The Rest of the Story
By Audrey
The Torino’s back seat stunk. Leg room was non-existent, the naugahyde or vinyl or whatever it was that lined the seat was
too slippery, and my constant leaning forward to catch their conversational
tidbits was causing my neck to cramp.
Not that they were talking much.
It was damn hot, unusually sticky for Los
Angeles County. I was down to my rolled
up shirt-sleeves, my one good sports coat balled up with my one good tie in the
corner of the immaculate floorboard.
They, on the other hand, wore two shirts each, Hutchinson with a
relatively sedate Hawaiian shirt over his t-shirt, Starsky with a bowling shirt
over his.
“Aren’t you hot with two shirts on?” I
asked, aiming the question at neither one in particular. My earlier questions had been answered with
non-specific grunts. Maybe this time
I’d get lucky, albeit with a stupid question.
The passenger turned to me. Exhausted and aloof blue eyes stared out
between strands of sweaty blond bangs.
This close up, I could see scrapes on his left cheek that had escaped my
notice earlier this morning. “Yep,” he
answered simply, before turning back to face the streets ahead of him.
“Then why
don’t you take one off?” I asked again,
pushing my luck.
The detective turned back around. “We have a choice. Get made as cops when we walk down the street with our holsters
in plain view, or get made as cops when we are the only morons wearing more
than one shirt on a 90 degree day.”
Then he shook his head in disgust, though
whether at the topic or my question, I didn’t know for sure.
“The department makes the choice for us,”
he continued. “No exposed weapons on
plainclothes officers in the public view unless necessary for blah, blah,
blah.” His point made, his head snapped
back to face forward once again. His
partner made no indication that he had heard, or cared about, the exchange.
I settled back to make some notes. It was the longest string of words I’d heard
from either man all day…unless you count that morning.
*
That morning I had finally found myself
in Captain Dobey’s office after spending 20 minutes waiting downstairs with the
desk sergeant. Now the captain was on
the phone, and I was annoyed. Waiting
is not my strong suit.
“No, you can’t have them,” he yelled into
the phone. “I’m short three guys
already. And until the promotional test
gets out of the courts, I’ll continue to be short. Borrow them from Vice!”
And with that, he slammed the receiver down.
Dobey turned his attention to me. “Damn manpower shortages,” he raged. “Child Protective Services wants some of my
men, Vice wants some of my men, Community Services wants some of my men. And when do I get to demand more men? Tell me that! My people are working double, triple overtime just to get the job
done. Maybe I’ll just tell the citizens
to stop getting murdered.” His voice
cracked in grief and fatigue.
Then he paused in his tirade.
“Who the hell are you again?” he asked, turning the volume down ever so
slightly.
“Robert McKesson. Bob.
Los Angeles Times.” His face
registered nothing. I forged ahead.
“Reporter,” I
added, for unnecessary clarification.
Still
nothing.
“Following your detectives for a month
for a series in the paper, and maybe a book?
You know? Like the ‘New
Centurions’?” I threw in that last bit
for good measure. It’s one of my
favorite books, and a lot of people still remember the movie from a few years
ago.
His broad, brown face softened into a
welcoming, if slightly rehearsed, smile.
“Oh yes, Mr. McKesson. That’s
today, huh? Welcome to the BCPD. Pardon my, um….”
“Outburst?” I supplied. He grimaced, and I continued on. “That’s OK.
And call me Bob. Mr. McKesson is
my dad. But you made an interesting
point on the phone there, something maybe we can talk about later: how the
court rulings are affecting manpower.”
Dobey immediately looked cautious. I could have kicked myself. One of the ways I had justified this story
to my editors was to bring in the subject of recent court rulings on minority
promotions and hiring. But obviously
this was a sore subject for Dobey.
“I’m teaming you with one of my most
seasoned detective pairs,” he said, ignoring my heavy hint. He ambled over to his office door, opened
it, and bellowed, “Starsky! Hutchinson! In my office!”
Dobey sat back down at his desk. Two men walked in, weariness evident in
every step. Both wore holstered guns
over sweat-stained t-shirts. One –
blond, tall, lanky– headed immediately for the other empty chair in the room
and settled slowly into it. He moved
stiffly. His head bowed slightly as he
pinched the bridge of his nose in a tired gesture. As he moved his hand upward, his sleeve slipped, revealing a
nasty scrape on his elbow and upper arm.
It looked like road rash.
The other – brunet, shorter, compact –
perched himself on the arm of the chair, resting his hand on his partner’s
shoulder. It was a casual maneuver and
yet, at the same time, looked oddly protective.
Captain Dobey turned to me. “Mr. McKesson…um, Bob… Meet Detective
Sergeants Dave Starsky and Ken Hutchinson.”
Dobey then turned to his detectives.
“McKesson here is a reporter from the LA Times. He’s got permission for a month’s
ride-along. Doing a story about…What are
you doing a story about again?”
I relaxed my face into my best
cop-friendly expression. “Just trying
to bring a human face to the police force.
With the…well…everything…going on right now on the streets and in the
courts, we kind of lose track of what it is you do, every day, to keep the
citizens safe. You know…” I trailed off
as the dark-hared detective, Starsky, rolled his eyes at his captain.
“OK, here’s the drill,” Starsky said in a
tone of voice that suggested he’d rather be cleaning toilets than escorting me
around town. “No questions or comments
in front of perps. Save the criticisms
and opinions for the office. You buy
your own food. No food in my car. You sit in the back seat. Good luck finding the back seat in Hutch’s
car. Before you even think of asking,
no - you can’t hold my gun. Anyone
shoots at you, duck. And if we ride at
night, so do you.” His hand tightened
on Hutchinson’s shoulder. Apparently
that was the signal to go, as the pair rose from the chair – Hutchinson with
the help of Starsky’s hand on his elbow – and exited Captain Dobey’s office
without another word.
I sat there, speechless, wondering what I
had done to make them angry. Had I
made a mistake?
Dobey shook his head. “I have to apologize for my men,” he said
softly. “Detective Hutchinson came out
of a deep cover assignment yesterday… The hard way…and Starsky was barely there
in time to pick up the mess. They have
to start all over again, they haven’t had a day off in weeks, and they are not
likely to get one anytime soon.”
“That’s just what I’m looking for,
Captain,” I said eagerly, my spirits buoyed once again. “The citizens don’t know what’s going
on. They just see the negative news
stories. They don’t see the men on the
front line, doing the job every day.
I’m not a crime reporter, just a features guy. I’m not out to ‘get’ anyone.”
The office door opened again. Starsky stuck his head inside. “We’re heading out, Cap. You coming or what?” he asked, jerking his
chin in my direction.
“Heck, yeah,”
I said, hopping out of my chair and rushing after him.
*
Both men grabbed clean shirts from the
backs of their chairs before we headed out of the office. Hutchinson tapped his partner on the
arm.
“Composite ‘n’
list,” the blond said cryptically.
“Yeah, OK,
downstairs in five,” Starsky answered.
Hutchinson swerved away from us and
ducked into an office labeled “Records and Information”. We headed for the staircase. On the way down, I tried to make sense of
the abbreviated exchange between the two partners.
“What’s a
composite?” I asked.
“Picture of a
suspect.”
“And a list?”
Starsky rolled his eyes at me for the
second time in 10 minutes. “A list is a
bunch of information in a column on a piece of paper. I hear they use them in the real world too.”
I ignored the sarcasm and pressed
on. “This have anything to do with the
case your partner was undercover on?”
“Dobey fill
you in?”
“Just that you
have to start all over again. Sounds
like a bitch of a case.”
“Yeah,” he said, offering no further
enlightenment. We walked out of the
stairwell and into the front lobby.
“Hiya,
Peters,” the detective greeted the desk sergeant. “What’s shakin’?”
“Not much,
Starsk. Heard you guys got real screwed
last night. Hutch OK?”
