While pursuing a cop killer, Starsky is shot, leaving Hutch to go after the suspect alone. Remorse, exhaustion and fear are his constant companions.
This story was originally written in 1977, when the series aired. Twenty four years later I revised it and put it online, but the archive is no longer active, so twenty one more years later, I dusted it off, added some commas and fixed some spelling to post it again.
Whenever I feel afraid, I hold my head erect
And whistle a happy tune so no on will suspect I’m afraid.
While shivering in my shoes I strike a careless pose
And whistle a happy tune and no one ever knows I’m afraid
The result of this deception is very strange to tell.
For when I fool the people I fear, I fool myself as well.
I whistle a happy tune and every single time,
The happiness in the tune convinces me that I’m not afraid.
Make believe you’re brave and the trick will take you far.
You may be as brave as you make believe you are.
—Rodgers and Hammerstein–The King and I
Rush hour traffic had bypassed Edwards Street since the construction of the nearby freeway onramp so that by six p.m. on a February Friday night, the only movement on the street was a piece of newspaper dancing in the gusty wind.
A small boy, his shirttails flapping, ran down the sidewalk. At the door of each storefront, he paused, touching the doorknob. At the candy store, he peered through the frosted glass. Just open the door, the man had said, open the door. Maybe take a few pieces of candy and remember to let the alarm ring. It was easy enough, and he was gonna get six dollars.
Taking out a small screwdriver, the boy pried open the lock and slipped inside the building as the burglar alarm started to scream. After stuffing his pockets with chocolate bars, the child ran out, disappearing around the corner to Zion Street. From a darkened doorway across Edwards, a man smiled. It was going according to plan.
One street over, a black and white cruised slowly, stopping at the crosswalk to let a small boy eating chocolate run across. Once the car passed, the child dropped down beside an abandoned blue Ford. Slipping his skinny arm into the open passenger side car window, he pulled an envelope of one dollar bills out of the glove compartment.
“Two eleven in progress! A burglar alarm at 943 Edwards Street,” the dispatcher’s voice announced. “Niner Four Three Edwards Street. Any car in the area, please respond.”
“This is Adam 24,” Jasen Collier spoke into the radio mike. “We’re only a block away, are responding. Out.”
“OK. Adam 24. 10-4,” the dispatcher echoed.
“S’probably some vandals or something,” Thomas Rochard groaned, flicking on the siren and bearing down on the accelerator pedal. The black and white sped across Jackson Blvd and screeched around the corner to 943 Edwards Street.
Collier jumped out, settling his blue uniform cap on his dark curly hair. He scanned the front of the candy store as Rochard joined him. “Somebody broke the lock.” Collier shrugged. “Kids.”
“I’ll take a look inside. Go around the back and see it they’re still around,” Rochard suggested.
“Sure.” Jasen Collier sprinted to the corner.
“Jase,” Rochard called. “Nobody’s inside and there’s nothing much missing.”
As Collier turned around, he caught a glimpse of movement from the deserted tenement across the street. “Hey–” he called. Any more words were cut off as a bullet slammed into his chest.
“My God.” Rochard froze as he watched Collier pitch forward onto the sidewalk like a carelessly thrown piece of trash. Police training dictated that Rochard should pursue the sniper, but Collier was bleeding profusely. Torn between going after whoever had shot Collier and helping his partner, Rochard ran to Jasen, but his eyes scanned the nearby surroundings. He thought there might be a suspicious movement across in an alley, but he was distracted by Collier’s gasping breathing. Reaching into the car, he picked up the mike. “This is Adam 24.” His voice shaking, he stared at his fallen partner. “Officer d-down…”
“Adam 24?” the dispatcher asked.
“Blood.” Rochard felt a tightening in his throat. “Uh…my partner’s been shot…he’s down.”
“Police Officer down. Ambulance requested at 943 Edwards Street.” The dispatcher sent out the announcement over the police band. “Additional police assistance required.”
“Jasen.” Rochard knelt next to his partner, placing a gentle finger on his carotid. The dark haired man lay sprawled on the sidewalk, his blue uniform dark purple from the blood. Collier was dead.
***************
“Starsky. Hutchinson,” Harold Dobey, captain of the metropolitan police department’s detective division, blared from his office door.
“Comin’, Cap’n.” David Starsky stuffed the last of a hamburger into his mouth and wiped greasy fingers on the seat of his blue jeans.
“Where’s Hutchinson?” Dobey growled.
“He was here a second ago.” Starsky shrugged. “Anyway, Cap’n, what was it you wanted us for?”
“I’ll tell you when your partner gets back,” the Captain answered. “I’ll see you two in my office in one minute.”
“Hutch is here.” Starsky indicated a slender, blond-haired man coming in the double doors from the hall.
“Hutchinson, in my office,” Dobey ordered.
“What’s he want?” Ken Hutchinson asked his dark-haired partner.
“He’s growling like a bear.” Starsky flopped into an over stuffed chair in the corner of the Captain’s office, Hutch leaning comfortably against the arm.
“What’d you say, Starsky?” Dobey pulled out a pile of folders.
“I’m takin’ this chair, I said.” Starsky sighed. “Cap’n, what’d you want?”
“We got a cop killer on the loose.” Dobey opened a manila folder and extracted three photographs. “Up until this morning, we didn’t think there was much connection between the two killings, but a third man was shot only three hours ago.” He handed the pictures to Hutch. “All three uniformed men. I’m not giving the press any story yet, but there’s a connection.”
Spreading the three pictures out on the desk, Hutch looked them over. “When did the killings start?”
“Last Monday, February 6th.” Dobey pointed to a picture of a young, dark-haired man in police uniform. “Andrew Cutler, shot while investigating a flasher report.” He pointed to the second picture. “Paul Ravelli, shot on Thursday while on a routine check of an elementary school. The last one is Jasen Collier, killed this evening while checking out a candy store break in. The first two bullets were the same, the third is still pending, but there’s another connection.”
“They all look alike,” Starsky put in.
“Yes. All under six feet, dark curly hair, all in their late twenties.” Dobey chewed his bottom lip. “I’m issuing a bulletin to all policemen to use strict caution. Everybody going on a call goes with back-up. But nothing’s official, ok?”
“Cap’n, why’d you tell us?” Starsky asked. “I mean, you’re planning to tell everybody anyway.”
“Starsk, who in this room fits that description?” Hutch asked grimly.
“Terrific.” Starsky laughed cynically. “Let’s hope he’s had his fill of killin’.”
“Get out on the street,” Dobey ordered. “Keep your eyes open and be careful.”
“We always are,” Hutch said lightly. “Thanks, Captain.” He grabbed his leather jacket from the coat rack and followed Starsky to the garage. Dobey’s words resounded in his brain. A cop killer. Some deranged person out there gunning down curly-haired brunet policemen.
“Did you talk to Mickey about that fence?” Starsky asked as they climbed into his bright red Torino with the white stripe slashing down the sides.
“Hmmm?”
“I asked you to call Mickey, my fink, about the jewelry fence,” Starsky elaborated, starting the car.
“Yeah.” Hutch dug into his pocket and pulled out a piece of paper. “He said, ‘no, Damon didn’t leave two diamonds at Fat Rolly’s, besides why would he know?’”
“I think he wants more money.” Starsky braked coming out of the garage entrance to avoid an oncoming patrol car.
“Did you know any of those guys? The ones who were killed?” Hutch asked.
“That’s buggin’ you, isn’t it?” Starsky glanced at the man next to him. “No, what were their names again? Collier, Cutler and…”
“Ravelli,” Hutch supplied. “Ah, yeah, it bugs me when somebody goes around shooting cops just cause they’re doin’ their jobs.” He could feel his stomach contacting with increasing worry for his partner, who was acting as if there was no point to his concern.
“You don’t have to worry, you don’t fit the bill,” Starsky reminded.
“Starsky, be serious.”
“Ok, I won’t talk to you, grouch.” Starsky understood Hutch’s mood, but he wasn’t ready to follow it, yet. His more happy-go-lucky attitude refused to believe such horrible things could happen to him. Pulling the Torino onto the main boulevard, he revved the motor a little, enjoying the feel of the powerful engine. It was a fun car to drive.
Both detectives kept their eyes on the sidewalks as they cruised the streets, keeping tabs on the pimps, prostitutes and drug pushers who inhabited their beat. The avenues were crowded with the night owls, people who conducted their more illegal activities under cover of darkness. As the unmarked police car’s headlights swept the sidewalk, bodies scurried away like cockroaches in a kitchen after the light is turned on. Starsky and Hutch remained alert, on the lookout for any of their snitches who might be out at this hour.
“Hey.” Hutch nodded. “There’s Reny.”
“OK.” Starsky swung a sharp U-turn and pulled up next to a fire hydrant. Hutchinson jumped out of the car in time to grab a small, skinny man by the arm.
“Evening, Reny.” Hutch backed the small time thief up against a brick wall.
“Hi, Hutch,” Reny answered, not quite as enthusiastically. “What’re you and Starsky doing tonight?”
“Nuthin’ much.” Starsky leaned one arm against the wall. “We wondered what you were doin’, Reny?”
“Oh, nuthin’ much,” Reny mimicked with a weaselly smile. He pulled a tattered pack of cigarettes out of his jacket pocket. “Wanna smoke?”
“We wondered who you were doing nuthin’ with?” Hutch asked. “Have you seen Fat Rolly or Julian tonight?”
“Hey, no!” Reny lit the cigarette quickly. “I don’t hang around with them. I got my parole to think about.”
“I din’ know you were that concerned with your parole, Reny.” Starsky nodded. “That’s admirable, but we don’t believe you at all.”
“Honest, Starsky, Hutch, it’s the truth. I haven’t seen ’em.” He glanced from one man to the other. “Tonight.”
“When did you last see them, then?” Starsky specified.
“Uh, this morning.”
“Good, we’re getting somewhere.” Hutch smiled. “Which one?”
“Julian. He was at his place, looking over some paperwork,” Reny finally surrendered as Starsky applied a little physical pressure.
“Of a buy?” Hutch pressed.
“Yeah, I guess, yeah.” Reny nervously blew a cloud of smoke out of his nostrils, rubbing his arm where Starsky had left a bruise. “He just had a buncha papers, no jewels or anything.”
“Thanks so much, Reny.” Starsky waggled his fingers as he and Hutch climbed into the car. “Well, he wasn’t a lot of help. Julian could have made any number of buys, it isn’t likely he’d show Reny a million dollar sale.”
“Let’s check out some more street talk,” Hutch suggested, “Try Huggy’s.”
Starting up the engine, Starsky scowled. “This is like one of those birthday party games, treasure hunt. Go to each house and hope you find what you’re looking for.”
“Isn’t most of the stuff we do like that?”
“Yeah, but lookin’ for a coupla pieces of ice…” Starsky groaned.
“Starsky, million dollar diamonds don’t classify as ice.”
“Yeah, but who cares about ’em.” Starsky waved a hand as if dismissing the notion. He recalled Hutch’s earlier mood. “They’re just a coupla shined up rocks, the hell with ’em. I wanna go out and get that cop killer. That matters. Somebody dyin’, that matters.”
Hutch nodded. “I wish everyone else thought so.” An ambulance roared past, sirens blaring shrilly, interrupting anything else Hutch might have said. Cars on both sides of the road pulled aside to let the emergency vehicle past.
“What would you think if he got me?” Starsky asked suddenly. “If I died?”
“Starsky.” Hutch took a sharp intake of breath. Even imagining the idea made it hard to breathe. “That’s sickening. I wouldn’t think about it.”
“Before, you told me to be serious.” Starsky glanced sideways at his friend. “I am serious.”
“I’d feel…” Hutch felt inexplicably desolate. “Lost.”
“And alone,” Starsky said softly. But he was thinking of losing Hutch. He parked the car in front of a brightly-lit brick building labeled The Pits. Blaring music issued from within, almost making the sidewalk shake. “Coming?”
“Yeah.” The two detectives entered the crowded room, elbowing their way to the bar.
“Hey, my two favorite cops.” The black, elfin-faced owner grinned. His real name had long been forgotten, but everyone called him Huggy Bear. “Is this a raid or a social call?”
“Would we call on you socially?” Starsky teased. “We’re on business.”
“So, you don’t want no drinks?” Huggy groaned. “Why do you come in here, anyway?”
“Street talk,” Starsky answered. “Or bar talk.”
“I wanna beer,” Hutch ordered.
“You ain’t supposed to drink on duty,” Huggy reminded.
“What time is it?” Hutch asked.
“Eleven fifteen.”
“We go off duty in forty-five minutes,” the blond cop reasoned. “No one’ll ever know if you don’t tell.”
“What about me?” Starsky asked. His answer was a stern look from Hutch. “Huggy, heard anything on a couple of pieces of ice…diamonds?” he quickly corrected himself.
“Big ones or small ones?” Huggy poured Hutch the beer.
“All diamonds are small.” Starsky absently ate a pretzel from a bowl on the bar. “Why, have you heard of more than one score?”
“No, man.” Huggy slid the beer over to Hutch. “No ice within miles of here. I ain’t heard nothing. Just asking.”
Drinking the beer solemnly, Hutch contemplated the conversation he’d had with Starsky in the car. He couldn’t even imagine life without Starsky. They were like two halves of a whole, incomplete without the other. He sat sipping the beer, deep in depressing thought; unaware of anything Huggy and Starsky were discussing.
“Listen, if Julian was making a diamond buy,” Huggy continued, “I’d know, maybe it wouldn’t be common street talk, but I’d know.”
“So inform us when.” Starsky stood up. “C’mon, Hutch.”
“Hmmm?”
“S’twelve o’clock, end of shift. I’m leaving.”
*******************
After a discouraging Saturday shift in which they didn’t even arrest a hooker, much less track down the diamonds, Starsky was ready to call it quits. Hutch held out all day Sunday. Finally, as they ate a boring dinner at Hannah’s Burgers, even Hutch agreed that the diamonds were a lost cause. There had been no leads and both were beginning to wonder if the ill-fated jewels had ever actually existed. Hutch grimaced as his touchy stomach threatened to refuse the greasy hamburger he’d just fed it.
“So, that ends that,” Starsky growled into his coke. “Was useless, anyway.”
“You’re kind of pessimistic today,” Hutch observed.
“It’s…” Any further comment by the dark-haired member of the partnership was cut short by a sharp beeping sound. “Damn.” Starsky removed the beeper from his back pocket and stopped it. Hutch was already out the door and headed for the car.
“Zebra three,” he spoke into the car mike.
“Captain Dobey wants to talk to you,” the dispatcher informed him. There was a series of odd squawks and beeps as the telephone from Dobey’s office was patched in.
“Hutchinson?” Dobey asked.
“Yes, Captain.”
“There’s been another shooting, on Rochester Avenue. I think it’s the fourth victim of the same bastard. Get over there and check it out.”
“We’re going now, Cap’n,” Hutch answered.
Rochester Avenue was blocked off on both ends with black-and-whites and swarms of people, both police and civilians. Once a popular shopping destination, the shops and storefronts now showed their age. Most were abandoned, windows boarded up and covered with graffiti. The few still in business needed paint and care. The faces of the people crowding in for a view of the dead man reflected the buildings, long past their prime and needing some hope in their lives. They weren’t going to get any this night. Starsky swung the Torino up as close to the sidewalk as he could, and both men got out.
“Where is he?” Hutch asked a young sergeant who was trying to control the crowd.
“In front of the clothing store,” he replied.
“Hey, there’s the ambulance.” Starsky pointed to a low white vehicle inching through the swarms of people. “He must be still alive.”
A small group of uniformed cops were ringed around the body of their fallen comrade, watching paramedics try to stop the bleeding.
Starsky knelt down next to the injured policeman. A plainclothes vice cop, he was dressed in a flashy burgundy suit, fitting the mysterious killer’s pattern, having the characteristic dark curly hair.
“What’s his name?” Hutch asked.
“Mike O’Brien. There’s his partner over there,” a uniformed man replied, pointing out a pretty red-haired girl who appeared to be barely out of her teens. “Lacy Calhane.”
“Pretty,” Hutch muttered to himself. The girl was dressed in a micro-mini skirt and spike heels, the picture of a low class prostitute. If Mike O’Brien was the fourth victim, then his cover as a pimp had been broken. It was improbable that the killer would go to all the trouble to go after someone undercover. It would be so much easier to target only uniformed men.
“Lacy Calhane?” Hutch asked.
“Yes.” She raised her face from her hands, tears on her cheeks. The chill of the evening air had rouged her delicate complexion but underneath, her skin was waxy with shock.
“Sergeant Ken Hutchinson,” he introduced himself. “Did you see what happened?”
“Uh, no, not really.” She rubbed her bare arms. The wind was coming up and there was a bite in the air. “You can see what I am supposed to be…. I was standing on the corner and Mike was there…where he is now.” Lacy shook her head. “And I heard a shot. It is dark, y’know…God…”
“Yeah.” Hutch took off his leather jacket and draped it over her shoulders. “Where do you think it came from?”
Lacy gulped back the tears in her throat, thinking for a moment. “Back down at the end of the street. Because I didn’t see…anything.”
“Were you on a call, or just walking your…” Hutch searched for the correct term. “Beat?”
“Just street walking,” Lacy said with an ironic edge on her voice. “A kid came by about five minutes earlier and left me a note that there was a guy who was interested in me and would meet me on the corner at 9:30. Probably a set up, huh? Some cop I am.” She closed her eyes, trying to hold back the tears still streaming down her cheeks.
Hutch put his arms around the woman, letting her cry. He stared over her head at the place where the sharpshooter must have been. Somewhere out in the dark was some maniac with a gun. He could be watching right now, waiting for another opportunity to strike.
Starsky watched with an impassive expression as one of the paramedics covered Mike O’Brien’s face with a sheet. He was dead. Four men had died and no one could predict who would be next. Turning around, Starsky saw his partner comforting the girl. Well, she had to be told.
“Honey, are you all right?” Hutch asked. Lacy nodded. “This is my partner, Dave Starsky. Starsk, Lacy Calhane.”
“I don’t exactly know how to say this, but…” Starsky started, gesturing back towards the paramedics still standing over the body.
“He died?” she whispered. “Oh, my God.”
“Lacy, can we drive you to the station?” Hutch took her arm and led her to the Torino. She nodded dumbly, shaking with shock.
*******************
Captain Dobey hung up the phone in his office with a grim face. “That was the morgue. The bullet matched the other three.”
“Terrific.” Starsky stood up, jittery from too much coffee and adrenaline. “We oughta try talking to Lacy in the morning. Her statement was kind of sketchy.”
“Yeah, yeah.” Hutch took a drink of cold coffee, weariness stamped on every cell in his body. “Captain, every newspaper and TV station in town is camped outside. Are you going to issue a press release now?”
“By two a.m. They gave me some time to organize it.” Dobey grimaced. “We’ll probably have a panic on our hands. Or some fool who feels he can go after that maniac by himself.”
“Captain.” Jenny Dreyfess, a uniformed policewoman who manned the desk outside, stuck her head in. “There’s a phone call.”
“Tell ’em I’m in conference, Jenny.” Dobey waved her away.
“Sir, I think you’d better take it. He says he killed a cop tonight,” Dreyfess told the Captain.
Dobey sat up quickly. “I’ll take it. Try to get a trace on it.”
“Line five,” she said.
Punching the button marked five and the one which allowed everyone in the room to hear the caller, Dobey said, “Hello?”
“You captain of the pigs?” a voice muttered.
Starsky glanced at Hutch, neither recognized the voice.
“I’m Captain Dobey, head of the Metro Detectives Division.”
“Okay, Dobey, I guess you know why I’m callin’ and I ain’t talking long enough to get this traced.”
“Yes.”
“I killed me another pig and he ain’t gonna be the last. I’m gonna kill every one of them curly-haired bastards ‘til I get the one who did it.” There was a click and sudden silence.
“Who did what?” Hutch asked softly.
Dobey punched another button on his phone. “Jenny, did they get a trace?” he asked without much hope. The conversation had been too short.
“No, sorry, Captain, not even a direction,” Jenny sighed.
“We got somebody who’s got a revenge motive.” Dobey picked up a pen and turned it slowly between his fingers. “And he isn’t gonna let us see him ‘til he’s done.”
“Captain, Lacy told me one thing which keeps bothering me.” Hutch leaned against the filing cabinet. “She said a kid gave her a note to wait on the corner at nine thirty, for a john. Maybe it was from him.”
“So, we get a description from her and find that kid,” Dobey ordered. “It’s the only lead we have.”
“First we’re lookin’ for diamonds and now kids.” Starsky threw up his hands.
*********************
“‘S’cuse me, Ah’m lookin’ for Detectives Starsky and Hutchinson?” Darryl Washington looked hopefully around the crowded metropolitan detective’s squad room. All hands pointed towards the end of the long table where the lone half of the twosome was hunched over his paperwork, scribbling furiously, left-handed.
“Hutchinson or Starsky?” Washington asked politely.
Starsky looked up, then stood, looking up higher. Darryl Washington stood at least six four, had the neck of a pro-ball quarterback and a glossy, black skinned bald head. Next to him, Starsky felt dwarfed at five-eleven.
“Dave Starsky.” He stuck out a hand. Washington’s huge fingers completely engulfed Starsky’s.
Hi,” Washington introduced himself. “Mah Captain at Sutter Precinct said you were headin’ up the investigation into this cop killer.”
“Yah, I’m not really sure how exactly we got to be head of anything, but we wanted to talk to you.” Starsky waved him over to a chair. “Hutch’ll be…” Once Darryl had seated himself, Starsky could see his partner coming in the door. “Right here. Hutch, this is Cutler’s partner, Washington.”
“Thanks for coming over.” Hutch set down the soda he had bought, as Starsky perched on the desk with his feet on his chair. “I know you’ve probably gone over this a half dozen times, but it would bring us up to speed if you could remember everything that happened when Cutler was shot.”
“Man.” Darryl scratched his chin, a mournful expression on his face. “Ah only been on the force for a coupla’ months. Me an’ Cutler were really startin’ to gel, y’know?” He shook his head, “There was a report of a flasher on Rochester and Sutter. We got out of the car to look around, but there weren’t nuthin’ t’see. Guy musta been gone by then. Dispatch said some ol’ man had been showing his pecker in the street.”
“Who called it in?” Hutch interjected.
Darryl shrugged. “No name, I dunno. So, I was radioin’ in that we were gonna leave, when I saw Andy jerk.” He swallowed tightly, his Adam’s apple bobbing. “He just looked like a…toy…like the bat’ries run out–an’ this big bloodstain on his shirt, blood running down…” He broke off, covering his eyes for a moment.
“Did you see the shooter?” Starsky asked when Washington had composed himself.
“Never saw a thang. I was still in the squad car.” He shook his head. “Ah never expected anythang like that. Him getting’ shot. He was a good man, a new baby son…” Darryl picked up the file from the desk, pulling out a photo of Andrew Cutler. “He never said anything ’bout being partner’d with me. Some of them older guys there are prejudice. I hear ’em. But Andy was cool. Man.” His voice broke briefly, “An’ now he’s the first of a serial cop killer–I’ll never get used to that.”
“It’s not something anybody gets used to.” Starsky handed him a cup of water. “We talked to Joe Goldstine, Ravelli’s partner and Thomas Rochard this morning. It’s every cop’s nightmare.”
Hutch found himself almost unable to speak. The graphic description of Cutler falling like a broken doll imprinted itself indelibly on his mind’s eye, except he kept seeing Starsky in Cutler’s place, with a blossom of crimson blood across his chest.
“Hutch?” Starsky repeated, slightly concerned at his friend’s stricken expression. “Did you hear me?”
“What?” Hutch pulled himself into the present. Both Starsky and Washington were looking expectantly at him. He’d obviously missed a point in the conversation. “Uh, Washington, thank you for going through it all again. We need every bit of information we can get.” He searched for a topic to lighten the meeting, “You play pro ball? Look like a linebacker.”
Washington grinned shyly. “Just over two years ago Ah was MVP at Georgia Tech, but mah mama didn’t want no dumb jock for a son. She wanted a policeman in a blue uniform.”
“So did mine,” Starsky joked lightly, still worried about Hutch. “And look what she got. You take it easy, Washington. Did you take some time off?”
“Startin’ back t’work today–‘spect Ah’ll get stuck with Sergeant Majors, he’s ’bout to retire. But Ah gotta get back on that horse.” He respectfully shook each detectives’ hand. “You find that man who shot Andy, Ah’ll help in any way Ah can. You find him and you nail his hide to the wall.” He departed with a sketchy wave of goodbye.
Hutch sank into his desk chair, overwhelmed by the three stories of violent death he’d heard that morning. He was so tired. Plus, they still had to talk to Lacy Calhane again. He didn’t want to. Didn’t want to hear about one more young, dark curly-haired policeman dying.
“Hutch?” Starsky snagged the forgotten soda and swallowed a big gulp.
“Four dead cops…” Hutch whispered, “And they all look like you, Starsk.”
“It’s not gonna happen, Hutch.” Starsky cupped his hand on the back of his friend’s neck, briefly massaging the rigid tendons. “Not to me.”
“How do you know?” Hutch asked bleakly.
