Heat

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Hutch becomes the next victim in a crime wave engulfing Bay City.

 

From the zine, “Blood and Destiny.” I’d like to thank Kassidy for giving me this wonderful opportunity, and thanks to Annie B. for being a fast, accurate, and supportive beta.

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“Oh God. Hold on Hutch-just hold on.”

Detective David Starsky swallowed the lump in his throat, pushing it down. Panic numbed his arms and legs as he knelt on Hutch’s bed next to his partner. He had to get a hold of himself for Hutch’s sake. He could do this. Focus.

Blood filled his vision. Hutch’s blood, shining and dark in the moonlight. It was warm and thick and it saturated the knees of his jeans. Hutch was on his back, motionless in a drug-induced paralysis. His eyes were open, blinking every so often. The blood dripped down from twin slashes, starting at either corner of his mouth and ending almost at Hutch’s ears. The wounds resembled a sort of sick smile, like the hollow grin of a jack-o-lantern.

But this was no movie and there was nothing clownish about it.

Hutch moaned, and Starsky squeezed his hand. “It’s gonna be okay,” he murmured. “Help is on the way.” The phone lay on the night table beside him, beeping monotonously, left off the receiver. He glanced out the window. The street was empty and dark. What the hell was taking the ambulance so long?

“Hold on, buddy. Lemme move ya a little.” Starsky let go of his partner and snaked his hands under Hutch’s shoulders. He lifted Hutch’s torso, awkwardly catching Hutch’s head when it fell back. Starsky slid in between his partner and the bloody sheet, pulling Hutch into his lap and gently settling him. He brushed a clump of sweaty blond hair to the side of Hutch’s forehead, but his partner’s only reaction was a delayed blink. Starsky swallowed again at the raw pain shining from Hutch’s blank stare.

He tried to relax, tried taking a deep breath, but the sour tang of blood was in the air and it unnerved him. Starsky lifted his gaze to the ceiling-to the heavens-and prayed, not for the first time, that everything would be okay.

The room was dark, somewhat messy, but undisturbed by a hand other than Hutch’s. There would be no fingerprints, no hair, no footprints . . . nothing to help them find the sicko who’d done this. A serial slasher had plagued Bay City for the past two weeks, leaving a trail of five apparently unconnected victims in his wake. The slasher entered their homes without a sound and left without a trace of evidence, as if he had walked through the walls. Attacked in their beds, the victims were injected with a paralytic drug and slashed across the mouth. A white mask concealed his identity and black clothing covered his body. He left no evidence-no clues, no messages, no motive.

The city panicked. The entire police department hadn’t slept in four days. The Feds were called in. And they were no closer to catching the guy than they were at the start.

Hutch moaned again, and his left hand twitched. Starsky instantly grabbed it, held it, and bent over to assess his partner. The blood flow was slowing, congealing on Hutch’s face. Hutch was as white as the bed sheets he lay on, and sweat glistened on his skin. The wounds themselves didn’t appear to be fatal, thank God, but Starsky had no idea what kind of havoc the drug in Hutch’s bloodstream was creating. The other victims hadn’t suffered long-term effects from the drug, but the other victims weren’t Hutch. The other victims hadn’t been forcibly addicted to street drugs less than a year ago. Starsky could feel the dread and fear rising inside him again, and he forced another deep breath. He had to stay calm. For both their sakes.

“Where in the hell is the ambulance?” he growled, turning his head to glare out the window. The long drapes obscured his vision, so Starsky squinted through the narrow opening, trying to get a view of the street below. There was no traffic at this time of night, just the soft glow of a streetlight and the occasional city-dwelling varmint. Then, as if heaven had finally heard his prayers, he heard it-a siren wailing in the distance.

He closed his eyes. Thank God.

“Hear that, Hutch? Help’s coming. You just hold on, you hear me? Hold on.” He tightened his grip, looking down at Hutch’s pale face. “Just think about your first date with Cassie Friday night-she’s gonna be gorgeous, ya know. All dressed up, smiling and happy . . . ”

Hutch’s leg tensed. Starsky reached out and pulled on the sheets, trying to untangle them from Hutch’s legs. He looked around the room, spotting a pair of jeans on the floor and a T-shirt hanging over the back of a wooden chair. Hutch was breaking out in goose bumps, but Starsky couldn’t get to them without disturbing him again. Hutch would just have to live with the small indecency of going to the hospital in his underwear.

The siren’s wail came to a crescendo, then silenced. Red and blue lights chased each other around the darkened room and Starsky heard vehicle doors slamming, equipment rattling, orders shouted. He pulled Hutch tighter, ignoring the unpleasant pull of tight, wet denim against his legs, and waited. The door to the apartment building opened and feet pounded up the stairs. Starsky called out and unconsciously squeezed Hutch’s hand.

Cold, calloused fingers responded weakly.

The apartment door burst open and bounced off the wall. A pair of uniformed paramedics entered with a stretcher and equipment in hand. Starsky called out again, directing them to the bedroom, and turned Hutch over to the straight-faced, no-nonsense men.

As he watched Hutch being stabilized and strapped to the board, fiery vengeance replaced the cold fear in his stomach. Hutch hadn’t had a chance. The slasher had broken in without a sound, injected Hutch, trapping him within his own body, then took a knife and mutilated him like a fucking helpless animal. Nobody did that to a man’s partner and lived to tell about it. Especially not Starsky’s partner. If Starsky had to tear this town apart to find the so-called slasher, then so be it.

Because now it was personal.

~o0O0o~

“Hutch, slow down. You need to take it easy.”

“I suggest you listen to your partner, Detective.”

Hutch pushed his heel into his shoe and straightened, shoulders and neck tense. Cold blue eyes pinned Starsky, ignoring the unhappy doctor. “What I need is to catch this son of a bitch. I’ll relax when he’s on death row.”

The row of dark knotted stitches held Starsky’s gaze in morbid fascination, and for a moment he was speechless.

“If you leave now it will be against medical advice. We need to monitor your lacerations for infection and also your body’s response to the drug you were given.”

“I’m fine,” Hutch growled, though his pale skin and trembling hands betrayed him. “Give me the forms and I’ll sign. I can’t stay here.”

Starsky watched with admiration as the stubborn doctor blocked Hutch’s exit. “Look, Detective Hutchinson-your wounds may not hurt much right now, but if the knife had went deeper, your lingual nerve would be severed and you would not be able to speak. There is always a chance of infection, even with the medications I’ve prescribed. We did our best in repairing the lacerations, but there will be scarring. Not to mention your body is still in shock from your ordeal. I suggest you seek counseling. And I’d like to make sure the drugs you were given have no long-term side effects.”

Hutch’s eyes narrowed in refusal. Starsky stepped in. “Just stay here today, Hutch. One day, okay? I’ll work on the case.” He patted Hutch’s shoulder, feeling the taut muscles. “Just take it easy, let your body rest.”

Hutch looked into Starsky’s eyes. “Come on, Starsky, what if our positions were switched? You think you could rest in some hospital bed while the man that attacked you was still out there?”

And Hutch was out the door before Starsky could find his voice.

Starsky shot the doctor an apologetic glance, then grabbed the prescriptions from the bedside table and followed his partner. Last night, Hutch had been whisked away while Starsky was guided to the waiting room and presented with a clipboard loaded with paperwork. After scribbling in all the blanks and returning them to the admissions desk, Starsky had paced the waiting room for three hours while Hutch had undergone emergency reconstructive surgery to repair the slashes. When they were done and Hutch had been moved to another floor, Starsky had talked to the doctor, who said that the procedure itself wasn’t that complicated. The cuts were clean, indicating that the slasher used a sharp-bladed knife and created a wound that wasn’t too difficult to repair-the doctor had cleaned the edges of the cuts and simply stitched Hutch back together. Starsky had even been assured that, over time and with the proper care, the scarring would be minimal.

The physical scarring, anyway.

The wound itself was painful and bled a lot and was incredibly noticeable and embarrassing. Degrading. Hutch wasn’t conceited or egocentric, but he prided himself on his good looks just as Starsky did. Hell, just as most hot-blooded men did. Starsky would be the first to admit that Hutch was a handsome guy with his blond hair and blue eyes. He was tall, in-shape . . . and that was just the outside.

Inside, Ken Hutchinson was a quiet, caring, selfless guy who tended to wear his heart on his sleeve. He was sensitive, though he didn’t like to admit it. This kind of attack, this sort of blatant brutality struck Hutch deeply. Starsky had sensed it the moment he walked into the hospital room hours ago. Hutch was withdrawn, his eyes were down, his arms folded over himself. Like he was hiding, or ashamed. The doctor had crowed over his own handiwork, trying to raise Hutch’s spirits by announcing his optimism for near-perfect healing. Hutch accepted the news with sadness in his eyes, listening absently about how to care for the wound, when to return for suture removal, and the estimated six to eight weeks of healing time.

Six to eight weeks of being marked as a victim, of being disfigured and defeated.

The thought would have crushed anyone’s spirits.

Starsky shoved the small squares of paper into his back pocket and jogged to catch up with Hutch. “Hey, slow down, will ya? Wait for me.”

Hutch whirled, pointing a finger at Starsky’s chest with flushed cheeks and narrowed eyes. The dark stitches stood out against his face, moving as he talked. “I can’t slow down, Starsky. Not knowing this lunatic is still out there, hunting other people. I was the sixth, and he’s not going to stop on his own. He likes this,” Hutch said, his face contorting in disgust. “He likes what he’s doing. It’s a game to him. Do you know what that feels like, lying there in your own bed unable to move as some psycho in a mask carves up your face?”

Starsky blinked, choosing his words carefully. The outburst had left Hutch out of breath. He put a hand on Hutch’s shoulder, squeezing firmly. “I want this guy as much as you do,” he said, looking into Hutch’s eyes. “But I don’t want you messing yourself up in the process.”

The lines on Hutch’s face softened somewhat, and Starsky felt the muscles under his hand loosen. “I’ll be fine,” Hutch said wearily. “I just need to get this guy.”

Starsky patted Hutch’s shoulder once before letting his hand drop. “We’ll find him, partner,” he promised. “He’ll pay for this.”

Hutch stood there, uncertainty clouding his eyes before determination hardened his face. Starsky smiled and steered Hutch towards the elevator. “Come on. If you won’t stay here, then I’m taking you home.”

“I’m not going home,” Hutch growled. “I’m fine.”

“You’re not fine,” Starsky said, nodding at a nurse as she passed by. Her eyes widened a little as she looked at Hutch, and Hutch turned away as they continued walking past. Starsky’s heart tightened. Was this a taste of what was to come? “You need to go home. Actually you need to stay here, but you seem hell bent on having things your way. So I’ll keep working, call you if anything turns up.”

“No.” Hutch’s voice was icy again. “Look, I swear you’ll be the first person I tell if I start to feel bad, okay? But I can’t stay here, doing nothing while this bastard is God knows where doing God knows what. I can’t do that. Don’t ask me to do that.”

Starsky hesitated a moment too long and Hutch rushed on.

“I’m going to the station with you. I’m your partner, remember? Besides, I have to give my statement.”

