Close Call

(Formerly known as Bad Cop)

By TLR

Plot: A hate group has Starsky in their sights.

::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

Starsky and Hutch saw that a black swastika had been painted onto the trunk of the Torino when they came down to the police parking garage to go home after their shift.

Starsky clutched a bag of candy bars in his hand. "What the-"

Hutch held his hand up to halt him, then stepped closer to the car, peering inside and underneath.

"Who'd want to mess up my car like that?" Starsky asked gesturing toward it.

Hutch opened the driver's door carefully, slid into the seat to gently pop the hood.

Starsky took a step closer. "Hey, wait a minute."

But Hutch had already popped it.

"Damn," Starsky said rubbing the elbow of his windbreaker across the dried black paint. "You know how much Merl's gonna charge me? I just bought brand new tires offa him."

Hutch got out of the car to lift the hood. "Starsky, you should worry more about that swastika than this damn car."

"Damn car? How can you call this a damn car? A car just so happens to be an extension of one's personality."

Hutch's eyes glanced up over the hood at him. "Yeah, I guess we know which extension that might be."

"Hah. Don't even make me say what I was gonna say about your extension."

"I won't."

Satisfied that there were no strange wires or triggers under the hood or under the dash or under the car, Hutch climbed to his feet, and gingerly, with held breath, opened the trunk.

"You're really paranoid, you know that?" Starsky asked as the blond examined the interior of the trunk. But he said this as he inspected from around his partner's shoulder.

"I think it's okay," Hutch decided.

"Good. Let's get it to Merl's."

"Not until we dust it for prints."

"Whoever'd go through the trouble of doing this is gonna be careful enough not to leave prints."

"Anybody dumb enough to do this at a police station may be dumb enough to leave them." Hutch looked around. "I don't see anything else. Let's go back up and tell Dobey."

Hutch started away, but Starsky was left to gaze at the swastika.

"Come on," Hutch said coming back and taking his arm. "We'll get it off as soon as we can." He reached down to retrieve the bag of candy bars Starsky had dropped, then handed it to him. "My treat, huh?"

::

"I'll have somebody dust it for prints," Dobey told them as they stood before his desk. "But if none turn up, I don't know what else we can do. Just be careful. We've had a couple of church burnings in my neighborhood. And some of the Asian shop owners have reported a rash of robberies."

"Any descriptions?"

"Unfortunately, no. At first there was no pattern. The crimes all seemed random. Until we realized that the one thing all the crimes had in common was-"

"Race, religion. We get it." Starsky looked at his partner. "So what are we gonna do?"

"I'm meeting with the police commissioner and the mayor," Dobey said.

"What we're going to do," Hutch said to Starsky, "is find out who's doing it and put a stop to it."

::

"Any luck?" Starsky asked the two lab technicians as he and Hutch crossed the parking garage to the Torino.

"Nope," one shrugged at the powdered Torino trunk. "Must have worn gloves. Hope you get the flake who did it. Shame to mess up a ride like this."

Starsky passed a smug look to Hutch as he opened the driver's side door. "Come on. Merl's."

::

"Mm mmm," Merl said appreciatively as he circled the trunk of the Torino. "Somebody don't appreciate the aesthetics of a fine, top-of-the-line, drivin' design, do they?"

"When can you have it done?" Starsky asked as he circled with him.

"By tomorrow evening."

"I can handle that. How much?"

"Couple hundred."

Starsky reached for his hip pocket, but Hutch nudged in front of him and pulled out his own wallet.

"I got it," he said.

"No way," Starsky said pushing his wallet away and reaching for his own again. "It's my car. I'll pay."

Hutch elbowed him aside. "I ride in that souped-up pinball machine too, you know."

Merl took a hundred-dollar bill from Starsky, and the same from Hutch, and pocketed it. "Come by about six tomorrow eve and it'll be ready-Freddy."

Starsky looked at Hutch. "Looks like you gotta take me home and pick me up in the morning."

::

"What the hell is that?" Hutch asked as he pulled his car up alongside Starsky's curb to let him out.

