Down a Dark Hall

396

Starsky goes undercover to investigate a series of gruesome murders at an exclusive women’s college while Hutch works the case from the outside. What the two men discover will threaten their lives, their sanity, and their souls.

 

Down a Dark Hall was originally published as a stand-alone zine in 1996.

Archivist’s Warning: This story contains graphic descriptions of violent crime scenes.

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PART ONE

The clicking of the typewriter was the only friendly sound that made the ominous old building seem friendly and familiar. Maplecrest College boasted “a beautiful, historic building” housing classrooms and offices, as well as a “scenic, tree-shaded campus.” It had all of that, no doubt about it, she thought with a little smirk. A sprawling mansion built in the 1890’s, converted to the exclusive women’s college in 1950. The standards were high and only the very best students were admitted. The student count peaked at 750 and usually hovered around the 700 mark. Despite the tiny student body, a teaching position at Maplecrest was a major coup for a young professor. In a sea of mediocrity, Maplecrest prided itself on being a bastion of excellence.

What a crock of self-righteous, overly pretentious glop that was, she thought, shaking her head as she typed away at her monthly report to the department chairperson. Dr. Evelyn Lansing. Now there was a pretentious windbag if ever there was one. Maybe the job opening she had applied for at UCLA would pan out, and her days in what felt like a concentration camp would be over soon.

A door opened and closed again. She ceased typing her report and listened. The door to her tiny faculty office was opened slightly, but the hall outside was almost totally dark. Here I am summarizing my life for the drill sergeant. Here I am, doing all the stuff they tell you not to do to stay safe—working alone at night in an empty building. And now someone else is out in that hallway.

Probably another faculty member. Maybe the esteemed Dr. Lansing herself. She approached her open door quietly. There were two options. Lock the door and call the police—which would leave her feeling like an idiot when one of her colleagues turned out to be connected to the footsteps she could hear now in the hall—or simply get over her paranoia and go see who it was. She chose the latter option…

* * *

Starsky yawned and stretched in the passenger seat of the light green LTD. Hutch glanced over at him, mildly irritated at his partner’s frequent displays of fatigue. Pulling double shifts for the last two weeks trying to wrap up a case Dobey had them on with narcotics had left them both more than a little wilted. Hutch had determined there weren’t enough health shakes known to man to effectively battle this schedule, and watching Starsky yawn and stretch like an old hound in front of a fireplace wasn’t perking him up any. A stakeout spent staring at an office building waiting to catch a glimpse of an alleged drug dealer’s best customer (who was in turn suspected of murdering a business associate who was allegedly blackmailing him because of his habit—hence, the reason for Homicide to get involved) to show up and make a buy was akin to taking a sleeping pill and being forced to fight its effects.

Little did they know their days on this case were numbered. Across town, in an exclusive suburban area, their next case was being created in a bloody frenzy…

* * *

“You want to get some breakfast or just go home?” Starsky asked his partner as they walked back into the precinct to quickly type up a report which would essentially inform Dobey that nothing had happened during the stakeout.

“Go home, I think. I’m too tired to eat.” Hutch plopped into the chair behind his desk and stared at Starsky, who grudgingly took on the task of typing up the report. It was his turn. A little after six in the morning, they were shocked to see Dobey pop out of his office, looking as if he had been up and at ’em for hours. Turns out he had been.

“I need to see you two in my office now.” He waited in the doorway while they filed in past him. “I’m pulling you off the narcotics investigation.” He sat behind his desk while his two detectives occupied chairs across from it.

“Not that we’re complaining, but is something wrong?” Hutch asked.

“Nothing with what you’re doing. But you’re needed elsewhere. More specifically, I need Starsky.”

“What for?” Starsky asked, a little surprised to have been singled out.

“For starters, you’re the only Jewish homicide detective I’ve got.”

“Back up a minute—what do you need a Jewish homicide detective for?”

“An undercover assignment. You ought to like this. You’re going to teach at an all-women’s college.”

“He’s going to teach at a college?” Hutch’s amused shock irritated Starsky.

“And what makes you think I couldn’t do that?”

“For one thing, you’ve barely darkened the doors of one let alone taught anything.”

“I’ll have you know that—”

“Quit bickering, both of you,” Dobey overrode Starsky’s angry response. “A young professor was murdered there last night. Anna Goldman. She was teaching Judaism: Faith and Practice, as well as two sections of general courses on Religions of the World.”

“Wait a minute—you want me to teach a class on Religions of the World? Cap’n, the Jewish thing, maybe, but—”

“You can read, right?” Dobey barked.

“Of course I can—”

“Then you can pick up the textbooks and get one step ahead of your students. Professor Goldman was an expert in Jewish theology. The reason we want to send someone undercover is that this is the fourth homicide to occur on that campus in the past year. Prior to this year, the crime rate was negligible and consisted of one or two traffic violations. Now, the person the college would obviously replace her with would have expertise in Jewish theology—”

“Cap, I hardly qualify as an expert—”

“Didn’t your mother make you go to services?”

“Well, yeah, but—”

“And you know about Jewish food?”

“Yeah, but—”

“And you know when the holidays are and what the customs are?”

“Of course, but—”

“Then quit adding ‘but’ on the end of every answer! You know what you need to know for this assignment. Your students aren’t experts in it either. You know more than they do. I checked with the registrar. Out of the 716 students currently registered, 14 are Jewish. Only one of those students is registered in what is going to be your class.”

“With all due respect, Captain, the students at Maplecrest are some of the brightest in the country. How long do you think it’ll be before they eat him alive?”

“Thanks, Hutch. I suppose you think I could handle a room full of dumb ones.”

“I didn’t say that. I just mean that sending anyone in who doesn’t have a background in education to teach a room full of some of the top students in the country is a little…problematic, don’t you think?” He looked at Dobey, hoping he had softened his criticism of the captain’s plan—and his partner’s intelligence—adequately. He hadn’t.

“Look, we need to get to the bottom of this. There’s national attention focused on this situation, and I don’t have another cop who knows a blessed thing about the Jewish religion to send in there. Now I think Starsky can handle this one, and I’m through justifying it to you, Hutchinson.” Dobey turned his attention to Starsky. “Now, here’s a list of the textbooks for the two courses you’ll be teaching. Professor Goldman’s syllabi are attached, so you’ll know how far she had progressed with the students. I’ve set up a meeting for you with the department head at noon today. You will take over the teaching assignment starting Monday.”

“Cap’n, there are five books between these two courses—you’re only giving me three days to put this together?”

“You’ll be off active duty. Hutchinson, you’re going to be his contact on the outside. You’ll follow up the leads, investigate the case officially for the department. You two work out your contact arrangements and keep me informed. By the way, Starsky, you’re Professor David Levinson. This is your background information. Your cover story is that you have been hired on a temporary basis to take over Anna Goldman’s teaching duties. Your appointment will be officially reviewed later in the term by the appropriate search committee. That was the only story we could come up with to side-step involving an entire committee of faculty in your cover. They normally go through quite a procedure to hire a professor.”

“At least I get to keep my first name.”

“Levinson is our character. His background has been set up with all the institutions and individuals you’ll find listed on your ‘resume.’ Now, if you two are interested, the homicide you’re investigating is a particularly gruesome one. Professor Goldman was apparently working in her office last night. She was found around four a.m. by the caretaker who noticed a light on in the main building. She was stabbed and slashed numerous times, apparently put up quite a struggle. There was blood from one end of the hall to the other in the faculty office’s wing. A final chest wound was the fatal one. All the details, crime scene photos, etc., are in this file.”

“Who else on the campus is in on my cover?” Starsky asked.

“Dr. Lansing—she’s the Social Sciences Department chairperson, the President—Dr. Garner, and the Dean of Students—Dr. Barnard. You’ll have to be on your best behavior around there. There are only two male faculty members and one male administrator—Dr. Barnard. I don’t have to tell you that I’ve been warned more than once that the quality of programs or the well-being of the students can’t be compromised by our operation.”

“I won’t chase the girls or go on any panty-raids while I’m there, Cap,” Starsky responded with a devilish grin.

“You’re damn right you won’t, Starsky. Now, Hutch, I want you over at the crime scene—do the usual routine to get the investigation started. I don’t want you and Starsky seen together on the campus.” Dobey paused, and a smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. “Now go hit the books, professor.” Dobey leaned back in his chair. “Oh, and when you visit Dr. Lansing today, wear a suit,” he ordered, with the chiding tone of a benevolently irritated father.

* * *

“Thanks a lot for your support in there, pal.” Starsky grabbed his jacket off the back of the chair near his desk. He didn’t look happy.

“I was just concerned how feasible your cover was, Starsk. I mean there is a killer at work here.”

“It’s not that, Hutch.” He kept heading for the door. “Drop me at home, huh?”

“You want to tell me what it is you’re mad at?”

“Oh, I’m sure you can figure it out, college boy.”

“Damn it, Starsky, what’s eating you?”

“‘You’ve barely darkened the doors of one let alone taught anything,'” he mocked Hutch’s earlier statement. “Could you have made me sound a little dumber if you worked on it? You know, buddy, not everything in this life is a matter of choice for some of us.” By now they were in the morning sun-drenched parking lot, and Starsky was walking determinedly toward the light green LTD, the third in Hutch’s ongoing progression of clunkers.

“Meaning what?”

“Meaning that some of us aren’t born into a situation where we go the ballet and the opera and get a free pleasure cruise through college or have any reason to know what kind of caviar is better or how to pick the right wine with escargot. Let me enlighten you about something. My family isn’t rich—”

“Mine weren’t always either, but—”

“But they were never really poor either. And you said yourself you ran with a rich crowd in college. My dad worked his ass off; every hour of overtime he could get to support us. When he was gunned down in the street, my mother had to take funeral money from Joe Durniak to get him buried, and then we had to get by on his pension. There were debts…the point is, you have this superior attitude toward me every time we’re in a situation where your background has you better prepared. And when I fall on my face, you laugh at me along with everyone else. How many times have you ever, in your self-satisfied life, tried to help me out when I was floundering around in one of those situations? And why do you have so damn much fun watching me sweat, huh? I don’t understand it sometimes, Hutch.” Starsky shook his head and got in the passenger side of the car.

“Starsky, I don’t know what to say.”

“That’s a first. Didn’t you take some kind of public speaking class that covers this?”

“If you wanted to go to college, you could have anytime, pal.” Hutch felt his temper rising to a simmer under the attack.

“Oh, sure I could. Working the hours we work, I could get my degree like nothin’. Oh, and while I’m at it, I’ll just draw on my extensive inheritance to pay the tuition. How in the hell do you think my mother survives, pays her bills? On that dribble of a pension that’s left to her? You know what that’s worth after inflation gets done with it? Where the hell do you think I’d come up with money to pay my own bills, half of hers and tuition? I need my overtime to handle all that now.” Starsky was quiet a minute. “It amazes me sometimes for someone as sensitive and perceptive as you are never had a reality check on what opportunities are out there for the rest of us who don’t have all the advantages handed to them.”

“I suppose you’re implying I haven’t worked for anything I’ve got.”

“No, I’m not. You’re a damn fine cop—the best in the business. And you work like hell at it, and you’re dedicated. I’m not picking you apart for anything like that.

What I am saying is that I’m surprised you’re so unaware of what life’s like for someone whose options were limited. That’s no cop out, Hutch. Yeah, it is when you’re using it to say you knocked over a liquor store or killed someone because you had a rough childhood and limited opportunities, but it’s reality when you go back and evaluate why you didn’t go to college, or why you don’t know all the right words for what ballerinas are doing jumping around on a stage, or why you feel like the houseboy when you’re at a fancy party in someone’s mansion, and the only person you know decides he’s going to mingle by himself. You cover my back in every other situation but one like that. It’s just odd.”

“Starsky, I don’t understand what triggered this. Anything I’ve ever said, I was only kidding. I’ve teased you, but I didn’t mean anything by it.” Hutch paused. “What’s really bothering you?”

“This case. This assignment. I guess I’m scared. I never did go to college for more than a class or two, and you’re right—I never taught anything. I’m going to have this room full of brains staring me in the face. Not just average kids, but brainy kids. I’ll probably fall on my face introducing myself.” Starsky stared out the window a moment. “I’m sorry I jumped all over you. I’m just nervous.”

“Look, while I get started on the investigation, go round up the books and get your meeting with Lansing out of the way. I’ll help you all I can to get ready for this, okay?”

“You will? After all the shitty things I just said?”

“Not all of them were that far off base, buddy. We’re partners, right? That means we take on this stuff as a team. I won’t leave you floundering on this one. I promise.”

“Thanks.” Starsky exhaled and leaned back in the seat. “I should call my mother. She always wanted me to amount to something. I can tell her I was a college professor for a coupla weeks anyway.”

“Why don’t you talk to Dobey about getting your degree? The department’ll sometimes pay part or all of the tuition.”

“I know. If I want to go to college to learn to be a cop. I think I’ve got that one covered. If I went, I’d want to do something different. I don’t think I could sit in a classroom and listen to some stuffy old windbag teach me about the criminal mind. I guess I don’t really want to do it that much right now. I just wonder sometimes how things would’ve changed if I could have gone right after high school. And sometimes I hate that I don’t know all the right things to say or do in some situations. I don’t like that I embarrass you when I don’t mean to.”

“Starsk.”

“You can’t say I haven’t.”

“Half the time if you do it’s my own fault. Look, when I was in college, I did travel with a pretty affluent crowd. We played one-up tricks on each other all the time, and if you could manage to ruffle or embarrass one of those guys, you were doing well. It was a sort of competition.”

“Doesn’t sound like those were friends—more like adversaries.”

“You can tell how many of them I stayed in touch with over the years. Much to Van’s chagrin.” Hutch snickered. “She thought there was a hope of running with the ivy league set.”

“Do you miss doing that? Running with the ivy league set?”

“Not as a rule. But old habits die hard. The sparring was fun on occasion. You were always a little off-balance because you never knew what was going to get shot at you, or what situation you were going to find yourself in. Taught me to think on my feet.”

“That’s great on the streets or at work, but…”

“It stinks with your best friend, huh?” Hutch smiled faintly.

“I guess I just never learned to be on my guard with you, and I get caught once in a while. This is a stupid conversation, Hutch. I don’t why I brought it up. I guess I’m just nervous.” Starsky fell silent as they approached his apartment building.

“Well, I’ll stop in later and fill you in on what’s up with the investigation. Want me to bring dinner?” Hutch noticeably refrained from making any comment on their conversation.

“Yeah. How about pizza?”

“Maybe,” Hutch retorted as his partner got out of the car.

“Or Chinese. Or Mexican…” Starsky paused. “Don’t worry about what I said, Hutch. I didn’t mean it. I was just rambling. You know I talk too much when I’m nervous.” He moved back from the car and then hurried up the driveway and up the steps to his door. He hadn’t waited for an answer. Hutch pulled away as his friend disappeared inside the apartment. And he mulled the conversation over in his mind.

* * *

Maplecrest College looked more like a country estate than a college campus. Open iron gates and flagstone columns marked the entrance, with a wide concrete drive running between them. A bronze sign announced the name of the college and its date of establishment, 1950.

The rustle of trees almost drowned out the roar of the LTD’s engine as it made its way up the drive toward the main building. As Hutch drove further, the trees cleared considerably to reveal picnic tables where students studied or shared snacks, against the backdrop of the imposing mansion that housed the classrooms and offices of the prestigious little college. It was a tall, red-brick Victorian-style structure with arched windows and several chimneys sprouting from the roof to accommodate the numerous fireplaces inside. There was a more modern building about two hundred yards away which served as a residence hall. The buildings were reached by long, winding sidewalks that bridged the distance between them and the parking lots. Nothing so vulgar as parking would be allowed near the serenity of the building itself.

The LTD took its place among Cadillacs, Lincolns, Mercedes, and other expensive, late-model cars. Poor Starsk. This was an intimidating atmosphere at best. He’d be a fish out of water in this place. Hutch felt awkward himself as he approached the main building, immersed in burgundy blazer-clad college girls. Once inside, he noted the only other male he saw in the area, a professor, dressed in a grey suit, white shirt and tie. No wonder the girls had checked him out like he was a walking lab experiment. A leather jacket, jeans and shirt weren’t standard apparel for this place.

The building still gave off the feeling you had entered someone’s estate rather than a public place. Whoever renovated this place into a school had done a wonderful job. Most of the ornate woodwork, high ceilings, original doors and hardware were still intact. In fact, despite the overhead lighting, some of the original gaslight fixtures remained.

The faculty office area had been roped off as a crime scene, and that was his first stop. He recognized the officer on guard duty by the tape-sealed double doors and identified himself.

“Hey, Hutch, these old bats have been at me all morning to let them get in there and get it cleaned up and open again,” Patrolman Hank Murdock greeted him.

“Well, they’ll have to keep their shirts on a while longer.” Hutch opened the doors and stepped into the gloomy hallway.

“God, I hope they do that. I ain’t ready to see that group topless,” Murdock quipped.

Hutch snickered a little, but it was cut short when he flipped on the overhead lights.

“Dear God.”

“Nasty mess, eh?” Murdock responded, standing in the doorway.

“Really.” Hutch opened the folder of crime scene photos and information he had been carrying and started comparing them with what he was looking at now. “Makes you wonder what would possess a woman to work alone in this mausoleum at night.” He found the office that had been Anna Goldman’s, and would probably soon be “Professor Levinson’s.” It was a small but pleasant room with one tiny window. Books congested it from all sides. Typical faculty office. There was almost no blood in this room. She must have faced her attacker in the hall. Hutch felt himself shiver and suddenly was aware that despite his jacket and the mildness of the day, he was cold. “Murdock?”

“Yeah?”

“Does it feel cold in here to you?”

“Not really.” Murdock was wearing a typical short-sleeved uniform shirt. Hutch had two layers of long sleeves protecting his arms, but still he shivered.

“Must be a draft in the hall here.” He ducked back into Anna Goldman’s office and began picking through the papers. There was little of significance to a murder investigation. Student papers, textbooks, lecture notes, correspondence, hand-outs from a faculty meeting, periodicals, a couple of book catalogs…standard college professor items. There was a photo on the desk of Anna and another young woman at their graduation, presumably from graduate school based on their regalia. A decorative brass paperweight, a set of bookends and some assorted cosmetic items in one of the desk drawers were the extent of the woman’s personal possessions. None of them “told a story.” Hutch wandered back down the hall, happy to be ending his tour of the crime scene. The warmth was almost tangible as he made the transition back to the spot outside the doors where Murdock stood guard.

“Well?”

“Not a hell of a lot to go on. Well, I’m going to catch up with Dr. Lansing—”

“The Wicked Witch of the West, huh?”

“Sweet lady, eh?” Hutch responded with a smile.

“She was kind of a looker, actually, but when I told her she couldn’t go down the hall to her office, I was afraid of her.”

“Well, I’ll be back to do a search of all the offices later, but for now I want to get a hold of Lansing. Hang in there, Murdock,” Hutch concluded, smiling as he walked down the hall to the stairs. Dr. Lansing had told him to find her in the Registrar’s Office, where she was temporarily working until she could return to her own office. It was almost eleven, and Hutch wanted to be safely out of the way before Starsky showed up at noon, playing his Levinson role. He approached the woman at the counter. A small lady of about sixty, she was an oasis of friendliness in the chilly environment.

“I’m here to see Dr. Lansing. Detective Hutchinson.” He flashed his badge.

“Good morning, Officer. If you’ll have a seat, I’ll let her know you’re here.”

“Thanks.” Hutch settled in one of the straight-back chairs opposite the counter while he heard murmuring female voices from the back of the office.

“Detective Hutchinson, you can come on back,” the woman directed, opening a small, solid wood gate that separated the office from the reception area.

“Thank you.” He followed her to a small, private office and found an elegant, but ruffled-looking woman whom he judged to be in her early forties behind a cramped desk.

“I’m Evelyn Lansing,” she announced, standing to shake hands. Her eyes skimmed his attire, not approvingly. Wicked Witch of the West, huh? Murdock was too kind.

“Dr. Lansing. I’m Sergeant Hutchinson, Metro PD. I’ll be in charge of the murder investigation.”

“Please have a seat.” She resumed her perch behind the desk as he followed her directive. “You can appreciate what an inconvenience it is for our faculty to be unable to access their offices.”

“Perhaps you can appreciate that a young woman was brutally murdered there less than 12 hours ago, and we need to preserve any possible evidence so you don’t have your fifth campus homicide this year.” Hutch watched her enamel crack a little, but no perceptible break occurred. “I do understand that we have to wrap up that segment of the investigation as quickly as possible, and it would be my hope that we could do so by tomorrow morning. I have to talk to the coroner’s office and forensics first. If I get a green light, you’ll have the offices back by then. As you know, we have someone coming on board undercover to assist with the investigation.”

“I hoped you might fill in some blanks about this individual’s background. I don’t wish to compromise the integrity of our students’ educational experience. I had hoped your operative would be here in a non-academic capacity.”

“We need to have someone infiltrate campus life to do this properly. A clerical or custodial employee would not be in the same position as a faculty member. And students would have limited interaction with faculty and staff and administration. A faculty member’s position does offer us the most opportunity.”

“What is, ah, Professor Levinson’s background—really?”

“He’s my partner. Another homicide detective.”

“I’m aware he is a detective. I meant his academic background.”

“He was raised Jewish, so—”

“He has no worthwhile academic background is what you’re saying?”

“He graduated from high school, the police academy, and has had some college courses.” Hutch didn’t enumerate to her that there were only two of them—one psychology class and one criminology class. “He has a perfect 4-point in his college courses.” Well, he did pull two A’s, that was no lie.

“All our faculty have terminal degrees, Sergeant.”

“He isn’t a faculty member, with all due respect, Dr. Lansing. He is a homicide detective, and this is a homicide investigation. Now if I were a parent of one of your students, I would rather think my daughter spent a few weeks in a course taught by someone without a terminal degree while these murders were investigated than to be assured of the integrity of her education and have her be the next one on the coroner’s slab downtown.”

“You don’t need to be crude.”

“And you don’t need to assume that my partner is an inarticulate idiot, either. Our captain wouldn’t have assigned him if he couldn’t handle it.”

“I won’t even ask about your captain’s academic credentials.” She shook her head. “How long do you expect this little escapade to last?”

“This escapade, as you call it, will last until we apprehend the killer or our captain pulls the plug on it. Now, I also need to meet with your head of security here.”

“We only have two security guards, one day, one night, provided by a security service.” She flipped through the cards on a Rolodex and copied a name and number on a sheet of memo paper and handed it to Hutch. “The night man called in sick at the last minute, and apparently there was no one available to replace him. There was no one here. The police were supposedly stepping up patrols around the campus.”

“In all fairness, we can’t provide private security service, and it’s nearly impossible to see this campus from the road.” Hutch paused and ignored her impassive expression. “What can you tell me about Anna Goldman?”

“She was a promising young scholar. Graduated with honors from Harvard University, with a perfect 4-point, I believe.” Dr. Lansing’s snide reference to Hutch’s summary of Starsky’s qualifications was not lost on him, but he let it pass. “She was already published in two scholarly periodicals during her doctoral studies and recently was offered a book deal to write about Judaism in modern American culture. She was single, has parents residing in New Hampshire, and that is the extent of the information I can give you.”

“Anyone on the faculty or staff she was particularly friendly with?”

“I don’t really know.”

“All right. Thank you for your time, Dr. Lansing. As I said, we’ll try to have the offices open to you by tomorrow morning. My partner should be here for a noon appointment.”

“He’s on my book.”

“Well, I’ll be in touch. Here’s my card if you think of anything else.” He handed one to her, and she accepted it. He was more than relieved to be out of her office and heading for the door.

He made a thorough walking tour of the grounds, giving special attention to areas near the faculty offices. He stopped at the caretaker’s house to question him and his wife. Del and Arlene Statler could only tell him the time they noticed the light go on, which was when Anna Goldman first arrived to begin working in her office. She placed a call to them five minutes later to let them know she was there, so they wouldn’t worry or call the police. The light was still burning when they retired for the night at 10:30 p.m. When Mr. Statler got up to use the bathroom and went to the kitchen for a drink of water at 3:00 a.m. and the light was still on, he went up to the building to investigate and found the body. No surprises, no leads to be had here. Hutch left the campus shortly before his partner arrived.

* * *

Starsky pulled the Torino into a vacant parking spot between a Mercedes and a Cadillac. Well, it was an expensive college, so you couldn’t expect the faculty to travel in jalopies. He got out of the car and straightened the black three-piece suit. He felt more like a funeral director than a professor. He sure as hell didn’t feel like a cop. He had his folder of phony credentials in a sweaty death grip as he made his way up the sidewalk to the main building. God, why didn’t they put Hutch in this role? Hutch a Jew. The thought made him smile broadly as he completed his walk to the front door. A couple of attractive students returned it. Well, maybe I can get by on my smile, he thought. Yeah, right.

The small older woman behind the counter in the Registrar’s Office smiled pleasantly as he approached her.

“Good afternoon.” He smiled slightly. “I’m Dr. Levinson—I have an appointment with Dr. Lansing at noon.”

“Of course. Dr. Lansing is expecting you. Please, right this way.” She led him back to the small office. Evelyn Lansing rose from her desk and in sight of the secretary, greeted her new professor very pleasantly and politely, shaking his hand and welcoming him to Maplecrest. When the door closed behind them, Starsky knew she would take the gloves off, and she did.

“Well, Sergeant,” she took his folder of false credentials, “would that David Levinson existed.”

“Look, Dr. Lansing, I know you’re probably not thrilled with this situation, and neither am I.”

“Very perceptive. I spoke with your partner earlier. He said you had some college background. How extensive was it?”

“I thought you wanted Levinson’s resume, not mine,” he retorted.

“I want both.”

“I took two classes over the last three or four years.”

“Splendid.” There was heavy sarcasm in her tone. “In what?”

“Psychology and Criminology.”

“Sergeant Starsky, I—”

“Dr. Lansing, please use my undercover name when you talk to me. If my cover’s blown here, I might as well not bother, and while that’s probably an attractive option to you right now, it won’t be if you end up with many more corpses on your campus. Bad for business. My first name really is David, so if you’d like to use that, please feel free.”

“Dr. Levinson, then. I have to be concerned with the education of our students. I also am concerned with the propriety of unqualified male faculty. This is a women’s institution—”

“I don’t have any plans to chase the girls if that’s what you’re worried about. I’m a professional, Dr. Lansing. I may not have a half-dozen letters after my name, but I’m good at what I do, and I take it seriously. I don’t pretend to know as much as you do, or Anna Goldman did, about higher education, but I know a lot more about police work. I assure you I won’t behave in an inappropriate manner around the girls. I’m not here to play The Dating Game. I’m looking for a homicidal maniac.”

“Very well. At least we understand each other.” She closed the folder and laid her clasped hands on top of it. “I’ll give you a tour of the campus. Of course, you will be able to use Professor Goldman’s office as soon as your colleagues give us permission to do the necessary…maintenance work on the office area and begin using our offices again. I have made arrangements for other faculty to take over the Introduction to World Religions courses. The only course you will be teaching is the course on Judaism. I felt that might be less…awkward.”

“Thank you. It will be. Look, Dr. Lansing, I’m not trying to pass myself off as something I’m not. I’m not a professor, and I know that. But I promise you I won’t just go into that classroom without thinking and waste the students’ time. I’ll come up with something worthwhile before I go in there.”

“I suppose that’s all I can ask. And you do have Dr. Goldman’s materials.” She stood up and led the way to the door.

When Dr. Lansing would fall silent during their walk through the old building, Starsky could almost lose himself in the charm and vintage architecture of the place. Classrooms were small and well-appointed, voices of students and professors were well-modulated but at times, lively. The student lounge was a large, high-ceilinged room on the first floor with a fireplace and elegant furnishings. The massive open staircase led up to the second floor, where Dr. Lansing gestured toward the police guard and the faculty office area, explaining to her new professor (for the benefit of students passing them in the hall) that the area was temporarily closed due to Dr. Goldman’s death.

“And this is the library,” she explained, leading the way into a richly decorated room with highly polished woodwork and a myriad of books on what must have been original shelves in the mansion’s library. Students sat at long tables, silently studying. He felt self-conscious that their shoes were making noise on the hardwood floors as they walked.

“It’s beautiful,” he murmured.

“But completely inadequate. When we opened 30 years ago, we had 200 students, and one program of study—nursing. Since then, we have grown to over 700 students and added three additional programs of study—education, social work and psychology. The library has not been significantly updated in that time.”

“Fundraising can’t be too hard—I mean most of your students come from wealthy families, don’t they?”

“Of course, and we are blessed with strong donor support…that the Board of Control feels should be allocated to plant Japanese Maples around the pond behind the residence halls.” Starsky laughed, almost out loud, at her remark. “I fail to see how an ornamental tree with prickly little leaves is going to help a student reach her educational goals when she can’t obtain the materials she needs in the library.”

“Aesthetics, Dr. Lansing. Aesthetics are everything,” Starsky quipped sarcastically, still smiling.

“Well, God help you, you’ll probably fit in just fine with the upper administration,” she responded, smirking. “The worst part of it is, I hate Japanese Maples.” She looked at Starsky, and for some reason chuckled softly. Actually, Evelyn Lansing could be considered quite pretty, in an elegant sort of way, if she’d do that more often, he thought. He shared the laugh, amazed to have found some thread of humanity in this woman, whose stark business suit and upswept blonde hair, not to mention abrupt manner, obscured that thread most of the time.

Upon their return to Dr. Lansing’s temporary office, she provided him with a course schedule as well as notices on upcoming faculty meetings, social events and general campus events. She watched the detective scanning the materials with some trepidation.

“The faculty meetings could be a bit difficult for you. I can’t lie about that. Since the faculty in general are not aware you’re undercover, they will come at you with claws out.”

“Gee, thanks for putting it that way.”

“We have a very lively faculty, Sergeant—Dr. Levinson. I will work on getting the name right, by the way. As I was saying, they are outspoken, generally among the best in their field, and they tend to debate ruthlessly.” She was silent a moment. “I would recommend a brief flu be contracted for the morning of the 18th. I’ll see to it your class is covered that day—just call my secretary that morning.”

“Good idea. They’d probably eat me alive in there.”

“As far as the social activities, I would assume those are the types of events you’re hoping to infiltrate.”

“I am. And I’ll be showing up for any of these other things too, like the plays or the choir concert.”

“Splendid. If I may be of help, please contact me. I have reservations about all of this, but I do want to see this…maniac stopped.”

“Thanks. I will.” He stood to leave. “Has anybody ever really gone after your Board about updating the library?”

“Tirelessly. We did manage to acquire an antique painting for over the fireplace,” she responded with a knowing look.

“Sounds like a group of real deep thinkers on that Board. Next time, tell them even a dumb cop could figure out that a library is close to useless without some up-to-date books in it.”

“Perhaps I should attribute that quote to Dr. Levinson.”

“Oh, thanks. That’s all I need—to get the Board members after my head. I’ll be in touch,” Starsky left the office with a smile.

Dr. Lansing hadn’t dismembered him. Starsky was more than mildly relieved that he was able to make a positive contact with the woman, and the campus was beautiful. Maybe this assignment wouldn’t be all that bad. Not having to face those two religion classes unburdened him greatly, and he found himself enjoying his stroll around the grounds. He was able to snoop around the building under the faculty office area without attracting too much attention, since he was supposedly new faculty acquainting himself with the place. As he followed the sidewalk toward the residence hall building—to see the proposed site for the Japanese Maples—a voice startled him from behind.

“A fox on its way to the henhouse?” He spun around, startled, to face a student who had fallen into step with him. “Mandy Corrigan,” she said, extending a hand. He shook it.

“David Levinson,” he responded, relieved he’d remembered his alias.

“I’ve always wanted to use that line, but there aren’t too many men around here, and Professor Billings would probably flunk me if I said it to him. So, what’s a David Levinson?” Mandy was not especially stunning in appearance, with medium brown hair, glasses, no particular fondness for jewelry and a decidedly confident manner. But she was very likable.

“I’m taking over Dr. Goldman’s class on Judaism.”

“Oh my God. You’re a professor?”

“Thanks. I kinda thought I was faking it pretty well with the suit,” he quipped, knowing she would laugh, not realizing how true the statement was. She did laugh.

“You’re not mad?”

“Nah. All this formality gags me after a while anyway.”

“When you introduced yourself using your first and last name, I never dreamed…”

“Oh, you mean I’m only supposed to be Dr. somebody?”

“More or less. Everyone around here is.”

“So what are you studying?”

“Education—I’m going to be an elementary teacher, hopefully a principal, eventually. And I’m in that Judaism class, so I’ll be seeing you there.”

“It’s kind of odd, stepping in mid-stream for another professor. What was Dr. Goldman like? I don’t mean to put you on the spot, I’m just curious about a student’s point of view.”

“You are? There’s a new concept. She was smart, very organized, knew her stuff…”

“Boring?”

“You have no idea! I think we’re almost done memorizing the Jewish calendar. I mean I thought I was going to learn something meaningful—not just a bunch of dates and laws and definitions.”

“You ever had blintzes or potato knishes?”

“Never heard of them.”

“This might be fun after all,” Starsky responded with a devilish grin. “So, where’s the pond?”

Mandy provided Starsky with a student’s tour of the grounds near the residence halls, the public areas of the building itself, and chattered non-stop about personalities of almost every professor on the campus. Somehow, this briefing was more helpful than Dr. Lansing’s.

* * *

Having shed his suit in favor of an old pair of shorts and an equally ratty t-shirt, Starsky stretched out on his couch with the textbook for the course on Judaism. No wonder these poor kids are bored out of their chairs. He found himself wanting to nod off after the first couple pages. He finally tossed it aside and picked up the phone to call the most prominent expert in Jewish theology he knew—his mother.

When Hutch arrived, he let himself in at Starsky’s direction and saw his partner with the phone cradled between his shoulder and ear, taking diligent notes as he sat on the couch. He was shocked when Starsky concluded the conversation with, “Love you too, Ma. Yeah, I’ll keep you posted. Bye.” He hung up and looked up at Hutch.

“What’d you bring?”

“Chinese. Since when does your mother make you take notes on your conversations? Afraid she’ll quiz you later?” Hutch teased.

“Well, take a look at this book and tell me if you’d enjoy this class.”

“What do you mean?” Hutch set the food on the kitchen counter and returned to take the book. He sat on the opposite end of the couch and kicked off his shoes, bringing his own feet up to share the middle cushion. “Will you quit hogging?” He playfully nudged Starsky’s feet closer to the back of the couch.

“Daddy long legs,” Starsky shot back, shifting positions slightly.

“My, but this is a bit dry, isn’t it?” Hutch was leafing through the chapters. “Where’s the…I don’t know…culture? Spirit?”

“Exactly. That’s why I called my mother. I want to teach these students something about what it means to be Jewish, and why we sometimes have more fun than the rest of you.”

“You do, huh?”

“I met one student today who said she’d never even heard of a blintz. Can you imagine that?” Starsky needled. Hutch always bristled at the pet name Starsky had assigned to him, and over the years, that never changed.

“Lucky girl,” he retorted sourly.

“So what’s in the bag?” Starsky got up and started digging through the take-out bag, setting out the myriad of white containers.

“You sound pretty content with this assignment,” Hutch responded, joining his partner in the kitchen to divide up the goodies on two plates.

“Well, Dr. Lansing isn’t so bad when you get to know her.”

“Come again?”

“She hates Japanese Maples.”

“I can tell you’re being purposely obtuse about this.”

“What?” Starsky looked up, puzzled.

“You’re playing dumb about explaining yourself.”

“Oh.” Starsky mulled that over a moment, eating a chunk of orange chicken. He followed Hutch to the table. “Want a beer?”

“Sure.” Hutch sat down and Starsky soon joined him, beers in hand.

“Well, we got to talking while she was showing me around, and she was really pretty nice to me after a point. She was telling me how their Board keeps voting the funds they get for some useless thing like ornamental trees or paintings but won’t update the library. Japanese Maples for the pond behind the residence hall are next.”

“Oh.” Hutch ate in silence for a while. “She seemed so…snotty when I dealt with her.”

“Maybe you were trying to fake it too much.”

“What do you mean?”

“Act like you were on her level. Sometimes, Hutch, you gotta admit when you’re outclassed. Then, if the other person is really a class act, they’ll get off their high horse and relate to you. But I think somebody like her gets madder if you try to be something you’re not. I didn’t tell her any lies.”

“Neither did I.”

“Yeah, but you probably tried to make me sound like more than I was.”

“But see that’s the attitude I don’t like. That you’re ‘less’ than they are because you’re a cop and not an egghead.”

“It was funny about Dr. Lansing though. When I let my guard down, leveled with her, risked her looking down her nose at me, she was pretty helpful. Even told me to call in sick to the faculty meeting so I didn’t get massacred by the other professors. And she’s giving those other two religion classes to someone else, so all I have to deal with is the one on Judaism. And I got some great stuff from my mother.”

“Starsky, you can’t let your mother teach the class by remote control.”

“She and my dad taught me how to be Jewish. So, who’s better qualified than the person who taught the teacher?”

“Okay, I give up.” Hutch chuckled as he turned his attention back to dinner. “If they have a forensics team there, you should volunteer to be the advisor.”

“I see enough of that stuff at work.”

“I meant a debate/public speaking team. Forensics is another term for that.”

“I’m probably fooling myself.” Starsky slumped in his chair. “I even flunk out in a conversation with you—I already missed ‘obtuse’ and ‘forensics.'”

“You’ll do fine, buddy.” Hutch chewed for a moment. “You’ve already got the first quality that all my best professors had.”

“Seriously?” Starsky looked up from his dinner, shocked.

“You’re enthused. Not just interested in shoving facts down students’ throats, but you’re enthused about the subject, and you care about the students. All the degrees in the world can’t give you that. You’ve either got it or you don’t.”

“I hope you’re right. I actually met one of the students while I was there today. Mandy something…Mandy Corrigan. She gave me the unofficial rundown on everybody on the faculty—I even know who’s sleeping with whom now—or at least the students’ assessment of it.”

“Mandy, huh? Remember that promise to Dobey about not chasing the girls?”

“It’s nothing like that. She was just being friendly.”

“Whatever you say.” Hutch turned his attention back to dinner. “So, what’re you going to do with them Monday?”

“My class is at 11:30 in the morning, Monday and Wednesday. We’re going to have a Jewish meal on Monday and get to know each other, and Wednesday, they’re going to start learning what being Jewish is all about. My mother told me about a few books I ought to read, and I’ve got a few ideas of my own.”

“So you’re throwing out Anna Goldman’s syllabus?”

“I can use it for a placemat at lunch Monday.”

“How’s Dr. Lansing going to feel about that?”

“Don’t know yet. Tell ya better Monday afternoon. Better yet, maybe I ought to invite her.”

“Fastest way to freeze up your students and get yourself executed.”

“True.” Starsky sighed. “I suppose she’ll be mad—think I’m not qualified to make decisions on my own.”

“Don’t know until you try. Besides, maybe the best cover is a flashy one. They’d never suspect a professor that turns the place on its head to be an undercover cop.”

“Maybe I should attend the next Board meeting.”

“Don’t get carried away, buddy. You’re still a cop, remember?”

“Even better. Maybe they’ll allocate money to the library with a Beretta pointed at their heads.”

“Nice to see you progressing and developing as a scholar, Starsk.”

* * *

Hutch left Starsky’s apartment a little surprised that his partner didn’t appear to need, or want, any help taking the helm of his class. All these years, Hutch had felt slightly superior in the back of his mind, being able to shine in any areas that related to matters of higher education or culture. Now he wondered if he had been kidding himself. Truly, he wondered if he had been as obvious about it as Starsky had accused him of being earlier. He did recall many instances where he had let his partner flounder in a situation that called for some knowledge of the arts or great literature, and many times that had required a far different comfort level around rich people in posh settings. He recalled leaving Starsky stuck against a pillar at a black-tie party with a torn tuxedo…while it had seemed funny at the time, Hutch had given up on many such antics after the shooting. He had wrestled with an overpowering desire not to ever see Starsky in any type of discomfort again, after watching him go through months of it between his lengthy hospital stay and convalescence at home.

But there was still that feeling of superiority. And he hadn’t really let go of it until this moment, realizing his partner had the strength, courage, and enthusiasm to take on teaching a college course to a room full of intelligent, wealthy young women. The thought made Hutch uneasy, but to Starsky it seemed to be a challenge now. Hutch wished he could be a fly on the wall during that luncheon.

* * *

Professor Levinson was the subject of more than one curious glance as he carried a stack of three large covered trays into his classroom at 11:15 the morning of his first class. He had borrowed a speaker phone from the department the night before so his mother could direct him, step-by-step, in the preparation of three traditional Jewish foods—cocoa blintzes, cholent, and potato knishes. As he was uncovering the trays, Mandy and three other girls entered the room, looking at him curiously but taking seats without speaking.

“Hope you haven’t had lunch yet,” he announced cheerfully. “I’m David Levinson. I’ll be taking over the class for Professor Goldman.”

“I’m Lorraine Danner, this is Tanya Adams, and this is Mandy Corrigan,” the attractive blonde explained. “Need some help?”

“Yeah. I need somebody to go find some napkins, plastic utensils—picnic stuff.”

“I can slip down to the cafeteria and get that.” Mandy got up and headed for the door.

“Do they have a pop machine around here anywhere?” Starsky started digging through his pocket and came up with a few bills.

“The cafeteria has that too—how much do you want me to get?”

“Enough for everybody.” He handed her the money.

“I’ll come with you,” Lorraine volunteered. “You know, Dr. Lansing will probably kill you if she sees this,” she admonished Starsky, who grinned.

“This is known as cultural research. If you’ve just about memorized the Jewish calendar, I’d say it’s about time you branched out a little in the scope of your experience of Judaism.”

“What is this stuff?” Tanya approached the desk. “Smells good.”

“It always was when my mother did it, so we’ll see how this turned out.” He proceeded to explain each food to her, and before long, the balance of the class had filed in, and the bulk of the crowd was gathering around the food. Mandy and Lorraine hurried in the door and shut it behind them. Lorraine carried a tray of beverages while Mandy started spreading out paper plates, utensils and napkins.

“Okay, everybody, as you’ve probably figured out by now, we’re going to have lunch together today and get a little better acquainted. More importantly, I wanted you to get a little more…tangible look at some small part of Jewish culture. Every culture has its unique foods, and probably most of us have had Chinese, Mexican, Italian, French, etc. before. Well, this is your big chance to have Jewish food prepared by a genuine Jewish person—me. The recipes are my mother’s, so hopefully I followed all the directions right. So just grab a plate and load up.”

Starsky stood aside and watched the procession of students collecting some of everything on their plates. The long tables with chairs weren’t conducive to a very friendly seating arrangement, but the food and beverages seemed to be loosening them up a little. He spent a lot of time answering questions about what was in everything until everyone had their selections made and were seated. He pulled up a chair on the end of one of the long tables with his own plate.

“Well, I’ll go first,” Starsky began. He felt odd giving this phony man’s life history, but he did so. “My name is David Levinson. I grew up in New York, Brooklyn area. My father was a college professor, and my mother stayed home and made great food. Seriously, she was the biggest force in my learning the traditions and customs of the Jewish faith. As a matter of fact, I was on the speaker phone with her for about four hours last night getting directions on cooking.” Many of the students laughed a little at the mental picture of their dark suit-clad professor up to his elbows in flour and cooking ingredients. “Anyway, I studied at New York University, was on the faculty there briefly, and then accepted this position. I have family in California, and I’ve been wanting to make a move out here for sometime. I also wanted to teach in a small college setting, so this was a perfect opportunity.”

“Do you drive that red and white car in the parking lot?” A small, dark-haired girl in the back of the room spoke up.

“That’s mine.”

“Cool car,” she responded.

“Thanks. It’s gettin’ old, but I still like it.” Starsky took a couple bites of his lunch. “As far as hobbies, I like photography pretty well, but I don’t have a lot of time for a bunch of activities besides work. Enough about me. Who feels brave?”

“I’ll go,” Mandy volunteered, explaining her background as the daughter of two school administrators from Nevada. The students seemed to be getting the knack of sharing some personal information, since most of them avoided the standard listing of class standing and curriculum history. It was also obvious that Anna Goldman hadn’t done this before, because they were only too willing to go around the room introducing themselves and getting into spin-off conversations when they found common interests. By the time lunch was over, there were several volunteers to help clean up, since not all of the girls had a class immediately following at one o’clock.

“Well, I guess that concludes our first session together,” Starsky stated as he tossed his own paper plate in the trash and wiped his hands on a napkin. “Next time, we’ll get into something a little deeper and more traditional. Keep up reading the textbook. There’s a lot of good factual material in there. I won’t be doing too much with it in class unless there are questions, because it seems to me that there’s no point in me repeating it all again.” Starsky startled himself, sounding dangerously like a teacher. “Anyway, some of it may pop up on a test, so don’t get behind even if we’re not discussing it in here. Anytime you have questions, feel free to ask. I know you’ve probably heard this before, but there’s no such thing as a ‘dumb question’.” Just dumb answers, he thought nervously. “So have a good day, and thanks to my volunteer cleaning crew. See the rest of you Wednesday.” He watched the group file out with a number of thank-you’s directed to him for the lunch.

With the students’ help, the classroom was restored to its prior pristine form, just in time for a 1:30 class that was waiting in the hall. Starsky led the procession out of the room with the stack of serving trays to take back to his car, while the girls each fled in opposite directions with trash bags. He scurried down the back stairs and out to the parking lot, successfully stashing the dirty trays in his trunk before Dr. Lansing spotted him as she pulled into her parking place. Executive lunch hour, Starsky thought, checking his watch subtly. It was a little past 1:30. He hoped there wasn’t any food on his face as he greeted her pleasantly.

“Dr. Levinson, how was your first class?” she asked lightly, as if he were really who he was claiming to be. Two other faculty members passed them and spoke, and then she became serious. “How did it go?”

“Fine. I’m still intact.”

“I imagine with Dr. Goldman’s syllabus, it shouldn’t be too difficult.”

“Shouldn’t be,” Starsky retorted, hoping she wouldn’t press him.

“Well, I’m due in a meeting at two. If you have any questions, call me.”

“Thanks. I will.” He watched her hurry up the walk to the main building. Dr. Goldman’s syllabus. Oh, boy, am I gonna get it when she finds out, he thought anxiously.

* * *

“Hungry little bunch of locusts, weren’t they?” Hutch commented on the empty trays his partner was unloading out of his trunk, which now smelled like a restaurant kitchen.

“Hey, what’re you doin’ here?” Starsky asked as Hutch approached him.

“I’ve got some information on the case I thought we should go over. I realize your mind is on loftier educational matters at the moment, but…” Hutch nodded toward the trays.

“Oh, shut up and get the door for me, will ya?”

“Sure,” Hutch responded, taking the keys dangling from Starsky’s hand. “How’d it go?” he asked as Starsky carried his armload into the kitchen and deposited it on the counter.

“Great. They ate like crazy, went around the room introducing themselves…I felt pretty much in control.”

“So what’s gonna happen Wednesday?”

“Don’t know yet. I have to go get a couple books. My mother was all enthused about one she read a couple weeks back, so I’m going to look that up, and I want to have a look through Anna Goldman’s office to see if there’s anything usable in there. Besides, I have to establish office hours.”

“Well, I pulled all the files on the previous homicides there. Two faculty members and a student. Incidentally, we’ve got some folks mad at us.”

“What else is new?” Starsky tossed his jacket at a dining room chair, missed, and ignored it. Rolling up his sleeves, he started subjecting the trays to a spray of steaming water from the faucet.

“Grodin and Merriweather had this case until Dobey put us on it.”

“Maybe Dobey wanted to know who did it.” Starsky and Grodin had locked horns from the first day Grodin had walked into the squad room two years earlier. Grodin was a by-the-book, middle-aged cop who had been passed over for at least two promotions he felt he deserved, and he had a tendency to treat younger detectives as subordinates even if their ranks were equal. Merriweather was a mediocre detective at best, but Starsky considered him a candidate for sainthood for having stayed with Grodin for the past two years and not killing him.

“Anyway, Grodin was carrying on about having the case taken away from them so late in the game—he claims Dobey is trying to grab the glory for his ‘golden boys’ after they’ve done all the legwork.”

“To hell with him. He’s a turkey anyway. Tell me about the other homicides.”

“Well, the first was a double—the two faculty members. The M.O. was about the same as the Goldman killing—both were working late in their offices, both were stabbed and slashed to death in the same hallway. One was a man, Robert Bradshaw, an English professor, and the other was a woman, Naomi Allegan, a Nursing professor. There were no connections between their personal lives that anyone could find…the only connection was that they were working late on the wrong night.

The student was murdered three months later, in June. She was a student employee, working late on typing up some research material for one of the professors. She was using the faculty office, and again, was murdered in the same manner. Her name was Kristen Wilson, and she was a junior. Her background check didn’t reveal anything that would make her a target for this kind of crime. Her boyfriend was back in New York; there was nothing to suggest she had any enemies or dangerous entanglements here. The connection seems to come in where the killings occur.”

“And then Anna Goldman, only three months after Kristen Wilson. Every three months. Wonder if that’s significant?”

“Could be. Psychos hook onto some odd things to guide their actions.”

“What is it?” Starsky was wiping his hands on a towel hanging near the sink.

“Huh?”

“Something’s bothering you about this, Hutch. What is it?” Starsky’s uncanny way of reading his partner’s moods seemed stronger after his brush with death, and Hutch had often teased him he had come back with the gift of sight. They had become even closer during Starsky’s recovery, spending almost every moment together while Hutch took time off to assist with the convalescent process.

“When I was in the hall…looking at the crime scene?”

“Yeah? Pretty gross, huh?”

“It was, but that’s not what bothered me the most. It was…cold.”

“It’s a drafty old building, Hutch.”

“Yeah, but it was a warm day—the windows were open in most of the building. But in that hall, that should have been stuffy, if anything, it was icy cold. At least I thought it was. I had a long-sleeved shirt on and my jacket, and I was still cold. Murdock, who was guarding the doors, didn’t even feel it.”

“Are you sure you’re okay? I mean you’re not comin’ down with something are you?”

“I’d have it by now if I were. That was last week. I can’t explain it, Starsk. But it scared the hell out of me.”

“That’d scare me too, partner.” Starsky was thoughtful a moment. “Maybe the place is haunted.”

“Sure it is.”

“Sometimes ghosts show up as cold spots. And it’s an old building…lots of history.”

“See if you can uncover any haunted campus stories, huh?”

“I’ll do what I can. Mandy never mentioned anything about haunting rumors.”

“Ah, that’s ridiculous anyway. This is 1980—not the dark ages. There’s an explanation, I’m sure. It was just…creepy, given what had happened there the night before.”

“Not everything is explainable, Hutch. And there is something else out there somewhere.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, I don’t know how to put it into words exactly.” Starsky sat at the table, and Hutch joined him. “When I was in the hospital last year, and they lost me for awhile? I went somewhere. I don’t have any big exciting stories about tunnels and filmy beings in long white robes, but I know there was a moment of being…somewhere else…of knowing there was a choice to come back or go further.”

“A choice? Or did you just get pulled back?” Hutch was truly fascinated with this discussion, because Starsky never would elaborate on it before now.

“I felt like I was…detaching. I had time to want one thing or the other—to detach, to leave, to go further—or to reach back. It wasn’t a hard decision. Would be if you didn’t have anything or anybody to come back to, but for me, it was easy. I wanted to come back, one way or the other.”

“I’m glad,” Hutch said, feeling it was inadequate to say the least, but he couldn’t put all of it into words, and Starsky seemed to know that, because his smile said everything.

“Anyway,” he continued, looking more serious again, “that kind of proves that there is something else out there. Another plane. I wonder if it’s true that people can get stuck—and haunt because they can’t get where they need to go…or they want to hang around.”

“One of the murdered professors? Or Kristen Wilson?”

“Could be. Most young people aren’t ready to die at her age. And all the deaths were violent ones. I don’t know. You’re probably right. It was probably a draft.”

“I’m glad you told me…about…you know.” Hutch still found it difficult to choose just the right words.

“Being dead? Well, since only one of us got to try it for real, I thought you oughtta know.”

“I’m serious, buddy.”

“I know.” Starsky smiled. “Too serious,” he stood up and ruffled Hutch’s hair as he passed him where he sat, “Blintz.” Hutch was sufficiently irritated, and Starsky considered he had scored a victory.

* * *

Starsky was sorting through the papers on Anna Goldman’s desk. He corrected his thinking. David Levinson’s desk, now. The waste basket was the receptacle for most of it, since he and Hutch had concluded there was nothing of value among the mountain of papers there. The rich wood of the desktop was visible now, as he set two large bags of discarded papers outside the door for the janitor. For as carefree as he could be about many things, Starsky liked his surroundings neat. Anna apparently didn’t. He pulled books off the shelves, scanned them, decided most of them were drier yet than the textbook, which he hadn’t thought possible, and reshelved them neatly. He gleaned about six titles to peruse for use preparing lectures…but then he didn’t plan to give “lectures.” He planned to teach. There was a big difference.

