"God-damn it!" Starsky screamed, pounding his fists on the Camaro's steering wheel. The horn screeched in protest, filling Metro's packed parking garage with an abrasive, echoing beep that only served to intensify his apprehensive anger. Breathing heavily, he wiped his sweaty palms on the thighs of his jeans and gripped the steering wheel tightly. "What the fuck is going on?"
His iPhone vibrated in the front pocket of his jeans, sending an unsettling jolt down his already shaking leg. He made no effort to answer or ignore the incoming call. He was too shocked to do such a thing, too shaken to contend with whoever was reaching out to him in this moment in time. Pressing the back of head against the tall, black bucket seat, he groaned deeply, his desperate confusion overwhelming him.
This wasn't happening, how could any of this be happening to him?
How could Blaine have pulled him from the squad car? How could he justify doing such a thing? How could Blaine, of all people, possibly think that he was capable of the committing such hideous and violent crimes?
The text message Whitley had received—the tip that had led him to the last three corpses—was damning, but alone it wasn't enough to declare guilt. It wasn't enough to justify sending him home, directing him to sit indefinitely on the sidelines until Dobey's team decided if he was or wasn't a viable suspect.
People are falsely accused of things all the time. Blaine's haunting words echoed through Starsky's mind, leaving him cold with fear. He knew he hadn't sent the text message, but there were other things he had done. The message coupled with his discovery of the other two bodies and his sporadic behavior were enough to suggest culpability. Any detective would be remiss to ignore the cluster of glaring evidence linking him to the corpses, or the conclusion Blaine was certain Dobey's team would quickly deduce.
"I didn't do this," Starsky whispered, cringing at the note of uncertainty in his tone as he nervously scratched his scar.
He didn't kill those men. He couldn't have—he wouldn't have—he wasn't capable of it. There was no logical reason for him to target felons. He hadn't know them in life, and aside from the charred man, he didn't care what had happened to any of the men—who they had been or what they had done when they were alive. He didn't understand why things were unfolding the way they were. He didn't know why any of the deceased felons had been targeted; he didn't understand why the evidence was so incriminating; and he didn't want to consider how he could have become an unwilling participant in any of the homicides.
"I didn't do this," Starsky said quietly, desperately hoping the statement would ease the dread threatening to engulf him, that it would awaken his courage once again and leave him feeling strong enough to return home—or at least answer his phone. "I didn't do this," he repeated firmly, and for a brief second he felt better—comforted by the certain truth. He hadn't done anything wrong, he knew that, and it would only be a matter of time before everyone else figured it out, too. But he faltered when trying to extend his certainty beyond his own behavior.
Hutch may have been accountable for his abduction and captivity at the Marcus Compound but that was years ago and the topic of his liability in the matter should have been long obsolete, now. He had taken responsibly for his actions; he had owned up to lying and accepted the consequences in stride—or so it seemed—yet, it wasn't the only thing he had done.
Hutch had left and then he had come back, but the man who had returned was distant and strange, detached and unfamiliar. He knew things he shouldn't have known, had things he shouldn't have had, and was uncharacteristically apathetic in face of things that demanded a reaction.
Refusing to be silenced, Starsky's doubts crippled him in the face of everything he didn't know.
Had something returned with Hutch?
Or had something taken his place?
Or was Huntley right, after all?
Was Hutch's swift change in demeanor symptomatic of guilt and grief? Grappling to hold on to something after losing his career—and the brave self-image he had struggled to cultivate— had he decided to let everything go, instead?
"I don't want to think about this," Starsky whispered, shaking his head as the quiet words were quickly absorbed by the interior of the empty car. "I don't want to waste time agonizing over things I don't have the power to change."
Not wanting to face the truth doesn't make it nonexistent. He closed his eyes as the memory of the charred man's words filled his ears. When faced with the pain of the past you do everything you can to look away.
"But there's no point to dwelling on any of it now," Starsky said helplessly.
