Revenants, Part One

131

Mysterious reminders of death and loss haunt Starsky and Hutch as they begin work on a chilling murder case centering on a closed funeral home.

 

Artwork by Shar.

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Revenant: One who returns after a long absence…or, one who returns after death.

 

After spending the last two nights at Hutch’s place, Starsky had an ominous pile of mail to sort and an apartment that felt stuffy and oppressive. And empty. Smiling a little at how much he could miss his partner in the sum total of one hour, he resigned himself to calling Hutch as soon as he’d opened a few windows, thrown out some junk mail, taken a shower and paid a few bills. Hutch was engaging in similarly exciting tasks, things that had gone by the wayside during two grueling days on stake-out, and a couple of steamy nights of passion.

As he shrugged out of his jacket, still holding the mail in one hand, he noticed a greeting card among the other mail. Puzzled at what occasion would prompt a card at this time of year, Starsky switched the mail to the other hand long enough to toss his jacket aside, then chose the card from the handful and opened it somewhat eagerly. The card had a bouquet of flowers on the front of it, with the greeting, “Thinking of You” in fancy script across the top. He opened it, and inside, found a snapshot of Terry. He felt a cold sweat breaking out on his skin as he read the handwritten verse:

Death closes life
Like a book that is read.
Do you ever stop
And remember the dead?

The phone ringing actually made him gasp in surprise, dropping the card. He still looked at the photo. It was one of the wallet-sized photos from the set Terry had taken at the Marshall Center on picture day. Finally, he reached for the receiver and pulled it up to his ear, mumbling a greeting.

“When’re you gonna invite me over for dinner?” Hutch’s voice came over the line.

“I got something in the mail. I think you oughtta see it. Maybe…maybe somebody in the lab should take a look, but then my prints are all over it, so–”

“Starsk? What’re you talking about?”

“This thing I got in the mail. A card with a picture of Terry in it and this weird verse.”

“What does it say?”

“It’s really creepy, Hutch.” He realized it was juvenile not to just read the damn poem to Hutch, but somehow, hearing the words echo in his empty apartment, looking at a picture of Terry, was more than he could handle. “Uh, about that dinner invitation–”

“I’m on my way, babe.”

 

 

“I know it’s probably just some sicko’s idea of a joke,” Starsky said, watching Hutch read the verse and look at the photo.

“Nobody we know would joke about this, Starsk.”

“Maybe it’s Prudholm. You know, they let those people send cards and letters to family and friends on the outside.”

“I’ll call Caballo Point tomorrow, see if his mail’s being monitored.” Hutch tucked the card back into the envelope. “We, of course, handled this like pros,” he said sarcastically, holding up the card.

“I didn’t know it was anything I needed to handle carefully when I opened it.”

“We can have the lab check it for prints, but I doubt they’re going to find anything but ours.” Hutch paused. “You okay?”

“Yeah, I’m okay. Just…it’s creepy, y’know?”

“Whoever did this has a hateful sense of humor.”

“No arguments there.” Starsky gestured toward the kitchen. “I’ve got stuff for sandwiches and soup if you want.”

“Sure, that’s fine,” Hutch agreed.

The two men moved about in Starsky’s small kitchen, somehow managing not to step on each other’s feet while they worked on dinner. Hutch heated the soup and set the table while Starsky went about creating two sandwiches. The meal was eaten in a sort of tired, yet stressful, silence. Both men were worn out from their stake-out assignment, and both faced starting out early for work the next day, even though they’d broken their last case and made an arrest that had left Dobey the envy of his colleagues. Their reward was not reporting in until noon.

“You wanna watch a movie or something?” Hutch asked, starting to clear the table. There was no answer; Starsky was simply staring at his partially eaten sandwich, fidgeting with a potato chip. “Starsk?”

“Huh? Oh, yeah, whatever,” he said, tossing the chip down and getting up to clear away his own dishes.

“We haven’t eaten anything decent all day. You ought to finish that.”

“I’m okay, Mom.” Starsky wrapped the remains of his sandwich in plastic wrap and stuck it in the refrigerator. He pulled out a beer, handed it to Hutch, then got one for himself.

“Hey, I know that was an ugly thing to get in the mail.”

“Somebody wanted to hit me where it hurt, so they did a little checking, that’s all.” Starsky turned on the TV and sat on the couch.

“That’s something right there. If someone’s playing cruel jokes on you, it could be a sign that someone’s out to get you. To get at us somehow. We should be thinking about who would have a reason to do that. Besides Prudholm. He’s a good candidate, but he’s in a maximum security facility.”

“Yeah, like that mattered before. He got out’a there and murdered Terry. Sending a letter shouldn’t be any big deal.” Starsky swallowed and stared at the television, trying to school his features to conceal the emotions that the card and photo had brought back to the surface.

“Hey.” Hutch turned off the TV and sat next to Starsky. “Being together doesn’t mean we forget everything else that happened before. We both loved her, Starsk. Maybe in different ways, but we both loved her, and she loved us, and thinking about losing someone like that hurts.” Hutch put his arm along the back of the couch, hoping Starsky would take the bait and move closer, resting his head on Hutch’s shoulder. He did. Hutch closed the embrace and rested his head against Starsky’s.

“I’ve got photos of Terry. Hell, I’ve got that photo of Terry. I just don’t look at ’em. When I look at ’em, I think about how young she was, how much she did for people, how much of her life was left to live…. It’s weird, y’know? For so long, I was mourning what I lost when she died. All of those ‘what ifs’–marriage, kids, the station wagon, All of that stuff. After we got together, I didn’t know how I was supposed to feel about it anymore. I couldn’t really mourn all that because I wanted what we had. There’s nothin’ in the world I want more than what we have, Hutch,” Starsky said, looking up at his partner, who smiled softly and kissed the end of his nose.

“I know that, buddy.”

“So I got to thinking that if Terry hadn’t died, we’d’a probably gotten married, and then you and I might never…things would’ve been so different.” Starsky sighed. “Lately I’ve been thinking that what Terry lost is the important thing here, the thing to be grieving for. What the world and those special kids lost when she died. How sad they were when we had to tell ’em she wasn’t comin’ back anymore. Some of those kids made the progress they did because of what Terry did for them. How much she cared. There were a lot of good people at Marshall Center, but not all of ’em cared the way she did. And because she was with me, all of those people lost everything she had to give. And she lost her whole future, and all the things she could’ve done or been–”

“Hey, Starsk, come on.” Hutch rested his hand on Starsky’s hair, stroking gently. “Prudholm chose the cruelest kind of revenge against you. He’s a psychopathic killer. Terry died because Prudholm was a sick bastard who got loose from a place that was supposed to keep him caged up.”

“If I’d never spoken to her, never introduced myself, never gotten to know her…she’d be alive.”

“Those are circumstances, buddy. Not fault. Not responsibility.”

“He almost killed you. All the time I was with Terry, dyin’ a little with her every minute, he could’ve taken another shot at you and I wasn’t even watching your back.”

“This is just what that asshole wants. The one who sent that card. You’re supposed to dig up all this old pain and relive it. Starsky, it wasn’t your fault Terry died and it wasn’t your fault Prudholm took a shot at me. If he’d taken another one and hit his target, it still wouldn’t have been your fault and I wouldn’t’ve died blaming you. What we do is dangerous. We antagonize and make enemies out of people who are dangerous–homicidal, even.”

“Terry didn’t accept that risk.”

“Like it or not, buddy, she did when she dated a cop who works inner city and homicide. Every cop works hard not to let that touch his family, but it happens. It’s even happened to Dobey. Leo Moon made an attempt on his family right in their own home–twice.”

“I don’t know if she ever really thought it would touch her. It was this…thing that I did when I couldn’t be with her. She was so great about it if I had to stand her up, or be late, or change our plans. She never made me feel guilty or nervous on the job because I was taking too long or was gonna be late. But she didn’t seem to take it all very seriously. She respected it, but it was like another world that didn’t have anything to do with her. I’m probably not makin’ any sense.” Starsky nestled against Hutch, settling in a little more comfortably.

“You’re making perfect sense. She didn’t ever fear it because it wasn’t all that real to her until…well, until what happened with Prudholm.”

“I should’ve warned her.”

“Sure, Starsk. I warned every woman I got involved with that dating me was potentially fatal,” Hutch said sarcastically, rolling his eyes a little. “Come on, babe. She knew what you did for a living, and she was a smart lady. She knew you probably made people mad every day of the week, and some of those people might decide to do something about it. And the logical way to get at somebody would be through their loved ones.”

“You make it sound like she should’ve expected it.”

“No, of course not. Look at all the cops’ families who never have a bad experience because of their work. But then look at the ones who do–like you, like Dobey, like me with what happened to Abby…like dozens of other cops, I imagine.” Hutch sighed. “What I’m trying to say is that there’s a risk in getting seriously involved with someone who has as many dangerous people mad at him as either one of us do at any given time. If luck holds, nothing happens. If it doesn’t…”

“Somebody innocent dies.”

“Sometimes.” Hutch kissed Starsky’s forehead. “You didn’t cause Terry’s death, and you didn’t hide anything from her. She knew you were in a dangerous business. What happened to her was horrible and sick and unfair, but it wasn’t your fault.”

“I almost believe that when you say it.”

“Maybe someday, you will.”

“I’m sorry I left you wandering around with no back-up. If anything had happened to you–”

“It didn’t,” Hutch hastened to add, tightening his hold. “It didn’t, babe. It’s ugly and it hurts, but it’s in the past. Terry’d be the first one to want to know you forgave yourself and moved on. Lived. Were happy. She wanted that for you.”

“She entrusted me to you–along with Ollie, of course,” Starsky added, snorting a little laugh.

“Ollie’s fine. Am I doing all right by you?” Hutch asked, smiling.

“She said ‘love them both and don’t let either one of them change.’ Everybody changes, Hutch. I don’t think you can stop that. But you got the love part covered.”

“You bet I do.” Hutch moved in for a kiss then, and after long seconds, pulled back. “Maybe we oughtta turn in?”

“Yeah, it’s getting late,” Starsky responded, flexing his eyebrows. It was barely 8:30.

After turning off lights and checking the front door, they shed clothing in a heap in the bedroom and headed for the shower. Taking their time, soaping each other up, turning the lathering process into a series of slick caresses to sensitive areas, they stoked the fires they planned to quench in the bedroom.

Still-damp bodies tumbled on the bed and wound together, hands and mouths desperately seeking as much contact as possible. Hutch raised the stakes, his hand moving down to cup and roll Starsky’s balls while he moved his tongue around in the eager mouth in a lewd approximation of other activities. Starsky wrapped his legs around Hutch’s hips, effectively trapping the man who hovered over him.

“Why don’t you roll over, babe? Let me show you a good time?” Hutch teased, tugging gently on an earlobe with his teeth. With a groan, Starsky pulled his face close for another searing kiss, then rolled over and got up on all fours on the bed. “You mind if I take time to get some stuff?” Hutch teased, crawling toward the nightstand. Starsky chuckled and felt his face heating up with the blush he knew was there.

“Guess I’m just anxious to get that giant cock of yours up inside me,” he retorted. You want to tease me, Blondie, I can dish it out, too, Starsky thought with an affectionate but devilish grin.

“What my partner wants, my partner gets.” Hutch patted one raised buttock and kissed the other. “Over and over again,” he added.

“Be careful back there, partner. Don’t wanna have to explain to Dobey why I’m typin’ reports standing up tomorrow.”

“You mean you don’t want to explain to him that you’re my sex slave? I’m hurt, Starsk. Really, really hurt,” Hutch added, slipping a gel-coated finger into the tight opening, circling and stretching.

“Is that how it is? I thought you were my sex slave.”

“That was last night.”

“Oh, right,” Starsky nodded, grinning. “Oh, yeah, that’s good, babe,” he breathed, rotating his ass in time with the motion of Hutch’s finger. “Doesn’t he have a little friend he could bring along to the party?”

“He has three friends, actually,” Hutch teased, grinning, knowing perfectly well Starsky knew there was no way he’d stuff four fingers inside him. He was rewarded with the expected snort of a laugh.

“Four’s a crowd, babe,” Starsky managed before letting out a long moan when two fingers slid inside him and began stretching.

Hutch drew out the process, slowly stretching the passage, reaching under Starsky to pump the rigid cock in time with the motion of his fingers. When he sensed his lover was getting close, just from the preliminaries, he withdrew the fingers and reached for the gel to coat himself.

“Wait a second, babe. Maybe I oughtta get you ready.” Starsky turned over and lay flat on the bed. “Get you good and hard.” He motioned to Hutch to move up. “Straddle me. Come on, up here,” Starsky directed, grasping Hutch’s hips as the large cock came in reach of his mouth. Hutch was hard, but not as hard as he could be.

Hutch let out a low groan as his shaft was engulfed by the wet heat of Starsky’s mouth. He pumped slowly in and out of the sweetly torturous suction, hands resting on the headboard as he worked hard to restrain his impulse to thrust hard and deep into that cavern. Just as he felt he might reach the peak without ever taking his partner, the stimulation left him, and he slipped free of Starsky’s mouth with a wet pop.

“Time to put it somewhere that you can really let it out to play,” Starsky teased, waiting for Hutch to move back so he could get back on his hands and knees again.

“You’re a sadist, babe. I was almost there,” Hutch gasped, trying not to bring himself off as he covered his cock with a thin sheen of the gel.

“That’s the idea. Wanted you hot and crazy for me,” Starsky said, looking over his shoulder with a grin.

“Hey.” Hutch moved up next to his lover. “I love you, turkey.” He planted a big, sloppy kiss on Starsky’s cheek, then nuzzled his neck.

“I love you too, y’big dumb blond.”

With that, Hutch moved behind him and began slowly sheathing his cock in the slick passage. He relished the way Starsky pulled him in, gripped him, owned him. He tried to remember why he’d ever had sex any other way, with any other person. Feeling this soul-deep unity with the man beneath him, he knew he’d never made love with anyone else. Even when he’d been in love–or thought he was–it wasn’t so intense, so all-consuming. The fire had claimed his body, but not his soul. What burned between Starsky and him was hot enough and bright enough to engulf every part of his being.

Feeling Starsky moving a bit beneath him, Hutch realized his eager partner was more than ready to get on with the show. He began thrusting slowly at first, the tempo increasing as Starsky answered each motion with his own. The satisfying slap of flesh against flesh and the mingled groans and shouts of great sex were meeting his physical needs, but he longed for something else to sate his emotional hunger.

Wrapping his arms around Starsky’s body, kissing his way up the strong back, Hutch pulled backward, landing somewhat awkwardly on his heels, Starsky following him, coming to rest on his lap, his thighs on either side of Hutch’s as he remained impaled on the hard cock inside him. Starsky was in his arms now, his warm, damp skin moving against Hutch’s as they kept up the pace of their lovemaking. He buried his nose in rumpled curls, kissed and licked the neck beneath them, finally settling to work on a large passion mark on Starsky’s shoulder.

Starsky’s hand came back then and tangled gently in Hutch’s hair, his face turning enough for them to share an awkward kiss. Hutch wrapped one hand around Starsky’s rigid shaft and pumped in time with their thrusts. The tight internal muscles were clamping harder around Hutch’s length now as Starsky shuddered, and his climax began to ripple through him. The work of that hot, slick passage pulled Hutch over the edge to his own completion, their shared cries of pleasure filling the room until they finally stilled, slumping there, breathless.

“Starsk…babe…love loving you,” Hutch managed, kissing Starsky’s cheek, his ear, his hair–anything he could easily reach.

“You’re everything to me, you old blond blintz,” Starsky responded, smiling and reaching to lay his hand on the back of Hutch’s head, pressing the sides of their faces close. “Feels like we’re so close…like you’re right in there touchin’ my heart.”

“I want to. Want you to feel all that love, because I can’t tell you.”

“Don’t have to. I feel it just bein’ with you.”

 

 

“Black-and-white just called in a homicide at Warren and Jeffreys,” Dobey announced as he leaned out the door of his office. “Get on it.”

Starsky sighed as he looked at his half-eaten sandwich, but Hutch was already grabbing his jacket and heading for the door.

On the four corners of the intersection at Warren and Jeffreys were two houses, a vacant lot, and a funeral home which had recently gone out of business. Two black-and-white units were parked in front of the former funeral parlor.

“What a place to get murdered,” Starsky said shivering a little as they headed up the sidewalk to the front door. Nedloe, a patrolman they had both known for years, stood at the door, looking more than a bit shaken. “What’s up, Jim?” Starsky asked.

“Man, I’ve never seen anything like it.”

“What was it?” Hutch asked, frowning. Nedloe had certainly seen more than one corpse in his time, and his reaction to this one was more than a little unnerving.

“I’ve never seen an expression like that on a dead person before. And there’s not a mark on the kid.”

“Kid?”

“Yeah, Starsky, kid. Can’t be more than twenty years old.”

“Guess we should go have a look.” Hutch walked inside, with his partner close behind him.

“He’s upstairs, in the showroom,” Nedloe directed.

Starsky and Hutch found themselves inside what must have been an elegant private residence in its heyday, with what was probably gorgeous original woodwork hidden beneath liberal coats of glossy white paint, turning the banister and door frames into coordinated accents for the soft blue carpeting and tasteful light wallpaper.

“Classy joint. Wonder why they closed down?” Starsky started up the steps, feeling the padded carpeting squish beneath his feet.

“I remember reading something about this in the paper. I guess a couple of customers sued them for mishandling the corpses.”

“Mishandling the corpses? That’s disgusting. How do you mishandle a corpse?”

“I guess the families alleged that they did something to disrespect the dead. There were lawsuits pending, so the details were limited in the paper pending the court hearings.”

“Can’t have been closed up for long. There’s hardly a layer’a dust anywhere.”

“I think it was a few months ago.” They approached a group of three more uniformed officers, one of whom was talking to a grim-faced, elderly man in his seventies with thinning white hair and glasses, dressed in a dark navy suit.

“Are you the detectives?” the man asked, diverting his attention from the young officer who was taking copious notes on his statement.

“Starsky and Hutchinson,” Hutch responded, gesturing at Starsky and then himself. “And you are?”

“Melvin Sayer. My father started this business, and I’ve been in charge of it since 1936. Ran it until my sons took over the everyday management a few years ago. You can see where that got us.” He gestured angrily around him. “I worked my whole life to make this business successful and keep it running, and leave it to those two…nincompoops to drive it into the ground.”

“Sir, were you the one who found the body?” Starsky asked, hoping to halt the tirade and get back to the task at hand.

“I still come in a couple times a week to make sure everything’s okay. I was here this morning because even though we’re closed, we still have a license, and friends of ours asked if we would handle the arrangements for cremating his wife. I picked her up last night, brought her back here–probably around dinner time–and then I went home. I was planning to take her to the crematorium this morning.”

“Has the body been disturbed at all?” Hutch asked.

“No, she was right where I left her…although, I could have sworn I covered her face with the sheet, and this morning, the sheet was somewhat rumpled, as if it had been carelessly pulled up, and her head wasn’t covered. The arms also weren’t positioned, and I was sure I did that last night. I’m getting up there in years, and the memory isn’t what it used to be. Being she won’t be shown at all, it’s possible I forgot a couple of things I assumed I did.”

“Have you had trouble with break-ins?” Starsky glanced around at their surroundings, taking in the expensive fixtures and the posh environment. Death had obviously been a lucrative business for the Sayer family.

“One night, before…before the trouble started, I found beer bottles and a bunch of other junk that kids left behind. Must’ve been in here partying after the place closed down for the night. Now that the place isn’t open for business, I figured I better keep a close eye on it. Just the other night I saw somebody take off and run that way away from the side of the building,” he said, gesturing to his left, toward Jeffreys Street. “Probably a bunch of those snot-nosed frat boys from Littlefield.”

