Broken Oath

86

A stocking strangler is killing little old ladies, and Starsky and Hutch are called in to help a smaller precinct with the serial crimes. Feeling the pressure to solve the crimes against elderly widows living alone gives it a personal edge for Starsky, following so closely behind Hutch’s family visit turned fiasco. But Hutch isn’t quite up to par. Are his headaches a leftover from his injury while at home, or a sign of something worse?

 

Artwork by Helyn Highwater.

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Starsky closed the book he’d been reading and jotted down a few notes, while the content of “Liviathan” by Thomas Hobbes was fresh on his mind.

Hutch watched between slitted lids from where he lay on the couch. A cold cloth rested over his eyes in an attempt to ward off yet another headache. He winced against the sound of Starsky’s chair scraping over the hardwood floor as he got up. Maybe I’ve got a brain tumor, Hutch thought morosely.

Starsky turned off the kitchen light and quietly tiptoed over. Lifting a corner of the cloth, he peered in, his eyebrows raised in question.

Hutch batted his hand away and sat up with a groan. He rubbed the cloth over his face, then tossed it onto the coffee table. He leaned forward to balance his elbows on his knees, his fingers digging into his temples as he attempted to massage the pain away. He felt the sag of the couch as Starsky sat near him, the long fingers of Starsky’s hands expertly taking over the massage.

“Aren’t you about ready to do something about these headaches?” Starsky voiced the question softly, tentatively…making Hutch regret his explosion when Starsky had voiced the same concern days before.

Hutch sighed, feeling the relaxation Starsky’s fingers brought start to fade away. Before he could think of a new excuse–he’d long ago run out of explanations–Starsky went on. “Has there been any day since we came back from your folks’ that you haven’t had one of these? This is the second one today, isn’t it?”

Hutch brushed the soothing hands away and stood, desperate to escape the interrogation. But the voice persisted. “Maybe you got hit harder than we thought back there. Maybe it wasn’t a simple concussion. Maybe they missed something.”

“Starsky…it’s a headache, okay? Sometimes they’re worse than others. Today was a bad day, but don’t get nuts over it. It was a rough week at home. It hardly ended on a positive note with my father and me, regardless of us solving the rape case. I’ve effectively lost my family. Do you understand that?” Hutch’s voice was rising, making his head hurt worse. “I know we weren’t a close, warm fuzzy group, but they are still my mother and father. The only history I know. I’m a little stressed that it blew up in my face and disappeared.”

Hutch turned to see the large blue eyes watching him, the worry and hurt obvious in them. The twinkling began around the edges of his field of vision, and the pain skyrocketed in response. He hurried to finish his thought, even now feeling his stomach roll and knowing the vomiting was close behind. “I’ll get over it. Just give me a little time. You’re the only family that’s really important to me. I love you. I’m not having second thoughts about that at all.”

“You sure?” Starsky asked, his soul laid bare behind his eyes. “No regrets?”

“No regrets,,,not about you, anyway. Plenty of ones over the situation and my family’s response to it. But none about you.” That was all he could manage. Though Hutch would have loved to pull Starsky into his arms and hold away his look of hurt, he ran to the bathroom, hugging the porcelain throne instead.

Starsky approached slowly, holding out a glass of water and a clean towel for Hutch to rinse out his mouth and wipe his face.

Hutch accepted the offering gratefully. More grateful still for his lover’s patience, as Starsky flushed the toilet’s stench away and reached down to help him to his feet. He steered Hutch silently and slowly to the bed. Hutch crawled in, soaking in the quiet and cool pain-relieving darkness. Starsky gently removed Hutch’s clothes and drew up the covers. Stripping himself without a sound, Starsky slipped under the covers and gently pulled Hutch closer. He went with the embrace willingly, resting his pounding head against Starsky’s chest.

“Tell Dobey I went to see the doctor and I’ll be late. I’ll go first thing in the morning and see if he can work me in.”

“Want me to come with you?” Starsky whispered.

“Nah, I promise, I’ll go. You’re right. It’s gone on too long. I’ll come in when I’m finished.” Hutch raised his hand to rub over his forehead. “Maybe then he’ll only be half as mad, huh?” He tried to lighten the mood, but the pain in his head was so severe he swore each individual hair hurt. He groaned a breath out, in spite of the tightly closed teeth he counted on for silence. “Oh, God….”

Starsky squeezed his shoulders briefly. “Want me to get one of those pills they gave you in Minnesota?” Starsky asked.

Hutch hesitated, fighting with himself over taking the mild narcotic. He felt Starsky ease out of the bed and heard him pad softly to the bathroom, returning with two pills in his hand and a glass of water. “I’ll take that as a yes. Take the pills, babe. Maybe if you can get some sleep, you’ll feel better in the morning.”

Hutch nodded, wincing at the movement as he accepted the pills and the water to slug them down.

Starsky took the glass and placed it on the nightstand, crawling back into bed and opening his arms to resettle Hutch gently against him. Hutch closed his eyes, relaxing into the soothing circles Starsky rubbed across his back. As the blinding pain in his head began to fade, he let sleep take him.

Hutch’s father sat in his office chair, his customary notepad in his lap. “There is an understandable correlation between the pathologic propensity of the drug addictive personality, and the psychosis associated with homosexuality. I’m very disappointed in you, Kenneth. I would have thought better of you as a Hutchinson. You certainly never saw such examples of deviate behavior here. It must be the environment you’ve been in since leaving home. Don’t ever come back here, I don’t want to have you contaminate anything else here with your illness.”

He was sitting in a chair, his hands tied behind his back. Once the realization of the position hit, the panic washed over him like a tsunami. He struggled against the ropes binding his hands.

“Now, I’ve given your case a great deal of consideration. I’ve consulted with some colleagues, and they concur with my original diagnosis.” Hutch’s head snapped up at the sound of his father’s voice. There he sat, in the leather winged-back chair from his office, the wall-to-wall, floor-to-ceiling bookshelves visible in the background. Hutch turned frantically to look behind him. Monk stood not far away, the dim light glistening off the needle on the syringe he held.

“The psychotic disorder of homosexuality, coupled with the basically flawed personality structure that would allow for heroin addiction…well, the answer is quite plain to see, I’m afraid.”

Hutch watched in horror as his father closed the notepad and put away his pen, then nodding to Monk said, “Take him.”

“Nnnoooooooo…” The scream tore out of Hutch’s throat, making it burn.

Hutch felt hands on him, holding his shoulders, and he fought to get away. He kicked out at the encumbrance to his legs and pushed the gripping hands away again. He jerked violently to free himself. There…he was free. But it lasted only a second before the impacting thud of his body hitting the floor brought him completely awake.

He glanced around the room, his eyes straining to see the familiar objects in the dark. He looked to the bed, finding Starsky on his knees amidst a sea of disheveled bedclothes. “You okay?” Hutch asked his partner.

Starsky seemed to find the question funny, snorting out a short laugh before answering, “Yeah, you?” he asked, all traces of the earlier humor gone.

Hutch nodded and pushed up from the floor, the movement causing a feeling of tightness as muscles rippled under the newly healed flesh of his left arm.

Hutch reached to straighten the linens before crawling back into bed, but stopped, the effort suddenly beyond him. Letting the blanket fall, he turned away and walked silently toward the living room. As predictable as the ocean’s tide, Starsky followed.

Hutch sat on the couch, his knees drawn up and his arms locked around them.

“That was some dream,” Starsky began.

“Yep.” And no, I don’t want to talk about it, Hutch thought uselessly. He stole a look at Starsky, hoping his own most pitiful look would forestall the discussion. Starsky sat patiently waiting, his tongue worrying the corner of his lower lip. Periodically, Starsky brought his hand up to touch the area that looked swollen and was rapidly getting bigger.

Hutch reached out to gingerly examine Starsky’s mouth, gently turning down the swollen bottom lip to expose a small laceration caused, no doubt, by Starsky’s bottom teeth. “Did I do that? I’m sorry.”

Starsky shrugged. “As many of those nightmares as you’ve had since we’ve been back, you’d think I’d’ve learned to duck by now.” Starsky tongued at his lip once more before leaving it alone. “Let’s go back to bed, babe.” Standing to reach down his hand, Starsky waited.

With a resigned sigh, Hutch took the outstretched warmth and love, and let it pull him up off the couch and move him back to the sleeping alcove. Settling back down, both men soon drifted off to sleep.

 

 

Starsky looked up as soon as the squadroom door opened. The love and caring in the blue eyes that met Hutch’s eased the discomfort he’d felt resulting from the doctor visit.

“Lizzie brought in brownies; I saved you one.”

“Thanks,” Hutch said, reaching for the extended napkin. “How’s she doing?”

“Okay, I guess. Flores says he dreads the rest of their shift after she’s seen the Department shrink. He says things are better on the days they just do their job and don’t think about it.”

“Yeah, I can relate to that,” Hutch replied dryly, setting aside the brownie after just one bite.

“Hey, if you’re not hungry, I’ll be glad to get that off the desk before it draws ants.” Starsky looked hopefully in the less than half-eaten brownie’s direction.

