The following night at the Golden Lady Ballroom, the case Starsky, Hutch and Kira had been working on came to a climatic close. All three detectives were on hand to play their parts and capture the demented Viet Nam vet, when he finally snapped and tried to blow up the dance hall and everyone in it. In spite of what had transpired the evening before, Starsky and Hutch managed to disarm the man and get the hand grenade out of the building before it detonated. Still, they hadn’t spoken a single word to one another except what was necessary to do the job.
As soon as Joey Webster was apprehended and in custody, Starsky disappeared from the scene and went back to the station to complete the paperwork. Hutch and Kira left and went back to her house, barely noticing Starsky’s departure.
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Eight-thirty the next morning, Hutch walked into the squad room. Starsky sat at the typewriter, slowly pecking away at yet another of the never-ending reports which were a part of their daily routine. He barely looked up as his partner entered the room.
“’Morning,” Hutch said, avoiding eye contact with the dark-haired detective. As a peace offering, he dropped a bag of warm, sticky donuts on the desk in front of his partner. He knew Starsk could never resist sweets, being the consummate junk food junkie.
Starsky ignored them, acknowledging Hutch with only a muffled, “ ’Mornin."
Hutch flipped through the open file on the desk. “Any leads on the rape cases?” he asked, pretending not to notice Starsky’s refusal to accept his bribe.
“Just one,” Starsky replied without looking up. “Cap’n Dobey wants us to contact some stoolie named Tucker who says he heard on the street there’s a bad dude braggin’ about teach’n a lesson to the ‘sluts’ out there who think they’re too good for him.”
“Mmm. Might be something.” Hutch sipped his coffee and looked through photos of the perp’s latest victims. Six so far. Each more brutal than the previous. The last two had been raped and then pistol-whipped, even though, they told the police, they’d been too frightened to resist. No leads until this morning. Maybe things would get back to normal with this case finally opening up.
“Hit the street?” he suggested, looking up in time to see Starsky rip the completed form out of the typewriter.
“You got it,” was Starsky’s only reply.
Still no eye contact between the partners…
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As the Torino thundered up the street, a cloud of tension lay between the two men. I don’t think I can take this, Hutch. Say somethin’—tell me it was a mistake—hell, tell me she held you at gunpoint! Unbidden memories surfaced as Starsky recalled their last argument over a woman—Gillian.
Hutch really loved her, and it tore Starsky’s heart out to tell his partner the truth about his lady. Sure, Hutch didn’t want to believe it. He even accused Starsky of lying, of jealousy—anything to keep from admitting the truth to himself.
But Hutch knew, deep down
inside, that his partner wasn’t making up wild accusations. He knew that he could always count on
Starsky to be honest with him, no matter what.
Tell me, Hutch. Tell me anything to help me understand!
Still, Hutch was quiet.
All the while, Hutch was lost in his own thoughts. The past two days with Kira had been indescribable. The only fly in the ointment had been his underlying sense of guilt that he’d betrayed his friend. You know I don't want to hurt you, Starsk, but this woman makes me crazy! How can I explain it to you? Does she make you feel the same way?
Several times during the short ride, Hutch tried to say the words aloud, but was afraid of opening the wound. Right now, they needed to concentrate on getting this sadistic bastard off the streets. There would be time later to mend fences. And they WOULD resolve this. Nothing could ever end their friendship—built on the mutual trust and respect they had for one another. Besides, he didn’t understand himself why he was acting this way, so how could he possibly explain it to Starsky?
Starsky swerved into the curb in front of Huggy’s and turned off the ignition. “Supposed to meet Tucker here,” he told Hutch. First words spoken since they’d left the station. Hutch opened his door and got out without comment. Both detectives entered the dimly lit club and took a seat at the bar.
“What it is?” Huggy greeted them. Although both guys spoke, Huggy could tell that something wasn’t right. Everyone who knew the “dynamic duo” could attest to the chemistry between them as the reason for their uncanny success as L.A.’s finest. They worked like two parts of the same brain, soul mates, silent communicators. This morning, these two acted like they were from different planets.