*********************
“Nice place for a cop who plays a prostitute.” Starsky glanced up at the modern singles apartment building. The architecture reflected a Frank Lloyd Wright influence, with strong simple lines and staircases outlined in chrome.
‘”Starsky, she’s a nice girl.” Hutch forced a light tone, trying not to dwell on black thoughts.
“Yeah, well you’re the one who read her personnel file.”
“Had to find an address.” The blond man consulted his notepad. “Apartment 25 B.”
“What else was in her files?” Starsky gave his partner a teasing smirk. “Age, arrest record, measurements?” He followed Hutchinson up one of the staircases to the second floor. All the apartments opened onto a communal balcony that spanned the entire building.
“Uh, 36-27-37, and that I didn’t have to read that in her files.” Hutch grinned. “There’s 25B.” He knocked on the door and after a few minutes, Lacy opened it.
“Oh, G’morning, Hutch. Starsky,” she said in a soft voice.
“How are you feeling this morning, honey?” Hutch asked as she led them into an eclectically furnished living room. Bright green and blue upholstered furniture vied for attention with Caribbean landscapes and an oversized stuffed parrot resting in the window.
“Better, I guess…. It just seems so senseless.” She shook her head, the red curls dancing like waves on the ocean.
Hutch glanced over at his partner who was inspecting the colorful objects adorning the walls and bookcase. Senseless was certainly one way to put it. “I know.” He sat down on the green couch next to her. “Captain Dobey wants us on the case, and so far you’re the only lead we have.”
“What about the others, who were…killed?” Lacy twisted a hank of bright hair.
“Their partners gave statements and we’ve also talked to them. Nobody remembers seeing anything. I’m interested in that kid you mentioned.” Hutch got a pencil out of his pocket.
“Boy or girl?” Starsky asked, sitting down in a large wicker peacock chair.
“Um, well…this little black kid ran up to me and handed me a note.” Lacy started.
“You still got it?” Starsky interrupted.
“No, in the confusion I must have dropped it somewhere, I guess.”
“Do you remember what it said?” Hutch questioned.
“Said: ‘be at the corner of Rochester and Larkspur at 9:30. I like your legs and it’ll be $100 for you.'” She smiled grimly. “I figured I had an easy bust.”
“What’d the kid do?”
Lacy shrugged. “Ran off, you know those street kids. Here one minute, gone the next.”
“Describe him,” Hutch insisted.
“About nine, I guess. He was black, dark hair, dark eyes…wearing blue jeans and a gray sweatshirt.”
“Like six thousand others,” Starsky put in. “Anything you noticed at all?”
“No! I didn’t think it mattered!” she flared. “Oh, God, Why?”
“Hey.” Hutch placed gentle hands on her shoulders. “It’s ok, we’re gonna go after the shooter. You don’t remember anything more?”
“No,” she whimpered.
“I’ll get this on the horn.” Starsky excused himself to let Hutch comfort her alone. “Maybe we can get lucky.”
“Lacy.” Hutch gently brushed her hair away from her wet cheeks. “Did you have a thing with O’Brien?”
“I dunno…we were starting to get close. A date once in a while.” She stood up nervously. “He didn’t want us to get involved. He said two cops could never make it work. Well, there’s no way now, is there?” Lacy turned and looked down at Hutch. “Cops are not supposed to get emotionally involved, especially with one another. Just remember that, Hutch.”
“It’s hard not to. Cops work too closely together.” Hutch took her hand. “Remember, we’re all human, you can’t dwell on what happened. You can’t change the past.”
“Just the future.” She nodded, her head pounding with the movement. She felt hollow and cold.
“Good-bye, honey. Take it easy.” He stood, giving her a brief hug. “We’ll report back with our progress.”
“Oh, Hutch, would you take this?” Lacy took a newspaper, its headlines screaming ‘Cop killer,’ from a pile of magazines. “It’s today’s and I don’t want it in my house.”
“Sure.” Hutch shoved the paper under his arm. He paused outside her door until he heard her slide the dead bolt securely into place.
“What ya got?” Starsky asked, as his partner emerged from the apartment building.
“The paper. Lacy didn’t want it.” Hutch leaned against the Torino to inspect the front page. “The whole damn story in two inch high letters.”
“Reporters find out anything we don’t know?” Starsky peered over Hutch’s shoulder. Photos of the dead officers emphasized their likenesses and the copy complained of the police’s lack of evidence.
“No, but they’d like you to think so.” Hutch threw the paper into the car. “Let’s go to Huggy’s. I’m hungry and tired of this whole thing.”
*********************
“‘Lo, Starsky, Hutch,” Huggy Bear greeted them. He didn’t really open until eleven a.m., but he didn’t mind admitting his friends a little early. The bar was dark after the midmorning sun and piled with unopened boxes of liquor.
“Got anything made yet?” Starsky asked.
“Man, you come in here early, you gotta take what we got.” Huggy went around the back of the bar, pushing aside cases of beer.
“So what’s that?” Starsky asked.
“Orange juice.”
“I wanna beer.” Hutch straddled a barstool.
“I got that, too.” Huggy handed over a can of Budweiser.
“No glass?” Starsky teased.
“No complainin’, Starsky, or I tally up your bar tab.” Huggy held up an orange. “You want juice?”
“Yeah.”
“Fuzz got some jive in the paper this morning,” Huggy commented as he squeezed half a dozen oranges with the juicer.
“I’d rather not talk about it,” Hutch said. “They’re making a sensation out of this and we’ll never get it solved.”
“This guy’s just sitting in the shadows takin’ pot shots at cops?” Huggy asked.
“More’n pot shots, Hug,” Starsky answered, tasting the orange juice. “Somebody’s hitting ’em.” He watched as the slender man dumped change into the cash register without counting it. “Good system you’ve got there. No wonder the IRS wants an audit. Have you heard anything on the street about some weirdo who’s got it in for cops?”
“Not this one.” Huggy shook his head. “He sounds like a crazy.”
“No doubt and that makes him all the harder to go after.” Hutch took a swig of beer.
“You want food with that?”
“No, why?”
“It’s bad to drink beer on an empty stomach,” Starsky pointed out.
“I’m not hungry,” Hutch said shortly, unfolding the paper Lacy had given him.
“You’re the one who’s always talking about health food an’ good living.” Starsky held up his glass. “I got the orange juice and you got a beer?”
“Shut up.” Hutch turned to the sports section, concentrating on the scores.
“He gets like this when we don’t solve anything.” Starsky nodded philosophically. “Gimme a hamburger and French fries, Huggy.”
“Starsky, you know I don’t serve that kinda food ’til the cook gets here. This is a bar.” Huggy pointed to a rack of packaged sandwiches on the wall. “That’s it.”
“It’s the pits,” Starsky muttered.
“Hence the name,” Hutch put in without looking up from his paper.
“Ha-ha. You gonna eat somethin’, Starsky, or am I gonna have to start drummin’ up some payin’ customers?”
“OK, Huggy, we gotta go to work anyway.” Starsky grabbed a bag of potato chips on his way out. “C’mon, Hutch.”
“Starsky, you pay for that!” Huggy shouted at their retreating forms.
Driving the Torino down a wide boulevard, Starsky ate the entire bag of chips in silence. He glanced at his blond partner. “Hey.”
“Hmmm.”
“This mood of yours gonna last all day?”
“Looks like it.” Hutch hid behind his sunglasses.
“Just wanted to know where I stood.” Starsky went back to driving, whistling to himself.
Hutch glowered.
“All units in the vicinity of Waverly and Third Streets,” the dispatcher’s voice blared suddenly from the radio.
“This is Zebra three,” Hutch spoke into the mike. “We’ll respond.”
“OK, Zebra three. 24 Waverly, a possible 2-11, Adam 18 will meet you there. 10-4.”
Starsky slammed his foot down on the accelerator, switching on the siren. The red car careened around a corner, skidding to a stop in front of a small grocery. A black-and-white was already there, the red bubble on the top flashing weird red shadows across the deserted storefront. Waverly Street was known as a quiet haven in the middle of two gang territories, and there were rarely people just hanging around on the street. Gang violence was too real a possibility, but it was truly strange to find it completely deserted at nearly noon.
“What ya got?” Hutch jumped out of the car, his hand going for his holstered gun. The quiet was too unnatural. It gave him the creeps.
“Nothing.” An older uniformed man shook his head. “The place has been closed for a week. Owner’s gone fishin’.”
“I’ll call it in.” Starsky shrugged. “Anything gone?”
“Probably kids who made off with a bottle of pop, but other’n that,” the older man said, shrugging. “There’s my partner. Hey, Johnny, find anything?”
“Nothing round the back, Al,” Johnny replied, brushing his dark curly hair off his forehead. “Just the front door was broken into.”
“Four cops for a damn vandalism,” Al growled. “It’s insa…”
As Starsky bent down to reach for the car mike, a bullet screamed past, so close to his shoulder he could feel a puff of wind.
“DOWN!” Hutch yelled to the others, grabbing his partner’s arm. “You ok?”
“Yeah.” Starsky gasped, crouching behind the car.
“How about you two?”
“Musante’s ok.” Al checked the clip in his gun. “It’s that bastard.”
“The question is, who is he after–Musante or me?” Starsky asked with grim humor.
“Cover me, Starsk. I’ll go around the corner and up the side of that place.” Hutch pointed to a gray tenement across Waverly.
Starsky nodded, steadying his gun on the hood of the Torino, but the sniper hadn’t fired again.
Hutch could hear John Musante calling for back up on the black-and-white’s radio as he gauged the distance he had to run. Already there was a crowd of curious onlookers gathering about fifty feet from the cars. “Hey, Al,” Hutch called. “Get those people back.”
“Ready?” Starsky squinted towards the building.
“Ready.” Hutch crouched low and ran the length of both cars before sprinting across the street. He jumped up and hauled himself up onto the fire escape, taking the metal steps two at a time.
The sound of sirens approaching excited the crowd of people and they pressed closer to watch the blond cop on the fire escape. No one took notice of a man who walked away from the crowd, brief case under his arm.
Hutch paused as he made it to the top of the steps, looking down at the street below. He could see everything, and had the sniper been here, he would have been able to pick off both dark-haired policemen behind the car. His gut cramping, Hutchinson had a feeling he wouldn’t see anyone on the roof. The one shot had been it. However, he would take a good look around later, when he and Starsky could do a thorough room-to-room search of the entire apartment building.
“Scared him off,” Starsky said.
“But it proves he’s still hard at work.” Hutch glanced up at the afternoon sky. A dry wind had been steadily building from the southeast all day, pushing the usual smog past the mountains that ringed Los Angeles. “He’ll be back.”
Not saying anything, Starsky headed back to the Torino.
“Hey, Starsky.” Hutch hurried to catch up with his friend. “Sorry about this morning, huh?”
The smile on Starsky’s face was like sunrise after a stormy night. His dark blue eyes twinkled as he threw an arm around Hutch’s shoulders. “Call forensics. We can search that place faster if we both take a floor. Then, I happen to know of a good hot dog stand near here.”
“How can you think of hot dogs after that?” Hutch grimaced, his pulse still elevated from Starsky’s near miss.
“Dodgin’ bullets makes me hungry,” Starsky downplayed, despite his own tremors. The last thing he needed to do was feed on Hutch’s already rampant fears. “You’re the one who drinks beer before noon. It’s always hot dog time.”
*********************
“Nothing, Captain, absolutely nothing.” Hutch paced agitatedly back and forth in his superior’s office. “And nobody saw anything. Not one person in that whole building. I saw that bullet come from that place.”
“How many empty rooms?”
“Two.” Hutch nodded. “We checked them. He could have been there but the crime scene boys didn’t find fingerprints, spent shells, nothing.”
“Who do you think the guy was aiming at, Starsky or Musante?” Dobey loosened his tie.
“Starsky.” Hutch sank into the chair, drained. “Musante was too far away.”
“Hutch, I can’t say don’t worry about it,” Dobey reasoned. “But it’s not helping.”
“Yeah, yeah, and he probably wouldn’t try again in one day.” Hutch looked up as Starsky entered the room bearing a tray of coffee cups.
“Drinks, anyone?” he asked mincingly, holding the tray like a waitress.
“Only if you’ve got something stronger’n coffee.” Hutch took one of the steaming cups. “What’s today?”
“Monday,” Dobey supplied. “February 13th.”
“Tomorrow’s Valentine’s day.” Hutch closed his eyes; he’d had only five hours of sleep. “So much for hearts and flowers.”
With the exception of Mike O’Brien’s funeral, Wednesday did prove somewhat quieter than Tuesday had been. Hutch took Lacy home after the ceremony and promised to take her to dinner on his night off.
“I saw last night’s paper.” Lacy took off her coat slowly.
“I thought you’d sworn off reading the news.” Hutch rummaged around in the miniature kitchen, finding glasses and a bottle of brandy in the wet bar. He poured small glasses of the amber liquor.
“You know, it’s a little early in the morning, Hutch,” she commented.
“After that funeral we could both use it,” Hutch said, placing two bubble glasses on the coffee table. “What about the paper?”
“You didn’t tell me he took a shot at Starsky.” Lacy took a sip, then ran her finger around the rim of the fragile glass, creating an eerie rising tone.
“Why should I?” Hutch sat down next to her. “Nothing happened.”
“But it’s gonna go on and on and on…” Lacy started to tremble. “Hutch, he’ll keep killing everybody…. Mike…and Dave might get it and then…then….”
“Hey, hey,” Hutch leaned her head against his shoulder, pushing aside his own similar thoughts. “Lacy, we’re trying to find him.”
She took a shuddering breath. “We don’t know who he is, where he is.” She took a large swallow of brandy, gasping as it burned down her throat. “How many has he killed now?”
“Four.”
“Four in one week. Lord.” She rubbed her eyes. “I’m ok now.” Lacy sipped the brandy, letting it warm her stomach. The rest of her body still felt so cold. “What do you know about him so far?”
“Some cop, with dark curly hair, I guess, did something to him…to someone he…loved?” Hutch laughed mirthlessly as if the thought of the man loving someone was funny. “When he called Dobey, he said he was gonna kill all the curly-haired cops until he got the one who did it. Who did it.” Hutch jumped up restlessly.
“Who did what?”
“Killed someone he loved, so he’s gonna kill someone else who is loved.” Lacy stared at her hands in her lap. “He succeeded, but he’s gonna keep killing curly-haired police till he gets the right one.”
“So, we’re chasing a shadow around like idiots.” Hutch clenched his fists. “We need to find out who he’s really after. Are you coming back to work?”
“Yes.” She kicked off her shoes, rubbing her feet with a sigh. “I’d rather be busy than sitting around doing nothing.”
“To the old…beat?”
“Uh-huh.” Lacy nodded, raising the skirt of her dress to thigh level with a professional, bored smile. “Good evening, sir?”
“That supposed to be a come-on?” Hutch leaned over and pinched her knee.
“Some people think so.” Lacy nodded. “Hutch.”
He eyed her quizzically, waiting for her to finish the sentence.
“I dunno.” Lacy smoothed her black jersey dress down over her knees, suddenly self-conscious. “How are you gonna catch him? What if he gets Dave?”
“That’s something I try not to think about. Ever.”
*********************
“So, last night.” Starsky drove the Torino one-handed, gesturing expansively as he continued his story, despite the complete lack of interest from Hutch. “I called up Cathy and she had the flu–the one that’s been going around everywhere? So, I had nobody to go out with, so I watched the tube. An’ I saw that movie, The King and I, you seen it?” Starsky flicked on the turn signal, then finally put both hands back on the wheel.
“King and I? Yul Brenner, yeah.” Hutch pushed his sunglasses up his nose and closed his eyes against the glare of sunshine penetrating the windshield.
Driving, unsettling winds had pushed the usual smog completely away, giving Angelinos and tourists alike a rare glimpse of the surrounding mountains’ beauty. The winds did more than swirl up mini tornadoes of litter and flatten just budding spring flowers. It irritated, grated, like tiny bits of sand against the soul. Emotions came more easily to the surface, as if worn thin by the constant sound of wind.
The last few nights, Hutch hadn’t been sleeping too well. He’d lain awake listening to the unnerving wind for more hours than he cared count. The strain of searching for the ‘Shadows Killer’ as the papers had dubbed him was catching up to him and he felt restless and bone-tired at the same time. There was still almost no real information on the murderer, and the trail was growing cold.
“Well, you know that song.” Starsky hummed a few measures, trying to recall the words. “About bein’ brave and whistling…whistle a happy tune, I think.” He braked for a stoplight. “It’s a nice song.” He sang a line. “Make believe you’re brave and the trick will take you far. You may be as brave as you make believe you are…”
“That’s flat,” Hutch commented.
“I din’ ask for a music critic.”
“Zebra three, zebra three,” the dispatcher called.
“This is Zebra three,” Hutch answered.
“Captain Dobey would like you in his office as soon as possible.”
“Ok, 10-4.” Hutch hung up the mike. “I wonder what that’s about?”
“You think it’s the shooter?” Starsky mused, a rough edge to his voice. “It’s been three days since he tried last. I was hoping he got discouraged.”
“He’s out there somewhere.” Hutch stared out at the street rushing past the car window. “An’ he knows more than we do. He holds all the cards.”
*********************
“Captain?” Starsky stuck his head in Dobey’s office, but the man wasn’t there. “Jenny, where’s Dobey?”
“He’ll be here in a minute,” she answered. “He was in the morgue.”
Hutch stiffened. “Another cop?”
“Yes,” Jenny admitted. “Not from this precinct. Shot while on his way to work.”
“Shit,” the blond man swore. “What’s his name?”
“Brian Hidalgo.” Jenny consulted a piece of paper. “Answered a distress call from an old woman.”
“So much for heroics,” Hutch muttered. “Was he by himself?”
“Yes.”
“You heard,” Dobey bristled, getting off the elevator. He dropped a pile of folders onto Jenny’s desk.
“Number five.” Starsky nodded. “And we got no balls, no runs, all struck out.”
As Dobey held his door open for the other two detectives, the phone rang. “Captain Dobey’s office,” Jenny answered. Her eyes widened fearfully as she listened to the caller. Covering the receiver with her hand, Jenny spoke, “Captain, it’s him…”
“Get a trace and record it,” Dobey ordered. He pressed the speaker button on his desk phone. “Hello.”
“Hello, Pig Captain,” the gruff voice said loudly. “I left you another gift this morning.”
“I don’t appreciate it,” Dobey growled. “Look, we can make an arrangement, work this out like…”
“Not likely I’d talk to a bastard pig.” He snorted with laughter.
Hutch touched Starsky’s arm, listening hard in the brief seconds between the killer’s words. In the background was a rhythmic clock-like sound.
“Dobey, you just watch out. I ain’t through yet. More’ll die and die and die, just like he did.”
“Who died?” Dobey asked quickly. “Look, we can…”
“Wouldn’t you like to know. But you do, cause one of your piggies killed him.”
“Tell me who it was. I can investig…”
“A clue? A gas station at the stroke of midnight. Bye, pigs.” He hung up.
“He’s enjoying that.” Starsky gritted his teeth. “Playin’ God.”
“Did you hear it?” Hutch asked. “A clock ticking. A grandfather clock.”
“We got a distance, Captain.” Jenny burst into the room. “The lab crew’s making out a map.”
“Good, and find out if any policeman ever shot anyone at a gas station at midnight.”
Jenny seemed floored at the magnitude of the assignment, but she nodded and hurried out.
“You’re sure it was a clock.” Starsky cocked his head. “How can you tell?”
“When I was a kid, we had Grandfather clock. When you’ve laid awake all night listening to a clock tick like that…” Hutch nodded. “A grandfather clock.”
“It’s something.” Dobey sighed. “Oh, here, a picture of Hidalgo.” He handed over a small photograph.
Starsky and Hutch glanced at it. There was really nothing unusual to see. Hidalgo could have been Ravelli, Collier, O’Brien or Cutler. It was beginning to be a depressing row of dark, curly-haired men, all dead.
“Captain, here’s the map.” Jenny brought in a large city map with a ten square block portion marked off in red. “They couldn’t be more specific.”
“So we search ten square blocks?” Starsky asked. “Until we find a someone with a grandfather clock or a gun that matches…. It’ll take a million years.”
“Which you don’t have, so get to work.” Dobey dismissed them.
“Wait.” Hutch paused on his way out. “Was-was there a kid reported anywhere around where Hidalgo died? Or Cutler or Ravelli or Collier?”
“I dunno, why?”
“Cause all the crimes seem to be the kind of petty vandalism like kids fooling around–except O’Brien’s, and that one did have a kid involved.”
“You’re just remembering this now?” Dobey bellowed. “We never did find that kid who talked to Calhane. And no one’s come forth with information after any of the TV broadcasts.”
“Maybe they’re afraid they’ll get in trouble.” Hutch rubbed the grit out of his eyes. “It’s probably nothing, just a theory.”
“Then, get out on the streets and find out something useful!” Dobey waved them out of his office.
“What’s all this about some kids?” Starsky pulled on his jacket.
“I dunno, it just seems to fit in somewhere.” Hutch paused by the water cooler to grab a cup. He downed two aspirin with a swallow of liquid. “It’s in my brain, just out of reach. I’m tired.”
“Yeah, me, too. You think this bastard could be using some kid to set up his marks?”
“Couldn’t possibly be the same child,” Hutch disagreed. “A candy store break-in, an elementary school…what else?”
Starsky sorted through the case files on the crowded table they shared with half the detectives in the department. Arranging the folders in chronological order, he pointed to each one. “Cutler, killed investigating a flasher, Ravelli, at the school, Collier in front of a candy store, O’Brian–the only plainclothes cop so far, while playin’ pimp, and Hidalgo who wasn’t even on duty yet, but was dressed for the part.”
Hutch thought, trying to push puzzle piece together that didn’t even belong in the same picture. “Say a child reported a flasher–there was a call registered in the log book, but it didn’t have an age or name.”
“Lots of kids in a schoolyard,” Starsky reasoned. “Even before school’s started, but when officers questioned the students, nobody admitted seeing anything.”
“The candy store’s owner does report some Hershey bars were gone, most of a box,” Hutch read over the statement.
“My personal favorite.” Starsky nodded, wishing for one right now. “And Lacy’s john’s errand boy, the only one we have a partial description for.”
“As for Hidalgo, I can’t see a kid fitting in there. He was helping an old woman.”
“Why?” Starsky put his feet up on the desk, disturbing the neat pile of reports.
“Ah.” Hutch selected the appropriate one, smiling for the first time that evening. “A, to quote her official statement, ‘damn Mex kid stole the milk off her front porch.’ Apparently, Hidalgo lives next door, and just walked over when she started yelling.”
“I didn’t think anybody still delivered milk anymore.”
“At least on Las Pulgas Street they do.” Hutch pushed Starsky’s blue tennis-shod feet off the paper he wanted. “The old woman wasn’t wearing her glasses and is legally blind, so she didn’t see the shooter, either.”
“Terrific,” Starsky grumbled. “Four killings in six days, then bang–nothing until today, five days later. There’s no pattern.”
“You forgot about the grocery store.”
“He missed.” Starsky waved a dismissive hand. “And he wasn’t aimin’ at me. That bullet was probably for Musante.”
“You were closer,” Hutch countered. “That grocery had been closed for a week, but the owner couldn’t find anything missing–like Al Washinsky said, it was probably some kid playing a prank.” He began to push the files into a neater pile, pushing papers back into place. “And he missed. That’s the only time that’s happened.”
“He knew where Hidalgo lived,” Starsky said softly, his heart suddenly going double time.
“What?”
“He knew where Hidalgo lived,” Starsky spoke louder. “He killed O’Brien while he was undercover. He knows more than he should.”
“He sure knows more than we do.” Hutch felt his skin crawl at the thought.
*********************
In the discouraging night that followed, little was accomplished and this only succeeded in making tempers flare. Every policeman was working overtime to get the murderer before he hit another man. Light-haired cops would look worriedly at their dark, curly-haired partners and wonder who would be next. The Shadows Killer was watching. He seemed to know where dark-haired policemen would be even before they did.
Starsky whistled tunes from the King and I as he cruised slowly through the pre-dawn streets. Ten square blocks marked off in red, and possibly, somewhere, hiding in one of the dilapidated houses, was a madman. Starsky felt a shiver of fear running down his spine.
“There go the morning papers,” Hutch said, watching a man unloading bales of newspapers from a truck. “Screaming about a fifth victim, panic, panic, panic. Your police department isn’t doing one damn thing but ridin’ around on their asses like fools.”
“Hutch…” Starsky started but was cut short by a squawking sound from the radio.
“All units, there’s a fight reported on one hundred-tenth street behind Miller’s Bar. They are reportedly armed with knives and guns, proceed with caution.”
“This is Zebra three,” Hutch answered. “We are responding.” He jerked backward as the car sped foreword, the siren screaming.
As the red and white car pulled to a stop beside an alley behind Miller’s Bar, a small boy with tousled blond hair ran up.
“Mister, mister,” he called. “Two guys are havin’ a rumble over there.”
“Where is it?” Starsky asked.
“Back over there!” The boy pointed to a nearby warehouse.
Hutch stared at the child as he darted away from the car, trying to memorize the boy’s face. It was too much of a coincidence, a child alerting them to the fight. Children were always hanging around places they shouldn’t be; it didn’t have to be significant.