“Spent the night at Memorial. They think he messed up a disk again when that
guy dinked him with the car. Not much
we can do about it now, though. Maybe
we’ll schedule something surgical this fall.”
“Ouch,” Sergeant Peters said in
sympathy. I looked at the two
sergeants, mouth agape. Hit by a
car? Slipped disk? My wife was practically crippled for a week
with a bad disk once. That Hutchinson
was still walking around was astounding, let alone working a case. But any comment I might have made on the
subject was interrupted by the sudden reappearance of the man under
discussion.
“She’s on it,” Hutchinson said to his
partner. “Hey, Peters,” he tossed the
greeting over his shoulder as the two detectives and I walked out the door,
Starsky lightly steering the other man with a hand on the small of his
back. “Hey, Hutch,” the veteran desk
sergeant replied, wincing as he saw the visible results of Hutchinson’s
misadventure the night before.
*
Starsky suddenly spun the Torino’s
steering wheel in his hands and landed the car into a curb next to a coffee
shop. I wished, not for the first time
that morning, that the detectives’ vehicle had seatbelts in the back.
“What the hell, Starsk?” Hutchinson said,
exasperated. I wondered the same
thing. Had he seen a suspect? Were we going to question someone? I could barely suppress my excitement as I
leaned closer to hear his response.
“I’m hungry,” Starsky said in a tone of
voice that very nearly approximated a toddler’s whine. “We haven’t eaten since yesterday. My blood sugar is about two.”
Hutchinson let out a noisy sigh. “No, your mental age is about two. And what about this morning? You ate my breakfast tray. One minute I’m in the john, next minute I
come out and my breakfast is gone.”
“You’re kidding, right? You weren’t going to really eat that. Not enough organic tofu, dried vegetables
and denatured grains or whatever in it.
Besides, hospital food isn’t real food.
I want real food.”
I grinned at their verbal exchange, the
first sign I’d seen all morning that they were normal human beings. Hutchinson grabbed the radio, let dispatch
know we were eating (or at least that’s what I assumed all that code-speak
meant) and slowly unfolded his body from the car. I was in pain just watching him.
The three of us walked into the
restaurant and headed for a booth. I
briefly wondered which one I would sit next to before they made the point moot,
by sharing one side, shoulders touching.
I took my position on the other side of the table, aware that I needed
to get to know these guys, gain their trust, before they were going to reveal
case details to me. And I needed case
details, to make the series more real.
“Can I ask you guys a few questions about
yourselves while we’re waiting, you know, just basic stuff?” I asked, after we
had given our orders to the waitress. I
noted with interest that Starsky had ordered a double cheeseburger with fries,
despite the fact that it was only 10:00 am, while Hutchinson ordered nothing at
all.
The partners exchanged a glance. I must have met with their preliminary
approval, since Starsky answered “Yeah, shoot.”
“OK, real
basics here. Names with spelling?”
“David
Starsky, s-t-a-r-s-k-y.”
I looked at
Hutchinson.
“Clyde Eunice
Mandrake Hutchinson.
h-u-t-c-h-i-n-s-o-n.”
I started
writing, then paused. Hadn’t Captain
Dobey called him Ken?
“Ken’s my nickname,” he said in answer to
my questioning look. Starsky snorted
into his water glass. Hutchinson jabbed
him with his elbow, and Starsky laughed harder. Obviously I was being had.
“Blondie’s name is Kenneth Hutchinson,”
Starsky blurted out between snorts and giggles.
“Nice job, Starsk…remind me to invite you
to my next high-stakes poker game,” Hutchinson joked, showing me the first real
smile I’d seen from him since I’d met him.
It animated his face briefly, before he sank back into his world-weary
funk.
“OK, note to self, they have a sense of
humor,” I said in an exaggerated drawl, pretending to scribble furiously on my
notebook. “But seriously, how old are
you? And how long have you been on the
force?”
“34 and 34,” Starsky said, pointing to
his partner and himself. “Went to
academy in ’68, partnered in uniform in ‘69.
Then despite my extraordinary good looks and above-average intelligence,
Hutch made detective first, in ‘73. I
caught up a few months later, and we’ve been partners again ever since…” It was
Hutchinson’s turn to snort in his water, but I noticed he didn’t verbally
contradict anything Starsky had said.
I did the math in my head. “So on and off, you guys have worked
together for nine years now? That’s
longer than a lot of marriages I know of.”
Our food arrived. I sipped at soup as I continued peppering
the two men with questions. “Speaking
of which, either of you married? Kids?”
“Not I,” Starsky
said, slapping at Hutchinson’s hand as his partner grabbed a French fry.
“Nor I,” Hutchinson mumbled around a
clump of fries. He reached over the
table for the ketchup bottle, dumped a bunch on a bread plate, and continued to
snatch fries from Starsky’s plate. For
his part, Starsky continued periodically swatting at Hutchinson’s hand, but
made no serious effort to stop him from eating. In fact, Starsky himself didn’t seem to be eating much at all,
taking more time than strictly necessary to meticulously slice his cheeseburger
in two with a butter knife.
“It’s hard to stay married in this job,”
Starsky said. “Lots of us try,” he shot
a meaningful look at his partner as he spoke, “but the hours and pay just
aren’t what a lot of wives want to deal with.”
Obviously there was a story here, maybe a
marriage for one or both. But I figured
there would be plenty of time to discuss this later. I moved on to another topic.
“Why did you become cops…I mean, police
officers?” I remembered too late that some policemen didn’t like the moniker
“cops”.
They didn’t seem to mind, at least not
enough to say anything about it. “I had
a little bit of a rough time as a kid…,” Starsky began.
Hutchinson interrupted with a laugh. “You could paper your bedroom with his juvie
record,” he joked. His hand snaked over
to his partner’s plate and grabbed half of the cheeseburger.
“Anyway,” Starsky continued, ignoring the
comment, “Luckily I figured out it was easier on this side of the law. Got out of the army, and the rest is
history. Ya know, Hutch, they make
menus for everyone in this place,” he said, directing the last comment at his
cheeseburger-stealing partner.
“Hmmpf,” Hutchinson replied with a
mouthful of food. He put down the remains
of the cheeseburger. “Excuse me, nature
calls,” he rose slowly, and headed toward the washroom.
“Not hungry
after all?” I asked Starsky after Hutchinson left.
“I’m starved,” he answered, to my
surprise. “But I knew he wouldn’t eat
that hospital crap, and I don’t think he ate much yesterday either. He can’t take painkillers on an empty
stomach without throwin’ up. And the
health freak’s a sucker for French fries.
He needs to eat. So I just had
to create the opportunity, encourage him with some token protests every now and
then, and wah-lah.”
“The
cheeseburger?” I asked with a smile, anticipating the answer.
“The cheeseburger was an added bonus,” he
replied with a lop-sided grin. “I
sliced it up to make it easier for him to grab, but I didn’t really think he’d
go for it.” The detective paused,
dunking one of the remaining French fries in ketchup and munching quickly.
I was impressed, both with the complexity
and compassion of his explanation.
“Sounds like you know him pretty well,” I commented.
“Well…uh…yeah,”
he said, surprise evident on his face.
“He’s my partner, isn’t he?”
*
Back in the car, it appeared we were
driving aimlessly around the city. “So
what’s on the agenda today?” I asked.
“A little beat-stomping today. Gotta remind the pervs that we are still
here,” Starsky responded, never taking his eyes off the road. “I’ve been gone for a couple of days now,
and Hutch here hasn’t been seen by the citizenry in almost a month.”
“Hey, there’s
Smitty,” Hutchinson interrupted, pointing to his right.
“Good catch, buddy.” And with that, Starsky revved up the Torino
and catapulted us toward an intersection where a small group of people were
gathered. They scattered as we approached. But one, an older man who looked a little
worse for wear, did not scatter fast enough.
Starsky was out of the car and on top of him with a set of handcuffs
before I could even blink. His partner
stood a short distance behind, gun drawn, covering him. I hadn’t even seen Hutchinson get out of the
car, but it occurred to me that the whole thing had gone down smoothly and
quickly, without words - without even a plan, as far as I could tell.