Hutch smiled and pushed the napkin toward his partner. “Go ahead. Wouldn’t want to have to start fighting ants in here again.”

Starsky nodded his agreement enthusiastically and downed the soft chocolate in two bites.

Captain Dobey’s office door opened, and Hutch caught sight of the captain watching in envy as the last of the brownie disappeared. Starsky hurriedly wiped the evidence off his mouth, knowing they would be summoned inside, and regretting he’d have to table asking Hutch about the doctor visit.

“I’ve got one for you guys. Come in my office, please. And Starsky, wash the chocolate off your hands before you touch any files.” Dobey turned and walked back toward his desk. “We’re not having the ant problem we did last year, again, damn it.”

The two detectives settled in their customary seats and waited. Dobey shuffled a paper or two and then opened a file. Pulling out three crime scene photos, he laid them on his desk, facing Starsky and Hutch.

“About eight months ago this woman, Stella Nolan, was found by her cleaning lady. She was seventy-one, a widow, lived alone. Her kids and grandkids live…” Dobey paused to consult his notes, “…in Arizona, Colorado, and Detroit.” Dobey went on, his expression darkening. “She was strangled as you can see. Sexually assaulted. Maywood handled it. No suspects that amounted to anything. They thought the gardener looked good, but his alibi was solid.” Starsky reached for the photo to study it more closely and passed it over to Hutch.

“Three months ago, this woman, Blanche Engle, was found by friends when she didn’t show up to her weekly bridge game. Same story. She was seventy-three, widow, no living children.”

Starsky leaned to retrieve that photo also and, after he looked at it, passed it on.

“Four days ago,” Dobey continued,” this lady, Harriet Townsend, age eighty, a widow, also. Her daughter lives in Cathedral City. A grandson and his family up north, uh…Walnut Creek, I think the file said.”

Starsky took the photo. “He’s escalating.”

“Yes. The commissioner wants this hit hard and stopped yesterday. The newspapers didn’t get on it at first. But they are now. Every little old lady living alone for a ten-mile radius is scrambling to buy alarm systems and bars for her windows. The fire commissioner is concerned with that trend, if any of these older houses have a fire, they’ll never be able to get in to get the occupants out.”

“One or two old ladies aren’t news, huh?” Hutch replied bitterly, as he took the third photo from Starsky’s hand.

“Here are the files. No common thread of acquaintances or domestic help that yielded any suspects. No signs of forced entry in any of the houses. No witnesses who heard or saw anything. Two of these happened in broad daylight!” Dobey added disgustedly.

“Are we taking the case over completely, or do we have to work with the detectives out of the Maywood division?” Hutch asked.

“I think a little cooperation between departments wouldn’t hurt. It’d be a good idea to meet with the original detectives. It looks like they’ve done a good job, just didn’t have anything to work with. I’d rather you not go in like General Patton presiding over a PTA meeting and ruffle feathers. But per the commissioner, it’s officially your case.”

“Maywood’s not big,” Starsky said, thinking out loud.

“No, it used to be a nice upper middle class neighborhood, then it sort of declined over the last twenty years. Mostly older people, retired. Lots of widows in that area. Houses are paid for, they raised their kids there, they don’t want to leave,” Dobey said.

“And they shouldn’t have to,” Starsky spoke up, his voice strident.

Thinking about your mom, Starsk? Hutch thought, giving a quick glance over at his partner. Dobey gathered the multiple files on his desk into a stack and passed them all off to Starsky who stood to receive them.

“Get this bastard! No eighty-year-old lady should have to live in a house she’s lived in for fifty years, being afraid of that!” Dobey gestured with his chin toward the photos Hutch still held in his hand.

With a nod of understanding, Hutch stood, also. He moved to the door first, to hold it open for his partner. They went to their joined desks to go through the information from the Maywood unit, each quietly lost in his own thoughts.

Hutch tossed down one of the files and went to get a cup of coffee from the pot by the wall. “I don’t get the ‘no forced entry’ thing,” Hutch said. When Starsky turned to look up at him, he lifted the pot in question. Starsky shook his head, and went back to looking over the files on his own.

“I mean, after the first one, maybe, the second…no way! The old ladies in that neighborhood wouldn’t open their doors for just anybody.”

“So it’s someone they knew and trusted,” Starsky said with a frown.

“Who?”

“Well, according to the investigation notes, the commonalties were pretty slim. They used the same gardener, but he was in the hospital with an infected foot for the first murder, back east for a family reunion for number two, and at a doctor’s appointment for number three.”

“Does he always do the yards alone? Sounds like he isn’t too healthy. Maybe he’s got a kid that helps him?”

“Could be, doesn’t say.” Starsky jotted down something and tore off the paper with a flourish. “Let’s go ask Mr. Cardinera ourselves.”

Hutch took another swallow of old coffee before putting down the cup, and, with a hasty grab of his jacket, he followed Starsky’s purpose-driven exit toward the car.

They drove in mundane conversation starts and stops, getting off the freeway to take surface streets into the older residential area of Maywood.

Typical of an area losing its hold, there were places where houses were being torn down to make room for commercial property to go in. Checking the addresses he’d written, Starsky slowed the car halfway down the next block. “Here’s the Nolan place,” Starsky said.

The small stucco house sat back on the lot. Trees in the front shaded it, and neat flowerbeds were nested under the windows and along the sidewalk. A ‘For Sale’ sign stood by the sidewalk leading to the front door.

“The realtor is the ‘Ellis Company.’ It’s a stretch, but you never know,” Hutch noted, as he jotted down the agent’s name and phone number. Glancing at the Thomas Guide map book he retrieved from under the car seat, he flipped several pages, then showed the current page to Starsky. “Three blocks over, right on Hawthorne and left on Magnolia…Blanche Engle’s house.”

“Got it,” Starsky said, as he palmed the wheel and pulled away from the curb to steer the car back into traffic.

The Engle home was much the same. Small, but neatly maintained. A ‘For Sale’ sign was out front there, also. A ‘SOLD’ sticker, standing out proudly on it.

“The agent here is Century 21,” Hutch read.

“The Townsend house is on Collier. Where–?”

“Three blocks south,” Hutch answered.

Starsky drove slowly, noting there were, indeed, a lot of new bars on the windows and alarm company logos on entrance walkways.

The Townsend house looked just like the other two. Feeling nothing was to be gained in looking further until they could talk to the original officers and get into the house for a look, they didn’t stop the car. The crime scenes at the two previous houses were too old to be helpful. Getting inside them wasn’t as important.

“At least the last one’s not for sale, so half the free world hasn’t traipsed through it,” Hutch observed.

“Really. Let’s go talk to the guys at Maywood, then see if we can catch the gardener this afternoon, huh?”

“Okay.”

“I want to fit lunch in there somewhere, and just because I like your face,” Starsky teased, “you can pick where.”

Hutch laughed, reveling in the familiar banter, grateful for the crack in the black cloud he had felt over his head since the disastrous visit home. “Let’s go see the Maywood officers and what info they have, while I think about where we can eat.”

Starsky leaned over and squeezed Hutch’s thigh as he spun the wheel, turning the Torino up the freeway on-ramp.

They spent almost two hours meeting with the primary detective working the cases. Detective Hiram Russell, he’d introduced himself formally, then added, “But everyone calls me Rusty.” He ran his hand through his thinning red hair, and went on with a grin, “At least for a while yet.” He arranged for the brief appearance of a couple of beat officers involved who were available at the time. Despite the manpower, everything was just a rehash of the complete reports. No new leads, nothing out of the ordinary, no forced entry and no witnesses. No new information of any kind. According to the most recent questioning of Mrs. Townsend’s family, she had expressed no worry; no one had threatened her or harassed her in any way. Her body was still at the coroner’s office, pending the results of the toxicology screen. A slow process, but one that couldn’t be hurried.

“Did Mrs. Townsend use the same yard man as the others?” Hutch asked.

“Yep. Half the houses in that area are either widows, or the owners are handicapped and aren’t able to do much of the heavy outside work,” the older detective with a strong Southern drawl replied. “I know what you’re thinking. It was my guess, too, but he’s got an alibi for every murder. This last one is no exception. I checked it out myself.”

“Does he have a helper? Someone to do the yards if he gets sick or behind? A son or grandson?”

“No, I don’t think so. He didn’t speak of anyone helping him and neither did any of his other customers. You know, I spoke with Mrs. Townsend after the second murder. Never expected her to be the next.”

“Evidently, neither did she,” Hutch replied dryly as both men stood to leave.

Starsky signed for the key to Mrs. Townsend’s home, and the older detective promised to put a black-and-white on alert to swing by and pick it up when Zebra Three radioed they were done with it. “Save you boys a trip back here just to turn it in.” Rusty offered his strong handshake, as he walked Starsky and Hutch out of the small squadroom.

“Thanks, Rusty, we appreciate it. We want to try and talk to the gardener today, too, if possible. Find out if he ever used any extra help.”