You must go forward because you cannot go back. But you cannot fully understand how to stop the darkness, how to stop him, if you do not tell the truth. If you do not allow yourself to see and accept the pain that brought you here.
"I already told the truth. I already disclosed the only thing I thought I had left to hide. I told Hutch about Blaine, he didn't care."
He could have illuminated a torch in the darkness but he chose extinguish it instead.
"I don't know why he says what he does. I don't know why he would act the way he has been," Starsky whispered shakily, the words renewing his doubt. What had facilitated the changes in Hutch's personality? Why was he so different than he had been before?
He has so much to share with you, but you remain unwilling to listen. You remain obstinately resistant to burdening the weight of what he has done, what your love for him has influenced him to do.
"I didn't tell him to do anything."
You asked him to be strong when he was so weak. You asked him to burden your anger and pain when he couldn't began to contend with his own. You can't run from this; there's no going back now that you've begun.
"I didn't begin. I didn't chose this. I didn't want any of this."
He chose for both of you.
Phone vibrating wildly in his pocket once more, Starsky stared forlornly at the shadows hiding in-between the parked cars in the parking garage. He didn't want to mentally regurgitate things the charred man had said; he didn't want to be trapped in this moment, unable to find the courage to move as he engaged in a conversation with himself. He didn't want to talk to the charred man, not after the meeting he'd just had, not after denying the truth about the dead man's past—something he should have silently accepted, something he was sure he already knew. Of course the charred man was felon. How could he have been anything else? "I don't want to look back. I'm terrified of what I'll see. And I shouldn't be talking to you, anyway. You're a felon and I'm a cop; we're on completely separate sides."
People will think that you and are different, but we are the same.
"We're not the same," Starsky whispered. His phone vibrated again, alerting him of another call, and he pressed the silence button through the material of his jeans. He wasn't ready to face the inevitable fallout of Blaine's swift decision. He didn't know if he could gather the energy to talk to Hutch or Huntley, Whitley or Blaine, or anyone else whose incessant bid for contact would force him to feign courage he didn't feel. He didn't want to talk to anyone. But leaning his head on the driver's side window, he was unable to keep himself from responding to the memories of the charred man's previous words—of recounting conversations they had already had in his dreams. "We can't be."
You're a marked man. Just like I was. Just like all the men before us and the ones that will come after.
"I can't be like you. Or the others. They were criminals and you were, too. I knew that, didn't I? I'm sure I did because we talked about it. The first time we spoke, we discussed what had happened to you. How could I forget something I had known so fervently in my dreams? People don't light other people on fire just because. It's personal. Whoever killed you wanted you to suffer, they wanted you to pay dearly for what you had done, and they wanted you to be found."
The time you spent captive to Simon Marcus and the darkness shaped you. It changed everything, just as fate intended it to. Your interpretations can be flawed; sometimes, in the midst of your confusion, you don't know what the truth is.
"But I wasn't confused in Blaine's office, not this time. I was fine when I went in there. It wasn't a great morning, but it was better. I was solid; I knew what I needed to do and no one was going to stop me from doing it. I felt so different than I do now. It doesn't matter, anyway. I don't want to talk about this anymore."
Not thinking about it doesn't change what's been done. Avoiding the past gives it power. It makes it easy for fate to exploit you. Who do you belong to?
"I don't know."
That is a lie. You know it, and I know it, too. The mark on your cheek is proof of the truth that will come out, eventually. It always does. And what will you do then? What will you have left to hold onto once everything you know is gone, and you're forced to finally accept the truth of what your husband has become?
"I don't want to," Starsky admitted.
He didn't want to see the hints of the darkness that had become embedded into his life. He didn't want to focus on his ceaseless dread. He didn't want to consider the strangeness of Hutch's behavior or admit how unpredictable his own had become. He didn't want dwell on the past; he didn't want to consider the traumatizing events that had led him to lose control over his mental faculties before, for fear that he would be powerless to prevent it from happening again. Each hospital visit—each stay in a psychiatric unit, each time he was confined to the claustrophobic confines of an all-too-familiar white room—had been facilitated by the same reoccurring revelation.