Starsky had Smitty up against the
car. “Whaddaya know, Smitty?” the
detective asked the obviously startled man.
“Nuthin’! I don’t know nuthin’!” Smitty
responded.
I stepped out of the car to get a closer
look, and was assailed with the smell of alcohol and BO almost
immediately. The release I had signed
stated I would stay a reasonable distance away from officers performing their
duties. In this particular case, I
didn’t mind at all.
“You know you’ve got at least two
outstanding warrants for B and E. And
maybe some for the rest of the alphabet too, for all I know. What made you think you could just hang out
on this corner without a care in the world?” Hutchinson asked, holstering the
largest gun I had ever seen. I’d have
to beg later to get a good look at the thing.
“Word was you guys wasn’t around
lately. Next time I saw ya I was goin’
to turn myself in. Truth!”
“Uh huh,” Starsky said, finishing up his
task of frisking the man. “I would have
paid money to see that.” He reached
into the car window and grabbed the radio microphone. “This is Zebra 3; we need a black-and-white for a prisoner
transport at 3rd and Main.”
“10-4 Zebra 3. ETA five minutes,” a female voice answered.
I got back in the car to make some more
notes. Starsky and Hutchinson remained
outside, chit-chatting with their captive while waiting for a squad car to pick
him up. Smitty looked relatively
relaxed talking with the detectives, as if he’d done this many times
before. I wondered how much of the life
of a detective is made up of these small moments, simply reinforcing to the
citizenry that they are, in fact, still there.
*
The black-and-white took off, an unhappy
Smitty ensconced inside. The detectives
got back in the Torino. Hutchinson
settled gingerly into the passenger seat, while his partner bounced into his
chair with more energy and enthusiasm.
“More
beat-stomping ahead?” I asked, proud of my new grasp of cop-lingo.
It was as if I hadn’t spoken. They looked at each other for a long moment
in wordless communication. Then came a
volley of verbal shorthand that left me breathless.
“Who would
have known?” Starsky asked.
“Had to be a
firefighter,” Hutchinson responded.
“Your shift?”
“Maybe
battalion.”
“The guy in
the car?”
“No one knew
him.”
“But he’s all
we have, and he’s gone.”
“Yeah, he’s
the key.”
“He knew ya’d
be there.”
“And knew I’d
be on that side.”
“Man, Hutch,
he almost--”
“I know, Starsk, I know… Had to be a
firefighter,” Hutchinson repeated.
“Had ta be,”
Starsky echoed.
I could barely suppress my excitement. This had to be it. This had to be the case.
The key to turning my series from ordinary to extraordinary. But how to get them to talk about it to me? I tentatively entered their conversation.
“Is that who
you were undercover as? A firefighter?”
The pair jumped, obviously having
forgotten my presence momentarily. “A
paramedic,” a startled Hutchinson answered.
“Why?” I
asked.
The detectives exchanged another
glance. Starsky took a deep
breath. “Since you’re gonna be with us
for a month,” he started, “you might as well know the story. But it doesn’t leave this car, not until we
say. You’ll get your story, I
promise. Deal?”
“Deal,” I
agreed.
“In a nutshell, there’s a headcase
killing hypes, dumping their bodies in buildings and setting them on fire. The buildings, not the hypes. Of course that distinction is kinda lost on
the victims, who are too dead to care much.
On top of that, in a couple of these fires, people have been hurt… you
know, squatters, firefighters, passers-by, that kind of thing.” Starsky’s hands waved as he talked. I made a note to include the hand-waving in
my story; it was quite distinct.
I scribbled another reminder on my
notepad: find out what ‘hype’ means.
Hutchinson took up the story. “I
went under as a fire department paramedic.
There was some thought that he may be an off-duty firefighter, given the
expertise with which the fires were set.
The idea was I could put an ear to the ground, keep an eye out for
suspicious employees and catch the department gossip. Plus all the psychological profiles showed that this scumbag
probably stuck around to see the results of his handiwork. So maybe I’d see him at a fire scene.”
A sudden wiggling movement in the front
seat distracted us briefly. It appeared
Starsky was attempting to empty all his pockets, while trying to keep the
Torino on the road at the same time. “I
never got my cuffs back,” he complained.
“Damn it! Did I leave them on
Smitty?”
Hutchinson shook his head
affectionately. “It’s not my day to baby-sit
your cuffs, Starsk. Try driving in a
straight line for a while, and we’ll look at the next light.”
He resumed his story. “Anyway, I was assigned to the station that
was catching most of the fires. Over
the past month, we responded to a half-dozen fires with bodies inside. Other shifts and stations responded to a
half-dozen more. Of those, maybe five
of the victims fit the MO of a confirmed druggie.”
I amended my previous note to read hype
= drug addict and underlined it.
Hutchinson continued. “Another was a prostitute with a
questionable heroin history, and the rest were homeless people who probably
started the fires themselves while smoking on their money-stuffed mattresses.” He grinned, but the smile was without
humor. “Of the five possibles, I was at
three of them. I saw no one at the
scene out of the ordinary, no off-duty employees acting strange, nothing inside
the building in the way of evidence, nothing at all.”
“Until last night, when some moron tried
to kill you,” Starsky interjected, placing a protective hand on his partner’s
upper arm.
“Yeah.
Until last night. I was standing
next to a fire engine, talking to one of the firefighters, when a car drove by
and hit me. It wasn’t an accident; the
side of the engine where I was hit was cordoned off against traffic because of
the hoses. I went flying, but not
before I and several other people saw the guy’s face. Not to mention the parting shot of him yelling ‘fucking cop pig’
as he drove by. Lucky for me he hadn’t gotten
up too much speed. All those hoses in
the way I guess.” Hutchinson shook his
head at the memory.
“I was parked a block away, since I’d
been following them whenever they got a call that seemed a likely match,”
Starsky said. “I heard the radio traffic
and hauled ass.”
“Only a couple of people knew I was
undercover,” Hutchinson said with a puzzled shrug. “The station captain, my paramedic partner, obviously the top
brass. Now of course, it’s all shot to
hell, thanks to our friend in the yellow Ford Pinto.”
I twisted around in the slippery back
seat, trying to reach the pen I had dropped while taking notes. “So did they guy in the Pinto kill
the…hypes?” I asked as I stretched my hand under Starsky’s impeccably clean seats. Wow, second use of cop-lingo in a matter
of minutes, Bob. “And set the
fires?”
“No idea,” Starsky answered. “But given how Hutch was made, we can pretty
much assume some fire department involvement.”
“Your paramedic partner?” I asked. All that groping under seats turned up
nothing. I dug in my jacket pocket for
another pen.
“I don’t think so,” Hutchinson
answered. “I’ve been working with the
guy for a month, got to know his family, hung out after work. He’s squeaky clean.”
“So I gotta ask,” I started, new pen in
hand. “How does a cop work undercover
as a paramedic? I’d think patient
safety would be an issue.”
The pair exchanged another one of those
information-laden glances. “I went to
medical school,” Hutchinson replied. It
was a simple response, but tension was obvious in the set of his jaw and the
flash of his eyes.
“Did you make
it to MD?” I asked.
“Left in ’68 to go to the academy,” he
answered shortly. “Let’s go Starsk.” He began to rummage in the glove
compartment, perhaps for the wayward handcuffs. Obviously I’d hit a sore spot.
I let him off the hook with another subject change.
“So where are
we headed now?” I asked.
“Back to Metro,” Starsky replied. “We have to book Smitty still. And get my cuffs back.”
“But didn’t the officers who picked him
up handle that?” I was confused. It hadn’t occurred to me that detectives
would handle that kind of procedural crap.
“It’s not like TV,” Hutchinson said. “For everyone we bring in, there’s a ton of
paperwork, procedure and other bullshit.
