There's something wrong.
I can't explain, hell, I don't even understand it, but there's definitely
something wrong. I can just...well, feel it. Usually
he's the one that operates on those "gut feelings", not me. I'm
the brains of this outfit, the thinker, the analytical, not the half that
runs around half-cocked because they "felt something".
Right. Who am I kidding? I'll take my partner's intuition
over the worthless piece of paper I call my degree any day. If I
had
half the brains I claim to have I would've figured out who was behind
this already instead of sitting here in this darkened office
with a stupid ping pong ball. I should be sorting through that
mountain of case files which might actually give me a lead. But my
brain's not working. It's just me, the ping pong ball, my overactive
gut and the empty chair across from me. My partner's empty chair.
Geez, why does this office feel like a tomb all of a sudden? And why do I feel like there's something wrong? Maybe I should call the hospital....
Don't be stupid. You haven't been away that long. Huggy
or Dobey would've called if anything... Dear God if anything more
were to happen to him, anything else... if we lose him I'd...
You'd what? Give up? Go on without him? If there's
no "him",there's no "us". And if there's no "us", then is there still
a "me"? You're being maudlin, Hutchinson, of course you're still
you. It's just that the you who's half of a whole is a far sight
better than who you are on your own. Then why do I feel like
only half a man here?
Oh stop it! You've got work to do. Quit staring at his chair
and get back to the files. You're never gonna find out who
killed...who shot him this way.
Maybe I should call the hospital. Except that Huggy and Dobey will think I'm nuts.
The hairs on my arm and the back of my neck just stood up. My gut keeps wrenching around. What's going on with me? Probably losing it, Hutchinson... Too much pressure, too much stress. Too much, too fast. Too much blood...his blood on my hands...my own blood joins his. Oh God, why is my chest so tight it feels like my heart stopped beating? Too much coffee. Maybe Starsky's finally given me an ulcer.
Starsk. The ping pong ball feels hot in my hands and reminds me that I owe you dinner. I owe you a heckofalot more than that. I owe you...I can't begin to tell you what I owe you, pal. Hang on Starsk, I need a few more years to pay you back.
I'll call. It can't hurt to call the hospital, just to check in,
find out how's he's coming. I want to be there when he
wakes up. I'll just call. Why are my hands shaking so badly?
I can hardly dial the numbers. Keep it cool, Hutchinson. Act
like you're just casually checking in and not that you're about to jump
out of your skin and scream because you know that something's terribly
wrong and your gut's about to explode. Dial. Relax your hand
before you crush the ball. Clear your throat, keep your voice normal.
Take a breath. Ask for Dobey.
"How's he doing, Cap'n?"
~Brit