Someone is killing cops. But why? Starsky and Hutch are working the case during the Christmas season. Hutch is grappling with an obligation to travel home for a few days. It’s the first time he’s had to leave Starsky since their romantic relationship began. Then the killer’s M.O. changes and Starsky’s forced to get even more involved, just as Hutch heads for Minnesota.
Originally published in the zine, The Fix #9 in December 1990.
Hutch turned down the car radio, tired of the endless Christmas music playing on the local stations. It was so weird to listen to it, juxtaposed against the news broadcast that had just ended. It was December 18, L.A. was rain-drenched and chilly, and the city was in the midst of the worst crime spree in memory. The months leading up to the holiday season hadn’t been easy on either him or Starsky.
Hutch had been sick at Thanksgiving, almost dying of the mystery plague that had swept the city. His partner was still grieving over the loss of Rosey Malone and the death of John Blaine. And in the midst of the current cop killings, a couple of rough cases had had their impact on Hutch; a crazy loan shark had wreaked havoc in his old neighborhood and a bigoted cop had taken the life of his old friend, Jackson Walters.
No such thing as euphoric sentimentalism this year, Hutch thought, scowling as angry drivers ahead of him rolled down their windows to yell at each other. No sentimentalism at all….
“Come on, you bozos,” he yelled out his own window, feeling the steady drizzle splash into the car, ”I’m a police officer and if you don’t move on, I’ll drag both your asses downtown!” The other drivers shut up and finally pulled away from the light; Hutch followed, feeling morose. He was almost glad he had made plans to go back to Minnesota this year. Though he didn’t actually have an overwhelming desire to see his family, it did seem fortunate that he’d be able to get out of this crazy city in a couple more days.
He punched in another station, only to be confronted with another newscast “Four rapes, ten robberies, and two murders all occurred since midnight last night,” the announcer said, as if rattling off baseball statistics. “People, please be careful out there. ‘Tis the season for nuts on the streets these days.”
He didn’t say anything about the biggest crime on Hutch’s mind though, and for that the detective was grateful. He didn’t want to hear that no new evidence had been found in what the broadcasters were calling the “Christmas Cop Killings.” Soon as he got to Metro, there’d be plenty for him to hear about those incidents.
Two cops killed in the last two and a half weeks. One on the first of December, Mel Anthony of Parker Center, a uniform cop with three kids at home. And on the fifteenth, Rob Pressman of Hollenbeck, a detective with thirteen years on the force. They had each disappeared and been found two to three days later, in widely separated areas of the city.
Hutch shuddered and finished rolling up his window, chilled both by the rain and the images of the cops’ half-naked bodies lying in the dirt, hands bound behind them. There had been signs of injury, but nothing that had been immediately life threatening. Maybe the killer had left them alive, the coroner had said yesterday. It was possible that they’d been taken out and left to die of exposure. Anthony had been found in just his undershorts and t-shirt, Pressman had had on nothing but a jock. Both men had been outside, where the rain, the Santa Ana winds, and near freezing nighttime temperatures had been able to do a number on their wounded bodies.
Hutch’s head jerked as a car horn snapped his attention back to the present. He changed lanes, then headed for the parking lot at Metro. One thing he didn’t like about going to Minnesota–Starsky was staying in the city for the holidays. In view of the general crime wave and the fact that so many officers had families and children and that he was Jewish and single, Starsky had volunteered to work on the day itself. Hutch had originally planned to do so as well, until his mother’s urgent invitation to come home had arrived. His father wasn’t doing well since the by-pass surgery in October, she’d said, apologizing again for not being able to come out to see Hutch when he’d been in the hospital last month. Could Ken please make it home for Christmas this year?
He could still remember Starsky’s expression when he read the letter to him. The fond smile, the teasing eyes, the acknowledgement that sometimes no matter how grown up you were, you still had to do what your mother wanted you to do. Hutch had turned away, pretending to look through the papers on his desk.
A hand had settled on his shoulder. “I know, buddy. They drive you crazy, ‘specially the old man. But how much longer’ll he be around?” Hutch had met the deep, knowing eyes. Then Starsky had grinned. “Okay, you can call me every night. Will that make it less horrible? Complain about ’em to me all you want.”
So he had ordered his plane ticket and made his plans. His mother had been positively ecstatic when he’d told her yes.
He walked into the squad room, realizing with surprise that he only had to do so a few more times before his trip. Starsky looked up, meeting his eyes, and came over to him immediately, his movements tight with suppressed emotion.
“They found another body last night.” Starsky checked the report in his hand. “A Bill Michaelson. He was lying naked in a ravine, trussed up like the others.”
Hutch put out a hand, grasping Starsky’s arm. “Another cop? I didn’t know anyone was missing.”
“Not a cop exactly,” Starsky explained, nudging him toward the coffee machine. “This guy was a campus security guard.”
“Copycat killing?” Hutch wondered, pouring himself a cup and taking a swallow, black. The potent drink was no more jarring than his partner’s news.
“That’s what the M.E. is tryin’ to determine now.”
Hutch made his way to their desks and sat on the edge of his own, thinking over what his partner had told him. Someone was killing cops, methodically kidnapping them and leaving them to die of exposure. Why? It didn’t seem as though these had been random slayings. The targets clearly were officers of the law, though each man had been from a different division and precinct, and the third only indirectly in the same job. It wasn’t these particular individuals then, but cops in general. But why not kill them outright, with a gun or a knife? Why not blow up a car or two for that matter? No, to Hutch it seemed obvious that the killer wanted to put his victims through an ordeal.
“If we can figure out why he’s killin’ them by abandoning them that way, we’ll have the key,” Starsky’s voice came from close beside him.
Hutch smiled at him, acknowledging the fact that, as usual, they were on the same wave length. Before he could reply, the door to Dobey’s office opened and their captain waved them inside.
“Have a seat, Starsky and Hutch,” he began, bringing them brusquely to order. “We have some new information. Last night a body was found in a wooded area of Beverly Hills. It’s the third body found, left like that–out in the woods, the victim with all or most of his clothes off–in the last month. The medical examiner’s preliminary autopsy says this man died in the same way as the other two and that it’s almost certainly the same killer. It probably wasn’t a coincidence that last night the temperature dropped a few degrees from what it’s been the last couple of days. If the killer knew the weather was going to be bad, he may have selected his victim to coincide with that change.”
Starsky seemed unable to stifle his giggle. “You mean there’s a crazed weatherman out there murderin’ cops?”
“Don’t knock it, Starsk,” Hutch told him, fighting a smile. “Stranger things have happened.”
“Yeah, this is L.A.,” Starsky returned dryly.
“All right, cut the comedy,” Dobey said curtly. “One thing more, the newest body is in our jurisdiction. I’m putting the two of you on the case. I want you to meet with the detectives from Hollenbeck and Parker Center and have them brief you about the investigation so far. Then look into the background of this Bill Michaelson.”
A part of Hutch was pleased; he’d wanted in on this case from the beginning. But knowing he was about to leave town, he was unsure if they were the right team for the job. “Captain,” he pointed out, “I’m leaving in a couple of days…”
“So work it while you’re here. Starsky can handle things once you’re on that plane. Either that, or solve the damn case before you go, Detective Hutchinson.” Dobey glowered at him, but didn’t look really annoyed. “You can’t use this as an excuse not to go home, Hutch.”
“Hmmm,” Hutch sighed, noncommittally, then took Dobey’s cue to leave the office. That’s what I hate about this season. You do things you don’t want to do, and you don’t have the time to do the things you really need to do.
They headed for the Torino and settled in, but Starsky didn’t drive out of the parking lot immediately. He sat there letting the engine hum, allowing the heater time to take the chill off the interior of the car.
“You all set for your trip?” he asked quietly, eyes fixed on a point somewhere beyond the windshield.
“I guess. What’s there to do but toss a few things in the suitcase and go?” Hutch looked at his partner, understanding the question Starsky couldn’t ask. He hesitated a moment, glancing around to see if the parking lot had anyone else in it at the moment, then moved closer to his partner. “I’ll miss you.” His words were soft, but they sounded silly, stilted. Sincere though he was, it still felt weird talking to Starsky this way.
Blue eyes turned to meet his, saying clearly that they hadn’t heard anything odd in Hutch’s voice. They’d been hanging on his words, in fact. The love was so new, Hutch felt dizzied by it sometimes, but he couldn’t say he was sorry they’d found it. Amid the turmoil of the last few months, it had brought a new anchor, a sense of peace, to his life.
“First time for us to be separated since we started,” Starsky told him, mouth curved in a familiar, lopsided smile. “I’m gonna be lonely.”
Hutch slid a hand along the back of the seat, allowing his fingers to rest under the curls at Starsky’s nape. “I’ll be back before New Year’s. We can celebrate together.”
“It’s a date.” The smile became a grin, slightly lecherous. “So don’t let your mother fix you up with anybody back there in Duluth, hear?”
Hutch squeezed the warm nape he held, then settled back in his seat. “I promise.” He looked up at the grey sky overhead. “But it’s awful pretty back there when it snows…”
Starsky threw the car into gear, gunning the engine to underscore his words. “You’re mine, Snowboy.”
Hutch started laughing as they pulled out of the lot.
****
It was nearly four o’clock when the two detectives parked behind the Pits and headed inside for something to eat. Hutch pulled the collar of his bomber jacket up around his neck as they hurried through the drizzle to the restaurant’s back door.
“Look what the cat’s dragged in,” Huggy commented in his usual style when he spotted them. “You guys lookin’ for an early dinner?”
Starsky shrugged. “Late lunch, early dinner. whatever. Get me a beer, Hug?” He relaxed into a booth in his favorite position, half reclining along the bench, head pillowed on his arm. “I’m bushed.”
Hutch stroked fingers through the jumbled curls. “Me, too. There’s more to this case than we thought.” They’d conferred with the other detectives on the murders, read all the case notes, even interviewed certain key people, but they couldn’t come up with so much as a motive why either cop had been killed. And the two officers had been in different departments, so they had not had much opportunity to come in contact with the same suspects.
Starsky forced himself to sit up, rubbing at his eyes. “Those notes for one thing. That’s just too weird.”
Hutch pulled the photocopies from his pocket, smoothing out the folds as he looked them over. “Early in the new December, try to find what I remember.” He sat staring at the words a moment, as if their meaning might become more clear if he just looked at them long enough. “That’s the one that was with Anthony’s body. And this,” he picked up the second Xeroxed page, “is the one that was found on Rob Pressman.”
Starsky beat him to it, having apparently memorized the odd rhyme. “‘December’s chilly, December’s cold, who’s the one who won’t grow old?’ How was that?”
“Wonderful,” Hutch said dryly. He continued to stare at the missives, pondering them. “They’re both asking a question. In the first one, the killer wants us to remember something that he does, and he’s asking who won’t be growing old in the second.”
“I guess saying Rob Pressman for that one is too convenient.”
“Probably.” He opened the third folded slip of paper. “This is Michaelson’s. ‘Different, yes, but still the same. Does death forget, or know your name?'” Hutch looked up Starsky suddenly. “Yeah. I think I see–Pressman–and Anthony and Michaelson, too, I guess–they’re supposed to remind us of somebody.”
Starsky sat forward, eyes intent. “Somebody else who won’t grow old? Another murder victim? Another cop–?”
“Could be. When we get back to the office, let’s check out the computer for other cops who were killed, say… in the last three years or so.”
“Hutch, how many cops you think have been murdered in this city without the cases bein’ solved?” Starsky pointed out.
“Not many, I guess.” He shrugged. “Maybe the one the killer wants us to remember wasn’t murdered, but he lost his life… on the job, maybe?”
Starsky thought that over, barely noticing when Huggy delivered the burgers and fries they hadn’t ordered but that he’d known they wanted. “You’re saying the killer is a friend or relative of some cop who died in the line of duty and the force doesn’t remember enough? Thar’s pretty heavy, Hutch.”
Hutch bit into his burger. “You got any other ideas?”
“No. It’s a place to start, at least.” They both turned attentions to their food then, but Hutch’s mind was still on the case, and he was pretty sure Starsky’s was, too. The autopsy reports, the photos of the bodies, wouldn’t leave him alone. He’d come close to losing his life alone and hurt, exposed to the cruelest of nature’s whims. The canyon, a year ago, had been so cold at night, so unforgivingly hot during the day. He’d hung on, but the fear had been very real. Having tasted the approach of death that way, he knew something of what those men had gone through.
“Hutch.” A warm hand covered his own cold one, bringing him back to reality. Hutch looked up finding the treasured warmth of Starsky’s gaze. Maybe they didn’t have what I had… someone to hang on for.
“I’m okay,” he said, trying to keep his voice light. Suddenly the food didn’t appeal to him.
“Sure.” Starsky’s voice was smooth, comforting. “It’s rough, Hutch. I felt it, too. And what about their families? This time of year…”
“Yeah. Way to get into the Christmas spirit, huh?” He sat back, shoved his plate away. “Let’s head back to the office. Maybe the coroner will have something more on Michaelson for us by now.”
“Poor guy. Cops all over the city are taking extra precautions, and this security guard gets grabbed instead,” Starsky commented, sliding out of the booth and pulling a couple of bills from his pocket.
Hutch put a hand on his shoulder. “You think Michaelson was chosen deliberately, or because the killer just couldn’t get his hands on a real cop this time?”
“Your guess is as good as mine, Sherlock. Like you said, maybe the coroner will have something more for us–maybe something that’ll give us the answers.”
“I hope so,” Hutch said, feeling annoyed, hurt somehow by the deaths and their senselessness. “I have a feeling this whole mess is going to get worse before it gets better.” A familiar arm wrapped itself around his waist as they went out. Hutch tried to concentrate on that feeling, and nothing else.
****
The coroner didn’t have anything that would help the two detectives, so Starsky and Hutch went to the computer in search of similar crimes. Hours of research yielded no hard evidence, but did tend to substantiate Hutch’s theory that the killer was murdering his current victims to remind the public of other dead police officers.
“Here’s another one,” Starsky said, his voice registering surprise. “Officer Jake Andrews. He was just about to retire, when he disappeared on a hunting trip with some buddies from the force. They never found the body. You think–?”
“I don’t know.” Hutch rubbed at his forehead, eyes aching from continued reading under the office florescent lights. He checked a yellow legal pad. “Four cops over a period of three years. None killed the same way as our current victims, though in each case the deaths were somewhat suspicious. It could all be coincidence. Why would someone kill cops in such… un-obvious ways, and then start killing more of them the way these men have died?”
Starsky ruffled both hands through his already unruly curls. “Maybe our killer realized nobody was getting his point?” Even he didn’t sound as though he believed that. “Maybe the revenge was enough at first. Maybe just him–the killer, that is–knowing used to be enough. But now, it isn’t the same. It isn’t giving him the same kick, the same satisfaction. Now he wants us to know.”
“Could be,” Hutch admitted. “But why have them die of exposure? There are certainly lots easier… maybe even more ‘satisfying’ ways to commit murder.”
Starsky was quiet a moment. “Think the notes have something to do with that? Maybe, if it is revenge, the person he’s avenging died of exposure. And this is payback.”
“Payback for cops? Why?” Hutch puzzled it a moment. “Because the cops didn’t save whoever the killer wants us to remember?” He stood suddenly, pent up energy demanding movement after hours of sitting still. “This is crazy, Starsk. We’re going nuts after all this poking around in the dark.”
