I don't own Starsky and Hutch, and I'm not making any money.
Property of...
Dedicated to the memory of Barbara and Carolyn
"Hutch? You OK? You look like hell." Starsky was getting ready to leave for his job in cold cases when Hutch, who had been on the night shift with his new partner Steve Barlow, came in to the small cottage they were sharing. He was slumping and white-faced.
He sat down wearily on the couch. "It was a rough one, Babe."
Starsky sat next to him, and pulled him in for a hug. "Want to tell me?" It would make him late, but he didn't care. Hutch needed him. Besides, since his return to work after Gunther's attack, everyone was so glad he was alive it seemed he could get away with almost anything.
Hutch shrugged mutely. Starsky said nothing, giving him time to decide to talk on his own. They sat for a few moments, then finally Hutch gave a deep sigh. "It was a domestic. Man killed his wife and their 13 year old daughter."
It was always worse when kids were hurt. "Estranged? Messy divorce?"
Hutch shook his head. "No, that's part of what made it so... look, let me tell it like it happened, OK?"
"Sure thing, Hutch." Starsky knew when to give him room.
Hutch sighed again. "He called it in himself, about 3 am. Said his wife and daughter were dead. A black-and-white took the call. When they got there the guy was outside, completely drunk. He said he'd killed his family... they went inside, and then they cuffed him and called us. He'd shot his wife in bed asleep, twice, in the head. Guess she never woke up. But the little girl did. She..." Hutch's voice broke.
"Hey, it's OK, I'm here babe." Starsky squeezed. "If you don't want to talk about it..."
"No, I do. Just... hang on a minute."
Starsky waited silently. Finally Hutch continued. "She'd woken up from the noise or something, and he met her in the hall, and he just shot... Starsk, he emptied his gun and reloaded and kept firing. On a 13 year old girl. His own daughter!"
"Aw shit. That sucks." Starsky's stomach roiled. "How the hell can someone do something like that?" They'd seen it so many times, but Starsky never understood.
"Then he picked her up, and carried her back into her bedroom and tucked her into bed. Still carrying her teddy bear. But you could see that wasn't where it happened. The hall was a mess. Blood everywhere."
Moving the body was a gruesome touch, Starsky thought, but still... "We've seen it before, Hutch," he reminded. Not that it ever got easier, not when it was a child. This sort of thing always hit Hutch hard.
"Yeah, I know. That wasn't..." Hutch paused, then made a negating gesture with one hand, and went on. "Anyway, he went and wrote a suicide note, and then painted the inside of the garage windows black. Apparently he was going to kill himself by running the car. Then he went out to an all-night liquor store, and bought a bottle of whiskey, came back and got drunk, and chickened out on the suicide, so he called us." He sighed. "That's really all there was to it. Barlow and I stayed until they brought the bodies out, then we went and took the guy's statement."
Starsky winced. Horrible. But still an old story. "It happens Hutch. What was it, abusive relationship? Wife having an affair? Or him? Divorce in the works? Problems with the teen daughter?" Not that any of those things were an excuse. Just the usual sordid motives.
"No, that's the thing. All the neighbors, everyone said it was a dream relationship. Never any fights. The neighbors argued with the uniforms when they cuffed him. Said they had to have made a mistake, he couldn't have hurt them. The wife's younger sister was there by the time we left. She said they were together just two days before, and everything had been fine. And he loved his daughter. Coached her softball team. The picture of the proud father. Even their minister was there. Said they were upstanding, God-fearing folks, they were even doing some sort of special Bible-study class together."
"Then what happened? What did he say in his statement?" Starsky was puzzled now.
Hutch pulled himself upright. His grief was giving way to a towering Hutchinson righteous indignation, Starsky could tell. Well, that was better than depression.
"The bastard's business failed. Can you believe it? That was the gist of it. His business failed." His voice was harsh. "About two years ago he was laid off his job, and instead of looking for a new one he decided to start some sort of consulting firm. He said he knew it was risky but he thought he could pull it off. He promised his wife and daughter that no matter what happened they'd be all right. Not have to leave their home. It's one of those big fancy old houses," he added.
"And it didn't work?"
"No. He kept losing money. He put everything they had into it, but he never told his wife. Eventually he put a second mortgage on the house..." He trailed off. "Starsk, have you ever heard of a married couple that didn't have both names on the house? My parents did, and my father was hardly any bastion of woman's equality. It's to avoid probate when one partner dies. But this guy, it was all in his name, so he didn't have to tell her what he was doing."
Starsky shook his head, baffled. "My parents never owned a house. But I'm sure Uncle Al and Aunt Rose have both names on theirs."
"Well, they didn't. Just his. And he mortgaged the house and still kept losing money. Eventually he thought they'd lose the house, and he said he just couldn't bring himself to tell them."
"So he killed them? Hutch that's... that's crazy."
"Well, obviously," Hutch said dryly.
"Yeah, I guess..."
"But I think I figured it out. Sort of. See, the guy was one of these golden boys, you know? Never had anything in his life go wrong. Pampered younger son, bright, good college, good career, everything went right for him all his life. Until this. Life kicked him in the teeth and he cracked."
"Yeah, but that's usually a reason to kill yourself, not to kill your family," Starsky objected. It didn't make sense. Not that it ever did, really. "What the hell did they do to deserve that?"
