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Broken Doll-Chapter 7

Though his temperature was nearly normal, and he was beginning to feel human again, nightmares still plagued Starsky's sleep. The same visions appeared over and over; the dead woman, Elizabeth, pleading for help, and the ghostly corpse clawing its way towards him. In his dream he ran from them both, but his legs were thick and felt as if he were dragging them through tar.

He woke several times, vaguely realizing he was awake and safe, and then, once again succumbed to sleep, haunted by his visions.

At about 6 AM he woke panting and covered in sweat. He could hear Hutch banging around in the kitchen, and, despite his fatigue, decided to join his friend for breakfast.

Sleep wasn't bringing the rest he longed for.

O0O

Starsky felt somewhat better after showering, and even managed to pull on a clean pair of sweats and an old shirt. Hey, he thought, at this rate, maybe I can go back to work tomorrow. He walked toward the kitchen in search of Hutch and instead found a note attached to the front of the fridge with a magnet:

Starsk,

Went in to finish reports -before Dobey misses them.

Soup is on the stove. Eat!

See you tonight.

Hutch

In the kitchen he ate a bowl of the minestrone soup Hutch left simmering on the stove. After, he retreated back to the couch to watch some television while waiting for Minnie to call with the information he requested on Peter Hanley.

He woke several hours later to a ringing phone and a pounding in his head. He grabbed the receiver unsteadily and was having trouble holding onto it, dropping it several times. When he finally spoke, a full minute had passed.

"Shit, umm…sorry, h-hello?"

"Starsk? You okay?" Hutch voiced his concern.

"Yeah, I was asleep…I dropped the damn phone." Starsky spoke in a sleep-slurred voice.

"I was worried. Minnie came into the office to say she'd been trying to call you for an hour. I thought I'd give it a try before panicking." Hutch added a soft laugh to the last part, obviously relieved that it was just fatigue.

"Guess I was really out of it. Anyway, what'd she find out?" He brushed a hand through his curly hair, trying to wake up.

"This Hanley turkey was married with children when he was messing around with the victim. Other than that, he's had a few parking violations, an unpaid speeding ticket, but nothing indicative of a violent nature shows up in any records. His alibi seems to stand up, too, Starsk."

Starsky was awake now, and trying to get back into cop mode despite a headache that was beginning to throb in his temples. "Did…uh…Minnie say where Hanley lives now?"

"Yeah, Rose Heights," Hutch replied, indicating a local cemetery. "He died in '68 of heart failure….you know what, Starsk? I'm almost done with our reports. I think I'll call it a day and head over to your place. We can talk about the case over dinner. How does pizza sound?"

"Pizza sounds good. Could you bring some pop, too?" He smiled, knowing Hutch was leaving work early to check up on him.

"Sure, I'll see you in an hour."

Starsky hung up the phone and hurried into the kitchen to take his forgotten antibiotics. Knowing Hutch, he mused, he'll count the pills.

O0O

An hour later, Hutch watched Starsky pick at the greasy pepperoni on a slice of pizza he was pretending to eat, and shook his head. He knew Starsky wasn't fully recovered though his partner tried hard to conceal it. His best friend was stubborn, mulish even. So he was not surprised when Starsky informed him that he would be returning to work in the morning. Hutch tried to object, but when Starsky got an idea in his curly head, there was not much anyone could do to talk him out of it. Besides, Hutch missed having his partner on the street next to him.

"Starsky, I know you're not eating the pizza, so stop pretending. I can make you some soup. There's another can in the cupboard."

"Na, I'm not really hungry." He put the plate on the table and wiped his oily fingers on his napkin. "Some root beer would be nice, though, and a couple aspirin."

Hutch complied and carried the frothy drink over to the couch where Starsky was sitting. He handed the glass to Starsky and sat down heavily next to him with a sigh.

"Hard day?" Starsky asked through a root beer moustache.

Hutch smiled fondly and pointed to his friend's lip, offering Starsky a Kleenex. "Too much pizza, it's making me sleepy."

"It doesn't make me sleepy."

"Your stomach has obviously built up a tolerance for fatty foods. Just think of my body as a high performance car, Starsk. I use the best fuel available to keep my body in this great shape." Hutch flexed his arm muscle in show. "Unlike you, who is a jalopy, my friend. A jalopy." Hutch patted Starsky's belly for emphasis.

Starsky knocked the hand from his belly with an exaggerated frown and replied, "It's not fair to pick on a man who's down, Hutch…I'm hurt. I'm really hurt."

Hutch let out a guffaw and threw his arm around the smaller man's neck, pulling him into a sideways hug. Soon both men were laughing and relaxed. Rather than spoil the evening by talking about the case, the detectives decided to spend a quiet evening watching "Hawaii Five-O" and "Serpico." Just after eleven, Starsky pushed himself off the couch and retrieved blankets for Hutch.

"You know, Hutch, we're nothing like Serpico. And those Hawaiian turkeys? Get real. Dobey would never let us get away with that crap," he reflected as he walked into his room.

