The Phoenix and
the Dragon
by M. H. E. Priest
Please note: This story was
written purely for entertainment and is not meant to infringe in any way on the
holders of the rights to Starsky and Hutch. This story takes place
during and after the episode "Sweet Revenge."
Part 3
3.1
Manuel Sanchez, a sanitation worker walking to
work as he did every morning around 4 a.m., dropped the large ice chest he was
carrying when he felt the earth tremble beneath him. Earthquake! he
thought until a millisecond later when the building across the street erupted in
clouds of smoke and flame. The force of the blast made the 6-foot-8 inch,
285-pound man stagger backwards a few feet. His mouth dropped open as he saw a
human projectile emerge, hit the street, and skid a few feet before coming to a
stop a few yards from him. The bottom half of the man was on fire. "Madre
Dios!"
The big Mexican picked up his ice chest and
sprinted to the burning body. The man's back was covered with black char and
ash, and his pants were engulfed in blue flames. Sanchez ripped off his denim
jacket, then placed it over the flames. He patted and rubbed the man's legs for
a few seconds. He quickly opened the chest, scooping out large handsful of ice.
He carefully laid them on the man's back. Next, he opened the bottles of water
he carried. As he began pouring the contents of the first one on the victim, a
rusted-out Datsun coupe screeched to a stop several feet away. A young woman,
clad in a skimpy t-shirt adorned with the words "Bernie's Bar &
Girls" and short-shorts, jumped from the car screaming, "Omigod,
omigod," over and over.
Sanchez reached for the second bottle and pulled
his jacket of the victim's legs. "Call the cops, lady, call the fire
department! Hurry!" He poured the water over the burned jeans and skin. He
had to tell her twice more before she responded. She raced for the phone booth
a half block up the street.
The call was unnecessary. Two patrolmen in a squad
car about a mile away heard the explosion. They reached the scene just as the
girl picked up the phone.
Wiley, the younger of the two officers, pulled
frantically at the car's handle. "What a fuckin' mess!" he screamed.
His face turned as red as his hair. His partner, Nelson, leaned against the
steering wheel as he placed the radio call. "This is Oscar 2-4. We have an
explosion and fire at 1027 and 1029 Abbott Kinney Boulevard. The structure is
fully involved. We have one known victim. Send fire and rescue. Over and
out."
"On the way, Oscar 2-4," came the reply.
The dispatcher hurriedly activated fire and rescue. He turned to his supervisor
who stood hovering over his shoulder. "Lieutenant, that's Sergeant Ken
Hutchinson's address." This was not the first time police had to be
dispatched to the detective's apartment.
"So it is," she said. "Hank, put a
call into Captain Dobey. He should be on scene, too."
"Yes, ma'am."
People, still in their nightclothes, from
neighboring homes and apartments began to gather across the street from the
blaze. Wiley wasn't completely successful in keeping a few of the gawkers away
from Sanchez and the victim. Those few who made it past the red-haired cop came
offering blankets and assistance. Nelson accepted the blankets. Sanchez had
used up all his water and asked for more. The helpers immediately took off to
fulfill his request.
"That's Ken Hutchinson!" cried out a boy
of about fifteen. The gathering crowd fell silent for a brief moment. The
detective had become well-known, liked, and respected among his neighbors.
Ethel Connors, an elderly woman who made it from one Social Security check to
another because of his generosity with cash and food, began to weep
uncontrollably; she had come to love Ken as a son. The boy pushed his way over
to her and said reassuringly, "He'll be okay, Mrs. Connors. I'll take care
of you for awhile."
Nelson knelt down by the victim's head. He bent
and twisted until he got a good look at the partially obscured face. "Holy
shit, it is Hutchinson!" He swallowed hard before examining the man
further. There was a long gash on the back of his head. It had bled quite a
bit, but had clotted. It looked as if he had a second elbow in his left
forearm. And from the meat of his left triceps muscle sprouted a ragged piece
of wood. The water had washed off the soot and embers off his back, and there
were big blisters forming. His legs and butt were simply obsidian black. Nelson
thought, I sure am glad I won't have to be the one to tell Starsky about
this.
The sharp squeals of multiple sirens advanced on
the crowd rapidly. Wiley found the paramedics and lead them to their only known
patient. Nelson was still kneeling beside the fallen man. "Hey, do your
best, fellas. He's one of ours." He stood and pulled Sanchez with him.
The paramedic carrying the portable oxygen and
supplies rolled his eyes with great annoyance. "We always do our best."
"I don't fuckin' believe this, Chris,"
said the second paramedic who was kneeling at Hutchinson's head. "This is
the partner of the cop we worked on in the police garage."
Hutchinson stirred ever so slightly.
"Dogs…life," he muttered before becoming still again.
"Yeah, Mr. Cop, it is a dog's life.
Okay, Chris, on with the O2 and I'll do the ECG. Primary survey shows…"
#####
The emergency room at Memorial Hospital was not
especially busy at 4 a.m. Several street people were in being evaluated for
various and sundry complaints. In the trauma room was a pedestrian victim of a
hit-and-run driver. The nightbeat reporter from the local newspaper was busy
gathering information on the accident from the police in attendance when the Code
Blue to Room 413 was called. Then a second Code Blue was called, then Security
as well. The reporter watched as one doctor, two nurses, and an orderly rushed
to the main stairs.
"This is gonna be big, I can feel it!"
he whispered excitedly.
"What did you say?"
"Nothing, Officer. Check you later,
okay?" He headed for the back stairs without hesitation. He opened the
door and out rushed a man in a white scrub suit. The man pushed the reporter to
the floor. The camera hung around his neck broke apart on impact with the
floor, scattering pieces everywhere.
"Hey, come back here!" The reporter
struggled to stand. That's odd; he's got a lot blood all over his
shoes. "You owe me for this camera, fella!" He watched helplessly
as the man jumped into the front seat of a battered red Mustang convertible.
The car, lights off, pealed out of the ER parking lot. The reporter couldn't
tell if there was even a license plate.
He sighed. When he bent down to pick up the pieces
of his camera, he saw that he had a red handprint on his brand new pink shirt. This
is really big! he thought as he took the back stairs two at a time
to the fourth floor. Goodbye, night shift, hello, day shift! Maybe I'll even
get a Pulitzer.
#####
Captain Dobey drove like a wild man -Driving
like Starsky now. That boy is a bad influence - to Venice Place. When he
first saw the fire from a distance, it was apparent that it was not under
control. He increased his speed. Hutchinson, you better be alive. If you
aren't, I'll be arranging two funerals.
He careened to a stop beside one of the
ambulances. He leaped out of the car and screamed, "Who's in charge here?
Where's Hutchinson?"
Wiley ran up to the big black man. "Excuse
me, sir, can I help you?"
