The Major Redemption

Chapter 11

Starsky looked over to the Bosun an incredulous look on his face. 'He says it's Ivan, our cabin steward. Something about Hutch being German? I don't understand. Can you pull the file on Ivan, Alex?'

Moore nodded, and with a final backward glance at his now sleeping partner, they headed for the door. God, I only saw the little weasel in my cabin a while ago, acting like nothing was wrong. Both men made their way up to Alex's office and he started searching his files. Eventually, the Bosun pulled out a buff coloured folder and started to read.

'Seems Ivan Petrovich joined the crew in Canaveral. He's a new recruit to the cruise line and as yet we have very little information on him. He was taken on as a cabin steward because of his ability with languages. Says here he speaks Russian, Yiddish, French and German as well as English. Age 43. Religion…….'

'Jewish' Starsky finished for him.

'How d'you know that?

'He speaks Yiddish and he has a Russian last name. Just put two and two together. He's 43, you say. Does it give a place of birth?'

'Yes, Leningrad'

'I think I'm getting a picture here, but we need to find him. We need to do a systematic search of the ship. Can you get your men together for a briefing. But keep it low key. We don't want Ivan to get wind of what we're doing, OK?'

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An hour later, Starsky stood in front of the 30 strong security detail of the MV Adonis. Alex had introduced him and passed the small microphone over to the brunette, who was now eyeing it suspiciously. Finally he started.

'Thank you very much for attending. My name is Detective Sergeant David Starsky of the LAPD. You will all know about the murders which have taken place on board in the last two days. My partner, Detective Sergeant Ken Hutchinson has been the latest attack victim. He's still alive, but in a bad way. I've been able to speak to him and he's identified the attacker as Ivan Petrovich, a cabin steward on deck eight. Petrovich knows that Detective Hutchinson survived the attack so I would think he will be hiding out somewhere. I found my partner in the laundry room on deck five. I need you to pair off and take one deck each, one man checking every cabin on the port side of the ship, the other doing the same on the starboard side. The remaining members will take all common spaces. If we all start at the same time at the' he paused looking for the correct terminology before giving up and continuing 'pointy end, we should be able to flush him out. But when you corner him, he's mine, OK? No one is to tackle him without me there. Got it?'

He saw a host of nodding heads as he motioned for the Bosun to take over. Moore quickly read out a list of names, assigning men to the various decks and areas. Finally he said 'OK men, I'll give you fifteen minutes to get into position, then we start. I make the time 19.00. Go'.

Everyone moved away as Starsky looked towards the Bosun. I'm going back to that laundry room, see if I can pick anything up'.

Moore tossed a walkie talkie to the brunette. 'Keep in touch. I'll be on channel 18 if you need me. Good luck'.

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Starsky walked cautiously down the long corridor back to the laundry room on deck five. He checked his watch. 18.55. Five minutes and the sweep would begin. He paused outside cabin 5467 and looked over to the laundry room door. It was closed and he inched it open a little at a time, gun in hand. He checked he had a full clip and thumbed off the safety, cupping the weapon in both hands. His sore right palm protested the movement, but Starsky ignored it, moving silently into the room.

Someone had switched the light off and he groped for the switch. Finding it, he flicked it to the on position, but nothing happened. Alert now, he moved even more cautiously into the room, edging around the racking, trying to accustom his eyes to the dark, trying to use the periphery of his vision where the black and white sensors of the eye are situated.

As he walked forward towards the racking to which Hutch had been tied, his instincts took over and he became even more alert. He could hear muttering coming from the depths of the room. A conversation, but the voices sounded similar. He edged forward and sneaked a peek around the corner, pulling his head back as quickly as possible.

The little Russian was sat by the pool of now dried blood. He was on his knees looking away from Starsky, his back to the brunette. He was illuminated by the light of a flashlight on the floor and surrounded by a selection of knives, a belaying pin and, Oh fuck, a small revolver. Where the hell did he get that? OK Davey, take it nice and easy. The upwards light from the floor gave the small man an other – worldly appearance, enhancing the contours of his face.

Starsky listened. 'I'm sorry Father, I've failed you. I should have waited. I should have given them the whole message so that the stupid policeman would understand'.

'You needed more bodies to spell out the word, but you didn't wait, shmok'.

'I know, I'm sorry Father, but when I saw him asleep and his companion was unable to help him, I knew I couldn't wait any more. Sorry'.

Starsky listened to the mumbled conversation. What did it mean – the whole message? What word? He cast his mind back to the other bodies. The first, a blond man in his forties had three slashes on his chest in a letter H. The second, again a blond but younger had three slashes, this time like a letter U. Hutch had two wounds on his chest in the shape of…….Oh God…..a T. Crap. It couldn't be. Was he going to spell out Hutch on the bodies of his victims? Surely not. Why would he? Hutch had never seen him before.

Finally Starsky knew the only way to answer the questions was to ask.. Slowly, he aimed his gun straight ahead at the kneeling man and crept forward, his feet making no sound on the metal deck. He carefully tapped the Russian on the shoulder and sprang back, immediately on the defensive.