“I see you’re making yourself at home.” Starsky turned to see the man he assumed was Professor Billings, because he was the only other male professor on the campus, according to Mandy.

“David Levinson,” he extended a hand toward the tall man who seemed to fill the doorway. If this man were a bouncer instead of a professor, Starsky wouldn’t have messed with him.

“Michael Billings. I teach Math here in Camelot.”

“Camelot?”

“Haven’t you found it a bit…otherworldly and idealistic?” Billings probed.

“Just a little.” Starsky chuckled, relieved that Billings wasn’t another pompous windbag.

“I feel more like I’m teaching in an English boarding school than an American college. These women are suspended in time…trying to make this some kind of charm school. These girls will make great housewives but lousy analytical thinkers.”

“What’s with the blazer thing? I mean I feel like I’m looking out at a…military academy class.”

“Well, as you certainly know, some of the larger ivy league schools have uniform blazers. That’s merely a sign of pride, but the environment is very…restrictive.”

“I noticed.” Starsky pulled out his desk chair and motioned to the man to take the other chair in the office. “How long have you been here?”

“Ten years. It’s actually a very easy job once you’ve run through a year or so. You’ve taught elsewhere?”

“NYU.”

“Good God, and you came here?”

“I wanted to make the move out west, and this college does have an outstanding reputation. Besides, all that anonymity with not knowing the students at all gets a little…dull after a while.” Starsky hoped his regurgitation of what Hutch had taught him to say if he were questioned about leaving a big university for a small college sounded logical. It must have, because the other man was nodding.

“Well, you certainly aren’t anonymous around here.”

“The murders must have had a horrible impact on the campus.” Starsky began probing like a detective. Playing professor alone wouldn’t do anything to solve this case.

“There’s one thing you learn quickly here. Don’t stay alone in the building after hours.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, this building…is not a pleasant environment at night. Very cold, drafty. Lots of odd noises…probably the old place settling. Anyway, spending a lot of time in a spot where two, now three, faculty members have been murdered, not to mention Kristen, isn’t my idea of a conducive working environment.”

“Kristen? Was she one of the victims?”

“Student. Bright girl. She was a student assistant to Louise Hammel, one of the Education faculty. Terrible tragedy. That girl never belonged in here by herself at night, especially after the first murders.”

“What’d the police come up with? I mean there’s not a big pool of suspects to draw from here.”

“They questioned us all, just like they’re doing now. That detective was here again earlier…oh, what’s his name…Harrison.”

“Hutchinson,” Starsky corrected, unthinking.

“That’s right. You’ve met?”

“Ah, yes, only briefly.” Starsky heaved a silent sigh of relief at saving himself from that little landmine.

“I think he’s personally spoken to everyone on the faculty and staff, and half the students. He’s a diligent one, I’ll hand him that. The first pair of yo-yo’s didn’t seem to know what they were doing. Rounded us all up like we were part of some bad murder mystery on the late show and questioned us all. The murders have caused all sorts of bad press for us, but the police don’t seem to have a clue who did it.”

“I was a little hesitant about accepting the job when I heard about it. I mean three faculty dead in a year? Doesn’t do much for our mortality statistics, does it?”

“I ran some probability figures on that a while back…I think we have a one in ten chance of being murdered in our offices before the end of the term.” He stood up with a snort. “Well, I have a class. Just thought I’d stop in and introduce myself. Hope you’re planning on attending the cocktail reception before the concert Friday night?”

“Wouldn’t miss it.”

“At least some of these women bring their husbands, so it isn’t the same hen party most of our social events turn into. You married, Levinson?”

“No.”

“Hmpf. Just don’t bring one of the students as your date,” he quipped, leaving the office. Date. Damn. I need somebody who can hold her own with all these eggheads, he thought to himself. Then the perfect idea hit him. Ginny in the medical examiner’s office. He had worked with her on a few cases, beginning with the murder of a young illegal alien three years earlier. She was intelligent, had full medical credentials, and was a good conversationalist. Plus the fact she was pretty, and he had been looking for an excuse to ask her out for a while…opportunity was knocking, and he planned to answer promptly.

* * *

Ginny Simpson was adding the final notes on Anna Goldman’s file. This had not been a pleasant case to work. After a number of years as an M.E., not much surprised Ginny anymore, but senseless mutilations and acts of excessive brutality were still difficult to fathom, especially in the cold blue and white hues on the coroner’s lab table. Since Hutch had been the part of the duo she had been working with on this case, it surprised her to see Starsky, in a suit, no less, tapping on the window of the lab room where she was working. She motioned to him to enter, which he did, wreathed in one of those killer smiles.

“I thought you were playing professor,” she said, finishing up her notes and closing the file.

“I am. I have class in about an hour.” He fell silent a minute. “I need your help with something.” Oh, smooth romantic opener, Starsky, he chided himself. Ginny cocked her blonde head to one side and gave him a suspicious look.

“What are you up to?”

“Well, I’m supposed to attend this faculty reception and concert on Friday night, and I need a really attractive, sophisticated date. I thought of you right away.”

“Attractive and sophisticated, huh?” She kept up the amused smile, not about to let this sometimes arrogant detective know that she had been hoping something like this might happen one of these days.

“I know it’ll probably be a dry evening, but it would really help me out to have someone who knows my cover but also could hold her own with the other guests.”

“So, this is strictly business?”

“Well, not strictly,” Starsky retorted, flexing his eyebrows a little. “Look, I know it’s a lot to ask, but I promise you, when this case is over, we’ll go somewhere real nice—your choice, my treat—and have a real good time. Whaddya say?”

“Is this a formal occasion?” she asked with a slight smile, moving to the file cabinet and tucking the folder in the drawer.

“Black tie, real fancy…”

“What time Friday?”

“I’ll pick you up at seven. The cocktail party happens at 7:30. The concert’s at 8:30, and I guess there’s some kind of milling around and talking about the music thing happening after that. Do you know anything about classical music? I know a little, but not very much.”

“What are they performing?”

“Bach…the something-or-other concertos.”

“Brandenburg?” she asked hopefully.

“That’s it.”

“That’s some of my favorite classical music. I’m afraid I don’t know a lot of those little biographical things, like what kind of socks the composer was wearing when he wrote it though. You know how people who think they know everything go on forever with that trivia at those parties? Next time you’re in that library, grab us a book on composers. Maybe you can bring it by before the reception and we can study up on it a little.”

“Good idea. Thanks a million, Ginny. I’ll see what I can find, and I’ll stop in later in the week.”

“I think it’ll be fun. I’ve never been to a faculty social event before.”

“Me neither.” He shrugged a little nervously.

“Good luck with your class today.”

“Thanks. I’ll need it.”

“You look the part,” she said, not exactly meaning to comment on his appearance, but the light grey suit and tie did flatter him.

“Thanks. Talk to ya later.”

* * *

Starsky was amazed at how smoothly the next class went. There were a couple questions based on the reading that made him do some serious thinking on his feet, but he managed them adequately. He had spent the last two nights reading through books his mother recommended and amazed himself to have come up with a lively discussion for this day’s lecture on morality versus reason as a means for guiding behavior. Reason, it could be argued, does not always lead to moral behavior—reason would often encourage one to do wrong, or could lead one to rationalize wrong behavior through what could be a reasonable explanation.

Morality, on the other hand, which stems from laws of God, one way or another, should lead to “good” or “right” behavior. Well, that premise brought about lively debate and discussion and examples. It did Starsky’s heart good to have to yell over a pair of debating students and make a time-out gesture with his hands.

It was during this exchange that Hutch managed to lurk in the shadows of the hall, looking through the window of the classroom door, which was behind his partner. He was amazed to watch Starsky, tie loosened, sport coat hung on the chair, sleeves rolled up—looking as comfortable with this bunch of intelligent young students as he did on the street.

“Dr. Levinson is already making quite a reputation for himself,” Dr. Lansing’s voice startled him from behind.

“Really?”

“I heard about the Jewish buffet on Monday.”

“Is he in hot water for that?” Hutch asked.

“It is a bit unorthodox, but the students enjoyed it, and food is part of culture, so unless he makes a habit of it, I don’t have any objections.”

“Looks like he belongs in there,” Hutch said, almost unintentionally.

“Well, hopefully you can wrap this case up before the students become too attached to him.”

“Hopefully.”

“You must be here for a reason, Detective.”

“Actually, I’m just finishing up some routine questioning of some of the staff today. I guess curiosity got the best of me.”

“I see. Well, I have to be going. If you need any other information, let us know.”

“Will do.” Hutch watched her stride purposefully down the hall. He opted to leave his vantage point, not wanting his partner to catch him snooping.

* * *

Starsky dumped his supplies in the middle of his tidy desk and sat in the chair. These were going to be his official office hours— 1:30 to 3:30 on Wednesdays. He was only teaching one class, so this would be all that would be required of him officially. He started reading through the chapter in the textbook that was next on the syllabus, hoping to retain enough of it to wing it again if he got any questions from the students.

The door slammed shut.

Starsky looked at his window, which was closed. There was no draft. He stood up and pulled open the door and looked into the hallway. No one was there, and he heard no footsteps on the hardwood floors. He ventured into the hall and was surprised at the coldness there. Yet it didn’t seem that air was moving from any particular source. Dr. Lansing noticed him standing in the hall, looking a bit dazed.

“Dr. Levinson—is there a problem?”

“Does it feel cold in here to you?”

“There’s always been a bit of a draft in this hall.”

“But it’s not air moving. Just stand here a minute and feel it. It’s just…icy. No breeze, just a cold temperature.”

“Well, it must be a draft of some sort.” She resumed her movement, heels clicking on the polished floors. “Perhaps your jacket would keep you warmer,” she tossed over her shoulder. He curled his lip a little at her retreating back. Shirt sleeves apparently weren’t welcomed during office hours either.

He closed the door to his office and called Hutch back at the precinct. His partner answered on the second ring.

“I felt it.”

“Starsk? Is that you?” Hutch asked.

“Yeah. Listen, I was in the office, and my door just slammed. There’s no draft up here, but it just slammed. And when I went out into the hall, it was just icy—again, no draft…just cold.”

“Did anyone else notice it?”

“I saw Dr. Lansing in the hall, but when I mentioned it, she just made some remark about a draft and that I should put on my jacket. I know what you meant now, partner. It wasn’t normal.”

“I can see going to Dobey with this one. ‘No, Captain, we don’t have any leads, but we’ve found a hell of a cold spot in the upstairs hall.'”

“I’m going to do more mingling after my office hours. Maybe somebody’ll come up with something about the history of the place, or whether or not there are any rumors about it.”

“I hope you come up with something. I sure as hell have been drawing a blank. All I’ve gotten is that since the murders, people are apprehensive about working alone at night there. That’s just common sense. None of the victims have any connection in their personal lives except the college, and even then, no personal connection—just their employment, and in Kristen’s case, her status as a student.” Hutch was quiet. “I was there earlier—while you were in class.”

“Oh?”

“I hung around for a few minutes outside the classroom—you were pretty impressive in there, buddy.”

“Really?”

“Really. I was getting interested myself, except I couldn’t hear too great out in the hall.”

“I didn’t even see you out there.”

“You were calling a time out between two of your students and moderating the great debate of morality versus reason. I don’t think you’d have noticed Bigfoot in the hall.”

“Things did get pretty spirited. It was fun.”

“It was damned good teaching, Starsk. I mean that.”

“Thanks. That means a lot to me.”

“Well, I better get moving. Minnie’s waving a file at me and giving me a dirty look…Oh, now that she knows it’s you, she’s wishing you luck. Maybe she’s flipping you off, I can’t tell…” Starsky heard his partner get hit with something, then laugh. “I guess she was wishing you luck.” Hutch came back to the phone, still snickering.

“Dip her for me, will ya?”

“Get serious.”

“I am. I’m a professor now, remember? We’re always deadly serious about everything.”

“Yeah, sure you are. Talk to ya later, pal.” The connection was broken. Starsky let the phone dangle from his hand and then drop onto the hook. He propped his chin on the heel of his hand and looked at the book in front of him. There was a whole five days to worry about that. He slammed it shut and tossed it aside. The chill from the hall was still in his bones. He pulled on his sport coat and settled in to pass the rest of his office hours.

“Dr. Levinson?” A female voice jarred him out of the semi-catatonic stare he was giving a scholarly journal.

“Yes? Jenny, isn’t it?”

“Yes, Jenny Moore. Are you busy?”

“No, come in.” He watched the girl enter and seat herself in the empty chair a few feet away from his desk. She was tall, with long black hair and dark eyes. Strikingly pretty, really, though he wasn’t allowed to notice things like that from this side of the desk. “What can I do for you?”

“Do you know…about the murders?”

“Here on campus? I heard about them. I know the professor who had this job before me was one of the victims. Gave me the creeps to be honest.”

“I think I can trust you. I think you’ll understand…and not laugh.”

“I’ll try. To understand, I mean. I promise I won’t laugh.”

“Kristen Wilson was my best friend. She was murdered a few months before Dr. Goldman.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Well, Kristen told me something, and it’s been bothering me ever since she died, but I didn’t know who to tell. Then that police detective was here asking everybody questions again, and I was going to tell him—he seemed really nice, but I still figured he’d think I was a nut.”

“Why don’t you just tell me about it, Jenny? Just because something sounds a little strange doesn’t make it not true.”

“Kristen was a student assistant for the Education Department, and she used to come up here at night to type some of their papers, or to do some filing. A few of the professors are real liberal about letting student workers into their offices after hours. It works out well, because if you have a full-time schedule of classes, and need library time, sometimes evening is a good time to get work done, plus the faculty often aren’t in there at night, and you can use their desks or typewriters, or whatever.” She paused. “Anyway, Kristen was my roommate, and one night she came back to the dorm, white as a sheet—it was about a week before she was murdered. She told me she had…seen something…in the hall up here.”

“Something?” Starsky repeated.

“She said it was a person—or at least the shadow of one, but she didn’t see the person the shadow went with. I asked her if she was sure she saw anything more than a shadow, and she swore she did—that it moved, and that it looked like it was carrying a giant knife—oh, she knew the name for it too.” She wrinkled her brow.

“A sword?”

“Not exactly. Oh, geez…”

“A machete?”

“Yeah—a machete. And she also said she heard footsteps in the hall, but there was no one attached to the shadow—at the angle she was seeing it, she would have had to see the person who was casting the shadow, only there wasn’t anybody.”

“This must have been pretty hard to carry around all this time.”

“I didn’t know who to tell. I don’t know why I’m telling you. But you’re not laughing, so that’s a good sign.”

“No, I’m not,” Starsky replied with a slight smile. “Did she mention anything else unusual about working up here?”

“The cold spots. She said there were two or three places in the hall that would get ice cold, all of a sudden, with no draft. She showed me where they were.”

“I know where one of them is. I got caught in it this afternoon.”

“You’re kidding me.”

“Nope. I was sitting here at the desk, and my door slammed shut. When I went out in the hall to see why, it was ice cold—not drafty, but ice cold.”

“Then you’ll do something about it?”

“Like what, Jenny? I’m not an exorcist. But I do believe you, for whatever that’s worth.”

“It’s worth a lot.”

“Could you show me where the other spots are—not now, but later, when it’s emptier up here?”

“If you mean after dark, you’ve gotta be kidding.”

“Okay. Let’s just walk down the hall, and you show me, but don’t say anything about it out loud. I don’t want them to drop a net on both of us and haul us off to Cabrillo State.”

“I never heard of that. Where is the campus?”

“It’s not a college, it’s an insane asylum.”

“Same difference most days,” she quipped, standing to lead the way into the hall.

“So, my point was that morality has to have another origin besides reason,” Starsky droned, watching Jenny point to the spot outside his office. He noted the office room numbers nearby as markers. She gestured where it usually started and ended.

“But there are many people who aren’t religious that you couldn’t say were immoral,” she retorted, reiterating the classroom debate while she motioned to the next cold spot. Starsky noted the room numbers again, adding them to the list he was writing on a small notepad from his desk.

“So, if all they’re going by is reason, why do they do the right thing when it’s counterproductive for them?” Another professor passed them, nodding slightly and smiling. Apparently, they sounded as if they were keeping academia alive and well. Jenny indicated the third and final cold spot near Dr. Lansing’s office.

“I think you can be a good person and not be religious.”

“But then how do you define good? And why?” Starsky was reaching a little, but they needed to keep the discussion chugging along until they returned to his office.

“Good is the absence of evil,” Jenny stated, and the door to Starsky’s office slammed shut before they reached it. She let out a little squeal and his own sharp intake of breath was audible. Good is the absence of evil…Odd the door should choose to punctuate that statement with a slam.

“What’s going on out here?” Professor Stengler, whose office was next to Starsky’s, poked her head out into the hallway.

“I have a draft out here—door keeps slamming on me,” he responded lightly, hating to be the one to touch it just then, but he yanked it open casually, and Jenny hesitantly returned to the office with him. He shut the door behind them.

“There’s something wrong here, Dr. Levinson. And it killed Kristen.”

“I know. I don’t know what to do about it yet, but don’t worry. I’ll figure something out. In the meantime, don’t you ever dare set foot in this place after dark—I don’t care who asks you to.”

“I won’t.”

“Look, Jenny, if you need to talk, or anything else happens, you just call me or come see me here or after class. I am going to try to do something about this. I believe you, and I know there’s something…wrong with this place. I can feel it.”

“So can I. It’s a creepy feeling.” She stood up. “I don’t know how to thank you.”

“Don’t. I haven’t done anything yet.”

“Dr. Levinson?” She paused in the open door on her way into the hall.

“Yes?”

“I really loved your class this morning. It was…thought-provoking. Not mind-numbing.”

“Thanks,” he responded, smiling widely. Maybe there was something to this professor thing. “I’ll try to live up to it Monday.”

“See you then.” She disappeared down the hall.

Starsky packed up his things ahead of schedule and closed up his office. He hurried out to his car and headed for the precinct. He had to find Hutch, and they would have to make something out of this lead, as weird and unexplainable as it was.

* * *

The ride from Maplecrest into LA was usually fairly peaceful. Today was no exception. With the windows open and the radio on, Starsky was enjoying a few minutes of peace before all hell broke loose on this case. Teaching was giving him a charge he hadn’t expected it to, and the thoughts of the job he still loved and the new one he was growing to love were conflicting in his mind. He had to remember this was only an undercover identity…he hadn’t become a drug dealer or pimp because he had played one undercover before. This should be no different. But he was becoming comfortable with teaching, and his students were responding, and learning…

He pressed the brake pedal to slow on a curve as he approached a heavily traveled intersection. It didn’t respond. He tried again, but the speed was unchanged. He stuck the red flasher on top of the car, hit the siren and emergency flashers and tried to control the car that was gaining speed on the downward slope toward the intersection. He added the blaring of the horn to the symphony of warnings for the other motorists and braced himself as he sailed through the intersection amid screeching tires and responding horns, but no collisions.

The road was clearing pretty well ahead of him, though he had to make his way through a few motorists who were oblivious to the bright red streak shooting through traffic. As soon as he saw a quiet intersection, he yanked the wheel to one side, sending the car into a spin he hoped would ultimately stop it. It didn’t. Something was wrenching the steering wheel out of his hands, keeping the car from turning as severely as he’d intended and sending it hurtling down another busy street. He was no longer in control of the Torino, and he would never be able to avoid hitting anyone or anything in its path if the car wanted to hit it.

“Dear God, help me!” he screamed at the top of his lungs, babbling away finally some fragments of a prayer in Hebrew his father had taught him.

The car slowed and came to a peaceful stop at the next intersection.

* * *

Hutch was finishing up a salad in a plastic container from the cafeteria when Starsky walked into the squad room. He barely looked up at his partner at first, absorbed in reading the case file on Kristen Wilson.

“Hey, Starsk. Listen, I think we should—” he stopped short at the sight of his partner. Starsky dropped into the chair across from Hutch, at his own desk. He was pale, sweaty and visibly shaking all over. “What happened?”

“The car…I don’t know…” Starsky ran a shaky hand through his hair. His white dress shirt clung to his damp body, and his eyes were almost wild and unfocused.

“Come with me.” Hutch pulled him by the arm, and they made their way to an interrogation room, where Hutch closed the door behind them and stuck a chair under the knob. They sat in the two remaining chairs. “What happened, buddy? You look like hell.”

“I think that’s where I was.” He swallowed a couple times and looked up at Hutch. “The brakes went out on the Torino—right through mid-town traffic.”

“My God—was there an accident, or did you get it under control?”

“No accident. Hutch, I couldn’t control it after a while…the wheel…it did what it wanted and then it wouldn’t let me turn and it kept going faster and there was nothing wrong with the brakes, but the pedal wouldn’t work and I had to pray and then it slowed down…”

“Starsk, come on, slow down yourself a minute. Now, take a deep breath. You’re on solid ground, buddy. Try to calm down a little.”

“I thought the brakes were failing, and I—I tried to make a sharp turn when there was an opening, but, it—it wouldn’t…the steering wheel…”

“Starsky, come on, try to calm down here.” Hutch slid his chair closer and rested his hand on Starsky’s shoulder. “The brakes didn’t work, and you tried to turn to stop, and something was wrong with the steering?”

“Not exactly.” He looked into Hutch’s eyes. “The wheel wouldn’t let me turn where I wanted to go…I know it sounds crazy, but it was like…” Starsky looked away.

“Like what, buddy? You can tell me.”

“Like the car was trying to kill me,” he responded, looking back at Hutch. “But that isn’t the scariest part. The whole thing came right back under my control as soon as I started praying. Here I am in the middle of traffic, about due to become street pizza at the next intersection, and I’m babbling some old prayer my dad taught me and begging God to do something, and it just slowed right down and I was able to pull over. And I haven’t even told you yet what one of my students told me before I came here.”

“We can take the car in, get it checked—”

“Damn it, Hutch, I don’t need to get it checked!” he yelled back, standing up and pacing. “It’s fine. It was fine all the way here. It was something using the car—not the car itself!”

“Okay.” Hutch’s calm, passive answer peeled Starsky off the ceiling slightly.

“I don’t mean to jump down your throat. But you know we’ve been in some pretty wild driving situations before…I can handle that with my eyes closed and one arm tied behind my back—”

“Right—that happened during the Peterson case didn’t it?” Hutch joked and elicited a little laugh from Starsky. His overwrought partner needed to loosen up a little, and the joke seemed to help.

“This was something different. I was trying to come here to see you—Jenny Moore, one of my students, was Kristen Wilson’s roommate—”

“I talked to her a couple of days ago.”

“She said she almost told the detective who had just been there, but she figured you’d think she was nuts. She said that Kristen, and some of the other student assistants, often worked in the evening because it fit in better with their schedules, and sometimes they could use the faculty offices and typewriters and so on when the professors weren’t there.  Anyway, about a week before she died, Kristen was working late up there, and she came back to the dorm, really upset, and told Jenny about the shadows she saw in the upstairs hall…”

Starsky went on to describe in detail what Jenny had told him, and also explained to him that they had nailed down the location of three cold spots in the hall. “When we were on our way back into my office—we had been faking this whole discussion about morality and reason—essentially replaying the debate from class, just to cover what we were really doing out in the hall—and she answered something I asked by saying that good was the absence of evil. When she said that, my office door slammed shut right in front of us. After she left, I came straight here—or tried to. Hutch, there was something else driving that car for a while, because I sure as hell couldn’t do it.”

“But when you prayed, it stopped?”

“Right. But I had been too preoccupied with fighting it to pray or even think. But I knew I was headed for a disaster and I couldn’t stop it, so I was just saying my final prayers before getting spread all over the intersection.”

“Whew.” Hutch leaned back in the chair. “We’re really in the middle of something special here, aren’t we?”

“Well, it ain’t a lead we can take to Dobey. But Jenny was sincere, and she doesn’t seem like a flake. I think she’s been really torn up about all this, not knowing who to talk to about it. She felt like she could trust me, for whatever reason, so she told me.”

“She doesn’t know who you really are does she?”

“No. She just likes Professor Levinson,” he retorted with a little smirk.

“You kind of like this college professor thing, don’t you?” Hutch asked, smiling at the distinct twinkle in his partner’s eyes.

“I didn’t expect to, but yeah.”

“Think we could map out the cold spots on a diagram?”

“Probably. I’d almost have to see the hall again.”

“Tonight. We’ll go back there tonight and have a look.”

“At night?”

“Starsky.”

“But that’s when all the murders happen.”

“And we’re homicide detectives, remember? I should suggest you go alone, since we’re not supposed to be seen together.”

“But you wouldn’t do that, would you?” Starsky asked, genuinely unnerved at the thought.

“No. I wouldn’t go in that place myself alone at night, so I sure as hell wouldn’t ask you to.”

“Good, ’cause we’da had another fight on our hands.”

“I dipped Minnie.”

“Huh?” Starsky looked up from the spot on the floor where his gaze had been absently fixed for a few moments.

“I dipped Minnie. Ramon couldn’t have done any better.” Hutch smiled widely, and pretty soon, he and Starsky both laughed.

* * *

Maplecrest College was silent and dark. The residence hall was plunged into the silence of sleep. The Torino was the lone car in motion anywhere on the grounds. Only the students’ vehicles and a car belonging to the residence hall manager were still parked in the lot. It was after midnight.

“I still think this is a bad idea.” Starsky took the key out of the ignition and looked over at his partner.

“We have to get that hall diagramed.”

“You’re thinking something specific?” Starsky prodded.

“What I want to do is diagram where the cold spots are. Then I want to go back to the station, pull the victims’ files, and plot on that diagram where the bodies where found and see if they correlate at all.”

“Good thinking. Scary thinking, but good.”

Starsky led the way up the open oak staircase to the second floor. They were using flashlights to avoid attracting any attention. The cold hit them like a tangible force as soon as they stepped into the hall lined with faculty offices.

“I think this whole damn thing is a cold spot,” Hutch muttered.

“The first one starts right here, according to Jenny.” Starsky led the way to the spot. An icy chill bit through their clothing. The cold here was more intense than the overall temperature in the hall.

“Okay. Got it.” Hutch completed marking it off on the diagram he had drawn of the hall prior to leaving the precinct. He carried it now on a clipboard, and Starsky held the flashlight over his shoulder while he worked.

“Next one should be….right here.” Starsky stopped in another place that felt ungodly in its temperature—like being hit with a winter wind in the middle of an LA autumn.

“Okay.” Hutch completed his work and they progressed to the third, near Dr. Lansing’s office.

“Right here.” Starsky stopped again, and the temperature was as horrible as it had been in the last spot.

“Is it always this strong?” Hutch asked, marking it off on his diagram.

“Not during the day. It’s cold, but not like this. Can we get out of here now?”

“With pleasure.” Hutch started forward but stopped in his tracks. There were footsteps on the stairs.

“Oh, damn.” Starsky’s voice reflected more fear than annoyance.

“Probably just a faculty member—or the caretaker.”

“Come on.” Starsky fumbled with the keys to his office and let them in, locking the door behind them. It was the only room he could get them into, a dubious shelter from the hall and its visitor.

“They’re coming down this way.” Hutch drew his weapon and flattened himself against the wall near the door.

“No shit.” Starsky pulled his own gun, and took cover behind the desk chair, ready for a two-way attack on anything or anyone who invaded the office.

The footsteps were slow, methodical, purposeful…and they stopped right outside the small office. Hutch looked over at Starsky, who simply exchanged a nervous look with his partner. The footsteps resumed and seemed to retreat. Hutch’s body slumped a little with relief, and Starsky stood up from his hiding place, replacing his gun in its holster.

The footsteps returned, then receded, then returned…and continued to repeat the pattern.

“He…it’s…patrolling.” Starsky looked at his partner, the cold realization spreading over both of them that not only was their visitor not human, it was keeping them trapped there.

“This is ridiculous.” Hutch reached for the knob.

“Don’t!” Starsky admonished in a breathy whisper.

“Oh, for God’s sake, Starsky. Two armed cops hiding in an office from footsteps?” Hutch eased the door open, and Starsky drew his weapon again. “Police! Freeze!” Hutch shouted into the hall. Starsky could see him in his usual stance, Magnum pointed out firmly ahead of him, facing toward the stairs. He had someone in his sights, but as Starsky moved to back him up, he could see Hutch’s stance falter, and before Starsky made it out the door, Hutch had retreated into the office and slammed it, leaning against it.

“Hutch?”

“I saw it…”

“What?”

“The shadow…and there was nothing casting it…God, Starsky, it was a shadow of a man, with a machete in his hand, walking toward the stairs. I yelled, and it turned, and came back toward me. But the person never showed up. The shadow just kept moving. I think if it had touched me—just the shadow—I’d have been the next victim.”

There was a knock on the door. Hutch flew away from it as if shot from a cannon. He and Starsky instinctively huddled together near the desk, hearing the knocking reverberating through the silence like thunder. It was louder than it should have been. And it grew continuously louder until the floorboards vibrated with it. Hutch covered his ears against the sound, and Starsky could only stand there in mute shock for a moment. Then he put one protective arm around his hunched partner and started reciting the same prayer he had in the car. There was a lesson from an old horror movie somewhere going through his mind…it works if you believe in it. He hoped that was true, because he did believe in the power of these muttered words to do battle with whatever this…thing was. It had saved his life in the Torino, and now it would have to do it here in this hellish building after midnight.

The sound stopped. The silence was as deafening as the knocking had been. Hutch realized a little self-consciously that he had covered his ears and hidden against Starsky, grateful for the arm that had come around him, even though it would have had little chance of staving off the thing in the hall had it made its way into the room. He straightened up and looked at Starsky.

“I’m not going out there,” Starsky announced.

“We can’t stay here forever.”

“We can ’til dawn. Then we’ll get out of here.”

“Maybe we should call for help.”

“And say what? ‘Hi, Cap, this is Starsky and Hutch. We’re hiding in a faculty office and we’re afraid to go out in the hall alone because there’s a shadow out there’? We’re stuck here til morning, so you might as well get comfortable.” Starsky patted the back of the padded leather desk chair.

“What about you?”

“Your back’s worse than mine. Take this chair. I’ll sit over here.” Starsky pulled the smaller visitor’s chair up next to the big one as Hutch slumped in it, relieved that it was as comfortable as it looked. Starsky was right. His back didn’t care for some of those straight chairs, and a whole night in one would have been rough. Good old Starsk. He does look out for me, Hutch thought with a little grin. Starsky was seated in the other chair, his chin leaning on his crossed arms on the desk. Hutch patted his partner’s back.

“I want you off this assignment.” He didn’t withdraw the hand right away, but Starsky straightened and it seemed to fall away of its own accord.

“No way. We can’t pull out of this. Nobody’ll ever investigate this for what it is except for us. We can’t just walk away and let people get murdered. There’s gotta be a paranormal research department in some university around the area. Maybe they can help.”

“Sure. Let’s call the nuts with the cameras and recorders and find out that we have a ghost. We know that. What we don’t know is how it kills, why it kills, and how to stop it from killing again.” Hutch looked at Starsky. “I don’t want it to kill you.”

“Then we’ll just have to be careful.”

“But it isn’t we, buddy. It’s you, here by yourself most of the time.”

“No one’s ever been killed in broad daylight, so I’ll get out of here before nightfall. If we ever come in here after dark, it’ll be together.”

“Makes this whole undercover thing seem kind of useless, doesn’t it? I mean the ghost knows who we are.”

“I s’pose,” Starsky said with a little laugh. “But Dobey isn’t going to buy the ghost story.”

“No.” Hutch was quiet a few minutes, and Starsky returned to his position of slumping against the desk on his folded arms. “Scared?”

“To death. You?”

“Same here.” Hutch rested his head against the back of the chair and noticed how much like Starsky this little office was starting to look. It was casual, but it was neat and it was starting to hold little personal effects. Suddenly, Hutch regretted having teased his partner about being less intelligent, or less cultured. All Starsky lacked was formal higher education and social opportunity, a situation which was not one of his making. He had no shortage of brains. Obviously, he also had a love for learning and teaching that was buried deep under many layers of denial. He thought back of Starsky trying caviar, watching the ballet and trying to comment on it, even without the proper terminology…he could appreciate the things of the beautiful people, given half a chance. Have I been afraid if I let go of that rough-edged cop and recognized the potential, the intelligent, literate person that was inside that casing, that I’d lose him? Just like I’m worrying now that he’s going to go to college and become a professor instead of stay on the force…

“You asleep?” Starsky’s voice startled him.

“No. Just thinking.”

“About what?”

“Do you like the ballet?”

“What?” Starsky straightened a little, amused at the choice of subjects.

“When you watched the ballet, did you like it?”

“Ballet? Oh, I don’t know. When do you mean—oh, when you were guarding Anna…Arachnid or whatever her name was?”

“Akhanatova,” Hutch corrected with a smile.

“What was it?”

“Say it with me. Ak—han—a—to—va,” Hutch repeated, and his partner joined him. “Try it.”

“Akhanatova.” Starsky repeated it with some satisfaction. “I never could get that damn thing down pat. Or her guardian—what was her name?”

“Got me. Who noticed her?”

“I did. She was my date most of the time, remember?”

“Oh, yeah, I guess I did leave you stuck with her, didn’t I?”

“What in the world made you think of her tonight? I mean, I know you liked her pretty well, but we haven’t really talked about her in a long time.”

“I remembered you liked the ballet…or you seemed to. We never went again.”

“We never went before, either.”

“Did you like it?”

“Who wouldn’t? It was really beautiful. But that stuff’s complicated, and I don’t know anything about it anyway…all those fancy terms for the jumping and spinning and lifting…”

“When we get through this damn case, you wanna go again sometime? We’ll get box seats, and I can teach you the right terms.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know. Thought you might enjoy it.”

“Sure. Okay.” Starsky regarded his partner with an odd expression. Maybe a brush with the supernatural had driven him insane. What did Anna Arachnid…oh, Akhanatova…have to do with anything now? After all this time? “You feeling cultural all of a sudden, hanging around a campus?”

“Maybe,” Hutch responded, smiling.

“You aren’t still worrying about that stupid argument we had last week? I was spouting off, that’s all. If I didn’t apologize then, I will now. I’m sorry. I took it out on you, and you didn’t do anything to deserve it. You were right. Putting me in here as a professor was a real long shot.”

“That worked.”

“So far.”

“It just occurs to me that I’ve been so busy making you stay on your side of the cultural dividing line between us that I never gave you a chance to develop. You were supposed to be the…”

“Clod?” Starsky asked, laughing a little. “Yeah, I know.”

“Not a clod, Starsky.”

“Well, uneducated and uncultured, anyway. Let’s face it, Hutch, I never was exposed to much of that stuff before, and I’m not longing to spend evenings at the opera watching fat divas wearing Viking horns prance around screeching, or going to ballets, watching guys in tights jump around like Tinkerbell now. But I’d like to know more about some of it, if you’re interested in it.”

“I haven’t been to a ballet since Anna.”

“Have you missed it?”

“Not really,” Hutch replied honestly, and they both laughed. “Seriously, I do miss doing something…refined once in a while.”

“But hanging out with me all the time kinda prevented that.”

“Because I made it an issue.”

“Because I usually said or did something dumb that embarrassed you.”

“Of course I never helped you out with any pointers before we’d get there. I just let you flounder. I don’t know why. It doesn’t seem funny now, looking back.”

“Why are you dredging all this ballet stuff up again?” Starsky waited for an explanation, but when none followed, he simply sighed and suggested, “If we go to dinner first, and you give me a bunch of pointers on what I’m supposed to do, you wanna go to the ballet again?”

“Yeah, I think I would.” Hutch laughed a little.

“Okay. As soon as we wrap this up, we’ll go get us some culture,” Starsky concluded in a horrible, feigned hillbilly accent. “By the way—what do you know about the Brandenburg Concertos?”

* * *

Hutch opened his eyes and squinted a little as sunlight intruded on them. He was relatively comfortable in the big leather chair, though a bit stiff. He looked over at Starsky, who was sleeping with his head on his folded arms, hunched over the desk. He’d be lucky if he wasn’t in that position permanently after sleeping that way.

“Starsk?” Hutch said quietly. He heard the even breathing unchanged. “Starsky,” he repeated, louder now. Finally, he touched a shoulder, and the other jumped, upsetting a few things on the desk. “It’s morning.”

“Oh,” Starsky responded blankly, straightening and stretching with a great degree of grunting and groaning. It was a little after five-thirty.

“Should we take a look out there?” Hutch stood up and approached the door.

“No time like the present.” Starsky was right behind him as they ventured into the silent hallway. Plenty of shadows were created by the approaching sunlight and last throes of night, but none of them moved, and none carried weapons.

“Let’s get out of here.” Hutch led the way on a brisk walk to the stairs.

* * *

Starsky was silent most of the way into town. The car was behaving itself, and he was relieved not to be hurtling down the road at suicidal speeds. Neither of them were talking about the shadow, as if discussing it in the daylight would make it true. Without consulting his partner, Starsky correctly assumed their next stop should be the precinct. They had been literally waiting all night to map out the cold spots and make some sense of it all.

Hutch found a large sheet of paper in the supply room and clearing off his desk, spread it in front of them. He reproduced and enlarged version of his diagram drawn in the hallway the previous night, and then together, they began the grim task of sifting through crime scene photos and reports. Starsky helped plot the location of the various corpses with red “x’s.” Unfortunately, no pattern emerged. The cold spots were occasionally near the spot where a corpse was found, but not always. Frustrated at having risked their lives for what turned out to be nothing, they rolled up the diagram and stuffed it haphazardly in a bottom drawer of the desk.

“So much for that,” Hutch exhaled and poured another cup of coffee for Starsky and then another for himself.

“Damn. I really thought we were onto something there.”

“I guess we have to keep digging. There’s got to be some reason for those cold spots, and the whole thing has to have something to do with the murders. We’ve got to explain that damn shadow.”

“Can’t explain that.” Starsky leaned back in his chair.

“I s’pose you’re right. At least not in the logical sense. But we know now what we have to solve. Who or what is it, and why is it killing?”

“Well, for quite a few years, it didn’t do anything. Why now?”

“Is there any possible way I could have imagined it? Was it an illusion?”

“Hutch, we both heard that horrible pounding. I think I still hear it somewhere in the back of my head.”

“That’s the position you slept in.”

“Probably,” Starsky replied, laughing a little. “Seriously. You saw it, and you aren’t a superstitious person by nature, so you’d be likely to not believe it, unless it were true.”

“True. And I couldn’t see any origin for the shadow, and there would have had to be because of the angle, the way I was seeing it, the proximity of it…” Hutch rubbed his forehead wearily.

“Why don’t you go home and get some sleep? You look wasted.”

“You don’t look so hot yourself, partner,” Hutch retorted.

“I think I’ll put on my professor suit and go nose around a little. Maybe I can find something out about the history of the place—what brought about the shadow in the first place.” Starsky stood up. “Come on, I’ll take you home.”

“Can’t. I’ve got work to do. Pick me up about four or five—we can get something to eat, huh?”

“Okay. Later.” Starsky left the squad room, and Hutch gathered the crime scene photos together and stuffed them in the appropriate folders. Gruesome carnage from an unexplainable assailant. And still nothing to tell Dobey…

* * *

The cafeteria was more like an exclusive social club than a college eatery. The walls were paneled in rich oak and decorated by expensive paintings, and the small tables for four were covered with ecru cloths and bore little floral centerpieces. Starsky scanned the breakfast selection with disdain. Fruit abounding, whole grain cereals…in short, it could have been called Chez Hutch. This was his style for breakfast, not Starsky’s. No donuts, no pizza, no sticky frosted cereals.

“Are you really that hungry?” A voice startled him from behind. He was surprised to see it attached to Dr. Lansing as she joined him in surveying the bran muffins wrapped in plastic.

“I don’t think I’ve ever been that hungry,” he responded with a grin.

“Your best bet is the banana nut bread, over there. It’s baked fresh every day, and it actually has some flavor.”

“Thanks.” He took a plastic covered plate and offered it to her, which she accepted. He obtained one for himself and then led the way to the coffee machine. “Coffee?”

“Please,” she responded.

“Come here often?” he asked, handing her the cup. She laughed almost out loud. “Sorry, couldn’t resist.” He filled a cup for himself and they continued to the cash register, where he insisted on paying for both. “Hope you’re free for breakfast. I hate eating alone.”

“As fate would have it, I am,” she responded, sitting in the chair he pulled out for her at the table they chose. “Thank you.”

“My pleasure.” He sat across from her and began unwrapping his bread. He stole an inquisitive glance at his breakfast companion. She was a very statuesque and elegant woman, and her every gesture indicated wealth and good breeding. She was educated and refined, and a little intimidating, even over breakfast. So why am I noticing how pretty she is under that icy enamel, Starsky pondered. He continued to take stock as she was absorbed with liberating her bread from its plastic wrap. Her blonde hair was swirled dramatically on top of her head, and she only wore expensive dark business suits, like the navy blue one she wore today, with a tailored white blouse and matching dark shoes. Starsky wondered why everyone around here always looked like they were going to or from a funeral. It had to be the suits.

“Any progress on the investigation?” she asked conversationally, giving the area the obligatory scan to make sure she wasn’t blowing his cover.

“Not much. Rumors mostly.”

“What kind of rumors?” She nibbled at the edge of her bread.

“That this place is haunted.” Might as well go for the gusto, Starsky, he thought to himself.

“Oh, that.” She sipped her coffee and he took a bite of the bread, watching her intently.

“You’ve heard that before?”

“Well, the drafts in the upstairs hall are, of course, cold spots,” she announced with amusement. “And then there’s the shadow.” She took another sip of coffee, and he almost choked on his.

“The shadow?”

“It’s rumored that if you’re in the faculty offices after midnight, you’ll see the shadow of a man carrying a machete lurking in the hallway. Of course, a few students are convinced he’s the murderer,” she answered.

“But you don’t think there’s any basis for any of the rumors.”

“I would think that you of all people would feel that way, given your line of work.”

“My partner saw it last night.” Starsky hadn’t intended to say anything, but he suddenly felt the need to validate the rumor, and for some odd reason, he trusted Evelyn Lansing.

“The shadow?”

“Yes. One of my students came to me and told me about it yesterday. She also showed me all three cold spots in the hall. I brought Hutch back here last night, and we mapped out the cold spots. While we were in the hall, we heard footsteps. Normally, we’d have just pulled our guns and confronted whoever it was, but I was a little antsy after hearing about the shadow, so I pulled Hutch into my office and locked us in. We waited, and the footsteps sounded like they arrived outside my door and then patrolled. After a few seconds, Hutch had enough of waiting around, and he went out the door, gun drawn. He yelled ‘freeze,’ and then he waited. I couldn’t see what he saw, but he waited quite a few seconds, then his stance faltered, and he ducked back into the office.”

Starsky paused, feeling a wonderful catharsis at telling the story, and feeling guilty that Hutch was still walking around questioning his sanity and having no such release. “One thing you have to understand—well, two, really. One, Hutch is a realist about stuff like that. He isn’t superstitious, and he always looks for a logical explanation for things. Second, we’ve been in more dark alleys, hallways and streets than I can even begin to remember, and we know what shadows do, what level of light is necessary to cast what kind of a shadow—I don’t mean we could put it all into words, but it’s a kind of innate knowledge from working so many nights, and sneaking around a lot of dark places. Hutch told me that from the angle he saw it, and the degree of light in the hall, and the proximity of it to him, there was no earthly way it could have been there without him seeing the person casting it. The shadow was there, but the person wasn’t. He waited until the last minute to come back in the office, because he was waiting to see the person casting the shadow come into view. But they never did.”

Starsky could see her face registering interest, even a little fear, but not disbelief. Encouraged, he continued. “Then it pounded on the door. The pounding got deafening…just like some kind of awful thunder. I thought it was going to pop our eardrums. Hutch has real sensitive hearing, and he was covering his ears, trying to keep the noise out. It wouldn’t stop until I started praying. Then it did.” Starsky leaned back in his chair. “Now you probably think we’re both certifiable. And if we share this with our captain, we’ll probably be offered early retirement.”

“Why did you tell me?”

“I don’t know.” Starsky smiled slightly. “Maybe because I trust you. I think you care about this place…that you want it…safe again. I think you know we’re working toward that end. And I think deep down, you feel there’s something to those rumors.”

“Perhaps you should have been sent undercover in the Psychology Department,” she responded, smiling. “I have felt the cold spots. The odd part of this is, none of this occurred until shortly before the first murders. For almost thirty years, this campus has been…idyllic.”

“When did you start here?”

“About fifteen years ago. I taught Philosophy and Composition, then eventually went into administrative work. I never heard a haunting rumor and never noticed anything odd.”

“When was the first time you heard, or noticed anything?”

“Near the holidays. Actually, I remember exactly which day of the week it was. December 19th.”

“What makes you remember that?”

“Well, we were planning a reception to unveil the new painting in the library, and a few of us on the committee—yes, we do have a committee just to plan a cocktail party—were working late upstairs. The others finally left, but I had a few last-minute items to take care of for a meeting first thing in the morning. It was close to midnight, and the door to my office began opening and shutting by itself. There was no noticeable draft in that hallway, David. But it was horribly, icy cold. I ran out of that building, lucky to remember my car keys, and fled out of the parking lot. I’ve never worked alone at night here since, and thank God, never saw the shadow. But if I’d stayed longer that night…”

“I might have actually wound up eating a bran muffin by myself this morning.” Starsky knew it was an inane remark, but both of them had become very serious and tense discussing the hauntings, and it seemed like a little levity was needed. He had also caught her use of his first name, which made him feel much more friendly toward this sometimes aloof woman. But now, Evelyn Lansing laughed out loud.

“You might have at that.” She smiled down at her coffee. “I think I’ve wanted to deny that experience. Badly enough that I’ve closed my eyes to what was really happening here.”

“After the 19th, did anything else happen?”

“Various faculty members complained about drafts, doors opening and closing by themselves, and of course, we had a couple of shadow sightings.”

“When the murders occurred—”

“I couldn’t make myself believe that something supernatural could accomplish something like that.” She sighed. “I didn’t mention it to the police for the same reason you and your partner didn’t tell your captain.”

“The question now is, what’re we gonna do about it?”

“Something happened to start this chain of events. A place doesn’t stay peaceful and beautiful and safe for 29 years and then suddenly, on the 30th year, become deadly.”

“What else was going on in December, besides the reception?”

“Final exams, a couple of holiday receptions for the faculty and staff and board members, a musical performance by the choir—standard activities. Nothing special.”

“The big event was the painting in the library, then?”

“Essentially.”

“What is it?”

“Are you finished? Why don’t we go take a look? Since it would have paid for several new periodical subscriptions, it ought to be worth looking at.”

“Okay.” Starsky stood as she did and followed her to the library. A few students were browsing the shelves, but as it was just eight o’clock, most were either hurrying to, or already in their first classes of the day. Starsky returned several greetings from students as they moved through the halls. It amused him that on at least three occasions, she was Dr. Lansing and he was simply “Dr. L.” The new professor hadn’t shown much love for the formalities, and the students had picked up on that early in the game.

“Well, here it is. Malcolm Willoughby III. He built this house in 1889. Someone on the Board is also a member of a local historical society, and this painting was supposedly done by a very prominent artist of the time, so all things being equal, she felt it was a necessity.”

“Careful, Dr. Lansing. You’re getting bogged down in things like academics again.”

“You’re right. And call me Evelyn. Most of the faculty do, though not within earshot of the students.”

“Thanks, Evelyn. Any history to go with old Malcolm here?”

“Not that I know of. Actually, it was quite sparse. I recall we were trying to put together something meaningful for the unveiling, and Charlotte—Charlotte Evans, the Board member I mentioned—didn’t have all that much for us. Essentially, all we had to offer was that he was the builder of the house, and it was donated for use for the college in the late 1940’s by his niece, who was his only surviving heir.”

“Did he have a family? What became of them?”

“His family were killed tragically a several years after the house was built.”

“Killed how?”

“Some sort of accident, I assume. She said that was all she could find in the records.”

“Historical society records?”

“Yes. I have the phone number up in my office if you want to contact her.”

“Thanks, I do.”

“And what will you tell her?”

“Good point. Maybe I can have one of my students do it—all in the name of research.”

“Who?”

“Jenny Moore. She was Kristen Marshall’s friend and roommate, and she told me about the shadow in the first place—Kristen told her about it.”

“Let’s go get the number, and you can proceed.” She led the way into the dreaded faculty office area. The cold spots were noticeable, but nothing like they had been the night before. Evelyn closed the door behind them as they entered her office. She motioned to Starsky to have a seat and she began ferreting through her Rolodex. She wrote the name, address and phone number on a slip of paper and handed it to him. “Do you really see any value in this?”

“It’s the only lead we’ve got. Tragic deaths are good springboards for ghosts.”

“Very true.”

“Where was the painting when it was acquired?”

“An antique dealer in the city. I can probably dig up that information too.”

“That would help.” He waited while she rifled through a file cabinet drawer or two and pulled out a fat manilla folder marked “Painting Acquisition.” “I wonder why this one piece was separated from the house. Aren’t there a lot of original furnishings and accessories still here?”

“You have a good eye. Yes, there are. I suppose I never gave it much thought.”

“Well, think about it a minute. If you owned a family home, lousy with expensive antiques, and you needed to pawn something, would you select a portrait of a family member?”

“From my understanding, money was not an issue with the Willoughby Family.”

“Well, that just further bears out my point. Why would someone sell it to an antique dealer? And if it were stolen, why a painting? It’s too traceable if you have other goodies to choose from.”

“Please do whatever it is you need to do to research this. Be careful about using Jenny Moore in the whole operation. I don’t want anything to happen to one of the students.”

“I won’t put her in any danger. I just thought she might have more luck making the initial contact than I would.”

“It’s your ball game now, David.” She smiled a little. “Incidentally, I understand you had a pretty spirited debate on Wednesday.” Starsky tensed. Was she going to lower the boom now about him tossing the syllabus to the wind?

“I hope you don’t mind my taking some initiative with the class. But frankly, I can’t take the dullness of the textbook. Maybe because it is my faith and I was raised in it I can’t just treat it clinically. Also, it just seems like there are so many issues tied into religion that just to read out of a stale old book and bore those kids to death is silly. Besides, my mother recommended the book I used for Wednesday’s class. How can I argue with the lady who taught the teacher?”

“I imagine you can’t—not successfully, anyway,” she responded, amused.

“You’ve met my mother?” he quipped.

“I had one of my own, and she was much the same way. A dear lady, but a champion of the art of debate. I don’t know if anyone ever won an argument against her. I know my father didn’t.” She paused. “The students have said some very positive things about their experience so far in your class. Dr. Levinson has my permission to use his judgement in the classroom.”

“Thanks.” Starsky smiled and stood up. “I better get going. I’ve got some good material to work with here. I’ll call you as soon as I know anything.”

“Good. I’ll be anxious to hear what you find out.”

* * *

Jenny Moore was a bit curious when her professor called, asking her to meet him in a small fast food restaurant a few blocks from campus. It was two in the afternoon, so there was almost no lunch crowd left. Dr. Levinson sat in a back booth, with two soft drinks in front of him, staring out the window. He was almost too handsome to be a professor, and in a pair of jeans, a red shirt and a black leather jacket, he definitely didn’t look like one. When he caught sight of her, he stood, one of those killer smiles decorating his face. She wondered if there was any chance he’d consider taking advantage of a student…

“Hi, Jenny. Have a seat.”

“Thanks.”

“I ordered a couple of Cokes. I hope that’s okay.”

“Fine. Thanks. What’s up?”

“I need your help. I think I might have a lead on the shadow.”

“You’re serious?” she asked, releasing the straw that had been in her mouth.

“Very. But to research it, I need an accomplice. If I ask, I won’t get anywhere.”

“What do you want me to do?”

“Are you familiar with the Maplecrest Historical Society?” This pretentious little suburb even considers its own microcosmic history to be worthy of a society of its own, Starsky thought to himself.

“Not really. I’ve heard of it.”

“Well, I need you to do some research with them. But you’ll have to avoid one specific person. You have to go in the back door so to speak.”

“Who am I avoiding?”

“Charlotte Evans. She’s a member of the college’s Board of Control. What I want you to do is get the real, sordid history of the painting in the library.”

“Old Malcolm what’s-his-name?”

“Malcolm Willoughby III, right. His family died…all of them. Now there’s a tragedy of some sort here, but I get the feeling it’s been glossed over. Tragic, major death is sometimes a cause of haunting—any horror movie fan knows that—so I thought it was a good place to start. The Willoughby family got rid of that painting for some reason but kept piles of other valuable antiques and didn’t need the money from pawning it. So, they must have not wanted it for some reason.”

“Wouldn’t it be a trip if old Malcolm was the shadow?”

“That’s what I’m thinkin’.” Starsky leaned back in the booth.

“Why am I avoiding Charlotte Evans?”

“She pushed for the acquisition of the painting and then glossed over the skeletons in the Willoughby closet. I want the straight story.”

“What do I tell them is the reason I want to know?”

“You’re doing a report on something.” Starsky realized after he said it that it was probably the most non-academic thing he’d said in weeks. Did college students “do reports on things” or did they write research papers? Oh, shit, who cares? he thought.