The Torino slammed into reverse and whipped around in a screeching 180 degree turn, speeding to the building. A black-and-white car soon appeared, following the Torino through a large set of storm gates.
The little boy ran off in the opposite direction, pausing only once to pick up an envelope with six dollars in it from the glove compartment of an unlocked blue sedan. Just where the man had said he’d hide it. All finished.
Angry taunts and growls could be heard from a large storage area full of oil drums as Starsky and Hutch got out of the car. Several blue uniforms joined them, all with guns drawn.
“Fan out and take it careful! Keep your eyes open,” Hutch ordered. “This could be a set up.”
The men’s actions were hastened as gunshots could be heard echoing off the cylindrical metal containers. A cold, fierce wind flattened newspapers and fast food containers against the chain link fence. There was a raw, desperate feeling to the place, as if violence was a permanent resident.
“I’ll go around,” Starsky said, indicating the warehouse. He disappeared around the corner at a run.
One uniformed man slipped inside the warehouse as others spread out, covering the periphery.
Sneaking amongst the oil drums, Hutch finally caught sight of a young black kid with a gun. “Halt, this is the police!” Hutch commanded. The youth dashed behind a red metal chemical drum, disappearing from view.
“Hey!”
Hutch swung around to see a taller black boy wearing a green jacket silhouetted between the barrels. Aiming his pistol up high, Hutch fired a warning shot. “This is the police, put down your weapon!”
The boy ran behind a row of oil drums, his green jacket occasionally visible for a few seconds as he flashed past the containers. Once he got off a shot in Hutch’s direction, the bullet plowing an opening in a red painted drum. Oil spilled out onto the concrete, leaving an iridescent trail. There was a shout from one of the police in front of the warehouse as they closed in on the green-coated boy’s adversary.
Steadying his arm, Hutch aimed for the space where the boy should arrive next. As the green jacket appeared, Hutch pulled the trigger, but the boy moved too quickly, revealing Starsky directly behind him. Directly in the line of fire. The dark-haired detective was turned away, looking off to his left. He never saw Hutch.
“Starsky!” Hutch yelled a split second too late. He started to run as his partner jerked from the force of a bullet, spun around like a spasmodic dancer and crumpled to the ground. From all sides, gunshots popped loudly, a battlefield in an oil stockyard.
“Officer down!” someone yelled urgently. “Get an ambulance!”
“Starsky? Starsk?” Hutch dropped to his knees, wincing as he hit the cement. “Hey, buddy?” With gentle fingers, he pulled back the injured man’s jacket to reveal a bloody wound in the upper right shoulder. The bullet had pierced Starsky’s shoulder holster. “Oh, God.” Hutch whispered. He had shot Starsky. He had shot his best friend. Shot Starsky!
“Hutch?” Starsky whispered painfully, his fingers reaching out for Hutch’s hand.
“It’s ok, you’ll be ok, huh?” Hutch assured, almost in tears. “Just be quiet, ok. There’s an ambulance coming.” He fought the urge to be sick at the sight of all the blood. It seemed to be flowing from all over Starsky’s body instead of just a single wound.
“B-Brenner,” Starsky murmured, trying to keep away the comforting painlessness of unconsciousness. He could feel something like fire in his back and side, making it hard to breathe, hard to think. “Shot.” He had to tell Hutch before he blacked out. Had to tell him who shot him.
“Yeah, you were shot, but you’ll be just fine soon.” Hutch forced himself to smile. Oh, please make him be fine, he prayed silently.
“No.” Starsky took a deep breath and nearly passed out from the pain. “Brenner shot…”
“Yul Brenner, Starsky? That’s the movie, don’t talk.” Hutch pulled off his jacket, placing it over his partner. Where was all the blood coming from? He took out his handkerchief, trying to remember all the lectures on stopping blood flow and pressure bandages that were given at the academy.
“S’cop,” Starsky insisted, unable to make himself understood. He gripped Hutch’s hand tightly, fighting a losing battle with consciousness. “Brenner.”
“Ok, Brenner.” Hutch nodded absently, applying pressure to the shoulder wound. It didn’t make any difference, there was still so much blood! “Lie still, Starsk. Don’t talk…”
“He s-shot…” Starsky couldn’t fight the liquid blackness washing over him. It hurt too much to resist.
“Oh, Starsky.” Hutch stared at his unconscious friend. “I’m sorry.”
“Paramedics are here.” A young, uniformed cop came up. “We got one of those kids.”
“I shot him,” Hutch whispered.
“What?” the policeman asked.
“Hurry them up,” Hutch said louder, watching two paramedics run past the oil drums towards him, laden with drug boxes and oxygen tanks.
“Good grief.” The taller of the two paramedics shook his head. “He’s lost enough blood.” He jerked open a red case and took out several sterile bandage packages.
“Emergency, this is Squad 63,” the other paramedic called on the bio-phone to the hospital. “We have a man, in his late twenties, with a bullet wound. Massive blood loss.”
“Jake, three wounds.” The taller one said after a quick examination. “I’d say we have an entrance wound in the right shoulder and exit wound out the back. And another wound in the left side, between the ribs.” He checked Starsky’s vital signs quickly and called them out to the emergency general personnel.
“He was hit twice?” Hutch asked, stunned. “How?”
The ambulance arrived in record time, the driver helping Jake slide Starsky onto a stretcher. The second paramedic held up the IV bottle and tubing inserted in the patient’s arm, climbing in after them. Hutch followed, squeezing himself into a small corner of the ambulance, unwilling to be separated from his partner.
Reaching out a shaking hand, Hutch smoothed the blankets covering his friend. Two bullets? Who else had shot Starsky?
*********************
“Hutch?” Dobey sat down next to the blond cop on the hard Naugahyde couch in the hospital waiting room. “You ok?”
“Yeah.” Hutch raised his head, the cramp in his gut now a constant companion. “Captain.”
“What?”
“I…” Hutch stood, feeling a restless panic. How long were they going to keep Starsky in that emergency room? “I couldn’t stop it in time.”
“Sit down, Hutch,” Dobey said. “What is it?”
“I shot him.”
“Who?…Stars…?” the black man choked out the name in surprise. “Jesus Christ, Hutchinson.”
“Starsky, my best friend.” Hutch clenched his fists, wanting to punch something. “Dammit! I was aiming at this kid, but he moved and Starsk was behind him…” He rubbed his fist into his palm. “Dobey, he could die and one of those bullets was mine!”
“Hutch, I…”
“Wait,” Hutch continued. “I was just sittin’ there, I couldn’t think. The paramedics said he got shot twice.” He shook his head. “Where the hell did the second bullet come from?”
“What do you mean?” Dobey asked quietly.
“There was a building–a warehouse.” Hutch dumped all the magazines except one off the coffee table. “Here. And a bunch of oil drums scattered all over.” He moved a flower vase into place. “Starsk must have run around like this.” He traced his finger around the side of the magazines to the vase. “The kid in the green jacket was here. Starsk came up behind him an’ I didn’t see him.” He slammed his fist down on the magazine. “But no one was over there.” He jabbed a finger at the opposite of the magazine. “At the right angle to shoot Starsky in the side.”
“Hutch, I don’t want to say this, but have you considered it could be the Shadows Killer?” Dobey looked worriedly up at the younger detective.
“Oh, God,” Hutch whispered. He’d tried to suppress the knowledge that the situation fit one of the killer’s set-ups. “He can’t die.”
“Captain Dobey?” A pretty nurse approached. “There’s a phone call for you.”
“Thank you.” The captain of the detectives followed her back to the nurse’s station to take the call.
Sitting down, Hutch felt scared and confused. There had been so much blood! Two bullets. The Shadows Killer. Was Starsky number six? No, no, NO.
“No,” Hutch vowed. “He can’t die. Not because I shot him.”
“We got a witness!” Dobey called, causing several nurses to glare at him sternly. “Hutch, there was someone on that side of Starsky.” He hung up the phone, hurrying over. “One of the blue uniforms, Stevenson, saw a man in the shadow of a small shed beside the warehouse pull a rifle, but seconds later, when Stevenson arrived at the spot, he was gone.”
“Gone?” Hutch echoed. “Was it the…hell. How would Stevenson know? Nobody’s ever seen him.”
“The Shadows Killer?” Dobey finished. “He got a partial description, though.”
“It doesn’t help Starsky, does it?” Hutch flared.
“Don’t give up. It’ll help prevent there ever being a next time.”
“I wouldn’t dare, not with some bastard out there doing his own private executions.” Hutch jumped up again, with a compelling urge to move even if it didn’t help matters. He paced edgily outside the ER doors. “But…God, what are they doing in there?”
Years afterward, Hutch would not be able to remember how long he spent waiting for word on his partner’s condition, but at the time it seemed like an eternity.
“Mr. Hutchinson?” A dour doctor with a loose, jowly face emerged from the trauma room, his white coat splattered with red. Mr. Starsky’s been asking for you.”
“He’s conscious?” Hutch asked hopefully.
“Yes, but you can only go in for a few seconds. He’s extremely weak.”
“Doctor, is he…?” Hutch faltered. “Gonna be all right?”
“I’m sorry,” the man said grimly. “I can’t give you a good answer right now. He’s lost so much blood.”
“He has to live,” Hutch said decisively. He walked slowly through the large door into the trauma room. The room was crowded with equipment, discarded gauze stained red, and nurses still attending Starsky’s vital signs. Hutch skirted blood spatters on the floor, just staring at the still form on the gurney. “Starsk?” Hutch leaned down, his eyes on Starsky’s pale face.
“Hey.” Starsky opened his eyes, trying to smile. “Don’t worry.”
Typical Starsky, critically injured, trying to make his friend feel better. Hutch swallowed the lump in his throat. “I can’t help it, you kind of gave me a scare.” Hutch closed his hand over Starsky’s.
“M-make believe you’re brave…” Starsky whispered, trying to purse his lips. “I can’t whistle.”
“I’ll do it for you,” Hutch assured, producing one quick fluting note.
“Whistle a happy tune…” Starsky muttered, his mind wandering. He forced himself to concentrate. “Hutch…” The words kept flying around his brain like bees, buzzing, buzzing.
“What?”
“Hutch?” Starsky could feel his strength draining away, like he was being sucked into the table. It hurt so much to breathe, he couldn’t take the agony in his chest much longer.
“I’m here, Starsk.” The blond man gripped his friend’s hand, as if he could transfer some strength through his palm.
“It was B…Brenner.” That was all he said before he blacked out completely.
“Doctor?” Hutch called franticly. “Doctor!”
“He’s unconscious,” Simms answered, preparing a hypodermic. He squirted some excess fluid from the needle before inserting it into a port in Starsky’s IV tubing.
“Like a coma?” Hutch’s breathing hitched. “When will he wake up?”
“It won’t qualify as a coma until after he’s been unconscious for a certain length of time. There are parameters we go by to judge that.” The doctor glanced up. “As it is, he may not wake up for hours, days or even weeks…it’s all up to him whether he recovers.”
Hutch left the emergency department without ever recalling having taken a step. He stood uncertainly in the waiting room, unable to string together coherent sentences.
“What did they tell you, son?” Dobey asked, concerned by Hutchinson’s bleak expression.
“I think he’s in a coma.”
*********************
“God, Hutch, I heard on the radio.” Lacy threw her arms around him as she opened her front door. “I was so scared.”
“Make believe you’re brave.” Hutch hugged her tightly. He wasn’t even sure why he’d come, but he needed someone who’d understand–someone who’d already lost a partner.
“What’s that?” She leaned against his shoulder, listening to the beat of his heart.
“Starsky talked to me just before he passed out. He could be in a coma. He said that…it’s from a song.” Hutch ran his hand down her shining titian hair.
“What song?” she asked, leading him into the room. She pushed her unfolded, clean clothes off the couch but Hutch didn’t sit down.
“He kept saying Brenner.” He walked across the room to the small wet bar, selecting a bottle of Budweiser. “It was very important to him, but I don’t know who Brenner is.”
“Just Brenner?”
“He could hardly talk, but he kept saying Brenner.” Hutch poured a large glass of beer, wanting to get completely drunk, just enough to loosen the giant knot in his abdomen.
“He was probably delirious,” Lacy rationalized.
“No.” Hutch downed half the glass. “He was trying to tell me something, trying very hard.”
“Hutch, relax.” Lacy took the glass out of his hand.
“What do you think I’m drinking for?”
“It won’t help,” she said sternly. “Are you gonna go after the killer?”
“A lot good I’d be.” Hutch paced restlessly. “I’m so damned scared of what he’s done…and what he’s gonna do.”
“You’re giving up?” Lacy asked incredulously.
“I won’t give up,” Hutch said. “But…he’s always one step in front of us! Like a damned Shadow, he’s there before we are.”
“You haven’t even tried. Helps Starsky and…Mike a whole lot,” she spat out.
“Lacy, I don’t need you to tell me that.” Hutch pulled open the door and stomped out. She was absolutely right, and he hated it like hell. Who was Brenner?
“Zebra three,” the dispatcher was calling as he got back into the car.
He felt out of place driving the Torino by himself. Starsky’s ghost inhabited the car, and he wasn’t even dead, just lying unconscious in a hospital.
“Zebra three,” Hutch answered.
“Captain Dobey wants to see you in his office.”
“Ten four.” Hutch hung up resignedly. He put the key in the ignition and drove to the station, not wanting to think about anything that had happened in the last twenty-four hours. It was bad enough that he’d shot Starsky, but so had the Shadows Killer. It was so damned frightening, it almost blotted out rational thought. How bad off was Starsky? That doctor hadn’t given him any chance. In fact, he’d been damned discouraging.
The word death whirled around in Hutch’s brain. What would he do if Starsky died? How could he live if his best friend were dead? Especially with the knowledge that he was partially responsible.
Starsky, with his dark curly hair in a wind blown mop of ringlets, his remarkably blue eyes twinkling in delight at some inner joke, had long been Hutch’s confident, keeping secrets told to no one else. He was always laughing, often at some amusing joke only he knew about the rest of mankind. Starsky had backed Hutch up hundreds of time, sometimes when he didn’t even understand the reason. Starsky couldn’t die! He was barely thirty years old. Three decades was not long enough for a man to live.
Walking through the precinct halls, Hutch made a concentrated effort to dispel the gloomy thoughts, but they kept intruding like unwelcome houseguests. The desk he’d shared with Starsky for four years nearly destroyed his fragile calm.
“Hutchinson, sit down,” Dobey said.
Doing so, Hutch had the irritating thought that everyone was ordering him about today.
“Here’s the sketch that the police artist came up with from Stevenson’s descriptions.” Dobey pulled a large piece of paper from a manila envelope.
“Stevenson?” Hutch asked.
“The uniform who saw a person with a rifle just before Starsky was shot,” the captain explained. “Look at it. Maybe you saw him, too?”
“Cap’n, I didn’t see the damned…” Hutch stared at the sketch of a graying man with a thick, jowly face in a shocked silence. “Brenner?”
“Who’s Brenner?”
“He is.” Hutch breathed quickly. “Starsky saw him. He kept telling me over and over an’ I thought he was talking about a dumb movie. But he was trying to tell me that he saw Brenner.” Hutch studied the picture closely. Yes, it had to be the same man; even this very general sketch didn’t hide the bushy eyebrows. “Pete Brenner.”
“The name sounds familiar,” Dobey agreed.
“Should,” Hutch spoke with a rising anger. “He was a cop.” He dropped the drawing onto Dobey’s desk. “There’s your model policeman, had three citations, and then one day he tried to blow his partner away with a shotgun. Luckily, he didn’t, but he got drummed off the force.”
“So he knows police procedure, could probably get hold of files…” Dobey growled. “What happened to his partner?”
“I dunno.” Hutch walked slowly around the room. “But…good God, guess what Daniel Vegas looked like?”
“Dark, curly hair.” Dobey grabbed the phone. “Jenny, get me the files on Officers Peter Brenner and Daniel Vegas. As least the one on Brenner oughta be in the inactive cabinet.” He nodded as he listened for a moment. “Ok, that’ll be fine.” Hanging up, Dobey sighed. “She’ll have them in a few minutes. Did you and Starsky ever work with Brenner or Vegas?”
“Yeah.” Hutch paused to look at a photograph on the wall. It was of he, Starsky, and Dobey on the occasion of some awards dinner. Everyone was smiling. “Uh–it was a long time ago, three, no, four years ago–sort of the younger detectives working with the old pros. Some pro–he greets his partner with a shotgun.”
“So you know him?”
“Sort of–I did then.” Hutch shook his head. “I wouldn’t now. He had a temper.”
“Yeah,” Dobey commented sarcastically. He opened a drawer and removed a small plastic bag. “The lab crew analyzed this, and gave it to me.” He laid it on the desk. “The bullet from your gun. It was found very near where Starsky fell.”
“I don’ wanna see it,” Hutch said tersely. “What about the other bullet?”
“I talked to Dr. Simms after you left,” Dobey said. “He won’t be able to operate and take the other one out until Starsky’s strong enough.”
“When will that be?” Hutch rubbed his eyes wearily.
“He doesn’t know.”
“Damn Simms, he never gives a fuckin’ straight answer.”
“Captain.” Jenny came in with a file. “Here’s the records on Brenner. We’re having some problems locating the one on Vegas.”
“Did you put it through the computer?” he asked.
“Diane is doing that now.”
“Thanks, Jenny.” Dobey flipped through Brenner’s record. “Well, this doesn’t tell us much more that you already knew.”
“Where is Brenner now?” Hutch leaned over Dobey’s shoulder, looking closely at the small department issue photograph. Brenner’s face didn’t reveal any evil thoughts.
“He’s been under court-mandated psychiatric care for a while, but stopped going last year,” Dobey read with a frown.
“Terrific, as Starsky would say,” Hutch said cynically. “That means he could be anywhere–with a damned rifle.”
“Latest address is 279 Browntree Avenue.”
“Probably not where he is now.” Hutch exhaled noisily. “That’s where he used to live.”
“I’ll put an APB out on him.” Dobey dialed the central dispatcher. “Maybe we’ll get lucky.”
“You really think so? As lucky as Starsky? Cap’n, that man is a maniac, a psychotic killer who knows police procedures…and will probably be remembered by some of the cops on the street.” Hutch paced nervously
“I think our best bet is an APB now that we know his description.” Dobey spoke briefly with the dispatcher, describing Brenner and giving his latest address. “And a talk with this Vegas might be a good idea.”
Hutch thrust his fists in his jeans pockets, trying to sort things in his mind. Pete Brenner was the Shadows Killer. Why? What could have caused him to go after Vegas with a shotgun? What had been the last case Brenner had worked on before he cracked up?
“Captain Dobey?” Jenny entered, a saddened look on her pretty face. “We found Vegas’s file. He’s been dead since 1974.” She handed it over to the portly black man.
Shit,” Hutch cursed. “Jenny, find out what case Brenner and Vegas had just before Brenner started target practice on his partner.”
“Yes, sir.” She retreated.
“Hutch,” Dobey spoke sharply, reading from the dead man’s personnel records. “Vegas died only a few weeks after Brenner was…fired.”
“Was it a murder?” Hutch asked.
“No, acute appendicitis, complicated with peritonitis. It burst while he was being rushed to the hospital…. Where are you going?” Dobey asked as Hutch stalked out.
“Away.” Hutch smacked his hand on the door. “I’m sick and tired of everything, this whole fuckin’ crap.”
“You oughta get some rest.” Dobey nodded. “You’ve been up for close to 48 hours.”
“Yeah, what day is this, anyway?” Hutch rubbed his eyes.
“Sunday February 19th.”
“If I went to church I’d pray, but it probably wouldn’t help.”
“Hutch!” Dobey admonished.
“It’s just that I’m so scared…” The phone jangled insistently, almost angrily, interrupting Hutch’s words.
“Captain Dobey,” he answered curtly.
“Oh, hello, pig Captain,” the familiar voice sneered.
Dobey motioned Hutch back into the room and pressed the speaker button on the phone. “Look, we know that you’re Pete Brenner.”
There was no answer for a few moments while Brenner recovered from the shock, the ticking clock suddenly loud in the silence. “So, who fingered me?”
“Starsky, you asshole,” Hutch hissed.
“That piggy voice sounds familiar,” Brenner growled. “So, your precious partner got shot, Hutchinson. Little bastard deserves to die. He killed him and I can’t wait ‘til I get…”
“Shut up, Brenner!” Hutch felt a rising urge to punch someone.
“They’ll keep dying ‘til I’m through.” There was a sharp click and then silence.
“That clock was still ticking.” Hutch said quietly. “He’s still in the same God-damned place.”
“Hutch, go home, get some rest,” Dobey advised. “I’ve got other detectives besides you who can handle this.”
*********************
The amber liquid splashed into the tumbler for the fourth time. Hutch picked up the glass a little unsteadily. He didn’t usually drink whiskey, but today he wanted to get roaring drunk. So drunk that he couldn’t feel anything. No pain, no sadness, no fear….
Downing the drink in one gulp, Hutch lay back on his bed, letting it burn down to his stomach. Across the room, hymns played softly on the radio. What a hell of a day to get drunk on! A Sunday!
Sunday morning creeping like a nun… Snatches of songs whirled around Hutch’s head. Make believe you’re brave, you may be as brave as you make believe you are… Starsky’s song.
“Yeah, I’m real brave.” Hutch filled the tumbler once more. “So brave.” He downed the whiskey. Brave enough to drink away all the bad things, the things that he didn’t want to think about. Giving up on his best friend.
“Starsky,” he said groggily to himself. “I need to talk to Starsky.”
Walking unsteadily to the kitchen, he settled on the linoleum with the phone book in his lap. It took him a while to find the number of the hospital, since the letters on the page had a habit of dancing around a great deal more than usual. “5-5-5-9-8-1-1,” Hutch muttered to himself. After four unsuccessful attempts to dial the number correctly, he contacted the hospital.
“Good morning, St. Luke’s Hospital,” a cheery voice answered.
Hutch leaned his aching head onto his hand, trying to remember why he’d called. “Uh…I wanna talk to Dr. Simms. This is Sergeant Hutch’son.”
“Just a minute, sir.”
While he waited, Hutch had another shot of whiskey. His eyelids beginning to close sleepily, he hummed the rest of Lady Madonna. “Listen to the music playin’ in your head…”
“Sergeant Hutchinson? This is Dr. Simms.”
“I wan’ t’know how Starsky is,” Hutch demanded, “He–I need to talk t’him.”
“I’m afraid you won’t be able to, Mr. Hutchinson. He’s in a coma,” Simms answered. “I suggest you get some rest.”
“I…” Hutch’s voice trailed off. “Call me when he wakes up.” He dropped the phone, spilling more whiskey into his glass. More of it landed on the floor than the tumbler, but Hutch drank the remainder, ignoring the increasingly urgent tones to hang up the receiver properly.
“I need him.” The blond man found the couch, pulling an afghan around his shoulders, hot tears on his cheeks. Starsky, don’t die.
*********************
Pete Brenner glanced at the file of policeman Joe McKinley that lay on the dashboard in front of him. Dark, curly hair…blue uniform. “You’re gonna die, Vegas,” Brenner whispered as he slid a rifle shell into the chamber of his Winchester. He left the weapon under the seat of the car and got out, looking up and down the street. “Hey, kid!”
A small boy of about nine turned a curious expression on his face. “Yeah, mister?”
“You wanna make some money?” Brenner asked.
The expression turned from curious to greedy. “Sure.” The child ran up, his blue eyes wide with excitement.
“I’ll leave this money in the glove compartment of this car.” Brenner held up a five and a one. “And I want you to run over to that store and force open the door so that the alarm rings–Ok? So the cops come, but you got to get away quick.”
“Why d’you want me to do that?” the child asked skeptically.
“It’s a joke.” Brenner pulled out his wallet and flashed his old police badge. “A joke for my friends.”
“What about ten bucks?” the boy bargained. “I don’t wanna get in trouble with the cops.”
“Six dollars, take it or leave it,” Brenner growled. Ungrateful little whelp, trying to extort more money.
“Take it,” the boy agreed.
“Be ready in ten minutes,” Brenner continued. “I gotta hide first.” He waved the boy off. “Now you go play, don’t look like you’re waiting. The money’ll be in the glove compartment.”
“Ok.” The child ran off, excited to be included in the adult’s game.
Leaning into the car, Brenner grabbed his rifle and strode quickly into the darkened alley between two apartment buildings. He hunkered down next to a rusty dumpster, out of sight to any passers by. It was exactly eight a.m. There were few people on the street, mostly because there were no offices or factories in this part of town.
The little boy with the brown hair and blue eyes bounced a ball down the sidewalk and across the wide avenue, dodging a car as he did so. Taking a furtive look around, he pulled a switchblade from his back pocket and jimmied the lock on Robinson’s Grocery. As the door swung open, the shrill wail of a burglar alarm filled the air. The boy darted to the parked car, collected his six dollars and disappeared around a corner.
Brenner smiled to himself as a police car pulled up only moments later. A man with dark, curly hair emerged from the passenger side. Brenner raised his rifle. “You die, Vegas.” He pulled the trigger.
