Broken Doll-Chapter 16
Chapter 17
The attic was filled by the scent of old musty books and mildewed boxes, while dust floated gracefully through the shafts of light streaming from the dormer window. Starsky sneezed several times and cleared his throat of the very familiar tickle, wishing he'd accepted the hot coffee Hutch had brought up an hour ago. He was glad to be up here, though, away from all the noise and bustle that comes with the investigation of an unusual death, away from the body, away from the nasty smells. Deep in his mind, where it was more of a feeling than a thought, he wished Hutch was up here with him, rather than in the basement supervising the corpse removal. Next time, he would suggest they draw straws. But, maybe it was a good thing he was up here; his head was aching in a dull, throbbing sort of way, and all the activity on the floors below hadn't help.
Reaching for another document filled box, Starsky felt a layer of cold air surround him, bringing on a shiver. He opened the crumbling carton, spreading heavy dust and thick cobwebs onto his clothing, and pulled out more of the mildewed papers. So far, skimming through all the old documents, he'd learned that the house had been built in 1918 by Anthony Grippo for his wife Belinda. Anthony worked as a mortician and, for a time, the family basement was used to prepare bodies. In 1920, the family took over the local mortician's business and moved their own business into it. Although the family business explained all the mummified animals down in the basement, it provided nothing that would account for the slaughter of several women.
Starsky quickly looked through the stack of papers in his hand, noting it was more dry reading; documentation of burial plots, births, deaths, payments, debts, and taxes. Nothing is certain in life but death and taxes, he thought morosely. Frustrated and running on empty, he tossed the pile back into the box with a sigh. But as he leaned forward to retrieve more papers, he spotted a hardbound book covered with drawings of flowers. Curious, he picked the book up and ran his hand over the cover. No title was on the front or spine, but inside, very lightly written in a delicate print, were the words: Belinda Pasticcio, July 1, 1918. Starsky had found the old woman's diary. Excitedly he turned to the first page and began reading:
July 1, 1918
Father informed me today that I would be marrying the mortician's son. He is not a handsome man, 20 years my senior, and a widower. Thank God he has no children of his own; I would hate to be forced to raise the prodigy of another woman.
I will ask Mama if she can speak with Father.
July 10, 1918
The wedding is tomorrow. Mama says this will make Father happy, so I must do my duty as a daughter and marry Mr. Grippo. I will marry the old man, but I don't have to love him.
July 17. 1918
Last night was my first as a married woman. I tired to hold him off, frightened by what Mama told me I had to do now as a wife, but Mr. Grippo forced himself upon me. When he was done, I escaped to the wash room and attempted to clean off his smell. Mama didn't tell me how much the act would hurt, but I didn't cry. I didn't want to give him the satisfaction.
Starsky skipped several pages here and there, but was able to get a general feeling for whom this unhappy woman was. He felt drawn into the story and continued to read the account of Belinda giving birth to twins nine months from her wedding night. It was very obvious that the woman's hatred of her husband transferred to her children, but most notable was the fact that she never referred to them by name. The arranged marriage was miserable, and Belinda took it out on everyone around her, especially the children.
Starsky put the diary down and reached toward the box once more when he felt another cool chill settle around him. It's just a draft, he thought, observing his breath in the air. Blowing warm air into his hands, he moved again to reach into the box. He froze mid-reach when voices abruptly began whispering around him, at him, in him. Angry murmurs were shooting at him, one over another, too interwoven for the detective to understand verbatim, but the angry message was still clear; he was trespassing.
I am not hearing this, Starsky hoped as he covered his ears in an attempt to block the sounds. But it was too late, they were already in his head. He stumbled to a standing position, fighting the foreboding presence that seemed to be invading his mind.
"You are not real," he said loudly, attempting to drown out the dark chatter.
Falling to one knee, he gasped audibly as sharp pains slashed into his head. "Ahh, son of a…" He struggled, pulling himself upright once again and, with a shaky hand, dropped the diary back into its box. The pain was almost unbearable as the voices ripped into his skull. They were growing louder, if that was possible, and the blood coursing through his veins pounded to their beat.
Louder.
Louder.
A cold sweat wet his face and neck as he grabbed his head in a tight fisted grip.
"Go to hell!" he shouted, releasing his head as he lunged for the small box of papers.
Clutching it tightly against his chest, Starsky made his way to the door. If he could just make it down the attic steps…the floor began to sway, almost tossing him to the wooden floor. He regained his precarious balance, only to struggle against a weight on his legs. It was as though he was walking through viscid tar as he strained to lift his feet and move forward. Several minutes passed before Starsky realized he had only traveled a few feet toward the door. Exhausted and breathing heavily, he was almost ready to give in…almost. With a loud guttural roar, Starsky lunged with the last of his strength and reached the rim of the door with the fingers of his left hand. His bicep burned and his fingers ached as he pulled with all his might toward the stairwell. Without warning, the force released its hold, and Starsky lurched into the wooden door with a thud, then stumbling back and tripping over his own feet, he fell with a loud grunt onto his backside.