“Like what?”

“Be creative. I don’t know. A history class.”

“I think I have the answer.” She smiled a satisfied smile. “The college’s 30th anniversary. I can say I’m doing some research for that.”

“Perfect. But be sure you get someone other than—”

“Charlotte Evans, I know. His family is suppose to have died?”

“Supposedly in some sort of accident shortly after the house was built.”

“But you don’t buy that.”

“I think it could be a cover story because to tell the community that the guy hacked them up with a machete wouldn’t make for good reading in the next course catalog.”

“True,” she responded, snickering.

“Had lunch yet?”

“Yes, thanks, I ate at noon—right before you called. I have a three o’clock class, so I better run.”

“Thanks for your help, Jenny.”

“You’re the one who’s helping me, remember? I asked for it,” she concluded, smiling. Standing, she added, “By the way, I’m reading up for that discussion about tzedakah Monday. I’ll be ready for your curve ball next time,” she said, referring back to a spirited debate they’d had in class the previous day.

“I’ll look forward to it,” he responded, standing as she left.

* * *

Life at Maplecrest College was reasonably uneventful during the next few days, and both detectives were finding it hard to prove to Dobey that they were doing anything worthwhile on this investigation, which seemed to have ground to a halt. Jenny did make one contact at the historical society, but she had gotten the same censored version of the story from him also. She did provide Starsky with the tip that there were a large number of files and archives in the small house they used for their offices, and that the man she spoke to had given her information from a file he had taken out of the archives but never let her see. She was headed for the UCLA library next, to go through microfilm of old newspapers from 1889 to 1909, figuring that twenty-year span would encompass the tragedy, if it had indeed occurred in the “first several years” after the house was built.

Starsky’s biggest obstacle now was the cocktail party, Bach concert and reception in the ballroom of the college. Only Maplecrest would preserve a ballroom as a ballroom on a college campus. With Dobey deciding they weren’t doing enough working on this one case alone and funneling several other low-priority items their way to take up “all this spare time you seem to have” (his words), he hadn’t studied up on Bach. Ginny would have to carry him through that one.

Dressed in his penguin suit, he picked Ginny up at seven. She was dressed in a long dress, pale blue, with a very tailored and tasteful ruffled collar and sleeves. Just pretty enough and just stuffy enough, Starsky thought to himself. He had seen Ginny at another party once, with someone else. She had been dressed in a slinky red evening gown and heels. Secretly, it had been that Ginny he’d hoped to see swing open the door of her apartment. But this one would definitely blend with Maplecrest much more effectively. He complimented her on the dress and she exchanged the niceties about his tux, and they were headed for the campus.

Starsky was relieved to have Ginny on his arm as he started into the elegantly appointed ballroom. Hutch’s favorite trick was to cut and run about now, leaving Starsky to fend for himself. Maybe this wouldn’t be such a rotten experience after all.

Evelyn Lansing spotted them as they arrived and made her way through the crowd to greet them. She was followed by a tall, younger man, dressed in an obviously expensive tux. He somewhat resembled her, and they soon learned why.

“David, welcome,” she extended a hand toward him, which he shook.

“Evelyn Lansing, this is Ginny Simpson,” he introduced.

“Nice to meet you, Ginny,” she replied, as Ginny nodded and smiled, shaking her hand. “This is my son, Andrew.” The handshakes in all directions resumed. Andrew was dark-haired, somber-faced and quiet. His coloring was nothing like his mother’s, but the strong features that could make Evelyn Lansing look imposing were handsome on her son and certainly distinguished them as members of the same family.

The two pairs of people mingled as a group for a while, until all had champagne in hand and had managed to submerge themselves among the other faculty, staff and guests. Evelyn was soon swept away on the tides of college conversation, and her son finally succeeded in politely extricating himself to pursue a willowy blonde honor student who would be doing a solo on the violin during the program.

Starsky smiled at Ginny. It was a dry evening at best, but she was coaching him on what each bizarre little hors d’oeuvre was called, what was in it, and why he was supposed to enjoy it. Each with a small plate in hand, they settled in a pair of chairs at one corner of the room, not exactly making all the contacts Dobey would expect. Of course, it was Starsky’s opinion that there was no human killer lurking among the faculty, so he felt using this occasion as an investigative opportunity was somewhat useless.

“You seem to be getting on well with the Wicked Witch of the West,” Ginny said quietly, nibbling some shrimp ball Starsky couldn’t recall the right name for at the moment.

“Hutch doesn’t hit it off too well with Evelyn,” Starsky responded, amused by the nickname his partner still insisted on attaching to the woman. “He tried bluffing her, and she doesn’t go for that.”

“And you know what she does go for?” Ginny probed.

“Well, she’s a straight shooter. If you give it to her straight, she’ll return the favor, and she’ll respect you for it. I never tried to pretend I was something I wasn’t. Hutch tried to pass me off as something different, and she resented it. So her goal in life with him is to shoot holes in his pretenses. I haven’t put out any for her, so she doesn’t shoot at them.”

“You don’t have to take a back seat to Evelyn Lansing…or to Hutch for that matter, Dave.”

“Well, this isn’t my scene. I hate these damn parties.”

“Because you feel out of place at them?” Ginny cut to the chase, which was good in one way, but made him feel like he was standing naked in the middle of the room. She saw through everything.

“I suppose. I don’t know what the shrimp balls are called and I don’t know anything about Europe and I didn’t go to a fancy ivy league college.”

“Oh, for heaven’s sake. Why would you know anything about these stuffy affairs? The only reason I’m a little less terrified of all this is because my father had money, and he used to throw parties like these all the time. I had to be the perfect little princess to show off. Especially after my mother died. He didn’t have a wife for a trophy, so he had a little girl in a frilly dress.”

“I’m sorry…about your mother, I mean. Were you very young?”

“Ten.”

“I was about the same age when my dad was shot. Not an easy thing to handle at that age.”

“No, not at all. But my father is a good man. I don’t mean to imply anything else. He’s been wonderful to me. But appearances are everything to him, and nothing to me.”

“Must make for some interesting arguments,” Starsky commented, feeling more at ease now as he sampled one of the infamous shrimp balls.

“One or two,” she responded, smiling.

“Listen, Ginny, I appreciate you doing this. I know it isn’t a laugh a minute.”

“It’s not all bad, either.” She fed him a bite of another odd food, which he didn’t remember the name of, and didn’t care. He was more interested in Ginny and loved the decadence of her gesture of feeding him off her plate in the middle of a fancy social gathering.

The concert was quite enjoyable, though the student ensemble certainly had a ways to go before they rivaled the local Philharmonic. Starsky was sitting contentedly next to Ginny, happy that her arm had linked through his at her desire, and she frequently leaned over to share with him some little tidbit of information about the music. He listened carefully and stored the information for the post-concert mingling, which he relaxed and enjoyed, feeling Ginny was a loyal back up if he got into a conversation over his head. She only had to bail him out once, in some inane conversation about the angst in Mozart’s personal life being reflected in his music, and even then, no one seemed to catch that he didn’t know what the devil they were talking about—only that his date had an outspoken opinion on the subject.

Starsky dropped Ginny off at her apartment, since she had an early call the next morning. He was amused to finally be dating a woman who had to work the occasional Saturday. Dating? Is that what we’re doing? he questioned himself as he drove back toward his apartment. He was surprised to see Hutch’s car parked out front. Come to think of it, he hadn’t talked to his partner since the previous day sometime, which was odd for them.

“Hey, buddy, how’s it goin’?” Starsky asked as he swung open the door.

“I was beginning to wonder about you.” Hutch’s expression wasn’t especially pleasant, but Starsky was in too good a mood to be dragged down now. He had survived successfully a black-tie evening with a room full of Ph.D.’s, and hadn’t fallen on his face significantly once. No torn tuxes, mispronounced words or social blunders. David Starsky had had fun at a black-tie event for the first time in his life.

“Whadd’ya mean? Hey, want a beer?” He held up two bottles, but Hutch held up his own where he sat on the couch. “Aha. Ahead of me already, huh?” Starsky sat on the opposite end of the couch, tossed his jacket in the chair, kicked off his shoes and put his feet up on the middle cushion. This way he could irritate Hutch by nudging his thigh from time to time with a minimum of exertion. He took a long drink out of the bottle.

“How was the party?”

“It was great. I had fun.”

“You’re not serious—you had fun at a black-tie event?”

“Whatsa matter? Didn’t think I could pull it off?” Starsky took a couple of swallows from his bottle, loosening his bow tie and throwing it in the general direction of the jacket, missing of course.

“Just surprised you enjoyed yourself.”

“I had a lot of fun being with Ginny. And Evelyn introduced us around to quite a few people. It was a little awkward at first, but Ginny was a good coach.” He nudged Hutch with his foot. “So what’s new?”

“I was kind of wondering that myself. Where’ve you been, anyway?”

“Following up that lead with the painting. I asked Jenny Moore to do some snooping. No luck at the historical society, but she’s going to do some research with microfilm in the library. If the old newspapers don’t help us, we’ll have to do a little midnight raid on the historical society archives.”

“Did you conveniently forget that you were a cop and not a ghost-hunting college professor? Dobey’s been all over my back about this case, and I never could tell him where the elusive Dr. Levinson was from one minute to the next.”

“I’m sorry. I guess I just got involved with things at the college and—”

“Well, you’re not Levinson, so just remember that.” Hutch stood up and paced the room angrily. “Don’t look now, Cinderella, but your coach is still a striped tomato.”

“What in the hell is that supposed to mean?” Starsky asked angrily.

“That you’re living out some kind of fantasy. Somewhere along the line you forgot you were a cop and started thinking your cover was your real job.”

“Dobey said I was off active duty while I taught.”

“Listen to yourself— ‘while I taught.’ This is a cover, Starsky, not a new life.”

“Maybe it is.” Starsky stood up and slammed the bottle on the coffee table, almost breaking it. “Maybe for the first time in my life, I’m getting a look at how the other half lives, and ya know somethin’—I kinda like it. And I kinda like getting a little respect once in a while. Do you know what it felt like to stand around in a room full of over-educated professors and have one of them ask my opinion on something? You wanna know something else, Hutch? I was able to give ’em one, believe it or not. And I wasn’t floundering around with a rental ticket on my suit or calling the shrimp balls by the wrong name or tipping the maids. And when I got stuck, Ginny pulled me out of it before I was the joke of the party. So yeah, I had a great time, and it was the beginning of a new life for me—a new perspective, anyway.”

“So now you want to be a college professor? Yeah, right.”

“I didn’t say that.”

“Starsky, David Levinson is a fictional character Dobey created over his morning coffee. His credentials are fake—he doesn’t exist.”

“Is there some special reason you feel compelled to do this to me right now? Why is it you feel you have to ruin this for me?”

“Because when Dobey pulls the plug on this operation, David Levinson is gonna die with it and I don’t want to see you get hurt, okay? I just see you taking on this cover like a second skin—and that makes you one hell of an undercover cop, but it also sets you up for a fall when it all ends. And all this stuff at the college is part of that phony life. I’m not saying you couldn’t have all that someday, but you don’t have it now.”

“I know that, Hutch. I know I’m not on their level. But I was havin’ a little bit of fun pretending.”

“Starsky, this isn’t a matter of ‘levels.'”

“Oh, yes it is,” Starsky responded, a tone of defeat in his voice rather than anger. “I’m not in their league. I know that. I know my place.”

“Oh for God’s sake,” Hutch snapped back angrily. “Don’t start that pouting martyr shit with me. You know that isn’t what I meant.”

“Isn’t it?”

“Look, you’re living a phony life, and I guess I just wanted to make sure you were thinking clearly on that before you get really embarrassed in one of these situations.”

“Since when haven’t you gotten a kick out of that?” Starsky regretted the sharpness of the remark, but it was out there, and Hutch stared back at him a little surprised.

“Is that what this is about? Some stale old grievance you have with me?”

“Forget it, Hutch. I’m tired, let’s just drop it for tonight. I’ve got a clear perspective on everything. I know what I am and what I’m not.” He looked down at the books scattered on his dining room table. Running his fingers absentmindedly over them, he turned back toward Hutch. “Maybe I am living a little through Levinson. I don’t know.”

“Starsk, I never meant I didn’t think you could do something like this someday if you wanted to. I watched you in that classroom. You were good at it. If you wanted to go through college, get all the right letters after your name and do this for a living, I’m sure you could. But I see you getting all wrapped up in this lifestyle—suddenly they’re ‘my’ students, ‘my’ class, and you’re mingling with the faculty and playing the role and we don’t even really need you to do that now because we know what we’re looking for. The truth is, this whole operation should be ended, because we’re chasing a ghost, and we don’t need someone undercover to do that anymore.”

“And we can’t tell Dobey we’re looking for a shadow with a machete either. So David Levinson gets a stay of execution for a while.” Starsky watched Hutch’s unsatisfied expression. “I’m sorry I jumped down your throat.”

“Yeah? Well…” Hutch looked down at the floor for a moment, then back up at Starsky. “I’m sorry I ruined your evening.”

“I guess it needed ruining. I was getting a little carried away with all this…playin’ the role.”

“I meant what I said before, Starsk. You really were doing a good job with that class.”

“Thanks.” He smiled and sat at the table, looking back at the mass of books.

“Think when this is all over, you’ll want to sign up for more classes?” Hutch joined him at the table.

“I don’t know. Maybe. I don’t picture being David Levinson full-time though. I can’t see spending a lifetime cooped up in a musty old library somewhere doing research and writing books and going to these damn dry receptions,” Starsky concluded with a laugh, unbuttoning another button on his dress shirt.

“I thought you had fun tonight.”

“I had fun playing dress up—kinda like Halloween. I love the students, and I love teaching things to people, but I’ve never been good at sticking my nose in a book or spouting off long research papers.”

“That isn’t what makes a good professor.”

“Tell that to the administrators—or the other moldy old professors, for that matter. It might not be the most important thing in terms of being a good teacher, but I sure have heard enough about it since I’ve been hanging around the faculty offices. I think ‘publish or perish’ was the term. That’s not me. Never will be. I don’t want it.”

“So what do you want?”

“Nothin’. I think I’ve gotten it from this assignment. A chance to be somebody like David Levinson—respected, important, somebody who mattered. Somebody people call by a title all the time, ya know? Maybe just knowing I can do it is enough.”

“So I’m supposed to start calling you Sergeant Starsky now?”

“For starters,” he replied, snickering a little.

“Any time I teased you about anything, you know I was just kidding I hope.”

“I know. It really doesn’t matter anymore. It did at the time, but not now.”

“Meaning what?”

“It’s in the past, pal. I know what I’m capable of now, so it isn’t important anymore.” Starsky was startled by the ringing of the telephone.

“Hello?”

“Starsky, this is Dobey. There’s been another murder at Maplecrest.”

“Oh my God—who was it?”

“Andrew Lansing—Evelyn Lansing’s son, and a student, Jill Hansen.”

“We’re on our way.”

“Starsky! You’re Levinson, remember? Stay the hell out of there.”

“No, Cap, I’m still Starsky—please trust me—he’s needed worse on this case than Levinson.”

“All right but just get your butts down there pronto.”

“Will do.” Starsky hung up the phone. “There’s been another murder—Andrew Lansing and a girl. We met them at the party tonight.” He was sliding into his shoulder holster as he spoke.

“You wanna drive, Professor?” Hutch patted Starsky on the back as he followed him out the door to the Torino.

* * *

There were a myriad of flashing blue and red lights, bathrobe-clad students and assorted other onlookers spilling across the lawn in front of the building. Starsky got a few odd looks from students as he raced through the crowd, police ID upheld to get to the crime scene. Dobey was already there, talking with the first uniformed officers on the scene. He spotted his team as they hurried up the steps to the second floor hallway.

“Where’s Evelyn?” Starsky asked immediately.

“She’s in her office,” Dobey retorted, surprised to see Starsky pick his way through the crime scene quickly to reach the administrator’s office. “What’s with him?”

“I guess he made friends with the dragon lady. So, what’ve we got?” Hutch asked, following Dobey to view the ravaged corpses under the bloody white sheets.

“Same M.O. as Anna Goldman and the others. Both were stabbed and slashed repeatedly, with a final wound to the throat being fatal. Large-bladed cutting weapon…” Dobey paused as Hutch lifted one sheet, then the other, shaking his head as he replaced the coverings. “What the hell were they doing up here?”

“With kids, who knows? Probably looking for a place to mess around. It looks like they were in the boy’s mother’s office and came into the hall for some reason. Things were disturbed in her office, like they had been on the couch in the sitting area, but there was no sign of a struggle or blood in there.”

* * *

Starsky knocked and then opened Evelyn’s office door slightly. She was seated at her desk, leaning heavily on it with both arms, her expression glassy.

“Evelyn?” He slipped inside and closed the door. She didn’t respond. “Evelyn? It’s David.” He approached the desk and leaned forward, lowering himself to her line of vision. There was a glimmer of recognition, and she finally spoke.

“He left the party sometime…I’m not sure when. I was ready to leave, and I couldn’t find him. I didn’t want to embarrass him by having his mother follow him around, so when I saw him leave with Jill, I didn’t stop them. I thought they would go to the cafeteria…it’s open late Friday nights for the students to have pizza, and they play music…” She finally had actual eye contact with Starsky, having just stared through him while she was talking.

“But they came up here instead?” He sat in one of the chairs across the desk, pulling it closer to lean on the surface.

“I gave Andrew a key to my office several years ago, so that when I brought him to a function like this, he could come up here when he got bored. He’d listen to my radio or read when he was younger. Obviously, tonight, he had something else in mind. I told him not to come up here tonight. Dear God, if I had just explained why,” she concluded, her voice shaking.

“He probably wouldn’t have believed it.” Starsky reached out and covered one of her hands with his. “He’d have thought you were being an overprotective mother because this was a murder scene.”

“You’re right, I know, but I just can’t help feeling that if I had warned him strongly enough…or better yet, if I’d followed them—”

“Evelyn, this isn’t your fault. You did what most moms would do—warned him to stay away and then trusted him to do that and let him have his freedom to move around. You didn’t want to humiliate him in front of the girl.” He watched her somewhat frantic face, not registering much comfort at his words. “You found them?”

“Yes.” She nodded, looking down.

“Have you talked to the police about this?”

“I couldn’t. I asked them to leave me alone. I needed…time.”

“I understand. Think you could talk to me?”

“I think so.” She met his eyes and smiled slightly.

* * *

Hutch finished questioning several faculty members who had come up from the reception in the ballroom, which had broken up near the time the bodies had been discovered. No one saw anyone suspicious coming or going, all were in clean formal wear, not showing any signs of being possible suspects in the slayings, and all were curious why Dr. Levinson was wandering around in the midst of the bloody hall, talking to uniformed officers. Hutch would leave that explanation to his partner for a later time. Starsky had his notepad in hand when he returned from Evelyn Lansing’s office, having obviously managed to get a statement from her.

“She found them?” Hutch asked, as Starsky made the obligatory glances under the sheets.

“He left the party around midnight with the girl and came up to his mother’s office. When Evelyn got here, there was blood everywhere, and she saw the bodies. She checked Andrew for a pulse, then called the police from her office.”

“Cool lady. Most women would have been shrieking their heads off in the hall.”

“I think she was functioning on shock—raw nerves. I called her sister for her. She’s going to pick her up here in a few minutes.”

“She didn’t happen to see any shadows, did she?”

“No. Nothing.” Starsky shook his head. “Damn! This shouldn’t have happened, Hutch. It isn’t going to happen again.” Starsky took off down the stairs and Hutch was hot on his heels.

“Starsky!” he yelled after his partner, who was striding with a single-minded determination toward the library. The door was locked, but before Hutch could catch him, Starsky shot the lock off the door, kicked it open and raced toward the painting. It did look more sinister in the shadows and moonlight. “What’re you doing?” Hutch asked angrily as he finally got a hold of his partner’s arm and pulled him around so they were face to face.

“That damn painting! If I hadn’t worried about researching it to death and just ripped it off the friggin’ wall when I knew it was involved somehow, those two kids would still be alive.”

“Starsky, you can’t turn this around to be your fault. You can’t just walk around committing acts of wanton vandalism—like blowing the lock off that door just now. What the hell’s the matter with you?”

“I don’t know.” Starsky paced back and forth.

“What were you going to do with that painting?”

“Yank it off the wall! Drag it outside and burn the damn thing to a crisp!”

“That’s a realistic solution.” Hutch shook his head. “I know how you feel, buddy, but you can’t just destroy it with no explanation.”

“What are you two up to down here?” Dobey demanded angrily as he approached them. “What was that shot?”

“The lock. I…I thought I heard something in here,” Starsky stammered.

“So you blew the lock off the door with your gun? You know damn well—”

“Look, I’m sorry, all right? I’ll pay for the fucking lock!” Starsky stormed out of the room past both of them and out into the crowd on the lawn.

“What’s his problem?” Dobey asked Hutch. “Is he getting a little too involved in this cover?”

“I think seeing bloody devastation like that scene upstairs is pretty rough for anybody, and he does know these people now. I don’t know if that’s getting too involved, but it can’t be helped when you’re undercover for any length of time.”

“Well, I’ll go placate the president about the gunshot and the damage. Meanwhile, you give your partner a little attitude adjustment…or I will.” He strode briskly out of the room. From Dobey, attitude adjustments were not pleasant. They tended to be long, loud and come with some demeaning punitive duty writing parking tickets or directing traffic for a significant span of time. Hutch vowed to find Starsky and settle him down before that became a reality.

* * *

Starsky took a few deep breaths and returned to the building. Evelyn Lansing’s sister was there, and someone would have to lead Evelyn through the bloody upstairs hall to come downstairs and leave with her sister. Dobey passed him on the stairs with a dark glare, but said nothing. The bodies were now being moved out on gurneys to the coroner’s wagon outside. Starsky paused for the grim procession to begin its descent of the stairs before he approached Evelyn’s office. He tapped on the door and stuck his head inside. She stood up and walked toward the door at his arrival.

“Gwen’s waiting for you outside. I know it isn’t too pleasant going through that hallway, but there’s no other way. Andy and Jill have been moved.”

“All right.” She picked up her coat off the chair where it had been thrown, and Starsky held it while she slipped her arms into it. He left an arm around her shoulder to guide her out the door and through the hall. She leaned quite heavily on the hand that was supporting her left arm as they moved down the hall, but she didn’t pause or falter in her steps. They descended the stairs and made their way to the entrance to meet Gwen Randolph, Evelyn’s sister.

“Thank you for everything, David.”

“I’m going to finish this, once and for all. I promise you.”

“I know you’ll try.” She smiled slightly as she turned and left with her sister. Hutch caught up to his partner near the entrance.

“You’re in deep shit with Dobey, I hope you know that.”

“What’s he gonna do, make me check the parking meters around the precinct?” Starsky asked sarcastically.

“Probably. Or maybe direct traffic. He’s not too thrilled with that stunt you pulled—or the way you talked back to him. Are you nuts?”

“Most likely. But there are two dead kids smeared all over that hallway up there because I’ve been afraid to do something irrational to end this. I’ve played the role of Professor Levinson and researched it. I’ve played the role of Sergeant Starsky and investigated it. But I never listened to what Dave Starsky told me to do about it as soon as I suspected what was causing all this. If I had, Dobey would have adjusted my attitude, but those kids would still be alive.”

“This isn’t your fault.”

“Well it feels like it.”

“I tell you what. Let’s follow up on getting the story on the Willoughby family. If it’s what we think it is, I’ll come back here and help you burn that damned painting. Then we can write traffic tickets together for a month.”

“Deal.” Starsky laughed a little. “Hutch?”

“Yeah?”

“I’ve really been on your case through this whole thing. I’m sorry.”

“You don’t have to apolo—”

“Yes, I do. So are you gonna accept it?”

“Of course I’m gonna accept it. If you accept mine.”

“For what? Being my best friend?”

“No.” Hutch paused while the uniformed officers moved the spectators along, and the majority of the police personnel made their way out to their vehicles. Only a couple of cops and the crime lab people were still poking around upstairs. Hutch sat on the front steps now, confident he wouldn’t be in the way, and Starsky joined him. The traffic pattern had eased drastically, and there was some semblance of calm returning to the grounds. “You said something when this all started that’s bothered me. Everything else I could reason through, or justify.”

“I said a lot of stupid things. I was jittery about this assignment, and I took it out on you.”

“Yeah, well, you said one thing that bothered me a lot. You said I covered your back in every other situation except one where my background had me a little better prepared—like a formal occasion. It bothered the hell out of me because you were right. If we were on the street, in a shootout, whatever, I wouldn’t think of doing anything but covering you, being your back up. You must have felt really betrayed when I didn’t bail you out.”

“A little. But I knew you were only kidding around. I just usually wasn’t prepared for it. Guess you were a little too quick.”

“Guess you trusted me.”

“I still do, with anything that matters. I just trust Ginny more to give me the right name for the shrimp balls.” He became serious. “But when everything falls apart in my life, there’s one constant that doesn’t betray my trust—and that’s you, partner. Always has been.”

“I’m glad. I feel the same way.”

“Good. Then when Dobey puts us in Traffic, you’ll be happy to be by my side the whole time, right?”

“Think again, turkey.” Hutch stood up and led the way back to the car.

 

PART TWO

Jenny Moore hated facing the grim reminder of Kristen’s murder that seeing uniformed police around the campus again represented. She had some news for Professor Levinson, so she would concentrate on that as she made her way to his class, armed with notes and photocopies from her microfilm research at the library.

Starsky looked out at the classroom full of students who were calmly preparing for the start of class. He watched Jenny Moore slip into the back row, giving him a conspiratory smile. He had blown Levinson’s cover pretty effectively at the murder scene Friday night, and it had taken some doing for Dobey to keep his mouth shut and let Starsky return to the campus under his alias long enough to be the one to explain to the students what had happened. He was wearing jeans, a turtleneck and his favorite leather jacket. He had gotten more than one strange glance from incoming students.

“I have something to tell all of you.” He sat on the edge of the desk. “I know we haven’t been in class together for very long, but I thought I owed you an explanation myself, in person. I’m not David Levinson, Ph.D.” Starsky pulled out his badge and held it up. “I’m David Starsky, homicide detective, LAPD. Professor Levinson was a cover story created so I could investigate the murders from the inside. I am Jewish, I did do research to teach this class, and the things we discussed in here weren’t phony. I did my best not to waste your time while I was playing the role of Levinson. I came to the campus with my partner—Detective Hutchinson—I think many of you have been questioned by him since all this started—Friday night when Andrew Lansing and Jill Hansen were killed, and so my cover was blown with most of the faculty and staff. I’m sorry I lied to you, but I wanted to explain in person.”

“So what does this mean for the investigation?” Jenny spoke up immediately.

“The investigation is ongoing. It just means that I’m doing it as myself, with my partner, instead of as Dr. Levinson. Professor Tillman will take over this class, starting Wednesday.”

“I don’t know about anybody else, but I read up on tzedakah for this class today, and I want to talk about it.” Mandy Corrigan seemed to startle the others with her declaration, including Starsky, but several more students nodded and muttered affirmations.

With some amusement, Starsky started flying somewhat by the seat of his pants, sans lecture notes, relishing his last performance as David Levinson, college professor. It was a lively session that rivaled the previous week’s hot discussion of morality issues, and the students were pleased to get one more energetic class out of their highly unconventional professor before his coach did, as Hutch prophesied, turn back into a striped tomato.

As the class filed out and said their goodbyes, Jenny lingered in the back of the room. Starsky made his way back and sat in a chair near hers.

“What’d you find out?”

“Malcolm Willoughby III murdered his wife, two daughters, his son and a houseguest one night in a drunken rage.”

“I guess you did find something out.”

“He built the house in 1889 and moved his family in here. They lived here until 1900. This is a copy from the microfilm.” She took a blurry sheet of paper out of her folder.

“‘Local Businessman Slays Family in Midnight Bloodbath.’ Well, at least whoever wrote this had a flair for the dramatic.”

Starsky read the article, which described how Willoughby was known for his public drunkenness and extravagant gambling activities, and had been thrown out of a local tavern less than an hour before the slayings. Upon returning home, he murdered his wife, three children, and a houseguest. All bodies were found in the upstairs hall, which was spattered with a ghastly amount of blood. “Hey, I bet that’s where the cold spots came from—the original killings.” Starsky looked up at Jenny, who nodded in agreement. Starsky continued reading. “According to this article, he used a large, sharp weapon, which he finally turned on himself, slitting his own throat. What continued to baffle police was that the murder weapon was never found—and the murders started when that painting was hung in the library.”

“You might be interested to know that his niece is still alive. She’s in a nursing home.”

“How’d you find that out?”

“Easy. I have a friend who’s a work study in the president’s office, and Clarice Willoughby is still a significant donor. This is her address.” She handed Starsky a slip of paper.

“Hey, if you ever decide to become a detective, give me a call,” he said.

“If you ever decide to become a professor, let me know which class you’re teaching. You did okay.” She stood and held out her hand. He shook it with a smile.

“Thanks. I’m sorry I had to be so sneaky about everything, but I couldn’t risk telling anyone. Of course, once we got on the track of thinking it wasn’t a real suspect we were after, my cover seemed kind of stupid.”

“How do your bosses feel about that?” Jenny’s uncanny ability to cut to the chase unnerved him a little.

“They don’t exactly know.”

“I figured that.” She started toward the door. “Oh—that other phone number on the paper? That’s mine. Give me a call when you figure all this out, huh? I really want to know how it turns out.”

“I will. Thanks a million for your detective work, Jenny.”

“You’re welcome.” His last student turned and walked out the door and down the hall.

At Hutch’s insistence, Starsky had made an adequate hat-in-hand-style apology to Dobey for his antics Friday night. Satisfied that his sergeant’s attitude was not adjusted, but merely re-directed, Dobey reluctantly accepted the apology and sent him on his way with no further disciplinary action, beyond taking the cost of the lock out of his paycheck. He reminded Starsky of his “spirited and colorful pledge” to pay for it.

* * *

A visit to Clarice Willoughby was next on the agenda. Starsky and Hutch found themselves in the rather stuffy sitting room of a well-appointed retirement home, being entertained with stories of life during the Depression while they waited for Clarice to finish her daily bridge game in the recreation room before she would be disturbed to keep their two o’clock appointment. By 2:15, she emerged, rescuing them from the elderly woman who had decided she should keep them company while they waited.

Clarice was 86 years old, a frail woman with a full head of white hair and piercing dark eyes. She greeted her guests with a firm handshake, using her left hand to steady herself on the cane she used. Once they were all seated again, she rested her hands in the lap of her navy blue dress and regarded them curiously.

“Well, I know I haven’t committed any crimes of late, gentlemen, so I must admit I’m a bit puzzled why you would wish to speak to me about the murders occurring at Maplecrest College. I haven’t set foot in that house in twenty years or better—I attended a reception in my honor there in 1958.”

“Actually, we were curious about the history of your house…more specifically—”

“Crazy Uncle Malcolm and his machete?” She laughed softly. “Why would two police detectives want to hear that tired old story?”

“I think you know.” Starsky didn’t return her smile. “You realize they recently acquired the painting of your uncle.”

“Of course I realize that.”

“Why was it removed from the house in the first place?” Hutch spoke up.

“That was personal.”

“Ms. Willoughby, there have been six murders in that building since that painting was hung in the library. Surely it isn’t too much to ask to know why you got rid of it,” Hutch concluded, but she seemed unmoved.

“Ms. Willoughby, please tell us what you know about the painting,” Starsky prodded. “People are dying—”

“If you think the painting is the cause, then destroy it. It makes little difference.” She stood up, smoothing the front of her skirt and grasping her cane.

“What do you mean—’it makes little difference’?” Hutch asked.

“I’m not feeling well, gentlemen. I usually rest at this time. Good day.” She left the room, and the detectives stood there looking at one another, bewildered. How could Clarice Willoughby be the only elderly woman in recorded history who didn’t like to tell stories about her family? Discouraged, they returned to the car and drove back toward the precinct. A call over the radio startled them out of their depressed daze.

“This is Dobey. Get over to Maplecrest right now. Your friend Evelyn Lansing just torched the place!”

“We’re on our way,” Hutch responded, breaking the connection and putting the flasher on top of the car as Starsky sped toward the campus.

* * *

Fire trucks and rescue personnel were working diligently to put out the blaze that appeared to be concentrated in the library area. There were sighs of relief as the fire was being brought under control, and the detectives heard people muttering among themselves that it was a blessing the building was going to be saved, and smoke and water damage beyond a few first-floor offices was minimal.

Evelyn Lansing was sitting in the back of a squad car with a calm expression on her face. She was dirty and disheveled from having been so near the fire but appeared unhurt. Hutch hung back slightly for his partner to open the door of the police car and squat in the opening to talk to this shadow of the powerful woman he was used to seeing holding court over the campus.

“Evelyn, what happened?”

“I finished it. It’s gone.”

“What’s gone?”

“The painting. I burned it, David. It’s gone. It won’t ever hurt anyone again.”

“Why did you do this? We would have…well, I said I’d do something…” Starsky hated the uselessness of his words. “I said”… “we would have”…all inactive solutions. Evelyn Lansing was a woman of action, and the spirit of Malcolm Willoughby had enjoyed his last homicidal romp when he tangled with her son. She was not deranged, she wasn’t even slightly incoherent. She had merely done what had to be done, and now she was content to be hauled off to face the consequences. Hopefully, given her emotional state, they would be mild.

“David, I did what had to be done…What you know you wanted to do when you rushed downstairs that first night.”

“How’d you know about that?”

“I heard about one of the detectives shooting the lock off the library door. I knew it could only be my favorite adjunct professor.” She reached out and patted his shoulder. “I know you wanted to do something about it then. I could get away with it. You couldn’t. And wherever that foul entity is, it had to pay for what it did to Andy…and all the others. How could you ever bring about that kind of justice in your line of work?”

“Couldn’t, I guess,” he admitted.

“Well, Maplecrest will survive without you and me, David. But it couldn’t have survived with Malcolm Willoughby III.” She removed her hand from his shoulder. “You made a fine professor here. I fear more students will miss you after two weeks than will miss me after two decades.”

“That’s not true.”

“True or not, I appreciate all you tried to do. But it’s done now, so please go back to work and don’t worry about me. I’ll survive.”

“I don’t doubt that. I want to thank you, too. I really was nervous about this assignment, but you made it easy on me, and you treated me very well while I was here. You’re a good lady, Evelyn Lansing.”

“Thank you.” She smiled up at him as he straightened and moved away, closing the car door.

Hutch had faded away for a few minutes to touch base with the fire fighters. There had been only a few cases of smoke inhalation, and the damage was contained quite quickly thanks to some staff members with fire extinguishers and the quick response of the fire department. The police car in which Evelyn Lansing was riding drove slowly toward the main road. The library was essentially a loss, which was quite a devastating blow for a college. Starsky snickered in spite of himself as he thought of the funding priorities when it was rebuilt: better furniture, more paintings…maybe those Japanese Maples…

* * *

Dobey was not amused by his detectives’ antics and lack of progress on the Maplecrest case. After three weeks of inactivity on the investigation, they were being pressed for some sort of explanation. None was possible. There had been no other murders, there never had been a suspect, and Evelyn Lansing had even destroyed the offending painting that was the center of Starsky and Hutch’s personal, unofficial investigation.

“Of all the years I’ve observed half-assed investigations, I think you two should get the award. This has been the most ridiculous and inexcusable waste of the taxpayers’ money I’ve ever seen.” Dobey slapped the file down on the desk. “What the hell’s the matter with you two? Starsky—you walked into the middle of the crime scene at the last murders and blew your cover, then you vandalized the library—”

“I shot the lock off, Cap’n. I don’t think that qualifies as—”

“And when I want your opinion on the subject, I’ll ask for it!” Dobey snapped. “This one over here,” he waved toward Hutch angrily, “spends his time correlating the location of corpses to drafts in the hall.”

“Cold spots, Captain.”

“That’s enough out of you, too!” Dobey leaned back in his chair. He was rarely genuinely angry at this pair, and rarely felt they were behaving in a truly unprofessional and unreasonable manner. This was an exception. “You’re off the case.” He waited for angry responses, pleas for mercy, objections…none came. The two detectives looked at each other, flexed their eyebrows and shrugged in a shared gesture of resolution, but said nothing. “I don’t think you two understand me. You’re off the case.”

“We heard you, Cap.” Starsky paused a moment. “Okay.” Hutch nodded his assent. “Can we go now?”

“Yes, you can go now. You can go out to your desks where you’re going to find some case files. Spend a little time working on those to brush up on your understanding of investigative procedure.”

“That was painless,” Hutch said to his partner as they returned to their desks. The small stack of folders looked harmless enough.

“You haven’t looked at these.” Starsky was flipping through the folders. “Two lost dogs, a serial shoplifter, two vandalism complaints—those are marked with my name, incidentally—and a kid who blows up mailboxes.”

“Ouch.” Hutch handed Starsky a cup of coffee and carried one for himself back to his desk. “I guess we barely escaped meter maid duty. Dobey’s probably a little embarrassed in front of Grodin and Merriweather.”

“Gives me another reason to hate that jerk.” Starsky sipped his coffee and wrinkled his nose.

“Don’t look now,” Hutch muttered, as Grodin entered the squad room. A portly man with receding brown hair and a mustache, he was dressed in a tweed jacket, shirt and tie. It amused Starsky that the guy kept trying to look like a captain, even if no one was convinced he had what it took to be one.

“Morning, gentlemen.” He wasn’t merely walking. He was strutting like a rooster, dying to gloat over what had apparently made it to the grapevine about the two-star detectives falling flat on their faces. “Dobey told me to see you for the rest of the notes and case file on the Maplecrest murder case.”

“Here you go,” Hutch piled it up and handed it over, secretly relieved to see it go. And snickering inwardly at how impossible it would be for Grodin and Merriweather to come up with anything better.

“Seems the golden boys are tarnishing a little, eh?” He perused the files.

“Stuff it, Grodin,” Starsky growled under his breath.

“Excuse me, professor. Professor. That one got a good laugh around here to begin with. Starsky the professor. I think maybe we’ve got a new nickname for you, smart ass.”

“I think you better shut your mouth before I shut it for you,” Hutch’s voice came out when Starsky started to open his mouth to respond. He looked at his usually docile partner, who normally tried to mediate the occasional flare-ups between Starsky and Grodin. It was rare for him to fan the flames. Rarer for him to get involved. He was standing now, and when Hutch got that look in his eyes, most people didn’t mess with him. Grodin did not possess even the average level of perception in that department. He persisted.

“Oh, come on, Hutchinson. Even you have to admit trying to pass him off as a Ph.D. is stretching it.” Hutch grabbed the lapels of the man’s jacket and pulled his 5’10” frame up so their eyes almost met.

“Now you listen to me, you asshole. Starsky’s got more brains in his little finger than you’ve got in that whole smelly carcass of yours, and he sure as hell has more class than you do. Now take your case file and get the hell out of here before I ram it so far down your fucking throat that it comes out your—”

“Hutch, cool it, come on.” Starsky was behind him, tugging on his arm. “He isn’t worth the effort. You’ve heard that old expression, right, Grodin? ‘I’d slap you but shit splatters’?”

“Let me go,” Grodin growled at Hutch. “I’m gonna teach that little punk a lesson once and for all!”

“Come on, old man, give it your best shot!” Starsky spat back at him.

“Hey! All of you! Cool it right now or you’re all gonna be writin’ parking tickets for the next six weeks!” Dobey bellowed from the door of his office. “Last time I looked, we were all adults here, not a bunch of ill-behaved kids in a schoolyard. Hutch, let go of Grodin—he’s not goin’ anywhere.” Dobey waited while Hutch reluctantly followed the directive. “Grodin, you get your butt in my office. We’ve got a few things to straighten out. You two settle down. You’ve got plenty of work to do.”

“This isn’t over,” Grodin growled back at Starsky.

“The hell it isn’t!” Dobey yelled from his office. “Maybe you didn’t hear me the first time—in my office, NOW. Move!”

“Thanks.” Starsky returned to his desk and sat down again.

“I should’ve just decked him.”

“Then we’d be on parking meter duty. Besides, what you said…meant a lot more to me than if you had hit him.”

“I meant it,” Hutch responded, meeting his partner’s gaze across the desk. “I wasn’t just blowing hot air at Grodin. I meant what I said.”

“I know you did. That’s why it meant so much.” Starsky smiled. “Wanna go look for a lost schnauzer? I’ll buy you lunch at Huggy’s first.”

“How can I pass up an offer like that?” Hutch responded with smile. Apparently, Starsky was determined to make the best of this rather humbling punitive experience. Well, maybe it wouldn’t be so bad, working the dumb cases for a while. They had wrestled with the forces of darkness enough to last them both quite a while.

* * *

Hutch was incredulous that they had actually taken on the schnauzer case. This was the stuff that goes in a file drawer and never sees the light of day. Nibbling a mid-afternoon ice cream cone, Starsky was reviewing a hastily scrawled list of the places they had looked and the neighbors they had interviewed. Starsky seemed to have a perpetual soft spot in his heart for distressed little old ladies, and the dog’s owner fit that description perfectly. She was 78 years old, and the dog had been a gift from her husband who died two years earlier. Both detectives seemed to feel there was some greater value in this ugly little gray dog than the price its papers would say it was worth.

It did both their hearts good to locate the animal in a neighbor’s yard, less than a block away. Following up on the woman’s complaints of harassment by neighborhood teenagers, they had heard the dog barking in the backyard of one of the kid’s houses. Completely unhinged at the sight of real cops and real badges following up on a lost dog, the boy had confessed to snatching it out of the woman’s front yard and was not at all pleased to be hauled downtown in handcuffs on larceny charges. The dog’s estimated value was $1500, being of a champion bloodline, so the charges of stealing it were no small item.

Having squeezed some sense of victory and satisfaction out of an otherwise humiliating situation, both detectives laughed at themselves putting in a twelve-hour day voluntarily to wrap up the schnauzer caper. They landed at Hutch’s place with take-outs and other provisions for the evening.

“Find us something to look at, will ya?” Starsky referred to the TV while he was digging through Hutch’s refrigerator for beer.

“You’re going to let me pick what we watch?”

“Well, you did figure out which lead to follow to find the dog. Call it a reward.”

“You mean old Mrs. Findley kissing us both wasn’t enough?” Hutch asked, laughing.

“One thing you’ve gotta admit about finding lost dogs—we don’t get too many women kissing us for doing our job in homicide.” Starsky joined Hutch in the living room and handed him a beer.

“How long do you think Dobey’ll keep this up—seriously making us work these cases?”

“Probably until we settle down and solve a few of them and he sees we’re taking them seriously. And until the whole precinct knows about it and he thinks we’ve been publicly humiliated enough to put us in our places. What burns me up is that none of this is our fault. There was no solving the Maplecrest thing, and we’re getting punished by Dobey for not solving an unsolvable case.” Starsky shook his head. “Just makes me wish I’da done something more fun to deserve this.”

“I know the feeling.” Hutch smiled as he opened his container of almond chicken. “Dobey was plenty embarrassed in front of the commissioner, not to mention Grodin and Merriweather.”

“Oh, gee, excuse me while I cry for him. Seems like we’re the ones takin’ the heat here.” Starsky chewed on his egg roll for a while. “So, what didya find?” He nodded toward the TV. Hutch got up and switched it on, flipping the channels to a movie that was starting. “You’re going to watch ‘Dracula Has Risen from the Grave’?”

“You went to the foreign film festival at UCLA with me last month, didn’t you?”

“Yeah, that’s true. You owe me about six of these, now that you mention it.”

* * *

The phone was ringing. Starsky was vaguely aware that Dracula had been sneaking through some woman’s window when he fell asleep. Now the vampire had been felled and the credits were rolling. Hutch was sleeping in the chair across from him, and the damn phone was ringing.

“Hello?” he grumbled into the phone, still groggy.

“David?”

“Yeah, who’s this?” He didn’t recognize the woman’s voice at first.

“Evelyn Lansing.” Well, that was a good sign. Evelyn must have been doing okay with her therapy if she had been released and was making phone calls. The college hadn’t pressed charges for her little tirade, but she had been locked up in a private sanitorium at her sister’s insistence.

“Hey, how are you?” He straightened in his seat, and Hutch was stirring now.

“I’m home.” She paused. “David, there’s been another murder. I called the police department, but they transferred me to some monosyllabic Neanderthal named Grodin.” Upon that statement, Starsky burst out laughing, covering the phone. He had forgotten how much he was really missing Evelyn Lansing’s piercing wit and sharp tongue.

“That’s one of the kinder descriptions I’ve heard of him. We’re not close friends.”

“So I gathered. The point is, the painting has been destroyed, and the murders are starting again.”

“Same M.O.?” Starsky asked, as Hutch seemed to come fully awake, interested now in the conversation. Evelyn picked up the police terminology and didn’t falter.

“From what little I’ve been told. I finally resorted to calling my student assistant, and she gave me the details she overheard at the scene.”

“Who was it, and what happened?”

“Professor Billings.”

“Damn. I kind of liked that guy.”

“So did we all. He was a good man. He was found, murdered the same way as the others, in the upstairs hall. It just happened a couple of hours ago.”

“How did you find out about it?”

“It was on the radio that police had been called to the campus, apparently for another murder. It’s big local news.”

“It always is.” Starsky was quiet a minute. “I thought the painting was the key.”

“So did I,” she replied, laughing ironically. “I lost my job and wound up spending three weeks in an overpriced funny farm because I thought it was the painting.”

“For our part in all this, we’re looking for lost dogs and mailbox vandals. I guess we’ve all paid some dues on this one.”

“I guess.”

“How are you really doing? I mean, after Andrew…”

“That’s one day at a time. They say time heals. I’m not convinced.”

“I think it dulls and numbs. I don’t know about healing.”

“Well, I thought you should know what was happening. I was hoping you might think of…something. God knows, I’m fresh out of ideas.”

“We’ll try to look into it. Our captain’ll have our heads if we interfere with it, but I promise you I’ll do what I can.”

“Thank you, David. That’s all I could ask.”

“Evelyn?”

“Yes?”

“You wanna have lunch or something sometime? I mean, so we could talk about the case.” Starsky wasn’t sure why he had asked, and he was sorry he had done so in front of his partner, who looked positively flabbergasted. He didn’t want to end his friendship with Evelyn, and if he didn’t do something to maintain contact, it would fade away like so many others over the years.

“I’d like that.”

“I’ll call you as soon as I have any information.”

“Thanks. You have my home number?”

“I guess I don’t.” He scribbled it down on the pad near the phone as she recited it. “Okay. I’ll be in touch.” Starsky hung up and looked up at Hutch. “Another murder at Maplecrest.”

“Who was it?”

“A guy named Billings. He was a professor. He stopped in to introduce himself my first week there. Seemed like a nice guy. He said himself the odds were one in ten…”

“What?”

“He was a math professor. He ran some probability figures once on what the chances were of being murdered in your office at Maplecrest. He said they were one in ten.”

“So the painting wasn’t the key after all.”

“Guess not.” Starsky was quiet a minute. “Remember what Clarice Willoughby said? When we talked about the painting, she said ‘it makes little difference’—whether we destroyed it or not? Damn it, Hutch, she knew it wouldn’t help.”

“Wonder why she was so cryptic about everything?”

“I don’t know. She probably got rid of the painting in the first place…and maybe it didn’t change anything.”

“If people were being murdered in the house on a regular basis, she couldn’t have gone on living there.”

“Something set it off.” Starsky stood up and paced the room. “But destroying the painting didn’t end it.”

“So what kinds of problems do you think Clarice was having?”

“Maybe the cold spots—maybe even the shadow. Maybe it didn’t do anything to her. After all, she is family.”

“Like a homicidal entity is going to care?” Hutch turned off the television, which had been droning in the background.

“I don’t know. I’m groping.”

“Well, one thing we can take comfort in. Grodin and Merriweather will probably inherit our unsolved missing dog cases before long.” Hutch’s remark brought a laugh from his partner.

* * *

Merriweather was only marginally cordial as he provided Hutch with a few of the pertinent facts on the Billings murder the night before. Though neither Hutch nor Merriweather had occasion to cross each other in any significant way, they were definitely on opposite sides of a line drawn in the sand much earlier by their two volatile partners.

Both detectives were the more temperate halves of their respective teams, and Hutch had to admire Merriweather’s loyalty to a partner who couldn’t be deserving of it. Anytime he found himself relaxing in Merriweather’s company, however, he recalled the look on Starsky’s face when Grodin implied that the mere thought of the younger detective being sent undercover as highly educated had been a precinct-wide joke. Hutch had never seen a look exactly like that before—such a mixture of anger, hurt, disappointment, but worst of all, humiliation—all rolled into one expression. And that had sent him to his feet and thrust him into the middle of the battle he usually attempted to ignore at best, mediate at worst.

Billings had been killed in much the same way as the others. His slaughtered body was found in the upstairs hall. It was inexplicable why he would be there after hours, as he had been the very person to run probability statistics on the chances of being murdered at Maplecrest. And people say cops are strange, Hutch thought with a smirk. Only a professor would think to figure up the chances of his own murder…and then make himself a statistic. Idiot. What was he doing up there after dark anyway?

“He had a late class,” Merriweather continued. It startled Hutch that the conversation picked up exactly where his thoughts ended. “I guess he was the only one who did that night, and it looks like he had dumped his stuff in his office, and then the guy attacked him in the hall. His office was already locked up for the night.” Poor bastard. Ran upstairs, tossed his stuff on his desk and ran like hell…but not fast enough.

“You and Grodin have anything?” Hutch could sense the hesitation in the other man. “Look, Starsky and I aren’t on the case. We’re no threat to you. We got to know some of those people, and we just want to know what’s happening.”

“We haven’t got a damned thing.” Merriweather leaned back in his chair, frustrated already. He was about Hutch’s age, with short brown hair and large brown eyes. He was as stiff and by-the-book as his partner who was at least ten years his senior. “I heard about the scene with you and Starsky and Ron.” He referred to Grodin by his first name. Hutch had forgotten the jerk had one.

“He insulted my partner, and I didn’t appreciate it.” Hutch’s statement was quiet, calm and simple. He felt it stood on its own to justify any derisive things Grodin would have told the other man about their encounter. After all, you should never mess with a man’s partner. Not this man’s, anyway, he thought to himself.

“Starsky can get pretty abrasive sometimes.”

“Don’t you start,” Hutch admonished. “Grodin started this one, and I damn well finished it. You have a problem with that?”

“I know Ron doesn’t mince words, but—”

“There’s a difference between being straightforward and being an—” Hutch caught himself. “I don’t appreciate it when someone slams Starsky, so I’m not going to sit here and do that with you about Grodin. Just keep him outta my face, because I’m all done mediating between those two. One thing is just a fact: Grodin makes a habit of goading Starsky into something every time their paths cross. So weigh carefully what he feeds you about how we ganged up on him.”

“That is pretty much what he said…and that Starsky made some remark about his age. He’s not going to probably get that promotion before he retires, and he’s touchy about that.”

“And he made some pretty lousy remarks to Starsky, so they were even. Both egos were bruised.” Hutch stood up and stretched a little. The previous night hadn’t gained him much sleep. “I think we could all do well to just live and let live for a while.”

“I don’t have a problem with that. Just take it easy on Ron—he’s not gettin’ any younger and he’s got some heart trouble.”

“When’d that happen?” Hutch asked, as the other man looked stricken, as if he’d just revealed the darkest secret of the universe. When talking about a detective on active duty, in essence, he had. He had been concerned about his partner’s profuse sweating and obvious state of discomfort after the confrontation with Starsky and Hutch and his subsequent tongue-lashing from Dobey about the remarks the captain overheard him make to the younger detectives. Grodin steadfastly refused to see a doctor, but there was obviously a problem.

“God, Hutch, that just came out.” Merriweather looked up at him worriedly. “He hasn’t seen a doctor or anything. I can just tell there’s something not right about the way he’s feeling and my dad died from heart problems—and a lot of the signs were the same. Please, if Dobey finds out—”

“It’s none of my business, Merriweather. Just keep him on a short leash. I don’t plan to start anything with him, and I know Starsky isn’t looking for a fight. But if he starts something—”

“You’ll finish it. I hear you. I’ll talk to him.”

“Try to get him to see a doctor. I may not like the guy, but nobody wants to see him drop dead on the job.”

“I am trying. Thanks for not blowing the whistle.”

“Anytime. Thanks for the information.” Hutch started to walk toward the door. Starsky was already in the Torino outside, waiting to go get dinner.

“Hutch?”

“Yeah?” He stopped and turned back to face Merriweather.

“When you were at Maplecrest, did you notice anything…odd?” Oh, so the ranks have closed at the snooty little college, and the haunting story has stayed under wraps, Hutch thought with slight amusement. Maybe Starsky’s cover was worth something after all.

“Odd?”

“In the hall upstairs…it’s…cold.”

“It’s a drafty old building.”

“Yeah, I know. But it was colder in some spots than others.”