“Why would you assume it was someone from Littlefield?” Hutch said, referring to the small, exclusive private college that was located just a few blocks North on Jeffreys.

“‘Cause that one time I found all the junk in here, I also found a jacket from Littlefield. I’ll tell you, those pricks were more worried about their reputation than about finding out which one of their students was guilty of breaking into the place here. They weren’t helpful at all finding out who that jacket belonged to.”

“You reported this to the police?” Starsky asked.

“Hell, yes, I reported it. All they did was laugh it off, make the necessary notes on it, and give me a copy for my insurance claim to fix the broken lock on the office window–which had been broken for years. I told them that, too, but they weren’t interested.”

“Excuse us, sir. We’d like to take a look at the crime scene,” Hutch said, gesturing at the young officer who had stepped aside while they talked to the angry man.

Through a set of double doors not far from where they had been talking with Mr. Sayer was the casket showroom. Except for the presence of the police, it looked virtually undisturbed, until they walked around the end of a casket and found themselves face-to-face with one that was not empty.

In it was the corpse of a young man, with brown hair and brown eyes that were bulged wide open, his mouth frozen partially open, teeth showing, in what could only have been a scream of terror. His hands had fallen one beside his head on the pillow and the other hanging over the edge of the casket, as if he might have raised them to defend or shield himself in his final moments.

“Oh my God,” Starsky muttered, stepping back, almost running into Hutch, who also took a couple involuntary steps away from the sight.

“Looks like the poor kid was scared to death,” Hutch said of the victim, who showed no sign of a wound, and aside from the expression etched forever on his cold, dead face, and the position of his arms, showed no signs of having engaged in a struggle.

“What’ve we got, guys?” A female voice made them both turn around to see Ginny arriving with a photographer and a couple of lab guys.

“It’s not too pretty, Ginny,” Hutch said, before stepping aside for her to approach the body.

“My God,” she said quietly, moving somewhat hesitantly toward the dead man. In all their years working with Ginny, they’d never seen her flinch even marginally from approaching a corpse. This time, her inner struggle to force herself to clinically check over the body was obvious in her stiff, stilted movements. “He’s probably been dead since last night sometime, but I’ll have to get him back to the lab to know for sure. There’s no blood, no bruising around the neck to indicate any sort of strangulation…” She shrugged. “If I had to make a quick and dirty guess, I’d say it’s a cardiac arrest. The lack of any sign of trauma to the body coupled with the expression on his face makes that the most likely scenario. Of course, if he were killed elsewhere and the body cleaned and re-dressed, there could be a wound we haven’t seen.”

“No matter how he ended up this way, we’re dealing with one sick bastard who put him here,” Starsky concluded.

“Looks like a rich kid,” Hutch said, and Starsky frowned. “The haircut’s perfect and that shirt had to set him back a few bucks.” At Starsky’s and Ginny’s puzzled expressions, Hutch explained, “The little logo on the shirt pocket is the same as a brand that was a big deal when I was in college–I think it’s still popular with the kids now. They cost as much as three other perfectly good shirts that would look the same, but they wouldn’t have the little crest on the pocket, and so, of course, you’d be a second-class citizen,” Hutch concluded with a chuckle. “Kids.”

“You had a whole closet full’a those fancy shirts, huh?” Starsky needled, relieved for a little levity in the face of such an unsettling case.

“Actually, I had two. One to impress the girls and one in case I dropped something on the first one. I had better things to spend my money on than a shirt with some ugly embroidery on the pocket.”

“Like what, your car?” Before Hutch could form a suitable response to his partner’s insult, Ginny interrupted them.

“If you two are finished with the deceased, I’ll get some photos and have the lab boys check the place over.” She motioned to the photographer, who seemed no more interested in getting close to the deceased than they had been.

“Have you ever seen anybody dead look like that?” Starsky asked Ginny.

“Never. I can’t even imagine what would be a sufficient shock to freeze the features in death that way.” She rested her hands on her hips. “Frankly, I’m glad that’s your part of this to figure out and not mine.”

“We’re just going to have a look around and talk to Mr. Sayer a bit more,” Hutch said, and they left Ginny to her work to have a look around the showroom.

“I hate these places,” Starsky said, thrusting his hands into his pockets and moving away from the caskets as if he expected one to snap at him like a giant Venus flytrap.

“There’s nothing to be afraid of in a funeral home, Starsk. You know as well as I do that dead people are the last ones you have to worry about. It’s the live ones that cause all the trouble.”

“Judging by that guy’s face, there’s something to be scared of in here.”

“There was last night anyway.” Hutch looked the windows over carefully, finding no sign of forced entry. “Must’ve come in downstairs.”

“The kid?”

“And whoever scared the shit out of him.”

“In all my years of working on dead bodies, I never saw one looking like that,” Mr. Sayer said as he rejoined them, startling them slightly as he approached from behind.

“When you arrived, did you notice anything out of place?” Hutch asked, taking out his notepad.

“The window in the office downstairs was open. I almost didn’t go through the place when I saw that. Then I figured whoever it was probably wasn’t still here.”

“That was the only thing you noticed?” Starsky asked.

“Well, until I found him,” he said, gesturing toward the spot where Ginny and her team were clustered around the occupied casket.

“Can you tell us a little about these lawsuits pending against the funeral home, Mr. Sayer?” Hutch watched as the older man rolled his eyes and shook his head.

“That never would have happened while I was in charge of this place.”

“What exactly happened?” Hutch persisted.

“There are two lawsuits pending against us. In both cases, the bodies of the deceased were found in spots other than their caskets. One woman was found sitting in a chair in the chapel where she was to be shown, and the other was sitting in the chair behind the desk in the office. In both cases, the family saw them.”

“What’s your theory on how it happened?” Hutch exchanged an unnerved look with Starsky.

“I don’t know. My sons aren’t exactly imaginative entrepreneurs, but they have been taught respect for the dead over the years, and neither of them would do such a thing to the business. It’s their livelihood. I just have to think that shoddy management caused someone unsavory to be hired or allowed access to the facilities and it was that person who tampered with the corpses as some sort of sick joke.”

“Did you have any new hires at that time?” Starsky asked.

“A few. A couple of kids from Littlefield were working here as drivers. They didn’t do anything other than drive the limos or the hearse, but they did have keys to get into the garage, which is attached to the main building. If you can get into the locked garage, you can get in here.”

“Can you get us names and contact information on them?” Hutch asked. “We’ll also need to interview your sons.”

“The job applications the kids filled out are all still in the office files. As for my sons, they’re in Palm Springs visiting their mother,” he explained with a roll of his eyes. “I’ll get you numbers for them, too.”

Mr. Sayer provided them the names of two students at Littlefield who had worked there in the final year of the funeral home’s business. With that information in hand, as well as the names of the families suing the funeral home and contact information for the two younger Sayers, they headed out to the car after a brief examination of the open window and a tour of the building, including the downstairs embalming room. There was something chillingly strange in how the elderly woman on the table was positioned–almost as if she’d pulled the sheet up herself. Her stiff, dead hand still clutched the fabric. Starsky made the trip back upstairs to instruct the crime lab personnel to thoroughly examine the downstairs area as well, and to get photos of the positioning of the corpse on the slab.

Hutch muttered a curse or two when his car didn’t start, and finally heaved a sigh of relief when the engine turned over and came to life. Starsky opened his mouth to speak, but Hutch was ready for him.

“Don’t start on my car, Starsky,” Hutch warned, waving a menacing finger in Starsky’s direction.

“Don’t wave that finger at me, babe. Gets me thinkin’ about where you put it last night,” he teased calmly, barely suppressing a grin. As soon as Hutch recovered from that mental image, he got his revenge.

“Then you better not walk with that little strut of yours, because it gets me thinking about what your ass looked like with my cock stuck inside it,” Hutch said, almost chuckling when Starsky turned a nice shade of red, eyes widening. He added wickedly, “…sweaty and naked and writhing around.”

“Knock it off, Hutch. I’m wearin’ a short jacket here.”

“I noticed. Why do you think I’ve been walking behind you all day?”

“Just figured you were learning your place as my sex slave.”

“Your sex slave?”

“Yeah, walking ten paces behind the master.”

“You wanna go home for lunch and I’ll show you who the master is?”

“You wanna park behind an empty warehouse down by the docks, and I’ll show you who the master is?”

“Starsky, if you don’t shut up, I’m going to fuck you right here in the car in front of the crime scene.”

“‘Lead Detectives Caught Fucking at Crime Scene: Film at Eleven’,” Starsky announced in his best announcer’s voice, laughing. “Well, it’d take their minds off makin’ a big thing out of dead bodies in funeral homes at Halloween time.”

“After Dobey got wind of it, we’d probably be the next two bodies found.”

“It’d sure make anything else we ever did pale in comparison,” Starsky added, still laughing as they pulled out onto the road.

 

 

Starsky was eating a wet burrito from Pancho Villa’s out of a Styrofoam take-out container while he read through the job applications the two Littlefield students had submitted to the Sayer Funeral Home. Hutch was on his side of the desks, preparing to contact the families who had filed the lawsuits.

The victim had been identified from the driver’s license in his wallet as Preston Mansfield. If it hadn’t been for the grisly way the poor kid met his end, Starsky would have laughed at the name. This boy had to come from money. Poor people didn’t send their kids out into the world with two last names that made them sound like heroes out of bad romance novels. Preston was a twenty-year-old sophomore at Littlefield College. His parents were flying in from San Francisco that afternoon to identify his body.

“Find anything?” Hutch finally asked.

“Yeah. Lupe didn’t put enough onions on my burrito,” Starsky complained. “But if you’re talkin’ about the job applications, no, nothin’ special. Ginny’s prelim report on the kid says she found no traces of any sort of narcotics in his system–at least not in any of her initial testing.” Hutch watched his partner eat the remainder of his burrito before pitching the container in the trash.

“Don’t come crying to me later when you’ve got a stomach ache from that.”

“I don’t get stomach aches from Pancho Villa’s.”

“Starsky, everyone gets stomach aches from Pancho Villa’s.” Hutch slumped back in his chair. “You want to run out to the college and take a look at Mansfield’s record, or wait for the parents?”

“It’s almost two. Better wait for the folks to show. That’s the part I never get used to…having parents come in to identify their kids.”

“That’s got to be rough. You expect your kids to outlive you. Unless there’s an illness, it’s usually out of the blue. Total shock. I can’t picture getting a phone call like that.”

“Well, I guess the only thing we can do for ’em now is try to nail the psycho who did it.”

Mr. and Mrs. Mansfield arrived only slightly later than expected, and identified their son’s body. An older couple for whom Preston had been a late-in-life child, their grief and devastation at his death was profound. Fortunately, Mr. Mansfield insisted on making the ID himself, so his wife was not forced to see their son in his present condition. Though Ginny had worked diligently to be sure the eyes were at least closed, there was little she could do with the overall expression on his face.

Though the Mansfields were in no condition to endure extensive interviews with the police, the brief conversation they had with Starsky and Hutch yielded very little that would point to any motive for the killing. Preston had no police record, had never been in trouble with the school authorities in his younger days, and had an impressive string of honors and awards after his name. Thus far, no real motive for his murder was surfacing, nor was any concrete proof–beyond his horrified expression–that he was murdered at all. So far, all they had was a twenty-year-old man who appeared to have been scared to death in an empty funeral home.

 

 

The Littlefield College campus consisted of a small cluster of perfectly maintained nineteenth century buildings surrounded by large shade trees that dated back just as far. A main road led to the administration building–a brick structure with arched windows and a pair of heavy oak double doors with beveled glass window panes. Inside, the highly polished wood floors and oak woodwork spoke of another era. The aging floorboards creaked only slightly beneath their feet as they approached the second floor office of the Dean of Students.

Inside the small receptionist’s area, an older woman sat behind a desk that held a telephone and typewriter.

“May I help you?” she asked, removing the small glasses which had been perched on her nose.

“Detectives Starsky and Hutchinson,” Hutch introduced, flashing his ID. “We have a four o’clock appointment with Dean Sanders to discuss Preston Mansfield.”

“Of course. Please have a seat and I’ll let Dean Sanders know you’re here.” She gestured toward two straight-back cushioned chairs that sat on either side of a small lamp table bearing a selection of academic periodicals.

“Thank you,” Hutch responded, and the two of them took the chairs.

“Wonder how much a year at a place like this sets you back?” Starsky pondered quietly, looking around.

“Probably plenty. The Mansfields are a wealthy family. Preston had a scholarship, though, so I imagine that defrayed a lot of the tuition cost.”

“Did you get scholarships to go to college?”

“A couple.”

“For what?”

“My grades. I tried out for a tennis scholarship, but the competition was really stiff for that one, and in high school, I had a choice of perfecting my grades or perfecting my backhand. The grades ended up paying better,” Hutch reflected, chuckling a little. “The backhand was more fun, though.”

“Guess I should’a hit the books when I was in high school instead of…of doing whatever it was I did. Goofing off, I guess.”

“You may come in now, gentlemen,” the secretary announced from the doorway of the private office.

A portly man of about sixty years rose from his seat behind a heavy oak desk, extending his hand to greet both visitors. After handshakes and introductions, Starsky and Hutch occupied the chairs across from his desk. The office was richly appointed with tasteful art on the walls, plush, padded carpeting, and a large window with a panoramic view of the treed courtyard behind the building.

“Preston’s death is certainly a tragic shock for all of us. He was one of our best and brightest,” the Dean observed sadly. “Very promising young man.” He set a fat file folder on the desk, close to the outer edge of it. Starsky picked it up and began leafing through it.

“Was Preston ever in any trouble while he was here? Do you know of any…conflicts he had with other students, maybe someone off campus?” Hutch probed.

“We’re a very small campus community, and I do my best to at least meet all of the students personally at some point. I knew Preston a bit better than some because he worked in the president’s office as a student aide. Dr. Phillips is out of the country at the moment, but his secretary could probably give you a bit more insight about Preston, since she was his immediate supervisor.”

“What do these student aides do?” Starsky asked, making a couple of notes in his notepad.

“Basic clerical functions. Answering phones, filing, helping the secretaries with extra paperwork. Dr. Phillips is very particular about the image of his office, and the accuracy of the work that goes on there. Preston worked there since his first semester, so he must have been doing a good job.”

“Did Preston have an active social life?” Hutch asked.

“As active as any straight-A Littlefield student, I imagine. Our standards are very high here, and we demand a lot of our students to earn top grades. Between his studies and his campus job, I doubt Preston had much extra time.” Dean Sanders was quiet a moment. “I understand he was found in the Sayer Funeral Home. Mr. Sayer was convinced that students from Littlefield broke into his establishment last year, but that has yet to be proven. I’m assuming that’s why you’re asking so much about Preston’s social life.”

“We have to find out as much as we can about the victim if we’re going to find the killer,” Starsky explained. “Fights between guys over girls, alcohol, drugs–any of that can play a part in a homicide among college kids.”

“How was he killed?”

“The medical examiner’s preliminary findings indicate cardiac arrest,” Hutch explained, “but she hasn’t completed all possible testing at this point, and there is other evidence to suggest foul play which we’re not at liberty to disclose at this point.”

“I began my career as a high school guidance counselor, and as recently as ten years ago–which was an era when drug use was reaching something of a crescendo–I was responsible for evaluating the signs of drug use in students. I never noticed any evidence of it in Preston. He was alert, intelligent, and his personality was very even and consistent. He was dependable, never missed classes or work. There was nothing to indicate he was a drug user.”

“That’s valuable insight, sir,” Starsky said, making another note. “Do you know of any close friends Preston had here at school?”

“He lived alone, in an apartment in one of the houses adjacent to campus. I know he was very fond of Janette Maddox, a student aide in the Campus Recreation Office. My secretary can provide you with contact information on her.”

“What about a couple of students named…” Starsky flipped back in his notes to the right spot, “Paul Perry and Jack Rydell?”

“What about them?” the dean parroted, confused.

“They were employed by the Sayer Funeral Home last year, prior to the breaking and entering incident.”

“The police spoke to them at the time about that, but they were able to provide proof of being elsewhere when the break-in occurred.”

“Are they still students here?” Hutch asked.

“Yes, of course. I’ll have my secretary get their addresses and phone numbers for you.” The dean buzzed his secretary and requested the information. “Although I’m sure you have that information.”

“We do, but it’s about a year old, so we need to verify current contact information,” Starsky clarified.

“We’ll return this file to you as soon as possible,” Hutch said, indicating the plump folder Starsky now tucked under his arm as they rose to take their leave.

“We would appreciate knowing how the investigation is progressing. Obviously, any time we have an unexplained death among our students, the parents worry, students become nervous…” He let the words trail off a bit as he rose from his chair.

“We’ll notify you of any significant developments,” Hutch assured. They stopped by the secretary’s desk on the way out to collect the contact information on the two former Sayer employees.

After leaving the Dean’s office, they walked across campus to the one-floor building, which was incongruously new compared to its neighbors. Home to the student newspaper office, the student union and the Campus Recreation Office, it had been added within the last ten years to meet the needs of a growing student body. Walking through the student union, they drew a few curious glances from young people gathered at tables, snacking, talking, and studying. The students, in turn, were drawing a few curious glances from Starsky, who took in the expensive clothing and accessories many of them wore, the thick books that sat on the tables–some opened while students hunched over them taking copious notes–and the hushed but lively conversation taking place among a group of students gathered on overstuffed furniture in a corner of the room.

“The Campus Recreation Office is this way,” Hutch directed, checking the notes he’d made as the secretary had explained the location to them. Noticing he didn’t exactly have Starsky’s undivided attention as the other man drifted a bit in the wrong direction, he tugged on his sleeve. “Hey, dummy, this way,” he teased, and Starsky seemed to jerk out of his momentary distraction and focus on Hutch.

“Oh, right,” Starsky said, following his partner down the hall toward the door.

Janette Maddox was a pretty girl of twenty-one, with long red hair and large green eyes. She had obviously been crying, only learning of Preston’s death upon her arrival at her part-time job that afternoon.

“How long did you two know each other?” Starsky asked as they sat at a small conference table in an office the secretary had opened for their use.

“Just a year. We were just starting to go out once in a while…I only went out with him four times. We knew each other from around campus, you know, but Preston was shy…” She shrugged, her eyes tearing a bit. “Took him eight months to ask me out. He was a really sweet person. I can’t believe he’s dead,” she said, her voice breaking as she held the tissue that had been clutched in her hand up to her mouth while she struggled to regain her composure.

“Did Preston get along with everybody pretty well? Do you know of anything he was worried about, or any conflicts he might have had?” Hutch asked.

“Not conflicts, exactly. Preston was very serious about his grades, and he was a very…I guess you’d say he could be a little stuffy. Some of the guys used to give him a real hard time because he wouldn’t go out drinking with them, and he wouldn’t help them smuggle beer into this party he helped organize. Dr. Phillips decided to host this student appreciation night party, with a DJ and dancing and everything, and some of the guys wanted to smuggle beer into the party. Preston was handling all the arrangements with the caterers, and he could have figured a way for them to get some in, or at least spike the punch or something, but he refused. The party was our first date.”

“Were any of these guys hassling Preston about it?” Starsky prodded.

“Just with remarks they made and stuff. They soaped the windows on his car, stuff like that. I mean, they’re jerks, but I don’t think they’d go this far. It wasn’t like they hated him or anything. They were just mad, and they’d kind of shut him out of social things.”

“Do these guys have names?” Hutch asked, and the girl looked uneasy.

“I don’t want to point fingers at them. They’re pretty popular here, and I don’t want to be the one who tattles on them.”