The small man turned as if he had felt a ghost, grabbing for the revolver. He looked up into dark burning blue eyes. Recognising Starsky as the man from the cabin with the 'Nazi' he stood slowly, pointing the gun at the detectives head uncertainly.

Starsky was in no mood for prevarication, but knew he had to take it slowly and make a connection – there was something about the little man that bothered him. Reaching back to his childhood Yiddish he started 'Shalom'.

'Shalom' the Russian returned in surprise. 'You are……'

'Jewish, yeah. From Brooklyn, New York. You?'

'Originally from Leningrad, but I've lived all over the world'. He cocked his head on one side, listening to his other voice. 'Father says you are the companion of the Nazi'.

The comment took Starsky aback. Nazi? Who's a Nazi? What's he talking about? He swallowed, realising the little man was most definately sick, that knowledge tempering his feelings, even though Ivan had almost killed his partner.

'Who's the Nazi, Ivan? I don't know what you mean. Tell me who the Nazi is?' he tried to keep his voice reasonable, conscious that the gun was still pointing unwaveringly at him.

'The man who kept you in his cabin. I saw how he treated you. You were tied to the bed. He's just like all the other Nazis, a Jew hater'.

Shit, he means Hutch! 'No, no, you got it wrong Ivan, Hutch is my friend. I work with him'.

The Russian was shaking his head. 'That is what he wants you to think. They're all like that. You must know what I mean. They will be nice to you, then they turn on you and make you do bad things – against the people you love'.

Yes, I think I do know – there's something there – what?.

Those Nazi's will lure you away from the places you feel safe, so that you will more easily do what they want.

Something of that rang true to, but, no, he wasn't a Nazi.

They will make you hurt people. They will make you do bad things and they will make you believe you are doing it for them.

Yes but Hutch hadn't made him do it, had he?

Listening to the words, Starsky's breathing quickened more. He had been in the same position.

Hutch had made him do bad things.

His world turned upside down. He'd done bad things to people he loved. Hutch!... No it couldn't be Hutch. He'd hurt Hutch. Confusion. Something seemed to snap inside his head. A physical break like a dam bursting, as repressed memories started to flood back.

He was cold and naked. He was in a white room and he was shivering and more tired than he'd ever been in his life. He was tied to a chair and there was something round his waist. He felt agonising pains coursing through his body - he was being electrocuted, the pains beginning in his back and another set further south in his genitals. He watched the blonde's face laughing and smiling in pictures projected on the wall. Then they changed to people dead and dying, but Hutch always laughed.

Then there was a man there, giving him water to drink, taking the pain away. He was a friend. Was that Hutch? No, Hutch wasn't there for him. The other man gave Starsky his clothes back and stopped the others from beating him.

Starsky was still cold and in pain, but the nice man had let him shower and dress and had shown him into a room where Hutch had been waiting .Why hadn't Hutch helped him? And the man had handed Starsky a cattle prod, all the time smiling and encouraging the dark haired Jew to hurt the tall blond man. Because Hutch hadn't been there for him. But he was hurting Hutch. He couldn't be the same man. Couldn't be Hutch telling Starsky to hurt Hutch. Confused.

Starsky felt the cold metal in his hand and heard again the raw screams as time and again he'd pushed the sparking rod against Hutch's pale flesh. Shouldn't be doing this, should I?

Oh God, I hurt you Hutch, I'm sorry, I'm sorry. And now you're hurt again.

Starsky was breathing hard. Trying to make sense of his memories, of his feelings. The memory of his abuser looking first like Hutch, then morphing into another face. He recognised it, but……….what was the name………he knew it, knew the name. SHARPE.

Clarity at last.

It wasn't Hutch who made him do the things, it was Sharpe. Hutch had been as much a victim as Starsky. Sharpe had given the orders. It was Sharpe who had made the others beat and torture him. Sharpe had made him hurt Hutch. Hutch was there all the time, but he was a victim too.

Not my fault.

Not my fault.

NOT MY FAULT.

A vision of the big blond man swam before his eyes. A smiling face; a laughing face. Then Hutch lying in the hospital bed, pale and hurting. And this madman in front of him had hurt Hutch.

Oh God Hutch, babe, I love ya.

As the flood of raw emotion washed over him, the conditioning finally broke for good.

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He realised he'd fallen to the floor and was sitting with the gun held loosely in his left hand resting on his knee as he held his head in his right hand. He watched as tears fell to make dark marks on the deck beneath him, echoing the dark blood marks opposite.

He had spent so long in therapy at Cabrillo State, talking about the abuse he had endured and the abuse he had meted out on his partner, but the therapist had never really understood him, never understood the depth of the programming he'd been subjected to. Had never been through anything like it himself. And yet here was a man who had almost killed his partner, but who really understood what Starsky had gone through and could identify with it.

Starsky looked up into the face of the little Russian, suddenly so grateful that a stranger had helped him rid himself of his demons and determined that as well as being brought to justice, he would get the help he needed..

But he stared into the barrel of the gun that was now inches from his head.