Starsky sighed. There was no use trying to convince Hutch to stay. He stabbed the elevator button with his thumb and it lit up. He stared at it. The last test had shown the drug was almost gone from Hutch’s blood stream. Under normal circumstances it had no lasting side effects. Starsky had let out a sigh of relief at that. After Forest and the heroin, one of the things Hutch feared most was being drugged against his will. It struck a personal chord with both partners-Hutch couldn’t stand being helpless and Starsky couldn’t stand feeling useless.

Except this wasn’t a normal circumstance.

A second drug had shown up in the tests, one the doctors were still trying to determine. The combination of the two seemed to cause a loss of muscle control and a feeling of paralysis. Starsky shivered at the thought of unknown substances being forced upon his partner. What the hell kind of sick creep were they dealing with?

The elevator dinged and the doors opened, allowing the two men to enter. Hutch pushed the button for the ground floor, the doors sliding quietly shut.

Starsky leaned against the wall, keeping an eye on his partner. The doctor had classified the known drug as a tranquilizer. Which means their suspect would have to have access to controlled drugs, while also being familiar enough with human anatomy to prevent permanent damage to his victims. Were they looking for a doctor? A nurse? A janitor with a medical journal? And why wouldn’t the slasher choose to cause irreparable damage-or even kill the victims? The list of possible suspects grew faster than they could weed through it, and it changed almost daily.

Starsky sighed, imagining the pile of never-ending paperwork on his desk. Talk about job security.

The elevator slowed and bounced to a stop before the doors opened, revealing the general ground-level chaos. An overflowing waiting area separated the front desk from the ambulance bay. A group of doctors, nurses and paramedics rushed a bleeding woman on a gurney into the elevator as Starsky and Hutch stepped out. After a brief stop at the admissions desk, Starsky led them to the sliding glass doors and out onto the street. He had spent too much of his time here last night and was eager to leave. Hutch followed, his head down and jaw clenched.

Because the pandemonium wasn’t as concentrated outside, the openness projected an illusion of freedom and even tranquility. The sun shone brightly, a brilliant contrast from the pale moonlight under which they had arrived, and the streets of Bay City shimmered with rolling waves of heat. Starsky stole a glance at Hutch as they walked. He squinted as if the bright sunlight pained him, but then again Starsky was, too.

“You okay?” he asked, pulling out the keys as they neared the Torino. The doctor had mentioned counseling. He knew Hutch would refuse a trip to the department shrink, so Starsky determined he’d try his hand at Hutchinson psychology.

Hutch nodded and offered a half-smile that contorted the row of stitches. “I’ll be better once we get this guy.”

And if Hutch would open up. “Yeah. Me too.”

Starsky opened the door, his head down in thought. At least Hutch hadn’t insisted that he was “fine.” No one could be fine after going through what Hutch had. Starsky had been there to question the other victims after their attacks, and he saw just how not fine they were. The women were tearful and upset, the two males quiet and withdrawn. Hutch was strong-he bounced back from physical attacks and set backs quicker than anyone Starsky knew-but Hutch wasn’t invincible. But despite the many feelings Hutch had to be struggling with, getting him to open up about it was damn near impossible.

They slid into the car simultaneously and the solid bang of the car doors shutting echoed inside the vehicle. Starsky turned the key and the Torino rumbled to life. With a quick glance at his partner, Starsky pulled out onto the street, his course set for Ridgeway Avenue.

Suddenly Hutch wasn’t as exhausted as he appeared. “Where are you going?” he snapped, turning away from the window.

“I’m taking you to my place,” Starsky said, keeping his tone patient and even. “You look like crap. I’m not letting you walk into the station looking like a zombie extra from some cheesy horror movie.”

The minute the words left his mouth, he wished he could retract them. Hutch’s cheeks flushed and he ducked his head, turning towards the window once more. “Shit,” Starsky backpedaled, “Hutch, I didn’t mean it like that-”

“No, it’s okay. I know you didn’t.”

Starsky took a breath. “I just think you’d feel better if you took a shower and changed clothes. Then I’ll take you to the station and you can give your statement. And then and only then,” he continued with a grin, “if you pass Dobey’s inspection, you can help me solve this case.”

Hutch nodded, propping one elbow against the window and rubbing his temples. “The quicker I get back to work, the sooner we can catch this guy,” he said, his voice lacking heat. “It’s the only thing that matters now.”

The stitches looked even darker as the sun’s bright rays highlighted them. Starsky forced himself to keep his eyes on the road. “You know, you’re gonna have to talk about it sometime.”

Hutch’s eyes closed, his head still in his hand. “About what?”

“About what? The attack. What the slasher did to you.” Starsky needed to hear it from Hutch’s mouth because his own imagination offered some pretty nasty images. He knew Hutch, knew his partner needed to get it off his chest. Burying the memories of the attack would only cause his emotions to fester.

“There’s not much to say,” Hutch replied after a few moments. “He broke in, drugged me, and slashed my face. The end.” Hutch stared out the window, barely moving.

“The end?” Starsky repeated. “Just like that? What about how it made you feel, Hutch? What about what you were thinking?”

“Hey, you want details, you got five other victims you can question.”

Starsky clenched his jaw. “The other victims aren’t my partner, the guy I work with and go to Huggy’s with and even go on vacation with. Don’t let this thing eat you up, Hutch. Talk to me.”

Hutch remained silent as Starsky turned onto Ridgeway and for a moment, Starsky thought he’d succeeded. He coasted the Torino to a stop in front of his apartment and killed the engine, turning to give Hutch his full attention.

Still looking out the windshield, Hutch said, “You want the details, read it in my statement. I’ll be sure to put a copy on your desk.”

Stunned, Starsky watched as Hutch got out of the car, slamming the door behind him.

With a long sigh, Starsky pulled the keys out of the ignition and followed his partner.

~o0O0o~

“It just happened too fast. I thought I heard a noise just before the phone started ringing. I started to wake up, to move . . . then I felt a sting on my neck from behind me. I tried to get up but I couldn’t make it out of the bed. Then I couldn’t move.”

Starsky leaned forward, his elbows digging into his knees, balancing on the edge of the hard plastic seat. He watched Hutch intently from the other side of the two-way mirror. Captain Dobey stood behind him overseeing the proceeding with a calm, stony façade.

Hutch had made it known that he wanted some privacy when he relived the attack. It wasn’t surprising. Starsky resisted the urge to follow Hutch into the interrogation room and instead settled for taking up audience in the observation room. If he couldn’t be there for Hutch physically, then he would damn well be here emotionally.

“That was when the perpetrator administered the drug?”

Hutch nodded slightly, his eyes transfixed on some invisible spot on the wall. A Styrofoam cup of water sat untouched on the table before him. “Yeah. I was sleeping face down. After the drug took effect, he rolled me onto my back.”

“What did the perpetrator look like?”

“He seemed tall, at least as tall as me. He was dressed in black-black jeans, black turtleneck, black leather gloves. The mask was white, looked porcelain . . . it was plain, nondescript, like the masks of Comedy and Tragedy. I could only see his eyes.”

Starsky watched as Hutch trailed off, staring at the imaginary point on the wall. “Come on, Hutch,” he murmured under his breath, urging his partner to keep going.

When Hutch didn’t continue, the officer prompted him. “What color were his eyes?”

Hutch blinked and shifted, taking a breath. “It was pretty dark, but I think they were brown. Light brown.” He grabbed the cup and took a long drink.

“What happened next?”

Starsky inched even closer to the glass.

“I lay there staring up at the ceiling. I could see him over me, next to the bed. He didn’t say anything . . . just got on the bed, straddling me . . . ”

Starsky swallowed, barely breathing.

Hutch was looking at his shoes now, a blush coloring his cheeks. “He had one hand on my chest. The knife was in his other hand. He raised it in the air-higher than he should have, like it was a big dramatic moment, like he was making a point . . . and then he cut me.” Hutch blinked and looked up at the officer. “Slashed me across the mouth,” he clarified, pointing at the stitches.

Starsky let his eyes fall shut, rubbing a hand over his face. His eyes burned and his chest was tight. The fact that this psycho was still wandering the streets bothered him now more than ever. He was proud of his partner’s progress, but Hutch was being professional, leaving out the emotions and fears that Starsky knew were there.

“What happened next?”

Hutch shifted in the wooden chair, his fingers playing with the edge of the table. “He sat there for a minute staring at me. I felt the blood dripping down my face. I wanted to get my gun, to shoot him-hell, I just wanted to hit him, something-I guess that was the point, him watching me. Showing me how helpless I was.” Hutch let his hand fall into his lap and blinked. “Then he just left.”

“He left?”

Hutch nodded. “I don’t know how long I lay there until Starsky showed up. It felt like hours, but I’m sure it was only minutes.”

It was only minutes-Hutch’s doctor had told Starsky that the drug took effect quickly but was short-lived, just enough time for the slasher to do his damage and escape.

“Officer Hutchinson, you said the attack took place at approximately two a.m. If you were unable to move, how was it that Officer Starsky knew to show up at your apartment?”

Starsky’s breath caught in his throat. What the hell?

“What kind of question is that?” Hutch retorted, his surprise masked by anger. “You can’t think my partner had something to do with this?”

“You don’t think it’s a little odd that he showed up when he did?”

“I think it’s a damn miracle!” Hutch shot back. “Starsky is not the slasher, he’s not working for the slasher . . . we’re partners, trying to solve this case!” Hutch paced the room. Starsky could feel his anger through the glass. “Anyone who thinks differently can answer to me!”

Starsky was on his feet too. Is this how desperate they’d become? Officers turning on their fellow officers? “Cap’n-”

Dobey nodded, his eyes avoiding Starsky’s. A young officer left the room, appearing a few seconds later in the doorway of the interrogation room.

A few words were exchanged, then, “All right, Detective Hutchinson, you are free to go.”

Hutch snorted. “Releasing me from giving my own statement? That’s good of you.”

Starsky watched just long enough for Hutch to leave the room before he wheeled around, facing Dobey. “What the hell was that all about?” he asked, moving closer to the big black man. “I’m a suspect now? You think I’d do that to my own partner?” He was fuming. “Was anyone going to bother telling me this?”

“It’s beyond my control, Starsky,” Dobey replied, his voice flat and even. He looked at Starsky with regret. “We can’t afford to leave any stone unturned, you know that. We have to play this one by the book. The last thing we need is an investigation by IA.”

Starsky clenched his jaw, watching through the mirror as the recording equipment was cleared from the table. He understood the pressure the captain was under-they were all under pressure-but the accusation still hurt.

His words were sharp. “A lot of good I’d be doing sitting in a holding cell, while the slasher continues hurting people.”

Dobey’s eyes narrowed. “Which is exactly why you’re not in a holding cell. What were you doing showing up at Hutch’s place when you did, anyway?”

Starsky sighed, running a hand through his curls as he turned away. “He acted a little off when I dropped him off at his apartment earlier. I know this case has been hard for him-for us all-so I called him when I got home. You know, just to see if he wanted to talk.”

Dobey’s left eyebrow raised. “At two in the morning?”