“We’ll be very discreet if we talk to them, and we won’t mention your name,” Hutch assured, and she nodded.

“Paul Perry, Jack Rydell and Mark Forest. There were others, but they were the main ones who gave Preston a rough time. They thought he was a nerd, a party pooper…but it was mostly childish stuff they did.”

“Okay. They’re all current students here?” Starsky asked, trying to conceal his recognition of the first two names.

“Except for Mark–he transferred to Cal State Long Beach last summer.”

“Janette, I need to ask you a difficult question, but I need for you to be honest with me. You’re not going to be in any trouble no matter what the answer is, okay?” Hutch watched as the confused girl nodded. “To your knowledge, did Preston ever buy or use any type of drugs?”

“Do you mean…illegal drugs?” she clarified. Hutch nodded. “No. The most I ever knew Preston took was cough syrup. He might’ve taken stuff like aspirin, but nothing heavy. He didn’t even drink.”

“Thank you, Janette. You’ve been a great help,” Starsky spoke up, smiling.

“Where he was found…at that old funeral home?”

“What about it?” Starsky prodded.

“I’ve heard some weird stories about that place. This is just too creepy that Preston was found there. He wouldn’t go there on his own, that much I can tell you.”

“What kinds of stories?” Hutch asked, frowning.

“Paul and Jack worked there for about a year, driving the limos and the hearse. We used to tease them about it–we called Paul ‘Dr. Death’ and Jack ‘The Grim Reaper’–Jack usually drove the meat wa–uh, I mean the hearse,” she corrected, blushing. “Sorry.”

“That’s okay,” Starsky said, barely concealing his devilish grin as he made the notes. Cops and college kids seemed to share in having morose senses of humor when it came to nick-naming vehicles of death.

“Go on, please,” Hutch urged.

“They always said the place gave them the creeps, but we figured they were just building it up–you know, playing up on the fact it was a funeral home, trying to make it seem ‘cool’ somehow that they spent their time driving dead people around.” She paused. “Are you sure you’re not going to tell them I told you this?”

“We won’t mention to them who told us what. If they are arrested and charged with anything, you could be asked to testify,” Hutch stated.

“But that would be after they were arrested?” she clarified, and Hutch nodded. “Okay. They were the ones who were in the funeral home that night when somebody left a jacket in there. I remember Mr. Sayer and one of his sons showing up here trying to ask a bunch of questions after the cops had sort of given up on the case. I think it was when all that weird stuff was happening and they were getting sued. I don’t know what they thought Jack and Paul had to do with it. They were fired right after the break-in incident. Mr. Sayer didn’t have any proof, but he still fired them because they were from Littlefield.”

“When you say ‘Mr. Sayer’, are you talking about Melvin Sayer?” Hutch asked.

“No, I don’t think so. This guy was kind of nice-looking. I think his name was Steven, but I’m not sure. We knew him as ‘Mr. Sayer’.”

“What do you know about the break-in?” Starsky asked.

“It wasn’t really a break-in. They had keys. They often had to go there after hours to make a pick-up or delivery. Jack usually took Paul with him when he went on those calls. I guess they had a body they delivered, and they called some friends over to hang out, have a few beers, goof around.”

“This wasn’t one of the bodies involved in the lawsuits, or was it?” Starsky was looking over his notes from their talk with Mr. Sayer, but found no connections between the two incidents.

“No, that was later on. They aren’t really bad guys, Detectives. Not sick pervert types who would do something disgusting to a corpse. They delivered the body to the embalming room, and then I guess they decided to have a little fun. It was Halloween, so they had some friends over to drink a few beers and mess around. I’m not too sure what really happened there, but they’d never talk about it. I just know they took off fast enough that Jack left his jacket there and was worried about it, though it didn’t have any ID in it and didn’t have his name on it. It was just one of those like you can buy at the bookstore–with the college logo on it.”

“Anybody ever go there on dares?” Starsky asked. “There was an old house in my neighborhood when I was a kid, and nobody spent a lot of time there, but going in was a big dare, and a lot of us made a run for it at least once.”

“Preston wasn’t the kind of guy who would do something like that on a dare. He was a great guy, and I liked him a lot, but he was no hero type. I don’t think many people went there on dares. If they did, I didn’t know about it.”

“Thanks again for your help, Janette,” Starsky concluded. “We appreciate it.”

 

 

Paul Perry was the living stereotype of a college jock. At six-four, he was solidly muscled with a thick neck, square jaw and brown hair buzzed into a slightly longer version of a crew cut. He was dressed in jeans, a t-shirt and a Littlefield College football team jacket in the school colors of blue and white, bearing his number on the back and his name embroidered on the front. He’d made it a point to turn his handshake with each detective into an exercise in bone crushing.

Jack Rydell, the college’s number one track star, was a bit less massive than his companion and considerably more congenial. He wore dark, new-looking jeans, the same brand of expensive shirt that Preston Mansfield had died in, and a tan leather jacket that appeared so soft that it probably cost a month’s worth of Starsky’s rent. At just under six feet tall, Jack had a thick mop of sandy-blond hair and an outgoing personality.

The four men sat at a table in the student union, Starsky and Hutch each drinking from styrofoam cups of coffee, while Paul worked his way enthusiastically through a large candy bar and Jack drank from a bottle of cola he’d brought with him.

“In talking to some other students, we heard you had a disagreement with Mansfield about some party that was given here on campus,” Starsky began. “What’s the story on that?”

“Preston was handling all the catering for this big student party that the president was gonna put on, so we asked him to help us smuggle in a couple kegs,” Jack explained. “Geez, man, you’d’a thought we’d asked him to smuggle in a couple kilos of cocaine or something. We were kinda ticked off about it. But then, I wouldn’t kill somebody just because I couldn’t have beer at a campus party.”

“Are we the best lead you’ve got?” Paul asked, crumpling up his candy wrapper. “‘Cause if we are, you’re in sorry shape with your case.”

“We’re attempting to interview as many of Preston’s friends and acquaintances as we can to get a good overall picture of his life. Knowing the victim is a significant part of any murder investigation,” Hutch explained. “Tell us about the Sayer Funeral Home.”

“That place is bad news,” Jack spoke up. “Did you hear about the weird stuff they were doing with the dead people there? Sick, man.”

“That’s how you heard the story? That the Sayers were doing weird things with the dead people?” Hutch clarified.

“Yeah. It was all over the papers. They had to shut down. Their parking lot used to be a good place to uh…you know, take a date? But I’m telling you, now you can’t buy a chick a good enough dinner to get her to go park out by that place.”

“You can’t buy a chick a good enough dinner to get her to go park anywhere with you, you moron,” Paul shot back.

“Fuck you,” Jack retorted, laughing. “I wasn’t the one who was back in the dorms before curfew last night.”

“‘Cause you were still out looking for some action and I already got mine.”

“I hate to interrupt this, gentlemen,” Hutch cut in, “but do either of you know of any reason why Preston Mansfield or any of the other students here might go there? Does anybody ever go there on a dare?”

“If they do, they’re nuts and they deserve whatever they get.” Jack stood up. “I gotta run. Class starts in ten minutes.”

“Siddown, Rydell, we’re not finished,” Starsky said sharply. “That’s a little harsh considering how Preston ended up.”

“Look, I had nothing for or against the guy. I’m just saying that if he was hanging around that place, he was asking for trouble. That’s all.”

“You spent plenty of time there after hours when you worked there,” Hutch said calmly, watching the younger man take in that comment. Jack exchanged a quick, nervous glance with Paul.

“We sometimes had to go pick up a customer after hours, yeah,” Paul said.

“A customer? You mean a body?” Starsky clarified.

“We called them customers because Mr. Sayer got teed off at us if we said we were goin’ out to grab a stiff,” Jack said. “A little humor helps when you’re hauling dead people around at two in the morning. My old man keeps a real tight rein on the cash, you know? If I wanna have any fun, I need to bring in some extra money. Delivering dead people paid better than delivering pizzas. And I’d rather drive a Cadillac hearse with one dead guy in the back of it than some half-assed pizza wagon.”

“What do you know about the break-in that happened there?” Hutch probed.

“I know we got blamed for it and fired, even though the cops had nothing on us,” Paul retorted.

“So you had nothing to do with it?” Starsky said casually, making a couple more notes.

“No, that’s right,” Jack responded a little too quickly.

“Funny, that’s not the story we heard.” Hutch smiled slightly as he stared intently at Jack, who seemed to be the more nervous of the two.

“W-what’d you hear?” Jack asked, clearing his throat. Paul rolled his eyes and interrupted, figuring his jittery companion was about to make them look worse than necessary.

“We didn’t break in. We had keys, and we took a customer to the embalming room. It was Halloween, and I know it was a dumb idea, but we invited a few friends over to do a seance. We figured it would be sort of cool, using a Ouija Board in a place like that. We didn’t mean any harm by it. We didn’t damage anything.”

“You left awfully fast,” Hutch said. “Jack left his jacket behind.”

“How did you find out it was my jacket?” Jack asked, surprised.

“We just did,” Starsky said, smiling slightly.

“Look, we didn’t break in and we didn’t damage anything. If we spilled a little beer on the rug or something and the old man wants money for it, my dad’ll write him a check,” Paul said, shaking his head, smiling. “This ain’t no big deal.”

“A man is dead, Perry,” Hutch shot back angrily. “It’s a very big deal.”

“Do you still have keys to the funeral home?” Starsky asked.

“‘Course not. We turned ’em in when we were fired,” Jack responded.

“You didn’t make copies?”

“Why in the hell would we want copies?” Paul challenged.

“You tell me. You’re the ones who held a Halloween party there.”

“Yeah, Perry, what did happen at that Halloween party, anyway?” Hutch leaned on the table a bit.

“Nothing. We thought we heard somebody coming in, so we got out of there. Jack forgot his jacket. End of story.”

“Maybe it was just the spirits conjured by the Ouija Board,” Hutch said sarcastically.

“Whatever it was, we weren’t sticking around to find out. None of us felt like getting arrested.”

“What possible reason would Preston Mansfield have for going there?” Starsky asked.

“How should I know why Mansfield went anywhere? Maybe he had a thing for sleeping in caskets.”

“What makes you say that?” Hutch shot back quickly, since neither of them had revealed where in the funeral home Mansfield’s body had been found.

“It was just an expression.” Perry looked nervous now.

“Where were you last night, Perry?” Starsky asked, and as Perry’s gaze drifted to his friend, Starsky admonished, “Don’t look at him, kid. I’m talkin’ to you.”

“We’re done here,” Jack said, standing up. “Unless you guys have enough for a warrant, stay out of our faces or you can talk to my dad’s lawyer.”

“You’re a real expert on the legal system, huh, Rydell?” Starsky rose and stood toe-to-toe with the student, who was about the same height. “Let me tell you one thing, hot shot. Right now, you and your buddy here are the prime suspects in a homicide. Now you can cooperate with us or you can be picked up in a squad car, hauled downtown, and your preppy little asses thrown in a holding cell for a few hours until we get around to questioning you officially. We can hold you for seventy-two hours without charging you. So think real hard about playing games. Because you’re not gonna win.” Sensing the unease in his adversary, Starsky relaxed his stance. “Now if you wanna sit down and shut up, official questioning downtown might be avoided.”

“We didn’t kill Preston. He was an uptight jerk, but we didn’t kill him.” Jack swallowed, almost audibly. “But it’s our fault he was in there.”

“Aw, shit,” Paul slumped back in his chair and shook his head. “Why don’t you just sign a confession?” he asked Jack angrily.

“I’m not confessing to anything. We didn’t kill him. We didn’t even force him to go in there. We just…okay, we dared him.”

“You dared him to go in there?” Hutch asked, raising his eyebrows. “Why?”

“It was a joke.” Jack sat down again, as did Starsky. “We were at the Homecoming dance, and it’s getting close to Halloween again. The Sayer place has sort of a creepy reputation with those lawsuits, and some of the guys were joking that we ought to go out there. Preston was there, officious little prick that he was, organizing everything. He overheard us. We found him listening in, and he made all these remarks about how we were juvenile delinquents or something, and that funeral homes were just business places like any other, and we were all being ridiculous.”

“Sounds like a fair assessment,” Starsky commented, but said nothing more after Hutch kicked him lightly under the table. Jack was on a roll, spilling his guts. Interrupting the flow wasn’t really a great idea.

“We said, ‘if you’re so fucking sure there’s nothing there to be afraid of, why don’t you go spend the night there?'” Paul explained. “That shut him up pretty fast. Then we got on his case because he was acting really nervous about it.” He paused, as if carefully considering his next statement. “There’s a window in the office with a broken lock. At least, it never worked when we were there. Mr. Sayer kept bitching about it, but never got it fixed. We told Preston about it, and dared him to prove to us that there was nothing going on there.”

“He got all full of himself and started putting us down again, and said he’d go there and sleep in a casket overnight and we could come and get him at dawn, and he’d be sleeping soundly in the casket when we got there.” Jack sighed. “We took him up on it, but we didn’t end up going there at dawn because there was an incident at the dorms–they found pot in one guy’s room, and they were rousting everybody out, asking questions…. By the time we were able to get loose, there were cop cars around the place, and we figured maybe Preston had gotten himself arrested for breaking in.”

“You didn’t go back there at all last night, just to have a laugh or two at Preston’s expense? Maybe scare him a little?” Hutch asked.

“You couldn’t pay me to go back in that place,” Jack blurted.

“Why is that?”

“Mr. Sayer had already figured out we were in there once after hours. Neither one of us wanted to push our luck. Sometimes the old man checks the place out at night, or in the morning, and better Preston got caught than us.” Paul shook his head. “I didn’t like the guy. I thought he was a pompous little prick. But take a look around this place. It’s full’a pompous little pricks. My best friend is a pompous little prick.”

“Thanks a lot, man,” Jack said, snorting a laugh. It was obvious Paul had been aiming to alleviate a bit of his companion’s tension, and it seemed to work.

“My point is that just because some things about the guy irked me or got under my skin doesn’t mean I killed him. I had no reason to kill him. Neither did Jack.”

“So where were you last night?” Starsky asked.

“I was with a girl. You can call her and verify it, but please call her at this number I’m going to give you.” Paul wrote a name and phone number on a piece of paper in his spiral notebook and tore it out, handing it to Starsky. “I was with her until I came back to the dorm, and I had to check in with the residence hall monitor when I did, so you can check with him. My girlfriend lives with her mother, and she’s pretty strict, and she’s…she’s, uh, seventeen, and her mother doesn’t want her dating a college guy. So if you could call her at that other number, that’s her friend’s house. I mean, I don’t want to get her in trouble if I don’t have to.”

“All right. We’ll try the friend’s house first. But I still need her home phone number and address.”

“Okay. Just don’t call her there if you don’t have to. She’s a senior this year, and if we can make it through this year, she’ll be coming to college here. If her mother finds out about us, she’ll probably ship her off to some other school.” Paul wrote down the information and handed the paper back to Starsky.

“How about you, Jack?” Hutch turned to the other student.

“I was hanging out with a bunch of guys at the bowling alley. I can write down their names. I was late getting back in, but I was with somebody the whole time, so other people can vouch for me.” He pulled out his own notebook and started writing down names, with a few phone numbers. He also made time notations next to each name. “I don’t remember exactly who was in the group the whole time, but some guys left earlier than others. I tried to give you sort of an idea there. I put down the phone numbers I know. There were some guys there I didn’t know besides first names.”

“This is great. Thanks, Jack.” Hutch folded up the paper and tucked it in his jacket pocket.

“What happens now? Are you gonna arrest us?” Jack asked Starsky, since he’d been the one to really play hardball with them earlier.

“First, we have to check out your story and make some phone calls. Whether or not there are any charges brought against you will depend largely on the Sayers, and how well your alibis check out. Don’t make any out-of-town travel plans until you talk with us again.”

“You never told us how he got it,” Paul said. “Preston,” he clarified.

“The medical examiner hasn’t released final findings yet,” Hutch responded.

“They couldn’t tell by looking at him? I mean, wasn’t there blood or something?”

“We’re not at liberty to discuss the details of the case beyond what we’ve told you. We’ll be in touch,” Hutch said as they both rose and started toward the exit.

“Now what?” Starsky asked as they walked out of the building and along the tree-lined sidewalk toward the car, thumbing through a soft-cover, magazine-sized book Hutch hadn’t noticed he was carrying.

“What’s that?”

“Their course catalog,” Starsky responded absently, skimming the pages.

“You thinking of signing up here? If so, I hear kidneys are fetching a good price on the black market. Might pay for a semester.” Hutch chuckled a little.

“Just curious, I guess. You’re right. Dumb idea.” Starsky tossed the book in the trash can as they neared the parking area.

“That’s not what I meant, Starsk,” Hutch said quickly, regretting the teasing since it seemed to have crushed a little spark of something in his partner.

“I’m not smart enough for a place like this anyway.” Starsky got in the car and started the engine.

“Of course you are.”

“Did you see the size’a those books they were carrying around? I wouldn’t live long enough to get through something that big. Hey, you think we can get through those reports this afternoon so we don’t have to hang around so late tonight?” Starsky asked, the change of subject drastic enough to give Hutch mental whiplash.

“Uh…yeah.” That’s good, Hutchinson. Anyone could tell you’re a college graduate by your articulate conversation.

The balance of the afternoon was spent contacting people who could provide alibis for Rydell and Perry. Neither detective was sure if he was disappointed or pleased that the alibis checked out. The two college boys would have been an easy arrest–a nice, neat, tidy end to a bizarre case. At the same time, seeing two potentially bright futures go down the drain wasn’t a cheery thought either.

By the end of the day, Ginny’s verdict of death by cardiac arrest stood unchanged.

 

 

“Your place or mine?” Hutch asked, smiling as he walked side by side with his partner toward the Torino.

“My place.”

“Why?” Hutch frowned a bit. It was a clear evening, the temperature was comfortable, bordering a bit on the cool side, and he’d been entertaining thoughts of sitting in the greenhouse, playing chess…or other, more interesting games.

“We’ve been at your place every night this week except last night.”

“It’s a nice evening. I thought we could sit in the greenhouse. Play a little chess…or whatever,” Hutch added, nudging Starsky as they walked.

“Okay. I’ll drop you off there and go back to my place and then I’ll come over later.”

“Run that by me again,” Hutch said as they got into the Torino and Starsky started up the engine.

“I bought us steaks for tonight, but they’re in my fridge.”

“Oh. Won’t they keep?”

“Probably, but I got my mouth set for steak. I’ll just run out to my place and get ’em. Plus, I’m expecting that package.”

“That ship model you ordered?”

“Yeah. It looked really neat in the magazine, and I wanna see if it came yet.”

“We can just go to your place.”

“Nah, that’s okay. Sittin’ out in the greenhouse sounds real nice, and it’s a great night outside. I won’t be long.”

With Starsky speeding home to and check his mail, Hutch trudged up the stairs to his apartment and unlocked the door, pushing it open. He froze at the sight that greeted him, and instinctively pulled his gun–though it would be little protection against a room full of balloons. A room full of red balloons. For a split second, the profound meaning of the red balloons escaped him, until he remembered a conversation years ago…Gillian’s face, so intense, so…worried…as she spoke of a room full of red balloons.

He tried to push that image to the back of his mind as he searched the rest of the apartment, and finally returned to the balloon-riddled living room. Attached to the string of one of the helium-filled globes was a plain white envelope, which bore his name in simple, neat printing: “Hutch.” He opened it and found a greeting card inside with the message “Wish You Were Here” in gold script across the beige paper of the card. He opened it and found himself faced with a small photo of Gillian. Shaken now, he read the following note:

A room full of balloons,
All of them red,
You said none would burst,
But now I’m dead…

The ringing of the phone startled him, and he stuffed the card back in the envelope with shaking hands. Picking up the phone, he hoped to hear Starsky’s voice on the other end. The voice he did hear was frighteningly familiar.