“Somebody that the old ladies would recognize and trust by proxy,” Rusty offered, nodding. “Good luck,” he continued. “We really want this piece of shit caught. We have a quiet little community. There hasn’t even been a burglary here in over three years. Old, yes, but peaceful. These were sweet old ladies who never hurt anybody. Nobody should be so lucky as to live so long and then die that way. Nobody.” He shook his head sadly.

Starsky and Hutch jumped in the car and backtracked to the Townsend address. Once inside, it was obvious no one had come to clean up, yet. Fingerprint dust was everywhere, chalk marks that outlined the body’s position on the floor stood out against the hardwood, as did the blood splatters on the wall above the bed. The linens and headboard had already been removed and taken to the crime lab downtown. One dresser drawer stood open, its contents rifled and spilling over, as the murderer had apparently rummaged to choose the pair of stockings used to kill the helpless woman.

“According to the coroner’s report, she was sexually assaulted like the others and was alive at the time. Hopefully, she wasn’t conscious,” Hutch wished aloud.

Starsky gave a shudder. “What is there about somebody that old that would be a turn-on?”

“Rape isn’t about sex, Starsky. You know that. It’s about anger, power, and control.” Hutch walked slowly along the neat mantle, marred now with black dust from the crime lab. He looked carefully at the family photos lined up there. Memories of happy, loving people enjoying each other. That was obvious. Each shot was a candid one, taken at holidays, birthdays, and vacation outings. Not a stiff professionally posed shot in the lot.

Starsky walked up behind him; Hutch could smell his after-shave and feel the warmth of his breath at his shoulder. “She’s not that much older than my mother,” Starsky offered sadly. “I don’t know if I could stand it if this sort of thing ever happened to her.”

“They look happy, don’t they? Maybe that’s why the killer chose her. He hated the fact that they were happy. Maybe it was too painful a reminder of something he’d always wanted but never had…never will have…” Hutch’s voice trailed off and he turned abruptly from the fireplace, his hand going to rub his forehead and temple as the beginnings of a headache surfaced.

“Don’t,” Starsky warned gently. “Don’t make this personal…you’re too close, just coming off all the shit with your own family. Let that go, babe.” Starsky encouraged the sentiment with a squeeze to Hutch’s neck, his fingers trailing up through the soft hair before letting it fall away.

Hutch gave his partner a small nod of acknowledgement and forced himself into his role; he began to walk through the house, re-creating the crime in his mind.

They checked windows and doors for any signs of forced entry that might have been missed, but found nothing. The examination of the house, in general, provided nothing that they hadn’t read in the report. Nothing else to do, they locked up and went to call for a patrol unit to pick up the key.

Sitting in the Torino while they waited, Hutch pulled out the case files. He wanted to look at the Townsend crime photos to get the full perspective while the layout of the house was fresh in his mind. Starsky looked at his own notes in silence, pausing to add things as he turned the pages. A black-and-white turned the corner and they passed the key off with their thanks, then Starsky climbed back inside the car. “Let’s see if the gardener’s home; the address isn’t far from here. Then we’ll get something to eat and head back, deal?”

Hutch nodded, his stomach rebelling at the thought of food while the pounding in his head continued. He rested back against the seat, closing his eyes against the pain.

“What did the doctor say?” Starsky asked the question Hutch had been dreading.

“Nothing…he looked at the records we brought back. Did another skull series…it was negative. He dilated my eyes to see if there were any microhemorrhages at the back of the retina. Negative. Simple concussion; he concurred with that diagnosis. He said sometimes headaches are a natural sequela…give it a couple of weeks. If I’m still having them, they’ll run more tests, none of which would be pleasant.” Hutch shook his head. “Big waste of time. All he could offer were stronger pain pills. I passed on those.”

Starsky ran his fingers up Hutch’s arm. “I’m glad he didn’t find anything, but I’m sorry he couldn’t fix it and make it go away.”

“Me, too,” Hutch offered, as he slipped his hand in his jacket pocket to finger the prescription slip the doctor had given him as a referral to another doctor.

They drove in silence down a side street that had long since seen better days. Starsky checked the address against his notes and slowed the Torino to a stop in front of the house they sought. Hutch radioed their location to dispatch and put them out of service while they were questioning the gardener.

Walking up to the house, Hutch noticed the planter’s contents were dead and it was overgrown with weeds, the grass straggling over the edges of the sidewalk in places, while being bare and dry in others. Cobbler’s kid needs new shoes, Hutch thought, remembering how perfectly green, groomed, and pristine this man’s work was on the other people’s yards.

Starsky knocked on the door and both men waited.

After a few moments the door opened, revealing an older man in grimy and faded overalls and a dingy t-shirt. “Yes?” the man asked through the still closed screen door.

“I’m Detective Starsky; this is my partner, Detective Hutchinson,” Starsky introduced, flipping open his shield case to show his ID. “We’d like to ask you a few questions about the murders in the Maywood area, if you don’t mind.”

“I’ve already talked to the police a couple of times.”

“Yes, sir, we know. But we’ve just been brought in on this case, and we’re trying to get up to speed. It would be helpful if you could give us a feel for the area, since we’re not as familiar with it as the officers you’ve already spoken with. Some new angle, something so small it might seem unimportant might be noticed by new eyes and ears,” Hutch explained.

“May we come in?” Starsky asked, taking a slight step toward the closed screen door.

The man hesitated a second then stepped aside, allowing Starsky and Hutch to enter the small home. It was dark inside, all the curtains pulled closed. It smelled of stale cigarette smoke and sweat.

The old man walked past the living room, which didn’t look very used, and entered the kitchen. He sat at the table and motioned to Starsky and Hutch to take a seat there, also. “I don’t have any beer, do you want water or a soda?”

“No, thank you,” Hutch answered for both of them with a smile.

Starsky opened his notebook and began. “You’re name is Anthony Cardinera, is that correct?”

“You know it is,” the man replied with a humorless smile.

“You were the gardener for all the women who have been killed over the past eight months, isn’t that correct?” Hutch asked.

“Yeah, and I’m the gardener for a lot more homes in that neighborhood where everybody’s still breathing. But nobody ever mentions that!”

“We’ve read your statement to the police, and they have substantiated your whereabouts at the time of all the attacks, Mr. Cardinera. We’re not here to try and repudiate that. We just wonder since you are in the area so frequently at various times of the day…did you see or hear anything out of the ordinary? An odd car parked where normally there isn’t one? A stranger coming or going, a deliveryman?” Hutch countered.

The gardener grew serious and looked at his clasped hands where they rested on the cluttered kitchen table for a long moment before looking up at the two detectives. His weather-lined face was sad. “Don’t you think I’ve asked myself those same questions since they first found Stella Nolan?” He slowly shook his head. “I didn’t see anything. I wish to God I had…then maybe the other two would never have happened.”‘

“How long have you had your own yard maintenance company, Mr. Cardinera?” Starsky asked.

“About four years. I used to work for the Parks and Recreation Department. I did a lot of work with the city planners here in Maywood and in Bell, a little in Inglewood, too. But…” He hesitated.

“But?” Hutch prompted gently.

“But I had a drinking problem. Too many liquid lunches, if you know what I mean. My wife got fed up after the kids were grown and gone. She left me. I started drinking more than just at lunch. People began to notice. It didn’t take too long before I lost my job.”

“When was that?” Starsky asked.

“About five years ago.” Cardinera sighed. “Harriet Townsend’s daughter was a good friend of my wife. When Myra left, she sort of felt sorry for me, I guess. Never lost touch. Kept after me to go to AA. I finally listened to her. She convinced me that there was a need in the old area for yard services and general handyman work. So that’s what I did. I haven’t had a drink since the Fourth of July, four years ago.”

“So, Mrs. Townsend was a friend,” Hutch said as Starsky made notes.

“Harriet Townsend was everybody’s friend. She used to say she was a female Will Rogers and she’d sing that song he used to sing, ‘I never met a man I didn’t like…'” Cardinera smiled, genuinely this time, at the memory. “She was a fine woman. I was sick when the police came a couple of days ago. I knew there’d been another murder. I’d heard sirens that mid-morning while I was doing a lawn a few blocks over. When I got home I heard it on the news, but they hadn’t given the victim’s name yet. I knew…just never dreamed it could have been her. I sure hated to hear that.”

“While you were doing the yard that morning, you didn’t notice anything strange?” Hutch asked again.

“No! God, I wish I had something for you, I really do. I’d love to have ten minutes alone with the son-of-a-bitch when you catch him.” Cardinera’s face hardened in hatred, and Hutch felt to his toes how truly the man meant what he was saying.

“When the first attack occurred, you were ill and in the hospital. Is that correct?” Starsky went on.

“Yes. I’ve got diabetes and alcoholic-induced pancreatitis. I got an infection in my foot that wouldn’t heal. It threw everything out of whack and I had to go in the hospital to get treatment.

“While you were laid up, was someone else watching your business for you? Doing the yard work until you got back on your feet?” Hutch asked.

“No…I’m a one-man shop here. I’m lucky enough that my customers are all elderly and very loyal. They’ll skip a week to wait for me rather than hire somebody else. I take the time to talk to them while I’m there. Most of them are alone now–widows and widowers. Nobody gives them any time. That’s really why they like me. Anybody could mow their grass. You know what I mean?”