Hutch stretched his long legs out on the couch and reached behind himself to fluff his pillow. "You're right…I'm more like McCloud and you're kinda more like… Columbo."

"Smart ass," Starsky replied from the door way as he chucked a chair cushion at the blond's head. "Night, Hutch."

"Night, Columbo." Hutch covered his head to avoid the final cushion lobbed at his body.

O0O

The next morning Starsky woke with a thick cough and headed into his bathroom in search of aspirin for his pounding head. He climbed into the steamy shower hoping to feel and look more human. A quick glance at his muscular body proved the bruises and scratches were beginning to heal and fade, along with the fear that had consumed him such a short time ago. After toweling off, Starsky grabbed his razor and began slowly removing the thick stubble that covered his chin. He looked at himself closely in the mirror, disappointed to see shadowy circles still darkening his eyes. Terrific. Try and slip that past Hutch, he thought. After brushing his unruly hair, he went into the living room to wake the sleeping blond. He was pleasantly surprised, though, to discover that Hutch was already awake and brewing fresh coffee.

"I heard that cough, buddy. Are you sure you're feeling up to work today?" Hutch asked as he handed Starsky an empty cup. Starsky filled it to the top with steaming liquid and proceeded to dump in several teaspoons of sugar.

"Yeah, my throat's just a little dry," he lied.

"Okay." Hutch sounded doubtful. "Well then, I guess I'd better get dressed so we're not late for work." Hutch retreated into the bathroom leaving Starsky alone in the kitchen with his feelings of guilt. He hated lying to Hutch, but if telling the truth meant staying home another day, well, he'd just have to lie…and keep feeling guilty. He and watched with an amused look as Starsky pivoted from foot to foot trying to control his excitement about going back to work.

"What's wrong Starsk? Ants in your pants?" Hutch smiled at his anxious partner.

"Come on, Hutch," Starsky pulled the taller man's sleeve in order to hurry him along, "We're going to be late."

"I haven't had breakfast yet…" he replied, trying—unsuccessfully—to snatch a banana.

Starsky grabbed their guns and pushed Hutch out the door. "We can grab something on the way in."

"Yeah, okay. But go somewhere I can get a bran muffin, will ya?"

O0O

As the detectives finished their last call and were returning to the office, the sky was just beginning to darken and mountain-like black clouds were threatening rain. Starsky was feeling the long day in his overly-tired muscles and burning lungs, but he had been able to stifle his cough most of the day. Mostly. He excused himself and went into the men's room for another swig of the horrible but effective cough syrup. When he returned, Hutch was on the phone and signaling wildly at Starsky. Curious, Starsky moved to his partner's side and leaned down to listen in on the strange conversation.

"Whatever you can remember will be fine," Hutch assured into the phone.

"Well, I just don't know if I can tell you any more than you already know," the woman replied.

To Starsky's questioning look, Hutch mouthed, Betty Talbert. Starsky's eyes got wide with understanding.

"I realize it's been a long time, ma'am, but-"

"That poor woman. It was horrible what happened to her. Horrible."

"Yes, ma'am, that's why we'd like to talk to you, to-" Hutch was unsuccessfully trying to talk to the overwrought woman.

"Oh, my, yes, yes, yes. By all means. Anything I can do to help. I'm not really sure how, but I will try."

"Thank you, Mrs. Talbert. Would-"

"Did you say you were a detective, young man?"

"Yes, ma'am. Now would-"

"I have a single daughter, you know. Lovely. Just lovely, she is."

"I'm sure she is, ma'am. Now about tonight-" Hutch rolled his eyes when he was once again interrupted.

"She's a police officer, too, you know."

"Yes, ma'am. Would this evening around eight be alright?"

"Oh?"

"To talk about the case, ma'am."

"Oh….Oh, yes, just fine. It's just me at home these days. Now that Fred's gone. Bless his soul. Eight would be fine."

"Okay, we'll see you then. Thank you, Mrs. Talbert." Hutch quickly hung up and looked at Starsky who was grinning widely. "What's so funny?"

"You sure have a way with women, partner. Let's just hope you can get her to talk like that tonight." Starsky grabbed a stale donut and cold bitter coffee from the top of Hutch's desk and sat down to begin reviewing the case. Twenty minutes passed before either man spoke.

"Hey, Starsk?" Starsky recognized the tone of his voice—Hutch was onto something. "What do we know about serial killers?"

"What do you mean?" Starsky replied, unsure what direction Hutch was taking.

"I mean, do they begin their careers as experienced killers and then they just keep on killing without escalating…"

"…Or do they practice on victims, making mistakes along the way, until they have a set MO?" Starsky thought of the implication for a moment. "Shit! Why didn't I think of that earlier?"

Hoping to ease his friend's self-rebuke, Hutch answered softly, "I don't know, buddy. Maybe it was because you were a little preoccupied with getting well. Anyway, we thought of it now." He quickly returned to the subject of the case. "Why don't you see if Frank can pull any reports of any similar attacks, say, the last 30 years, and I'll go down into the archives and see what's left of the evidence boxes from this case."

