Fractal

By TLR

Plot: Starsky and Hutch help a special needs artist friend who has witnessed a murder, and he helps them.

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

One corner of Bray Hamilton's art studio is a slanted stack of colorful fractal images hand-drawn in fountain pen on smooth white Bristol board. Each of the swirling, technical artworks is exactly 36" x 36".

The studio is as neat and organized as the rest of his seventh-floor apartment. Because too much sunlight through his window in daytime hours distracts him and hurts his eyes, he draws in low light at night at his easel, which is set at an angle next to the window with the nightscape of Bay City in the horizon.

The nightscape includes a shorter apartment building immediately across from him. He was glad it was shorter because a taller one would make him feel boxed in and obstruct his view.

He is mostly a solitary figure focused intently on his work, whether it be producing art, writing about art, or teaching art one-on-one to a select few gifted students. Fractal art is his chosen style, or rather, fractal has chosen him. He moves his pen with machine precision and rarely makes mistakes, each stroke adding to the complex, repeated patterns found in nature and mathematics that seem to stretch into infinity. More than once he mused, If only the paper were long enough...

Bray is a softly handsome man with youthful looks and a thatch of light blond hair that occasionally falls into his eyes and he swishes back with the flick of his head or swipe of his fingers. This is also his nervous habit and self-soothing gesture. He's of fair skin and gray eyes, often presenting as a much younger man. Tonight his gaze is fixed on his newest fractal, a repeated star design. There is a calmness to his demeanor, a deep absorption in the world he's creating. It's work. But it settles him.

As he works, Bray murmurs to himself, narrating the process in a way that's become second nature. "Each point, a decision. Each decision, a pathway," he says, his words a mix of technical jargon and poetic musings. It's clear that for him, fractal art isn't just a profession or a hobby or a talent; it's a way of seeing the world, a lens of the unique patterns that he perceives in everything around him. Creating is the reason he wakes up every morning. It's his life, his survival mechanism, and his life's passion.

The studio is both a haven and a fortress, equipped with the tools of his trade and the artworks that are his bread and butter and his saving grace.

As a haven, his studio keeps him where he likes to be. Needs to be if you will. Inside. Tucked in. Comforted. Safe. As a fortress, his studio is a protector, a buffer from the unkind world he has yet to understand or master, nor likely ever would, realistically speaking. His studio is his home, where he feels most comfortable, surrounded by manifestations that understand him better than anyone else could.

Slow, smooth jazz plays low over his speakers, never intrusive. The fractals remind him of jazz, and jazz reminds him of fractals. Rain also reminds him of jazz and fractals, but there isn't enough of it in Bay City to enjoy on a regular basis. He loved sleeping to the sound of rain. He imagined it was for primal reasons, womblike.

As he continues to work, something catches his eye outside his window, across the way, to the opposite building—a sharp, unexpected movement.

Bray's focus shifts momentarily from his art to the scene unfolding in the building across from him. His expression changes from one of focus to confusion as he watches a man wrap his hands around a woman's throat and crush.

It almost looks surreal, as if playing out on a real-life movie screen.

Hamilton's pen drops unnoticed to the wooden floor. He stands frozen, trying to process what he's just seen. The patterns and lights of the windows across the way that inspired the stars of his newest work, now dance crookedly in his vision. He knows he needs to act, to do something, but the shock of the event has disrupted the orderly world he's built for himself.

After an indeterminable length of time, Bray reaches for the phone and dials a familiar, yet not often-used number.

"Hello?" comes a voice on the line.

"Hutch? I need to talk to you and Starsky."

"Hey, is this...Bray? Brayden?"

They'd been roommates in college, took a few art classes together.

"Yes. Sorry to bother you."

"No bother, are you all right? What's going on?"

"I'm all right. I think I just saw...I mean, I'm not sure. A murder. In the Turner Tower across from me. Fifth Floor. It would be apartment 50. Hurry."

"Is the killer a man or woman?"

"Man."

"You still see him through the window?"

"No."

"Can you tell if he left the building?"

"No. Not really. I didn't see that part. Just the choking part. He's wearing black pants and a white Oxford shirt. Short dark hair and long sideburns, and he's about six-foot-two or three inches tall, maybe weighing about 185. He could still be there. I didn't see the shoes. Be careful."

"On our way, friend. Don't go anywhere, and don't let anyone in except for us. We'll be there ASAP."

Gaze still fixed on the window across from him, Bray hangs up, just now realizing that, although he's just watched a murder, that was all he saw. He didn't see her body fall. He didn't see the man enter or leave. It was as if his mind had blanked out the rest.