"Shit."
Gripping the box tighter against his chest, he stood and pulled open the heavy ornate door, dragging his shaking legs down the first step toward freedom. The voices were no longer just whispering loudly. Instead, they were now also shouting inside his throbbing skull until he was sure his brain would explode.
Dizziness was overwhelming him and the only way to keep himself from toppling head first down the steep stairs was by leaning on the banister, so he gripped the railing with his left hand and the wall with his shoulder, moving slowly and carefully forward. As he reached the last few steps, though, he felt a burning pain spread across his back. With a violent shove that snapped his head back, he was propelled forward, missing the next step completely. The box tumbled from his arms and bounced down the last few steps in a shower of papers. Starsky felt air underneath his feet, and the sensation of falling, and mentally braced for the impact with the ground which he was positive would be painful. Instead of the expected crash of his body toppling down the stairs, though, a pair of warm arms wrapped around him from the front, halting his descent.
The noise vanished and the pressure in his mind eased as he looked into the blue gaze of his partner.
Hutch held Starsky steady while the brunet gathered his balance. "Where's the fire, Starsk?"
"Huh?"
Hutch smiled and dusted off his partner's shoulder. "You came down those steps like you'd seen a ghost. I was just wondering what the hurry was."
"No ghost." He was beginning to doubt that anything unusual had happened, and chalked it up to his over active imagination and lack of sleep. "It's just creepy up there."
Well, that wasn't a lie; it was damn creepy in the attic. Besides, he was done looking through all the boxes, anyway.
Hutch seemed to accept the explanation because he didn't ask any follow up questions, much to Starsky's relief. "I was on my way up to get you. We have a problem."
Starsky knelt down and, with Hutch's help, gathered together all the papers and the diary, placing them carefully back into the container. "Yeah? Do I want to know what it is?"
"Probably not," Hutch admitted, but told him anyway. "Cathy Love is out front asking questions."
Dismayed eyes quickly darted up. "You're shitting me."
"I wish I was, buddy. But she and her whole news crew are out front and she isn't taking 'no' for an answer."
"How the hell does she always know when we're on to something? What is she, psychic?"
The blond detective snorted a laugh then made a gesture for his partner to exit the room first. "Once more into the breach..."
"Come on, Henry, we have a battle to win." Starsky took a deep breath as he stepped outside to confront the cameras.
O0O
The camera flashes were blinding as the two detectives stepped out into the night. Several news crews were now gathered at the scene, pushing against the yellow perimeter tape. Local deputies did their best to keep the media back but, nevertheless, Cathy Love pushed past the blockade and over to Starsky and Hutch. Hutch felt his stomach tighten as he took the first step into the fray.
"Detectives, what can you tell me about the body you discovered?"
"No comment," Hutch curtly replied, walking past the svelte reporter. Starsky marched next to him, trying to avoid any conversation with the news crews.
Cathy rushed after them, pushing a microphone into the blond's face. "Is this a murder investigation?"
Pushing the black microphone away, he answered Cathy once more, "No comment."
"Detective Starsky." She ran after the dark haired man as he rounded the front of his car. "Is it true you reopened the Elizabeth Short murder case? Is this a part of that investigation?"
Starsky turned toward the reporter but stopped as he caught sight of the cameraman. "Get it off me," he demanded as he pushed the lens angrily away. He then turned toward Cathy in a menacing stance Hutch knew all too well. "Who told you that?"
The redhead backed up a step, her heels sinking into the wet grass, but kept up with her interrogation. "Is it true, detective? Just answer the question."
"Fuck you, lady. I don't gotta answer shit for you." Hutch decided it was time to intervene and moved toward his partner, but not before the cameraman encountered Starsky's wrath once more. "I told you to get that thing offa me, damnit!"
The jean wearing camera operator stepped back to avoid Starsky's shove but, instead, tripped over Hutch's shoe, falling onto his backside in the now muddy lawn. Hutch didn't take the time to help the man up or apologize. He rushed over to a very angry Starsky as his partner took a threatening step toward the pushy woman. Apparently, Starsky hated reporters more than he did.
Starsky stuck a pointed finger directly in front of her nose and spoke in a soft, barely restrained voice. "What idiot told you the case was reopened?"
Hutch cringed at her reply. "Thank you for confirming that the case is reopened, Dave." She smiled smugly while Hutch darted in between her and his angry partner.
"Lady, if I were you, I'd back off," Hutch said, praying one of them would come to their senses and leave before causing more trouble. From the burning glare in Starsky's eyes, Hutch didn't hold out much hope that his partner would be the one to back down.
"I didn't confirm anything, Cathy. And, if you report that I did, so help me I'll shove that microphone so far up your-"
"Starsky!" Hutch grabbed his partner by the arm and pulled him to the side. "Just let it drop, Starsk. She's goading you into saying something you shouldn't, and you know it. You know how she works."
