To Protect and Serve
A S and H story by Zebra 3 and Me
I stopped by the pharmacy to pick up some of Starsky's medication, plus an astronomy magazine and a Baby Ruth candy bar, and headed toward his place.
He was home convalescing after Gunther's bullets ripped into his body, nearly killing him, but, to the amazement of doctors, and even myself, he hung on. It was a miracle, because he flat-lined and the doctors had to bring him back from the dead.
Watching him struggle to live was a double-edged sword: Happy that he had survived and would live to fight another day. But grieved over the physical, mental, and emotional pain he had to go through getting there.
More than once I heard him let out a sound of pain in his bathroom, or during the night while he slept, and my heart twisted each time.
"Starsk, I'm here for you," I'd say time and again-sometimes through the bathroom door, sometimes at his bedside during the night.
I did all I could to help him recover, and I admired him to the ends of the earth for the strength and heart he possessed.
I felt partially responsible for the damage done. Even now, three months later, I still regret being unable to help him, protect him. I lived with inner pain of my own kind.
"Don't worry about it," he'd told me. "They didn't get us."
I kept my guilt to myself after that. He had enough on his plate without me adding to it.
We both tried to make each other feel better, make it easier to get through it and put it behind us so we could get back to normalcy—our work, our friends, our better lives.
What I wanted to tell him but held back was that if he had died because I failed him…well, I don't like to think of the possibilities.
I'd like to think that I could have remained strong, reliable, positive—that's me. That's Hutch. The one everyone knows and expects.
But the death of my best friend because I hadn't protected him would have made me a different Hutch.
I don't pray often, but I do for him.
It took a few weeks, but my despair turned into joy. The stronger he got, the stronger I got-each recovery point a victory, from getting out of bed to get into a wheelchair, to standing on his own, to walking across the floor without my help.
"Hey, Starsk!" I said knocking on his door.
I could have gone on in, but didn't want him to think that I thought he was a helpless invalid. He needed to be up and about, and I had to hand it to him—he never once felt sorry for himself or said why me.
Once in a while he'd say "You okay, blondie?", and I assured him I was.
Seeing him on the mend was a precious gift—all I needed in order to be okay.
I patiently waited for him to come to the door, and when he did, I saw that he had company of the female persuasion; a former girlfriend named Lana.
"Um," I said setting his medicine, magazine, and candy on the coffee table, "good to see you again, Lana, but this clearly is more than a social call…"
Lana was a pretty brunette with long flowing locks, and kind, expressive eyes, plus a sweet personality. She'd wanted to go into police work, but her policeman boyfriend Randall wouldn't allow it, told her it was too dangerous, so she opted to work in a crisis shelter helping victims of domestic violence, which had its own kind of danger, but different from police work.
Right now it looked as if she needed some protection herself. One side of her face was bruised and swollen, and she looked a little disheveled, as if she were running on fumes.
I knew that look, from the hundreds of abused women we encountered.
In time, if she didn't get help, the life in her eyes would fade to apathy, and she would feel like she wasn't worth saving anymore.
Starsky sat next to her on the sofa, strapping a small pistol to her ankle. He'd changed from his of-late fleece track suit into jeans and a red T-shirt.
"Dobey's got a few uniforms looking for Randall," he said as he leaned forward to pull on his sneakers.
"Good," I said as I touched Lana's un-bruised cheek. "I'll take you to an anonymous shelter where—"
"She's stayin' here," Starsky told me as he rose to his feet.
The small effort of putting on his shoes winded him, but he ignored it.
I took his arm and steered him, gently, toward the bedroom, where I closed the door and turned him around to face me.
"This is not a good idea, Starsk."
He tersely pulled his arm from my grip.
"He knows all of the shelters. He threatened to kill her. She'll be safest here. I always told her if she ever needed help leaving him, she could count on me—"
My heart pounded like a drum in my chest, my breath came hard.
"Starsk, I love what you're trying to do for her, but buddy, you don't need this right now. The doctors haven't cleared you for duty, Dobey won't allow it, and you're just now back on your feet—"
"My duty," he said firmly, "is to my friends," and went back into the living room.
He needed to rest up a while longer before playing the dark prince again, but clearly this was something he needed to do.
To help Lana, yes. But maybe to also become himself again.
I followed him into the living room.
"Lana," I said as Starsky loaded his gun and placed it on the coffee table amongst his medicine, magazines, tissues, water glass, and candy. "I'll get him, and bring him in, but you have to do your part if you want him out of your life for good. You have to press charges, file a restraining order, testify against him, and have no contact with him in the future, whatsoever. If you do, you're just back to square one, and he'll abuse you again."
It was the same spiel over and over. No matter how many times we cautioned the victims, lectured, rescued—most of them returned to the abuse, like a homing pigeon.
Starsky and I looked at each other, and he gave a nod of thanks: He would protect her here at his place while I went out looking for Randall.