“I’ve missed you,” the sultry female voice said. “Wish you were here. Come join me, baby. It’s nice here.” Gillian’s ghostly voice was followed by the intrusive buzz of the dial tone. Hutch heard the receiver clatter to the floor before he realized he’d dropped it.

Calm down, Hutchinson. This can’t be what it seems. She’s dead. You saw her, touched her. You know she’s dead. Starsky knows it. He found her. He even tried to revive her, but she was dead. Dead women don’t make phone calls or fill rooms with balloons or write cryptic notes.

But it was her voice! And the balloons…who else would know about the balloons? Not even Starsky. I didn’t even tell Starsky what she said about the damn room full of balloons.

Hutch went to the cupboard, found a bottle of scotch and poured himself a drink. His hand shook as he raised the glass to his mouth, and the burning liquid did little to settle his frayed nerves. Knowing he had to call this in and dreading it with all his being, he resolved to sit at the table and wait for Starsky to come home. Come home? He did go home. You’re waiting for him to come over, remember, dummy?

Hutch rubbed his temples, willing the pounding in his head to subside. The balloons were everywhere in the small living room. The sea of bobbing red balls on their white strings mocked him, each one tied to a different object in the room. There were three of them sharing the back of the kitchen chair across from him.

Suddenly, in the silence of the room, two of the balloons burst loudly, sending Hutch out of his chair and under the table, fumbling to draw his gun. He pointed it at the room before him, which seemed to mock him with its quiet innocence. When the doorknob turned and the door swung open, obscured from clear view among the bobbing balloons, Hutch rose to full height and aimed the Magnum toward it with both hands.

“Hutch!” Starsky’s voice cut through the haze, and Hutch’s stance and hold on his gun faltered. “Hutch, what the hell–?” Starsky was weaving his way through the balloons until he found his partner near the kitchen table where he’d dropped his gun and was now leaning heavily on the surface with both hands. “What is all this?”

“Starsk…Gillian…she…the phone…”

“Hey, calm down, babe. It’s okay. I’m here.” Starsky took a gentle hold of Hutch’s arm and steered him into the chair. Pulling up the other chair and sitting down close enough that their knees were touching, Starsky took both Hutch’s hands in his. “Take a deep breath and tell me what’s wrong, buddy.”

“B-before she d-died…that night at the bowling alley…when I introduced you and Nancy to her…”

“Yeah?” Starsky prodded gently, his thumbs stroking the soft skin on the backs of Hutch’s hands.

“She told me that she imagined this room full of red balloons, and was afraid that they were going to burst, and she didn’t know which one would break first, and I told her none of them, but I lied, Starsk. I lied and she’s dead.”

“Hutch, come on, you’re not makin’ much sense here. You lied about what?”

“I told her nothing was going to happen, that everything would be all right.”

“You had no way’a knowing what she was dealing with, or what was scaring her. You were just trying to make her feel better. I don’t get the balloon part.”

“They were symbolic, I suppose…but I understood what she meant. Balloons are these wonderful symbols of happiness and celebration, and they burst and are destroyed so easily….”

“So you and Gillian were the only ones who heard this balloon conversation?”

“Yes,” Hutch said, nodding, trying hard to keep his emotions in check. Right now what he wanted most was to crawl into Starsky’s arms and be comforted and shielded–shielded from those hateful fucking balloons that were dancing all around him. “Right before you came in…two of them burst. Starsk…how…?”

“You’ve been through the apartment?”

“Yeah, I looked everywhere when I got in. I was gonna call it in, but then I wanted to wait for you. While I was sitting here, there were these loud pops, and…”

“Sit tight.” Starsky started to get up, but the hands holding his didn’t let go. “It’s okay, buddy. I just need to look at something. I’ll be right back.” Starsky wandered around the apartment and Hutch watched him, wondering what he could possibly be looking for so determinedly. “Here’s your culprit,” he said, holding up a red rubber shred he’d fished off the light bulb in one of Hutch’s lamps. “Whoever did this fastened a coupl’a little balloons tight against the light bulb. When it got warm after bein’ on a while, it popped the balloons. I remember losing a balloon that way when I was a kid. I brought it in the house, and it brushed the kitchen light, which had been on all evening, and it popped.”

“That doesn’t explain the phone call…or how anybody knew.”

“What phone call?”

“Starsk…it was…Gillian.”

“You and I both know it wasn’t Gillian, babe,” Starsky said, returning to his chair. Hutch was so grateful for his return to close proximity that he wanted to launch himself into those strong arms. For now, he had to think. He had to make himself do what Starsky was doing–think like a cop. “You were already thinking’ about her, so maybe if somebody just faked her voice–”

“I’d know her voice anywhere. It was her voice.”

“She’s dead, Hutch. I know. I found her, checked her pulse, tried to do mouth-to-mouth. She was dead. It can’t be her.”

“I-I know. But you didn’t hear it.”

“Think you can pull yourself together so we can get a couple lab guys over here to take a look at this?”

“Not much choice. God, Starsk, it was such a personal conversation. There was nobody around when we had it. Who’d know?”

“There’re always people around at bowling alleys. Could’ve been anybody who overheard it. That’s what we’ll have to figure out.”

“There was a note, like the one you got.”

“A note? Where is it?”

“I-I guess it’s by the phone.”

“Hey.” Starsky paused and framed Hutch’s face with his hands. “This is just some sicko jerking our chains. Right?” He waited until Hutch nodded, though there wasn’t much conviction behind the nod. Starsky leaned forward and kissed Hutch’s forehead. “I’m gonna take a look at that note and then call it in.”

Starsky used a handkerchief to open the note, and he shuddered a little when he saw the little snapshot that was inside it. Same MO as the trick that had been played on him, though he wondered if Hutch could readily identify the origin of this picture the way he had with Terry’s. The handwriting was different, but whether it was a different person who wrote it or the same person faking a different style, he couldn’t be sure. Sparing a glance back at his somewhat vacant-eyed partner, Starsky called for the crime lab team and then called Dobey. By the time he’d hung up, Hutch was putting the bottle of scotch away and rinsing the glass.

“You okay, blintz?” Starsky moved up behind him, nuzzling his neck. “I know this is creepy, but it’s just some trickster.”

“You didn’t hear that voice, Starsky. I know her voice.”

“It can’t be her.”

“There’s no logical way, but–”

“But nothin’. There’s just no way, period.” Starsky gripped Hutch’s shoulders and firmly but gently turned him until they were facing each other. “Dead people don’t make phone calls.”

“Who would do this?”

“Tomorrow, we’ll start going’ through our old case files. See if we can figure out somebody who’d have it in for us, somebody who’d be clever enough to pull this off.” Seeing that Hutch was truly disconcerted by all of this, even more so than Starsky himself had been, he pulled the tall form into his arms and held him close. “This is living and real, darlin’. No such thing as ghosts.”

“I want to believe that,” Hutch said, returning the pressure of the embrace.

“Believe it.”

 

 

Since this was the second incident involving his two best detectives, Dobey decided to stop by Hutch’s place and see the balloons and the note for himself. Starsky’s car was still parked out front, which was no surprise. Starsky had called it in, and he’d most likely be close at hand until all remnants of the mean-spirited prank were cleared away.

Very few people even knew about Hutch’s romantic entanglement with Grossman’s final victim–the tall, willowy blonde named Gillian Ingram. Dobey’s first thought when he saw the dead woman was that she seemed almost too refined, too attractive…that she had possessed some indefinable quality that made her an unlikely prostitute. Hutch’s grief over her had been profound, and after sufficient pleas from Starsky, he’d given his team a week off following the murder. To everyone outside the three of them, it had been a reward for a tough job well done in bringing down Grossman.

Trudging up the steps and cursing the absence of an elevator, Dobey walked into the apartment, the door to which was open for the crime lab team, who were currently examining and removing the collection of balloons.

“Didn’t expect to see you here tonight, Captain,” Hutch said, moving out from behind a cluster of the balloons where he’d been watching one of the technicians.

“Thought I’d come see for myself what your trickster did this time. Where’s Starsky?”

“Right here, Cap’n,” a voice came from the bedroom alcove just before Starsky moved into view. “Nothing’s out’a place in there,” he said, flashing Hutch a look that Dobey couldn’t quite figure out. For his part, Hutchinson just nodded sagely and said nothing. “Must be whoever did it stuck to the living room.”

“Any ideas on who might try something like this?” Dobey asked. He was still baffled by the significance of the red balloons. Red for blood? Red for love?

“It’d have to be somebody who did their homework,” Hutch said, tugging on one of the nearby balloon strings. “The whole significance of the red balloons…it was a very personal conversation I had with Gillian before she died. Before…everything happened with Grossman. I don’t know how anyone else could know about it. I didn’t tell anyone. Not even Starsky.”

“Whoever it is sure has a sick sense of humor,” Dobey concluded, looking at the note through the plastic bag the crime lab team had used to protect it. “Maybe it’s an old girlfriend. So far, they’ve targeted dead lady friends as the subjects for the pranks.”

“I know I haven’t left every lady I ever got together with on a perfect note, but I don’t think any of them were this bitter.” Hutch shook his head, running a weary hand over his face.

“What about anybody you’re seeing now? Any reason they’d have to dredge up the past like this?” Dobey asked.

“Not likely,” Hutch replied after a brief hesitation that seemed a bit awkward. His eyes flicked toward Starsky for the barest of instants, and then he added, “Plus whoever it is obviously wants to get at both of us.”

“How about you, Starsky?”

“Like Hutch said, this creep is going after both of us.”

“It would make sense that someone might use one of you to get to the other.”

“I haven’t been seeing anybody who’d do something like this,” Starsky responded, sighing. “Can’t even really think of any teed off ex-girlfriends.”

“Well, maybe the lab’ll turn up something. Meanwhile, you two better keep tabs on each other. Whoever this nut is, there’s no telling how far they’ll go.”

“We were figuring on sticking close until this is taken care of,” Starsky spoke up, smiling a little devilishly. Nothing made Dobey more nervous than the feeling that Starsky was up to something, and that smile was usually a good indicator of something he probably should know as their captain but really didn’t want to know, truth be told. It also occurred to him that his favorite team still bickered like they always had, but seemed more placid and cohesive overall than they had since long before the Gunther incident. Maybe Starsky’s close call had settled them down a bit, ironed out the rough spots….

“Captain?” Hutch’s voice startled him out of his thoughts.

“Right, well, just see to it you don’t take any stupid chances, and make sure you’re keeping the department up to date on anything else that happens.”

“Sure thing, Cap’n,” Starsky responded brightly.

Dobey left Hutchinson’s apartment and headed down to his car, still pondering what it was about the discussion with his two detectives that hadn’t seemed quite right. Being stalked by a psycho with a sick sense of humor can be cause for some stress…not too unusual they aren’t themselves. Of course, being stalked by psychos isn’t anything new to those two. They attract ’em like moths to a flame, Dobey thought, chuckling. As he started the car and pulled out into the evening traffic, he pondered whether it was his teenage son or his two favorite detectives who sent him in search of his aspirin bottle most often. He suspected Starsky and Hutchinson would win that contest hands down.

 

 

The last of the crime lab team had left, the balloons were gone, as were the note and photograph of Gillian in their tidy plastic evidence bags. Starsky was grilling the steaks on the little counter-top grill, humming something nameless and somewhat tuneless, while he puttered around in the kitchen. Everything was back to normal, but Hutch still felt unable to shake the aura of death that seemed to hang in the air. Hearing Gillian’s voice again had chilled him to the bone, and no matter what anyone said, it had been her voice. He couldn’t explain it, couldn’t certainly prove it, but that, coupled with the balloons, were too terrifying to think about too hard.

“Beer or wine?” Starsky asked, and Hutch realized he’d been standing by the table with the plates in his hand for the last several minutes, while his partner moved into the home stretch of preparing the meal.

“Whatever you want’s fine,” he responded blandly, setting the plates down and moving closer to his partner where he stood in the kitchen. “You want me to make a salad or something?” he asked, regretting a bit that he’d essentially stood around staring into space and let Starsky do everything.

“Got that covered, buddy. It’s right there.” Starsky gestured toward the counter, and Hutch picked up the bowl and moved toward the table with it. “Hutch, you know this is just a trick, right? I mean, you’re not still thinking that phone call was…Gillian?” Starsky asked, bringing the plate that bore the two steaks.

“You didn’t hear her voice, Starsk. It was her voice. I’d know it anywhere.”

“There’s no way she’s still alive. You know that, right?”

“Starsky, I know what makes sense and what’s logical, but I don’t know how she called me on the phone! That was her! Damn it, I know her voice. Just like you’d know Terry’s!”

“Ah, Hutch–”

“Ah, Hutch, nothing! You think I’m losing it, don’t you?” Hutch shot back angrily.

“No, but–”

“But you don’t believe me.”

“I believe that you think it was Gillian’s voice, but–”

“Oh that’s great. You believe that I think I know what I’m talking about!”

“You gotta admit, Hutch, it’s a little hard to believe that somebody who’s been dead for what, three years now? That that person is callin’ you on the telephone. It’s a good prank, babe. It’s sick, and scary, and well put together, but that’s all it is.”

“Then how did they fake her voice?”

“I don’t know that. Someone who knew her, maybe?” Starsky served the steaks, setting the empty plate on the counter and returning to the table to join his angry partner. “Or maybe looking at the balloons and her picture–”

“–made me think it sounded more like her than it did. Yeah, I figured that was your next theory.” Hutch took his anger out on the helpless vegetables in the salad bowl, tossing them within an inch of their lives and doling out clumps in the small salad bowls at each of their places.

“Maybe–”

“Just save it, Starsk. I know what I heard, and I know who I heard.”

“Okay, let’s just drop it then.” Starsky cut into his steak and said no more on the subject, though he didn’t light into his meal with much gusto. Hutch, for his part, flipped the salad around a bit with his fork before leaning back in his chair. What he was asking Starsky to believe was…unbelievable.

“I’m sorry.”

“So’m I. You heard what you heard.” Starsky looked up. “We just have to figure out how you heard it. How it’s possible.”

“Aside from the obvious, you mean.”

“That Gillian’s back from the dead?” Starsky’s scalp drew tight momentarily. “Hutch, I got the same kinda creepy stuff about Terry, except for the phone call. Somebody’s doing this. Somebody alive.”

“Seems like all the sickos are coming out of the woodwork this year,” Hutch said, referring to Preston Mansfield’s killer as well as their prankster.

“You gonna eat your dinner?”

“Lost my appetite, I guess.”

“Go find us somethin’ to watch on TV. I’ll clean this up.”

“Starsk–”

“Go on. Just don’t pick one’a those political commentary shows or I’ll make you do the dishes.”

“You cooked.”

“That’s okay. I’ll take it out in trade later,” Starsky said, flexing his eyebrows and bumping one hip against Hutch’s as he passed him on his way to the sink.

 

 

Starsky opened the little bottle of massage oil and held it up to his nose, congratulating himself again on finding something that smelled so good. Despite the cheesy name–“Jungle Musk”–it had an unusually pleasing scent that combined a musk scent with a rain fresh scent. All he knew was that it seemed the perfect choice for Hutch, and he was finally getting his chance to test the theory.

He had Hutch right where he wanted him–stretched out on his stomach on the bed, naked, waiting for the promised massage. After all the times Hutch had tirelessly worked on Starsky’s recovering body, often when he was almost too tired to stay awake himself, let alone do therapeutic massage, Starsky relished the chance to treat his lover to a taste of the TLC. he was so generous in giving. Straddling Hutch’s body just below the swell of his buttocks, Starsky warmed a little of the oil in his hands before going to work on Hutch’s neck and shoulders.

“If you wanted to do a serious massage, babe, you should have at least worn underwear,” Hutch teased. Starsky’s semi-erect cock was happily nudging at Hutch’s rear as he worked.

“I’m gonna do a serious massage, all right. Every inch of your beautiful body.” Starsky frowned, working harder on the shoulder muscles. “Your muscles are like rock back here, buddy. Try to relax a little, huh?”

“You didn’t hear that phone call, Starsk,” Hutch said softly, the head pillowed on his arms not moving to reveal his expression.

“We’ll get to the bottom of this, and when we find the sicko, I’ll stick his telephone where the sun don’t shine and we’ll see how many phone calls he makes.”

“You keep saying ‘he’. It was a woman’s voice, Starsk. Even if you can’t believe it was Gillian’s, it certainly wasn’t a man’s.”

“Okay. But somebody could’ve been hired to make the call. An actress who’s good at voices or something.”

“She’d have to be an expert to sound this good, Starsk,” Hutch insisted quietly.

Starsky massaged in silence for a while, finally feeling some slight lessening of the tension. Encouraged, he began moving slowly downward, concentrating on easing the tightness that was usually present in Hutch’s lower back. As his hands moved down to the smooth flesh of the buttocks, he smiled. For someone who appeared to be long, lean and all legs at first glance, Hutch had a fantastic ass. It was like Hutch in some ways–subtle, understated, but incredibly sensuous and made for loving. As his hands moved down to Hutch’s thighs, he took the opportunity to lean forward and kiss those fleshy mounds, finding a succulent spot and sucking diligently, drawing a moan of pleasure out of his partner.

“Just marking my territory, beautiful,” Starsky said softly, kissing the mark before moving lower on the bed to finish Hutch’s legs.

“Your territory, huh?” Hutch responded, amusement in his voice. “Awfully proprietary, aren’t we?”

“Damn straight,” Starsky retorted, carefully massaging the sole of one large foot. “You got a problem with that?”

“That wasn’t necessarily a complaint, babe,” Hutch replied, yawning widely.

“Tonight’s your night, darlin’. Tell me what would make you happy.” Starsky finished the second foot and moved up to kiss Hutch’s shoulder.

“How about just lying here and enjoying myself?”

“Your wish, Blondie,” Starsky whispered hotly against Hutch’s ear. He nosed the silky blond hair, nuzzled the warmth of Hutch’s neck, and took in the heady aroma of the massage oil, warm and mixed with the scent of his lover. Reaching beneath his partner, he found an erection trapped between Hutch and the bed. “Gonna put a few pillows under you, babe.”

Hutch complied with the motion of raising his hips so Starsky could tuck the pillows under him. Starsky worked carefully at arranging them so they provided good support to Hutch’s back and a gradual incline that would still allow him to rest comfortably. He located the lube and tossed the tube on the mattress, then turned his attentions back to the feast laid out before him.

“God, you’re amazing,” Starsky muttered, genuinely dazzled by the smooth, fair skin, the long, powerful limbs and that sumptuous, fleshy rear that was positioned to receive him. More than the physical, though, Hutch’s utter relaxation, trust and willingness to give himself over to Starsky’s intimate care dazzled him beyond words.

Hands sliding up the still-slick flesh of Hutch’s back, he resumed a gentle massaging motion while he lowered his head to kiss and nibble at the soft skin of Hutch’s left cheek. As he was dancing his lips lightly over the skin, a stifled chortle came from his partner.

“What’s so funny there, partner?” Starsky asked, smiling himself now.

“Tickles,” Hutch replied, still grinning.

“Your butt’s ticklish, huh?”

“Starsky…” The voice was low and held a note of warning, and Starsky knew that had his position been different, Hutch’s finger would have been waving at him menacingly.

He moved down again and, seized with devilish inspiration, put his long lashes to work at tormenting the satiny skin with butterfly kisses. That was earning him some full-fledged laughter, which only egged him on to keep it up.

“I’ll get you for this,” Hutch vowed, his voice broken by laughter.

