EXIT, STAGE LEFT

CHAPTER 1

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“A hit, a very palpable hit.” - Act V, Scene II

“All right, people, all right! Let’s just get settled, shall we?”

As the hands clapped, the people milling around the stage began to take their seats. Talking dwindled to a few low murmurs and laughs, then ceased altogether as they caught sight of their director, waiting to address the company. He appeared to be standing there patiently, but the finger tapping on his belt was a dead giveaway.

Wayne Drake had good reason to be antsy. The set was behind schedule, one of his actors apparently had disappeared on an alcoholic binge, and his costumer had lost four seamstresses in as many weeks. And that was just the icing. The cake was that he was four weeks away from his opening night and he had no Hamlet. Was he mad?

When he had agreed to return to the Shakespeare Company for their ten-year anniversary and revive his modern-day version of the Bard’s classic, he had never dreamed it would be like this. The thing had been crazy enough the first time around, with the company just getting on its feet, but this...this was a hundred times worse. A thousand. He wrapped a hand around his aching forehead and waited, waited, waited, as his cast and crew settled down.

Finally, they did, and he was able to announce the agenda for the day’s rehearsal in fairly short order. He then turned the floor over to his stage manager, who began to drone on about the building schedule and what would be going on in the scene shop at the back of the theatre. Drake sighed as he listened. Grand, he thought. Hammers and power saws in the background all day. Just what I need. Unable to bear any more stress at the moment, he allowed his eyes to drift over the people seated before him.

Something was wrong.

Drake could feel it. He prided himself on sensing intuitively his company’s mood and balance and things were feeling decidedly askew. He looked around the assembly again, more closely this time, and realized what was wrong.

Someone was missing, and it wasn’t just Gretchen, one of the supporting players who hadn’t bothered to appear for the last four days. Drake counted heads and went through the cast list in his mind; no, it appeared all his actors were present and accounted for. It must be a crew member...where was Carl?

He looked through the company again, to be sure he hadn’t missed the lighting designer the first two times around. No. The distinguished man with the gentle demeanor, and the best eye in the business for light and shadow, was nowhere in sight.

Drake turned and gestured to the lighting operator, who was at his side in an instant. “Have you seen Carl?” Drake whispered; the stage manager was still prattling on about watching for nails and screws in the wings. As if the actors were going barefoot or something...this wasn’t Hair, for heaven’s sake.

The young woman shook her head. “Not since last night. I think he stayed late to hang some instruments...he wanted to get started on some of the more complicated cues after you were done today.”

Drake frowned. “Please see if you can locate him. Perhaps he’s out back having one of those hideous cigarettos he’s so fond of. And ask him to join us as soon as possible.”

The girl nodded and slipped away, past the chairs of actors and the other, restless crew members. She was grateful for the chance to escape Lowell Abbott’s apparently never-ending speech about the set build. She glanced up at the booth and the catwalk as she reached the back of the stage, just in case her soft-spoken mentor was taking care of business in his usual unobtrusive manner. Nothing. She continued to the back of the theatre and pushed open the stage door.

The alley wasn’t the prettiest place in the world, but to Sarah the outside air felt like a benediction. She’d been here with Carl until midnight, and then with her boyfriend in some stuffy, smoke-filled bar. In addition, they would be in the theatre all day and this may the only daylight she saw for the next 24 hours. She intended to take her time finding her boss; she knew just where he was by the smell of the slender cigars he couldn’t resist.

She leaned against the wall for a moment, letting the sunshine warm her face and thinking about the things Carl was teaching her about lighting. He’d been a hero of hers since high school, and she couldn’t believe she was here, working with him--

BAM!

Sarah started violently at the sharp report. What on earth… she thought, as her eyes flew open and she stared frantically around the alley to learn what had happened. For a moment, the air seemed quiet and still, then her senses noticed a thin swirl of smoke, different from the one Carl’s cigars emanated, and heard the rapidly retreating sound of soft footsteps.