Dobey bit back the reprimand he had planned for
the officer. He couldn't expect every street cop to know him. He dug out his
badge and flashed it. "Now, who's in charge and where can I find
Hutchinson?"
"Oh, sorry, Captain. Uh, Captain Williams
from the fire department is in charge overall. Officer Nelson is, was, the
senior police officer here. Until now."
"Take me to Hutchinson NOW!"
The powerful, hard-charging personality of the
captain overwhelmed the red-haired cop. His knees turned to molten liquid. He
couldn't find his voice. The dark brown eyes bored holes into him, as the man
waited for an answer. The young officer finally managed to point the way with a
very shaky arm.
In seconds, Dobey was at Hutchinson's side. The
detective was already strapped onto a stretcher, belly down. "Ken, I'm
here. Everything's going to be all right." He looked to the two paramedics
for confirmation. They both shrugged. Dobey offered a quick, silent prayer.
"Is he ready to go to the hospital?" They both nodded. "Then
what the hell are you doin' talkin' to me?"
The two paramedics wheeled their patient to the
waiting ambulance. Dobey asked after them, "Where you taking him?"
"Mother of Mercy. Got a good burn team, and
it's close."
"Okay. Get outta here." Dobey looked
around until he saw what he wanted. "You, Officer Wiley," he shouted
above the commotion. "Get your partner and follow this ambulance to Mother
of Mercy. Detective Hutchinson is now under protective custody. If he is
threatened again in any way, you better die tryin' to save him!"
Wiley managed to blurt out a "Yes, sir!"
He gulped and yelled toward where he had last seen his partner.
"Nnnnnelson!"
Dobey made his way back to his vehicle. He grabbed
the radio microphone and called in. "This is Dobey."
"Captain, we've been trying to reach you. We
just received a report from Memorial security that three people have been
attacked and injured and one of them is…" The dispatcher hesitated, not
wanting to break the news. "Cap, it's Starsky."
Dobey said nothing for a few moments while he
rubbed his fuzzy hair with one of his beefy hands. "Listen up, dispatch. I
want a crime scene team and an arson investigator out at Hutch's place yesterday.
Crime team for Memorial. And I want Mother of Mercy and Memorial Hospitals to
be crawlin' with uniformed cops inside two minutes! Then get me St…" Dobey
stopped himself. Shit, I was gonna ask for Starsky and Hutch to run this
one. I'm getting' too old for this. "Get me Bennett and Parson."
Dobey turned to stare at Venice Place. He could
see the sky above getting lighter. Day was breaking, which meant this shitty
night was coming to an end.
#####
David Starsky first became aware of voices. He
couldn't understand what they were saying, but he could hear. Then he felt the
hand smothering him again. He commanded his arms to move, to knock away the
hand, but they would not respond, flopping like beached fish at his sides.
Frustrated, he grunted and moaned.
"David, you're just waking up," said the
recovery room nurse in a soothing tone. "We have an oxygen mask on you
right now. When you're more awake, I'll take it off. You just had
surgery."
Finally he realized he was in a heavily drugged
state, again. Oh, fuck! What does she mean, surgery again? He
fought the clouds blocking entry into clear thought and memory. Then he
remembered more than the hand. He remembered Jackson trying to save his life.
He had to know. "My son?" he forced out through sore throat and dry
mouth.
"Uh, I don't know what you're talking about,
David."
"Sorry. Like a son. Jackson Walters.
Alive?" Starsky could feel himself start to hyperventilate.
"Oh, him! Yes, last I heard he was alive.
They're still operating on him. Are you having any pain?"
With that question, he became aware of his body
again. Every fuckin' cell hurts like a sonuvabitch! What the hell do
you think? He calmed himself down. "No," he lied.
"Thirsty." Gotta keep my head clear. He wanted to ask about
Hutch, if he knew yet, but Starsky was back to sleep almost instantly.
#####
Ken Hutchinson floated into consciousness and
regretted it immediately. Everything was a blur except for the indescribable
pain that assaulted him. He recognized the all-too-familiar agony from being
burned. His left arm and shoulder throbbed with deep, stabbing, grinding pain.
The rest of his body hurt just a bit less. He moaned before calling out,
"Starsky!"
The ER nurse closest to him heard the plaintive
wail full of need and anxiety in the two-syllable utterance. She choked on the
tears it provoked as she grasped his right hand gently. "It'll be okay,
sir."
Hutch became agitated. "Chloe, give him some
more morphine, okay?" she asked her colleague.
The detective soon started to feel the effects of
the narcotic. Starsky, help me! I'm scared of that demon. I need you, buddy,
where the hell are you! Then he slipped back into unconsciousness. The ER
crew continued to work on the battered man.
#####
Starsky awoke the next time to the sound of
moaning. He forced his eyes open so he could identify the source of the sound.
Every millimeter his head turned brought new meaning to the word
"pain." He saw something or someone to his right. He blinked a few
times and the image came into focus. "Jackson!" he croaked out with a
combination of joy and sorrow - and guilt.
Jackson Walters, Jr. reclined in a bed just a few
feet from his surrogate father. Above him hung several bottles of intravenous
solutions and a partially empty bag of blood. An oxygen mask covered the young
face. He had several blankets piled on him.. Warming lights were in use as
well. Two nurses were tending to him.
Starsky breathed a sigh of relief and thanks. The
pain seemed to back off a notch. Then he began wondering why Hutch wasn't with
him yet. Recovery rooms seldom had stood in his way before. He sensed something
was wrong.
He became aware of a strong voice to his left.
Continuing to watch Jackson and his nurses, he focussed on listening.
"…make sure I've got this straight.
Hutchinson, spelled H-U-T-C-H-I-N-S-O-N, first name Kenneth. Transferring to
our Burn Center…"
Starsky whipped his head to the left,
simultaneously howling a guttural, agonized "NOOOOO! Huuuuuutch!" He
had almost succeeded in climbing over the bed's side rails when several pairs
of hands stopped him. He struggled against them mightily, surprising everyone
with the strength of his resistance.
One voice: "David! Be still or you'll hurt
yourself!" Another voice: "Dammit, will somebody give him some
sedation?" A third voice: "I'll get the diazepam!" Yet another
voice: "Got the restraints."
Starsky didn't let up. He roared like a trapped
lion when he felt the first restraint encase his wrist. "Don't! Gotta get
to Hutch! No medicine! Hutch needs me! Gotta get to him!" He tried to talk
more, but vocal cords failed him.
"Give him five milligrams IV! Jesus,
this guy's a wild one. Isn't he supposed to be injured?"
Starsky felt the sedative begin its work. He
silently cursed his doctors and nurses. They didn't understand. Hutch needed
him, and he needed to be with Hutch. As he dove into drug-induced oblivion, he
thought, I'm sorry, Hutch. Will you forgive me?