“I’m countin’ on it, beautiful,” Starsky retorted, kissing the buttock he’d been teasing, before reaching for the lube.

Hutch was relaxed and content, and preparing him required little effort. When Starsky finally slid inside the snug passage, he set an easy rocking pace, in no hurry to end their lovemaking. Hutch was moving with him, groaning a little here and there, still boneless and languid from the prolonged massage. When they came, they came together, their cries of each other’s names mingling in the silence of the apartment.

Starsky roused himself from his slump over Hutch’s back, and gently eased out of his lover. With a kiss to Hutch’s shoulder, Starsky carefully slipped the pillows from under Hutch and moved to lie on his side next to him. Hutch shifted on his side also and pulled Starsky into his arms.

“Love you, babe.” He barely got the words out before he yawned widely, and his eyes drifted shut.

“Love you too, blintz. Sleep tight.” He kissed Hutch lightly, not wanting to stir anything more passionate from his partner that would keep him from slipping off into the deep sleep that seemed to be reaching out for him.

 

 

Thunder clapped loudly and lightning illuminated the midnight sky. Rain was a given; it was only matter of time until the skies poured out the results of the their turbulence. Probably about the time we go home, Starsky thought dismally. If he’d been at home, with a good horror flick on the TV and Hutch by his side on the couch, this would have been a perfect night. Typing reports late into the evening to catch up on a backlog of paperwork was not his idea of a good time, but it had to be done, and Dobey had made it abundantly clear that first thing in the morning was the deadline by which they were to be in his “In” box.

“Procrastination is an ugly thing,” Hutch said, slumping back in his chair. Starsky glowered at his partner across the desk. Though Hutch was in the same boat, his remark was met with no more good cheer than Dobey’s tirade over the paperwork.

“I feel like I just got kept after school. Thought I was done with that when I graduated.”

“Yeah, well, bad little detectives who don’t do their reports on time have to pay the piper eventually.” Hutch straightened again and rolled another form into the typewriter. “Besides, we have been flying out of here the second our shift ends for the last few weeks. It was bound to catch up with us.”

“Choosing between you and these reports isn’t much of a contest,” Starsky said, grinning lasciviously at Hutch, who cast a quick eye around to be sure they were alone. “I wouldn’t’ve said it if we had company,” Starsky said a little tersely, going back to sorting through the stack of folders next to his own typewriter.

“Sorry. We just have to be careful.”

“Did you pull this for some reason?” Starsky handed a file over to Hutch.

“Why would I pull Lonnie Craig’s file?” Hutch flipped open the cover of the folder and swallowed.

“What?” Starsky asked, frowning.

“Another note.” Hutch handed him the folder, and Starsky read it aloud.

“Death by reasonable force,
I lay on the street in a pool of red.
My life never followed its course
Because thanks to you, I’m dead.”

“Whoever’s doing this just walks into the PD now?” Hutch got up and started pacing. The night shift of detectives were mostly out on calls, and the two who were working at headquarters had wandered down the hall for snacks. “What kind of sorry ass security have we got in this place?” he ranted.

“Not tight enough, apparently,” Starsky said, his voice holding a calmness he didn’t feel. “Guess we might as well send this down to the lab–”

“So they can tell us there are no prints on it but our own?”

“It’s evidence.” Starsky carefully slipped the folder into a large manila envelope. Seeming to realize that Starsky’s reaction was uncharacteristically quiet, Hutch stopped his pacing and looked at his partner.

“Are you okay?”

“Whoever this nut is, he sure knows which buttons to push.” Starsky rose from his chair and picked up the envelope. “I’ll run this downstairs. We probably oughtta call Dobey.”

“Lonnie Craig’s death is no more your fault now than it was then.”

“I know that. I knew it then.” Starsky sighed. “Doesn’t change the fact that what this note said was right. Anything that kid could’ve been, could’ve achieved…it all died in that alley when I pulled the trigger.”

“The way Lonnie Craig was headed, all he would have achieved was growing into an adult offender instead of a juvenile. He had a good mother, decent people in the family trying to help influence him…and he still hung out with slime like Tremaine, pulling armed robberies and shooting at cops. The bottom line is, it doesn’t matter if he would have grown into a death row inmate or a Nobel laureate–if you hadn’t pulled that trigger exactly when you did, you’d be dead for sure, and so might some innocent bystanders. I can’t feel any regret for how that turned out, and you should have never been put through the paces like you were in that media circus just to assuage a few irate people.”

“I’m not sayin’ that the brass handled it the way they should have, or that I could’ve done anything besides what I did. I just feel sorry it had to kill a sixteen-year-old kid, and it didn’t take this note to make me wonder what he’d be right now if he’d lived.” Starsky stopped talking as Flores walked into the previously empty squadroom.

“Hey, guys,” he said blandly, plopping down in a nearby chair.

“I thought you and Lizzie were on a stake-out,” Hutch said, sparing a concerned glance at Starsky, but knowing their conversation would be tabled until later.

“I’m gonna run this downstairs,” Starsky said. “Lizzie get sick of you already?” Starsky needled Flores, cuffing him lightly on the back of the head with the envelope as he headed out the door, not waiting for an answer.

“We busted Farraday,” Arturo said, resting his chin on the palm of his hand.

“Try to contain your excitement,” Hutch responded, chuckling and sitting against the desk near where Flores sat.

“When he was passing the car, we had to do something so we didn’t look like cops. So Lizzie jumped me and just about swallowed my tongue.”

“The only reason for a man and woman to be parked by the side of the road in the dark, unless they’re cops, would be to make out. It’s a pretty tried and true cover tactic.”

“I’m not blaming her. And it worked. He didn’t give us a second look, and we made the arrest a few minutes later.”

“So the problem is…?”

“I went home and my wife smells perfume on me and there’s lipstick on my collar–how cliched is that?” Arturo snorted an ugly laugh. “Carolyn’s been very depressed since we lost the baby, and it doesn’t take much to set her off. I told her the truth–that it was Lizzie’s lipstick and perfume, but I also told her what happened. She didn’t buy it. She thinks I’m having an affair with Lizzie now, and wants me to break off the partnership.”

“Did you tell her it wasn’t that simple? Departmental assignments aren’t always up to the detectives.”

“Yeah, I told her that, and I also told her she was being ridiculous and jumping to conclusions, which was a real big hit. I got mad, she got mad…I left before I said or did something I’d really regret later.”

“She’ll come around–”

“I don’t know about that.”

“There’s something else.”

“When Lizzie kissed me…I didn’t exactly…I wasn’t exactly a passive participant.”

“Kind of hard not to respond to something like that.”

“You were married before, Hutch. If some woman had kissed you like that, would you have responded, or just put up with it to do your duty?”

“Married isn’t dead. And if you’re thinking of Vanessa…I was faithful to her, but I wouldn’t exactly say my every need was met.”

“You were only married once, right?” Arturo clarified, and Hutch realized that he’d sounded as if he had more than one marriage to discuss. In his heart he did. In cold reality, he didn’t.

“Yeah, just the once.” Hutch sighed. “So what did Lizzie think of all this?”

“About the kiss? Nothing. We made the bust, said good night and went our separate ways. She teased me I had more lipstick on than she did when we arrested Farraday, but that was it. It didn’t mean anything to her but a cover for the stake-out.”

“But it means more to you? Or it just got your motor running? They’re two different things. Lizzie’s an attractive woman. Having her make a move like that could turn you on pretty easily, but unless it means something, I wouldn’t worry about it. Just don’t do it again.”

“Lizzie’s a great cop and a good friend. She looks great, she’s confident…I just admire her a lot. It wouldn’t be hard to…have feelings for her.”

“Do you think you should request another partner?”

“Probably.” Flores ran his hand over his face and then back through his hair. “But I don’t want to do that.”

“Solid marriages don’t come along every day, Arturo. Just think hard about this.”

“Hey, there’s nothing really to think about. Lizzie’s not interested in me that way. We’re friends.”

“Friendship can lead to some interesting places,” Hutch said, thinking of his own situation with Starsky.

“I love Carolyn. She’s my wife. We have a child together, a home, a life…” Arturo shook his head. “Plus I’m not nuts about going into Dobey’s office and requesting a different partner because we had to do a little role-playing on a stake-out. Makes me look like a pretty sorry-assed excuse for a cop.” He stood up and started pacing. “This just isn’t a good time for Carolyn and me.”

“That’s an easy time to start looking around. Buy her some flowers and go home.”

“It’s ten-thirty, Hutch. Where’m I gonna get flowers?”

“There’s an all-night grocery on Walsh Street. They have a few little bouquets of flowers in there. Nothing fancy, but it’ll do the job.”

“What am I going to do about Lizzie?” Arturo shrugged. “Buying flowers is simple, saying I’m sorry is no big deal either–not like it’s the first time I had to work at getting back in Carolyn’s good graces. How am I supposed to go back to working with Lizzie and not…thinking about it?”

“I don’t know,” Hutch responded honestly. “All you can do is your best. Decide what means the most to you and stick with it.”

“Guess you’re right.” He headed for the door. “Any leads on that kid they found in the old funeral home?”

“Not yet. So far he’s squeaky clean. Had a few jocks mad at him, so we’re checking them out, but I still doubt they’d kill him over it.”

“Somebody wanted him dead. See you tomorrow.”

A few minutes later, Starsky walked back into the room to find Hutch still perched against the desk.

“I saw Flores in the hall downstairs. What’s his problem? He looks like hell.”

“Just a little problem between him and Lizzie,” Hutch said, and he caught the flash of hurt in Starsky’s eyes before the other man turned away to walk to his desk. He closed his own eyes briefly. It seemed wrong to betray Arturo’s confidence, but this was Starsky. His other half. Suddenly, the tiny point of principle didn’t seem worth the pain it had caused, since Starsky would certainly not spread the gossip–and most likely wouldn’t even let on to Flores that he knew at all. “Lizzie kissed him as part of their cover, and it has him a little freaked out.”

“Oh,” Starsky said flatly, looking through the remaining paperwork.

“Starsk.”

“What?”

“I wasn’t trying to keep something from you.”

“I didn’t say you were.” Starsky rubbed his eyes. “God, I’m tired. I’m gonna put these in Dobey’s box, and if he doesn’t like the fact I didn’t get through all of ’em, he can fucking shoot me with my own gun.” Starsky ambled into Dobey’s office and left the papers there, then came back out to find Hutch still in the same spot, staring at him worriedly.

“Starsky, I didn’t mean to not tell you what was up with Arturo. I just felt funny talking about something he–”

“It doesn’t matter, Hutch. I’m wiped and I need sleep. My head’s pounding and I don’t fucking care what Lizzie and Flores did on their stake-out.”

“You’re mad.”

“No, but I’m gettin’ that way. Let’s drop it.”

“I know you get angry about Arturo, Starsk, but you’ve got to let that go. We’re just–”

“Friends! God dammit, Hutch, you got no idea how sick I am of hearin’ that!” Starsky bellowed back. “Did I accuse you of fucking the guy on the desk? You’re the one who’s determined to turn this into a fight. So fine, it’s a god damned fight! Happy now?”

“No, you’re not jealous at all,” Hutch countered sarcastically. “God, Starsky, what do you need from me, huh? You want me to renounce all others in the middle of the cafeteria at lunch time and proclaim my undying devotion to you? Shit, am I not allowed to have a friend?”

“Guess I stopped bein’ your best friend when I started bein’…whatever it is I am now.”

Starsky headed for the door. Hutch watched him go, confident that since they rode in together, Starsky wouldn’t drive off and leave him there. He grabbed his jacket, and exchanging a good night with the other detective on night duty who was returning to the squadroom, trudged down the hall to look for his partner.

 

 

Starsky rifled the glove compartment until he found the aspirin and swallowed one dry with the aid of only a bit of saliva. He was still working at making the pill go down when he saw Hutch emerge from the building. It briefly occurred to him that Dobey would pop an artery the next morning that they didn’t write up a report about the Lonnie Craig file, or investigate it, but at that moment, he didn’t care how the file got on his desk. It had been there, and brought back with it all the old pain, guilt, loss, and anger he’d wrestled his way through when it happened.

“Want me to drive?” Hutch offered as he got into the car. “You look beat.”

“I’m sorry,” Starsky muttered softly. “Finding that file…just set me on edge, I guess.”

“I know, babe.” Hutch reached over and squeezed Starsky’s thigh. The touch made tears spring to Starsky’s eyes for some reason he didn’t even really understand. Maybe he was just that tired. Maybe Flores still threatened him on a level that wasn’t sexual…and that’s what Hutch couldn’t seem to understand. Hutch’s sexual fidelity wasn’t the issue–Starsky never seriously questioned that. It was that moment where Flores’ confidence took precedence over sharing the information with Starsky that hurt. Hurt almost as much as walking in on them making out. Ironically, maybe more. “Starsk? Hey, what’s wrong, buddy?” Hutch asked quietly, his thumb moving back and forth on the denim of Starsky’s jeans.

“Guess that file got to me more than I thought,” Starsky responded, knowing that was only partially true.

“It’s more than that.” Hutch looked away, straight ahead out the windshield at the sparsely populated police parking lot. “I…I didn’t mean to not tell you what was up with Flores right away. I don’t know why I didn’t.”

“It was between you and him. None’a my business.”

“Starsky, everything in my life is your business. I love you.”

“I love you, too. It’s funny. I was thinkin’ about Helen Yeager, and Richie–remember them?”

“Yeah, I remember them,” Hutch said, nodding, remembering meeting the mother and son who had also gone through hell with the plague that had nearly cost him his life.

“She kept worrying about her son liking Callendar ‘too much.’ Tonight, I couldn’t help but think maybe I do love ya too much. I want you all to myself, and nobody can live like that.”

“Starsky, look at me.” Hutch waited until he complied. “You’re not competing with Flores or anybody else in this world. Yes, I made a choice to talk to you about what Arturo said, because he probably wouldn’t have talked to you about it–it was extremely personal. But that moment of hesitation has nothing to do with not trusting you. It took me all of a few seconds to make the choice.”

“I figured you wouldn’t be talkin’ to me for a while. Me gettin’ jealous of Flores usually sets you off.”

“I wish I could understand it better; let’s put it that way.”

“I didn’t understand it myself until a few minutes ago.” Starsky looked down, resting his hands on the bottom of the steering wheel. “It’s got nothin’ to do with sex, Hutch. It’s not about that.”

“I’m glad to hear that. Arturo’s wife’ll probably be relieved, too.” Hutch’s remark registered, and Starsky had to smile briefly.

“He was your partner for a while, and it’s not that I think you’re gonna have sex with him. That’s not it at all. Never really was. You’re my best friend, Hutch. Always have been. I…I don’t wanna lose that because I’m your lover now.”

“That’s what this is about? My friendship with Arturo is what you’re jealous of?”

“God, that sounds petty.” Starsky sighed. “But yeah, I guess it is. I see how close you guys seemed to get workin’ together, and he confides things in you…reminds me of how we were when we were first gettin’ to know each other.”

“Arturo’s a friend. He’s a good cop, and he was an excellent choice for a temporary partner. I like to talk to the guy and I care what happens to him and his family. I think of him as a friend. Like Huggy, or Minnie, or Lizzie or Dobey and his family.”

“I wouldn’t blame you if you decked me. I’m acting like an idiot.”

“Yeah, well, on the way out, I was thinking about how I’d feel if you got real tight with another cop, worked with somebody else for a while…talked to him about things you didn’t share with me…” Hutch shook his head with a little smile. “It wasn’t so hard to understand how you felt then.” After a few seconds passed, “Maybe we’ve always been a little more to each other than we should, and now, truth is, we’re everything to each other, and it’s hard to figure out where other people fit into that sometimes.”

“You’re not mad at me?”

“I could’ve done without the yelling, but I’m not mad,” Hutch said, smiling slightly.

“Sorry about that.” Starsky swallowed. “I could’ve done without the line about the undying devotion in the cafeteria.”

“Yeah, I know. I’m sorry about that.” Seeing that they appeared to be the only two people in the parking lot, Hutch reached over and caressed Starsky’s hair lightly. “Because there’s nothing I wish more that I could do. I think maybe that’s why I said it. I’m more angry I can’t do it than I am angry at you for wanting it, too.”

“Maybe we oughtta go home and make up, huh?”

“This was a bad fight, Starsk, with a lot of issues to resolve.” Hutch’s serious tone made Starsky’s stomach clench a little before it relaxed as the familiar features twitched a little with humor. “We’re going to have to make up over and over and over again, I think, to get past this.”

 

 

Starsky closed the door of his apartment, and as he finished locking it, was grabbed from behind in a crushing grip as two eager hands started unzipping his jacket. Sensing the potential for a wrestling match but being a little too tired to engage in it, Starsky let the jacket go happily, turning quickly to face his unrepentant assailant. Hutch was wearing dark jeans, a midnight blue t-shirt and a short jacket of the same color. The fair blond coloring was a starkly sexy contrast to the darkness of the clothing on that long, lean body. Starsky loved Hutch in dark colors that contrasted sharply with his natural lightness. In turn, Starsky knew Hutch loved him in red. He noticed with a little smile that he was wearing a red shirt with his jeans and the black leather jacket that had already hit the floor. He wondered how many times they flirted with each other now just in their clothing choices. Did he consciously wear more red because Hutch liked it? Did Hutch seem to wear the outfits he knew got Starsky’s motor running?

“Starsk?” Hutch was smiling, a little out of breath, but starting to look worried. Starsky realized he’d just turned and stared at his lover, not making any particular move.

“Love you in this dark blue, babe,” Starsky said honestly, moving to push the jacket off his partner’s shoulders. “Love you out of it better.” He reached for the t-shirt, and Hutch offered no resistance to it being pulled over his head, leaving his hair endearingly messy.

“If you think I’m gonna be the only naked guest at this party, you’re sadly mistaken, buddy.” Hutch reached for the buttons of Starsky’s shirt, opening it and pulling it over shoulders and arms with the clumsiness that comes with building passion.

Their mouths locked together in a fiery, prolonged kiss as busy hands worked buttons and zippers. Struggling to peel down the tight jeans forced them to break the kiss long enough to kick aside shoes and socks and the final barrier of denim. Then they were together again, kissing feverishly, hands sliding over heating flesh, eagerly into each other’s hair, or down to squeeze firm mounds of buttocks. They made love standing there in the living room as if they hadn’t touched each other for years, rather than the time between morning and the end of a few overtime hours.

Something in the back of Starsky’s mind suggested moving to the bedroom, but that could wait. For now, he reached between them and found Hutch’s rock-hard erection and began pumping it firmly. Hutch fastened his mouth on Starsky’s neck, not quite biting, but sucking hard on a large patch of the soft flesh while he grasped Starsky’s cock and started matching his lover’s rhythm.

Starsky pulled his would-be vampire lover off his neck and sealed their mouths together again, his hand buried in the fine silk of Hutch’s hair, holding the precious head right where he wanted it–where he could kiss him breathless. He wasn’t sure what was pushing his needy body over the edge more effectively–the taste and feel of Hutch’s mouth on, in, and around his own, the hand pumping his cock fast and hard now, or the feel of Hutch’s hardness surging in his own grip.

Hutch broke the kiss and let out a broken little shout as he came, and that raw, sexy, intimate sound pushed Starsky to his own climax, with a cry of Hutch’s name as he wound both arms tightly around his lover’s body.

Both feeling weak and spent, they dropped awkwardly and a bit too hard to their knees on the floor, still holding each other.

“That wasn’t enough,” Hutch panted, taking Starsky’s mouth again, hard. “More.”

“How do you wanna do it?”

“I don’t care. Me in you, you in me, every way we can do it until we pass out.”

“You wanna go to bed, babe?”

