Jennifer turned her eyes toward Starsky and for the first time he noticed her eyes weren’t really brown.  They were sort of amber like a cat.  Why hadn’t he noticed before?

“I want you to look at my eyes.  Do not turn from them,” he heard her say.   “Now listen to my voice and follow it back.  Follow it back.  Back to the moment you met Morgan.”

Starsky locked eyes with Jennifer.  The amber eyes of a cat.  The amber eyes of a cat.  It was like he was traveling back and seeing those eyes the entire time.  He heard her voice.  He saw the eyes—the amber eyes of a cat.  He watched as the room faded and he saw only the eyes.  Then he heard the soft laughter of a woman and realized he was back at the party and a young blonde woman was walking towards him.  He could hear his voice telling the story, yet his mind was seeing the events in fast motion, people were moving faster than the eye could perceive.  His body relaxed as he saw the scenes unfold.  One moment he was at the party.  The next he was in the water, but he couldn’t feel the iciness of it this time.  He was watcher observing the action as it unfolded.

Starsky saw the action move forward, away from the icy water, away from the hospital.  Now he was in bed unable to move and Morgan was standing there with her dead eyes.  She was there moving toward him and he could not move.  He saw her as she touched his face.  He saw her whisper in his ear, but he couldn’t feel her hot breath.  Time passed and a man entered—a kindly man with hair the color of snow.  He stood there, his voice low. 

“She is a young, blonde woman, and you’ve just killed her detective Starsky,” the white-haired man said.

Starsky watched as another man entered the room.  He felt himself lifted and then time passed.  He saw the rode as they drove and then he was in a house with a fireplace.  The fireplace was blazing as the white-haired man smoked a pipe.  He took the pipe from his mouth and the fireplace was replaced by a film.  A film showing a young woman in a nightclub.  The club looked like something out of an old George Raft movie.  The woman was singing an old song but Starsky couldn’t hear the music.  He saw only the woman.  A man approached and put something in his had.  It was cold—so cold that it chilled him to hold it.  Then the camera moved and the woman stopped singing.  She came towards him.  Starsky heard his voice telling the series of events.  He heard himself say Marcus Welby, saw a fireplace with the fire the color of blood.  Saw the blackness in the fireplace then the woman was coming towards him and he heard the graveled voice of the white-haired man: . 

You are that man in the film.

Time moved and he was back in his room.  Passing, passing.  Three murders and then a forth, a fifth.  Every night the film rolled.  Every night he felt the cold metal in his hands. 

Starsky was breathing heavily when he heard the command of the amber-eyed woman commanding him to leave the past and return.

He returned as if he floated through time on the amber eyes of Jennifer.  When he returned he said one word, “Crabtree.” And then he collapsed.

***                                                                                                                ***

“What the hell did you do to him, Jennifer?”

“Call me Dr. Reese or I’ll walk out of here.  I have no desire to go to jail with your partner, no matter how much I believe him.”

“I don’t care what you call yourself, doctor,” Hutch shouted.  “My best friend is laying unconscious in there for who knows what reason.  What’s wrong with him?”

“He’s sleeping, you idiot,” she said tightly. 

Hutch stopped shouting, his face incredulous as her words registered.

“Sleeping?” 

“Yes.  If you would let me explain instead of ranting about my unorthodox practice, you would know that.”

“Okay,” Hutch said, taking a seat.  “Why is he sleeping?”

“The tea I gave him is also a relaxant.  He’s been through a lot.  The tea will allow him to rest for a few minutes.   Crabtree has done quite a number on him.  He’s going to be confused by some of the images he saw, but in time they will become clearer and make sense.”

“I’ve never heard of Crabtree whoever or whatever it is.” Hutch said, massaging between his eyes, and taking a seat on the couch. 

Jennifer sat next to Hutch.  “It’s a person.  Remember when he said Marcus Welby and the man with white hair?

“Yeah.  Strange.  Why would Starsky be talking about a television show?”

“It sounds like a man I knew about six years ago.  He was one of the psychiatrist who taught at the university I attended.  If it’s him, his real name is Douglas Foster.   He had white hair even then.  Prematurely grey.  His face is weathered so he looks much older than his years.  We use to call him Marcus Welby in medical school because of his uncanny resemblance to the television doc.  He lost his license after it was revealed that he was experimenting with a brainwashing technique on homeless men who had not exactly volunteered. I was the one who turned him in.” 

“Do you think he’s one of the guys who was involved in that brainwashing plot I told you about?” Hutch asked.

“Maybe.  He had this theory that anyone could be brainwashed into doing anything.” 

“And I thought Janet Harlow was behind this.”

“And she still may be involved.  I doubt the good doctor had the financial resources to do this on his own.” 

“Listen, I’m sorry about the way I acted a moment ago.  It’s just when it comes to him…”

“You become a mother hen,” Jennifer continued.

“Hutch smiled sheepishly.  “I just want to say, thank you Dr. Reese.” 

“You’re welcome.  But we’re not done yet.  We’ve got to find the doctor and help Starsky get over this Nyctophobia.”

 “Damn Janet Harlow,” Hutch said, running a hand through his hair.   “Give a man a horrible phobia just to make sure he doesn’t leave home so you can frame him for a murder he didn’t commit.”

“Her plot was well thought out. No witnesses to his whereabouts if he couldn’t go out after dark.” Jennifer added.

Jennifer cleared her throat.  “There’s something you’ve got to face, Hutch. Dr. Foster is quite good at brainwashing.”

“Not good enough to make Starsky into a murderer.”

“Perhaps.  But we can’t be sure.  Not until we get proff.”

Hutch raised his voice, “I can be sure.  This was a plot by Janet Harlow. What could be better than a man in jail for crimes he didn’t commit?  His entire life spent locked away thinking that he murdered three young women.”

Hutch heard the words Janet Harlow spoke less than a year ago:

“You will suffer as I have suffered.  You will live as I will live.  And one day you will beg for death and I shall not grant it.”