"Is it suppose to make that squishy sound?"

Starsky shifted his weight anxiously, swallowing the hard lump of nausea in his throat. He looked at Hutch, who was on the opposite side of the metal examining table.

Bill Riley, the no-nonsense medical examiner who presumed everyone knew as much about anatomy as he did, looked at Starsky over his glasses. "Mr. Bandy is dead, detective. The sounds his body makes are out of his control."

Hutch raised one eyebrow and tried to hide a smirk.

Starsky huffed quietly and scuffed his shoe on the gray tile floor, trying his best to not look at the body laying open on the table before him. The smell of formaldehyde and death lingered heavily in the air and Starsky rubbed his nose. He wanted to leave. "So what can you tell us?"

Bill stretched back the large flap of skin that belonged over Bandy's ribs and pointed. "He died of massive blunt trauma, probably from hitting the steering wheel. The impact cracked six ribs and punctured both his lungs. I removed almost one gallon of blood from his chest cavity. This man drowned almost instantly."

Hutch made a small sympathetic sound. "What a way to go, huh?"

Bill shoved the flap of skin back over Bandy's torso and Starsky jumped back as juices splattered. "The interesting thing," Bill continued, peeling back a different area of skin, "Is this man's liver. See that?"

Starsky winced as he leaned forward, trying to see what Bill was pointing at without actually moving closer.

Bill was tapping an oblong organ the color of mud. "A normal liver isn't this big, and is much darker in color. This," he said with a particularly hard jab, "is what we call a 'fatty liver'."

"Fatty liver?" Starsky echoed, trying to ignore the squishing sounds. How was fat important?

Hutch blinked, his eyes still glued to the body on the table. Quietly, he said, "A precursor to cirrhosis."

"Exactly," Bill nodded. Starsky's eyes were glued to Hutch, who was doing his best to avoid eye contact as Bill continued, "I ran a sample of blood and although the results may be a little off, this man had a blood alcohol level of at least .10."

Starsky connected the dots quickly. "He was drunk?"

"Yes."

"Well how do you like that," Starsky growled. "A drunk bus driver." He shook his head, feeling his muscles grow tight. "He deserves what he got."

"Starsky," Hutch warned lowly, and Starsky tried to compose himself.

And failed.

"He put 23 kids in the hospital, Hutch," Starsky argued. "He killed two men. And why, because he was drunk?" Starsky felt what little composure he had come undone and Hutch looked away. "No, I say he deserves it."

"He was more than drunk," Bill interrupted, closing the body. "He was an alcoholic."

Starsky stared at the face of Tom Bandy, cold and white against the stainless steel he lay on. The bus driver had no previous criminal record of any type. He had been driving buses for the city for almost twenty years. He had family. What drove a man like that to the bottle? And what drove a man to act so carelessly when he held the lives of children in his hands?

Starsky raised his gaze to meet Hutch's. His partner's pale eyes radiated exhaustion and sadness. Starsky's own gaze softened at the sight, silently questioning Hutch.

Hutch only blinked and looked away.

"I hope you get some answers, detectives," Bill said, breaking the silence as he pulled a white sheet up over the body. "And please don't send me anyone else for a while, okay?"

The room seemed to brighten as the cadaver disappeared. Starsky took a step back towards the doors, not failing to notice how the air also became cleaner. "Thanks Riley. Good job."

The medical examiner merely waved them off as the detectives pushed through the swinging double doors and stepped into the hallway. Starsky looked at Hutch as the door swung shut. They were alone in the hallway, and something needed to fill the silence.

"You look a little green."

Hutch looked up. "Looking at human organs tends to do that to a person."

Starsky narrowed his eyes. "You're hiding something."

"No I'm not!"

Starsky watched as Hutch first held his gaze, then looked around the hallway, then began to shuffle his feet. Whatever Hutch wanted to say, he probably wasn't going to talk in the sterile hallway of a morgue. "You wanna go get something to eat?"

A small sigh, then, "Fine."

Together, they turned away from the morgue doors and headed for the stairs. "So this is an open and shut case, huh?" Starsky asked. "It's almost a shame Bandy died. I woulda liked to send him to prison."

"It's a disease, Starsky, the man couldn't help it."

"The man couldn't help it?" Starsky echoed, stopping on the step above Hutch and spinning to face him. "You were there, Hutch, you saw what he did to those children- those families! How can you defend that creep?"

"I'm not defending him, I'm just explaining. Addiction is a powerful thing, you can't just-"

"No, stop right there. Do not project yourself into this. What Bandy did is nothing like what was done to you."

A haunting shadow passed behind those pale eyes and Starsky felt a twinge of empathy. Even after all these years, Hutch still had a Pavlovian response to the topic of Ben Forest. Starsky took a breath and started up the stairs again. He listened as Hutch followed, the sounds of their shoes scraping over concrete echoing in the stairwell. It seemed Hutch was experiencing some major haunts lately, and Starsky was a little at a loss on how to help. Moody Hutch was often a quiet Hutch, and trying to pry him open was about as hard as getting him to eat fast food.

The thought made Starsky's stomach rumble. They reached the top of the stairs and made their way outside. "Let's swing by Huggy's for some lunch and then we'll head back to the station to type up our reports. I can't do paperwork on an empty stomach."

Starsky felt Hutch raise an eyebrow. "You can't do paperwork period."

He smiled as Hutch moved up beside him. "That's why I keep you around, partner." Hutch's dark, overhead clouds seemed to recede for the moment and Starsky enjoyed his partner's jabs. They reached the Torino and Starsky slid into the passenger seat, wincing at the heat that stung him even through his jeans.

Beside him, Hutch had a similar reaction. "Jeez Starsk, you still think the black leather is such a good idea? Would it kill you to throw a towel down or something?"