“Maybe not. How about…” Starsky paused in thought, “how about we check on people who’ve died of exposure in the last five years?”
Hutch had a sudden urge to check his watch. “Shit. It’s nine-thirty. Starsky, we’ve been at this for hours. I’m starving. Let’s knock off now and see what we can find out tomorrow, when we’re fresh.”
Starsky looked surprised, then grinned when he looked at his watch. “Okay, partner. Guess I completely lost track of the time. What d’you wanna do about dinner?”
“Eat it,” Hutch said emphatically. He threw down his pen, closed the file he’d been reading and grabbed up his jacket, putting it on as he headed for the door. Starsky was right behind him.
****
Dinner was a quick batch of scrambled eggs. Hutch had whipped it up, conscious of Starsky, seated at the table, watching him all the while. He liked cooking for Starsky, liked having him at his apartment. Outside, the Santa Ana wind was blowing, the ground was getting cold, people staying out of the malls for fear of being mugged, but all was safe and cozy inside Venice Place.
“That was great,” Starsky said when his plate was the same empty. “You gonna fix me the same thing for breakfast?”
Hutch smiled slowly, enjoying the glint in Starsky’s eyes as they looked at him. “If you’re lucky.” He folded his napkin and dropped it onto his own empty plate. The wind rattled through the windows, and he was suddenly chilly, suddenly needed Starsky’s warmth close to him. He stood abruptly, not really knowing how to phrase the request that had just occurred to him.
Taking Starsky by the hand, he pulled him out of his seat. “Come on,” he said, voice becoming husky. “Let’s take a shower together.” His partner eagerly followed.
Starsky began pulling off his clothes while Hutch adjusted the shower and gathered his largest, thickest towels for them. Dark blue ones, for Starsky’s eyes. He turned, finding his new lover naked, and couldn’t help moving to take him in his arms. It seemed like forever since he’d seen Starsky like this, skin bare and burnished, so smoothly muscled his hands wanted to be everywhere on him at once. Hutch wrapped him up in an expansive embrace and just held tight, sighing his satisfaction.
Warm lips nuzzled at his neck. “You know,” came a sultry whisper, “you’re wastin’ water. Gonna stand here and hug me all night, or are you gonna get naked with me and get in that shower?”
Hutch chuckled self-consciously and let go. “You make me crazy, you know that?”
“Yeah, I know.” Starsky’s hands came up to loosen the buttons of his shirt and Hutch stood still, the luxury of being undressed by his lover seeming like heaven. Down to his briefs, he watched Starsky bend to pull the last article down and off, then couldn’t help chuckling as they were tossed jauntily over Starsky’s shoulder in a half-sexy, half-corny gesture. Starsky pulled the shower curtain aside with one hand, and pulled Hutch in with the other.
They stood under the heavy spray, heated water sluicing over their bodies, steam shrouding them in privacy and intimacy. Hutch held Starsky close again, but kissed him, again feeling like it had been too long since he’d been allowed that pleasure. He’d always remember the first time, right here in his own apartment, when Starsky had brought him home from the hospital.
Hutch was still weak from the plague that had nearly killed him, still feeling the effects of coming so close to death. He’d seen Starsky’s eyes as he visited him before Callendar had been found; the pain in them had been nearly as bad as the pain in his chest when he’d tried to breathe. Scared for himself, scared for Starsky despite the sterile precautions, he’d made him leave. And that had brought another fear, that Hutch would never see him again.
Now, home safe, all he could do was hold on. And Starsky was there for him, understanding the need for closeness as only Starsky could. They’d clung together for what seemed like hours, and it hadn’t been enough. Then Starsky had pulled away a little, and without breaking eye contact with Hutch, he’d started to take off his clothes. Hutch had followed suit, and only when they held each other skin-to-skin did the hunger ease, find focus, consummation.
Later, they’d talked. Hutch had wondered how Starsky could love him, after John Blaine and his obvious shock when his old friend’s lifestyle had been revealed.
“Gave me the guts to be with you this way,” Starsky had told him. “I hadn’t thought about you like that, yet. But John lived the way he had to. Guess I’ve decided to let myself have what I need.”
Now, less than a month later, they were still new to each other, still finding boundaries and dealing with the changes, still a little uncomfortable with what they knew of the force’s attitude toward homosexual relationships. But here and now, holding each other and growing warm inside, those concerns seemed far away and insignificant.
Hutch shuddered at the feel of Starsky’s erection, wet and hard against his body. His hands slid down to cup the man’s curvaceous ass, pulling him closer. They staggered together, the shower like rain pouring over their heads. Half-drowned but not caring, Hutch lifted the wet face for a kiss, and it was pure bliss to taste Starsky’s lips under the steaming spray.
They washed each other slowly, carefully, preparing for love and savoring every moment, every touch. Hutch gasped as white-foamed hands encircled his cock, sliding slickly round and round before moving down to his balls. Starsky bent, paying homage to Hutch’s long thighs, his calves and feet, strong fingers massaging tired muscles deeply.
Then it was Hutch’s turn at his partner. He washed the furred chest sensuously, loving the way Starsky squirmed with delight at his touches. He turned him around to do his back, admiring the strong muscles, the perfect skin. On one shoulder blade there remained the evidence of an old nightmare; the bullet wound from the Italian restaurant. He bent to kiss the scar, remembering his fear and concern from that evening, knowing he never wanted to see Starsky hurt that way again.
Starsky seemed to sense the direction of his thoughts. “I’m okay, babe,” he whispered, turning in his arms to pull Hutch close. “You’re okay, too.” A wet kiss found Hutch’s throat. “Come on, let’s get outta here before we turn into a coupla prunes who can’t get it up anymore.”
“No fear of that,” Hutch laughed, pulled out of his pensive mood. He turned off the water and as he stepped out was ambushed by a towel. He gave his partner a cursory drying, unable to wait long at the sight of the hardened cock jutting between Starsky’s exquisite legs. Still damp, they tumbled together on Hutch’s black watch plaid flannel sheets.
“Ummm,” Starsky murmured, “feels good.” He meant the sheets, absorbing moisture, keeping him warm, as his body wriggled across them in pure sensual abandon.
“Show off.” Hutch dropped beside him, capturing the moving body, mouth finding Starsky’s expressive lips, one hand stroking his chest, fingers carding through the damp chest hair to find an erect nipple. Starsky stilled in his embrace, back arching toward the stimulation. Hutch left his mouth and began to suck the nipple making Starsky gasp and writhe in his arms. The powerful body nearly bucked off the bed when Hutch’s hand slid down to fondle his erection, then settled into a rhythm as Hutch’s mouth took it in.
Hutch adored doing this for Starsky, loved his taste, the way he moved, his obvious pleasure. He went down on the cock, all the way, sucking eagerly, hard, the way Starsky loved it. The powerful legs were drawing back, the slim hips thrusting and Hutch knew his lover was close. That was what he wanted, for Starsky to come in his mouth. Then fingers grasped his head, stilling his motion, and he looked up, drawing off the penis.
Eyes wet with passion looked into his. “Wait,” Starsky breathed, barely able to speak.
“What, love?” Hutch murmured, lips stroking softly along the satiny column. “What do you want me to do?” Ask me for anything. It’s yours…
Long fingers stroked his cheek with incredible gentleness. Starsky sighed, wetting his lips. “I want to come with you inside me.”
Hutch laid his head against Starsky’s belly, closed his eyes. His heart was pounding, Starsky’s words taking his breath away so fast he wondered if he’d be able to comply with his request. They’d gone that far before, but with both of them hesitant about the process, careful with each other. Hutch had gloried in his own surrender, and had loved making Starsky his as well. Starsky had enjoyed being loved that way, too, but he hadn’t orgasmed while being penetrated — he’d liked taking turns, he said, so that both of them could have the delight of being on top. Now, it seemed, he wanted more. Hutch was willing to give him that ultimate pleasure.
He leaned close, kissing his way up Starsky’s body, hungering for his mouth. At last their lips were together, joined for long, slow, melting kisses, sweeter than any Hutch had ever known. He caressed Starsky’s face, stroking back his curls, showering kisses over his lips and face. His lips then sought a curl-covered ear and he whispered, voice shaky with his eagerness, “How do you want to do it? Like this, on your back? I… I want to see your face.”
Starsky nodded, stroking his back and shoulders. “I wanna see you, too.” His voice was rough, deep with need and passion, and he pulled away a little, reaching for the nightstand where Hutch kept the tube of lubricant.
The slender tube was pressed into Hutch’s hand. He opened the top, squeezed out a palmful, dipping in his fingers. He reached under his friend, fingers delving into the line between his cheeks. The slim hips lifted and Hutch bent low, inserting a finger while he took the cock again, sucking gently. He heard Starsky moan.
The supple body was relaxed, open to him, loving every touch he gave. Hutch proceeded slowly, fingers moving, going deeper, mouth circling, pulling, drawing out the pleasure. Starsky tasted like wild fruit, expensive wine, an alien treasure, and Hutch couldn’t get enough. He knew Starsky was nearing orgasm again, though, so he eased the passion burning between them, then rose up on his knees and drew Starsky’s vulnerable body near.
He settled carefully, stroking the gel over his cock, then rubbing the organ down toward Starsky’s wet center.
“Yes….” The word was hissed out slowly, a note of begging in Starsky’s hushed voice. “Now, Hutch. Put it in me…”
Hutch pressed closer, inserting himself, eyes closing in ecstasy at the first introduction of himself into his love. A dark heat surrounded the head of his penis, a throbbing that meant Starsky. He wanted to go all the way, all at once, but held back, wanting the pleasure to be Starsky’s. His eyes went to the enraptured face and he smiled. Starsky’s eyes were slitted, hot, begging without words. Their gazes held, hot as the places where their bodies touched. The heat that was Starsky seemed to swell around Hutch, pulling him in. Slowly, he slid deeper, Starsky’s harsh groan feeding his joy.
Then they were together, fully joined, Hutch poised on stiffened arms, their eyes still locked together. Needing to feel Starsky with every centimeter of his body, Hutch slowly leaned down to lie atop his friend. As he sank into Starsky’s arms, he felt strong legs wrap themselves around his waist, clenching on him, the dark hair on them stroking his hungry nerve endings. They kissed, languorously, love foremost in their minds, until for Hutch the need to thrust became overwhelming.
He shifted again, leaning back, driving deep into the slick, yearning channel. Starsky moaned, tossed his head on the pillow. Hutch brought up one slippery hand to wrap around Starsky’s stiff penis, stroking in counterpoint to his thrusts, and his lover’s body began to buck, voice uncontrolled, sweat breaking out on his writhing torso.
You can’t escape me, Hutch thought in triumph. You don’t even want to… He pumped the straining cock, pounded with all his strength, nearly forgetting his resolve to bring all the delight to his partner.
“You gonna come, Hutch?” The voice, thick with arousal, shuddered into his consciousness. “Do it, babe. Make me feel you….”
“Yeah,” Hutch breathed, “oh, yeah. Take it, man…” A crescendo of pleasure built within him, destroying his sanity. Only one thing remained real: Starsky, pulling him in, his need the strongest motivation in Hutch’s life. He felt his ejaculation begin, saw Starsky’s face respond, was wiped out by sudden clenching spasms from within Starsky’s body. They were together now, flying over the edge, dropping off of the world, extinguishing everything but each other.
The lights came back on only after an extended period of peace. Hutch felt hands on his back and shoulders, stroking, soothing his rest, easing the pleasure that still fluttered through his veins. His face was kissed, a rough cheek rubbed against his own. He sighed, feeling purified, ancient with wisdom. Hutch opened his eyes, took in Starsky’s face. The man looked satisfied as never before. Yet it was hard for Hutch to believe he was the sole cause of that satisfaction.
He had to clear his throat twice before he could speak. “O-Okay for you?”
Starsky rubbed noses with him, mouth curved in sensual abandon. “Okay? That don’t begin to describe it.”
To Hutch, the words sounded like poetry. He stroked down from Starsky’s shoulder to his waist, measuring the lithe body with his hand, fingers sliding around to the damp groin where he found the evidence of Starsky’s fulfillment.
“You were there,” Starsky went on in an awed voice, “all that strength and power — and you’d set your mind on fucking me until you came. And when you did, that’s what brought me off…”
With a gentle touch approaching reverence, Hutch massaged the semen into both their skins.
“So good, Hutch.” The whisper sounded distant, but content. “The best ever, honest. You filled me up….”
If Christmas could always be like this, I’d never want it to end…. Pleasure overflowing, Hutch drifted into sleep.
****
The ringing phone sliced into his dream-world, bringing back reality, the season, the crimes they were dealing with. It was Dobey, sounding as unhappy to be calling as Hutch was to be called. The clock revealed it was only six-thirty.
“We’ve got another body,” the deep rumble proclaimed.
“Another cop?” Hutch wished slumber could still hold him, but he was, nevertheless, completely awake by now.
“No. It’s gone another direction. This time it’s a local weather man.”
****
This time, at least, they were able to view the body at the scene of the crime. Hutch reflected that the situation was more grisly that way, but it afforded them more insight into its perpetration. The body had been found by the side of the road in the hills above Studio City, down a slight slope where it wasn’t easily seen. At first glance, with the body left in a rugged area, out of the way of passersby, it appeared to have similarities to the other killings. But besides the difference in the victim’s identity, there were other things that seemed to point out another type of crime altogether.
Starsky and Hutch, having showered, shaved, and dressed in record time, made their way through the undergrowth, getting as close to the body as possible. A photographer from the department was still cataloguing the crime scene on film, and the coroner was directing him.
Hutch ended up at the head of the body, Starsky at its feet.
The M.E. looked up at them, annoyance evident in his face and stance. “Well, looks like we’ve got another one,” he said, unnecessarily stating what they all could see.
Hutch’s eyes swept the corpse. The pallor of the body, the limp positioning, seemed macabre somehow. Dressed in dark pants, it was lying on its back, arms out-flung. The fact that it was wearing considerably more clothing than the bodies of the cops who’d been killed was one thing. Then Hutch saw clearly the way the man had died.
Each wrist had been slit, in the manner of a suicide. The cuts had been deep, penetrating, and Hutch could tell as easily as the more practiced coroner that they’d been made by a very sharp weapon.
“God, it looks like he killed himself,” Starsky said somewhat breathlessly.
“Looks that way, yes,” Coroner Farley said.
“Yeah,” Starsky answered, nodding. “But looks can be deceiving. Why would he have come out here to kill himself? Looks more like the place you’d drop off a body.”
Hutch’s eyes moved to the red-stained vegetation under the hands. Leaves and stems were covered with blood and it wasn’t easy to tell how much had soaked into the soil underneath. Yet something told him there should be much, much more.
“Could he have been knifed somewhere and brought here?” he asked.
Farley nodded. “Looks that way. There should be a lot more blood around here than there is.”
Hutch bent down, fascinated by the body now, looking at it more from a clinical standpoint. He crouched low to examine one extended arm.
“Deep cut,” he remarked, looking up to catch Starsky’s eye. His partner moved to join him. “If you were doing it to yourself, there’d be more than just one deep wound. There’d be a couple of practice cuts, much more slight, as though you knew it was going to hurt. Then the big one that did the job.”