Starsky, who had been digging through his bag of candy bars for a miniature Baby Ruth, looked up to see a few of his neighbors gathered at his white garage door cleaning off a red spray-painted Star of David. "Twice in one day. Aren't I the popular one?"

Hutch shifted into Park and got out.

Starsky followed. "Least they could do was make it blue."

Hutch whirled and put a finger in his face. "That's not funny." He turned to a couple of older men in Bermuda shorts and golf shirts who were busily scrubbing with brushes and sponges. A woman in her gardening hat was spraying water on with a hose. "What the hell are you doing," he said knocking the brush out of one man's hand.

The cluster of neighbors stared at him.

"Don't you know anything about evidence?"

Starsky took his arm and pulled him toward the stairs leading up to his front door. To the neighbors, he nodded and smiled apologetically.

"Thanks," he told them. "I appreciate it."

The neighbors watched until the pair was inside Starsky's house, then resumed their scrubbing.

::

Starsky sat Hutch down on the sofa, then sat on the coffee table in front of him.

"Hutch, this isn't new to you. You've seen this kinda thing before."

Hutch leaned toward him, still agitated. "Seeing you as their target is new to me. Seeing them . . . " He looked around for the right word. "Dishonor someone I care about is new to me. You think I should just take this sitting down? How can you?"

"I'm not. We'll catch 'em."

::

The fire in the fifty-gallon drum in the dark alley cast a golden glow onto the shaved head of the young man wearing an SS tattoo on his bare shoulder. He jumped onto the bumper of his van to oversee his brothers, basking in the full-body halo.

"Schweinhundjude in the morning!" he roared as he offered a stiff-armed salute. "Are we together?"

Like-salutes and a roar of agreement rose from the young, guttural clan.

Yellow-orange embers popped and cracked, spraying like fireworks as the fire in the drum was stoked with a poker.

Young men hurled their liquor bottles against the side of their warehouse with jubilant shouts of "Heil, Hitler!"

::

Hutch came from Starsky's shower toweling his hair.

"You know, Starsk, if we don't find those Nazi freaks pretty soon, people are going to start talking about me shacking up over here."

After stepping into dark brown corduroys, he pulled a green T-shirt over his head and tucked it inside, strapped on his shoulder holster, then pulled a green and gold plaid shirt over it, fastening only the bottom two buttons.

"Did you hear me, dirtball?"

He reached down for the comb on the coffee table, and that's when Starsky's holstered gun on the floor, and a smear of blood on the arm of the couch, caught his eye-"Oh hell," he whispered as he pulled his own gun and looked around.

But the house was empty, and Hutch ran outside, knowing full well who was responsible.

::

Fifteen minutes later Hutch was pacing around his and Starsky's desk in the squad room, hand clenching the back of his neck, telephone receiver to his ear.

"Huggy, you've got to know something about these skinheads."

A pause.

"I know you're trying."

Another pause.

"I know that!"

A third.

"Damn it! Just find out!"

He slammed the phone down and looked up to find a dozen cops in the room glancing uncomfortably away from him to pick up telephones, pens, writing pads.

"What are you looking at?" he asked the room

No answer, which caused him to rake the typewriter, telephone, pencil cups, ink blotter, Rolodex, everything, off into the floor.

"Hutch!"

Captain Dobey appeared in his doorway, catching sight of his detective's back as he made exit.

"Hutchinson!"

The blond kept going.

::

Closing time at Huggy's.

Hutch kicked the door open to find Huggy sweeping up behind the bar.

"You're sweeping?"

Hutch stood stiff in the floor, ice crystal eyes.

"No word," Huggy offered apologetically. "It's underground. Tight. Neo-Nazi, Hitler-groovin', punk-ass group if you ask me-"

Rounding the counter and grabbing his lapels: "Starsky's gone and you're sweeping?!"

Huggy gripped at the fists clenching his clothes. "Ease off, Hutch. You think I'm Kreskin or somebody? You know I'd tell you if-"

Hutch shoved him into the shelves of liquor, rocking some of the bottles until they tipped and shattered noisily onto the floor.

