sack and peered inside.
"What's this?" he asked suspiciously. "Drugs?"
"Heavens no!" the Doctor exclaimed, sounding affronted. "They're jellybabies!" Green gave him a puzzled look. "Candies," the Doctor elaborated. "Try one, Detective – I assure you, they're quite good." Green pulled out a red candy and popped it into his mouth, chewing thoughtfully.
"Hey, that is good!" he said after a moment, offering the bag to Briscoe. "Try one of these!" Briscoe took one.
"I got a green one," he said, chewing. "Is there anything special about those?"
"Nnnot that I'm aware of," the Doctor replied carefully, completely missing the joke. Briscoe chuckled.
"Never mind. If you'd follow Detective Green…" he gestured towards the departing detective, and Angelina moved to follow. "Ma'am, I need for you to wait over there, please," he said, indicating a row of chairs along one wall. Sighing, Angelina watched Briscoe follow his partner and the Doctor to the interview rooms.
Lieutenant Anita Van Buren and Doctor Elizabeth Olivet watched the Doctor through the two-way glass mirror. He sat casually in his chair, his hands neatly folded on the metal table in front of him, his eyes closed in peaceful contemplation.
"Do you think he killed her?" Olivet asked. Van Buren shrugged.
"That's what I want you to tell me. From what Briscoe and Green said, this guy's not playing with a full deck, but that doesn't make him a murderer." Just then, the two detectives entered the interview room, pulling up chairs to sit opposite the Doctor, who gave no indication that he realized they'd arrived.
"Doctor?" Green said after a moment. The Doctor opened his eyes.
"Sorry, I was thinking about something. Now, where is this Doctor Olivet you want me to meet?"
"We'll get to that later," Briscoe assured him. "We'd just like you to answer a few questions for us first."
"If I can," the Doctor agreed cheerfully.
"Let's start with your name," Green said.
"What about it?" the Doctor asked curiously.
"What's your name?" Green asked tightly, sounding as though his patience was coming to an end. The Doctor frowned slightly.
"That's a very difficult question," he said sincerely.
"Not for most people," Briscoe said.
"Oh come on Lennie, there were plenty of nights when you didn't know your own name!" Green told him teasingly.
"Sure, but that's different," Briscoe replied easily, gesturing at the Doctor. "This guy's sober… at least I think he is."
"Of course I am!" the Doctor said indignantly.
"So let's try this again," Briscoe said. "What's your name?"
"John Smith," the Doctor said, his eyes widening innocently. Briscoe snorted.
"Yeah, right," he said sarcastically. "And I'm Jim Doe."
"Really? I thought you're Lennie Briscoe," the Doctor said, leaning forward, looking confused. Briscoe gave him a meaningful look, and the Doctor held up his hands in a gesture of defeat. "All right, look," he began. "I know this is going to sound crazy, but it's true." Behind the two-way glass, Van Buren and Olivet exchanged a look.
"Try us," Briscoe suggested. The Doctor leaned back in his seat and regarded the two detectives critically.
"All right," the Doctor finally said, sounding resigned.
"Here's where he starts claiming he's getting instructions from Jesus Christ on his fillings," Van Buren murmured. Olivet snorted.
"I'm a Time Lord," the Doctor said quietly.
"You're a what?" Green asked. The Doctor sighed.
"A Time Lord," he repeated. The two detectives exchanged puzzled looks. "A Lord of Time," the Doctor said impatiently, as though rearranging the order of the words would make them more comprehensible to the two detectives. It didn't; both continued staring blankly at him. "I travel through time and space." Behind the two-way mirror, Olivet raised her eyebrows.
"Well, this is a new one," she murmured.
"Eva and I – " he began.
"Let me guess. She was a Time Lord…?" Green asked suddenly. "Time Lady," he amended hastily. The Doctor gave him a look.
