Jasmine

179

New partners Starsky and Hutch deal with their emotional reactions to a case involving the death of a child.

 

Archivist’s Note: This story can be read as either gen or slash, but we feel slash is implied, thus the categorization of SLASH.

Originally published in Boys In Blue Zine in 2008, edited by Enednoviel.

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Jasmine:
Any of several shrubs or vines having fragrant flowers.
An exotic, sensuous essence obtained from the delicate white flowers of this plant. A single gram of precious oil requires 8,000 hand-picked blossoms.
The ancients revered as the “perfume of love.”
It is also a girl’s name.

 

It was two a.m. outside Interrogation Room C. The corridor smelled like Pine-Sol, stale cigarette smoke, and sweat. The floor, walls, and ceiling were a lifeless beige. Only the muddy brown vending machines brightened the impersonal space.

“This is bad. Real bad.” Starsky punched the air as he paced up and down.

“Starsky, try to calm down,” said Hutch. The tall, fair-haired man in uniform stood by the coffee machine out of the striding cop’s way.

“You calm down! You didn’t go on the run. She was already stiff and cold when I got there!”

“You contacted our supervisor, right?” Hutch asked as he fumbled for change in his pocket.

“Hell, yeah. I’m not stupid.”

“Well, where is he?”

“Double homicide over on Carrolton. He said to handle it until he got here. Shit, shit, shit.” He continued to pace and punch the air.

“God.” Hutch’s hand was unsteady as he tried to insert the money. “Why the hell won’t it take this quarter? Will you stop pacing?”

“This is wrong. So wrong. She’s just a little kid.” Starsky’s voice broke.

Hutch stepped into the middle of the hallway and put his right hand out like a traffic cop. “Stop!” He pushed his hand into the other man’s chest and stopped him in his tracks. “Calm down. Right now. We can handle this. Okay? I can’t hear you. Okay?”

“Okay,” the wiry brunet man mumbled as he gained his composure.

“Give me a quarter.”

“What do you need a quarter for? You’ve got one in your hand.”

“The machine won’t take it.”

“What do you mean the machine won’t take it? Give me the money.” Starsky clicked his fingers and held out his left hand.

“Don’t snap your fingers at me. I’m not a dog. Here.” He slapped the coins into the open hand.

Starsky dropped them in, kicked the machine, and made a selection.

“I can do it,” Hutch snapped as they both made a grab for the cup of coffee. He lifted it to his mouth, spilling some on his dark blue uniform shirt. “Shit.” He took a careful sip and swallowed. “This is our chance to get to work together in a rotation. Let’s try and act like we know what the hell we’re doing. We put in for Homicide detail, not school crossing guard.”

“I know this is Homicide; you don’t have to remind me,” said Starsky. “She’s just a little kid, Hutch.”

“Let’s do what we can for her. Let’s do our job. Did we hear the suspect ask for a lawyer yet?”

“No.”

“Did we read her her rights?”

“Yes. So did Patrolman Kirk.”

“And he’s in C with her right now. The steno just showed up. So, we can proceed with the interview until McGee gets here. Peterson is trying to find out if the family has a social worker.” He passed the cup to Starsky, who took a cautious sip and put it on top of the candy machine. “I’m sorry I didn’t make the run with you. I’ve still got to close that robbery case with Huntley and work our shift, too. Want some candy?”

“Yeah, M&M’s.”

“Chocolate covered raisins?”

“M&M’s,” said Starsky. Hutch retrieved the candy, tore the bag open with his teeth and poured some in his mouth. He gave the pack to his partner who poured some in his own mouth. They stood together, an island of cohesion in a confused world, eating candy for quick energy and comfort. “Those are raisins.”

“Raisins are better for you.”

“But I wanted M&M’s.”

“Next time, you get to pick.”

“You said that the last time. I said Snickers, and you gave me the raisins.”

“When was that?” asked Hutch.

“Then the time before that, I said Three Musketeers, and I got raisins. And, before that, I said, Hershey’s, and you gave me raisins.”

“What are you doing, keeping score?”

“All I’m saying is, you keep saying I get to pick, but when it’s my turn, you pick the raisins. I hate raisins. I feel like I’m eating ants dipped in chocolate. No… more… raisins.” He took his hand and tapped Hutch’s face with each word. Hutch grabbed Starsky’s little finger and jerked it to the side. “Ow!”

“Can we focus here?”

Starsky grabbed the coffee cup from the top of the candy machine and clutched it tightly. “Yeah. Yeah. What’s with the purple stuff she keeps yakking about in there?”

“I think she means the hemorrhaging.”

“Ah, fuck.” He looked down. “It’s just that she keeps going on and on about the purple stuff, you know? I don’t think I can handle the post. I really, really don’t.” He handed the cup back to Hutch and their fingers touched.

“I’ll stay with Jasmine, Starsk. You going to be okay?” Hutch reached out and squeezed his partner’s shoulder. “Time to go to work?”

“Time to get things done,” answered his partner.

“Thin blue line?”

“Feelin’ fine,” Starsky replied.

“Let’s get it done!”

“Let’s get it right!” Their comments bounced back and forth, a psych-up kind of Pong in a hallway of despair.

“Protect and serve?” asked Hutch.

“If you’ve got the nerve! Help me, Rhonda!”

“What the hell is that?” Hutch looked at his partner with affection as he handed the coffee cup back.

“I’m running out of positives for this pep rally. Mothers are supposed to love their kids… not kill them.” He gulped the rest of the coffee down and crushed the cup in a hard fist.