The alarm squealed on endlessly as the policeman fell, the red bubble on the top of the black-and-white illuminating his astonishment. McKinley’s older partner pressed his hands helplessly over the wound but the blood gushed from the dying man’s torn artery, saturating the sidewalk in front of Robinson’s Grocery. The alarm’s scream merged with the police siren, a cacophony of anguish for the death of another dark-haired police officer.
*********************
Hutch opened his eyes and gazed tiredly around the room. Sunlight streamed through the front windows, casting shadows of the hanging plants on the opposite wall. Outside, loud voices carried from the sidewalk below.
Pulling himself up off the couch, Hutch moaned at the pounding in his head. Boy, he had a hangover. He pushed open the window, looking down. What was all the shouting about?
“I was not speeding!” An irate citizen shouted at a gold-helmeted motorcycle cop who was stoically writing up a ticket. “I’ll call the mayor! He is a friend of…”
Hutch slammed the window, causing his ears to ring. He steadied himself against the sill, sighing because the incensed driver’s voice seemed to penetrate the walls. Stumbling across to the bathroom, he divested himself of sweatshirt and pants. A shower; some cold water would clear his head.
Some thirty minutes later, Hutch had showered, dressed and forced a protein shake into his nauseated stomach. He didn’t feel any better but his head was clearer and what he could remember of the day before made him feel lousy anyway. Surveying the room, he started to straighten up. The empty whiskey bottle, a glass, the afghan and the telephone lay in a tangled heap on the floor. The phone was off the hook; its cord tied in knots. Hutch replaced the receiver onto the cradle, suppressing the overwhelming urge to call St. Luke’s.
The instant ringing of the phone startled him, renewing the pounding in his head. “Hello?”
“Hutch, where have you been?”
“Asleep,” Hutch answered evasively. “The phone was off the hook.”
“It’s noon!”
“I was tired, what’d you want?” Hutch picked up the whiskey bottle, tossing it into the kitchen trashcan.
“Brenner’s struck again.”
“Damn!”
“Same basic operation. And your idea about those little kids may be right on the money.”
“Did you talk to him–the one at the warehouse?” Hutch asked suddenly.
“No, this was at an abandoned grocery store, like before,” Dobey said.
“The kid I…” Hutch trailed off when he realized he hadn’t told the captain the whole story of the shooting. “I’ll come down. Oh, have you talked to Dr. Simms?”
“There’s been no change,” Dobey answered soberly.
“I’ll stop by there first.”
*********************
Stepping into St. Luke’s did nothing for Hutch’s mood or his stomach. The image of Starsky covered in blood replayed itself in his memory and he realized belatedly that he’d never gotten to see him after they’d cleaned him up. Guilt poured in, wallowing in the acid bath in his belly, burning holes in his soul. Starsky might not be in here if he hadn’t have shot him. Perhaps he would have been able to alert the others to Brenner’s presence, if Hutch hadn’t shot first. It wasn’t logical, but Hutch was too hung over and depressed to care. He got off the elevator on the third floor with trepidation.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Hutchinson,” Dr. Simms said without emotion, his jowly face like a mournful basset hound.
“I’d like to know how my partner is doing,” Hutch asked politely, disliking the doctor immensely for no real reason.
“I’m sorry, but we really cannot give out much information. He’s in critical condition, in a coma.”
“Dammit, Simms, give me a straight answer. What are you doing about it? Is Starsky going to live?”
“Mr. Hutchinson.” Simms frowned. “This is a hospital, we are doing out best. He has one bullet still in his body and lost massive amounts of blood. His body is fighting a difficult battle.”
“Thanks a lot, Doctor,” Hutch said sarcastically. “I could have figured that out. So why don’t you operate? Can’t you do anything besides giving…”
“We cannot operate at this time, his condition is too unstable.”
“Can I see him?” Hutch asked, feeling helpless.
“He’s still in a coma,” Simms repeated, shaking his head.
“I’m not gonna dance with him,” Hutch shouted. “I want to see my partner, NOW.”
“Mr. Hutchinson, I can have you removed from this hospital if you do not co-operate,” Dr. Simms answered firmly.
“Dr. Simms, I want to see Starsky.” Hutch’s voice had a deadly edge.
The smaller man stood stiffly for a second, then relented with a distasteful expression. “For a few minutes.”
Striding down the long, shining hall to the ICU, Hutch had the impression that he was in a prison and Simms was the head warden. A few of the rooms were open and most of the patients who could be seen were chained in some way to their beds, by IV tubing or heart monitors. There was a confining feeling that wouldn’t go away. Hutch had the urge to break Starsky out. How could anyone get well here?
A middle-aged nurse stood at the desk guarding the intensive care unit. “May I help you?”
“Wants to see David Starsky.” Simms had trailed behind, ready to assert authority in his own territory. He grabbed up a medical chart off the counter to look busy.
“Sign in on the visitor’s list.” She waited while Hutch wrote his name. “Then, please come this way,” she said pleasantly but efficiently.
Hutch followed her down another corridor bordered by large windowed rooms that made viewing the critical patients easier. Starsky was in the last room on the hall.
“Only a few minutes,” the nurse said.
Standing at the door, Hutch stared at the dark-haired man in the white bed. He looked so small and helpless, like a child lost in a sea of pillows, IV tubing, and plasma bottles. A tube taped in his mouth aided his breathing, hooked to a large thumping respirator. Nothing moved, it was almost as if Starsky were dead–the only sign of life being the glowing, jagged line on the heart monitor screen. That pale greenish line kept him alive.
“Starsky?” Hutch sat down next to the bed. “Starsky, I shot you. I never even saw you. I go over and over it in my mind, but I can’t get away from the fact–I shot you.” He stood up, shoving his hands in his pockets. “But Brenner did too, huh? You saw him and I couldn’t understand it. Brenner is the Shadows Killer–and he got another victim.” Facing his friend, Hutch gripped the end of the bed. “Starsky, I have to get him. I’m not sure how–but I’m gonna find that kid–the one who told us to go to the warehouse. That kid is part of the key. I can’t believe Brenner…. Starsky, I need your help…come back.”
“Mr. Hutchinson?” the nurse called. “Time is up.”
“Keep him safe.” Hutch looked back at his silent partner, his own heart aching with fear. He left the ICU, striding past Simms without saying a word.
Out on the street, Hutch cruised his battered Ford down his usual beat, feeling very alone. Glancing expertly up and down the sidewalks, he kept watch for illegal activities. He let his mind wander back to the case at hand. Brenner had tried eight times–killed six men, missed once and wounded Starsky. All had been the same basic procedure, and all had been in a general area of inner Los Angeles. So why hadn’t anyone seen anything? Why hadn’t he been caught? There must be eight kids who had spoken to him. With a sudden sense of purpose, Hutch directed his Ford to The Pits.
“Huggy?” Hutch looked around the semi-crowded bar, but didn’t see the skinny proprietor. He did, however, spot Reny at the bar. “G’Afternoon, Reny.”
“Oh, Hutch.” The little weasel-faced man took a drag from a hand-rolled cigarette. “Hi–Hello.”
“Been doing anything lately?” Hutch glanced at the glass in front of the man. “S’against your parole to get drunk.”
“My first and only, I swear!” Reny pushed the glass away. “I was only nursin’ it to be sociable, y’know.”
“Sure.” Hutch ordered a beer for himself. “Go ahead, drink yours, Reny.”
“Oh, thanks.” Reny gulped the gold-colored liquid and took another drag on his cigarette. “You want something, Hutch? I haven’t seen Julian or anybody in weeks…”
“You heard of the Shadows Killer?”
Reny nodded jerkily. ” Who hasn’t? The cop killer…he got Starsky, huh? How is…”
“He’s ok,” Hutch said quickly. “I wanna get word out on the streets–you spread it around that I’ll pay for information on a man named Pete Brenner.”
“Is he the killer?” Reny asked eagerly. “How much you gonna pay?”
“Depends on what I get.” Hutch took a drink from his beer, the morning’s hangover still hammering in his brain. “I’m especially interested in kids who might have talked to him.”
“Yeah?” Reny dropped his cigarette butt on the floor and ground it to powder with his foot. “What if…”
“Reny.” Hutch caught hold of the man’s skinny wrist. “I want this guy. He’s killing innocent people, but if you fuck this bust up in any way, I’ll go after you in the same way. Watch out.”
“Ok, Hutch, I’m always willin’ to co-operate with the cops.” Reny backed up, disappearing out the door.
“Comin’ down on the fink kinda hard?” Huggy said dryly from behind Hutch, collecting Reny’s empty beer glass.
“The hell with it,” Hutch answered.
“How’s Starsky?” Huggy pretended to wipe the bar, wanting to give some support. His friendship with the two detectives had long ago transcended the usual relationship between police and informants.
“He’s breathing, that’s about it. He doesn’t even move.” Hutch took a deep breath. “Heard anything on the street about Pete Brenner?”
“He’s a cop, huh?” Huggy gave the bar a final swipe with his rag. He went behind the counter, collecting other empty glasses and setting out bowls of peanuts.
“Where’d you hear that?”
“Just noise.” Huggy waved a hand at invisible voices. “What you sayin’ about it?”
“Yeah, that’s right. He was drummed off the force four years ago.”
“Sets a real good example for the kiddies.” Huggy raised an eyebrow. “You’re takin’ it pretty hard.”
“How do you expect me to take it?” Hutch flared.
“Hey, hey, remember it’s me, The Bear, not Reny,” Huggy soothed. “I’ll do anything for you and Starsky, you just tell me. What’d you want?”
“Yah, thanks.” Hutch finished his beer, ignoring the hollowness in his belly. He should be eating solid food, but every fast food joint in the city reminded him of Starsky. He didn’t think he could face a burger or burrito without throwing up. “There are a couple of kids in the areas where the killings were who might have talked to Brenner. I wanna talk to ’em. One is black, last seen on Rochester, and one has blond hair, I saw him at the oil yard. They’re both about nine. Maybe six other kids.”
“Sure, you want the moon, too?” Huggy snorted, then sobered. “I’ll see what I can do.” He held up a clenched fist. “Starsky’ll fight this, he doesn’t give up.”
*********************
Outside the detective’s squad room, Hutch was surprised to see a barrage of reporters and cameramen surrounding Dobey’s office door. As he came down the hall, he could hear Dobey giving a statement pertaining to the most recent victim of the Shadows Killer.
“Ah!” One illustrious member of the press turned. “The partner of the wounded officer!” As one, the rest of the reporters and camera operators swung around, bright lights suddenly shining in Hutch’s eyes. “Can you give us any comments on the situation, Detective Hutchinson?”
“No.” Hutch looked for a way to break out, but the media had hemmed him in. At the edge of the crowd, Dobey was still verbally battling with a determined photographer.
“What about the two bullets, Hutchinson?” A hand stuck a microphone into his face. “One of them was yours, wasn’t it?”
Hutch froze, his jaw tightening in anger. “Where did you hear that?” he asked, pronouncing each word with deadly precision.
“Sources, Detective. What’s your answer?” Several hands clutched pens poised over notepads, ready to scribble any answer he gave. TV cameras watched him like giant eyes.
“No comment,” Hutch forced out. “Now get the hell out of here.”
“Detective Hutchinson refuses to comment on whether he shot his partner or not.” There was a mocking taunt to the reporter’s voice.
“Are you going to print that?” Hutch demanded, his stomach clenching so tightly it was difficult to breathe.
“It’s copy.” The reporter looked the policeman in the eye. For a moment no one spoke, the silence so loud it seemed to ring.
“Hutch!” Dobey’s voice boomed. “In my office!” The reporters swarmed forward, Dobey’s adversarial photographer snapping off a picture as Hutch pushed through to the door. “We will have a statement in a few minutes.” The detective captain stated. The sea of news people parted to let the two men into Dobey’s office, but microphones were still held out in hopes of getting any muttered word.
“I expected you here two hours ago!” the black man exploded, once they were alone. His voice softened. “You’re going to have to give them a straight answer. Otherwise, they’ll take you through the ringer, Hutchinson. What you don’t say is louder than what you do.”
“And have them throw it all over the front page–Cop shoots partner. L.A.’s finest are plugging away at each other,” Hutch replied bitterly.
“I think it’s necessary,” Dobey said. “Besides, it could give us an edge.”
“On what?”
“Could pull Brenner out and make him curious enough to call us again.”
“Ok,” Hutch agreed reluctantly. He couldn’t even name or explain the dread he felt. Maybe if Starsky were by his side, he could get through this. But Starsky was far away. “I’ll…”
“I’ll tell them,” Dobey cut in, not blind to Hutch’s obvious anguish. “If they ask you a question, just answer it without starting anything.”
He opened the door and was momentarily blinded as the photographer snapped off a few quick shots. “Our department is ready to make an official statement regarding the shooting of Detective Sergeant David Starsky,” Dobey announced. “Detective Starsky was in fact shot twice, once by a suspect whom we feel may be the Shadows Killer. This, however, has not been completely verified. He was also shot accidentally by his partner, Detective Sergeant Hutchinson, who was in pursuit of an armed youth. This young man had fired on my detectives and was later brought into custody. We are withholding his name because he is under age. Detective Starsky is in critical condition. That is all we intend to say.”
“Hutchinson, what…?”
“What’s your feeling about shooting your partner?”
“Hey, Sergeant Hutchinson?” All the reporters clamored forth with questions, their voices blending into one unintelligible noise.
Hutch couldn’t respond, paralyzed by guilt. What would they be saying if Starsky died?
“Sergeant Hutchinson, why are you still on duty?” a female voice rang out above the lower tones. “Shouldn’t you be on administrative leave during the investigation?”
“I am extremely concerned about my partner’s condition,” Hutch managed to speak, watching as each word was inscribed on each notepad as he spoke. The TV cameras watched him back, recording every syllable.
“Internal Affairs has already cleared Detective Hutchinson of any wrong-doing in the accidental shooting,” Dobey informed them formally.
This was news to Hutch, who hadn’t even spoken to any IA detectives.
“Captain Dobey, is it true that you know the identity of the Shadows Killer?” a loud voice asked.
“The department has nothing further to say at this time,” Dobey said quietly. “This meeting is over.” The photographer snapped three more shots before Hutch and Dobey disappeared into the office.
“Where were you this afternoon?” Dobey sat down wearily.
“I went to the hospital, first,” Hutch said. “I want that Simms off Starsky’s case, I don’t think the man knows what he’s doing.”
“We don’t understand all that medical jargon. He’s just being cautious,” the Captain placated.
Hutch bristled but remained silent.
“Look, Jenny came up with some old case files that look important.” Dobey passed a pile of papers to the other man. “The top one could be the gas station robbery Brenner mentioned. It’s a case he and Vegas worked on. And, get this, Vegas shot and killed a kid named Paul Brenner in the hold-up.”
“Was he related…?” Hutch nodded. “Well, it gives Brenner a motive: good, old fashioned revenge.”
“Except that reports were that the brothers were never close.” Dobey consulted a sheet of paper. “The case was investigated fully and–uh…Paul Brenner and another boy, Sean O’Herlihy, had robbed several other places, had wounded an owner on one of their jobs. They were considered armed and dangerous. Vegas identified himself, and when he was shot at, returned fire. When Brenner found out his kid brother had died he wasn’t even fazed. They were half-brothers and twenty years apart. They hardly knew each other.”
“But they’re still blood.” Hutch shook his head. “Family ties are sometimes funny things.” He came around the desk so he could read over Dobey’s shoulder. “How old was Paul?”
“Fifteen.”
“Just a kid…. I got word out on the street that I wanna talk to any and all kids who’ve talked to Brenner,” Hutch said. “What happened to O’Herlihy?”
“Went to Juvenile Hall. There’s no update here. Records were probably sealed.”
“How long after that did Brenner start shotgun practice?” Hutch leaned back, trying to stretch. The tension in his neck was knotting the muscles all the way down his back.
“One month.”
“Captain Dobey.” Jenny Dreyfess stuck her head in the door. “The personnel files for Officer Joe McKinley are missing.”
“What?” Dobey raised out of his chair.
“Diane can’t find the inner office copies. She’s going through the central computer to get that copy.”
“Well, where the hell are they?” Dobey growled angrily.
“Captain Dobey?” A pretty, dark-haired policewoman walked in behind Jenny. “While I was going through the computers, I remembered something very strange,” Diane Killmer spoke hesitantly. “A few weeks ago…a man…a policeman, in uniform, came in with a request for several files. It was all straightforward and in correct order so…I gave him the files.”
“Diane, whose files?” Hutch asked, his heart beating in triple digits.
She lowered her head for a moment, as if fearing his wrath. “Mckinley’s, Bob Estrata’s and…Starsky’s.”
“And two of the three of them have been shot,” Hutch finished in a strangled voice.
“Diane, was this him?” Dobey pulled up a photograph of Pete Brenner in uniform.
“Yes. Isn’t he a real officer?” she asked, frightened.
“He was, Diane, that’s the problem.” Hutch answered. “He must be going to each department in the city and requesting the files of the men he wants to kill. That’s how he knows their beats, their covers, their…. But, he must know they aren’t Vegas.”
“Jenny, get a hold of Bob Estrata. He’s the only one who hasn’t been shot at. Then get on the horn and call up other stations who’ve lost men in the last weeks. See if Brenner’s been there,” Dobey ordered.
“Captain, I…I’m sorry,” Diane said tearfully, wringing her hands.
“Diane, you were just doing your job.” Dobey looked grim. “It can’t be helped now.”
Hutch put his arm around her sympathetically, except that he couldn’t think of anything sympathetic to say. A few months before, Diane’s boyfriend, also a cop, had been killed in the line of duty. All Hutch could think about was Starsky lying in the hospital on a respirator. He was the only one Brenner hadn’t succeeded in killing. Yet.
“I’ll go print up Mckinley’s file off the computer.” Di walked slowly from the room. Jenny followed, talking softly to her.
“Brenner walks coolly in here, gets a few files and ambles out again, rifle in hand to shoot up his favorite cop.” Hutch paced, wanting to explode. “Other cops saw him, talked to him…. He must have gotten most of the files before he ever started killing.”
“What precinct was he based out of?”
“Blackburn Street.” Hutch answered, so restless he could hardly stay in the confines of the small office.
“And so were two of the men killed.” Dobey frowned. “Ravelli and Collier.”
“He’s setting a stage.” Hutch roamed the perimeter of the room, unable to keep still. “He gets some kid to commit a minor felony, then waits for the local beat cop to come–he knows in advance who will probably show up.” His whole body felt jittery, as if he’d drunk too much coffee, when he hadn’t had any at all. That bastard had lain in wait, knowing that he and Starsky were often within a few blocks of Miller’s Bar and the oil yard on 110th Ave.
“Here.” Dobey held out a sheaf of papers, “The transcript from the questioning of Leroy Jefferson, the kid who shot at you. He said that the other kid–who’s still at large–was given one hundred dollars to stage a gunfight. They split it.”
“But did Jefferson see Brenner? Talk to him?”
“No.” Dobey glanced up at the blond man. “Sit down, you need to calm…”
“How can I be calm?” Hutch retorted. “That crazy bastard tried to kill my partner–he…” Hutch sat, clasping his hands in his lap. They trembled and finally he grasped the arms of the chair. “What about IA–you told the reporters they cleared me?”
“Yes. Several officers at the scene saw Jefferson take the shot at you. All who saw Starsky said it would have been impossible for you to see him beforehand. It was accidental.” Dobey wished he could say something to ease the younger man’s fears, but he too was thinking of the dark-haired man in the hospital. Starsky was the one who could lighten a tense situation with a joke, or smart remark. His absence was palpable. “Internal Affairs will still want a statement from you, but there won’t be any hearing.”
“I need to get out on the street.” Hutch started for the door, but froze as the phone rang.
Dobey answered on the first ring, identifying himself. He held up his hand, motioning Hutch back into the office. “Ok, Doctor, we’ll be right over.” He hung up the phone. “Simms says that Starsky’s breathing on his own, his temperature had come down, and there’s been some body movement.”
“Is he conscious?” Hutch asked anxiously.
“His condition has improved from critical to guarded,” Dobey finished softly. “He could still take a turn for the worse.”
“Oh, God,” Hutch prayed.
*********************
Sighting down his rifle barrel, Pete Brenner watched the front of the Nightcap Liquor store. Although it was mid-afternoon, the place was shuttered and dark, only the raucous sound of the burglar alarms out of place. The little brown-faced child had already collected his reward for smashing the front window with a rock, and vanished, probably to spend the ill-gotten gain on some silly bubblegum card. Brenner had never liked small children. They pestered, following where they weren’t wanted, never leaving you alone. He could remember Paul…. He shook his head, focusing on the storefront. Where was that patrol car? The response time in this neighborhood sucked.
“Vegas, you can’t hide from me. Change your name…. Huh, you can’t hide that hair…” Brenner muttered to himself. He corrected the rifle’s angle, leaning against an abandoned plaid sofa. He applauded whoever had dragged the couch into this alley. No one in their right mind would want the ugly piece of furniture in their house, and it made a perfect cover. Where was that damned patrol car?
He laughed to himself. Who in their right minds, indeed? Who was in their right mind? He’d long ago decided that few people had any minds at all.
Douglas Hancock. That was the name Vegas was hiding behind now, but Brenner wasn’t fooled. Vegas was truly a coward. Killing innocent young boys, just for getting a few kicks…. Ok, maybe Paul hadn’t been innocent–but who in this day and age hadn’t committed a few crimes? It meant nothing. The kid just needed guidance. A few misdemeanors just made you realize the difference between right and wrong. Like using the belt…. Brenner shot the image out of his head. That was a long time ago. Where was he?
He eased his finger off the trigger, loosening the joint, as a black-and-white car finally pulled onto Lincoln from Blackburn and stopped in front of Nightcap Liquor.
Ah, yes. Now things were going according to plan. Brenner smiled until both cops climbed out of the car. A black man and an older, fat geezer Brenner recognized as Sergeant Riley. Where was Douglas Hancock? A second, unmarked car rolled up, disgorging a petite blond woman and thin, tall balding plainclothes detective who conferred with the two uniforms about the break in. Where was Vegas? Douglas Hancock? Whatever he was calling himself?
His breath coming in short gasps, Brenner tried to calm himself. This wasn’t the day. He had to remain in control, in his right mind. Vegas was still out there and he would still be able to kill him, this just wasn’t the right day.
Laughing at the four police investigating a simple broken window, Pete Brenner felt his breathing ease. This just wasn’t the day. Maybe Douglas Hancock was just a ruse, to throw him off the track. The last name on his list was Bob Estrata. It would be him. Vegas could no longer hide, now.
*********************
It was dinnertime at St. Luke’s. Candy-stripers pushed carts laden with food down the hallways, stopping every few feet to distribute covered dishes to the patients able to eat. Hutch realized that he hadn’t eaten a good meal in several days. His stomach growled hollowly but the smell of food left him nauseated.
“Good evening. Is Dr. Simms around?” Dobey asked the ward clerk at the intensive care desk.
She was much younger than the nurse Hutch had seen earlier in the day.
“Back in Mr. Starsky’s room.” She pointed, smiling gently.
In the ICU, only one patient was eating. The other six were unconscious, their food dripping through IV tubes directly into the bloodstream. Hutch again felt the overwhelming urge to break Starsky out of the prison-like ward. He’d been in a coma for three days.
“…Change the dosage to half a gram tomorrow morning,” Simms instructed a nurse, who nodded and hurried away.
“Mr. Hutchinson, Captain Dobey.” Dr. Simms closed the chart he held in his hands, coming out into the hall.
“How is he?” Hutch stared at his partner through the glass partition.
“I’d like to say I was encouraged,” Simms said grimly. “His temperature is lower, and vital signs are steady, but I can’t predict the future and I’ve seen too many patients get remarkably better only to die a few hours later.”
“Isn’t that somewhat harsh, Simms?” Dobey frowned, looking over at Starsky’s still form.
“It’s the truth, Captain.” Simms took a deep breath. “If he makes it through the night like this, things’ll be looking up.”
“Please, Starsk,” Hutch whispered, sitting down by the bed, closing his hand over his partner’s. Starsky’s fingers fluttered for a second, like weak butterflies on Hutch’s palm. “His fingers moved,” he gasped.
“Yes, he’s done that before,” Simms agreed. “If he becomes conscious, it would be a hopeful sign, but don’t be deceived by muscle spasms.”
“Doctor, dammit, can’t you say one encouraging word?” Hutch spoke sharply, trying to keep his voice lowered. He kept willing Starsky’s fingers to move again, cherishing the feeling of something alive held in his hand. Starsky was alive.
“Mr. Hutchinson, I am trying to be realistic with you. Your partner is critical,” Simms said stiffly.
“Critical, guarded, whatever that means.” Hutch stood, moving away from the patient. “If you’re being realistic, as you call it.” He glanced over at Dobey for support. “I would like you to explain exactly what is wrong with Starsky to me, Doctor, because, so far, you’ve been realistically vague.”
“All right,” Simms agreed. “If you’ll come into my office?” He led them across the hall and into a small but well-furnished office. Sitting down at the wide oak desk, he opened up the chart he still held, extracting several x-rays. “These are the x-rays, if you understand how to read them.”