3.2
Later that morning, Captain Harold Dobey was doing
his share of cursing. He paced as far as the telephone cord would allow him in
the anteroom of the Memorial Hospital administrator's office. He and the police
commissioner were in a shouting match.
"Harold, I don't have to tell you this is a
disaster. Those clowns you call detectives are a hazard to our community! We've
found at least two bodies at Venice Place. And a nurse is dead and an orderly
gravely wounded. All because of these two cops.. And that's just in the last 24
hours, Harold! Bay City can't afford them any more. As soon as it is
feasible" - he purposely left out the word "politically" -
"they are off the force. At least it won't be a problem getting rid of
that maniac Starsky.."
Dobey was livid and wasn't bashful in showing it.
"May I remind you, Commissioner," he yelled, hoping his
contempt came through, "that those detectives you call clowns are two of
the most highly decorated police officers in the state! They've closed more
cases, tough cases, than just about anybody else, ever. The streets are
much safer because of them. Dammit, you know that!"
"But…"
"But nothin', Cecil. They're targets because they're
so good. And they keep getting beat up and shot and stabbed because they deal
with ruthless scum that avoided the line for a conscience at birth. They're
dedicated like I've never seen before. We can't afford not to have them
on the force!"
The commissioner sighed and collected his
thoughts. He could see Dobey's points, but there were political consequences
the captain of detectives failed to comprehend. "Okay, Harold, we're both
a bit…upset right now. We'll talk more when things settle down some. Keep me
posted."
"Sure. And know this, Commissioner. If you
want Hutchinson and Starsky off the force, you'll have to fire 'em. No way will
Hutch resign, and I guarantee you Starsky will fight automatic discharge to his
dying breath. You can take that to the bank." He slammed the receiver
down. Goddamn political shit. The secretary jumped several inches off
her chair.
"Oh, sorry, Miss Winchell. Please excuse my
behavior. Uh, would it be too much trouble…"
"The room is ready for you, Captain,"
Miss Winchell interrupted. "The administrator figured you would want to be
back here, especially with two officers hospitalized."
"Miss Winchell, you are wonderful."
Dobey laughed at himself as he left the anteroom and headed for the recovery
room. I guess I can kiss my career goodbye, talking to the commissioner that
way. Dammit, Starsky, how did I let you rub off on me like that? Why couldn't
it be Hutch?
Just as Dobey approached the elevator, the doors
parted, revealing a very worried Huggy Bear. "What the hell's happenin',
Captain? Word on the street is Hutch got hit this morning. Where is he? Is he
okay?"
Dobey entered the car and pressed the button for
the fifth floor. "Yeah, somebody blew up his apartment. Killed at least
two people, but he survived. He's going to be fine. I had him transferred here
so we could keep a closer eye on him."
Huggy nodded, but knew the real reason was so that
Hutch and Starsky could be together. He gave the captain a can't-fool-me smirk.
Dobey continued, "It's so we don't use any
more resources than necessary to protect him and Starsky. You know,
budgetary considerations." He harrumphed. "I'm going to the Burn
Center now to check on him. Then I gotta give Starsky the news." By his
expression, Huggy knew Dobey was dreading the task.
"Yeah, couldn't help but notice the ocean of
dark blue swirlin' around this place. Anyhow, I came lookin' for you first. I
didn't want to face Starsky not knowin' what had happened to his blond half.
He's gotta be suspicious by now that somethin' ain't right."
The elevator stopped and the doors slid open to
reveal the fifth floor. "Guess you haven't heard."
"Heard what?" asked Huggy.
"There was another attempt on Starsky's life
this morning at about the same time the hit on Hutch went down." Dobey
paused while he waited for Huggy's mouth to quit dropping. "Cut him pretty
bad. Stabbed that Walters boy, but he's still alive. Killed a nurse,
though."
"Oh, man, it ain't easy being friends with
those samurai in blue jeans."
"It ain't easy being their captain,
either."
Hutchinson was still unconscious, but the nurse on
duty told the two black men that he had woken briefly while in Mother of
Mercy's ER and called out for Starsky. Dobey asked that he be paged as soon as
there was any change in his man's condition.
"Come on, Huggy, let's go to the recovery
room. I asked them to hold Starsky there until I could come see him. I
understand they've had to keep him heavily sedated and tied down. Somehow, he
heard about Hutch and keeps trying to climb out of bed."
Huggy shook his head. "I'm not surprised. You
know what I'm sayin'?"
The captain grimly smiled his agreement and the
two headed for the recovery room.
When the pair arrived, the recovery room was full
of patients from the first round of surgeries for the day. They immediately
identified David Starsky - he was the one in constant motion in a bed flanked
by two orderlies tasked with keeping him from hurting himself.
Dobey stopped at the foot of the bed.
"Starsky," he said harshly in his most commanding tone, "get it
together, you hear me!?"
The dark-haired detective looked toward the
booming voice. It took a few moments for it to register that it belonged to his
captain. "Cap, good you're here. Gotta help me get to Hutch. No more
drugs. Get to Hutch." Dobey and Huggy had to strain to understand the
soft, hoarse mutterings issuing from the drugged but still frantic Starsky.
"At ease, Starsky!" Dobey hoped the use
of the military phrase would have some effect. It did; Starsky lay still for
the first time in hours.
"Captain Dobey? Hello, I'm Dr. Andropoulos,
anesthesia." The man in green scrubs clutched a chart to his chest.
"I'm hoping you can help us. Mr. Starsky has been uncontrollable since the
anesthetic wore off. We've been giving him as much as we dare in the way of
narcotics and sedation, but he remains…dogged in his attempts to get to this
Hutch person." He sighed and shrugged in defeat. "Tell me," he
asked conspiratorially, leaning closer to Dobey, "what is he like
without…without…uh, medication?"
"Doctor, you don't want to know. I'll talk
with him. I can promise you he won't be a problem any longer." Dr.
Andropoulos looked skeptical. Dobey pushed aside one of the orderlies and stood
close to Starsky's head. "Now, listen to me, Sergeant Starsky.
You're still a cop, my cop, even if you're in the hospital. I'm the
captain, and you gotta do what I say, or it'll be days before you see your
partner. You got that straight, Detective Sergeant Starsky?"
Starsky looked cowed and beat. Dobey smiled in
triumph as he read a "Yes, sir," on the patient's lips. "That's
more like it. And the doctors and nurses have my permission to knock you out
any way they can, and I mean with or without drugs."
"Cap, how's Hutch?" There was still no
sound with his words so Dobey was obliged to read Starsky's lips.
"Here's the story. Someone planted a bomb
that went off at Hutch's place just when you were attacked. For some reason,
Hutch was almost out of the building when it blew."