"I don't know what to do," Starsky added quietly. "I don't want to know what I know, and I don't know if I can—"
Gasping, he jumped, his sentence abruptly interrupted by a firm, abrasive knocking on his driver's side window. Turning his head, he stared wide-eyed at the blonde woman next to his Camaro.
"Oh, shit," he breathed, the terse words leaving his chest in a taxed exhale.
Tall and slim, Callie Baker had to bend over, planting her hands on her thighs, in order to hold Starsky's blue eyes with her own. There wasn't a hint of her sweet girl next door public-assess-persona as she stood outside his vehicle, looking at him expectantly. Spaghetti tank top clinging to her oversized bosom, the legs of her tight shorts ending slightly below what they were meant to conceal, Baker looked more like a woman of a scandalous illegal profession than a freelance reporter. "Who are you talking to?" she asked lightly, the question muffled by the thick glass separating them from each other.
"No," Starsky grumbled uneasily. Shifting his gaze out the windshield, he blinked furiously, desperately hoping that the image of Baker was imaginary. Now wasn't the time to be carefully dancing around her probing inquiries. Dry panic building in the base of his throat, he worried he was drastically unprepared to feign the annoyance required to prevent him from engaging in a yet another condemning conversation.
"What was that?" Baker asked. "I can't hear you through the glass."
Briefly, Starsky considered backing out of the parking space and leaving without a word, but he struggled to understand what the action would accomplish. If he didn't talk to her now, Baker would only turn up later, on a worse day in a worse moment. Avoiding her hadn't deterred her interest in him; it hadn't prevented her from pursing him or the information she was determined to unearth. He could either run from his moment or face it, and with Blaine's insistent direction swirling in his mind, twisting his stomach into knots, Starsky quickly realized he was done running away.
Inhaling a deep breath, he swiftly unrolled the window. "What do you want?" he asked, feigning irritation.
"Where you talking to yourself?" Baker's lips curled into a satisfied smile. "Better be careful with that, given your questionable mental history, doing that in front of the wrong person could make things very complicated for you."
"I wasn't talking to myself," Starsky grumbled, his dislike for Baker renewed as she chuckled at his response. She was young and beautiful but arrogant. Any advantages her looks afforded her were quickly retracted once her pushy, off-putting nature was revealed. And her true nature had been revealed to him nearly a year ago, when she first started hounding him for a detailed account of what had actually happened during his time at the Marcus Compound. "And what the hell do you know about my history, or anything else?"
"I know more about you than you could ever imagine," Baker teased.
"Yeah, right. What are you doing sneaking around the parking garage? How'd you manage to get in here, anyway? You don't have clearance; how'd you'd get past the parking attendant's booth?"
"I have my ways."
"I'm sure," Starsky scoffed. "You didn't do anything racy, did you? Like, barter with your body in exchange for being able to pursue this riveting conversation?"
"How else was I supposed to be allowed to finally talk to you?" Baker winked conspiringly. "David Starsky, you are a very hard man to track down."
"Only for some people."
"Are you avoiding me, detective?"
"No. Though, by the sounds of it, you don't know as much about me as you think you do. You better check your facts, Callie; I'm not a detective anymore and that's old news."
"My fact checker is the best in the biz," Baker said sweetly. Gripping the Camaro's windowsill, she tilted her head. "Mike—that's what he told me to call him—Mike, is nothing more than a silhouette on a computer screen, but his information is spectacular. You ought to hook yourself up with a man like him. He'll give you whatever you want whenever you want it…"
"I'm sure."
"… as long as you're willing to pay his prices. But enough about him, let's talk about you. Who you used to be and who you are now. You know, titles don't really mean that much to me," she said, smoothing the tip of her finger on the windowsill flirtatiously. "You'll always be a detective to me."