"Yes, exactly." He sighed. "Look, I know you think my main space-time element's not fitted properly, but – " At the detectives' blank looks, he sighed again. "What I mean is, I know you think I've got some screws loose. I don't expect you to believe me at the moment. I am a scientist. I don't take outrageous claims at face value, and I probably wouldn't believe me either in your place without any proof. But just wait until your medical examiner begins her autopsy. Would you like me to tell you some of the things she'll find? The two hearts, for example… I suspect those will stand out immediately."
"Two hearts?" Briscoe asked, sounding unconvinced.
"Yes. Two hearts, a respiratory bypass system, a few organs and glands that you humans haven't got… you'll see." He smiled like the cat that had gotten the cream. "I'd love to see your faces when you read the autopsy report." He stood. "Perhaps we should continue this conversation then, when you're more open minded about things."
"He really believes this stuff, doesn't he?" Van Buren asked Olivet. The psychiatrist nodded absently, absorbed in what was happening on the other side of the two-way glass. A phone on the wall behind them rang, and the lieutenant picked it up. "Van Buren," she said.
"Listen to me," the Doctor was saying in a reasonable tone. "I am not telling you some kind of nonsense about getting signals from Jupiter on my television set or that I've come here in an invisible space ship that only I can see. Your victim and I are not human beings, Detectives, and all the proof you need – good, solid proof – is lying on that autopsy table."
"Two hearts," Green mused, leaning back in his chair and thinking about the victim's unusual stab wounds, one on each side of the chest. "Rodgers said those wounds shouldn't have killed her…" he murmured to himself. Realizing that Green was actually thinking things through rather than just dismissing him as a mental case, the Doctor sat back down.
"No, they shouldn't have, if she were a human being." the Doctor agreed. "And they wouldn't have killed a Time Lady, either… they would have stopped her hearts, but they wouldn't have killed her. She would have regenerated."
"Regenerated?" Briscoe asked.
"Her body would have regenerated on the cellular level... she would have lived again, but in a different body." He waved a hand impatiently. "Look, I'll explain later. What's important is that it was the stab to the back of the neck that did her in."
"OK… so, assuming that you're telling the truth," Green said slowly, "whoever killed her would've had to know how to do it…"
"Exactly," the Doctor said in the pleased tone of a professor whose student has just mastered a difficult concept. "The killer knew she was a Time Lady."
"You knew she was a Time Lady," Green said suddenly. The Doctor sighed.
"Aside from the fact that I wouldn't kill anyone - let alone a friend - I think if you look at the gossip column in this morning's New York Post, you'll find that I have an alibi. I was at the Tommy Hilfiger show, watching my daughter 'do her thing' as they say."
"All right," Green said. "So we're back to figuring out who would know she's a Time Lady."
"Can anyone participate in this discussion, or do you need a note from your psychiatrist?" Briscoe asked.
"How about a note from your medical examiner?" Van Buren asked, walking into the interview room. "Doctor Rodgers is on the phone," she continued. "She said she just opened the victim's chest and you're not going to believe what she found." The Doctor smiled at the detectives.
"I told you so," he said smugly.
Detective John Munch was not having a good day.
After spending an hour tied up in a New York City traffic jam in a car with broken air conditioning on what had quickly become a bright sunny day, Munch had finally arrived at the 27th Precinct to learn that the file Captain Cragen had sent him to retrieve wasn't ready yet. It would be ready tomorrow. In fact, Captain Cragen had been told that it would not be ready until tomorrow, and Munch should return for it then.
"It's a conspiracy," he mumbled to himself, wiping his sweaty forehead with the back of one hand. "I know it." The ride back to his own station promised to be as hot and uncomfortable as his journey here had been, and Munch decided to buy a can of soda before he left. He headed for the soda machine at the back of the squad room, and suddenly stopped dead in his tracks.
There was a girl – a strikingly beautiful blonde girl – sitting by herself in the waiting area, looking worried and miserable. She looked like… no, it couldn't be, Munch told herself. Perhaps feeling his eyes upon her, her head came up, and she regarded him steadily with those famous deep blue eyes. Oh my God, it is! It's that supermodel… it's Angelina! Munch was suddenly painfully aware of his sweat-stained white shirt, his dirty glasses, and his sweaty salt-and-pepper hair that had fallen out of its neatly combed back style to hang in untidy, damp locks around his face.