Something turned in her stomach and before she knew it, she was running. Behind the dumpster, she found Carl, the cigar still smoldering in his hand, and blood pouring from his head. She reached out--pulled her hand back--then forced herself to reach down and touch his neck. There was nothing. He was dead.

She opened her mouth and began to scream.

CHAPTER 2

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“To be or not to be, that is the question:

Whether ‘tis nobler in the mind to suffer

The wings and arrows of outrageous fortune

Or take arms against a sea of troubles,

And by opposing, end them.”

-Act III, Scene I

All things considered, it was a fairly normal morning. The sun was shining, the birds were doing their thing, and for once the smog wasn’t too bad. His partner was in the seat next to him, and they were on their way to work, to another day of makin’ the world safe for other living beings.

Dave Starsky tapped his hands on the steering wheel of the bright red Torino, enjoying the power of the car beneath him, and whistled somewhat off-key. He was feeling expansive and somewhat foolish-- “safe for other living beings,” my ass -- and glanced over to share his silly mood with his companion.

Ken Hutchinson, however, did not appear to be in a humoring vein. He was watching out the window as he usually did, but Starsky knew his partner’s face about as well as his own, and he would have bet his socks that Hutch wasn’t seeing a thing that the car passed by.

“Hey.”

There was no answer from the blond man, whose frown seemed permanently rooted between his eyebrows. Starsky cleared his throat, much more loudly than necessary. Still nothing.

“HEY!”

Hutch didn’t even jump. He just looked over at Starsky with one raised brow.

“Why are you yelling at me?”

“Man, you are a hundred miles away,” Starsky said. “What’s going on?”

“Nothing,” Hutch said briefly, and turned his gaze back out the car window.

“Car broken down again?” Safe bet, since Hutch’s series of dilapidated vehicles spent as much time in the shop as they did on the street.

“No.”

“Mold collection die?” Trying a joking tone, thinking of Hutch’s apartment. Hutch apparently only heard the questioning tone in the dark-haired man’s voice, for his answering “No” was automatic, with no sign of the words actually penetrating.

“Woman trouble?”

Hutch sighed. “Look, Starsk, I told you it’s nothing. Give it a rest, huh?”

Starsky shrugged. Clearly Hutch was in no frame of mind to discuss the matter, and Starsky wasn’t in the mood to have his day ruined by the famous Hutchinson temper. Not this early in the morning.

They rode in silence for a while, Starsky continuing to whistle tunelessly, Hutch gazing at something only he could see. The traffic around them was heavy but not unbearable, and they arrived at the station in a reasonable period of time.

Still thoughtful and not sharing why, Hutch preceded Starsky into the squad room and sank onto his chair. Starsky sat down across from his partner, studying him closer now that he didn’t have to keep an eye on the road.

As usual, Hutch’s blond hair was tidily trimmed and meticulously combed into place. Somehow it managed to stay that way, even with the car windows open. He was freshly shaved. He was wearing a black turtleneck under his black-and-white jacket, and blue jeans that looked clean...possibly even pressed, since Hutch’s fastidious grooming was a sharp contrast to his “leisurely” housekeeping habits. Starsky chanced glancing under the table. Nope. Even the boots had been shined recently, though God knew why Hutch even bothered with the beat they worked.

Starsky, on the other hand, generally looked like he just rolled out of bed, tugged a few times at his dark curls, and yanked on whatever was lying on his floor. Today that meant jeans that had seen better days, a faded T-shirt, and his beloved Adidas, all topped off with a battered leather jacket that had belonged to his father. To further support the “opposites attract” adage, he was a model of cleanliness when it came to his home, and often couldn’t restrain himself from tidying up a bit--a lot--when he visited Hutch’s apartment.

Starsky squinted his eyes at Hutch. He could detect nothing from his partner’s appearance. Now what?

Hutch realized he was being scrutinized. “What?” he said, with a slight edge to his voice.

“Nothing,” Starsky responded. Tit for tat.