Getting Randall off the street and behind bars was the best way to help all of us.
It wasn't easy bringing in a fellow cop—someone in our own department. It was always met with resistance from the brass-that silent vow most took to protect one another. And even harder when an abused woman can't or won't follow through, but this was long overdue and something had to be done.
Starsky took instant Polaroids of her injuries, and a statement, while I called Dobey from Starsky's phone.
"We need to pick up Randall Jackson today, Captain. Lana is willing to take it all the way."
I resisted the urge to call Huggy over to sit with Lana and Starsky. My partner was determined to help her, with or without my involvement. Better that I help too, than for something to go wrong.
"Okay," I said as I headed for the door. "You two stay safe."
Suddenly she ran to me and flung her arms around my neck.
"Thank you, Ken. I really will do what I have to do this time."
I gave her a hug and said, "Good girl."
I took the Polaroids and statement to Captain Dobey.
"Uniforms get him yet?" I asked as I handed him at least two of the pieces that would build the case.
"Nowhere to be found. He knows what's going down. He's on the run. We need to get that girl into protective custody."
"Starsky won't hear of it."
"Well I'm his boss, so he doesn't have a choice."
"She knows Randall can get to her anywhere. I mean, just about anywhere. Starsky has it under control."
"Does he now? He isn't even allowed to drive a car yet."
So much for covering for my partner. The captain knew too much about Starsky's condition.
"Go to his place and bring that girl here, and if you don't, Hutchinson, I will."
In a way I was glad Dobey slammed the gavel down. As I took the elevator down to the parking garage, I began to wish that I had done so myself. But sometimes loyalty begets poor judgment, in friendship and police work.
On the way to his place, I stopped by Huggy's to see if he'd seen Randall or heard anything.
Zero.
So I drove on to Starsky's, deciding that I would just take her by the arm and lead her out, whether he liked it or not.
But when I reached the top of his stairs, everything just kind of froze.
Someone—Randall obviously—had kicked the door completely in, and Starsky was lying on his back near the coffee table.
"Oh my God," I breathed as I ran to him and dropped to my knees next to him to check him out.
His face was bruised and cut from a bad beating, and he was moaning, drifting toward unconsciousness.
He'd put up quite a fight to protect her.
"Hey," I said turning his face toward me, patting it a little. "Hold on, Starsk. I'll call an ambulance. Help's coming."
His glassy eyes gazed at me, his right hand gripping my wrist, determined to whisper "Randall took her" before he finally passed out.
The ambulance, some uniforms, and Huggy arrived in just minutes, so I could safely leave Starsky's side to go after Randall, but before I did, I leaned over the gurney Starsky was on and gave his hand a squeeze.
"See you at the hospital, buddy," I said, then ran out the door.
I drove like a madman toward Randall's house. Chances were fifty-fifty that he was there. He could have taken Lana on the run, maybe to some family members, maybe to some old friends, or even a fellow officer that owed him a favor.
But I had to start my search there at his place. It could provide a wealth of clues—addresses, phone numbers, etc.-as to where the two of them may have gone.
A couple of black and whites were arriving just as I jumped out of the car and pulled my piece.
"Randall!" I yelled as I hoofed it up his stairs. "Come here!"
I was ready for anything—a fistfight, a shootout, an ambush, an arrest.
Ready for anything except what I found once I kicked the door in and ran inside: Lana huddled in the corner, her back against the wall, Starsky's small pistol still in her hands. And Randall lying dead on the floor in a pool of blood with half of his head gone, his own gun inches away.
A bullet hole was in the wall beside her head where he had fired at her and missed.
Her faraway gaze was fixed on his body.
I carefully moved toward her with my hand out.
"It's okay, honey," I said gently taking the gun from her. "It's over. He can't hurt you anymore."
"I'm sorry," she sobbed into my shoulder as I lifted her to her feet. "Randall had him on the floor, and Dave tried to fight back, but Randall kept punching him, and punching him. I went with Randall to make him stop hurting him. We got here, he started to…he started throwing me around, aiming his gun at me. He shot at me. I had to shoot him, Ken, I had to. I love him but I had to."
"I know," I said as I walked her out the door. "I think Starsky's going to be okay. He's at the hospital."
She was a mess, but hearing Starsky was alive and receiving medical treatment brought her around.
She nodded and leaned against me.
After helping her into the passenger seat, I talked to the uniforms and made a call over the car radio to Dobey.
I wrapped a blanket around her and left her at the precinct talking to the captain, then went to see Starsky at the hospital.
He was in better condition than I expected, alert and talking to the doctors and nurses.
He put his hand out to me when I walked up to his bed, and I gripped it.
How's Lana? his eyes asked as he tried to raise his head.
"Shaken, but okay," I told him, and he relaxed back onto the pillow in relief. "Clear case of self-defense. How about you?"
"You know me," he said with a small smile. "Hard head."
"In more ways than one," I smiled back. "In more ways than one."
The End