Starsky raised his hands. “You should have seen him, Cap’n. He was like a zombie. Can’t blame a guy for worrying about his partner.” Dobey’s gaze lost focus for a second as he nodded in agreement. Starsky continued, “So when I didn’t get an answer, I got worried. Got this feeling in the pit of my stomach. I tried to ignore it but I couldn’t. So I drove over there.” Starsky remembered the drive, the butterflies in his stomach as he sped down the dark streets. “It’s a good thing I did, too.”

Dobey held Starsky’s gaze a moment longer before a small smile curved his lips and the worry lines on his face faded. “It’s a good thing.” His face hardened a little as he jerked his thumb over his shoulder. “Get out of here, Starsky. I want you on the streets, turning over every stone you find, you got it?”

“Yes sir,” Starsky nodded, returning the smile briefly before grabbing the door handle and letting himself out into the hallway.

He caught up with Hutch at the coffee pot at the end of the hallway. He watched as Hutch poured himself a cup, then set the pot back on the warmer with a shaky hand. Hutch was still a little pale and looked like he could use a good night’s sleep. As Starsky opened his mouth, Hutch locked gazes with him, his eyes the color of blue steel.

“I’m fine,” Hutch growled, then turned towards the bullpen. “I just need some coffee.”

Starsky followed, less than convinced. “Okay, whatever you say,” he mumbled, holding his hands up in surrender. “Hey-” Starsky elbowed Hutch. “There’s Cassie. You guys still on for Friday?”

The young clerk, a few years younger than Hutch and a few inches shorter, walked closer to them with her head down as she flipped through a handful of envelopes.

“Hey, Cassie,” Hutch smiled, reaching out to lightly snag her elbow.

She jumped, her hands jerking the letters against her breasts in surprise. “Oh Hutch, you scared me,” she faltered, her eyes wide, immediately drawn to the grotesque stitches. “I . . . um . . . are you okay? I heard about what happened-I’m sorry.”

Starsky watched her back up a step, keeping her hands folded against her body. She didn’t seem comfortable talking to them.

Hutch let his hand fall to his side. “I’m fine. Just making sure we’re still on for Friday.”

Cassie looked to the left as her face scrunched. “Oh, um . . . about that,” she started, glancing at Hutch and then down the hall in the direction she was headed. “My sister called last night-she’s sick and needs help taking care of the kids. I’m sorry,” she ended, looking at Hutch almost hopefully.

Starsky didn’t miss the absence of an offer to reschedule. He narrowed his eyes, watched Cassie’s discomfort.

“Oh . . . okay,” Hutch replied, seeming to shrink next to Starsky. “Maybe another time, then.”

Cassie offered a small, hurried smile as she looked towards the bullpen once more. “Yeah, sure. Thanks, Hutch. I’ll . . . see you around, okay?”

She was gone before Hutch could say goodbye.

Starsky inched forwards, just barely touching his shoulder to Hutch’s. “Hey.”

Hutch stood motionless, simply blinking in the silence. “It’s because of my face.”

“No, you heard her-”

“Don’t lie for her,” Hutch interrupted, finally looking at Starsky. “I know the truth, could see it on her face. She’s disgusted-”

“Hutch-”

“I would be too,” Hutch said softly. “I am.”

Starsky grabbed Hutch’s bicep. “You can’t help what that sick freak did,” he said quietly, willing Hutch to believe him. “If Cassie is too shallow to look past what’s been done to you then you don’t need her anyway.” He looked into Hutch’s eyes, hating the pain he saw there. He gently pushed Hutch in the direction of the bullpen. They crossed the threshold and he changed the subject. “You take your pill yet?”

Hutch pulled open his top desk drawer and held up an amber pill bottle, shaking it once as he raised an eyebrow at Starsky.

Starsky pulled out his chair and sat on the desk, settling his feet on the seat’s polished wood. “Good boy,” he said, grabbing a file and pulling it closer. He opened it, watching as Hutch swallowed a dose of medicine, then scanned the pages. Satisfied, he said, “All right, let’s go over this one more time. There’s gotta be something we’re missing.”

Hutch took a deep breath and opened one of the thick files on his desk, keeping his face shielded from view by the paperwork. “We know he wears a mask,” Hutch said. “Actually, we don’t really even know if it’s a he.”

Starsky shook his head. “We have more than that,” he said, scanning the pages of statements and case reports. “Assuming it is a guy, we know he injects his victims with Ativan combined with a mystery drug to ‘paralyze’ them. His signature is a slash across the face.” He kept his eyes down, resisting the urge to stare at the row of stitches across his partner’s face. “Those are the only constants, which still leaves a lot of questions,” he said, setting the file on the desk. “How’s he choosing the victims? What’s his motive?”

“Why the slash across the face? I mean, it hurts like a son of a bitch, but it’s not fatal,” Hutch’s eyes were unreadable from behind the file. “He’s not trying to kill people.”

“It’s gotta mean something to the slasher,” Starsky replied. “It’s symbolic to him somehow.”

Hutch fell silent at that, then looked down and flipped through the illustrated hospital reports. “There’s nothing linking the victims. Three females, two males. Two of the girls had brown hair, one had blonde. Both the males had brown hair, I have blond. Eve color varies too. There’s no pattern. He’s picking at random.”

“Not random,” Starsky corrected, meeting Hutch’s gaze. “There’s a motive here, we just don’t know it. Or else . . . he’s just plain crazy.”

Hutch rolled his eyes in agreement. “He doesn’t talk to the victims, doesn’t leave anything behind. This guy is meticulous, he knows what he’s doing. These are premeditated attacks.”

Starsky raised an eyebrow. “So he’s got a record? Been in the military? Killed puppies as a kid?”

Hutch dropped his elbows on the desk and closed his eyes, rubbing his temples as he kept his face down. “How does he get access to the drugs? Buy them on the street? But we don’t even know the name of the other drug-and how’s he getting it?” The words were mumbled into the space between the desk and Hutch’s chest.

“So we need to run background checks on all the hospital employees, look for anyone suspicious.” Starsky looked down at that exact paperwork in his hand. “Again.”

Hutch let his hands fall to the desk and he looked up. “Why use the drug at all? Why not just knock your victims unconscious?”

Domination. An image filled Starsky’s mind, one of Hutch laying helpless on his bed while the slasher stood over him, flashing the blade of a knife. Like rape, the slasher destroyed his victims emotionally by acts of violent domination.

Starsky inhaled sharply, clearing the image from his mind. They had to explore every angle. “How tall was he? Maybe he-or she-isn’t strong enough to subdue another person.”

Hutch shook his head, watching as a uniformed officer passed by. “Big enough. Plus he had the element of surprise.”

Starsky wanted to hit something. They’d found more questions than answers and it was frustrating. It felt like they were grasping at straws. “Okay, so maybe he uses the drug because he wants the victims to see him.”

“Then why wear a mask?” Hutch countered. “This guy is one big walking contradiction! He keeps the victims alive so they can watch him, but he wears a mask. He doesn’t kill anyone-just slashes their face. He’s driven to do this over and over, but we have no motive and no clues!”

“He doesn’t want to be caught,” Starsky said. “You already said it, he likes what he’s doing.”

Their gazes locked in a stalemate, neither man moving for several heartbeats. At last Hutch sighed, once more dropping his head into his hands, this time more from exhaustion then embarrassment. “We need to get this guy, Starsk.”

Starsky pushed himself off the desk. “Well, come on, let’s get something to eat. We’re not helping anything by hanging around here. Maybe Huggy’s heard something by now.” He watched as his partner stood also.

Hutch’s movements were guarded, but he maneuvered without trouble. The pain pills must have kicked in. “If Huggy knew something, he’d call us. You just want food.”

“Yeah, so what? A man’s gotta eat,” Starsky said as they headed for the door. “You’re telling me you’re not hungry?”

“No, as a matter of fact, I-”

“Starsky! Hutch! Get in here!”

The detectives stopped, glancing at each other before backtracking to Captain Dobey’s office. They stepped inside the door and immediately the Captain thrust a paper at them. “This tip just came in. An anonymous caller gave us a location of the person he thinks is the slasher. Said the guy had a knife. The caller saw the suspect dumping a bag of bloody clothes into a dumpster.”

“An anonymous caller?” Starsky asked, taking the scrap of paper and reading the address. “That’s only a few blocks away.”

“And it’s the only lead we’ve got, so go!”

~o0O0o~

“You’re staring at me.”

Starsky scoffed, looking out the windshield. “Am not. I’m driving, how can I be staring at you?”

Hutch’s arms folded over himself, facing out the passenger window. “I don’t know how you do it, but I can feel you doing it. Knock it off.”

Starsky took a deep breath and swallowed his concern. He couldn’t really blame Hutch for his moodiness-Cassie’s rejection stung, and Hutch’s self-image was shattered. He seemed twitchy and off-kilter, always trying to hide his face, never truly relaxing. At least the pain pill faded the creases from the corners of his eyes, but did nothing for Hutch’s inner turmoil.

“How do you feel? Any effects from the drug?”

“I’m fine,” Hutch said. “I don’t feel anything.”

Starsky didn’t know how true the statement was, but at least the tremors had finally left Hutch’s hands. He still looked dead on his feet, however. Starsky decided to change subjects. “What are the chances of this being our guy, huh? Think we’ll get lucky?”

Hutch shot him a sour look. “With the way this case has been going?”

“Well, you could at least pretend to be optimistic. I read somewhere that if you say something enough, you’ll start to believe it.”

“That doesn’t make it true.”

Starsky held his tongue, knowing that anything he said would be the wrong thing. Tension grew heavy in the silence that followed, even as the two avoided eye contact. The questions were on the tip of Starsky’s tongue-What’d he do to you? What’d he say? but Starsky kept his mouth shut. He wanted details, wanted to know what was going on inside Hutch’s head, but it wasn’t the right time, not when Hutch was mad and exhausted. Not while they were working. Eventually, though, maybe over a few beers late at night, Hutch would confront his feelings about what happened last night. Even if Starsky had to force it out of him. They couldn’t work like this, couldn’t function as partners with this between them.

“Right here,” Hutch grunted, pointing at a street sign on the right.

Starsky shifted his foot to the brake pedal and slowed the car, taking the turn smoothly. This was the street the anonymous tipper had given-now they were looking for a row of dumpsters.

Starsky’s heart beat a little harder. He doubted the suspect would still be here, but the possibility of finding some cold hard evidence was the best thing in weeks to happen. All they needed was a fingerprint. A drop of blood. A strand of hair. Anything. It was time for the slasher’s reign to end.

It was time to end this nightmare.

“Up there,” Hutch pointed, straightening as he pointed at the dumpsters.

Starsky slowed the car, the engine rumbling, and parked next to the dumpsters with just enough room for Hutch to slip out. They exited the car together, weapons drawn. The street was silent. Deserted.

Starsky went first, arms up, gun pointed at the sky as he approached the rusted metal dumpster. The heavy stench of decay lingered in the air, getting stronger as he drew closer. Starsky searched the ends of the alley before turning his gaze upwards, searching the fire escapes and broken windows of the buildings on either side. It appeared they were alone, but Starsky rarely let appearances deceive him. He kept a tight grip on his gun and moved next to the dumpster.