Hutch sighed. Sat back, crossed his arms for a moment, then seemed to come to some decision. He reached for his phone, and was just beginning to punch numbers in when the door to Dobey’s office flew open. Somehow, the stocky black man could never summon his two detectives in a normal tone--or, God forbid, via the telephone.

“Starsky, Hutchinson!” he barked. “My office.” He didn’t wait for an answer, just turned and went back inside.

Hutch hesitated for a moment, looking as if he would rather complete his call first, then resigned himself to the impossibility of that. He joined Starsky in the captain’s office, where both detectives dropped into chairs in front of the captain’s desk.

In a third chair sat a man who made Hutch looked slovenly. From tasseled, highly polished loafers to knife-creased slacks and crisp white shirt, the man looked like he’d stepped out of an aftershave commercial, Starsky thought. Dobey nodded at the man, then at Starsky and Hutch as he made introductions.

“Mr. Drake, these are Detectives Starsky and Hutchinson. Mr. Drake is a director at the Bay Shakespeare Company.”

Drake extended a hand toward Hutch and, of course, said, “Pleasure to meet you, Detective Starsky.”

Starsky took the proffered hand. “That’s me,” he explained, then nodded toward the blond man. “He’s Hutchinson.”

“My mistake,” Drake said, shaking hands with Starsky, then Hutch. “I apologize...but you look so much alike.”

“No harm done.” Starsky grinned. Despite his appearance, the man was no stuffed shirt, and Starsky kind of liked him.

Hutch didn’t crack a smile.

This was typically the part where Dobey explained to them what this gentleman wanted and what part they were supposed to play. Instead, however, there was a long silence.

Again, Hutch got the sense that he was being scrutinized. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see the director eying him thoughtfully and thoroughly. He bore it for several seconds, then shifted in his seat and flicked a glance at Starsky. Starsky shrugged. ‘You got me, pal,’ the gesture said.

Finally, Drake moved his gaze from the blond detective and switched it to Dobey. “Well, he certainly looks right,” he murmured, half to himself and half to the rest of the room, then directed his next question to the Captain. “And you say he has the appropriate history for the job?”

Dobey nodded. The director examined Hutch again for a moment, then nodded slightly, coming to some decision. “Very well. I’ll have to hear him read, of course, but this might work out very nicely on a number of fronts.”

For the first time, Hutch assumed a facial expression that actually communicated something: compete bewilderment. “What?”

At last, Dobey chose to explain what was going on. “As I said, Mr. Drake is the director at a local theatre company...”

“Allow me, Captain, if you please?” Drake requested politely. Dobey grunted and gestured in affirmation. Drake turned back to the two detectives. “You see, gentlemen, some years ago, I directed a production of Hamlet at the Shakespeare Company. The company’s premiere performance, as a matter of fact. They have asked me to return and revive my version, in honor of their anniversary...however, things are not going as planned.” He paused, clearly troubled, and added wryly, “To say the very least.”

The detectives waited expectantly.

“First off, I have been plagued with difficulties in the set and costuming. Then, to make matters worse, one of my actors--a small role, to be sure, but annoying nonetheless--left rehearsal four days ago and never returned.” He sensed the detective’s growing impatience and hurried to continue: “Then yesterday, at rehearsal, my lighting designer was killed. Murdered in broad daylight, in the alley behind the theatre.”

Professional interest kicked in, the weird conversation about Hutch momentarily forgotten. Starsky leaned forward. “How?”

“He appears to have been shot, but it’s the oddest thing,” Drake replied. “Whoever killed him shot him precisely through the ears.”

‘Well,’ Starsky thought. ‘That’s one we haven’t heard before.’

Hutch was beginning to have a growing suspicion that he didn’t much like. “So where do we fit in?” Despite his trepidation, his tone was gentle; he could see the director’s distress.

“Oh, yes, of course, I’m so sorry,” Drake apologized, composing himself. “Well, on top of my other troubles, I seem to be short a very important actor in my production. When your captain and I were discussing your--cover? Is that the word?--it seemed the perfect marriage of my needs and your--unique background.”

