Hans Gruber has no memory of who he is. He is arrested and meets the beautiful Detective Benson. But when she figures out that he is a victim of abuse, can she and her team catch the abusers? And what of Hans and his memory—will he regain a sense of who he is when he and Benson begin to fall in love?Sequel to Who Am I.

One: Arrested

A man was walking down the dark street; it was raining heavily in down town New York City. The man was wearing a black shirt with buttons, blue Arizona jeans and white sneakers. He was already soaked through and was desperately searching for somewhere that was dry, so he could wait for the storm to finish.

He had arrived in Manhattan three nights before, and this was the coldest night yet. It had been a painful journey from the prison to Manhattan. When he had first arrived, he had broken into a store, and stolen some clothes and shoes. At the back of the shop, there had been a shower—the warm water had felt so good on his brutalised skin, and yet it had burnt his still open wounds too.

After he had finished showering, he had put the new clothes on and looked at his reflection in a cracked mirror. He had a full beard and his dark brown hair had grown, so it was touching the back of his neck and was almost covering his eyes. The shop had also provided a razor, which he had used to shave his beard into a nicely shaped goatee. His hair, although untidy, was acceptable enough—so it would stay the way it was.

Still searching for somewhere to shelter from the storm, he took a shortcut through an alleyway, and came out into another street. He still had to figure out what he was going to do with himself. He still had no recollection of who he was, where he had come from (before the prison, of course), and he had no assets or money to his name. He had been in this city three days and was already, still, completely lost.

The only good thing he could see in this situation was that he had managed to regain some of his old strength...

He was so lost in his thoughts that he did not notice the police car until it started to flash its lights at him.

He had a bad feeling about this. He wondered if he should run or stay and ask the officials for help. But something inside was telling him that this was wrong, and that he should flee, and so he broke into a sprint. He heard the cop yell for him to stop, but he did not listen.

He ran down the street as fast as his legs could carry him, but he could not sustain such a speed as the injuries he had collected in prison began to reopen and hurt. His lungs were burning, they felt as though they were on fire, and he was suddenly light-headed.

Then, all of a sudden, there was a sharp pain in his back, and he was knocked to the ground, face pressed into the sidewalk. The police officer cuffed his hands, yanking him backward and jarring his broken ribs. "This is what happens when you mug old ladies, pal." The officer barked, his voice sharpened by a New York accent. He pulled his prisoner to his feet and threw him rather unceremoniously into the back of the police car.

He laid his head against the seat and tried to catch his breath. He closed his eyes and relaxed his body against his seat. He could feel the blood running down his back, new blood, fresh blood from wounds that had not quite healed. But he just had to concentrate, if he could detach himself, then he could dull the pain. He focused on his breathing. This was a technique he had developed in the prison, when he was assaulted in there. It helped.

The car stopped and was parked in front of a large brick building. He looked at it with slight distaste from the car window, before the door was open and the cop dragged him out from the back seat. He was led inside the building, the cop holding onto his handcuffs.

"Detective Stabler, Benson, look what I caught for you!" The cop shouted as soon as they had entered the room.

Two detectives walked toward them, one of them female. She examined him for a moment, "Let me guess. The old lady mugger?"

"Got it in one, Detective!" The cop who had arrested him said proudly.

He looked between them, unsure of what was happening here. Before he could recollect his thoughts, he was on the move for the third time—led by the female detective into a bare room with three chairs, a table and a tape machine resting on top. There was a windowpane to one side that he could not see through. He was pushed into the chair, and the two "detectives" sat down opposite him.

There was silence for a moment.

"So, you like to mug older ladies?" The male detective announced, his voice slightly derisive.

He looked at both detectives in confusion, "I do not know what you are talking about." His voice always surprised him. It did not sound the same as those he had dealt with, in the prison or here in Manhattan. It had a different sound. He pronounced words differently. But he could not work out why.

The male detective was not taking his prisoner's words as the truth; "Sure you do. The old lady who you mugged for her jewellery. Where did you hide it?"

"I did not rob anyone." He answered, hoping his tone showed just how genuine this was.

"Listen, pal, you can do this the hard way or the easy way. She saw her mugger when he attacked her, and she called the police. She described what her mugger was wearing, and it just so happens that you fit the description perfectly...and, surprise surprise, you just happen to be two streets away from the crime scene..."

"I did not do anything! You have the wrong person!" He wanted to explain, he had just been searching for somewhere to shelter from the storm, he had never attacked the old lady—and yet, he had the feeling that these people would not listen.