Hutch moved next to him, facing the street as Starsky peered in. “Got anything?”

Starsky looked over the mound of crumpled and rotting trash, batting away a large black fly as it circled. Splashes of unidentifiable liquids coated the peeling green paint; cardboard boxes jutted from slumped hills of plastic bags and dead plants, building materials and broken toys. Starsky poked at one of the bags with the muzzle of his gun, retracting it when a cloud of flies erupted into the air.

“Starsk?”

He sighed. It was obvious if there were evidence in here, it wouldn’t be conveniently laying on top of the pile. They’d have to dig for it. “We gotta go in.”

Hutch turned his head, eyeing Starsky with a raised eyebrow. “Go in?”

“I can’t see anything from here. We’re gonna have to search all these bags.” Starsky’s stomach flip-flopped at the thought, and he swallowed.

Hutch turned away, his shoulders stiffening as he kept lookout over the street. The row of stitches settled into a straight line. “Go ahead. I’ll cover you.”

“Me?” Starsky squawked. “Why me?”

“You’ve had more experience with dumpsters.”

“What? No I haven’t! Just because of that one time-”

“Just get in the dumpster, Starsky.”
Starsky turned up his lip in disgust. He was nauseous already. “But-”

“Go! The sooner you get in and find the evidence the sooner we can leave.”

Starsky sighed. “Fine,” he grumbled, clicking on his gun’s safety and shoving it down the waistband of his pants. “I don’t see why I always have to be the one to do the dirty work,” he continued, placing his hands on the rusty lip of the dumpster. He cringed at the feeling of stickiness under his fingers. “Next time you’re gonna do the dumpster diving.”

Hutch remained silent as Starsky pushed himself up and over, landing with a sickening squish on the pile of trash. A cloud of angry flies buzzed away, abandoning their feeding grounds. The stench was ten times worse now and Starsky’s eyes watered as he began shifting through the bags. “I’m gonna need five showers after this,” he complained, tearing through a thin plastic bag. It was full of papers and magazines. He moved on. “You owe me for this, you know? You can start with lunch at Huggy’s. After I get cleaned up.”

Hutch relaxed, letting his gun drop to his side. “Fine-I’ll buy your lunch. It’ll be a big salad with a nice, tall glass of iced tea. How’s that sound?”

Starsky’s foot slipped and he plunged headfirst towards the trash, catching himself on the dumpster. His hand landed in a jelly-like blob and he made a face. “That sounds like you’re feeling suicidal,” he warned, grabbing a piece of newspaper to wipe off his hand. The action resulted in a mess of black ink and slime. “Gross. You know I don’t eat rabbit food.”

“You should. You’ll live longer.”

“The type of food I eat has nothing to do with how long I’ll live,” Starsky replied, tearing open another trash bag. “It depends on the accuracy of the bad guy’s aim.”

Hutch shot him a scowl, clearly dispirited by the joke, and the look in his eyes silenced Starsky. Reminding his partner that their friendship could end anywhere, anytime, depending on a well-placed bullet, hadn’t been a well-advised thing to say. Hutch already knew it, anyway.

“I don’t see nothing in here but trash,” Starsky said, placing his hands on his hips. He watched as Hutch holstered his gun and stepped forward, reaching for the closest bag. “Maybe our anonymous tipper was just an old lady with nothing better to do than-”

“Wait, what’s this?” Hutch asked, peering through the hole he made. He ripped the bag open the rest of the way and both detectives found themselves staring at a pile of black clothes, darkened in splattered patches by dried, flaky blood.

For a moment neither detective moved, too shocked by the revelation of their discovery. Then Hutch looked up at Starsky, an unreadable expression on his face, and Starsky grinned. “Looks like we-”

There was a noise at the end of the alley, as if something had shifted or fallen. It dropped both of them into a crouch. Starsky grabbed his gun and flicked off the safety in one smooth movement, straightening his arm in the direction of the noise. Before he finished scanning the area, a man dashed from the shadows and sprinted away.

Without so much as a glance at each other, the two took up pursuit. Starsky leapt out of the dumpster and hit the ground hard, then took off running behind Hutch. They quickly reached the end of the alley and turned left, heading down the street Starsky and Hutch had arrived on just minutes before.

“Stop! Police!” Starsky shouted, though the warning had no effect on the fleeing stranger.

The man was dressed in black jeans and a black turtleneck. He was of average height and build, if a little on the lanky side. He had light brown hair.

Starsky pushed himself faster, feeling his muscles burn. Hutch was a few feet ahead, his longer legs propelling him further. The man veered away from the street and into a gas station’s pumping lanes. Hutch and Starsky didn’t miss a beat, trailing the panicked man through the gas pumps in an erratic course, obviously hoping to lose his pursuers.

Hutch went wide while Starsky stayed on the man’s trail, following his course. “Police!” Starsky yelled again. “Freeze!”

Hutch was ten feet away when the man stopped. The movement was so unpredictable that Starsky was still running forward as the man whirled, grabbing the nozzle from the pump beside him. Before Starsky knew what was happening, a stream of colorless gasoline hit him in the face, splashing over the bridge of his nose and splattering outwards.

Nerveless fingers dropped his gun and reflexively, Starsky gasped, his eyes wrenching shut a fraction of a second too late. Liquid fire seared his eyes and slid down his throat, burning a path to his stomach. Starsky dropped to all fours, blinded and coughing, unaware that the suspect had eluded Hutch and was making an escape.

I’m on Fire! His mind screamed it over and over, all his nerve endings alight with intense pain. He gagged and fought for breath, sinking lower to the wet concrete, eyes shut tight and producing streams of tears. He couldn’t breathe.

There was a voice above him, low and soothing, then arms wrapped around his chest, and Starsky was pulled backwards, his heels dragging over the blacktop. His world narrowed down to the pain-he couldn’t comprehend anything else. His chest burned and his eyes felt as if they were melting, but through the agony, he recognized the presence of his partner and latched onto it. Hutch would know what to do, Hutch would help. Suddenly the air turned cold- air conditioning. They came to a stop on cold linoleum and Starsky’s stomach lurched.

“Hang on, Starsk,” Hutch said, grabbing Starsky’s head. Then a shout: “I need water, now! Call an ambulance!”

Starsky felt his wet clothes sliding off and he shivered despite the relief. Tears continued to drop hot trails down his face and his lungs burned. A wave of nausea hit him as his stomach tried to reject the gasoline. “‘M gonna-” he whimpered before rolling to the side, retching.

“No!” Hutch’s hands were firm, pushing him onto his back. Starsky felt Hutch underneath him-behind him-and he realized he was in Hutch’s lap. “You gotta keep it down, Starsk,” Hutch ordered, pressing Starsky’s head against his shoulder. “It’ll be a lot worse on the way back up. Where’s the damn water!”

Starsky fought against the stomach contractions, trying to follow his partner’s orders. The searing pain in his eyes was getting worse and he reached up, wanting to rub away the fire.

“Here,” Hutch said, and Starsky felt a cool liquid splash over his closed eyes. “You gotta open your eyes, Starsk.”

Starsky didn’t so much open his eyes as he had them forced open for him. The fluorescent light above them, in combination with the air-conditioned air, made his eyes burn worse before a stream of water blurred his vision completely. Then the fire began to ease. His thrashing weakened.

“That’s it,” Hutch murmured in his ear. “Relax. Let me help you. I know it hurts.”

Giving in to Hutch’s ministrations, Starsky worked on calming his breathing. His esophagus felt as if the lining had been seared away, and it probably had. His entire chest hurt. His stomach gurgled, still trying to rid itself of the gasoline he’d swallowed. He lurched again, unable to control the painful retching, but Hutch held him down.

“Lie still,” Hutch said. “The ambulance is coming. Just take it easy, Starsk.”

With little other choice, Starsky tried to accede.

~o0O0o~

Starsky tried to hold in an appreciative grin as Nurse Stevens leaned over him, reaching out to turn off the monitor. He swallowed. The up-close view of her perfect breasts was enough to make him want to drink more gasoline.

“Okay, Detective Starsky, you’re officially free to go.” She backed up and smiled, one arm resting on the head of his bed. “Is there anything you need?”

He offered her his best smile. In a weak and raspy voice, he tried: “Dinner with you Saturday night?”

She giggled and looked away. “Sorry, Detective. I’ve got a boyfriend.”

Starsky sighed. “The story of my life.”

Hutch entered the room, rounding the corner absently, studying a paper in his hand. “Hey Starsk-good news.”

“You got me a single nurse?”

Nurse Stevens rolled her eyes.

Hutch looked up. “What? No-we got a lead on the suspect.” He glanced at the nurse and she nodded, moving towards the door to excuse herself.

“Okay Detective, you try to stay out of trouble, all right?”

“With this for a partner? Impossible.” He watched her giggle again and then disappear into the hallway. He turned his attention on Hutch. “All right, what do you got?” he asked, swinging his legs over the bed. He swallowed, wincing at his raw throat.

“We got lucky,” Hutch replied. “Forensics was running tests on the clothes we found and they came up with this in one of the pant pockets.”

Starsky buttoned his jeans and took the paper Hutch was holding out. It was a photocopy of a handwritten appointment card dated one week from now. A medical insignia decorated the top left corner. He brought it closer to his face, struggling to decipher the nearly illegible scrawl. “What’s this? Who’s Doctor Troy?”

Hutch radiated energy. “It doesn’t matter who the doctor is-what matters is who has the appointment. We find that out, we find out who owns the clothes and possibly who the slasher is.”

Starsky looked up, taking a moment to digest the news. “Hutch, we didn’t just get lucky, we won the jackpot!” His heart raced at the floodgate of opportunities. “Did you call them yet? Get a name, an address? Hutch, if the clothes we found belong to the suspect at the gas station-”

“Then I should have taken him out when I had the chance,” Hutch said, his face stony in self-deprecation. “I let him get away.”

Starsky handed the paper back and pulled on his shirt, suppressing a cough. “Well, I for one thank you for that.”

Hutch blinked and focused on Starsky. “You okay now? No permanent damage?”

“Nah, the doc said I’ll be back to normal in a day or two.” His throat felt like he’d spent the past week projectile vomiting, and it hurt to swallow. But his eyes had stopped burning and felt infinitely better. He’d been treated with saline and antibacterial ointment, put on oxygen, had his skin treated where it’d been degreased by the gas, and had his stomach pumped all within an hour of arriving at the hospital. Now, four hours later he was still a bit queasy, but because of Hutch’s immediate ministrations the doctor had deemed him well enough to check out.

“You wanna go home?”

It was obvious that Hutch wanted to get back to the station, but consideration for each other always overrode everything else. He looked dead tired-he had followed the ambulance in the Torino, stopping along the way to grab Starsky some clean clothes. Once at the hospital, he’d spent his time hovering around Starsky and taking phone calls from the station. Underneath the weariness, Starsky saw Hutch was excited about the case developments. Starsky was excited, too-the possibility of finally catching the slasher was becoming very real now. It was about time they caught a break.