"That's what really got to me, Starsk. That's what really bothers me. As far as I can tell from what he said, he killed them because of some god-damned perverted sense of responsibility towards them."
Starsky blinked. "What?" he asked blankly.
"He talked about them like they were his property, Starsk. Much loved and pampered property, but still property. His to take care of. And if he couldn't take care of them properly any more, than it was his responsibility to see they didn't suffer because of his failing."
Starsky stared. "You mean that?"
"That's what I got from what he was saying. Like they couldn't take care of themselves, though the wife had a good career, and a Masters degree, the diploma was on the wall. Like no one else would take care of them, either. Not her family, though from what the younger sister was saying, they would have in a moment. Not even God. He had some pretty harsh things to say about God, too. He prayed to God to save his business, and God didn't stop it from failing. So it was God's fault that he killed them, not his."
"That's pretty sick."
"Yeah. You know what it made me think of?"
Starsky shook his head.
"Not sure I ever told you this, Buddy. You know how, after my grandfather died, my family had to sell the farm and move to the city? And at first we didn't have a house, just an apartment."
"Yeah." Starsky knew about that. Hutch didn't talk about it often but when he did it was obvious leaving the farm was one of the tragedies of his early life.
"Well, I had a dog. Rusty. Man, I loved that dog. But the apartment we were moving to didn't allow pets. And my father said that it wouldn't be fair to Rusty to give him to anyone else. Said the only thing to do was take him to the vet and have him put to sleep. He said it was my responsibility to do it because Rusty was mine."
"Geeze, Hutch, that sucks." Starsky knew Hutch's father was a little strict, but he'd never thought of anything like that. That sounded just cruel.
"So I made an appointment with Dr. Reeves, the vet, and I brought Rusty in."
"Hutch! You didn't...?"
"No. Dr. Reeves wouldn't do it. He said Rusty was healthy, and not so old that there was any reason he couldn't adapt just fine to new owners. Gave me some tips on how to find a good home for him."
"Good for Dr. Reeves," Starsky said in relief.
"Yeah, he was a nice guy. But anyway, my father was livid. Went on and on at me about 'shirking my responsibility'. It was the first time I'd ever defied him, but that wasn't what upset him. He really meant what he said, that I was being irresponsible. But I did it anyway. I found Rusty a place on another farm. And you know what? When I went back and visited him about a year later... well, obviously he recognized me, but he was perfectly happy where he was."
"So Dr. Reeves was right."
Hutch nodded, then went on. "But this guy... he was like my father. His wife and daughter shouldn't have to have anything but the best. He should have been able to take care of them. And if he couldn't take care of them properly, then..." Hutch shrugged. "Just like my father and Rusty. After all, some people would have agreed with my father, you know."
"Yeah, but Hutch, people aren't dogs," Starsky protested.
"I know that, mushbrain. But I guess that's what happens when you start thinking of them as property. As something that belongs to you. I think it was something about control. I mean, it goes with having the house in only his name, right? He owned the house, he took care of the bills, he handled everything. He was very 'responsible' about his property, too. Even remembered in his note to ask the neighbors to take care of their cat."
"Take care of the cat, and kill the wife and kid?" The sheer cold-bloodedness of that shook Starsky more, somehow, than if he'd forgotten about the cat. Or even killed it with the family. "What sort of man does that?"
"Cute, huh?" Hutch's tone dripped with disgust. "But then the guy was a coward, too. Obviously. Couldn't face telling them, couldn't face killing himself after."
Starsky shuddered. They sat in silence for a few minutes.
"Starsk? I don't treat you like that, do I?" Hutch said suddenly, in an uncharacteristically small voice.
"What?" Starsky asked blankly.
"Like you're my property. Like, like... like I'm responsible for you the way I would be for a pet."
"What the hell? NO! Never, Hutch!" Though Starsky had to admit, there were a few occasions when Hutch had gotten kind of possessive.. But still... "No!" he added again emphatically. "You take care of me because you love me, not because you think I'm your property. You do love, me, right?" He batted his eyes up at Hutch theatrically.
"Of course I do, idiot." Hutch managed a small laugh.
Starsky felt a little of the cold knot in his gut leave with Hutch's laugh. "And you know if you ever tried pulling that kind of controlling shit on me, I'd let you know about it, right?" he pressed on.
Hutch swallowed, almost, it seemed, in relief. "Right."
"OK, good. As long as we got that straight." Starsky kissed Hutch, and pulled him over into a hug again. "Look, Babe, don't let some crazy murderer make you doubt yourself, OK?" he added more seriously. "You know I can take care of myself. I know you can take care of yourself. So we just take care of each other 'cause we want to, right?"
Hutch smiled for the first time since he'd gotten in. There was a small lessening in the tension Starsky felt in his shoulders, too. "OK, you're right. And if I'm going to take care of you, then I have to tell you that you should be getting in to work now."
"And because I'm able to take care of myself and make my own decisions, and because I want to take care of you and make you happy, I have a better idea." Starsky smiled mischievously, stood up and pulled on Hutch's hand. He knew what Hutch needed right now. It wouldn't make everything all right, it wouldn't make the pain totally vanish, but it would help. "Come on into the bedroom, Babe, I think I'm going to be going to be late today."
oOo
The incident depicted in this story is an accurate retelling of a crime that occurred in Georgia in 1999. The victims were my cousin and her daughter. The killer is currently serving two consecutive life sentences without chance of parole.