Starsky grinned to himself. It's the dogs. Those
damn barkin' dogs he's told me about. The dogs saved his life!
The captain continued. "Anyway, most of his
backside got burned, first- and second-degree. Concussion, scalp laceration,
broken arm, puncture wound, some cracked ribs, road rash on his chest. He'll be
okay. He'll probably be out before you will."
Huggy had worked his way to the opposite side of
the bed. "Hey, my man, I'll look after your Blond Blintz till you mosey
around. I'll fill him in on what happened to you."
"Don't!" Starsky forced out. "Don't
tell him anything!" The act of yelling with sick vocal cords started him
coughing violently. The ever-present pain escalated to new heights despite the
morphine he had been given. One of the nurses rushed over and untied a wrist
restraint before Huggy or Dobey could call out for help. She grabbed a pillow
and held it firmly to his chest until the spasm left.
Starsky flopped back on the bed. "Don't
tell." Again, his lips moved, but no sound.
"Okay, okay, my bro, your secret is safe with
Huggy the Sphinx Bear. These lips will not sink your ship."
The nurse removed all the restraints. With great
effort, Starsky stayed still. "Cap, where's Meredith?" he mouthed.
Dobey wanted to kick himself. Notifying the
policewoman had slipped his mind as one of the many things he needed to do.
Starsky could see the guilt and request for forgiveness on his captain's face.
#####
Joan Meredith and her new partner had arranged
that she would pick him up that day. After her shower, she had turned on her
police band radio and remarked to herself that things seemed busy. It had taken
a few minutes to get a coherent story from the chatter. As she realized what
had happened, she had thrown on her clothes and weapon and headed for her car.
Meredith, badge hooked in the waistband of her
slacks, had met no challenges from her fellow officers. She had spotted a
friend from the police academy, who had filled her in on the early morning
bombing. His partner had wandered over when he saw the two talking. He had
volunteered the information he had just heard over the police captain's radio
that Hutchinson had been transferred to Memorial under full escort.
The worried detective found herself stepping off
the elevator on the fourth floor without memory of getting there. She had
looked toward Starsky's room and almost fainted when she saw the crime scene
tape cordoning off the room and surrounding area. Dolores, the head nurse, had
seen her arrive and was there in time to steady her. She had helped Meredith
into the staff room. Over a cup of coffee, Dolores had explained about the deep
cut to Starsky's shoulder and arm and the need for surgical repair, about the
slashing and stabbing of Jackson, and about the death of Angela, one of
Starsky's favorite nurses.
When Starsky asked for her, Meredith was alone in
the hospital's small, interdenominational chapel. She sat stiffly in a pew,
staring at the backlit cross on the tiny altar. She was numb, except for the
despair that nipped at her heart.
#####
It was a beautiful summer day in Bay City, and the
park was crowded. No one paid much attention to two men in a white Gremlin. As
they watched preschoolers play on the park's jungle gym, they listened to their
car radio and a police scanner. Without warning, the man behind in the driver's
seat hit the ceiling of the car several times with his fist.
"Damn it all to hell! What the hell was Big
Swede doing, taking an early morning stroll? 'In fair condition at a local
hospital,'" he mimicked the announcer's voice. "And what the fuck
happened with Wild Thing, Mitch? All you had to do was cut the bastard's
throat. In and out."
"Frankie, just drop it. You already know what
happened. There's no sense in going over it again." Mitch mentally
chastised himself one more time for letting his need to say something to the
cop override his professional conduct.
"Well, we sure as hell won't be able to get
close to those assholes for a long time. I suppose we're going to ground
again?"
Mitch shook his head slowly. "No. We hide in
plain sight. And we put our mole in Metro to work for us. Big Swede and Wild
Thing's luck will run out soon enough."
3.3
The nightbeat reporter, Jimmy Gilmore, cringed
when he heard the city editor bark for his story on the attacks at Memorial
Hospital. So far, the "incident" had not been reported on television
or radio. The police had put a tight lid on this, with a press conference
scheduled for 4 p.m. The early edition of the evening paper hit the streets at
3.
My first scoop! thought Jimmy as he ripped the paper out of the
typewriter. The city editor was just a few feet away when Jimmy thrust the copy
at him.
"About damn time," grumbled the editor.
He quickly read the piece. He had to admit it was very good, and would be easy
to incorporate into Alice's story on the explosion at Venice Place. "This
is a really hot story, Jimmy. Cop partners getting hit in separate parts of the
city at the same time, weeks after a previous attempt…Hey, where's the comments
from the police about the Mustang?"
The reporter's stomach began to churn. "Uh,
don't have any comments," he said softly.
"What the hell do you mean, no comments?
Surely they said something after questioning you. Well?" The editor's face
turned beet red and the vein in his forehead bulged and pulsated.
"Uh, I left without telling anybody that. I
had to get back here and begin researching the vics and…"
"Jimmy," the editor screamed, "YOU
ARE A FUCKIN' IDIOT! You've withheld potentially important information and we
depend on the good graces of the police to get our stories!" The editor
stopped to catch his breath. "Now get on that damned phone and call Metro.
RIGHT NOW!"
The reporter looked up the number on his Rolodex
and dialed shakily. "Could I speak to the detectives in charge of the
Starsky case?"
#####
Clive Bennett and Lance (short for Lancelot)
Parson sat across from each other at their desks in Metro's detective squad.
They had just come in from interviewing witnesses at Venice Place and were now
reading the very thick file on this case starting with Lionel Rigger. The
detective partners liked Starsky and Hutchinson despite their quirks, and
respected their work. Reading the file, they came to understand why those two
mavericks were so successful.
Clive Bennett, a tall, slender, brown-haired man
in his late thirties, was a transplant from England. Born into wealth, he had
no worries about money so he chose a profession that intrigued him. In a
relatively short time, he had made inspector at Scotland Yard. But he met and
fell in love with an American woman who owned her own business. He moved to be
with her, they married, and he had adopted the Southern California lifestyle
with glee. It always freaked people out when they heard formal English spoken
in a proper British accent coming out of a man who looked like a surfer dude.
Lance Parson had just turned 30, the son of a
black and American Indian man and French Creole woman. He wore his jet-black,
tightly curly hair very short, and his skin color and accent defied
description. Originally from the bayous of Louisiana, he moved to BC for a
change. He became a street cop, but applied for detective after his only
partner to that time was killed during a "routine" traffic stop.
The phone on Bennett's desk rang. "Detective
Bennett here." Lance stopped his perusal of the file to listen to his
partner's side of the conversation. "Yes, I am one of the detectives in
charge of investigating the assaults on Detective Starsky." He reached for
a pencil and pad of paper. "Please proceed, Mr. Gilmore." Long pause.
"Did you get a good look at the gentleman?" Another long pause.