“I noticed that too. Must be some quirks in the heating and cooling system.” Hutch opted not to speculate on the supernatural with Merriweather. He still wasn’t sure he could trust him not to blab to Grodin and then Dobey and then how many more lost dogs would they be stuck searching for?

“Must be. Well, goodnight.” He looked back down at his paperwork and Hutch left the squad room, feeling a little guilty for not leveling with the other man.

* * *

When he reached the Torino, Starsky was tapping out the rhythm of something loud and ear-shattering on the radio, singing along with it, right there in front of the precinct. He seemed unconcerned with, though not oblivious to, some of the odd looks he got from other cops returning to headquarters. Starsky, the perpetual dichotomy, Hutch thought, laughing a little. Has visions of being a college professor one minute, and beats on the steering wheel to the pounding guitar riff of “Smoke on the Water” the next. Hutch suppressed the urge to start lecturing Starsky on how ridiculous he looked and just got in the car.

“Where to?” Starsky took the volume down a notch or two to avoid shattering what was left of his partner’s eardrums.

“How’d you like to go someplace decent—maybe get a steak or something?”

“Does the ‘or something’ include the possibility of lobster?”

“Did you get a promotion I don’t know about?”

“Thought you were buyin’.” Starsky pulled away from the curb.

“Steak, maybe…”

“Hey, this great place just opened up that serves the ultimate filet mignon and lobster—the tails are really huge—and they have a roving violinist and—”

“Starsky, I want to eat dinner with you, not propose to you.”

“I suppose you think filet mignon and lobster would get you a ‘yes’?” he quipped back.

“If I threw in a burrito from Pancho Villa’s, probably.”

“If you’d eat a dinner like that with me, I probably would marry you,” he responded, laughing. “Since I’m not going to get that, how about that bar and grill near your place—the one with the cheap pitchers of beer and the big steaks?”

“Now you’re talkin’, partner.” Hutch settled back in the seat with a smile.\

* * *

Dinner was a relaxing experience, with a predetermined agreement not to bring up work during the conversation. Free to talk about something besides Maplecrest and machete murderers, their attention turned to Hutch’s latest songwriting endeavor, with which he wasn’t fully pleased, Starsky’s overpowering desire for a better TV set and a microwave, a few stray political issues and what they ought to do with their upcoming Saturday off. They would soon be deeply appreciative of having had this little break in the stress. Little did they know that a turn in Grodin and Merriweather’s investigative tactics would blow the Maplecrest case wide open, make it more of a public hot potato, and bring Dobey down on every detective like a ton of bricks until it was solved.

* * *

Hutch was brushing his teeth when the phone rang. Spitting out toothpaste and a couple of curses at the same time, he picked up the phone and answered it. He and Starsky had stayed at the bar too long, had too much beer and it was too late. He was ready for bed. Starsky was already dead to the world on his stomach on the couch. Driving any further than Venice Place would have been courting disaster, as well as a DWI charge, so he’d flopped happily on the couch and was now snoring contentedly there.

“Yeah?” Hutch barked into the phone.

“Dobey here. I want you and Starsky down here on the double…Something’s… happened…” Dobey seemed at a loss to keep his gruff, commanding tone. “We have two dead detectives on our hands.”

“Oh, God. Who were they?” Hutch sat on the arm of the couch and gently shook his partner. Starsky mumbled but didn’t move. He covered the mouthpiece and leaned in close. “Come on, Starsk, it’s Dobey on the phone. We’ve got trouble.” He shook a little harder this time, and Starsky rallied, looking up at him with bleary eyes.

“Wha’s the matter?” He pulled himself into a sitting position and started blinking himself awake.

“Go take a shower and wake up. We have to go in.”

“Oh shit.”

“Two cops are dead.”

“Who?” Starsky was fully awake now.

“Captain, who was it?” Hutch asked again, aware that Dobey had been patiently waiting through the muffled exchange.

“Grodin and Merriweather. Out at the college—just like all the others.”

“You want us at the campus or the precinct.”

“Campus. I’m on my way there now.” He hung up without further comment.

“Grodin and Merriweather—at Maplecrest.”

“Oh my God. What were they doing out there at this hour?” Starsky checked his watch. It was two a.m.

“Guess nobody warned ’em they shouldn’t be there,” Hutch responded, a definite note of guilt in his voice.

“Don’t try to hang this on us, Hutch. It wasn’t our fault.” Starsky hurried into the bathroom and splashed some water on his face. The news had been enough to bring him around, and the temporary haze from the beer had lifted. He returned to the living room, tucking in his shirt as Hutch emerged from the bedroom area, dressed again and sliding on his holster.

“We’re meeting Dobey at the campus.” Hutch led the way out the door, and Starsky followed. They took the LTD this time, and for some reason, Starsky didn’t argue the point. The tragedy was monumental in a police department, even if you didn’t happen to like the guys who bought it. Bickering about cars wasn’t important now. Just being relieved it wasn’t your partner who was dead was enough to handle at times like these.

* * *

It seemed odd to be back at Maplecrest in a strictly professional police capacity. Grodin’s body, ironically, was sprawled inches from the door to Starsky’s old faculty office. Merriweather was closer to Evelyn Lansing’s office at the end of the hall. It appeared he had run and was struck with the weapon repeatedly from behind.

Hutch felt his stomach constrict at the bloody mess in the dark hallway. Coroner’s lab people were climbing all over the crime scene like ants on spilled ice cream, students were being kept at bay by uniformed officers and Dobey was keeping a solemn-faced watch over the proceedings. Through it all, Hutch had the horrible heavy feeling in his chest that he could have somehow prevented this loss to the department… this… carnage. Merriweather had tried to broach the subject of the cold spots in the hall, and Hutch had cut him off with some lame-brained comment about the heating and cooling system. I helped swing that machete, he thought morosely.

“Hey, partner, you okay?” Starsky’s voice was gentle. He must have seen the devastation and draining of color from the other’s face. Hutch turned and hurried out of the building. “Hutch?!” Starsky started to follow but Dobey caught him by the arm.

“Where the hell do you two think you’re going?”

“I don’t know where Hutch is goin’, but I’m gonna find out.” He yanked his arm away and hurried downstairs, scanning the students who were milling around under police guard, hoping to get official news on who was dead and what was happening. A few familiar faces appeared, but no Hutch. Starsky continued outside. A solitary figure sat on the grass near some shrubs. With one arm over his midsection and sweat making his blond hair adhere to his forehead, Hutch didn’t look well at all. He looked up at Starsky’s approach, seeming grateful to see him. “Hutch?” He sat on the grass next to his partner.

“I did this,” he gasped.

“Come on, babe, just relax a little.” He put an arm around Hutch and pushed the damp hair off his forehead. “Feelin’ pretty nauseous, huh? Or did you already grace the shrubs?” Starsky’s phraseology brought a sickly snicker out of his partner. Only Starsky could ask him if he’d puked in the bushes and make it sound prosaic somehow.

“Got that base covered already.” Hutch leaned against Starsky, seemingly not caring how many police or students might be milling around. “Merriweather asked about the cold spots today…I didn’t tell him anything, Starsk. He knew something wasn’t right, and I didn’t tell him a thing. I just felt so damn smug that they wouldn’t be able to solve this case.”

“He’d probably have laughed in your face if you told him anything,” Starsky responded, one hand slowly rubbing the spot on Hutch’s shoulder where it rested. “And even if he bought the idea, Grodin would have laughed at it and strong-armed him into doing the stakeout anyway.”

“Don’t ever let me do that to you.”

“What?”

“Strong-arm you into something against your better judgement.”

“You haven’t. And you wouldn’t. We don’t work that way, buddy. Never have. We might fight like cats and dogs when we disagree, but we’re a world away from Grodin and Merriweather.”

“I feel like my legs are made out of rubber.”

“They are. Look at the way you dance.” Starsky was relieved his insult brought out another laugh, sounding a little healthier this time. “You did the right thing not talking all this over with Merriweather. It wasn’t evidence, and cold spots don’t belong in police reports, and they wouldn’t have believed it anyway. You had no way of knowing they’d pull something like this little midnight stake out.”

“We did.”

“Yeah, but we’re known for doing crazy things. Those guys are by the book, and not too inventive with even that. Why they decided to stake this place out tonight, I don’t know. But they decided, they did it, and the shadow killed them—not you.”

“I suppose Dobey’s fit to be tied.”

“I kind of brushed him off upstairs. I s’pose he’s mad, but then he’s mad at us anyway, so what difference does it make? Feelin’ a little less rubbery there, pal?”

“Yeah, a little.” Hutch smiled as Starsky stood up and held out his hand to pull his partner up.

“Whoa, no more pizza for you, fat boy,” Starsky groaned as he pulled the larger man to his feet.

“Fat boy? Anything I’ve got is well-toned muscle, Gordo,” Hutch responded. He knew Starsky’s ridiculous insult was yet another attempt to distract him from his maudlin mood, and he appreciated it.

“Yeah, well, it still weighs a ton,” Starsky grumbled beneath a slight smile.

“Yeah, well, I love you too, pal,” Hutch responded quietly. Starsky just smiled as they mounted the steps to go face the wrath of Dobey.

* * *

“I’m glad you two decided to grace us with your presence.” Dobey was still obviously unhappy with his usually favorite duo, but he continued in a moderate tone of voice. “You’ve got the case back. And if you mess it up this time, I swear to God, you’ll be directing traffic for the rest of your natural lives!” He stormed past them and down the steps.

“Why do you suppose he put us back on this instead of assigning someone else?” Starsky asked, glad for Hutch’s sake the bloodied corpses were sheet-covered now.

“I dunno. Maybe to punish us more.” Hutch shivered visibly. His short sleeves were a poor match for the cold spots that were so horribly noticeable this time of night. It was as if the coldness of Maplecrest was infiltrating his soul, somehow invading him. He didn’t even brush off or resist when Starsky took off his own jacket and put it around his shivering partner.

“You look like you’re comin’ down with something.”

“I’ve gotta get outta here, Starsk. I can’t…do this now.”

“Go wait in the car. I’ll finish up here.” Starsky noted the hesitant expression. “There’s a hallway full of crime lab people up here. I’ll be okay. Just go sit in the car and rest a little. You’re not lookin’ so hot, buddy.”

“Thanks.” Hutch turned and walked slowly down the stairs, still holding the jacket in place around his shoulders. It was cold, but not that cold, Starsky thought to himself as he returned to the task at hand, seeking out the medical examiner for the full story.

* * *

Hutch watched the lights pass the window of the car as they headed toward the precinct. He had taken up residence in the passenger seat when he left the crime scene, and Starsky had assumed driving duty without comment. He felt a little embarrassed at falling apart that way at a crime scene, but he still kept the jacket around his shoulders.

“Here’s your jacket. Thanks for the loan,” Hutch handed it back to his partner as the car approached the precinct. No need to completely humiliate myself, Hutch thought. At least this way only half the people I work with saw my partner hugging me on the lawn and putting his jacket over me at the crime scene. He was more than grateful for Starsky’s sensitivity at the time, but he was embarrassed about it now that his composure had returned.

“Are you sure you feel okay? You’re pretty pale, Hutch. Do you have a temperature?”

“Everyone has a temperature, dummy,” Hutch batted away the hand that was headed for his forehead. “I don’t have a fever, if that’s what you mean.”

“That’s good,” Starsky responded quietly, looking wounded at the sharp retort he’d gotten. He put the car in park and started to get out. Hutch caught his arm.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it to come out like that. I’m just…”

“I know. It’s okay. Let’s get this damn report typed and see if we can go home for a nap, huh?”

“Good idea, but it’s already four, and I doubt we’ll get a chance to go home before our shift starts.”

“Maybe not.” Starsky sighed. “Well, might as well go get at it.”

* * *

They never did get time to go home and get any rest before the day began. At least picking up the final autopsy results gave Starsky an excuse to go visit Ginny, though even that was overshadowed by his concern for his partner. Hutch hadn’t looked right since they got back from Maplecrest. He was pale, jittery and withdrawn. He might still be blaming himself for not warning the other detectives, but Starsky couldn’t help but feel there was something more to it.

“…so essentially, they were killed the same way as all the other victims,” Ginny concluded, watching his blank expression change gears to attentiveness as he pretended he had heard a word she’d said. Well, it would all be in the report anyway. But losing his interest bothered her a little. She had thought things were happening between them.

“Thanks, Ginny.” He took the paperwork and headed for the door.

“Hey, Dave—I didn’t think you and Grodin and Merriweather were very close.”

“We weren’t. Grodin and I couldn’t stand each other—why?”

“It’s just that you seem…so preoccupied.”

“They were still cops, whether I liked them or not. I guess I’m just tired, and now to get this case back…”

“You sound like you didn’t want it back. I heard via the grapevine that you and Hutch were chasing lost dogs. This has to be an improvement.” Ginny hated herself. Nice move, she thought. Embarrass him and say something insensitive about the deaths of two cops.

“I s’pose. I’ve got to get going.”

“Dave?”

“Yeah?” He turned back to face her as he had one hand on the door to leave.

“You still owe me dinner, remember?” She knew it was a little tasteless, and reasonably pushy to pounce on him when he came down on business and was obviously not about to bring up anything personal or social himself, but it seemed he was drifting away. And losing interest.

“I’ll call you soon. I promise.” He forced a smile. It wasn’t one of those killers that lit up his face and the whole room. It was a social smile, hung out there to appease her. She returned it and watched him walk out of the room.

* * *

Hutch drove the route to Starsky’s apartment without saying more than a few words here and there. His mood had remained dark all day, and with no tangible human leads on the case, they had knocked off at a sane hour. He had refused, not too pleasantly, a couple of suggestions to stop for dinner, and now his partner took the hint and rode the rest of the way in silence. Starsky didn’t appear angry at the rebuffs, but he seemed concerned. Hutch was concerned himself. He didn’t understand why he felt so damn cranky and out of it.

“You want me to pick you up tomorrow?” Starsky asked as he leaned back in the open car window.

“Yeah, that’s fine.”

“Okay.” He straightened to leave and then looked back in the window. “You sure you’re feelin’ okay?” he asked.

“Fine.” Hutch didn’t like the sharpness in his voice, but he didn’t correct it.

“See you tomorrow then.” Starsky walked up the drive and then up the steps to his front door. Hutch pulled away from the curb, wondering why he couldn’t shake the foul mood that had him under its cloud.

Starsky tossed his jacket and holster on the couch. It was a nice evening, and for some reason, he felt like doing something. Maybe it was because sitting around the apartment watching TV or trying to figure out what was eating Hutch didn’t exactly excite him. Maybe it was because he could think of something that would appeal to him to do. It wasn’t lunch exactly, but he decided to call Evelyn and see if now that she had left her uptight role as a college administrator, she could be spontaneous.

“Hello?” Her response to his four rings made him a little more nervous than he expected. It was sort of like asking your teacher out on a date, but yet there wasn’t really all that significant a difference in their ages.

“Evelyn? It’s David. How are you?”

“Trying to keep busy, mostly. How about you?”

“Well, I might be able to help you with that. Are you doing anything special tonight?”

“Actually, no.”

“There’s this really great new restaurant—LaFontaine’s? I wondered if you’d like to have dinner with me tonight and try it out. I hear the food’s excellent, and they’ve got a roving violinist—it’s supposed to be really nice.”

“That sounds nice.” She paused a moment. “I’d like that.”

“Great. Pick you up about seven?” He was looking at his watch. It was six now.

“I’ll be ready.” She gave him her home address, and after he hung up, the cold panic seized him. What if he couldn’t get a reservation? What was he going to do—take her to Huggy’s for beer and a burger? He flipped through the yellow pages, called the restaurant, and heaved a mammoth sigh of relief when they were able to fit them in to a seven thirty time slot. A little voice in the back of his mind was asking “Why does someone like Evelyn Lansing want to have dinner with someone like you? Is she desperate for something to do? Does she feel sorry for you? Does she want a free dinner?” The last question made him laugh to himself as he dug through his closet for just the right sport coat.

* * *

Evelyn lived in a sprawling complex of expensive condominiums, surrounded by fieldstone walls and a security gate. Starsky was only allowed inside because Evelyn had called the guard and left his name as an expected visitor. He checked the number on the slip of paper again and pulled up near the part of the building where her unit was located. He got out of the car, straightened his tie, brushed off his sport coat and took a deep breath. “Maybe she accepted the invitation because she likes you,” the voice suggested. He liked that idea the best and hurried up the steps to the door. Expecting to see another business suit, he was stunned when the door opened. La Fontaine’s was getting a reputation as a fancy restaurant, so ties for men and nice dresses for women would certainly be appropriate, but he was flabbergasted to see Evelyn looking, well, so much like a woman instead of a power suit with a heartbeat. Her hair was only partially up, held with a small pearl comb on top of her head. The rest hung down her back in soft curls. She wore a silky long-sleeved royal blue dress with ruffled cuffs and neckline. Pearls dangled from her ears and filled in the little empty space in the neck of her dress.

“Ready?” he asked, offering his arm.

“Ready,” she responded, smiling and linking her arm through his as she pulled the door shut behind her.

“You look lovely,” he said as he opened the passenger door of the Torino for her. She was certainly incongruous with the car, but she didn’t appear to mind.

“Thank you. You look pretty nice yourself.”

“Thanks.” He hurried around to the driver’s side and after getting in and starting the car, wondered what he was going to do with this evening. He didn’t exactly run in Evelyn’s social circle, she had him beat in the education and culture area, and she certainly was no floozy to use a few cheap lines with and sweet-talk back to his apartment. God, what am I doing here? he asked himself.

“I’ve heard quite a lot about LaFontaine’s, but I haven’t tried it yet,” she began. Good. Inane chatter about the restaurant, Starsky thought. I can do this.

“Same here. I hear they have excellent filet mignon and lobster.” Another thought crossed his mind: you don’t have David Levinson’s income, dodo.

“Are you fond of seafood?” she asked.

“I love lobster. Hutch is always trying to get me to try sushi, but I draw the line there.”

“Sushi and escargot—big price tags on raw fish that is quite frankly…disgusting, if you ask me,” she stated, smiling. “The only way I like oysters is if they’re fried and dipped in seafood sauce. What about bagels and locks?”

“Bein’ Jewish is no sure-fire formula for likin’ raw fish.”

“Have you ever been to Fisherman’s Wharf in San Francisco?”

“No, but I’d love to go there sometime.”

“If you like seafood, you absolutely have to. I remember the first time I took Andy there…” her voice trailed off.

“How are you really doing?” he asked.

“It’s very difficult. Andy was the only family I had. His father and I were never married, and my parents are both gone now.” Starsky was surprised at her candor. Not that he found it especially shocking, but odd that she would be open about unwed motherhood. “Strange how I structured my life around Andy and my career…now they’re both gone.”

“The college didn’t press charges, so at least it won’t be on your record.”

“That’s true, and as long as I let everyone pat me on the shoulder and assume I was mentally unstable when I burned the painting, I might even sweet-talk a recommendation out of the administration. But I wasn’t, nor have I ever, been mentally unstable. I knew exactly what I was doing, just like you did when you shot the lock of the library door that night.”

“Sometimes you have to play the game when you get into a situation you can’t get back out of.” Starsky was quiet a minute. “Even if you have to take the rap with a few of your friends for being a little unbalanced, at least you could get your career back.”

“I suppose it would salvage something. As it stands now, I’ve lost Andy, my job, and most of my circle of friends anyway. So I don’t have anything to lose.”

“I heard a line in a song once that said ‘freedom is just another word for nothing left to lose.'”

“‘Me and Bobby McGee’?”

“How’d you know?”

“It was one of Andy’s favorites. And I have been known to turn on a radio and listen to something other than Mozart, you know,” she responded with a smile. “But there’s a lot of truth in that I suppose. I guess that makes me pretty free then.” She paused. “I’m sorry, David. I don’t mean to wallow in self-pity. I hate that in others, and here I am doing it myself.”

“You’ve had a lot happen in the last few weeks. You’re entitled.”

“You said something the other night that rang very true to me. You said that time dulls and numbs but doesn’t really heal. You sounded as if you haven’t had smooth sailing all the way either.”

“I’ve done okay,” he responded, smiling. “But I know what loss feels like, and it’s ugly. And the big ones are still with me.”

“Do you mind my asking who you were thinking of when you said that?”

“I don’t mind. My dad and my fiancée. My dad was a cop too, back in New York where I grew up.”

“Oh, so that part of David Levinson wasn’t a phony,” she interjected with a smile.

“That part was real enough,” he responded, smiling back at her. “My dad had a knack of not backing down from the wrong people. He was on his way home from work one night, around midnight. He used to ride home with another guy who lived a few blocks away, and he often liked to walk the last couple blocks if it was nice weather. My dad had walked a beat, then wound up sitting in a squad car all day. He said he missed the fresh air and actually seeing the neighborhood once in awhile. So that was his way of revisiting the past a little, I guess.

Anyway, the other guy drove home, and then my dad started his walk toward our house. When he was a little more than a block away, somebody shot and killed him right there on the sidewalk. It was summertime, the windows were open…I heard the shot, but my mother said it was a car backfiring—I don’t think she knew what it was right then herself. Then we heard sirens, and I knew my dad was due home—and wasn’t, and pretty soon a couple of his friends from the department showed up at the door…”

“I’m sorry,” she said quietly.

“Sometimes when it’s hot, and my air conditioning goes out, and I have the windows open…man, I still think I hear that shot. Those things don’t go away, just like finding Andy doesn’t go away, no matter how hard you push it.” Starsky took a deep breath. He hadn’t intended to launch the evening with a death discussion, but maybe Evelyn would feel less alone if she thought her misery had some company. “Terry, my fiancée, was murdered about three years ago by some whacko that was trying to get back at me. He sure did. Those wounds heal over, and you keep going, but the scars never go away.”

“No, you’re right, they don’t.” Evelyn looked out the passenger window for a few moments. “I guess I’m not what you’d call a fun date right now,” she said, her voice tinged with a little regret.

“Yeah, well, life isn’t all fun and games. Besides, seems like I’ve been the one dumping all the gloom and depression on you.”

“I asked for it,” she retorted, smiling.

“There’s LaFontaine’s. Maybe we can go cry in our chardonnay together.” Starsky pulled into the parking lot. He was glad to see Evelyn chuckle a little.

* * *

La Fontaine’s was everything it was reputed to be: quiet, dimly lit and elegant. They dined on filet mignon and lobster, sipped expensive wine and exchanged less dire stories of their pasts. Evelyn had not finished her education when Andy was born, and since his father didn’t see the value in her finishing her master’s degree and pursuing a career, she broke off the relationship and with her parents’ help, raised Andy on her own while completing the master’s, and eventually her doctorate. Maplecrest was her only long-term employment experience. She began there as a professor and rose through the ranks into the administration.

Starsky described in general his childhood, his move to LA from New York, following in his father’s footsteps, and running into a certain blond cadet and forming a friendship that had withstood the rigors of the training process, rookie status and eventually the complicated business of being detectives. He mentioned the Gunther case, which Evelyn had followed in the papers. She finally connected why Starsky’s name had sounded familiar from the outset. She recalled reading about the detective from the Gunther case who had been nearly killed in a drive-by-style shooting in the police precinct parking lot.

“I don’t generally talk about the shooting much,” Starsky responded to her mentioning of the incident. She was probing her chocolate mousse with her fork, but she looked up at him uneasily. She really does look pretty in the soft candle light, he thought to himself.

“I’m sorry.”

“No, I didn’t mean that. I don’t mind that you asked about it. I’ve found it’s kind of unsettling to a lot of women to bring up how you were blasted by an automatic at close range. It’s unsettling to me, I know that.”

“It’s a miracle you survived.”

“It is that.” He sipped his wine. “I almost didn’t. Shortly after it happened, I went into a cardiac arrest, and I’m told I was clinically dead for a short time while they were trying to revive me. But I came back, so that’s the big thing. Took months to get back on my feet. If it hadn’t been for Hutch, I probably wouldn’t have made it at all.”

“You two seem very close. He was very defensive of you to me when I met with him prior to your coming aboard at Maplecrest.”

“Yeah, he’s like that. He can tease me all he wants, but nobody else better say anything negative,” Starsky concluded with a smile. “He was with me every day at the hospital, and he stuck with me through every step of my recovery at home. He’s the best friend I’ve ever had…I guess he seems more like family. ‘Friend’ doesn’t quite cover it.”

“I’d like to get to know him a little better when we aren’t locking horns about your educational background.”

“He was so mad,” Starsky thought back, amused. “He reacted the same way you did to the idea of me as a professor, but he still got all fired up about it. He still can’t believe you and I ended up friends.”

“At least something positive came of all this,” she said, returning her gaze to her chocolate mousse. Could this be a little bashfulness in Evelyn Lansing? Starsky wondered to himself?

“Do you like to dance?”

“I haven’t been dancing in ages.”

“Oh, I bet it hasn’t been that long.”

“July 4, 1976,” she responded.

“I didn’t expect the exact date.” He laughed softly.

“Well,” she continued, smiling, “the last time I actually danced was at a Bicentennial party on the campus. I think it was Dr. Barnard who asked me, much to his wife’s chagrin. She always has been an uptight old battle axe,” Evelyn recalled, none too fondly.

“I think we’ve had enough sedate elegance. Whaddya say we go find someplace with a little nightlife?”

“I’m ready anytime.”

“Waiter!” Starsky flagged down the server, paid the check and they were on their way in search of “nightlife,” whatever that might wind up being.

* * *

Hutch had found himself dozing on the couch, but he was restless. Tired and sleepy, but restless. He looked at the clock. Ten-thirty. He dialed Starsky’s number again, but there was no answer. Where the hell was he now? Where do you think, dummy, Hutch chided himself. Probably went through his little black book and came up with some company. Unlike you, Mr. Excitement. Laid out on your couch like grandpa, dozing at ten-thirty. Why was it so imperative to reach Starsky now? Hutch sat up and ran his hands through his hair. He leaned his elbows on his knees and stared into space. Thoughts weren’t connecting…everything seemed confused, distorted somehow…have to get back out to the campus…but why? Hutch stood up, grabbed his jacket and headed for the door.

* * *

As the disco era was drawing to a close, the techno-pop rhythms of synthesizers that were starting to invade music from all sides throbbed at Fever. After loitering near the entrance for a few minutes, Evelyn spotted a table near the dance floor. Starsky was surprised at her taking the lead, grabbing his hand and guiding them through the crowd just in time to snare the lone empty table before another couple could seize it.

“You’ve got a good eye,” he commented, sitting down after she was seated. “I woulda missed this one.”

“We who chaperone a crowd of two hundred girls and their dance partners every year at the spring dance develop very good eyes.”

“That’s not a job I’d envy.”

“Truthfully, it’s not one I’ll miss a great deal. I’ll miss Maplecrest, mainly because it’s routine, and it felt like home. But in another way, there’s something terribly…claustrophobic about it.”

“I know what you mean.” Finding it hard to yell over the music, Starsky suggested the obvious. “Would you like to dance?”

“Thought you’d never ask,” she retorted, on her feet almost before he was. The last time Starsky had been on this specific dance floor, he had been putting some serious moves on a woman in red hot pants. Evelyn was no barfly in red hot pants, but she seemed very much at ease moving to the beat of the music. She must have done all right at that faculty Bicentennial party. No wonder Mrs. Barnard had been ruffled, he thought, smirking. He ventured to put one arm around her waist so they could dance together, and she accepted the gesture readily. After a little while, he found the nerve to try twirling her, which she seemed to enjoy. Maybe Ramon would make his appearance before the night was over...every evening of dancing needs at least one good dip.

* * *

Hutch pulled up in front of the ominous-looking dark building. His thoughts were racing…disjointed and incoherent…and he couldn’t seem to hold onto even one of those fragments long enough to understand it. For some reason, he had to get into that building. He had slithered into the precinct long enough to get the key that had been entrusted to the department during the investigation. But why tonight…and why alone?

* * *

Evelyn seemed to like being dipped as well as she liked dancing. Both of them obviously enjoyed music, and it was easy to move to the beat and forget all the horror that had launched their friendship. Beneath the reserved, well-educated exterior, Evelyn Lansing was the definition of a rebel. She had eschewed marriage when it didn’t fit with her career goals, taken charge and burned the painting they thought was responsible for everything at Maplecrest even though there was no logical explanation for doing it, and now she was out dancing with the homicide detective who had successfully ruffled all of her well-established ideas of what constituted a qualified faculty member.

Starsky, for his part, had never met anyone quite like her before. A brilliant woman who could intimidate you with an icy stare, or a beautiful one who could demurely look away with a little hint of bashfulness. She had a cutting wit and at times, a real flare for sarcasm, but there was an underlying kindness about her that had emerged from their first meeting, when she had saved him from the ravages of a faculty meeting by warning him to stay out of it.

Pulling up in front of her place at almost one a.m, he was appalled to have had as much fun as he had, and Evelyn seemed a little surprised at herself. She was looking a tad ragged from a considerable stint of dancing at Fever, but they had talked and laughed non-stop on the way home about that experience, as well as reminiscences of other dancing experiences in their lives which had brought them varying levels of thrill and embarrassment.

“I had a wonderful time tonight,” she said as they stopped in front of her door.

“So did I. Can I call you again sometime?”

“I’d like that. You know, we haven’t discussed the murder investigation once all evening.”

“Guess I’ll have to take you to lunch like we talked about before—just to get caught up on the case.”

“I’ll look forward to it.” She unlocked the door. “Would you like to come in?”

“I’d love to, but I have an early call in the morning. Can I have a raincheck?”

“Of course.” She paused a little uneasily in the open doorway. “Goodnight, then.”

“Goodnight.” He paused himself, a bit unsure of how to close things. Shaking hands would be silly and kissing her seemed like it might gain him a right cross. He compromised, and took her hand, kissing it lightly. “I’ll call you.” It must have been the right gesture, because she squeezed his descending hand as the contact broke, smiling brightly.

“Goodnight, David.” The door closed softly behind her. He sprinted down the steps and hopped into the Torino, happy as a teenager after a successful first date.

So why was he so preoccupied with thoughts of Maplecrest? And Hutch. His partner had been on his mind off and on all evening, and now the two thoughts were swirling oddly together. Unable to put them aside, he drove toward the campus. He was stunned to see the front gate standing open…even more stunned to see Hutch’s battered LTD parked halfway up the road to the main building. He followed the road as far as it went until it ended in the parking lot. He got out of the Torino and hurried toward the building. Questioning his sanity for lurking around this place at night, Starsky approached the front door. It stood a few inches ajar. He drew his gun and pushed the door carefully open. Since when did a gun do any good around here, he thought nervously.

There were footsteps on the stairs, going up toward the second floor. Starsky froze where he stood, listening to the movements. It sounded like Hutch. One set of footsteps he knew, without question, and that was Hutch’s.

“Hutch? Hey, partner, it’s me, where are ya?” he called into the shadows. The footsteps completed their upward trek. “Damn it, Hutch, come on. This isn’t funny.” He paused at the foot of the stairs. Only darkness presented itself at the top. “Hutch? Come back down, will ya?” Still nothing. Starsky mounted the first three steps and paused again. It seemed like the cold was coming down the stairs to meet him now, chilling the staircase and wrapping icy fingers around him. Only for Hutch, he thought to himself, inwardly vowing to never let his partner forget this stunt if it was, in fact, his idea of a joke. But what had pulled Starsky here in the first place? And why had he been so plagued by thoughts of his partner, somewhat unsettling ones, during his evening out with Evelyn?

When he turned the corner to the faculty office area, gun still drawn, he saw the shadow. It was almost inevitable in his mind that he would, but there it was, moving toward him. Only this time, a human form cast it. Starsky let out a mammoth sigh of relief at the sight of blond hair caught by a ray of moonlight.

“Thank God it’s you.” He put his gun away, laughing a little. “I swear to God, Hutchinson, if this is your idea of a joke—” Starsky stopped mid-sentence when he saw the machete dangling from Hutch’s right hand. The other man was making an upward arc with it now, as if preparing for battle. “Hutch? What’s that? Wait a minute—” Starsky backed away a little. Then the moonlight caught his partner’s face, and the being that was Hutch stopped in its glare. The skin was almost pure white, the teeth which hung out in a demented smile under the mustache were tinged with decay, and the eyes…Starsky blinked a couple of times just to clear his vision. Only white…there were no pupils in this thing’s eyes! Somehow, it was in Hutch. Whatever was in Maplecrest was in now in his partner. Hutch raised the machete and headed purposefully toward Starsky.

“Hutch! God, no! Hutch! It’s me, it’s Starsky!” He was backing away as quickly as Hutch was approaching. “God, Hutch, look at me!” Starsky felt the hall give way behind him. He’d badly misjudged how close he was to the stairs, and now he fell backwards down the steps to the first landing. He aimed the gun shakily at the monster pursuing him. It hovered over him, its horrible colorless eyes shining in the moonlight, the darkened teeth in a grotesque grimace of deranged delight. It raised the machete in a wide, backhanded motion. It would probably decapitate in one blow, Starsky thought, cringing into the corner. It was shoot now or die. And he couldn’t shoot Hutch. He rolled away toward the next set of steps as the blade of the machete swung down, clipping his shoulder but missing his head.

“Hutch!” He yelled back at the approaching figure, who had ceased to really resemble Hutch at all, except for the mop of yellow hair that hung wildly from its head. Starsky knew he’d twisted his ankle on the fall down the second set of steps, and if he once got up to run, he’d never get far. This felt like a bad sprain, and Hutch’s legs were longer. It wouldn’t even be a contest. “God, Hutch, please don’t!” he pleaded, crawling backwards, reaching for the banister to pull himself up. The blade swooshed down, slicing the top of his hand and sending him sprawling backward again. The thing inside Hutch laughed…a deep, horrid, maniacal boom of evil laughter. Starsky spotted his gun lying by the staircase. It had flown out of his hand on the last fall down the steps. “Dear God, Hutch, look at me!” he demanded of the creature striding purposely toward him, raising the weapon again. Starsky grabbed his gun, aimed for the blade and fired. As he’d hoped, the machete flew out of the other man’s hand. Another laugh ensued as it lunged at Starsky, grabbing him by the throat. Whatever this entity was, it knew he’d never shoot the human carrier it had chosen.

Starsky tried vainly to pull the fingers away from his throat that were squeezing the breath out of him. The hideous face was close to his now, the whites of the eyes almost yellow, mottled with bulging red blood vessels. The breath was foul that poured out on Starsky’s face as the creature exerted all the physical strength it could conjure out of Hutch’s body to complete the task of strangling Starsky. Things were becoming blurry, and there was almost no air left. Starsky gagged a time or two, knowing if he passed out, he would not wake up again.

“Hutch,” he croaked miserably, “please…I…can’t…breathe…” He searched the distorted countenance for any signs of Hutch; prayed to see those oases of blue where he only saw the bulging yellow. It was smiling. It was killing him and using Hutch’s face to smile while it completed the task. God, he’ll never live with this, even though it isn’t his fault, Starsky thought hopelessly as he searched his fogging brain for some thought about how to stop this thing from happening. Maybe he could reach Hutch. Maybe Hutch would remember when this was over and find some small degree of comfort if Starsky told him: “Not…your…fault…” he forced his voice out beneath the pressure that was killing him. He reached up and grasped two handfuls of the tousled blond hair. “I…still…love…you…buddy…” Everything went black.

Starsky didn’t know at first if he was waking up or coming to on the other side. But there was pain. His arms, his hand, his back, his ankle…and oh, God, his neck and throat. The air wouldn’t come easily, and he coughed. He heard his breathing coming out in a series of wheezing sounds.

“Starsk, it’s me, come on, wake up,” a voice was cutting through the mist. Starsky forced his eyes open, and at first sight of that mop of shaggy blond hair, rolled away and tried to claw his way up the steps. “Starsky!” Hutch pounced on him from behind and pulled him back down, forcing him to sit on the bottom step. Hutch sat next to him and took Starsky’s face in his hands, making his partner look him squarely in the eyes. “It’s okay, it’s only me.”

“Hutch?” It was a hoarse croak at best. The Hutch that looked at him now was a little wild-eyed, very disheveled, but very much his old friend and partner. He reached up and took a hold of Hutch’s wrists, noticing for the first time the blood all over his hand, and processing that it was the gash the machete had made.

“Starsky, I don’t know what happened,” Hutch explained, looking at him worriedly. “One minute I was on the couch at my place, the next thing I knew, I was standing over you, here, and I thought you were dead.”

“We’ve gotta get outta here, Hutch,” he gasped. “Get you away from it.”

“Get me away from what?”

“The…” Starsky coughed painfully a few times. “The shadow.”

“Did the shadow do this to you?” Hutch asked, incredulous. He really didn’t know.

“Just get me outta here, huh? I think I sprained my ankle.” Starsky felt his voice returning a little, though it was hoarse and scratchy. Hutch didn’t question him any further. He stood and pulled Starsky up, supporting him around the waist while Starsky put an arm around Hutch’s neck.

“We better get you to a hospital.”

“No. My place.”

“Don’t be crazy. Look at you—”

“Hutch, don’t argue with me. Too many questions at a hospital. Take me home. I’ll explain…” He stopped to cough. “Later.”

“Okay. Take it easy, buddy.”

They made their way outside, taking Hutch’s car since Starsky’s was parked legally in the lot. Starsky didn’t argue the point about Hutch driving. His partner seemed in his right mind, at least for the moment, and Starsky was too shaken and winded from the experience to safely navigate the road. Hutch didn’t press him for more information about the incident at Maplecrest during the ride to Starsky’s apartment.

* * *

“Cuts look pretty superficial,” Hutch concluded, patching up the one on the back of Starsky’s shoulder. The one on his hand had bled considerably, but it wasn’t all that deep. Watching Hutch kick into his nursemaid mode, it was hard to imagine him inflicting the injuries he was so solicitously tending. He had an ice pack on the swelling ankle, both cuts cleaned and bandaged and now he was busily cleaning up his first aid supplies.

“Thanks.” Starsky stood up, dispensed with the ice pack and hobbled into the bedroom. After discarding his soiled and bloodied clothing, Starsky pulled on his robe and stared in horror at the purple and red marks around his neck. There were little cuts where fingernails had broken the flesh here and there. He still found talking out loud to be a real effort, and turning his head suddenly was out of the question. But going to a hospital would mean answering a lot of difficult questions.

“Starsk? You okay in there?”

“Yeah. I’ll be right out,” he croaked as loudly as he could, hoping Hutch heard him. He limped out to the couch and collapsed onto it, stretching out but trying to avoid pressure on his wounded shoulder. He finally curled on his side, resting his head on the pillow Hutch brought out from the bedroom and stuffed under him.

“You’ve gotta explain this to me, buddy. I don’t get it.” Hutch sat on the coffee table, staring intently at his partner.

“I don’t know where to start.”

“How’d we wind up at Maplecrest?”

“I was on my way home from a date, and I felt like I should check the place out for some reason. And I’d been thinking about you off and on all evening, like something was wrong. So when I got there, I saw your car, and I went inside. You were already on your way upstairs…” Starsky didn’t know how to continue this explanation. “I called to you, but you didn’t answer me.”

“Hold it. You’re saying I was wandering around in there on my own?”

“Right.”

“That’s impossible. I wouldn’t do that now, not after Grodin and Merriweather…”

“You did. Then when I got upstairs, I thought I saw the shadow, but it was you, and you had the machete, and Hutch, your eyes…God, they weren’t your eyes, and you came at me—”

“Hey, slow down a minute.” Hutch wasn’t sure why he was slowing him down—to comprehend what he was saying or to calm his partner, who was obviously becoming very upset at recalling his experience. He reached out to touch Starsky’s shoulder and was shocked to see him flinch away, almost instinctively. “Starsk, what happened?”

“Your eyes…they were…yellow and those little red lines were all bulgy-looking in them, and…and…you tried to kill me,” he blurted, his voice breaking. He hadn’t intended to react this way, but the horror of what he had seen at Maplecrest, and the fear of what had infiltrated his partner’s being, washed over him in a tidal wave. “I’m sorry.” He took as deep a breath as his bruised windpipes would allow and looked back at Hutch through damp eyes. “I didn’t mean to blurt it out like that.”

“Starsky, you’ve got to slow this down a little. I did this to you?” Hutch smiled a little uneasily. “But that’s impossible. You know I’d never hurt you.”

“I know you wouldn’t, but whatever had a hold of you, used you. I couldn’t do a whole lot because I didn’t want to hurt you. I sure as hell wasn’t going to shoot you.”

“So you just let me slice you up and strangle you?” Hutch shook his head in disbelief. “I don’t believe I did this…I couldn’t have…why don’t I remember…and my eyes—what are you talking about?”

“It was like they rolled back in your head and there were no pupils, and the blood vessels were all…swollen…and the white part was yellow… I—I’ve never seen anything like it before. You weren’t you, Hutch. It was whatever is in Maplecrest that was in you. It was the most horrible thing I ever saw,” Starsky looked directly into Hutch’s very normal, but very worried eyes. “I’m sorry to just blurt it at you like that, but it scared the hell out of me.”

“I still can’t believe—I mean I do believe you’re telling the truth. But my God, Starsky, look at your throat—I’d—”

“Hutch, that’s impossible.”

“What?” Hutch was still deep in thought, and the angst was plain on his face.

“I can’t look at my own throat, dummy.” Starsky forced a little smile. Hutch’s look of utter anguish held for a moment, then the corner of his mouth twitched a little, and he actually smiled. “It wasn’t your fault, Hutch.” Starsky sat up on the couch.

“But what I did to you—I could’ve killed you.”

“But you didn’t. You didn’t do anything to me. I know that. I’m sorry about getting so worked up just now. I was…upset…scared I guess. I think it’s just catching up with me.”

“You know I’d never knowingly do something like that…I don’t even remember it, Starsk. Am I going crazy?”

“No.” Starsky took a hold of both of Hutch’s hands. “You’re not crazy. And you didn’t do anything. That thing used you. I know you wouldn’t hurt me on purpose.”

“God, no, I wouldn’t,” Hutch responded, releasing his hand to touch the ugly smudges of color on Starsky’s throat. “Must hurt like hell,” he said over a catch in his voice.

“Gives a new meaning to the phrase ‘pain in the neck.'”

“Maybe it’s sprained. You should probably see a doctor.”

“I can’t explain these marks, Hutch. If I take it easy, I’ll be okay. I want you to stay here tonight. I don’t think you should be wandering around alone.”

“After what I did, you want to sleep in the same apartment with me?”

“Something made you snap out of it, because I’m not dead. I think we’re stronger together any day than apart. I’m not afraid of you.”

“You still trust me?”

“With my life.” Starsky stood up. “I’m really wiped out. Think you could call in for me tomorrow? Tell Dobey I’ve got…a sore throat.” Starsky smirked a little as he stroked the bruised area. Hutch stood up and crossed the room in a couple of strides and embraced Starsky.

“I’m so sorry, buddy.”

“I know. It wasn’t you, pal. I know that.” Starsky returned the embrace, wanting Hutch to be clear that he wasn’t flinching away from him as he had before. He pulled back a little. “You look exhausted. Get some sleep. We’ll tackle this in the morning.”

“Okay.”

“You need anything for the couch?”

“No. The pillow’s out here, and I can use the throw.”

“Okay. I’ll leave the door open. Yell if you…well, if you can’t sleep or anything.”

“Thanks. I will. You too.”

“Goodnight.”

“‘Night, partner.” Hutch watched him disappear into the shadows of the bedroom. After he’d stretched out on the couch for the night, he marveled at Starsky’s trust. He could hear the pattern of light snoring from the bedroom. He’s sleeping only feet away from me after I damn near murdered him with my bare hands. Maybe that kind of trust is stronger than anything Maplecrest has to throw at us, Hutch thought as he dozed off himself.

* * *

Starsky wasn’t sure what disturbed him, but he knew his neck hurt like hell. He reluctantly opened his eyes and moved slightly in the bed with a wince at the protesting muscles. Hutch was sitting on the floor near the bed, staring at him. Starsky forced his eyes to focus and exhaled with relief when he saw the normal blue pupils amidst the slightly bloodshot white.

“Hutch? You okay?” He pushed himself up on one elbow.

“I don’t know. I’m confused…I just…I keep thinking about Maplecrest, you know?”

“I know. So do I.” Starsky let himself back down easily onto the pillow.

“I’m sorry.”

“About what?” Starsky didn’t know if he meant for waking him or for strangling him. It had been a full evening.

“About what! About nearly killing you.”

“Somebody told me once that close only counts in horseshoes.” Starsky was relieved to see his partner chuckle a little. Hutch knelt by the side of the bed and leaned his elbows on the mattress. “You’re sure you’re okay?” Hutch was massaging his own temples, as if he had a brutal headache.

“I am but you don’t look so hot.” Starsky felt a wave of sympathy for his partner, who must have been terribly shaken to have come into the room in the middle of the night this way. He reached out and stroked the bowed blond head. “It’s gonna be okay, pal. We’ll get through this together.”

Hutch slowly raised his head…or the entity slowly raised Hutch’s head. The pupiless yellow eyes and the demented, horrible smile leered back at Starsky in the bluish moonlight of the bedroom.

“Hutch?” he asked hopefully, already backing away from the horrible thing perched by his bed. “Hutch, fight him! Come on, partner, I need your help! Fight him!” It laughed wickedly.

“Fight him! Fight him!” it mocked in a horrible rasping voice.

“Hutch, I know you’re in there somewhere!” Starsky used every drop of restraint in his body not to run. Maybe he could reach Hutch if he just had the courage to try. The thing stood, straightening Hutch’s tall frame so it towered over the bed. With a final resounding laugh, it rushed for the door. Starsky knew he couldn’t let it get away from him, go out into the night and do God knows what, and leave Hutch to take the blame. He propelled himself off the bed and in one smooth gesture landed on Hutch’s back, knocking him to the floor. He wound an arm around Hutch’s throat and tried to subdue him. He felt teeth sink into the flesh of his arm, but despite blood that started running from the deepening wound, he wouldn’t let go. “Damn it, Hutch, help me!” He pulled at the other’s hair with his free hand, trying anything to strengthen his power to restrain the thing that was using Hutch’s physical capabilities at their peak. Suddenly the other straightened from the floor as if Starsky’s weight on his back were completely insignificant, released the bleeding arm from his mouth and flung Starsky backwards as if he were merely swatting a fly.

The impact against the wall stunned Starsky briefly, and he wasn’t very coordinated when he lunged for the retreating legs. One foot easily caught his midsection and knocked him backwards again.

“Hutch, please, help me! Fight it!” Starsky yelled as he struggled to his feet and flung himself one more time at the retreating form. This time, his assault didn’t knock the other off his feet. The thing using Hutch turned easily within Starsky’s attempted restraint, knocked his arms away, and swung to hit him. Starsky ducked and got in one blow to the stomach before another flying fist made contact with his face. He had never felt a force quite like that. It propelled him back against the wall again, as if he had flown part of the way. Still, he struggled to his feet. The thing was laughing, turning Hutch’s face into a twisted mask of sadistic delight as he lunged at Starsky again, taking advantage of his slight haze from the impact against the wall. The last thing Starsky remembered was another powerful blow heading for his face…

* * *

Someone was groaning…Starsky focused on the sound. It was his own voice, still raspy from the strangulation he’d suffered earlier. No part of his body wanted to cooperate with the return of consciousness. He opened his eyes but only one actually admitted a significant amount of light.

“Husch?” It was a feeble attempt at a call for help. He couldn’t enunciate, and he just didn’t have the strength to yell. He tried to force the fog in his brain to clear, despite the horrible pounding in his head. “Hutch?” He managed a stronger vocalization this time, but there was no response. He started pushing himself up, and stopped short, groaning a little at the sharp pains throughout his stomach, sides and back.

There was blood on the carpeting where his head had rested, and he realized it was drying on his face, having run out of his nose for a considerable time. He pulled himself up with a grunt, sitting against the wall, and trying to regain his full consciousness. Moving each arm experimentally, then each leg, he was relieved none of his limbs seemed broken. Consciousness was coming back, and he tried carefully probing the areas on his stomach and sides that were turning varying shades of red and purple. He didn’t think he detected broken bones, but then he was too squeamish to inflict enough pain to really apply pressure to the areas. He felt tears well up at the thought of how he’d come by his injuries. He abandoned any such thoughts quickly, angry at himself for blaming Hutch even for an instant. None of this was his fault. If anything, Starsky blamed himself for not having taken any type of precautions against it happening in the first place.

There was no time for extended soul-searching, Starsky concluded, sniffing a couple of times and facing the challenge of standing. He rolled toward the nearby couch and pulled himself onto it with a little grunt of pain. It wasn’t Hutch, he kept reminding himself. It wasn’t Hutch, it was IT. A thing, a filthy entity invading Hutch. It wasn’t his partner who had attacked him so savagely. It was the thing inside him, and Hutch was as much a captive victim of its power as I was.

The bedroom looked miles away. Starsky knew he had to get dressed. He couldn’t go out looking for Hutch in his underwear, although at the moment, getting off the couch looked monumental, let alone mobilizing his battered body into action. He looked down at the scars left behind by Gunther’s hit and the resulting surgical repairs. Guess I’ll find out now if I can still get hammered and have all the stitches hold, he thought.

It was light outside. He thought of the time and finally looked at the clock. It was almost nine. Dobey would be checking up on them soon, and he’d be on the warpath. He picked up the phone and dialed Dobey’s office. What he’d say, he had no idea. The complete truth wouldn’t even be believed.

“Dobey,” the voice barked into the phone.

“Cap, it’s Starsky.”

“You sound terrible,” the voice on the other end responded, softening only slightly. Starsky had gotten used to his own rasping voice and was grateful to be breathing at all past all the bruised ribs and other assorted dents and dings.

“I’m really sick, Cap. I’ve been up most of the night and my fever’s really high. Hutch said he’d stay with me if we could get the day off. I’m sorry. I know the case is important, but I can’t move off the couch right now,” he said honestly, wondering how his attempts at getting dressed and going out to search for Hutch would actually progress.

“Have you called the doctor?”

“Hutch did this morning. He went to the pharmacy to get me something.”

“I’ll have somebody else work on a few of the basics with assembling the M.E.’s reports and some initial legwork. You two take the day off, but if you’re still breathing tomorrow, I expect at least Hutchinson back on the job, if not you.”

“Thanks, Cap.”

“Get some rest.” Dobey broke the connection. Starsky hung up and began his journey to the bedroom. He was shocked all over again at his reflection in the mirror. He couldn’t remember seeing so much color on his body at any other time in his life. It took everything inside of him to keep reminding himself that this was not Hutch’s doing. This was something else using his partner’s body to do its work. Still, there was a little part deep inside that couldn’t help feeling the pain of having seen Hutch’s physical form so intent on attacking, inflicting pain…but he had to turn that into anger—anger at the thing that had insinuated itself between them and tried to twist their relationship into an unrecognizable wreck…

Clothes definitely do not make the man, Starsky concluded, viewing his somewhat distorted face. That, plus his bandaged hand and sprained ankle made him look like he had just gone ten rounds with Ali with both hands tied behind his back. He donned his shoulder holster with a multitude of grunts and groans at the stretching motions it required, pulled on his jacket and hobbled down to the driveway where Hutch’s car was still parked. He must be out running around on foot looking like that, Starsky thought. He was glad the entity had been sufficiently deranged not to take the car keys. With the Torino still parked at Maplecrest, he would have faced an immediate transportation problem.

Starsky embarked on a day of cruising the streets, checking out every nook and cranny he and Hutch were familiar with, though he queried to himself how much of Hutch’s knowledge the thing could access. Finally, having turned up nothing, he parked behind The Pits and limped through the back door to find Huggy. The cook eyed him suspiciously but made no comment on his appearance. Huggy was summoned from behind the bar to come to the alley. Starsky was perched on the hood of the LTD there.

“Man, you look like somethin’ the cat dragged in!” Huggy exclaimed. “What happened?”

“I ran into a door. Look, Huggy, I need to find Hutch. This is an emergency. I’ve looked everywhere.”

“This got somethin’ to do with…” He gestured toward Starsky’s battered appearance.

“I don’t even know where to start. Only thing I can say is that if you see Hutch, just call me. Don’t go near him, okay?”

“What’re you sayin’?”

“Hug, please, I can’t explain it any better, I just…I don’t…” Suddenly the alley seemed like it was moving, and Starsky held onto the warm metal of the car to keep himself from falling.

“You better come in and take the load off awhile, Starsky. You don’t look too good.”

“I can’t. Huggy, if you see Hutch, you call me. And get word on the streets that I’m lookin’ for him. But nobody should go after him. He’s…not himself right now. The department can’t know anything about this.”

“Did Hutch work you over?” Huggy asked. It was a bizarre, off-the-wall question, and Starsky hoped the momentary hesitation and flash of anguish that passed over his features didn’t give away the lie he told.

“Don’t be ridiculous, Hug. I could kick his sorry ass any day, you know that.” Starsky forced a little smile. “Gotta go.” He slid down off the hood with an involuntary grunt of discomfort and made his way slowly back to the driver’s seat. “Oh, Huggy—if you see Dobey—I’m sick.”