Starsky groaned. Forcefully, unclenching her hands from the side of his beloved car, he waived her away from the vehicle. "What's your deal, Callie?"
"Me? I don't have a deal. You, on the other hand, are a very big deal, or at least you were. I will never forget the first time I saw your picture in the newspaper. You know, black and white coverage doesn't really do you justice. It doesn't capture your striking complexion, or the vividness of your beautiful blue eyes." Baker nodded in approval. "The facial hair is a very nice addition, that's new since the last time our paths crossed."
"Since the last time you cornered me, you mean. Better be careful, with all this talk about eyes and facial hair, I might just start to think you have a crush on me."
"Who says I don't? That beard is very striking on you."
"Well, in that case, I'm a little too old and little too taken for you."
"You're right about that," Baker sighed, her face falling with mock disappointment. "I certainly can't contend with the ring on your finger. But what is age anyway?"
"I don't know," Starsky countered easily. The flirtatious banter felt good. The coy, causal tug-of-war for the verbal upper-hand was a welcome distraction from the uncertain anxiety that had threatened to engulf him only minutes before, and he was all-too-anxious to give into quick diplomatic assumptions and ignore his lingering doubts about the woman in front of him. Baker was harmless; her interest in him was nothing more than the culmination of a lingering college-age crush. "Why don't you tell me how old you are and I'll tell you how much older I am."
"How about I don't," Baker said shrewdly. "How about I finish my story, instead? As I was saying, I will never forget the first time I saw your picture in the newspaper—I was only a junior at USC at the time, but you never forget something as powerful as that. The photographer had caught you and Hutch as you were trying to slip away from the Metro building. You looked numb. Shell-shocked and overwhelmed. You were wearing dark sunglasses, but, I swear, you were crying. Even printed in black and white I could see the sheen of fresh tear tracks glistening on your cheeks."
"You have a very active imagination," Starsky scoffed, though he was unnerved by her words. Where was she going with this? Out of all the occasions—all the high-profile cases he and Hutch had worked that demanded news coverage—why was she so eagerly referencing this one?
He hadn't been crying the moment the photograph had been taken, though he remembered wanting to—not because of the case, but because of what had happened moments before he and Hutch exited the building. He had been so tired—so utterly exhausted—that he had barely had the energy to contain himself.
"Tell me you had to do it, Hutch," he had pleaded quietly as they stood unseen in one of Metro's abandoned hallways. He hadn't known then what he knew now about Hutch's lies or his past. At the time he had no logical reason to question his partner's intensions regarding such painful event, only a tired, nagging feeling of wrongness—something both Huntley and Blaine would have summarized as his brilliant intuition at work. "Tell me that it was him or you, that you pulled the trigger to save your life."
"It was him or me," Hutch had said, his voice deep and mechanical, his eyes hidden beneath the dark sunglasses he would eventually remove and place on Starsky's face, hiding the telltale glisten of impending tears, before they left the building. "I did what I had to do to protect myself, baby."
"Was that what this was?" Starsky had wanted to ask. But allowing Hutch to pull him into a swift, grounding embrace, he hadn't said a word.
"That case was fascinating," Baker continued. "There was almost a nonsensical, fantastic quality to it. Paired with Narco, you and Hutch were working undercover to take down James Stryker, a real drug kingpin if anyone ever saw one. He was dangerous—still is. Why you the two ever thought you could win against him, I'll never understand. You were able to bust his supplier but, other than that, nothing went as planned. A very large amount of cocaine went missing, you and Hutch were fingered by both IA and the Stryker as the ones who took it. In the end, the drugs were recovered, after being arrested Stryker walked on the charges, and Hutch shot and killed another cop. The news outlets were insatiable in their coverage of the case—and the two of you. The story was so huge that everyone seemed to have opinion on what should have happened instead of what actually did. Even Nancy Grace chimed in, providing five minutes of colorful commentary. We did a case study of the third-page article that appeared in the Sentinel in my Mass Media class later on that semester. I will never forget the picture of the two of you trying to sneak out of the building that was paired with it, or the rather judgmental tone the journalist had taken."