"Hello," she said uncertainly. "Are you one of the detectives?" Munch swiped his hair back with one hand and decided to make the best of it.
"Yes I am," he replied. "I'm Detective John Munch."
"And my name is Angelina," she said, rising to her feet and offering her hand, which felt refreshingly cool after his hot car ride. "Do you know if Detective Briscoe and Detective Green have finished with my father yet?"
"No, Ma'am, but I can find out," he answered at once.
"It's just that I'm very worried," she said as he led her through the squad room towards the interview rooms. "I know the things he's probably saying must sound crazy to them, and I don't want them to have him locked up." At that moment, the door to the interview room opened and a white woman with dark curly hair exited and continued past them through the squad room. She was followed by the two detectives, who were in deep conversation with a stately looking black woman. The Doctor followed behind, and Angelina's eyes lit up with relief when she saw him. "Thank God!" she exclaimed with feeling. He gave her a tired smile.
"They're not locking me up today, anyway," he told her ironically.
"Our medical examiner is seeing things that make her feel crazier than your dad sounds!" the black woman said, giving Angelina a smile. "You must be Angelina. I'm Lieutenant Van Buren." As Angelina shook her hand, a cell phone rang.
"Blast," Angelina muttered, pulling a powder pink phone out of her pocket. "I'm sorry," she apologized as she pressed a button on the phone. "I'm waiting for a call from my mother. Hello?" This last was said into the phone. She listened for a moment, frowning. "Look, Fred, we haven't got anything to say to each other. I'm not – " She listened for another few seconds, catching the Doctor's eye. "My father's here and he wants to talk to you," she said suddenly, handing the phone to the Doctor.
"Hello, who's this?" the Doctor asked into the phone as Angelina grinned wickedly. "Oh yes, you're that tiresome little rock singer, aren't you? The one I chased 'round the lobby of the Chateau Marmont with a cricket bat. Yes, I remember you. You listen to me, my boy: I'm not a man you want to cross. I'm over eleven hundred years old and I do three impossible things before breakfast every morning. Daleks and Cybermen flee at the very mention of my name, and Ice Warriors tremble in their armor. I have walked unprotected through the Time Vortex and lived to tell about it. In the grand scheme of my life, you are very small potatoes. Now, there are two things that I suggest you keep in mind: leave my daughter alone. Do we understand one another? Hmm, what? What other thing? Oh, right, the other thing you should keep in mind. Autoerotic asphyxiation is a nasty and embarrassing way to die. Good afternoon." With that, he ended the call, handed the phone back to Angelina and grinned broadly at the astounded detectives. "Now, where were we? Oh yes, I think I'd like my things back if you don't mind," he said, moving to Briscoe's desk and collecting the items he'd removed from his pockets.
"And people say I'm crazy," Munch muttered.
"You are crazy, Munch," Briscoe told him amiably. He motioned at the Doctor. "Come on, kids. We've got an autopsy to attend."
"I can't take her to an autopsy!" the Doctor protested, gesturing at Angelina. He glanced around briefly, his blue gaze finally settling on Munch. "I'm sorry, I didn't catch your name."
"Detective John Munch, sir," Munch replied, for some reason suddenly feeling like an errant schoolboy called before the principal. He suppressed the urge to look at the ground and shuffle his feet.
"Ah good. Detective Munch. I am the Doctor, and I see you've met Angelina. Now that we've all had proper introductions, would you be so kind as to look after my daughter while we're with the medical examiner? Take her for some coffee or something…" He shrugged and gave Munch a weary smile. "I'd really appreciate it."
"Sure," Munch choked out, unable to believe his luck. His day had just gone from hellacious to heavenly in the course of a single sentence.
Continued in Chapter 2