It’s easy to blow half a day on petty stuff. It’s part of being a Zebra unit; we have a beat on top of our
homicide duties, and that takes up time.”
*
“…and after we beat-stomped, we went back
to Metro and did paperwork, and then they had to attend some stupid in-service
training thing so I made excuses and left early. I didn’t know cop work could be so exciting and so boring all at
the same time, ya know?” I excitedly
explained to my wife that evening.
“Beat-stomped?”
she asked quizzically.
I rambled on, oblivious to her
question. “Man, you shoulda seen that
cannon that Hutchinson carries. I’ve
never seen anything like that. And he’s
a miserable sonofabitch too, although I get the feeling I caught him at a bad
time. He’s got a bad back ya know, just
like yours. Starsky seems less like he
has a corn-cob up his ass. But they get
along fine, I guess. And they’re real
funny guys when they feel like it. Just
real closed off, too, like it takes them a long time to let someone in.”
“Bob…”
“And they work
so in sync, ya know, like a machine…”
“Bob…”
“I’m picking up so much stuff, I could do
a book easy. I know I could get a
three-parter out of the paper at a minimum…
“Bob!”
I
startled. “What, honey?”
“Shut up and eat dinner. You can continue your
little-boy-in-a-candy-store rant after the kids are in bed.”
I looked around the table. The girls were staring at me wide-eyed. Linda looked bemused. I hoped I hadn’t used too many curse words
in describing my day; I couldn’t really remember what I had said to her. I just knew how I felt when I was with the
detectives, like I was more alive, more a part of the city of my birth.
I took a deep
breath. “Sorry,” I said sheepishly, and
picked up my fork.
*
The next day I
had a lunchtime interview scheduled with Captain Dobey.
“How long have you been with the BCPD?” I
asked first, a softball question to lull him, I hoped, into a false sense of
security.
“More than 25 years now. Last nine as a captain,” Dobey
responded. He sat stiffly at his desk,
his hands folded over his stomach.
“Married? Children?”
“Been married
28 years. Two children.”
“Your detectives were telling me it’s
hard for a police officer to be married to a woman and the job at the same
time.”
Dobey considered the question with
obvious care. “We see a lot of things
on the streets that we don’t feel like we can talk about to civilians,” he
began. “Wives want to know everything,
and when we can’t tell them everything, they start to wonder if the job is more
important than they are.” He smiled
sheepishly. “I know that sounds, I
don’t know, sexist or something. But
that’s the way it is.”
“How about the
women on the force?” I asked.
“What about
them?” he responded tersely.
“Are they
married to the job?”
“I don’t know,” Dobey answered, “You’d
have to ask them.” He picked nervously
at a stray thread on his suit jacket.
I left that line of questioning
behind. I would have to handle the
volatile captain with more care.
“Starsky or Hutchinson ever married?”
I asked casually.
“Hutchinson
was for a few years early on. Starsky
was engaged, but she passed on.”
“Oh,” I said, momentarily at a loss for
words. I had suspected that Hutchinson
had a marriage under his belt. But
Starsky’s news was more unexpected. I
chose to leave the issue untouched for now, in favor of continuing the divorce
angle. “Uh, Hutchinson, did he get
divorced because of the job?”
“You’d have to ask him that,” he answered
shortly. “That’s none of my
business.” And none of yours either
was the implied second half of that statement.
I forged
ahead. “How many detectives are you in
charge of?”
“When we are fully staffed, about a
dozen, including the ones who float in and out from other departments. We haven’t been fully staffed in a long
time. I’ve got three sets I can count
on right now, with a few others paired temporarily due to illness, injuries,
and so on.”
“The business
in court, is it keeping you from hiring more?”
“Well, the commission does the hiring,
but yes. It’s keeping us understaffed,
definitely.” There was that wary look
again.
“Do you think the department hires enough
minorities?” I asked right out, remembering what I had promised my editor.
“That’s not
for me to say,” he answered. He started
fiddling with a pencil on his desk.
“That’s what
the courts said,” I countered.
Captain Dobey dropped the pencil and
leaned forward, pointing a finger at me.
“Now look. Back when I was
hired, it was the same old business. We
need more blacks. More Chicanos. More purples, and yellows, and greens. And then we had to fight like hell to prove
we weren’t hired to just fill up a quota, like a packing list at a warehouse. And if my son was hired tomorrow, he’d have
the same stupid fight, civil rights be damned.”
As he continued, his voice raised
incrementally with each word. “But if
you think you’re gonna get me to talk about what’s going on in court right now,
you are sadly mistaken. I’m just trying
to do my job as a squad captain, without enough men to do it. I’m too old to give a damn any more about
why they are hiring people, or what God-damned color they are, or what
God-damned color I am. They just need to
shut up and do it before more innocent citizens get killed.”
He pulled out
a handkerchief and wiped the sweat from his forehead.
“I’m sorry if I upset you, Captain,” I
said, as calmly as I could. He was an
effective leader; I had felt his passion, and briefly shared his frustration.
“Damn right you upset me. I see fine men like Hutchinson out there
working when they can’t even see straight and it upsets me! It stinks!”
He took a deep breath. “It’s my
job as their captain to take care of them.
To keep them from turning down investigative dead-ends and taking stupid
risks. But sending out tired detectives
every day is a stupid risk in itself.
One of them is going to get hurt some day, and I’ll have to make that
phone call to their wife or mother. You
have no idea what it’s like, making that phone call...” He shook his head sadly.
“When was the
last time you had to do that?” I asked.
“I’d rather not get into that,” Dobey
replied. “Suffice it to say it involved
one of your dynamic duo out there.”
I wondered if I would get them to open up
about it. I had a whole month, but
after a day with them and a morning with their captain, I wondered if even that
would be anywhere near enough.
*
They weren’t starting work that day until
4pm. I had learned the day before that
the detective pairs rotated shifts: some starting at 8am, another at 4pm,
another at midnight. This was to assure
that they had plenty of time to hunt down leads and suspects that might not
keep bankers’ hours.
“It gives us more flexibility and less
overtime than traditional shifts,” Hutchinson had explained. “We might know that we have to stake someone
out later in the week, so we’ll pick a day we know we aren’t due in until 4:00. Or pre-schedule an 8 o’clock shift for a
mandatory court appearance. Or we’ll
swap amongst ourselves, a couple of mornings for a couple of midnights or
whatever, if we know we’ll need them.”
“Of course, we still get a lot of
overtime,” Starsky had interrupted.
“The criminals don’t usually give much of damn about our schedule. The money is nice, but I’d prefer sleeping
every now and then.”
So now I was sitting at Starsky’s desk,
waiting for the partners to come in and start their day…or night. After reestablishing their turf yesterday,
they were going to start all over again on their investigation, the one that
almost left Hutchinson dead.
Looking at their desks, I was struck by
the contrast. Starsky’s was as neat as
a pin. Hutchinson’s had piles of
papers, a wrapper from a protein bar and an empty aspirin bottle. I resolved to spend the day looking for more
contrasts, to find the differences in the two hard-nosed detectives.
As I scribbled
this down in my notebook, I heard voices behind me.
“They looked
like bugs to me. What was I supposed to
do?”
“Leave them alone. That’s what you are supposed to do. Unless you want to really learn how to take
care of them, don’t touch them.”
I turned around. The detectives were coming in the door. Hutchinson looked pissed off. Starsky looked confused.
“OK, so now I
know they weren’t bugs,” Starsky said, with a chagrined look on his face.
“Yes, and I can’t propagate more ferns if
you scrape them off. So hands off,”
Hutchinson said, sitting at his desk.
Starsky perched atop his partner’s desk
and winked at me. “So how do you grow
them, whaddya call it, sporns?”
“Spores.
It takes a lot of work, and more time than I have to explain,”
Hutchinson said as he sifted through the files on his desk. “But if you really want to know, I’ll show
you a book tonight.”
“Why not just
go to the plant store and buy more ferns, instead of growin’ new ones?”