He slipped them onto a lighted screen on the wall. “The first bullet hit the upper shoulder and went out the back–the residents call that a through-and-through. Little serious damage was done.” He indicated the typical x-ray negative image of a chest, white ribs against the blacker lungs. “You can see that the second bullet entered here,” he pointed to a place between two ribs, “and traveled across the chest cavity, where it lodged against the diaphragm, between his heart and left lung. Remarkably, neither organ was punctured. Two ribs were broken from the bullet’s passage. If the bullet moves one way or the other, it would probably kill him instantly, especially if it tore a hole in the artery. Surgery will be risky because of the bullet’s position, and a post operative blood clot is a real danger.” He surveyed his stunned audience, slightly smugly. “A chest tube has been inserted to help evacuate the blood in his chest cavity. He has a temperature, most probably from bacteria brought in with the bullets.”
Hutch let out a breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding, his heart pounding loudly in his ears.
“If you operate, could you get the bullet out?” Dobey asked.
“Yes. But I would never operate in the condition Starsky is in right now, nor will I until he improves. Post operative complications could kill him,” Simms answered.
“Thanks a lot, Doc, you’re a real barrel of laughs,” Hutch shouted. “What do you have, a death wish out for Starsk? You can’t say two words without mentioning something else that could…kill him.” His voice softened, close to tears. “Don’t say that.”
“Mr. Hutchinson. I only…”
“I don’t want to hear it.” Hutch pointed an accusing finger at the man. “I will listen when you tell me he’s conscious and you are going to operate.” He burst out of the office, slamming a fist against the door.
“Hutch,” Dobey admonished. “Come to the cafeteria with me.”
“Oh, thank you, Captain. Let’s get Hutch out, huh?” The blond detective rubbed skinned knuckles, sickened by the explanation Simms had given. He almost wished he hadn’t asked for it.
“Let’s get some coffee,” Dobey said firmly.
“That’s a dumb solution,” Hutch sighed, allowing himself to be led to the elevator. Dobey punched the second floor button.
“We either get Simms out, or Starsky.” Hutch stared at the lighted floor indicator. “That man’s a damn idiot.”
“He told you what you wanted to know,” Dobey pointed out as they stepped off the elevator.
The cafeteria was crowded with families waiting for word of their sick loved ones. Hutch’s guts heaved at the heavy aroma of cooked meat, but he swallowed the bile. Dobey got in line, collecting two cups and a slice of pie.
“He told me what he wanted to tell me,” Hutch retaliated. “Captain, I can’t wai…” he stood silently for a moment, watching his superior pay for the food. “Brenner keeps trying to kill Vegas. He keeps trying…because Vegas died and Brenner never killed him. So he knows that he’s not shooting Vegas.”
“What are you talking about?” Dobey growled, placing the cups on the table. He stabbed a fork into the viscous cherry pie, taking a large bite.
“I dunno–nothing.” Hutch dropped heavily into the chair. “What time is it?”
“Eight-thirty,” Dobey answered, glancing at the wall clock.
“I want to wait until he comes to.” Hutch fingered the coffee cup, making no effort to drink it.
“Hutchinson, it could be a long time.” Dobey toyed with the fork, separating the cherries out of the crust. It wasn’t very good pie; his wife made far superior.
“I didn’t stay last night.” Hutch massaged his aching temples, guilt so strong it was like a physical appendage. “I shot him.”
“Yours isn’t the wound that’s keeping him in here.” Harold Dobey longed to say something that would help in any way. He shook his head. “If you want company…”
“Thanks,” Hutch acknowledged the kindness. What if Starsky blamed him? What if this severed their friendship? What if Starsky never woke up? The damn song kept repeating in his head, like a record caught in the grove. No one ever knows I’m afraid…Make believe you’re brave and the trick will take you far. Well, he was afraid. And whistling wasn’t going to change that. “I’m so damn tired of waiting for something to happen.”
Waiting was the only thing Hutch could do that night, and eight-thirty changed to midnight as the clock hands turned slowly up to twelve. It suddenly seemed imperative to Hutch that he be there when Starsky opened his eyes, to re-establish their link. The cups of coffee went cold and even when Dobey succeeded in convincing Hutch to try a ham sandwich, he only ate two bites of it. Dobey went home after midnight and Hutch curled up on a hard leather couch in the waiting room to try to catch some elusive sleep.
“Mr. Hutchinson?” a soft voice asked for the third time. She was about to give up when she detected that he was waking up.
“Huh?” Hutch sat up stiffly, rubbing sleep out of his eyes.
“Dr. Simms would like to talk to you,” the young nurse said.
“Well, I don’t wanna talk to him…” Hutch frowned. “Is Starsky awake?”
She shrugged apologetically turning as the grim doctor emerged from the ICU.
“What do you want?” Hutch asked, making no attempt to conceal the dislike in his voice. “How’s Starsky?” His tone softened on the last word, knowing the argumentative doctor wouldn’t give him any answer if he were openly belligerent.
“That’s what I wanted to speak to you about,” Simms answered stiffly, but making no further explanation.
“I didn’t expect you wanted to discuss the weather.” Hutch started angrily for Starsky’s room.
“Your partner is conscious,” the doctor said flatly.
Hutch felt like a giant band had been taken from his chest. “Conscious?” he echoed, so joyously relieved he wanted to run down the hall to greet Starsky. “When did he…? How is he?”
“I am not particularly pleased that his temperature is up again, and his hematocrit indicates there was more internal bleeding,” Simms said, making it sound as if the entire thing were Starsky’s fault. “But if his condition stabilizes and he stays conscious, I could probably operate.”
“Simms, I am not even going to let you bother me this morning.” Hutch dashed down the hall. He stopped at Starsky’s door, wanting to burst in but restraining himself. “Starsk?” He spoke softly, sitting in the plastic bedside chair. “You there?” The respirator had been removed, and now a plastic nasal cannula supplied oxygen for the injured man. He pressed his hand over Starsky’s hot fingers. “Starsky.”
“Hutch?” The name came on a breath, so soft it was almost nonexistent.
“Glad to see you’re back, buddy.” Hutch smiled, ignoring the tears wetting his eyes.
“What happened?” Starsky asked, barely moving his lips. His whole body was so hot. Breathing had never been a difficult process before, but his chest was one solid mass of pain, and if he didn’t breathe very deeply or speak very fast, it didn’t hurt so much.
“You got shot,” Hutch answered, placing his hand gently on Starsky’s forehead. Fever radiated from his skin like fire.
“Feels good.” Starsky muttered. “What?”
“You were shot, Starsk.” The blond man sighed. Starsky was so sick, and he obviously wasn’t fully alert.
“Oh, shot.” Starsky tried to remember what being shot was. He took a deeper breath and almost lost his tentative hold on consciousness. It was like trying to breathe while being crushed under a metal smasher. “Hurts.”
“Yeah.” Hutch blinked his eyes to get rid of the tears. “Starsky, try to understand me, ok?”
“Yeah?”
“Did you see Pete Brenner shoot you?” Hutch asked.
“Brenner?”
“Right. Pete Brenner, did he shoot you?”
“A rifle?” Starsky whispered. He licked his dry lips. “Too fast.”
“What’s too fast?” Hutch gave a frustrated groan. Starsky didn’t understand.
“Time’s up, Hutchinson,” Simms said suddenly.
Wondering how long the physician had been standing there, the detective nodded, “Starsk, I gotta go now, ok?”
“Ok,” Starsky agreed weakly, closing his eyes.
“Get well, huh?” Hutch squeezed his partner’s limp hand, walking out with a worried feeling. Starsky might be conscious, but he wasn’t much better. As he left the hospital, Hutch noticed it was nine o’clock in the morning. He needed to get some clean clothes and something into his stomach. He literally couldn’t remember when he’d last eaten a full meal.
After a stop at his Venice apartment for blue jeans and a bowling shirt, Hutch drove over to a local pancake house. He and Starsky had never eaten there, reducing any memories of breakfasts together. The scrambled eggs were dry and hard, and the hash browns greasy and cold, but he forced himself to eat them, knowing he hadn’t had anything in his stomach in over a day. Carrying a paper cup back to the car, Hutch took a last reluctant sip of the disgusting brew. It was probably the worst coffee he’d ever had. With a fervent curse about wasting good money on slop, Hutch poured the coffee onto the roots of a stunted shrub. Absently watching it soak into the bare dirt, he willed the food in his belly to say where it belonged, inside him, but the need to put it into the dirt next to the coffee was too strong. He dropped to his knees, retching, losing the rest of his breakfast.
Empty, Hutch stood shaking. He couldn’t go on this way. He’d never be able to go after Brenner in this condition. Using the restaurant’s bathroom to clean up, he rinsed his mouth with water. The lined, pale face that watched him in the mirror didn’t even look familiar.
Starting the car, Hutch drove slowly, not really knowing where he was going until he stopped the car on 110th in front of the oil storage yard. Getting out, Hutch passed through the familiar gates and walked between the rows of oil drums. Markings on the ground made by the lab crew still indicated where Starsky had fallen. In fact, Hutch knelt, touching a dark place on the cement: Starsky’s blood still stained the ground.
Brenner had stood beside that shed in the shadow of the warehouse and shot Starsky without a second of remorse. But why? Brenner was trying to kill Vegas. He was never going to succeed but he was sure trying. That had to be the reason–Brenner knew he’d never be able to kill Vegas, so he was venting his frustrations by murdering anyone who looked like his ill-fated partner.
A small, blond-haired child crouched behind a barrel, a few feet from the detective, his face serious. He didn’t move as the man stood up and turned around slowly as if looking for something. At first, the man didn’t see the boy, because he was looking over the tops of the oil drums to the small building beyond.
Hutch sighed, glancing around him at the multi-colored oil drums. He almost missed the child, but the shining gold of the hair caught his eye. Hope buoyed in Hutch’s chest. Could this be the elusive child they’d been looking for?
“Hello.” He looked over the top of the barrel at the boy.
“Hi.”
“You were here the other day, weren’t you?” Hutch recognized the wide blue eyes and blond hair. He was the boy who’d directed them to the warehouse.
“Yeah.”
“My name’s Hutch, what’s yours?”
“Keeley,” the boy replied. “You’re a cop, huh?”
“You’re right.” Hutch crouched down, to be nearer to Keeley’s level. Although he was probably eight or nine, he was tiny. Hutch didn’t want to scare him off by looming over him like some evil interrogator in a Nazi movie. “When you were here the other day, did you see what happened?”
Keeley nodded, shifting just his eyes to the dark stains on the cement. He’d meant to stay away that day. The Big Man had told him to. But the gunfire and shouting had been too alluring and he’d returned in time to see the curly-haired cop get gunned down.
“Did anybody tell you to make us come over here?” Hutch asked carefully.
“Yeah.” Keeley tucked his hands between his bent knees. “He gave me six dollars.”
“Six dollars. Wow, I bet that made you glad. Do you know his name?”
“Sure.” The boy stood up, the sun catching his shining hair, making it gleam like fire. “It’s Mr. Brennen.”
Brenner–Brennen? It was so absurdly similar. “Why did he give you six dollars?” Hutch asked.
Keeley looked skeptical. “I don’t think he’d like me to tell a cop.”
“Well, Keeley,” Hutch stood up, too. “Mr. Brennen might have hurt a lot of people, including a friend of mine. He should be in jail.”
“But…” Keeley stared up at the cop. “Did he shoot your friend?” He pointed to the place where Starsky had lain.
“Yeah, I think so. My friend’s name is Dave Starsky. He’s in the hospital. He’s very sick and I want to help him by finding the man who shot him.”
The boy’s small face crumpled. “He…told me he wanted to play a trick on you. Not…” Keeley looked down at his feet, “not shoot anyone.”
“Keeley, I understand.” Hutch placed a gentle hand on the boy’s shoulder. “I just need all the help I can get to find Mr. Brennen. Do you remember anything else?”
Scratching his arm, Keeley took a trembling breath. “I know…”
“What?” Hutch tried not to sound too urgent.
“I know where he lives,” Keeley said softly.
“Thank God,” Hutch whispered. “Can you show me?”
“But he’ll know.” Keeley’s eyes widened so much they seemed to encompass his whole face. “He might shoot me.”
Hutch thought fast, needing that address. “I don’t think so, Keeley. He usually only shoots people who have dark hair, not blond hair like you and me.”
“Starsky had dark hair.” Keeley nodded, remembering seeing the other detective in the car with Hutch.
“Yeah, now, do you remember where he lives?”
“Sure–next door to me.” Keeley started out the chain link gates to the street. “Down there, at 43 One-hundred-tenth Street, on the second floor.” He pointed past Miller’s Bar to a rundown apartment building. It was one of a dozen or so identical apartment blocks built for public housing. Colorful graffiti tags decorated the entire length of the outside walls.
“Thank you, Keeley, very much.” Hutch patted the boy’s arm. “How old are you?”
“Eight.”
“You did a very important job. Don’t worry about Brennen, I’ll never tell him it was you.” Hutch smiled gently. “Me, or one of my other friends on the force will be back to talk to you and your parents later on today, ok?”
Keeley brushed a hand through his tousled hair. “Mister…Hutch, can I see you friend when he’s better?”
“When he’s better.” Hutch nodded. “Why?”
“So I can say I’m sorry.”
“Me, too, Keeley, me, too.”
There was no name on the mailbox for apartment 2B of number forty-three One-hundred-tenth Street, but Hutch figured that it had to be the right one. Number 2A had the very Scandinavian sounding name of Gunderson taped under it. Coupling that with Keeley’s blond hair, and the fact that Brennen, or Brenner, lived next door, made it a sure bet to be Keeley’s home.
Hutch took the stairs two at a time and knocked gently on Apartment B. He hadn’t given very much thought as to what would happen if Brenner pulled his rifle. He acutely missed Starsky’s presence. He’d go high and Starsky’d go low, bursting into the apartment together. Hutch loosened his pistol in the shoulder holster, just in case.
“Brenner?” Hutch knocked louder, getting no response. “Pete Brenner? This is the police, open this door.” He drew his pistol, and held it ready. “Brenner, I’m coming in!” With a swift kick, Hutch slammed open the door. Nothing moved inside the tiny apartment except a large brass pendulum encased in a grandfather clock. The deep tick-tock echoed through the room.
A quick tour of the three rooms proved that Brenner was not in residence. Hutch sat down, defeated, on a low couch. He looked curiously at a pile of papers and files cluttering the floor. Something looked very familiar. Moving the old newspapers aside, Hutch swallowed against the bile rising from his stomach. Ravelli’s file, Collier’s file…. He clenched his teeth as he pulled out Starsky’s file. Damn, damn, damn.
Enough circumstantial evidence to nail Brenner with four counts of murder and there was no way to use any of it against him. Hutch growled and stomped out.
*********************
“No, I didn’t have a damn search warrant.” Hutch slammed his hand on Dobey’s desk. “But Captain, if I got back there at least I can get him…”
“How are you going to explain knowing those files were there?” Dobey exploded, “Hutchinson, I cannot have my best detectives breaking into suspect’s homes!”
“Captain,” Hutch insisted, “we go there–get him on…having stolen police records, anything, but at least we get that menace off the streets.”
“Not for long.”
“Once we get him, we can make something stick.”
“You sure?” Dobey frowned, “Ok, Hutch, get a search warrant, get the bastard, but you better get him good!” The phone rang, but he ignored it, letting Jenny answer. “Did you find his gun?”
“No, he probably had it. How soon can I get that warrant?” the blond man asked impatiently.
“Captain?” Jenny stuck her head in the door, a frightened look on her face. “It’s Brenner.”
“I’ll take it.” Dobey nodded. “Get a trace going, Jenny.”
“Wait,” Hutch said as the Captain put his hand on the receiver. “Let me talk to him.”
“Keep him talking,” Dobey urged.
“Hey, pig captain, you there?” Brenner’s voice poured forth from the room speaker. “I keep readin’ how incompetent you are in the papers.”
“I’m here, Brenner,” Hutch spoke firmly.
“Hey, Hutchinson, I went an’ saw your little partner th’ other day. He don’t look so good.”
Hutch went cold, his hands shaking. “How did you get in there?”
“Just walked in, fuckin’ nurse didn’t even care.”
“Brenner, you bas…”
“Hutchinson, little cops shouldn’t use words like that,” the killer chided, a sneer in his voice. “What would your public think? I ain’t gonna stay on this phone long. I just wanted to know how you piggies are doing?”
“Brenner,” Hutch said quickly, “you were a ‘piggie’ once, too.”
“A different life.” Brenner boasted. “I’ve learned the…” he laughed sadistically, “the error of my ways.”
“Your error is that you ever lived, Brenner,” Hutch spat vehemently. Dobey shot him an angry look. “I want to meet with you, Brenner.”
“I don’t make deals with cops. I kill them. Like they killed him.”
“Vegas is dead!” Hutch shouted. “He’s dead and you didn’t kill him. That’s your problem, isn’t it?”
“Fuck you, Hutchinson.” Brenner dropped the receiver onto the cradle, the sound cracking loudly around Dobey’s office.
“Dammit,” Hutch swore. He laced his fingers together to stop them from shaking. “How did he get into the hospital without being seen?”
“He’s just yanking your chain, Hutchinson,” Dobey reasoned. “They have a visitor list there. Nobody just walks in.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “I’ll put a stake-out on Brenner’s place and get that search warrant.
“A lot of good it’ll do now.” Hutch couldn’t shake his anxiety. “An’ keep that stake-out out of sight.”
“Hutch, I know,” the Captain growled. “Get out there and earn your pay.”
It didn’t take very long to learn that Reny hadn’t heard anything, Huggy hadn’t heard anything, and both were convinced that the lack of street talk was because no one else knew anything either. Brenner had slipped through the cracks, despite massive media coverage and most of LA’s finest looking for him.
*********************
The offices of Brenner’s police department-appointed psychiatrist were in a much more high rent district than Hutch usually circulated. Feeling slightly underdressed he crossed the marble-floored lobby to an office directory. Dr. Patrick Sullivan resided in suite 1912. Hutch twitched his leather jacket straighter, waiting for the elevator to the nineteenth floor.
Pushing open a door etched with the names Sullivan, Badijian and Associates, Hutch stepped inside. The waiting room was well appointed with over stuffed chairs, large lacy ferns and a coffee machine, but it was completely deserted.
A white-haired woman with piercing blue eyes regarded him coolly. “May I help you?”
Opening his wallet to expose the gold detective shield, Hutch explained his reasons to see Dr. Sullivan.
“I’m afraid the doctor is in conference,” she answered primly.
“Do you understand that this is an extremely dangerous situation? One of his patients is killing innocent people.” Hutch started down the small hall behind her desk. “Which one is his office, or do you want me to barge right in on a patient?”
“You can’t go in there!” she bristled, following him.
“Ah, here we are.” Luckily, the doctor’s personal offices had their names engraved on brass plaques. He swung the door open as the receptionist grabbed the knob, nearly knocking her over in the process.
“Doctor…” she sputtered.
“Miss Haversham, what is this?” Sullivan was an overweight man with a puffy, florid face. He was also obviously drunk. A bottle of Jim Beam sat next to his desk blotter, and an empty soldier lay on the floor, the stale smell of whiskey permeating the room.
“Detective Hutchinson of the Metropolitan Police.” Hutch flashed his badge.
“Why d’you come barging in like this?” the doctor growled.
“You used to treat a patient name Peter Brenner?”
“I’d have to check my files,” Sullivan said blearily. “Miss Haversham?” She nodded, turning to a large bank of locked cabinets. “What’s this all about, Detective?”
“He may have murdered six policemen.”
Miss Haversham froze, dropping the keys. “Are you talking about the Shadows Killer? Pete Brenner may be the Shadows Killer?” When Hutch nodded, she bent, retrieving the keys from the Chinese rug, and unlocked the cabinet marked ‘B,’ fingering the files until she pulled out Brenner’s.
“It’s all here.” She checked the contents of the envelope. “Doctor?”
“Jus’ give it t’me.” Sullivan stood unsteadily, one hand out to the file. This overbalanced him. With an almost comic timing he pitched forward onto the desk, sprawling bonelessly across the blotter and telephone, out cold.
“Good God!” Hutch exclaimed.
Miss Haversham pursed her lips, her face a blank mask. “Unfortunately, this happens all the time. Can you help me get him to the couch?”
Even with both of them lugging the heavy man, it took quite a bit of effort to transport him the relatively short distance to the leather couch. While the efficient woman covered her employer with a crocheted blanket, Hutch caught up Brenner’s psychiatric profile, sitting down at the recently vacated desk chair to read it.
“You shouldn’t look at that without the doctor,” Miss Haversham said sharply.
“Well, he’s not a lot of help, now, is he?” Hutch flipped through the pages. “This man shot my partner, and killed six others…”
“I just can’t believe that.” She shook her white head. “He seemed so genuinely distraught and…not at all like a killer.”
“You remember him?” Hutch asked hopefully.
“Yes. He came in after he was discharged from the police force.” The woman took the papers from him, looking for particular medical notations. “There.” She pointed to the doctor’s diagnosis. “He had temporary depression due to the loss of his younger brother.”
“And schizoid-type personality? With delusions?” Hutch read with growing horror.
“Most of the doctor’s patients have those diagnoses,” she countered. “That’s why they come to him–well, came…he had to stop seeing patients due to the…”
“Drinking,” Hutch finished. “And he last saw Brenner just over a year ago.” He found the notes to the last session.
“Dr. Badijian is keeping him on until his sixty fifth birthday–he can retire then without stigma,” Haversham said quietly, looking over at the drunken man snoring loudly on the couch.
“He’s an alcoholic that let a crazy person loose on the streets to murder police!” Hutch gathered up the file. “It says here that even on the last day Brenner was still blaming Vegas for his brother’s death and wanted to kill him.”
“I’m sure that was harm…” She trailed off, recognizing how wrong her words were. Standing behind Hutch, she read over his shoulder. “It says that he felt that the man who killed his brother was hiding from him. That he was afraid that Mr. Brenner would exact revenge and so he had to change his name.”
“That man was his partner, Dan Vegas, and he was already dead when Brenner said that.”
“I didn’t know,” she said softly, her pale hands twisting the pearl necklace she wore. “I’m sure that when Dr. Sullivan is feeling…better, he will co-operate with you fully, but I’ll have to ask you to leave the file and go now.”
“I got what I came for,” Hutch bit off. “Those will be impounded soon enough.” He turned on his heel, stalking out.
*********************
Hutch parked the car in a red zone and walked down One-hundred-fifth Street to where several streetwalkers lounged on a corner. Four girls regarded him with predatory intent. Lacy Calhane turned casually, and permitted herself a small smile. Hutch certainly was handsome. In any other circumstance, she’d be sorely tempted. She fluffed up the blonde wig which hid her red locks.
“Looks fine,” one of the other girls commented admirably, watching the tall blond man approach.
“He’s mine.” Lacy staked her claim, smiling professionally at Bambi. “Hands off.”
“Hi,” Hutch greeted coolly. “Have some time?” He held out a hand to the platinum blonde in the blue lace mini, who glanced majestically over her shoulder at her companions.
“Sure.” She accepted his hand and they walked up the windswept avenue together.
“Well, Hutch, I didn’t think you liked a pickup.”
“I prefer redheads.”
“A little change. Mike’s murder made headlines and some unneeded publicity.” Lacy shook the short curls. “Where are we going?”
“How ’bout a hotel.”
“We’re both on the job.” She looked up at his tired face. He looked one hundred years older than only seven days ago. “What’s wrong?”
“A lot.”
“Brenner hasn’t struck again, has he?”
“No.” Hutch opened the glass door to a small diner and led her in. It was such a narrow restaurant there were only seven booths along one side and a tiny, curved counter on the other. A bored waitress looked up with disinterest as they walked in.
“Then, what’s the matter, Hutch?” Lacy slid into the first plastic booth. He snagged a menu from the counter and sat across from her.
“This case is going nowhere.” Hutch shrugged. “It’s like Brenner really is a shadow. No word on the street. Nobody ever sees him. I dunno whether it’s me or what…and then there’s that fuckin’ doctor.”
“Who?”
“Simms-who’s in charge of Starsky’s case. If that man doesn’t do something soon…”
“Hutch, I think you’re beating a dead horse.” She grimaced. “Sorry, bad choice of words. Why don’t you get a new doctor?”
“Yeah.” He blankly read the menu, wondering if he’d be able to keep anything down. The waitress came over, pencil poised above her order pad. Hutch ordered, “Coffee, black, and a bowl of tomato soup. Lacy?”
“Iced tea,” she added.
“Have you seen that little kid around?” he asked when the waitress had gone to get their food.
“Well, I’m not working the same street anymore, so…I don’t really think so.” She sighed. “It’s not like I really took a good look at him the first time around.”
“Luckily, I found the kid who talked to me before Starsky got… And I found where Brenner lives.” Hutch paused as the waitress placed the drinks and soup on the table. “Evidence all over the room, the missing files, including Starsky’s, and no way to use it. Dobey’s getting a search warrant, but I’m not holding out much hope. Brenner used to be a cop, he knows all the games…”
“Hutch, I just…you can’t keep rehashing what you haven’t done until you’re blue in the face. Concentrate on catching him.” Lacy touched his hand. “I think for the first time in a long time you haven’t got Starsky and you blame yourself so much for that it scares you.” She sipped her tea. “A doctor doesn’t work on the case of a friend, I don’t think a cop should either…”
“Thanks a lot, Lacy, you just about said I…”
“No, I didn’t. I’m saying that I don’t think you should, not that you can’t.”
