The
Price of a Life
Brit
Captain Harold Dobey was a content man.
The sky above
A long three months were
over. Dobey, the commissioner’s office,
Internal Affairs, and his two best detectives had been up to their necks in the
removal of three uniformed officers from the force. The whole episode began with the shooting
death of Jackson Walters, a black bus driver from
Dobey had been disturbed by the
last meeting with Starsky and Junior, the bus driver’s son, just before
Dobey was not easily unnerved, yet he felt a chill run down his spine as the patrolman glared at him throughout the IA hearing. The proceedings yielded the expected results of Andrews’ dismissal from the force. Andrews left the review board enraged, angrily informing anyone within earshot, of the injustices he’d suffered under the leadership of a reversed prejudice judicial system. Dobey exhaled a mixture of disgust and satisfaction. Busting dirty cops left an acrid taste in his mouth. Busting dirty bigoted cops was like tasting blood. As he watched the hate-filled young man storm out of the room, Dobey saw two forms move up to stand on either side of him—one dark, one fair. There was a comfort and strength in the shadow of such friendship.
That was three months ago; today was another story altogether. With a sigh of contentment, Dobey flipped the sizzling burgers with an experienced twist of his wrist. All was right with his little world.
“Are they done yet?” David Starsky extended a fork toward one of the burgers cautiously, avoiding the grease-induced spurts of flames from the coals. Dobey’s immediate reaction was to smack the offending appendage with the flat side of his spatula.
“Get out of here, Starsky; you’re worse than the kids.”
Edith Dobey breezed past the two men to set the last of the place settings on the picnic table. “You might as well give up, David.” Her voice dropped dramatically in a rough imitation of her husband’s growl. “Those burgers won’t be ready¾”
“Until they’re ready!” came a mocking chorus of three from the pool. Rosie sat at the edge of the shallow end, dangling her feet into the water. Her brother, Cal, paused on the diving board, waiting for Hutch, who was chest-deep in the water, to throw the next Nerf ball pass.
“C’mon, Starsk!” his partner
called out as he lobbed the foam ball into the air.
“Uh-huh. Come on, Uncle Dave. You can play with me until the burgers are done.”
“Sure, schweetheart, unless your Dad’ll let me help grill those burgers?”
“NO!” came the response from the rest of the small group. Starsky looked at them with dismay.
“Why not?” Starsky’s expression turned pathetic, but it didn’t change the manifestations of horror from the others. “Oh, come on! One little fire—”
“Little fire?” Dobey barked. “Perkins next door called the fire department when he saw the flames! And do I need to mention what it did to my grill?”
“And the picnic table,” chuckled Hutch.
“And the deck,”
“Okay, okay, I know when to give up. But you know, Cap’n, if you’d teach me how to do it right—”
“I don’t have that much insurance! Now, get out of my face so I can grill in peace.” Dobey almost gave in to Starsky’s dejected expression as he walked toward the pool. “Starsky?”
The detective turned back hopefully.
“Where on Earth did you get those ridiculous swimming trunks?”
Starsky looked down at the bright red trunks, then at his backside.
“What do you mean? I had these specially made.” Starsky spun around, trying to get a better
look at the white racing stripe that ran south from the waistband to turn and
taper to a point across his left hip, mirroring the detailing of
“I thought maybe you got them from the circus or something.”
“Harold!” admonished his wife. “They’re fine, David.”
“Yeah, Uncle Dave, I think they’re cool.”
“Thanks, Rosie. I think they’re cool, too.” Starsky donned a haughty expression and continued his saunter to the pool. “Come on, kiddo. Let’s show these two old prunes in the pool how a cannonball’s done!”
The little girl eagerly scrambled to her feet and adjusted the waterwings on her arms. She then pulled an oversized pair of goggles over her eyes and clamped on her nose plugs. “Contact!”
“Contact!” Starsky echoed, extending his arms and grasping Rosie by both wrists.
Edith simply shook her head at her “four children.” The first time Starsky and Rosie devised their modified game of “cannonball,” she had worried about her youngest’s safety in the roughhousing. When she expressed her concern to her husband, he simply responded with: “Those two overgrown kids would never let anything happen to Cal or Rosie.” And that was that. Almost a month of the simple game had proven him right.