Starsky shook his head in response. “No, I’m good.” It was best to move while the trail was hot.

And besides, Nurse Stevens had already given him a very relaxing sponge bath.

Starsky shrugged on his holster. “Come on, let’s go talk to the psycho’s doctor.”

~o0O0o~

“Can I help you gentlemen?”

Starsky pulled out his badge and flashed it at the straight-faced receptionist. She glared at it, then at him, her expression souring even more behind her thick, black-framed glasses. “You’re detectives?”

“With the BCPD,” Starsky said. Hutch hung back, keeping himself partially hidden from her view. “We need to know the name of the patient who is scheduled to come in next Friday at 3:45.”

She raised her eyebrow critically. “Just a name, right?” she asked, flipping through the thick appointment book. “Don’t you need a warrant for confidential information?”

Now it was Starsky’s turn to raise his eyebrow. Her familiarity with police procedures was odd. “You have many requests from the police department to check your records?”

“No.” She shook her head. “But I watch a lot of those crime shows on TV.”

Starsky turned to look at Hutch, rolling his eyes. Hutch managed a nervous smile before the receptionist tapped her index finger against the paper.

“Here it is, Robert Elkins. He sees Dr. Troy once a week.”

“What for?”

The receptionist narrowed her eyes. “Now that I don’t think I can tell you.”

Hutch stepped up to the counter, his shoulders tense as he gripped the edge. “Then we need to speak with Dr. Troy.”

Her eyes widened as she looked at Hutch and the ugly row of stitches across his face, but she recovered quickly. “He’s with a patient right now.”

Hutch didn’t back down. “Well, get him out.”

Starsky glanced at Hutch, a little surprised by the curt order from his usually mild-mannered partner. “Please,” he added.

The receptionist sighed heavily and turned to her younger coworker. “Dana, watch the front. I’m going to get Dr. Troy.” She ended with a glare at the detectives.

She went out of sight and Starsky shifted his weight. The building smelled of cleaning products and medicine and was both impersonal and spotless. The colors were neutral and lacked life. The carpet was gray. Paintings of floral arrangements decorated tan walls, and a few cushioned chairs were scattered along the edges of the room. It was the kind of waiting area that could turn minutes into hours and numb your mind.

He would bet all the money in his wallet that the receptionist they’d spoken with had decorated it.

Starsky turned and looked at Hutch. He was standing on alert, his eyes red from exhaustion, albeit clear and searching, calculating. Beneath them, dark circles were beginning to stand out on his pale complexion, and Starsky wondered when he’d slept last. For that matter, when had they eaten last? But the cuts on his cheeks weren’t as red and angry looking, and the stitches no longer looked tight-both signs that the wound was healing.

A middle-aged man entered the building and walked up to the counter. Hutch ducked his head, turning away before the arrival could stare, and Starsky felt a pang in his chest. True, the cut was healing, but it wasn’t, couldn’t be, fast enough for either of them. Every stranger’s shocked reaction cut Hutch to the quick and his pride couldn’t handle much more. The cut was a painful and constant reminder of the nutcase who eluded them.

Starsky took a deep breath, forcing his face to remain a stoic mask despite the pain the action caused his lungs. His chest was tight, and between the trauma of getting drenched in gasoline and the treatment in the hospital, he was tired. After this case was solved he was going to sleep for three days.

“Detectives?”

A middle-aged man came around the corner, the receptionist from hell right behind him. She glared at them and took her seat as the doctor approached and held out his hand.

“I’m Dr. Troy. Cindy tells me you wanted to see me?”

Starsky shook the doctor’s hand, not failing to notice the gold wedding band and manicured fingernails. “I’m Detective Starsky and this is Detective Hutchinson.” Their hands fell apart as the doctor reached towards Hutch. “Is there somewhere we can talk in private?”

A flicker of nervousness flashed through Dr. Troy’s eyes and he smiled uneasily. “Sure. Of course. Right this way, gentlemen.”

Starsky and Hutch were led down a short hallway and into a small lounge. On one side of the room were a couple of chairs and a large leather couch, and on the other side a counter, sink, and cabinets. Large potted plants filled the dark corners and pictures of two smiling blonde girls adorned the walls. Obviously Dr. Troy had decorated this room himself.

“Have a seat.” The doctor motioned as he sank into one of the chairs. Once they were settled he raked a hand through his short, dark hair and asked, “What is this about?”

Hutch spoke first, his spine ramrod straight as he sat on one end of the couch. “We have reason to believe that one of your patients is involved in a crime and we’d like some information about his background.”

Dr. Troy’s eyebrows furrowed. “One of my patients? I see.” He sighed and leaned back. “Which one?”

“Robert Elkins.”

Dr. Troy nodded. “Yes, Robert. I see him on a regular basis.”

“What do you see him for?” Hutch asked.

The doctor shifted, crossing his legs. “I really can’t divulge that type of information,” he said, his gaze traveling between the two detectives. “I’ve taken an oath of patient confidentiality-”

“Forget your oath for a minute here, Doctor,” Starsky said. “Now, we can get up, drive back to the station, sit around and wait a few hours for the paperwork while your patient runs free around Bay City. We can only hope he’s not busy cutting up more innocent people in the meantime. Or,” he paused, waiting as the doctor’s eyes widened in understanding, “you can just tell us what we need to know. Your choice. Do you want to claim responsibility for this happening to someone else?” he asked, gesturing to Hutch’s face. It was blunt, but desperation weighed heavily on them.

Hutch remained silent, his eyes locked with Dr. Troy’s.

“You think Robert is the slasher?” Dr. Troy asked, uncrossing his legs as he leaned forward. “Do you have any evidence?”

Starsky was about to remind the doctor that they were the ones doing the questioning, but Hutch produced the photocopy of the appointment card and handed it over.

“This was found at one of the crime scenes, and right now it’s the most convincing piece of evidence we have.” Hutch said. “Now tell us what you know about Elkins.”

Dr. Troy studied the paper with furrowed brows, then leaned back and sighed as he glanced at a framed certificate on the wall. “Robert is a deeply troubled man,” he began absently, folding the paper in half and handing it back to Hutch. “He came to me five years ago after the death of his foster mother.”

“They were close?”

“No. Quite the opposite, actually. His foster parents were strict disciplinarians, often physically abusing him as a child.”

Starsky shifted on the couch, cataloguing the slasher based on this new information. Child abuse victims were raised with violence, and it was often a cycle that continued when they reached adulthood and sometimes became the abusers themselves. “And his birth parents?”

“Killed in a car crash when he was eight years old.”

Hutch, ever the compassionate one, made a small sound of empathy.

Starsky ignored it. “Did he tell you about it?”

Dr. Troy’s eyes jumped between them. “Robert was in the car at the time of the accident, in the backseat. They were on their way to a birthday party when a semi hit them from the side.” The doctor pinched the bridge of his nose, shutting his eyes for a moment. “He watched his parents die a very bloody and painful death.”

Starsky sighed. He was sympathetic, sure-no one should have to go through the pain of watching his family die. Elkin’s problems were deeply rooted emotions, and he might even believe that he was bringing some sort of vengeance to himself or his dead parents.

But that didn’t make it right.

“Is he on any medications? Muscle relaxants?”

The doctor shook his head. “He’s on several medications, but none of them muscle relaxants. Why?”

Starsky ignored the question. “What are his medications for?”

Dr. Troy shifted. “I diagnosed him with a variety of conditions-anxiety, manic depressive disorder, and schizophrenia.”

“Anxiety?” Starsky and Hutch looked at each other.

“Yes, it is interrelated with his manic depression.”

Starsky snorted. “And this guy is still walking around? Shouldn’t he be locked up in a padded room somewhere?”

“As I said,” Dr. Troy said, “Robert has been a client of mine for years. He’s on medication and never misses an appointment. If I had the slightest doubt that he wasn’t safe, I’d be the first to call someone.”

Starsky snorted. Either Dr. Troy was a lousy doctor or Elkins put on a magnificent performance.

Hutch glowered. “Do you have an address?”

“Yes. Cindy will get it for you on your way out.”

Starsky took the hint. They probably wouldn’t get any more out of the doctor, but then they’d gotten all they really needed. He stood, reaching out to shake hands. “We’ll be going then,” he said. “Thank you for your cooperation.”

Dr. Troy returned the handshake and turned to Hutch. “Anything to help. If Robert really is the slasher, please contact me. I’d hate to think my judgment is that poor.”

Starsky nodded his head as they approached the door. If his patient were the slasher, they’d be doing a lot more than contacting him.

“One more thing,” Hutch said. “Have you prescribed any Ativan to Elkins?”

Dr. Troy blinked, clearly caught off guard. “Um-yes. I had him on it a few months ago for a trial period. Why?”

“Is it possible for a patient to get it without your knowledge?”

“Absolutely not.” Dr. Troy shook his head. “It’s in a locked drawer in my office. Only the nurses and I have the keys.”

“How much contact do your nurses have with your patients?” Hutch asked.
Dr. Troy glanced at the wall with a small shrug. “A fair amount. They take the patients into the exam rooms, do all the precursory work, make notes in the chart as I dictate, then see the patient to the front. Where are you going with this?”

“Thanks,” Hutch said, closing the topic. “We’ll be on our way now.”

As soon as they were out in the hallway, Starsky leaned in towards Hutch. “You think one of the nurses gets it for him?”

“Who knows?” Hutch half-shrugged. “He could’ve forged a prescription or even stolen one of their keys. We’ll need to do background checks of all the employees.”

“Maybe he never took the meds for himself, maybe he kept them all to use on his victims.”

Hutch nodded in agreement. That meant getting a warrant, which took time they didn’t exactly have, not with the slasher still on the loose. For now, they would get Elkins’ address and pay him a little visit.

Starsky approached the front desk and Cindy glared at him. He offered a disarming smile. “We need the address of Robert Elkins,” he said. “Please.”

She remained motionless, turning her gaze to Hutch, then back to Starsky. With a sigh, she rolled her chair backwards, stopping against the large filing system and beginning to search through a section of the manila files. She grunted and pulled a thick file from the shelf. Then she wheeled herself back to the desk, opened the file, and copied the address onto a piece of scrap paper. “Here,” she said, handing it to Hutch.

Starsky reached out and snatched it, shoving it in his pocket. “Thank you,” he said, not feeling very grateful. If first impressions accounted for anything, it was a wonder this woman didn’t run off all of Dr. Troy’s patients.

In the Torino, Starsky turned the air conditioning on full blast before backing out of the space. “Let’s see if Robert is home now,” Starsky suggested. “If he is, we’ll stop by and say hi.”

“There’s a lot of people that would like to say ‘hi’ to Robert right now.” Hutch nodded and grabbed the radio. “Dispatch, this is Zebra Three, come back.”

As Hutch contacted Mildred and got Robert’s address, Starsky couldn’t help but feel good at the change in his partner. The spark had returned to Hutch’s eyes, the confidence to his voice-like a dog with a bone. Hutch was no longer wallowing in self-pity. It was obvious that Hutch was pleased with their discovery. Hell, Starsky was pleased.