"Yeah. Sure you didn't." The female cop stood, looking at him with an expression of disgust. "Maybe you need some time to think things through?" She beckoned to her colleague, and they both left the room. The door slammed shut, and he was left to contemplate how he was going to get out of here.

Detectives Benson and Stabler strode along the corridor and approached a man and an older lady who were stood by a window, looking out at the magnificent Manhattan skyline. The lady, who was in her sixties, still looked shaken and upset from her attack. The man had one hand resting on her shoulder.

"Did you get him?" The man was clearly riled up; of course, he had good reason to be, for this woman was his mother.

"We have arrested someone we strongly believe is the captive. He is in the interrogation room, and all you have to do is successfully I.D him as the man who mugged you, and he will then be charged with the robbery." Detective Benson informed them.

"Where is he?" The man demanded, "Let me see him, I am gonna beat him for attacking my mother!"

"Sir!" Detective Stabler interrupted, in what he hoped was a calming voice. "You cannot do that; but rest-assured, he will be punished."

The mother stepped forward, "Before I identify the man, please can I have a nice cup of tea...to calm my nerves?"

Detective Stabler nodded, "Of course. Would you like to take a seat, and I will be back shortly."

Detective Benson gestured to three chairs, just off to the right of the window. She waited for the two citizens to sit down before doing so herself. The son was particularly restless, fidgeting with his hands and looking everywhere except at her. She smiled at the older lady and made polite conversation until Stabler came back, carrying a cup of steaming tea.

"Thank you, my dear." The lady intoned, before taking a sip of the liquid.

Stabler smiled and stood by Benson, before the son looked up, "Please may I use a bathroom?" He asked suddenly.

Benson wondered if that was the reason why he had been so fidgety.

"Of course, they're right down the hall." Stabler pointed in the direction of the toilets, before returning his attention to the mother. "Mrs Freeman, please could you tell us again, if you can, what happened?"

"Well, I was just coming out of the jewellery shop, and was walking toward my car. I was looking in my purse, you know, to find my key, and then suddenly this man pushed me up against the car." She paused, as if the story was hard to tell. Benson nodded encouragingly.

"He put a gun to my head, and told me to give him the jewellery, otherwise he would blow my brains all over the sidewalk and my car."

Benson nodded; it was an unprovoked attack with an unreasonable amount of violence-not many street robberies were carried out with a gun pressed to the victim's forehead. "That seems rather straight-forward, so the identifying process should be quite easy, Mrs Freeman."

"Oh no, dear, I'm not Mrs Freeman. It's Ms. See, my husband died a few years ago now."

That was one of those statements that Benson never knew how to reply to adequately, she always seemed to end up apologising... "Oh, I'm sorry to hear that."

"Oh, it's all right, dear, he had cancer. I like to think that he is simply at peace now."

But still, there was an awkward silence that lingered for a few moments.

And then was yelling and banging and other such commotion, originating from the interrogation room Benson and Stabler had just left. The Detectives leapt to their feet and ran to the door, opening it and watching as Ms. Freeman's son threw their prisoner against the wall, before raining fists down upon him.

Stabler leapt forward, pulling the son away and letting the prisoner slump to the floor. Stabler was a little rough with the civilian, "What do you think you are doing?" He bellowed at the younger man.

"He attacked my mother! I am going to kill him!"

Benson had moved over to the prisoner, looking to see what damage had been caused. She hauled him to his feet, and then a voice spoke from the door.

"That's not the man who attacked me." Ms. Freeman had come to see what the noise was.

"What?" Benson looked from their prisoner to Ms. Freeman, slightly bewildered. But Ms. Freeman continued to shake her head, "That's not him. You have the wrong man."

"That's...what I was trying...to tell you..." The prisoner murmured, his voice faint. There was a moment of silence, before he suddenly turned and retched onto the carpet beside him, throwing up the little food that had inhabited his stomach since yesterday evening. Then the world turned dark, and he collapsed back against the wall, unconscious.

Benson watched the prisoner slide down the wall, leaving a trail of blood behind him. She bent over him, slightly concerned by the amount of blood and the fact that the man was now unconscious. Sweat was beading on his forehead. She unbuttoned his shirt to see where the blood was originating from, and gasped when she pulled the material aside. His whole torso, literally every piece of skin, was covered in black and blue bruises, some aged with time, others relatively new. She could see, from here, that some of his ribs were broken. And on his back where gashes that could only have been caused by a whip. Gashes that was bleeding profusely.

"Elliot! A bus! Now!"

If you read this story before it is in the process of being edited. Read and Review.