“Give me some Jack Webb!”

“Just the facts, ma’am,” Starsky answered.

“What about some 5-0?”

“Book ’em, Dano!”

“Beach Boys?”

“Help me, Rhonda!” Starsky inhaled deeply, squared his shoulders, and exhaled. “We can do this.”

“Damn right!” Hutch reached into his shirt pocket and took out a pack of Doublemint gum, unwrapped a piece, put it in his mouth, and began to chew vigorously. “We’ll go by the book unless we hear different.”

“Sounds like a plan. Hey, I thought the doctor said you weren’t supposed to chew gum with your stiff jaw.”

“I’m not.” He kept chewing. “And I wouldn’t have a sore jaw if someone who shall remain nameless hadn’t gone overboard in the Defense Tactics refresher course two weeks ago.”

“I was just doing what the instructor told me to do.”

“What he said was: ‘Officer Starsky will now demonstrate how a left hook can work for you in a street fight.’”

“And I duly demonstrated.”

“And I duly received your demonstration.”

“Duly noted. Now, give me the gum.” Starsky clicked his fingers and held out his hand.

Hutch pointed his right index finger. “Don’t click at me.” Then, he sighed and handed the pack over.

“Uh-huh, just like I thought, a fresh pack. Okay, now the other piece.”

“What other piece?”

“The one in your mouth. C’mon, give it up.”

Hutch looked at him with narrowed eyes and spit it into Starsky’s open hand.

“Satisfied?”

“I’ve had better things in my hand,” he said as he threw the gum away. “Time to go to work.”

***

“She has a behavior problem, and I whooped her yesterday,” Ms. Moore said, “and she just kept saying, ‘My stomach hurt,’ and I thought it was another fake, but it’s been going on two days. She’s been throwing up purple stuff.”

***

The refrigerated autopsy room was overly bright, cold, and clinical. The naked little girl lying on the stainless-steel table looked very small and alone. Hutch stood next to her briefly and lightly stroked her lifeless hand with his little finger to somehow let her know he was there. Then, he stepped back and looked at her corpse: his eyewitness to the autopsy the only comfort he could offer her.

“Victim female, black, age seven,” Dr. Takei, a compact Asian man, spoke into the microphone hanging over the autopsy table. “Officer Hutchinson, present at interrogation and autopsy, reports that the mother stated that the child had not been able to eat or drink for several days. This child’s been tortured for a while,” said the medical examiner in a harsh whisper to those present. He steadied himself and went on with the recording. “There is the appearance of past abuse upon the victim’s body. There are scratches, burn marks, and scars. Prior to post-mortem, Hutchinson stated that the suspect, the girl’s birth mother, informed him that she whipped the child with a belt and kicked her in the chest.”

Hutch raised one finger to get the doctor’s attention. He nodded. “The mother stated that the beating was punishment for Jasmine’s misbehaving in school,” he whispered.

Dr. Takei acknowledged the input and spoke into the microphone that the beating was a reprimand for alleged misbehavior. Hutch, Sgt. Peterson from Child Protective Services, and Assistant D.A. Murphy took notes as the autopsy proceeded. Though surrounded by caring strangers, Jasmine suffered the examination’s intrusive indignity the same way she had borne the other abuses in her life, in silence with no one to save her.

“The beating,” concluded the pathologist, “left the victim with a lacerated kidney and liver. Death was due to internal and external hemorrhage.”

***

After the autopsy, the three witnesses stood closely together in a sterile hallway attempting to find comfort in camaraderie.

“Shit, I need a cigarette,” said Peterson.

“I thought you quit,” said Hutch to the black policewoman.

“I’m starting again.”

“I feel like just going home and hugging my kids,” said Murphy.

“You doing okay, Hutch?” Peterson asked. “You’re looking a little pale.”

“I always look pale compared to you, Petey,” said Hutch.

“Yeah, yellow-haired and pasty white,” joked Peterson.

“Maybe I should call my wife and make sure the kids are okay,” said Murphy. “We can go out for pizza and play miniature golf later.”

Hutch and Peterson smiled and nodded in agreement that his kids should go out for pizza and fun even if Jasmine couldn’t.

“My youngest, Jennifer, made a hole in one last time. Her brothers were livid.”

“How old is she?” asked Peterson.

“She just turned seven,” said Murphy proudly.

“Seven? Oh, man,” said Hutch.

“Damn.” said Peterson.

“Jesus,” said Murphy. “What a sick, sorry ass case. I’d better get back to the office and get things rolling. The press is going to want details on this one. Anybody?” He looked at his companions.

“Tell them she was a pretty little girl in life,” Peterson said sadly.

“Tell them…” Hutch hesitated. “Tell them that when Jasmine vomited because of the internal bleeding, her mother made her clean it up.”

***

Abused in her short life, Jasmine Wilkerson has now been neglected in death. The 7-year-old’s body—battered and bruised at the hands of her mother—remains unclaimed in the Bay City morgue five days after she was declared dead at Children’s Hospital.

Jasmine was described as a friendly, well-behaved second grader, who loved to read.

***

Two denim-clad young men in their late twenties entered Jeune Fille, a rose petal pink space for little girls’ finery. They headed for a round rack of pastel party dresses.

“What about this one?” Starsky held up a blue dress against his chest.

“Red’s more your color.”

“You think?”

“May I help you?” a plump, middle-aged woman asked as she approached them.

“Ma’am, we need a special dress,” explained Hutch.

“She must be a very special little girl,” said the saleswoman.