And hungry.

After Hutch had jotted down the address, he asked, “You wanna grab something on the way back?” as he turned the car onto the street.

Hutch shook his head. “Not hungry.”

Starsky frowned. “You haven’t eaten anything all day. You gotta eat to take those pain pills.”

“I want this guy. We’re close.”

“I know.”

Starsky glanced at him, noticing the slumped shoulders and slight scowl. Hutch stared out the window with his elbow on the doorframe, shielding the sun from his eyes. The other arm was bent across his lap, picking at a loose thread on the bottom of his shirt.

Trying to be invisible.

“Okay. But if he’s not home, I’m driving through some place, got it?” he asked, turning his attention back to the road.

Hutch shrugged. “Okay.”

“Your face will heal, Hutch,” Starsky blurted. Might as well get to the root of the problem. “Just give it time. You won’t look like this forever.” Starsky didn’t mention the scars-they both knew at least slight scarring was inevitable.

Hutch tensed but kept quiet.

Starsky sighed. Bullet wounds, stab wounds, burns, sickness, even forced drug addictions he could fix. But inner demons . . . those were much more complicated.

Those were something Hutch would have to fix by himself. Starsky just hoped Hutch would at least let him in to help.

~o0O0o~

Starsky looked over Hutch’s shoulder, peering at the open file as he took a big bite of his hamburger. He chewed, holding it with one hand as he reached out and pointed with a greasy finger to the typed paper. “Says he’s a waiter at that burger joint on Fifth,” he mumbled, then swallowed. “Wonder if the food’s good.”

Hutch brushed off his shoulder with a look of disgust and held the file up higher in front of his face. “Says he was caught shooting dogs with BB guns when he was twelve, then at seventeen was caught again for tying firecrackers to the tails of stray cats.” Hutch shook his head. “He’s a winner all right.”

“Look,” Starsky said, touching the bottom of the page and leaving a grease spot. “His girlfriend called in a fight they were having, said he hit her.” He took another bite of the hamburger. “This guy has a history of violence, all right.”

“And it sounds more and more like he could be the slasher,” Hutch added. “Dead parents, abused by his foster parents, animal abuse, domestic abuse . . . not to mention the schizophrenia. And his clothes covered in blood. We have more than enough here to check him out.”

“All right,” Starsky said, straightening. “Let’s do it.”

Hutch shut the file and shot to his feet, quickly moving to Dobey’s door and knocking on it. Dobey bellowed his invitation and the detectives entered, the half-eaten hamburger still in Starsky’s hand. He kicked the door shut behind them and took a seat, taking another big bite, content to let Hutch do the talking.

Dobey glared at Starsky, then looked to Hutch. “You two better have something good-the mayor just called again.”

Hutch reached forward and laid the file on the table, then leaned back and crossed his arms. “Robert Elkins. We found his bloody clothes in the dumpster before chasing down the perp at the gas station. We tracked him down through an appointment card in one of the pockets. His doctor has diagnosed him with several mood disorders, including schizophrenia. He was also prescribed a drug matching the one in the victim’s blood. The guy is a genuine nutcase with the means to carry out the crimes.”

Dobey flipped through the reports, grunting his percipience. “Motive?”

Hutch glanced at Starsky, and Starsky shrugged. The guy was certified crazy-probably acting on a motive that only made sense to him. They’d find the motive once they talked to him.

Hutch answered, “Undetermined. Some sort of imagined vengeance, most likely.”

“We’ll worry about why he’s guilty after we’ve proved that he is,” Starsky added.

Captain Dobey shut the file and lifted his head. “Good work, boys.” He leaned back in his chair. “This is the most promising lead we’ve gotten. Call in when you’ve got him in custody, you hear? Now get out there and bring this creep in. Let’s wrap this case up!”

“Yes sir,” they replied simultaneously. Hutch rose first as Starsky crumpled his empty hamburger wrapper and raised his arm for an overhead throw into the garbage.
“Starsky!” Dobey barked, but the foil was already airborne and landed neatly in the trashcan.

Starsky grinned sheepishly as he stood. “You see that, Cap’n? Nothin’ but air.”

“Out!” Dobey bellowed, pointing to the door.

And Starsky was gone.

~o0O0o~

The Torino coasted to a stop next to the curb, jerking slightly as Starsky downshifted. The sun sank low behind the row of run-down rental houses lining the street. The streetlights were just coming on, flickering as the moths began to gather about. A cluster of grubby, long-haired children peddled past the detectives on a collection of what looked like hand-me-down bicycles. At the end of the block, a chained pit bull lifted its leg against a tree.

“Boy, this place really comes to life at night,” Starsky muttered, pulling his gun from his holster just enough to ensure its readiness. A drop of sweat rolled down his spine.

Hutch’s mouth tightened into a thin pressed line, causing the stitches to stand out like rows of tiny spikes. “Let’s do this.”

Starsky turned away, squinting through the dimness at the house beside them. Robert Elkins, aka the slasher, lived inside-the man more than likely responsible for the mutilation of six people, including Hutch. Long weeks of turmoil and investigation had finally led them here after a careless mistake by the slasher himself. Everything they had worked and sacrificed for all came down to tonight.

Tonight the terror would end. Starsky’s stomach twisted in a nervous knot and he swallowed his excitement.

Bringing in the slasher was about more than getting this scumbag off the streets. It also meant closure for Hutch-escape from the private emotions that had stormed violently behind the blue of his eyes since the night of the attack. And maybe once Elkins was rotting in jail, Hutch would open up-let Starsky shoulder some of the pain he knew Hutch was suffering.

He’d do anything for Hutch-that was a fact his heart had long known.

“Let’s go,” Starsky said, patting his weighted holster once more. For security. They opened the doors simultaneously and stepped out into the warm suburban night. The smell of grilling meat floated to them on a soft breeze, and in the distance they heard the squeals of playful children. Starsky pushed the door shut softly-if Elkins was in the house, they didn’t want him to know of their arrival. Stealth and surprise were two assets that could make or break them tonight. They couldn’t afford to lose the slasher again.

Dark-colored drapes were drawn tightly across the dirty windows, but untrusting that they’d do the job of keeping them concealed, Starsky led them quickly to the corner of the house, out of view from anyone inside. He grabbed his gun and held it at the ready, muzzle pointed up at the sky. His heart pounded against his ribs, and his abused throat itched as he breathed faster. Starsky jerked his chin in the direction of the wooden front door, then motioned with his free hand for Hutch to cover the back. They had to be quick-Elkins had already proved himself slippery and resourceful.

Starsky could still taste the gasoline from their last encounter. He remembered the pain and tensed. It made him want this guy more than ever.

Hutch nodded, his own gun grasped between both hands and moved past Starsky, out of sight, behind the house.

Starsky waited, allowing Hutch enough time to get in position and get ready. He studied the house, noticing the dirty and cracked foundation, the peeling paint, the rusted and sagging gutters. Tufts of dandelions spotted the yellow grass. Weeds sprouted through the cracks in the crumbling sidewalk. A dented and dirty Impala was parked at an angle next to the house and under it, a scraggly yellow tomcat lay in the shadows, flicking its tail lazily.

He frowned at the car’s condition-it was a 1967 Super Sport model, a classic just like his Torino. The car would be eye-catching if it were cleaned up, worked on . . .

A loud pop echoed down the street as a streetlight blew, and Starsky drew in a breath, realizing it was time to move. His thumb slid over the safety, clicking it off, then he began his advance on the door. A sliver of light shone from around the curtain as he passed the window, but all else was silent, save for the thundering heartbeat in his ears. His feet crunching over dead grass and gravel, Starsky sidled against the house, stopping against the front door. A dirty, worn welcome mat was under his feet and Starsky withheld a snort of irony.

His fingers tightened around the Beretta’s grip. Starsky faced the door, took a step back and breathed deeply, then kicked just to the left of the handle, splintering the flimsy wood and dislodging the doorframe.

“Police! Freeze!” he shouted, elbows locking the gun at shoulder height as he swept the room. His gaze was everywhere at once: the sagging floral couch, the battered recliner in the corner, the empty coat rack on the wall, the bookshelves lined with thick medical textbooks, then over the half-wall and into the brightly lit kitchen, searching the refrigerator, the tiny card table, the sink.

A full second went by and nothing moved.

But the TV was on and flickering, and the faint smell of pizza lingered in the air. Starsky whirled, a second too late.

Elkins was right behind him, arm up and plunging towards Starsky’s neck before Starsky stopped moving. There was a pinprick, then a burning sensation, then something akin to Novocain flooding his veins. His fingers turned to ice, his limbs weightless, and he heard more than felt the gun fall to the floor. Elkins stepped back, grinning, and Starsky fought for control of his own body. He was sinking, wrapped in invisible molasses and crumpling to the floor under his own weight.

Panic flared in his chest. The last thing he saw was a ceramic lamp careening towards his head.

~o0O0o~

Starsky woke up slowly, his surroundings gradually coming into focus. Around him were worn and stained shag carpet, broken bits of lamp, and a few splatters of blood. His eyes hurt, his temples throbbed. His body was leaden and numb thanks to the drug that must have still been coursing through him. A thin nylon cord was wrapped around his chest, thighs, and ankles, securing him to the small couch. His hands were tied together at the wrist, resting in his lap. Blinking, Starsky lifted his gaze. Hutch was on the opposite side of the room, tied in similar fashion to the recliner.

“Hutch,” he tried, his tongue dry and swollen in his mouth. He wasn’t sure if the mumble had been understandable, so he tried again louder. “Hutch.”

Hutch was lax, his chin on his chest. Slowly his head began to roll, struggling to return to consciousness. Starsky was afraid whatever he’d been shot up with was interacting with one of Hutch’s prescriptions. Come on, wake up, partner.

Starsky looked around the room. Aside from the chairs having been moved, everything was the same. The drapes were still drawn, the TV was still on, the smell of pizza. Elkins, however, was nowhere to be seen.

And that worried Starsky most of all.

“Starsk?”

Starsky’s attention snapped back to his partner. Hutch’s head was up and he blinked, his brows furrowed. Starsky was too far away to see the size of his pupils.

“What . . . ” Hutch started, confusion evident on his face. “He got the jump on us?”

Starsky nodded, regretting the action when the room spiraled out of control. “Yeah. You okay?”

Hutch squinted, his shoulders flexing as he tested his bonds. “I’ll live.” He lifted his head and searched the room, his lips in a tight line. “Where is he?” Hutch slurred. His eyelids drooped and he couldn’t seem to hold his head upright for long, increasing Starsky’s concern tenfold.

“I’m right here,” Elkins said cheerily, suddenly announcing his entry into the living room. “Sorry to keep you waiting.”

The false pleasantries stirred resentment and Starsky clenched his jaw, studying the man who had reigned with terror over Bay City for the past month.

Robert Elkins was thin. His mop of graying brown hair was overgrown past the tops of his ears, covering his eyebrows. His brown eyes shifted continuously and were deeply set, making his nose more pronounced. His clothes could have been from a thrift store-they were too short for his tall, hunched frame, and his jeans were threadbare in places. He wore no jewelry, no watch. There was nothing distinct about him.