“It’s the
challenge, Starsk. The challenge.”
Starsky kicked his feet up onto a nearby
chair. “Hey, Bob,” he said, turning his
attention to me.
“Ferns?” I
questioned.
“Ferns,” Starsky confirmed. “Hutch’s gotta fondle his plants, or they
wilt from lack of attention, ya know.”
“Shuddup, Starsk,” Hutchinson muttered,
continuing the paper-shuffling on his desk.
“Where the hell is that file?”
“The one with
the thing?” Starsky asked.
“No, the other
thing.”
“Back in the
cabinet.”
Hutchinson stomped toward one of the file
cabinets that lined the room. Once
again I had to marvel at their verbal shorthand.
“So you ready
for another fun day, Bob?” Starsky asked me.
“Oh yeah,” I
said. “Raring to go.”
“Good.
First thing today, we go see Huggy with our composite. Then we’ll get a start on re-interviewing
everyone who saw the car hit Hutch.”
“Re-interview?”
I asked.
“Yeah.
It’s amazing what you can remember about something two days later that
didn’t immediately come to mind when the cops first asked you about it. Plus, we didn’t do the original interviews,
and Hutch and I wanna make sure we didn’t miss anything.”
Something else was bumping at the back of
my mind. That was it: Huggy. “What’s a Huggy?” I asked.
“More like
who’s a Huggy,” Starsky said with a smile.
*
On the ride over to see Huggy, I
scribbled what I had discovered so far in terms of differences. Hutchinson liked plants, Starsky didn’t. Not exactly the basis for a thesis yet,
Bob, I chuckled to myself. Well,
there was also the moodiness thing.
Hutchinson could be almost glacially cutting in his comments to his
partner, and he certainly was pissy about some things. Starsky seemed more laid back and friendly…
My musing was
interrupted by a brief conversation in the front seat.
“Better go in the back. He says he got in trouble with some folks
last time we went in front.”
“Gotcha.” Starsky steered down an alley and parked behind a dilapidated
building. A sign over a door read “The
Pits: Deliveries.”
We got out and walked inside. It seemed like the backroom of any two-bit
restaurant or bar in the area.
Stainless steel prep tables, which despite their name were stained with
unidentifiable goo. A cooler or
two. The stereotypical cook with a
cigarette dangling from his lips.
“Hey Melvin,
can you tell Huggy we’re here?” Starsky asked the cook.
The cook disengaged himself from his
fryer with a grunt and lumbered toward a swinging door. I was overcome with the smell of grease and
food service-grade cleansers, odors that brought back my misspent youth as a
short-order cook at a bowling alley.
As I surreptitiously rubbed the end of my
nose, a tall, thin black man walked through the swinging doors. He wore tight, electric-blue pants and a
print top with a fringed vest. He was
all arms and legs and liquid grace.
“Hello there, my fine-feathered
gentlemen,” the man said. “There’s a
nice out-of-the-way corner of the bar reserved in your name, guaranteed to keep
you hydrated and me out of shit’s creek.”
“We were hoping we wouldn’t have to chat
in the kitchen,” Starsky replied.
Hutchinson said nothing, but looked grateful.
We followed the man into the restaurant
and sat at the bar, the detectives again shoulder-to-shoulder, and me next to
Starsky. “And you must be Bob McKesson,
scribbler extraordinaire for the LA Times,” the black man said. “I’m Huggy Bear, owner and operator of The
Pits. What’s your poison?”
I must not have been able to hide the
surprise in my face. Starsky turned to
me and said, “If it’s happening on the street, Huggy knows. Word gets around fast when a reporter is
following you around.”
I nodded and
said to the gangly restaurant proprietor, “Just water for me, thanks.”
“One H2O,”
Huggy confirmed. “And the usual for the
dynamic duo?”
They nodded. As Huggy left to get our drinks, I asked Starsky, “So what’s with
all the lurking in dark corners?”
“We’ve been using Huggy as a source for
so long, we got a little too comfortable,” the dark-haired detective
explained. “A couple people got
nervous, ya know, seeing cops hanging out at The Pits. Some of his information supply lines decided
to dry up. So we’ve been tryin’ to be a
little more low-key lately.”
“What are we
going ask him about?”
Hutchinson spoke up for the first time
since we entered the building. “We’ll
give him a copy of the composite of the guy in the Pinto, have him show it
around discreetly, etcetera, etcetera.
Worth a shot, anyway.”
Huggy returned with our drinks. Like me, Hutchinson drank water, while
Starsky sipped a Coke. The detectives
explained what they needed, finishing each other’s sentences with uncanny
frequency. Huggy listened intently
until the pair was finished, then spoke up.
“I’ll do it
for you, but I think you may be barking up the wrong tree.”
The detectives
looked surprised. “Whaddya mean, Hug?”
Starsky asked.
“Word on the street has it that the dude
who was all burnt up in the fire the other night, the one that blondie got
crunched at, had connections that may have led to his demise.”
“Connections?”
Hutchinson asked.
“Connections. Not sure what kind, but I get the idea that while the other hypes
were killed just because of wrong-place wrong-time kind of stuff, his death may
have had some ulterior motives. And
before you ask, I don’t know. That’s
just what I’m hearin’,”
“Thanks, Hug,” Starsky said, standing
up. “We’ll be in touch.”
I reached in my pocket for a couple
dollar bills and threw them on the bar, figuring I’d treat for the drinks.
“Now that’s my kind of man,” Huggy said
with a gleeful smile. “None of this
‘put it on my tab’ nonsense.”
“Aw Hug, ya
know we’re good for it,” Starsky protested.
“Yeah,” Hutchinson agreed. “And unless that water’s made of gold, I
don’t see what the big deal is. You’d
think you bottled it from a Russian creek or something.”
“Actually I have an ulterior motive,” I
admitted. “I’d be honored if I could
interview you at some point this month, Mr. Bear. Anonymously or with names changed, of course, if that makes you
more comfortable. I’m just looking for
some insight into the officers here.”
Huggy laughed. “Here’s all the insight you need, man. Peanut butter and jelly.
Frick and frack. Romeo and
Juliet. Where there’s one, there’s the
other. Apart they are lost. Together they are dangerous. I’m not even sure they know how to function
separately, and I’d be frightened if they did.
It’s the greatest sexless love affair in history.”
Starsky almost spat Coke out through his
nose. He started to cough and choke, as
Hutchinson whacked him on the back. The
blond detective shook his head, his cheeks flushed with embarrassment. “Huggy, I think you exaggerate.”
“Hutch, I
think thou doth protest too much,” Huggy countered.
“This is too much fancy talk for me. Let’s get out of here,” Starsky said, recovering
from his coughing fit. We headed out of
the bar the way we came in, through the greasy kitchen.
The partners were silent in the car. There was a tension I could not put my
finger on. “So now what?” I asked.
“We give the coroner a buzz to see if they
have an ID yet on our guy from the other night. Hopefully he’s not too burned up to get a name. And then we try to figure out how he’s
connected to the whole thing,” Starsky responded.
“So we aren’t going to re-interview all
those people today?” I was secretly
happy about that; it sounded kind of boring to me.
“We’ll get ‘em some other day if we have
too. Huggy’s information is gold, and
we’d be crazy not to follow up on it,” Hutchinson said. He picked up the radio. “Dispatch, Zebra-3,” he spoke into the
mic.
“Go ahead
Zebra-3,” a woman’s voice responded.
“Get us a
patch through to the coroner’s office, please,” he said.
“10-4 Zebra-3, stand by.”
While waiting for the coroner’s office to
respond, Starsky slowly maneuvered the Torino through the alley behind The Pits
and into the street. I still felt the
tension, but I couldn’t characterize it, so I let it be.
*
The coroner had an ID. The body belonged to a Miguel Rodriguez, age
24. His last known address was in a
neighborhood I would not have even imagined visiting prior to starting this
assignment. But Starsky and Hutchinson
showed no such reluctance; we immediately headed in that direction.