“She is,” said Hutch.

“How old is she?”

“Seven.”

“Do you know her size?”

Starsky opened his hands to show her the approximate length of the corpse he’d examined at the crime scene. The clerk looked at him oddly.

“She’s 47 pounds, 45 inches,” Hutch said crisply, giving the homicide report’s specifics. “And her name is Jasmine.”

“Really? I have the perfect dress for her. It just came in. It’s right here on the counter.” She unzipped a plastic cover and revealed a fragile looking dress embroidered with small white flowers.

“Those are jasmines, aren’t they?” Hutch touched the scalloped hem of the dress with reverence.

“It’s an exclusive. A handmade Jeune Fille original,” she explained as she took in their blue jeans, leather jackets, and ability to pay.

“Do you take American Express?” asked Hutch.

“Certainly, sir.”

“We’ll take it!” They said with one voice.

“Is it her birthday?” the saleswoman asked as she placed the dress in a gold and white box. She nestled the garment in layers and layers of pastel pink, tea rose patterned tissue paper.

“It’s a…” Hutch hesitated.

“Gift wrap is complimentary, sir,” she said noting his delay.

“…going away present.” Starsky finished.

“Will she be gone long? Gold or white bow?”

“Forever,” said Starsky.

“Moving away?” she asked.

“Something like that,” Hutch said.

“I think the gold, don’t you?” She admired her handiwork.

“That’s very nice. Thank you,” said Hutch.

“What about a pretty slip?” The saleswoman gently pushed for the extra commission. “It will make the dress just like a ballerina’s when she twirls in it.” They bought the expensive slip, even though Jasmine could only dance with the angels now. “What about these darling ruffled panties?” She held them up coquettishly. “Would you like the pink or the white? Both work well with the ensemble.”

The two men looked at each other. “Pink?” asked Starsky.

“Fine,” said Hutch.

“And, what about a purse?” she enthused. “Then she can be just like Mommy.” Her comment put an invisible shroud over their shopping spree. The two cops glanced at each other, acknowledging the reality of the situation. “And we have shoes that match the purse, gentlemen.”

“She won’t need any shoes, ma’am,” said Hutch.

“What about these lovely, embroidered socks, sir?”

“Perfect. And we could use a pretty little hanky, too. That goes inside her purse,” Hutch informed his partner. “My sister always had one, when she was little. Oh, and we need white lace gloves.”

“Do you have any toys?” Starsky asked wistfully.

***

If no one comes forward and makes plans for the girl’s funeral, her body will be placed in a cardboard coffin, her burial attended only by gravediggers, and her plot marked with only a number.

***

The next day, they sat in a black and white in a sliver of shade outside a McDonald’s finishing a late lunch.

“What time are we meeting the funeral director?” Starsky asked.

“Around two,” said Hutch as he wiped his hands on a napkin. “I like the teddy you picked out.” It sat glassy-eyed and well-behaved on the back seat of the squad car along with other non-official law enforcement related items.

“So she’ll have company and not be alone. You know?”

“I know.” He took a small black notebook out of his shirt pocket, flipped it open and began reading something.

“How do you think Ford’s doing as President so far?” asked Starsky.

“He seems to have trouble walking and talking at the same time,” said Hutch as he took a pencil and erased something in the notebook.

“Beats Nixon.”

“You voted for him.”

“The first time, the first time. He was for law and order. I’m for that. It sounded good. Don’t look at me like I’ve got cooties or something. I was back from ‘Nam, there were riots, everything was crazy. McGovern was too weird.”

“Weird? What do you mean?”

“You know, sandals, and peace signs and marching to Washington and granola and we shall overcome and love beads and stuff like that. Like you.”

“Thank you. I think,” said Hutch as he began writing in the notebook.

“Hanging around with you has made me love weirdness, you know that?”

“I’m flattered. Sort of.”

“You want more fries?”

“No thanks, I’m good,” said Hutch as he continued writing.

“Root beer?”

“In a second.”

“What about…”

“Can you just let me finish this? I need to finish this.” Hutch’s voice rose in frustration.

“Yeah, sure. Suit yourself.”

They sat in controlled silence for several minutes while Hutch wrote. “Okay, done.” He neatly tore the pages from the notebook, folded them in half precisely and carefully placed them on the dashboard.

“What about that root beer?” Starsky handed over the cup. Hutch drank from the straw.

“I heard that Scott’s defending the mother in front of Judge McClaren,” said Starsky.

“That’s what I heard. That’s good.”

“Why?”

“McClaren has compassion.”

“Compassion! Shit!” said Starsky as he spilled the rest of the fries on the floor. “Why the hell should that bitch get any sympathy? Did she have any for her kid?”

“Maybe no one had any for her.”

“You know, you know,” Starsky said as he picked up the fries and threw them out the window, “sometimes your bleeding-heart liberalism makes me sick.”

“The law states that she’s entitled to a defense and a fair trial. You know that.”

“Yeah, yeah. Officer Boho-Crunchy,” Starsky muttered.

“Look, I’m not condoning what she did. Far from it. I’m not saying that she should be set free. What she did was unbelievable. But there may be mitigating circumstances that made her act that way.”

“Like being nuts?”

“The psych evaluation is still pending.”

“She’ll get a free ride on that, then. ‘She’s nuts, so she couldn’t help it. Next case.’ Get out the violins and the peace symbols. So what if the kid is dead.”

“Maybe we should just put her against a wall and open fire. How about that, Mr. Law and Order?”