“Know a lot for a dumb blonde, don’t you,” Hutch said without malice. He stirred the tomato soup with a spoon, unable to taste it. It looked like a bowlful of blood.
“I’ve been around.” She stroked his fingers. “So.”
“I have a stake in this case,” he said firmly, taking a gulp of the lukewarm coffee. “I can’t desert Starsky.”
“I know, but…”
“Stay out of it, Lacy.” He cut her off. “Thanks for hearing me out.”
“That’s it?”
“For now.” He threw six dollars on the table, leaving his soup uneaten.
“Are you angry at me?” Lacy had to hurry to catch up with him as he left the diner.
“At myself.” Hutch felt tired and useless. His very bones ached with weariness. “Let it be, Lacy.”
“Are you doing anything tonight for dinner?” she asked softly.
“I’m supposed to ask you that.”
“You didn’t and you didn’t answer me.” She touched his arm.
“You want to go out or what?” He stopped, regarding her pretty delicately boned face. A night out? With Starsky laying in the hospital? It was absurd, and yet a part of him wanted it very badly. Just to enjoy Lacy, without all the violence and pain of the last weeks. Strangely, the thought that Starsky would have certainly encouraged him with an approving leer allowed him to agree.
“Go out–and maybe a little ‘or what,’ too.” She reached up and kissed his cheek. “I usually get paid for that, sailor, but for you I’ll make an exception.”
His kiss found her lips, and for a moment, neither moved, connected in the most primal way. “I’m no freeloader,” he said when they’d both taken a breath. “Dinner. Be ready at nine o’clock?”
“Yeah, I’ll need to change out of my glad rags.”
“I can’t guarantee I’ll be the best company.”
“I think you will be.” Lacy waved as she went back to join the girls on the corner of One-hundred-fifth Street and Marvella, swinging her hips just a little more than necessary.
Hutch started towards the car, stopping for a minute at a newsstand. Out of four newspapers displayed, three of them featured stories of the ‘Shadows Killer’ and his victims. Hutch stared at a picture of himself and Dobey which covered the front page of the Los Angeles Time Large bold type proclaimed ‘Detective Shoots Partner!’
“D’jou wanna paper?” The old man who ran the newsstand peered nearsightedly up at Hutch.
“No, I already know what they say.” Hutch went back to the battered Ford. As he slid into the seat, he flicked the ‘on’ switch to the police band radio. “This is Zebra Three.”
“Zebra Three?” the dispatcher responded.
“Patch me through to Captain Dobey,” Hutch said. He was resigned to the fact that Lacy had been right. He was too closely involved in what had happened to Starsky to be objective about Brenner. Besides, suddenly, he didn’t even want to have to think about the former cop. Breaking into Brenner’s apartment had only tainted the evidence. He was unable to help Starsky heal and he had become a hindrance to Dobey’s investigation.
“Dobey here. What do you want, Hutchinson?” The captain’s voice crackled over the radio.
“Did you get the search warrant?” the blond man asked.
“Not yet–the judge isn’t ready to issue on such flimsy evidence.”
“Flimsy eviden… Well, if it ever comes through, issue it to somebody else.”
“What?” Dobey bellowed.
“I want off the case,” Hutch said shortly.
There was no answer from the other end. Asking to be taken off a case was so unlike Hutch that Dobey couldn’t even frame a response. “I want you in my office, now!”
“I’m off duty in half an hour,” Hutch answered stonily.
“The hell you are–that gives you time to get your tail in here,” the captain growled. “I want you to do some explaining.”
*********************
“What did you ask me on that radio?” Dobey yelled as Hutch walked into his office literally half an hour later.
“I want off.”
“I don’t think I heard you right.”
“Hennesey’s good. He could work on the case. I haven’t gotten anywhere, anyway,” Hutch said slowly.
“You want to explain yourself?”
“I can’t be objective about this…I’m too involved.”
“And you weren’t yesterday or last week?”
“Dobey, I want out,” Hutch insisted. “Besides, I have vacation time coming.”
“Now is not a good time,” Dobey stonewalled. “What’s the real reason?”
“I can’t fight Brenner.” Hutch sat down tiredly, confused emotions welling up inside him. “He’s a schizophrenic. I talked to his doctor–well, his receptionist.” He related the brief visit to Sullivan’s office and the importance of getting all of Brenner’s medical records in evidence.
“You still haven’t given me one good reason to take you off the case.”
“He killed six people and Starsky’s hanging on by next to nothing.” He rubbed his forehead, “I dunno if I’m scared or discouraged or what. I just want Starsky back in here with his feet on a chair and Brenner in prison. But I can’t do it. I can’t even make believe anymore.”
“He’s not Superman,” Dobey said softly.
“I know and neither am I!” Hutch retorted loudly. “Contrary to what I’ve tried to prove in the past, and I don’t wanna be. Let me drop it!” He sagged, not enough energy to continue the argument. “I go out and make believe I’m brave, but it doesn’t work. I can’t do it anymore, not without Starsky.”
“I don’t want to do this, but all right, you’re off the case.” Dobey picked up the phone. “Jenny, get Hennesey in here.”
“Thanks.”
“You’re off duty,” the captain noted. “I’ll expect you in on time tomorrow. We do have other cases.”
Standing in the wardroom, Hutch gave the table where he worked a vicious kick, sending papers and his piggy bank off onto the floor. Two detectives at the end of the room looked up in surprise. He bent down to retrieve the piggybank, shaking it hopefully. Starsky usually kept loose change in it for the candy machine. The bank was empty. Everything was gone.
*********************
“You look a little high priced for me,” Hutch joked, admiring the long purple jersey dress which clung beautifully to Lacy’s curves.
“I get very tired of hooker jokes.” Lacy sighed good-naturedly, leaning against her door jam.
“You look beautiful.” Hutch ran his hand down her long, curly, red hair. “I like your hair–like autumn leaves and fire.”
“You’re poetical tonight.” She smiled, pulling the front door closed and locking it. “I’ve never seen you so…almost happy.”
“I resigned from the case.”
“Oh, Hutch, I thought…”
“And that’s the last we’re going to mention of it or anything concerning police business.” Hutch escorted her down the stairs, then paused to open the car door so she could slide in.
“Alright, I guess.”
“No guessing, Lacy.” Giving her hand a gallant kiss, he swung the car door shut. “Tonight is for a good time,” he insisted, mostly to himself, making every effort to enjoy the rest of the evening. Actually, dropping the case had, momentarily, taken the weight off his mind. Let someone else concern himself with Brenner. There were others on the force who were capable. He pushed the nagging feeling of failure to the back of his mind.
Hutch had picked a quiet, dimly lit steak house. After a beer, he managed to eat a small portion of his baked potato and a bite of his porterhouse steak. If Lacy noticed his poor appetite, she didn’t mention it, playing absently with her Cobb Salad.
All through dinner, both detectives forced themselves to make small talk, avoiding the subjects of police work, Brenner, Starsky, and Mike O’Brien all together. Having known each other only a few weeks, it left them little in common to discuss. After half-hearted stories of childhood and the latest movies, they finally danced. Then, suddenly there was nothing to say and nothing to do.
“Want to come to my place?” Lacy slipped her arm through his. “We can talk about…it, if you want to.”
“No, I honestly don’t.” He led her through the dark parking lot to the car. “But I’ll go to your place if you’ll offer me a nightcap.”
“It’s a deal.”
The ride to Lacy’s was silent, but not uncomfortably so. Both were wrapped in their own thoughts on the events of the past weeks.
“Y’know,” Lacy said finally, as Hutch turned on to her street. “Mike died only nine days ago, and I hardly feel it.” She shivered, waiting until Hutch parked the car and both had gotten out. “Police work makes you callous, doesn’t it?”
“Lacy, it’s not callous–you miss him, don’t you?”
“All the time, especially when I’m on the street, without him.”
“But you can’t go around mourning a person every second.” He took her in his arms. “You’ve got to go on living and accept what’s happened.”
“Big words.” She rested her head against his chest, the feel of his blue silk shirt blissful against her cheek.
“Especially when I don’t follow my own advice.” Hutch kissed her lips, tasting red wine and chocolate pie.
Lacy fixed drinks while Hutch sat on the green couch, pushing aside a bag of yarn and several crocheted squares. He thumbed through the nearest magazine–the TV Guide.
“Anything on?” she asked.
“I dunno–what?” He took the glass she offered, handing her the little magazine.
“Midnight, new day–Wednesday, February 22nd.” She consulted the local listings. “Two movies and Johnny Carson.” She sipped sherry, reading the movie descriptions. “Oh, what’s the song Starsky likes…what movie is it from?”
“Whistle a happy tune? It’s from The King and I.’”
“It’s on again. Let’s watch it.” Lacy switched on the television, settling down on the couch next to the blond man, her head on his shoulder. “It’s very sad.”
“Just what I need.” He closed his eyes, listening to Deborah Kerr whistle bravely. The lines drifted through his mind, When I fool the people I fear… Why did that sound important?
When he opened his eyes, small children in elaborate Siamese costume were parading across the TV screen to the majesty of Rodgers and Hammerstein’s music. “I’m getting tired.”
“You were asleep. You want me to turn the movie off?” Lacy curled up against him, rubbing her palm over his blue silk shirted chest.
“No, s’nice, just sit like this.” He kissed her lips, sliding his hand down her back. She turned completely into him, curving her body so they fit like puzzle pieces. Two traumatized souls brought together for mutual comfort. No thoughts to the future, just a moment in time to satisfy their immediate urges.
Lacy kissed his clavicle, lingering on the soft warmth of his lightly-tanned skin. Their mouths met again, breath mingling as tongues collided. They both craved human contact, their hands roaming over each other’s bodies with a longing for intimacy.
“Lacy?” Hutch pulled back far enough to look into her smoky blue eyes. ” Do you…?”
“Don’t stop,” she insisted. It had been too long since she’d been in a man’s arms, much less gone any further. The aborted relationship with Mike lay like a minefield in front of her–guilt over his death, regret that she hadn’t pursued what was started. She wanted release, and recognized Hutch’s desperate longing matched her own.
Hutch hitched the purple, clingy fabric up over Lacy’s hips, jerking her tiny underpants down with increasing need. She pulled her hands away from his chest long enough to fling the panties away, pulling at his belt and zippered fly. Hutch’s khakis slid down without much effort, he stretched his legs over the couch cushions, hastily removing his boxers. Swiftly unbuttoning the front of his shirt, Lacy pushed the blue silk down his lightly muscled arms, running her fingers over his biceps.
Molding her still-clothed body against his now naked skin, her skirt bunched around her waist, Lacy angled her legs around him, kneeling above him on the velvet couch. She traced her fingers from the pulse in his throat down the firm flatness of his chest to the heat in his groin, feeling the throb of his pulse as she curved her fingers around his penis.
Hutch groaned with desire, the sensations she created sending cascades of pleasure along his length. Tangling one hand in her hair, he brought her mouth to his, the other catching her hip, guiding her into his loins. He entered her swiftly, almost violent in his desire for the union. Lacy kissed him hungrily, catching his lower lip in her teeth as she arched her back, impaling herself on him.
As Yul Brenner’s King waltzed Anna Leonowens across a gleaming marble floor, Lacy felt wildfire racing through her body, flames licking her core. Hutch rammed against her hipbones as the orgasm grew, letting out a triumphant shout. Her whole body quivering, she felt her inner muscles contracting around his penis, and bucked her hips to prolong the climax. The music swirled around the room as the couple on the green couch danced the oldest dance of all.
*********************
“Hutch?” Lacy stretched lazily, trying not to disturb the man who slept wedged up against her. She carefully got off the couch, working the kinks out of her back as she crossed to her tiny bedroom. Sometime during their coupling, her jersey dress had ended up in a heap on the carpet.
Wrapping herself in a Japanese kimono, she padded to the kitchen. It was eight o’clock in the morning. She got a pitcher of orange juice from the refrigerator and poured two glasses full. “Hutch, wake up!” Lacy called, setting his glass down on the coffee table. “It’s morning.”
“G’morning,” he mumbled sleepily, sitting up. “What time is it?” It was probably the best sleep he’d had in several weeks.
“Eight-oh-five, on a fine Wednesday morning, February twenty-second. The weather looks…rainy.” Lacy recited like a radio announcer. “And Lacy Calhane signs off with a kiss for her anchor man.”
“Mmm, is the news over so we can get back to the action?” Hutch returned the kiss with heat, cupping her buttocks to pull her closer.
“Hutch.” Lacy slipped her arms around his neck. “We both have things to do today.”
“Yeah.” He kissed her wistfully, not wanting to go anywhere at all. He reluctantly released his hold on her. “I should go see Starsk this morning.”
“How is he?”
“I dunno.” Hutch pulled on his shirt, searching around in the jumble of clothes for both his socks. “Hey, how’d the movie end up?”
“I was with you, remember? I wasn’t watching.” Lacy grinned. “But I think the king dies.”
“I thought musicals were supposed to be happy.” He groaned, getting his shoes on the right feet. “I gotta go, Lace.”
“Aw, drink your orange juice first.” She ran fingers up his arm. “I…”
Hutch leaned over for a quick kiss. “Don’t say anything, I’ll see you later.”
“Drink your orange juice,” Lacy urged. “Cops need vitamin C.”
“I usually take vitamin E.” Hutch downed the juice.
“I know.” Lacy grinned again.
*********************
After Lacy’s colorful apartment, the hospital seemed even more drab and dreary than usual. The overcast, rainy weather didn’t help. Even with the lights on, all the rooms were cast in semi-darkness. Hutch could feel any happy feeling he’d had draining out as he walked down the long, sterile corridors. His reluctance to have any encounters with Simms made him walk even slower.
“Good morning, Mr. Hutchinson,” the desk nurse at the ICU greeted. “Mr. Starsky is awake and waiting for you.”
“How is he?” Hutch asked cautiously, cheered to hear that Starsky was looking for him.
“Better. I think he’s a little more alert.” She smiled hopefully.
“Thanks.” He hurried back to his partner’s room. “Starsky? How you doing?”
“Hey,” Starsky answered softly. The water suction jar for the chest tube bubbled like an aquarium pump, accompanying the steady beat from the heart monitor. Unlike the last time he’d been in the room, Hutch now found the noise irritating.
“Came by t’see if you were ready to come back to work. I’m tired of working by myself,” Hutch joked.
“I’m taking days off.” Starsky gave him a ghost of a smile, trying not to let the pain in his chest show on his face.
“Hey, it’s been a couple of days–I thought you’d be back on your feet by now,” Hutch teased, relieved to see Starsky lucid, if heavily medicated.
“How long?”
“Five days. You were in a coma for three. You remember anything that happened?”
Starsky shook his head, regretting it instantly. Flashes of fiery pain shot up and down his body, the room swimming. He closed his eyes to shut out the tilting window and chairs, taking shallow breaths.
“Starsky?” Hutch asked alarmed.
“S’all right…” Starsky continued to concentrate on oxygenating his aching lungs. “What?”
“Should I call a nurse?”
“No, I’m ok.” He opened his eyes a slit. Hutch’s face bobbed up and down as if he were riding in a boat, but at least he was right-side-up. “Tell me what happened.”
“Brenner–The Shadows Killer–shot you,” Hutch said, deciding not to tell him about the second bullet for now.
“Brenner,” Starsky repeated slowly, remembering snatches of the day. “Brown jacket and pants, a Winchester–came out from behind the…he was too fast f’me.”
“Oh, buddy,” Hutch laughed. “A cop to the end. All the way to the hospital you kept saying Brenner and I couldn’t figure out what you meant.”
“He shot me?” Starsky repeated, licking his dry lips. “How bad?”
“Hasn’t that fucker Simms talked to you?” Hutch growled.
“Simms?”
“Your doctor?”
“Haven’t seen one.”
Hutch controlled his anger by reminding himself that Starsky was still drugged enough not to remember if Simms had been in or not. “Between the ribs, they’ve got to operate on you soon, partner,” he said lightly.
“Yeah.” Starsky tried to keep his eyes open, but he was exhausted. Talking took more concentration than he had energy for.
“This morning Lacy Calhane told me to take vitamin C. I think you’re the one who needs it.”
“Y’saw her this morning? Early?” Starsky attempted a leer, but missed the mark completely. It probably would have helped to have his eyes open, but that took entirely too much effort.
“Conferring on Brenner’s case,” Hutch answered straight-faced, enjoying the familiar banter. It made Starsky seem less ill.
“Uh-huh.”
The sick man lay still for such a long time Hutch began to think he’d fallen asleep. Starsky’s soft, shallow breathing created a counterpoint to the mechanical noises in the room, the muted sounds from the rest of the hospital filtering in, leaving a surprisingly peaceful feeling. Even the weather was co-operating; the unsettling wind had given way to a steady rain, which pattered rhythmically against the window. Not sure whether it was the previous night’s activities, or the return of Starsky’s senses, but Hutch relaxed, no longer charged with anxious energy. He absently watched the luminous green line on the flickering heart monitor, trying to make a decision on how to get rid of Simms.
“Hutch.” Starsky’s violet blue eyes sought out his partner.
“What?” Hutch pulled himself out of the daydream, focusing on Starsky’s pale but intent face.
“Why is Brenner doing this? Shooting?”
“I dunno, Starsk, I think he’s trying to kill his former partner, Dan Vegas.”
“Why? Where is Vegas?” Starsky gritted his teeth against the pain talking cost him, but he was interested enough to pursue the subject. Short sentences worked best, severe shortness of breath preventing anything more. “What’d he do?”
“He killed Brenner’s younger brother four years ago.” Hutch watched the dark-haired man struggling to breathe. Starsky was weak and feverish, but he obviously had something on his mind. “But Vegas is dead.”
“An’ Brenner doesn’t know?”
“I dunno, Starsk, I think he does. Don’t worry about it, huh?” Hutch squeezed his friend’s hand. “I’ll deal with it. You rest, I gotta go talk to your doctor.”
“No.” Starsky pulled his hand free, wincing when the IV shifted painfully in his vein, a stinging burn shooting up his arm. He let the arm drop limply on the bed, anxious to make his point while he could still manage coherent speech. “Brenner…” He attempted to collect his fleeting thoughts. “He keeps trying to kill Vegas over and over.”
“He’s killed a lot of policemen,” Hutch agreed.
“He’s fooling himself,” Starsky said obliquely. “Vegas can’t die twice.”
Suddenly the line from the ‘King and I’ song flashed in Hutch’s mind–When I fool the people I fear… He almost laughed as a glimmer of a plan started. “Starsky, I saw The King and I last night.”
“I saw it,” Starsky agreed sleepily, the long conversation had worn him out.
“I know, you told me.”
“Make believe you’re…brave,” Starsky sang, completely out of tune.
“That’s been hard.” Hutch gently pulled the blankets up around his friend, smoothing out the wrinkles.
“Keep trying.” Starsky’s voice was almost a whisper.
“Time’s up, Mr. Hutchinson.” The pretty desk nurse appeared at the door. “He has to take a nap.”
“He is.” Hutch smiled fondly then resolved to find a doctor, preferably the head of the department and not Simms. “Nurse?” He read her nametag. “Sarah, who is the head around here?”
“If you mean the head of intensive care, it’s Dr. McGuire,” she answered, shaking down a thermometer for Starsky. “But he’s away from the hospital today.”
“If Starsky needed surgery, who would do it? Simms?”
“Dr. Simms is his physician,” she said, slipping the thermometer in the sleeping patient’s mouth. “But Dr. Kesselring is head of surgery.”
“How do I get Simms off the case?” Hutch asked.
“You having some problems some with Dr. Simms?” She made a face, her opinion of the doctor obvious. “I guess, since McGuire isn’t here, you could talk to Kesselring directly.”
“Now?”
“I think he’s in surgery.” Sarah checked Starsky’s temperature and wrote the results on his chart, noting the rest of his vital signs from the monitor. “He started this morning at seven–it’s nine now. I don’t think it’ll be much longer.” She shrugged. “That’s all I know.”
“Does he have a temperature?” Hutch glanced over her arm at the nurses’ notes.
“Hundred and one degrees.”
“Is that good or bad?” Hutch bent down to touch Starsky’s forehead. It was warmer than his own, but not as hot as it had been the day before.
Sarah closed the medical chart, a small frown on her face. “Mr. Hutchinson, I’m not really supposed to discuss a patient’s case, but he’s on antibiotics. His temp should be closer to normal.” She adjusted the drip on the IV. “Anything you want me to tell Dr. Kesselring?”
“Could I leave him a message? I’d like to talk with him.”
“I can get it to him when he comes out of the OR,” she agreed, giving him a blank sheet of medical note paper to write the short request.
“I’ll wait here.” Hutch scribbled out the message.
“All right.” Sarah folded the paper he’d given her, deciding not to remind him that the ICU rules dictated only ten minutes per hour for visits. It really wouldn’t do Starsky any harm to have his friend in the room.
“Hey, Starsk.” Hutch sat down in the uncomfortable bedside chair, watching the uneven rise and fall of his partner’s chest. “Would you believe it? I didn’t even ask for her phone number.”
“Hutchinson.” Dr. Simms entered, a sour look on his jowly face. “He’s asleep. You should leave.”
“My God,” Hutch spat. “What right in the world have you to say that?” His voice never rose above a whisper but the edge of it could have cut steel.
“This is my patient,” Simms said with angry dignity.
“And my partner–my friend.” Hutch grabbed the doctor’s arm, literally dragging him down the hall, out of ICU.
“I will have you publicly removed from this hospital!” the doctor growled. “You will not be allowed to return.” He reached for an inter-hospital phone, but Hutch grabbed his hand in a vice-like grip.
“I will have you taken off this case.” Hutch caught his breath. “Starting now. If needs be I will have Starsky transferred. Simms, I cannot believe your…pomposity. I haven’t seen you lift a finger to care for Starsky.”
“You are not here all the time, Sergeant.” Simms tried to pull his hand away, to make the call to security.
“I am damned glad of that.” Hutch let go of him. “Because I don’t have to witness your incompetence.”
“Intern…” Simms called to a man in scrubs pushing a patient on a gurney.
“God dammit, Simms, I want to talk to you and Kesselring, not some intern.” Hutch waved away the young man. “I want you off the case today and someone who went to medical school and graduated to operate on Starsky.”
“Hutchinson, you know nothing about shooting victims. Your partner is very ill.”
“Oh, good.” Hutch prowled the corridor, slapping his fist in his palm to avoid slugging the man. “I’m glad you know that! And that’s the only thing I’m glad about. You get near my partner again and, so help me God, I’ll slap a court injunction on you.”
“That’s illegal–he’s my patient and…”
“Try it and you’ll find out.” Hutch turned. “Where’s Kesselring’s office?”
“He’s not on this case.” Simms trotted behind the younger man, unable to think of anything else to say.
“Yeah,” Hutch agreed, “but he’s gonna be…” He took a long step forward, starting down the hall. Coming out of the elevator was a tall, silver-haired man in his mid-fifties with a commanding presence, even in rumbled surgical scrubs.
“Mr. Hutchinson,” Simms said through gritted teeth, never deigning to give Hutch the proper title. “This is Dr. James Kesselring.”
“Good morning.” Jim Kesselring pushed his surgical cap into his back pocket, his whole manner exuding dignity. “I’ve been told you were looking for me. Both of you please step into my office.” He led the way past the ICU to a smaller hall, holding open the door to a neatly furnished room with dark paneled walls. One wall was covered floor to ceiling with shelves full of medical texts; another was hung with photos, many featuring racehorses in action. Kesselring pulled on a monogrammed white lab coat, sat down at his desk and intertwined his fingers. “Mr. Hutchinson…?
“Detective Sergeant,” Hutch corrected, sparing an irritated glance at Simms.
“Detective Sergeant Hutchinson, you have made it very clear to staff that you are unhappy with Dr. Simms’ care of your friend.”
“I want him off the case.”
“Are you making a formal request?”
“You better believe it. I want to make a formal request, and a formal complaint. I have never met a more incompetent, ignorant…”
“Sergeant Hutchinson is prejudiced,” Simms interrupted, his use of the police rank snide. “He’s critical of my efforts, but he doesn’t have any knowledge of medical science. He doesn’t understand how grave Starsky’s condition is and what I have to work with. His partner is very unstable, and not responding well to treatment.”
“You’re repeating yourself,” Hutch flung back. “What I haven’t heard is what you are going to do about it. I demand another opinion.” He turned to Kesselring. “Doctor, I want this bas…man off the case. I have the right to request that, I assume?”
“What is Detective Starsky’s opinion?” the head of surgery asked calmly.
“He’s never even spoken to this man!” Hutch spat. “I would think it was the hospital’s policy that a doctor gets to know his patient.”
“Starsky was in a coma,” Simms defended himself. “I have examined him numerous times.”
Kesselring eyed Simms, whatever opinion he had of the doctor hidden under a professional façade. “I’ll talk to Dr. McGuire when he returns, and until them I will familiarize myself with the case, unless you have any objections, Sergeant.”