"Did you happen to get a view of the license plate?" Pause, shorter
this time. "Anything else you could possibly tell me about the
automobile?" Pause. "No, sir, I don't think we will be pressing charges"
- Bennett grinned at Parson - "this time, but do be sure to tell us what
you know in a more timely fashion should you ever witness what may be a crime.
Would it be convenient for you to come to the station now to look at mug
books?" A brief pause. "Excellent. You may ask for me or my partner,
Detective Lance Parson. Should we not be present, there are other police
officers who can assist you. Thank
Parson looked at his partner expectantly.
"Lancelot, my good man, I believe we may have the first break in this
case." Bennett dialed dispatch and placed an APB on a red 1968 Mustang
convertible "in poor repair."
"Far out, dude!" exclaimed Parson.
"May the players begin to fall!"
They turned to face the sound of the doors to the
room open. Minnie Kaplan escorted a short, old man with a fringe of long, gray,
dirty hair into the room. His hands were thrust deep inside the pockets of his
dark brown overcoat.
"Detectives Parson, Bennett, this is Wailin'
Willie, one of Hutch's snitches. He says he may have something you can use.
Okay, sweetie," she addressed the derelict, "you can talk to these
guys. They'll treat you right."
"Hey there, pops," said Parson as he
pulled a chair close to the desk. "Have a sit and let's chew the fat. Why
they call you 'Wailin' Willie,' anyhoo?"
"Because I sing country western songs for a
livin'. Make a pretty good one at it, too."
"So, dude, what you got fer us?"
"Well, I heard these two guys at Shirley's a
coupla nights ago, sayin' somethin' 'bout Big Swede and Wild Thing enjoyin' a
last night together. I didn't have no idea who or what they meant. But then I
hears about Hutch - he's a good man, you know. Always treats me nice. Likes my
singin', too. Always asks for 'Rawhide.'"
"Sure, pops, I get the picture. So you hear
'bout Hutch and…" Parson prompted the old man.
"Oh, yeah, I hear that Hutch has been blowed
up. Well, I got to thinkin' he could be Big Swede. And his partner, that
Starkey…"
"Starsky," corrected Bennett.
"Yeah, like I said, Starkey could be Wild
Thing. So I hitch a ride here to tell somebody. I won't use the phone. The
phone police are always listenin' in and you can't have a private conversation,
you know."
Parson and Bennett exchanged congratulatory
glances. The case was opening like a rose in full bloom. "You wouldn't
happen to be able to describe these two gentlemen or know where they are
residing, would you, Mr. Willie?"
"I seen 'em around the neighborhood. I think
they might be at the St. Francis Hotel. Hey, mister, you ain't from around
here, are you?"
3.4
Starsky, to his credit, behaved like a model
patient and was discharged from the recovery room a half-hour later to his new
room on the fifth floor. Though his ward was at the opposite end of the
building from the Burn Center, it was at least on the same floor.
Huggy helped him get settled in. They didn't
speak. Starsky had withdrawn, worried sick about Hutch and about the missing
Meredith. He felt responsible for the attack on Jackson and Angela's death.
Plus, he had to contend with three uniforms outside his room. Yeah, like
these three cops can stop a determined killer.
He couldn't fight the need for sleep any longer,
and battling the unremitting massive pain left him exhausted. Though he hated
himself for it, because he knew he should be with his partner, he gave in to
sleep as soon as his day nurse finished checking him in and capping off his IV.
Three hours later, a nightmare woke him. He bolted
upright in bed and loosed a coarse yelp of torment. The sudden movement jolted
the dozing thin black man awake. "What is it, Starsky? Bad dream?"
"Yeah," he croaked softly in response.
"Gotta see Hutch. Saw him on fire. Even comin' outta his nose 'n' mouth.
Gotta see him now." He started to climb over the side rails.
"Hey, wait just a New York minute, m'man.
I'll get one of them rolling chairs for you." Huggy had a hard time trying
to keep Starsky from progressing further.
"No, no time. Get my canes."
Huggy searched the small room and the closet but
didn't turn up one cane, much less two. "I think they may have gotten left
in the old room, Starsk."
"Don't matter. Don't know why I need them
fuckin' canes anyway. My legs weren't shot up. Get these rails down, Hug."
"Barbara says you need 'em for balance. A tumble
could be quite serious for you at this stage, my friend, you hear what I'm
sayin'?"
"I hear ya. Now just get me outta this bed
and to Hutch. Tha's all I want."
Starsky's pitiful look torpedoed Huggy's good
sense. He lowered the side rails and helped his friend stand. He held on while
Starsky swayed. Starsky then batted his hands away and took two steps.
And promptly fell. He felt something pop then burn
in his right shoulder. He curled into a ball and rocked in hopes that the pain,
which he didn't think could possibly increase but did, would lessen.
Huggy called out, "Hey, I could use some help
in here!" Two of the uniformed police officers rushed in, drawing their
guns. "Put those things away! Ain't this man got enough freakin' holes?
Help me put him back to bed, okay, fellas?"
"No, Huggy," Starsky insisted through
gritted teeth as he sat on the edge of the bed. "Get me to Hutch. Then
I'll rest, promise."
"Again with the puppy dog eyes. All right,
already. But ya gotta let me roll you down there." Starsky nodded his
assent to Huggy's demand. "Thanks, good people, but your assistance is no
longer required. Huggy Bear has the matter in hand. Unless one of you would
like to find a wheelchair for our determined and hardheaded patient?"
#####
Hutchinson awoke to the sound of a woman's voice
asking if he was in there. In where? he thought groggily. Then his total
body pain reminded him that something had happened. All he could remember was
hearing the dogs bark, and wondering where Starsky was because he needed him,
and trying to deny the sweet effects of the morphine.
Dryly, he replied, "I'm here, if here is
hell."
"No, it isn't hell. But close. You're in
Memorial's Burn Center." She told him the story of the explosion and
enumerated his injuries. "How bad are you hurting now? I'll get you some
morphine."
"NO, please don't. Pain's tolerable," he
lied. "Could I have some ice or water? But first, my partner."
"Ask and you shall receive, my son,"
said Huggy Bear as he wheeled Starsky into the room with him. "The prodigal
partner returns. Well, that's not exactly right, but you get my drift."
"Hiya, babe, how ya doin'?" Starsky
whispered as he gave his friend/partner/brother his widest available grin.
"Sorry I'm late. Forgive me?"
"Oh, buddy, nothing to forgive." Hutch
wasn't about to tell him of the betrayal and panic he felt when Starsky wasn't
with him earlier, since Starsky couldn't possibly have been with him then. Sometimes
you're so damned selfish. How could you forget your partner was in the
hospital? "You're here now. Geez, did you have a relapse? You look
terrible." The fears he had about the morphine would have to wait now.