“Fine with me, Officer Weirdo. What the hell do you know, you weren’t there when I found her.”

“You weren’t there for the autopsy,” said Hutch. “Maybe we need to re-think this whole partners-in-Homicide thing. Maybe it’s just not going to work out. Why don’t I just take this stuff to the funeral home myself? Because I can do it myself. I can talk to the director myself. Here, take the pop.”

“It’s called soda, dummy.”

“Take the damn pop!”

“I don’t want it!”

“Take it!” Hutch shoved the drink cup into his partner’s hand and Starsky hurled it through Hutch’s window.

“Good thing the window was open, moron. Any chance you can hold this?” Hutch reached behind him and brought the bear forward. He gave his partner the plush toy and turned to get a shopping bag. Starsky cuddled the bear, while his partner opened the small parcel. He tucked the notebook pages into Jasmine’s pink patent leather purse and then closed the bag. He unwrapped a stick of gum, put it in his mouth and started to chew purposefully.

“She didn’t even phone for help until the next day,” said Starsky.

“I know.”

“By then, the kid was already stiff. You know that?”

“I know.”

“How can a mother do something like that?”

“I don’t have any answers. I just don’t know.” Hutch looked down and bit his bottom lip.

“Here.” Starsky passed the bear over to his partner. Hutch reached for the bear and hugged it. “I didn’t mean what I said. You’re not really that much of a weirdo.”

Hutch turned his head and smiled briefly. “Thanks.”

“Don’t mention it. Now get rid of it.” Starsky clicked his fingers and pointed to the ashtray.

Hutch glowered at his partner and then threw the gum away.

***

Instead of a cardboard box and a nameless grave, 7-year-old Jasmine Wilkerson got a proper casket and a loving farewell from 200 mourners, Sunday afternoon, many of them Bay City police personnel.

Thanks to the generosity of nameless donors, Jasmine will be laid to rest in a hand-embroidered pink crepe dress with a pink bow for her hair. She clasped two pink carnations between hands, which were covered with white lace gloves.

A purple teddy bear lay beside her in the child-size white-and-gold coffin.

***

On Monday after dayshift, several of the nameless donors met for a drink at the Towne Taverne, a place close to the courthouse.

“She looked like a little angel lying there,” said Peterson. “Precious child. God, I want a cigarette.”

“A doll-baby,” said Murphy.

“She deserved better than she got,” Starsky said.

“I didn’t know that the coffin would be so light. When we picked it up, it felt like there was nothing there,” said Hutch.

“She’ll always be here as long as we remember,” said Peterson.

“Yeah, who can forget?” Starsky said and looked down at a catalogue on the table.

“She really liked the teddy, Starsk,” Hutch said so softly that only his friend could hear.

“Does anyone have a cigarette?” Peterson asked.

“Who wants another drink?” asked Murphy as he called the waitress over and ordered four shots of Irish whiskey.

“What do you call this?” said Hutch pointing to the pitcher of beer.

“The first layer?” answered Starsky. Everyone laughed.

“Kind of medicinal, Murph,” said Hutch when the drinks came.

“Just what the doctor ordered.” He raised his glass. “To Jasmine.”

“To Jasmine.” They all touched glasses and drank the shots. In the background, the jukebox played a Bob Seeger song about being ‘a little something against the wind.’

“No twirling in her pretty little petticoat,” said Peterson. “Did anyone see a cigarette machine?”

“No storybooks,” said Hutch.

“No third grade,” said Murphy and clutched his glass.

“No shopping with her purse,” said Peterson as she reached for a paper napkin and sniffed.

“Yeah, so she can be just like mommy. Shit. Who wants another drink? I want another one. Let’s have another one,” Starsky urged.

“We can’t right now,” said Hutch. “We’re meeting the man at the monument company at 6:30.”

“Sorry. Forgot. More work.” Starsky went back to looking at the catalogue.

“By the way, Murph, thanks for the family contribution,” Hutch said.

“The wife and I wanted to do something extra. The bag of change came from the kids.”

“That’s really great,” said Peterson.

“Yeah, we’re proud of them,” said Murphy.

“Starsky and I want to do something extra for the engraving,” said Hutch. “Something…”

“…personal…” added Starsky.

“…something special,” said Hutch. “And…”

“…more than just a name and a date,” finished Starsky.

“So, now you finish each other’s sentences?” Peterson asked.

“My wife and I do that,” said Murphy.

“Oh, oh,” said Peterson. “You know what they say about partners.”

“What’s that, Petey?” Hutch played along.

“It’s closer than being married,” she teased.

“It’s not official yet,” said Hutch.

“Yeah, he hasn’t given me a ring.” Everyone laughed at Starsky’s joke.

“I meant that we’re not sure if it’s going to work,” Hutch explained.

“I’m sure,” said Starsky.

“Well, a word to the wise,” said Murphy looking around to see if anyone was listening. “And you didn’t hear this from me. But Dobey’s definitely got the go ahead for the new unit. The funding finally came through.”

“Is that right?” Hutch said with real interest.

“And, not that you heard this from me or anyone connected with the D.A.’s office…”

“Of course not,” said Hutch.

“What D.A.?” said Starsky.

“There are two openings for a couple of die-hards, who give a shit, and who want to work their asses off for peanuts. But you didn’t hear that from me.”

“Can’t hear you,” said Hutch while Starsky put his hands over his ears.

“Well, not that there’s been anything discussed or anything,” put in Peterson, “but, if there was a new unit and openings, as a department head, I could recommend two idealists that I know.” She smiled across the table at the two young cops. “Doesn’t the Assistant D.A. have input, Murph?”

