It’s Me Again, God

A missing scene for A Coffin For Starsky.

The jangling noise of the phone ringing in the wee hours of the morning is something that never loses its ability to jar the nerves, especially for a cop. The man had a partner and if the phone was ringing at 4:00 a.m., the reason could probably only mean one of a limited list of things: wrong number (unlikely), call from a relative (equally unlikely), call from his boss to respond to the scene of a homicide (twenty percent chance), or call from his partner (eighty percent chance). That last possibility could mean anything and it held the highest potential for concern.

“‘ello,” Hutch muttered into the offending handset.

When there was no answer right away, he tried again. “Hello? Who is this?”

Nothing but the sound of slow heavy breathing answered him. Now, Hutch was beginning to worry in earnest. He shook himself awake as his heart began to beat faster. If this was Starsky and he had just had a nightmare, or if he was calling with a summons to duty, he would have spoken right away and there hadn’t been a response.

After another ragged set of breaths, a weak voice called his name. “Hutch… help.” Before he could say anything back he thought he heard a thunk on the other end of the line and then nothing.

Hutch sprang out of bed still maintaining a firm grip on the phone. He pulled his pants on as quickly as he could, keeping the telephone’s handset up to his ear, held in place by his hunched shoulder. “Starsky, what’s wrong? Are you hurt?”

When there was no answer, Hutch dropped the handset on the bed just long enough to pull a black turtleneck out and yank it on over his head. He snatched it up again.

“Where are you?” Hutch asked.

The silence on the other end of the still open line was complete.

“Are you at home? Dammit, Starsky, can you hear me? Tell me where you are!”

Realizing there was no other information forthcoming, Hutch slammed the receiver down and reached for his shoes. Starsky had been perfectly fine yesterday evening when he dropped Hutch off after their shift. No distress, no worry. He was heading straight home. Around eleven o’clock Hutch had called to remind him to bring a file they were working on so he knew Starsky had made it home safely and he sounded fine then. They would see each other again the next morning around 7:30 when Starsky stopped to pick him up for work. The most likely scenario was that someone had gotten to him somehow, and Hutch was frightened by what that could mean.

Hutch grabbed his holster and gun, strapped them on and grabbed his brown leather jacket as he headed out the door. His fear that he was taking a huge chance not calling for backup passed fleetingly into his strained psyche. For some indiscernible reason, he knew he shouldn’t call for other officers to help. He’d have to assess first and decide whether to send up a flare or not. With nothing else to go on for direction, he would head for Starsky’s place as the logical place to start. He should be there at that hour, God willing.

After Hutch’s dash to his car, he couldn’t believe it when his attempt to crank the engine didn’t achieve the desired result. The battered Ford didn’t like to start when it was cold and he hadn’t driven it in two days–a sure fire recipe for failure to start.

“Come on, you son of a bitch!” he exclaimed, “Not now!”

Hutch cranked the engine repeatedly, then stopped abruptly because he was afraid he’d flood the engine. For a few seconds he put his hands on the top of the steering wheel and dropped his head on top of them.

“I’m sorry, baby,” he muttered. “Please don’t do this to me now. Starsky needs us.”

After taking a calming breath he tried turning the key in the ignition one more time and got a satisfying rumble to life from the engine. “Yes!” he said. His elation was short lived as he immediately refocused and threw the car into gear.

The time it took to get to Starsky’s gave Hutch ten minutes to think. Ten minutes even at four in the morning with virtually no traffic and running Code 3. An oddly interspersed litany of questions and prayers filled the time. He knew he’d have to cross a set of railroad tracks and his fuel light had just kicked on, which could mean he had half a tank of gas or almost none. The fuel gauge had been on the fritz for months. Just one more thing his partner had been ragging on him to get fixed on his clunker. He couldn’t worry about that right now.

What could have happened?

Please let him be okay.

What if his friend had been shot?

Please let me get there in time.

What if he was sick?

Please let him hang in there!

What if he had been grabbed out of his apartment and wasn’t even there anymore?

God, please not that.

If he wasn’t there, how in the hell would he find his partner?

Please let him be there. Dear, God, please let me find him.

He heard the clanging of the train signal begin as the red lights on the signal crossing arms started to flash about half a block in front of him. Knowing what a terrible idea it was to ever try to beat a train he knew he had a few seconds and he floored it anyway, making it through the middle of the crossing just as the dropping far side signal arm grazed his trunk. He’d have to worry about that later, too. The train’s horn blared behind him. A quick glance in the rearview mirror showed the signal arm down and flashing as normal as a freight train lumbered through the crossing. His hands were hit with the distinct pinprick sensation caused by an adrenaline burst and he shuddered at how close that had been. He could just hear his partner ragging on him in his head. The train always wins, Blondie.