Hutch felt his partner's shoulders relax as Starsky nodded his acceptance of the retreat. He let go of Starsky's arm and turned back toward the passenger side of the Torino.
"I didn't know you were the type to run away from conflict, detective," was the snide retort from the reporter as she tucked a stray hair behind her ear.
Hutch stopped in his tracks just as his partner turned with a look of fury coloring his face. Dreading what was about to happen, Hutch used his long legs to cut Starsky off at the pass. "Whoa, partner. Just let it go." Standing in front of Starsky, he pressed his hands against the stiff shoulders.
"I ain't gonna hurt her," Starsky said as if the idea was completely impossible. "I just wanna clear a few things up with this b…uh…lady." Starsky struggled to get past Hutch's strong block.
Hutch, too, had had enough of the reporter. No one messed with his partner if he had anything to say about it and, in this case-he had something to say. "I suggest you back away before I let my companion here go. Because, lady, you just crossed the line and my partner isn't too happy about it. In fact, I'd say he's pretty damn pissed about it. And when he's pissed, I can't be responsible for his actions." Starsky lifted his upper lip in a menacing sneer and pushed harder against the blond. "I can't hold him much longer…"
Shaken up by the threatening look on Starsky's face and the exaggeration from Hutch, Cathy backed away. But when Hutch turned toward the car behind him, a fist smashed into his face, knocking him to the ground. He immediately pinched his nose to stop the copious bleeding. "Whad the hell?" his muffled voice questioned.
That was it for Starsky. He'd been holding back because that's what Hutch wanted, but now a punch had been thrown and Hutch wasn't there to stop him. In fact, Hutch was on the damp, muddy ground trying to stop the flow of crimson on his face. Starsky was out for revenge.
"Come 'ere, you son of a bitch," Starsky spoke through clenched teeth as he stood toe to toe with the camera man.
Hutch guessed the camera guy didn't know what he'd gotten himself into. Who knew, maybe the turkey was just dumb. As much as he now craved revenge, though, he hoped the uniformed officers running in their direction could get to his partner before he gave the guy any permanent damage.
In a flash, Starsky plowed into the tall, heavy set man, sending them both toppling over into the mud. Earth and grass flew in all directions as both men rolled around the drenched ground, fists flying, until Hutch could no longer discern who was whom and which fist was what. He was pretty sure, though, that Starsky was the one on top pummeling the guy below.
Cops arrived just seconds after the fray began and attempted to pull the two combatants apart. At first it appeared there would be no surrender, but eventually the men were parted. Starsky required extra restraint, and was held with his arms behind his back while he endeavored to break free, muttering colorful curses under his breath.
"Cool down, Sergeant. It's over." The older officer waited until the struggling stopped and the body relaxed before he let go.
Starsky straightened his jacket as best he could and dropped on the ground next to Hutch with a grunt of pain.
"Dobey's gonda kill us." Hutch exaggerated while mopping up the blood that still ran in a trickle down his chin. He knew he was overstating his captain's reaction, maybe, but he'd been the brunt of Dobey's angry outbursts far too often to not know the man had a temper.
"Hasn't stopped bleeding, huh?" the mud encrusted man asked, closely inspecting the swelling nose and blackening eyes.
"I thing ids broked." Hutch knew it had to be if the unstoppable flow of blood was any indication.
"Damn," Starsky swore dejectedly.
"Id's not your fault, you know." Hutch knew that his partner tended to carry around all the ills of the world on his shoulders, and it was especially bad if Hutch got hurt. Usually nothing he could say would make the guilt go away, but he knew Starsky appreciated the gesture, anyway.
Sorrowful blue eyes looked up nullifying the smile that appeared on his lips. "Ain't we a pretty sight?"
Hutch nodded, causing his eyes to involuntarily water at the ache it caused in his throbbing face.
Starsky stood rigidly and limped toward the medical examiner. "Wait here," he ordered through pain clenched teeth. Moments later when he returned, he was carrying gauze, rubbing alcohol, and white tape. Hutch swallowed deeply, trying to ignore the raw pain shooting through his face as Starsky carefully wiped the drying blood away. Suddenly, his partner's icy hand was at the back of his neck. "Hey, you okay?" he heard Starsky ask as he closed his eyes to fight off the tears of pain threatening to fall.
"Yeah," Hutch answered in a soft nasal like voice he didn't recognize as his own. He shuddered and tears fell as Starsky pushed gauze into his nostrils and then used tape to hold it in place. At that moment, he realized that his best friend, freezing and covered from head to toe in mud and in obvious discomfort, was scared, scared for him. He reached up and held Starsky's wrist before he could pull away. "I'm alright, partner, really." It's you I need to worry about, buddy; you need a hot shower before you die of pneumonia. And that's what Hutch planned to do; take his partner home, get him cleaned up, fed and tucked away for a long night of much needed rest. After all, he'd probably need it after Captain Dobey caught the late news….
To Be Continued