Hutch was right. Starsky was pale and sweaty, with
dark circles under his eyes and a posture that screamed pain. Huggy helped him
to a very uncomfortable-looking chair the nurse had placed close to Hutch's
bed. "You don't look so terrific yourself, buddy boy. Or should I call you
'the mummy'?"
Starsky was right. Hutch, lying on his right side,
back supported by pillows, was swathed almost head to toe in white. The gauze
turban he wore covered most of his bloodied and dirtied blond locks. His left
arm was in a plaster cast to just above his elbow, and the white gauze on his
upper arm was stained with blood. He was definitely paler than usual and dark
circles completely surrounded his tired, pained eyes. "Don't we look like
somethin' the cat drug in?" asked Starsky.
Hutch laughed through his nose. "No
self-respecting cat would drag the likes of us anywhere but the litter
box."
"Speak for yourself. God, Hutch, I've been
worried sick. I tried to get here sooner, but…"
"Starsk, I understand. You can't be with me
constantly. I know you try to be when I'm hurting, but be realistic, okay?
You're still in pretty rough shape. Not to change the subject, Gordo, but the
voice. What happened? I can barely hear you."
"Oh, just a minor setback. Guess I talked too
much. I'll be okay in a day or two." God, please don't let him notice
this bulge on my shoulder. "I'm here for you, babe, I ain't gonna leave
you until you go home. Or wherever. I mean, until you're discharged. Oh, shit,
Hutch, I'm sorry. You just lost everything and…"
"Starsky, I didn't lose anything important. I
still got the one thing that is important - you." Hutch reached for his
partner the best he could with his right hand. Starsky smiled his thanks and,
with a little help from Huggy, took his partner's hand with his left. A minute
later, the partners were asleep.
Huggy stood with arms crossed over his chest,
watching his two friends. He sat on the floor, propping his back against
Hutch's bed and stretching his legs in front of Starsky, so that the three now
formed a closed triangle of sorts. "No one can ever say you two are
superior conversationalists, or particularly friendly or understandin', but you
are two righteous dudes and I'd walk in space without a helmet for you. Sleep
well, my beauties." He closed his eyes and joined them.
3.5
Meredith had caught up with Captain Dobey in his
hospital command center. He immediately assigned her to work with Bennett and
Parson. The two in turn assigned her to begin questioning the supervisors of
every department. It was early afternoon when she found out that Ernie
Michaelson had punched in a few minutes before 11 the previous night but had not
punched out.
Her intuition told her this was very important and
shouldn't waste time trying to track down the night supervisor and other night
personnel. She put a call in to Bennett, but was told he and Parson, along with
back-up, were running down a lead at the St. Francis. So she took her
information to Dobey, who was easily able to get a search warrant for
Michaelson's locker (there were many sympathetic judges that day). She had the
crime scene team with her so they could properly gather evidence.
The locker was empty and wiped clean. Meredith
knew they had Starsky's attacker but was furious there was no evidence.
"Give it one more try, would you please, Charlie?"
"Sure thing, Detective." Charlie went
back to work. Five minutes later, he said with caution, "I think I have a
partial print here. Probably a pinkie." Meredith grinned widely.
#####
Bennett and Parson found two empty rooms at the
St. Francis. The clerk said the two men had moved out the night before and had
left the place very clean. "Even washed the friggin' walls, they did.
Rooms're just like they left 'em. Night clerk wudn't gonna waste his time
cleaning again." Parson instructed the crime team to search for evidence
anyway.
#####
Jimmy Gilmore and Wailin' Willie looked through
mug book after mug book. Sayers, a detective on desk duty because his partner
was out with appendicitis, encouraged and cajoled and watched the two men
closely for any possible signs of recognition on their faces. When Willie began
to shake, Sayers sent Minnie out for a bottle of fortified wine for their
"guest." But after several hours, the two men found nothing but
agreed on one thing: the men they saw were white, of average build and weight,
with brown hair. Only Willie was positive he would recognize the men if he saw
them again.
That's great,
thought Sayers. We got a wino witness. The captain's gonna love this one.
#####
The fingerprint Charlie found in Michaelson's
locker was actually a full one of the right fifth finger. Dobey had two uniforms
take it directly to Print ID at BCPD headquarters, with instructions to check
the print against the records of servicemen in their thirties first. They got a
10-point match inside an hour.
Wilma Faludi called Dobey with the good news.
"Your print, Cap, belongs to a Navy SEAL, name of Horace Harvey Mitchell.
I'll get Minnie working on getting more information."
"Thanks, Wilma. Good work. I owe you one. And
I'll handle it from here." He hung up, found the number he wanted in his
Rolodex, and dialed it. "May I speak with Colonel Johnson, please. Harold
Dobey, Bay City Police calling. This is important. No, it's very
important."
#####
The two men in Metro Division's Internal Affairs
office were closing up shop when one of the phones rang.
"It's mine." The tall,
well-built black man picked up the receiver. "IA, Officer Dryden
speaking."
"You alone, Dryden?"
The officer looked at his partner, a smaller, wiry
white man named Simonetti, and mouthed "Personal." Simonetti nodded
and quickly left the office.
"Yeah, I am now. How did you fuck up again,
Frankie?"
"So sue me, you prick. Call the service when
they're discharged and you know where they'll be. We'll call back in the usual
manner." Fuckin' cop, betraying his own.
"You got it. 100 Gs wired to the same account
as before and no bullshit - I know you can't afford not to pay it. And don't
miss this time." He hung up the phone. The only thing good about you
not being dead yet, Starsky, is that you've really suffered and now have to
watch Hutchinson suffer. You should've never humiliated me. Now I get payback
with Hutchinson as a bonus. Just wish you knew it was me helping out.
3.6
Starsky woke with a start and a gasp.
"Hutch," he whispered excitedly, "Hutch, wake up!" He
squeezed and shook the hand he held.
"Wha…what's going on? What is it,
Starsk?" Hutch could hear the familiar excitement that his partner got
when he had solved a piece of a puzzle.
"The hands! I remember where I seen those
hands before." Yeah, I remember those hands and three bullets doin' a
demolition derby in my chest and another clippin' my gut and lodgin' in my
liver.
"What hands? Starsk, you're not making any
sense. Good God, Starsky, you're bleeding!" Hutch's heart almost beat its
way out of his chest when he saw the large bloody stain covering the right side
of Starsky's hospital gown.
"Those hands are Ernie's hands. But I
seen 'em before that!" Starsky stared past Hutch, as if conjuring an
image.
"Will you stop already about the
hands? Why are you bleeding? Huggy, you still here? NURSE!"
"I'm here, Blondie," Huggy grumped.
"Be quiet. You're soundin' like your Captain Bligh, if you know what I
mean. What's going on?"