Hutch cut the siren and brought the Mars light back inside the car a few blocks from his buddy’s place. He shut off the light and tossed it on the passenger seat just as he pulled up to the curb and slammed on the brakes, causing his stomach to lurch and the light to fly off the seat to the floor.

In a move worthy of his partner, Hutch flung open the door, leapt out, and scampered across his hood rather than taking the time to run around the front of the car. He pulled his Magnum as he bounded up the stairs. The fact that the door was standing open put his danger sense into an even higher state of hyper-drive than it had been in so far.

Police training and good sense took over as Hutch unconsciously slid into cop mode just before reaching the landing. After a brief pause to steady himself, he dove through the door in a roll coming up with his back to the door, gun sweeping the room for threats.

Nothing.

Hutch quickly covered the living room and kitchen, finding them empty. Just like they should be at four-fifteen in the morning. The only sound he heard was the incessant beeping of an off-the-hook phone coming from the bedroom. Hutch progressed through the apartment to the bedroom door, never relaxing his shooting-ready position, right hand holding the Magnum and resting in his left hand for stability.

Swinging through the bedroom doorway, he passed his gun arm from left to right before he reached with his left hand to turn on the light. The sight in front of him sent his heart climbing right to his throat. Starsky was lying on the floor next to the phone, right where he had dropped it and obviously collapsed. After a prudent quick check of the bathroom for an intruder, Hutch rushed over to where Starsky lay unmoving. Hutch holstered his gun, and put the phone on the hook, silencing the beeping so he could hear better.

“Starsky!” he exclaimed, reaching out to touch his friend’s arm. He gave it a gentle shake. The skin was cool and a little clammy, so he didn’t have a fever.

Hutch felt for a pulse, which he found to be strong, but too slow. He gently rolled his friend onto his back, getting no response at all. Putting his hand on Starsky’s chest, he could feel his slow respirations and he could hear how much work they were causing.

“Starsk! You in there, buddy?” Hutch patted Starsky’s cheek. “You gotta give me a sign here!”

Starsky didn’t twitch, much less respond to his touch. Hutch couldn’t see any bleeding, so he felt his friend’s head to see if he’d been knocked senseless, but couldn’t find a goose egg or any other evidence that had happened. With more than a little trepidation, Hutch lifted an eyelid and was frightened to see his friend’s fully dilated pupil. At least his check on the other eye revealed the same thing. All the signs pointed to his friend having been drugged with something powerful enough to render him unable to respond to stimuli. Without further thought he dialed the phone, calling for an ambulance.

Hutch went to the bathroom to get a cool damp cloth to try to help revive his friend. He wasn’t wearing a watch, but he found Starsky’s on the bathroom counter and grabbed it. Knowing he probably wouldn’t get anywhere, he still had to try to bring Starsky out of it. Hutch knelt on the floor and tried to coax a response from him with the cool cloth.

“This is pretty scary, partner,” he said softly. “How about you wake up for me, huh?”

At least the effort gave him something to do while he waited, besides watching to make sure Starsky kept breathing. He used the watch to time his friend’s pulse and respiration, unhappy with the results. Hutch slid the watch into his jacket pocket. The sound of the ambulance siren growing closer was a relief.

Hearing them enter the apartment, Hutch called out to them, “In here!”

The medics swept into the room and Hutch got out of their way so they could assess their patient.

“Do you know what happened to him?” the medic taking Starsky’s pulse asked.

“No. He called me and passed out before he could tell me anything. I found him like this.”

“How long ago was that?”

Hutch looked at the clock on the night stand and said, “About thirty minutes.”

After looking in both of Starsky’s eyes, the man turned back to Hutch and said, “What’s he on?”

“Nothing on purpose. I think someone broke in here and drugged him, but I have no idea what it was.”

The two men passed a look between them that Hutch read as disbelief. As the medics picked Starsky up to transfer him to their stretcher, the man with the longer hair said, “Looks like an OD to me.”

“We’re cops!” Hutch snapped. “He’s not on anything he took, I’m telling you somebody slipped him something.”

Neither man responded to that. They tightened the straps over the blanket covering their patient and headed for the door. The man in front said, “We’re taking him to Receiving.”

“I’m riding with you,” Hutch said.

“You can’t. Just meet us over there.”

Hutch put a hand on the man in back’s shoulder and they stopped. “Look, I’m in no mood to argue about it. That’s my partner and somebody’s after him. I’m not letting him out of my sight right now. Case closed.”

The man nodded his agreement and they left the apartment. Hutch helped them put the stretcher into the back of the ambulance and climbed in to sit beside it. All he could do was watch over Starsky and rack his brain for some memory or clue that would help him figure out who might have his partner in their crosshairs. Helpless wasn’t a state the blond detective was used to and it didn’t sit well with him.

Starsky still hadn’t come around when they screeched into the ambulance bay at Receiving Hospital. As he climbed down onto the driveway he shot a glance up at the predawn sky. It’s me again, God. Please let him be okay.