Starsky folded his notebook and slipped it into his jacket pocket. “Thank you, Mr. Cardinera. Here’s my card. If you think of anything or see anything in the future, give us a call at that number. Dispatch will be able to reach us.”

Cardinera nodded and took the card, then stood to walk the detectives to the door. “Thank you for your time, sir,” Hutch said sincerely.

Starsky and Hutch stepped out of the dark house and squinted at the bright afternoon sunlight.

“When you guys get him,” Mr. Cardinera said from the inside the doorway, “give him one for me, will ya? Harriet deserves that much.”

“We understand your feelings, but we’ll pretend we didn’t hear that,” Starsky said with a small grin.

“We’ll do our best to get him in such a way as to make it stick the first time. You have our word,” Hutch promised.

Settled in the car as they drove away, Starsky muttered, “I really was kinda thinking he’d either be our guy or the link to him.”

“So much for easy,” Hutch answered, his hand rubbing at his aching head in what was becoming an all too familiar gesture.

“It’s almost four; what say we get take-out and go home? Your place or mine, big boy?” Starsky asked with a wag of his eyebrows.

“Yours. It’s closer.” And there’s an almost full bottle of aspirin in the medicine cabinet.

The smells of Chinese food quickly filled Starsky’s apartment. Hutch shed his jacket and holster and excused himself to the bathroom. Once there, he tossed down three aspirin dry while he peed. He washed his hands and, using one to cup water in, he slurped up several handfuls to coax the tablets the rest of the way down. With a splash of cool water to his face, he straightened and stopped to look at his reflection as he dried his face on the hand towel. The bruises from the kidnapping had faded, but not the dark circles under his eyes that had accompanied them. He brought his hand up to pull at the rolled-up shirt sleeve, exposing the brand cut on his inner arm. The doctor was right; it was superficial…it wouldn’t show at all in another week or so. “I’ll tan right over it,” he said with surety. Yet in his mind’s eye, he could still picture it. That single frame not nearly so disturbing as the one that eventually followed…that of his father’s face. He shuddered, feeling hot, then cold. Taking a deep breath, he forced those thoughts away as he patted down the shirt sleeve to cover the reminder and went out to join Starsky at the table, two plates set and ready.

“Want to be real Chinese and have tea, or a beer?” Starsky asked unwrapping his chopsticks.

“Make it easy, give me a beer.”

Starsky grabbed two from the refrigerator and returned to the table. Popping his can open, he touched it lightly to the can Hutch held.

“Good to be home, babe.” Starsky took a long drink then lowered his can, still watching Hutch. “I love you. Don’t think I told you that yet today. I should have.”

“Why? Are we keeping score?” Hutch asked around a mouthful of wonton.

“No, I just never want to take you for granted. I don’t ever want you to doubt how important you are to me.”

Hutch stopped chewing to stare at his partner.

“I know that may sound sappy to hear it out loud,” Starsky countered, looking at his plate, his cheeks coloring.

“No, no, it’s okay,” Hutch said when he found his voice. “It’s good to know, thanks. It’s good to hear it. I love you, too.” He reached out to run his fingertips lightly down Starsky’s arm.

Dinner was finished in leisure, the leftovers cleared away for another time. Hutch tried to stay awake to finish watching the news, but the yawns were becoming laughable.

“I give up,” he said around the latest one. “I’m going to bed, while my headache is down to a dull throb and I have some hope of getting to sleep.” Hutch walked into the bedroom, shedding his clothes as he went. He touched the bedside lamp, fumbling a second for the knob to turn it on before he turned down the bed and crawled in. Stretching under the cool sheets, he let his hands roam down his chest and over his abdomen. He could hear Starsky turning off the TV and locking up in the other room. Letting his hand trail down past his pubic hair to grasp his dick, he began stroking it slowly, throwing the sheet back just enough to give Starsky a good view as he walked into the bedroom.

“Starting without me?” Starsky asked as he entered, undoing his belt.

“Just getting ready for you,” Hutch replied in a husky whisper.

“I love to watch you do that.” Starsky stood beside the bed, having dropped his jeans to free his own rapidly filling cock.

Hutch turned on the bed to let his legs slide off and his feet rest on the floor, still slowly stroking his own dick. He let his hand fall away when Starsky bent forward to lick along the underside of the length of him, then engulfed him as far as possible into his willing mouth. Starsky let his tongue make hot wet trails across his balls, nibbling and sucking at the loose skin there. Hutch groaned deep in his throat, as the sensations sent the fire in him higher, hotter. When Starsky’s tongue went lower to circle and penetrate his anus, Hutch was actively sweating and writhing on the bed. He lifted his legs to encourage access and placed his right leg on Starsky’s shoulder. Starsky gripped the other ankle and bent Hutch’s left leg, pushing it down flat on the bed. Pulling his mouth back, Starsky looked into Hutch’s eyes, his own dark and dilated. “Touch yourself; stay hard for me. I’m going to slide in real slow. Gonna be inside you so deep,” Starsky said, his voice rough with passion. Hutch felt the blunt pressure of Starsky against him and relaxed to accept him. Between the wetness of Starsky’s rimming and pre-come, the head of Starsky’s cock slid in easily. He pushed slowly, giving Hutch time. Hutch pushed in counter pressure, to hasten the full length of Starsky’s cock entering. Hutch’s whole body quivered and he felt his skin awash with goose bumps, as the head of Starsky’s cock popped past the tight inner ring of muscle and slid home. Hutch could feel the heat of Starsky’s balls against his skin.

“Move, baby. God, you feel so good,” Hutch panted.

Starsky began to move in long, smooth strokes that went deep, sliding the ridge of his cock over Hutch’s prostate with each push forward. “Touch yourself,” Starsky said again. “I want to watch you come. I want to see you shoot, while I feel your body tighten up around me with every squirt.” Starsky’s face was flushed with passion, and Hutch saw the tell-tale quivers along Starsky’s flat abs that indicated he was getting close.

Hutch rolled his balls with one hand, while stroking his dick with the other. He could feel the heat building, the inner pounding from Starsky’s dick relentless. His orgasm took him, powerfully. His inner muscles contracted around Starsky’s dick, as he pushed in as far as possible and was still to feel the rhythmic milking. Starsky’s head went back and his mouth opened in a silent scream, just before Hutch felt the hot spurting of Starsky’s load inside him. Milking the last of his come, he reached to pull Starsky down to lie across him, raining kisses on whatever part of Starsky’s face and neck his mouth could reach. “I love you,” Hutch whispered quickly between gasps for air.

“I know you do; I love you. Those are the only two things in the universe that keep me going,” was Starsky’s unexpected answer.

The late night air was cool coming in the room, and, with a little shiver, Starsky gently pulled out and reached for the hand towel in the nightstand to clean them both. Tossing it over toward the corner of the room where yesterday’s clothes sat on a chair, Starsky spooned behind Hutch, linking his fingers with Hutch’s where they rested together across Hutch’s chest. The warmth of Starsky’s body and the faint smell of the night blooming jasmine from the hedge at the back of the apartment complex registered as the last waking thought Hutch had.

Starsky fought the feeling of fullness in his bladder and tried to go back to sleep. Nope, not gonna happen, he thought with regret. Sliding away from the warmth of Hutch’s body with a grunt, he eased the rest of the way off the bed carefully, so as not to wake his sleeping partner. “Should’ve hit the head before I walked in the bedroom,” Starsky whispered to himself. “But I wasn’t expecting your little ambush, Blintz.” Smiling to himself, Starsky left the bathroom and walked to the kitchen to get a drink. Taking several swallows out of the milk carton, he replaced it and noticed Hutch’s jacket had fallen off the kitchen chair. Reaching to pick it back up, a piece of paper slipped from the jacket pocket. Starsky bent to retrieve it. In the light coming in from the street lamp outside, he saw that it was a prescription sheet. A doctor’s name he didn’t recognize was written on it, along with an address. That part jumped out at him clearly, throwing his heart up into his throat. “Outpatient Psychiatric Services, Charter Hospital,” Starsky read, then folded the paper and placed it securely back in Hutch’s jacket pocket. “A referral to a shrink, just what you needed to hear, buddy. Damn.”

Starsky walked softly back to bed, easing his way closer to his lover’s body without disturbing his sleep. Starsky waited to fall asleep himself. It was a long wait.

 

 

“I suppose brownies two days in a row is too much to hope for,” Starsky said, as they entered the squadroom the next morning.

“Probably,” Hutch replied, making a beeline for the coffeepot and pouring two cups. The morning’s shared shower and the activity that caused it to run longer than usual had made them too close to late to stop for breakfast, let alone make anything, no matter how speedy, at the apartment before leaving. Starsky’s stomach had loudly growled its distress all the way in to work.

“In the bottom drawer on the other side,” Hutch offered, seeing Starsky rummaging in the drawers for anything edible. “I left a granola bar in there the other day, if you haven’t already eaten it.”

Starsky checked the suggested drawer and smiled his victory, when his hand pulled back with the bar. He hastily unwrapped it and started to take a bite, when he paused and made a breaking motion toward Hutch as an offer to share the prize.

