CHAPTER 15
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“For ‘tis sport to have the enginer
Hoist with his own petar” - Act III, Sc IV
Starsky returned to the theatre. As he returned to his seat, Hutch, from the stage, met his gaze and raised his eyebrows slightly. Starsky barely inclined his head. Hutch returned the gesture. Message received: they would talk later.
After Drake finished giving notes, the two detectives left the theatre together. Since the company had seen Starsky with Hutch on opening night, his cover included a long-term friendship with “Ken Hyde,” which at least eliminated one set of potential complications and pussyfooting around. As they went out the door and toward the parking lot, Hutch spoke in a low, conversational tone.
“So...what’s up?”
“Harold called,” Starsky said. Hutch looked puzzled for a moment, then realization dawned.
“Really?” he said. “What’d he want?”
“Wants us to come over for dinner,” Starsky replied. “Right away.”
“Really,” Hutch said again, this time with a slight frown. “What’s cookin’?”
“Don’t know,” Starsky replied. “But he said we better get there before it gets any hotter.”
“Got it,” Hutch said. He stopped by the Ford, while Starsky went on toward the Torino, which was parked further back in the lot. “See you there.”
“Yup.”
Starsky arrived at Captain Dobey’s office well before Hutch, and by the time the blond detective got there, the other two men had run out of small talk. Starsky was growing increasingly uneasy about this summons.
“You sure took your time!” Dobey barked at Hutch, as he dropped into the chair next to Starsky. Hutch glanced at his partner; though Dobey was typically gruff with them, this was real annoyance. Mentally, they both ran through the records of their activities for the last few days, but could unearth nothing to warrant this kind of irritation.
“Sorry, Captain,” Hutch apologized. “Had a bit of a stall on the way here.”
“Y’know, if you’d just get rid of that thing, you could get places on time,” Starsky began.
“Can it, both of you,” Dobey snapped.
The two detectives exchanged another glance.
“Cap’n,” Starsky said. “You wanna tell us why we’re here and why you’re on the warpath?”
In response, Dobey picked up a slim manila folder and tossed it at Hutch, who caught it by reflex. He flipped it open and began to scan the contents.
“What’s that?” Starsky asked.
“Preliminary lab reports from yesterday’s crime scene,” Dobey said tightly. He was watching Hutch closely, so Starsky turned his gaze to his partner.
Hutch was reading rapidly through the findings and results of various tests, nodding here, frowning slightly there. He flipped a page - - and suddenly his frown deepened. He turned the page back, read more carefully, then flipped the page again. Then he looked up at the captain, his face stunned.
“What the hell - - “
“My sentiments exactly, Hutchinson,” Dobey growled. “Would you mind telling me just what the hell your fingerprints are doing all over the murder weapon?”
“What?” Starsky took the folder from his partner’s hands, and read the results of the fingerprint match. Sure enough, there was only one set of prints on the sword, and they all belonged to one Hutchinson, Ken.
“Well?” Dobey prodded.
Hutch shook his head, started to speak, then found he really had no response. He looked at Starsky, but he, too was at a loss for words.
“Well, you’d better come up with something,” Dobey said. “IA wants your tail upstairs, right now, and they’re not gonna be as nice as I am.”
Starsky raised an eyebrow, but decided that any comment he made would be decidedly unwelcome just now.
“Go on, get up there,” Dobey ordered. Then his voice softened somewhat; he could see that Hutch was nonplused by the situation and not a little distressed. “Come back down here after you’re done and we’ll see if we can’t start straightening this out.”
“Want me to come along?” Starsky said as Hutch rose to his feet.
“Nah,” Hutch said - - then, reconsidering, “On second thought, yeah.”
“They only asked for Hutchinson,” Dobey called after them as they went out the door. All he got was Starsky’s voice, floating back just before the door closed:
“Too bad.”
As they rode up the elevator to Internal Affairs, Starsky shook his head. “How the hell _could_ your fingerprints be on that sword?” he asked. “Didn’t you tell me that your stage sword was pretty much useless?”
“Yeah,” Hutch said, his frown growing deeper by the minute. “I don’t know, Starsk, but I have a real bad feeling about this.”