Hutch’s suspicions were growing. “So you want me to go under as an actor in his show,” he said bluntly to Dobey, who confirmed it with a nod. He turned his attention back to Drake. “All right, I guess I can do that,” he conceded. “Which role?”

Drake’s expression became almost reverent as he responded. “The role every actor dreams of. The Danish prince himself.”

Hutch’s eyebrows shot practically to his hairline. Starsky was completely lost. He glanced from the director, to Dobey, to Hutch, as his partner sank against the back of his chair.

“That’s a bit much, isn’t it?” Hutch said. “I haven’t acted in years...”

“Well, as I said, I would have to read you first,” Drake interrupted, regaining his director’s posture. “And I pride myself on my casting ability. I assure you, if I am not confident you can be believable, I will place you elsewhere.”

Hutch puffed his cheeks, blew out the air.

“Please, detective,” Drake said persuasively. “Your look is correct, your carriage is good, and your voice seems excellent. This may not work, but if it does you would be doing me twice the favor.”

Starsky was still looking back and forth between the two, feeling like he was watching two aliens play ping-pong. “What’s the big deal?” he asked, unable to contain his curiosity. “We’ve been doin’ undercover for years...isn’t that kind of like acting?”

Hutch ignored him--why should now be any different than the rest of the day?--and rose to his feet with a skeptical expression but an accepting sigh. “All right,” he agreed. “I’ll read for you. But I’m not promisin’ a thing.”

The director smile was genuinely grateful as he handed the detective a slim, cardboard binder. “This is my version of the script, with appropriate cuts,” he said. “The original production was over four hours long,” he explained unnecessarily, “and no audience will endure that these days.”

No one was heeding him. Hutch was gazing at the script with an unreadable expression, Starsky was still frowning in confusion, and Dobey was watching his blond officer to see what he was going to do. Drake stopped himself and managed a somewhat embarrassed smile.

“Well. At any rate. Shall I see you at the theatre at 2:00 this afternoon, Detective? Will that give you time to review the script?”

“Uh...sure.” Hutch shrugged. What the hell. He’d probably fail the audition, anyway, so what did he have to lose besides a few hours.

“Very well.” The director turned his attention to Starsky, who endured the man’s measuring gaze for a moment until it dawned on him what he might be thinking.

“Oh, no,” he said warningly. “You’re not gettin’ me out there...no way!”

“Forgive me,” Drake apologized, blushing slightly. “I understood that you and Detective Hutchinson came as a team.”

“We do,” Starsky retorted, indignant at having this outsider tell him the obvious. “But I’m still not doin’ any acting.”

“My crew is full at the moment,” the director mused. “Except the lighting designer, and it would take weeks for one to learn enough to even bluff one’s way through it. Still, I suppose with Sarah’s help--”

“We’ll figure something out,” Dobey cut in. “In the meantime, you’d better get back to your rehearsal, Mr. Drake. And remember what we discussed: no one is to know Detective Hutchinson’s true identity. No one.”

“Oh, of course.” Drake turned to leave, then paused at the door to address Hutch. “I suppose I should have something else to call you, then, shouldn’t I? Your--character name, as it were?”

“I’ll messenger a dossier to you before he comes this afternoon,” Dobey interjected before Hutch could reply. “The officers usually prefer to keep their first names and initials, so if you refer to him as Ken, that should be fine.”

“Very well,” the director repeated. He looked again at Hutch. “I know the prospect makes you uncomfortable, Detective, but I do appreciate this. And I have an instinct about these things; I sense that you would make an excellent Hamlet.”

He took his leave. Starsky cocked his head, examining his partner and the cover of the script. “Hamlet...Hamlet,” he mused. “Hey, isn’t that the--”

Hutch’s eyes met his, and he knew his next move should probably be silence. He obliged. Dobey sank back down behind his desk with a sigh. “Well, this one could be interesting,” he muttered.