“Yeah,” Starsky concurred, musing along with him. “I’ve always wondered why somebody’d do it that way. Gotta hurt like hell. And it would take a while — guess there’d be time if you changed your mind, though.”
“This probably didn’t take all that long,” Farley joined the conversation. “With the cuts that deep, he would have died in a few minutes.”
Hutch got up and faced the coroner. “Then we’ re definitely dealing with a murder and not a suicide, right?”
Farley scratched his head, rubbed at the stubble he hadn’t had time to shave off before coming out to the crime scene. “Lab tests will give us more information, but I feel safe in saying that this is a murder.” He pointed. “Look at that mark on the jaw. Looks like the victim was hit there. Probably the killer knocked him out, made the cuts and brought him here to drop him off. He was dead by that time. Somewhere there’s a car with a lot of blood in it.”
The doctor continued to stare down at the body. “Of course, he could have fallen and got that bruise. His shirt is off. We found it lying nearby, no blood on it. That tends to point us back to suicide — people get stabbed through their clothes, they unbutton or take off things when they kill themselves. We’ll analyze the amount of blood here at the scene; maybe there’s more of it than we can tell just by looking.”
Hutch nevertheless felt certain it was murder they were dealing with. He didn’t have a lab to analyze things the way Farley did, but he had instincts he could trust.
Starsky seemed to feel the same way. “I keep going back to exposure being the cause of death in the other cases,” he commented. “Maybe…” he thought a minute, trying to get the information to jive. “Maybe the killer had more trouble with this victim and insteada bringing him out here alive, he had to kill him first and then dump him.”
“Why make it look like suicide, then?” Hutch countered. “Why not shoot him, or stab him in the heart for that matter?”
“Hell, I don’t know,” his partner said irritably. “There’s enough crazy stuff in this case to make Mother Theresa lose her mind.”
Hutch had to chuckle at the weird association, so typical of Starsky. “Why this guy, anyway?” he went on, head spinning from the twists and turns of the case. He glanced at the M.E. “You do have a definite I.D.? This is that weather guy from channel 7?”
“Yeah, Dallas Storm,” Farley confirmed.
“Stupid name.” Starsky swept back his curls. “Guess it was his professional one. Does he have another — one that can be used to notify the next of kin?”
“We’re working on it.” The new voice belonged to Dobey. Hutch noticed that he looked as ill prepared for being up this early as the rest of them did. “You said there was a note, Doctor.”
Both Starsky and Hutch turned toward Farley. The M.E. pulled a baggy from his pocket and held it out. “That hasn’t been fingerprinted yet.”
Hutch took the bag and held it up. Starsky moved close to read it with him. ‘”Weather I’m right, or weather I’m wrong, still you don’t hear my dying song.'” Hutch read the words but then for a moment, neither he nor anyone else spoke.
Though this note was no more easily comprehensible than the others, in a bizarre way it did seem to fit with the first letters. The writer seemed to want them to remember someone who had died, or who was about to die? Hutch wondered. He noted the odd spelling: the noun ‘weather’ used as a conjunction. Did the author do that on purpose, because his victim was a weatherman? Or was he just a bad speller?
Beside him, Starsky shuddered. “This is gettin’ creepy, Hutch.”
****
They sat in the squad room, oblivious to the change of shift occurring around them. They’d been there most of the day, having eaten lunch there as well. Starsky had methodically crumpled the paper from his burrito and tossed it into the trash while he read a report on the newest victim as compiled by some uniformed officers. Hutch’s leftover papers and cups weren’t in the trash; instead he’d merely swept them to the side of his desk, where they competed with written reports and other files for space.
They were quiet now, each lost in thought, making lists, checking reports, having talked themselves out in the preceding hours. Hutch marveled at the complexities of the case — or cases. Every time they thought they had fit all the pieces together, another item reoccurred to them that made the puzzle fall apart. He wasn’t really convinced the same killer had taken Storm’s life. Was it coincidence? Hutch shook his head, yeah, coincidence that two murderers both write crummy riddles to leave with their victims.
“What was the temperature last night?” Starsky’s sudden question startled Hutch.
He shrugged. “Look in the paper.”
Starsky climbed out of his chair, rubbed his back and wriggled his hips a bit to get the circulation going again. Hutch, lost in thought, only caught the movement out of the comer of his eye.
Starsky riffled through the pile of papers that had come to the office in the last twenty-four hours, finally dragging the weather page back to his desk.
“It was warmer last night,” he finally pronounced.
“Huh?” Hutch looked up at him.
“Warmer last night. The nights the others died of exposure because the temperature was lower. Maybe the killer knew it was going to be warmer, so he used a knife to take care of his victim.” Looking smug, Starsky plopped back into his chair.
“Okay… ‘Weather’ not ‘whether’ he was right or wrong — the weather didn’t matter, the victim was going to die.” Hutch was intrigued. Then he came back to another stopping block, one they’d been encountering all day. “But why make it look like suicide?”
“You’ve asked that fifty times and I still don’t have an answer for you.”
“I know.” Hutch picked up a Xerox of the note found with the body. ‘…still you don’t hear my dying song.’ “What’s he trying to tell us? Who does he want us to remember?”
Starsky turned his gaze on the copy. ‘”My dying song.’ You think he’s planning on committing suicide?”
“What?”
“I don’t know. Maybe… maybe after he’s done killing everybody else he wants to kill, he’s gonna off himself.”
“Then why try to leave these clues? If they are clues.” Hutch was developing a headache.
“Okay,” Starsky moved to a different tack. “Why switch types of victims? How come after three from law enforcement, did he grab a TV personality?”
That struck a note for Hutch, something they’d mentioned but which hadn’t seemed to fit until just now. He scattered papers across his desk, some falling to the floor, as he searched for the one he had in mind.
“Here it is,” he said in a moment “Storm was in the National Guard back in the sixties.”
“Army’s not the same as the police force.”
Hutch nodded, but disagreed. “Sometimes it is. They called out the National Guard during the Watts riots, didn’t they?” He held out the paper, pointing out what he’d read. “Storm was there.”
Starsky seemed stymied. “Yeah. The National Guard acted as riot police. Reminds me of Kent State.” He gave an expressive shudder.
“I know. I don’t like to think about that either. But it does give us a link between Storm and the other three victims.”
Starsky was silent, seeming to agree with him. Then, voice a bit dejected, he came up with another objection. “But the killer would have had to know that about Storm. I’ll bet he didn’t mention it too often while he was doin’ the weather. We’ve been thinking that the killer chose these people not because he knew them or had a grudge against any of them specifically. Why grab somebody who had only a far-fetched link to the others?”
“I don’t know,” Hutch was forced to admit. “You’re right. I’m grasping at straws.”
“Limp ones at that.”
“What?”
“You know,” Starsky grinned, trying to lift his mood. “The paper ones they used to give you in grade school. After you spent twenty minutes or so drinkin’ out of ’em and chewin’ on ’em, they pretty much collapsed.”
Hutch chuckled dryly. “That almost makes more sense than this entire case.” He stretched, trying to ease the tension in his back and shoulders. “Come on, this is driving me nuts. Maybe if we hit the streets ourselves we’ll turn something the uniforms missed.”
“I’m with you partner.” They got their jackets and headed out of the room, leaving their messy desks as they were. Hutch appreciated the warming hand Starsky draped around his shoulder, massaging at his neck while they walked, and resolved to give his partner a good rubdown once they knocked off for the night. Starsky would love that.
****
The candles were beginning to burn low. A few had even gone out. A tall, slender man stood up from the rocking chair slowly, leaning to blow out each tiny flame. The last he left burning was the one by the framed picture on the dresser. The light made the girl’s face seem lovely, alive. Her eyes seemed to dance, to look right at you. He picked up the photo, brought it close to his face, eyes scanning it as if to find some new meaning, a nuance he’d somehow forgotten or never known.
His eyes filled with tears as he stared at her, the way they always did. He sighed, wishing he could talk to her again, but it would be crazy to try to talk to a picture. A picture couldn’t hear you, couldn’t understand how much you cared. How you’d never forget. How you’d make them all pay. He leaned closer though, and his lips gently kissed the glass that covered the girl’s Kodachrome cheek. Then he replaced the picture. He had work to do.
He blew out the last candle. Now the only light came from the street lamps, but it was enough. The tall man turned to pick up the vanity bench he’d left near the center of the room. It had been overturned and now he set it upright. He looked up, then climbed up on it. Pulling a knife from his pocket, he reached high, toward the ceiling.
The beam that had been exposed when he took down the ceiling tiles had been sturdy, strong enough for his purpose. He stretched to reach with the knife, and began sawing at the rope tied around the beam. Gradually, the heavy fibers were cut through, the weight pulling at them helping them to fray. Soon, before he’d even cut entirely through it, the rope gave way.
The body brushed against him as it dropped to the floor.
The man got down from the bench and bent over the body. The stink of human waste rose to his nostrils and he knew he had to work quickly. He ignored the soiled pants and cut the rope that had bound the victim’s hands behind his back, then chaffed at the flesh, trying to rub out the rope burns that had been left there. The dead man had struggled quite a bit. All to no avail, of course. But it wouldn’t look right if he was found with his hands still tied. The police might wonder how a man could hang himself with his wrists bound behind him.
He spent a moment checking the room, making sure it was neat and tidy again. He smoothed the bedspread, its pink color looking even paler in the dim light. One or two of the stuffed animals had fallen off the bed, knocked over during the brief struggle. He picked them up, placed them in their precise locations. Everything had to be put to rights, kept just so.
Then he rolled the body onto the rubber sheet he’d lain over the floor for just that purpose, wrapping and folding the sheet to keep everything neat. Finally, after the face had been safely tucked away from sight, the man moved toward the feet. He bent, grabbed the body by its ankles, and began to drag it from the room.
Stopping abruptly, he dropped the legs which fell heavily to the floor. Hands rummaged in his pockets until a scrap of paper turned up. He’d already written the note. More cryptic than the others, he was proud of it nonetheless. When he got where he was going, he’d leave it as he had the others, with the body. Maybe he’d leave all the clothes on this time, stick the note in a pocket. He didn’t want to do everything the same all the time. No, that might give out the wrong clues. And he didn’t want anyone to end the game but himself.
****
Oh the weather outside is frightful, storm bad enough to blow a mountain down. Will the dying ever stop? When oil and water find a way to mix? When there’s no weather in this town.
Hutch stood staring at the crumpled note, feeling numb. It was December 22, three days before Christmas, but he didn’t feel in a holiday mood, and neither did anyone else in the vicinity. The torn piece of paper had been found in the pants pocket of Johnny Mountain, another popular local weatherman. He’d been found dead — like the others, tossed away in a culvert. His death, like Storm’s, had been by a method usually reserved for suicide. The strong rope that had taken his life was still secured around his neck, but the end of it had been severed, the object it had been tied to was nowhere to be found.
“This didn’t fool us any better than the last try did,” Coroner Farley said, peering down at the bloated corpse.
“How long do you think he’s been dead?” Hutch felt distinctly ill at ease, whether because of the condition of the corpse or the macabre way he had been murdered he wasn’t sure.
“Two days, at least. Even with the chilly nights we’ve had, the body is starting to decompose. I’d say he was hung somewhere else, then dumped like the last body. Soon as we get the rest of the photos and evidence collected from here, we’ll take him back and I can get to work on your autopsy.”
Hutch cringed. “Don’t call it my autopsy.”
“Has the next of kin been notified?” Starsky asked the question, and Hutch tried to let the sound of his voice drown out the suffocating sensations he was feeling.
“I don’t think so,” Farley answered distractedly.
“Let’s take care of this one, Hutch.”
A hand covered his arm. Hutch turned to face his partner; it was good to know how much they thought alike. “Yeah. I think we should.”
****
“Mrs… Mountain?” Hutch suddenly realized the name was awkward with a Mrs. in front of it.
The petite brunette smiled, seeming not a bit perturbed to be receiving unexpected guests. “Mrs. Mason, actually. Mountain is my husband’s professional name. He isn’t here right now.” Her expression gradually changed from polite interest to concern. “I haven’t heard from Johnny for a couple of days. We… we’ve been living apart, but he’s planning on coming to stay for Christmas…”
“Ma’am, could we come in and have a word with you?” Starsky took the plunge, his voice the professional combination of gentleness and authority. He held out his open badge.
The woman didn’t answer aloud, but stepped backward into her living room. Hutch winced as he took in the abundant decorations; pine and holly draped every surface, candles glowed, the tree sparkled… a simply carved nativity sat on the coffee table. He looked at Mrs. Mason, opened his mouth to speak, to say what he’d said to so many next of kin, but nothing would come out.
Starsky took over. Hutch felt his partner’s hand graze his elbow as he reached toward Mrs. Mason. “I’m afraid we have some bad news for you, Mrs. Mason.” The words were the correct ones, but they didn’t come easy for Starsky either.
“What’s happened to my husband?” Her hands clutched at the Christmas apron she was wearing. Hutch noticed flour on her hands; they’d apparently interrupted her in the middle of baking. Damn….
Starsky’s answer was brief, to the point. He guided the woman into a chair while Hutch headed for the kitchen and a glass of water for her. She had been baking; cookies. Rows of them, freshly minted from cookie cutters, waited on sparkling sheets to go into the oven.
Hutch felt his heart turn over. He shivered with a sudden chill that did nothing to dampen the angry fire that was growing inside him.
When he returned, Mrs. Mason was crying, Starsky awkwardly patting her shoulder. Hutch took a seat next to her on the couch, meeting his partner’s eyes. They were full of pain, asking him for help. Hutch swallowed his own anguish, and steeled himself to do the job they had come to do.
****
An hour later, they emerged from the house. Mrs. Mason was being comforted by a friend, the children had been called home from a playmate’s and now their mother was informing them of how their Christmas, all their Christmases, were ruined.
It had torn Hutch up to try to help that woman, to try to ask her a few delicate questions in regard to her husband’s murder. It seemed worse somehow that she didn’t know anything. There was nothing about Johnny Mountain that seemed to link him to the rest of the victims, except for the obvious point that he was a weatherman like Storm.
Someone was out there killing; he’d started with cops, leaving wounded men to die of exposure, then had moved on to weather forecasters, killing them in ways usually reserved for suicides. Or maybe there was more than one killer — were the two of them working together for some deadly purpose? Why would just one person wish to destroy cops and people who forecast the weather?
Hutch looked up into the grey Los Angeles sky. He wanted out of here, the sooner the better. He’d had enough of holiday murder, holiday grief. For the first time in years, he longed for the bright blue winter skies of Minnesota, the crisp chill in the air, the faces of his family around him.
Looking over at his partner as Starsky pulled his jacket collar up against the damp breeze, he felt guilty as hell for wanting to be back home. But Hutch couldn’t help himself.
****
Hutch hung up the phone and wearily looked across the desk at his partner. “That’s the fourth one I’ve talked to,” he said, making notes on a legal pad in front of him. “Every forecaster in town is beginning to panic since the papers got hold of the latest note.”
“Yeah,” Starsky answered, running both hands through his already tangled hair. “Adds a whole new dimension to the case, doesn’t it?”
“Everyone pretty much agrees that ‘storm’ and ‘mountain’ refer to the two other victims,” Hutch said, feeling tired, wondering why they were still at this but still no closer to the answers. “And the part about ‘when there’s no weather in this town’ seems to indicate the killing won’t stop until all the weathermen are dead.” An absurd idea struck, and he gave a short laugh. “Maybe it’s just somebody who doesn’t like the weather we’ve been having.”