"Hutch, listen to me. Ernie's hands were on
the steering wheel."
"What steering wheel? NURSE! Where the
hell she? Starsk, are you nuts?" He paused while the gears in his head
reached maximum revolutions. "The steering wheel of that squad car.
Are you telling me 'Ernie' was the…"
"Driver," Starsky finished. "That's
what I've been tryin' to tell you, Blintz. And it was his hand that tried to
suffocate me this morning. Now we know what one of 'em looks like! Geez, you
can be slow, you know that?"
"For crying out loud, Starsky, you can really
push my buttons sometimes, you know that?
A nurse, accompanied by an orderly, rushed in. Two
uniforms followed close behind. "What is it?" she asked breathlessly.
"My partner here is bleeding and he needs
help! Get a doctor NOW!"
"It's adios for me, dear detectives. I
can't take you two rowdy ruffians any more today. You're wearin' me out,
I tell you. I'm goin' to my bar where I can get some peace and quiet."
Huggy strolled out of the room. He was followed closely by the uniformed cops,
as they had realized their expertise was not required.
Starsky peered down at his chest. Now he knew what
the pop and burn had meant. "Hutch, it's nothin'. Cut myself
shavin'?"
"You're not only nuts, you're certifiably
nuts. Now why would you think that I would think you'd shave your
chest hair? And what's this about Ernie trying to suffocate you? And where the
hell is the doctor? My friend is bleeding to death here!"
"Please, Mr. Hutchinson, calm down. The
orderly went for him." Using a towel, she pressed down firmly on Starsky's
shoulder, causing him to squirm and grimace with pain.
"It's nothin', Hutch. Just popped a few
stitches, maybe. I'm fine, really."
"What the hell are you doing with new
stitches?" Hutch stifled the urge to throttle his partner. And he dreaded
hearing the reason for the new wound.
"Well, while you were getting yourself blown
up, Ernie was tryin' to cut my throat. He missed. Jackson scared him off, but
he cut and stabbed him, Hutch." Hutch felt something catch in his own
throat as he saw a miserable sadness creep over his friend's face. "He
saved my life. He's in ICU right now. Then Ernie killed Angela, Hutch.
The stinkin' sonuvabitch killed my Angela. This shit happened to them
because-a me." Starsky couldn't hold back the tears any longer.
Hutch squeezed Starsky's hand in sympathy.
"Oh God, Starsk, when were you going to tell me about this third
attempt?" He paused to control the shakiness he knew was in his voice.
It's my fault that this happened to you and Angela and Jackson, not yours. I'm
so sorry. It's all my fault. I let my guard down, got complacent. This should
never have happened. Can you ever forgive me, buddy?" How can I call
myself a cop? How could I not have insisted on maintaining protection for him?
And me? Starsky deserves better than this. The pain escalated in his
body along with the guilt and shame he felt.
Starsky was quiet for a few seconds. "Whaddya
mean, 'third attempt'? You mean they tried a second time and nobody
thought to tell me about it?" He felt his anger rising. "Why didn't
you tell me? Don't you think I have a right to know? If I'd'a known
about the second one, maybe I could have been more alert for the third one. For
Pete's sake, Hutch, what were you thinking?"
The nurse released the pressure on Starsky's wound
and took a few steps back. She was enthralled with the drama unfolding before
her eyes and ears. This is better than any soap opera, she thought.
Hutch's heart bled at the sound of betrayal and
disappointment he heard in Starsky's voice. "I made a big mistake,
Starsky, one that almost cost the most important person in the world to me his
life, and changed forever the life of a young man dear to him and me. And I am
responsible for the death of another. I'll have to carry this forever. And I
don't blame you if you won't or can't forgive me. I certainly don't think I'll
ever forgive myself." Hutch squeezed his eyes shut and exhaled sharply.
Starsky sank back into the chair. He felt burned
up inside, tired beyond imagination, and deeply bone-weary of the pain that
seldom seemed to abate just a little. "Hutch, of course I forgive you,
babe. How can I not? You're my best friend ever. You're human, and humans make
mistakes. God knows I've blown it a few thousand times."
Hutch slowly opened his eyes and looked intensely
into his partner's. Seeing the forgiveness and compassion in them, Hutch felt
the first inkling of his own forgiveness. He smiled at Starsky, and for the
first time in weeks, the smile truly extended to his sky-blue eyes.
The nurse was crying openly when the doctor barged
in without knocking. "What's going on here? David, are you bleeding again?
Popped some stitches, I bet. How'd it happen?"
"I fell," Starsky responded meekly.
Hutch started to laugh. He was enjoying seeing his partner, who was rarely
anything but assertive, in this state.
"Nurse…"
"Reynolds, Doctor." She wiped her eyes
and sniffed as she regained her professional demeanor.
"Nurse Reynolds, let's work on getting David
back to his room and…"
"Oh no, you don't!" Starsky
"asserted" himself. There goes his temper, chuckled Hutch to
himself. "I'm not movin' from here. My partner's hurt and needs me. You
can do what you gotta do right here. If you try to move me, well, I won't be
held responsible if you become a patient in your own hospital."
The physician looked to Hutch for his help and
support. Hutch shrugged and said, "I can't do anything with him when he's
like this, Doc. If I were you, I'd do what he wants."
The doctor growled. "All right, we'll do it
your way, David. Your acting this way shouldn't surprise me, considering everything
that's occurred since you became my patient. Nurse Reynolds, I'll need two
pairs of sterile gloves, size 8, and…"
The detectives tuned out doctor and nurse and
turned their attention to each other. Starsky almost gasped when he saw what he
thought were blue flames shimmering in Hutch's eyes. "We have to call
Dobey about this Michaelson creep. Starsky, I give you my word that I'm going
to get the bastards who have done this to you. Just like I got that piss-ant
Gunther. My gift to you, buddy. Nobody gets to you again."
3.7
David Starsky sported a fresh bulky dressing over
his right upper chest. Three stitches had popped open but the surgeon replaced
them with more sutures rather than closing the wound with butterfly tape.
"Against usual practice standards, David, but knowing you, the butterflies
won't be enough." "Butterflies oughta be free, anyway, Doc. Shouldn't
try to keep 'em under wraps."
What followed was an intense negotiation session
involving the detectives, Starsky's doctor, Hutch's doctor, and the charge
nurses from the Burn Center and 5th floor ward. Starsky agreed to spend the
night in his room but he could stay with Hutch in between PT and psychologist
visits. He also agreed to take one pain pill every four hours during the day.
In exchange for that concession, he didn't have to take a sleeping pill. Hutch
would take a non-narcotic analgesic on a regular basis and a muscle relaxant
when he needed. In return, he would not receive any more morphine, regardless
of how much he hurt or begged for it. Instead, Starsky and the nurses would
work with him on alternative methods of pain control. And Nurse Reynolds had
found Starsky a much more comfortable reclining chair to use.