“Later. We need stuff.” Hutch kissed him again.

“Don’t move.”

Starsky got up on rubbery legs and staggered into the bathroom, finding a tube of K-Y in the medicine cabinet. Grinning at a sudden inspiration, he uncapped it and squeezed some out on his fingers. Less carefully or thoroughly than Hutch would have done for him, he prepared himself, spreading the gel inside his own tight passage, moving his finger until he felt he was lubricated and at least a bit stretched.

“Easy, Junior,” he said quietly to the cock that was taking definite interest in the motion of Starsky’s own coated digit. “You got somethin’ better waiting in the other room.”

Returning to the living room, his breath caught in his throat at the sight of his naked, flushed, mussy-haired lover still waiting there on his knees on the floor, the long cock already springing back to life. Starsky decided he knew just how to finish reviving it. He yanked the cushions off the couch and tossed them on the floor, dropping the lube nearby.

“Come here, beautiful,” he said softly, tugging on Hutch’s hand. “Floor’s fine, but I’m not hurtin’ your back, okay?”

“Okay,” Hutch said tightly, swallowing, his eyes speaking volumes of just how much the gesture and concern touched him.

“Lie there and enjoy.” Starsky pushed down on knees that started to raise.

“I thought–”

“Maybe later. Just lie there and let me drive for a while.” He smiled, his fingertips touching the blond curls at the base of the impressive shaft. “Blondie.” He leaned down and kissed the curly hair there, and then planted a series of wet little kisses up the length of Hutch’s cock until he engulfed the head in his mouth, slowly taking in as much of his lover as he could.

“Starsk…oh, God…” Hutch moaned, his head thrown back on the cushion, his eyes drifting shut as he let the sensations take over.

Starsky gently played with the heavy balls, letting a finger stray back to tickle and tease the silky skin of Hutch’s perineum. When Hutch’s cries became more frantic and his motion more constant, Starsky released the pulsing organ from his mouth and waited for the loss to register with his lover. It didn’t take long.

“What…?”

“Gonna sit on you, babe. Just hold still.”

“You’re not…I didn’t…”

“I did. In the bathroom. So relax, darlin’.” Starsky leaned forward to kiss the slightly parted lips. “I’m ready for you now.”

“Put some on me.” Hutch handed him the tube. “I want to watch you do it.” Starsky eyed him a little suspiciously, feeling it was more likely that Hutch didn’t want to risk entering him without the extra lubrication since he hadn’t inspected the preparation job to be sure it was adequate to keep Starsky comfortable.

“I love you,” he said, coating the hard cock with the gel before tossing the tube aside and straddling Hutch. He lined up the slick head with his opening, and pushed. His eyes bulged a bit, and he had to admit to himself he hadn’t done much of a job of stretching.

“Hey.” Hutch took a firm hold on his hips. “Slow down.” Once Starsky stopped moving downward, one hand went from a grip to a caress. “Easy, babe. You’re pretty tight. Take a deep breath and relax.”

Starsky listened to the soft voice and took the advice, and the initial pain and uncomfortable stretching slowly eased. Before long, he was settled against Hutch’s groin, the long cock fully sheathed in his body.

“You should’ve let me stretch you a little, babe. Does it still hurt?” Hutch managed, though his voice was a bit strained.

“I’m fine now,” Starsky said, reaching out both hands and smiling when Hutch took the cue and reached up to lace their fingers together.

He began rocking back and forth, feeling the hard column of flesh pistoning in and out of him, rubbing over his prostate. He couldn’t hold back the cries and moans of pleasure then, Hutch picking up the speed and strength of his thrusts as Starsky increased his own motion, riding Hutch’s cock and taking it as deeply as he could. Hutch freed his hands and gripped Starsky’s head, pulling him down for a long kiss. The change in angles made Starsky gasp a little into Hutch’s mouth.

“My turn to drive,” Hutch growled against his ear, kissing away Starsky’s startled yelp as he rolled them over so Starsky’s back was on the cushions. Hutch, having slipped free of Starsky’s body in the movement, slid back into him in one long, firm stroke. Starsky felt his legs being positioned on Hutch’s shoulders, his partner aggressively taking him now, pumping in and out of him rapidly, one of those big hands going around his cock and milking it in time with their sex.

Before he knew it, he was screaming out Hutch’s name, gasping and shouting each time the hard cock rubbed insistently over his prostate, sending unbearably intense jolts of pleasure through his body. He felt his climax coming, and with a wail of pleasure, he bathed Hutch’s hand and their bellies with his seed, waiting, exhausted and sated, while Hutch drove into him in a few more rapid strokes, crying his name, until he was coming inside Starsky, filling him.

He hated to relinquish the connection as Hutch carefully withdrew, lowering Starsky’s legs down to the cushions before lying down on top of him, supporting some of his weight on his elbows.

“God, you’re beautiful,” he whispered against Starsky’s ear. “All hot and sweaty…and thoroughly fucked,” he added, chuckling a little.

“Do you know how hot you look while you’re moving in me like that? Taking what you need? Screaming my name? God, I love it when you scream my name because it’s so good you can’t stand it.”

“Are you okay? You were a little tight when we started out,” Hutch recalled worriedly, stroking Starsky’s cheek with the backs of his fingers. “I got a little wild.”

“Yeah, you sure did,” Starsky responded, grinning widely, reaching up to pull Hutch’s body down fully on top of his own, loving the damp, warm weight of it. “It was great, babe. It’s always great with us.” He felt a stinging in his eyes and tightened his grip. “Love you so much. With all my heart.”

“I love you, too. With everything I am.” Hutch pulled back, resting his forehead against Starsky’s, one long finger making a circle on Starsky’s chest as he spoke. “In my heart, there’s you, deep in the middle, keeping it beating.” He pressed the finger gently into the center of the imaginary circle. “Somewhere around the edges is everybody else I care about,” he added, running the finger lightly around the circle’s imagined border, then planting a kiss in the center again. “Okay?” Hutch pulled back, smiling. Starsky felt a tear slide out of one eye, and he didn’t care. He smiled back. Those golden words were what he’d needed most to hear, and what he’d treasure the rest of his life.

“Okay,” he whispered, unable to find his voice before they kissed again, then held each other close, dozing in the sleepy afterglow.

 

 

When Hutch opened his eyes, it took him a moment to process where he was. Starsky was asleep, his back pressed into the front curve of Hutch’s body as they spooned together on the sofa cushions on Starsky’s living room floor. Hutch smiled when he thought of their lovemaking, and felt his own cock stir at the memory. It was almost dawn, and he wondered if Starsky was sufficiently recovered to finish their lust-inspired plan of doing it both ways.

He stroked Starsky’s hip and thigh, and licked the vibrant passion mark on his neck. Starsky groaned low in his throat and shifted a bit, responding even in his sleep. Hutch’s hand slid around the hip and down, finding the slick, warm opening hidden between the firm cheeks. He slipped his finger inside, wiggling it playfully. He let the tip brush Starsky’s prostate, and smiled as the formerly languid body jerked a bit, and Starsky woke up with a sleepy chuckle.

“Beats the hell out’a the alarm clock,” he sighed, rotating his ass a little with the motion of Hutch’s finger. “Hey,” he looked over his shoulder as the finger was withdrawn.

“You owe me one, remember?” Hutch pulled on Starsky’s shoulder to gently turn him on his back. He leaned up on one elbow and looked down at his lover. “Think you’re up to the challenge?” he teased, reaching down to stroke Starsky’s hardening cock.

“I’m getting up to it.” Starsky closed his eyes and moaned softly as Hutch moved down and took the semi-hard cock in his mouth, sucking in earnest, working diligently to bring it to full hardness. Starsky reached down and stroked Hutch’s hair, pushing some of the stray strands out of his lover’s eyes, letting himself relish the love he felt for his other half, treasuring the beauty of this moment before his body’s excitement sent conscious thought flying.

He let his head drop back on the cushions, and his hand became clumsier and finally gave up on stroking Hutch’s hair, but rather settled on one of the long arms instead. Just as he began thrusting into the hot suction, it was removed, and he gasped a little at the loss, looking up at Hutch with passion-fogged eyes.

“Time to rise and shine.” Hutch tossed him the K-Y, then turned around on all fours, presenting his ass to Starsky. “Get me ready, babe.”

“You got it, Blondie.” Starsky moved up on all fours himself, then crouched behind Hutch, kissing the presented buttocks, covering every inch with wet pecks, reaching under Hutch to tease and fondle his cock.

“Starsk…come on, babe…do it,” he moaned, hoping Starsky’s own eager body was not about to agree with a lot of further teasing. He wanted to get to the main event, to feel Starsky moving inside him.

He gripped the rug in a combination of frustration and desire as Starsky lubed and stretched him carefully, brushing his prostate with exploring fingers, making him squirm and move his ass in what had to be an incredibly lewd manner. Hutch felt his face flush as he thought of what he must look like, but somehow, that turned him on even more.

The exploring fingers were withdrawn, and he heard the motions he knew were Starsky coating himself, then moving into position. Soon, a moist bluntness poked against his center, and then it was opening him, easing inside, stretching him until Starsky’s body was pressed against his buttocks, the hairy belly and chest tickling his own smooth skin as Starsky leaned forward and kissed his shoulders and back, muttering little love words.

“Move, babe. Come on, do it,” Hutch encouraged anxiously, and Starsky didn’t disappoint him. The large cock began to move more rapidly, sliding in and out of him, the wet sounds of sex accompanied by the satisfying sounds of their flesh meeting and gently slapping together as Starsky began thrusting harder and faster, and Hutch began meeting his motions with a counter-thrust of his own.

Starsky’s hand was on Hutch’s cock again, milking him, pumping it as fast as he was pumping into Hutch’s body. Starsky began a low, breathy chant of Hutch’s name on each stroke, and Hutch knew he was getting closer.

“God, Blondie, you’ve got a…sexy ass,” Starsky panted. “Great…rear shocks, babe,” Starsky teased breathlessly as he angled his strokes to give Hutch’s prostate an even firmer massage. This last was his undoing, and he shouted Starsky’s name, dropping his head on his folded arms, thrusting his ass wildly back for as much stimulation as he could get while his pulsing cock covered Starsky’s hand with his completion. Starsky was close behind him, with a few more staccato thrusts and a loud cry of pure animal pleasure. He slumped over Hutch’s back, spent and sated.

It was only a moment before he moved up though, carefully withdrawing and pulling Hutch back, turning him so they were face-to-face on their knees, wrapping strong arms around him and stroking his hair. Hutch rested there in the embrace, coming down from the incredible high, shivering a little from the cooling of his body and the tingling still echoing deep inside him. He smiled as he hoped for both their sakes that sitting on hard desk chairs all day wouldn’t be necessary.

“That was incredible, you big, sexy blond,” Starsky teased, kissing Hutch’s cheek and patting a lower cheek gently. “You wanna take a nap before work?”

“Yeah, we probably ought to get a little shut-eye in a real bed, huh?”

“We’ve got a couple hours before we absolutely have to get up.”

For once, Starsky’s procrastination about rising before the last minute and the idea of eschewing any type of run or morning exercise appealed to Hutch enormously.

“Let’s hit the sack.” Hutch rose a little unsteadily with a slight wince at the protest of his back and more intimate regions, and reached down to pull Starsky up, smiling knowingly as he detected the same little discomforts in his lover. “Tonight, we take it easy, huh?” he suggested, swatting Starsky’s butt gently.

“Don’t want to wear out the equipment,” Starsky retorted, smiling unrepentantly as they crawled into bed and wrapped around each other, unable to resist the urge to start kissing again. Finally, giving in to fatigue and the softness of the mattress relative to the floor where they’d spent the past several hours, both men drifted into a deep sleep, snuggled in each other’s arms until the alarm intruded two hours later.

 

 

“I know you two are working the Mansfield homicide, but this other situation is getting out of hand. Whoever your prankster is, he’s getting into police headquarters now.” Dobey leaned forward on his desk. “Not that I had a report on my desk this morning to that effect, but being captain, I sometimes hear things around the water cooler,” he added sarcastically.

“Sorry, Cap’n. It was late and I figured we could fill you in this morning, when we had some lab results to go with it. No fingerprints besides ours and some other smudged partials that probably belong to police personnel, but they’re checking them just to be sure.”

“Filling me in and submitting a report are two different things. You put a dent in the backlog yesterday, but you’re not up to speed yet. Whatever you’re doing with your off-time, you better start making sure the paperwork’s done before you take off to go do it, is that clear?”

“Perfectly,” Hutch said, nodding, forestalling any further excuses Starsky might conjure. “We asked R&I to pull the files on anyone we’ve busted who was recently paroled or released, and we’re going to go through the files for the cases involved in the pranks so far. The first delivery contained a photo of Terry that was taken at a school photo day–it was something that had to be obtained from someone she knew well enough to give a picture to.” Hutch paused. “The red balloons…that symbolism was so…intensely personal that I really don’t know where to begin looking for who’d know about it, but the only possibility that springs to mind is finding anyone else Gillian was close to who might have known that was an image that had some significance to her. Maybe even a girlfriend or someone she told the same thing to. With the Lonnie Craig case, we’re going to talk to his mother and the cousins whose names we have on file, and see if any of them know of someone who’d want to dredge this up, or would come back at us.”

“Good. Get on that. I see your two initial suspects in the Mansfield case had alibis. What’s your next move?”

“We’re going to talk to the families who filed the lawsuits. There’s something weird going on there, Cap’n,” Starsky said. “We got a hold of Steven Sayer in Palm Springs. He and his brother are coming home tomorrow.”

“Why was the place closed down?” Dobey asked. “I don’t think they were forced to shut down, were they?”

“It was probably just a matter of time before their license was suspended pending the outcome of the lawsuits. This was pretty sick stuff–setting corpses up in chairs. Even last night, the old lady on the table was in a weird position, like she was covering herself back up.”

“Your boy, Perry, admitted to having a key. Maybe he and his buddy went back in and did it for revenge after getting fired,” Dobey suggested.

“We didn’t get the feeling they were that bitter about being fired, but it’s certainly an idea worth investigating. Hopefully the families can give us specific times, dates and details,” Hutch said. “We’ll be placing those calls as soon as we get started this morning.”

“Are we excused, Captain?” Starsky asked, and Dobey raised one eyebrow skeptically at the deferential tone.

“You’re free to go, but you’ll be excused when I get the rest of those reports,” he said, giving them a slight upward twitch of the corner of his mouth to let them know they weren’t in too much trouble.

 

 

Starsky had gone down to the cafeteria to pick up lunch to be eaten at their desks, while Hutch sorted out the mountain of paper they had to process. Most of it was the new stuff from R&I–or rather, the files containing the old stuff from cases which might be relevant to their current prankster. There were a few catch-up reports to be written, but for the most part, they’d gotten the backlog whittled down admirably.

Hutch leaned back in his chair and thought about Starsky’s fleeting absorption with the course catalog he’d obviously grabbed off one of the omnipresent literature racks in the student union at Littlefield. There was no question that neither of them at this stage of their lives were in a position to pay Littlefield’s prices for classes, but Starsky’s curiosity and interest in the course offerings could easily be cultivated in a less expensive setting. If I didn’t quip one-liners at him when he mentions it, maybe he’d really be interested. Maybe I need to encourage him a little.

Hutch cringed inwardly when he thought of how many times he’d jokingly called Starsky “dummy,” “moron,” or some other similar name. None of it meant anything, and Starsky probably knew that. Probably. He wondered how often Starsky had felt ill-at-ease around his partner because of the difference in their educational backgrounds, and felt a profound sadness at the thought of a mind as nimble as Starsky’s not being offered as much education as it might desire.

Just then, the object of his thoughts wandered in with a tray from the cafeteria in one hand, a donut in his mouth, and a book of “1001 Little Known Facts” in the other hand, reading while he walked as if by remote control.

Starsky the intellectual? Maybe this isn’t the best time to ponder that one, Hutch concluded, smiling and shaking his head as he went back to the paperwork in front of him.

“Anything good?” Hutch asked, looking at the paper plates on the tray, each bearing sandwiches and potato chips.

“Ginny was in line ahead of me and she couldn’t identify the hot special and said the smell bothered her, so I figured we were safer with these.”

“May we always be behind the medical examiner in the cafeteria line,” Hutch said, chuckling as he took what he assumed, correctly, was his sandwich. Meat that looked suspiciously like salami peeked out from between the bread on Starsky’s plate. His own sandwich was tuna salad, which oddly enough, the cafeteria there did rather well.

“R&I just sent the rest of the files up on our old cases.”

“Find anything interesting in there?” Starsky asked.

“Nothing we didn’t already know. I made a list of people for us to contact. We’ve had six guys get out of the joint in the last six months.”

“One a month. Nice thought, isn’t it?” Starsky took a bite of his sandwich.

“Most of them are nickel-and-dime stuff. One was a felonious assault, and there was one attempted murder. Those were guys we busted back when we first went out on the streets together. They could have bigger bones to pick than these other characters.”

“How about Gillian’s or Terry’s files?”

“You knew most of the people who knew Terry. I wrote up a list of possible contacts, but they’re women who worked with her at Marshall Center, or relatives…I can’t picture them doing something like this.”

“Yeah, true, and how would they know about our other cases–about stuff that personal, like the balloons?”

“Right. Now Gillian has even less in her file, since her family was in Cleveland and she grew up there. She had a couple of friends in Grossman’s outfit, but they were casual friends–girls who got busted when we took down Grossman’s operation. They didn’t even do time–just a slap on the wrist and probation.”

“Still, I guess we oughtta at least contact these folks, see where they are now.”

“With Lonnie Craig, it’s the same story. I can’t see Eunice orchestrating this, but I suppose a couple of his cousins could be angry enough. Still, whoever’s doing this is going to a lot of trouble and doing a lot of damn solid research into our lives.”

“What we’re looking for then is somebody who probably hired a private investigator. Most people don’t know how to get their hands on the information about a cop’s arrest records, his cases–not to mention the personal stuff with Gillian and Terry. Lonnie Craig’s case was all over the news. Any crackpot could throw that back in my face. But the first two…those took some inside knowledge.”

“Maybe we ought to go see a man about a dick, then,” Hutch said calmly, and Starsky choked on the bite of sandwich he’d been eating. As he gulped some coffee, eyes bugging, Hutch looked at him innocently. “I was just suggesting we go see Huggy and find out if there’s any word on the street about someone hiring a detective to check up on us. That’s all. Detective…dick. Good heavens, Starsky, you have a one-track mind.” Hutch went back to his files, smirking as he felt the power of the glare coming at him across the desks.

“Asshole,” Starsky grumbled under his breath.

“Maybe later,” Hutch quipped back quietly, and both men had to laugh at that.

 

 

The Pits was nearly empty at 2:00 in the afternoon, and the proprietor himself was sitting on a barstool with a stack of lunch tabs and his adding machine.

“Hey, Hug,” Starsky greeted, sitting on the next stool. “Looks like a good crowd this noon, huh?” he said, nodding at the pile of receipts.

“There are still some people in this town who appreciate fine cuisine,” Huggy retorted.

“And a few people left over who show up here,” Hutch replied, smiling sweetly.

“I suppose you think I’m gonna provide righteous info based on your charm and flattery?”

“If we waited for his charm to kick in, we’d’a run out’a informants years ago,” Starsky said, flashing a devilish grin at his partner, who was now occupying the stool on the other side of Huggy. “But we do need your help with something.”

“So I figured. Where you been eatin’ lunch these days, anyhow?”

“You’re assuming we get lunch hours anymore,” Starsky said dismally.

“Somebody’s been playing some pranks on us. Leaving notes and little…trinkets at our places, even left a file out with a note on it at headquarters.”

