Typewriter
Captain Dobey
Sergeant's David Starsky and Kenneth Hutchinson are two of the most talented cops I've had the pleasure to work with while serving on the police force. I'll never admit this to their faces. Not, at least, unless one or the other of them is on his deathbed.
They are that rare breed of man that operates best in the face of adversity. What they need to produce results is a captain that rides them hard and puts them away wet, if you'll pardon the expression. But I only learned this peculiar characteristic after I made the mistake of complimenting the two of them one too many times.
It'd been a spectacular week. They'd worked their way up a food chain of suspects, knocking 'em down and putting 'em away with stellar police work. Every "i" dotted, and every "t" crossed. For the first time in the career of their partnership I was getting daily reports, in triplicate, on my desk before I left for home.
That should have been my first clue. I should have put 2 and 2 together and realized that daily reports meant those two had too much time on their hands. But, like a fool, I considered it the turning over of a new leaf and was settling back into the idea of everything going right when...well..it started with Starsky.
At two in the morning on a Friday I got a call that someone had left a can of shaving cream, primed and loaded, in Starsky's desk. But instead of the sergeant getting a face full of foam, one of our night clerks got it in the eye while she was hunting for a sharpened pencil.
A harmless prank, but for a little eye irritation. I overlooked it of course, but I shouldn't have.
The next morning Starsky was at his desk, cleaning out the messy drawer and far too cheerful about it. Not only was he cheerful. He was helpful. Anytime one of my men so much as glanced at the coffee maker Starsky was up and offering them a cup of joe like a diner waitress.
Strange behavior, no doubt, but something that was eventually ignored. When Hutchinson arrived looking all together too cheerful himself, he received his own cup of coffee. Only Starsky had drilled a hole in the bottom of the cup and Hutchinson nearly burned a hole in his britches.
By the end of the day there were rumors flying around that Starsky had almost had his foot trampled by one of Hutchinson's tires, and Hutch, in return, couldn't locate his keys.
A harmless, live garter snake was reportedly hidden in Starky's bed, upsetting his weekend plans. Hutchinson's Sunday picnic with his girl came to an abrupt end when the sprinkler system at the municipal park was prematurely activated.
By Monday the two partners, normally able to trust each other with their lives, were walking paranoid circles around one another. Suddenly the reports were lagging, some of their street work was getting sloppy. I even got a call from one of their girlfriends, asking if I knew what was wrong with the two of them.
I'd had about enough myself and by Wednesday had ordered the two of them directly to my office the minute they stepped into the precinct. They seemed to know what was coming and spent most of the day out on the street, running down leads. In the end I never did talk to Starsky.
He'd taken a clout on the head while the two men were arresting two male mules dressed as old women. Starsky had been treated and taken home by his partner. I got a verbal report from Hutchinson while the man sat at their conjoined desks fiddling with his partner's typewriter.
We had a heart-to-heart, and I made it clear, in no uncertain terms, that I expected the two to knock off the shenanigans. Hutch assured me that they were just blowing off steam and now that the case was picking up speed, there wouldn't be time for pranks.
I mostly believed him. But then Hutch had always been the better liar when the two weren't undercover. Neither of them would have ended up on traffic duty, and their case wouldn't have been closed, if it hadn't been for the F key.
My typewriter was on the blink. I'd made a dozen requisitions on a dozen different borrowed typewriters for the department to get me a new typewriter to no avail. I figure somebody down in supply thought they were clever and assumed that if I could type out a requisition I didn't need a new typewriter.
I borrowed Starsky's machine the day after I'd seen Hutchinson fiddling with it. I was two lines into the report when three of the keys exploded in my face. The requisition form caught on fire, sparks flew and the heat turned the rest of the percussion caps that Hutch had put under the keys into a popcorn show.
I say again, the man put percussion caps under the keys of Starky's typewriter. Both men should have been directing traffic until I retired so far as I was concerned, but the commissioner and others in his realm of authority seemed to think that anything longer than a week was a waste of departmental resources.
Like I say, they'd had a good couple of weeks.
It was while they were on traffic duty that they noticed the same car traveling in circles for most of the business day. One rainy afternoon they finally stopped the car and did a routine check. They found a traveling pharmacy and the second-in-command of the ring at the wheel. The bust was clean and the driver turned informer almighty quick.
They haven't exactly thanked me for it, but I did get an honorable mention on one of their reports.
Which were written out by hand, in triplicate.
I'll be damned if Starsky didn't have a new typewriter on his desk by the following Monday.