“I don’t like the weather we’ve been having.” The door to Dobey’s office had opened and their captain was motioning them to come inside.
“The media’s having a field day with this,” the large man said before they’d had time to take seats. “The commissioner agrees we’ve got to provide protection for the local weathermen.”
“That’s what the task force decided, too,” Starsky spoke up. “We’re going to guard all the TV weather guys, and hope the killer makes a move.”
Hutch fought the desire for inappropriate laughter. “And nobody’s going to let the weather guys in on the fact that they’re bait for a murderer.”
“Now, Hutch…” But Dobey’s voice trailed off.
Starsky filled the breech with a question of his own. “Who are Hutch and I assigned to?”
“Starsky,” Dobey answered, looking at a piece of paper on his desk, “you’ll be with a guy by the name of Fritz Coleman tonight. Hutch is assigned to that Dr. Fishbeck over at channel 20.” He regarded the partners as though his patience had long worn thin. “I know what you’re thinking, but we’re already understaffed. Don’t forget that the city is also experiencing a wave of robberies, rapes, and assaults, too. This isn’t the only case we’ve got going. Uniformed cops are working double shifts, and the commissioner feels only experienced detectives will be able to cover these television personalities. You’re to rotate to a different forecaster each day. That way the suspect won’t be tipped off to the fact that anybody’s being guarded.”
The three sat in silence for a moment, then Dobey leaned back in his chair. “I don’t know. It’s all pretty damn slim. All these experts, all this talk, and nobody has a better idea than to use possible victims as decoys.”
“What do you expect, Captain?” Hutch snapped, at the end of his patience. “We’ve been analyzing this shit for days — weeks now, and every time another body turns up, the profile of the killer gets screwed up again. He might be a guy who blames all his problems on cops or weathermen. He might even be a fucking weatherman! Then again, maybe there’s still something all these people had in common that only the killer knows. For God’s sake, Captain, I just want it over with!” Angry and aware he had no place to diffuse the emotion, Hutch pushed back his chair and stormed out of the room.
He was standing alone in the corridor, leaning with his forehead pressed against the wall, when Starsky found him. Still angry, he nearly lashed out as his partner reached for him, then in anguish Hutch pulled Starsky close, needing to hold on tight as the only way of keeping his sanity intact. Strong arms wound around him and he closed his eyes, hating the job, the city, the senseless way people were trying to remember what season it was despite all the horror.
“Let’s get out of here, huh?” The voice was soft at his ear, tender as a kiss.
Hutch drew a breath to steady himself and pulled away, finding a smile for his friend. “Sounds good to me.”
****
Hutch lay down his knife and fork and watched Starsky as his partner took the used dishes over to the sink. Starsky had broiled two steaks expertly, poured them both glasses of Chianti, and finally Hutch was beginning to unwind. Now he found himself smiling as he admired the way Starsky’s jeans clung to his hips, the way the man moved.
Starsky opened his freezer and stared at its contents for a long moment. “Rocky road or blueberry?” he asked, voice muffled.
Hutch groaned. “Haven’t you got any vanilla?” He knew his side of the game well.
“No. But will you settle for a bowl of toffee crunch?” Starsky turned, three ice cream cartons in his hands, a grin that wouldn’t quit on his face.
Hutch nodded, getting up to help him. He measured coffee and started the percolator, then got out cups while Starsky worked at digging up big helpings of the solidly frozen ice cream.
“You know, if you ran some hot water over the scoop, that might be easier,” he said as he watched Starsky struggle.
“That’s the sissy way of doin’ it.” Satisfied with the size of each helping at last, Starsky served the toffee crunch to Hutch and took the bowl containing both Rocky Road and blueberry for himself. Hutch followed him back to the table, reaching to ruffle the over-long curls as he passed.
They sat eating their dessert in silence for a few minutes. Then Starsky propped his chin on his hand and looked directly at Hutch. “Feeling better now?”
Like reacting to a signal, Hutch felt the tension start tightening in his neck again. “I’m okay.” He shrugged. “I don’t know why I’m letting all this get to me. You’d think I was some kinda sentimental fool or something.”
“You? Never.” Starsky dropped his eyes and ate a few bites of his ice cream before speaking again. “You want to exchange presents before you go?”
For a moment, Hutch wasn’t sure if Starsky was still trying to cheer him up or if his incorrigible partner really couldn’t wait to see what present Hutch had bought him. He looked into the summer blue eyes and saw the truth of a more honest emotion.
“I’d rather wait until I get back,” Hutch told him softly, taking a warm hand to hold. His heart warmed, too, as gentle fingers laced with his own. “That’ll give me something to look forward to.” Because you mean more to me than anyone I’m going home to see, babe…
Starsky smiled, a look that reached out and pulled Hutch into his special orbit. “Sounds good to me. I’ll be sure and make mine for you worth the wait.”
“I’ll hold you to that.” Already Hutch felt himself missing him. “What are you going to do while I’m gone?”
“Besides work, you mean?” Starsky went back to his ice cream. “I thought I’d drop in on Maggie Blaine. This Christmas is going to be hard for her. And I really should stop by for a visit with Junior and Mrs. Walters, too.”
Hutch felt guilty for not being with their friends on a trying holiday. He shook his head, torn because he couldn’t be in two places at once.
“Don’t think that way,” Starsky told him, reading his mind. “They’ll understand when I tell ’em you’re home with the family.”
“I don’t know, Starsk. This is starting to feel wrong for me. They’ll drive me crazy, and meanwhile you’ll be back here with this killer still loose in town.”
“Hey, didya ever think that maybe the reason we haven’t found him is that you’ve been slowing down the investigation? With you outta the way, maybe I’ll finally get something done.”
Hutch laughed despite himself. “Well, if you don’t, just think how rested up I’ll be when I get back so I can help you track him down.”
“I admit, it’s gonna seem weird — working without you and bein’ without you at night for a few days.”
Hutch’s fingers tightened on Starsky’s. For a moment, he thought of nothing but pulling the man into his arms, leaving the table and taking him to bed. Then Starsky looked at his watch and the spell was broken.
“Uh-oh. Looks like we got work to do, partner.”
****
Hutch was gathering up his luggage when the phone rang. Feeling harried, he almost ignored it, knowing he might be late if he stopped to answer. But instinct told him who it was, and he dropped the suitcases and headed toward his telephone.
“You got great timing,” he told the caller.
“That’s always been my strong suit,” Starsky’s drawled, not a bit perturbed at his annoyed tone of voice.
Hutch found time for laughter. “I’ll swear to that in a court of law.” There was a beat of warm silence between them. “Listen, Starsk, I’ve really got to go. Traffic’s bound to be lousy this time of day.”
“I know.” Now Starsky sounded perturbed. “Sorry I can’t drive you like I intended. Of all the shitty things about this case, I didn’t expect it to mess up our plans.”
“Who are you babysitting tonight?” Hutch could imagine Starsky hanging around the TV station, trying to touch all the cameras and equipment, driving the producer and director to distraction.
“The eminent meteorologist, Larry Thomas.”
“The guy from channel 4 that comes off as so pompous?” Hutch laughed out loud; this was just the sort of person Starsky had no patience with. Thomas wore horn-rimmed glasses like something out of 1965 and put on the attitude of the absent-minded professor. Hutch thought he managed to talk down to everyone in his audience. They didn’t want a degree in weather forecasting from him — they wanted to know if they needed a jacket on the way to work in the morning.
“Shut up,” Starsky was telling him. “I don’t want to hear it. Remember, I’m stuck with this guy, but you’re gonna be stuck with family. The people you can’t insult and expect to live.” A delighted chortle of laughter punctuated the comment.
At that moment, Hutch felt very much in love. “Okay. I hear you. Listen, my plane leaves in an hour and a half. I’ll be in Duluth by ten o’clock our time. You want me to call and check in?”
“Sure. I’ll probably need to talk to you after a whole evening with that jerk.”
“Thanks for the romantic invitation.” Hutch said it with love in his voice.
“Have a good flight,” Starsky told him warmly.
“Take it easy. Watch out for crazed weatherman killers.” He’d said it lightly, but knew Starsky heard the underlying concern he felt. There was one more beat of silence and then they ended the call, both hanging up at the same moment without needing the mundane signal of a good-bye. Hutch picked up his luggage and headed out the door. It was only after he was on the freeway that he realized he hadn’t cautioned Starsky about crazed cop murders, too.
****
Starsky watched the news broadcast from his vantage point behind the camera. Larry Thomas gave his usual performance and Starsky remembered why several years ago he’d switched to another channel for his weather forecasts. At the end of the news, Thomas folded the paperwork on the desk in front of him. He appeared lost in thought for a long moment, then he stood abruptly, used his middle finger to push up the glasses he wore and tossed the paperwork into a nearby trash basket. Then he walked directly up to Starsky.
“I’m ready to go, now.” There was a tone of expectancy in his voice.
“Home, you mean?” Starsky asked, not particularly caring.
“Yes. I know you’ll like seeing my home.”
The remark sounded shy, as though the fellow seldom had guests, but wished he had more visitors. Starsky drew the belt on his Mexican sweater tighter as they made their way to the studio door. The temperature had dropped since earlier in the day. Thomas had forecast a chilly night.
Thomas drove his pinto while Starsky followed in his own car. He pulled in behind Thomas and watched from the driver’s seat as the other man opened the garage door, then returned to his car and pulled into the garage. He came back out, then signaled Starsky to follow him inside.
When Starsky got to the door, Thomas had removed his glasses and was motioning him to come in.
“Don’t mind the clutter,” he advised. “I don’t get much company.”
Doing his job, Starsky made the obligatory look around, moving through the living room first and then on to the kitchen and dining room. He checked the back door and found it secure, then headed for the stairs.
“You don’t need to check up there,” Thomas said hesitantly.
“I’d better.” Starsky started upwards, with Thomas at his heels.
The upstairs was dark. Starsky felt along the wall for a light switch, but when he found it and turned it on, the only illumination came from a low wattage bulb in the corridor. Covered with a layer of dust, it hardly helped the dim situation.
Starsky turned to his charge. “You seem pretty calm about all of this,” he remarked. “Aren’t you worried just a bit about the killings?”
Thomas shrugged. “These things happen. I get along with everybody. Why should anyone want to come after me?”
Starsky shook his head. It was the same attitude the man had displayed upon first being informed that a police officer would be assigned to protect him. The more time Starsky spent with him, the more he began to think that the weatherman had little touch with the outside world. All he seemed to know or care about was the weather. He didn’t even seem much aware of the murders or other events in the news, despite the fact that he was at the studio for nearly every news cast all day long, every day.
Starsky headed down the hall. Boxes were stacked near the end of the corridor, a perfect hiding place for anyone who might have had access to the house. So many of them blocked the way that he nearly missed the door standing slightly ajar on his right.
He reached out, standing with his back to the wall as he slowly pushed the door all the way open with his outstretched hand.
It was hard to see inside the room. The only light came from a street lamp near the one window. After a moment, Starsky judged it safe to enter and he stepped through the door, feeling along the wall for a switch.
“Where’s the light, Larry?”
The slight figure moved past him, flicking on a cigarette lighter. As Starsky watched, he headed for the dresser, where he began lighting a row of candles.
Slowly, as the tiny flames flickered to life, Starsky realized that this was the bedroom of a young girl. He looked around the room, now that he could see, satisfied that no intruder was present. The flouncy bedspread was pink, and so many stuffed animals were arranged on the bed he wondered where the child who lived here might sleep. Neat rows of toys were lined up on shelves on the wall opposite the bed, and several dolls graced the maple vanity. Most of the candles were arranged on the vanity, doubling their light that reflected in the mirror. The candles surrounded and illuminated a framed color photograph of a young girl. Starsky turned to Thomas, about to ask him if the child were his daughter.
Something heavy slammed into him from behind. The weapon missed his head and landed against his shoulder. Reacting instantly, Starsky whirled, reaching for his gun. Another blow from the two by four knocked the weapon from his hand. Wrist stinging, he made a grab for his attacker, shock flooding his brain.
Thomas! Why…?
He got his hands on the slim figure, trying to pin the arms. But the man was stronger than he had looked. He grappled with Starsky, hitting, kicking, using elbows and knees, nasty street fighting techniques. Starsky felt hard muscles beneath the shiny suit he wore, and tried to throw the man off him, but the attack became frenzied. As though his insanity were lending him strength, Thomas got a grip around his throat, at the same time pummeling him in the chest and stomach.
He kicked Starsky in the groin and the detective collapsed to his knees, grunting in pain. That gave his assailant enough time to grab up his weapon again. This time it didn’t miss when he wielded it. The rough board caught Starsky on the side of the head and he knew nothing more.
****
This is par for the course, Hutch thought in annoyance as he paced the airport waiting room again. You rush to get here on time and then you find out the plane has been delayed anyway.
The worst part was the fact that no one had been able to inform him what time his flight would be actually leaving. Something about the weather where his flight originated, and conditions in Duluth…
Hutch shook his head realizing that even though California experienced no Christmas snowstorms, the blizzards that occurred elsewhere still had an effect on the city. LAX was mobbed with travelers, and most faces wore the same irritated expression as Hutch. With all the holiday traffic, the airlines had been hard put to arrange alternate flights for stranded customers. Hutch faced the prospect of spending the entire evening in the airport.
He’d already called his family. His mother had sounded disappointed, but his father had taken the delay in stride, as he did everything else. There were times Hutch wished he could be more like him, calm, unruffled by difficult events, cold enough inside to keep from being hurt…. Even the short conversation had set Hutch’s nerves on edge and he had snapped at his father. It didn’t matter, he didn’t think the harsh words of anyone had ever upset the man.
If he could have reached Starsky by phone, he would have called him, too. The mellow voice of his partner never failed to soothe his jangled nerves. The coldness that had been a part of Hutch for so many years had begun to fade the moment he met David Michael Starsky, and he’d never been sorry for a minute.
Hutch went to a gift shop and browsed a book counter, finally picking up a mystery to occupy him. Paying for it, he realized he’d selected the sort of lurid tale his partner would enjoy. I’ll make it an extra present for him when I get back, he thought, smiling. Starsky would complain that the pages were creased, but that would be part of the fun.
At least the airline had given them tickets for a meal at the airport restaurant. Hutch stood in line for a while, reading the menu, then picked up a tray and slid it along the bar, selecting a salad from the pre-packaged, saran wrap-covered dishes and ordering some beef bourguignon from the chef ladling it out, then moved to a corner table to eat his solitary meal and read his book. Instrumental Christmas music played over the sound system and Hutch found himself relaxing. The delay was a pain, but unavoidable. He’d spent many an evening in worse surroundings.
****
Starsky regained consciousness as hands ran the length of his body, stripping him of his clothes. His belt had been unbuckled, his jeans unzipped. Nausea welled up, bile stinging at the back of his throat and he tried to roll over as the pants were pulled and tugged all the way down his legs and off. His head and shoulders ached and he couldn’t move his arms. He realized only slowly that his hands were bound behind him. Twisting them made the rough rope abrade the skin. Sickened by the pain and shock of the attack, he gagged, groaning heavily.