“When the time comes, when the time comes,” he intoned as he finished his beer.

“One question,” said Starsky. “About the thing with the thing.”

“Yes?” asked Murphy.

“Can I wear jeans? Because if it’s plainclothes, sign me up.”

“Starsk…” hissed Hutch.

“I just wondered,” said Starsky. “So, what about something like this?” He pointed to the catalogue he had been looking at.

“Nice,” said Murphy.

“Pretty,” said Peterson.

“Perfect,” said Hutch.

“Just right for a little girl,” Starsky said sadly.

The others nodded their heads, sniffed back tears and wiped their eyes.

***

Instead of a numbered grave, Jasmine Wilkerson will have a heart-shaped headstone carved with angels and small flowers. Anonymous donors provided for the marker.

Her mother’s trial has been postponed until the psychiatric evaluation is complete. The other children have been removed from Ms. Moore’s custody and placed in foster homes.

***

A few days later, the two off-duty cops sat in a back booth at the Towne Taverne.

“I’ve got two days off in a row that started,” Starsky looked at his watch, “thirty-seven minutes ago.”

“What a coincidence, so do I,” said Hutch.

“So, what do you think?”

“Pub crawl?”

“Sounds like a plan,” said Starsky. “What about that fern bar you like?”

“I thought you hated that place?”

“Hey, I’m crazy about hanging plants, backgammon, and people whispering like they’re in church.”

“Just for that comment, I’m going to force you to take me there.”

“I’ll take you wherever and whenever you want,” said Starsky. “What’ll it be?”

“Bloody Marys to start.”

“I was talking food.”

“A Bloody Mary is food. It’s a salad in a glass,” Hutch said.

“How you doing, sweetheart?” Starsky asked the young waitress. “I’ll have a Michelob and your Towne Platter with a double order of fries. He’s eating a Bloody Mary. Bring us the second round with the food and there’s a nice tip in it for you.” He winked at her. She smiled and hustled away.

“Flirt.”

“Keeps them happy. Aren’t you going to say: how can you eat all that?”

“I was getting around to it.”

“Well, my answer is: I ordered all that because you eat off my plate.”

“No, I don’t.”

“Yeah, you do. And then, I only have half of what I ordered. So, help yourself when the food gets here because some of it’s yours.” The waitress returned with their drinks and set them down. Hutch started stirring his with the stalk of celery that was in it. “Before you start chewing up your stirrer, and I can’t hear myself talk, a toast. L’chaim!”

“Skal!” They clinked glasses.

“Larry’s here,” Starsky said as they finished their third round at the Pong game in the corner.

“Yeah, I can hear. How many times do you think he’ll play ‘Iron Man’?”

“I think twelve is his record. Nobody gives him quarters anymore since that happened.”

“Thanks for not asking me what I wrote in the note,” said Hutch.

“I was minding my own business for a change.”

“You showed remarkable restraint.”

“I wanted to ask.”

“Starsk.” Hutch put his foot out and touched his partner’s shoe.

“Yeah?” Starsky closed his two feet and trapped his partner’s foot.

“Ask me later.”

“You got it. You ready to crawl?”

Hutch stood up and started getting out his wallet. “Where to?”

“Foosball at the Bear’s Lair, then the ferns,” said Starsky.

***

Later that evening, they went to Laurel’s, a low-key bar that featured an outside patio surrounded by plants. They sat at a secluded table and ordered beer. A bluesy guitar instrumental played over the sound system.

“Damn. No ‘Iron Man,'” said Hutch.

Starsky smiled. “That’s nice music. Do you know what that song is?”

“It’s called ‘God Bless the Child.'”

“It fits. You know?”

“I talked to Jasmine’s teacher after the service. She said that Jasmine loved being hugged, that she was friendly and well-behaved.”

“Too bad her old lady didn’t think so,” said Starsky.

“She didn’t even get to finish second grade. Her teacher said she really likes to read Dr. Seuss.”

“Liked.”

“Liked?” asked Hutch.

“You said likes.”

“Oh, right. She’s in the past tense now. Starsk…”

“Yeah?”

“You can ask me now, if you want.”

“What did you write?”

“I told Jasmine that she was a good girl. She was good. She wasn’t bad. She didn’t deserve what happened.” Hutch looked down at the table. “I never felt like I was good enough,” he said quietly.

“Yes, you were. While I was skipping school, you were on the honor roll. You even brushed your teeth at night, for chrissake. I was the King of Detention, while you were skipping grades. You were perfect, compared to me.”

“Compared to you, Al Capone was a saint.”

“How can you say you weren’t good enough? The music lessons, the ballroom dance lessons, the Sea Scouts, being a lifeguard, straight ‘A’s. Shit, a ‘C’ was cause for celebration at my house.”

“No matter what I did, it wasn’t good enough. She was on me all the time. ‘Sit up straight, stop running in the house, stop spilling your milk, get your elbows off the table, be quiet, what’s wrong with you, no, you can’t play, you have to practice the piano.’”

“Hey, I thought my name was Shut Up, when my father was alive. Don’t laugh. I’m serious. What’s the worst thing you ever did, when you were a kid?” asked Starsky.

“I broke a lamp.”

“Shit, that’s nothing. I kicked my little brother in the head once. Hard.”

“You didn’t mean to do it.”

“Yes, I did.”

“I chopped the head off my little sister’s favorite doll once,” said Hutch.

“Details?”