“Engage engines!” came Rosie’s nasally command.
Starsky began making the sound of a rumbling motor. “Engines engaged!”
“Clear the runway!”
Hutch and
“Runway cleared! Prepare for takeoff.” Starsky began to crouch as he and Rosie finished their litany. “Three...two...one...takeoff!”
Starsky leaned back and swung Rosie off her feet in a complete circle. As soon as the little girl was over the pool, he released her to fly several feet in the air. At the last moment, Rosie tucked herself into a tiny ball.
“Cannonball!” Starsky raised his arms in triumph. Rosie quickly surfaced and began to dog-paddle to the side.
Reaching the cement edge, she pulled off her nose plugs and goggles. “How big was it?”
“Huge!” Starsky spread out his arms to indicate the
size of the waves. “You just about
washed
Rosie looked at her mother skeptically. “Was it really that big, Momma?”
Edith paused from removing the lids from the assortment of salads. “It sure was. You almost soaked your father!”
“Just about put my fire out!” Dobey groused. “Well, come on, you hooligans, or I’m going to eat all these burgers myself!”
The Dobey children pulled themselves from the pool and joined their parents around the table, good-naturedly teasing one another. Hutch paused by his partner to dry himself off. Not for the first time, he noticed Starsky staring after the little family with a wistful expression on his face. The kids were giving their father some rather wet but heartfelt hugs before they sat down on the wooden benches. There was an unmistakable longing in Starsky’s cobalt eyes as the scenario played out before them.
Hutch placed a hand on Starsky’s shoulder. “What are you thinking, buddy?”
Starsky pulled his gaze away with an almost physical effort. “Oh, nothing, really. I guess, well, it’s just...”
“It’s just that it’s Father’s
Day,” Hutch finished. “And
Starsky managed a small smile. “That obvious, huh?”
“Only to me, pal,” Hutch returned with a soft grin.
Starsky sighed. “It’s great to see them together, you know? They have a terrific relationship, just like me and Pop did. I guess I just still miss him sometimes.”
Any response Hutch was going to make was cut off by a familiar bellow. “Are you two going to stand there yakking all day, or are you going to grace us with your presence and eat the burgers Starsky’s been drooling over for the past half-hour?”
As the two detectives made their way to the small feast and sat, Dobey reached for his children’s hands, preparing to say grace. It was good to know he could keep the partners in line, even on their day off. Or at least he preferred to think it was his commanding tone, rather than Starsky’s voracious appetite, that propelled them to the picnic table.
All was right with his world, and he was content.
˜ ™
“All right, children, settle down. Let’s get our rugs out for a story.” Miss Witmeirs’ day camp group noisily obeyed, crossing over to the pigeonholed counter housing each child’s “quiet time” rug. The small pads were laid out on the floor and the assortment of five- and six-year-olds lay down in anticipation of the story to come. All except Rosie Dobey.
“Rosie, what’s wrong? Let’s take our seats so we can get started.”
“Miss Witmeirs, somebody drew on my rug!” Nearby children sat up or craned their necks to see what Rosie was talking about. The young teacher quickly crossed the room, anticipating a childish prank or undisclosed accident on Rosie’s rug.
“See?” Rosie pointed at the pink rug where she had unrolled it. “It’s shaped like me.”
A silhouette of a child’s body was painted in red on the fabric. To a child, it might have resembled a picture traced of themselves to color in as they had during arts and crafts. To the teacher, it resembled the chalk outline of a body, marking where death had claimed a child.
˜ ™
Finally, the last number clicked
in the tumblers, and the lock sprang open.
Wrenching open the door to retrieve his gear,
˜ ™
All wasn’t right with his world.