On the way, Hutchinson got on the radio
to get information on Rodriguez’s record.
The dispatcher got back to us a few minutes later. “Ready, Hutch?” the woman’s voice
asked.
“Ready,
Mildred. Just the highlights, please,”
he clarified.
“Gotcha.
Sealed YO record. Adult
convictions for petty theft, soliciting, soliciting, soliciting, possession no
intent, possession with intent, petty larceny, soliciting, soliciting…. Ya want
more? It’s quite the list.”
“That’ll do…thanks, honey,” Hutchinson
replied. He put down the mic and
scribbled some notes into a small book he unearthed from the glove-compartment.
“So what did
all that mean?” I asked.
“Our buddy
Miguel fed a drug habit with hustling,” Starsky summarized.
“Um, you mean, prostitution?” I shuddered inwardly. Even though I’d never worked the cop beat, I
wasn’t a naïve cub reporter fresh off the turnip truck. I knew there was such a thing out
there. Yet the idea of male
prostitution grossed me out in a way I couldn’t even describe.
“Yeah,” Hutchinson said. “He’s probably been doing it since he was a
teenager, given the sealed youth record.”
“The only difference here is, we gotta
figure out what made him more important than the others,” Starsky added. “What were the connections that got him
killed?”
The conversation ended as we pulled up to
an apartment building on 9th and Cooper. In the shadow of the setting sun, the run-down facade took on an
eerie cast. Crumbling, yet ornate trim
and grimly atrophied gargoyles were testimony to what was once a grand display,
and what was now a symbol of the abject poverty that the neighborhood had come
to represent.
We walked up three flights of dark,
urine-stained stairs. The heat outside
made the inside atmosphere stifling and claustrophobic. There was no answer at apartment 310, the dead
man’s home. But neighbors told us that
Miguel had a roommate, a Victor Luzano, who had just left for work. The neighbors spoke in hints, innuendos and
slang that went over my head, but apparently meant something to the two
detectives, since they looked at each other for a long time before heading back
downstairs.
“You ready for a long night, Bob?”
Starsky asked me as we navigated the near-collapsing stoop at the front of the
building.
“Huh?” I
asked.
“Victor’s out hustling tricks. He may not be back until morning. And if he smells cops, he probably won’t be
back at all. He’s got a few
outstandings. We’ll have to stake him
out.”
“Now?” I
asked.
“Nah, he just left. We’re guessing we can come back around
midnight to be on the safe side.”
“Why do we
want him?”
“He’s Miguel’s pretty boy. He may know what Miguel was into before he
died,” Hutchinson responded.
I wondered if I’d missed something. I had heard the same conversations with the
neighbors that they had. How did
they get warrants and hustling and pretty boys out of that morass of
information?
“OK,” I said,
resigned. “Let me give my wife a call.”
“We’re heading
back to Metro, you can do it there,” Starsky said.
“What do we have to do there?” I asked,
secretly dreading another afternoon of paperwork and boring in-service
training.
“We’re required to spend a half-hour a
month at the range. Hutch owes the
department a bunch of target practice,” Starsky said with a grin.
“You know I can find something better to
practice my shooting on,” Hutchinson said menacingly, moving his hand under his
shirt.
Ignoring the implied threat, Starsky
laughed… an all-out bellow that made his pained partner smile and dissipated
much of the afternoon’s tension.
*
“You still carry that death trap,
Starsky?” the range master asked as he handed us each a pair of large, unwieldy
earphones.
“You just don’t recognize quality when
you see it,” Starsky responded, slamming a clip into his gun, chambering a
round and flipping the safety off.
“Now Hutch here, he recognizes quality,”
the range master responded. “His
piece’ll last him 20 years or more, and you can bet it’ll never jam on ‘im.”
“I’m sorry to interrupt,” I broke
in. “But could someone explain the
controversy here?”
The range master replied, “Starsky here
carries a Smith & Wesson 9 millimeter automatic. Light and quick, carries 14 rounds plus one chambered. Problem is, they got a rep for jamming.”
“It’s never jammed on me in the six years
I’ve had it,” Starsky protested.
“’Yet’ is the operative word there,
Starsk,” Hutchinson responded. “I, on
the other hand, carry a workhorse, quality, state-of-the-art, Colt Python .357
Magnum.”
“If you’ve got the wrist strength, that
sucker’ll keep you alive forever,” the range master said, with obvious
admiration.
I suspect my face showed similar
admiration. Hutchinson’s gun looked
like what every cop gun should look like in my amateur opinion: big, heavy and
scary.
“But what Hutch here fails to mention is
that he only carries six rounds to my 15,” Starsky countered. “Plus, I’m a better shot anyway.”
“Prove it, hotshot,” Hutchinson
said. They headed together toward a
long hallway, guns at their sides. They
chose stalls next to each other and, almost in unison, pressed the buttons that
caused the target sheets to move away with a fluttery “whoosh”.
I barely had my earphones in place before
they both started blasting away. Blond,
blue-eyed intensity met brunet, blue-eyed steel as their worlds narrowed into
the targets ahead of them. As they
reloaded and retargeted, with wordless speed and precision, I had the feeling
that they had forgotten I was there, lost in a place where the bad guys were
just sheets of paper who didn’t bleed, and more importantly, didn’t shoot
back.
*
Around 10:30 we went for a late supper at
a Greek joint near the station. Starsky
had the ubiquitous cheeseburger and fries.
Hutchinson ordered a salad and tuna fish sandwich on whole wheat. Another difference for my notes: one partner
was into junk, the other into health.
“Not eating,
Bob?” Starsky asked.
I was nibbling on crackers, but hadn’t
ordered anything. “Not really hungry
this late at night,” I responded. I
didn’t add that I was too keyed-up to eat.
Going on a stake-out with two veteran cops seemed to be the answer to a
boyhood fantasy.
“You gotta grab food when you can,”
Starsky responded. “We could be staring
at Victor’s building all night.”
“We’ll stop at a convenience store on the
way,” Hutchinson added. “That way you
can grab some snacks and a newspaper.”
I was vaguely disappointed. It appeared that this stake-out wasn’t going
to be the excitement fest that I assumed it would be.
*
Two hours later we were in Hutchinson’s
LTD, parked a half-block away from the building. We had taken a few minutes to trade out the Torino, which would
stick out like a sore thumb in that neighborhood.
If I was uncomfortable in the back of the
Torino, I was positively miserable in the back of the LTD. The blond detective was a slob, to put it
frankly, and it appeared that the assorted detritus of a thousand meals had
taken up residence in his backseat. I
tossed aside dozens of empty containers, piles of paper and bits of things I couldn’t
identify in order to make room for myself.
Starsky laughed as I attempted to make a
home in the backseat. “That’s
relatively clean,” he chuckled. “I made
him clear it out a few months ago when we almost lost a robbery suspect back
there.”
“Ha ha,”
Hutchinson said humorlessly. “Paper,
stone, scissors?” he asked his partner.
“Sure,” Starsky agreed. They each smacked a fist into a palm, while
reciting the age-old children’s chant.
“Ha-ha to you!” Starsky said. “Paper covers stone. I win.”
He put his hand over his partner’s outstretched fist. I watched the exchange in fascination,
suspecting I was witnessing a regular ritual between the two men.
“Backseat’s
taken,” Hutchinson said dryly. “Should
I tie you to the roof?”
“What’s wrong
with kicking back right here?
“You’ll end up
on my lap, and I’ll end up with drool all over me.”
“No I won’t!”
“OK, but you
drool and you’ll be wearing my footprint in your ass.”
“Oooh, I love when you talk rough,”
Starsky teased. He put his hands behind
his head, stretched out his legs the best he could, and closed his eyes. Hutchinson pulled a gardening magazine from
the recesses of a convenience store bag and started flipping through the
pages. I took my cue from Starsky, made
myself a bed of sorts amid the debris, and dozed off, wondering how much better
my bed might have been if they’d let me share their ‘game’.
