CHAPTER 32
Dr. Michael Cloverleaf hesitated at the door to the lounge. He never liked this part of his job. He excelled at surgery but explaining all that went on to the families was often taxing and difficult. He didn't have the best bedside manner, according to the nurses, but his job was to heal and repair, not hold hands.
Stepping into the room, he sized up both men waiting expectantly for news. The blond was tall and serious looking. The look in the blue eyes was intense and harsh, like he expected to get his way.
The other gentleman he noticed was a burly black man; perhaps also a cop? No there was something more. He saw experience in the weathered features leading Michael to wonder if maybe he was the blonde's superior. At any rate, Michael walked further into the room and pulled at the scrub cap still on his head and stuffed it into the pocket of his green surgical pants as he introduced himself.
"I'm Dr. Michael Cloverleaf." He didn't waste time with small talk; instead he informed them of his patient's condition. "Detective Starsky is out of surgery but not out of danger." He extended his hand to the blond.
Hutch stood up and shook Doctor Cloverleaf's hand. "Ken Hutchinson." He returned the handshake and as their eyes met, Hutch felt an instant shiver. He could tell from the handshake, the glint of the eyes and the few words spoken that this man was capable but not friendly. As long as he brought Starsky through, Hutch didn't care if the man chewed nails. Dr. Cloverleaf was slightly taller than the detective. His dark hair was longer than one would expect of a professional doctor.
"What's his condition?" Hutch sat on the couch, indicating the doctor to join him. Instead, the doctor remained standing, looking tired and tense.
"He's still unconscious. His wounds are serious. We had to attach metal rods on the outside of his leg for now until the swelling goes down and he's a little stronger, then it can be permanently repaired." He hesitated slightly before continuing. "I'm worried about infection, given the fact that he was found in such squalid surroundings."
Dobey moaned slightly, realizing he hadn't told his detective about the manner in which Starsky was found.
Hutch glanced at Dobey, waiting for an explanation.
The captain leaned toward Hutch, balancing his elbows on his knees.
"Diaz threw him in a dumpster down by the docks. It wasn't a pretty site." Dobey lowered his head, his words reduced to a whisper as he ended the sentence.
Hutch paled, swallowed and stood up, pacing to the other end of the room. He examined the empty glass coffee carafe, picked it up and without warning, threw the pot across the room.
Both the doctor and Dobey flinched as the shards splintered across the floor. The doctor backed away as Dobey shouted for Hutch to control his actions.
"Detective, stand down!" Dobey's delivery of the serious order was enough to calm Hutch.
"Bastard!" He swore under his breath as he hit the counter with his fist. The unusual display of temper embarrassed Hutch but the act itself seemed to use up all his energy. His head sagged and it was a few quiet minutes before Hutch moved. Dr. Cloverleaf cleared his throat. The room was tense. He was anxious to return to his patient. He knew how to react to medical situations, not outburst of anger and grief.
Dobey rested his hand on Hutch's shoulder. They looked briefly at each other then the captain began to clean up the mess while Hutch addressed the doctor again.
"I want to see him." He moved past the doctor and reached for the door handle, but stopped when the doctor's hand flattened against the door, barring the blond from opening it.
They turned to face each other, eyes blazing, daring the other to back down. Since that didn't happen, Dr. Cloverleaf sighed, not wanting to face the blonde's pain again.
"Very well. You get five minutes. But let me tell you this. He's in very serious condition. He had dangerous internal injuries. I had to remove his spleen, which will make it harder for him to fight off any infection now and in the future."
"He's my best friend." With that Hutch turned back to the door, hesitated before opening it. There was a slight adjustment to his shoulders as he readied himself to face his friend.
The door shut softly, leaving Captain Dobey and Dr. Cloverleaf alone.
Dobey cleared his throat and looked apologetically at the doctor.
"I'm Harold Dobey, their police captain." He swiped his hand across his face, wondering how to explain Hutch's behavior. "He can be very determined when it comes to his partner. They are my best detectives and very good friends. You were wise not to keep him from going to David. Believe me; your patient will do much better if Hutch is allowed to be with him as much as possible."
Michael lowered himself to a chair, sitting stiffly on the edge of it, as if ready to leap to his feet any second. He felt that these two men were his equals. There weren't many people who he respected, but the detective and captain were the exception. Silence prevailed, each man lost in his own thoughts: Captain Dobey wondering again how much his detectives could withstand and the doctor mentally mapping out Starsky's recovery.
Quietly, Hutch entered Starsky's room. He was ashamed of his outburst in front of the captain and the doctor, but he was so angry at Diaz and what he'd done to his partner. He had to make it right.
The first thing he noticed was how pale Starsky was. His normal olive toned skin was ashen. His face was still swollen, now purple and green bruises stood out, smudges of color under his closed eyes.
Large bandages over the wound on his chest were tinged red.
His leg was not in a plaster cast, but suspended and held in place by a series of metal rods surgically positioned on the outside of the leg. One of several drains was attached where the spleen had been removed.
Several I.V. bags hung from frames, as if they were standing guard over Starsky. While blood and antibiotics flowed in to strengthen him, drains attached to the surgical areas of his body snaked out from his body, evacuating blood and urine.
The machines whirred and beeped, keeping track of blood pressure, heart rate and other functions that Hutch could only guess at. At least his friend wasn't attached to a respirator. But it was small comfort when the blond reached out to the man on the bed.
Starsky's hand was dry as were his lips. He moved to the bathroom to wring out a cloth in cool water. Gently, he wiped the wash cloth over the cracked lips and slowly moved it over the curly head. He lightly wiped away traces of blood that still clung to the dark hair.
Hutch returned to the sink, rinsed out the cloth and came back to his friend. He repeated the gesture with the cloth to Starsky's lips. A small quivering noise indicated that the offering was felt and appreciated. His tongue snaked out to receive the moisture.
"I'm here buddy. I'll make this all up to you. I promise." He grasped Starsky's hand again. Hutch winced at the condition of his friend and vowed to avenge the results caused by Diaz Ramada.
Hutch moved his chair closer in order to offer more comfort. As he continued stroking his friend's arm, he noticed moisture in the corner of one eye. He reached for the cool cloth to wipe it away but the tears continued to trace a path down the swollen face, Hutch was even more racked by guilt. He knew he had caused his partner's tears and now this was the only way Starsky had of communicating his pain.
"Wish I could make this all go away." Hutch wiped at his own tears as he continued to gently massage Starsky's uninjured shoulder.
The tears finally stopped but there was no more verbal response from the man in the bed. When the nurse came in to check on her patient, Hutch stood in the doorway, watching as the nurse efficiently did her duty. He grimaced with the pain he knew his friend was experiencing. Once again, he promised himself to hunt Diaz down and make him pay for what he'd done.