“I hear ya.” Huggy watched Starsky leave, not sure why he had asked him such an absurd question. Those two fought like crazy sometimes, but they never hit each other, except for once…and even Kira hadn’t inspired any serious injuries. Puzzled, he went back into the bar to tally up the take from the lunch crowd.

* * *

Hutch opened his eyes and surveyed his surroundings. He was slumped against the wall of an abandoned house, not far from where Jackson Walters’ family used to live. The thing that caught his attention first was the unmistakable brownish blood stain on his shirt. He was uninjured, but it had to belong to someone…and after one of these blackouts…Starsky! He pulled himself up on his feet. He had to find Starsky. But another part of his mind told him he shouldn’t go near his partner. Was that his instinct to protect his partner from these homicidal blackouts, or was that the entity that seemed to have invaded him trying to isolate him? In any event, Hutch had to know if Starsky was all right, and once he saw that he was, Hutch resolved he would get as far away from him as possible while he was still rational enough to do so.

* * *

Starsky made his way back to his apartment near seven o’clock, having wandered the streets aimlessly all day. He didn’t know exactly what he was expecting to accomplish, but he couldn’t just sit home and not take some action to hunt for Hutch. Huggy had turned up nothing, and tomorrow was looming. Dobey would expect to see one or both of them back on duty. He’d come looking for them if he didn’t get any word at all from them, and any excuse Starsky would try probably wouldn’t fly for both of them.

He parked Hutch’s car in the driveway and made his way slowly up the steps to the front door. He caught sight of a flash of blond ducking behind the shrubs below.

“Hutch?!” he called down to the retreating figure, who reluctantly poked its head back out again. “What’re you doin’ down there in the shrubs? Are you…Hutch, are you…you?”

“I’m me, for now.” He appeared at the foot of the steps, seeing Starsky at closer range for the first time. Starsky ducked his head quickly to unlock the door, hoping Hutch wouldn’t freak out over the bruises and swelling on his face, at least not until they’d had time to talk.

“Come on up.” Starsky urged him.

“I just wanted to know you’re all right,” Hutch responded, still hesitating to move.

“I will be as soon as you get up here. Come on, Hutch. I’ve been out lookin’ for ya all day.”

“There’s blood…” Hutch indicated his shirt, and Starsky consciously noticed the stain for the first time.

“Hutch, come on. It’s okay. Come up here.” Starsky gestured with his hand. As soon as Hutch had completed his reluctant climb to the top, Starsky pulled his partner inside and closed the door behind them. Hutch was the one to turn on the lamp. He started when he saw Starsky in the light.

“Dear God, Starsk. Tell me it wasn’t me,” he moaned.

“It wasn’t you.”

“You’re lying.”

“It might have been your body, but it wasn’t you.” Starsky limped over to the couch and sat down. They simultaneously noticed the blood stain on the rug.

“I’ve gotta get out of here before I kill you.” Hutch headed for the door. Feeling he was probably insane given what had happened the last time he stopped Hutch en route to the door, Starsky leaped to his feet and grabbed Hutch’s arm, the sudden move making him grunt a little at his protesting ribs.

“Don’t go. Please, Hutch. We’ve got to work this out.” The eyes that turned back to meet his were agonized, but all Hutch.

“You’re in pain.”

“I’ll live.”

“How bad is it, buddy?” Hutch knew he had to know, though he really didn’t want to be shown. Starsky took off his jacket and pulled the turtleneck he was wearing up past his chest. Hutch’s eyes widened at the mass of bruises he saw there. Starsky pulled the shirt back down again. Hutch’s eyes went from the bruises to meet Starsky’s eyes, one of which was still swollen partially shut. “Dear God…I remember going into your room, feeling confused…out of it. Then I woke up behind some old house in Jackson’s old neighborhood.” He dropped into a chair.

“There’re more on my back, but I’m not doin’ a strip tease number for ya,” Starsky tried unsuccessfully to lighten Hutch’s mood. At the same time, his partner had to be aware of the damage he could do. “When I came to, the blood was on the floor and on my face. It was my nose.” He watched Hutch’s expression move from shock to pure self-loathing as he sank into a chair.

“You’ve seen a doctor, I hope.”

“And tell him what? I called in sick and said you were staying home to take care of me and then I spent the day looking for you.” Starsky’s movements were still slow and painful, but he knelt in front of where Hutch sat hunched in the chair and gently coaxed his chin upward so he could have eye contact with him. “Hutch, I need to see you when we talk. Your…eyes. I need to see your eyes…to know you’re okay.”

“How can you…even be in the same room with me after what I did to you?” Hutch tried unsuccessfully to fight back tears, but they came anyway. “I’m losin’ it, Starsk. I don’t know that I do these things, and I black out, and then when I come to something awful’s happened.”

“We’ve got to fight it together, buddy. Like everything else.” He looked directly into Hutch’s moist eyes. “I don’t blame you for any of this. It isn’t your fault. I just…don’t know what to do, and you’re too strong for me to handle by myself when you’re…like that.”

“That’s why I’ve gotta get out of here.” Hutch stood up suddenly and headed for the door again.

“If you leave here now, I might never see you again.” Starsky had straightened to his feet also. “Please, stay here and we’ll figure out what to do.” He approached Hutch, frightened a little that he hadn’t turned back to face him. Every minute was a life and death risk, but if Hutch walked out that door, sooner or later, this thing would consume him, or he’d attack someone who’d press charges and his life and career would be destroyed. Starsky prayed silently that it was still safe and took Hutch by the arm to turn him around. “We’ve always faced the tough ones together, Hutch.”

“Aw, Starsk.” He carefully put his arms around his partner, trying not to squeeze too hard. Starsky returned the hug and held on tenaciously even when Hutch started to pull back. “I have to get away from you. I won’t take a chance on hurting you again. You might not live through the next one.”

“I’m not going to let it have you, Hutch. It’s gonna have to kill me first, and it hasn’t managed that yet. Last night at the college, I know why it stopped.” He pulled back and looked at Hutch. “I reached you. If I hadn’t passed out, I’da known for sure.”

“What stopped it then?”

“I thought it was all over. I couldn’t get free, and I told you it wasn’t your fault…and that I still loved you anyway,” Starsky concluded, finding it more awkward to say now that they were both momentarily rational. “I think somewhere under that…thing…that had you, you heard me. And it knew it couldn’t beat us.”

“I was murdering you and you were taking time out to absolve me of it?”

“It wasn’t you, Hutch. And I knew when you came to after it was over, if you ever were yourself again, you’d never be able to live with it. I hoped if somehow you remembered what I said, you’d know that I didn’t blame you.”

“I don’t know what to say.” Hutch went to the couch and plopped down. “I’m so damn tired and confused and…and I don’t know.”

“Well,” Starsky took out his handcuffs, “if you need the facilities, and you want to clean up a little, you better do it now, because I’m puttin’ these here bracelets on you once you’re settled.”

“And then what?” Hutch stood up, wondering what the cuffs would be tethered to that would hold down this thing at its full power.

“Umm…” Starsky looked around, a little worriedly.

“The brass headboard at my place would work. It’s solid brass, heavy as hell. It wouldn’t give way, and I sure couldn’t drag it far.”

“Good idea. Let’s go. Oh, these first.” Starsky put the cuffs on his partner and led him down to the car.

“Where’s the Torino?”

“I guess it’s still at Maplecrest.”

“You left your treasure untended all day?” Hutch asked.

“At least I knew where that one was. This one I had to track down again,” he said as he gave Hutch an almost playful shove toward the interior of the car as he opened the door.

“I don’t believe you sometimes.” Hutch looked up at him from the passenger seat of the car. “I strangle you and beat the hell out of you, and I could turn back that way any time, and you’re still hangin’ in there.”

“Good partners are hard to find. Don’t wanna break in a new one.” Starsky pushed the car door shut and hurried around to the driver’s side as fast as his swollen ankle and bruised body would allow.

* * *

The ride to Hutch’s apartment was strained at best, with Starsky stealing repeated glances at his partner to be assured he was still, indeed, himself. Hutch, for his part, didn’t look at Starsky’s bruised countenance any more than he had to. Every purple smudge was a reminder that he wasn’t in control of himself. If he was at the moment, it could all be swept away in an instant, and he could cause an accident, or worse yet, finish the job on Starsky once and for all. How Starsky could be so sure Hutch could overpower the entity to avoid killing him was beyond Hutch.

After releasing Hutch and just taking his chances to give his partner time to shower, shave, and change into pajamas, Starsky reluctantly fastened the cuffs to the headboard. The position left something to be desired for comfort, but after trying at least four different positions, and actually being capable of getting a fit of the giggles at what anyone walking in on the scenario would make of it, they found it possible for Hutch to lie on his side as long as he was at a diagonal angle on the bed, facing toward the headboard. Given his occasional bouts with back problems, leaving him flat on his back with his arms stretched over his head and unable to move was out of the question. It moved Hutch that Starsky was willing to risk cuffing and uncuffing him just to find a reasonably comfortable position.

“Starsk?”

“Yeah?” Starsky was removing his jacket and holster, hanging them on a kitchen chair.

“I hate to push my luck here, but I haven’t eaten since last night.”

“Me either. How about I order a pizza?”

“Just don’t let the delivery guy come in, okay?” Hutch asked, smiling.

“I’ll just tell him you’re a little kinky, and pizza is just one part of the whole set up.”

“If you do that, I swear to God, I’ll get even.”

“Don’t worry. I’ll leave your questionable honor intact.” Starsky dialed the number of the nearest pizzeria.

Though eating while handcuffed to a bed wasn’t the most ideal situation, Hutch was happy for the food, and it seemed good to get a few laughs with his partner again, even if it was all short-lived. Starsky didn’t seem to know what to do about the situation, but he was doing what they always did best—cover for each other.

“You can’t just keep me locked up here like a crazy relative you keep in the attic.”

“Oh, I don’t know. Crazy Uncle Hutch. Has a ring to it.” Starsky smirked a little from his seat in the empty space between Hutch’s diagonal body and the headboard. “This…thing wants something. We have to find out what it is. Maybe it’s old Malcolm, ticked off about getting barbecued by Evelyn.”

“Great. What’re we supposed to do? Glue the ashes back together?”

“I’m going to call Minnie in the morning and see if she can go through the records and pull the files on the original Willoughby case—and sneak them over here.”

“She could get fired for that.”

“Only if she gets caught. I, for one, don’t picture that happening to Minnie.”

“Don’t you dare let her in here, Starsky.”

“Hey, getting you handcuffed to a bed might make one of Minnie’s fantasies come true.”

“I swear, Starsky, if you make a joke out of this situation, I’ll—”

“You’ll what, hot shot? Kill me? You tried. Didn’t work, remember?” Starsky was grinning, and Hutch returned it, amused at his partner’s capacity for dark humor.

* * *

The sound of metal against metal stirred Starsky out of a sound sleep. Once he was fully awake, he identified the sound as the handcuffs rattling furiously against the brass headboard. Afraid of what he would see, he gingerly looked over the back of the couch. Hutch was writhing on the bed, pulling for all he was worth on the headboard.

“Hutch?” Starsky asked nervously. He got up and walked slowly into the bedroom area, which was dimly lit by a small bedside lamp. “Hutch?” He lurched back a little when the yellow eyes opened and he realized he was in the presence of the entity again.

“Back for more?” it hissed at him through clenched teeth.

“Come on, Hutch, fight it with me! I know you’re under there somewhere. Throw him out. Come back!” Starsky consciously kept clear of the path of the flailing, unrestrained legs. A foot in the ribs didn’t appeal to him considering the abuse his body had endured in the last 24 hours. He managed to get on the bed next to Hutch and finally straddled the writhing form. Taking a hold of Hutch’s head with both hands, he got right down near the distorted face. “You give him back to me, you bastard! You’re not going to have him. Give him back, damn you!”

The thing only laughed, then spit in his face. “Hutch, come on! Come on, buddy, fight him with me! I know you’re still in there somewhere. Where’s my back-up, huh?”

Hutch’s entire body seemed to arch upward, almost throwing Starsky off the bed entirely, but he held on tenaciously. One of them was growling now, deep down in Hutch’s throat. Starsky didn’t know if it was Hutch or the entity. “Come on, Hutch, I need my partner to fight this one! I can’t do it alone. Come on, Hutch, you fight, damn it! Think about what it made you do to me. Do you like thinking it used your hands and fists and feet to make those marks on me?” There was another fit of writing and twisting from Hutch, and then a brief, breathy whisper as the horrible eyes closed momentarily.

“Starsk…” Then another cry of what sounded like pain came from Hutch and when his eyes re-opened, they were still that hellish mottled yellow.

“I hear you, buddy. I know you’re in there. Come on! You’re doing it! You’re stronger than he is! Do you want to stay trapped under this…thing?” Starsky thought he saw some signs of conflict in the evil visage, but he couldn’t concentrate on any small inroads. He had to keep up the pressure. “You can hit me with your best shot, you son of a bitch, because Hutch is mine and you can’t have him. He’s my partner, my best friend, my family and you’re not going to take him away from me!” Starsky took some delight in the way the thing was reacting, making Hutch thrash wildly, tugging furiously at the restraint of the cuffs. The eyes closed and reopened, startling him with Hutch’s blue pupils for a moment, then closing again and re-opening to reveal the eyes of the thing that still wouldn’t let him go. Starsky kept up his appeals to his partner. “Come on, Hutch, you’re winning! Come on, push him out! Come toward my voice! I need back-up here, Hutch. I can’t do it without you, now come on!”

“Get away!” Another voice shrieked out from Hutch’s mouth. It was deeper, raspier than Hutch’s…the same voice that had mocked Starsky the night before. “They have to know!”

“Know what?”

“I…can…make…him…kill…you!”

“Oh, yeah, hot shot? What do you think a’that, Hutch? Come on, buddy, kick his ass out of here! Me and thee, remember? Come on, babe, me and thee; nobody else in the middle. Get rid of him! You can do it! And you listen to me, whatever the hell you are.” Starsky leaned down close to the face that was not quite as self-assured and comfortable in its evil anymore. “Hutch and I have a bond that’s stronger than anything you’ve got to give, and you aren’t going to win! You’ve been trying to drive me away because you know the only thing standing between you and Hutch that won’t move is me. Well, dig in your heels then, asshole, because I ain’t goin’ nowhere.”

Starsky watched the eyes close, and a wild pattern of erratic movement play itself out under the lids. The window flew open and the mirror over the dresser shattered. He noticed for the first time that the struggle had left Hutch’s wrists raw in the handcuffs. The man pinned under him was moaning, grunting as if struggling. “Hutch, come on, push him out! You can do it, buddy. WE can do it. He’s not stronger than we are. Come on! Hutch, remember me and thee, huh? Who do we trust time here! He wants me dead—you don’t want that, do you?! I know you don’t!”

Starsky watched another spasm of some sort pass through Hutch’s body and resisted the urge to cover his ears at the hideous shriek that emerged from Hutch. And then Hutch went limp from head to toe. The window closed with a slam. Reluctantly, Starsky moved off his partner, allowing him easier breathing without so much weight pressing down his midsection. Hutch’s eyes opened, and they were Hutch’s eyes. “Hey there, pal.” Starsky smiled down at him. “We did it. We sent him packing.”

“I…remember…parts of it. Hearing you, consciously trying to reach you from some dark place…Starsk, I never remembered anything before—it was total blackout. But this time, I could see him…I saw him…he was big, dark-haired, he looked…crazy…” Hutch was shaking visibly. “I could see him running…back to Maplecrest…it was like a dream. You were there, yelling at me, calling for me to back you up…but he’s gone…”

“He’s gone, buddy. We kicked him out.” Starsky took the handcuff key out of his pocket and released the cuffs. Hutch brought his arms down gratefully, rubbing at the chafed skin. “I’m so tired, Starsk. I don’t think I can get up.”

“You don’t have to.” Starsky smoothed the tousled hair back from Hutch’s forehead.

“We did it, didn’t we?” he asked, smiling.

“Damn right we did it.”

“Me and thee.”

“Like always.” Starsky smiled down at his winded partner. “Just relax. Go to sleep.” He watched the last traces of worry begin receding from Hutch’s face. “I’m right here, partner. I’m right here and he’s gone.” Hutch felt himself drift into a peaceful, deep, dreamless sleep.

* * *

“Good morning,” Starsky entered the bedroom carrying a tray.

“You got up before me and made breakfast?” Hutch asked, incredulously. Spiritual possession, he could believe now. Starsky getting up early and fixing a decent breakfast stretched the imagination to its limits.

“I figured two pieces of pizza I fed to you while you were tied up probably didn’t exactly qualify as a decent meal.”

“God I feel lousy this morning. Lousy, but hungry,” he said smiling. “Thanks.” He looked at the bed tray that was set across his lap with some dismay. “Starsky, those are frankfurters.”

“I made the eggs, but I couldn’t find any sausage or bacon.” Starsky returned to the kitchen to get his own plate and coffee and then settled on the foot of the bed to have breakfast with his partner.

“I don’t usually eat greasy meat for breakfast. Kind of defeats the purpose of jogging.”

“You aren’t going jogging this morning, so you don’t have anything to lose. Now shut up and eat.”

“You’re acting like nothing happened, Starsk. We’ve got to do something.”

“I know that. But we’re both hungry, so first things first. I called Minnie this morning. She’s pulling all the records on the Willoughby case as we speak. Wasn’t too easy dodging all her questions, but she said she’d bring them by on her lunch break. Dobey was the real stickler.”

“You called him already?”

“It’s after nine, Hutch. He’d have come lookin’ for us if I didn’t. I told him we had food poisoning.”

“Starsky.” Hutch shook his head.

“Well, it was the only thing I could think of to build on my ‘symptoms’ yesterday and include you in it. He ranted and raved for a while, but there wasn’t much he could do about it. I imagine he’ll stop in later to check up on us, ’cause I’m not sure he believed it.”

“I’m sure. He didn’t. You can count on seein’ him later.” Hutch had eaten everything on the plate, including the offending “greasy meat,” and now was sipping his coffee, looking more like his old self than he had in several days.

“If he had seen you handcuffed to the bed, he’da probably turned us both in to IA,” Starsky said, laughing at the mental picture of Dobey trying to make sense of such a scenario. His delight annoyed his partner, but he said nothing, figuring he’d rather not even toss a pillow at Starsky for fear of hitting something bruised. “Only hurts when I laugh,” Starsky complained, registering a wave of discomfort on his face.

“I think you should go to a doctor.”

“I’m just sore. I’ll get over it.”

“I know you keep saying it wasn’t me, but I still feel responsible. I’m so sorry, Starsk. Really I am.”

“It was hard at first when I came to and realized what had happened. I couldn’t believe it myself. But I just kept saying to myself, ‘that isn’t Hutch.'”

“But you still wondered how I could do something like that to you.”

“Well, yeah, I guess so. I wondered how anything could make you do it, but then I remembered what you looked like when that…thing took over. You didn’t have any choice, Hutch. At least, most of the time you didn’t. And it went after me so violently that I couldn’t fight it with you.”

“Divide and conquer.” Hutch sighed. “I didn’t know anything that was happening. Last night, when you challenged it, was the first time I remembered something that happened while I was…blacked out. I just can’t stand to look at those bruises and know that I did that to you.” Hutch looked down at his hands. “That I used these hands to do…that.”

“Hey—don’t even talk like that. You didn’t do anything wrong, Hutch. It used you to do it. None of it was your fault. It wanted a vehicle out of Maplecrest, and it took you.”

“Are you feeling okay?” Hutch asked. “How’s the neck?”

“Stiff. I don’t feel great but I’ll be okay. Please don’t worry about it, pal. I’m okay.”

“All right.” Hutch was quiet a moment. “Starsky, I still can’t believe you stayed with me through this, after what I did to you,” he said it a quiet, shaky voice. Starsky moved to the side of the bed next to him and took his hands.

“Listen to me. You did nothing to me. These hands aren’t guilty of anything, any more than a gun is guilty because someone shoots it. They were used. And we’re partners. I’m always gonna be here. You know that—me and thee, remember?”

“I know, but I could have killed you.”

“You couldn’t kill me, no matter how badly that thing wanted you to. We’re okay. We survived this. Now we’ve gotta solve this damn case before it kills both of us,” Starsky concluded, and they both chuckled a little.

* * *

Minnie arrived shortly after noon with an armload of files.

“Starsky! What happened to that pretty face of yours?” Minnie tried to take a hold of his chin to survey the damage, but he brushed the hand away.

“Sorry, Minnie. I just can’t explain it right now.”

“That’s the worst case of food poisoning I ever saw,” she said sarcastically. Seeing Starsky’s impassive expression, she turned her attention to the task at hand. “Most of those are files on the Willoughby case. The rest are files on another case that was being investigated at the same time—same M.O.” Minnie craned her neck to see past Starsky into the apartment. “What are you up to, Starsky?”

“I really can’t tell ya, Minnie, but you’re a lifesaver. I’ll explain it all eventually, I promise. If Dobey asks—”

“I know. You ate a tainted burrito.”

“So did Hutch.”

“Sure he did. And I’m Cheryl Tiegs.”

“She’s got nothin’ on you, schweetheart,” Starsky responded in his Bogie voice.

“What am I ever gonna do with you, Starsky?” she asked, laughing.

“If you’d ever invite me over to your place, you could try a few things out.” Starsky flexed his eyebrows flirtatiously.

“I just might do that. You owe me for those files. I’ll figure out a way to collect from you yet, Starsky.” She turned and headed down the steps.

“Hey, Minnie?” He called after her, and she paused to look back at him. “Thanks a million. This really is important, all joking aside.”

“You’re welcome. Good luck.”

“Thanks.” He retreated into the apartment where Hutch was seated on the bed, propped with pillows and reading the morning paper.

“Those the files?” He tossed the paper aside as Starsky climbed on the bed and sat Indian-style near the foot of it.

“Yup.” He handed Hutch half the pile, and they began sifting. After a few minutes passed, Starsky broke the silence again. “Seems there was a second theory about the case that was never explored.”

“Which was?” Hutch prompted.

“That Malcolm Willoughby was a victim, just like the rest of his family, of a deranged intruder.” Starsky rifled through the files and came up with a report and handed it to Hutch. “It wasn’t the first killing like this that had occurred in the area. The first was an elderly couple about twenty miles north of Maplecrest. A man they had hired to do odd jobs allegedly murdered them much the same way Willoughby is supposed to have murdered his family and took off with all their money and jewelry. According to this report, Malcolm Willoughby’s brother, Clarice’s father, said he thought there was some jewelry missing from Mrs. Willoughby’s collection, but no one could be positive, and the whole family was dead, so no one was left to ask. The obvious thing—her wedding ring—was still on her finger. All in all, there was reasonable doubt here about Malcolm’s guilt, but since he was dead and wouldn’t be going to trial, it looks like they just took the path of least resistance, hung it on him and let it go at that.”

“What about the evidence that pointed to Willoughby killing himself?” Hutch asked.

“Don’t know yet. What’ve you got?”

“The answers maybe. There’s a coroner’s report here on Willoughby, plus some other notes.” Hutch read silently for a while, as did his partner. “Looks like there were two schools of thought about Malcolm’s suicide. At least Lieutenant Kiley, the investigating officer, had another theory. Either Malcolm was a murder victim, or he came home from one of his usual nights of drinking and gambling out on the town, found his family murdered, and in a frenzy of guilt and grief, committed suicide with the murder weapon that had been left behind—except they never found the thing, which they assumed was some sort of machete based on the wounds.”

“What murder weapon was used in the other killing?” Starsky asked, scanning his information, but not finding the answer.

“Similar type of weapon—a big carving knife. It was left at that scene,” Hutch responded. “What if Malcolm wants the family name cleared? All this to reopen the case, clear the family name.”

“Then we’re assuming Malcolm is an evil entity, because this kind of killing certainly couldn’t come from an innocent spirit,” Starsky countered. “And if Malcolm wants to clear the family name, committing a whole batch of new killings wouldn’t be the way to do it.”

“Hold everything! Who was the houseguest?” Hutch asked.

“What?”

“Who was the houseguest murdered that night? Remember Jenny Moore’s notes? She quoted the newspaper as saying that a houseguest was murdered with the family.”

“Ahhh,” Starsky started going back through the reports. “Matthew Fuller, 27. Caucasian, black hair, brown eyes, 6’2″, 195 pounds. So what?”

“Starsky, look at the report on the Houghton killings,” Hutch referred to the old couple’s murder.

“Okay.”

“Description of the suspect.”

“Todd Franklin, late 20’s. Caucasian, black hair, brown eyes, 6’2″, 180-200 pounds…Oh my God…” He looked up at Hutch. “If Fuller and Franklin are the same man, and Fuller did it—and Willoughby walked in and caught him…”

“And the man I saw in my dream last night had dark hair—a big guy with dark hair.”

“But they both ended up dead.” Starsky ran his hand back through his hair, perplexed.

“They fought, Willoughby won, Fuller died and Willoughby killed himself, just like the evidence indicates. But the only one of the other victims he actually killed was Fuller. How big was Willoughby?” Hutch asked his partner, who seemed to have the portion of the reports with the medical examiner’s information.

“He was 6’4″, 230 pounds—big guy.”

“Big enough to subdue and overpower Fuller.” Hutch leaned back against the pillows.

“Maybe the shadow isn’t Malcolm Willoughby. Maybe the shadow is Fuller. Maybe the painting stirred up a vengeful spirit—of a murdered murderer…” Starsky was deep in thought. “Maybe the real battle started when Willoughby’s painting was brought back.”

“Do we know for a fact that Clarice is the one who sold it? We’ve just assumed…maybe her father got rid of it,” Hutch offered.

“Never thought of that. She never said anything when we talked to her,” Starsky responded.

“We didn’t ask her if she sold it. We assumed she had.” Hutch smiled slightly. “Maybe we’re onto something.”

“If the painting was the key, then why are the murders starting again?” Starsky asked, shattering a little of the glee of discovery.

“Because once Fuller was called up, he didn’t go back?” Hutch offered, feeling it was a weak suggestion at best.

“Possible,” Starsky responded, still deep in thought. “Or he wants revenge…and credit.”

“Credit?” Hutch asked, incredulously.

“Don’t most psychos thrive on publicity? The way this played out, he’s just another victim, and Malcolm is the historic monster who killed them all. The murder of the Houghtons is all but forgotten…maybe the guy wants credit for what he did and revenge on Malcolm Willoughby not only for killing him, but for stealing the spotlight.” Starsky seemed fueled by his theory.

“If we accepted that for the sake of argument, what do we do about it?” Hutch asked.

“Give him what he wants. Prove Malcolm killed him, but not the others, re-open the Houghton case, and tie Fuller into it. It seems to me like a little simple deductive reasoning would handle it. Hanging it on Malcolm was the easy, obvious thing. Maybe Franklin or Fuller or whoever he really is would be happy with some publicity bringing up the possible alternate explanation.”

“I suppose anything’s worth a try. But who would we get that would be interested in printing something like that?”

“The college’s thirtieth anniversary is coming up soon,” Starsky said, pondering the possibility for a minute. “The Chronicle is doing a series on it starting tomorrow, I think.” The next day was Saturday, and the college’s anniversary was coming up the following Friday. “The paper plans to run various features about the college over the years in their Society & Culture section every day until the actual anniversary.”

“How do you know?”

“Evelyn told me about it the other night—she was my date before…all this started. She said she worked really hard to get some publicity for the college’s anniversary, and one of the reporters, who’s a former student, finally agreed to run the series idea past her editor, and I guess it was approved.”

“You went out on a date with Evelyn Lansing?”

“You don’t need to make it sound like I went out with Satan, Hutch.”

“I just don’t picture you two…as an item.”

“Who says we are? We’re friends. If anything else happens, well, we’ll take it as it comes. I wouldn’t put any moves on her now, anyway. Her son was just murdered a few weeks ago. This probably wouldn’t be the ideal time to start anything serious. I just thought she might like to get out and have a little fun—lighten up a little.”

“So where’d you go?”

“LaFontaine’s, and then Fever.”

“You took Evelyn to Fever?”

“She had a great time. She isn’t the stuffed shirt you think she is, Hutch.”

“How’d she respond to the legendary Starsky dancefloor technique?”

“I didn’t try anything, Hutch.”

“You must be getting old.” Hutch snickered a little and looked back at the file he was holding. “Why don’t we go see Clarice Willoughby again?”

* * *

This visit to Clarice Willoughby was not made by appointment. The two detectives arrived at the Riverside Village retirement home near eleven o’clock in the morning. As fate would have it, Clarice Willoughby was seated in the front sitting room, reading a book.

“Ms. Willoughby?” Hutch approached her. Starsky found himself hanging back a bit, still hoping his multi-colored face would go unnoticed with the help of the sunglasses he was wearing. Looking like you had just survived a bar room brawl tended to erode one’s credibility as a professional cop, especially with citizens. “Detectives Hutchinson and Starsky. We visited you a few days ago.”

“I remember you.” She returned her eyes to her book.

“I wondered if we might have a minute of your time. It’s regarding—”

“The painting again?” She laid the book aside, visibly annoyed. “My father sold it after the murders because having a picture of Uncle Malcolm hanging in the library ceased to be socially acceptable.”

“May we sit down?” Starsky asked finally.

“Of course.” Her answer was coolly polite. “You must be able to appreciate that this is not a chapter in my family’s history I enjoy reliving on a regular basis.”

“We can certainly understand that, Ms. Willoughby, but the fact remains that there are people dying in that building, and we know very well that the cause of those deaths is somehow linked to your family’s past.” Starsky sighed. “Do you know anything about a houseguest that was staying with your uncle and his family? He went by the name of Matthew Fuller.”

“I remember him. I was only a child, no more than six years old. He was a disagreeable man, frightening actually. He had a peculiar friendship with my aunt, as I recall.” She removed her reading glasses, seeming to be lost in the memory. “I only had occasion to be in a room alone with him once, when my parents took my brother and me to visit. He…was a frightening individual.”

“You said he had a peculiar friendship with your aunt—what did you mean?” Hutch persisted.

“Just that. No one else seemed to get along too well with him, but they were…very compatible somehow. Looking back through the eyes of an adult, I imagine the nature of the relationship isn’t too hard to deduce.” She fidgeted with her glasses a moment, then looked up again. “My aunt was a flamboyant woman, very beautiful, very lively. Uncle Malcolm I remember as being harsh, conservative, not a terribly pleasant man. Over the years, looking back, I’ve never blamed Aunt Genevieve if she did have a relationship with Matthew Fuller. It was just that he seemed an odd choice.”

“Do you know if anything was missing from the house following the murders?” Starsky asked.

“We couldn’t actually prove or account for it, but it seemed to me a good deal of Aunt Genevieve’s jewelry was missing. But that was missing before the murders. She used to take me up to her room, along with her daughters—my cousins—and we’d play dress up with her jewelry and hats…she was a very stylish woman. I remember my favorite piece was an amethyst brooch. The last time we were up there, the day I met Matthew, it was gone, along with several other pieces. Of course, the word of a six-year-old didn’t amount to very much with the police, or even my parents.”

“Did your aunt or uncle offer an explanation for why Matthew Fuller was there in the first place?” Hutch was scribbling notes now as they talked, feeling he might be finally getting some sort of structure to the whole situation.

“My uncle said he was new in town, an accountant, and that he would be working in the office, but hadn’t found a place to live yet. My uncle owned and operated a property office—I suppose you would call it a real estate company now. I think Matthew was there for over a month—staying in the house, I mean—prior to the killings.”

“The detective on that case had a theory that possibly an intruder committed the crime and your uncle committed suicide upon finding the bodies. We have a theory that Fuller committed the murders and was eventually overpowered by your uncle, and then he committed suicide.”

“Detective…Starsky?”

Starsky nodded.

“My uncle was a good provider, but he was a drinker, gambler, and carouser. Many men might commit suicide over the annihilation of their families, but Uncle Malcolm wouldn’t be one of them. He loved them, but not to the point of wishing to die because they were dead. If he died that night, he had plenty of help. That is why I always believed it was an intruder. And if he killed himself, where was the murder weapon? You can’t commit suicide and hide your own weapon after you’ve already died.”

“Good points,” Starsky said, leaning back in his chair, removing his sunglasses to rub his eyes. He noticed the elderly woman’s gaze. “I ran into a door,” he quipped regarding his purplish-green-yellow puffed eye.

“Must have been a very large door,” she retorted, with a slightly raised eyebrow. He had to laugh at the dry humor.

“With fists,” he added, still laughing softly. Hutch was shifting uneasily in his chair, and Starsky changed the subject. He wondered if his guilt-prone partner would ever be able to let go of the incident and quit blaming himself. “You thought your aunt was…”

“Having an affair with him? Well, as a child, I didn’t exactly think that, but they were awfully friendly. Looking back, I think that’s a real possibility.”

“If we have any more questions, could we contact you again?” Hutch asked. He had seemed like a cat on a hot tin roof ever since the humorous exchange between Starsky and Ms. Willoughby.

“Of course. I’m sorry I was a bit…reluctant to discuss this before, but my family was dragged through the mud sufficiently at the time, and I’m not pleased to see it happen again. I also fail to see how any of this has anything to do with a current investigation.”

“Were there ever any…disturbances in the house while you lived there?” Starsky asked. The woman appeared a bit unnerved by the question, but she didn’t flinch away from it.

“Yes, there were. And they ended when we removed the painting. We assumed it was Uncle Malcolm’s restless spirit. If he was, indeed, a victim instead of a killer, that would explain his angst over how the situation was interpreted. I don’t believe he killed them, and I don’t think he killed himself. My father didn’t buy that either. Actually, I find your theory much more plausible—that Matthew Fuller did it. How he ended up dead is a puzzle to me, because I don’t believe Uncle Malcolm would kill himself. However, I suppose stranger things have happened. Personally, I believe, as my father did, that it was an intruder.”

“Do you remember anything about the police investigation? Why they didn’t pursue the intruder theory at all?” Hutch asked.

“I don’t remember much. I was very young, and my parents saw to it I heard very little about the murders. I know my father kept insisting that the weapon not being found proved it was an intruder, and the detective on the case kept insisting Uncle Malcolm killed himself because of some kind of evidence he had. I don’t remember what that was.”

“Thank you for taking the time to talk to us about this. It could help a great deal,” Starsky concluded, standing.

“I’m sorry I was a bit stand-offish with you at first. This isn’t a pleasant chapter in our history.”

“Understandable,” Hutch spoke up, smiling slightly.

As they were walking out to the car, Starsky popped his sunglasses back on and headed for the driver’s side. Once they were inside the car, he probed his silent partner.

“I’m sorry if I made you uneasy in there joking with her. I didn’t mean to be insensitive about it,” Starsky explained.

“I’m sorry I beat the hell out of you.”

“How many times do I haveta say it? It wasn’t you.”

“Oh really? How come I noticed last night that my knuckles were sore on one hand? You know why? From beating you.”

“What am I gonna do with you, Hutch?” Starsky seemed genuinely exasperated.

“I don’t know, but I know what you should do: press charges against me for assault and battery.”

“Yeah, right.” Starsky chuckled quietly as he started the car.

“I wasn’t kidding.”

“Hutch, come on. Give it a rest. I’m gonna say it for the last time. It wasn’t your fault. Now quit making me absolve you for it every five minutes. I don’t blame you, I’m not mad at you, you’re still my best friend, nothing’s changed except the location of a couple of my facial features, which are healing as we speak. It’s over.”

“I still feel guilty. How would you feel?”

“Guilty as hell,” Starsky answered honestly. “But it’s still not your fault. Would it make you feel better if I hit you back?”

“Let’s not get carried away,” Hutch responded, chortling a little.

“Think we ought to drop in on Dobey and tell him we’re cured?”

“How do we explain the bruises?”

“I fell down my front steps.”

“Dobey knows  I fell down your front steps before and came out without a mark on me.”

“I slipped in the bathtub. I don’t know.”

“If anyone beat you up, you’d have reported it.”

“Jealous boyfriend beat me up—how about that? He’d probably buy that. I can tell him that it was an embarrassing mess and I didn’t want to report it officially. He’ll get on my case a little—”

“A lot, buddy. He’ll get on your case a lot.”

“Then I’ll stay in the car and you go inside. I think we need to go over some of the current case files—compare them with the old files Minnie brought us.”

“Then let’s get Minnie to bring us the rest of the files. Maybe tomorrow you’ll look better.”

“Okay. Want something to eat? It’s lunchtime.” Starsky pulled away from the curb and joined the flow of traffic.

“Okay. Not Huggy’s though.”

“I called him and told him you were okay, that I found you. I managed to cut him off on the phone pretty quickly, but I don’t want to answer all his questions either.”

“You didn’t tell him…”

“No. Just that you weren’t quite yourself and if someone saw you, they should call me. When I talked to him today, I made sure he knew it wasn’t drugs.” Starsky paused. “He asked me if you worked me over. I thought it was odd he’d think that, but I told him you didn’t. And that was the truth.”

“Okay. Thanks for covering for me.”

* * *

Minnie made another delivery to Hutch’s apartment. This time, the blond detective answered the door, to lay to rest any rumors that he was hiding from her.

“How’s Starsky?”

“He’s okay.” Hutch took the files from her as she stepped inside the apartment. Starsky had made the trip out to collect their Chinese takeout order while Hutch waited for Minnie and the files. He wondered how long before Starsky rebelled against so much Chinese food as Hutch attempted to avoid the greasy fried take-outs he’d sworn off in the past year.

“What happened to him, anyway?”

“It’s a long story, Min. I really can’t go into it—it’s part of the case—”

“And top secret of course.”

“Well, yeah, at the moment. Sorry.”

“That figures. Get assigned to R&I, and you can’t expect to be involved in the sexy cases—but I’ll get out of papercut city one of these days.”

“These files are really helpful. This isn’t all that glamorous right now. Just a lot of paperwork and research.”

“Whatever. Well, I have to grab a burger before I get back, so I better go. You tell Starsky to take care of that pretty face of his.”

“I will. Thanks, Minnie.” Hutch watched her leave and heaved a sigh of relief. He was more than mildly sick of making excuses about this case and Starsky’s bruises.

* * *

“They had a special on egg rolls,” Starsky announced happily as he entered. “Two for one.”

“So you got six?” Hutch asked with a smile.

“Eight, actually. And extra sauce. Gotta get our strength back after bein’ so sick.” Starsky winked at his partner and started unpacking his bag. “Minnie’s been here, huh?”

“Yeah. What do you make of the weapon not having been found?” Hutch asked.

“Fuller’s still got it.”

“How is that possible?”

“You had it the other night, and no one found it lying in the downstairs hall where it would have been if it hadn’t come from some supernatural source. No one ever finds the murder weapon, yet it’s the same every time.” Starsky looked a little annoyed. “I thought we were going to talk blood, death, and machetes after lunch.”

“Deal.”

Lunch was a gluttonous but efficient experience, and in less than an hour, they were in Hutch’s living room with files spread from one end of it to the other. Starsky had taken up residence on the couch, immersed in coroners’ reports while Hutch studied the similarities and differences in crime scene photos. A grisly post-lunch activity, but it had to be done. Starsky finally picked up speed in his sort of the files, as if he had located something. Hutch, who was on his knees on the floor arranging a grotesque collage for comparison purposes, looked up at the sudden movement.

“You got something?”

“I think so, yeah. Never noticed it before. In all the cases, the notes indicate that the wounds could be self-inflicted on at least one of the victims. I mean, I know that’s not possible, and that’s probably why everyone skims that part in the report, but still…”

“Poses an interesting possibility.” Hutch sat back on his heels. “If Fuller possessed me, he probably possessed others before me. Maybe the killings are committed by someone possessed by the shadow—Fuller—and then they kill themselves.”

“So if you had stayed out in the hall that night until the shadow made contact with you—”

“Or if you hadn’t gotten through to me before it was too late when I was choking you—”

“Fuller would have used you to kill me and then inspired you to kill yourself.”

“Bingo!” Hutch sat back on the floor with a look of relief on his face. They had solved nothing in the eyes of the department, but everything in terms of how to pursue the investigation.

“So that’s how a ghost has been committing these murders—but the machete…”

“Comes with Fuller and is one of those things I guess we have to consider unexplainable.” Hutch stood up and ferreted out a place for himself on the opposite end of the couch from Starsky. “I have heard of spirits who are able to use objects.”

“So why doesn’t he just do the killing himself?”

“He does, but he uses a body that’s available to him. Remember how Merriweather was killed with blows that came primarily from behind?”

“Yes.”

“I wonder if there’s any evidence that Grodin inflicted the wounds on Merriweather?” Hutch leaned back in the couch, resting his feet on the coffee table. “Forensics probably never thought to look for evidence against one of the victims.”

“Good point. In the Merriweather reports, all it mentions is that he was killed with wounds inflicted from behind but listen to the probable description of the suspect: ‘most likely between 5’9 and 5’10” tall, left-handed, very strong.’ Now Grodin was no paragon of physical fitness, but he was left-handed, about that height—it’s possible. When you were…that way, you were extremely strong.”

“Our next move then, logically, would be to try to drive Fuller’s spirit out of Maplecrest.”

“Is that all?” Starsky massaged his bruised neck, whether consciously or unconsciously, at the mention of returning to Maplecrest. Hutch watched his partner with great sympathy. Starsky had made almost no mention of any discomfort he felt from either incident, but he had obviously been in pain ever since the first attack and had to have been really miserable after the second one.

“Still hurts?”

“Not too much.”

“Liar.” Hutch smiled slightly.

“I guess I’m just a little scared to go back to that place. I know we have to, but…”

“Why do you think he’s been quiet until now? Was it something to do with the painting?”

“Did you ever consider this possibility?” Starsky began. “I know it’s a little warped, but think about it a minute. Suppose Malcolm Willoughby caught Fuller in the act or just after killing his family. Suppose they fought, Willoughby won, and Fuller was killed. Suppose Fuller, in turn, possesses Willoughby, and causes him to turn the weapon on himself. There would not only be a grudge against Willoughby by Fuller for having killed him, but Willoughby wouldn’t be too thrilled with Fuller, either. There’d be a whole lot of…psychic…stuff…energy, I guess you’d call it, associated with that painting. Clarice herself said the disturbances stopped after her father got rid of the painting.”

“But the painting was destroyed,” Hutch responded, still processing Starsky’s theory in his mind.

“Yeah, but maybe Fuller had enough of a foothold by then that he didn’t need the painting anymore anyway. Maybe he felt liberated because it was destroyed. I don’t know.”

“Liberated how?”

“Willoughby was no longer the focal point of things at Maplecrest.”

“If we assumed everything that we’ve come up with so far today, including your idea about Fuller possessing Willoughby, is true, now what do we do?” Hutch asked, and his partner let out a long blast of breath before answering.

“Figure out what Fuller really wants. When you were…possessed…he said, ‘they have to know.’ What does that suggest to you?”

“That he wants everyone to know about Willoughby killing him?”

“Probably—but also he probably wants the world to know that he killed the Houghtons, and that he also killed the rest of the Willoughby family. Most monsters like that want the notoriety.”

“Think the Chronicle would print our theory in their series on the college’s anniversary?”

“Not exactly good publicity. I’d have to call Evelyn and see what she thinks.”

“I know how much you’d hate having to do that, Starsk.”

“It’d kill me, but anything for the case.” He smiled broadly. “Wonder if entities read newspapers?”

“No, but they probably know if something’s been set right. Maybe we could go to the newspaper as anonymous sources. I mean if Dobey got wind of this…”

“He’d kill us. Wouldn’t even bother with IA. I mean if we’re backing up our story with coroner’s reports and evidence from the crimes…”

“I’ve got it!” Hutch looked positively gleeful at his idea. “It’s getting near Halloween. Maybe from that angle, the paper would be willing to run all the facts, and if we could get a psychic or some kind of paranormal expert to suggest the possession theory, we could not only give Fuller credit for the old murders but attribute the new ones to him as well.”

“And that ought to send him back to the netherworld happy as a clam,” Starsky concluded, sharing his partner’s enthusiasm. “I’ll call Evelyn and see if she can put us in touch with the reporter.”

“How well does she like you?” Hutch asked.

“I don’t know…pretty well, I think…why?” Starsky was a little puzzled at the launch of a discussion of his love life.

“Would Evelyn be willing to take all our data and be the source—even if the reporter says it’ll be protected? We need another layer of protection over us. If we got caught, we’d be fired so fast we wouldn’t have time to pick up the early edition first.”

“But Evelyn’s got nothing to lose, and they could probably still keep her name out of it,” Starsky seemed to pick up on the theory, and like it.

“Well, give her a call, Romeo.”

“Will you let it rest, Hutch? It isn’t like that…at least not yet.” Starsky flexed his eyebrows as he picked up the phone and dialed Evelyn’s number.

 

PART THREE

Evelyn agreed to meet them at her place that evening to go over their materials. The woman who was planning the series on the college was a former student of Evelyn’s, and a graduate of Maplecrest. The girl did possess a certain eye for scandalous gossip, so Evelyn felt sure she would like the more sensational aspects of the story: the possession theory, the odd evidence of the self-inflicted wounds, the old murder case never truly solved…it all made for a great read in the society page on Halloween night.

Their hostess was dressed casually this time, and Starsky found himself not quite used to seeing her out of “uniform,” as he liked to call the business suits. In jeans and a sweater, she was the antithesis of the imposing administrator that had given both of them some tense moments at the outset. She immediately noticed Starsky’s face, even though he was priding himself on it almost returning to normal. There was only about a third of the evidence of the attack left visible, but it was still noticeable.

“David! What happened to you?” She took hold of his chin for a better look.

“Would you believe I ran into a door?”

“You’ve tried that one, Starsk. Doesn’t hold water.”

“I guess we owe you the full story,” Starsky said, partially responding to Hutch’s comment as well as Evelyn’s question. Once they were all seated in the living room, the two detectives worked together on filling Evelyn in completely regarding the case and Hutch’s temporary possession. When it was over, she was silent a moment, glancing from one detective to the other.

“I’m still processing the thought that I destroyed that painting for nothing,” Evelyn stated. “I know I should be able to look at the larger picture, but right now, to know that was useless…”

“We all thought it was the painting. You had the courage to do something about it,” Starsky responded, hoping to console her a little. She had lost her career and most of her social status by burning old Malcolm’s painting, and it had gained them nothing.

“Well, I guess now I have to have the courage to do one more thing and take this to the press.” Evelyn’s summation made them both feel small. Here they were, presenting her the next dilemma and leaving it up to her to take action.

“If we take this to the press, and Dobey got wind of it—”

“I know, David. You’d lose your jobs,” she replied, somewhat pointedly. The sharpness was still in Evelyn Lansing. It might recede in a special moment, but it was always there. Her administrator’s tone coupled with the content of what she said made him feel about three feet tall.

“Dr. Lansing, I can appreciate the fact that you’ve given up a great deal toward this investigation. But you’re in a position where you won’t be penalized for this, and we would be.” Hutch had pointedly used her title. He hadn’t been instructed otherwise, but the implication would certainly be to drop the formality, since he was now supposedly visiting with one of Starsky’s friends instead of a business contact. “I think we’ve both given quite a bit for this investigation ourselves.”

“I’ve lost my son, my job, and my friends. What has this cost you?”

“My peace of mind,” Hutch responded. “Do you think I’ll ever have any real inner peace again knowing what that…thing made me do to Starsky? Knowing it invaded my soul and used me to do its dirty work? I would say it’s pretty obvious Starsky’s paid his dues on this one. I’m sorry about all of your losses, but we didn’t ask you to burn that painting, and we certainly didn’t send your son into that hallway.”

“I think you should leave.” Evelyn stood up suddenly.

“Evelyn, Hutch didn’t mean—”

“Hutch can speak for himself,” he snapped back at Starsky. “This isn’t a normal situation, Dr. Lansing. And I resent the implication that we’ve somehow looked to you to take action in this investigation. You decided to burn that painting, and as tragic as it was, your son’s death wasn’t our fault. We didn’t hide the truth from you—it’s not like we didn’t level with you about the upstairs hallway…it’s not like the whole situation with…I gotta get out of here.” Hutch grabbed his jacket and fled out the door.

“Evelyn, I—I’ll call you.” Starsky took off after his partner, but Evelyn grabbed his arm.

“Don’t go with him, David. Look at what he did to you. Good God, don’t wait until he kills you to see the light.”

“Let go of me.” Starsky’s voice was low and controlled, and something in his eyes made her obey the directive wordlessly. She watched him rush out the door and disappear into the darkness.

* * *

Hutch was leaning against a tree that was part of a small thicket that ran along the perimeter of the condominium complex property.

“Hutch?” Starsky halted his run from the building, slightly out of breath. “Hey, partner, you okay?” Hutch’s face looked pale in the moonlight, but there was nothing sinister in the pallor. He was tired, stressed…and feeling guilty again. “It’s the Grodin and Merriweather thing again, isn’t it?” Starsky asked gently.

“I let them walk right into it, Starsk. I never leveled with Merriweather.”

“We’ve been through this, buddy. You know that wasn’t your fault.”

“Just like what happened to you wasn’t my fault?”

“Look at me,” Starsky ordered, grasping his partner by the shoulders. “There’s an evil, foul spirit behind everything that’s happened. We’ve had to conduct this investigation outside the department since it started. We haven’t been able to confide in Dobey, so why in hell would you confide in Merriweather? We’d just had a nasty scene with Grodin, and we’d been reduced to chasing lost dogs by Dobey and pulled off the case. There was no damn reason to explain everything to Grodin and Merriweather. They wouldn’t have believed it, and neither would Dobey. It wouldn’t have changed anything, Hutch. They would have still gone out there that night if Grodin got it in his pig-head that he could solve the case that way. And once they were there, Fuller took over. You didn’t have any part in the blame for them. But I think Fuller played on your guilt to get a foothold in you. He made you feel like you were part of it. You weren’t.”

“But if I had said something…” Hutch’s voice was quiet, almost shaking.

“Merriweather might have been more nervous than he already was but it wouldn’t have ultimately stopped what happened. And how could you possibly know they’d go wandering around in the college in the middle of the night? Will you please just stop beating yourself up over something you didn’t have any real control over?”

“Interesting choice of words. I guess I just beat you up instead. How could I let that thing make me hurt you that way?” Hutch pulled away from his partner and walked a few feet away. “I could have killed you.”

“No, Fuller could have. If you had let him.”

“Wait a minute. According to you, I was swinging that machete at you—”

“But I moved away, and then I shot it out of your hand. I didn’t know how to reach you. If I had reached you, said something meaningful then, I have every faith you would have stopped. I was too panicky and things were happening too fast for me to have time to reach you. You stopped when I appealed to you. Why didn’t Fuller finish the job strangling me, huh? Because you wouldn’t let him finish. And even though I was unconscious by then, the only thing that would have stopped Fuller from beating me to death was you.”

“I never meant to hurt you, Starsk.” When Hutch finally turned around, there were tears in his eyes. “I never wanted to be responsible for anybody getting hurt, but least of all you.”

“Now you listen to me, Hutchinson, and you listen good.” Starsky grabbed the sagging shoulders again. “You aren’t responsible for any of this. And you sure as hell didn’t mean for anything to happen to me. How many times have you laid down your life for me, huh? How many times have you taken care of me when I thought I was gonna die? You pulled me through those times. You wouldn’t do all that if you were gonna knock me off the next chance you got. You’re the best friend I’ve ever had. I’d trust you with my life any day, now just like before. I still love you, buddy. Nothin’ could ever mess that up. Unless you decide to keep this thing that happened like a wall between us for the rest of our lives, we can move on.”

* * *

Evelyn was perched in her upstairs bedroom window, watching the two men talking out by the trees. Obscured by the shadows of the darkened room, they couldn’t see her even when they turned toward the building. It didn’t seem to matter to David that his partner had almost killed him. The allegiance was still there…and Evelyn had been brushed off none too delicately when she infringed on their territory. She watched them talk, then Hutchinson moved away, but David pulled him back, talked to him some more, and then they embraced. She marveled a little at the strength of that bond, and the depth of that friendship. David had seen his friend in the most horrible state imaginable and had been victimized brutally by him in that state, and there he was out there hugging him.  But Hutchinson was no different. He had been fiercely protective and defensive of his partner when he met with Evelyn that first day.

As she turned away from the window and walked back through the empty rooms, she felt a strange twinge of jealousy toward Ken Hutchinson. She hadn’t planned on feeling the way she did about David Starsky, homicide detective. Falling for David Levinson would have made more sense, but that wasn’t who he really was…and who he was suited her just fine. Still, she had very painfully seen how fast he would choose between her and his partner.

* * *

“I’m sorry I snapped at Evelyn like that,” Hutch said quietly as he drove toward his apartment. He didn’t ask Starsky if he wanted to be dropped off home first. He wanted the company, and he figured by not offering the choice, he’d probably get it.

“She was getting a little snotty. She hasn’t really changed all that much. I’ve seen another side to her, but the first side is still there.”

“She was just acting like everything we’ve been through, and even the department losing two cops, was nothing. Like she’s taken all the action and we’ve given nothing toward solving this case.”

“Probably doesn’t look like much to her in comparison to Andy’s death. Doesn’t make her right, but I can understand it.” Starsky stared out the passenger window a minute. “What’re we gonna tell Dobey?”