“No shit,” Hutch said with a snort.

“Go on, get outta here,” Dobey commanded. “Drake said rehearsals are five days a week from ten to four, so you’re effectively off the street until this thing is wrapped up. You’d better get your paperwork in order before this afternoon.”

He waved the two detectives out and, uncharacteristically, they immediately obeyed. Starsky was still trying to absorb what had occurred as they returned to their respective sides of the table in the detectives’ bullpen. “Hamlet?” he said. “That’s the ‘to be or not to be’ one, isn’t it?”

Hutch again looked distracted, only this time the pucker between his brows was clearly concern. He sat down, flipping through the script, then closed it deliberately. Glanced at his watch, picked up the phone, dialed. Listened for several seconds, then dropped the receiver back just short of a slam. Startled, Starsky decided enough was enough.

“Hey.” This time, Hutch looked up at him. “Really. You wanna tell me what’s botherin’ you?”

Hutch opened his mouth, closed it. Looked away, down at the script, then back up at his friend. Something imperceptible shifted and he made up his mind. “It’s my parents,” he said.

“Your folks?” Starsky again was startled; this hadn’t even entered his mind. Hutch nodded. “What about ‘em?”

“I’m not really sure,” Hutch admitted, leaning back in his chair and tapping a pencil thoughtfully on the script. “This weekend’s their 40th wedding anniversary, and I was thinking about going to Minnesota, you know? Try to make it a pleasant occasion for once, instead of the usual command performance because I’ve disappointed them again.” His face and tone was wry, but his expression quickly became sober as Starsky asked,

“So what’s the problem?”

“I’ve been trying to reach them for a week to see what their plans are,” Hutch explained. “No answer. I just get the machine, and I’ve left a half-dozen messages.”

“Maybe they’re just busy and can’t get back to you,” Starsky offered. Hutch shook his head, indicating he’d considered that possibility and dismissed it.

“You know my dad,” he said. “If I don’t return a call in 24 hours, he acts like I personally insulted him. There’s no way he’d let this go this long, even if he were pissed off at me.”

“Call your sister?” Starsky asked.

“I tried that, too, and she doesn’t know where they are either.” Hutch sighed. His relationship with his parents was strained, but he still cared what happened to them, and this was weighing on his mind. “I don’t get it, Starsk...they have a clockwork routine that never varies, and they never go anywhere if they can’t be back in their own beds at night.”

“I’m sure there’s a logical explanation,” Starsky said reassuringly. “If something had happened, wouldn’t they have notified you and your sister?”

“Yeah, that’s a good point,” Hutch admitted. He ran his hands through his hair, took a deep breath, and forced himself to get down to business. He picked up a folder, then changed his mind and opened the script. “Guess I’d better refresh my memory on this thing.”

“Thought Dobey wanted you to finish your paperwork.”

“It’s done,” Hutch said simply, and Starsky was not surprised. “Even if it weren’t, I’d rather get the ‘late report’ lecture a dozen times than walk into this audition without knowin’ what I’m doin’.” He paused, then went on with a decidedly woebegone expression, “Hell, I’d rather face a loaded gun than go there at all.”

CHAPTER 3

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“For this relief much thanks; ‘tis bitter cold,

And I am sick at heart.” - Act I, Scene I

The apartment was dark and silent. In the distance, thunder had begun to grumble quietly, but it would be a while before the storm moved in and made it necessary to close the windows. For now, the ocean of greenery basked in the soft, damp wind and enjoyed itself.

There was a scratching sound of someone fumbling above the doorsill, then the door opened and Hutch stepped in. Not bothering to turn on the lights, he returned his spare key to its “hiding” place, and closed the door. He dumped his jacket on the couch, grabbed a beer from the fridge, and went out into the greenhouse to commune with his own little homage to Mother Nature.