“No, you go ahead. I’m good with the coffee for now.” Hutch smiled at the relieved delight he saw on Starsky’s face as he wolfed down the granola.

Pulling out the files on the Maywood crimes, the men got busy. “It was someone they knew. No forced entry and the times were…” Starsky paused as he referred to the cover sheet on each file. “…approximately 0745, 1230, and 2000,” he read. ”If it wasn’t the gardener, who else? They didn’t have the same cleaning lady. Mrs. Townsend didn’t have any domestic help at all. They went to different clubs and churches, so it wouldn’t be someone from there. They really didn’t share the same circle of friends at all.”

“Who else comes to a house on a regular basis?” Hutch asked thinking aloud. “Lawyers, insurance men, stock brokers…”

“Doctors,” Starsky suggested hesitantly, and Hutch steeled himself against a groan almost successfully.

“Doctors don’t make house calls anymore, Starsk. Marcus Welby is a joke.”

“Well, let’s start digging and see if there’re any common professional persons involved. Here, you take Nolan, I’ll take Engle, and whoever gets done first does Townsend. Her family all lives locally, so she should be the easiest.” Starsky pushed across Nolan’s file to Hutch, keeping Engle’s for himself, and placing Townsend’s in the center like the pot of a poker game.

By shortly after noon, each man had a list to compare and, finishing within minutes of each other, they shared the Townsend phone calls and got the necessary information on her quickly.

“Okay, Nolan’s portfolio was simple. Retired teacher, pension from the teachers’ union, stocks and securities all managed through their representative, Ms. Carol Sonberg, office in Santa Monica. She hadn’t made a call on Mrs. Nolan since the end of last year. No lawyer on retainer, house wasn’t up for sale, and she didn’t hold any properties elsewhere, so no real estate brokers in the picture. Doctor’s name was Haywood Turner, internist. He’s been her doctor for twenty years, according to her family.” Hutch leaned back rubbing his eyes. “That’s mine, what’ve you got?”

“Mrs. Engle was a bookkeeper for a local clothing store. Worked as manager of payroll at the time she retired. Managed her own finances, dabbled in stocks and bonds, but nothing so big they’d be a motive for someone to kill her. No children, her closest relative is a younger sister in Minneapolis. She’d been in her home twenty-seven years, no real estate activity either. Her doctor is Gordon Miller. The sister didn’t know, but I got it off the coroner’s report. He called him to verify bottles of prescription drugs they found at the scene.”

Hutch shuffled papers, forcing his eyes to focus in the squadroom lights that suddenly seemed too bright. The dreadfully familiar twinkling in his peripheral vision was starting, and his head felt like it was in a vice that was rapidly getting tighter.

“Wasn’t Mrs. Townsend’s doctor Haywood Turner, also?” Hutch said, reaching for her file to check. He could hardly see the printed page. He began trying to swallow the gush of hot fluid suddenly filling his mouth. With a jerk up out of his chair, Hutch bounded away toward the men’s room. Pushing roughly past a fellow officer coming out, he barely made it inside a stall to vomit his morning coffee.

Hutch felt a hand on his back, and he belatedly realized he hadn’t taken the time to shut the stall door. He looked up, expecting Starsky, and was slightly embarrassed to see Arturo holding out a handful of wet paper towels. Hutch nodded his thanks, unsure he could relax his throat against the threat of further offerings enough to speak.

“Must be my day for it. Carolyn woke me up at five a.m., doing the same thing.” Arturo gave Hutch’s back a gentle pat. “I think I know what her problem is,” he said with a sly grin followed by a raised eyebrow. “You aren’t pregnant, too, are you?”

Hutch wiped over his face with the wet towels and slowly straightened. “Don’t say anything…you’ll blow my cover.” He cleared his throat and spat before stepping out of the stall.

“I’m glad to hear about Carolyn, amigo. I hope it’s true. Good luck!” Hutch enveloped the younger, smiling man in a hug, just as the door opened and Starsky entered. Hutch was briefly struck by a wave of déjà vu, remembering Starsky walking in a number of months ago on a similar scene, when Arturo was expressing his grief at Carolyn’s miscarriage. When he met his lover’s eyes, for a second he saw a similar expression on Starsky’s face.

“You okay, partner?” Starsky asked, stepping in with a slight stiffness to his stance.

“Yeah,” Hutch said, moving away from Flores and wiping his face once more before balling up the wet towels and aiming a throw at the trash can. “I guess that Chinese food came back to haunt me.” Hutch gave a weak smile to Flores. “He ate it, too,” Hutch said, indicating Starsky with a tilt of his head. “Old cast-iron gut…nothing bothers him.” Hutch patted Starsky’s stomach as he moved past him and out the door.

Hutch was seated at his desk, waiting for the end of the Alka-Seltzer’s fizzing when Starsky joined him.

“Arturo thinks his wife is pregnant,” Starsky said.

“Uh-huh, he told me.”

“That’s great, hope everything goes okay this time.”

“Me, too.”

“Hutch…are you sure the doctor you saw yesterday didn’t have any other suggestions?” Starsky leaned forward from his side of the desk to speak privately.

Hutch clenched his jaw in response, feeling the pain intensify at his temples. “Suggestions? Sure…he suggested I see a shrink to talk about how I felt about being a victim,” Hutch hissed. “What’s the matter, buddy? Don’t you see the humor in that? Me, talking to a shrink, when I grew up with one and tried to avoid talking to him as much as possible my whole life. Isn’t that rich?”

Starsky cringed and leaned back, putting some distance between himself and Hutch’s anger. “If it would help–” he said quietly.

“Don’t!” Hutch’s finger rose to point at Starsky. Hutch’s voice interrupted him with enough volume to draw some looks from the other officers in the room. Lowering his voice, “Don’t go there, not now.” Hutch stood abruptly, his finger still pinning Starsky where he sat. “Maybe not ever.” He snatched his jacket off the back of his chair and walked with long strides out of the room.

Just before Hutch reached the main exit, he heard the soft slap of tennis shoes behind him and knew Starsky was jogging to catch up. He kept on walking.

Hutch stood at the passenger’s side of the Torino, his head resting on his forearms against the roof. Starsky’s hand moved him to the side slightly, as he opened the door and urged Hutch inside.

“I’m sorry,” Hutch offered, as he sidestepped the door and sank into the seat. Starsky went around to enter the driver’s side in silence.

“Want anything for lunch?” Starsky asked, breaking the strained quiet, although from the tone of his voice he already knew the answer.

“No, I’ll pass, thanks.”

Starsky nodded. “There’s a water bottle under your seat; at least drink something, will ya? I’ll get an extra cup with ice at the drive-through.”

Hutch fished under the seat, found the bottle, and pulled it out. A turn a few blocks down had Starsky waiting almost patiently in the line at Jack-in-the-Box’s drive through, while Hutch felt he was being made to suffer the agonies of hell, enduring all the different smells of what was cooked in there. With a second to settle his food in his lap and secure the drink between his legs, Starsky pulled out into traffic to head for the quiet Maywood community.

They spent the afternoon talking to people on either side and across the street from Stella Nolan and Blanche Engle. It yielded them no new leads to follow or any previously unknown information about any visitors.

With a dual sigh of discouragement, they got back in the car to drive to the Townsend address.

Out of the corner of his eye, Hutch noticed a middle-aged man in a navy jogging suit. The man was jogging running at a stiff clip along the sidewalk of the tree-lined street.

As Starsky drove, Hutch kept his eyes on the jogger, noting that none of the people outside or passing in cars seemed threatened or uneasy. A few waved and called out a greeting, earning a wave in return, but Hutch was too far away to hear a name if one was called out.

Starsky pulled the Torino over to the curb and got out his notebook. He turned to a clean page in preparation for the upcoming round of interviews.

“That guy back there, as we were leaving the Engle place. Ever see him before?” Hutch asked.

“Who?”

“That guy jogging,” Hutch said.

“I don’t think so, why?”

“I don’t know…just seemed out of place for this neighborhood, that’s all.”

There was a car in Harriet Townsend’s driveway when Starsky and Hutch pulled up. Getting their badge cases out and ready, they cautiously approached the front door. A middle-aged woman, dressed in jeans and a sweater, opened the door in response to their knock. Her eyes were red and she looked as if she’d been crying.

“Yes?”

“I’m Detective Hutchinson; this is Detective Starsky. We’re investigating a crime that occurred here. Are you related to Mrs. Townsend?” Hutch opened.

“Yes, I’m her daughter, Claire. I was just trying to go through a few things. Clear out what she wanted to go to special friends and family and give Goodwill the rest.”

“May we come in and ask you a few questions?” Starsky asked, using his killer smile. “We won’t take up much of your time.”

Claire looked at the ID and the business card Starsky extended, then stepped back from the door to let them pass.

“I think I spoke to you guys on the phone the other day, didn’t I? You’re the new detectives just recently assigned to this case, aren’t you?”

“Yes,” Hutch replied.

“I don’t know what else I can tell you.”