“Nothin’, I guess.” Hutch pulled up in front of Venice Place. “I hope you don’t mind that I came here. I just didn’t…”

“I know. That’s okay. Besides, there’s a great movie starting in about an hour, and I’m outta popcorn at home.”

* * *

Morning dawned, and they made the inevitable return to the precinct. Dobey was in his office, according to Minnie, who warned them as they passed her in the hall that their superior was not pleased. They had no sooner landed at their desks when Dobey emerged from his lair, looking none too happy.

“Well, if it isn’t the happy wanderers.” He leaned on his doorknob, staring somewhat menacingly at them. “What the hell happened to you, Starsky?”

“Jealous boyfriend,” he mumbled.

“I beg your pardon?” Dobey was intentionally going to make this a spectacle.

“I talked to this girl, and I didn’t know she was with someone,” Starsky continued the lie. There was some laughter among the other detectives in the room.

“You shoulda seen the other guy,” Hutch said, smirking but not looking up from the papers on his desk. Normally he would have enjoyed seeing the resident Casanova wriggle his way out of this situation, but this wasn’t like any normal situation.

“Suppose you two get in here and tell me what you’ve got?” Dobey waited while they filed in past him. When all were seated, he looked at them expectantly. Both appeared tired and drained, and there was something haggard about their appearance that pulled Dobey down a few notches from the pinnacle of his fury. “This isn’t like you two. Absenteeism, total lack of progress on the case…you want to tell me what’s going on here?”

“We’d love to but you’d never buy it,” Starsky responded honestly.

“Try me.” Dobey wasn’t as angry as he’d been as he clocked them as fifteen minutes late and had lain in wait to heap further recriminations on his usually favorite team. He had humiliated them with the stack of minor cases he’d shoved on them as punishment for messing up this case, and they’d risen above it, taken the first of those cases as seriously as they took most of their cases and seeing it through to completion.

He hadn’t believed the story about Starsky’s illness, nor had he bought the food poisoning excuse. But Starsky had sounded terrible that morning, and he had obviously taken a bad beating. Judging by the appearance of the bruises, he was probably suffering its early aftermath when he called in sick. It certainly was no punch or two exchanged with a jealous boyfriend. Starsky would have either gotten the upper hand or pressed charges against the guy for assaulting an officer if he had worked him over that completely.

Hutchinson, for his part, was pale, jittery and uncharacteristically defensive of his partner. They had been noticeably less antagonistic with each other after the brush with Gunther’s hitmen, but Hutch appeared even more protective of Starsky now than usual.

“Cap, if we tell you what we’ve found out…been through…on this case, you’ll probably fire us. Think we’re a coupla nuts,” Starsky responded.

“During the course of this case, you two have been sneaky, evasive, unprofessional, and inaccessible. You’ve made lame excuses and disappeared for two or three days at a time. None of that behavior is characteristic. You’re damn good cops, both of you, and I know there’s something else going on here besides what meets the eye. So why don’t you stop tap-dancing around the truth and tell me what the hell’s going on here?”

The two detectives exchanged glances, shrugged, and began their tale. Dobey didn’t cut them off at any point in time. He asked a couple of clarifying questions, but he didn’t laugh, nor did he eschew the paranormal explanations they were offering. Both were shocked as the story unfolded not to be thrown out of the office. When it was finished, Dobey was silent a moment.

“Well, you weren’t lying about it being a far-fetched story.” Dobey leaned on the desk with both elbows and ran his hands back through his hair. “There’s a lot of evidence that’s not adding up any other way. This business of the self-inflicted wounds, and one victim almost always is the possible assailant of the other in the multiple cases. I’ve been trying to put that down to coincidence, M.E. error…but it wouldn’t happen in every case.”

“Are you saying you believe us?” Starsky asked.

“Supposing I did—what would you do about all this?”

“We kind of did something already,” Hutch began sheepishly.

Starsky’s stomach tightened into a knot when he realized Hutch was going to tell that they had leaked information to the newspaper. Sometimes his partner took the term “the whole story” way too literally. You have to know how to stop short of hanging yourself.

Hutch continued. He explained their visit to Evelyn Lansing and her role in filtering the information to the press in the hopes of righting the wrong that had been done. Fuller would have his credit as the monster that he was, and also Willoughby would be known as Fuller’s killer, not his victim. The possession theory would be the speculation, to give the whole thing the Halloween flavor of the season. Evelyn had already thought of an expert in paranormal research she would contact to review the case, and possibly visit Maplecrest, and offer quotes for the paper.

“So you’ve already opened this to the press?” Dobey asked, brows raised.

“Not officially. I mean, we’re protected sources to Evelyn who is the protected source to the reporter,” Starsky replied. “It’s not like we gave her the actual reports. Just the information from them.”

“And you think that will set this straight—end the whole disturbance?”

“We think it’s worth a try. And I think Maplecrest should be blessed when it’s over.”

“What?” Hutch looked at his partner, whose statement had been so quiet that it was barely audible.

“Both times when I prayed, the disturbance subsided. In the Torino and in the building itself. As I see it, setting things right might open the door for Fuller to go back, but something might have to drive him though it back where he belongs. I mean right now, he’s got it made—he’s an immortal psycho, with the ability to wreak havoc on people for the rest of time. We’ve got to do something to drive him out for sure.”

“You’re seriously talking about an exorcism?” Dobey stood and paced behind his desk. He often rubbed his brow, or entwined his fingers, even scowled. But when Dobey actually paced, he was indeed troubled.

“I know it sounds ridiculous…” Starsky let it trail off, looking at the floor.

“So does Hutchinson pounding the hell out of you. That was pretty ridiculous too. Yellow eyeballs and possession by evil spirits…”

“I wouldn’t have ever done that—”

“If you weren’t out of your mind for some reason,” Dobey finished the sentence. “And since you’re sane now, that makes only one logical conclusion. Furthermore, Starsky sure as hell wouldn’t take a beating like that in his stride if he wasn’t convinced something else made you do it.”

“What does this boil down to, Cap?” Starsky wanted to end Dobey’s lingering over the beating incident. It was doing nothing to improve Hutch’s already questionable morale.

“Do what you have to do. I don’t know what the hell we’ll put on the paperwork but handle the case the way you think it should be handled. Keep me informed, and if there’s any back up or help I can give you, it’s yours.”

“Thanks, Captain. This means…a lot to us,” Hutch seemed unusually touched by the support, and Starsky himself had to admit that there was such a relief in it that he could have slumped into the straight chair he occupied and slept for a week.

“I’m sorry about coming down so hard on you both before…the lost dogs and all.”

“Well, at least Mrs. Findley got her schnauzer back,” Starsky said, smiling.

“Oh, speaking of that. I don’t suppose you two have read the paper lately?”

“Hasn’t been on the top of our list of priorities, no,” Hutch responded.

“Take a look at this.” Dobey pulled a folded section of the paper out of the bottom drawer of his desk and handed it to Hutch.  Starsky got up and read over his shoulder.

Mrs. Findley had done a brief human interest-type interview with a reporter from the Chronicle, and she appeared in a large photo holding her schnauzer. She was very complimentary about the lengths the police went to in locating her pet, and the extraordinary sensitivity and concern shown to her by two Metro PD detectives who wrapped up the case in one day, finding the pet and ending a pattern of harassment she had suffered from neighborhood teens.

“You can’t buy better PR than that,” Dobey announced, beaming like a proud father. “Of course, I told the Commissioner that the two of you spotted the case in the desk sergeant’s in-basket and took a personal interest in it,” Dobey said, clearing his throat at the blatant lie. “No sense in telling him you were…forgive the expression…in the doghouse at the time.”

“Thanks for covering for us, Cap’n. It was a little embarrassing hunting down lost animals,” Starsky said, handing the paper back to Dobey.

“Well, that was the idea before I knew what was happening…I’m proud of both of you. You did a nice thing for that old lady, and you gave us some damn good publicity, which we sorely need at the moment. Now get out of here and go take care of that damn ghost.” Dobey’s gruff tone and the pure absurdity of what he was saying were almost comical in their combination. “Starsky!” he barked at the retreating figure.

“Yeah, Cap?”

“Come in here a minute.” Dobey waited while the two exchanged a rapid glance, and Hutch continued on his way out of the office. “Close the door.” Starsky did so and approached Dobey’s desk. “Now, not performing for Hutchinson’s benefit, how are you?”

“I’ll be okay.”

“I want you to go see Dr. Schneider before you do anything else. You’re moving around like you expect to break in half any minute.”

“I thought I was hiding that pretty well,” Starsky responded with a slight grin.

“Considering all the surgical repair you had done last year, I don’t want to take any chances. Go see Schneider. Tell him you’re undercover and can’t discuss how you got the injuries—just that you were worked over. If he has any questions, refer him to me.” Dobey finished filling out a small form and handed it to Starsky. “One more thing…you’re not covering for Hutchinson for any reason, are you? If you level with me now, I won’t take any disciplinary action for the old wives’ tale…and it’ll be your decision about pressing charges.”

“Everything we told you was true.”

“Good enough. Now go see Schneider before you do anything else.”

“Okay. Thanks.”

Starsky rejoined his partner in the outer office. Hutch had poured two cups of coffee and was on the phone to R&I, carefully delineating a request for information.

“What was that all about?” he asked, hanging up.

“He wants me to go see Schneider.” Starsky fingered the form in his hand nervously.

“Are you going now? I’ve got a request in for some more information on the Houghton case—I want to make sure Fuller and Franklin are the same guy, and I also would like to know if either of those names is really his. That was a point Evelyn mentioned last night, remember?”

“Yeah, I remember…Hutch?”

“Yeah?”

“Think you could come with me? I… I have a lot of pain in my side, and I’m kinda scared to get it checked out…I mean, if something is messed up from last year…I know it’s silly, but I don’t want to go by myself.”

“All you had to do is ask, buddy.” Hutch stood up and followed his partner out the door. “How bad is it?”

“Pretty bad. It’s probably just cracked ribs, but it hurts like hell.”

“I wish you’d said something before.”

“You felt so bad about everything…I didn’t want to make it worse by complaining about it all the time.”

“Is there anything else you’re not telling me?” Hutch asked.

“No. Everything else is feeling better but that.”

* * *

Hutch waited uneasily in the small waiting area while Starsky was with the doctor. He was relieved his partner was finally being examined and possibly treated if there were any serious injuries, but nothing made him feel worse than being the reason that Starsky was in need of medical treatment again. He’d been very healthy since he recovered from the shooting, and had deepened his aversion toward doctors, hospitals and needles after a long and painful road back to normality.

After close to thirty minutes had passed, Starsky emerged again, carrying a slip of paper in his hand, looking generally unconcerned. Hutch sprang to his feet, relieved to see his partner didn’t appear inordinately upset.

“What’s the verdict?” he asked, trying to sound like he hadn’t been wringing his hands for thirty minutes solid.

“A cracked rib on the left side. He put an elastic bandage on it, which feels like hell and I’ll probably take off as soon as I get home. He did give me a prescription for pain pills. Like I ever want to see more of those in my lifetime.” He stuffed the prescription in his jacket pocket.

“Starsk, if he prescribed it—”

“It was for the pain. I’d prefer the pain to turning into a walking zombie. He said he didn’t detect any unusual swelling or hardness in the area, so he figures there isn’t any internal damage. He said if it doesn’t get better in a week or so, or if it ever gets worse, I should come in right away. Bottom line: I’m gonna live.”

“You’ll tell me if it gets worse?”

“Promise. Thanks for coming with me.”

“Anytime, pal. Let’s go see what R&I dug up on Fuller or Franklin or whoever he is.”

* * *

Minnie was at her desk, with an aged-looking pile of files nearby. She looked up over the top of her glasses as the two detectives approached her. Her assignment to R&I was bad enough. Having to go back into the mists of time for no good reason was worse.

“I hope you know what this kind of dust does to a person’s allergies after a while,” she greeted.

“Did ya find something good?” Starsky hovered over her shoulder, purposely leaning much closer than necessary to read the open file.

“See for yourself,” she responded, raising the file up to him so he straightened and took it from her.

Minnie must be really sick of being on the outside of this if she was touchy about a little flirting. Starsky had come to consider it expected behavior between them.

“I checked under Franklin and Fuller, waded through all the similar names of the era—since he seems to like names starting with ‘F,’ and having two syllables— pulled all the files, and that’s the only one that resembled the man you’re looking for—the physical description fits.”

“Theodore Arthur Fulton is his real name?” Starsky asked, handing the file to Hutch.

“He’s the only one with a matching physical description, and his reason for being on file here is a pretty good indicator that he’s the same guy.” Minnie sat back in her chair, somewhat self-satisfied with her detective work, and rightfully so.

“Fulton looks like a real sweetheart. He was brought in for questioning in the murder of his girlfriend, huh?” Hutch asked, skimming the contents of the file.

“And not arrested and charged. But there’s a note in the file that attempts to contact him for questioning a few weeks later were unsuccessful.”

“Three weeks after the date of that notation, the Houghton murders occurred. I wonder if we could get a photo of this guy?” Starsky asked.

“Maybe at the newspaper if it was a big case. They didn’t book him, so I guess we don’t have anything here. But that description matches exactly.”

“Yeah, Minnie, but we have to be positive.” Hutch scanned the file’s contents again.

“What in the devil are you two up to anyway?”

“She’s gonna know anyway,” Starsky said, looking at Hutch, who shrugged. “We’re trying to solve an eighty-year-old murder case, and we want to make sure we’ve got the guy’s identity right. We think Fuller—I mean Fulton—is the killer. They pinned it on the wrong guy at the time, and we want to clear it up.”

“And that’s the version of the story you’re going to tell me. Well, it’s better than nothin’.” She smiled and shook her head. “What on earth do you want with a case that old?”

“The killer’s last crime was committed at what is now Maplecrest College,” Hutch announced.

“I still don’t follow you.” Minnie raised her eyebrows and sighed. “But then I often don’t, so what else is new?”

“Someday, you’ll understand,” Starsky concluded cryptically. “Thanks for all your help.” He followed Hutch out of the office.

* * *

The two detectives spent most of the afternoon wading through microfilm in the local library. They were able to locate a photo of Theodore Fulton, but not of Matthew Fuller. Fulton was a disreputable-looking character with a mustache and beard. He had piercing eyes and what Starsky immediately dubbed a “sinister” expression. Hutch found the sight of the man chilling. Starsky thought he noticed a slight tremor in his partner, who was sitting shoulder to shoulder with him in front of the microfilm machine.

“That’s him, Starsk. I just know it.”

“If we could just get a photo of Matthew Fuller…I wonder if Clarice Willoughby would have anything?” Starsky hit the button to print off a copy of the page bearing Fulton’s photo.

“Now if we could get one of Todd Franklin, we’d be doing pretty well.” Hutch slumped back in his chair.

“I’m not giving up just yet.” Starsky crossed off the dates on his list that had yielded this photo. “I think we have one more reference to check for the Houghton killing.” He pulled one of the small, square microfilm boxes from where he had stashed it on top of the viewer. “Yeah. This one.” Hutch was rewinding and removing the old spool as he spoke. They went through the eye-straining experience of scanning the issues near the date of the Houghton murders.

“Bingo!” Hutch pointed at the screen. “Go back!”

“Okay.”

“There!” Hutch directed his partner exactly where to halt his scanning activities. There were photos of the dead couple, and a very fuzzy one of the man who went by the name of Todd Franklin. He wore a mustache, but no beard, and his hair was unusually long for the era, resting just below his collar. There was no mistaking the eyes that looked back at them from the screen.

“I can’t believe nobody picked up on this before.” Starsky printed off that page.

“Well, if you don’t know what you’re looking for…” Hutch compared the two. They were very different looking men based on the changes in the hair length and the facial hair from one to the other. Only when you covered the lower half of the face did it become obvious that the noses and eyes matched.

“Now if we can get a photo of Fuller, we’ll be in business. Nice, neat and tidy to hand over to Evelyn.”

“These photos are from back issues of the Chronicle anyway,” Hutch noted. “If the reporter knows where to look, she can probably pull good enough copies to run in the paper.”

“This is gettin’ better every minute.” Starsky packed up their used microfilm rolls and deposited them in a box near the machines for the librarian to reshelve. “I think I might like this research stuff—kind of like detective work, huh?”

“I guess it is,” Hutch responded, smiling a little. Somehow, he’d never found much excitement in plumbing the depths of a musty old library during his college days.

* * *

Clarice Willoughby was asked to look at the photo of Todd Franklin. She had described Matthew Fuller as having no mustache or beard in one of their previous conversations, so this version of him would be more similar to the man she had seen at her aunt and uncle’s home. While she was unable to locate any photos including Fuller, she immediately identified Todd Franklin as being the same man. She cited his piercing eyes and prominent nose as the most identifiable features.

With a reasonably strong ID made, Starsky visited Evelyn with the new information and a peace offering. When she swung open her door, he held up the single white rose.

“When I saw this at the flower shop, I thought of you.” He smiled slightly. “I’m sorry about how we left things. I didn’t mean to be rude. I was just…worried about Hutch and everything that was going on.”

“Thank you. It’s beautiful.” She accepted it and motioned to him to come in, closing the door behind him. She was dressed in one of her business suits again.

“You look nice,” he commented, not really liking this look compared to her others, but nosy just the same about why she was “back in uniform.”

“Thanks. I have an interview at UCLA this afternoon.”

“No kidding? Congratulations. For what?”

“A teaching position in the Philosophy Department. It came up rather suddenly. I would be a mid-semester replacement for now…something like David Levinson’s appointment,” she added, chuckling.

“Oh, him.”

“Sit down. What have you got for me?” She sat at the opposite end of the couch from the seat he occupied, inclining her legs toward the middle a bit so she was facing him.

“Photos of Todd Franklin and Theodore Fulton. We think Theodore Fulton was the guy’s real name. Clarice Willoughby identified the picture of Franklin as being Fuller.”

“That’s wonderful,” she replied, comparing the photos. “And these are from the Chronicle, too. That’s perfect.”

“I guess we have to leave it in your hands now…unless this will jeopardize something with UCLA?”

“Andy’s death is more important to me than a temporary teaching position. Furthermore, Danielle Benson—the reporter—is a former student of mine. I was a mentor to her, and I’m sure she’ll protect my identity in all this.”

“Good. When this is over, maybe we can get together again.”

“I’d like that. Tell your partner I didn’t mean to offend him the other night.”

“He didn’t mean to offend you either. He said that as soon as we left. This has been real rough on him, and I guess he just snapped at that point.”

“Are you all right?”

“Just a cracked rib. Otherwise, I got a reasonably clean bill of health from the doctor this morning. We went back into work and Dobey sent me. We told him everything.”

“And he believed you?”

“Sort of. I’m not sure he buys all of it, but he seems to understand that there’s something unexplainable going on here.”

“I’m glad you went to the doctor. I was concerned.”

“Thanks. Well, I better get going. Call me and let me know how the interview goes, okay?”

“I will.”

“Good luck. Just remember they’d be lucky to get you,” he said as he walked out the door. Pausing at the bottom of the three-step descent to the sidewalk, Starsky turned back and smiled at the sight of Evelyn in all her businesslike splendor, smiling sweetly and holding that white rose. “Real lucky,” he concluded.

“Thank you, David. I’ll be in touch later.”

“Okay. Knock ’em dead over there today,” he called over his shoulder as he returned to the Torino.

* * *

On Halloween night, the Chronicle ran the article as planned. It was an impressive piece of fact blended with Halloween lore. An expert in parapsychology had been consulted and had offered his blessing on the possession theory, the photos of Franklin and Fulton were run, along with photos of his victims. The bloody chapter in Maplecrest’s idyllic history was bound to raise a few eyebrows, but it cast a very heavy shadow of guilt on Matthew Fuller and opened the door to possibly exonerate Willoughby of all but Fuller’s death…if you believed any of the paranormal explanation. Even if you didn’t, it was a good read.

Reports from Jenny Moore and Mandy Corrigan, Starsky’s spies in residence at Maplecrest, indicated that the cold spots had disappeared from the upstairs hall, and they no longer heard complaints of strange shadows or slamming doors. This being the case, faculty were slowly but surely testing the waters and using their offices after dark. No incidents were reported. This lack of activity brought an uneasy sigh of relief to the college, and even to Dobey, though it still left the official case unsolved.

The lack of haunting activity also reduced the perceived importance of Starsky’s suggestion to bless the building where it had all occurred. That suggestion was overlooked in the relative calm, and for a while it seemed Maplecrest might be cured, and the police might be finished with what they could do about it. Needless to say, the commissioner didn’t agree, but the college administrators were strangely quiet on the subject, and the ensuing lack of pressure to keep up the investigation allowed it to be shelved.

* * *

Evelyn Lansing was hired for the teaching position at UCLA, and ironically, that was the reason that Starsky wound up making one last visit to Maplecrest. After dark.

Evelyn called early one Tuesday evening and asked if Starsky would accompany her to the office to clean out the last of her personal effects. She had not returned her keys to the college, and in all the confusion, they had not requested them. She felt this way she could retrieve her things with a minimum of questioning from her colleagues and avoid any unpleasant encounters with those who still held her in a very low regard for her bizarre act of vandalism.

“I never thought I’d be doing this,” Starsky said with a smile. He was more than mildly uneasy at entering the building, but he was never one to admit to having cold feet in front of a lady. Hutch, on the other hand, would have by now been subjected to whining, pleading, arm tugging and any other entreaty that might make him turn back.

“If you feel uneasy about this, David, I can go up and get my things.”

“Don’t be silly,” he replied, eschewing the idea that he was petrified of completing their mission.

“Well, this shouldn’t take long. I really appreciate the police escort,” she added, smiling at him as she led the way upstairs. “Still is a drafty old place,” she complained, wrapping her raincoat a little more tightly around herself.

“It’s cold in here.” Starsky zipped his leather jacket. Standing in the upstairs hall, he felt the penetrating cold. “I think we should get out of here. Go, now!” He pushed Evelyn toward the double doors separating the hall from the stairs. She ran through them, but they slammed shut behind her, trapping him in the hallway alone.

“David!” She was yelling at him, pounding on the doors. Starsky warned her to stand back, threw himself repeatedly against the doors, but still had no luck opening them.

“Go call Hutch! He’ll know what to do,” he called out to her. He’ll know what to do? How the hell would he?

“I can’t just leave you—”

“You have to. It’s the only way. Now just run, please! And whatever happens, don’t come back in here. Get out of the building and go somewhere else to call.”

“I’ll go as fast as I can!” she promised, turning and running down the stairs. As he heard her heels clicking as she rushed out, he felt the cold panic of being totally alone in the building.

All the office doors began opening and closing by themselves, and the lights were flashing on and off like strobe lights.

“What do you want from me, Fulton?!” Starsky demanded, yelling over the riotous noise of the disturbances.

* * *

Hutch disentangled himself from the arms of the tall brunette he had charmed back to his apartment for a nightcap. The phone was ringing. If this was Starsky, he was a dead man, Hutch thought to himself.

“Hello?”

“Is this Hutch?” A frantic woman’s voice greeted him.

“Yeah, who’s this?”

“Oh, God, Hutch, David’s in there!”

“Evelyn? He’s in where?”

“Maplecrest! It won’t let him out! It’s all my fault…oh, dear God if anything happens…”

“Get a hold of yourself!” Hutch admonished. “He’s in there alone? Upstairs?”

“He can’t get out. The doors locked! He got me out just in time!”

“I’m on my way. Where are you?”

“I’m about two blocks away at the phone booth in front of the convenience store.”

“Stay put. I’ll pick you up.” Hutch dropped the phone into its cradle and jumped to his feet. “I’ve gotta go. Sorry.” He paused as if for a mere oversight, pulled a few bills out of his wallet and tossed them toward her. Noting her horrified expression, he hastened to explain: “Cab fare. I don’t have time to take you home myself.” He raced out the door, leaving the startled girl with a lap full of rumpled bills and no date.

Hutch swerved into the parking lot of the convenience store and picked up an overwrought Evelyn and headed toward Maplecrest. Thoughts of what might be happening or might have already happened to Starsky by now plagued him. He didn’t know who to call for back up at this point, since even Dobey could only send cops, and they wouldn’t understand or believe in what they were encountering. He radioed the captain anyway as his car approached the college campus. He explained the dilemma as best he could, and Dobey, who was settled in for a night of quiet paperwork, mobilized several black and white units to meet him at the college.

* * *

Starsky had flattened himself against the double doors. He imagined the temperature couldn’t have been more than forty degrees in that hallway. He didn’t know for sure what was the sound of his heart pounding and what was the sound of the slamming doors. It was all blending together in his frantic brain now. He had been muttering prayers under his breath, but nothing was working.

The shadow was at the end of the hall.

* * *

Hutch careened into the drive of the college and drove the LTD across the lawn to the front door.

“Stay here. I mean it,” he ordered Evelyn. “When the back up gets here, tell ’em I went inside.”

“But you—”

“But nothing. It’s got Starsky!” He jumped out of the car and ran toward the building. Evelyn reflected on the fact that the forces of the netherworld would be braved without hesitation if they dared to mess with this man’s partner.

* * *

“Starsky!!” Hutch screamed at the top of his lungs as he reached the double doors.

“Hutch!! Oh, God, Hutch, get me outta here!” The doors rattled wildly under Starsky’s jerking of the two knobs. “It’s in here, Hutch! Oh, God, get me out!” The last utterance was more a sob of desperation than a shout.

“Get away from the door, Starsk! I’m shooting the locks—”

“I can’t! He’s coming and there’s nowhere to go!!” The voice reflected only panic, no sign of really comprehending what Hutch was saying. He couldn’t take a chance on sending a slug from the Magnum into Starsky by accident, and he couldn’t take the time to calm his partner enough to reason with him. “Huuutch!” It was a prolonged cry of panic followed by the rattling doors again.

“We’re stronger than he is, buddy—remember?”

“Yeah…” It was an unconvinced whimper.

“Take a hold of the knobs. We want this door open. I’m holding on too. You push, I pull. They’re not locked. Come on!”

Starsky looked over his shoulder. The shadow was halfway down the hall and approaching slowly, a machete somehow suspended in its filmy hand.

“You are going to take me to the outside! You wanted to save your friend. Now you can take his place,” it declared in a booming voice. So all this time, Fulton was just lurking there, waiting for a body to possess, to take him outside of Maplecrest.

* * *

There was no whimpering, yelling or movement from the other side of the door.

“Starsky!” Hutch yelled again. “Come on, babe, grab those doorknobs and think with me! Come on!”

Hutch’s voice. Starsky turned back toward the door and took a hold of the knobs, pushing and trying to obey Hutch’s command to join their brain power. We can function as one mind on the street, now we have to do it again.

“Oh, God, Hutch, he’s coming!” Starsky couldn’t help the lapse in concentration. The shadow was drawing closer, the cold becoming more intense. It was pure evil…not distilled by any internal struggle with Hutch to prevent it from carrying out its murderous deeds. This was just the essence of the spirit’s homicidal rage…

“Me and thee, partner! Forget him! Concentrate on me and thee, buddy! We beat him once. We want you out of there. Open the doors with me, pal, come on!” Hutch kept telling himself to have faith, kept murmuring long-forgotten prayers learned in childhood.

With an unexpected blast of force, the doors shot open, and Starsky flew out, knocking his partner to the floor under him. The wind blowing through the upstairs was so powerful it was ripping doors off their hinges and sending debris swirling around the huddled detectives. Back up units were arriving outside, and as uniformed officers poured in the front of the building, they were stunned by the dizzying display of flashing lights, high winds, and flying objects.

“Come on, let’s get out of here while we still can,” Hutch instructed his partner, who was still reeling a little from the panic of being trapped with the killer. He managed to coax himself out of the vise-like grip Starsky had him in and pulled him up and forward toward the stairs. They met Dobey at the bottom of the staircase.

“What in hell is going on here?” he shouted over the commotion. “What’s up there?”

“The shadow,” Starsky responded, still a little breathless.

“It almost got Starsky. He was trapped in the hall up there,” Hutch explained.

“I’m pulling our guys out of here right now.” Dobey was calm and determined in his bizarre and unconventional decision. He began barking orders to that effect, rounding up all the uniformed cops and redirecting them back out the door onto the lawn. The captain was the last man out behind his two detectives and directed all the responding officers to wait on the lawn and do a headcount.

Evelyn hurried to where Starsky stood and gratefully embraced him. The gesture took him a little by surprise, but given the circumstances, he tried not to read too much into it. “Are you all right?” she asked, stepping back.

“Yeah—Hutch got me out just in time.”

“So we haven’t solved anything—it’s still in there!”

“Looks like it.” Starsky paused, sighing and running a hand through his hair. “Listen, Evelyn, I’ll get somebody to take you home. We’ll be tied up here for a while. I’ll call you tomorrow, huh? Try to get some rest and don’t worry too much about this tonight.”

“Don’t go back in there, David.”

“Hey, I’ll be fine.” He grinned at her. “I’ll call tomorrow.”

“Okay,” she said, smiling a little hesitantly at his confident tone. Starsky flagged down one of the black and white units to drive her home.

* * *

The turbulence within the building came to a sudden halt.

* * *

“Anybody missing a partner out here?” Dobey called out to the men who were milling around, locating their partners and indicating all were present. Then one worried young officer hurried up to where Dobey stood.

“My partner’s gotta be still in there, Captain. He’s not out here.”

“What’s his name?”

“Phillips—Keith Phillips.”

Dobey turned to go back toward the building when a solitary figure came sprinting out to join the rest of the group.

“Hey, man, where the hell were you when we got pulled out?” the young officer asked the other man, who was obviously Phillips.

“I was checking the basement. I guess I didn’t hear the order to get out. Sorry, Captain.”

“No harm done. If everyone’s accounted for, break up in teams of four and check the perimeter of the building—doors, windows, and so on. We want to make sure everything’s secured before we leave.”

“Captain, why did we—”

“What’s your name?” Dobey snapped at the young officer.

“Hanover, sir.”

“Hanover, just do as you’re told. This is a highly sensitive case which I don’t plan to explain to you in the middle of an operation!”

“Sorry, sir.” He slunk away with his partner, Phillips, and two other officers. Starsky, Hutch and Dobey made the one odd-numbered team that joined the project.

All doors and windows were locked securely, and as the last of the units prepared to leave, Dobey assigned two of them to guard the front gate entrance. No one was to come or go without police permission. The only people who would be allowed to leave would be the caretaker and his wife. The only people allowed back in would be the police. The college would have to close until something was resolved.

* * *

Starsky watched his partner diligently typing up a report of the night’s events. It was ironic that anyone but Dobey should write the official report, since he had essentially dictated its contents. Dobey was bound to take a lot of heat for how he handled things at the college, and for ordering it closed down in the interest of public safety. Bottom line: he didn’t give a damn if making the administration happy was going to endanger human life.

Starsky, for his part, was on his third cup of coffee, becoming increasingly wired and no warmer. Being that close to the entity, trapped with it…he pondered that he might have the beginning symptoms of shock because he had felt himself becoming so hysterical pounding on those doors that very little Hutch said reached him.

“You okay there, partner? I think you’re going to be bouncing off the walls if you drink much more of that coffee,” Hutch said, smiling a little as he proof-read his handiwork.

“I just can’t get warm. Can’t seem to stop shaking either, and the coffee makes that worse and doesn’t seem to make the cold better.” Starsky cast a self-conscious look around the almost empty squad room. No one appeared to be within earshot, and if they were, they didn’t appear to care what the two detectives were muttering about. It was accepted that those two were always muttering about something—anything from Starsky’s eating habits to the overall meaning of life.

“I’m almost done with this. Maybe we can get out of here and get some rest, huh?”

“That’d be nice.” He paused a moment, and then without looking up, “Hutch, I’m really sorry about tonight. It was all my fault. I shoulda never agreed to go in there.”

“Evelyn asked you to—you were trying to be a friend. And fools that we are, we thought running an article in the paper would cure a haunting. Nothing’s happened there until tonight. Which makes me wonder why tonight?”

“I think he’s mad at me for taking you away from him. He was out—free, in another body. But I wouldn’t let him have you.”

“I think we’re out of our league here, pal.” Hutch stood up and carried the report in to Dobey. After a few muffled words from behind the partially closed door, Hutch emerged with permission for them to head home.

“I’m glad that’s over,” Starsky mumbled, following his partner down the hall toward the exit.

“Do you feel okay to drive?”

“Yeah, I’m okay. I sure as hell am awake now,” he responded, referring to the coffee consumption.

“Why don’t you follow me home and we’ll see if we can unwind with a couple beers and one of those wretched late shows you’re always talking me into?”

“You got yourself a deal, buddy.”

* * *

Starsky and Hutch settled into comfortable positions for their TV therapy, on opposite ends of the couch with their stocking feet propped on the coffee table. Hutch managed to doze off first, despite his attempts to keep his partner company. Starsky watched him sleep for a few minutes, and then lightly touched a stray strand of the blond hair that fanned out on the couch back.

“Thanks for comin’ in after me, pal,” he whispered. As Starsky withdrew his hand and settled into position to intentionally try to nap, little did he know what a great game of possum Hutch was capable of playing.

* * *

The next morning was expected to be stressful, and it was. Dobey was redefining the word “ornery,” jumping on every slight infraction by any of his men. The commissioner had already sliced and diced him by the time the clock struck nine, and an irate Dr. Barnard as well as two influential board members from Maplecrest had called Dobey and informed him that he was every synonym for deranged, incompetent and thoughtless. He was fighting hard to keep that campus closed, and to keep his job while his superiors choked on a report of flashing lights, slamming doors, winds of unexplained origins, and cold spots.

Just when it seemed things could get no worse, Dobey ordered Starsky and Hutch into his office and hurriedly explained yet another completely unforeseen crisis.

“We’ve got a homicide.” Dobey was pacing. A homicide wasn’t exactly earth-shaking news to two homicide detectives, so this had to be different. “A multiple.”

“Not Maplecrest?” Starsky asked.

“No, not Maplecrest.” Dobey took a deep breath. “I want you to come with me right now. The black and whites are on the scene. It’s a family.”

“A family?” Hutch parroted.

“Parents and two kids…shit, even the family dog. Now let’s get out there pronto. This other mess’ll keep.” He gestured toward a stack of files related to Maplecrest piled on his desk.

* * *

Starsky drove in silence toward the scene, siren blaring, and Dobey’s car right behind them. Just what they needed…a major case involving some psycho-nut who carved up a family. Or shot them up…they hadn’t thought to ask Dobey what they were about to see.

The Torino pulled up in front of the sprawling suburban ranch-style house, and the two detectives made their way up to the front entrance. Flashing their ID’s at the uniformed officer watching the door, he directed them to the living room where another detective was talking to the first officers on the scene.

“You must be from Metro Homicide. I’m Fred Tanner, Robbery. I live across the street, so I came over when I saw the commotion.”

“Starsky and Hutchinson,” Starsky introduced. “What’ve we got?”

“They’re in the bedrooms. Parents are both in the master bedroom, sliced up pretty well. Kids are in bunk beds in the next room. God, I never saw anything like it. Those kids play…played with my kids.” Tanner shook his head. “I’m goin’ back home. My wife’s probably going nuts by now wondering what’s going on. Michaels and Carlisle were the first ones on the scene.”

“Okay, thanks, Tanner,” Hutch responded as the other man hurried out of the house and across the street. Dobey began talking with Michaels and Carlisle while Starsky and Hutch made their way down the hall, past cheerful family photos…to bloody devastation. The woman lay face down near the door of the master bedroom, while the man was sprawled across the bed. Both had been stabbed and slashed repeatedly. Blood soaked the bedding, the carpeting near the corpse on the floor and spattered the walls in crazy patterns.

“Oh my God,” Starsky murmured, as the thought registered why the woman was in the location where she landed. “She was trying to go for the kids…Dear God, can you picture what you’d be thinking right about then?”

“My guess is that he killed the kids first,” Hutch responded, hoping his more clinical reply would steady his partner and bring him back to thinking like a cop. The horror of the situation had Hutch’s own stomach twisted in a knot, but Starsky looked as if he might pass out without too much provocation.

“You know how little kids sleep…real soundly…probably never knew what hit ’em.” Starsky started the hesitant trek toward the children’s room. Barely inside the door of the small room, brightly decorated in yellow and green…spattered with red…Starsky whirled on his heels and nearly knocked his partner down making a run for the door. Hutch swallowed his impulse to follow Starsky and stepped into the room he knew would give him a nightmare that would live with him forever.

Amidst all of it, the most horrifying sight to Hutch was a small, dimpled hand still holding onto a ragged teddy bear.

Dobey saw Starsky’s hasty retreat from the house. Not having been down the hall himself, the captain had no real idea what his detective had seen. Given Starsky’s experience and usually steady nerves at crime scenes, it must have been an atrocity. He glanced down the hall and saw Hutch leaning against the wall by the children’s bedroom door frame. His chest was heaving, and Dobey wasn’t sure if it was a sign of tears or nausea. After a moment, he watched Hutchinson wipe the length of his face with his hand, pushing upward into his hair. He blinked a few times, seemingly oblivious to Dobey’s watchful eye, and summoned a crime scene photographer to enter the room with him. Satisfied Hutch was functioning satisfactorily, Dobey set out in search of the more volatile half of the team.

He found Starsky sitting on a swing, suspended from a tree in the back yard. The morning sun seemed to reflect off the man’s white-gray pallor, shiny with a cold sweat.

“Starsky?” Dobey’s inquiry was not made in his usual abrupt tone. He leaned against the tree and watched the younger man’s glassy-eyed expression remain fixed on the scuffed ground under his feet. “Starsky?” he probed again. The detective finally looked up at him, as if hearing him for the first time.

“Sorry, Cap.”

“Pretty intense, huh?” Dobey prodded.

“They were so little…I never saw…anything like that.” He had an almost pleading expression on his face, as if he expected Dobey to snap at him or lecture him into going back into the house. Normally, Dobey might have done just that, but something in Starsky’s miserable expression stopped him.

“I only recall having to go to one crime scene involving children. It wasn’t exactly like this, but it involved a murder-suicide. Crazy ex-wife broke in, shot her ex, and the three kids. He had custody of the kids, since she was a paranoid schizophrenic. I don’t think I got over that for a long time. Maybe I haven’t yet. Maybe that’s why I’m out here instead of back in there checking out the kids’ room.” Dobey shook his head. “There’s nothing wrong with having a few holes in your armor, Dave. Makes you human.”

“I guess. Is Hutch still in there?”

“I expect he is. Probably could use a partner right about now if you’re feeling up to it.” Dobey reached over and squeezed Starsky’s shoulder briefly, then walked away without waiting for his response. Starsky rose slowly from his spot on the swing but then hurried back to the house. He figured Hutch probably needed some moral support, and the last place he should be was out playing on the swings.

Hutch functioned on auto pilot, giving the crime lab people instructions, conversing with the medical examiner about times of death, blood patterns and the probable weapon. Dobey had disappeared as well as Starsky, who had still not returned to the inside of the house when Hutch finished his preliminary assessment of the crime scene. Finally, Starsky reappeared in the living room, looking a little sheepish and very shaken.

“Starsk? Hey, buddy, you doin’ okay?” Hutch finally reached over and squeezed the other’s arm. He looked up at Hutch with eyes that would be haunted forever by the sight of those dead children. So many horrors at Maplecrest and in other cases…but neither of them had ever been called to a homicide like this one. The lack of verbal response began to scare Hutch. “Hey, come on, say something to me, partner.”

“What can I say that matters? They were babies, Hutch…what were they? Four or five?” That wasn’t what Starsky had planned on saying. He planned on something clinical and objective like “What’ve we got?” He didn’t plan to start pouring out his own miseries on Hutch.

“Four and six,” Hutch responded, not knowing why he was answering Starsky with facts. It wasn’t what he was looking for, but Hutch had no idea what that was. Hutch was looking for it too. A way to rationalize it and de-sensitize it, like any horrid crime scene. You have to do that if you’re going to be a decent cop.

“I’m—I’m sorry I left you there like that.”

“It’s okay, buddy. I handled it.”

“But you shouldn’t’ve had to do it by yourself.” Starsky watched the empty gurneys being wheeled back through the narrow hall to the bedrooms. “What did the M.E. say?”

“Based on the preliminary evaluation, lividity and all that, he thinks they died several hours ago, probably around one or two in the morning. Murder weapon had a large, very sharp blade. Like you said, the kids probably didn’t know what hit them. The killer was pretty efficient.”

“I left you holding the bag…to go into that room by yourself. I shoulda had enough guts to handle it like a real cop.” Starsky had essentially ignored all the technical information his partner was supplying. It became very obvious to Hutch that Starsky was only back in that house because he felt he should be with his partner—certainly not because he was any better off mentally or emotionally than he was when he left.

“Well, when I flipped out at Maplecrest, you covered for me, finished things up. That’s what you have a partner for, you know.” Hutch didn’t notice his friend’s demeanor change from the light tone of the response. “Starsky, you’re human. Seeing little children lying dead in their beds…slaughtered…that’s a horror that no amount of training or experience makes easier.”

“But you handled it.” Starsky looked him in the eyes. “You acted like a cop, and I copped out.”

“You aren’t going to feel better no matter what I say about this, are ya?” The covered gurneys were making a grim procession to waiting vehicles.

“It isn’t your fault, Hutch. I just couldn’t handle it.”

“And I couldn’t handle the Grodin and Merriweather crime scene. Between the two of us, I guess we make one reasonably efficient cop.” Hutch was grinning a little, and watched his partner, willing Starsky to meet his eyes.

“Reasonably efficient, huh?” Starsky responded, smiling.

“I’d say so.”

“Anything else I should know?”

“Let’s get out of here.” Hutch led the way down the front porch steps, not far behind a gurney bearing the woman’s body covered by a bloody sheet. “The forensics people think it was one intruder. Forced entry through the back patio door. Their names were Paul and Denise Taggert, the kids were Stephanie and Candice. Michaels and Carlisle have been out talking to the gawkers, but so far I haven’t heard back that they’d found anything significant. We better catch up with them.”

“What did Tanner think? He knew the family.”

“Doesn’t know of any reason anyone would want them dead. This neighborhood is usually pretty quiet, but since it was cool last night, most people had their windows closed. Nobody so far has mentioned hearing anything.”

“So, I guess we go back to Metro and wait for the paperwork, huh?”

“I want to touch base with Michaels and Carlisle. Hey—where’s Dobey, anyway?”

“Looks like his car’s gone. I saw him…outside, before I came back in. I guess he wanted out too. Damn it, Hutch, everybody just left you holding the bag in there.”

“You didn’t do it on purpose. Just let go of it, buddy. You can type the report if that’ll ease your conscience.”

“Thanks a million, partner,” Starsky responded sarcastically.

“Only thinking of your emotional well-being, pal.”

* * *

Starsky found himself less and less comfortable making visits to the M.E.’s department. He hadn’t called Ginny since their evening at the college reception. He had seen her once since then, following Grodin and Merriweather’s murders, and even then, it had been strained. She was understandably all business when he dropped in to get the particulars on the morning’s slayings. Hutch had said very little about the morning’s events, but Starsky knew his partner was living with the images that his prolonged stay in the rooms of the victims had ingrained in his mind. The least he could do was go get the information from the coroner and prepare himself to clinically look at one of the corpses if Ginny happened to feel she needed to illustrate her point.

“Times of death were too close to call, as far as who was killed first. They all fall within the range of 1:30-2:00 a.m. The weapon had a large, very sharp blade. The children were killed very efficiently. Their throats were slit ear to ear. I doubt if they had time to scream, or know it was happening.” Ginny watched the detective swallow hard a couple of times. Was she being unnecessarily brutal in her explanation? She had watched Starsky turn various stages of green in the years she’d known him, and a graphic description of just the right bodily devastation or decomposition could probably send him in search of the nearest receptacle for his stomach contents. He hadn’t lost it yet, but this case seemed to be pushing him to his limits.

She chided herself for being unprofessional enough to actually want to bring a homicide detective to his knees by being morose and continued. “The parents struggled, so there were more wounds. Slit throats finished them as well, but it was a lot more difficult to get them to stay put long enough to finish the job.” She referred to her notes, returning the glasses she kept on a fine chain to the middle of her nose. “Based on the angle of the wounds, I would say he was a big man—the attacker. Probably 6’4″, and very strong. There were a few black hairs found at the scene, and since the family was predominantly blonde or light brown-haired, that could be significant.” She removed the glasses and looked up at Starsky. “If you hadn’t told me differently, I’d have thought these people were killed at Maplecrest. The wounds, the M.O. is very similar. The only odd part about those is the inconsistent profile of the size of the killer, and whether or not he’s right- or left-handed. This killer was definitely right-handed.”

“But the wounds are similar?”

“Yes, and made by a similar weapon. Probably just a bizarre coincidence.”

“Yeah, probably.” Starsky took the folder she handed him. “Thanks, Ginny.” He started toward the door.

“Dave?” Her question was a little urgent, and he turned around to face a slightly troubled expression. “Is anything wrong? I mean, I swore I’d never ask you about this, but are you angry about something? Did I offend you?”

“No…why?” He knew he was being obtuse, as Hutch had accused him a few weeks back, but he needed time to come up with the right reply.

“You aren’t making this easy. Dave, we work together, and have to live with that, or I wouldn’t bring this up. I just thought it was odd that I never heard back from you after that party, and if you’d rather call it quits and not go out again, I can handle that fine. I just don’t like feeling uneasy with you.”

“I’m sorry about that, Ginny. With this Maplecrest thing, and now this…I just don’t have much of a life right now.” But I have time for Evelyn, he thought guiltily. “Maybe when some of this is cleared away, we can have dinner, go see a movie—whatever you want.” He was forcing a smile again. Something in Ginny hated that forced smile, because the natural ones came so easily. This looked like it hurt.

“I didn’t mean to put you on the spot.”

“I didn’t mean to dump you. The last few weeks have been…weird. And then I got hurt and—”

“I thought I noticed something around your eyes—you were in a fight?”

“Sort of. I was on the receiving end, mostly. I’m okay, but I was out of commission for a while. I really would like to see you sometime, if you’re still speaking to me when my schedule evens out a little.” Now the smile was more genuine. Ginny returned it.

“Give me a call when you have time. I’ll even cook dinner at my place.”

“Now there’s an offer I can’t refuse,” Starsky retorted, flexing his eyebrows a little. This was the old Starsky, and Ginny laughed a little in response.

“Pasta primavera?” she asked.

“Not the one with all the rabbit food in it? Hutch makes me eat that all the time.”

“Lasagna?” she suggested, laughing at the only guy she’d ever known who would be honest if the menu she proposed made him groan.

“I’ll bring the wine. And I will call…promise.”

“Okay. Anytime. You know where to find me—down here in stiffsville.”

“Prettiest coroner I ever saw,” he tossed over his shoulder as he left the room.

* * *

When he returned to the squad room, Hutch was reviewing notes he’d made from a phone conversation with R&I. Psycho nut family killers. This is what they would be wading through—miles of files on maniacs and unsolved multiple homicides. The underbelly of police work, Hutch liked to call it.

“You took your sweet time. But then I forgot—there’s one body down there you don’t mind seeing.” Hutch handed Starsky his coffee cup in the automatic assumption it would be filled and returned without complaint. It was.

“Well,” Starsky began, sitting down with his own coffee, stirring in an inordinate amount of sugar, “she didn’t tell me much we didn’t already know.” He gave Hutch a recap of what Ginny had told him, minus the dinner plans.

He didn’t blame Hutch for having a sour face about his partner’s Don Juan capers. As soon as Hutch had any action in sight, Starsky had managed to get himself locked in a hallway with an evil spirit. Hence ended a night of passion. Starsky had been informed that Lorraine, the leggy brunette, was not returning Hutch’s calls, and now with this new case, there was no time to go out and meet anyone…bitchin’ and complainin’, Starsky thought to himself, grinning into his coffee cup. Following a description of a grisly homicide, Hutch began to wonder what type of dementia his partner was suffering when he noted the slight wrinkling around the eyes that indicated a smile hidden behind the coffee mug.

“So you’re juggling Ginny and Evelyn now, eh, buddy?” Hutch needled. Starsky almost choked. It should have ceased to surprise him long ago when Hutch read his mind, but occasionally, it still took him off-guard. “Watch yourself—I don’t think either of those ladies is your average bimbo.”

“I’m not juggling anything, Hutch. Evelyn and I are friends—”

“Oh, right. The same Evelyn who body-slammed you outside the college last night?”

“I saved her life. She was glad I wasn’t dead. No big deal.”

“Think again. That woman was almost hysterical when I picked her up. And it takes a hell of a lot to get Evelyn hysterical. Don’t play around with her.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Nothing.”

“Hutch,” Starsky prodded, not too pleasantly.

“It means that she’s been through enough not to be treated like a conquest. She’s too damn classy for that.”

“I wouldn’t do that to her. You know that. I think you’re just jealous of my amazing power over women,” Starsky twitted.

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

“I’m not. I know you, Hutchinson.”

“The day I’m jealous of your technique with women is the day pigs will fly.”

“Then start scannin’ the skies, buddy. You’re just jealous that I’ve got two gorgeous women interested and you’re battin’ zero at the moment.”

“Whose fault is that?” Hutch demanded angrily. “The first time I get any action in sight, I have to bail your sorry butt out of the jaws of death—or have you conveniently forgotten Lorraine?”

“Excuses, excuses,” Starsky goaded. “Look, you better let me share a few pointers with you.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Sure. We’re gettin’ too old to play one-up with each other all the time. That’s a game for a couple of stupid-ass kids. One thing you’re not is a kid anymore.”

“Is that right, old man?” Hutch teased. “Don’t look now, but you’re older’n me, pal.”

“You’re right behind me, blondie. So you better let me help you land the right woman before your looks go.”

“Before my—” Hutch waved an angry and all-too-familiar admonishing finger at Starsky, “I’ll have you know that with my diet and exercise program, my looks are going to hold out a hell of a lot longer than yours, Waste King.”

“Waste King?” Starsky indignantly repeated the brand name of Hutch’s new garbage disposal. He wanted to laugh out loud. It was one of Hutch’s better insults, and a new one at that. But laughing just wouldn’t do until the quota of fighting had been achieved. “You listen to me, Sprout Boy, you can eat all the leafy green crud you want to and it ain’t gonna be no substitute for natural good looks. You’ll just start looking like one of these wrinkled up old guys who run around in jumpsuits hosting exercise shows!”

“Well, they look a hell of a lot better than fat, out of shape cops who think the answer to a balanced dinner is to make sure there’s lettuce in their burritos!” Hutch yelled back.

“Oh, yeah?” Starsky felt his control wavering, and he thought he detected a twitch at the corner of Hutch’s mouth. “Is that right?” he added, momentarily out of comebacks.

“Yeah, that’s right,” Hutch retorted, sounding angry but looking like he was about to burst out laughing.

* * *

When Dobey walked out of his office, feeling none-too-cheerful, his two-star detectives were leaning back in their chairs, laughing themselves into tears, occasionally muttering what sounded like some horribly derisive insult at each other, which only sent both into worse fits. Dobey held back a moment himself, trying not to catch the contagious laughter. Watching Starsky grip his still-mildly uncomfortable ribs and hang over the desk unable to breathe even made Dobey chuckle. He hadn’t seen either one in this bad a shape since long before Starsky’s shooting over a year earlier.

Hutch struggled to his feet and leaned across the desk, vainly trying to pat Starsky on the back and sound serious as he instructed him to calm down and take a deep breath. When he ended that suggestion with “…or you’ll turn blue and die which would serve you right, you asshole,” Starsky only moaned with renewed hysteria and Hutch lost again what little control he had regained.

Long having given up figuring out what made those two really tick, Dobey cleared his throat loudly. For a moment, it grabbed their attention but only gave them one more spasm of giggles before they began to regain their composure. If Dobey had given in to his own inclination to laugh at a display he hadn’t seen equaled since his little girl’s last giggle fit under merciless tickling, they’d have never recovered. He maintained a shaky composure until they straightened up in their chairs, and breathing heavily and wiping their eyes, attempted to give him some form of serious attention.

“From this little display of mirth, I can only assume that you’ve solved both cases in a single afternoon.” With this remark, Dobey implied they had better things to do than laugh themselves into early graves, and the implication was not lost on either man.

“Sorry, Cap. We just got a little carried away,” Starsky tried to explain seriously, the ever present grin torturing the side of his mouth to break into a laugh.

“Another display like that and I’ll have you both carried away, right down to Cabrillo State,” Dobey retorted with a chortle of his own. “Hell, we need a little break in the tension around here,” he stated, pulling up a chair at the end of the desks. “Got anything?”

“R&I’s pulling all the unsolved multiple homicides in the last two years, separating the ones that involved families into a separate pile, and they’re also getting us profiles of every nut who ever carved someone up and might be out and about, able to do it again. We’ll probably be here all night.” Hutch rubbed his eyes, partially from fatigue and partially from laughter-induced tears.

“There’s a big similarity in the M.O. between this case and the Maplecrest killings according to the M.E.,” Starsky stated.