They were dozing after their evening meal when Dobey,
Meredith, Parson, and Bennett stormed in the room. Dobey carried a file folder
that was several inches thick.
"Hey, you two, wake up. We got some news for
you."
"Yeah, Cap, what is it? You catch that
slicer-and-dicer Michaelson?" Starsky said matter-of-factly. He stared at
Meredith, and she at him. Those piercing, accusing dark blue eyes quickly made
her feel uncomfortable and she focussed on Dobey. The interaction was not lost
on Hutchinson.
"No, but we're making real progress. Found a
few things out about this Ernest Michaelson fellow. With the help of a friend
of mine at the Presidio, I got his military records. Ernie is really Horace
Harvey Mitchell, age 35. Decorated Navy SEAL, served in Vietnam, then nothing
else but a death certificate soon after his discharge. That started me
thinkin', so I contacted another friend I have in the CIA." Dobey allowed
himself a self-satisfied grin. "Thought Mitchell might have been recruited
by the Company. Seems I was right. He left CIA a few years ago. They have every
reason to believe he is using his skills as a mercenary. My contact couldn't
come up with a probable for a partner, so he sent me this." He fished out
a thick document and tossed it to Hutchinson. Starsky, who had turned his eyes
to Dobey when Meredith broke contact, began studying his feet.
Dobey continued as Hutch paged through the
document with his one usable hand. "Got this by that new-fangled facsimile
machine. He sent me this list of military personnel that served combat tours in
'Nam, thinking it might help us out in id'ing the partner. He really went out
on a limb for us. Anyway, this was CIA's wish list of recruits. Makes for
interesting reading. Anything you want to say, Starsky?" The captain was
careful to keep his tone even and non-judgmental.
Hutchinson looked in shock and disbelief at Dobey,
then at Starsky. "Is there something you want to tell me, buddy? Is your
name in here?"
The dark-haired detective continued to contemplate
his feet. "Cap, I don't see what this has to do with anything, much less
this case. Besides, it's ancient history."
"It might have something to do with this
case, Starsky. We're only looking at names of possible recruits who were
in-country during Mitchell's tour. You're one of them. You might even know him.
This might not be just about Gunther any more, son. All of us here are
well-aware of your tendency to fly off the handle at the drop of a hat."
Hutch was persistent. "Starsky, you haven't
answered my questions."
"Cap, I was in th' Army. Mitchell was Navy.
About the only time one had anything to do with the other was on a Saturday
during football season. And I didn't make any enemies over there."
"Don't ignore me, Starsky. I'm your partner.
We all know the CIA recruited only combat vets who were the best ki…" The
blond man choked on the word. He could taste bile in his throat. He couldn't
imagine his partner, his friend, who cared for him so gently when he was sick
or injured, who cared so much about people, being a cold-blooded killer. I
thought I knew him!
Starsky finally pulled his eyes from his feet and
looked at Dobey square on. "Look, Cap'n," he said, arms and hands
gesturing more than before to emphasize his point, "I was good at my job,
which was stayin' alive and keepin' the rest of my squad alive, too. Toward the
end of my tour, some turkey approached me. I told him no way, leave me alone,
and go piss into the wind." He sighed and bowed his head. When he raised
his head again, he looked at only Hutch. "I said I had made a few thousand
mistakes. Hookin' up with the CIA wudn't one of them. And neither was fighting
for my country and coming home alive with a clear conscience."
Starsky watched with relief as Hutch's expression
changed from fear and loathing to understanding and unconditional acceptance.
Hutch laughed self-consciously. "Captain Dobey, why don't we get on with
it? I think we've gone down enough blind alleys for the evening." Starsky
flashed his partner a look of gratitude.
Bennett, Parson, and Meredith recited what had
occurred to open the case. Mitchell's picture was in the hands of every peace
officer in the city and county. The APB on the Mustang was also still in
effect.
"We're gonna find these turkeys soon and
bring 'em in," said Dobey with confidence. "It's almost over,
boys."
"Cap, I want my weapon."
"Starsky, I think you've gone over the edge.
You've been wounded, you're in the hospital. You have your own personal guards
right outside your door at all times. You don't need a weapon. The answer is
no."
"But…"
"Starsky, I don't want a heavily medicated
man wielding a gun around me. I don't especially relish a bullet in my
butt." Hutch was adamant.
"I don't know about that. Your tush could
stand some home improvement."
Dobey's "Starsky!" cut off Hutch's
comeback. "Quit foolin' around. No gun, and that's final!"
"Look, Cap'n, it's my life. And my partner's.
I'm not takin' that much pain medicine any more. These guys are professionals,
even though they have made mistakes. We know that one of them was a SEAL, and
those guys are lethal. And we know they're ruthless, or Angela wouldn't be
dead. Finally, we know they're determined. They've come after me 'n' Hutch three
times already, and I don't think they're gonna stop. It's very possible that
they could make it past our bodyguards. I don't want to be caught naked. I
wanna put up a fight. I want a chance." Starsky tried to look persuasive.
"Captain, I think Starsky's right,"
chimed in Hutchinson. "And I want my weapon, too." Dobey caught the
burning in Hutch's eyes.
The room was quietly tense for a few moments. The
five detectives could see Dobey weighing all the options, reviewing the pros
and the cons, deciding. "All right, you'll have 'em in the morning. Well,
at least you will, Starsky. Hutchinson, I assume yours was in your
apartment?"
"Yes, it was. Guess I'll need a new
one."
"Meredith, you'll take care of that and see
that Starsky gets his first thing in the morning."
"Thanks, Captain. You know that expression:
'It ain't over until the fat lady sings.' I don't think she's even entered the
opera house."
"Yeah, she's as quiet as a church
mouse." Starsky leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes. "If
that's all, Cap'n, I'd appreciate some quiet time. I'm really tuckered
out."
Meredith felt the figurative knife stab her deeply
in the heart and turn. He's shut me out, and damn if I don't deserve it.
"Bennett and Parson'll be in mid-morning to
officially take your statements. Now, get some sleep. That's an order."
#####
The seed of the plan for exterminating
the two detective sergeants was just beginning to sprout in Horace Harvey
Mitchell's brain. This time, he was determined not to make mistakes. He would
make those two cops die horrible deaths not only to repair his professional
reputation, but also his personal pride. He was a twice-wounded tiger now,
fighting for his survival. And he knew that there was nothing as vicious and
dangerous as a wounded tiger.
He laughed with diabolical unscrupulousness as he
visualized a double police funeral. You're dead, Big Swede and Wild Thing.
You just don't know it yet.
End of Part 3
© 2000
Comments?
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Part 3
completed 17 November 2000