“What kinda notes?” Huggy frowned.

“Weird little poems,” Starsky explained. “The first one came with a card and a picture of Terry, delivered to my place. The next one was sent to Hutch, with a picture of Gillian. Last night, somebody left Lonnie Craig’s file out on my desk, with one of the same weird little poems in it.”

“All the same poems?” Huggy asked.

“All of them are different, all are short, four lines each, something to do with death,” Hutch clarified. “We’re thinking it could be someone who lost a loved one because of a case we worked on, or it could be just some nut trying to harass us, but in any event, whoever’s doing this has done their homework. We’re thinking they might have hired a private investigator to get information on us–stuff to use against us.”

“Whoever it is sure has a nasty sense’a humor.” Huggy stacked up the lunch tickets and paper-clipped the adding machine tape to them. “If’ I’d heard about somethin’ like that goin’ down, you two would’ve been the first to know. I’ll do a little nosing around, see what I can come up with.”

“Thanks, Hug.” Starsky slid off the barstool and headed for the door, Hutch close behind him.

Once they were back outside in the bright afternoon sunshine, Starsky’s mood seemed to lighten considerably. He looked at Hutch with a flash of pure inspiration.

“We need pumpkins!”

“I beg your pardon?” Hutch reached for the passenger door handle of the Torino, then paused to frown over the roof of the car at his partner.

“Pumpkins. Big, round, orange things you cut faces in–Halloween, Hutch?” he concluded, exasperated.

“You’re not serious.”

“I get a pumpkin every year.”

“And every year I tell you not to leave one of those stinking, ugly gourds in my apartment.”

“Yeah, well, this year’s different. I like pumpkins at Halloween and half the time I’m at your place.”

“Starsky, we’re on duty.”

“There’s a farm market not too far outside of town. We could take a ride out there–”

“For what? We have an appointment with Mrs. Sherman, remember?” Hutch referred to the sister of one of the individuals whose corpses had been “mishandled” at Sayer’s. “Now maybe later, if we happen to get out that way, we can stop by.”

“They’ll be closed by then.”

“So they’ll be closed. Starsky, I’m not rearranging my schedule to go buy pumpkins. And if I have to explain to Dobey why we didn’t get through the rest of those reports, I am not going to tell him it was because we were too busy pumpkin-shopping.”

“You got a problem with every holiday, don’t ya?” Starsky said, getting into the car. “First is euphoric sentimentalism at Christmas and then it’s something about not wanting rotting vegetables in your window in October. I want pumpkins. With faces. In my place and your place.”

“You’re acting like a five-year-old,” Hutch retorted sharply.

“And you’re actin’ like a grouchy old man,” he pouted, starting up the car.

They drove for a while in silence, and just before they pulled into a parking spot at headquarters, Hutch relented.

“They have pumpkins at the grocery store, out in front. How about if we pick out a couple there when we get off duty?”

“Okay,” Starsky responded good-naturedly, his earlier rancor seemingly dispelled by this concession from Hutch. I need some stuff anyway.”

 

 

Marie Sherman was a woman of about forty years of age, with short, neatly styled blonde hair and glasses. Dressed in a skirt, blazer and heels, she looked as if she’d come directly from her job as a secretary to meet with the two detectives at headquarters. Since the office where she worked was only minutes away, she’d determined that was the most convenient place for them to meet.

“Would you like coffee?” Hutch offered as she sat down at the table in the interrogation room. “Sorry we don’t have classier surroundings, but we figured this would be more private.”

“No thank you on the coffee. I’ve had quite a few cups today already,” she said, smiling. “The room is fine.”

“I realize this is a difficult subject, Mrs. Sherman,” Starsky began, “but could you tell us what happened that prompted you and your husband to sue the Sayer Funeral Home?”

“My sister, Elaine, was ill for a considerable time, and she lived with my husband and myself. She never married and our parents are deceased, so we were the ones to make the arrangements for her when she passed. The Sayer Funeral Home was recommended to us by a friend. We’re originally from Oregon, and our family is mostly buried there. We never had occasion until my sister died to need funeral home services. Anyway, we made the arrangements with one of the younger men, Steven Sayer. He was very accommodating and sensitive, and really was very honest with us. I was pleasantly surprised at how he worked with us to find the right casket for my sister, to make some nice, personalized arrangements for her–and the things he was recommending were in the middle of the price scale. He wasn’t trying to sell us unnecessary frills. All in all, it made a very painful day a bit easier, and we went home feeling relieved, as if we’d entrusted Elaine to a wonderful place.”

“You scheduled visitations for her during the following day, correct?” Hutch asked, checking the file he’d brought with him. “What was the exact date on that?”

“Yes, and it was December 12th. Our relatives had flown down the previous week to spend time with her, since we knew it was near the end. So everyone was already here, and we wanted to have the services promptly so they could all stay for it.” She took in a deep breath. “Dear God, I never expected what we found when we got there.”

“Which was?” Starsky prompted.

“Mr. Sayer met us at the door. My husband, my older brother and his wife, and myself all arrived there about two hours before the scheduled visitation. There were a few other relatives due to come, and Elaine had made a lot of friends while she was here, so we expected quite a few visitors. We hoped to have a little private time before they started arriving. Michael Sayer greeted us at the door, and he seemed a bit surprised we were there so early. The chapel where my sister was to be shown was still locked, so he went to the office to get the key, and when he returned he let us in, he was still going on about how early we were. I was a little offended at being reminded of that so often. He warned things might not be entirely ready, as far as flowers and such, but he assured us that Elaine had been prepared the night before.”

“What did you see when you went in the room?”

“She was sitting in a chair. It was the most horrendous, shocking moment of my life. I know I screamed, and my husband started yelling, and my brother grabbed Michael Sayer by the shirt front and shoved him against a wall, hollering at him while my sister-in-law was trying to keep him from doing any serious damage.” She shivered, crossing her arms over her chest. “Steven Sayer came running in with an elderly man, whom I later learned was their father. The Sayers all acted outraged at what had happened, and began going on and on about how the room was locked all night, and they had placed her in the casket…”

“Was there anything else–was she prepared properly?” Hutch asked, unsure of how to press the woman for a more detailed description.

“She was sitting in this chair in front of the casket, facing out toward the room. It had arms, and her arms were resting on those. Her head was back a bit, supported by the chair, and…and…” she paused to swallow. “her eyes were open and they had done something to her mouth to make her look as if she were smiling!” she blurted out, trying to suppress tears.

“That must have been a horrible shock for you and your family,” Hutch said sympathetically, and she nodded.

“I have these awful nightmares. I’ve been seeing a therapist. I just can’t forget that face…” She covered her own face with her hands and cried. While Hutch pulled his chair a bit closer and patted her back, Starsky slipped out of the room and returned with a glass of water. “I’m sorry. I…it’s just so horrible!” she managed, taking the water Starsky offered. “Thank you.”

“You didn’t believe the Sayers that they had nothing to do with it?” Starsky asked, sitting against the edge of the table.

“Who else could have done such a thing? They insisted they kept everything locked and that everything was fine the night before. They hadn’t had time to work on the flowers yet–they said something about getting a late call the night before and running a bit late that morning, so no one had been in the room since the previous night when they closed up.” She had regained most of her composure now. “I will never get over seeing her that way. Those…those…perverts destroyed my final memory of my sister. Destroyed all my memories of her. I can’t even think about her without remembering that…horror at the same time. I don’t know who exactly did it, but I know we entrusted her to the Sayers, and they betrayed that trust at the very least by letting such a thing happen, and at most, they’re sick bastards who should be put out of business so they can’t hurt another family.”

“You’re aware another family sued them shortly after your lawsuit was filed?” Hutch asked.

“I know. I’ve been in touch with that family, and their story is very similar.”

“The Sayers never actually offered you any explanations?”

“No, only excuses and disclaiming of responsibility, but no real answers. I figured if we took them to court, they’d have to answer us. I understand their license will be revoked if we win our case–which is precisely why I won’t settle out of court. I want to stop them.”

“Understandable,” Starsky said, nodding. “Thank you, Mrs. Sherman. I know this was difficult.”

“What do you think happened to that young man you found there?” She rose, as did Starsky and Hutch, and the three of them left the interrogation room and began walking down the hall toward the elevator.

“We’re not sure yet. The cause of death is cardiac arrest, but right now, that’s all we know,” Hutch answered honestly. Since Ginny’s findings were official now, there was little point in hiding it. The full story would hit the papers soon enough.

“Poor boy. I can’t even imagine what could have happened.”

“We’re going to do our best to find out, ma’am,” Starsky said, pushing the button for the elevator.

Once Mrs. Sherman had left, Starsky turned back to his partner as they stood in the hall.

“What do you make of that, huh?” Hutch flipped through his notes. Both men had jotted various little details down as she spoke, picking up on things that had been missing from the sketchy account they’d gotten from Melvin Sayer.

“Why would respectable morticians suddenly start setting the corpses up in chairs and doing weird things with ’em? Besides, if they tampered with her expression while she was still…flexible, they wouldn’t be able to put it back by the time the family arrived the next day. I mean, think about it, Hutch. It makes no sense that the Sayers did that to her sister, or anybody else. They couldn’t get away with it, unless the family was going to have a closed casket funeral, which neither of these were.”

“Let’s go out and look at pumpkins, what d’ya say?” Hutch asked, and Starsky stared at him, dumbfounded at the non sequitur. “All this talk about death and dying…I need to do something living for a while. With you,” Hutch added softly.

“Let me grab a couple files out’a the squadroom and I can tell Dobey we’re runnin’ down some leads. We gotta go find a few of those kids we couldn’t reach earlier anyway.”

Hutch watched Starsky move briskly into the squadroom and shuddered at the thought that his living, breathing, vibrant partner came so close to being cold and dead and buried. The shadow of death that had hung over them since the first prank poem had been delivered to Starsky’s place had chilled him, and this morose case wasn’t helping. He’d come too painfully close to planning and attending a funeral himself in recent months to relish spending so much time dwelling on it.

The drive to the farm market on the outskirts of town was made in record time, and Hutch had to admit that watching his partner flit from one pumpkin to the next like a giant bumblebee in a field of flowers was well worth the trip. After all the pain and horror they had both endured in the last year, after looking death squarely in the eye–and winning–and after months of grueling recovery, there was something so delightful in an activity as simple as picking out pumpkins that it made Hutch feel more sentimental than he wished. Leave it to me to get teary-eyed at a farm market, he chided himself, swallowing and joining his partner in the quadrant of pumpkins he’d obviously selected as containing the pick of the litter.

“Find the lucky winner yet?” Hutch asked. He had to admit that the pumpkins, all lined up neatly in rows in the front yard of what appeared to be the market owners’ home, looked essentially the same to him.

“Oh, yeah, this one for sure.” Starsky handed his partner a huge, oblong pumpkin that was almost teardrop-shaped. Large, wart-like lumps marred one side of its surface.

“Starsky, this is the ugliest pumpkin I ever saw.”

“You sure about that?” Starsky picked up another one that was shaped more like a squash than a pumpkin. “You buy these ugly ones and put weird faces on ’em.”

“All you had last year was one nice, normal, round pumpkin,” Hutch groused as another giant gourd was placed in his arms.

“All I had time to do was go to the grocery store and get a boring pumpkin. Besides, you never wanted to go with me to get pumpkins, and it’s no fun doin’ this alone.” Starsky picked out a large, almost perfectly symmetrical pumpkin. “See? Isn’t that nice? We’ll carve the happy face on this one…and how about that one right there?” Starsky pointed at another pumpkin very similar to the one he was now holding.

“Those look more like jack-o-lantern material,” Hutch agreed, and Starsky struggled to heft the second pumpkin into his arms. Hutch found himself mildly concerned that Starsky would strain something, given the weight and awkwardness of his armload, but he pushed the thought aside. Many months had passed now, and Starsky visited the gym regularly. His workouts were increasingly those of a healthy, normal, physically fit man of his age and not the sluggish, pain-filled ordeals of the early days of his recovery.

As they set their selections on the counter just inside the open doorway of the small market, Hutch heard the radio come to life in the Torino, which they’d parked nearby with the windows down in case they got a call.

“Go grab that, will ya? I’ll take care of these,” Hutch said, taking out his wallet. Starsky grinned back at him before hurrying to the car to take the call.

“Didn’t think we were gonna sell these,” the stout woman behind the counter said, chuckling as she looked at Starsky’s two ugly duckling pumpkins. “I’ll give those to ya half-price.”

“Thanks. My partner’s got weird taste in pumpkins.”

“You two are cops, huh?” She took Hutch’s money and rang up the sale.

“That’s right,” Hutch responded, taking the change she handed back to him. Starsky returned and took two of the pumpkins, heading back to the car with them.

“Why don’t you take some cider, too? It’s good heated up, and you can keep it in a thermos just like coffee.”

“Sure, thanks. I’ll be right back.” Hutch headed toward the car with the pumpkins, picking up his pace when he saw Starsky standing by the trunk, rubbing his left side, just below his chest. “You okay, babe?” Hutch loaded the pumpkins he was carrying in the trunk with the others.

“I pulled something. Shit, that hurts,” Starsky muttered, still rubbing at the offended spot.

“How bad is it?”

“Just a pulled muscle. Nothin’ to worry about. It just hurts. Can’t figure out why. I mean, I can bench press more than these guys now,” Starsky said, gesturing at the trunk full of pumpkins.

“Are you all right?” the market owner was hurrying over to them with a plastic gallon jug of cider, looking concerned.

“Just an old injury acting up. I’m fine, thanks,” Starsky said, managing a smile for her. “Is that cider?” he asked, brightening.

“Homemade and delicious. We don’t have coffee to give out to the local police, but I was telling your partner you might enjoy a little of this warmed up in your thermos instead.”

“Thanks,” Hutch said, taking the jug. “We appreciate it.”

“Any leads on who killed that poor college boy? What a terrible thing!” she exclaimed. “I read about that in the paper this morning.”

“We’re following up a number of leads, but there’s nothing concrete that we’re at liberty to discuss at the moment,” Hutch responded, keeping a concerned eye on his partner, who was doing his best to ignore the discomfort he felt as he slammed the trunk closed.

“We gotta go, Hutch. We got some information to follow up on,” Starsky said, heading for the driver’s side of the car.

“Thanks again for the cider,” Hutch said to the woman as he started toward the passenger side.

“You’re welcome.” She headed back to her store as the car started out for the road.

“You okay, babe?” Hutch asked again, watching Starsky’s somewhat tight, serious expression as he headed back toward town.

“Just don’t know why lifting a coupl’a pumpkins did me in like that.”

“Probably the fact they were awkward to hold. A nice, tidy barbell and a couple of giant, slippery pumpkins under your arms are two different things.”

“I guess. Huggy called. Said we should swing back by his place. He might have something for us.”

“That was quick.”

 

 

Huggy and Anita were polishing glasses and getting ready for the dinner crowd when Starsky and Hutch arrived back at The Pits.

“Well, well, if it’s not the world’s worst tippers,” Anita quipped, winking as she picked up another glass to polish.

“Comin’ to visit the world’s worst waitress. Match made in heaven,” Starsky retorted.

“Hey, quit harassin’ my help,” Huggy interjected. “Part’a the reason I can’t keep decent waitresses is none of ’em’ll put up with you two.” Huggy barely suppressed a grin as he walked around the bar, heading for one of the back booths.

“Anita loves us, don’t ya, sweetheart?” Starsky teased.

“I can’t find the words,” she said sarcastically, chuckling a little. “You guys want anything?”

“Coffee’s good,” Hutch responded.

“There’s the pot, Blondie.” With that, she headed back into the kitchen.

“Yeah, fetch me some coffee, Blondie,” Starsky twitted from where he now sat with Huggy.

“Yeah, I could use a cup, too, Blondie,” Huggy parroted.

“Don’t go there, Hug,” Hutch said ominously, setting three cups on the table and sliding into the seat next to Starsky.

“What’ve you got?” Starsky rescued his partner, chortling a little evilly, but reaching under the table to squeeze Hutch’s thigh. He tried to suppress a grin when his hand was captured and held in Hutch’s, a thumb caressing the back of his hand in a touchingly gentle motion.

“Well, I got this friend…he’s a private eye, and he owes me one for some very righteous info I got him when he was working’ this big ticket divorce case–”

“You were helping him chase a cheating husband, huh?” Hutch asked, snorting a little laugh.

“Actually, it was a cheatin’ wife, and what I helped him get on her saved his client a nice big hunk of his dough. So like I said, he owes me.” Huggy leaned forward a bit on the table. “Seems about six weeks ago, some dude came into his office, askin’ about gettin’ a couple cops investigated. Said he wanted everything he could get–lotsa little personal details, case histories, stuff like that. Flashed a nice wad’a green in my friend’s direction and told him there was more where that came from if he did a good job.”

“Did he give you a description on this guy?” Starsky took out his notepad.

“Yeah. Said he was average height, kinda thin, with brown hair and a mustache, and a dark blue knit hat. Dressed kinda shabby, but had plenty’a dough. This is where it gets weird, though.”

“What?” Hutch prodded.

“The dude said his name was Lionel Rigger.” Huggy sat back in the booth. “I’m tellin’ you, man, that made my blood run cold.”

“The physical description fits, too.” Hutch paused, almost shivering at the thought. Too much time spent among the dead in the last week… “Did he take the case?”

“No reason not to. All it meant was getting as much public record info as he could on you two, and from there, doin’ a little digging. He wouldn’t tell me where he got the scoops about Gillian and Terry, but he said everything he found out, he got from talkin’ to people he found in the records.”

“What’s your friend’s name?” Starsky asked, pen poised to write it.

“Hey, come on, man. I tell you that–”

“Huggy, I’m not screwin’ around here. Whoever this client of his is, he’s some kinda sicko, and he needs to be stopped before he does something worse than leave a few nasty notes. Now let’s have that name.”

“Look, this guy’s been a friend’a mine for years. I give up his name, what’re you gonna do for him? What about if this crazy you’re lookin’ for goes back after him for sellin’ him out?”

“Huggy–” Hutch began but was interrupted by Huggy’s hand going up in a forestalling gesture.

“Look, we’ve been down this road once before, when I put you and Rigger together in the first place.”

“That’s a low blow, Hug,” Starsky said somberly. “You know we never wanted anything to happen to Lionel. We did our best to protect him, but we were put in position–”

“You got your reasons for what you did, and I gotta believe you thought you were doin’ right, so I’m not tryin’ to go back and lay blame. I just don’t wanna sign another friend’s death warrant by handin’ him over to the cops.”

“Did he have an address or phone number for this guy who claimed to be Rigger?” Hutch asked.

“As a matter of fact, he did.” Huggy pulled out a crumpled sheet of lined paper that looked as if it had been torn off a larger sheet. “This oughtta be enough so you don’t have to go lookin’ for my friend. You know everything he knows already.” Huggy slid the paper toward Starsky.

“We still don’t know who he got all the inside information from. How would he find out about the red balloons that were in Hutch’s place? Huh? How would he know about that? Who’d he get that from?”

“All’s he said was ‘people in the files’ provided all the info. So it must’a been some friend of Gillian’s.”

“We’ll check this out,” Hutch said, taking the paper and tucking it in his pocket. “But I’m not promising that we won’t be back to ask for your friend’s name.”

“And I’m not promisin’ to give it to you.”

“You’re still holding us responsible for Lionel, aren’t you?” Starsky asked, pinning Huggy with an intent stare.

“I think you were doin’ things the best way you knew how, but I don’t think protectin’ Lionel was at the top of your list. ‘Cause what you two really set out to do, you usually get done.”