Huggy called after him-"Hutch!"-but he didn't stop.

::

Hutch drove the streets, checking the slums, the alleys where the punkers in colored hair and studded leather clothes gathered to write anti-songs and shoot heroin.

"I don't expect you to give a damn about a cop's life," he said as he paced the line of teenagers he had standing ramrod straight against a brick wall. "But I do. And I give a damn about yours too. Cohen. Silverman. Goldberg. So it might be in your own best interest to give me a ring if you hear about anything. I'm willing to pay to get him back safe and sound."

The apathetic look in their sneer eyes, and the sleaze curl to their lip said it was a dead end.

::

Mickey the stoolie was next.

The little snitch was smoking his stub of a cigar and studying the selection of songs on the jukebox in his favorite diner when Hutch stormed in, grabbed his shoulder, and stiff-armed him into a booth.

"Geez, Hutch," he said righting his jockey cap and taking out his cigar. "You look kind of distressed or sumthin'."

Hutch put his finger in Mickey's face. "Somebody has to know something."

"What? Oh yeah, yeah. You mean Starsky bein' snatched and all. Yeah, well, if Huggy ain't heard nuthin', what makes you think I have?"

"You talked to Huggy?"

"Hutch, you break my heart. 'course I did. Starsky disappears and you think I don't care about it?"

"You'd sell him out for a buck and you know it."

He put a hand over his heart. "Hey, hey, that gets me where I live. You must be hurtin' to say sumthin' like that."

"Mickey, so help me-"

"Hey, you know, I understand your position, but I ain't heard nuthin'. Honest."

::

TV news clips:

-Aryan.

-Hate crimes.

-Anti-Semitic.

-Resurgence.

-Neo-Nazis.

-Holocaust denial.

-Hitler apologists.

-Extremist propaganda.

-White power.

-White supremacists.

-New terror.

-Public outcry.

-Public safety.

-Vandalism.

-Arson.

-Muggings.

-Attacks.

-Destruction of property.

-Desecration of churches and synagogues.

-Rape.

::

The microphones were in Captain Dobey's face as he tried to wade through the sea of reporters and cameramen.

"A young Jewish girl was raped by a skinhead group one block from your police station, Captain Dobey. How is the department going to respond to this?"

He spoke to them on his way to his car. "I've increased patrol in the area, hired new officers, formed a task force. I want to put a stop to these hate crimes as much as anyone else."

"How can you assure Jews of their safety in this area?"

"I can't. No one can. But we're going to find these hate-mongers and bring them in."

"How? When? If they can grab one of your men out of his own home..."

::

Hutch pulled Starsky's empty chair out for the teenage girl to sit in, turning it slightly away from the activity of the other officers in the squad room so that she couldn't see them, and they couldn't see her. It was a small gesture of comfort compared to her circumstances, but it was something. She was accompanied by her mother, who sat distraught but focused, holding her daughter's hand.

"Your name?" he asked gently as he handed her a cup of water and sat down in his own chair.

"Ruth," she said looking down into the cup.

"I can uh . . . ask a policewoman to join us, if you'd prefer."

"No," her split lips whispered meekly. "That's okay."

"How old are you, sweetheart?"

"Thirteen."

"After we talk, Ruth, I'm going to ask a sketch artist to join us when you describe them, and I'm going to show you some mug shots of some young offenders. Do you understand?"

She nodded.

"I suspect," he said leaning toward her and handing her a tissue, "that your attackers are the ones who abducted my partner, or know who did, and I think maybe you can help me find him and get him back."

::

The pretty female reporter came on the TV screen at Huggy's and spoke to the audience.

"Today Captain Harold Dobey is asking for your help in identifying and bringing in these men," she said holding up sketches. "Who are suspects in the disappearance of Detective Sergeant David Starsky."

Huggy watched until the screen cut to a shot of Dobey sitting on the edge of his desk, and when the screen split to show a picture of Starsky on the right side, he tossed some keys to Diane and picked up his jacket.