Huggy pretended not to notice. Whatever it was, it would pass. “The man’s already here,” he said, looking around inconspicuously as he poured two cups of coffee. “Waiting in the corner booth—kind of jittery. I think this dude he’s talkin’ about must be one whacked-out cat. Never seen Tucker watchin’ the shadows like today.”
“Thanks, Huggy,” Hutch said, dropping a couple of bucks for the coffee on the counter and heading over to the booth. Starsky followed without a word.
Tucker was your typical snitch—greasy hair swept back from a sallow, puffy face which hadn’t seen a razor in at least three days. As Starsky and Hutch approached the booth, Tucker nervously searched the room with slightly bulging, obviously worried eyes. “You guys the cops lookin’ for the creep hurtin’ all the girls?”
“Heard you might have somethin’ for us,” Starsky said, as he slid into the booth. Hutch slid in from the other side, hemming in the snitch.
“Maybe, maybe not. What’s it worth to you?”
Hutch laid a twenty on the table, his expression barely suppressing the disgust he felt for this vermin who would cash in on the suffering of others.
“You gotta be kiddin’”, Tucker snarled. “You guys don’t know what you’re dealin’ with here. You think I’m gonna risk my life for a lousy twenty.”
Starsky reached into his back pocket and pulled out another fifty. Tucker reached for the bill, only to have it snatched back by Starsky. “Uh, uh. Tell me what you’ve got first.”
“Puchelli… Frank, I think they call him. Small time loser who gets his kicks beatin’ up the ladies. Just recently progressed to more, shall we say active participation? Seems this guy hates women and the only way he can get it off is to force ‘em, then beat the hell out of ‘em. If the word on the street is on the mark, each of the girls ends up a little worse off than the last.”
Tucker reached for the bill again. Starsky let him take it.
“Fifty more will get you the address,” he said, cutting his eyes to Hutch. With a grimace, Hutch dug deep into his jeans and brought out his last ten. “Okay. Okay. Stayin’ at a dump down on Madison. A flophouse, Sunset Hotel. Now you guys ain’t seen me and you never talked to me. You got it?”
“You’re a prince among thieves.” Starsky sneered, as he and Hutch stood up to leave.
“This one’s for free,” Tucker added. “You guys better watch each other’s backs. This lunatic is gonna kill somebody. If you push him, it’ll probably be you.”
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The red Torino rolled to a stop two blocks east of Sunset Hotel. The two detectives weren’t taking any chances that they may scare off the suspect. Most of the street people recognized the Striped Tomato and knew that wherever it was, Starsky & Hutch weren’t far away.
“So what do you think?” Hutch said, turning and actually looking Starsky in the eyes for the first time that day. “Want to take the direct approach, or split up and try flushing him out?”
“Your call.”
“I say we march on in there, strong-arm the room number out of the desk clerk and move quick.”
“The Hutchinson subtle approach, hmmm?” Starsky actually came close to smiling.
“You got it, Partner,” Hutch said, feeling a fleeting moment of their friendship, as it once had been. Enough said, they headed into the flophouse.
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“Police! Open up!” Hutch shouted. Not giving Puchelli time to escape through a window, he kicked the door open. Without needing to speak a word, he and Starsky quickly entered the room in their traditional fashion. With the precision born from years of working together, Hutch went high with the Magnum held rigidly in front of him, while Starsky went low with the Smith & Wesson, ready for action. The room was empty. The adrenaline still pumping, Starsky ran to check the fire escape while Hutch checked the bathroom.
No rapist, but plenty of evidence that the pervert had been there recently. Well-worn, dog-eared S&M magazines lay scattered around the room, as well as various paraphernalia used for bondage games. It looked like they were on the right track.
“Damn!” Starsky muttered his disappointment. “Within twenty minutes he’ll hear we’re lookin’ for him. He’s not gonna risk coming back here.”
“I’m going to call Dobey and get a search warrant,” Hutch said. “There’s some pretty powerful circumstantial evidence here. May need it later.”