"Me either," Starsky admitted. Though he wasn't eager to consider ghosts of the past, the fall-out of the Stryker case had been too massive to avoid then and too defining to ignore now. He surprised by how wounding the article Baker was referencing still was—even after all these years.
"I know all about you," Detective Corman's threatening words came rushing back—as did the memory of the afternoon he had said them as he, literally and figuratively, pushed Hutch's back against a wall.
"You don't know shit about me!" Hutch had seethed, shoving Corman back a little too-hard. He had been angry then, almost irrational, as the elder detective's misplaced words didn't seem to justify such ferocity, nor did they seem to warrant the hint of fear Starsky had seen flickering in Hutch's eyes.
Had Corman somehow known then what everyone knew now, or had the threat been empty?
"The reporter called Hutch a murder, you know," Baker continued. Her easy demeanor disappearing, her tone becoming more taunting and challenging with each word. "That article was condemning; it suggested that Hutch was hiding behind his badge when he pulled the trigger, that he and Detective Corman had been engaged in a disagreement long before being forced to play nice on that case. He thought that Hutch had only been waiting for the right moment to—"
"What do you want?" Starsky demanded.
"Don't play games," Baker chortled. "You and I know each other well. We've had enough discussions, by now, for you to know I never really want anything."
"Then what do you need?"
"I was just about to ask you the same thing. As I said: you're a hard man to get a hold of. You changed your cellphone number, again."
"Yeah, well, I was getting sick of your solicitous calls."
"Really? I always assumed you enjoyed our banter. Of course, I also assumed that Hutch was the one who was changing the number for you. He's does an awful lot for you these days, doesn't he? Dropping your uniforms off at the dry cleaners, collecting you from crime scenes, taking care of you when you push yourself too far, all while managing your household. What a guy; I never would have thought he was the type be content sitting at home doing nothing but playing caretaker to you. I hope his change in aspirations aren't symptomatic of something else."
"What the hell is that supposed to mean?"
"Nothing," Baker said snidely. "How is married life, anyway?"
"Fantastic."
"Really?"
"Absolutely."
"Why I don't I believe that? In the five months since the two of you vowed to love and honor each other until death do you part, you and Hutch have spent more time separated than together. You practically live at your aunt and uncle's place, that is, when you're not hiding out in your best friend's bar."
"Are you spying on me?"
"Me? Of course not. Mike on the other hand, well, he's managed to compile quite a dossier on you. And speaking of best friends, I heard that Hutch's isn't around anymore."
Starsky frowned, unconsciously tracing his index finger over his ill-concealed scar. Was Baker bluffing, or did she really know about Jack Mitchell's untimely death?—the details of which, Starsky still hadn't verified himself. "What else have you heard?"
"About?"
"Hutch."
"Well," Baker sighed, dramatically elongating the word. "Nothing much. He remains as stoic and mysterious as ever. Spends a whole lot of his time in that basement, but that's not really a secret. Did you know that when you aren't around he spends all his time down there? He doesn't come up for hours. I suppose it'll be days now that your roommate isn't there force him to come back up again."
"I'm assuming Mike has his eyes on Hutch, too?" Starsky said flatly.
"Sure does. But you old partner is quite a bit sneakier than you are. He seems to be applying the lessons he learned in his previous life as an undercover cop, don't leave a trail anyone can follow and don't get caught."
"Get caught doing what?"
"Your guess is as good as mine." Baker grinned. "Didn't you hear me? I said he was covert. Endlessly sneaky. Though, that's kinda his MO, right? Even when the two of you were cops he had a vibe about him, serious and secretive."
"Do you know that it's illegal to electronically survey someone without their consent, unless you're an officer of the law? You didn't happen to graduate the police academy without me hearing about it, did you Callie?"