*
I awoke with a start a couple hours
later, a crick in my neck and a piece of paper jabbing my earlobe. Up front, Hutchinson had set aside the
magazine. True to his prediction,
Starsky’s head had migrated into his partner’s lap. The blond detective stared intently out into the darkness. Despite his earlier threats, he had made no
obvious move to prevent Starsky’s new position. Instead his hand rested softly on his partner’s upper arm, his
long, lithe fingers drawing gentle circles on the shirt sleeve. I’m not even sure he was aware of doing it.
*
I awoke again, this time to the sound of
Hutchinson’s voice. “Starsk. Starsky.”
He gently shook his partner.
“Huh?”
“3:00 am. Your turn.”
“Yeah,
OK. Give me a sec.”
Starsky opened the car door and got
out. I watched him curiously until I
realized what it was he was doing. He
stepped into an alley for a moment, then stepped out again. Getting back in the car, he turned to me.
“Ya gotta use
the facilities?”
“Only the
best, huh?” I joked.
“I wouldn’t tip the guy who hands you
toilet paper,” he quipped. I stepped
out of the car, made my way into the dark alley and did my business quickly.
Back in the car, Starsky was pulling out
magazines and a bag of chips, while Hutchinson tried to settle his body
comfortably for a nap. But it was
obvious to me that his back was not cooperating.
“Bad, huh?”
Starsky asked softly.
“Yeah.”
“What if I
roll up something, like a lumbar support?”
“I don’t know, maybe…” Hutchinson
paused. “Is that him?” he pointed at a
man walking toward the building we were watching.
Starsky consulted the description we had
obtained earlier: male, early 20’s, Hispanic, slight build. “Hafta get closer, but yeah, it looks like
him.”
“How do you
wanna play this?”
“Customer?”
“Yeah, OK. Get down. You too,
Bob.” And with that, Hutchinson exited
the car, pain forgotten…or at least stowed away for a while. Starsky and I slumped down in our
seats. Hutchinson affected a casual air
as he walked, hands in pockets, toward the man in question. The car windows were open, and I could hear
every word they exchanged as their conversation drifted in on the humid breeze.
“You looking
for someone?” an unfamiliar voice asked.
“Name’s Ken. I’m lookin’ for some fun,” Hutchinson replied congenially. I shivered; the detective’s sudden identity
switch was almost creepy.
“I’m Vic. What kind of fun? I’m beat.”
“Nuthin’ that’ll take long, ya know what
I mean? My ride’s down that way.”
“30 bucks.”
“Deal. C’mon.”
I could hear the two men walking toward
the car. Starsky tensed in the seat in
front of me. His partner and Victor
Luzano were at the LTD’s door when I heard Hutchinson’s voice again, a thread
of steel replacing the earlier casual solicitation.
“Vic, I’m a cop and my partner is in the
car. Don’t try anything stupid and
we’ll finish this conversation quickly.
One dumb move, and you’ll be servicing the drunks in the lock-up for
many nights to come.”
“Shit,” Victor replied succinctly. Starsky got out of the car and put Victor
inside. Hutchinson got in the other
side and the two detectives sandwiched the unfortunate hustler.
“Seen Miguel lately?”
Starsky started.
“Haven’t seen
him for two days,” Victor replied. That
was obviously true enough.
“I’m not into beating around the bush,
Vic. I know how Miguel paid for his
smack. You do what you gotta do. I’m cool with that. But is there a chance that Miguel was into
anything else? You know, anything outta
the ordinary?”
“You know
where he is?” Victor asked. “You talk
like he’s dead or somethin’.”
Starsky paused. “He is dead, Vic. He died
two nights ago. Strangled and dumped in
a burning building. If you ever cared
about him, I’m asking you, what was Miguel into?”
Victor actually looked like he was going
to cry. He furiously swiped at his
eyes. “Dead, huh? Jesus H. Christ. I warned him. I warned the
sonofabitch. He was a walking target,
you know?”
“What did you
warn him about?” Hutchinson spoke up, his tone surprisingly gentle.
“He got into dealing. He figured it was a way to stop the
hustling. He was so pretty, you know,
guys were always wanting to kink with him, beat him up, stuff like that. Wasn’t worth the extra cash to come home
bruised every night, so he started dealing horse along with still using it.”
Victor stopped for a moment to wipe his
runny nose with his sleeve. “Anyway,
one day he’s picking up his stuff from his connection, and overhears a
conversation between two bigwigs. I
don’t know what it was about, but anyway Miguel figures he can sell the info
from the conversation to a rival connection, make himself some extra cash. Next thing I know, Miguel’s rolling in
dough, selling info from one side to the other, neither side knowin’ nuthin’
about it.”
Even I could see where this was
going. I winced with the inevitability
of it all as Victor continued his story.
“Eventually someone figured out he was
playin’ both sides of the fence. Miguel
told me he was too hot and had to leave town for a little while. He’d send for me. And that’s…” he took a deep breath, “… that’s the last I heard
from him. He was happy you know,
selling smack instead of working the streets.
It was a lot better for him. For
us. And now…he’s dead. He’s fuckin’ dead and I’m still here turnin’
tricks. Fuck it all.”
Victor’s head sunk onto his chest. The detectives exchanged a glance. “One more question for you, Vic…who was
Miguel’s connection?” Starsky asked.
“Dude named Louie Minelli. He hangs out weekends at the bar across from
the Seville.” Victor’s tone of voice
suggested that he didn’t care anymore what he said, or to whom. He had the air about him of a defeated man.
Starsky opened his door. “Get out of here, Vic,” he said gruffly,
pushing the man out of the LTD. We
watched as he stumbled across the deserted street and into his building.
We took off again in silence. Starsky’s apartment was on the way back to
Metro and my car. Hutch dropped him off
at the curb. Starsky stuck his head
back in the car window. He looked like
he had lot on his mind, but uncharacteristically said nothing.
“Call me,” Hutchinson responded to the
unspoken statement from his partner.
Starsky nodded, and then disappeared into his building. I migrated to the front seat of the car and
stretched out my legs, leaning my cheek against the door frame and closing my
eyes against the breeze.
*
I lay in bed
next to Linda, eyes closed in a futile attempt to sleep.
“I wonder if
they’re all like that?” I wondered aloud.
“Whah?” Linda
muttered dreamily.
“That close. That…um…symbiotic,” I said, awkwardly looking for a word to
describe the detectives.
“Dunno,” she said. “Compare ‘em to some other partners. And shut up so I can sleep. It’s 4:00 in the freakin’ morning.”
Sometimes I’m blown away at how my wife
can turn something so complicated, into something so simple. I would just ask Dobey if I could ride with
someone else for a while, for comparison’s sake. I rolled over and kissed her in gratitude.
“Go ‘way,” she
said, squirming. “Too hot!”
“So cool me
off,” I said, working my kisses down her collar bone.
*
Later that morning the three of us were back
in the squad room at ten o’clock, sitting around the detectives’ desk. I was yawning cavernously.
“What’s wrong, Bob? Can’t take the
high-powered life of a homicide detective?” Starsky teased.
I smiled. The two detectives didn’t look much more awake than I did. But manpower shortages being what they were,
ten was the absolute latest start-time the pair had been able to negotiate with
Captain Dobey after their late-night stake-out. Starsky slurped a mug of squad room coffee and munched at a cruller. His partner periodically sipped at a thermos
of something that looked like whale shit, or at least what I imagined whale
shit would look like if I’d ever seen any.
I could only imagine what health food sludge resided in that thermos.
“So who’s this Louie Minelli dude and
what does he have to do with things,” I asked, jumping right back into the case
in an attempt to stay awake.
“He’s a two-bit middle man.” Starsky
said. “Used to work for a syndicate boss named Stryker, before we put him away
a few years ago--”
“Obviously
he’s found a new boss,” Hutchinson interjected.