“We’re trying to find out about anything that would tie the three murders together. If they were chosen at random, it’ll be a lot harder to trace a suspect. With a common thread of something, anything…it gives us a little more direction to work with,” Hutch said.

“Well, my mother knew Mrs. Engle, I know that for sure. I remember her talking about her death after it was on the news. They didn’t know each other well; they weren’t friends or anything. They didn’t do things together socially. But they met and got to talking at the doctor’s office one day and realized that they were neighbors. They were both trying to drop a few pounds and talked about taking morning walks together. Dr. Miller is a real nut about diet and exercise.”

“Dr. Miller?” Hutch held up a hand to halt the conversation. “I thought your mother’s doctor was Haywood Turner.”

“Yes, he is…was,” she corrected. “But Dr. Miller takes calls and covers for Dr. Turner. Dr. Turner took an extended vacation to Europe last year for his thirty-fifth wedding anniversary. He was gone five or six weeks, I think. She saw Dr. Miller while he was gone,” Claire explained. “My mother thinks Dr. Turner’s grooming the young man to take over his practice when he retires. The old guy’s been practicing forever. He delivered me.” Claire’s gaze shifted to the front window. “Speak of the devil,” she said, moving closer to the window. “Dr. Miller jogs through the neighborhood, sometimes. The office isn’t too far from here.” She looked at her watch. “Yep, he’s jogging before his office hours start up again at two o’clock. Sometimes, my mother said, she’d see him running with his black doctor’s case. Two of the few still making house calls, he and Dr. Turner. I’m sure it’s something Dr. Turner just expected–he, himself, being from the old school. I guess Dr. Miller felt he better be on the same page, if he wanted the business. It sure is a help to this old community. I don’t know what some of these elderly people around here would do if they didn’t.”

Hutch moved to the picture window in the living room to look out. The same middle-aged man he’d seen earlier was passing, the metallic cast of the navy jogging suit catching the afternoon sun. The runner wore sunglasses, held in place with an athletic band, and a baseball cap. He still moved with the same brisk pace as before. He’s used to running to sustain a pace like that, Hutch thought with appreciation. He had a quick mental flash of jogging with his father along the road by the house on one of his visits while home from medical school. He had his father’s legs; they both could run for miles.

Hutch turned abruptly from the window, his hand going to his head as the peculiar visual disturbance began again, accompanied as always by an ever increasingly painful headache.

“Thank you for your time, Claire.” Hutch could tell his voice sounded clipped and strained. If Claire noticed, he couldn’t tell. “I’m glad you were here when we came by. We’ll keep in touch.” Hutch moved quickly out of the house, stopping on the porch briefly to fight the hot fluid flooding his mouth, and the nausea that was coming on like a freight train.

“If you think of anything else, you’ve got a card. Give us a call. Thanks again.” Starsky’s voice seemed like an echo as it sounded behind him.

With great effort, Hutch pushed away from the front porch and staggered to the Torino. He was sitting in the front seat of Starsky’s car, leaning sideways against the headrest, feet extended on the curb in front of him.

“You okay?” Starsky asked as he approached.

“As long as you don’t walk any closer and step in the puke. I don’t want you to track the smell in here for the ride home.”

“Aw, Hutch,” Starsky said, stepping to the side and running his fingers through Hutch’s damp hair before going to the driver’s side and sliding in.

“Maybe some fresh air blowing in will make you feel better, huh?”

If it doesn’t, I better give you my gun, Hutch thought, only half joking.

“That doc’s a hell of a runner,” Hutch said, without opening his eyes. “What were the times of death from the coroner’s report again?” Hutch asked, sitting up straight with a groan.

“Around seven forty-five a.m., twelve-thirty, and a little after eight p.m.,” Starsky answered. “Why?”

Before office hours, lunch break, and after evening rounds. Hutch’s mind supplied him with the familiar schedule his whole life had revolved around while he lived at home. He could feel the pounding of his heartbeat stabbing behind his eyes, making them water. Oh, God, my head is exploding! He bit down hard on his bottom lip.

Hutch felt Starsky touching his shoulder and could hear his muffled voice just barely over the loud cannon fire pounding in his own ears, but couldn’t make himself turn his head to acknowledge anything. “Oh, God,” he finally moaned aloud. “Get me home, Starsk. I can’t stand it anymore.” Hutch leaned his head back, cradling it between both hands as if it would indeed explode at any second.

This side of twenty minutes found Starsky pulling up in front of Venice Place and bringing the car to a carefully controlled stop. Killing the engine, Starsky jumped from the car and ran around to open the still closed passenger door. Treating him as if he thought Hutch was made out of blown glass, Starsky eased him out of the car and into the apartment.

Steering himself away from Starsky’s hand, Hutch by-passed the couch and headed for the cooler and darker sleeping alcove. “There’s an ice bag in the freezer, please….” Starsky moved away and returned quickly. Hutch rolled from his side to his back, resting the ice over his eyes, rocking it from one temple to the other.

“Starsk,” Hutch called.

No answer. Hutch took in a deep breath but let it out without repeating the call, sure that his head would hate having him try to speak any louder.

In a moment, Hutch heard Starsky return and felt the touch on his arm, followed by a glass of water being pressed in his hand. “Here, open your mouth. Take these and drink as much as you can,” Starsky ordered.

Without hesitation, Hutch complied. It’s either take the pills, or eat my gun. I can’t stand much more of this.

He felt the bed sag, then heard the double thud of Starsky’s tennis shoes hitting the floor. It seemed like a plan and he clumsily toed off his own shoes. Starsky unbuttoned Hutch’s shirt and belt, running a cool cloth that materialized suddenly on Hutch’s neck and chest.

Gradually the pounding slowed, the pain and incapacitating, blinding red haze ebbed with it, and Hutch risked opening his eyes.

“Better?” Starsky lay on his side, facing Hutch, his head resting on his hand, the arm bent at the elbow supporting him.

“Getting there,” Hutch answered shakily.

Starsky leaned closer and placed a gentle kiss on Hutch’s cheek. “Go to sleep for a while. Maybe you can knock it out so you’ll be okay when you wake up, huh?” Starsky eased off the bed on his hands and knees. “I’ll be right out here. Not going anywhere.”

“Call Dobey?”

“I will, don’t worry about anything. Close your eyes.”

 

 

The room was very dark when he awoke. He could hear cooking noises in the kitchen and smiled as he recognized the smell of chicken soup. Jewish penicillin, he thought with a soft chuckle. He rolled away from the lukewarm, soggy ice bag and gradually sat up. His mouth felt furry and every muscle seemed to weigh a ton.

Damn, I hate the way those pills make me feel, but at least the headache’s gone. “Thank God,” Hutch muttered gratefully.

Easing his feet to the floor to stand, he lumbered stiffly into the kitchen.

“Hey,” Hutch started, feeling a tiny bit awkward. “You could’ve taken off; I’m fine now,” he said, raking his fingers though the wild tangle that was his hair.

“You haven’t eaten anything that stayed down since last night.” Starsky pulled back a chair. “Here, sit down at the table, have some soup. You’ll feel better.”

Hutch smiled as he complied.

“Oh, God,” Starsky moaned in mock concern. “I sound like my mother.”

“Aren’t you eating?” Hutch asked, noticing Starsky only brought one bowl to the table.

“I already ate. Ran out and got a pizza about an hour ago. Ate it on the back porch so the smell wouldn’t bother you.” Starsky pouched out his stomach, patted it then burped for effect. “It was great and I ate the whole thing.”

Hutch blew on his spoon before bringing it cautiously to his lips After he’d finished over half, he looked to where Starsky sat sprawled on the couch watching TV. “What did Dobey say?”

“Lay off the Chinese, and solve the old lady murders. The newspapers are calling him the ‘Stocking Strangler.’ Dobey’s getting heat from the bad press. He read me the notes compiled by the psychologist studying the case. It made for a pretty grim profile.”

Hutch lowered his spoon. “What did it say?”

“Rage directed at old women, a reaction against discipline or authority figures. Possibly a result of the individual having been physically or emotionally abused by an authority figure. Likely to be a highly educated professional. Poorly established social structure, with no personal support system.” Starsky paused and looked up from his notes. “Is that a fancy way of saying the guy has no friends?”

“Yeah, I think so,” Hutch replied with a smile, knowing in his heart that Starsky knew exactly what that statement meant.

“White male between the ages of thirty and forty-five, average appearance, physically non-threatening. Familiar enough with the neighborhood to move freely without causing suspicion. Known and trusted by his victims.” Starsky set aside the notebook. ” Jeez, that sounds so complete, I wanna turn the page and see a picture of the guy.”

“I think we did,” Hutch answered.

“Huh?”

“That jogger today…Dr. Miller.” Hutch looked over at his partner. “Someone they knew, someone they trusted…someone they had no reason to be afraid of? Who’s more…all of those things…than a doctor?”

Starsky gave a short laugh and started turning away. Hutch’s gaze didn’t waver. “You’re serious,” Starsky replied sounding a little shocked.

“Tomorrow we make a house call of our own on Dr. Miller,” Hutch vowed. “Let’s give the original detectives a call, so they can pass the word to the beat cops to keep an eye on any joggers in the neighborhood.”