"That would be an insult to the countless assembly line workers who put this car together," Starsky replied, starting the engine and turning the air conditioning up as far as it would go. A blast of stagnant hot air met them face-first and both detectives turned away.

"At least park in the shade or something," Hutch whined, rolling down the window and trying to dispel the hot air.

Starsky looked around them, seeing nothing but pavement and office buildings. "There is no shade when you live in the concrete jungle." He shifted into drive and with a lurch, pulled out into the street. His hands danced over the hot steering wheel in an effort to avoid blisters. This was possibly the worst heat wave in fifty years, and the end was nowhere in sight.

Finally, the air turned cold and Starsky relaxed into the seat. "Maybe we'll get a couple days off when this is all over," he said hopefully, glancing at Hutch. "We could go to Alaska or something."

Hutch snorted as he wiped the back of his hand across his forehead. "And what would you do in Alaska?"

"Nothing, dummy, that's the point. We could just… chill out."

"That's clever."

"Thanks."

"Tell you what," Hutch started, angling the side vent a couple degrees to the left, "If you can get Dobey to approve a vacation, I'll go with you anywhere."

Starsky grinned. "I'm holding you to that."

"Fine." Quietly, Hutch added, "Good luck."

A few minutes later, they arrived at the Pits. The mid-day crowd was fairly large, and finding a parking place required a bit of an effort. Heat waves licked at their calves from the black-top parking lot, and Starsky felt that if he stopped moving, he would sink into the tar like it was quick sand.

And he would definitely hate to lose his favorite shoes.

A cold breeze met them as Starsky pulled open the restaurant's door. Although the cold air felt good, the dramatic temperature changes were starting to give him a headache. He followed as Hutch led the way to a couple of vacant bar stools and all but collapsed into the seat.

"Well well, if it ain't my two favorite cats," Huggy greeted as he placed two mugs of beer before them. "Tell me, is it still hot out there?"

"There's some guy with horns and a pitchfork running around out there," Starsky quipped as he latched onto the cold glass. "He's scaring away your customers. You might wanna do something about him."

Huggy chuckled and leaned onto the bar. "What can I get for you two this fine afternoon? To eat, I mean," he added, watching each of the detectives gulp the brew.

Starsky get his mug down one swallow sooner than Hutch. "I'll just take my usual. Extra onions."

Hutch cringed. "Not if I have to sit across from you all afternoon. Besides, how can you be hungry with the heat as bad as it is?"

Starsky looked to Huggy. "Bring him his usual too."

Huggy shook his head, smiling at the detectives. "I should just put it on the menu like that- The Starsky and Hutch Lunch Special."

Starsky watched him head to the kitchen and took another drink. "What's the heat got to do with my appetite, anyway?"

Hutch simply shook his head. "Forget it."

Starsky sighed and watched as Hutch dragged a finger around the top of his mug. So it was back to Moody Hutch, was it? The sooner he got Hutch talking, the sooner things would go back to normal between them. "So you gonna tell me what's bothering you?" Silently, he wondered, 'Why you're running so hot and cold lately?'

That is, aside from the accident yesterday.

Hutch shook his head once. "I told you, nothing."

"Bull."

Hutch let his hand drop and turned towards Starsky. "Starsky, I'm fine, okay? Forgive me for being a little depressed here, but not 24 hours ago, we were pulling children from a wrecked bus." He pushed the beer away a few inches. "Give me some time."

Starsky remained quiet for a few moments, studying his partner, and the way Hutch's words echoed in his skull. Was he simply being insensitive? Paranoid even? Sure the memories hurt Starsky as well- his heart was still bleeding- but there was a nagging suspicion that with Hutch, something larger was weighing upon his shoulders. And Starsky, the great detective, couldn't figure out what it was. He was frustrated.

"Alright," he yielded, slowing giving up. "Just don't forget, I'm right here… if you ever wanna talk, or anything."

"I know," Hutch replied, his voice just as soft yet perfectly audible over the buzz of the surrounding crowd.

Huggy soon returned with two plates of hot food. "Wish I could stay and chat fellas," Huggy said as he pushed the food towards them, "but I got more hungry mouths to feed. See ya round, okay?"

He was gone before Starsky could thank him.

Half an hour later, Starsky had all but licked his plate clean while Hutch was struggling to the half-way mark. Inwardly, Starsky recognized the sign as Red Flag #1, but he kept quiet. Hutch was a grown man, after all, and if he didn't feel like eating, then Starsky wasn't going to be the one to force-feed him. Let him wither away to nothing, that would teach him.

Starsky threw down his signature IOU, and the two made their way outside.

The wall of heat hit like a ton of bricks, and Starsky actually had to struggle for breath. This was ridiculous. "You know," he started as they crossed the parking lot- a.k.a. 'The Sierra', "You'd think that when people actually start dying from the heat, someone would figure out a way to cool everything down."

"I don't think it's that easy," Hutch started as Starsky opened the driver's side door.

"…Zebra Three, please respond."

Starsky snatched the mike. "Zebra Three here," he replied, leaning on the Torino's roof. A second later, intense pain exploded along his forearms and he jerked back, just now noticing the waves of heat rolling off the car.

Hutch smirked.

This time, Captain Dobey's voice came over the CB. "I want you two to head over to the impound lot. Forensics has something on the bus. You copy?"

Starsky's eyes lit up and for a moment, he forgot about his pounding head. "We're on it cap."

Starsky and Hutch slid into the Torino, this time expecting the burning leather, and Starsky replaced the mike. His heart beat faster as he gunned the engine.

Perhaps this case wasn't shut yet.

Maybe justice would be served.

With a small squeal, the Torino shouldered its way into the flow of traffic and headed for the garage.