Hutch gave a negative shake of his head.
“I do not usually encourage replacing a physician in the middle of a case, but you and Dr. Simms obviously have a…failure to communicate. I don’t want this animosity to interfere with Sergeant Starsky’s recovery.”
Simms bit off a retort, glaring angrily at Hutch, accepting the pronouncement without a word.
“Victor, I would like to review the charts with you, but first I’ll go with Sergeant Hutchinson to his partner’s room to meet with the patient.” Kesselring dismissed the other man.
“Hutchinson,” Simms spoke with pure revulsion as he stood to leave. “Your partner is dying, and you just can’t accept that fact. He’s going to die.”
“Dr. Simms, please leave.” Kesselring’s voice rang with command. “You will be reprimanded for that comment.”
The door slammed shut with a bang that sent shivers down Hutch’s spine. What if what Simms said were true? He was the doctor. No, Starsky seemed so much better today. He pushed the fearful thoughts into the back of his brain. ” Thank you, Doctor.”
“I don’t like arguments between my doctors and the friends of the patients,” Kesselring said quietly. “However, Sergeant, I will admit that we have had some complaints about Dr. Simms.”
“Include mine,” Hutch spat bitterly. “He ought to be thrown out of the profession.”
“Every case is difficult,” the older man said enigmatically. “Your partner is in ICU?”
After a quick examination of Starsky, who remained asleep the entire time, Dr. Kesselring frowned. “I’ll have to study the chart and x-rays but I think we can perform surgery soon.” He made a few notes in typical illegible doctor scribble on the medical chart. “Sergeant Hutchinson, has your partner ever been shot before?”
“Yes.” Hutch remembered the past incidents. “A couple times–once seriously. Why?”
“I noticed the scar in his left shoulder.” Kesselring stepped out of the patient’s room, to avoid disturbing Starsky’s rest any further. “He’s lucky that his body fights back well. Many people couldn’t have lasted this long with a bullet that close to the heart.”
“Are you saying Simms delayed so long that it could have killed him?” Hutch demanded, almost afraid to have his own suspicions proven.
“Simms was moving cautiously.” Kesselring finished reading the admission notes, snapping the medical chart closed. “I can’t say more than that. I will, however, tend to agree with his waiting until Starsky came out of the coma and was more stable medically.”
“But he didn’t operate,” the blond policeman pointed out, taking a look back at his dark-haired friend, sleeping only a few feet away.
“Sergeant Hutchinson, if you want me to tell you that Simms’ approach did harm to your partner, I’m not going to.” Kesselring pulled off a pair of half glasses, depositing them safely in his chest pocket. “I want to point out that if I do find Starsky stable enough for the operation, so would Simms have. It was, and is, necessary to wait until a patient is ready for the additional shock of surgery. He needed antibiotics, blood, and pressers to stabilize his condition.” He nodded.
“Sergeant Starsky has improved, his vitals are better and he’s regained consciousness. So, Simms was correct in that respect. He may be a difficult man, but he was medically correct in waiting.”
“Correct?” Hutch echoed. “He was wrong. Wrong to treat a critically ill patient as if he were already…on a slab in the morgue.” He took a short breath. “I have never met a more vindictive…”
“Vindictive, yes, but a capable doctor.”
“Why is he on staff?”
Kesselring hesitated before admitting, “He has seniority. Unfortunately, he doesn’t work well with the police. Simms is a capable doctor.”
“Why vindictive?”
“That is not the subject at hand,” Kesselring said sternly. “I will not repeat any of the staff’s private business. Now, I’m going to order more x-rays and blood tests done on Sergeant Starsky. Can we talk further this afternoon?”
“Yeah,” Hutch agreed half-heartedly, trying to rid himself of residual anger. At least Starsky had help. He regarded his still partner, wishing him to a full recovery. No hospital fairy came down to wave her ‘get well’ wand over Starsky’s curly head. Hutch smiled ruefully at the goofy image, strangely at peace. Brenner was still at large, but Starsky had regained consciousness, had a new doctor, and a chance for surgery soon. Hutch turned to go when a tiny noise stopped him.
“Hutch?” Starsky asked sleepily, trying to shift his weight without pain rippling through his chest. “Who were you talking to?”
“Your new doctor, Kesselring.”
“S’good.” Starsky turned just his head so he could see the blond detective. “You been here all day?”
“Awhile.”
“Don’t you have anything else to do?”
Hutch started to tell him he’d resigned from the case when he realized that he wanted back on the investigation. “Yeah, I do. Gotta talk to Dobey.”
“See you later.”
“Back at ya, partner.” Hutch grinned.
*********************
“I thought you took yourself off the case,” Dobey observed dryly, watching Hutch pour over the Shadows Killer paperwork.
“I reconsidered and talked to Starsky,” Hutch answered absently, making notes on a yellow legal pad.
“How is he?”
“Better I guess. I can’t really tell, but I got another doctor to take a look at him, the head of the department.” Hutch finally looked up at the black man. “Cap’n, I think I may have a plan to call Brenner out into the open.”
“What?” Dobey asked, interested despite reservations.
“Give him what he wants.”
“And that is?”
“Vegas, what else?” Hutch held up a photo of the ill-fated policeman.
“And how do you propose to do that?” Dobey frowned, fingers linked over his round belly.
“He’d been going after every dark-haired cop in the city–we find one who bears some resemblance to Vegas, give him a bulletproof vest and I’ll arrange a meeting with Brenner.”
“You really expect that to work? Sounds half-assed, to me.”
Hutch looked sober. “Captain, it’s the only chance we have to catch him, get the Shadow man out in the sun where we can see him.”
“Can’t argue with you there, but I don’t like it at all. It’s dangerous.”
“So’s waiting around for Brenner to gun down someone else.” Hutch tapped his pen against the table in a restless tattoo.
“By the way,” Dobey put in, “I had some detectives go out with a search warrant to Brenner’s place and they found all the files with his fingerprints all over them…and a few of yours, which were a little difficult to explain.”
“I thought the judge wouldn’t issue a warrant.”
“I did some fancy talking.” Dobey leaned his elbow on the file cabinet. “The only problem is that according to neighbors, Brenner hasn’t been back to that apartment in a day or two, but we got an APB out on him.”
“Has his name been given to the press yet?”
“No, why?”
“Could be a way to draw him out, so he’ll call again.” Hutch pressed the little spigot on the water cooler, hoping the water could cool the fire in his belly. The nervous energy had returned full force the minute he’d walked back into the detective’s wardroom. It was like wasps buzzing under his skin.
“Well, I can call a press conference.” Dobey stepped into his office, going to the phone, but froze as the black instrument rang shrilly. He lifted the receiver to his ear. “Captain Harold Dobey.”
“Piggy Captain!” Brenner greeted contemptuously. “An’ I hope my buddy Hutchinson is there, too. I got lots to tell him.”
Dobey had turned on the room speaker in time for the blond cop to hear the last part.
“What do you want, Brenner?” Hutch asked flatly.
“Read you shot Starsky, Hutchinson! You must have fouled my shot! Vegas got away.” He laughed, taunting. “I saw your partner again. He still don’t look too good.”
“Your concern is touching,” Hutch sneered; gripping the back of a chair, white knuckled. “Why’d you call?”
“Just checkin’ up on the bastards at the piggy department. You guys ain’t doing very well.”
“We haven’t even tried yet,” the blond cop answered, remembering Darryl Washington’s vow. “We’re gonna nail you to the wall, Brenner.”
“So try,” the killer on the other end taunted.
“Brenner–we found Vegas,” Hutch said suddenly, waving away Dobey’s startled protest. “After the shooting.”
“What?” Brenner questioned, his guard up.
“Vegas wants to meet with you.” Hutch unconsciously crossed his fingers, This was a last ditch effort, but it had to work, or other cops might die.
“He can’t…where?” Brenner sounded confused. “No–why?” He regained his composure quickly. “I don’t wanna talk to him, I wanna kill him.”
“Vegas has been hidin’ out, Brenner. He had to change his name, where he lives…. He’s not exactly thrilled that you’ve been gunning for him.”
“Good. Got him runnin’ scared, huh?”
“Yeah.” Hutch continued hopefully, stringing him along. “But he’ll agree to meet with you if you’ll agree to talk things out, stop the killing.”
“But Vegas is…” Brenner stopped suddenly. “What are you fuckers tryin’ to pull?”
“Nothing, Brenner, we just want to end this before someone else gets shot.”
“I’ll see Dan Vegas,” Brenner conceded with astonishing speed, “at Marshall Park, the barracks to the old fort.”
“Tomorrow,” Hutch suggested. “Vegas and I will meet you there.”
“Hey, no way, pig. Vegas alone or not at all.”
Hutch glanced over at Dobey who just nodded slightly. Well, he was a lot of help. “Ok, Brenner, Vegas alone. Just as long as this meeting is held.”
“At the old fort,” Brenner agreed. “Vegas better be there at noon or I’ll kill him before he knows what hit him.” He cut the connection abruptly.
“So who plays Vegas?” Dobey asked soberly.
“There’s gotta be some cop left in this city who could pass as Vegas at a distance.”
“What happens if Brenner gets up close?”
“I’ll stop him before he does,” Hutch promised. “And I don’t care if he’s jerking me around, get a guard on Starsky’s room.”
*********************
Pete Brenner stared angrily at the still warm phone. What was Hutchinson trying to pull? Trying to horn in on a meeting which was private between him and that little killer Vegas.
Opening the door of the phone booth, he started down the street to the nearest diner. Damn those pigs. They had his place staked out and he couldn’t even get in long enough for a decent meal.
After ordering a meatloaf sandwich on white and coffee, Brenner sat musing. Twelve o’clock at the old fort, huh? Well, he’d get there at eleven and blitz Vegas and whoever else came along–especially if it was Hutchinson.
He had the rifle stashed in a locker at the YMCA and a couple of police files, too. Brenner smiled as he took a bite of the meatloaf. Hutch might think he was calling the shots but Brenner was still holding all the aces.
He rubbed the steady ache in the back of his head, it was getting even harder to concentrate. Vegas was scared of him, huh? He’d known the bastard was hiding, now Hutchinson had just confirmed all his theories. Vegas masqueraded under a variety of names, using his contacts at the police department to gain access to fake names and documents. Vegas’s ‘death’ had been a cover-up, a cover-up to escape the consequences of killing Paul. A teen-aged boy lay in his grave and the man responsible was using the system to get away with it. Well, he’d have pay–and the bill was way overdue.
*********************
“Dr. Kesselring? How’d it go?” Hutch rose stiffly from the plastic chair, having waited for half an hour while the man had been in a staff meeting.
“If you mean the meeting, not well. Malpractice insurance is going up.” Kesselring removed his half glasses, massaging his forehead with the end of his thumb.
“But I know that’s not what you want to hear about. As to your partner, Sergeant, I had the extra tests and x-rays done and luckily the bullet hasn’t moved.”
“Does that mean you can operate?” Hutch followed the doctor down the corridor, skirting a cart piled with linen and several haphazardly placed wheelchairs.
“It means we definitely still have a good chance.”
“Well?”
“And I have scheduled Starsky for surgery at eleven a.m. tomorrow,” Kesselring continued. “I think, now that he’s hemodynamically stable, and the antibiotics are hopefully kicking in, the sooner the better.”
“Eleven?” Hutch echoed mournfully.
“Yes, is there a problem?”
“Well, I was hoping to be here when he went in, except that I have a…meeting tomorrow at eleven–an important one.” Hutch sighed. Damn Brenner, just one more thing he was fouling up. “How long will the operation take?”
“Several hours–perhaps as long as four or more, depends on what we find when we open him up. Although I certainly don’t want him on the table for that length of time.”
“The surgery’s just as dangerous as the bullet?” Hutch asked softly, his stomach tightening with the stress.
Kesselring turned his head to look at the detective, sadness in his gray eyes. “Unfortunately, in some cases, yes.” He glanced at his watch. “Well, Sergeant, I’ll leave you to visit with your partner for a few moments, but remember, be brief. He needs his strength for tomorrow. And I do hope you will be able to be present when Starsky comes out of anesthesia. It’s important that he see someone he knows at a time like that.”
“Doctor, you couldn’t drag me away from here tomorrow afternoon,” Hutch promised. It’s just Thursday morning…
Walking into the ICU, Hutch remembered Brenner’s words ‘I saw your partner again….’ “Nurse?” Hutch asked. She was a gorgeous blonde with almost translucent blue eyes. His eyes flicked to her nametag, lingering on her white clad breasts for a beat longer than absolutely necessary. “Anna Shoberg?”
“Yes?” Anna smiled, revealing perfect white teeth.
Hutch nearly gave into the urge to ask her out, but resisted, sticking to the problem at hand. “Has my partner, Dave Starsky, had any visitors other than me?”
“Just a minute, I’ll look.” She flipped though the logbook. “I just came on duty–I’ve been on vacation.” She had a voice like heavy velvet, thick and smooth.
“I didn’t think I’d seen you before,” Hutch agreed.
“Here it is…a man named Huggy Bear?” Anna laughed with a shrug. “And a Captain Dobey, that’s all.”
“No one else?” Hutch mused aloud, vastly relieved.
“I really couldn’t say. I’ve been gone. Is there anything else I can help you with?
“Yeah, honey, I guess–don’t let anyone in to see Starsky.” Hutch smiled slightly. “Well, Huggy and Dobey are allowed, but nobody else without my say so. The police will be posting a guard on his door tonight.”
“Ok.” Anna made a note of it in the book. “Huggy Bear is his real name?”
“As far as I know.” Hutch laughed. As he walked down the hall to Starsky’s room, he decided that Brenner must have been lying again–he hadn’t seen Starsky. There had been articles in the newspapers about the wounded detective; the ‘Shadows Killer’ must have read them.
“Starsk?” Hutch called out softly, entering the room. His partner looked asleep, his pale face still tense with pain.
“Huh?” Starsky turned his head. “Hi.”
“Hi, yourself.” Hutch sat down on the edge of the bed. “How’re you doing?”
“Fine, I guess.” Starsky looked around thoughtfully. “What time is it?”
“Seven thirty p.m., and it’s still Wednesday.”
“Things get sort of hazy sometimes,” Starsky sighed. “Sort of like a dream only I’m not sleeping. Haven’t you been here already today?”
“Yep, but further developments in the case prompted my return,” Hutch teased.
“Oh, don’t talk like that when I’m on drugs,” Starsky groaned, wishing he could turn over to a more comfortable position or do anything to alleviate the searing pain in his chest. He didn’t like having to admit to anyone–even Hutch–that it hurt like hell.
“All right,” Hutch agreed soothingly. “I came to tell you that we got a call from Pete Brenner, the Shadows Killer, and arranged a meeting with him.”
“What kind of meeting?” Starsky asked warily.
“Well…we’re setting up a decoy to be Dan Vegas and, hopefully, we’ll grab Brenner before he gets the decoy.”
“Not exactly foolproof, is it?” Starsky said cynically, taking a slow breath. Every beat of his heart and deep breath intensified the agony in his chest. “What happens if he gets…whoever it is?”
“Starsk, don’t say that.”
“What happens if he gets you?”
“He won’t.” Hutch grimaced; he lightened his tone, trying for jocularity. “Why are you so pessimistic?”
“I don’t exactly feel optimistic.” Starsky moved his left arm so that the fingers dangled off the edge of the bed, although the rest of the arm was held rigid by the tape of the IV.
“Starsk, it’ll work out. Did Dr. Kesselring talk to you?”
“Kesselring? Oh, yeah.” Starsky closed his eyes for a moment. “He’s the doctor.”
“Yeah.”
“He’s gonna operate tomorrow morning.” Starsky sighed.
“The operation’s at eleven, though,” Hutch said, “So’s the stake-out.”
“Uh-huh.”
“So, I can’t be here when it starts.” Hutch looked down at his hands, wondering if this was the time to tell his partner about the true nature of the wound in his shoulder.
“Hutch?” Starsky spoke softly. “What happens if I die?”
“Starsky, you won’t die,” Hutch cried, horrified.
“I could.” Starsky stared absently at the blank wall across from his bed. “Hutch, remember when that guy gave me poison?”
“Yeah.” Hutch would never forget the terrifying, agonizing twenty-four hours they had spent searching for the antidote that would cure the fatal combination of chemicals a crazed man had administered to Starsky.
“I never thought I would die.” He paused, fighting for a decent breath, hating the fire in his chest. “Because I knew you’d find the antidote–you did.”
“Aw, Starsk.”
“I trusted you, but I’m…scared. Brenner killed everybody else. He hit ’em square in the heart every time.”
“There’s always the exception that proves the rule, buddy.” Hutch gently placed Starsky’s fingers back on the bed. “Beside, nobody’s proved yet that Brenner shot you.”
“But we know he did,” Starsky added forlornly. “They just have to get the bullet out to prove it.”
Hutch clenched his hands reflexively, cracking his knuckles. He had to tell Starsky about the shoulder wound now, or he’d never get up the nerve again. “Starsky, what…what do you remember of the day you got shot? After we got to the warehouse?”
“After we got there, I went around…” Starsky frowned, trying to recall the hazy memory. “Back.”
“Of the warehouse,” Hutch prompted, a fluttery feeling inside him.
“There was nothing there, so I came ’round the other way. Brenner was there…near a shed.” Starsky spoke uncertainly. “I dunno…”
“Do you remember what happened right before you saw Brenner?”
“Hutch,” Starsky moaned. “I’m tired.” He tried to shift position and was rewarded by a sharp twinge from his right shoulder. He’d completely forgotten he’d been wounded there, too.
“Starsky, please, this is very important,” the blond man insisted. “Did you see the kid in the green jacket? In among the oil drums?”
“He kept running between,” Starsky agreed.
“I was aiming at him.” Hutch swallowed an enormous lump in his throat catching at his words.
“I wanted to tell you about Brenner,” Starsky continued. “I saw the kid in the green jacket in front of me. He took a shot at you.” He was incredibly tired; this conversation was heading somewhere he wasn’t certain he wanted to go.
“Starsk…I shot at him, but…” Hutch realized he was crying, “you were in the way. I shot you…in the shoulder.”
Starsky stared at his partner, who had tears of exhaustion and sadness running down his face. “You’re not a very good shot.”
Hutch attempted a laugh but failed. “I hit you, didn’t I?” He squeezed his partner’s hand. “Starsk, I am so sorry.”
Giving him a weak grin, Starsky said, “I think you saved my life.”
“What?” Hutch wiped his eyes with the back of his hand.
“Brenner shot everybody else in the chest.” Starsky winced, placing his right hand over his heart. “He missed, cause you shot me.”
“Now you owe me your life?” Hutch truly laughed this time. “I think I can handle that.”
“I may live to regret it.” Starsky closed his eyes with a groan.
“Mr. Hutchinson,” Anna Shoberg looked into the room. “Visiting hours are over. He needs his rest.”
“I hope you can sleep with a nurse like her on duty, Starsk,” Hutch teased gently. “She’d keep me awake nights.” He waved a hand, indicating the dark-haired man in the bed, smiling at the nurse. “He keeps falling asleep on me.”
Anna dimpled. “I assure you, I wouldn’t.”
“Oh, honey,” Hutch sighed dramatically, “I’d love to take you up on that, but I’m on stake-out tomorrow.”
“I’ll give you a rain check.” Anna slipped around the nurse’s desk with a seductive smile.
*********************
Pushing past more than the usual number of officers in the detective’s wardroom, Hutch achieved the coffee machine just as Dobey and a man with dark eyes and dark, close-cropped curly hair emerged from the adjacent door.
“Hutchinson, you know Bob Estrata,” Dobey said by way of introduction. “He agreed to be the decoy.”
“Thanks, Estrata,” Hutch said simply. What else could he say? Thank you in advance for putting your life on the line, just in case the next time I see you, you’re on a slab in the morgue? “It means a lot.”
“Hey, if we can get this guy…” Estrata shrugged, struggling with the fastenings of his bulletproof vest. “Paul Ravelli is…was married to my cousin. I can’t turn my back on him–and Starsky.”
“We’ve planted as many undercover men as possible in the area around the fort,” Dobey began, “but we can’t get them too close without it looking suspicious.” He gruffly helped Estrata buckle the vest around his chest. “Estrata will be wearing this under his shirt, but Hutchinson, you’re got to get Brenner before he gets too close. Estrata won’t fool him for long.”
“He’s a good shot.” Bob sounded as if he were beginning to have second thoughts. “He got every one of them in one shot.”
“Right through the heart.” Hutch recalled Starsky’s words. “You’re right. He’s a marksman.” He didn’t really have his mind on the impending stake-out. He’d spent the early part of the morning at the hospital. Despite the pre-surgical drugs, Starsky had been jittery as Kesselring had explained the possible complications of the bullet extraction. Both detectives had hidden their fear under familiar banter until Hutch had to leave for the police department.
“Hutch,” Dobey said sternly, “you aren’t listening.” He turned to the dark-haired man, shaking his hand. “Son, this is a brave thing you’re doing. I see a citation in your future.”
“Just as long as there is one, sir.” Bob pulled on a plaid flannel shirt and bombardier jacket, covering the protective vest he wore. “See you out there, Hutch.”
“I’ll be there, at your back.”
The dark-haired young man zipped the jacket shut, nodded and hurried out. It was ten a.m. on a chilly Thursday morning, and Hutch had the overwhelming fear that he’d all but signed Bob Estrata’s death warrant.
“Hutch, you’ve got to have your mind on this job,” Dobey interrupted his introspection. “I know you’re worried about Starsky, but if one phase of this operation goes wrong-someone–probably Bob Estrata–could be killed.”
“I won’t let that happen, Cap’n.” Hutch consciously let out the tension, cracking the vertebrae in his neck with a jerk of his head. “I’m here. You got a walkie-talkie for me?”
Dobey picked up a small electronic receiver from the desk, handing it over. “Here–red button’s for…”
“Captain, I’ve used one before.” Hutch pocketed it, almost amused to note Dobey’s obvious case of nerves. “What’s the range?”
“That’s a small one, so it’s not too far but several of the plainclothes men are in range for your signals. Contact Al Jasper once you get into position.”
“Al Jasper,” Hutch echoed.
“Good luck, Hutchinson,” Dobey spoke quietly.
“Yeah, I’m due back at the hospital in two hours.” Hutch smiled sardonically, gave his superior a salute and left.
Arriving at Marshall Park Fort, Hutch parked his battered brown Ford a half mile down the packed dirt road and jogged up to the back gates. Parts of the old fort dated back to the Civil War, the deserted barracks dark and forbidding, empty rooms full of ancient ghosts and memories. As Hutch hurried along the leaf-strewn road towards the front of the parade grounds, his footsteps echoed eerily through the cave-like buildings. He was glad of his leather jacket, the air still had a decidedly wintry nip in it for the end of February. The rain from the day before had left patches of wet in the dirt, just enough to muddy his shoes and leave obvious footprints. He carefully avoided the puddles, walking along the edge of the path in the underbrush.
He settled himself in a small space between two old trees, surrounded by overgrown bushes above the front gates. It was ten-twenty by his pocket watch. Wind whistled through the narrow avenue between the barracks, scattering eucalyptus leaves across the parade grounds.
“Al Jasper?” Hutch whispered into his walkie-talkie. “This is Hutchinson.”
There was a squawk from the receiver, then a man’s voice. “This is Jasper. Hutchinson, have you seen any sign of Brenner yet?”
“No.” Hutch relayed his position. “I can see most of the fort from here. I’ll give you a heads-up the minute he arrives. Ten four.”
Slipping his Magnum out of the shoulder holster, Hutch checked the ammo clip. It was full. Nothing to do now but wait. His stomach grumbled unexpectedly loudly, making him wish he’d managed that cup of coffee before Dobey had caught him. He hadn’t eaten anything but a small salad the night before and began to wonder if food would have calmed the roiling acid in his belly.
There was a small movement on the path below, causing Hutch to look around suspiciously. Little eddies of debris from the trees swirled through the ground-fall, the deeper puddles had lapping waves on miniature oceans. The wind had risen after the night’s rain, and it could make hearing Brenner’s approach more difficult.
Hutch caught a glimpse of a dark figure disappearing into the eucalyptus trees to the right of the entrance gates. Straining his eyes to distinguish shape from shadow, he scanned the tree line carefully. He drew in a sharp breath as he recognized a gray head of hair. It was Brenner! Hutch tightened his hand around the gun, finger poised on the trigger. He wanted to shoot that goddamned murderer right now. Just one squeeze of the trigger and Brenner would be as dead as Hidalgo, Collier, and the rest of the dark-haired policemen. Bringing his hand up, he pointed the muzzle at the gray head to blow him to kingdom come. Starsky had almost died. Brenner, you die.
“Hutchinson.” Jasper’s voice squeaked on the walkie-talkie. “Hutchinson!”
Letting the pistol go limp in his hand, Hutch picked up the transmitter. “Hutchinson, here, what is it?” He wiped sweat off his forehead with a shudder. If Jasper hadn’t called, he would probably have murdered Brenner in cold blood. And getting Brenner that way was as bad as the Shadows Killer himself.