“We had no choice. The brass were on us and–”

“Hutch, let it go. If Huggy thinks we let Lionel down, there ain’t nothin’ you’re gonna say that’s gonna change that. Thanks for the info, Hug. If it’s not enough, we’ll get warrants and subpoenas to get the rest.” Starsky started moving toward the end of the seat, and Hutch took the cue and stood up, finally breaking his contact with Starsky’s hand.

“Hey, it’s not like I’m nursin’ some grudge, guys. I just gotta be careful, ya know? This guy’s got a family, too.”

“Yeah,” Starsky acknowledged shortly, turning and heading for the door. Hutch was close behind him.

 

 

“Rough part of town,” Hutch commented as he looked at the address again. Starsky was navigating the Torino through some of the toughest streets of town, beyond the porno district and into the realm of vacant and condemned buildings and wandering vagrants. It was a neighborhood even cops drove through just a little bit faster.

“This is it,” Starsky said, pulling up in front of an obviously vacant apartment building.

“Yeah, I guess it is.” Hutch checked the address against the fading numbers painted over the front door.

“Let’s have a closer look.” Starsky got out of the car, and Hutch followed. “If my car gets stripped while I’m in here, I’m sendin’ Huggy the bill.” Starsky pushed the old wood front door, and it swung open easily. “Terrific,” he muttered, moving cautiously forward into the building.

The walls were a festival of graffiti, everything from basic profanity to gang symbols. Starsky drew his weapon.

“You hear something?” Hutch asked, following suit.

“I don’t like this,” Starsky answered bluntly. “There are at least four floors up there, and the place we’re looking for is on the third.” He paused a minute. “I think we better radio in our location, just in case.”

“Right.” Hutch headed back out to the car, and Starsky lingered inside the building, but still within view of the street. “Okay, let’s do it.” Hutch rejoined him and they started carefully up the debris-littered steps. By the time they’d reached the third floor and had seen or heard nothing but their own footsteps and creaking floorboards, a little of the building’s initial foreboding disappeared.

“What’s the number again?” Starsky asked.

“3C,” Hutch responded.

“This is it then,” Starsky gestured toward a well-worn door that was missing the actual letters it used to bear, but they’d left their darker outline behind on the surface of the paint. “Get back.” He pushed Hutch behind him. “Remember Prudholm?”

“Yeah, only too well.” Hutch gently pushed the restraining arm down to Starsky’s side. “I’ll take that side, and we’ll stay clear when we open it.”

“Police! Open up!” Starsky shouted, banging on the door in a back-handed knock as he stayed outside its frame, his back pressed to the wall. They were greeted with more silence. He reached over carefully and tried the grimy-looking knob, and found it unlocked. “Shit, talk about deja vu.” He pushed the door with his foot, and when Hutch shook his head to indicate that he didn’t see any signs of a booby trap, and no shotgun blast echoed into the hall, he gave it a good kick that sent it all the way open.

“Oh my God,” Hutch muttered, backing up into the hall. Starsky steeled himself against what he was seeing and released the safety on his gun, moving a bit further into the apartment. That seemed to jar Hutch out of his initial shock and he followed.

The floor was littered with the usual trash of an abandoned building, the walls bore some graffiti, and one of the windows was broken out. Lining the walls in simple black poster frames where huge enlargements of autopsy photos. The dead faces of Gillian, Terry, Lonnie Craig, and Lionel Rigger surrounded them. Hutch froze to his spot in the middle of the floor as Starsky kicked open the door that led to the foul, filthy remnants of the bathroom.

“Nobody’s here,” he announced unnecessarily, trying to avoid really looking at the walls. Still, he couldn’t avoid the draw of glancing upward and seeing the horrible reminder of Terry’s death, the bullet wound that he’d had to get used to while she lived, standing out in stark contrast to her pale dead flesh in the photo. He felt the bile rise in his throat and barely made it back into the bathroom before emptying the contents of his stomach in the grungy remains of the toilet.

The sounds of retching jarred Hutch out of his shock, and he tore his own gaze away from Gillian and the others and went to his partner.

“Damn him, whoever he is,” Starsky mumbled hoarsely, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

“You okay, babe?” Hutch ran a hand across Starsky’s back gently.

“No. How about you?”

“No,” Hutch admitted softly.

 

 

Thunder boomed loudly, rattling the very walls with its force. It was followed by a vibrant flash of lightning. Starsky sat at Hutch’s kitchen table, staring at two of the four pumpkins, with little or no interest in carving them. Hutch was busily making popcorn and gathering supplies for the project. Starsky had gone on ad nauseam about the pumpkins earlier, so Hutch had figured an evening of eating junk food and carving jack-o-lanterns would cheer him up a bit. His stomach had still been rebellious at dinner, but Hutch hoped Starsky’s appetite might return with the right incentive. As for his own demons, his only hope of squelching them was concentrating on his partner.

“You’re not making much progress.” Hutch set a bowl of popcorn on the table in reach for both of them, and sat down himself. “I thought you wanted to do the sinister one.”

“Yeah, I guess.”

“You have to open it up and scoop out the insides first, dummy.” Hutch pushed one of the two knives on the table in Starsky’s direction.

“I thought Huggy was over what happened with Lionel.”

He’d expected Starsky to refer to the filthy apartment and its morose gallery of images, but instead, Starsky’s mind seemed to be focusing on Huggy’s earlier behavior. Hutch had to admit, if only to himself at the moment, that it had surprised him a little.

“Maybe you never get over something like that, Starsk. Forgiving people and trusting them not to burn you again are two different things. Just because he’s not angry anymore doesn’t mean he wants to entrust another friend to us.”

“We were backed into a corner, Hutch. There was nothin’ we could do.”

“We could have kept our word to Lionel,” Hutch said quietly, cutting into his pumpkin and removing a neatly carved cap. He used a large spoon to begin scraping the seeds off that piece, before tipping the open gourd and plundering its innards.

“Reasonor made it real clear what we were up against. There was no way out, Hutch.” Starsky was still staring at his untouched pumpkin with no trace of enthusiasm.

“We were up for disciplinary action. We would have had to take the heat and stand by our refusal to release Lionel’s name.”

“You wanted to do that.” Starsky slumped back in his chair. “I was the one who cracked first with Reasonor.”

“You made the call you thought was right, babe. I went along with it.”

“Yeah, but you knew I was gonna give him up if you didn’t, so it took it out’a your hands.”

“I suppose that’s true to some extent…and honestly? Part of me was damn grateful for it being out of my hands. I knew I couldn’t give him up, and I also knew Reasonor and the DA weren’t going to let up until I did. Truth is, Lionel probably would have been found out sooner or later anyway.” Hutch looked up from his scooping project. “McClellan wasn’t dumb by any means. Lionel was a dead man, whether we exposed him or not.”

“You really believe that?”

“I don’t know, Starsk. At the time, I thought we were completely to blame for Lionel ending up dead. Now I’m not so sure. McClellan heard his voice; there were plenty of people at the PD who had seen Lionel with us. It’s entirely possible any one of them might have been paid off. Not Dobey, but someone else who knew who the informant was. Reasonor probably could have squeezed it out of Dobey without much more trouble.”

“IA said I should have stayed upstairs after the explosion.” Starsky looked down at the surface of the table.

“We both know what procedure would have dictated.” Hutch exhaled wearily. “If things had been reversed, I couldn’t have gone by the book either.”

“Even the hit man knew how to nail Lionel. Somehow, he knew which choice I was gonna make. If he could figure it out, it’s not much of a stretch to figure out what ‘disciplinary action’ meant. I already had gotten my hands slapped by IA for putting my partner over a witness, and Reasonor’s a sharp guy. If he were gonna punish us, he’d know the best way to do it, and that’s what I was afraid of when you were walkin’ out that door.”

“What’re you talking about?”

“Best way to ‘discipline’ us would be to demote us to something else. Reassign us. You know what that would mean, don’t you? No more partnership. You don’t need a partner to watch your back if you’re counting paper clips or working the counter at the evidence room. Or directing traffic. Or working in a file room someplace.”

“I never thought about that. I guess I just figured he’d suspend us or something.”

“Maybe, but I’m thinking’ he’d’ve done something more if we flat out disobeyed an order. Dobey looked like he was out’a tricks. I think Reasonor was comin’ down hard on him, and figured he couldn’t control us, or was letting us run the show. If we hadn’t fallen into line when we did, I think he might’ve put us someplace where we didn’t have much latitude. And he already knew for sure what mattered most to us, and it wasn’t the case or even Rigger.” Starsky rubbed a hand over his face tiredly. “It was always you and me. Bottom line. So the best way to punish us would be to split us up. He knew our weak spot.”

“So that’s why you gave in when you did?”

“That…and I couldn’t watch you up on that stand anymore. I had to put a stop to all of it, so I did.”

“The whole mess with Lionel was a disaster from the start. We never should have counted on not having to put him up front. We told him it might come down to that, but we honestly thought it wouldn’t. We screwed up.” Hutch sighed, setting the spoon aside and staring at his gutted pumpkin. “Huggy was right about one thing. We had our sights set so hard on nailing McClellan that we really didn’t think things through clearly enough. We gambled and we lost.”

“Maybe we oughtta turn in and forget about these for now, huh?”

“Yeah, I’m not much in the mood to carve happy faces right now.” Hutch rose from his chair and Starsky did the same, with a little groan. “Side still hurt?” Hutch asked, concerned.

“A little. Nothin’ major.”

“Let’s grab a shower and see if the hot water helps.”

Somber thoughts on their minds, they stepped into the shower and as if by unspoken agreement, focused their attentions on washing up and getting Starsky’s protesting muscles under the warm spray. There was a fatigue of mind and spirit that made sex seem like both too much effort and somehow inappropriate with the ghost of Lionel Rigger hovering over them.

Spooned together in bed, Hutch gently rubbed at the muscles he knew were giving Starsky discomfort. He wasn’t sure the massage was going to do a lot of actual good, but he knew the touch was soothing his partner into sleep.

“Hutch?”

“Yeah?”

“I’m sorry if…if I made the wrong choices with Lionel.”

“You weren’t in it by yourself, remember?” Hutch kissed the back of Starsky’s neck, trying not to get too interested in the baby-soft, downy hair there, or his partner’s scent. “If we screwed up, we screwed up together.”

“I gave him up.”

“You’re the one out of the three of us–you, me, and Dobey–who had to take the blame for giving in. You know damn well that if one of us hadn’t caved in, Dobey would have. He’s got a family to consider, and he’s in an administrative job. He wouldn’t have lost all that and put his family in jeopardy of not being supported just to hold out and not give up Rigger.” Hutch gave up on the massage and wrapped his arms firmly around Starsky. “Or someone else in the department would have ID’d him, or provided a description. They’d have found him, babe. Whether you said anything or not. I didn’t really think that way at the time…when I was standing out there, ready to throw my badge into the ocean, but now, looking back…”

“We put him in that position.”

“He wanted to make a deal. He knew it was dangerous. We shouldn’t have been so cocky that we could make it happen without endangering him, but we didn’t promise him it wouldn’t come to that.”

“Nah, we just promised him we’d get him out of it alive.”

“I know.” Hutch sighed, kissing Starsky’s shoulder this time. “Go to sleep, buddy. There’s nothing more we can do about Lionel, and nothing we can do about how Huggy feels about it. We did the best we could, and that time, it wasn’t good enough.”

 

 

Starsky awoke with a start, not sure what had disturbed him. Hutch had rolled over sometime through the night, but was still close, his back pressed against his partner’s. Starsky sat up carefully, not wanting to disturb him, and slipped out of bed. After making a stop in the bathroom, he padded out to the kitchen. It felt a little chilly in the apartment, but he chalked that up to wandering around in his briefs. He poured a glass of water and took a couple swallows and turned to head back for the bedroom. He took an involuntary step back and barely avoided dropping the glass from a hand that suddenly shook.

The larger of the two butcher knives they’d left on the table was imbedded nearly to its handle in the oblong pumpkin Starsky had been working on earlier. He set the glass on the counter and went for his gun, which was still in the holster he’d left on the coffee table when they arrived home. Feeling immensely better about things with the reassuring weight of the weapon in his hand, Starsky checked the alcove to make sure Hutch was still alone there. He noticed that the other man had rolled over and was partially sprawled on Starsky’s vacated space, but he was unharmed and still sleeping peacefully. The room, like the rest of the apartment, was empty.

Something hit one of the living room windows, and Starsky froze, weapon pointed toward the noise. He made his way stealthily to the window and looked down at the street below.

Standing there, beneath the streetlight, Lionel Rigger looked up at him, and raising his arm, used his hand to mimic firing a gun in Starsky’s direction.

Starsky backed away from the window, unable to continue facing the specter in the glow of the streetlight. A hand touched his shoulder and he spun around, elbowing the assailant in the ribs and swinging his fist hard toward the intruder’s jaw before the other had a chance to get the drop on him.

“Starsky, what the hell–?” Hutch gasped and sputtered angrily, holding onto his side while the tip of his tongue came out to check the split in his lip.

“Hutch! Oh, God. I didn’t know it was you!” Starsky was on his knees then, hands worriedly roaming over his lover’s bruised ribs. “Oh, babe, I’m sorry. I thought…I…”

“Who the hell did you think it was? Starsk, what’s wrong? What’re you doing out of bed?”

“Something woke me up and I got up to take a leak and get a drink of water, and…look!” He pointed at the impaled pumpkin on the table.

“My God,” Hutch muttered, allowing Starsky to help him to his feet now. “Somebody was in here.”

“Yeah, I’m thinking that’s what woke me up.”

“You checked the place out?”

“Nothin’. Hutch, that’s not the worst of it.” Starsky swallowed. “I…I saw him.”

“Saw who?”

“Lionel. Down there. On the street.”

“Lionel? As in Rigger? Starsky, come off it.” Hutch strode over to the window. “There’s no one down there.” He paused, watching something. “I take that back. A dog just pissed on the fire hydrant, but other than that, no one’s down there.”

“I know what I saw.”

“You didn’t see Rigger. We both know that.”

“Maybe you know that, but I don’t know that!”

“Starsky, the man’s dead. We saw him…touched the body, for God’s sake.”

“Yeah, we saw Gillian, too, and you still thought she called you up on the phone, so don’t be standin’ there makin’ me out to be nuts because I saw what I saw!”

“You weren’t exactly receptive to my opinions about that phone call, either, buddy,” Hutch shot back.

“This is crazy.” Starsky pulled out a kitchen chair to sit, then looked at the violated pumpkin and decided against joining it at the table. He leaned on the back of the chair instead. “Damn it, Hutch, I saw him. I don’t believe it myself, but yet, there he was. I can’t argue with that.”

“C’mere.” Hutch took a hold of Starsky’s arm and guided him toward the window. “Now look down.” Starsky looked at Hutch instead, somewhat pleadingly. “Babe, there’s nobody there. It’s okay. Just look down.” Starsky finally did, and the street was, indeed, empty. “Now look at how far away that street light is. Unless you’re the Six Million Dollar Man, you can’t see someone’s face clearly enough for a good ID from here. You can see enough for a general description, but that’s it. You know that, Starsk.”

“It was so real.”

“Sure it was. It was some joker who looked like Lionel, or fixed himself up that way, yanking our chains. The same asshole who got in here and stuck the knife in the pumpkin.”

“Tomorrow, we get new locks, and this time no keys over the door,” Starsky said, still staring down at the street.

“Okay. We’ve got to call this in.” Hutch gestured at the pumpkin.

“It’s your knife. You’ll probably go up for murder one,” Starsky quipped, managing a little grin.

“Yeah, but your prints are on it.”

“Oh, man, your lip’s swelling up like crazy.” Starsky went to the freezer and took out an ice tray, putting a couple cubes in a clean dish cloth. “Here, put this on it. Aw, Hutch, I didn’t mean to hit ya. I’d never hurt you, not for anything.”

“I know.” Hutch happily accepted the hug from his lover, holding him close for a few seconds. “I’ve taken worse. No major damage done.”

“I’m really sorry, babe. You can hit me back if you want. I deserve it.”

“It was an accident, Starsk. I’m not gonna hit you back and you don’t deserve it,” Hutch responded, chuckling and kissing Starsky’s lips lightly and carefully, in deference to his own injured mouth.

“Your lips feel like a dead fish.”

“You shithead. I should have slugged you. You do deserve it,” Hutch retorted with a chuckle, going to the phone and starting to dial headquarters.

“Hutch, we’re in our underwear. It’s three in the morning.”

“Thanks, Starsk. I hadn’t noticed.” Hutch waited while the phone rang, but Starsky pressed the button down.

“What’s this gonna look like to the guys downtown?”

“Go mess up the couch and make sure your stuff’s not spread out in the bedroom. I’ll call this in.”

“Yeah, okay.”

“Hey.” Hutch waited while Starsky paused. “I hate sneaking around, too, partner, but we don’t have much choice.”

“I know. Better call for the coroner’s wagon for the victim over here.”

 

 

Not in the mood to sleep at Hutch’s place, once the crime lab had done its second once-over in one week of Hutch’s apartment looking for prints or clues, the two men locked the door behind them and headed over to Starsky’s. It was almost dawn, and they were due in to work for their usual day shift.

“Is it worth goin’ to bed?” Starsky asked, falling on the mattress as he spoke, fully clothed.

“Let’s just grab a nap. It’d take us longer to get undressed than it will for the damn alarm to start ringing.” Hutch stretched out next to his partner. “This fucker is playing with us and we can’t do a damn thing about it. Not a damn thing. He walks in and out of my apartment like it was his own–”

“I hate to break this to ya, babe, but ‘long as you keep a key over the door, anybody with half a brain could break into your place.”

“I suppose your hidden key is no danger.”

“After Gunther, I took it inside. You already were livin’ with me while I got better, so you weren’t gonna need it. I guess having somebody drill me like that…then knowing they tried to come back and finish the job in the hospital…made locking the doors good and tight seem like a good idea.”

“I’ll quit leaving the key over the door. I know you’re right. It’s just always been handier that way.”

Starsky moved over and settled against Hutch, pulling back when his partner grunted a little.

“Oh, your side. Hutch, I’m sorry. I can’t believe I did that to ya. I’m so sorry, babe–”

“Starsky, you didn’t shoot me in the head, you just winded me a little. I’m fine.” Hutch laid his hand gently against the troubled face and pulled it down for a long, though gentle, kiss, still favoring the healing split.

“It’s all my fault. I should’ve looked–”

“If I’d been the intruder, turning and looking could have been deadly. I should have said something instead of sneaking up on you. I didn’t mean to startle you and you didn’t mean to slug me. We’re both sorry-ass idiots. Let’s just grab some sleep before the alarm goes off.”

“Okay.”

“C’mere. Just lie down slowly against me. It’s just a little bruise.” Hutch opened his arms and pulled Starsky close against him. “I love you,” he said against the dark curls.

“I love you, too, darlin’. And I’m still sorry I hit ya, even if it was a mistake.”

“I know, babe. It’s okay. Go to sleep.”

“Hutch?”

“Yeah?”

“This psycho…he’s startin’ to get to me.”

“I know. Me, too.” Hutch tightened his hold. “We’ll nail him.”

“I feel like…it’s like there’re ghosts everywhere.”

“Try to put it out of your mind for a while and rest, huh? We’re okay, we’re together, and there are no keys under mats or over doors, so we’re safe.”

“Guess I’m acting like a baby about this.”

“For what it’s worth, I’ve got a good dose of the creeps myself. But it’s gonna be okay.”

“I always believe it when you say it,” Starsky responded, grinning.

“That’s because I’m always right.”

“Fuck you,” Starsky shot back, laughing.

“Not unless you’re a good boy,” Hutch retorted. Starsky was still smiling as he dozed off to sleep.

TO BE CONTINUED IN PART 2…

 

 

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