“I needed a victim. I read A Tale of Two Cities and wondered how a guillotine worked.”

“Good one.” He hesitated. “I killed a bird once,” said Starsky.

“Hunting?”

“No. I was riding my bike, and it wouldn’t get out of my way, so I just ran it over. And it was dead. It was still warm in my hand with its neck all loose and weird. I felt like a murderer.”

“Maybe the bird was depressed and committed suicide by bike.”

“You’ve got a sick sense of humor, you know that, doll killer?”

“Here’s a good one. I was the mastermind behind the Choir Loft Fart Caper.”

“Facts?”

“A kid named Stinky Smith, a can of baked beans, a wooden pew, and a bet with Jack Mitchell.”

“The bet?”

“That I couldn’t get Smith to eat the beans and lay a big one during our confirmation rehearsal.”

“Outcome?”

“Pandemonium. I won the bet, Stinky found relief, and Jack got blamed for the whole thing.”

“High five!” They slapped hands. “How’d you break the lamp?”

“I threw a book at it. I didn’t mean to break it.”

“If you didn’t mean to break it, why did you throw something at it?” Starsky wanted to know.

“Did anyone ever tell you that you’d make a good detective?”

“Yeah, yeah, very funny. You know what they say?”

“What?”

“Your fern bar, your check. Let’s crawl. Where to next?” Starsky asked as Hutch paid the bill and they left the bar.

“It’s your turn to pick,” said Hutch.

“How about Damones?”

“How about no?”

“I thought you liked that place?” Starsky grinned.

“I should have never told you about that, you know that.”

“Why?”

“Because every time someone says ‘let’s have a drink, where should we go,’ you say, ‘Hutch likes Damones,’ and then everyone looks at me. Then, you have to tell the story, so that everyone can laugh.”

“It’s funny.”

“Not when you have to hear it every time someone says, ‘let’s have a drink.'”

“Where’s your sense of humor, Blondie?”

“I lost it after the twentieth time you told the story,” said Hutch.

“It’s a good story. All about that uniformed cop who goes into a leather bar so he can talk to the bartender, who’s a robbery suspect. And gets dry-humped by a patron standing at the bar who thinks the blond guy asking the questions is wearing a costume. And then who gets grabbed by another patron who keeps saying, ‘I’ve been so bad, Officer Blondie. Arrest me! Spank me, spank me!’ You don’t think that’s a funny story?”

“Shut up.”

“Want to play some pool?” asked Starsky.

“Not right now.”

“How about some more music?”

“Sounds like a plan,” said Hutch he put his arm around Starsky’s shoulder, and they walked down the street.

***

A short time later, they stood outside a small club with a purple neon sign that said Chad’s Place. Music spilled out onto the sidewalk.

“I hear music,” said Starsky. “Want to go in?”

“This is a gay bar.”

“So?”

“So, we’ll look like we’re together.”

“We are together. We’re standing here talking to each other.”

“I mean, together-together,” explained Hutch.

“Is that like the thing with the thing?”

“I mean, like we’re on a date.”

“This ain’t a date, schweetheart, this is a pub crawl.”

“Is that supposed to be Bogey?” asked Hutch.

“Yeah.”

“You could have fooled me.”

“Why can’t two straight guys go into a gay bar? What happened to Officer Open-Minded? Mr. Different Strokes for Different Folks? We don’t say queer, we say gay?” declared Starsky.

“You know, I hate you sometimes.”

“Same here. Move your ass. Let’s crawl.” Starsky opened the door for Hutch. “There’s a booth right over there.” Hutch squinted his eyes in the smoky atmosphere. “No, over there.” Starsky propelled him in the right direction and pushed him into the booth.

“Stop pushing me,” complained Hutch.

“Oh look, we’re sitting here together. Someone might see us. Two martinis,” he said to the waiter. “And could we have extra olives in them, honey?” He winked at the server.

“God,” said Hutch.

“Keeps them happy. Haven’t I seen you somewhere before?” Starsky put his arm around the back of the seat and turned to his friend.

“At a funeral for a dead kid?”

“Yeah, I forgot.”

“Sorry,” said Hutch.

“Every party needs a pooper, that’s why I invited you.”

Hutch gave a small smile. The waiter brought their drinks. He gave a little air kiss in Starsky’s direction when he left. “What is it about you that everyone finds so attractive?”

“I’m cute,” said Starsky.

“I don’t think so.”

“Maybe I’ll grow on you.”

“Like mold?” Hutch laughed. Then, he started listening to the music. His head bopped and his eyes closed while the group played a complicated improvisation. “Man, that was crazy,” he said at the end of the set.

“Yeah, totally insane.”

“Miller’s ‘Moonlight Serenade’ with Beethoven and Brahms thrown in to sweeten the mix. Way beyond cool.”

“Freezing?”

“Icey! C-minor, Starsk. Dig?”

“With a shovel.”

“You didn’t like it?” asked Hutch.

“It was kind of long.”

“Long?” Hutch looked disappointed.

“I liked that bit at the end, though.”

“What bit?”

“You know, the bit with the clarinet and the sax and stuff.”

“And the thing with the thing?” asked Hutch.

“Cool beyond cool, Daddy-O,” Starsky said as he snapped his fingers.

“Shut up.”

“That’s my name, don’t wear it out.” They got up and moved towards the exit.

“You didn’t like it, did you?” Hutch said as they stood outside.

“I liked you liking it. What did you think about those two guys making out?”

“Where?”

“In the booth across from us.”

“I didn’t see them,” said Hutch.