“Possibly the same person? Well, you and I know that’s impossible,” Dobey replied, with an uncharacteristic acceptance of the supernatural. Of course, seeing is believing…

“Guess it’s just a sick coincidence.” Hutch watched Dobey pull out his handkerchief and mop his forehead for the second time since he’d come out of his office. “You okay, Cap? You look a little worn out.”

“This mess at the college…I’ve got the commissioner coming down on me and the Board of Control at Maplecrest coming down on him and God knows how many rich, influential jerks are pulling their strings. I know he’s going to re-open that place by tomorrow at the latest. I’ll just be damn lucky if I come out of this with a job.”

“You told the truth in that report, Cap’n,” Starsky stated flatly.

“Yeah? Well, the truth won’t set you free around this place if it doesn’t fit into a tidy category. Shadows and ghosts and things that go bump in the night have no place in police reports. I’m trying to tell the commissioner that a dead man is responsible for the murders at the college. It’s a small wonder I’m not in line for early retirement this morning.”

“We saw it, Cap—we’ll back you up—”

“Starsky, no offense, but me getting back up from you would be like Curly getting back up from Larry and Moe as far as the commissioner is concerned.”

“How serious is the heat on you?” Hutch asked. Visions of Dobey being replaced by some iron-spined goon in a three-piece suit were flashing before his eyes.

“Serious enough to break a sweat, but if I back off about reopening the college, I’ll probably be all right.”

“You might as well. They’ll just suspend you or fire you and then reopen it,” Starsky responded.

“My thoughts exactly. I tried. If they all get their fool heads cut off, it isn’t my fault.” Dobey rose from his chair and headed back toward his office. “Let me know if you get anything new.”

“Will do.” Hutch watched Dobey disappear behind his closing door. “He’s really been under the gun on this damn thing.”

“Speaking of under the gun,” Starsky remarked as the file clerk lugged a hernia-inducing stack of manilla folders to their desks and unceremoniously dumped them there.

“The batch with the rubber bands around it are the unsolved multiple slayings,” she explained.

“Thanks, Maggie.” Even a cute file clerk couldn’t brighten this load, Starsky thought to himself dismally.

“You wanna go grab some lunch before we get into these?” Hutch stood up, and Starsky followed suit, feeling his appetite returning at full blast. The morning had pretty effectively curdled his cereal, but as it neared one-thirty, and the worst of the impact of the murder site visit was fading, he was ready to hunt down the nearest taco stand.

“I suppose you want to go get raw fish or something,” Starsky grumbled as he followed his partner out the door.

“There’s a new restaurant not far from the bakery—”

“Good. I’ll go down to the bakery. Mrs. Goldman likes me. She’ll feed me something that resembles food. You can go get your alfalfa leaves or whatever at that other place.”

“Why do you automatically assume that if I pick the restaurant, it’s going to be a health food place?”

“Because ever since you started getting back in shape after I got out of the hospital, you’ve been more annoying than you were before with your desiccated liver cocktails you used to make for breakfast. Now you don’t even wanna grab a burger anywhere unless it’s flame-broiled and low fat and no cheese.”

“But look at the lithe, well-toned physique I have to show for it.”

“Yeah, and you’re humble too,” Starsky mumbled under his breath.

“Before I was so rudely interrupted, I was about to tell you that this new place is a deli with a few tables in it. They make great sandwiches.”

“No kiddin’? Veggie subs?”

“Not veggie subs—God forbid you’d eat anything that hadn’t been oversalted and processed. Any kind of subs you want. They also have salads—”

“Aha!”

“—and big homemade cookies—”

“Homemade cookies, huh?” Starsky led the way down the stairs to the front entrance, and out to the Torino. This was sounding more promising by the minute.

* * *

Hutch hadn’t lied about the sandwiches. They were huge and very tasty, made to order. Starsky had opted for what they called the Avalanche, which included every meat and about three different cheeses, plus any assorted sauces or garnishes the customer might choose. Hutch was satisfied with a turkey and Swiss, watching with some interest as his partner began the arduous task of dislodging his jaws to permit entry for the monstrous sandwich. Somehow, he managed, and Hutch again asserted that Starsky was part alligator: big grin and massive jaw span when needed. Both men ate quietly for a time, until Starsky began to show signs of reaching even his considerable capacity.

“This is a big sandwich, isn’t it?” he asked, examining the remaining half.

“Very big,” Hutch replied, taking a drink of his cola.

“Wanna go to the park and feed the birds?”

“What?” Hutch looked up, startled. Not exactly standard procedure for two cops in the middle of a major murder investigation. Of course, since his brush with death at Gunther’s hands, Starsky occasionally threw his partner this type of a curve, rationalizing that sometimes life gets away from you and you never get the chance to do something you always wanted to do.

“I’ve got my camera in the car. We could feed the pigeons or the squirrels or something. I need to finish up a roll of film.”

“What about the case?”

“What about it? We won’t be out there long.” Starsky started wrapping up his sandwich in the paper in which it had come and gulped the last of his drink. Hutch, smiling at this bizarre request, did the same and went with his partner to find some hungry wildlife in the nearest park.

“Whadd’ya make of the similarity between the Taggert killings and the Maplecrest murders?” Starsky tossed a chunk of the sandwich toward a lone seagull and watched it devour it in one beakload. “Here—you toss, I’ll snap.” Starsky handed Hutch the sandwich and got his camera aimed at a gathering of the noisy white birds. It was one of the more inane activities Starsky had dragged him on, but Hutch had to admit the creatures were putting on a pretty good show for their meal.

“If we toyed with Fuller or Fulton or whoever he is being the killer, it would mean he’s out of Maplecrest. I don’t want to accept that possibility.” Hutch tossed more food to the birds, amused at their battling and almost acrobatic antics to get it.

“He wanted out of there. He was mad at me for taking you away from him. He wanted me instead. Suppose he got someone else.”

“Who? Dobey cleared us all out of there as soon as he realized what was happening.”

“I know. I guess we’re grasping at straws.”

“Right now, a good, old-fashioned homicidal maniac’ll do just fine, thank you.”

“Never thought we’d be saying that.” Starsky laughed a little. “Damn,” he muttered, looking down at his camera. “Roll’s done. I was hoping to get some shots over by the water.”

“We can come back again, you know.”

“I know. When I was cooped up in that hospital for so long, I used to stare out the window and just want to jump right through it—get outside, smell the air, take some pictures… I’m sorry I dragged you on this little errand. I just felt like doing it. Maybe coming face to face with the big dirt nap again at the college got me thinking about all the stuff I like to do but never get time for.”

“The big dirt nap?”

“You know, the harp farm, the wing factory, the—”

“Okay, okay, enough with the death lesson,” Hutch interrupted, laughing a little. “The wing factory? Sounds like a tacky chicken restaurant.”

“You know, angels get wings—oh, never mind.” Starsky was quiet a moment. “So, you wanna talk about it now?”

“What?” Hutch was watching the birds, totally unprepared for his partner’s question.

“This morning. I know it’s been botherin’ you all day. I mean, I took one look in that room and ran like hell, then Dobey was out looking for me, and you got left holding the bag to stay there and face it. Might help to talk about it.”

“What’s to talk about? You saw it too.” Hutch leaned back on the park bench. So that’s what feeding the birds was all about: a way to get him to open up—another of Starsky’s sneaky little ways of trying to heal his partner’s psyche.

“I saw two little faces, bluish white from bleeding for several hours, and all that blood and I ran out.”

“I don’t know why this should get to me like this. How many dead bodies have we seen in our lives? Even a couple of dead children before.”

“The Pritchett case? God, I remember that.” Starsky thought back on being called to the scene after a sniper had killed eight people in a shopping mall. Still in uniform, he and Hutch had been first on the scene. There were two dead children that time too, partially hidden by their mother’s body, but dead nonetheless. “So what do you think was different?”

“Maybe because the monster in the closet was real.” Hutch’s voice was quiet, almost shaky on that simple phrase, and it chilled Starsky. “Safe in their beds, Mickey Mouse nightlight still plugged in…with the Pritchett case, somehow it wasn’t as horrible because out in the world, there are crazies and nut cases and you take a risk every time you walk out your front door. But your mother tells you there’s no such thing as ghosts, or that there’s nothing to be afraid of in the dark…and something like this happens…and somehow betrays all that…invalidates it. There really is a monster in the closet or a vampire in the hall or a ghost under the bed. And when the lights go out, you really aren’t safe…” Hutch shook his head. “I’m rambling.”

“So what?” Starsky reached over and took a hold of Hutch’s wrist. “Besides, it makes sense to me, what you’re saying.”

“I can’t get the picture of those little girls’ faces out of my head. Dear God, I just hope they didn’t wake up before…” Hutch felt the hand on his wrist tighten its grip as his voice trailed off.

“Ginny said she doesn’t think they did.” Starsky was pleased to have some fact to give Hutch, something to make this less grisly. “She said it would have happened really fast, and little kids usually sleep soundly, so if there wasn’t much noise or time from one to the other, they probably never knew. Went straight to heaven without feeling a thing.”

Hutch laughed affectionately at the summation presented in that last sentence. He covered Starsky’s hand with his own for a minute, amazed at how his partner had found a way to say something so beautiful in connection with something so ugly.

“Thanks, partner.” Hutch slid his fingers under Starsky’s and squeezed his hand. There was a brief answering pressure, a slight lingering, and then Starsky pulled away.

“Hey, we better get back. I can see telling Dobey we were sitting in the park holding hands instead of going through those files.”

“Well, it would give him something new to worry about,” Hutch responded, snickering at the thought of Dobey mulling over such a scenario. “Starsk?” Hutch caught up to his partner who was striding back toward the car, examining his camera.

“Yeah?”

“Feeding the birds was a good idea.” Thanks. I needed to talk.

“It’s a nice day, and I wanted to use up this film.” You’re welcome. That’s what friends are for.

* * *

While they were riding back to the precinct, the radio cut in on their thoughts. A bulletin about a missing officer was being broadcast. Officer Keith Phillips had last been seen by his partner leaving the headquarters the previous night. He had not returned home and had not returned for his shift the next morning.

“Must be some reason they’re puttin’ out the call so quick.” Starsky wrinkled his brow a moment. “Wasn’t he at Maplecrest last night?”

“I thought that name sounded familiar. Wasn’t he the one who was looking for his partner?”

“No, wait a second. He was the missing partner—he was the one who was inside the building longer than anybody else…”

“What’re you thinking?” Hutch asked.

“Damn, I’m not exactly sure what I’m thinking, but it ain’t good.”

“Coincidence?”

“I think not,” Starsky retorted immediately, casting a worried look at Hutch.

* * *

Dobey was thundering through the hall like a storm cloud when the two detectives arrived back at work. He only grunted in response to their greeting and headed for the elevator. Another meeting with the man upstairs—that could be either God or the commissioner. Since the latter considered himself in the league of the former, it wouldn’t be pleasant in any event.

Aaron Hanover, Phillips’ partner, was just on his way back out on patrol as Starsky and Hutch arrived.

“Hey, Hanover, wait up,” Starsky called after him. “We heard the bulletin on your partner. Any leads?”

“Nothing yet,” the other man said, sounding defeated. “This isn’t like him—he’s as regular as the clock.”

“He’s tall—dark-haired, right? It was pretty dark last night,” Hutch explained. “We saw him at Maplecrest but we hadn’t met him prior to that.”

“He’s about six-four, with black hair, brown eyes. It sounds like you think you have something.”

“Not really. Just wanted a clear description of him in our minds,” Starsky responded. “You two been partners long?”

“About six or seven months.”

“Well, we’ve got a whole force out looking for him, so wherever he’s hiding, we’ll flush him out,” Starsky responded, hoping to boost the younger man’s spirits. After being partners for six or seven months, he and Hutch were already inseparable. It appeared that Hanover thought a great deal of Phillips.

“Sure hope so. Thanks.” He turned and continued his trek to his patrol car outside.

“We’ve both been down that road before.” Hutch shivered a little. Missing partner: the two ugliest words in the English language.

“You heard that description.” Starsky held the squad room door while Hutch passed through it and then followed him.

“Fits with Ginny’s profile of the killer, doesn’t it?” Hutch plunked into his chair and let out a loud sigh/groan. “And he was the last one out of the building…”

“So if Fulton possessed him, what do we do next? Damn it, Hutch, I don’t know what we can do to stop this thing. I thought us beating it would get rid of it, then I thought the newspaper thing would do it. None of that worked, and I’m fresh outta ideas.”

“I know, partner. Me too.”

“There is one.”

“Thought you were fresh out.” Hutch was starting to flip disinterestedly through a case file on his desk.

“Nobody ever went through with blessing Maplecrest.”

“But Fulton isn’t there anymore according to our latest theory.”

“Right. But maybe he could be driven out of Phillips—and conquered, once and for all.”

“I think you’ve seen ‘The Exorcist’ once too often.”

“I only saw it once.”

“Then you called me at two in the morning with some inane excuse because you managed to scare yourself watching that stupid movie. Like I said, you saw it once too often.”

“You didn’t see her head spin around backwards,” Starsky said quietly, leaning forward across the desk toward Hutch, as if he were imparting some deep, dark secret.

“And I’ll regret missing out on that cinematic experience for the rest of my life,” Hutch retorted, going back to his reading.

“I was serious about getting a priest or a rabbi or somebody to try to drive out the spirit. It’s probably the last hope.”

“Supposing this was true, that means Phillips is going to take the fall for a multiple homicide. You can’t get him off the hook with spiritual possession.”

“No one ‘cept us has made the connection. Maybe no one will.”

“And we chase our tails for several months working on a case we already know the answer to?”

“Beats throwing a cop in the slammer for something that isn’t his fault.”

“Starsky, what you’re suggesting is…”

“What? Unbelievable? Would you have believed anything else we’ve been through? For God’s sake, Hutch, he did it to you—why couldn’t he do it to Phillips?” Starsky whispered.

“You think we should take this to Dobey?”

“He’s in it up to his neck anyway. He seems to believe us.”

“Then we’ve gotta find Phillips before anyone else does.” Hutch ran his hand back through his hair. “I don’t see how we can pull this off. I mean, even if we find Phillips, and assuming an actual exorcism works, if we cover for him, we’re accessories after the fact. I’m not doin’ time for the guy. I’m sorry as hell about what’s happening, but I’m not going to lie for him.”

“You’re right. But we don’t have to aggressively pursue him as a suspect.”

“No, that’s true, we don’t. But if he becomes one through some other means than our investigation, we can’t cover it up. This is beyond our control, and we can’t start takin’ the fall for it.”

“Maybe no one’ll suspect him,” Starsky offered hopefully.

“The point is, we can find him, try to help him, and whatever he did between when he disappeared and when we find him is his problem to explain. Exorcisms aren’t admissible in court last time I looked, so we should be okay if we play it that way.”

“Way back at the start, when we were stuck in the office and that…thing was in the hall, and when the brakes went out on the Torino—I prayed, and it stopped. We were able to drive out Fulton’s spirit with the combined power of our wills when he had you, but why would he ever be driven back by prayer? If he’s just a ghost…Hutch, that’s more like…an evil spirit.”

“A spirit who commits murder is fairly evil by definition,” Hutch responded, scanning the squad room to make sure they were still safe to discuss this subject.

“I guess you’re right.” Starsky wrinkled his brow as he pulled a large padded envelope from underneath a stack of files. “When’d this get here?”

“I didn’t see it this morning.”

“It’s addressed to us.” Starsky held it up, and Hutch glanced at the shaky handwriting that labeled it “Detectives Starsky and Hutchinson, Homicide.”

“So, open it,” Hutch directed. Starsky followed his instructions, and pulled out a small, leatherbound book. Skimming the pages, it was all hand-written, like a diary. There was a note tucked inside the front cover.

 

“‘Dear Detectives Starsky & Hutchinson,

The enclosed book is the diary of Genevieve Willoughby. It was obtained by the Maplecrest Historical Society during the liquidation of the estate of Arnold Willoughby, brother of Malcolm, father of Clarice.

I wish to remain anonymous, but feel I should come forward with this information, based on a conversation with Clarice. She is not aware that this information exists, but I am sure would appreciate your use of the utmost discretion with the public and the press in your handling of it. It is extremely sensitive and would be embarrassing to the Willougby family.

Thank you.'”

 

Starsky looked up from the note, and Hutch moved around the desks and pulled up a chair next to his partner so they could look through the book together.

“Who do you suppose this is?” Hutch reviewed the note.

“I’d lay you a bet it’s Charlotte Evans.”

“Who? Oh—she was that Board member who pushed to acquire the painting in the first place?”

“The one and only.” Starsky opened the book, and they both began scanning the pages, dismissing most of what they were reading as the dull daily reflections of a housewife. Then they arrived at the entry detailing Matthew Fuller’s arrival, approximately six weeks before the murders.

 

“Today, Malcolm brought Mr. Fuller home from the office. He has only just arrived in town and will be staying with our family until he finds a suitable permanent residence.

Our Mr. Fuller is very charming, personable and cultured. He comes from New York originally and has been working a variety of odd jobs to support himself since his move to California. Having completed his college education back East, he has been searching for a professional position for some time.

He is very charming. I think it will be a pleasure having him here.”

 

“She sounds happy with her new houseguest—notice she tells that he’s charming twice?” Starsky kept flipping through the pages, and Matthew Fuller was mentioned in bits and pieces for a couple of weeks, all with escalating interest and affection.

By the third week, an entry appeared that began to allude to something changing in the relationship, though it was apparent that Mrs. Willoughby’s sense of propriety kept her from writing lingering details. She implied she had had a passionate encounter with Matthew Fuller, who had claimed to be feeling ill and remained home while Mr. Willoughby went to the office.

Several following entries detailed a sort of clandestine courtship, complete with flowers, love poems and secret meetings. All this happened over the course of two weeks. Mrs. Willoughby was obviously desperately infatuated with Matthew Fuller, because she began to explain that he was a practitioner of “the dark arts,” and that she would willingly follow him into this realm if he would teach her the way. Fuller had convinced her that they could achieve a great power from the netherworld by offering Satan a perfect sacrifice. She didn’t explain what that sacrifice was, and neither detective was sure if she really knew. Her final entry was dated the day of the killings.

 

“Tonight, we will be joined as one, and we will be granted a great power. Matthew has still not told me what I must do to become his forever, to free myself from Malcolm and the children, for us to run off and find our new life. As is his practice, Malcolm will go out tonight to gamble with George and Miles Hanson. After he leaves, we will start the ceremony.”

 

Starsky closed the book and looked at his partner, who was resting his chin on the heel of his hand on the desk, looking slightly puzzled, and a little disappointed at the vagueness of the last entry. Like Genevieve before it all occurred, they didn’t know what the ceremony was either.

“She mentioned a perfect sacrifice back here a ways,” Starsky stated, searching for the entry. “Here,” he began, “‘Matthew believes that through the offering of a perfect sacrifice, we will be granted a great power from Satan, which will ultimately lead to our freedom.'” Starsky felt a shiver run up and down his spine. “Hutch, in Satanism, you and I both know what a perfect sacrifice is.”

“A child.” Hutch straightened in his chair. “He was planning to use her children as human sacrifices,” Hutch stated, the pure horror of the thought turning his stomach. He remembered the dead children in the Taggert house. Were they perfect sacrifices too?

“No wonder he didn’t tell her what he had in mind until the last minute.”

“She mentions being free of Malcolm and the children—but I doubt she understood what the ramifications were of letting him free her of them.” Hutch shook his head. “I can’t help thinking about the Taggert kids—”

“Making up for lost sacrifices?”

“Something like that.”

“This sure explains why prayer works against it. Fuller—I mean, Fulton—obviously had other forces on his side to bring him back from the dead.”

“I guess now would be the time for me to admit you were right about the exorcism idea.”

“I’m not enjoying being right about any of this, Hutch. And it all sounds crazy.” Starsky tucked the book back in its envelope. “I think we should talk to Dobey.”

“Make it good,” Dobey bellowed as he passed behind them on the way to his office, startling both of them from their intense concentration on the diary.

“I don’t know how good it is,” Starsky responded, leading the way through Dobey’s open door while the captain shuffled papers angrily on the top of his desk.

“If you’re here to give me more mumbo-jumbo, then you can save it. I’ve taken all the heat I’m going to on this case.” He was piling up the files into a tidy bundle. “For that matter, so have you two. We’re all off the case.”

“What?” Hutch closed the door behind him. “But it’s our—”

“The hell it is! The commissioner’s putting together a task force to investigate the homicides at Maplecrest. The Taggert case is what we have to concentrate on now.”

“But he’s just going to pull the plug on us? We’ve invested all this time, and…and everything into this case…” Starsky was obviously alluding to Hutch’s brush with possession and his own subsequent injuries.

“Look, this isn’t up for debate. He’s putting together a task force, supervising it personally, and he’s hand-picking the cops on it. I hate to disappoint you two, but you’re not on the list!”

“Captain, we—”

“Shut up, Starsky! Just put a lid on it and live with it!” Dobey plunked into his desk chair and waved them both away with an angry gesture. “Now get the hell out of my office unless you have something important to say about the Taggert case!”

“Well, actually, Captain, they’re related,” Hutch began. He watched Dobey almost visibly give himself a time out to take his temper down a few notches.

“You wanna run that by me again, Hutchinson?”

“The Taggert murders are related to the Maplecrest killings. It’s the same spirit that—”

“Can it! Just hold it right there!” Dobey shook an admonishing finger at Hutch. “I don’t want to hear one more word about spirits or ghosts or eighty-year-old cases out of either one of you two. Is that clear?”

“But, Cap—” Starsky soon realized not giving a perfunctory “yes, sir” wasn’t wise.

“But Captain my ass!” Dobey bellowed. “I’m about two steps away from the unemployment line over this fine mess you’ve pulled me into. It’s out of my hands, and the business of ghosts and possessions doesn’t belong in a police precinct.”

“You know what you saw at Maplecrest, Captain,” Starsky persisted.

“I know I saw something I couldn’t readily explain, and I let you two clowns talk me into believing we were hunting ghosts and pulled a whole team of cops out of that place when we might have learned something. Starsky over here manages to get himself into some kind of fight and uses this case to wriggle out of whatever he got himself into, and like an idiot, I let you two take me on this ride! Now this little foray into the spirit world is over, as of right now. You’re both on the Taggert case full-time, and I want to see some real investigative work going on from you two. If I don’t, you’re both going to find yourselves writing parking tickets for the rest of your natural lives! Now get out of my office!” he yelled, standing again with both hands leaning on the desk.

“Don’t blame Starsky for getting roughed up. I did that—” Hutch tried to cut in.

“Then he can file charges against you! I. Don’t. Want. To. Hear. It. Is that clear? Get out of here, both of you.”

Adequately chastised, they returned to their desks and slumped in their chairs defeatedly, staring at the fat envelope that lay on the desk between them.

“I think we just experienced the trickle-down effect,” Hutch stated flatly.

“Huh?”

“The commissioner pins Dobey’s ears back, threatens him with being fired, and it trickles down to us.” Hutch was quiet a minute. “I guess we’re on our own.”

“We usually are,” Starsky responded dismally. “What do we do now?”

“Go look for Phillips.” Hutch stood up. “Can’t exorcise the guy until we have a lead on where he is.”

* * *

Dobey stared at the closed door he had ushered his best team through moments ago. They didn’t deserve the tongue-lashing they’d gotten, but then he didn’t deserve to have his job laid on the line either. As much as he liked and respected the abilities of these two men, he had a family to support and a career to consider. Opposing the commissioner wasn’t a wise course of action if either matter was a concern. Cal would be starting college soon, the house needed a new roof…the goodwill of Starsky and Hutch wouldn’t pay for any of that. Dobey flipped through the case file again. He believed strongly there was something else at play. He also knew he could count on his favorite detective team to hang onto it until it was resolved. Right now, he had done what he had to do to keep his job, and they would have to carry on with this unofficial ghost hunting.

* * *

Starsky placed a stomach-churning order at the drive-up window. They had spent the morning visiting all of Phillips’ off-time hangouts, putting the word out with Huggy and going through the motions of their usual patrol of the area. Hutch reluctantly accepted a couple of heavy bags from his partner as they were passed through the window and held them disdainfully until the Torino came to a stop in a nearby parking spot.

“Don’t look so miserable, Hutch. I ordered you that grilled chicken thing you wanted.” Starsky started digging happily through the bags until he had extracted a very large, very messy coney dog with extra onions and mustard. Hutch found the timid little sandwich he had requested, lurking at the side of the bag, hiding from its spicy neighbors.

“You should really start taking better care of your insides, Starsk,” Hutch began, launching yet another round of the ongoing food debate.

“If they can survive multiple slugs from an automatic, I think they’ll live through a chili dog.”

“That’s not even funny.” Hutch plunked the as-yet-unopened sandwich back in the bag. Starsky regretted the remark and the sharpness of it instantly. Hutch tended to shy away from even the mention of the shooting and Starsky’s brush with death as if it were something too horrible to discuss. Joking about it had always turned his stomach and twisted something in his chest.

“I’m sorry.” Starsky watched his partner, who was staring out the passenger window. “Hey, come on, Hutch, are you gonna stay mad at me for the rest of the day over this?”

“I’m not mad.” The reply was unusually soft.

“It was a dumb thing to say.”

“Damn right it was,” Hutch responded, still quietly.

“Come on, buddy, will ya at least look at me? I feel bad enough about ruining your lunch without gettin’ the cold shoulder.” He watched the side/back of Hutch’s head. He finally laid a hand on his friend’s arm. “I said I was sorry,” he said gently, with a trace of a plea in his voice.

“I just don’t see anything funny about…what happened last year.”

“You’re right. There isn’t anything funny about that. But if I didn’t joke about it, it would be too big and significant for me to ever think about anything else. If we can laugh about it, it loses a little of its horror somehow. If I can laugh about it, I guess I feel like I’ve really beaten it.”

“I hadn’t thought about that.”

“We beat it, Hutch. We earned the right to laugh about it. To laugh in its face.”

“You’re seriously twisted, Starsk,” Hutch finally turned to face him with a slight smile. “And if you turn that into some kind of sick shooting joke, I’ll ram that coney dog—”

“Okay, okay, I get it,” Starsky responded, laughing. “Now eat your dog biscuit, or whatever that funny little dry thing is.” He pulled it out of the bag and tossed it at Hutch.

“Oh to hell with that.” Hutch threw it out the window, pulled Starsky’s hand with the coney dog in it toward him and took a large bite off the end of it. “Oh God,” he moaned, leaning back in the seat, chewing with his eyes closed.

“I never knew a coney dog could be an orgasmic experience.” Starsky was chuckling at his partner’s unabashed ecstasy at the taste of forbidden fruit.

“Try givin’ ’em up for a year.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it. Here you go.” Starsky held the rest of the hot dog in front of him.

“That’s your lunch,” Hutch responded, his resistance almost non-existent.

“I got two of ’em. Go ahead.”

“If you insist.” Hutch grabbed the hot dog and lit into it while Starsky fished the other one out of the bag and started eating. Starsky set the large bag of fries in a spot mutually accessible and watched his partner’s hand shoot over almost more often than his own to snare a bunch of fries. “I hope you’re happy now,” Hutch mumbled through his food.

“You’ll go back to your bean sprouts later. Any decent diet book tells you you should treat yourself once in a while.”

“Since when do you read diet books?”

“Terry was real health-conscious and she used to go on diets to get rid of some mythical imperfection in her figure—damned if I could ever find one, but she seemed convinced. Anyway, she always would say that she saved her splurges for me because she knew I hated eating salads every time we got together.”

“I guess if it comes from Terry, I can trust it then,” Hutch replied, still chewing rapturously on the hot dog.

“You two always did gang up on me, you know that, don’t you?”

“We did no such thing,” Hutch protested, indignant.

“Sure ya did.” Starsky was smiling through a mouthful. Not entirely a pretty sight, but a friendly one. “That’s why I woulda married her. She fit right in.”

“You think Evelyn would fit right in?”

“Sometimes I don’t think so.” Starsky took a large gulp of his drink. “I get this feeling she wants me to make a choice. It shouldn’t be like that. There shouldn’t have to be an either/or.”

“What made you think Evelyn wanted you to choose?”

“I don’t know. It was something that night at her place, when you left—you were upset, and I was starting out to follow you. She wanted me to stay, and I knew she was worried about the whole possession thing and me getting hurt again, and maybe that’s all it was, but it seemed like there was some element of wanting to see me make a choice in that whole thing. It was in her eyes…I don’t know. I can’t really explain it. It was like she was trying to compete with you, make me choose one over the other.”

“Zebra three from Control,” the radio broke in, keeping Hutch from asking for any clarification of the last remark.

“Zebra Three, what’ve you got?” Starsky responded.

“See the man named Huggy at The Pits,” the voice instructed. New dispatcher. The last one had shortened it to “Go see Huggy.”

“Roger, Control.” He replaced the speaker and tossed the hot dog wrapper in the bag. Collecting the refuse from their lunch, he pitched it in the nearest trash can and then drove a little faster than necessary to The Pits. Hutch never asked more questions about what Starsky had said. Deep down, he understood it, and Starsky had left Evelyn’s and stood by him anyway. No more needed to be said.

Huggy was holding court over a busy lunch hour, delivering drinks and burgers and adding his usual dose of personal charisma to his customers’ dining experience.

“Well, if it ain’t Butch and Sundance,” he joked, returning to the end of the bar to meet his visitors.

“Hey, Hug,” Hutch greeted. “What’ve you got?”

“Somebody spotted your friend Phillips.”

“Where?” Starsky asked.

“Old warehouse near the docks. Guy that saw him—Phillips busted him once. Said he looked real rough, kinda weird. He was wearin’ black pants, a black shirt and black coat. Went into the warehouse.”

“You got an address on it?” Hutch pulled out his notepad, but Huggy handed him a rumpled slip of paper instead. “Thanks, Hug.”

“Either one of you two adventurers wanna fill me in on what’s goin’ on?”

“Another time, another place, man.” Starsky led the way back through the crowd and out the door, leaving Huggy to ponder his response. “You got coney sauce in your mustache,” he whispered to Hutch just before they parted to go to their respective sides of the car.

“Thanks for telling me that now, partner,” Hutch grumbled.

“Sorry. It just kind of loosens up that perfect Hutchinson facade.”

“I imagine having a half-orange mustache would, moron,” Hutch barked back, rubbing at it angrily with a napkin.

* * *

The warehouse to which Huggy had directed them was in a solitary spot, obviously unused for many years. Panes of glass were broken out of the windows, a few rotting crates were stacked against the walls, and the floor was a mass of old newspapers and other debris tumbling around in the wind. Both detectives drew their guns and stealthily made their way further into the building. It wasn’t long before they located a gathering of crates which served as shelter for a makeshift bed of old blankets, a few empty food cans and a large plastic trash bag, loosely knotted at the top.

“Do we wanna know what’s in that bag?” Starsky asked his partner who had squatted and begun untying it.

“No, but we need to know.” Hutch opened the bag and to his horror, pulled out a police uniform, stiffened with sticky reddish-brown stains. “He wore his uniform to do it…”

“Terrific.” Starsky crouched next to his partner and joined him in examining the grim discovery. “Even left his name tag on it.”

“You know what we should do now.” Hutch dropped it back in the bag and straightened up, as did Starsky.

“If we turn this evidence in now, he’s going to take a fall for a multiple homicide.”

“Starsky, there might be a point where we can’t fix this.”

“That’s easy for us to say. When that thing had you under its control, I did what I had to do to cover for you. And I would’ve been real grateful to anyone else who did.”

“Starsky, what I did to you was horrible, but it wasn’t multiple murder. This man is a danger to the community—I wandered around a full day until I came back to your place, and there were no dead bodies in my wake.”

“You’re right.” Starsky took a deep breath and let it out slowly.

“If we cover this up—”

“We’re accessories after the fact,” Starsky finished Hutch’s sentence.

“And if we turn it in, Phillips’ life is over.” Hutch stared at the bag.

“There’s a grim reality here, buddy. It’s over anyway.” Starsky ran his hand through his hair and stared down at the bag, visibly perplexed. “Even if we can help him, eventually, somebody’s gonna find some kind of physical evidence and tie him in. And when they do, we’ll go down with him.”

“So do we try to help the guy—call a priest, do something to fight the possession?”

“Ya know, he might be better off to be brought in just as he is—the only prayer he’s got is if he gets off on an insanity plea. If his eyes roll back in his head and he goes off while he’s in custody, he’s got a one-way ticket to a nuthouse, and we can probably try to find someone to help him at that point. But if he’s all calm and cool and normal when he’s in custody, he’s going to have a lot harder road ahead to get off the hook for this.”

“So we turn these in and play it by the book for now?”

“I think it’s the only choice.”

* * *

While it was the last piece of evidence that would make a police captain happy, Dobey was pleased to see some sort of a lead manifest itself in the Taggert investigation. He postulated that someone did away with Phillips as well and was just using his uniform, but Starsky and Hutch quickly shot holes in that theory by reporting that someone matching his description had been seen going in and out of that warehouse. Dobey okay’d the stakeout for that afternoon and evening, or however long it took.

Hutch was stationed in his LTD outside the warehouse, behind another old building, in radio contact with Starsky, who was lurking behind some stacked crates in the warehouse itself. There was another plainclothes unit backing them up, parked on the opposite end of the warehouse from Hutch’s location. Two additional officers dressed as dock workers made frequent trips with various items on hand trucks in and out of the warehouse next door.

“I think rigor mortis just set into my lower back,” Starsky grumbled into his radio. It was eight o’clock, and still nothing.

“You remember that spring I told you I had to get fixed?” Hutch responded. He heard a muffled snicker from Starsky.

“I guess this case really is a pain in the ass, isn’t it?” he quipped.

“10-4 to that, buddy,” Hutch responded, laughing.

“We got somethin’,” Starsky whispered.

“Zebra Three to Zebra Nine, we’ve got something in the warehouse,” Hutch reported to the other unit. “See anything?”

“Negative, Zebra Three.”

“Starsk?” Hutch checked in with his partner. There was no response. “Starsky!” He tried again. Still nothing. “Zebra Nine, I’m getting no response from Starsky. Give me five minutes and then move in.”

“Roger, Zebra Three.”

Hutch got out of his car and stealthily made his way along the outer wall of the warehouse. He carefully peered through a broken window but only saw darkness. Since Starsky was dressed in black and crouched behind a stack of crates, he wouldn’t be visible from this angle or distance anyway. There was no other movement visible inside, either.

Hutch continued his slither along the wall until he reached a door. He pushed it open slowly and then darted inside, weapon drawn. All that surrounded him were shadows. Was one of them Phillips? Or possibly Starsky? No, Starsky would have seen the flash of blond hair caught by the moonlight that was seeping in the dirty windows. He would have signaled or made himself visible…if he could. Hutch continued his slow walk, weapon drawn, into the center of the empty space. Footsteps made him spin around. What he saw in the moonlight froze his blood and temporarily paralyzed his reflexes.

A tall man with dark hair, dressed all in black, face unnaturally pale…but the eyes…pupils invisible, only yellow, blood vessel-mottled eyeballs staring toward him. It was a form of Phillips, but the thing was controlling him.

“Freeze!” Hutch finally made connections with his instincts and his training. The creature in front of him wasn’t impressed by the Magnum pointing at its chest. It continued to advance toward Hutch.

“Hold it right there!” Starsky’s voice came from behind. Hutch was immeasurably relieved to see his partner emerge from the shadows, gun pointed at Phillips’ back.

“If you take this body from me,” the booming voice began, “I will find another. Maybe yours…maybe not. Kill this body and free my spirit.” Then it laughed and lunged toward Hutch. A split-second decision kept him from firing. Phillips, in whatever form he was, was still unarmed. It had its hands on his throat, and he was inches away from the horrible yellow eyes. Starsky found that even a blow to the back of the head with the gun butt did nothing to dissuade the thing in its attack on Hutch.

The back up units were coming in as Starsky holstered his weapon and tried to pry the attacker off his partner.

“Freeze! Police!” one of the other detectives yelled. Starsky couldn’t pry the powerful hands off Hutch’s throat, and he gave up the struggle, unwilling to chance serious injury to his partner any further.

“Let him go, Phillips, or I’m going to shoot you!” Starsky drew his weapon, and the other man didn’t respond.

Starsky fired once, and the slug tore into the other man’s back, but he didn’t let go. Starsky’s response was to empty a full round into him. The devastated body fell sideways off Hutch and sprawled on its back on the floor next to him. Hutch sat up, coughing and trying to clear his throat.

“Hey, partner, you okay?” Starsky crouched next to him while the other officers swarmed around the dead man, shocked exclamations about his identity buzzing in the air. Some ran for the outside, to call for a coroner’s wagon and crime lab team. Others simply watched in mute shock.

“Thought I was a goner there for a minute,” he croaked. “Damn, I didn’t want to,” he paused to cough, “have to kill the guy.”

“That makes two of us. But it was him or you.”

“I did that to you?” Hutch whispered, shocked.

“Yeah, but I guess you weren’t too good at it, Magic Fingers. I’m still here.”

* * *

Dobey arrived on the scene shortly ahead of the coroner’s people. He spotted his two detectives seated on the floor, Hutch still rubbing his neck with Starsky hovering in attendance.

“I heard what happened. You better get your partner to a hospital,” he said gruffly. “I think I hear the ambulance now.”

“Captain, Phillips wasn’t himself—it was like we tried to tell you—”

“Starsky, just hold it right there. Phillips obviously had some psychological problems we knew nothing about.”

“He almost killed Hutch—and the bloody clothes—aren’t you just dismissing this awfully fast?”

“All right, major psychological problems then. Now get your partner out to that ambulance. We’ll need a copy of the hospital report to verify the threat to his life that would justify the shooting.” Dobey took a last look at the sprawled corpse of Keith Phillips, shook his head and walked out of the building.

“Come on, pal. Let’s go get you looked at.” Starsky stood up and then reached back to pull his partner to his feet.

“I don’t believe Dobey’s doing this,” Hutch said as he rose.

“CYA time, I guess.”

* * *

The doctor’s report was obtained, x-rays taken, and the determination made that beyond severe bruising, no serious damage was done. The doctor did emphasize that more severe damage would have resulted had the attack been prolonged beyond the time it lasted. The combination of the doctor’s assessment and the testimony of the other officers on the scene, including Phillips’ own partner, would be sufficient to consider Starsky’s use of deadly force to be reasonable.

Aaron Hanover was probably the last person either detective wanted to run into at the hospital, but he wasn’t nearly as antagonistic as they might have expected.

“You okay, Hutch?” he asked as they paused in the hall.

“I’ve got a sore throat and a stiff neck, but I’ll be fine. We’re really sorry about the way things turned out. Neither of us wanted—”

“Hey, Starsky gave him all the chances to surrender. I saw him lunge at you when we started coming in to back you guys up. You could’ve shot him then but you didn’t. I just don’t understand why he did it.”

“Sometimes people have problems we don’t even know about,” Starsky offered, knowing it was weak, but not wanting to try to explain an incredible truth this man would probably never believe.

“They’re trying to say he killed that family.” Hanover shook his head slowly.

“They haven’t proven anything yet, but it doesn’t look good,” Hutch responded.

“What brings you here anyway?” Starsky asked.

“Keith’s wife works in the Maternity Ward here. I wanted to tell her in person. She’s on the late shift tonight.”

“You want company?” Starsky offered.

“No, thanks. I think I should tell her one on one. There’s a lot of weird stuff to explain.”

“Truer words were never spoken,” Hutch responded, starting to move away. “We’re sorry again about your partner.”

“Thanks.”

* * *

Hutch relinquished the driving of the LTD to Starsky, preferring to move his neck as little as possible. He’d refused a neck brace, convinced it was more uncomfortable than nothing, but now he couldn’t find a good position for his head.

“Neck hurt?” Starsky asked.

Hutch swallowed the retort of ‘What do you think?’ Starsky was obviously trying to be sympathetic. “I’ve felt better.”

“I’ve got one of those neck pillow things—you might sleep better with some support under it.”

“Voice of experience, huh?”

“We’ve all been through the mill on this one. Even Dobey. You want to stay with me tonight? I mean, Fulton is flying around out there somewhere.”

“Scary thought. Yeah, go ahead to your place.” Hutch rubbed at his neck again and cursed under his breath. The choice of nasty words brought a faint smile to Starsky, who kept his mouth shut and his eyes on the road. “You need to say something, smart ass?” Hutch probed irritably.

“I don’t know if I’ve ever heard all those words together in one grammatically correct sentence before,” Starsky said through a broadening smile he was trying to control.

“Stick around. You’ll probably hear more.”

“Home sweet home.” Starsky brought the car to a stop outside his apartment.

“Probably nothing but green salami in the fridge,” Hutch grumbled.

“I don’t keep green meat in my refrigerator.” Starsky got out of the car, and Hutch followed, a little amused by the indignant tone in his partner’s voice. “I’ll order us a pizza.”

“Great. Chili dogs and pizza. Great nutrition for the day.”

“Oh shut up, will ya? Bitch, bitch, bitch…” Starsky muttered while he unlocked his front door.

“Guess I’m complaining a lot, huh?” Hutch said a little regretfully, sinking with a wince into the soft cushions of the couch while Starsky locked the door behind them.

“You’re entitled, buddy.” Starsky patted Hutch’s shoulder as he passed the couch. “Why don’t you grab a shower and I’ll order us something to eat? I know the guy at the pizza place—I’ll get him to do one with light cheese, mushrooms, peppers and onions—how’s that?”

“Sounds great. You’re willing to eat a pizza like that?”

“Hell no. I’m gonna order a normal one for myself,” Starsky answered, picking up the phone.

“Starsk?” Hutch’s quiet question made his partner freeze mid-dial and hang up the phone.

“What?”

“His eyes…I never saw anything like that before.” Hutch dreaded asking the question, but as Starsky slipped quietly into the room and sat on the arm of the couch near him, he braved it. “Did I…were my eyes…like that?”

Starsky only nodded.

“My God,” he murmured, closing his eyes.

“Hey, come on, pal. It’s over. You’re okay. Besides, you were always there somewhere behind those eyes. And you beat him.” Starsky looked down at his partner, unable to remember seeing Hutch this tired and worried since coming to in the hospital late one night and seeing that same face settled in an uneasy sleep, not trusting that Starsky’s emergence from the coma would last, sweating out every minute Starsky slept as if he wouldn’t wake up again. For some reason, seeing such complete exhaustion and fear in those familiar features had made Starsky feel very protective of his partner from then on.

Hutch had moved on from the possession incident with surprising resiliency, but the bounce-back was surface-level, like so many others Starsky had watched over the years. The brush with heroin and Jeannie’s departure—making all Hutch’s suffering seem almost useless because he ended up without the woman he cared so much about who was the cause of it in the first place…Gillian’s death…the long days pinned under a wrecked car at the bottom of the canyon… Hutch spent so much time being strong and keeping all of it tucked under that calm surface, that it ate away at him from the inside. He might react at the moment, and only with Starsky, but then it was quickly buried again, and it was business as usual. The brush with Fulton’s spirit, and the things Hutch had been forced to do to his partner while in that state had obviously continued to tear him up long after it was over.

“I’m sorry, Starsk,” he murmured, opening his eyes to look up at his partner. Starsky responded with a wide, affectionate grin.

“You’ve got nothin’ to apologize for, ‘cept maybe your weird eating habits, blondie.” He ruffled Hutch’s hair a little. His expression became more serious. “I know this has been hard on you too, Hutch. It’s okay to complain a little if you want. You don’t have any less right to it just because most of the blows you took were from the inside. Those wounds hurt just as much and take longer to heal up.”

“I’m scared, Starsk.”

“I know. So’m I.”

“You don’t know what it’s like to feel someone else in control of you—invading that part of you that’s exclusively yours…your…soul. I’m afraid of it happening again. I was afraid it was going to happen tonight—that he’d pass out of Phillips into me somehow.”

“He’s never going to get a hold of you again. Believe in that.”

“How can you be so damn sure?” Hutch closed his eyes again.

“Because I said so.” That response brought a furrowed brow, opened eyes and incredulous expression from Hutch.

“Whenever my mother was backed into a corner for an explanation, it worked for her.” Starsky smiled a little. “Seriously, Hutch, he can’t have you, and that’s just a simple fact. I’ve got prior claim, and if he tries it, I’ll kick his ass again.”

“Go order the pizza, huh?” Hutch looked up at him with a slight smile.

* * *

The Taggert case was officially closed within the week. The physical evidence against Keith Phillips was irrefutable, and there was little use attempting to make paranormal arguments to clear the dead man’s name. Needless to say, the press had a field day with blazing headlines about the psychotic cop who went mad and chopped up an entire family. The Maplecrest investigation faltered even more pitifully under the efforts of the commissioner’s hand-picked task force. They questioned and re-questioned faculty and staff, harassed the caretaker and his wife until a suit was filed against the police department, and still came up empty.

Fulton disappeared. For a few glorious weeks, it seemed as if he had evaporated somehow, though neither detective felt comfortable with that concept. Hutch didn’t sleep a peaceful night wondering where the entity might be, or when he might meet up with it again. Starsky made his trip to Ginny’s for the lasagna dinner, and Hutch managed to mend some fences with Lorraine. Evelyn began her teaching position and seemed swept away on the tides of university life again, although she and Starsky exchanged a few marathon phone calls to stay in touch. They had the best of intentions for another evening out, or even a quick lunch on UCLA’s campus, but her meetings and his caseload seemed to keep preempting them.

During these deceptive weeks, everything seemed normal. Until Dobey summoned the partners into his office to discuss with them a very disturbing and bizarre situation occurring in the community which had been brought to his attention by the coroner’s office. It couldn’t exactly be an official homicide case, but it had some unnerving implications.

“Over the last few weeks, there have been an abnormal number of suicides showing up on the M.E.’s table,” Dobey began, opening a file folder. “All have been violent, rather bloody incidents—slashed wrists, throats…even one hari kiri.” Dobey took a deep breath. “There have been twenty in all. What I want you two to do is start digging around in these folks’ backgrounds, go talk to the families—find something that links them all together.”

“You know, Captain, what this suggests, based on some of the evidence in the Maplecrest—”

“Don’t do this, Hutch.” Dobey leaned back in his chair. In the last couple of months, he had seen the emotional toll the Maplecrest and Taggert cases had taken on these two. There was a haggard look about them that came from the stress of unsolvable cases and the burden of being refused any departmental support for what they knew to be true. “Listen, I know there were some strange things going on connected with Maplecrest and the Taggert case. The fact remains that there’s nothing we can do about that. This is a police department. We’re not exorcists, we’re cops. And you can’t spend the rest of your careers looking behind every tree for evil spirits. Now there’s something strange going on here, but I doubt it has anything to do with demonic possession. Just take a fresh perspective on this one before you drive yourselves nuts.”

“Yes, sir.” Starsky stood up and took the folder from him. Dobey could remember precious few times Starsky had ever addressed him so formally, and it had usually only been under the duress of knowing he was in job-threatening hot water.

“Starsky, I—”

“Yes, Captain?” He was almost standing at attention, and purposely challenging Dobey with a respect that bordered on insubordination.

Dobey knew that concept was absurd by definition, which is why it is such an effective weapon to use in place of a temper tantrum to express one’s disgust with a superior. ‘Yes, Commissioner, I suspended Starsky because he was being too respectful.’ Starsky’s spirit may have been a little wounded, but it was most definitely not broken. There was a spark of insolence behind those eyes that enraged Dobey, yet it lurked there like a smoldering ember, not obvious enough to punish. Hutchinson almost appeared to quiet too easily, as if the fatigue obvious in his eyes prevented him from launching his usual energetic, finger-waving, pacing arguments. It was the toll this case was taking on Hutch that had Starsky as angry and pugilistic in temperament as he was.

“Get out of here, both of you.” It had become Dobey’s standard dismissal line with these two. The commissioner had made it clear that he would tolerate no more paranormal exploits from Dobey or any of his men, and when it was obvious that such things were still happening, the men in the trenches had to ride it out and handle it, while Dobey kept his distance, and his job. He despised the line in the sand the commissioner had forced him to draw. Gone were the days of the occasional congenial three-way lunch spread on Dobey’s desk, or the intentionally mis-thrown water cup that landed on the floor.

Starsky and Hutch had become an even more inseparable, mutually defensive me-and-thee unit than they had been before, if that was possible. Any angry word fired at one was fightin’ words to the other, whereas they used to maintain a certain silence unless the one under attack was unable to defend himself. Starsky had come to guard his partner like some kind of rabid pit bull, while Hutchinson was never more than a hiccup away from Starsky, taking any negative remark directed at his partner very personally. Dobey watched them move toward the door, Hutchinson hauling himself out of the chair and walking out of the office while Starsky held the door. It closed quietly behind them.

“Can ya believe the nerve’a that guy?” Starsky slapped the file on the desk. “Gives us these…these freak cases and then starts raggin’ on us when we figure out the score. We knew it wouldn’t be much longer before Fulton turned up again.” Starsky was pacing angrily. Hutch settled in his desk chair and yawned. “You okay?” Starsky seemed to pause in his tirade.

“Yeah, sure. Just tired.”

“Tired ’cause you’re not sleepin’ at night.”

“That does catch up with you after a bit, I guess.” Hutch smiled a little. “Hey, your turn to buy lunch, Gordo.”

* * *

Hutch was still reading the file Dobey had given them when Starsky returned with lunch, and it occurred to him he’d been gone almost thirty minutes. In that time, it didn’t appear Hutch had moved, and he wasn’t sure his partner had progressed past the first page of the file. The blond detective looked up as Starsky set a take-out carrier with a bag of burgers and two drinks on the desktop between them and sat across from him.

“What’d you find out?” He nodded toward the file in front of his partner.

“Well, I made us a list of stops to make. I thought we could touch base with the relatives first, see what made these people do themselves in.”

“Great. A whole day of talking to suicide victims’ families. I knew we needed something to cheer us up.”

A full day of moving from one grieving family to the next was a little trying on one’s morale, not to mention the fact that all the victims were people considered to be well-adjusted who showed absolutely no signs of depression or suicidal tendencies. They ranged in age from senior citizen to twelve-year-old. But a pattern did emerge midway through the day that was more than a little unnerving: all the victims had recently visited the funeral home for a friend who committed suicide. Those friends were all part of the list in the case file. The first suicide to launch the trend was a woman who was a close friend of the Phillips family and had made a funeral home visitation as well as attended the funeral. The revelation was not only terrifying but discouraging. In one afternoon and evening of investigating, the mystery was solved. They still had nothing, however, to present to Dobey.

A radio call from Minnie broke up their early evening ride toward Huggy’s.

“Go ahead, Min,” Starsky picked up the call as Hutch drove.

“The emergency dispatcher just got a call from Stoneridge Condominiums—isn’t that where that college professor you know lives, Starsky?”

“That’s it. They get an address?”

“Ahh, 16B,” she read back to him.

“Damn, that’s Evelyn’s. Thanks, Minnie.” He broke the connection and slapped the flasher on the roof of the car as Hutch hit the accelerator and careened down a side street that would take them toward Stoneridge.

The gates were open, and an ambulance was speeding through them when they arrived. The guard at the gate flagged them through as Hutch flashed his police ID, barely slowing up for the approval. There were two black and white units there already, and another plainclothes team had arrived moments earlier and were going in through the front door.

“What’s going on here?” Starsky asked one of the uniformed cops who were exiting the condo.

“Suicide. A wrist job.” He kept moving toward his vehicle, and Starsky sat against the front of one of the police cars, stunned by the news.

“Damn it,” Hutch muttered under his breath. He rested his hand on Starsky’s shoulder. “I’m sorry, Starsk.”

“I shoulda made sure we got together. My keepin’ on just puttin’ it off because of our dumb schedule—it musta been about the last straw,” he mumbled.

“Do you seriously think this has anything to do with you? Starsky, look at what we’ve been investigating all day. What do you want to bet she knew Walt Humphreys?” Hutch referred to the last suicide, a wealthy man living in the Beverly Hills area. “I say we talk to his family, ask to see the guest book—or if any of them remembers Evelyn.”

“I can’t do this right now. I…I want to see her.” He stood up and headed for the house, but Hutch caught him by the arm.

“Fulton’s been working his way back, don’t you see that? Don’t go near her.”

“This is crazy!” Starsky yanked his arm away and resumed his walk toward the door.

“Starsky!” Hutch caught up to him easily and pulled him back, pushing him against the wall near the front door. “Listen to me, buddy. I know you cared about Evelyn, but we’ve gotta be careful.”

“Then let’s get outta here.” Starsky hurried toward the car, and Hutch followed, sliding into the driver’s seat and heading away from the scene, not exactly knowing where it was he was supposed to be heading.

“You okay, Starsk?” Hutch finally probed his silent partner.

“This is never gonna end, Hutch. We can’t end it.” Starsky slumped back in the seat and exhaled loudly. “I just let things slide with her…never called her like I said I would…got so damned wrapped up in this case…What if she did this, and it has nothing to do with Fulton?”

“Either way, it wasn’t your fault, Starsk. But I would bet a year’s salary it has everything to do with Fulton.” Hutch glanced back at his partner. “If she knew Humphreys—”

“Right. I know. That’s the link. But why would he take such a weird route back to us?”