Dobey wearily made his way through Metro’s parking lot to his car and slammed his briefcase down on the Cadillac’s roof. Throughout the course of the week, a total of six threats had been made against him and his family, warnings he hadn’t taken lightly from day one. A few minutes ago, he had received a call from Edith, saying they had received a package in the mail containing pictures of the four of them. The first photo had been taken about a month ago as they left Sunday morning services, and the other pictures included family members as they were coming and going from their various activities. Whoever was stalking them knew their habits and schedules well. Just before he left the office, Dobey had arranged for round-the-clock black-and-whites to be stationed at his home. Tomorrow, he would officially pull Starsky and Hutchinson back from where they’d been on loan to Narco and assign them to the case. His case.
As engrossed as he was replaying the last week’s events in his mind, Dobey’s inattention didn’t prevent his reflexes from propelling him around at the sound of approaching footsteps—five-to-one, and Patrolman Andrews in the lead. Ex-Patrolman Andrews. Dobey’s experienced eyes darted around the lot. As late as it was, the normally highly trafficked area was empty. Still, a person picking off a cop in a police parking lot was either grossly confident or suicidal.
“I hear you’ve been getting my messages, Dobey.”
The captain knew he would have to act fast if he had a chance at all of getting out of the ambush alive. It was well after 8:00 p.m., the shift change over hours ago, and he was alone outside the structure. Assuming a docile expression, the large man extended his hands in a sign of resignation. “What do you want with me, Andrews?”
Andrews gave him an oily grin. “Well, now, you should have thought of that before you¾”
The sentence was never finished as Dobey flung himself at the nearest man. Surprisingly agile for his size, the tackle engulfing the smaller man ended with the captain rolling into a crouch and drawing his gun, while obtaining a firm grip on the forearm of a second man. The brief skirmish still provided Andrews with enough time to maneuver behind Dobey and bring his pistol across the back of the captain’s head in a viscous blow.
Even as unconsciousness began to overtake him, Dobey still had the presence of mind to fire his weapon. Though the shots went wide of their mark, he knew they would serve his purpose: gunshots fired outside a police station would soon bring the troops running. He only hoped he would still be alive when they got there.
Enraged, Andrews aimed his pistol between the eyes of the now unconscious man. None of his men dared move as Andrews’ arm trembled through the mental battle that ensued. Finally, he tore his gaze away from the captain and holstered his gun.
“O’Neill, Pipmeir, you two get him in the van, now. Move! I’ll take care of these two morons.” Andrews jerked the men Dobey had felled to their feet, then picked up the gun that had fallen from the captain’s slack hand. Dobey’s briefcase followed his inert body onto the floor of the van.
Just after the white service van pulled out of the parking lot, three uniformed patrolmen spilled out of the stairwell and surveyed the now empty structure. Guns drawn, they methodically worked the area, but found no trace of a disturbance. Even as thorough as they were, they failed to see marks made by the three slugs imbedded in the concrete wall near Dobey’s sedan, or the broken gold tie tac engraved with the letter “D” lying nearby.
˜ ™
Minnie drove like a woman
possessed to the small ball field in
Tears filling her eyes, Minnie came to a sliding stop in the parking lot behind the baseball stands. She could see the detectives in their white-and-blue sweats jogging off the field as the third out was called. Even under the illumination of the lit ball field, she could tell both wore a relaxed expression she didn’t often see as they stormed in and out of Metro. Hutch was laughing at something Starsky was saying, but the smile died away as he saw Minnie getting out of her car, her face tight with apprehension. Hutch nudged his partner, and the two broke into a run, coming to a dusty stop at her side.
Minnie swallowed hard. “Somebody snatched the captain.”
˜ ™
Senior FBI Agent Lieutenant Donald Sanderson ran his hands through his silver hair. He had all but begged his commanding officer to let him head up the recovery team on the Dobey case, but Commander Pickerell knew him all too well when he said Sanderson was too close to the subject to be objective. It was no secret that Sanderson and his wife Betty had been close friends with the Dobeys for years, even serving on the same church board as the captain. At least Pickerell didn’t pull him from the assignment all together.
Sanderson, Starsky, and Hutch had gone to the Dobeys’ to discuss the ransom demands with Edith. All three wished there were some way to take away the fear in her eyes—anticipating the worse—as she watched them walking up the sidewalk to their house. Edith had been understandably distraught, but maintained her composure as she calmly explained to her two children that their father was called away on a case and wouldn’t be back until morning at the earliest.