"You're funny."
"I'm actually very serious. In my line of work, we call what you're doing stalking," Starsky rumbled. "Stop following Hutch, and stop harassing me."
"I'm not harassing you! Thanks to your eternally changing cell phone number and your very protective superior, I haven't spoken to you in nearly five months. And I'm not stalking Hutch. Occasionally, I causally observe him on the very public sidewalk outside of your home. No big deal, no electronics, no recording, and nothing illegal."
"Then what are you doing there?"
"It just so happens, that strip of Venice is fantastic for running. The traffic is manageable and the sidewalk goes on for miles." Baker shrugged casually. "Occasionally, while running laps from streetlight to streetlight, I see Hutch entering your basement—"
"Callie," Starsky groaned, the word seeping with irritation. "The sidewalk is on the front of the building."
"So?"
"So, the entry to the basement is around back. If you actually are running from streetlight to streetlight in our neighborhood..."
"What neighborhood? You guys live in the top of an abandoned restaurant surrounded by equally abandoned or dying business establishments."
"...like you say you are, then you wouldn't be able to see the basement door from the sidewalk. You'd have to be in the back parking lot which would mean you are trespassing on our property."
"It's not trespassing if I'm standing in the alley. By law, it's a public space."
"You're running in our alley?" Starsky challenged skeptically. "Better be careful; it's full of potholes. You might just trip, fall, and break something important."
"Is that a threat?" Baker smirked. "Oh, you're so scary detective. The alley is public property; what I'm doing back there is of no concern to you. I could be doing aerobics for a gang of stray cats and there's nothing you could about it. And if I happen to somehow observe Hutch, from a distance of course, entering the basement there's nothing you can do about that, either." Baker smiled, her eyes shining with glee, as leaned in and continued softly, "But between you and me, and off the record, if I were trying to follow Hutch, or should you feel the need to do so yourself, a little word to the wise, he makes it very difficult. It's hard to track his movements and impossible to corner him a parking garage. That boy is slick, here one second and gone the next."
Starsky frowned, his stomach churning uncomfortably. "Leave him alone, Callie. I mean it. You don't want to mess with him."
"Like he needs your protection!" Baker scoffed. "Didn't you hear a word I just said? Your husband is perfectly capable of giving anyone the slip. Not that I care, at all. You're the one I'm really interested in. Hutch is old news compared to you. But it's really a shame you don't seem to be as interested in me, what I know, or what I have to say."
"What could you possibly know about anything?"
"I know something you don't know I know," Baker taunted in a sing-song tone. "Something I'm not afraid to use as leverage if I have to. I'll tell you what, you agree to an interview, just answer some very basic questions about what happened at the Marcus Compound and the bodies you've been stumbling across since, and I'll forget I know anything."
"You're threatening to extort me?" Starsky said wryly. "You have to be joking. I'm a cop and you're basically a kid."
Standing erect, Baker dissolved into laughter. A deep-chested, abrasive noise that ground on Starsky's nerves and left his heart pounding with fresh fear.
"And I quote," she sneered.""There's a monster in my house. He sleeps in my bed and wears Hutch's face, but isn't him. The way he looks me, the things he says, let's me know that it can't really be him.""
"Where did you hear that?" Starsky demanded angrily. It was impossible. Baker couldn't know what she was alluding she did. There was no way she would have had access to such a thing; no possible way she could be standing in front of him regurgitating his greatest fear—the knowledge he had been trying so fervently to deny.
"You said that, didn't you detective? Those were the words that you said to the on-call doctor in an emergency room months after Hutch was discharged from his position at Bay City PD. That was the statement that facilitated your first admission for a short-term psychiatric hold. 72 hours later you were discharged, and armed with an arsenal of medication you went home…"
"Who told you that?"