“Shut up. You’re all right.”
It was Thomas’ voice, sounding aggravated by Starsky’s weakness. He was down by Starsky’s feet, busily winding a rope around them, drawing the ankles tightly together.
Starsky swallowed hard and tried to get his bearings. He drew a ragged breath, knowing that talk was the only weapon he had at the moment.
“Larry, why are you doing this?”
His question was ignored. The sound of scissors sawing through fabric was his only reply. Slowly, it dawned on Starsky that Thomas was cutting the heavy sweater off him so he didn’t have to untie his hands. A chill swept Starsky’s body as the garment was tugged free. He tried to focus his gaze and saw that the window in the room was open wide. Brisk night air blew back the gauzy pink curtains. Starsky was rolled to his back, his weight bearing down on his hands as he lay on them, his shoulder muscles tightening painfully. He felt the cool blade of the scissors slide under his t-shirt and shuddered as the cutting motions began again, slipping along his bare skin.
How sharp are those things…? He tried to clear his head. Raw fear would make him even more vulnerable.
“Larry,” he tried again, forcing his voice not to shake, “if you want me to undress, I could do it myself. You don’t have to cut the clothes off me.”
“I’m not taking you to bed, creep,” Thomas spat, rolling Starsky roughly to his belly again. The scissors moved to the neck of his t-shirt, grazing the flesh with their sharp point.
Starsky bit his lip, uncertain if he was actually bleeding or if it was only his imagination, a bead of sweat running down his back.
“That ratty old sweater was ready for the trash heap anyway,” Thomas went on.
Hutch always liked it… Starsky tried to gather his thoughts. Hutch wasn’t here, he was on his way to Duluth by now and Starsky was alone, without back up. He had to get out of this on his own. He tried breathing slowly, evenly, to get a grip on himself. His nerves began to grow steady and he found his inner reserves of strength. Been in tougher spots before… The old movie cliché gave him courage.
Thomas had finished undressing him, leaving him wearing nothing but his skimpy briefs and the ropes that bound his hands and ankles. Starsky tried to fight the natural feeling of embarrassment and humiliation, telling himself that Thomas was trying to make him scared and vulnerable by stripping him. These undies are kinda tight and clingy, Starsky thought in chagrin, but then I’d feel a lot more stupid in a pair a dumb briefs. He tried to straighten himself out as he lay there. Go ahead, fella, look me over. I’ve got a good body and I ain’t ashamed of it.
Thomas pulled over the vanity bench and sat down on it, folding his arms as he peered down at his captive. “How do you like this room, cop?” The voice had gone hard and malicious.
Starsky let his eyes rove around the room once more, though his gaze kept darting back to Thomas, fearing the man might make another move against him. Looking up, Starsky saw a hole in the ceiling. A wide beam was exposed. From it, hung a tattered rope. Starsky’s eyes went back to Thomas and he found the man smiling. A wave of cold swept Starsky and he realized that this must be was where Johnny Mountain had been hung.
“Is this where you killed Johnny?” he asked, keeping his voice level. “Huh, Larry? Did you kill the others here, too?” He had a sudden, macabre vision of the first weatherman, Dallas Storm, lying helplessly bound while Thomas slashed his wrists. He mighta bled to death right here… on this carpet. Starsky fought the urge to cringe as he realized he might be lying in dried blood. He tried to shift position and caught a glimpse of something rusty looking adhering to his bare shoulder.
A booted foot nudged at his stomach.
“Of course this is where I killed them.” Thomas was smiling, but he sighed sadly. “I’ll tell you all about it.”
“Okay.” Starsky fought down his revulsion. “Tell me why you did it. Were you trying to get rid of the competition? Or did they know about the cops you murdered?”
“The cops?” Sudden anger flashed in the deep set eyes: Thomas got up from the bench and towered over Starsky. “It’s all the cops’ fault!” He kicked Starsky hard in the stomach.
For a moment the only sound in the room was Starsky’s ragged breathing. He’d tried not to moan with the pain, didn’t want to give Thomas the satisfaction. Drawing a deep breath, he asked another question. “All the cops’ fault? How many of them have died, Larry?”
“How many? Not enough. Three this Christmas… more a year ago, two years ago. It’s all their fault.”
“What’s their fault?”
Thomas snatched the photograph from the vanity and waved it in Starsky’s face. “My daughter! She died the week of Christmas! Stupid cop! Just like all the others! She was kidnapped, you idiot, and no one on that fucking police force managed to save her!” He kicked at Starsky again, this time catching him on the collar bone. Starsky rolled away, cursing under his breath, seeing stars.
He gasped for breath, still hoping rationality would work. “Did-did they ever find her? What happened, Larry?”
“They found her body! She’d died of exposure! A little girl like that — lost in the hills, freezing to death! And not a cop in this city cared!”
“Of course they cared,” Starsky tried to make his voice soothing. “We all felt really bad.” He now vaguely remembered the case, though it had been out of their jurisdiction. “We never want anyone to die that way.”
“Well, you’re all going to die that way!” Thomas screamed. He paced back to the vanity and set the picture down, fingers tracing the youthful features. The action seemed to calm the man for a moment and Starsky tried talking to him again.
“What about Storm and Mountain, then? Why’d you go after them?”
“No one can live with murder,” Thomas whispered, eyes never leaving the face of his daughter. Starsky realized he’d been right all along. The weathermen had been substitutes for Thomas himself.
When he was finished, he’d probably kill himself, too. When he’s finished… Am I the end? Or after he’s done with me, will he try to kill others?
Starsky wanted very much to live. It was the only way to see Hutch again. And it was the only way to save the lives of other cops. This killer had to be stopped.
“Larry,” he began slowly, choosing his words with care. “It’s not too late. I know you’re in pain, but there’s help for you out there. Didn’t you have anyone to go through it with you? Your wife? Friends? Didn’t you seek some counseling after your daughter…?”
“My wife?” he laughed. “She divorced me. Blamed me for losing Cathy. And what do you mean about counseling? You saying I need a shrink? Shit! The criminal who killed my daughter needs the shrink! The stupid cops needed shrinks! I’m not the crazy one!” He moved back to stand over Starsky again.
Before he could resume the tirade, Starsky tried again. “I could help you, Larry. I understand how you feel. My… my dad was murdered. I been where you are now. It hurts so damn much that you want someone to pay, to hurt like you do. But that’s not the answer. You can’t live with yourself…” Starsky broke off, realizing he’d headed in the wrong direction. “Let me help you. Larry. I won’t let the authorities hurt you. I’ll get you help.”
“Sure you will, cop,” the tall man sneered. “And this is how you’ll do it.”
Suddenly, a boot kicked into Starsky’s midsection, then slammed into his groin. Starsky yelped in pain, but he couldn’t avoid the continuing blows. All he could do was try to roll away, to curl up and protect himself, but Thomas followed him, kicking him across the room, not caring if he used his boots on Starsky’s stomach or back, his head or his ass.
Throbbing with pain, Starsky thought he might pass out. Finally, though he fought to stay conscious, knowing it was his only chance, he knew the lights were going out. Kicks seemed to come at him then from a great distance. He could barely breathe, blood flowed from his mouth and nose.
“Hutch… ” The whisper was the last sound he made.
****
Hutch put his book down and rubbed at his stinging eyes. One of these days I’m going to have to break down and wear reading glasses. He cast a glance around the crowded restaurant to rest his eyes, shaking his head at the many families with tired children waiting there. He looked at his watch and found it was after ten o’clock.
The canned Christmas music had been turned down and the newscast volume turned up on the TV near the bar. Hutch got up and wandered over, wondering if there would be any news about the situation at the airport.
The camera zoomed in on the face of Larry Thomas just as Hutch settled onto a stool. He grinned to himself, imagining Starsky hanging around the TV station, wondering if he’d figured out a way to get himself on camera.
“And so this evening our temperatures will drop lower than any other time this week,” Thomas was saying. “The mercury will drop to below 32 degrees for the first time this season.” A small smile seemed to appear on the normally unemotional face.
For a moment, Hutch stared unblinkingly at the screen, feeling the world around him grow silent and far away. There was only him and Larry Thomas, there on the television, talking about how cold it was going to get tonight. Hutch’s mind seemed to feed him thoughts in slow motion. What was it about Larry Thomas that he should have remembered?
There was a case involving him… a couple of years ago… his daughter. Little girl of twelve… she was kidnapped. Never found alive. What happened? She died of–
Hutch’s mind clicked back into real time. He sat up straighter, staring at the face of Larry Thomas, willing the information he’d remembered to make sense. His daughter was kidnapped and found dead of exposure… Damn! We’ve been blind… all this time, it was staring us right in the face!
He remembered that he and Starsky had discussed other cops who might have died under strange circumstances. They’d spent hours searching the computer files, but never came up with anything definite. There was something else we talked about running through the computer — an idea of Starsky’s… deaths of other people from exposure… But with more bodies turning up so frequently, they’d never had the time to go back to that earlier idea.
With the cold certainty born of years as a detective, Hutch knew the murderer was on the television screen right now. Excited, he got up and headed for the nearest phone, eager to tip Starsky to his hypothesis. They could bring Thomas in, question him, go over to his place… probably all kinds of physical evidence. Killers like this keep everything. This guy Thomas is real organized and pedantic anyway….
He got the number of the station from 411 and dialed it eagerly. When the operator answered, he asked to be put through to Detective Starsky. She said the set was closed, and anyway, she didn’t know of any Detective that might be there. Hutch impatiently told her to see if she could get him someone from the set.
“Hello,” a voice said after several minutes of waiting. “This is Joe Barry, the producer of the news. Can I help you?”
“This is Detective Sergeant Hutchinson of the LAPD.” Hutch knew that according to procedure, the producers of the broadcasts had been the ones clued in to the presence of police protection. “I need to speak to Detective David Starsky. He’s assigned to your weatherman, Larry Thomas.”
“Detective Starsky…” The voice became muffled for a moment and Hutch assumed he was signaling to get Starsky to the phone.
“Hello,” the producer came on the line again. “He’s not here. Larry told our director that the case had been called off. It was solved or something so the police wouldn’t be hanging around any longer.”
A flush of heat swept down Hutch’s frame. He closed his eyes, trying not to jump to conclusions. “Are you sure? I spoke to him only a few hours ago, when he was there for the early news.”
“I know. I talked to him then. He went home with Larry after that broadcast. But when Larry came back on for the late news, he told me the cop had been called away by his captain and it was all over.” Before Hutch could phrase another question, the producer abruptly said, “Look, I’ve gotta go. We’re on the air.” The line went dead.
With shaking fingers, Hutch dialed Dobey’s office. “Captain, where’s Starsky?” he asked the instant he heard the deep voice answer.
“What? Who is this? Hutch? Is that you? I thought you were in Minnesota by now.”
“My flight was delayed,” Hutch said curtly. “Listen, Captain, has anything changed on the case? I just called him at the station where he’s assigned and they said he’d left.”
“Changed on the case?” Dobey could be infuriating sometimes. “No, Hutch. Still no break. We’re still babysitting all the weathermen in town.”
“Was Starsky assigned to someone else for the late news?”
Dobey seemed to be rustling paper on his desk. “No. He’s still supposed to be with Thomas.”
Hutch’s knees wanted to give way. The flush of fear returned, shooting heat down his spine, making his face hot. He leaned his head into the pay phone. “Captain, I’m worried about him. They say he’s not at the station. I’m here at the airport watching the news and I saw Larry Thomas and it reminded me of his daughter being kidnapped a couple of years ago. Her body was found later. She’d died of exposure.” His lips felt numb saying the words.
“What?” Dobey barked an order, not bothering to cover the mouthpiece. “I said, get me all available data on that weatherman Larry Thomas! See if he had a kid who was kidnapped and murdered!”
Hutch’s mind was racing. Starsky wasn’t at the station. That could mean only one thing. Larry Thomas had already hurt him. What had he done this time? Had he abandoned Starsky, hurt somewhere, to die in the cold night air the way his own daughter had? Or had he killed him outright, in some bizarre parody of suicide?
Suicide… Starsky had theorized that the killer intended to commit suicide himself when his killing was done. Larry Thomas was still obviously alive and well. Hutch wasn’t sure if that meant Starsky was in more danger, or less. He clung to the phone, needing to hear what Dobey could find out, but needing to act even more.
“Looks like your memory serves, Hutch,” the captain finally said. “Thomas’ daughter was found on Christmas, three years back. Man was institutionalized for a while…”
“Captain, Starsky’s in danger,” Hutch snapped. “Get some cops over to that station now. We’ve gotta grab Thomas. I’m leaving the airport now!” He slammed down the phone. It missed the cradle and dropped noisily on its cord, but Hutch didn’t wait to fix it. He headed down the corridor at a run.
****
Moving… something’s — I’m moving. What? How…? Oh… sick… I think I’m gonna be sick. Hutch —
Hutch wasn’t there. Starsky dragged his eyes open, but could see nothing in the darkness. He was still tied up, he was wet, lying in wet, and he was beginning to shake from chills. Movement disoriented him. He tried to breathe deep and evenly, to get his bearings. Finally it registered that he was in the trunk of a car. It was spacious, and Thomas had been driving a pinto. Starsky shuddered when he realized that he must be in the trunk of his own Torino.
Like being shot with your own gun.
On the heels of that irony came another, worse thought. If it was his own car taking him somewhere, how would he ever be found? Where would the cops start looking? Would they even find out he was in trouble before…
Don’t think like that. I’m a cop. I know how to get through shit like this. Think… what’s he gonna do with me? He didn’t kill the other cops outright. He dropped them off somewhere. Let the cold do its number.
Starsky remembered the autopsy reports. Internal injuries weakened the victims, then plummeting night temperatures and them being out there without their clothing did the rest.
He forced himself not to dwell on the obvious.
Stay cool. Think… The others… nobody knew what happened to them. They disappeared and turned up dead. But people know where I’m supposed to be. When I don’t check in, they’ll come looking. When Thomas doesn’t turn up at work tomorrow…
Yet he had no certainty that Thomas wouldn’t continue the way he had been, doing his daily job without causing suspicion in the community. What had he told his co-workers this evening? Starsky realized it must be late, near or past time for the late news.
Wait, now I remember. He loaded me in here and we drove, then the car stopped awhile… I musta passed out again.
He realized he may have been at the station already, that he’d been hidden in the trunk all the time. The Torino was still moving, at a fairly rapid speed, the constant motion jarring his aching body, nausea threatening to cause him to vomit. Starsky drew breaths that did little to steady him. Fear joined him in the auto trunk, made him feel very claustrophobic.
He tried to lighten his mood, to joke with himself, or to bitch at least, as though Hutch were here and could listen. I just had to volunteer to work on Christmas. Sure, guys, I’m Jewish, I don’t mind working on December 25… You guys have families, I’ll take the heat. I been wantin’ to know how this nut case did his jobs….
Hutch always understood what his jokes covered, though, and he didn’t think less of Starsky for feeling a healthy fear. The thought made him ache with loneliness. Hutch was very far away right now.
The Torino came to a stop. Starsky strained to listen. Booted feet hurried around to unlock the trunk and the lid was thrown up.
“Hey, watch it with my car,” he growled at his captor. Keep the guy off balance.
“Shut up.” There was barely enough light for Starsky to see. Thomas bent down for a moment, then stood again, lifting something. It looked like a container.