"Where you goin', sugar?" she asked after him.

"Can't just sit here," he said over his shoulder. "Gotta hit the streets."

::

The punker named Cohen jumped out in front of Hutch's car to flag him down, and Hutch slammed on the brakes to keep from hitting him.

"News," he panted as Hutch rolled his window down. "The sketches on TV?"

Hutch grabbed the boy's leather jacket and pulled him forward.

"Who and where?"

"How much?"

"Name it."

"Couple thou." The youth took a deep breath and looked around. "You won't say it was me who ratted?"

"Just spit it out, kid."

Cohen leaned over to whisper into his ear.

::

"Die like the Jew pig you are."

But by this time, Starsky couldn't respond.

Seated in a wooden chair in the abandoned warehouse, blindfolded and beaten senseless, he was incoherent to the point that the four neo-Nazis surrounding him could hear only one faint word coming from him-"Hutch"-

The young men knew the name. They'd stalked the detective for weeks, and found that wherever Starsky was, Hutch was generally nearby.

::

"Carrington Warehouse, Cap," Hutch panted into the police radio as he slid his car to a stop in the dusty vacant lot next to a wrecking yard. "At least two men in their early twenties. Buzz and Wolfie."

Hutch tossed the mike onto the seat and jumped out, door open, motor running, hand reaching beneath his jacket for his gun.

The large double doors were padlocked. He gave a quick listen at the metal and heard no sounds from inside, then ran around to the side of the building where he found a partially broken window and a battered, weathered door. This he kicked in with his boot and ran inside, eyes darting in all directions to catch sight of anyone lingering or lying in wait.

What he saw at the far end of the warehouse clamped his heart in a steel trap: His partner was hanging by his ankles from a pulley in the ceiling, a pool of blood on the floor beneath the wrists that had been slashed.

Starsky's name came out in a strangled whisper as the gun fell from his hand and he ran toward him.

"Oh my God," he panted over and over as he ran. "Oh my God."

He slipped in the pool of blood, and caught Starsky's arm to keep from falling.

"Starsk," he gasped as he dug in his jeans for a pocketknife. "No."

He gripped the back of Starsky's belt to try to catch him or break his fall, then cut the rope.

Starsky fell heavily, and Hutch did his best to catch him, cutting the ropes at his ankles too. He'd lost a lot of blood and didn't appear to be breathing.

Hutch put him onto his back and alternated between artificial respirations and CPR.

"Starsk," he gasped between efforts, "come on."

His voice was a plea now. A prayer, his hand pressing into his throat for a pulse.

There was one. Faint, but getting stronger by the second. He was beginning to breathe on his own, his eyes fluttering open.

Hutch had brought him back.

::

Memorial Hospital. Waiting room.

"Kenneth?"

He turned and saw her. She had heard about her son on the news, and of course Captain Dobey had called her. Dobey had told her not to come, that, with the suspects and their accomplices still at large, it was too dangerous. But she was stubborn, a lot like her son.

"You're a brave woman," Hutch said to her, and took the beautiful Mrs. Starsky into his arms.

"I want to be with him."

"Me too. But they're treating him now, so we'll just have to wait. They'll come and get us when we can see him."

"Thank you," she said stepping back but still holding to his arms. "For saving David."

It was then that Huggy walked in. Hutch gripped his arm and said, "Sit with her, will you?"

As Hutch walked toward the door, Huggy and Starsky's mother both stared after him.

"Hey," Huggy said to his back as he put an arm around Mrs. Starsky. "Where you goin'?"

But he didn't answer. Mrs. Starsky looked up at Huggy and said, "I'll pray for him."

::

The Underground Bar.

SS flags on the wall.

Swastika-tattooed arms shooting pool, feeling up the ladies, tossing back drinks. Punk metal bombing the air.

Hutch walked in holding his badge up, all eyes on him.

He walked past the heil-Hitler salutes and over to the table where the hairless Buzz and Wolfie were playing cards in their SS T-shirts.