As he waits for Starsky and Hutch to arrive, surrounded by his fractals and the now-distant comfort they bring, a profound sense of raw, dreadful exposure sets in. He doesn't like this kind of attention, or drama, or the unpredictability of the situation. He only likes what he can control, like a fractal drawing, or an art show, or a tutoring session. But he trusts Hutch, and by extension, Starsky, knowing that their shared past and understanding of his unique perspective might be his only grounding wire in the charged chaos that has just erupted into his life.

::

Looking toward the window of Turner Tower, Bray watches Starsky and Hutch enter the victim's apartment with guns drawn, sweeping to see if the killer or a possible accomplice is still there.

Again, it's like watching a drama, making him feel intrigued and detached at the same time, a feeling that bothers him because he knows from experience that the normal response should be fear, tears, horror, or disgust. What he feels is a curious unease, more clinical, and that isn't enough at a time like this. The stress of his lack of the appropriate emotion stresses him even more, plays up his differences even more, makes him feel like some kind of unfeeling sociopath instead of someone his doctor diagnosed as having high-level autism.

Once the detectives make sure it's safe, the arriving uniformed officers and crime lab arrive, and enter the victim's apartment, including the coroner's team, the red glow of the Torino's lights illuminating the street below.

Bray watches the activity below between the two buildings as best he can. The responders look like dolls walking around. He really wants to get back to his fractal and work on it, because it's his safety zone, but he wills himself to stand still and wait for his friends to arrive. He tries his best to fit in and do the right thing, and it is tiring.

They eventually knock on his door, and Bray opens it, his appearance slightly disheveled and pale, the murder still evident in his eyes. Though not often delivering the socially expected graces or gestures or emotions of others, he is still affected by this. "Did you get him, Husky?"

It's his nickname for them upon greeting when the two are together, but after initial hellos, he usually calls them by Starsky and Hutch.

"Not yet," Hutch says.

They step into the orderly world of Bray's studio/apartment, Starsky taking in the environment, his eyes landing on the intricate fractals stacked in the corner.

"Nice work, Bray." Starsky gives Bray a concerned look. He doesn't know him as well as his partner does, so he lets Hutch do most of the talking.

"Here," Hutch says moving Bray to a leather stool at the kitchen counter. "Have a seat."

Starsky gets him a glass of water.

"Just calm down," Hutch tells Bray.

Bray drinks the water, and looks toward the window. "I'm calm."

"Okay," Hutch says. "None of the neighbors saw anything. From this building, nor that one over there. So we're asking you for help. You need to tell us exactly what you saw."

This puts a nervous look on Bray's face.

"Start from the beginning," Hutch says. "Take your time."

Bray gives a shrug. "It wasn't much. It was a murder, yes. But it happened quickly. Over before I could even think about it. I kind of froze. My eyes took a snapshot of what he looked like while he was doing it, I stored it in my brain, and I already described that to you. That's all I know."

"Did you see them arguing before?" Starsky asks.

"No."

Starsky looks at Hutch, tacitly tossing the ball for him to keep, as neither cop wants to overwhelm Bray by both of them asking questions. This wasn't the time or witness for that.

"Did you see anyone else through the window?" Hutch asks.

"No. I couldn't look away, yet I couldn't fully comprehend it either. It didn't look real."

"The apartment belonged to the woman," Hutch says. "So, you never noticed the guy around before?"

Bray shakes his head, "No, I've never seen him before. I wish I could tell you more, but, it's like I have selective memory sometimes. I saw the act, but not what happened before or after. I'm sorry."

Hutch doesn't pat his shoulder. Bray doesn't appreciate displays of physical expressions unless he's the one initiating them. Handshakes and smiles are okay. Hutch gives him a small smile. "You're doing okay, Bray. Look, uh...you're going to need to come to the station later, give a formal statement, and we'd like for you to look at some mug books. The guy might be her ex, an old boyfriend, or a complete stranger, we don't know. But for now, it might not be safe for you to stay here alone, given you're an eyewitness. What say you hang out at my place for a few days? Borderline protective custody. It'll be like old times."

Bray wipes hair from his eyes and gives a smile in return. This one isn't a rehearsed response like some of the others he has to perform, like when he has an art show or is giving a talk to kids at a school about his condition and how it's part of his art. He doesn't always have to pretend, like now.

It was always easier to be around Hutch. He was genuine, and was a real friend to him when most at college thought he wouldn't make it with Asperger's, even though it didn't have the same name then. Hutch took up for him with the instructors and other students, and Bray has never forgotten it.