Other than the large butcher knife he gripped in his left hand.

“Nice place ya got,” Starsky said. “Very comfortable furniture.”

Elkins glared. “I see a face full of gasoline didn’t take away your sense of humor, pig.”

“Funny guy. Let me ask you what you think you’re doing?” Starsky’s voice was contemptuous, and he pinned Elkins with an icy glare. “You kill us and more will come looking. You’ll be hunted and trapped like the scum you are,” he goaded. “You can’t run forever. You will be caught.”

Elkins grinned, one corner of his mouth curling to reveal yellowing crooked teeth. His left eyelid twitched. “You think I don’t know that? You think I didn’t know that the moment I started this?” He laughed, turning so that he could see both detectives. The knife glinted. “Of course I’ll get caught-I’m not stupid. I know my time will end.”

“Then why?” Hutch’s cheeks were flushed and he was panting, but he kept his gaze steady.

“Why?” Elkins laughed, his voice confident and mocking. “Why not?” He approached Hutch, running his fingertips over the length of the blade as he moved. “People are so much fun to kill, aren’t they? They cry and scream and beg, then they bleed to death. The brain is deprived of oxygen and they grow quieter, eventually rendering them unconscious. Quite a peaceful way to die, actually. Watching it makes me feel . . . ” Elkins took a deep breath, as if searching for the right word. “. . . in control.”

Starsky continued to struggle against the bonds, ignoring the pain in his wrists. This guy was seriously off the deep end.

Elkins grinned at Hutch, a feral smile, like a wolf before its prey. “You gonna cry for me, Blondie?” He leaned in closer and Hutch leaned back, his face stony. “You gonna beg?”

“Go to hell.”

Elkins gave Hutch a solid backhand across the face, drawing blood from the newly scabbed cut.

“We know about your parents,” Starsky interrupted, his chest loosening slightly when Elkins’ attention was diverted from Hutch. “We know they were slaughtered right in front of you. You were what, eight years old when that happened? That must have messed you up some, huh? Made you start blowing up old ladies’ cats?”

“Shut up,” Elkins hissed, the amusement gone from his face. He turned his back to Hutch and started for Starsky, pointing the sharp end of the knife threateningly. “Just shut up. You don’t know what you’re talking about.” His eyelid twitched and his shoulders hunched awkwardly. “Just sit there and shut up or I’ll make it so you’ll never say anything again, understand? Just ask your friend back there-the exact same cut, just half an inch deeper, and the nerve is severed. You’ll never speak again.” Elkins took a deep breath. “You don’t know anything.”

“Of course I do,” Starsky taunted, intent on keeping the psycho away from Hutch at all costs. In his lap, his wrists were slick with warm blood. “I know all kinds of things about you. I know where you work, where you live, how you beat your last girlfriend.” Elkins looked bewildered and Starsky gloated, “That’s what happens when you leave evidence at the scene of a crime. Which was a pretty stupid move, by the way.”

Elkins narrowed his bloodshot eyes. He stood directly in front of Starsky, breathing heavily. “What are you talking about? What evidence?”

Starsky rolled his eyes, camouflaging his nervousness about the knife in Elkins’ trembling hand. In the background, Hutch sat slumped with his chin against his chest. “Your doctor’s appointment card-it was in the back pocket of your bloody pants.”

Elkins’ gaze turned inward, and then his face contorted in anger. He jabbed at Starsky’s chin with the knife. “Yeah? Well, look where that information got you! Just look!” He laughed, waving the knife. “A lot of good it’s going to do you now, cop! All those things you know about me-they’re not going to get you out of this alive, are they!” He leaned closer, his stale breath blowing in Starsky’s face, and whispered, “I’m gonna cut you just like I cut your buddy back there. He was so easy . . . just laid there and cried like a fucking baby. He let me cut him.” The knife trailed down Starsky’s cheek. “You gonna cry, too?”

Starsky’s eyes slid to Hutch, who was watching through lidded eyes with a mixture of pain and embarrassment. Starsky glared at Elkins, jerking his head away from the blade. “Fuck you.”

Elkins flinched, his shoulders reaching his ears in a lightning fast movement before he growled and lunged, grabbing Starsky’s left wrist with one hand and swiping the knife with the other hand. “Fuck you!” Elkins screamed back, spittle landing on Starsky’s cheek. “Maybe that’ll shut you up, fucking cop!”

“Starsky!”

The room went silent as Elkins stepped back, grinning. Starsky blinked, his entire body tense, humming with adrenaline.

Then the pain hit him.

Blood dripped steadily from the severed end of his pinky finger. Starsky watched the bright red stain blossom across the tops of his thighs and the couch cushions. His left hand was bloody and burned with agony. Numb with shock, Starsky’s gaze dropped to the floor. There, on the carpet beside his bound feet lay the tip of his finger.

Coldness washed over him as he looked at Elkins. “Bastard.”

Elkins laughed and stepped back, and Starsky met Hutch’s concerned gaze. The two looked at each other, motionless and silent, as Elkins spoke.

“Now see what you made me do? I’m going to have to get new couch cushions. They were a gift from Lisa. Pretty girl-she worked at the furniture store on Fifth . . . ”

Elkins was mumbling to himself now, his gaze on an invisible point in the corner, his fingers playing over the knife’s edge. Starsky sucked in a deep breath, pushing aside the agony in his hand. He stared at the stump of flesh on the floor, his brain unable to comprehend that it was his fingertip. Would he be able to hold a gun now? Write? For the first time since he woke up tied to this stinking, rotten couch, he wondered if they would get out of this alive.

“Did you kill her, too?” Hutch asked in a low voice, interrupting Starsky’s growing panic. “Did you slice her up like all the others? Did you hit her?”

“Shut up,” Elkins growled, taking a step towards Hutch. “Lisa was nice to me. She loved me. Not like Mother.”

Hutch was straining to keep his head up. He watched Elkins wearily. “So you killed her. Admit it. You’re a monster.”

Elkins raised the knife and Starsky jumped in. “No, Hutch, he didn’t kill her. She left him. She found out how he likes to break into people’s homes and mutilate them in cold blood. Isn’t that right, Elkins?” Starsky taunted, relieved that for the moment Hutch was forgotten. “She couldn’t stand the sight of you and walked out. Lisa found herself a real man.”

Elkins twitched, his body jerking and contorting as he leapt forward, grabbing Starsky by the hair. “Shut up!” he screamed, his voice breaking as spit flew. “Don’t you talk about her like that! You don’t know what it’s like to lose everyone you’ve ever loved!”

Starsky winced, blinking against the overhead lights as his head was bent painfully back. He swallowed, his throat making a loud gulping sound. He tried to keep his composure.

Elkins twitched harder, his knuckles tapping against Starsky’s skull. “I think I’ll show you what it’s like,” he growled, the knife glinting above Starsky’s right eye. “I’ll show you how much it hurts. Then you’ll understand. Then you’ll know why I have to do what I do.”

Starsky breathed heavily through his nose, his lips pressed together in a thin line of determination. His whole body was tense, anticipating Elkins’ next move.

Elkins grabbed his wrist in a painful grip. He raised their joined hands, his eye twitching rapidly, and held the knife against Starsky’s right wrist as blood trickled down his left arm. “Tell me, pig,” he sneered, the blade slicing its way through Starsky’s flesh, “Is there any room in the world for a one-handed cop?”

“No!” Hutch shouted. “Don’t do it. You’ll only make it worse for yourself.”

Elkins froze, the knife still digging into Starsky’s wrist. “You want me to cut off your hand instead, Blondie?” he asked. “‘Cos someone here is going to lose a hand, and it ain’t gonna be me.” He giggled, and his eyelid twitched. “So seeing as how you two are partners and all, why don’t you decide? Whose hand do I cut off, cop?” His voice turned steely. “His or yours?”

Starsky strained to meet Hutch’s gaze despite the fingers in his hair, forcing his head back. He shook his head as much as he could. “Hutch, no.”

Sweat dripped down the side of Hutch’s face, streaking the dried blood on his cheek. He stared at Starsky, his eyes conveying trust, regret, determination. “Mine,” he said. He blinked, breaking eye contact with Starsky. “Take mine.”

Starsky’s hand was released to drop heavily into his lap.

“No!” he said as Elkins started for Hutch. “Take mine.” Elkins stopped in between them. “Well, isn’t this cute?” he sneered. “Both ready to die for the other, and for what? So the other can go through life carrying the guilt of knowing his best friend died for him? You’re cowards. Neither of you wants to live in guilt, so you both volunteer to die. So stupid. So vain.”

Starsky’s hands rested heavily in his lap, his fingers tingling painfully. As the slasher approached Hutch, Starsky looked around the room for his gun and flexed his hands, urging feeling to return. There was a fraying knot next to his knee and if Hutch provided enough distraction, Starsky thought he might could free himself and take Elkins out. He began to pick at the rope with bloody fingers.

“But since you volunteered first, I’ll do you the honors,” Elkins continued, cutting Hutch’s right arm free with a jerk of the butcher knife. He grabbed Hutch’s wrist and pulled it forward, stretching the arm tight before lifting the knife. “I dated a nurse once,” he said proudly. “Met her at the doctor’s office. She taught me a thing or two about anatomy . . . before I killed her.”

Fuck the knot-he couldn’t get a good enough grip on it and it wasn’t loosening at all. Instead, Starsky pulled at the rope binding his hands, using the oozing blood as lubricant. Dislocating the thumbs hurt like a bitch, but it wasn’t nearly as painful as dying would be. Starsky’s jaw clenched, watching Elkins taunt Hutch. He worked the ropes harder.

“You’re wrong, you know,” Hutch said, his voice weak. “You’re not the only person who’s ever lost someone they love.”

Elkins snorted. “Shut up.”

“You don’t have to do this,” Hutch continued. “We can help you.”

It was too late for Elkins to receive any sort of help, but it was a good stall tactic. Starsky pulled with all his might, inching the rope over his right thumb joint, his shoulders burning with the effort. Keep talking, Hutch.

“You can’t help me,” Elkins shot back. “Nobody can help me. I’m not stupid-don’t think you can sell me some bullshit about cutting me a deal. If I go to jail, I’m never coming out, so just shut up!” He reached up with the knife, narrowly missing Hutch’s face as he jerked backwards. “I’ll make you be quiet, do you want that? I’ll cut you again!”

Starsky eyed the lamp on the table next to him. It was porcelain and fairly sturdy. He pulled harder, panting through the agony of ripping skin and stretching tendons.

“Is that why you go for the mouth, Elkins? To make people shut up?” Starsky taunted. “Well I got news for you- it doesn’t work.”

Ignoring Starsky, Elkins traced the knife over Hutch’s wrist with enough force to draw blood. Hutch winced and tried to withdraw. “Just give up,” he growled. “Turn yourself in. Make it easy on yourself.”

Elkins grinned, feeding off the pain he was causing. “Never.”