“Jeez, you really miss a lot. Your turn.”

“Uh…” Hutch swayed a little.

“You want me to be cruise director?”

“Please.”

“You aren’t going to boogie, are you?”

“No, I just need some fresh air and food.”

“Okay, the itinerary says… where’s my car?” Starsky looked around in confusion.

“It’s not here?”

“Do you see it here?”

“No.” Hutch unwrapped a stick of gum and put it in his mouth.

“Do you remember where we left it?”

“No.”

“You ever think of becoming a detective?”

“You ever think of being the cruise director?”

“Right. Fuck the car. It’ll show up somewhere.”

“Probably impound.” Hutch leaned against a trashcan and nodded sagely.

“Won’t be the first time. Okay, we pick up some food, go to my place, it’s close by. Then, we pass out later.”

“Sounds like a plan.”

Starsky clicked his fingers and pointed to the trash can. Hutch spit out the gum.

***

They stumbled into Starsky’s place around 3 a.m. with a big bag of groceries, a medium sized cactus, and a small candle.

“Anywhere, put the bag anywhere,” groaned Starsky as a panting and sweaty Hutch dumped the grocery bag on the sofa. “I got to pee. I got to pee. Take this!” He shoved the cactus at Hutch and raced to the bathroom.

“Ow! Damn.” Hutch put the plant on the kitchen counter and backed away from it. “Why do we have a cactus?”

“What?”

“Why do we have a cactus?”

“What?” The toilet flushed.

“WHY DO WE HAVE A CACTUS!”

“What the hell are you yelling about?” asked Starsky who came back from the bathroom wearing nothing but cut-off jeans.

“Didn’t you hear me? Why do we have that?” Hutch pointed to the plant.

“I can’t hear you when the water’s running. You said I needed a plant.”

“Oh. That makes sense.” Hutch looked at his friend. “Where are your clothes?”

“I had all kinds of needles sticking in me.”

“Oh. That makes sense.” He thought for a moment. “Why did we buy a cactus?” Hutch looked confused and began to slump down.

“Here, sit down. Not on the groceries. Okay, the floor works.”

“Better. Better.” Hutch leaned his head against the sofa and closed his eyes. “Water. Water.”

“Coming right up.” Starsky came back with a glass of ice water. “Here.” He grabbed Hutch’s hand and shoved the glass in it.

Hutch drank it down quickly and held it up. “More.” Starsky repeated the process, so did Hutch. “That’s better.” He exhaled and sat up straighter. “I thought you said your place was close by? We must have walked five miles.”

“It feels closer when I drive.”

“No shit, Sherlock. Didn’t we pass Chad’s Place while we were walking?”

“Twice.”

“I thought so. Nothing like a forced march to sober you up.”

“Hungry?” Starsky picked up the grocery bag and went to the open kitchen area.

“Starved.”

“Zo, for zee tas-tee dee-lites, ve haf…”

“What are you talking about?” asked Hutch.

“I’m doing a French accent.”

“Like Pepe le Pew?”

“No, like zee master cheef.”

“Zo, vat is on zee men-yew, cheef Starz-kee?”

“Fish sticks, tater tots, Twinkies, and Kool-Aid.”

“What!”

“You were busy in that hippie joint next to the market, remember? You said to use my own judgment. So I did. What’d you buy? Rolling papers or a bong?”

“I bought a candle,” said Hutch.

“Yeah?”

“It’s jasmine scented. For her.”

“Yeah? Nice. I just thought she might like this kind of food, you know? If… if she was still around.”

“Yeah? Nice.” Hutch leaned against the sofa while Starsky bustled about in the kitchen.

“Grape or Orange Kool-Aid?”

“Not grape,” Hutch shuddered. “Too much like…”

“Shit. Bad. Bad grape.” Starsky pitched the purple packet into the trash can.

“You want some help?” Hutch asked as he struggled to his feet.

“Eet’s all under zee master cheef’s control, monsieur.”

“I’m going to jump into the shower. Are my sweats still here?”

“Right where you left them, slobbo. On the bathroom floor. I’m your partner, not your maid.”

“Sorry.”

“Here. Try this.” He handed Hutch a glass of orange liquid. “How’s it taste?”

“I think a splash of vodka would improve it immensely, cheef.”

“Good idea.” Starsky got out the bottle, poured liquor in both glasses, and stirred. He took a sip and said, “Stirred not shaken. Tasty.”

“When do we eat?” Hutch took a sip of his drink and grimaced.

“In,” Starsky read boxes, “fifteen to seventeen minutes depending on variations in oven temperature, dinner will be served.”

“Supper,” corrected Hutch.

“Dinner,” countered Starsky.

“Dinner is what you eat midday, everyone knows that.”

“Lunch is what you eat for lunch. Dinner is at night.”

“Supper is at night; dinner is at noon.”

“When’s breakfast?” asked Starsky.

“Tomorrow.” Hutch said and they both laughed.

***

“Hey, that’s really nice,” Hutch said when he returned from the bathroom wearing nothing but gray sweatpants.

“It’s a picnic,” Starsky said shyly. He sat on a blue sheet. It was spread out on the floor in front of the sofa. On it were paper plates, a pitcher of orange Kool-Aid, a big bottle of catsup, two Ronald McDonald collectible glasses, and a lighted candle. A bottle of vodka was close by.

“It’s perfect, Starsk. She would have loved it.” His light blue eyes shone with unshed tears when he looked at his friend.

“You think?” Starsky’s dark blue eyes met Hutch’s, and he sniffed.