Buzz asked, "Am I under arrest, Officer Hutchinson?"

Hutch stood looking at him.

The bar stirred, but followed their leader's example of calm.

"There's nothing you can do about us," Buzz said as he tossed down a pair of aces. "We're an army. You'll find a disturbing psychological history in my records. Indoctrinated, fucked, and tortured by my father. I take powerful psychotropic drugs prescribed by my psychiatrist. Are you going to argue that I wasn't insane when I exterminated your schweinhundjude?"

He shuffled the cards and dealt another hand.

Hutch still had snakelike eyes on him.

"Look at me."

Buzz looked up.

Hutch pulled his gun and aimed it at him.

"He survived. This place is surrounded, you lowlife piece of scum. So I suggest you stand up like a man and walk out of here before I blow your head off."

::

ICU.

It wasn't easy to look at the condition Starsky was in, but he was alive, and getting stronger, according to the doctors, though still heavily medicated.

Hutch sat down in a hard plastic chair next to his bed and said quietly, "You're gonna make it, buddy. Your ma is here. Huggy. The captain. I have to go take care of those degenerates, then I'll be back, okay? I have a uniform at the door."

He didn't receive a response, nor did he expect to. He simply gave Starsky's hand a squeeze and left the room.

::

Part of Wolfie's recorded statement:

"We got Starsky when Hutch was in the shower. That's the only time they weren't joined at the hip. If you know what I mean."

::

It was nice for Hutch to see Starsky with his mother, how she doted on him while he spent time in his recovery room, feeding him soup, playing music for him, working crossword puzzles.

"You're going to spoil him, Sophia," Hutch smiled.

She smiled back. "I suppose you'll take over when I go back home tomorrow."

"Don't worry, Ma," Starsky told her with a wink in his partner's direction. "Hutch is like my guardian angel."

::

Starsky was a quick healer, eager to regain his strength and get back on his feet, and Hutch watched for any hidden damages, sure Starsky would confide him as he usually did when something was truly bothering him. But Hutch didn't pick up on anything troubling, attributing it to his partner's resilient nature.

That's why Hutch was surprised when Starsky said, "Gonna stay a few days with me, right? Till I get back on my feet?"

Hutch couldn't deny him. As a matter of fact, he was immensely relieved. Up until Buzz and Wolfie's arraignment, Hutch had been stoic and factual, pure investigator mode-almost detached, in documenting and discussing the details of the attack on his partner.

The distance helped keep the bad dreams away too, but not all of them. Some still invaded his sleep like hissing snakes, and the torturous images of Starsky hanging in the warehouse came to nest. He had to wake himself up and call up images of how his partner was now-alive, smiling, precocious. If that didn't work, he looked at pictures in his photo album to push the gruesome scenes out of his mind.

So, really, Starsky's invitation came at just the right time. Maybe now Hutch wouldn't have to try so hard to fight the nightmares. Maybe they would weaken in time. The others had. Of Starsky bleeding out on the Italian restaurant floor instead of living. Of himself arriving at the hospital with Jennings' antidote too late. Of Gayle the cultist cutting Starsky apart instead of cutting him down.

::

When Starsky was discharged and Hutch got him back to his house, Starsky suddenly seemed weaker and needier, asking Hutch to bring him drinks, and magazines, and food, and medicine.

Hutch complied.

It was almost funny in an endearing sort of way. An unspoken conspiracy: Starsky had witnessed Hutch in the grip of a nightmare a few times while he kept vigil by his hospital bed. He of course wanted Hutch as close to him as possible while his psyche healed.

It worked for both of them. Me and Thee was their natural state of being.

It helped Hutch to just look at his partner before he went to sleep at night, and when he woke in the mornings. It helped to watch him move around, strong, vibrant, happy. It helped when they laughed, teased, and talked.

Night after night he fell asleep with the good images in his head, along with Starsky's voice: "You're my best friend, Hutch...come on...you can do it... I got you...right here...I ain't goin' nowhere..."

Until they reclaimed themselves and each other.

The End