Zebra Three, Out

It’s a hard day but they are and always will be there for each other.

R.I.P David Soul

The sun was beginning its descent behind the tall buildings of Bay City as Starsky slowly climbed down the front steps of the funeral parlor, tugging at the knot of his tie. He reached out and patted Hutch’s back, making much-needed contact with the supple leather of Hutch’s brown leather jacket, calmed by the cool sensation that extended from his fingertips straight into his entire body. He let his hand trail off as Hutch moved to the passenger side of the car while Starsk took his place behind the wheel.

Starsky felt the day’s stress on his stiff shoulders, his mood tormented with an unexpected level of grief. He loosened his grip on the steering wheel and glanced at Hutch, who had removed his tie, fiddling with it in his hands, spinning it around his palm as he wound and unwound it through his fingers.

“That was tough,” Hutch commented. “Evans was a good cop, only fifty years old. He had a wife and two teenagers who now have to face the rest of their lives without a father. Some punk with a gun, and it was all over.”

Starsky felt a slight release of tension, though he wasn’t sure why. He knew Hutch needed soothing, and that wasn’t something that could be given without lessening the agony in his own heart just a little. He reached over and stroked the back of Hutch’s neck, the silkiness of his hair as calming as the coolness of his leather jacket moments before. Starsky imagined it wouldn’t matter where he touched Hutch, he would feel a sense of calm, each time somehow better than the last.

“He was at the wrong place at the wrong time. At least he nailed the perp before he got hit. He was a good cop.”

Starsky meant every word. Officer Danny Evans did not deserve what he got, but as he said the words that were meant to comfort, he couldn’t help but feel hollow. They were the same words he said to Evan’s wife just moments ago, to his fellow cops who stood quietly in the visitation area, grieving their collective loss. But Starsky knew Hutch deserved something deeper, more meaningful, to make sense out of something that made no sense.

“Hey Hutch, just how old do you think a person has to be before people stop saying he died too young?”

Hutch had crumpled his tie into a ball, a tight fist squeezing it like it was all that was wrong with the world. “That’s a good question. You and I are not even forty. Do you think someone who dies at sixty is still too young? Seventy? Eighty?”

“I don’t know,” Starsky answered. “When I was ten years old, I thought forty was old, never mind fifty. Now I know better, but where’s the line, do you think?”

Starsky saw the heavy expression on Hutch’s face. He knew that, particularly on a day like today, his partner would ponder the question carefully.

“I think life is a spectrum, and the line changes depending on where a person lands on it at any given time. I think you can be seventy-nine years old and still think dying at eighty is too young. Maybe it’s not so much the age you live, but the life you lived. If people remember you with fondness; if you led a life of purpose, that counts for more than the number of years you spent on earth.”

Starsky nodded and knew Hutch had more to say, about his fallen comrade, and his thoughts on death. And life.

“How would you like people to remember you, when you’re gone, Hutch?”

It pained Starsky to ask the theoretical question that he hoped was a long, long time away.

Hutch signed heavily. The grip on the tie had loosened and he had a sparkle in his eyes that Starsky couldn’t define.

“I want to be remembered for fighting hard. For being quiet when necessary but loud and passionate about things that matter. For being scared sometimes, but still having the courage to do what I think is right. I want my legacy to be that I lived my life, mistakes and all, in the best way I could.”

Hutch turned, his eyes gleaming even brighter than Starsky could have imagined possible. The sun had almost set, the dusky haze not yet tempered by street lights that had yet to come on. Despite the darkness outside, there was a light inside the car that Starsky couldn’t ignore. It was warm, and bright, and shone through Hutch’s smile meant only for him.

“One other thing,” Hutch said, placing his hand on Starsky’s thigh, caressing the material of the black dress pants with what seemed like reckless abandon. “I want to be remembered for being a dreamer who wouldn’t stop searching until he found the love of his life.”

Starsky swallowed back the emotion that he feared would lead him to tears. He lowered his hand from the steering wheel and grasped the warm hand that clasped his thigh. He met Hutch’s eyes and smiled.

“Let’s go home, Hutch.”

Hutch nodded and Starsky felt a wave of love wash over him; it felt like it was just the beginning, and yet a whole lifetime being lived all at once.

Hutch reached for the police radio with his other hand, not letting go of Starsky’s grip. He held the mic to his mouth, depressing the button as the crackling sound of the radio came alive.

“Central, this is Detectives Hutchinson and Starsky. We’ve had a long, hard, sad day and we’re heading home.”

Starsky felt the squeeze on his knee and the sadness of the day started to melt away. Life was too short to miss the precious moments that could only be grasped once. He looked over at Hutch who still held the microphone to his mouth.

“Zebra Three. Signing out. Until tomorrow.”

The street lights came on and Starsky turned the wheel, the noise of the city, and the smell of the streets melting into the background as he steered the car toward home. It was a hard day, harder than most, but that was okay. He held Hutch’s hand the whole way home.