"...Your life was pretty uneventful for the next few months. You were doing well, and things were looking up. Then, four months later, spouting the exact same paranoid statements about Hutch, you were admitted for another psychiatric evaluation…"
"You said you weren't doing anything illegal!"
"…The same thing happened. You were held for the 72 hours, then prescribed different medication and sent home. Four more uneventful months passed and then, like clockwork, it happened again. It happened again and again."
"How the hell do you have access to my medical files?"
"Oh, I don't, that's what Mike is for. You see, we live in a digital age. Electronic retention is all the rage. Medical records, police reports, anything of interest, really, are all digitally stored in encrypted files on servers. And what remains hidden and untouchable for most can be made easily accessible for pretty much anyone, just as long as you know the right people and are willing to pay the price. Mike is very good at what he does; he has ways of hacking into pretty much any database you ask him to."
"What do you want from me, Callie?"
"You really aren't a very good listener, are you? I want what I already asked for."
"An interview."
"Exactly."
"I can't tell you what I don't know," Starsky said vehemently. "If you're demanding I talk about the Marcus case, or volunteer a soundbite for your shitty little public access show, it's not going to happen. Simon Marcus died two years ago. I don't remember anything about that time, the Blackwell case, or what happened to me at the compound. It's nothing but a blur to me now."
Baker rolled her eyes. "What's up with all those bodies you've been finding? Do your convenient lapses in memory extend to how you miraculously located all those corpses, too?"
"I don't know anything about that," Starsky said, nearly shouting from behind clenched teeth.
"Oh, sure, you don't," Baker laughed bitterly. "You're just like the rest of them, aren't you? You call yourself an officer of the law, a boy in blue tasked with protecting and defending the city. But just like Hutch, Chief Ryan, John Blaine, and the rest of the crooked law enforcement flunkies we're supposed to admire and respect, the only person you're protecting is yourself."
"You don't know what you're talking about."
"Simon Marcus is dead, detective. Nobody cares about him, or whatever Hutch did or didn't do to get himself ousted from police department. Public interest on those events have lapsed. It was swiftly stolen away by pop-culture and celebrity gossip, the next violent catastrophe or the one after that. You see, the public's appetite for coverage of horrifying events may be insatiable, but it is fleeting. Nothing lasts; what feels earth-shattering one day is nothing more than a distant memory the next."
"You're awfully cynical for someone so young."
"And you're awfully stupid for someone so old," Baker snapped.
"Why do you care about any of this?" Starsky frowned. "Why are you spending so much time chasing answers you're never going to find? Why are you trying so hard to report on a story that nobody is interested in?"
"Because it isn't right that everything Bay City PD doesn't want to comment on gets shoved under the rug. What happened two years ago on the Marcus Compound matters! What happened to these men, why these felons were brutally murdered, matters! People avoid what they don't want to see, they ignore the things they don't want to think about, and they spend more time covering up the truth than accepting it. I want to give these events a voice. I want the true story to be told."
"And you think you're going to be able to change that? You think that by broadcasting your own opinions and contrived theories about bodies in alleys and a serial killer is going to change how people act? It isn't. Nobody watches your show, Callie. Nobody cares about anything you have to say."
"You care," Baker spat. "You wouldn't be talking to me if you didn't. You wouldn't be avoiding me if you didn't have something to hide. And I don't know what that something is, if you're protecting yourself or Hutch, but you can't keep your secrets forever." She snorted, her face contorting with a mixture of pleasure and disgust. "And you, of all people, can't contend with time. By my count, it's been five months since the last time your paranoia about Hutch reared its ugly head. You're overdue for another irrepressible mental collapse and another admission to a psychiatric ward. The clock is ticking, detective, but don't worry, I can wait it out. I'll catch you again after your next 72 hour hold. You're always so much more agreeable once they switch your meds."
Starsky wanted to reply but couldn't form any words. Mouth agape, he stared numbly as Baker abruptly strode away, her well-timed words echoing in his ears, intermixing with the sickening pounding of his heart.
TBC