That's one thing Bray notices about himself. He remembers almost everything, especially the little things most people forget or don't think are important.

Bray actually looks a little relieved. "Yeah, old times. I'll get a bag of stuff together."

As Bray prepares his bag of clothes and toiletries, Starsky and Hutch walk around his studio looking at his ink fractals.

"The precision," Starsky said. "I don't know how he does this by hand."

"You guys can have one," Bray says coming back to them. It didn't take him long because he's so organized and was at heart a minimalist, even though he had certain mementos he cherished and would never let go of. "If you want."

"Which one?" Hutch asks.

"Your pick."

Hutch picks one with an ice cube design, and Starsky picks one with a spiral design.

::

Hamilton doesn't find anyone in the mug books fitting the killer's description, but he does sit down and work up a sketch for the detectives, and does give his official statement.

That finished, Starsky drives them to Venice Place in the Torino and drops them off with a "See you in the morning."

Getting out of the backseat, Bray says looking at the white stripe on the car, "I like this shape," he says running his fingers across it. "I think it would make a good fractal piece. I could use a variation of it."

"Good idea," Starsky says. "Show it to me when you do it, I want to check it out."

Bray smiles and Hutch closes the door, but before he does, looks in at Starsky and says, "See you in the morning, Starsk. Call if something comes up."

Starsky nods and takes off.

"It's late," Hutch says to Bray as they stand on the sidewalk, "and Starsky and I didn't get a chance to eat. Are you hungry? There's a new place just down the street."

"Sure," Bray says, hangs his overnight bag from his shoulder, and walks with him down the street.

Hutch notices another of Bray's old habits, which is pressing the palms of his hands together. "Hey, Braylen. I know seeing that couldn't have been easy. You doing okay?"

He nods, then moves his head no, then shrugs. "I don't know. It's my first time for seeing a murder. I hope I don't see another one. It took longer than you would think. She didn't try to get away or stop him. She just kind of froze and looked at him while he was doing it. I don't understand that. Can you explain it?"

"I'm not sure. I think it has something to do with the way an animal freezes in terror when they're trapped and know they're about to die."

"If ever I couldn't make art for whatever reason, I think I would like to be in police work, maybe the lab or something, analyzing."

"Sounds about right. Hey, there's Dilly's Digs up ahead. What are you in the mood for, Bray? Still not into pasta?"

Bray cringes. "I hate the mouthfeel. I want crunch. A roughage salad or hard tacos. Maybe a roughage salad IN a hard taco."

Hutch smiles. "I'm buying."

As they pass by a veteran operating his wheelchair, Hutch smiles and slaps him five because he lives in the neighborhood, while Bray offers a reserved peace sign. When Hutch opens the door to Dilly's Digs, Hutch notices Bray looks to be on the verge of tears.

"Bray? You all right?"

They go in, and Hutch leads the way to a booth.

"Yeah. Just...he needs help."

"Sometimes. He's pretty independent, though. He does all right."

"You sure? I could give him some money or ask him if he needs any help..."

"He'd probably be insulted. He's okay."

"You sure?"

"I'm sure."

"Does he live alone?"

"No, actually he has one hot girlfriend who lives with him. She's a good cook too."

When they sit down, Bray begins to straighten the napkin dispenser and condiments, brushes the table of any crumbs that may be left, looks around to take it all in. "I had a girlfriend last year."

"Oh yeah?"

"Yeah. I thought she liked me, but we were too different. She called me retard, so I broke up with her."

"Well, that wasn't very nice of her. There are nice women out there, Bray. Just have to keep your mind open, get to know her more before you call her your girlfriend. Give her time to show you what she's like and how she feels about you. Talk a lot. Do things together."

Bray nods. A waitress comes over to take their order.

"Ma'am," Bray says making skittish eye contact, with the nurse "There are a few crumbs under this table. I think you need to have someone come sweep them up."

Chewing gum, she gives a look to Hutch and says with a half-frown, "I'll get right on that. Want the windows washed too? Or the garbage taken out?"

"No, Ma'am. Just sweep the crumbs."

::

As they walk back to Venice Place, Hutch begins to yawn. "I am so tired."

They climb up the stairs and make the landing, with Hutch reaching up over the door for his key.

"You really shouldn't do that, Hutch."

"Yeah, Starsky tells me that all the-"

The second Hutch unlocks the door and opens it, the door flies open and the man who had choked the life from a woman that evening, now charges at Hutch with a raised knife, roaring "Hamilton!" and driving him back against the opposite wall.