Unsure why he suddenly felt drawn to the basement, Starsky told Hutch he would go. Hutch looked taken aback at first; sure his still sick partner would choose the easier task of calling Frank. Shrugged his surprise off, Hutch decided Starsky knew what he was doing and picked up the phone to call Frank.

O0O

As he reached the bottom of the archive stairs, a crushingly dank smell caused Starsky to reconsider his unpleasant task, but the voice of the officer on duty gave him the incentive to continue.

"Welcome back, Sergeant."

"Thanks, Taylor. Where can I find -"

(Give a big welcome to the Hank Dobson Band!)

(Clap, clap, clap!)

Starsky looked in amazement at the scene before him. The basement archive was no longer full of boxes; it was now 1946, and he was standing in a nightclub, complete with laughter and dancing and drinks. Balloons toppled from the ceiling and big band music filled the air along with popping party favors and champagne corks. He smiled faintly.

Cigarette smoke hung thick in the air, and loud, drunken laughter boomed through the club. Couples sat in booths petting and drinking, while larger groups gathered round tables on the edge of the dance floor, chatting loudly.

"I'm glad to see you're back, Sergeant." A dark-haired woman floated gracefully up and placed her thin arms around the detective's neck. "I missed you." Her richly deep-red lips pressed against his willing mouth in a warm welcome. He felt aroused by her tantalizing stroke, and kissed her back pressing his hard body against her supple form. She relaxed against his strong arms, and drew him closer into a deep kiss.

"Elizabeth," he said breathlessly when they parted. "You're more beautiful than the last time I saw you. Care to dance with a soldier?"

He took her porcelain-like hand in his and led Elizabeth to the dance floor. Several couples were already swaying to the music of the band, while others watched from the surrounding tables. The clatter of glasses and mumble of voices mixed with the resonance of the band added to the liveliness of the party.

"When'd you get back, Tommy?"

"Just this afternoon. I was hoping to find you here," he whispered to her as his mouth slowly nibbled her ear.

"Oh? To talk about how our relationship ended? I think we've said enough, don't you?" With that she angrily turned her head and pushed away from her dance partner.

He roughly grabbed her arm and pulled her back towards him, looking deeply into her eyes. Her breath was hot on his face and he soaked it in, longingly. "I was wrong for leaving. I love you, Elizabeth."

"You said you'd never leave again. You said you'd leave the service. But you left me, Tommy. You lied and you left. I think you've already proven to me what's more important to you."

"I understand you're angry. You've every right to be. It was the job, the war, Beth, but I asked for an early release today. I'm getting out of the Air Corps, and I want you to marry me. I love you, Beth, more than anything. I know that now."

"You're really getting out?" She ran her red-painted nails over the ribbons on his uniform, causing him to shiver.

"Really, sweetheart. I promise." Holding her face in his strong hands, he passionately kissed her mouth his tongue tasting the sweetness of her lips. He had no idea what time it was, but he was with a beautiful woman, and time didn't matter.

They danced in each other's arms for what seemed like hours. Couples came and went from the dance floor, completely unnoticed by the attractive young couple lost in each other. Elizabeth ran one hand under his jacket, the other she slid around his muscled abdomen and down to the bulge in his slacks, grasping him firmly in her hand. He pulled her tighter, feeling the heat build in his groin, his breath quickening. His tongue urged her lips apart as his hand longingly cupped her breast, running his thumb around her awakened nipple. She let out a small gasp of pleasure as they both began to climax together.

A low ringing began in his ears and grew painfully louder. Sweat bled down his face. He was becoming dizzy and the club became a murky haze of smoke. The whole room was beginning to spin as if he was drunk. He drew in a deep and sudden mouthful of air but couldn't rid himself of the suffocating ringing that was drilling into his skull.

"Tommy, are you alright? The faint voice of Elizabeth called to him. He felt her slipping away, but was unable to grasp her. He continued to reach out, clutching at the fading figure, until she was all but a light mist.

"Tommy?" The voice grew fainter as the buzzing grew louder. He desperately reached out to her, but she seemed to fade into the droning noise that was beating in his ears and head.

He needed to vomit…he was sick, and the noise was pulsating in his throbbing head. His chest began to feel tight and saliva began to pool in his mouth. His arms grew heavy.

"Sergeant? Sergeant?" Another faint voice joined Elizabeth's. "Sergeant? Sergeant? Are you alright? Sir?"

Starsky rapidly blinked his eyes trying to clear his head and swallowed. He was at the top of the basement stairs, and in his arms he held a heavy, brown evidence box.

"Um, yeah." Starsky looked down the long white hallway trying to remember where he had been. "Just, uh, dizzy for a minute," he mumbled to the concerned officer as he walked slowly back to the squad room, stopping at the drinking fountain on the way.

To Be Continued