“You got it!” Starsky replied, as he popped up off the couch to make the call to the Maywood dispatcher.

I swear by Apollo, by Aesculapius, by Health and all the powers of healing; in what so ever place I enter, I will enter to help the sick and heal the injured, and I will above all, do no harm…. Someone they know…someone they trust…above all, do no harm… The phrases echoed in Hutch’s head.

A soft touch to his shoulder brought Hutch out of the endless loop. He turned slightly in the straight-backed chair and wrapped his arms around Starsky, rubbing his cheek against Starsky’s belly like a big cat. Starsky’s arms engulfed him eagerly, and Hutch couldn’t help but relax into the embrace–feeling loved, feeling safe. Starsky bent down to place a kiss on top of Hutch’s head. Strong, long fingers rubbed up and down Hutch’s back, loosening tensed muscles and pulling him tighter into an embrace.

It was only natural to respond in kind, and Hutch let his arms relax away from Starsky’s waist in favor of both hands kneading the tight globes of his ass. Clenching and unclenching the muscles there while pressing Starsky’s crotch closer to his face, Hutch exhaled, the warm moist breath easily felt through the tight jeans, if the jump in Starsky’s cock was any indicator. Hutch let one hand escape from Starsky’s ass long enough to snake around and dispatch Starsky’s belt. With a tug at the snap of Starsky’s jeans, the zipper seemed to take on a life of its own as it slid down to release the bulging cock resting commando style under the denim.

Hutch smiled at the shiver he felt go through Starsky, once the zipper was down and his cock surged completely free to bob in front of Hutch’s mouth. Hutch let his tongue lap lightly along the underside, then blew a stream lightly along the line of moisture. Licking once more at the glistening drop of pre-come visible at the tiny head slit of Starsky’s cock, Hutch slowly kissed the very tip then let the hard cock press with excruciating slowness past his pursed lips to be oh so slowly swallowed. Starsky let out a groan at the back of his throat, and where one of Hutch’s hands still rested on Starsky’s ass cheek, he could feel the tightening of the muscles there, the gentle push of Starsky’s hips forward. Hutch hollowed his cheeks and he took as much of Starsky’s cock into his mouth as he could and sucked hard the whole length as it was released, only to come back and do it again. The insides of Starsky’s legs were quaking, and as he ran his hands up and down the back of Starsky’s thighs to encourage him to fuck his willing mouth, Hutch could feel the perspiration that dampened the soft hair on Starsky’s legs. Starsky’s thrusts came faster and stronger. Hutch brought both his hands back up to cup Starsky’s round ass just as he felt the first spurts of Starsky’s orgasm hitting the back of his throat. Starsky’s ass muscles twitched in time with the fluid spurts, and Hutch could hear the loud groan of his lover’s completion. As Starsky’s softening dick slid out of Hutch’s mouth, he wrapped his arms around Hutch’s shoulders and held him tightly. As he released Hutch from the hug, he slowly sank to his knees, reaching to unsnap and unzip Hutch’s cords and wrapping his fingers around the hardness waiting there.

“Give me a minute to get a second wind and I’ll return the favor,” Starsky said, as he worked to slow down his rapid breathing.

The second wind came and it blew with a vengeance, allowing Hutch to forget all about his headache.

 

 

Hutch sat drinking coffee at the kitchen table. The cool breeze coming in the open greenhouse door worked at drying his hair, still damp from the shower. The first pink and gray streaks of dawn were just beginning to light the sky, and the morning stars were the only bright ones visible. In front of him rested a legal pad with notes he had been making since he’d awakened shortly after 4:00 a.m.

• Medical School
• AMA
• Board Certified – 1st choice specialty
• Arrest history
• Complaints from patients, colleagues, or hospital/office staff
• Office hours, daily routine, on-call office log for dates: 1/17, 6/9 and 9/13

He stared at the list, idly chewing on the back end of his pen. He sighed with a wince at the twinge of pain behind his eyes, reminding him of the world-class headache of the day before, just as he added one last thing.

• Family history

“I must be losing my touch.” Starsky’s voice startled him. “My lovers are usually so exhausted and satisfied they sleep all night. What’s up, besides you and me at five a.m.?”

“Just getting a jump start on stuff to check out before we call on Dr. Miller.” Hutch twisted the pad so Starsky could see.

“That looks like it should cover it,” Starsky said through a yawn. “But there’s none of that information we can get right now, so come back to bed, huh?” Starsky took Hutch’s forearm to tug him in that direction.

Sleep came with surprising ease Hutch realized, when music from the clock radio alarm summoned the arrival of morning for real. He stretched and gave the warm lump plastered against him a playful swat before throwing the covers back and getting up. “At least the coffee’s already made,” he mumbled, more to himself than his partner whose hand was reaching blindly for the stolen covers.

“Come on, Sleeping Beauty, time to get up and chase the bad guys.” Hutch’s grip on the covers halted Starsky’s attempt to burrow down and get a few more winks. With a groan that evolved to a growl, Starsky rolled out of bed. His bare feet slapped against the floor as he walked to the shower. A steady flow of low-pitched grumbles was the background for the flap, flap, flap.

Hutch watched him go, then shrugged into his sweater and pulled on a clean pair of jeans with a soft laugh. You’re the one they made those, ‘I’m Allergic To Morning’ t-shirts and things for…I know it!

Coffee and a muffin in each man’s hands, they made their way to the Torino and headed downtown.

With synchronization born of years of experience, both men took the investigative bullets about Dr. Miller one by one, the pages of notes on their legal pads growing.

Shortly before four o’clock, Hutch hung up the phone and sat back. The previous conversation had left him shaking.

“Starsky,” he said, fighting to keep his voice steady. “Wherever you are when you’re done, we can stop there…we can stop.”

Hutch looked at his partner and saw that, in spite of Starsky keeping up his end of the phone conversation, Hutch’s message had been heard and understood.

Starsky hurriedly finished his notes, as he thanked whomever he spoke with and ended the call. “What’s up? You okay? You’re white as a sheet.” Starsky started to rise, but Hutch shook his head and motioned him back down in his chair.

“You go first,” Hutch said.

“Okay…” Starsky still looked at Hutch with concern, but grudgingly tore his eyes away to consult his notes. “Graduated UCLA Medical School with honors. Same as his father and his father before him. Long line of distinguished surgeons. No arrest record, not even a parking ticket. No litigation pending, nor has he ever had any kind of involvement in any malpractice suits.” Starsky looked up from his pad. “Your turn.”

“He was following in the familial footsteps all right. Accepted into the surgical residency at UCLA. About halfway through, he took a semester off. When he came back, he had switched his focus to Internal Medicine.”

“Why?” Starsky asked

Hutch felt his heart start racing. As he prepared to share the information with Starsky. The story felt so personally real, it was as if he himself were living it.

“He was home between semesters for Christmas break. Family lived on seven acres in Pasadena. His father still has his practice there. Dr. Miller’s grandmother lived with the family. A widow…with senile dementia. She required some sort of custodial care at all times. There was a history of her wandering around the property, lost and confused.” Hutch swallowed a drink of coffee to wet his dry mouth.

“One afternoon, the private duty nurse left early to finish her Christmas shopping, and Dr. Miller was supposed to watch his grandmother. She got agitated and confused when her usual caregiver left her with someone she didn’t recognize anymore. She ran outside, and it was a while before Dr. Miller went to check on her and noticed she was gone. He went looking for her, but couldn’t find her. He went back to the house and…called his father. They mobilized some of the people who worked on the estate and searched into the night. The next morning when it was light, they eventually found her–at the bottom of a ravine, near a stream that transected the property. They called the fire department for rescue help and an ambulance. Dr. Miller, Junior insisted on being the one to be lowered on the rappelling harness down to her, as soon as the fire rescue unit arrived. He convinced them that he could do more to stabilize her until the ambulance came than any of the firemen. When he got to her…there wasn’t anything to stabilize. She was dead. The fall caused a broken hip and a dislocated shoulder, so she was helpless down there. Couldn’t walk or crawl up. The temperature dipped really low that previous night, into the high thirties. The coroner’s report ruled that the cause of death was shock, secondary to the injuries she had sustained in the fall, and that it was further aggravated by hypothermia.” Hutch drew a shaky hand over his forehead and took a breath.

“The rescue people lowered a scoop stretcher down to retrieve the body; Dr. Miller lifted his grandmother in it and was helping to steer it and climb up himself. The lines got tangled, and the stretcher tilted and slipped backward several feet. Out of reflex, he grabbed for it to stop the slide. His right hand got caught in the trappings. It did permanent tendon and nerve damage to his right hand.”

“Effectively ending his promising career, following Daddy’s scalpel as a surgeon,” Starsky summarized.

Hutch wiped his hands over his face, his fingers lingering at his temples for a second, then pinching the bridge of his nose. This is too close, too close, Hutch thought, as he felt the room closing in.

“I spoke with Dr. Miller, Senior’s office manager, who is also his daughter. She’s the one who told me about the accident. She said the family seemed to fall apart after that. Everyone blamed her brother for the grandmother’s death, and then the injury to her brother’s hand toppled their little dynasty’s apple cart.”