“Absolutely.”

“Take a load off. Want a drink?”

“Heavy on the vodka,” said Hutch as he settled himself on the floor. “It kills the taste. How do kids drink this stuff?”

“I drink this stuff.”

“Like I said.” Hutch raised his glass in the air and proclaimed, “I christen thee Cruel-Aid.” He clinked his glass with Starsky and they took big swallows.

“This meal is very interesting, cheef. I didn’t know fish were shaped like this. I wonder how they swim around looking like little planks.” Hutch swam a fish stick in the air.

“Sticks, not planks. Fish… sticks.”

“Sounds kind of unappetizing, eating sticks.”

“Better than eating tots,” said Starsky as he threw a potato puff at Hutch.

“Cannibal.” Hutch threw it back.

“More champagne?” Starsky asked as he picked up the pitcher.

“Fill her up.”

***

The picnic items were cleared and the Cruel-Aid pitcher was empty. Twinkie wrappers were shoved under the sofa. They lay stretched out shoulder to shoulder on the blue sheet.

The candle began to burn down and flicker slowly.

“Anyway,” said Starsky, “my mother sent me away when I was thirteen. I was too much for her to handle. I was running wild with Markovitch and Bruschetti. Markie’s doing twenty hard time and Bru’s car was blown up with him in it. I can see now why my mother did what she did. But, for a long time I felt…”

“Abandoned?”

“Yeah.”

“Sometimes the adult can see what the child cannot,” Hutch said.

“What do you see?”

“The ceiling.”

“Smart ass.”

“Starsk, when’s the last time you remember your mother hugging you or sitting close to you?”

“When I saw her on her birthday last year, we sat together and watched a Sinatra film on TV. She loves Frank,” said Starsky.

“The last time I sat next to my mother was when I was learning to read. I remember that I was excited when I knew that I could read by myself. But I was sad, too. Because I knew that now that I could read on my own, she wouldn’t sit with me in Dad’s big leather chair anymore. She never did after that.”

“What were you, seven or eight?”

“Four or five. I learned to read early.”

“Shit, they had to pay me to read a book,” said Starsky. He pressed against Hutch, so that they were touching flank to flank.

“I read this Reader’s Digest story in the doctor’s office, when I had my broken wrist. It was about a boy whose mother died. And that night when I was in bed with the cast on and thought of what it would feel like to lose my mother, I didn’t feel anything because it was like I didn’t have one to lose.”

“When my father died, I was sad. I cried and missed him,” Starsky said. “But, deep down I felt guilty because I felt safer now that he was gone. When he was around, I used to hide in the closet sometimes. It wasn’t a game. I never told anyone that before.”

“I won’t ever tell anybody,” promised Hutch. He squeezed his partner’s hand quickly.

“What’s the worst thing you ever did?”

“I told you. I broke the lamp.”

“The one in the music room?” asked Starsky.

“Yeah.”

“The one that came over on the Mayflower or something?”

“Yeah, the goddamn family heirloom.”

“Special, huh?”

“Oh yeah. Mother wouldn’t even let our maid, Betty, touch it. She used a special cloth on it twice a week. She loved that fucker.”

“More than you?”

“Of course not! What a stupid question.”

“What happened?” Starsky shifted so that his bare foot touched Hutch’s.

“I was in a hurry. I was late because I was playing and having fun outside. But I had to come in and practice my piece for the piano recital. My piece was hard, way beyond my skill level. But Mrs. Montgomery’s daughter played it the year before when she was only six, so there was no reason why I couldn’t do it. Katherine Montgomery ended up being a concert pianist. I was musical, but she was gifted. I started hating the piano. But Mother kept pushing me, insisting that I just wasn’t trying hard enough.”

“What did your music teacher say?”

“He agreed with her. She doesn’t take no for an answer.”

“So?” Starsky encouraged.

“I ran in, threw my schoolbooks down, and then the lamp broke into a million pieces.”

“And?”

“And she came in, and she had mean eyes and she made me clean it up. The end.”

“Kids break shit all the time. I broke a plate glass window at Steinberg’s deli with a rock. I had to pay for it. No big deal. How was the recital?”

“I didn’t go because of my wrist.”

“What happened to your wrist?”

“I broke it.”

“This wrist?” Starsky picked up Hutch’s right hand and touched a bump on it. “How’d you say you broke it?”

“Playing sports or falling out of a tree or something. I don’t really remember.”

“You think maybe it was from cleaning up the lamp?”

Hutch pulled his hand away and sat up. He pulled his legs up and embraced them. “She didn’t like me.” He put his head down and said it to his knees.

“I like you,” Starsky said softly as he reached out and rubbed Hutch’s back. “You can break any lamp here you want.”

“Can I chew gum?” Hutch mumbled.

“Not on my shift. C’mon, lay down. We need to get some sleep. Breakfast is today.” Hutch uncoiled and stretched out. “That’s it,” said Starsky. “Put your head down right here.” He guided his partner’s head to his own shoulder. “Close those baby blues.”

“Mother said to say I fell down.”

“Shh, shh.” He put his hand around Hutch’s wrist and started rubbing it.

“I just… wasn’t… good enough.”

“I think,” Starsky whispered as he continued the gentle massage, “you’re perfect.”

The last brightness of the scented candle faded and extinguished itself.

***

Jasmine:
A flower. An essence. An oil.
A murdered child’s name.
The ancients revered jasmine as the “perfume of love.”
Jasmine Wilkerson was a little girl.