The plants welcomed him, waving in the breeze. A particularly enthusiastic fern brushed across his cheek as he sat down. The thunder moved a little closer, but he didn’t hear it; his mind was elsewhere. In fact, between his parents and this new assignment, it was a miracle he wasn’t experiencing one big astral projection.

By Drake’s definition, the audition had been a success. Hutch had done his best--it seemed to be an uncontrollable part of his nature--and Drake had actually been enthusiastic about his skills. Hutch had to admit he had been somewhat flattered, but as he had driven home the reality had kicked in and he began to wonder just what he had gotten himself into.

He looked at his watch. Six o’clock. He was tired and he was hungry, and he really didn’t feel like eating alone.

Starsky picked up the phone on the first ring. It was like that sometimes.

“Hey.”

“Hey, what happened?”

“He wants me to do it.”

“Good news or bad?”

“Ask me later.” Hutch swallowed the last of his beer. ‘After I’ve had something to eat and a few more of these,’ he thought.

As if reading his partner’s mind, Starsky said, “You wanna come over for dinner? I’m makin’ my specialty.”

Which meant pasta and his aunt’s tomato sauce. Hutch opened his mouth to agree, then stopped as the clouds outside delivered up a sharp clap of thunder. The sudden, sweeping rush of pouring rain followed, and he remembered the dubious state of his ancient car. “Damn,” he said. “Can you bring it here? My floorboards aren’t what they used to be.”

“Only for you, pal,” Starsky said. “See you in about twenty.”

They both hung up.

In the car on the way to Venice Place, Starsky considered Hutch’s current mood and how he’d had to pry the reason out of him--again. No doubt about it, Hutch was a brooder. Starsky loved the man and would willingly lay down his life for him, but even he couldn’t deny the fact that Hutch had a hard time letting things go.

He knew the pattern, which was why he’d pushed the issue today. Hutch would get quiet and distant, then increasingly preoccupied and short-tempered. If nothing intervened--like Starsky or his own good sense--the balloon would burst, and not always at the appropriate time or target. Starsky had seen that white-hot temper flare up; so had Captain Dobey. So, he thought with a slightly guilty snicker, had a few unfortunate suspects who had had the stupidity or bad luck to cross Ken Hutchinson when he was having a bad day. No doubt about it though, there was nothing like facing those intense and icy blue eyes across an interrogation table or behind a gun to loosen up a pair of lips.

Starsky had no desire to be on the receiving end himself, and after a few close calls and a little practice, he’d learned how to defuse the situation. Most days, humor or genuine concern could bring his partner around to sharing what was going on inside that busy blond head and putting it into proper perspective. If it couldn’t, Starsky knew it was time to steer clear, and let Hutch come around in his own time.

He’d never resented taking the time to figure out either the situation or the solution. He figured Hutch occasionally had his hands full with him, and his own tendencies . There was never a question about whether Starsky was angry or at what. But he tended to pop off and then forget about it, and was prone to rail about something and slam out of the room, only to return five minutes later with a corny joke or a stupid song.

Maybe because he’d learned--and relearned--that far worse things could happen than having someone cut you off in traffic.

He was on Hutch’s block now, and parked near the old storefront below Hutch’s apartment. The rain was pouring down in sheets, but Hutch had seen him coming. He propped open the door as Starsky hurried through the deluge. Neither the dark-haired man nor the dinner got too wet, and they went up the steep staircase to Hutch’s apartment.

Hutch had turned on the lights and even made a half-hearted attempt to clean up a little. Much of the clutter was now piled in a chair to the side of his living room. His apartment was never really dirty--he was too compulsive not to keep it at least sanitary. He was just always sort of preoccupied, and so things tended to remain where he dropped them--books, clothes, music. Somehow, he never quite got around to putting them back where they belonged.