They were ushered immediately into an Internal Affairs office, where Hutch was somewhat relieved to find John Haynes waiting for them. Haynes knew both detectives well and respected their work, and was not above “forgetting” to record the complaints of insubordination that inevitably came their way when they worked with captains less forgiving than Dobey. He was joined, however, by a man neither Starsky nor Hutch knew: a tall, slender, young black man wearing a three piece suit and a bowtie. On anyone else, the getup might have looked ridiculous, but this man looked like he had just stepped out of a fashion magazine.
“Dave, Ken, this is Art Dryden,” Haynes said, indicating the black man. “Art, these are Detectives Dave Starsky - -“ he pointed at Starsky, then moved his hand toward Hutch “and Ken Hutchinson.”
Dryden turned to Starsky and nodded curtly. “Officer Hutchinson.”
Hutch rolled his eyes. Yeah, some investigator you must be, he thought caustically. Can’t remember our names five seconds after you hear them.
“Starsky,” the bearer of that name said with exaggerated politeness, then nodded toward his partner. “He’s Hutch.”
“Art’s just come to the department,” Haynes said, while Dryden looked impatient with the small talk. “Transfer from San Francisco.”
“Yeah?” Starsky said with a smile that included only his teeth. “Welcome to our world.”
“Yeah,” Dryden said with absolutely no change in his expression. He turned to Haynes. “Can we get on with this?”
“Patience, Art,” Haynes said, his tone obstensibly amiable but his eyes chiding his new employee. “Art’s going to be working with Nick Simonetti eventually, but he’s riding with me for a few days to learn the ropes and the personnel.” Haynes waved a hand toward two chairs at the front of his desk. “Have a seat, guys, and let’s get this over with, all right?”
The two detectives sat, as did Haynes, who then proceeded to let Dryden take over the conversation. Dryden declined to sit down, instead leaning against the frame of the window beside Haynes’ desk.
“So, Hutchinson,” he began, making a point of addressing the blond detective. “Would you like to tell us what happened?”
“I’d love to,” Hutch said. “But I have no idea.”
“Your fingerprints are on the murder weapon,” Dryden pointed out, consulting his own copy of the lab report.
“Yeah, I know.”
“How did that come about?”
“I told you - - I have no idea.”
Starsky smiled inwardly. Dryden was learning just learning just how stubborn Hutch could be when he felt like it. And he knew that he and his partner were both getting the same vibes from the new IA investigator...bad ones.
“All right.” Dryden glanced at the report again and decided to try a new tack. “The preliminary estimate says the guy was killed between 10 a.m. and 2 p.m. on Sunday. Where were you then?”
Hutch flicked his eyes at Starsky. This was trouble.
“At home all morning,” he replied, somewhat evasively. “Then I went to the theatre.”
“Ah, right, you’re working undercover with the company, aren’t you?” Dryden said, beginning to warm to his task. “And how long have you been working on this case?”
“A little over four weeks,” Hutch said evenly.
“And you haven’t turned a single lead, have you?”
“That’s not true,” Starsky broke in, laying a hand on Hutch’s arm to forestall the outburst he felt rather than saw coming. “We’ve had a lot of leads, but none of them have turned out. We just got a new one this weekend that looks a little more promising.”
“In four weeks?” Dryden said, raising a condescending eyebrow. “Sounds like pretty low-grade detective work, if you ask me.”
“Dryden.” Haynes said nothing more, but both his tone and expressed held a warning. Dryden backed off and continued his questioning.
“All right, so you were home Sunday morning,” he said. “Anybody there with you?”
“No,” Hutch replied shortly.
“Ken, did you talk to anybody or see anybody that morning?” Haynes broke in. He knew Hutch pretty well, by observation and reputation, and saw him as a fine police officer. But he also knew that the blond detective could be mulish as hell when his defenses were up.
“I didn’t see anybody,” Hutch said to him. “I did call Starsky - -“
Dryden cut him off. “Captain, if that’s the case, maybe we should talk to the two of them separately - - “
“No way,” Starsky said. “I ain’t goin’ anywhere.”
“Captain - - “ Dryden protested.
“That was about ten, wasn’t it?” Starsky said innocently to Hutch, knowing that his statement would blow at least one of the inconsistencies Dryden would have tried to find in separate testimonies.
“Right. What were we talking about?”
“This and that. The weather. That girl you were gonna ask out...what was her name?”
“Judith - - she was the one who - - “
“Captain!” Dryden interrupted again, more stridently this time. “Is this an investigation or a vaudeville show? Would you please advise these two to take these proceedings seriously?”