Cold water splashed down on Starsky, pouring over him as he lay in the trunk. He realized then how he’d gotten wet earlier. Thomas must have poured water over him when he’d first put him in here. Jesus, that’s cold…
He dropped the empty water container to the ground, then reached in and got a grip on Starsky’s bound arms, dragging him out of the car without regard to injuring him.
Gotta keep talking… “What’re you doing, Larry? You want me to be cold, is that it? Did your little girl get wet when they abandoned her?”
There was no answer. His captor seemed to be pacing in the moonlight.
“Where are we, Larry? What spot did you pick for me?”
Starsky remembered the various secluded locations where Thomas’ victims had been found. Most likely, this was an area different from the rest, as all the others had been. There’d been no pattern, not before.
Starsky craned his neck, trying to get his bearings. Was that an oil rig? He gazed around. They were in a flat, deserted area, little ground cover or plant growth, not like the hills and canyons where Thomas had dropped the other bodies. Dark as it was, it was hard to tell, but Starsky could see buildings not too far away. They looked abandoned.
“Is this Baldwin Hills?” Starsky guessed. He and Hutch had fought another battle there, it seemed like ages ago. That crazed CIA man, who’d believed his wife’s accidental death had been a trap for him. What was his name…?
Thomas crouched down to stare into Starsky’s face. “You sure are some detective, I guess.” Starsky recognized a twisted grin. “Good work, cop. Baldwin Hills, it is.”
He sat down and pulled a flashlight out, waving it around to pick out the shapes of barrels, buildings and unused oil derricks. Then he extracted a pad of paper from his pocket and a pen. Starsky watched in amazement as he began writing, jotting down words, staring off into space while he thought, then adding more.
“Why’d you bring me here, Larry? All the other places… they were kinda different from this one. Is there a special reason?”
“Leave me alone.” The voice sounded petulant. “I’m writing…. ”
Starsky persisted. “Is this where Cathy was found?”
Thomas dropped paper and pen. He stomped toward Starsky, bent down and slapped his face, hard. “Don’t you ever say her name. If you say it again, I’ll cut your tongue out!”
Starsky maintained silence for a few strained moments. Baldwin Hills… if somebody realizes I’m missing, and figures out that Thomas lost his daughter and is the one doing the murders… and they look up his daughter’s kidnapping… they’ll know to look here… If. If. It was all a pretty big if, Starsky knew. And the one he could have trusted to figure it out in time was somewhere else now, too far away —
Hutch said he’d call when he landed, to check in. He’ll find out I’m overdue… he’ll call Dobey… Starsky thought he might be losing his grip, the way the eager ideas raced in his brain. Too many things had been weird in this case. Why should he expect it to start making sense now that he was the one in danger? All he could do was keep Thomas talking, find a reason to keep him here with him. He knew he’d stay alive that way, maybe only that way.
A cold breeze brushed Starsky’s wet back, making him shiver. He twisted his wrists, trying to feel if the ropes had loosened anyway. Another time they did… Simon Marcus’ crazies… I got outta that one — well, Hutch saved me. But I hung on until he could get to me. Gotta do the same now….
He stared at the face of his captor, weirdly highlighted in the glare from the torch. Thomas seemed very far away at the moment, concentrating on what must be his new poem. Keep him talking, off balance. Make him see what he’s doing won’t help…
“Larry? Larry, listen… ” But Thomas made no reply.
****
Hutch took the freeway ramp at sixty five miles per hour, glancing quickly to check for oncoming traffic before merging. He pulled around slower moving vehicles, swerving between trucks and cars, cursing the heaviness of the holiday traffic. It had taken him half an hour to get to the parking lot, and find his car, longer to get away from the airport itself.
He felt isolated, cut off from reality. He had to know what was going on, so he contacted the station by radio. “Patch me through to Dobey,” he told Mildred shortly. When the captain came on, Hutch asked an urgent question. “Did they get Thomas?”
“Now listen, Hutch. He got away before we could grab him, but –”
“Goddamn it!” Hutch sped around a plumbing truck, cutting off another driver who gave him a blast on his horn. He honked back at the angry motorist. “What are you guys fucking around for?” he demanded of Dobey. “I tell you, he’s got Starsky!”
“I know that, Hutch. But Thomas was obviously prepared for us. He slipped away the instant he went off the air. We’ve got a couple of officers on the way to his house. They should be reporting in any minute.” Dobey paused, then pointed out kindly, “And you can watch your language, you know.”
Hutch sighed raggedly. “Sorry, Captain. I’m just –”
“I know, Hutch. You want Thomas’ address, so you can check out the place for yourself? I’ll notify the units I sent over to wait for you.”
“Thanks. What’s the address?” Hutch listened, realized the next exit would take him to Thomas’ neighborhood, and crossed three lanes to make it, ignoring the irate drivers he was leaving behind.
****
“It’s not gonna work, Larry.” Starsky said it again, though his teeth were chattering audibly now. He pressed them together, closing his eyes against the throbbing in his head. “You know that, don’t you? It’s not going to work. You won’t succeed this time. They know now. They know it’s you that’s been committing these murders…”
“I told you, I don’t care if they know. Them knowing is the whole point, hot shot,” Thomas shouted at him. He’d been pacing the area now for what Starsky estimated to be more than an hour.
“I know that.” Once again, Starsky tried being rational with him. Tried humoring him. “I know you want them to know. That’s the way they’re going to pay for Cathy’s death, isn’t it?”
“Cathy’s death… They have to pay.”
“Right, Larry. But listen to what I’m telling you. This time, it’s not gonna work. They’ve figured it out. They’re gonna find me and I won’t pay. You won’t succeed in killing another cop. They’ll know this is where Cathy was found and they’ll come looking and find me before I’m dead…”
“That’s what you think,” Thomas jeered. “I’m not as stupid as you cops! I’ve fixed it so it looks like I’ve taken you somewhere else. They’ll never find you. If they think of looking here, it won’t be until it’s way too late!”
Without another word, Thomas strode toward the Torino. Starsky, shivering, tried to shift position to see what he was going to do. He groaned as his shoulder scraped against a rough rock. His hands felt numb from lack of circulation.
Thomas opened the door on the driver’s side of the Torino, climbed inside and started the engine.
“Hey — hey, Larry! Don’t leave!” Bound as he was, it was hard to move, but Starsky tried to inch along the ground.
He could see Thomas climb out of the car, though the engine was still running. Starsky felt sick inside as he realized what was happening. Slowly, his driverless car rolled away, slipping out of sight as it descended a slight hill. From a distance, Starsky heard the sound of crunching metal.
But Thomas was returning, carrying something with him. Starsky looked up and saw with trepidation that it was another container of water. Thomas flipped open the top and poured the cold liquid all over his captive, paying special attention to Starsky’s hair and face.
Starsky shook wet tendrils out of his eyes and spat out the water that had dripped into his mouth. Furious, he wanted to curse the madman tormenting him, but he tried to contain the emotion, knowing it would only serve to antagonize Thomas further.
He panted, trying not to shake from the increased cold. “Larry,” he whispered rawly, “come on, man. It’s over. You can’t bring your daughter back. You can’t go on like this. But it’s not too late. Just… just let me go and I’ll see you get the help you need. I’ll-I’ll call your wife, make her listen. I’ll talk to the judge…”
“Go on and beg, you sniveling son of a bitch. You’re just like all the rest. Cowards!”
Thomas went back to his pad and paper, tore off a page and dug a roll of electrical tape out of his pocket. He walked up to Starsky and shoved him over onto his stomach. Then he taped the note to him, winding the tape around his tied wrists.
Starsky was exhausted. He couldn’t move, just lay panting rapidly, feeling more and more desperate. His head pounded and his insides throbbed with pain. It crossed his mind that he was probably bleeding internally. And all his words, all his training, hadn’t done a thing in helping him cope with the madman who had kidnapped him. Now, nearly too tired to breathe, he wondered if there was anything else he could say to get through to the weatherman.
Larry stood looking down at him, meeting his eyes with a strange expression in his own. Starsky tried one more time, speaking more from his heart than his badge.
“Larry, I know it hurts. But you can’t do this. Think, man. It’s… it’s Christmas…”
“Yeah. I know. The day my baby died.” Thomas wrapped his arms around himself, sighing deeply. He reached into his coat pocket and withdrew a gun. Starsky recognized it as his own Berretta.
“Merry Christmas, cop.” Larry Thomas put the muzzle of the gun against his forehead and fired.
****
Hutch stood quietly to one side as the cops systematically went through Larry Thomas’ house. He’d been unprepared for the feelings assailing him upon entering there. It was a crime scene, like any other. That’s what he’d thought.
But it’s not like the rest. A crime against Starsky was committed here. A crime against me….
It was odd to feel the victim. Worry seemed to have taken root in his mind, interrupting his usual detachment. He shook his head, trying to get himself together. Starsky had been in trouble before, and he’d always kept his head. What was different, this time?
“You want to take a look at this, sir?” a young cop in uniform asked him, holding out a plastic wrapped bundle.
“What is this?” Hutch automatically reached to take it.
“Clothes. Looks like they were cut off.”
Hutch looked more closely and recognized the big Mexican knit sweater Starsky had worn so many times. It had been a long time since Hutch had seen it, maybe the last time Starsky’d had a cold. He liked to bundle up in sweaters to ward off the chill.
“Cut off? What do you mean?” He opened the bag and fished out pieces of sweater. The cop was right. The heavy knit had been cut apart and there were pieces of a dark blue t-shirt, too.
Ruined. What for? Why?
The cop held up a second bag; it looked like it contained Starsky’s jeans and shoes and socks. Hutch knew then what had happened.
Visions of other cops dead of exposure flashed into his mind. Now Starsky was facing the same fate. Hutch folded the bag of clothes to him, tucking it under his arm with the vague idea of taking it home with him.
“Uh, Sergeant Hutchinson?” The young cop’s voice tugged at his attention. “That’s evidence, sir. I’m supposed to make sure it all gets back to Metro.”
“Oh…” Hutch felt stupid, knowing he should’ve have known that. The clothes weren’t his to take care of. They were evidence. Someday, when the case was over, he’d be able to take them home. Or give them back to Starsky… of course I’ll give them back to him — he’ll be found. He’ll be found. Snap out of it, Hutchinson!
“What else have you got, Officer Gross?” he said crisply, falling back on procedure. If the young policeman noticed his lapse, he didn’t mention it.
“Upstairs, sir. There’s a little girl’s room — that’s where we found these clothes — and a buncha maps and things spread out in the other bedroom.”
“Let’s go take a look.”
****
Starsky lay dazed and shivering long after the sound of the gunshot had faded away. He knew his situation wasn’t good, that the ground was cold and getting colder, that the Santa Ana winds were whipping up, that the earlier beating had weakened him. He was alone, unable to get free of the ropes. The man who’d tied them was dead now, the body had stopped pumping blood and the corpse was growing colder by the minute. Starsky twisted his hands, but the rope, reinforced now with the heavy electrical tape, wouldn’t give. His shoulders ached, his wrists were rubbed raw and his hands couldn’t feel much. His feet were tied, too, and he couldn’t move around enough to try to either pick at those ropes with his numbed fingers or scrape at them with the loose stones on the ground.
Can’t stay here. Thomas said he’d lead the cops in another direction. I’m on my own. Gotta… get help… get outta here…
Perhaps the Torino, he thought. It could provide shelter, warmth, the radio. It couldn’t have gone too far before stopping. Starsky tried to relax, to gather up the tatters of his will and strength. Slowly, he began to move, using shoulders and knees to inch along, crawling for his life.
****
The professorish killer had been very tidy, very organized about his murders. There was a list of names and dates and Hutch recognized some of them as cops who’d died under mysterious circumstances over a period of the last three years. In a trunk were several blunt weapons, which probably had been used to beat the murdered cops and the knife that had been used to kill Storm. There was a two by four with fresh blood on it. All would be taken as evidence and analyzed. Now Hutch was studying a map spread out on the desk. The map clearly showed where each body had been found, marked in different colors.
There. Marked in red. Beverly Hills, where Michaelson had been found. And in blue, the site of Pressman’s body, in Griffith Park. Green for Anthony, up near the Hollywood Hills. All in wooded areas. Then the first weatherman, marked in purple ink. Dallas Storm, found in Studio City, in the woods behind some expensive homes. And Johnny Mountain, dumped off in Lake Hollywood. All wooded areas, hard to search in…
Hutch rubbed the back of his neck which had stiffened while he poured over the map. If Thomas was running true to form, he’d dropped Starsky in a similar place. There was a circle in black magic marker on another section of the city, Echo Park. No other bodies had been found there yet, so it seemed logical that this might be his intended destination for the next one.
One of the uniformed officers had found another photo of the daughter, taken outside somewhere and he thought he recognized the location as in Echo Park. The place might have some special meaning to Thomas. There were a few other marks on the map, however, and Hutch didn’t want to jump to conclusions. He decided to take the map and other papers found in Thomas’ study down to Headquarters and meet with Dobey and others on the task force. If they put their heads together, perhaps they could figure out what he intended for Starsky.
Hutch knew his time was limited. It wasn’t that he didn’t trust his own judgment, but with Starsky’s life at stake, he couldn’t afford to simply guess, and possibly guess wrong.
****
It seemed to take forever, but Starsky kept moving. He kept thoughts of the Torino firmly in his mind, refusing to think any further. He was filthy, pain-wracked and miserable, but the movement kept him warmer than he would have been had he stayed in one place. He couldn’t see very well and kept going mainly by instinct, telling himself it could be only a little further until he found the car.
The ground suddenly pitched downward, and Starsky nearly fell head over heels. He caught himself by leaning hard to his right and cursed as his shoulder caught on something sharp. A rusted piece of metal cut into his chilled flesh and he rolled onto his back, gasping for breath. He twisted his head to try to look at the fresh wound. It didn’t look too deep, but it was seeping blood. He couldn’t do anything about it in any case, with his hands still bound. In a few moments, the stinging pain eased and he leaned carefully over, peering down in the darkness.
He had found the Torino, but the vehicle was hopelessly out of reach for him. It had coasted over an incline and was at least thirty feet below him between a couple of small, unused buildings. Starsky couldn’t make it down there without serious bodily injury. Depressed, he found it difficult even to wonder how much damage his car had sustained.
He pressed his eyes closed, desperation threatening to undermine his self-control. A fresh gust of wind blew across his aching body and he knew he couldn’t remain where he was. He struggled up to a sitting position and tried to find the fragment of metal on which he’d cut himself. Perhaps he should try to cut himself loose again. While he made the attempt, he’d think what he should do next.
****
“Hutch, we’re doing everything we can!” Dobey turned and stared at the lights of Los Angeles to be seen through his office window. “The department’s understaffed as it is, with all the other craziness that’s been going on. I can’t leave the whole city vulnerable just to look for one cop!”
“For my partner, you mean!” Hutch stormed at him. “You can call out the Fire and Rescue squads, the Civil Defense. All those people are trained in searching for missing persons! And Minnie tells me cops are beginning to call in saying they’ll work extra shifts to help…”
“I know, Hutch. I didn’t mean we couldn’t try our damnedest. But searching Echo Park didn’t pan out. You know how many little secluded areas there are in this city! It’s three o’clock in the morning. Go home and get some sleep and we’ll start over again when it’s daylight.”