Hutch catches the man's arm as it swings down, bringing a knee up and knocking the knife from his hand, but the man is too adrenaline-hyped to feel it. The man lands some punches to his face and torso, causing Hutch to slide down the wall. The man grabs the front of his shirt to pull him back up, then Bray's shock unlocks and he jumps in, grabbing Hutch's exposed gun from beneath his jacket. Which sends the man running down the stairs.

Bray fires at him and misses.

With a bloody gash above his right eye and the other one swelling and discoloring, Hutch only half-sees what's taking place, groaning as he's losing consciousness.

"Bray," he mumbles. "Starsk."

The killer is long gone. Bray rushes inside long enough to put the gun on the coffee table, call an ambulance, and call Starsky with a quick "Hutch is hurt". He then hurries back out to the landing, where Hutch is lying on his side not moving.

Bray crouches down, trying to control his distress.

"Hutch, I called him. An ambulance too."

Bray's left hand hovers uncertainly over Hutch for a moment. He knows a reassuring touch would be socially appropriate right now, because he's seen it countless times in movies, books, TV, and in real life. So he obliges, his hand gently touching his friend's shoulder, mindful of his injuries. "Hutch?" he says quietly, his voice wavering slightly but his hand staying steady. "Can you hear me?"

There's no response, and Bray feels a pang of anxiety mixed with frustration. He's not used to dealing with emergencies like murders or injured friends like Hutch, preferring the predictable and controlled environment of his art studio or places of his choosing. If he gave in to his first instinct, he would go inside Hutch's and recalibrate. But here, with Hutch hurt and unresponsive, Bray's usual calm is replaced by a sense of heightened concern and uncertainty.

He recalls what he's seen in movies and read in books about first aid, his mind racing through the information. "Don't move him," he says to himself, his voice barely above a whisper. "Keep him warm, check for breathing. Keep his airway clear. Wait for help to arrive. Be ready to perform CPR if necessary. ABC."

As he checks Hutch's breathing and pulse, then takes off his jacket and covers him, Bray's hands are surprisingly steady with the precise movements required for his art. He finds that his fondness for Hutch is calming him down. He notes the rhythmic throb in Hutch's throat beneath his fingertips, a small relief amidst the emergency. He has never felt anyone's pulse before, not even his own. Touching someone else always makes him feel peculiar inside, as if his organs are tilting a little to the left, sometimes to the right. It's unnatural for him, even though it's supposed to be right.

"Help is on the way," Bray reassures, as much for himself as Hutch. "Starsky too." He assumes it would be important to talk to someone who's unconscious, the sound of his familiar voice perhaps offering a thread of comfort or connection.

Looking down the stairs, Bray sees a few curious and concerned neighbors and possible passersby who heard the gunshot and are now gathering at the main door downstairs. "It's okay!" he calls out, his voice husky from stress. "Help is coming! Go home!"

He finds his hand rubbing Hutch's shoulder instead of his own other palm the way he normally would, thinking, Hutch looks alone. He looks really alone without Starsky right now. And I am scared to death. But I am finding calm by helping. Helping him gets my mind off of myself. This is my emergency, and I am handling it in my own way, the best way I know how. I hope it is enough.

"I'm not Starsky," he murmurs, his voice barely audible over the sound of the Torino's approaching siren. "But you aren't alone."

::

Starsky orders the small crowd at the front door of Hutch's building to disperse, but not all obey, then he races up the stairs.

"Hutch!"

On the landing, Starsky breathes "Oh my God" in near disbelief. "What happened?"

Bray makes room. Starsky crouches down, fingers gingerly skim through Hutch's hair for lumps, tenderly examining his face.

"The killer from today hurt him because," Bray says with tears shimmering in his eyes, "he thought Hutch was me. I'm sorry."

Starsky swallows his own tears and emotions, giving a slight nod, his attention more on Hutch. "You did good, Bray." He squeezes his partner's shoulder. "Help's on the way, buddy. Just hang tight."

Bray watches, palms pressing nervously together, the events of the night reflected in his gaze. "Is he going to die?"

"Not if I can help it."

"That would be two deaths in one night, Starsk. I don't want to see that. Not Hutch."

Starsky notices Bray's worry and offers him a quick, "Thanks, huh?"

"Thanks?"

"For helping him."

"I didn't do very much."

"You did enough."

"I tried to shoot the guy in the back. That's what I really wanted to do. Almost got him too, but I missed. You'll find a bullet lodged in the wall somewhere near the door down there. I need more practice on a range or something. I'll turn myself in for attempted murder if you want."