The three men stayed with Edith
until the
Now Sanderson stood in the middle of his darkened office, seething. Earlier, Andrews had called in the ransom demand: one million dollars in unmarked, small denomination bills, out of numeric sequence. The ex-officer made no attempt to deny his identity when asked by the federal agents, actually gloating over his revenge. The drop was scheduled for the following midnight, and instructions would be called in later. Starsky and Hutch stormed into his office, apparently having just received the same briefing he had.
Sanderson sat wearily on the edge of his desk. “You heard?”
Hutch’s face was an icy mask. “What are those bureaucratic morons thinking?”
“They aren’t!” Starsky ground out, his features a livid contrast to his partner’s. The detectives from the ninth precinct had just been informed by the mayor’s office that no attempt would be made to rescue the captain until the drop, and that it would be handled by the FBI in cooperation with the local SWAT team. The need for caution in handling the kidnapping was linked directly to the mayor’s re-election campaign, and a recent public opinion poll on the perceived increased violence in the city. Any failed attempt or excessive force exercised by the police department would make for bad press. “Those morons and bureaucrats are gonna sit around contemplating their navels for the next twenty-four hours, then try and out-smart and out-maneuver the kidnappers.”
“And Harold winds up dead either way.” Sanderson looked from one set of fiery blue eyes to the other. “And maybe Edith and the kids as well. With all the contact they’ve had with the family before the kidnapping, I doubt they won’t¾”
“Wait a minute,” Starsky interrupted. “What contact are you talking about?”
“Harold didn’t tell you?”
Hutch shook his head. “We’ve been working with Narco for the past few weeks and out of the office. What’s been going on?”
Sanderson explained about numerous calls to the Dobey household, the unidentifiable voice spewing racial filth, making threats, and hanging up. Starsky’s and Hutch’s faces became enraged.
“Andrews!” Hutch ground out.
“That piece of—” Starsky spat. “You’ve issued an APB?”
“Of course.” Sanderson nodded. “But that’s not all.” The two detectives became livid as he detailed what had happened to Cal and Rosie. “So that’s why the mayor’s office won’t afford to risk¾”
Starsky grabbed the older man by his arm. “That’s why we can’t afford not taking the risk to get the captain back first. If he’s already come that close to the kids...”
Hutch stepped up next to his partner. “...there’s no way they’re not going to get to them. We’ve got to get Andrews first.”
Starsky drew a ragged breath, forcing himself to think clearly. “So, what are we gonna do about it?”
Sanderson sighed and moved to sink slowly into his chair. Elbows resting on the desk, his fingers made a tent before him. “Officially, nothing.”
“But unofficially?” Hutch crossed his arms in front of his chest, understanding what the older man couldn’t say.
“Look, you two boys know what kind of position I’m in here.” Sanderson had been called a rogue throughout his tenure, to the point of missing out on advancement opportunities within the Department. He was an outstanding field agent, even if his tactics were questioned by the agency, but his results and easy manner were what drew Starsky and Hutch to him. A new department head had it out for Sanderson, and any step out of line would lead to the agent’s dismissal and subsequent loss of many of his retirement benefits due him in less than five years. “As an agent, I cannot condone or support any outside actions in this situation. I would have no official participation or knowledge if, say, a recovery attempt were made.”
There was no humor in the feral grin on Starsky’s face as he exchanged glances with Hutch. “Officially speaking.”
Sanderson returned the same grin with a dangerous glint in his eye. “Officially, I would not be able to express my contempt for the weasely little twit who calls himself the mayor of this city, who would probably wet himself if he ever spent a good day in any one of our shoes. Officially, I wouldn’t be able to offer a list of the contacts who owe me a favor and could dig up some leads on Harold’s whereabouts.”
Hutch nodded his understanding “Officially speaking.”
Sanderson pulled a small leather notebook out of his breast pocket and ripped out the last page then handed it to Hutch. “You know where to find me.”
Starsky and Hutch headed out the door. It was now 3:00 a.m., leaving them only twenty-one hours to find their captain and friend.
˜ ™