“Captain,” Hutch began slowly, “if you think I can just go home and sleep while we don’t know where Starsky is, then you’re crazier than I thought.” Without waiting to see Dobey’s reaction, Hutch turned and left the office.
He headed for his car, ignoring Minnie’s voice as she called to him to ask what was wrong. If it wasn’t good news she wanted him for, it wasn’t worth bothering with. He zipped up his jacket as he stepped out into the parking lot, automatically bracing himself against the chill. Then his thoughts turned to his partner. Starsky was alone, somewhere out there in the night, possibly hurt and definitely cold. How long could a man survive under these conditions?
He headed for Venice Place, but not to sleep as Dobey had directed. Once inside, he first went out on the porch where he had a thermometer hanging, to check the temperature. It read 33 degrees. Cold for Los Angeles, but not as bad as he’d feared. A man with a jacket and no injuries wouldn’t be in bad shape at all if he had to stay out all night. But there was every reason to believe that was the complete opposite of Starsky’s condition at the present time.
He started a pot of coffee, then turned to his telephone, dialing the office number. Minnie Kaplan’s voice sounded good to him when she picked up the phone.
“Is that you, Hutch?”
“Yeah, ‘fraid so.” He sipped gingerly at the steaming coffee in his cup, but he needed the caffeine desperately. “Anything come in since I left?” He wasn’t surprised when she answered in the negative. “Okay. If anything turns up, I’ll be on the street You can contact me by radio.”
After hanging up, he finished his coffee, then moved into the bedroom. Digging into his closet, he came up with several extra blankets and the knap sack that contained his camping gear. He pulled out a first aid kit and the huge thermos that was supposed to keep coffee hot for twenty-four hours. Then he rooted among his clothes for the extra pair of jeans Starsky kept at his apartment. He dug several pairs of thick socks out of his sock drawer and found that old red sweater. It had started out as Hutch’s but he’d always liked the way Starsky looked in it… Moments passed before Hutch realized how tightly he’d been clutching it in his hands. He shuddered, fiercely controlling his feelings.
Don’t think. Don’t visualize. Just keep moving…
He filled the thermos and packed the other items, then returned to his car. He thought the searchers might have missed something at Echo Park, so he headed back there, to comb the area himself, one more time.
****
My hands are bleeding… wrists are raw… damn hunk of tin wasn’t good for cutting anything but skin…
Slide and shift, slide and shift… crawling on my belly… lower than the belly of a flounder in the bottom of the ocean… roll and stretch, slide and scrape… God, it hurts… it hurts…
Wind’s cornin’ up. Are those drops of rain? Can’t be. It never rains in southern California… not this time of year? What time of year is it? Chanukah? Christmas? Sorry, Ma. guess I got too busy to call you… Next year, I’ll be more organized. I swear…
C’mon, Starsky, think. You’re a cop. You’ve been in the army — think of this as a little war game you’re playin’… For a game, this ain’t no fun. Ain’t no picnic. Ain’t no day at the beach. Ain’t no camping trip. If Hutch ever tries to take me camping again. I’ll…
Hutch… camping… what would he do in a situation like this? Bet he’d have all kindsa survival gear… compass, backpack fulla rations and coffee… God, I could use a cup a coffee… or a glass of water… so thirsty… this is hard work, crawling along like this… What would Hutch do? If it got cold and you were out mountain climbing, Hutch, what would you do? If you knew the search parties were lookin’ in the wrong direction, how would you survive until they figured out where you really were?
He stopped, panting for breath, his mouth dry and pasty. His shoulders ached; how he wished for warm hands to rub the cramps away. Hutch. He couldn’t get Hutch out of his mind. Their partnership seemed very close, very immediate and real. He didn’t want to lose that. Didn’t want to lose the newer feelings they’d found this winter, either.
Never thought something most people are so afraid of, so much against, could be so terrific… so beautiful. It ain’t a sin… Love couldn’t ever be a sin.
But Hutch was far away, wouldn’t know about this for hours…
The wind seemed sharper, cutting across his battered body, making the scrapes on his knees and shoulders sting. Inside, there was a burning pain in his gut, a stabbing hurt at the level of a rib.
Gotta get to some kinda shelter.
He struggled up to a kneeling position, trying to peer into the dark. The moonlight was too vague, too obscured by clouds. There’d been old corrugated tin buildings that he’d passed, but he couldn’t make any out now.
What’s this, reverse mirages?
He considered trying to dig into the loose ground to find warmer soil beneath the surface, but the thought of being buried daunted him. He continued squinting into the distance and finally became reasonably sure he could see some old barrels off to his left. They’d provide some shelter. Slowly, he set off toward them.
****
Dog-tired, Hutch parked his car in the station parking lot and dragged himself out of the driver’s seat. He pulled the thermos out with him; it needed refilling. The only person to have used the coffee that stayed hot so well had been himself. He’d hoped that his lonely search of Echo Park would have ended the nightmare, but he had been wrong. It was morning now, six-thirty by his watch, and the nightmare was still going strong.
Six thirty a.m., December 24. Starsky’s been out all night, in God knows what condition. It’s light now, though. That’s gotta give us some advantage…
Hutch tried to take solace in that fact, to draw on reserves of confidence that had always served him when his partner was hurt or missing.
He’s out there, alive. And he wants to be found.
Entering the office, he headed straight for the Mr. Coffee. He poured a cup and tasted before realizing it was the dregs of last night’s brew. He swallowed down the warmish liquid, figuring the caffeine was just as good, if not better, when the coffee was old and thick like that.
“Hutch — don’t drink that. I’m gonna make a fresh pot.” It was Angie Loomis from the morning shift. He looked up into her sunny smile, but couldn’t think of a word to say to the young policewoman. “Here,” she offered, seeming concerned by his lack of response. “I just bought these Danish. Why don’t you have one? You look like you could use something to eat.”
She held them out, bakery fresh from the specialty shop down the street, not the crap sold in the machine down the hall, but he declined. There was something that seemed so unfair to him about his having fresh coffee and good Danish while Starsky was so far from such simple amenities. Besides, he honestly wasn’t a bit hungry.
“There’s a ton of messages on your desk,” Angie told him as she finished starting the coffee maker. “All from your folks back east.”
“Oh, shit,” he cursed listlessly. “I forgot to call them…” Numb, not wanting to deal with anything more right now, he nevertheless sat down at his desk and proceeded to dial his parents’ number in Minnesota.
“Dad,” he said as soon as he heard his father’s voice, “it’s me, Ken. I missed my flight last night. Something came up and — ”
“Where the hell have you been? Your mother has been frantic. We found out you weren’t on the plane but all they would say at your office was that there was some kind of emergency.”
“It’s Starsky.” The name made him wince in pain. “Dad, it’s too long to get into now, but my partner is missing, and I’ve got to stay until we find him. I’m sorry…”
“Your partner is missing? What’s going on — we’ve been reading about some big crime wave going on out there, but…”
“There have been some murders. Both of us were on the case, but Starsky was working alone last night, since I was on my way to see you. We think the killer got to him.”
There was a moment of silence that he couldn’t interpret. “Do you expect to find him today? Will you be able to take another flight?”
Very tired, Hutch took his time about answering, rubbing his forehead with his index and middle fingers. “No, Dad, I don’t know if I’ll be able to come after we find him, or not. I’ll just have to call you…” A note of anger in his parent’s voice interrupted him. “No — it’s not an excuse not to come home! But you and Mother will have a better time without me anyway!”
He hung up, not proud of the way he’d behaved, but with no time to worry about it. I could have made him understand. He knows about loyalty, commitment… but when he got so cold about Starsky… damn. This wasn’t the way I expected to be talking to him this morning.
Momentarily, he realized he’d been sitting with his hand still on the receiver. He sighed, the action turning into a yawn. He plowed through some of the accumulation on his desk, dropping the messages from his parents in the trash can. He didn’t know where to start with the other things, papers on the case. There were news articles, forensics reports, autopsies, photographs, copies of the profile of the killer the task force had come up with. Hutch began trying to sort out the mess, not really concentrating, just trying to get it all into piles that he could deal with.
He came across his Xeroxes of the notes found on the victims, listlessly reading through all of them once more.
“Early in the new December, try to find what I remember.”
“December’s chilly, December’s cold, who’s the one who won’t grow old?”
“Different yes, but still the same. Does death forget, or know your name?”
“Weather I’m right, or weather I’m wrong, still you don’t hear my dying song.”
“Oh the weather outside is frightful, storm bad enough to blow a mountain down. Will the dying ever stop? When oil and water find a way to mix? When there’s no weather in this town.”
Hutch contemplated the various rhymes. Most of them were simple, concise if strange hints to what the killer had in mind. ‘Try to find what I remember’ was the murder of his daughter, and she was also ‘the one who won’t grow old.’ ‘Different yes, but still the same’ referred to the security guard killed following the deaths of the two policemen. And the ‘weather I’m right… or wrong’ indicated the weathermen who replaced the cops as victims, and signaled, Starsky suspected, that the killer intended to commit suicide when his work was completed.
Hutch rubbed the bridge of his nose. What was Thomas thinking now? He’d kidnapped Starsky, beaten him up, removed most of his clothing and had taken him somewhere. If not Echo Park, then somewhere else that he’d be hard to find. The last note was much longer than all the rest. Did that in and of itself have a meaning? Perhaps Thomas had had a lot to say in it because he wouldn’t be writing many, or any more.
Hutch rocked back in his chair, resting it on the back legs in the same precarious position his partner often used when thinking things over. Hutch had a gut feeling that Thomas was dead. He’d taken Starsky and maybe even told him all about what he’d been doing and why. Maybe he wanted Starsky to hear his ‘dying song’ he’d talked about in one of the notes. Whatever, finished with his plan, he must have ended his own life. No trace had been found of the forecaster since he’d left the studio, not alive, not his body. Hutch hypothesized that even dead, if they found Thomas, they might find Starsky nearby.
He looked at the note again. ‘Storm,’ ‘mountain’ — everyone had agreed it was a reference to the murdered weathermen. Too bad, he thought, these men had probably been chosen as victims mainly because of the stage names they’d picked out.
“Will the dying ever stop? When oil and water find a way to mix? When there’s no weather in this town.”
They had read that to mean a threat to all the city weather forecasters, now it looked more like a further indication of Thomas’ own death. Hutch read the lines again, trying to ignore his preconceived notions about them, to see what he might have missed before.
“Will the dying ever stop? When oil and water find a way to mix?” What was that stuff about oil and water… no one had made many comments on that odd turn of phrase. Was it simply word play, to confuse the issue? Or did it contain a clue of its own?
Oil and water… they don’t mix. Where can you find both oil and water? In a salad… The ludicrous notion didn’t even bring a ghost of a smile to Hutch’s lips. There’s a lake at Echo Park, but no evidence of Starsky there. Water’s in the ocean, but nothing about the case had any ties to the Pacific. Oil, then. Oil… oil for suntans, oil for a car, oil for heating, oil for power… Oilfields…
Hutch sat up straighter, mind more alert than it had been in hours. He shuffled through the papers on his desk, searching for the original crime report on Thomas’ daughter’s kidnapping. Where was she found?
Baldwin Hills. The old oil field… It had to be. On the same gut level that told Hutch Thomas was already dead, he sensed that he had planned to die in the same location where his daughter had lost her life. And that was where he had taken Starsky! Elated by the realization, he headed into Dobey’s office — there was work to be done.
****
Starsky curled more tightly in a desperate attempt to find warmth, knees pressed to his chest, lying on his side in a cramped position. He was surrounded by dark, by his own exhaustion and pain. The cold was a part of his bones. He had come to the end of his strength and there was nothing more he could do. He told himself he was resting, recuperating a little, but he knew he might not get any further. He had done as much as he could to save his own life. Now it was up to… nature, he supposed. Would it get any colder? Would it start to rain? Would whatever was hurting inside him take hours or minutes off his life so that rescue wouldn’t do any good?
It was not the first time Starsky had confronted death, yet it was the loneliest death he had contemplated.
It caused him physical pain to think of Hutch standing over the lifeless body he might find. Would Hutch know, he wondered, would he understand how Starsky had tried to survive, to hold on? Would he know how much their brief nights together had meant?
He coughed, pain doubling him even more, driving all coherent thought from his mind for the moment. Slowly, he regained his breath, tried to shift slightly to be marginally more comfortable. His nose itched. The inconsequential annoyance seemed huge there in the dark, compounded his misery, made him face his complete impotence. A tiny flame of anger rose up, and he defiantly scraped his face against the ground, scratching his nose the only way he could.
See there, Larry, he wanted to tell his tormentor. I’m not giving up. The warmth of his anger steadied, kept him company in the dark.
****
Although it was the morning of Christmas Eve, cops across the city had come in to help in the search for one of their brothers. Other organizations, the Civil Defense, the Fire and Rescue workers had pitched in, too. Hutch directed operations out at Baldwin Hills, fired with energy despite his being up all night.
It appeared they were on the right track at last when the Torino was found. Starsky’s car had been driven into a deep ditch. Hutch struggled down the incline, both hopeful and terrified by what he might find inside. Arriving first he looked inside, but the car was empty. There was only the usual debris — not much of that since this was Starsky’s car — and a couple of gallon milk jugs. Then he opened the front door and popped the trunk.
That, too, was empty. He stood staring into the vacant compartment as one of the forensics members of the task force came up beside him.
“Brad, what do you make of this?” he asked, bending to touch the soggy carpeting in the trunk.
“Looks like somebody poured a gallon or two of water in here.” The younger man looked up at Hutch, his face curious about the reason. “Why do you suppose they’d do that?”
Hutch didn’t answer, but it seemed obvious that if the weather wasn’t cooperating with rain, Thomas had still seen to it that his victim would be both wet and cold once he abandoned him.
“Get this carpet analyzed,” Hutch directed, not wasting time with explanations. “I want to know if there are any blood traces in here.” He had already been informed that an analysis of the carpet in Thomas’ daughter’s bedroom had revealed traces of both Starsky’s blood and dried blood of the same type as Dallas Storm. The two by four with fresh blood, it had been determined, had been used on Starsky.
The walkie-talkie strapped at Hutch’s belt beeped then and he stepped away from the opened trunk to answer it. “Hutchinson, go ahead.”
“We’ve found a body, sir.” Hutch’s heart, poised for its next beat, hesitated. “It fits Thomas’ description.”
He couldn’t climb out of the culvert fast enough. Then he was running flat out, for the area where the body had been located.
There he was, on the ground. Moving as fast as he was, Hutch flung himself down beside the man, grabbing the still form by the shoulders and lifting. He was moving without reason, on instinct alone, with feelings he couldn’t rein or discipline. He came face to face with a head destroyed by a large caliber bullet.
Revulsion and anger coursed through him, his heart started pounding and perspiration broke out on his body. Gasping, trying to regain a measure of control, Hutch staggered away from the body, hoping not to throw up in front of the other cops and rescue workers. He’d been living on coffee and no sleep, not a healthy combination when added together with gruesome sights and worry that wouldn’t quit.
A hand settled on his shoulder and Hutch managed not to jump in surprise. He recognized Dobey’s voice. “You were right. Thomas killed himself.”
“Starsky was right all along. That was what he figured would happen.” Hutch couldn’t bring himself to look at his superior.