As he did every once in a while, Starsky wondered if his partner’s absent-mindedness, which was unheard of in every other aspect of his life and work, weren’t some type of unconscious rebellion against his past. Hutch’s parents were pretty straight-laced--Starsky had met them a time or two and knew for a fact that he positively horrified them--and Hutch had definitely been their progeny when Starsky first met him at the Academy. Time, friendship, and the freewheeling approach of his partner had loosened the blond man up in many ways, for which Starsky was eternally grateful. He couldn’t imagine being partners with the rigid college graduate he’d been assigned to that day.

“Hutchinson, Starsky. Front and center!” the voice barked. Trained like Pavlov’s pets to respond immediately to this man’s dulcet tones, the two young men hurried to where the instructor stood. “Got a special assignment for you two,” Sgt. Morris advised them. He explained the project and the expected timeframe, and then added, “You’re going to need to spend a lot of time working on this, so we’ve made arrangements for the two of you to be roommates. Administrative’s working on the paperwork now.” He handed each of them a folder. “All right, that’s it. Dismissed.”

Starsky turned and examined the tall, blond drink of water he had just been metaphorically handcuffed to for the next several weeks. Terrific. From head to toe, the man was perfect, a WASP wet dream. His hair was trimmed and combed, his uniform clean and pressed, and everything that could be was polished to an eye-piercing gleam. Starsky was willing to bet that even the hat under his arm was tilted at the regulation angle. His gaze returned to Hutchinson’s face. The cool blue eyes gave away nothing but Starsky was pretty sure that the other man was not exactly thrilled to be here either.

Great, Hutchinson was thinking as he returned Starsky’s once-over. I drop out of grad school, I tell my parents to go to hell, and this is what I get in return? One eyebrow cocked as he took in the not-quite-right uniform, the hat perched at a decidedly unofficial angle, and the casual stance of the man before him. Oh, no. I’ve given up too much to get here, and I’m not going to throw it away, not even because the Sergeant says so. He met eyes with Starsky again, and without breaking the intense blankness of his gaze, he spoke.

“With all due respect, Sergeant, I object.”

Stung, Starsky thought, Hey, I try. I just don’t get what half this stuff has to do with real police work. Somehow, no matter how many times he washed it and had it pressed, his uniform always ended up looking like he’d slept in it, and his hat would never fit properly on those unruly dark curls. The only thing that seemed to get clean and stay clean was his gun.

“This isn’t a court of law, Cadet Hutchinson; what I say goes.” Morris was unfazed; he had thought Hutchinson would respond precisely this way. “And there are no appeals,” he added, as the blond cadet opened his mouth to continue arguing. Damned college-educated kid, he thought, as Hutchinson shut his mouth but looked disgruntled. He’d argue his way through the Second Coming...and probably win, too.

Morris watched as the two returned to measuring each other for a long moment. They’d heard about each other, of course--how could they not? Though they’d barely spoken five words since they had begun their studies, they had consistently emerged at the top of the rankings in every category. If it wasn’t Hutchinson leading the pack, it was Starsky, and they left everyone else in the dust. Hutchinson’s education and affinity for deductive reasoning gave him one kind of edge, while Starsky’s intuitive sense and considerable street smarts gave him another. They were both formidably intelligent and they were passionate about learning the law. They had yet to work together, but despite their obvious differences, Morris had a feeling about these two, and he wanted to see if it panned out.

For the moment, however, he had to end this staring match, since clearly neither of them intended to.

“Hey,” he said sharply. The two young men shifted their gazes to him, perhaps grateful for the excuse to end in a draw. “You got a lot to do. I suggest you get started.”

From the start, it went about as he had predicted. Hutchinson was a stickler for procedure and wanted to do things by the book he knew frighteningly well, while Starsky was more comfortable thinking outside the box. There were reports and sightings of the two of them arguing fiercely, oblivious to others around them, often late into the night, once almost coming to blows. The other cadets complained about the noise. Other instructors told of having to intervene. The boys upstairs inquired about Morris’ tactics and wondered if the fledgling partnership should be immediately dissolved and the two assigned as far away from each other as possible. Morris knew his boys pretty well, though, and he simply smiled patiently as the two snarled through their differences. To his superiors, he said just one word: “Wait.”