“Who are you trying to kid, Dryden?” Hutch snapped angrily, swinging his attention abruptly from his partner to the other man. “Haven’t you already made up your mind?”
“All right, that’s enough!” Haynes bellowed, slapping one hand on his desk. The three men subsided. “Let’s just all calm down, shall we? Hutch,” he addressed the blond man, who was sitting with his arms folded across his chest, lips pressed tightly together and eyes flashing indignantly at Dryden. “I know this is uncomfortable, but the sooner we get this taken care of, the sooner you can get back to work.”
Hutch allowed his expression to become a little less belligerent. “All right, all right,” he conceded. “Let’s just get this over with, huh?”
Dryden looked to Haynes for permission to continue, then at the captain’s nod said, “So you called Detective Starsky at about ten. Then what?”
Hutch shrugged, the gesture just short of insolent. There wasn’t much more to tell. “Then I hung around at home until about noon, and went to the theatre.”
“Anybody see you there?”
“No,” Hutch admitted reluctantly. “I always go in early, to work on my combat scenes, so the director gave me a key.”
“Nobody saw you - - what did you say you were practicing?”
“Combat scenes,” Hutch said tersely. He knew what was coming, and he knew he couldn’t stop it, but he thought he could at least delay it.
“I’m sorry, I’m not familiar with theatrical terms,” Dryden said dryly. “Can you tell me what you mean by that?”
Hutch took a deep breath and ran his hands through his hair, then leaned back in the chair, willing himself to remain calm. “I have two fight scenes in the show,” he explained, staring down at his hands, which were now moving nervously back and forth on his thighs. “I go in early to warm up and run them by myself before I do makeup or costume.”
“What _kind_ of fight scenes, Detective Hutchinson?” Dryden leaned in close, and Hutch knew the slender black man knew exactly what kind of combat scenes he had been practicing.
“Fencing.”
“Oh, really?”
“But my sword is a stage weapon,” Hutch went on. “The end is blunted and all the sharp edges are sanded down. About all it’ll go through is six inches of styrofoam.”
“Really,” Dryden said.
“Yeah, really,” Hutch spat.
“Let’s go back to the time frame, Detective,” Dryden said, sounding for all the world like a prosecuting attorney and unaware that there were few quicker ways to get Hutch’s dander up. “You got to the theatre at noon, and no one saw you.”
“Right.”
“What time do other people normally arrive?”
“Oh, I don’t know,” Hutch said thoughtfully. “I guess Lowell Abbott - the stage manager - generally gets there about an hour or so before curtain.”
“Which is what time?”
“Two.”
“And this stage manager didn’t see you, practicing a sword fight in the theatre.”
Hutch took another deep breath. This was grim fact #2. “I don’t rehearse on the stage.”
“Oh?”
“No,” Hutch said reluctantly. “There’s a small room in the basement that’s padded for protection. We practice all the combat and physical stunts in there.”
“Ah.” Dryden propped himself against the window frame again and steepled his hands, eying Hutch contemplatively. “So tell me, Detective, when was the first time that someone saw you on Sunday afternoon?”
“Probably about 1:15, when I went into the dressing room to start my makeup.”
“Huh.” Dryden nodded thoughtfully. “So here’s what we have, Sergeant: You can only account for one hour out of four in the estimated time of death, and your fingerprints are all over the murder weapon. How do you explain this?”
“I told you, my stage weapon couldn’t kill anybody!” Hutch began in exasperation. Then something dawned on him. “Besides, if it was between ten and two, it couldn’t have been my sword. It’s preset the night before, so I didn’t even have my hands on it until the show. And if it had been used to kill this guy before the show even started, I wouldn’t have had it for the actual production, would I have?”
“I’m confused, Detective,” Dryden said. “If you didn’t have your sword between ten and two, precisely what were you practicing with from noon to 1:15?”
An awful realization washed over Hutch then, and he slumped back in his chair, his face stricken.
Starsky had been watching this whole exchange intently, letting his partner handle it for the most part, but ready to jump in if Dryden got too out of hand or he sensed that Hutch was about to blow. At the look on his Hutch’s face, however, he leaned forward and put a hand on the blond man’s knee. “Hey,” he said, willing his partner to look at him. “What?”
Hutch turned his head toward him, and the look in his eyes was that of someone who has just found himself trapped in a corner. “I used the rehearsal sword,” he said, speaking softly and only to Starsky. “It’s the real thing.”