The cool confidence in Elkins’ voice froze Starsky’s movements. He looked up and watched in horror as Elkins’ knuckles whitened, his bicep bulged, and the knife pressed into Hutch’s wrist. Starsky’s blood turned to ice. “Stop!” he shouted, straining to break free.

To his surprise, Elkins did, his shoulders dropping in disappointment. “I can’t,” he said to Hutch. “I’ve been in your bed, seen you at your weakest moment . . . We’ve got a connection, you and I. A certain . . . intimacy.” His eyes narrowed. “You do it.”

The knife was pressed into Hutch’s open hand. “Cut the ropes and do it yourself,” Elkins ordered, pointing to Hutch’s bound arm. What the hell? Starsky swallowed a lump in his throat. This guy needed to be locked up in a white padded room, the key packed in a rocket and sent to the moon. He grunted as the ropes burned into his wrists. Time was running out.

“Do it!” Elkins yelled when Hutch sat dumbstruck. He lifted his shirt and pulled a gun from his waistband-Starsky’s eyes lit with recognition as he found the missing Beretta. In one movement, Elkins cocked the gun and aimed it behind his back so that Starsky found himself staring down the barrel of his own weapon. “Do it or I shoot him,” Elkins threatened, staring unwaveringly at Hutch.

Wide blue eyes locked with Starsky’s. The small flame of hope that Hutch had harbored finally dimmed and disappeared. Hutch began to cut the ropes binding him.

Starsky struggled with new determination. It couldn’t end like this. He wouldn’t let it. They had won, dammit! They’d found the slasher after weeks of searching and not sleeping or eating and running in circles-they finally had him! He was right in front of them-all they had to do was reach out and take him . . . but they couldn’t.

The slasher had won. Starsky had failed.

The rope squeezed his hand so painfully that his fingers were blue. Starsky panted with exertion and pulled even harder.

“Stop!” Elkins ordered without turning from Hutch. “Stop moving or I’ll shoot you right now.”

Starsky stilled.

Hutch’s other hand was free and he laid it across his lap. His head was down, shoulders hunched in surrender. The hand holding the knife trembled; his inner conflict and hesitancy visible. There was a great irony in dying this way, being unable to overthrow your captor despite the weapon in your unrestrained hand.

“Do it!” Elkins screamed. “Cut it off, now!”

Hutch looked up and Starsky saw the fire of determination burn more brightly than ever before.

Go.

Suddenly Hutch lunged forward, knife out, surging against the remaining ropes. Elkins jumped back, but not fast enough. The long knife was planted deeply into Elkins’ stomach a split second before Elkins swung his arm around and fired the gun at Hutch’s chest at nearly point-blank range.

Silence fell over the room, only the sound of Starsky’s own heartbeat thundering in his ears. Blood rushed through his veins and his lungs burned with stale air. “Hutch!”

Oh God no.

Elkins staggered back, blood spilling from the knife lodged in his midsection. The gun dropped from his limp hand, landing with a dull thud on the shag carpeting.

Hutch lay limp against the chair, blood running down the left side of his chest. The bullet hole looked to be between his shoulder and his heart. He was unconscious and pale, but still breathing.

Starsky had to get them out of here. With one final pull spurred by anger and grief and determination, Starsky cried out as his thumb slipped out of joint and his hand slid free. He sat still, breathing through the pain until the world stopped spinning.

“Fucking shit!” Elkins cursed, his legs giving way beneath him. Both hands cradled the knife’s handle, coated red. “Fucking bastard . . . “” He collapsed against the wall, grunting as the blade jarred in his gut.

Starsky fumbled with the remaining ropes. He was still bound around the chest and legs, and the knots had been tied tightly. Starsky raced against time he didn’t have, his eyes glued to Hutch’s prone form on the other side of the room. He had to get them out of here. Hutch was losing blood quickly. The ropes weren’t budging. His fingers were slick with his own blood, and his vision swam. Dammit!

A loud noise shattered the quiet sounds of his struggle and the front door exploded inwards, bouncing off the wall behind it with a thud. Armed policemen spilled inside, preceding a wave of cool, fresh night air.

“Freeze, nobody move! Police!”

The shouts echoed each other as the uniforms assessed and secured the room. Starsky went limp with relief. Two uniforms moved to Elkins, cuffing him quickly, then bending to attend to him. Two more went to Hutch as Starsky felt hands cutting at his ropes. Hutch was still, unconscious. As soon as Starsky was free, he was on his feet and at Hutch’s side, the pain of his own injuries forgotten.

Behind him, someone gasped. “Jesus, is that a finger?”

Starsky placed a hand on Hutch’s thigh, oblivious to everything else. “Hey, Hutch. It’s over. Come on, wake up and let’s get the hell out of here, okay?” Starsky paused, watching the slow rise of Hutch’s chest. The young officer beside him put pressure on the wound and wordlessly, Starsky took over the ministration. “Come on. Hutch? Wake up.”

Wailing sirens announced the arrival of an ambulance. Starsky was still waiting for Hutch to wake up when the paramedics arrived, shouldering him out of the way. Starsky stood lost and covered in blood as people swirled around him. Hutch would be okay, wouldn’t he? Why didn’t he wake up? Sounds and voices grew distorted. His body felt numb and cold. The room grew dark.

He fell forward and was unconscious before he hit the floor.

~o0O0o~

Starsky set his beer on the table and slid into the booth across from Hutch, careful not to bump his cast. He shifted until he was comfortable, then grabbed the cold bottle with his good hand and took a long pull. It was quite possibly the best beer he’d ever tasted.

“How’s the hand?”

Starsky swallowed and set the bottle on the table, the rotated his cast to inspect the collection of signatures he’d collected. “Not bad,” he said, smiling over at Hutch. “Doesn’t even hurt anymore.”

Hutch grinned and twirled his own bottle slowly. “It’s kinda too bad they sewed your finger back on; I always wanted a partner named Stumpy.”

Starsky rolled his eyes. “Yeah, but then I would have had to listen to you complain about always having to do Stumpy’s reports. Next time I’ll ask the psycho scumbag to kindly cut off a finger from my right hand. I can’t even read my own writing now.”

Hutch chuckled and shook his head. Quietly, he said, “I know I treated you pretty badly before we caught him.” Hutch moved the bottle in circles, glancing up. “I should have talked to you. I was . . . embarrassed. I felt like . . . I felt weak. Like I should have stopped him the night he broke in. I guess I was angry with myself.”

Starsky studied Hutch. His stitches had been taken out yesterday and while the cut was still there, it was healing nicely and would fade into near invisibility over time. The mystery drug had been identified as a form of Ketamine, an anesthetic agent. Much to Starsky’s relief, neither drugs used on Hutch had any prolonged negative effects. “You know that’s not true, right? There was nothing any of his victims could have done.”

“Yeah,” Hutch nodded. “I know.”

“You got him, Hutch,” Starsky grinned, reaching across the table and laying his hand on Hutch’s forearm. “You did good, partner.”

Hutch smiled.

Starsky returned it easily. Hutch was once again the charming, confident man Starsky knew and loved, no longer hiding from the stares of morbid fascination from strangers. The dark cloud that had been hovering over Hutch and thereby the partnership was almost gone now. They had won.

“All right, my crazy brothers-your lunch is served,” Huggy announced, setting down two plates of food. “And this one’s on the house-a show of gratitude to the city’s most popular heroes.”

“Hey, thanks, Hug,” Starsky said, eyeing the cheeseburger and fries appreciatively. “And I promise next week I’m gonna pay off my tab.”

“Starsky, you’ve been saying that for the past three years,” Huggy said as he leaned against the booth. “The only way you’re going to pay me is if you win big at the races.”

Starsky snorted. “I can think of better things to do with a million dollars,” he grumbled.
Huggy ignored him and rested a thin hand on Hutch’s shoulder. “How you doin’, Hutch? My girls do nothing but mope around when you’re laid up. Not having your pretty face in here is bad for business.”

“It’s not fun for me either, Huggy.”

Starsky couldn’t agree more. He’d been released from the hospital three days before Hutch, who was still being treated for blood loss. The bullet had penetrated Hutch’s shoulder blade and required a four-hour surgery to repair. He’d been unable to use the arm before a physical therapy program was instituted. Starsky had sat by Hutch’s bed, watching as his partner struggled to simply lift his arm above his head.

It had not been fun at all.

Huggy nodded. “But the important thing is that you’re here now, and the slasher is locked up somewhere good and tight.”

“We won’t have to worry about him ever again,” Starsky said, picking up a French fry and biting it in half. “Elkins is sitting in a maximum security loony bin where the most dangerous thing he’ll come in contact with is a plastic spork. He’s never coming out.”

“Starsky . . .”

“Don’t start the sympathy routine with me, Hutch,” Starsky argued. “The guy’s dangerous. He deserves to rot in that place.”

“He needs help. He can’t help what’s been done to him.”

“But he could help what he was doing to other people.”

They looked at each other across the table. Hutch’s attitude wasn’t a surprise. Though he in no way forgave the Elkins, it was in Hutch’s nature-and something he learned with survival and with hindsight-to realize that Elkins was still a human. And honestly, Starsky wouldn’t have his partner any other way.

Someone giggled. Starsky turned to find two young women standing next to the table. He straightened and smiled.

“Hey, Hutch,” Cassie purred, waving shyly. “This is my sister.” She pointed to the girl beside her. “The one that was sick? Well, she read all about you two in the paper, so I thought I’d introduce you. Stella, this is Hutch and Starsky. Guys, this is Stella.”

Starsky smiled and shook the young woman’s soft hand, inhaling a whiff of flowery perfume. “How’s your kids?” he asked skeptically, still not happy with the way Cassie had abandoned Hutch after his attack.

“Kids?” Stella asked, confused. “I don’t have any-”

“The puppies,” Cassie interrupted. She laughed. “I forgot I said that! Silly me-Stella saved a litter of puppies and she’s been bottle-feeding them. They have to eat every few hours. I’m sorry, Hutch. I should have made myself clearer.”

The last traces of hesitation faded from Hutch’s face as he smiled back at her. “No, it’s okay. Don’t worry about it.”

A second of silence fell over them and Huggy cleared his throat. “Well, I’ve got other paying customers to see to.” He looked accusingly at Starsky. “So I’ll leave you kids alone now. It’s good seeing you, Hutch.”

“Thanks, Huggy-and thanks for lunch.”

Huggy grinned and left. Hutch moved over, patting the seat for Cassie to sit down. Starsky did the same, joined by Stella.

“So are we on for Friday night?” Cassie asked. “I was thinking the four of us could go out for dinner and dancing . . . if you want to.”

Starsky couldn’t find a reason why not-the girl next to him seemed friendly, she was well-proportioned if not petite, and her brown eyes sparkled with excitement. Just the kind of girl he’d love to get to know better. Starsky looked across the table and saw Hutch smiling brightly, his arm across the back of the booth behind Cassie, shoulders relaxed and looking happier than he’d seen him all month.

“I think that’s a great idea,” Starsky replied, shifting closer to Stella. “Don’t you, Hutch?”

Their gazes met, and Hutch was finally Hutch again. “I’m looking forward to it.”

 

The End.