“Element of surprise. It was just chance that someone in the M.E.’s office thought to call Dobey’s attention to the influx of suicides, and that we made the connections. Besides, we keep overlooking the fact that Fulton is a homicidal maniac. Making people murder themselves, using their own bodies as the tools of their destruction would appeal to him. Meanwhile, he found the ultimate way to body-hop. He’s hidden from us ever since Phillips was killed, but he’s been working his way back. If you made enough chain-reaction connections, you could probably wind up in touch with just about anyone you wanted to eventually.”

“I can’t believe she’s dead, Hutch,” Starsky said quietly, a catch in his voice. “I mean things didn’t really go anywhere major between us, maybe they never really started…I don’t know what I mean.”

“Let’s go home, huh?” Hutch reached over and squeezed Starsky’s arm. “We’re not thinking too clearly now. We’ll get some rest and tackle this tomorrow.”

“Okay.” Starsky covered Hutch’s hand briefly with his own and then resumed staring out the window.

* * *

Hutch tossed and turned most of the night. Starsky was curled up on the couch, and since he had heard no sounds from him, Hutch didn’t want to drag him into his insomnia. Starsky had been deeply affected by Evelyn’s death and was managing to find ways to blame himself for it. It seemed like nothing Hutch could say would change his mind that he was somehow responsible because he hadn’t been as attentive as he should have been, or because his head was being increasingly turned by Ginny. It was all the usual dating games people play, and his partner certainly hadn’t given Evelyn any impression their relationship was heading toward monogamy. Hell, as far as Hutch knew, there wasn’t any “relationship” existing that would even suggest that.

Driven nearly insane by three a.m., Hutch got out of bed, went to the bathroom and got himself a drink of water. That killed at least five minutes, and he hoped for that feeling of fatigue you sometimes get when you’ve been unable to sleep and call your body’s bluff and get up. It didn’t happen. He slithered out to the kitchen and looked in the refrigerator. Starsky had refused any form of food, and Hutch had wound up eating part of a leftover pasta salad over the sink for his dinner. Its lasting power was not exceptional. He ate a cup of yogurt, then moved on to a banana.

A muffled sound from the couch caught his attention. Starsky wasn’t up, because there was no sign of the rumpled curls rising over the back of the cushions. Hutch abandoned his banana and walked around the end of the couch. In the traces of moonlight, it was obvious Starsky was very much awake, having decreasing levels of success muffling his crying.

“Sorry I woke you,” he managed.

“You didn’t, buddy.” Hutch sat on the coffee table and stroked his partner’s hair lightly. “I know there was something there between you two from the start—a kind of attraction, something special.”

“I can’t explain it. I know it probably wasn’t going to work,” he said quietly, wiping tears off his face with the back of his hand, though more were waiting to take their place.

“Go ahead and let go, buddy. It’s okay.” Hutch moved to sit on the edge of the couch and put his arm around Starsky’s back, rubbing gently.

“Maybe if I…had paid more…attention to her… What…if…she did it…herself…because of me?” he asked through steadily falling tears.

“Trust me, Starsk, this wasn’t your fault. Even if Evelyn did this without influence from any other source, you can’t hold yourself responsible for what someone else does. We’ve been so wrapped up in this mess we haven’t had time to do anything. Actually, I think you two kept in touch pretty well considering all the changes she was going through and what we’ve been up against at work. This couldn’t be your fault. She didn’t indicate thinking any suicidal thoughts or she didn’t seem unusually depressed when you talked to her.”

“I can’t help it. I feel responsible.” Starsky was quieting now, sniffing and trying to pull himself back together.

“I know. Nothing I say is probably going to change that, is it, pal?” It was a rhetorical question, and Hutch just let it hang there while he sat quietly, his hand resting on Starsky’s back, just giving him an occasional pat. “That’s part of Fulton’s evil, you know. Just like he made me attack you, like he found a way into me because I felt so responsible for Grodin and Merriweather. He does something that somehow makes you feel so damn guilty and horrible about yourself that it lets him in—makes you feel like you’re in league with him somehow. Don’t let him do that to you.”

“Maybe all along, our timing was just off. You know…kinda star-crossed or something.”

“It was, buddy. Probably for both of you. And that’s nobody’s fault. I wish we could chalk this up to something as explainable as depression or grief and assume she simply committed suicide. But I don’t think that happened. I think when you’ve gotten a little sleep and the fog clears, you’ll probably agree with me.”

“When I get some sleep? Who is it that’s wandering around, raiding the refrigerator at three in the morning? Since I’ve spilled my guts here, you wanna let me in on why you don’t sleep anymore? I’m worried about ya, pal. You look like a zombie.”

“This coming from the authority on them. How many times have you seen ‘Night of the Living Dead’ anyway?”

“You don’t wanna know,” Starsky replied, smiling slightly. “But don’t change the subject.” Starsky flopped on his back, dislodging Hutch’s hand from its resting spot and encouraging him to move back to the coffee table, since there was only about a third of one buttock keeping him from hitting the floor anyway.

“I’ve got this feeling we need to be on guard. It’s like there’s an internal alarm that gets me back up every time I doze off. Seems like I just don’t doze off anymore…” Hutch stared into space.

“Why don’t you give it a try tonight? Come on, let me stand guard for a while. I’m wide awake anyway. I can just watch the tube or read for a while.”

“You trying to get rid of me?” Hutch stood up, smiling a little, and Starsky stood up also, ushering him back toward his bed.

“Nah, but I wouldn’t mind getting rid of that spaced-out zombie that needs about four hours to read one page of a file. Just unwind a little, Hutch. I’m okay, and I’ll be up anyway.”

“You’re okay?” Hutch repeated, his skepticism obvious.

“I just need to sort a few things out. A little quiet time to think’ll do me good. Now just get in bed and get some sleep, will ya?”

“Yeah, we’ve got what, a whole two hours before I have to get up again?” Hutch looked at the bedside clock, which announced that it was 3:45.

“Some’s better’n none,” Starsky responded, almost managing to sound light-hearted. He watched Hutch slide under the covers and settle instantly into the pillow.

“You’re going to be up?” he muttered sleepily with his eyes closed.

“I’ll keep the watch, babe. You sleep.” Starsky didn’t know if Hutch heard him or felt him gently lift a few stray strands of blond hair away from his eyes. What would it be like to have someone possess you, take over your soul? Would you be afraid to sleep, to relinquish control of your consciousness? Afraid you’d wake up someone else? Probably. Starsky squatted next to the bed and watched Hutch sleep. Just like bein’ on a two-week stakeout with no relief, eh buddy? We’ve trusted each other with our lives, so I guess you can fall asleep and trust me with your soul, Starsky thought as he straightened and walked out to Hutch’s little jungle.

All those plants, all demanding some special kind of care to keep them flourishing. Starsky scanned the greenhouse area for any kind of instructions, but he found none. Hutch cared enough to know, off the top of his head, what each scraggly little critter needed. Starsky smiled to himself, remembering the laundry list of care and feeding instructions that were among the first words out of Hutch’s mouth as he recuperated from the plague. It was akin to, “Oh, yeah, Starsk, it’s good to see you too, buddy. Now my fern needs feeding and my dieffenbachia needs…” and so on, and so on. He was surprised the plants didn’t have Hutch’s work number posted somewhere just in case of an emergency. Some kid should be so lucky to draw a dad like that someday.

Hutch stirred but didn’t want to relinquish the delicious comfort of closed eyelids. He could feel a little breeze coming in the window. It was amazing in this grimy city how fresh the air could smell in the morning. There was also a lingering smell of coffee mixed in there somewhere, though it didn’t seem as strong as if it were just brewed. He stretched a little at first, then a lot, and grunted in the pure, relaxed satisfaction of the gesture. Relaxed…what in the hell was he doing relaxed? Where was the alarm?! His eyes snapped open and he rolled over to check the clock. It was almost 11:00! He threw back the covers and grabbed his robe, rushing out of the bedroom area. As his eyes darted around, he spotted a slumped form in a chaise lounge among the plants. Starsky was calmly sitting there, reading a book on how to raise a healthy fern, sipping coffee. It’s eleven-freakin’-o’clock, and Starsky’s just sitting there as if being three hours late for work was no big thing.

“Do you know what time it is?” Hutch demanded, trying to figure out how to straighten hair that was shooting in all directions. He felt as if he must have slept standing on his head to mess it up this effectively.

“‘Morning, sleepyhead,” Starsky greeted cheerfully. “I called us in. Relax. I told Dobey you were sick and I was going to stay with you.”

“How many times have we called in sick—”

“Hutch, he knows those were phonies. He seemed to buy this. We don’t have much reason to be fakin’ it now. Besides, I couldn’t wake you up. I went in there at six and you were sleeping so soundly, I just thought that was more important than going in. I’m sorry if you’re mad, but you were too exhausted to do anybody any good.”

“Can’t argue with that. Thanks. I feel…almost human,” Hutch concluded with a chuckle.

“Take the load off. I’ll get you breakfast.” Starsky got out of the lounger and gave Hutch’s arm a gentle shove toward it as he headed for the kitchen.

“You’re going to fix breakfast?” Hutch let the fear seep into his voice.

“Trust me. I’ll make us brunch. I didn’t feel too hungry earlier this morning either, but I’m gettin’ there.”

“How’re you doin’, anyway?” Hutch didn’t argue with Starsky’s offer to cook. He slumped in the lounger and batted a little black bug away from his face, making a mental note of three plants to investigate to find the offender.

“Okay.” It was a succinct answer, but all Starsky seemed prepared to give.

“Did Dobey have any additional info about Evelyn?”

“He said they found her in the bathroom, in her robe, sitting on a step that went down into the garden tub. She was slumped against the wall.” Starsky’s voice was very controlled and clinical as he began working with two small skillets on top of the stove. This was obviously going to involve omelets.

“I really am sorry, buddy.”

“I know.” Starsky didn’t say anything else while he worked silently chopping ingredients and tossing them into the pans. Hutch let himself be lulled into the peace of the moment and found himself almost dozing again in the lounger. He had lost count of how many nights he hadn’t slept. It seemed as though once Fulton’s evil influence was driven out, his only feeling of security was his consciousness, and a continuing vigilance against any unusual sensations or bouts of confusion and restlessness, like those that preceded the possession. “Hey, Sleeping Beauty, you wanna meander in here? I’m gonna have too much food to haul out to ya.”

Hutch returned to the kitchen and took his place at the table while Starsky put on a spread fit for a king. He never ceased to be surprised how his partner, the junk food junkie, could whip together a pretty impressive meal when necessary. There were two fat omelets, toast, juice, coffee and fresh donuts he had obviously slipped out to get earlier.

“This looks great.”

“Good. Eat up. You’re gettin’ too skinny.”

“This oughtta take care of that.” Hutch smiled as he carved the first bite of his omelet. “Starsk, I really appreciate this. I was dead on my feet.”

“Don’t mention it. We were way overdue for a day off anyway.” Starsky ate contentedly, though his misery over Evelyn’s passing still seemed to lurk beneath the upbeat exterior. Horror was almost “all in a day’s work” for them both now, and the curves this case was throwing them were ceasing to terrify them the way they once had. Overcoming Hutch’s possession had given them a feeling of safety and security in their unified front, and as long as they both had that to hold onto, they seemed prepared to face the other atrocities as they came. The attempt to invade their partnership had been rebuffed, though not easily. It had proven to be an ultimately impenetrable fortress. Not that either of them was surprised by that fact.

* * *

A visit to the family of Walter Humphreys confirmed that Evelyn did, indeed, know him well. They had been members of several of the same social and civic groups. Evelyn visited the funeral home and attended the funeral services. There was little way to prevent Evelyn Lansing’s family from planning her funeral and having the body shown at a funeral home.

Ironically, through Dr. Hernandez, the expert in the paranormal Evelyn had contacted to comment on the case for the newspaper, the two detectives were put in touch with a priest who also did work on occasion as an exorcist. He agreed to meet them after hours at the funeral home and say a blessing over Evelyn’s body, and take it from there, depending on what happened. The family was not to know of any of this, and it was only a tall tale woven by Starsky to the funeral director that made any of it possible.

According to Starsky, due to the bizarre circumstances surrounding the events at Maplecrest, and Evelyn’s belief that they were supernatural in origin, she had requested that a man of the cloth say certain prayers over her in the event of her demise to ensure that she was in no way tainted by the evil she suspected to be at play. The elderly man was highly skeptical, but Starsky put on the appropriate performance as a desperate man in love trying to honor his lady’s last wishes. Part of it was an act, part of it came from a part of him that had fallen for Evelyn, but the most important part came from his conviction that this might be their last chance to stop Fulton in his tracks.

The funeral director finally agreed, though hesitantly, to allow them to bring in the priest after the family and friends had left and the funeral home had locked its doors for the night. For the duration of the viewing hours, they would try to be unobtrusive but planned to stand a sort of guard over the proceedings, hoping to prevent Fulton from making another “transfer.”

It seemed strange to be dressed in the same dark suit he had worn to meet with Evelyn the first time as he looked down into her casket. The pearl-colored coffin was lined with a white velvety material, and Evelyn’s yellow hair blended beautifully with the colors. She was dressed in a light blue dress, nothing Starsky remembered seeing before. He realized, of course, he hadn’t known Evelyn long enough or spent enough time with her to consider that unusual. He wished strangely he could see her one more time in her royal blue dress, her hair spilling on her shoulders…dancing at Fever… He laughed a little to himself as he contemplated that he was probably the only person in the room to have that imagery of Evelyn Lansing running through his mind.

He noted the spray of pink roses and white baby’s breath that graced the lower half of the casket. There were dozens of arrangements of all varieties, making a jungle of flowers around the box that held the corpse of the woman most of these people had either shunned, fired, or ignored like a social pariah after she burned the painting. The hypocrisy of seeing a card announcing the sympathies of the Maplecrest Board of Control made him want to scream, smash the vase into a million pieces…make Evelyn laugh wherever she was in the next realm at the pure decadence of the gesture. Maybe I could pluck them off with my gun, he thought, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth at the same time a tear slid down his cheek.

You’d appreciate that, Evelyn. I was going to start calling you Ev, do you know that? I wonder if you’d have liked that, or been annoyed by it? Evelyn was so formal and cold, and you had so much vibrance and life and rebellion lurking under the surface. Was I too damn busy to notice I was falling in love with you? I didn’t belong in your world, God knows, and it was a stretch for you to come into mine, but since when has that precluded falling in love? I guess I love you after all. Damn stupid useless time to realize it, Ev. I didn’t do a hell of a lot to protect you, either. I let you fight this on the front lines, because you were so strong. You were strong enough to do it, so I let you. I tried to save you that night when I got stuck in the college…but I didn’t watch out for you like I should have. And he got you. I wouldn’t let him have Hutch, so he took you. I’m sorry, Ev. I hope you can hear me, and that you know I thought you were one of the most exceptional women I’ve ever met. Well, at least I brought you one of these while you were still alive to touch it and smell it and know it reminded me of you…

Starsky brushed her cheek lightly with the single white rose he held in his hand and laid it next to her on the pillow.

Her eyes opened…mottled yellow in the artificial orange pink of the mortician’s makeup. Then she winked at him, and smiled a hideous, brown-toothed smile.

And everything went black.

* * *

Hutch had been hanging back, staying out of the way of the immediate family, and trying to give his partner some time to make his last visit to Evelyn. When Starsky suddenly collapsed next to the casket, he was at his side before any of the other mourners could even react.

“Starsk, come on, it’s me.” Hutch pulled the motionless form to him so Starsky rested mostly across his lap, his head cradled in Hutch’s arms. “Hey, buddy, it’s Hutch, can ya say something to me, pal?” He was lightly tapping cheeks that had drained of all color. A girl suddenly emerged from among the mourners carrying a glass of water and knelt beside the two of them. The long dark hair and large almond eyes were familiar, but she identified herself quickly.

“I’m Jenny Moore—remember me? Let me try.” She dipped her hand in the cold water and tried tapping Starsky’s face that way. The shock of the cold water seemed to be bringing him around. “My sister has trouble with fainting spells, and that always works,” she explained softly to Hutch as Starsky opened his eyes slowly. The sudden spasm of his body almost threw her off balance and startled Hutch.

“Hey, partner, it’s okay. Can you talk to me, buddy?”

“Hutch, you didn’t…see…” His eyes were wide with panic, and he grabbed the lapels of Hutch’s suit with both hands.

“I’ll leave you guys alone.” Jenny stood up with a slight smile and tried to discourage the other people in the room from gawking at them while Hutch tried to bring his partner back to reality.

“Starsk, you think you could stand up? We could go in the other room and have a talk. You can tell me all about it,” he said soothingly, trying to encourage Starsky to stand up, but he seemed almost frozen where he was. “Come on, buddy. There’s a couch in the other room. You can rest there until you feel better.” Starsky finally nodded slightly and allowed himself to be pulled to his feet and led by the arm into the small sitting room next to the showing room.

“I thought I saw Jenny,” he mumbled as Hutch guided him to sit on the couch. Starsky didn’t seem inclined to lie down, so Hutch sat next to him and put an arm around him.

“You did. She saw you pass out and helped me bring you out of it.”

“Evelyn…God, Hutch, her eyes…she opened her eyes, Hutch!” He seemed to be getting some of his reason back, but what he was saying was more absurd than the initial babblings of semi-consciousness.

“Hey, just calm down, buddy. What’re you saying?”

“I’m saying she opened her eyes, and they were that awful-looking yellow, and she…she winked at me…and…smiled…” Starsky seemed transported back to the horror of the experience as he related it. “Her teeth, Hutch, they were all brown and it was…it was the worst thing I ever saw in my life! She’s supposed to be dead!” His voice was shaky, but he didn’t appear to be hysterical or incoherent—just terrified.

“I’ve got to go in and have a look at her, buddy. Can you wait right here for me?”

“No!” He grabbed Hutch’s sleeve and yanked him back down to a sitting position as he tried to stand. “Don’t go in there! Don’t go near her, please.”

“Okay, Starsk. I won’t go near her. Just calm down, buddy.” Hutch put his arm back around Starsky and squeezed. “If anyone else was seeing anything, we’d be hearing about it by now anyway.”

“I didn’t imagine it,” Starsky declared defensively.

“I know that,” Hutch responded softly, rubbing Starsky’s shoulder.

“We’ve got to get those people outta there, Hutch, away from her.”

“How? The best we can do is keep watch. We can’t stop the family from having her shown.”

“Guess we better get back in there, huh?”

“You feel okay?”

“Little tipsy but okay.”

“Ready to try your land legs again, pal?” Hutch stood up and tugged at Starsky’s elbow. The other stood readily.

“Let’s go.” Starsky led the way back into the room, avoiding eye contact with most of the other mourners. He didn’t feel like he had much dignity left after falling on the floor next to the casket, and since he hadn’t met most of Evelyn’s family or friends, he was getting a number of odd looks.

“Sergeant Starsky?” A voice startled him from behind. Jenny Moore approached him. “Feeling better?” She smiled warmly.

“Much, thanks. And call me Dave, okay?”

“Okay, Dave. I didn’t know you knew Dr. Lansing so well.”

“We got to be good friends during and after my time at Maplecrest. She was a special lady…Jenny, you’ve been in on this from the start. I don’t see any point in being cagey with you. The haunting…it isn’t over,” he whispered. “I can’t really explain it all right now, other than to tell you that it’s not safe to be here.”

“What?”

“The shadow made Ev—Dr. Lansing—do what she did. And he’s not far away. I know it sounds crazy, but at least I can tell you, warn you…”

“It’s not that I don’t believe you, but how…?”

“By possessing people—he gets into their souls, takes over, makes them commit suicide, and then he moves to someone else who comes in contact with the body.”

“Oh my God.” Jenny dropped into a straight chair that was behind her, and Starsky occupied the one next to it.

“We’ve got one last chance to try and stop it tonight. If we fail then…I don’t know what’s gonna happen.”

“What’re you going to do?”

“We’ve called in a priest—an exorcist.”

“This is amazing.” She glanced uneasily up at the casket. Evelyn’s profile and yellow hair were just barely visible from this angle. “He’s in…her?”

“I saw it—that’s why I passed out. I guess it was just the shock…she opened her eyes.” At his statement, Jenny’s sharp intake of breath drew a couple of strange looks from other mourners, and he reached out to pat her arm as if consoling her.

“You’re going to be here tonight?”

“I have to be. But I want you to leave, now, and promise me you won’t come back near here again tonight. If you don’t hear from me again, don’t ever go near Dr. Lansing’s remains, or her grave—understood?”

“Understood,” she repeated, solemnly.

“I think you should go now.”

“I will.” She stood, and Starsky walked her to the door. “Dave—be careful, huh?”

“Promise.” He smiled a little weakly. “You know the truth about all this, Jenny. If something happens to both of us tonight, don’t let yourself get dragged into it. You promise me that, okay?”

“Okay.” She smiled back and squeezed his arm quickly before hurrying out the door.

Starsky returned to the viewing room, where Hutch was trying to make conversation with a couple of well-dressed society matrons. Starsky had no doubt in his partner’s ability to do so, but he pitied him, nonetheless. Starsky was busy concentrating on remaining as invisible as possible after collapsing in front of the crowd earlier, but Gwen Randolph, Evelyn’s sister, sought him out in the dimly lit corner of the room where he occupied a chair.

“You’re David Starsky, aren’t you?” she asked, extending her hand. “Gwen Randolph, remember?” she prompted as he stood and shook her hand.

“Of course. I’m very sorry about Evelyn. She was an amazing lady.”

“I knew you two were friends, but I didn’t realize you had become so close.”

“If it hadn’t been for our bizarre schedules the last few weeks, I think we’d have spent more time together. I really thought a lot of her.”

“And she of you,” Gwen responded, smiling warmly. She sat on the edge of a nearby couch, and he returned to the chair he had occupied. “Evelyn said you were ‘a breath of fresh air’ at Maplecrest. Of course, she’d never admit in so many words to me what she thought of any man she was seeing, but I’ve never seen her as happy as she was when she described going to that disco—what was it called?”

“Fever,” Starsky replied, smiling a little. Gwen Randolph was shorter than her sister, a bit heavier, with short, curly blonde hair and glasses. He estimated that Gwen was the elder sister by about six or seven years. “We had a pretty good time there.”

“She never went to places like that, so you can imagine how surprised I was when she told me about it.” Gwen looked up toward the front of the room. “I still don’t understand why…”

“What did Evelyn tell you about Maplecrest?”

“David, surely you knew that she was very disturbed for a while immediately after Andy’s death. You were at the scene when she burned that painting, weren’t you?”

“Yes, but—”

“Well, you can imagine how logical anything Evelyn told me at that time was. She carried on about ghosts and shadows and vengeful spirits…poor thing.”

“Evelyn was not crazy, Mrs. Randolph. Please don’t imply that she was.”

“Excuse me?”

“There have been some horrible…unexplainable things happening on that campus in the last year. Anything Evelyn told you regarding the supernatural…events there, was true. I saw the shadow with my own eyes. I experienced the cold spots, and the night Andy died, I wanted to destroy that painting myself, because at the time we all felt it was tied into the haunting. Now I think it was just a catalyst that brought the real spirit forward, not the sole cause of the haunting.

Evelyn had to do her time in a funny farm and take the ridicule and disgrace she took because she wouldn’t lie about it. I lied about it, I covered it up, my partner and I covered our collective backside with the department for a long time because we didn’t want to take the heat for what we knew was happening. No one believes you when you try to tell them, and my hat is off to your sister because she had the courage to stand behind what she knew was true, right from the start.”

“I don’t know what to say,” Gwen responded, a look of shock and puzzlement spreading over her features. “You’re implying that the college really is haunted?”

“It was, anyway. All the things that have happened have a supernatural origin.” As Starsky finished, he could see the familiar disbelief in the woman’s eyes, and he smiled a little as he shook his head slowly. “Well, I feel a little better, Ev.” He looked up toward the casket. “I was pretty damn late with it, but at least I stuck up for you somewhere.” He looked back at Evelyn’s puzzled sister. “Excuse me.” He stood up and walked out of the room.

* * *

Hutch finally disentangled himself from the conversation that had kept him busy for the last several minutes. Starsky had pulled another disappearing act, and he wasn’t too comfortable with either of them being on his own for too long. At times he wondered what they hoped to accomplish by lurking around the funeral home all day. Fulton might be slippery enough to make a move and not even be noticed. His taunting of Starsky through Evelyn might have been the last they’d see of him. Hutch tried to dismiss that thought. This entity wanted a confrontation. It had gained itself one more homicidal romp through the community, and now it wanted a showdown. What was most frightening to Hutch was the force that was empowering the thing. If Fulton was indeed a “practitioner of the black arts” as Genevieve Willoughby had written, his return from the dead was probably fueled by some unholy power gained in one of his vile rituals.

Hutch descended the three steps down from the front entrance of the funeral home and walked down the sidewalk a ways to where Starsky was leaning against a large oak tree, staring out at the road in front of him. Only an occasional car passed down what was essentially a quiet, tree-shaded neighborhood street.

“You okay, partner?” Hutch leaned against the other side of the tree trunk, looking around at Starsky, who smiled back at him.

“I’ll live. Ya know what really burns me up?” Hutch made a slight inquisitive expression in response to Starsky’s question. “Her own sister thinks she was a headcase. Everybody in there except you and me think Evelyn was crazy. Poor crazy Evelyn. Shit. She had the guts to do something, to stand on the front lines…and all anybody does now is call her crazy, and what the hell good did it do her? She’s lyin’ there in a box!” Starsky gestured angrily toward the funeral home. “And what’re we doin’? Walkin’ around in monkey suits watching the hypocrites!”

“We’re doing the best we can do, buddy.”

“Aw, that’s lame—bullshit, Hutch. You know and I know that we let Evelyn stand up and be counted and we hid behind her skirts. We sent her to the press to be our mouthpiece, I didn’t do a damned thing about that painting—I shoulda just told Dobey to fuck off and burned it myself that night!” Starsky paced back and forth on the sidewalk, his hands thrust momentarily into his pants pockets. They soon emerged and were in the motion of gesturing again. “What the hell are we doin’ now? We’re tellin’ the mortician that we’re humoring a crazy lady’s last wish! Damn it, Hutch, I hate this!” There was a trace of tears in his voice now, but he kept his control. Anger seemed to be outweighing grief at the moment.

“I hate it too, partner.” Hutch’s response was quiet, well-modulated, and only a stopgap. He expected another explosion from Starsky, and he patiently waited for it.

“It’s not fair! It’s not right that everybody thinks she’s crazy, and it’s not right that everybody thinks Keith Phillips—a cop with a wife and a kid at home, for God’s sake—murdered a whole family!”

“Starsky, none of this is fair or right or just. But it’s what we have to work with. It’s what’s happened. How many times did you try to tell me that after you were shot last year? I was so damned angry at Gunther and…and the world, for that matter—but you said that sometimes things happen that just aren’t fair. Well, here’s another one.”

“I’m sorry. I don’t mean to rip your head off,” Starsky mumbled dismally, returning to his spot, leaning against the tree again. “Maybe I just hate funeral homes, ya know?”

“I know,” Hutch responded sympathetically. He didn’t care for them much either, but then he hadn’t had as much experience with them as his partner had. From seeing his father in that icy, artificial state, through grandparents’ funerals—including his paternal grandmother, who did indeed live over an Italian restaurant and had been Starsky’s second mother. Most recently, there had been Terry’s funeral…a generally miserable experience of burying a young woman who met a violent end. Not to mention laying to rest plans for a family, a home, a life together…and dealing with her family’s cold courtesy, which betrayed the fact that they were all looking at Starsky as the cause of their daughter’s demise.

A lot of hell to go through, Hutch thought to himself, recalling how seeing two sets of grandparents buried had been painful enough. He had side-stepped Van’s funeral since he spent most of the time following her death trying to prove he hadn’t caused it, and when it came to Gillian, he had opted not to go to Cleveland and meet her family under such tragic and horrible circumstances. Learning their daughter had been murdered, and then learning she was a prostitute was enough for them to handle without having the play host to her cop boyfriend who still felt like his presence was the catalyst that put her in harm’s way.

“I’m sorry, Hutch. I don’t mean to…chew you out.” Starsky let out a long breath.

“I know.”

“Yeah, you usually do,” Starsky said with a little snort of a laugh. “I s’pose we should get back in there.” He looked back toward the old house that had been elegantly converted into its present use. “Reminds me a lot…”

“What?” Hutch finally probed after the statement trailed off unfinished.

“When I was a kid, everybody who was anybody got buried from Serenity Funeral Chapel. Durniak only paid for the best, ya know? It was a big old house, just like this one, lawn just perfect out front—just like this. It was in the summer, so all these flowers were blooming outside, and it was hot…hell of a time to have a funeral—summer. But you could smell flowers when you came up the front walk, sweatin’ to death in one of these damn suits,” he said irritably, tugging at the collar of his white shirt. “Flowers outside, and that sickening heavy smell of flowers and…something…maybe it’s death, I dunno, insides. I remember I had the overpowering urge to throw up…I was so damned hot and there was something about the sticky sweet smell of the flowers… They had fans set up all over the place. It was ruffling my dad’s hair on the pillow. Scared the hell out of me—I thought he was movin’ or something.” Starsky forced a weak smile in the brief silence that followed.

Hutch appeared at a loss for words. His hand was just resting quietly on Starsky’s shoulder. “‘Course he wasn’t. Not like…not like in there, with Evelyn.”

Starsky shook his head. “Good old Joey Durniak, always ready to step in and take control. We shoulda been there, alone with my dad—but he was right there with Ma, holding her hand. Bastard was already playing ‘daddy’ to Nicky, and he was eatin’ it up. He had Ma holdin’ on to one hand and Nicky holdin’ onto the other…”

“What about you?” Hutch asked softly.

“I was standin’ there, lookin’ at my dad in that box, feeling like they were gonna bury everything that was right…and here I was in the middle of this…wrong situation, watchin’ my mother holding hands with a gangster. I said to her, ‘Ma, look, Dad moved,’ — the fan on his hair, ya know? She started cryin’ — I don’t blame her, looking back. It was a weird thing to say, but I was only ten and I thought he did move. So Joey says, ‘Don’t upset your mother, kid.’ And that was that.”

“I’m sorry, buddy.” Hutch squeezed his shoulder a little

“I don’t know why all that’s comin’ back now. Maybe I do know. I guess it’s this damn funeral home. If we weren’t in California, I’d swear I was right back there…”

“We could get out of here for a few hours,” Hutch suggested.

“Yeah, sure we could. The whole point of us bein’ here is to watch for Fulton to pull something.”

“If he wants to pull something, is there anything we can do about it anyway? Would we even know about it?” Hutch broke his contact with his partner and started pacing. “He waited and taunted you intentionally—let you know he was here. I think he wants a showdown, pal. I don’t think he’s going to do anything to anybody else but one of us.”

“So you think we aren’t solving anything by standing guard?”

“I think if Fulton wanted to covertly body-hop, we couldn’t stop him. And he wouldn’t have made himself known to you like he did.” Hutch finally came to rest in one spot. “I think we should go home, get some rest before tonight, and then come back here and go after him like we planned. This isn’t solving anything but driving us both nuts and making the family skittish about the two cops who are hanging out here for no good reason.”

“I really wouldn’t mind getting away from this place.”

“Let’s go.” Hutch led the way back to the Torino, and Starsky slid in behind the wheel and started up the engine. He was never so happy to pull away from any curb in his life as he was to pull away from that one and follow the lazy, sporadic flow of traffic out of the quiet neighborhood.

* * *

Father Leo Melburne was a punctual man, arriving at the funeral home at 10:00 in a mid-sized blue sedan. Dressed from head to toe in black, sporting a mop of thick black hair, only the white square of his Roman collar stood out against the night. The last of the family members left the premises at 9:45, viewing hours having ended at 9:00. Starsky and Hutch had taken time out to go back to Starsky’s apartment, grab something to eat and take a brief nap before launching into what promised to be another long night. Neither had slept well the night before, and Starsky’s research into the occult (namely, his vast knowledge of horror film lore) instructed that it would be dangerous to do battle with an evil spirit when one was unusually tired.

Hutch was the first one to notice the priest’s arrival as his car pulled up to the curb across the street from the spot where the Torino was parked.

“Showtime,” Starsky announced grimly, opening his door and stepping out into the street.

“Sergeant Hutchinson?” the priest asked, extending his hand.

“I’m Starsky, he’s Hutchinson.” Starsky shook hands, smiling and nodding toward Hutch, who was hurrying around the front of the car for introductions. “Thank you for coming.”

“I just hope I can help.” He shook hands with Hutch, and the three men made their way into the dimly lit building. Mr. Jasper, the funeral director, was busily straightening flower arrangements and fussing with something near the corpse, as if this were just another night’s work. For him, it probably was.

“Mr. Jasper, this is Father Melburne,” Hutch introduced, waiting with the two men shook hands. “May we be alone with the body?” he asked, not at all surprised at the funeral director’s troubled expression.

“This is all very irregular, Detective. I am not comfortable with leaving the deceased…unsupervised.” Jasper adjusted his tie, and it occurred to Starsky that the short, slightly built man was most likely not comfortable with much of anything.

“Mr. Jasper, we have no plans to do anything which will be in the least disrespectful to the remains,” Father Melburne hastened to clarify. “I am a Catholic priest, sir, and I can assure you that my only goal is to impart a blessing and say a few prayers over the deceased. I have no intention of engaging in any behavior that would necessitate your supervising my actions.”

“Very well,” he conceded hesitantly. “I will be in my office.” He turned and left the room, not at all pleased with having been expelled from the activities that were about to begin.

“I hope you gentlemen understand what we could be dealing with here.”

“Only too well,” Starsky retorted. “I think from what we told you on the phone, you must know that we’ve come face to face with this…thing.”

“I only have one word of warning for both of you. You are each other’s greatest strength, and greatest weakness. From how you described driving out the spirit when it took possession of Sergeant Hutchinson, it is obvious that your combined will and also your willingness to risk your lives for each other are what won that battle. However, just as this entity used one of you to attack the other, knowing there would be little or no resistance offered, as in the beating incident, it could use the very same tactic again.”

“Father, I think we both know that we’re risking our lives here, but there’s no other way.” Hutch took a deep breath and then released it. “Believe me, we wouldn’t object to walking away from this whole mess if we thought we could turn it over to someone else. But there’s something about this entity…this spirit…it made it personal. It not only attacked both of us, in different ways, but it tried to destroy our friendship, our partnership…not to mention our sanity. If we don’t see it laid to rest personally, we’ll never have a peaceful moment again.”

“Very well. Let’s get started.”

The priest had given them little indication of what role, if any, they should play in the ceremony. They stood on either side of him, watching him don his stole and begin a series of prayers that seemed very similar to Last Rites.

Every light in the building was extinguished. The temperature dipped horribly in the room, so much so that an odd sort of frost began to form on the metal of the casket. Father Melburne seemed undaunted by these events, and in the dim glow of the streetlight which seeped through sheer curtained windows, he continued his prayers.

Then Evelyn’s eyes were opened by the entity lurking behind them. This development appeared to attract the priest’s attention, though he faced it with the cold sternness he had been directing at the entity and its activities. He made the Sign of the Cross over the body, and was rewarded with the corpse sitting bolt upright, and laughing in his face.

Hutch had gravitated part way toward where Starsky stood, and Starsky had done the same until they found themselves shoulder to shoulder behind the priest. Stunned at what was unfolding, Hutch grabbed hold of Starsky’s hand, and the pressure was returned. Fulton in his various incarnations had put them both through hell, and this would not be an easy battle.

“In the Name of the Father, and the Son, and the Holy Spirit, I order you to leave this place!” Father Melburne shouted, continuing to make the Sign of the Cross in the thing’s face.

Without warning, some unseen force impacted his midsection, and the priest was thrown the length of the room, landing with a sickening thud against the far wall and sliding to the floor.

“Damn you to hell, priest!” the entity hissed horribly through a yellowed, distorted version of Evelyn’s smile. “Why don’t you come to me now, David?” The thing set its eyes on Starsky. “You know you want her,” it taunted, in a sultry, though distinctly male voice. “Your priest won’t help you now.”

Starsky kept his grip on Hutch’s hand and yanked him along as he moved closer to the casket. He reached for the thing’s throat with his left hand, and suddenly the realization of what he was planning dawned on Hutch. Starsky’s right hand was clutching his left. That meant both of their dominant hands were free — and their power against this thing, whatever that power might amount to, was joined at this moment. Hutch mirrored the gesture and they found themselves squeezing the cold, livid throat in unison, as if directed by a single brain.

Visions of his grandmother praying solemnly in Hebrew flashed through Starsky’s mind. Words she taught him — such faith in those folded arthritic hands. He began mumbling the words as they came back, and he could hear Hutch muttering words of his own, something in English, something Christian, but he had to keep his own singular focus on that vision of his grandmother praying … she would have the faith to fight this. She would entrust her soul to God without a moment’s hesitation. He drew strength from that and from the tangible connection to Hutch by their hands, which now dug painfully into each other from the sheer terror and magnitude of the experience.

Glass was shattering all around them … every window exploded from its frame, the cold became so intense as to be painful and the thing in their grasp was wavering but maintaining its horrid, brown-toothed grin. Dead, stiffened hands reached up and clawed at their faces, sensing the imperative power play was to break their hold on its throat and on each other’s hands.

Hutch felt the icy claws tear at his face, but he followed Starsky’s lead in merely inclining his head as far away from it as possible. The thing uttered some horrid, guttural proclamation in a language neither understood. The yellow eyes closed momentarily, but when they reopened, they were replaced by a blackened eyeball with a horridly iridescent red pupil.

“In the Name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit, I order you to leave this place!” Father Melburne’s voice boomed from behind them. He had recovered from his impact against the wall and was staggering a little unsteadily toward the vortex of shattered glass, swirling wind and icy cold that had overtaken the room.

“You have to send him back!” Starsky yelled at the priest. “Not just away from here! Back to hell!”

“Heavenly Father, you cast Lucifer into hell! Grant me the power to cast this beast back to the unholy pit from whence it came!” Father Melburne grasped the now-writhing corpse by the hair with one hand, pushing it down on the pillow, taking Starsky and Hutch forward with it. No matter what happened, they had steadfastly refused to release their grip on the corpse or on each other. It seemed for a while that an incoherent mingled babbling of prayers in Latin, Hebrew, and English were becoming a muddled, useless mess. When the priest produced a large flask of holy water and splashed it liberally on the corpse, the cry that issued forth from its mouth nearly deafened them all and drowned out all else.

The corpse’s resistance left it, and all that occupied the casket were the dampened remains of Evelyn Lansing.

All three men withdrew from touching the body, and Starsky and Hutch finally disengaged their fingers, which proved difficult to do. Both were surprised at the gouges they’d made on each other in the heat of panic.

“Is it over?” Hutch asked Father Melburne.

“Wait.” He approached the body, made the Sign of the Cross over it, and draped a blessed rosary over the now folded hands. There was no response, but a look that was strangely reminiscent of a faint smile on the dead woman’s lips. “Yes,” he replied finally. “It’s over.”

“What on earth … ?” The mortician threw open the double doors to the room and rushed to the casket. “My God, she’s soaked!” He looked accusatorially at the three men.

“Holy water. It is a necessary part of the blessing.” Father Melburne. could become stern and condescending quickly, and something in his tone silenced the other man momentarily—until he truly took stock of the damage to the room.

“Look at this room! The windows! The furniture!” He threw his arms in the air and let them slap down at his sides. “You’ve destroyed this room!” It was in a horrible disarray, showered with shattered glass, chairs upturned—some broken, and an unsightly indentation in the flimsy drywall where the priest had hit the wall.

“We’ll pay for the damage.” Hutch wrote down his name and number on a sheet of paper in his notepad, tore it off and handed it to the overwrought mortician.

The commotion about the condition of the room and taking Father Melburne to the hospital to have his head injury checked ensued, and Starsky largely ignored it. Hutch seemed to take the cue from his partner who wished to slip out of the spotlight, and he managed to guide the other two men and the attendant arguments away from the casket.

“I hope we did it, Ev. I just hope you’re okay.” He looked down at the somewhat bedraggled corpse, its real death pallor partially visible under running make-up. “Bet you’d kill me if you knew I messed up your make-up,” he said, knowing how in her most serious moment, Evelyn had always appreciated his ability to inject a little nearly inappropriate humor. He leaned forward and kissed the rigid lips lightly. “Rest in peace, my friend.”

A warm breeze and the distinct scent of Evelyn’s perfume swirled around him and then dissipated as quickly as it had appeared. Wherever it might be headed, Evelyn’s spirit was safe and was saying goodbye.

* * *

Father Melburne had sustained a mild concussion on the impact against the wall and was to be kept in the hospital overnight for observation. Upon their request, Starsky and Hutch were allowed a brief visit before the end of visiting hours would be enforced.

“We mainly wanted to thank you,” Hutch began, approaching the side of the bed, “for doing what we couldn’t do. For sharing your … power with us.”

“It was God’s Power. I only have a little training in how to ask for it. Furthermore, you should never underestimate your own power. The only way we accomplished what we did tonight was through the combined power of all our faiths. Unlike us, God can sort out a jumble of prayers in three languages,” he said, smiling.

“Something’s bothered me about this all along,” Starsky said, straddling a chair and leaning his arms on the back of it. “When did we stop fighting a ghost and start fighting an evil spirit?”

“A ghost is a spirit, Sergeant Starsky. And Fulton’s spirit was indeed evil. Furthermore, he was a practitioner of the ‘dark arts’ according to that diary you received—and we certainly can imply from that information that he worshiped Satan. So his power to come back from the dead was granted by an evil source—and reinforced by that evil source, just as God reinforced us when we prayed to Him. Of course, my personal opinion is that we were playing on the winning team.”

“So all this time he just wanted to come back from the dead to commit more murders?”

“Possibly. Power over life and death—and the power to cause death and be unstoppable at it—would be very appealing to an evil person. Fulton made his pact in blood with the devil, and he got what he asked for—a return to earth, a chance to possess and torment and kill innocent victims—to make good men do evil deeds…” He glanced at Hutch. “And those men are no more responsible for the evil they do in that state than poor Evelyn Lansing was responsible for her fate.”

“Maybe he’ll listen to you.” Starsky inclined his head toward Hutch. “Come on, partner, you can’t get more reliable absolution than that.” He turned back toward Father Melburne. “He won’t listen to me.”

“I did listen to you. But when you’ve done something like that…”

“Have you ever had any desire—even a hidden one—to attack your partner that way?” the priest asked Hutch. “If you’d like to leave that as a rhetorical question, you may.”

“I don’t have to leave it that way. Never in a million years. We’ve been angry at each other dozens of times before, but I never would do anything to seriously hurt Starsky. I’d never want to see that happen, even if we were on bad terms for some reason.”

“Then you have nothing to feel guilty about. You were just a vehicle for that entity. It wanted you to attack him, so it used you to do it.”

“Excuse me, gentlemen, but I’m going to have to ask you to leave now.” A nurse poked her head through the partially open door. “The patient needs his rest.”

“We’re on our way,” Starsky responded, smiling. She left the room, satisfied that the visitors were rising to leave. “Thanks again for everything, Father,” Starsky said, shaking hands with the priest.

“It’s been interesting working with you two,” he responded as he shook hands with Hutch.

“Same here,” Hutch replied. “Take care of yourself.”

“Will do. If you have any other problems, or if either of you would like to talk more about this sometime, you have my card.”

“We do. Thanks.” Hutch opened the door, Starsky passed through it and he closed it behind himself.

“I can’t believe it’s over. Ya know, I just had the weirdest thought—I wanted to go call Evelyn and let her know we finally did it. Damn, I hate that this had to take her.” Starsky was walking slowly down the hall to the elevator. “But I know she’s okay.” He smiled faintly, though he didn’t seem inclined to explain himself, and Hutch didn’t push it.

“Well, it’s eleven o’clock. Where d’you wanna go?” Hutch asked, trying to sound lighthearted. The gravity of what they had been through hadn’t really sunken in fully yet.

“How ’bout a liquor store and then the beach?” Starsky retorted.

“Now that sounds dangerous,” Hutch answered, laughing a little.

“I’d just like to sit on the sand, have a beer, and stare out at the water for a while.”

“Sounds good,” Hutch agreed.

With a six pack in hand and their suit jackets unceremoniously dumped in the back of the car, they made their way along the deserted beach. It had taken Starsky all of thirty seconds to entrust the beer to Hutch while he shed his shoes and socks. Not feeling quite as carefree as his partner, Hutch opted not to take his chances with the hard-to-see terrain in his bare feet.

“You think Melburne’s right? That it’s over?” Hutch took a drink of his beer as he stared out at the moonlit water lapping up on the sand.

“I think so.” Starsky rested his elbows on knees he drew up toward his chest. His toes were flexing in the sand, and he seemed oddly content.

“Why? Because Melburne thinks so?”

“No,” he began, taking a drink out of the can he was holding. Then, after a few seconds of silence, he concluded, “Because Evelyn let me know.” He turned to look at Hutch, wondering if he’d see an expression of disbelief—or kindly concern and patience for his grief-induced madness. He saw neither. Hutch appeared to accept the answer, and he didn’t ask for details. “Hutch?”

“Yeah?”

“You’re going to take what Melburne said seriously, aren’t ya?”

“Gonna try.”

“Do better than try, buddy. Remember: close,” Hutch’s voice joined with Starsky’s and they completed the sentence in unison, “only counts in horseshoes.”

“Okay,” Hutch responded, laughing. “I’ll do better than try. By the way, Starsky, I think you’re about due to trim your nails.” He held out his left hand. Starsky held out his right, which held similar battle scars from the vise-grips they’d had on each other during the exorcism.

“I’ll loan you the clippers when I’m done, pal.”

“Looks like you’re gonna have a scar there,” Hutch opined, tilting the extended hand for a better look at the area of shiny new skin which marked the impact the machete had made with Starsky’s hand at Maple crest that night.

“Just one more for the collection,” he responded with a slight smile. “No big thing. You’re letting go of that—remember?”

“Yeah, I remember. Easier said than done.”

“Fulton wanted you to kill me—what d’you suppose stopped him both times? You wouldn’t let him do it. From wherever you were underneath his influence, you fought him. And we won,”

“Do you think Evelyn knew what was happening?” Hutch asked.

“I can’t believe that Fulton would pass up an opportunity to torment somebody. I guess we’ll never know for sure. Tell you the truth, I don’t wanna know.”

“Think we ought to tell Dobey what happened?” Hutch opened another can of beer and took a sip.

“I don’t like the way he handled this,” Starsky responded, gathering sand in his hand and letting it slip through his fingers. “He let us twist in the wind.”

“His job was on the line. He’s got a family, kids to support. Him getting fired wouldn’t have solved anything.”

“I guess he was kind of backed into a comer,” Starsky granted. “Thinkin’ back, he’s been pretty good to us, overall. He really went to bat for me with the review board. They were waffling for a time about reinstating me or not.”

“What?”

“You know the girl who works in the commissioner’s office part-time—oh, what’s her name—Sandra?”

“Yeah.”

“Well, I went out with her a time or two before the shooting, and while I was waiting to hear the official word, she called me, and said she thought I should be prepared because Dobey was really arm-wrestling with a couple of the review board guys to get me a good verdict.”

“Why didn’t you say anything?”

“Because you’d busted your butt for so long working with me on my physical therapy and the rehab and everything—I didn’t want to shoot you down—no pun intended—until we knew for sure. Besides, I guess I was kind of afraid if I said it, it would make it true—jinx it.”

“So Dobey turned the tide?”

“He must’ve, because the reinstatement verdict was unanimous.” Starsky paused. “And a lot of times, when we’ve been in trouble he’s come through—put his job on the line for us. Remember him stashing that money that was planted on us when that Ronstan kid was up for the flashing rap?”

“Oh, our evil twins. Yeah, sure, I remember.”

“And he let me go ‘arrest’ you after Vanessa.”

“Tomorrow, we go see Dobey,” Hutch concluded.

“Tonight, we drink a toast,” Starsky announced, raising his beer can toward the moon. “To Evelyn, and to us,” Starsky paused, appearing to sink into deep contemplation for just the right words. Finally, he concluded: “Still crazy after all these years.”

“Leave it to you to quote Paul Simon,” Hutch laughed as he tapped his beer can against Starsky’s.

‘My alternative was ‘we have come to bury Caesar, not to praise him.’ I told you I never had a good quote handy when I need it.”

“I guess Paul Simon’ll do just fine.”

“Yeah. Shakespeare was a real deep thinker, but you just can’t tap your toe to it.”

* * *

Dobey signed the last of a pile of requisitions for various pieces of equipment, funds and vacation requests. He thought of putting in a vacation request of his own. For some reason, coming into this damned office was becoming less and less palatable. Unsolvable cases, surly detectives, constant tension with the commissioner … if he hadn’t had so damn many debts he’d look real hard at the retirement package and run for the hills. Thanksgiving was coming up, Edith’s relatives were about to descend on his house en masse for the holiday, Cal’s grades had slipped this marking period which didn’t bode well for his chances at a particular scholarship for college in the fall they’d been counting on … He swallowed another aspirin with his coffee, wondering what the interaction of the medicine and the caffeine was really doing to his insides, but not caring enough to get up and get water.

Now he smelled food. Good food. It was well past lunch time. Probably some exotic batch of Chinese food imported by Starsky and Hutchinson to be consumed at their desks within smelling distance of his office. Can’t chew ’em out for working through lunch, he reasoned. If they’re involved enough to eat at their desks, best not to come down on them for stinking up the place.

“Cap’n, you busy?” Starsky’s head popped unexpectedly through the small distance the door was open from the frame.

“I’m always busy,” Dobey growled. He’d had no reason to try being friendly with Starsky anymore, with his “Yes, sir’s” and “Yes, Captain’s” and malevolent sideways glances.

“Had lunch yet?” There was the familiar hint of the irrepressible cheerfulness that usually tinged Starsky’s voice, even when Dobey was angry and intent on squashing it.

“No. Too busy.” He refused to look up from his work. Finally, sensing that the expectant face was still present in the crack of openness between his office and the squad room, he moved his focus to Starsky. The smile appeared instantly on the younger man’s face.

“Come on, Cap, too busy for lunch? Bein’ too busy for lunch is the sure sign of a sick mind.”

“I thought you told me that a tidy desk was the sure sign of a sick mind,” Dobey replied, faintly returning the smile, but puzzled by the change of attitude.

“Oh, yeah, that too. Hutch and I brought back Chinese. We’re just gettin’ around to eating lunch ourselves. Mind if we bring it in here? Everybody’s eye-ballin’ it out there.”

“No, that would be fine,” Dobey said, obviously pleased. Starsky disappeared momentarily but soon returned with Hutch and two large bags of Chinese take-out. The door was closed behind them, and they pulled their chairs up to the opposite side of the desk while Dobey fell easily back into his role of clearing the desk top before the food landed on it.

“Just thought you’d like to know,” Hutch spoke up, “that the Maple crest case is unofficially closed.” He sat down and began removing small white containers from the bags. Starsky was distributing napkins and freeing the Styrofoam beverage cups from their holder.

“When did this happen?” Dobey asked, seizing a plastic fork and confiscating some chunks of orange chicken for his paper plate.

“Last night,” Starsky spoke up. “You want any details?”

“Not really,” Dobey responded honestly. “Less said the better. Whatever you two got into last night—”

“You don’t know anything about it,” Hutch concluded, smiling. “That’s fine with us.”

“Look, Cap’n, we … well, mostly I … came down real hard on you for the way things went with this case. We just wanted you to know that we know what you were up against.”

“I had a little idea what you two were up against as well, I wasn’t pleased with the role the commissioner had me playing. I was supposed to have you two on some kind of punitive duty the last few weeks, but that was pushing it as far as I was concerned.”

“Don’t tell me—directing traffic?” Hutch guessed.

“No.”

“Parking meter duty?” Starsky suggested.

“Try helping Bigelow clean and reorganize the property room.”

“That ain’t punishment, Cap’n, that’s hell!” Starsky protested. “That’d be like givin’ somebody the death penalty for jay walking!” Dobey released a resounding laugh.

“Well, just remember,” he said, poking into a container of beef chow mein, “Bigelow hasn’t tackled that little project yet, and he’s still looking for helpers.” There was an impish smile on his face as he dangled a threat that had elicited a reaction from these fully grown men that was akin to the terror displayed by children faced with the promise of horrible punishment. “I would strongly suggest,” Dobey continued, the smile creeping into his voice as it was muffled by beef chow mein, “that you two keep your noses clean for at least the next couple of months.” Dobey watched the slightly frozen expressions.

“You wouldn’t actually…” Hutch said, smiling uneasily and shaking his head a little. Dobey just raised his eyebrows, as if it were surprising Hutch would question his willingness to subject them to such indignity.

“Naw, the cap’n wouldn’t do a thing like that to us,” Starsky said, an obviously nervous and uncomfortable look on his face.

Without warning, unable to maintain his short-lived charade, Dobey leaned back in his chair and laughed.