“Donovan spotted a blue Ford. It’s Brenner’s car, we think.”
“Yeah, Jasper, I just saw Brenner come in,” Hutch agreed, watching the wanted man secret himself behind some boulders and deadwood.
“Why didn’t you call us immediately?” Static crackled Jasper’s voice.
“He was too close, I didn’t want him to hear me,” Hutch lied, visually searching the area where Brenner hid. The gray head was out of view for the moment.
“All right,” Jasper said finally. “We’ll contact you when Estrata arrives. Ten-four.”
“Ten-four,” Hutch intoned. He pulled out his pocket watch; it was ten to eleven. What was happening to Starsky right now?
*********************
Pete Brenner hadn’t seen Hutchinson. The thought had occurred to him that the blond cop might try to sneak in before the appointed hour, so he was ready with rifle in hand. After he got Vegas, he was going after that dumb Hutchinson. Dad always said a job wasn’t worth doing unless it was well done. That’s what Hutch would be, well done.
Or better yet, rare–still dripping with blood. He laughed at his own joke, toying with the rifle shells. He carefully loaded the weapon; it was all going according to plan.
Taking out a much-folded photograph, Brenner smoothed it flat, filled with loathing at the sight of it. The picture had captured he and Vegas, in their rookie days, arm and arm like buddies. Well, buddy, you turncoat friend, today you die. He crumpled the photo in his hand, vengeance for Paul welling up like floodwaters, threatening to engulf him. “Die, Dan Vegas, just like my baby brother died.”
He tried to picture Paul, tried to recall any family holiday that he could hold dear, but time had eroded the memories. He’d resented the baby’s birth, but, already an adult, had been responsible for the child. His father had pounded the responsibility into him–you’re the older brother–you’re the one who’ll look out for him. Family was everything–even when your brother was a no-account little punk who took drugs and had beaten up his pregnant girlfriend. Blood never lies.
The ex-cop looked at his wristwatch: eleven oh five and no sign of Hutchinson. Maybe this meeting was on the level? He swept his eyes across the forested terrain in all direction, squinting into the sun almost overhead. A beautiful day to die–wasn’t that what those Indians said in Little Big Man? No–a good day to die. Yes, a good day for Vegas.
Hutch slid the ammo clip black and forth in the butt of his Magnum, telling himself he was just checking the bullets. More waiting…like in the hospital, the minutes no longer seemed to advance in a logical progression. Time would drag by without a single movement except the occasional hawk soaring in the wind streams overhead, and then suddenly ten minutes had disappeared without the slightest notice. Hutch was drenched in sweat, his T-shirt stuck to his back under his jacket, and yet it was a relatively cool day. His stomach growled, acid splashing like the waves of a caustic sea.
“Jasper,” Hutch called on the walkie-talkie. “This is Hutchinson.”
“Yeah?”
“I’m going down closer to Brenner–any sign of Estrata yet?”
“No, but we got a call from Dobey that he left already,” Jasper replied.
“Thanks.” Hutch shut off the speaker absently. It was 11:40 by his watch. He’d been in one place for more than an hour and his legs tingled as he stood up.
Making his way down the hill, he approached Brenner’s lair from the left, as silently as possible, although the wind rustling through the bay leaves made it easier to hide the tiny noise caused by his sneakers on the ground. When he was within twenty feet of the older man, Hutch stopped, crouching in some bushes. By gently pushing a spiky-needled branch to the side, he was able to see Brenner’s gray head.
A silence settled on the whole area. The air was suddenly stilled as if the cars passing on the nearby streets had quieted their motors and the wind had stopped to wait for the impending action. Hutch froze as Brenner turned his way, but he was apparently not seen. The ex-cop looked slowly around, his rifle pointing menacingly at anything that moved.
Estrata arrived at ten till twelve. He stood by his car, gazing up at the old wooden gates with a fluttery feeling. What if this whole thing didn’t come off? He truly didn’t want to become another statistic in the files of the Shadows Killer.
“VEGAS!” The name echoed and reechoed around the deserted fort, startling a flock of screeching birds who rose en mass from the barracks roof, wings flapping franticly. Estrata had an irresistible urge to join them.
“Vegas, it’s time to die!”
Cold shivers ran down Bob Estrata’s spine, goose bumps pimpling his arms as he scanned the tree-covered hill. Where was Brenner?
“Jasper, move in if you hear gunshots,” Hutch whispered into the walkie-talkie. He positioned his gun so he could watch both Brenner and Estrata without having to turn. The dark-haired man walked slowly towards the flagpole, swiveling his head to find the Shadows Killer before he found him.
“Pete?” Estrata called, facing the direction he thought the voice had come from. “Where are you? I’d like to talk-about old times.” He could feel his heart throbbing against the thick bulletproof vest like it wanted to escape.
“Danny, you killed him, why?” There was a plaintive tone in Brenner’s voice that Hutch had never heard before. “He was my little brother.”
Watching Estrata stand defenseless and exposed, Hutch had a moment of doubt. Brenner didn’t sound like the psychotic killer of six people–he sounded defeated and tired.
“Danny, he was only a little boy.” Brenner stood up, braced against a tree. “He didn’t deserve to die.”
“Pete, I’m sorry, I didn’t…” Bob had a creepy feeling, saying words which belonged to a dead man.
“But YOU DESERVE to die for it!” The violence and hatred in Brenner’s voice was like an electric jolt. He swung his rifle up, starting to pull the trigger.
With a swiftness he didn’t know he possessed, Hutch took aim and fired. The bullet hit Brenner as his own gun discharged, his aim swinging wide.
Estrata dropped to his knees with a terrified gasp. He hadn’t been shot but watching Brenner fall to the ground with a red stain splashed across his chest was painful enough.
“You ok, Bob?” Hutch jumped up, running over to Brenner and kicking the rifle away. The Shadows Killer was still alive.
Estrata nodded mutely, getting shakily to his feet. He checked his watch, it was five minutes to twelve, less than five minutes had passed since he’d arrived. It didn’t seem possible.
“Jasper, call an ambulance,” Hutch called into the walkie-talkie, emotionally drained. “Brenner’s been shot.”
“How’s Estrata?” Jasper asked.
“A little pale. Ten-four, Jasper.” Hutch stood limply, the gun so heavy in his hand he could barely lift his hand to place it back in the holster. He clasped the younger policeman’s arm, giving him a grateful nod. In the distance, sirens had started up from all around the old fort, wailing like banshees from the past.
*********************
“Mr. Starsky has been in surgery for three hours,” the little Asian nurse said quietly. “It will probably be a while longer.”
Hutch thanked her quietly, looking around for a place to sit down. The red tape involving Brenner’s shooting had taken longer than he expected. The ex-cop was in the security ward of the very same hospital as Starsky, in critical condition, but alive. It seemed perversely apt.
“Hey, Hutch.” Huggy Bear stepped out of the second floor elevator. “Heard anything yet?”
“It’ll be maybe a couple more hours, the nurse said,” the blond cop answered. He sat down in the surgical waiting room, absently brushing at grass stains on his pants. “What time is it?”
“Two-twenty-five.” Huggy consulted his watch. “How was he, goin’ in?”
“The last time I saw, kinda scared,” Hutch answered wearily. “He looked so sick.”
“I heard some talk on the street about you gettin’ Brenner at his own game.” Huggy’s almond shaped eyes caught his smile. “Fooled him, huh?”
“Yeah, an’ fooled myself into thinking that getting him off the street was gonna make everything better.” Hutch sighed. “The song was right.”
“Huh?”
“Nothing. Street gossip picked up on the shooting quick, huh?”
“Yeah, ol’Reny bops into The Pits, wham, jam, he grabs a beer from me. The news was eruptin’ from him ‘fore I could even say hey.” Huggy watched a pretty nurse walk down the hall. “Hey, you remember that piece of ice you and Starsky were huntin’ a coupla weeks ago?”
“Yeah,” Hutch grunted disinterestedly.
“It’s on the street. I think Julian’s going for a buy.”
“We were early.” Hutch grinned mirthlessly. He crossed his arms, hands on his elbows, restless. How much longer would the surgery last?
“You aren’t still on that case, are you?”
“It’s been filed for a while, I guess, I dunno.” Hutch sighed, “What time is it?”
“Two-thirty,” Huggy answered. “Not much later’n was a few minutes ago.”
“It didn’t change anything,” the blond man muttered. “Getting rid of Brenner didn’t change the fact that Starsky is still fighting for his life in that operating room and I can’t do anything.” He stood angrily. “Starsk could still die and Brenner’s record would be intact. Y’know, Starsky thought he was going to die–he was scared to death…” He paused, surprised at the grim pun. “A little gallows humor to lighten the strain, huh? Starsky told me to make believe I was brave, and I’m the biggest coward in the world because I’m afraid of losing him.”
Huggy couldn’t think of anything to say that would comfort his friend, so he sat silently, remembering the good times he’d had with the two cops. Resting his chin on his hands, he continued to watch the comings and goings of the hospital’s female personnel.
A gorgeous girl with long red hair stepped up to the nurse’s desk. “Excuse me, can you tell me where…”
Hearing the voice, Hutch glanced across the hall. “Lacy!” he called softly.
“Oh, Hutch.” She ran over, throwing her arms around him. “I heard you got Brenner.”
“Yeah, as much good as it’ll do,” he muttered into her hair, stroking the fiery softness. She felt warm and solid in his arms, her heart beating in rhythm with his own. Was Starsky’s heart still beating strong and steady?
“Hey, Hutch,” Huggy chided softly, “Ain’t you gonna introduce me to the foxy lady?”
Reluctantly breaking the embrace, Hutch introduced them. “Lacy Calhane, Huggy Bear, a friend of mine. Hug, Lacy is a cop.”
“Hey, I pay my liquor licenses!” Huggy shook the girl’s hand vigorously. “How do, Lacy, that is one pretty name.”
“How do you do, Huggy Bear, that’s one unusual name.” Lacy returned the handshake, an amused smile playing on her lips.
“A chick christened me many years ago,” Huggy boasted. “I just got an affectionate nature.”
“I can see that.” She glanced over at Hutch. He hadn’t joined their teasing, but stood slightly apart, tense and alone. Lacy slid her small hand under his, lacing their fingers together.
“I own a bar, Lacy, called The Pits. If you ever come down I’ll give you one on the house,” Huggy continued. “Good for business.”
“How ’bout if I brought a few girlfriends along?” Lacy asked coyly.
“Sure thing, if they’s all as pretty as you. Any night.”
“Lacy works undercover most nights,” Hutch said dryly, finally entering into the conversation, his eyes still on the operating room doors. “Hooker patrol.”
The redhead dug a good-natured elbow into his ribs. “Hutch, you’re not supposed to tell everyone.”
“Just to friends, ma’am, just to friends.” Huggy grinned.
“Sergeant Hutchinson?” a nurse called from the desk. “Telephone call for you.”
“Thank you.” He took the black receiver she held out. “Hutchinson.”
“Sergeant Hutchinson, this is Dr. Levine in the security ward. I was in charge of your prisoner, Peter Brenner.” The New York-accented voice paused a moment, “Mr. Brenner just died a few minutes ago.”
Hutch felt very cold, a block of ice where his heart should be. “Umm, thanks for telling me, Doctor.”
“We’ll be transferring him to the police morgue within the hour.”
“Fine, I’ll notify Captain Dobey,” Hutch said lamely, at a loss to say anything. So Brenner was dead. At least, Starsky had outlived him, so far.
“Who was it, Hutch?” Lacy asked as he hung up.
“Pete Brenner just died.” Hutch walked limply over to the waiting area, slumping into one of the ubiquitous plastic chairs.
“At last,” Lacy said grimly.
“Lace?”
“Hutch, it’s much better this way. We’re rid of that maniac and he got the best punishment he could have gotten. Same treatment he gave Mike and all the others.”
“Except I don’t like playing judge, jury, and executioner,” Hutch growled.
“You saved that other cop’s life.” Huggy spoke casually, selecting an ancient copy of National Geographic featuring a photo of bare breasted native girls on the cover. “That’s not takin’ the law in your own hands, that’s doing what you needed to get done.”
Hutch flashed on the image of Brenner, sprawled on the parade ground under the flagless pole, shirt soaked red with gore. In his mind, Starsky lay right next to Brenner, but his eyes were open, looking up in horror. Hutch had shot them both. God willing, he hadn’t killed them both.
“Look.” Lacy slipped a comforting arm around his neck, leaning her head against his. “It’s bound to be a long time before Starsky gets out of the OR. You can’t just sit here. Could you buy a lady a meal?”
Realizing he still hadn’t eaten that day, Hutch reluctantly let himself be led away. They invited Huggy down to the cafeteria with them but he declined, insisting he was engrossed in an article on African tribes.
“Call me if anything happens,” Hutch urged as the elevator doors slid open, unwilling to get so far away from the OR doors.
“Sure, man, sure,” Huggy agreed.
In the now overly familiar cafeteria, Hutch picked nervously at a ham on rye, his eyes fixed on the clock.
“Hutch, stop it, please.” Lacy swallowed her bite of chicken sandwich, placing her hand over his. “He’ll pull through, I know he will. Isn’t Dr. Kesselring the best in the hospital?”
“You didn’t see him before he went in.”
“I know, but worrying won’t help.”
“Nothing I do seems to help.”
“There you go again,” Lacy said angrily. “Stop it.”
“Lacy! All you ever do is…” Hutch cut off as he caught sight of Simms standing in the cashier’s line to pay for a plate of spaghetti. His jaw tightened “Dr. Simms,” Hutch said loudly.
“Hutch!” Lacy grabbed his arm, as several people in the line turned to look at them. “Sit down.”
“That’s his old doctor–I…”
“Don’t.” Lacy pushed the ham sandwich towards him. “Ignore him, you don’t need to start anything right now.”
“I wasn’t planning to get into a brawl, Lace.” Hutch took a viscous bite from the sandwich. He glanced back at the cashier, but Simms was disappearing out of the cafeteria, tray in hand. “What are you, my conscience?” Hutch muttered only half-angrily. His emotions were all over the place, from raw nervousness to pent up rage, and he had no outlet for any of them.
“I don’t want to be,” she said quietly, slightly hurt. She took a sip of iced tea to cover her trembling lip.
“Lacy.” Hutch stroked her hand. “That man–he treated Starsky like death was a foregone conclusion. I don’t think he ever…”
“Detective Sergeant Hutchinson,” a voice came over the load speaker, breaking through the general chatter in the cafeteria. “Please return to the second floor OR waiting area.”
His face pale, Hutch bolted for the elevator. Lacy nearly knocked over her chair in her haste to follow him.
Dr. Kesselring, still clad in his surgical blues, was standing outside the OR recovery, examining a sheath of papers.
“Doctor?” Hutch asked tentatively. Huggy had risen from the waiting room couch, his magazine dropping, forgotten, to the scuffed gray linoleum.
“He made it.” The older man smiled, removing his half glasses. “Starsky will be in the recovery room in a short while.”
Almost giddy with the news, the ice melting in his veins, Hutch grinned foolishly. “It went well?” Simms had to be wrong.
“As well as can be expected.” Kesselring folded the papers, placing them in his back pocket. “He’ll be sick for a while, but except for unforeseeable complications, I see no reason why he can’t make a complete recovery.”
Lacy hugged Hutch’s arm, giving him a quick kiss on the cheek. “I plan to gloat and say I told you so.”
“How long till he comes out of anesthesia?” Hutch asked, cradling the small woman at his side as she slid her arms around his waist.
“In an hour or so.” The doctor smiled. “Your lady friend, Sergeant?”
“Yeah, my lady friend.” Hutch introduced them formally, a broad smile on his face. Huggy clapped him happily on the back, taking his turn to shake the doctor’s hand after Lacy.
“I’ll check in on him frequently in the next twenty four hours,” Kesselring said, “but I’m pleased with the turnout, if I don’t say so myself. Bullet was in a tricky position, but I had some steady hands helping me, and your partner has a guardian angel, that I’m convinced of.”
“He needs it in our line of work.” Hutch thanked the surgeon.
After two hours in recovery, Starsky was transferred back to his old room in ICU. He’d been re-intubated for surgery and the hiss of the respirator was surprisingly comforting to Hutch. Lacy and Huggy had both long departed, leaving Hutch alone with his friend and his thoughts. He’d killed Brenner in exactly the same manner as the man had killed all his victims. Straight through the heart. Yet, the intent had been different, hadn’t it?
There was a grudging fear that he was little better than the murderer. He’d hated him for what he’d done to Starsky. Brenner had hated Vegas for killing Paul. One was killing within the law and the other six had been vengeful executions. Brenner’s unbalanced brain had convinced him that Vegas still lived, despite evidence to the contrary. Hutch wondered bleakly if he’d died still believing that deluded notion. It was heartbreakingly sad.
It was not yet seven when Hutch shook himself from a doze. He rubbed his eyes tiredly, hoping Starsky would wake soon.
Anna Shoberg crossed the room, making almost no sound in her crepe-soled shoes. She took the patient’s pulse, respiration, and blood pressure, nodding contentedly. “He’s doing very well. He’ll be heavily medicated for the rest of the night.”
“Thanks.” Hutch finger-combed his hair back into place, stifling a jaw-cracking yawn. He was bone weary, and truly hungry for the first time in weeks. He reflected back on what had transpired earlier that afternoon. After Huggy had left to bartend his place for the dinner crowd, Lacy had insisted that Hutch get out of the hospital for a half an hour, at least. They had taken a long walk through a nearby shopping mall.
At a florist shop, Hutch purchased a single long stemmed red rose and presented it to the beautiful lady who accompanied him.
“Flowers for the woman who had the guts to sit out a bad time with me.” He handed it to her, leaning down to plant a kiss on her lips.
Lacy snaked an arm around his neck to return the kiss with one of her own. “It wasn’t all that hard.” She released him, taking time to sniff the rose, a mischievous twinkle in her eye. “S’too bad you’re sitting up tonight with a sick friend, cause I’d invite you to my apartment, if you weren’t.”
“Twice in one week, Lacy? Are you trying to compromise my virtue?”
“Any way I can, sailor.”
“You hookers are all alike.” Hutch linked arms with her as they left the shopping mall. “Work, work, work.”
“With some men it’s work, honey.” Lacy gave a little Mae West attitude. “And with some, it’s a pleasure every time.”
They walked companionably along the grass-lined paths back to the hospital, hand in hand. The weather was just cool enough to pink up cheeks and require a jacket, the wind kicking up Lacy’s knee length skirt to reveal her shapely thighs not quite often enough for Hutch’s taste.
Swinging their joined hands to get the blond man’s attention, Lacy asked, “So what happens now?”
“Hmmm?”
“Now that Brenner’s dead. There’ll be no trial–we just go on? Try to forget about it?”
“That’s the hardest part, isn’t it?” Hutch agreed with a sigh, “The part you really don’t learn about in the academy.”
“How to deal with the horrible parts of the job. 1A this semester, 1B next.” Lacy sounded cynical. “It just wouldn’t look right in the schedule of classes.”
“Yeah, and they’d have to grade really easy or no one would take the class.”
“I’d give you an A.”
“Hey, lady,” Hutch changed the subject. “When’s your next day off?”
“This is it until next week, but I thought you had to work.”
“Not till next week.” He grinned. “Or whatever day you have off. I have a certain amount of freedom when it comes to days off until Starsky is back on the job. No partner.”
“Maybe we can arrange something.” Lacy matched his grin.
“I’ll be finishing up back logs of cases, paperwork, maybe even filling in for other officers without partners…”
“I like the sound of that. I could be off on Wednesday.”
“Wednesday could work for me.”
Lacy laughed, touching the rose to her cheek, “It’s a date.”
“A date, like in high school?”
“You wish.” She elbowed him in the ribs. “Does that mean we can go to the malt shoppe?”
“Only if Archie and Jughead come. I had other plans.” Hutch kissed her, catching her by surprise. She let the kiss linger, breathing in his heat. It promised a lot more than a high school date.
Sitting in Starsky’s semi-dark ICU room, Hutch smiled at the memory. Lacy was definitely worth the pursuit. As the blond man watched, Starsky moved restlessly in his sleep, his eyelids fluttering as if he were about to wake.
“Hey, Starsk,” Hutch called softly, but his partner didn’t respond.
At eight p.m., Kesselring pulled the intubation tube, letting Starsky breathe on his own. Shortly afterwards the dark blue eyes opened all the way.
Starsky lay very still, waiting for the strange masses he saw to form themselves into normal things like chairs, windows, and people. The tall, light-colored object to his right looked very familiar. “Hutch?” he croaked.
“Instant recognition,” Hutch answered fondly. He helped Starsky take a small sip of water. “Very encouraging.”
“I always trust that you’ll be there,” Starsky said sleepily.
“Whom do we trust?” Hutch repeated the old phrase, forgiving everything that had happened as long as Starsky was all right.
“Me and thee.” Starsky grinned as he fell back to sleep.
As Hutch left the hospital, he realized he should have trusted more in Starsky all along. One thing the curly-haired member of the team would never do was leave his blond-haired partner’s side for long, not, at least without a fight. And he had been fighting, for his life.
*********************
With a jaunty lilt in his step, Hutch strode down the sixth floor hall of St. Luke’s, waved hello to the nurse and swung open the door to Starsky’s room. He’d been moved out of ICU two days previously and was astounding the medical personnel with his recuperative ability and fervent desire to get out of the hospital.
“Good morning,” Hutch greeted, placing a bouquet of spring flowers on the bedside table.
“Morning,” Starsky said noncommittally, staring at the flowers. “What ‘s that?”
“I knew lying around in a hospital was going to affect you after a while.” Hutch pointed out each bloom. “These are tulips, these are daffodils, and these are…” forgetting the name he concluded with, “purplish flowers.”
“Mr. Hayfever brought me flowers?” Starsky asked incredulously.
“I have that under control, Starsky. Besides, these are from Lacy,” Hutch retorted, picking up the vase again. “But if you don’t want ’em, I’ll just take ’em down the hall to the gorgeous girl who had her appendix out.”
“What room?”
“I don’t want to excite you in your condition.”
“I’m not pregnant!” Starsky groaned, “I’ll keep the flowers. What room?”
“675.” Hutch admitted, stashing the bouquet out of the way on a side table. “And I brought you something else.”
“You’re having way too much fun at my expense,” Starsky grumped, still uncomfortable enough to need to stay in bed, but recovering enough to want to be out of it.
“Here, don’t say I never bring you anything.” Hutch held out the LA Times from his jacket pocket. “It’s from last Friday, but you weren’t up to reading then.” He unfolded it, revealing the front page. “You got your fifteen minutes.”
“Didn’t want to have to share it with him.” Starsky spread the paper out on the bed. The headline for Feb. 24th read “Shadows Killer’s Reign of Terror Ends, One Victim Survives.” Two pictures were underneath, one of Brenner and one of Starsky.
“So you shot him, huh?” Starsk asked softly, his expression neutral. He traced the bandages binding his chest with the end of his thumb. He had never asked for any explanation of what had transpired at Marshall fort.
“Yeah.”
“And that’s that.” Starsky looked up at his partner’s face.
“All finished.” Hutch’s light blue eyes locked on Starsky’s darker ones. He knew Starsky would have understood, maybe not condoned it if he had killed Brenner in cold blood. He was thankful that in the end, he’d held his temper and waited until there was no other choice but to shoot.
“Well, Sergeant, loitering in my patient’s room again?” Kesselring smiled congenially. “I’m beginning to wonder if you ever do any police work.”
“I’ve always had to carry him,” Starsky put in.
“Just about to leave, Doctor.” Hutch laughed. “How soon before you decide to throw this malingerer out?”
Kesselring took Starsky’s pulse while the patient looked bored. “I believe we’ll be enjoying Mr. Starsky’s presence for a week more, at least.”
“A week!” Starsky shrieked, jerking up. The pain in his chest made him think twice about sudden actions, so he lay back with a put-upon expression.
“Well, partner, see you in seven days.” Hutch saluted and departed as a water jug banged against the door near his head.
Driving through his beat, Hutch spotted a familiar figure lounging against a phone booth, smoking a hand-rolled cigarette. He swung the car across two lanes of traffic and pulled up to the curb. Jumping out, he reached the surprised Reny in two steps, long before the little weasel could even close the folding door on the glass booth. “Hey, Reny, how are you?”
“Oh, Hutch, hey–I saw in the newspaper how you iced that Shadows Killer guy–s’real good.” Reny nervously ground out the butt of his last cigarette, searching his pockets for another. “Y’know, I never seen any of those kids you wanted–I don’t think they’re there…” he trailed off uncertainly.
“That’s ok,” Hutch soothed. “I’m back on the track of an older case.”
“Honest? What is it? Y’know I’ll help…” The stoolie nodded encouragingly.
“I was hoping you’d say that.” Hutch scratched the back of his neck. “I’m looking for some diamonds.”
“Oh, hey, I don’t get into that stuff, y’know.” Reny backed away, up against the glass wall of the tiny booth. “I haven’t seen Julian in…months.”
“Perjury is punishable by law, Reny.” Hutch advanced into the booth, taking the phone off the hook. “I could call your parole officer.” He smiled wickedly, enjoying every minute of the exchange. Everything was back to normal.
fin
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