“It sounds like the biggest loss was Junior’s, but he didn’t get any support to deal with it. Is that about it?” Starsky asked.

“Yeah. The family is so estranged, his sister said, they hardly see each other at all anymore and rarely speak.”

“Odd that she talked so freely to you about it, isn’t it?” Starsky questioned.

“I think she feels sorry for her brother, but I got the impression that Dad definitely calls the shots.”

“Look, I know you’re trying all this on here like a new pair of jeans. There is no parallel. It’s not the same thing!” Starsky looked around the squadroom before standing up and grabbing both legal pads and Hutch’s jacket. “Come on, I’m getting you outta here where we can talk.”

Hutch numbly followed the prompt and push. Starsky drove in silence, while Hutch rested his head against the seat, praying the beginning of his headache wouldn’t be a repeat of the day before. I can’t stand much more of this.

Hutch didn’t open his eyes until he felt the car turn several times and eventually stop. When he looked around, he recognized the familiar park. We picnicked with Helen and Abby here. You met Rosey–. Starsky interrupted Hutch’s thoughts.

“Your father is good at what he does, you said so yourself. He uses those gifts to help people.” Starsky turned in his seat to face Hutch directly. “It’s too bad he can’t see the need to use that same gift for his family’s benefit, but maybe it’s a lot like you always say–the cobbler’s kid is the one needing new shoes.”

Hutch blinked to fight the irritating twinkling lights invading his vision and tried to focus on what Starsky was saying.

“You have gifts, too,” Starsky went on. “Gifts as a cop, and you use them to help people. You didn’t choose to do anything less with your life by being a cop. The result is the same!” Starsky gave Hutch’s shoulder a squeeze for emphasis. “It’s okay that you aren’t doing it as an MD. Don’t put yourself in Dr. Miller’s shoes. You two are as far apart as two men can be and still breathe the same air.”

Hutch looked at his best friend’s sincere face in silence.

“You hearing me, Blondie?”

“I hear you,” Hutch answered eventually. Although he’d told himself the exact same thing, even used the exact same words, somehow, until now, they never brought any relief. “Yeah. I hear you,” Hutch said again. “Thanks.”

“Feel up to talking to Dr. Miller?” Starsky asked.

“Let’s go, partner.”

They drove the short distance and pulled up in front of Dr. Miller’s office, just before closing time. The secretary was straightening the magazines in the rack and on the tabletops.

“May I help you?” she asked pleasantly as they entered.

“We’d like to see Dr. Miller, please,” Starsky answered.

“I’m sorry, but we’re about to close. Did you call for an appointment?”

“No, we’re not here as patients,” Hutch offered, pulling out his badge case. “We’d like to ask Dr. Miller a few questions regarding the death of some women in the Maywood area. We believe he may have treated them over the years.”

The secretary finished stacking the magazines neatly and stood up straight. “Those three women? Oh, yes, I’ve heard the news about the third one just lately. The conversation in the waiting room is hardly about anything else. Terrible thing. Such sweet old ladies, too. They’ve all been here. They aren’t all Dr. Miller’s primary patients, but while Dr. Turner was out of town, Dr. Miller covered for him. I believe he saw one of them, then.”

“Yes, ma’am. Is Dr. Miller here?” Hutch asked.

“Actually, no. Thursday is Dr. Turner’s day off and Dr. Miller covers. He tries to knock off early here at the office, in case he has new admissions to make hospital rounds on, or a house call to make.”

Starsky and Hutch exchanged glances. “Is he making a house call today?” Hutch asked.

“No, not that I’m aware of. He’s probably jogging before he goes to make last rounds at the hospital this evening. He usually goes jogging in the morning, too, but he had to go to the hospital early for an emergency. So he didn’t get that run in. He’ll jog longer now to make up for it.”

“Where does he usually jog?” Starsky asked, pulling the car keys out of his pocket.

“Normally around here. Down Chaney, then over to Maywood Boulevard, and it loops around in a big square. It’s about three miles, I think. He’s probably still there. He usually runs it twice.”

“How long ago did he leave?” Hutch asked.

“About thirty minutes or so would be my guess. I was calling in refill prescription orders; I can’t say for sure.”

“Thank you for your help. We’ll try to catch him while he’s out,” Starsky said, as he and Hutch hurried out of the office and raced to the car.

“Do we alert the Maywood precinct?” Starsky asked.

“We better. They’re more familiar with the streets than we are.” Hutch sat forward in his seat, his eyes searching the sidewalks while Starsky reached for the radio.

“Pull over there–the blue house with the white and navy trim,” Hutch shouted, pointing at a house down the street.

“What? You see him?”

“The gardener, Mr. Cardinera…he’s working in that yard. Maybe he’s seen something.”

Starsky stopped the Torino at the curb, and Hutch jumped out and quickly approached the man trimming rose bushes.

Before Starsky could get out of the car, Hutch nodded and clapped the older man on the back and took off running down the street. He waved to get Starsky’s attention and motioned him to follow. He ran hard, hearing Starsky’s feet slapping at the sidewalk behind him as he drew closer, then along side.

“Cardinera said Dr. Miller passed about twenty minutes ago and went in the second house from the corner. A widow lives there, Ada Mitchell,” Hutch said panting.

“I’ll take the front,” Starsky offered, grabbing for his gun as he ran.

Hutch jumped cleanly over the crisply trimmed hedge to race around to the back yard. He eased along the rear porch, listening intently.

“Mrs. Mitchell?” He heard Starsky’s call, followed by loud knocking at the front door. “I’m with the police, Mrs. Mitchell. Can you open the door for me, please?”

Hutch heard some scuffling inside and a muffled scream. That was all he needed to stand back and kick in the back door. It splintered wildly, the old wood shattering around the strong and shiny new deadbolt. With his Magnum drawn and ready, Hutch eased down the hall from the kitchen. He heard Starsky’s warning shout once more before the splintering of the wood on the front door sounded his entry.

Another muffled scream came from the back of the house, as the detectives forged down the short hallway and assumed a crouching position on either side of the bedroom door.

“Dr. Miller, let her go and step away!” Hutch screamed, twisting into the room and leveling his gun at the thin man in the jogging suit struggling to restrain a frantically fighting older lady on the bed.

“Dr. Miller, we’re the police. You are under arrest. Don’t make things any worse for yourself by hurting Mrs. Mitchell. Let her go and put your hands on your head.” Hutch’s voice was calm and convincing.

With a swallowed sob, Dr. Miller released Mrs. Mitchell, and she quickly crab-crawled across the bed to leap off it with surprising agility.

“Mrs. Mitchell,” Starsky said, going to the elderly lady, “we’ll take care of this now. Go to the other room and wait for the police. They’re on the way here.”

Hutch approached Dr. Miller as he knelt on the bed, his hands on his head. Handcuffs were snapped on quickly before Hutch risked a look away at Mrs. Mitchell’s tear-streaked face.

“He said he was jogging and got a page. He said he just wanted to come in and use the phone to call the hospital. I let him in. He’s my doctor…I don’t understand. He did the same thing to those other ladies, didn’t he?” Mrs. Mitchell ran her shaking hand across her runny nose. “Poor Stella…Blanche, and Harriet. They let him in, too. Oh, God.”

Starsky holstered his gun and gently led the crying woman from the room. Her sobbing almost drowned out Hutch’s voice, as he read Dr. Miller his rights. “Dr. Miller, you are under arrest for the murder of Stella Nolan, Blanche Engle, and Harriet Townsend. You have the right to remain silent.…”

 

 

Starsky was balanced precariously on the back legs of the kitchen chair, reading, when Hutch walked out of the shower. “Catching up for class?” Hutch teased.

“No, I read it all before. I’m just going over a couple of things to be sure I wrote them down in my notes correctly.”

“Uh-huh.” Hutch ruffled Starsky’s curls, letting his fingers linger through the hair, damp from their earlier lovemaking.

“Get dressed, Blondie, so we’re not late tonight, for once,” Starsky ordered, laughing at the tickle of Hutch’s fingers on his neck.

Hutch grabbed jeans and a shirt and dressed quickly. He reached to pick up his wet towel from the floor and take it back to hang it on the rack in the bathroom, but the movement knocked a prescription bottle over and it rolled off the dresser. He bent to pick it up and place it back on the dresser. He took a step, then turned back again, picking up the bottle. Walking back into the bathroom, he hung up the towel and lifted the lid on the toilet. He opened the prescription bottle and let the pain pills tumble out into the bowl. No headaches at all for three days. He sighed. “I’m not going to think it to death,” he muttered to himself. “I’m just damned grateful!”

Hutch came out of the bathroom once more, to find his partner waiting by the front door, holding his books and Hutch’s, too.

“Carry your books, shweetheart?” Starsky offered in his best Bogie imitation.

“Only as far as the car, smart ass,” Hutch replied with a soft kiss to Starsky’s waiting mouth. “Thanks,” Hutch offered after he broke the kiss.

“For what?”

“Everything,” Hutch replied, with what felt like his first real smile in forever.

 

 

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