Slowly, the growling ceased. People who had seen them in the library now also saw them elsewhere on the campus, sharing notes about the case, but also just strolling or sitting on the lawn, always talking, talking, and occasionally--miracle of miracles--laughing. Gradually, it became clear it was the team of Starsky/Hutchinson against the world, and woe betide anyone who tried to contradict them, in or out of class. Together, they were even more formidable than the individual parts had been, the two minds clicking together in near-perfect and ferociously intelligent harmony.

To general surprise and envy, the two cadets completed the assignment in two-thirds of the allotted time, and with an innovation and thoroughness that few had equaled.

Sgt. Morris was not surprised at all.

As the years went by and the partnership became all but legendary, word occasionally traveled back to Morris about the progress of his experiment. Inevitably, he would smile with that patience, and a touch of smugness thrown in. He knew, and he was justifiably proud of knowing-- even before the partners themselves.

“--Starsk?”

Starsky shook himself out of his reverie at the sound of Hutch’s voice.

“What?”

“I said, should I put together a salad?”

“Only for yourself,” Starsky replied, predictably. “You know I don’t touch that stuff.”

“I know, but I keep hoping.”

Starsky got busy in the kitchen while Hutch selected a bottle of red wine. He slipped the cork out and poured two glasses, which he set on the dining room table to breathe. Then he dug out his cutting board and an appropriate knife, and began slicing tomatoes.

Dinner was a routine with which they were both familiar, idle conversation and teasing banter interspersed with the comfortable silences that marked a long-term friendship. Hutch was still mulling over the case and his part in it. Starsky, having had his deep thoughts for the night, was just losing himself in the enjoyment of making his favorite meal. Now that he knew what was bugging Hutch, he figured the best next step was to sit back and let his partner decide what he wanted to talk about and when.

They polished off the pasta in fairly short order, then adjourned to the greenhouse to watch the last remnants of the storm. Starsky finished his obligatory glass of wine, then got up to grab a beer from Hutch’s refrigerator.

“Something’s weird,” he said as he rejoined his partner. Hutch glanced at him inquiringly. “The lighting designer,” Starsky went on, and Hutch realized that his companion had also been thinking about the case. “I mean, shooting someone through the ears? Where the hell does that fit?”

Hutch shrugged. “You got me, pal.” He took another sip of wine. “I got this feeling I should know, but it’s too far away at the moment to be more than that. I guess we’ll just have to wait until we dig some more.”

Starsky nodded. “Dobey wants me to check out the cast and crew. I think I’ll try to run some things down on the street, too, see if anyone knows about some freak shooter with this kind of pattern.”

It was Hutch’s turn to nod, and then both men were silent for a beat or two.

“Hey,” Starsky said at length. “You wanna play Monopoly?”

“You gotta be kidding me...don’t you ever learn?” Starsky was hopeless at Monopoly, despite repeated games and even a book of tips from Terry.

“Well, it looks like we’ll be goin’ our separate ways for a while. Thought I’d leave you with a happy memory.” He knew it was a lame and transparent excuse and he knew that Hutch knew it. “Besides, I’m feeling generous tonight on account of your folks.”

That was closer to the truth, Hutch knew. “All right, Gordo. But be prepared to lose your shirt.” He got up and went to get the board.

*********************************

After Starsky left, Hutch tried to call his parents again. There was still no answer, and he hung up without leaving a message–something else that would drive his father crazy.

What now?

He wandered around the apartment for a while, actually putting some things away. Typically, however, he came upon a book he’d left half-finished and flipped it open to the bookmark. Before he knew it, his original mission was forgotten as he became engrossed in the text.

Two hours later, he glanced at his watch and winced. It was after one a.m. He’d had a somewhat weird day, and the next several didn’t promise to get any calmer.

He turned out the lights and headed for the bedroom. Before long, the apartment was dark and silent again, except for his even breathing and the whisper of the plants waving in the breeze.

NEXT