“I’m sorry, Sergeant, I didn’t catch that,” Dryden said, taking a step toward the pair. Starsky’s eyes shot up to him and he stopped dead in his tracks.
“It’s the real thing,” Hutch repeated tonelessly. “We only use it for individual practice, so there’s no chance of anyone getting hurt. I use it so I won’t have to move my stage weapon and take a chance on it not getting back upstairs for the show.”
“Hutch,” Haynes said, leaning forward with a grave and worried expression. “Are you sure this is the same one?”
“Well, I couldn’t be completely sure until I saw it,” Hutch admitted. “But I do know we only have one real weapon on the premises, and - - that’s it.”
“We got a problem here,” Haynes began, but Dryden broke in,
“You bet we do,” he said snidely, glaring at Hutch. “It looks like you took your playacting a little too seriously, _Detective_.”
Hutch was on his feet in the time it took to draw breath, his expression so completely dangerous that Dryden backed off several steps. Fortunately for Dryden, Starsky was quicker. His firm grip on Hutch’s shoulders stopped the blond detective from the kind of mayhem he really wanted to commit...but only just.
“Take it easy, man,” Starsky said, trying to calm his agitated partner. “_This_ is a mistake - - don’t give this turkey something he can really nail you for.”
Hutch strained against Starsky’s hands for a moment, then the words sank in and he realized the wisdom of his friend’s advice. He shook himself free, then removed himself from Dryden’s immediate vicinity in favor of the couch across the room.
“All right, Hutch,” Haynes said, “Just stay calm and we’ll see if we can’t get this worked out.” He turned to Dryden and his voice became stern. “And you, Dryden...I don’t know how they do things in San Francisco but we don’t treat our officers like criminals here. Detective Hutchinson is a good cop and deserves to be treated as such.”
Everyone settled their feathers a bit. Hutch studiously avoided looking at Dryden. Dryden stared down at the report in his hands. Starsky fixed the IA officer with his most convincing ‘Back off’ glare. Haynes picked up the phone and dialed. When it was picked up at the other end, he said, “Harold? John...listen, I think you’d better come up here. Right. Room 4.” He hung up the phone again.
“All right, Ken,” he said, not unkindly. “Let’s go over this again...what time do you talk to Dave?”
“What about a motive?” Starsky said suddenly.
The other three stared at him.
“What?” Dryden said blankly.
“A motive. You know, that thing that explains why one person kills another, that they taught you about at the Academy?” Starsky said sarcastically. “What possible reason would Hutch have for killing this guy?”
Hutch perked up somewhat and leaned forward on the couch. “That’s a good point, Starsk,” he said, his face thoughtful. “I don’t have one...and on the other hand...”
“Someone might have a really _good_ motive for setting you up,” Starsky interjected. Hutch nodded, then snapped his fingers as another idea hit him.
“And it has to be someone in the company,” he amended, his voice gaining momentum.
“Otherwise, how would he know what your preshow routine was?” Starsky came right in.
“Or about the real sword?” Hutch leaned back again, passed his hands over his face momentarily. “Starsky-“
“Someone knows you’re a cop.”
“That’s gotta be it. Damn!” he swore, pushing himself off the couch and moving over to lean back against the door. “How...when...” He tapped his hands against the door as his mind clicked rapidly through the possibilities, then his face tightened as he thumped an angry fist against the door. “The phone call, last Saturday,” he groaned. “Someone must have heard me talking to you.”
“Hold on here,” Dryden said, trying to break into the byplay. “We’ve still got an investigation going on here...and you’re still our prime suspect...”
“Quiet, Dryden,” Haynes said sharply. “I think there’s more to this than meets the eye.”
The office door opened then, jolting Hutch from his place. Dobey strode in, assessed the situation and the state of his two detectives with a practiced glance, and took the seat Hutch had vacated in front of Haynes’ desk. He knew before he even reached the chair that the tension was high; Hutch and Starsky practically oozed hostility and resistance. “All right, let’s have it,” he said briskly, folding his arms across his chest.
Hutch leaned against the door again and stared at the ceiling as Haynes relayed what they had learned thus far. Stupid, stupid, he berated himself angrily. You should have known better...making a call like that from a public phone! He reviewed his actions from that night like an editor cutting a movie, from the time he had left the stage that night, through his phone call to Starsky and his repeated checks of the area around him, to his return to the house. He had seen nothing, heard nothing...where the hell had this person come from?
