WHISPERS IN THE DARK
Alcohol can numb your pain and make you forget but it can't bring someone back from the dead.
A/N: Rest assured, things are not always as they seem.
Ken Hutchinson, known as Hutch to his friends and colleagues, raised his head and looked around with bleary eyes. The bar was filled with power drinkers, over the hill hookers trying to pick up a trick, and cheating spouses looking for a one night stand. With his wrinkled clothes, shaggy beard and long hair, Hutch blended right in. The last nine years had not been kind to the big blond.
He threw back the whiskey in the glass on the bar in front of him and signaled the overweight bartender for another one. What had started out as a way to numb his emotional pain had become a crutch that he needed in order to function normally. He started his day with a drink, he ended his day with drink. Sobriety was merely a dim memory from the past.
Hutch finished his drink and staggered to his feet. He stumbled his way through the crowd and exited the bar, bracing himself against the chill night air. He made his way to a battered brown Ford parked down the block. Like its owner, the car had seen better days. Hutch fumbled with his keys as he opened the door and slid underneath the wheel.
He twisted the key in the ignition, the engine grinding in protest.
"Come on you piece of shit." Hutch muttered as the temperamental engine finally sputtered to life with a backfire and a puff of smoke from the exhaust. Struggling to concentrate through the alcoholic fog in his brain, Hutch pulled into the street and headed for home.
Twenty minutes later, he pulled up in front of Venice Place and parked in front of the building. Opening the street level door, he climbed the steps to his second floor apartment. Very few people knew that he actually owned the building. It was one of the many carefully guarded secrets from his past. Despite his disheveled appearance, Hutch came from a privileged and wealthy background. His father's death three years ago had left him the sole heir to the Hutchinson family fortune.
Over twenty years ago, Hutch had turned his back on his heritage and his family name, choosing to forge his own destiny. It was a decision that had cost him his marriage and estranged him from his immediate family. He had dropped out of medical school and joined the police academy, another decision that did not set well with his overbearing parents.
Hutch entered his apartment and turned on the lamp on the end table beside the sofa. The cluttered apartment reflected its resident's neglect and indifference. Hutch shoved a pile of dirty clothes to one side and slumped down on the sofa, leaning his head back against the cushions and closing his eyes. He lifted his feet to rest on the scarred coffee table, ignoring the clatter of the empty bottle that fell to the floor. Soon, he slipped into a drunken slumber. It didn't take long for the dreams to follow.
The alley was dark and filled with garbage. Hutch eased his way along the wall, his 357 magnum held in the ready position. He had lost sight of his partner, Detective David Starsky, some time ago and he fought to keep his irrational fear at bay.
Suddenly, several shots rang out in the darkness. Hutch felt the searing pain in his stomach that brought him to his knees in the dirt and garbage. Even as the darkness closed in around him, one name slipped from his lips "Starskyyyyy…."
Hutch awoke with a start, his face covered with sweat, his body shaking uncontrollably. Stumbling to his feet, he staggered into the kitchen and rummaged through the cabinets until he found an unopened bottle of whiskey. Unscrewing the cap, he drank straight from the bottle. Even after almost ten years, the dreams still came with an alarming regularity, penetrating Hutch's carefully constructed defenses and leaving him reeling with renewed pain and grief.
Subconsciously, his hand reached down and rubbed at the long healed scar on his stomach from the bullets that had almost ended his life. His memories of that day were foggy at best. He had woke up in the hospital three weeks later to discover that his life had been altered forever. He was told that his partner and best friend was dead, murdered in that dingy alley, presumably by the same suspect who shot Hutch and left him for dead. The worst part was that Starsky had already been buried and Hutch hadn't been there to say his final goodbyes.
Hutch spent another two weeks in the hospital before being discharged. He had immediately demanded to see the official reports on his partner's murder. There were no clues and no leads to the person or persons responsible for Starsky's death. He had read the autopsy report carefully, blanching at the description of the three shots to the head and face that had resulted in his partner's death. The graphic photos included in the file had fueled Hutch's nightmares.
Consumed by guilt and grief, he had turned to the bottle to numb his mind and let the alcohol take control. He had been become obsessed with finding the person responsible by taking his partner away from him and spent every waking hour searching for Starsky's murderer. He had ignored proper police procedure and hunted down every scumbag that had ever threatened their lives over the years without finding any answers to the questions that haunted him.
Finally, Hutch was forced to give up his investigation and Starsky's case was officially closed. The bottle became his only solace and his constant companion. His friends were all worried about him but Hutch ignored their concern and their well meant advice. Without Starsky by his side, his life no longer meant anything to Hutch. He was nothing more than a shell of a man waiting for death to free him from his unbearable sense of loss and grief. More than once, he had thought about ending his own life but didn't have the guts to go through with it. So, he turned to his new best friend. The bottle.
Although he had managed to hold on to his job and had even been promoted to Lieutenant, the fire that had driven him was gone. As his drinking spiraled out of control, the police department could no longer ignore the problem. Their solution was to pull him off the streets and stick him behind a desk. Eventually, official reprimands and suspensions followed. Finally, Hutch was ordered into a treatment program. When he refused to go, he was fired from the department.
For several months after his dismissal, Hutch had lived off of a trust fund that his grandfather had left him. Then his father died and he had gained access to the Hutchinson family fortune. He had used part of his inheritance to start his own private investigations agency, specializing in finding missing persons. Hutch had hired two other employees and let them handle the day to day operations, rarely participating in any of the investigations himself. He was slowly drinking his life away and he didn't really give a damn.