“Take a minute, Hutch. There’s bound to be some other evidence around here.”
Nodding, Hutch took Dobey’s advice for once. He walked a few yards away, trying to work off the adrenalin burst, to get his head together. They were making progress. Starsky had to be around here somewhere.
He returned to the scene a few minutes later. Dobey had been right; there was more evidence. Starsky’s gun had been found, only a couple of feet away from the body. The cops also came up with a pen and pad of paper, a half a roll of electrical tape and an empty gallon container that looked as though it had held water.
“Thomas brought Starsky here, then killed himself,” Dobey enumerated somewhat unnecessarily, Hutch thought. “He can’t be far, Hutch. We’ll find him now.”
Sure. Easy as pie. Thirty people searching a two mile area, looking for one injured cop. Hutch kept telling himself that any minute, his search would be rewarded. Yet the minutes continued to drag by, becoming hours. How far could a man who was naked, hurt, and trussed up like a Thanksgiving turkey get?
Pretty far if he was as tough as David Michael Starsky… He wouldn’t — won’t — give in. And I won’t either. We’ve got too much going together now… Don’t take it away from us….
Hutch wasn’t a man who prayed a lot, but in his heart he was praying now.
****
The search had made the news, what with so many cops from across the city helping. After midnight, though, the general search was called off again. Visibility was too low, the temperature was dropping again. Hutch didn’t begrudge the men and women their return to their families. It was Christmas, and they’d given more than their share. He knew many of them would be back in the morning, too.
But he kept on. Dobey had tried to get him to come home with him, had offered to stay and help, but Hutch had declined his invitation and insisted the Captain be with his family for what was left of Christmas Eve. Hutch knew he would have only disturbed the family’s enjoyment of the holiday had he been there, and he couldn’t take the children’s hopeful faces or the adults’ solicitous concern.
Huggy had joined the search, and wouldn’t leave when the others did, so Hutch still had his help. They’d split up, to cover more ground as the night wore on, and they kept in touch with walkie-talkies. The unit Hutch was carrying had been silent for quite a while now. The last time Huggy had tried to say something to cheer him, he’d gotten kind of nasty. Right now, Hutch couldn’t remember what words he’d used. He knew Huggy understood and was the forgiving type, but that didn’t make him feel any less guilty that he’d said them.
Close to exhaustion, Hutch kept crisscrossing the uneven ground of the Baldwin Hills oil field. He wasn’t even sure whether he was looking where he’d already looked before — but then, if they’d overlooked Starsky on an earlier pass, so much the better. His instincts told him Starsky couldn’t be too far from the car or the body of the killer, so he’d spent hours circling the area where they’d been found, widening the diameter of the circle he walked, keeping his flashlight low to the ground, then bouncing the light off objects in his path, old tin huts, oil machinery, barrels. He’d yelled Starsky’s name so many times he was beginning to lose his voice.
What time is it? He peered down at his watch, thinking it was already getting a little bit lighter. Daybreak. Should I feel good about that, or more worried? It’s what, six-thirty? Where have the last twelve hours gone?
He stopped, slowly hooked his flashlight on his belt and opened his thermos. The coffee he’d replaced often was still fairly hot. He took only a sip, then put back the cap. If — when he found Starsky, his partner would need the warm liquid.
Hutch stood still, looking up at the deep-grey sky. He felt incredibly alone in the world, insignificant.
In Starsky’s arms, I feel like I can do anything, feel like we’ve got the whole world at our feet. I don’t… don’t want to be alone anymore… I need him…
Almost dawn. Almost Christmas. Been working so hard all this month, I wouldn’t even have known it was coming. Too many robberies, too many fires where poor children lost their homes and their hopes, too much death. Why’s it have to be like this? One man loses his child on Christmas, and he destroys the lives of so many others… did that make up for it, Thomas? Did you have to make even more people hurt? That’s not what I used to believe Christmas was for…
Usedta love Christmas Big family around the table, all the uncles and aunts and cousins, all at Grandfather’s farm… felt like I wasn’t a lonely kid on those days… Grandfather’d hand out all the presents… never saw so much torn paper and ribbon — Starsky would have loved it. Then I grew up. Had a couple of nice Christmases with Van, but it never felt the same. After her, I kind of thought I was too grown up to get into Christmas.
Who would have thought my Jewish partner would make me feel something of the way I had as a kid again? Mother raised an eyebrow the first time I told her Starsky always got a tree. Christmas is a Christian holiday, yes, but the spirit of the season is for everyone, and Starsky lives it… he believes in peace, in goodwill toward men… He believes in me. Oh, God, don’t take him from me….
He paused, realizing he’d been drifting, paying more attention to his thoughts than his searching.
Gotta keep alert, keep moving. I can rest when I find him.
He started again, renewing his concentration, determination. “Starsky! Starsky, where are you?” he bellowed, then held his breath to listen.
A voice, very muffled, very weak.
“Hutch… over here….”
He ran toward the sound, pulling the flashlight. It was lighter now, but he still needed it to pick out details amid the scattered barrels and other debris. The voice had died away. Hutch approached the barrels, began looking into each of them, heart pounding with the need to hurry.
He stepped over a crushed barrel, peered into the open end of one lying on its side. His flashlight beam caught a dirty face. Bright blue eyes looked out of it, reddened from their ordeal. In the harsh light, the muscular body looked pale, twisted into an unnatural position. Hutch dropped the light and went down on his knees, gathering the bound figure to him.
****
My name, murmured over and over again. It’s me. Yeah, it’s me, Hutch. Don’t worry. You found me…
“Hey, it’s… okay….”
“Shhh. Don’t try to talk. Let me get you out of these ropes.”
Strong hands turned him over, groped at the ropes which seemed to have become a part of him. He heard the sawing sound, remembered coming to as his clothes were being cut off and shuddered.
It’s Hutch. Just Hutch, cutting me loose. He’s seen me naked before anyway…
The bonds at his wrists were gone and he hissed in a breath at the renewed sensation in his hands. Strong warm hands massaged his shoulders, helped him to straighten his arms. He couldn’t help moaning from the hurt the kindness elicited. Then Hutch was cutting the ropes at his feet, tenderly massaging the raw flesh of his ankles. Starsky tried to watch him, but his eyes blurred with tears of relief.
“Jesus, you’re cold…” From somewhere, Hutch produced woolen socks, slipped them over his cold feet. His warm hands ran the length of Starsky’s body, checking for injuries, then a blanket materialized and was wrapped lovingly, carefully around him. Starsky sank back into the new warmth and sighed a prayer of thanksgiving.
A cup was being held to his lips and he could smell coffee. He drank, coughing a little, but it was the best coffee he’d ever tasted, sending warmth down inside him where he’d never thought he’d be warm again.
There was something he had to tell Hutch. “It… it was the weatherman…” The words ended in a coughing fit.
He was held, steadied. “I know,” Hutch told him patiently.
“What time is it?” he mumbled as Hutch continued to do little things designed to make him more comfortable.
“Six forty-five,” was the distracted answer.
“December what?”
“Twenty-fifth, you crazy…”
He managed to make his hand move, reaching to graze the side of Hutch’s cheek, that perfect curve that always looked so appealing. It was rough with stubble now. “Merry Christmas.”
Hutch stopped what he was doing, looking down at him like he was insane. Then the worried blue eyes changed, said he wasn’t nuts after all. Said he was maybe an angel. Starsky knew he looked too battered and scruffy to be an angel of any kind right now, especially a Christmas one. But Hutch’s eyes said he was safe, he was loved. And that made him feel like one.
The sun came up, riding higher by the second. Starsky could see it over Hutch’s shoulder. It looked like it was going to be a beautiful day.
“Merry Christmas…” The whisper was heartfelt. Starsky knew he’d never heard Hutch say those two words in quite that same way.
****
Hutch found himself coming out of a serious nap and shifted in the vinyl hospital room chair. A careful look at the bed showed him his partner was still sleeping. He got up, resisting the urge to curse aloud as his stiffened muscles protested the movement, and moved closer to the bed.
Starsky looked small amid too many contraptions, too many bandages and blankets. All of the bandages and blankets were white, accenting his pallor and the dark bruises on too much of his exposed skin.
Hutch flashed back on them showering together only a few days ago. He’d been concerned at the sight of the bullet scar on Starsky’s back. Musta been hopelessly naïve to think he’d never get another… He tried to tell himself that most of the marks of this new ordeal wouldn’t be permanent.
The list of injuries had been amazing. Starsky had a concussion, a bruised kidney, two cracked ribs, contusions, abrasions, several fairly deep cuts and assorted scratches. Both wrists and both ankles were bandaged. He was connected to an IV, his chest was taped, and other monitors were hooked up. Light sedation had kept him sleeping through the hours since his rescue. Hutch distrusted the medical junk on one level, wishing he could just wrap his arms around Starsky and do him as much good.
He’d had to content himself with checking the blankets piled on his partner, making sure he was warm enough, washing out a few small cuts the nurses had overlooked and combing the tangled curls that at the moment made him look like a slumbering, somewhat battered, cherub.
Hutch leaned over the bed, resting on his forearms, and contemplated the relaxed face. No, not a cherub. A beautiful but very hurt man. A strong man. It was so good just to have him there to look at, safe and secure now, that Hutch was content to patiently await his waking.
He had a lot to tell Starsky. Dobey had filled him in on a few late breaking details. It had turned out that Jake Andrews, the cop lost on a winter hunting trip, had been heading the investigation when Thomas’ daughter, Cathy, was kidnapped, and it now seemed almost certain that he had been the first of the weatherman’s victims. They had been on the right track back at the beginning, but Thomas had moved too fast, throwing too many monkey-wrenches into things, for them to have known it.
Starsky stirred slightly, and groaned in his sleep, brows drawing together. Hutch leaned closer, pulling the blankets up, hands light at his friend’s shoulder, his cheek. The groan became a whimper that tore at his heart.
“Shhh…. Easy….”
“Hutch?” The eyes that had opened looked amazingly blue.
“It’s all right,” he whispered, “go back to sleep. You’re safe; you’re in the hospital…” He reached down, clasping one bandaged hand in his own and squeezing gently.
“Didya… find Larry?” The eyes seemingly struggled to focus, the dark head lifted up from the pillow to look around. “Shit… I feel woozy….”
“I know, partner. Take it easy.”
Starsky coughed, tried to clear his throat. “Got any water around here?”
“Sure.” Hutch poured some into a cup and adjusted the straw, then held it to Starsky’s bruised lips. “Take it slow…”
Starsky sipped thirstily. “You’re gettin’ awful bossy, y’know,” he said when he’d finished.
“No wonder. I’ve been sitting around here all day waiting for you to wake up.”
“If you’d have found me sooner, you wouldn’t…” Starsky seemed to lose track of his thought. “What took you so long, anyway?”
“I was telling Santa Claus what I wanted for Christmas.” The by-play felt good. Hutch felt very tender inside.
Starsky grimaced at him. “What were you doing so far from where we found Thomas’ body and the Torino? If you’d stayed near there, we could have found you last night.”
“I…” Starsky appeared to be concentrating, trying to remember. “I didn’t think you’d know where to look. Thought I better go for help myself. Plus, I was freezin’ out there in my skivvies — had to keep movin’…” He looked up, practically pouting. “Seemed to be a good idea at the time.”
“I know,” Hutch agreed. He stroked along Starsky’s shoulder, reaching around to rub at the back of his neck.
Starsky leaned into the touch, sighing, drifting for a moment. The eyes fluttered again. “Hey, what day is it? Is it still Christmas?”
“You bet. Look, you’ve got a tree and everything.”
Starsky lifted his head again, squinting to look. When he saw the decorated tree Hutch had brought in, complete with twinkling lights, he smiled, looking like himself again for the first time. His eyes found Hutch. “First tree you ever brought me, you realize that?”
“Guess so. What’s that mean?”
“We’re rubbin’ off on each other?” Their eyes held and Hutch chuckled first. Starsky laughed, too, slightly lecherously.
“You said it, not me,” Hutch told him, finally starting to feel right again.
The laughter broke off; Starsky’s face contorted in pain. He shifted position, obviously very uncomfortable. “Jeez, what’d the guy do to me?”
“Beat you up and rearranged your furniture.” Hutch tried to keep it light, but his hand clenched on Starsky’s shoulder. He eased off quickly, fearing to add more pain to his overburdened friend. He leaned closer, looking into Starsky’s eyes. “The doctor says nothing is permanently damaged… honest, Starsk.”
His intensity seemed to get through to him, the ragged breathing steadied. Words Starsky had said to him came back to Hutch. The shower they’d shared, when Starsky had known the direction of his concern on seeing the bullet scar on his shoulder.
“You’re okay, babe,” Hutch repeated now, turning the phrase around. “And I am, too.” He hoped Starsky would remember.
A smile said he did. “Yeah.” The smile was heartfelt. “Both of us, right?”
They were quiet for a few moments, then Starsky asked for more water. When he’d finished and Hutch had replaced the cup, he looked a little more lucid. Hutch knew the questions would start in earnest.
“You found Larry, huh? How about my gun?”
“We’ve got it. He used it on himself, you know.”
A nod, a faraway look of concentration. “He wrote another note. He taped it to me. What’d it say, Hutch?”
“Note? We didn’t find one. It must have come off. You managed to drag yourself a pretty good distance, you know.”
“Yeah. And I kept trying to cut the tape off. I guess I lost it.” Starsky looked a little disappointed. “Guess that’s one thing we’ll never know. What Larry wrote this last time.” Both of them quietly contemplated that. “He was in a lot of pain, Hutch,” Starsky said softly, acknowledging, as they always did, that the criminal sometimes hurts as bad as the pain he inflicts on others. Then his eyes focused more sharply. “Hey, how about my car? He wrecked my car, Hutch!”
Hutch grinned. “I know. Don’t worry about it. Merle was good enough to tow it in on Christmas day, just for you, and he says it’s gonna be fine. Just one little dented fender.” And a lot of scratches on the paint. But he didn’t add that detail.
Starsky’s eyes closed. “Good.”
Hutch waited, but his partner didn’t seem to have anything more to say at the moment. “You going back to sleep?” he asked gently.
The eyes stayed closed. “No. I’m waiting.”
“Waiting for what?”
This time, the blue eyes looked straight at him.
“Am I dying or anything?”
“No.”
“Well, are you plannin’ on kissing me anytime soon? Cause unless I’m dying I can’t think of any reason not to. I mean, I feel pretty crummy, but I’m not too weak for a kiss, at least.”
“Oh.” Hutch gulped, feeling distinctly contrite. He’d been so wrapped up in Starsky’s possible pain and his attempt at comforting him, he’d not allowed himself the new roles they had discovered. He leaned close, eager to make amends. He touched Starsky’s lips very gently, but the kiss was tender, moving him deeply within the bonds of their intimacy.
“Ummm.” Starsky ran his tongue over his lips. “Tastes like more.”
Hutch kissed him again, longer this time.
“Hutch,” Starsky said, looking serious, “I’m sorry you missed Christmas with your family.”
“I’m not. I’m with my family, partner.” Hutch couldn’t look serious, knew he was smiling sunnily. December had started out bleak, but it wasn’t any more. “Merry Christmas, love.”
He bent and kissed him once more, remembering a thought he’d had when they’d made love the last time:
If Christmas could always be like this, I’d never want it to end….
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