"Well, that's a conversation for another time."

The sound of the approaching ambulance fills the air. Starsky helps to stabilize Hutch as the paramedics rush up the stairs, their kits and a stretcher in hand. As they start to attend to Hutch, preparing him for transport, Starsky turns to Bray. "Ride with us. You sit up front, I'll be in the back with him."

Bray hesitates for a moment, his need for routine and predictability warring with his concern for Hutch. What he really wants to do is go home and work on a fractal, or gather himself here at Hutch's, But he endures. He pushes himself, puts on his mask, and finally nods.

As the paramedics load Hutch into the ambulance, Starsky speaks to the driver about Bray, then they all get in the ambulance and leave for the hospital.

En route, Bray sits tense with tight shoulders, offering no conversation to the medic driving. He's out of his comfort zone, in the noise of the outside world, watching the nightscape in a different way than he's used to or cares for. Too, he's there for Hutch in his own way, just as Hutch had been there for him.

::

"He's coming to," one of the medics says.

In the back of the ambulance, Starsky leans closer to Hutch with a smile.

"Hey, bronco. You made it."

A faint groan escapes Hutch. His eyelids move but can't open just yet. "Starsk?" he murmurs, his voice thick and weak as he reaches for his partner's hand.

Starsky grips it and leans in closer, relief brightening his features. "Yeah, partner, it's me. You're in an ambulance. Took a nasty hit, but you're gonna be fine."

"How's...Bray?"

"Hangin' in there. Ridin' up front with Albie."

Hutch tries to sit up but winces in pain. Starsky and a medic gently push him back down. "Easy, partner. We're almost to the hospital."

When the ambulance parks at the entrance of the ER, Captain Dobey comes out to help open the rear doors.

"Good news, Starsky. Simmons and Babcock picked up the guy from Hamilton's sketch and the APB. Monroe Shelton, the victim's ex. He's in custody, spilling his story. Went on some kind of booze and drug binge and attacked her when she threatened to call the police."

"Guy should...been a boxer," Hutch mumbles from the gurney as the medics lift him out.

"Speedy recovery, Hutch," Dobey says. In a lower voice, he says to Starsky, "Take care of him."

"I will," Starsky winks, and follows Hutch and the gurney in, then looks over his shoulder at Bray, who is getting out of the ambulance to accompany them.

Joining Bray and walking alongside him, the captain says, "Can't thank you enough for your help, Hamilton."

"I wish I could've kept Hutch from getting hurt," Bray says. "Is he really going to be all right?"

"That hard head of his? You bet."

::

As Hutch sleeps under medication in his hospital bed, Bray and Starsky exchange quiet conversation in the low-lit room.

"Hutch was my friend a lot in freshman year," Bray says.

Starsky is leaning back in his chair, hands clasped behind his head, relaxing a little since he knows Hutch will be okay. He likes hearing stories about his partner, because his partner says little about his early years, and when he does, it's in general terms. "Oh yeah?"

"Yes, my foster parents didn't think college was right for me. I had practically a breakdown the first day. But Hutch was my roommate, and he talked me off the ledge so to speak. The folks wanted to put me away in a sanitarium, take me out of school altogether and keep me home, but he talked them out of it, said I just needed time to get used to the changes, and just wait till art classes because I'd really find myself there, and he was right. He told them that he'd look after me sort of as a big brother, although we're the same age. I had only a few friends, because I'm not easy to be friends with, but he was one of them. He...he saved me from a mob of fraternity boys that were roughing me up and calling me horrible names in this circle they'd made. They wouldn't stop, and he just walked up and made short work of them, but he talked to the leader too in private, went through the proper channels, and they never bothered me after that."

Starsky smiles. "Yeah. He's saved me a few times too."

Bray leans toward Starsky and says in a low, confidential tone, "Want to know why I'm a successful artist?"

Starsky leans toward him a little bit too. "Why?"

"My whole life, everybody tried to change me, fix me, suppress me, correct me. But Hutch told me to embrace my autism. To celebrate my differences. To like who I am. I don't always understand who I am, but I like myself. He changed my life."

Starsky nods with a smile. "How long were you roommates?"

"Just two years. My art degree was four years, but he left school after two, to marry Nancy."

"Did you meet her? Know her?"

"He introduced us. He really fell for her. But I think he cares more for you. I mean, like a brother."

Hands still clasped behind his head, Starsky's eyes flicker over to the sleeping Hutch and grow wet with tears. "Yeah. He'd do anything for me. Now do me a favor and tell me another story about Hutch."

The end