“- - Hutch?”
He blinked and brought himself back to the present, aware that the other four were looking at him. Starsky’s face was concerned; Dobey and Haynes were mostly impassive but also sympathetic, and Dryden was triumphant. Hutch knew without a doubt that if he had so much as whispered in irritation at the follow-spot operator, Dryden would have Hutch’s badge and gun on the table and his butt in a jail cell.
“Sorry,” he apologized. “Where were we?”
“Well, we’re trying to figure out where to go from here,” Haynes said. “Do you have any suggestions?”
Hutch sank down on the arm of the sofa and frowned, trying to focus on the task at hand. “Well,” he said, as his thoughts raced, “I think it’s pretty clear that my cover’s been blown by somebody, and that this is some kind of ploy to get me out of the picture and divert attention from the real murderer.”
Dryden snorted.
“Hey,” Starsky said. “In case you just crawled out from under that rock you call home, there was another murder in that company _and_ a disappearance, both of which happened long before Hutch ever walked in the door. So I suggest you keep your editorial comments to yourself, Dryden.”
“_I_ suggest you take your own advice, Sergeant Starsky,” Dryden retorted.
Starsky rose to his feet, and it was Hutch’s turn to intervene, with a hand on his partner’s arm. Take it easy, the gesture said. No sense both of us getting in hot water.
Haynes, meanwhile, had had it with the scuffling. “I said enough, gentlemen!” he snapped. “My office is not a schoolyard, and I will thank you all to remember that we are on the same team.”
Starsky, Hutch, and Dryden all looked as if they had comments to make about that, but wisely kept them to themselves.
Haynes turned his eyes to Dobey, whom he now considered the only other sane and rational person in the room. “What do you think, Harold?”
Dobey shook his head, frowning in thought. “I don’t like any of it,” he said grimly. “One undercover man’s been made, and there’s a strong possibility they’ll figure out Starsky’s a cop, too. And this guy doesn’t mess around. I’d rather pull you both out before one of you gets hurt.”
“No way,” Hutch protested, as Starsky said, “Come on, Cap’n!”
Haynes gave them one short, sharp look and both subsided. Starsky dropped back into his seat on the chair, and Hutch returned to the sofa, stretching his long legs in front of him with a weary sigh. He ran one hand down his face again as if to arrange it into an appropriate expression, then continued in his most reasonable and persuasive tone.
“Look, Captain, we must be getting close or this guy wouldn’t be so eager to get rid of me,” he argued. “We’ve got a good solid suspect who _has_ a motive, and we know that he’s working with someone inside the company. You can’t yank us out of there when things are just getting warmed up...not with some crazy killer still on the loose and everyone in that company at risk.”
Haynes exchanged another glance with Dobey, who sighed again and scratched his head. “I still don’t like it, but I see your point, Hutchinson,” he conceded. “Where do you want to go from here?”
“Your office,” Starsky said immediately, rising to his feet. “I think the IA business is done...and the air is gettin’ way too stuffy in here.”
“Now wait just a minute,” Dryden protested, as the three men started toward the door. He turned to Haynes. “Sir, with all due respect, this investigation is not yet closed. The evidence may only be circumstantial, but it’s strong. Don’t the regulations require that Detective Hutchinson yield his badge and his weapon, at least until our work is complete?”
“What?” Starsky said in disbelief. “Are you crazy, Dryden? Are you suggesting that Hutch go in there without any kind of protection at all?”
Haynes glanced at Hutch, whose face was stone. I’ve said my piece, the cold blue eyes said. You know me. You decide what to do. “I’m sorry, Ken, but he’s got a point,” the IA captain said regretfully. “Until the investigation is complete, Captain Dobey will have to hold your gun and your shield.”
“Captain...” Starsky began again, but Hutch cut him off with a glance.
“It’s all right, Starsk,” he said. He pushed himself to his feet, pulled the Magnum from his shoulder harness, and unloaded it, laying the gun and the bullets on Haynes’ desk. “I’ve been goin’ in cold all this time, anyway...why should now be any different?” He slipped the ID wallet from his back pocket and dropped it beside the revolver, then looked to Dobey. “Can we go talk about real police work, now?”
He turned and strode out of the office, slamming the door behind him.