“We worked out a few possible scenarios last night,” Starsky
said. “Unfortunately none of ‘em can
account for Miguel. Not to mention a
firefighter possibly setting these fires.
That’s the wildcard.”
I wondered how long they talked on the
phone last night to work out those “few” scenarios. Had they slept at all?
“We’re going to see Louie Minelli this
morning. R & I had a current
address, or at least we hope it’s current,” Hutchinson said. “We’re pretty sure we can bully him into
tripping up on something.”
Starsky stuck his head inside Captain
Dobey’s door to let their leader know we were leaving. We walked downstairs and got into the
Torino. I didn’t realize how much I had
missed its slippery, squeaky-clean backseat until I had spent a night in the
back of the LTD. I almost sighed in
relief as I settled back for the ride.
We pulled up in front of an SRO
hotel. The flickering sign out front
read “The Royal Arms”, but the large R and A were burned out. Starsky bounced out of the car, his energy
apparently knowing no bounds. His
partner eased his way out of the Torino, and flipped the seat back so I could
get out.
We walked in and headed over to the
manager, who was ensconced behind a caged desk. “Whaddya want?” he asked, never looking away from a small
television set.
”Louie Minelli,” Hutchinson said.
“Room 216,”
was the unconcerned response.
“Right.
Thank you,” the blond detective said.
He shook his head briefly in apparent disgust before we trotted up the
stairs to the second floor. Room 216
was right by the stairwell. Starsky
held me back from entering the hallway.
“You’d better
hang out here until we’re sure it’s all cool,” he explained.
That was fine
with me. I stayed put.
The detectives drew their weapons and
stood at either side of the door. Hutch
nodded. Starsky rapped on the door with
the butt of his gun. “Louie? Louie Minelli?” he called out.
A voice
answered from inside the room. “What’s
it to ya?”
“We got a
couple a questions for you, Louie,” Starsky said.
“Who’s
askin’?”
“Police, Louie. Starsky and Hutchinson.
We ain’t here to arrest you, just to ask you something.”
The detectives stood tense and alert as
the man on the other side of the door apparently considered his options. The door opened a crack and a face peeked
out. Finding things to his liking,
Louie Minelli opened the door the rest of the way. The detectives holstered their guns and entered, Starsky waving
me in behind them.
I stood awkwardly in the doorway. Hutchinson made a circuit around the small
hotel room, looking to the casual observer as if he was just curious about its
contents. He blew some dust off the top
of a television set, and rustled a newspaper that sat atop a pillow on the
bed. Meanwhile Starsky pulled up a
chair and plunked himself next to Minelli, who was sitting on the bed.
“Oh how the mighty have fallen,” Starsky
started out. “You aren’t exactly living
in the lap of luxury since Stryker went up, are you Louie?”
“I’m doin’ all right,” Louie
responded. He was a short, fat, balding
man with no neck and several chins. The
chins quivered as he spoke, holding my fascinated gaze as Starsky continued the
interrogation.
“Who are you doing business for now? Who’s helpin’ you pay for all… this?” he
waved his hand around the shabby room.
Hutchinson snorted at his partner’s ironic turn of phrase as he used a
pen to tentatively lift an old sock off the radiator under the window.
“Don’t know
what you mean,” Louie responded.
“Oh Louie, Louie, Louie,” Starsky
scolded. “Let’s not play these
games. We aren’t here to arrest
you. We could give two God-damns about
you. We just want to know who you’re
working for now.”
The chins
quivered even more. “H-h-he’ll kill
me. Word gets around. He’ll kill me.”
“Our lips are
sealed.”
“Don’t matter. He’ll know. My life won’t
be worth two shits if word gets out I talked with you guys.”
Starsky looked at his partner, whose role
in the interrogation up until now had involved little more than wandering
around the room. At an unspoken signal,
Hutchinson dropped the Gideon bible he had been paging through and stalked over
to Louie.
“Your life isn’t worth two shits now,
Louie,” Hutchinson said menacingly, looming over the rotund man. “Talk, and we’ll do our best to forget we
ever met you. Don’t talk, and we’ll
march right over to the bar across the street from the Seville and drop the
word that you fink so regularly a person could set a clock by it.”
It was amazing. You could almost see the relay click in Louie’s brain as he
realized what he was up against. He
looked up at Hutchinson’s icy stare, then over at Starsky. “OK,” he said. “I’ve been working the past year on and off for Johnny Bellman.”
The partners looked at each other. Judging by their matching puzzled looks, the
name didn’t ring a bell.
“What’s his
story?” Starsky asked.
“He’s the nephew of James Bellman. You know, of Bellman Enterprises. Owns all that real estate, beachfront stuff,
builds bridges, shit like that. Johnny
says he’s helping his uncle ‘branch out’, his words not mine.”
“Does the
uncle know the nephew is in the drug business?”
“You got me. I’m just a lousy middle-man, like always. Just a little less in the middle then I used
to be,” he said sadly, referring to his current state of affairs.
The partners headed for the door. “One more thing,” Hutchinson said, turning
back toward Louie. “What do you know
about Miguel Rodriguez?”
“I know he disappeared a few days ago and
owes me a lot of money for some product he took delivery of last week. You know where he is?” Louie asked
hopefully.
“I’m sorry Louie, but I wouldn’t hold my
breath on getting that cash,” Starsky said.
With that parting statement, the three of us left Louie and his
quivering chins back in his disheveled hotel room.
*
“Bellman. Bellman,” Hutchinson chanted to himself as
we drove back to Metro.
“What?”
Starsky asked.
“Rings a
bell. No pun intended. Bellman.
Bellman….”
I hated to interrupt, but I had a
thousand and one questions about the encounter with Louie. If I didn’t ask them now, I’d lose the
momentum.
“Why didn’t
you ask him about Miguel right away?” I asked.
“Guys like Louie, you start bringing up
dead people first thing, they start to panic, like you’re accusing them of
something,” Starsky responded.
“How do you
decide who does the interrogation?”
“Decide?”
Starsky asked, puzzled.
“I think he
means push-or-shove,” Hutchinson cut in.
“Push-and-shove?” I’d seen no obvious signs of physical
violence.
“Yeah,” Starsky said. “It’s like our own version of good cop-bad
cop. We figure out in advance who’s in
the mood to be nice, and who’s in the mood to be mean. Good pushes the subject, then bad shoves it
home. We didn’t really have anything to
pin on Louie, and he woulda been in his rights to kick us right out of
there. But play it right, like we did,
and he loses sight of that fact real quick.”
This was said without any hint of pride or self-consciousness; Starsky
obviously thought it was a given that he and his partner would pull it off.
“How did you
decide today who would push and who would shove?”
“We talked beforehand. It’s easier for Hutch to act mean cuz he’s
in pain right now anyway. So he
shoved. You noticed it didn’t take much
of shove.”
“When did you talk?” I had been with them since 10:00 am. I’d heard no such discussion.
Starsky looked at Hutchinson. Hutchinson shrugged his shoulders. “Well, um, right before we went into the
room, wasn’t it?” Starsky said.
“Uh, I don’t
remember exactly but I’m pretty sure it was then, yeah,” Hutchinson
agreed.
I shook my head. “I was there. You didn’t talk about it at all.
You just went in there and did it.
Like a psychic connection thing.”
Starsky laughed boisterously. “Yeah, sure. Psychic connection thing.
You’re a funny guy, Bob. Sure
you work for the LA Times and not the National Enquirer?”
Hutchinson chuckled along with his
partner. “Yeah, a real comedian. Psychic thing…” he trailed off, shaking his
head incredulously as he reached for the radio microphone to put us back on the
air.
*
The next day they were scheduled to be in
court at 8:00 am. It was a perfect
opportunity for me to try out another set of detectives. I stopped by Captain Dobey’s office before
leaving that night.
“Captain
Dobey?”
He looked up
from a pile of files. “Yes? Oh, hello, Mr. McKesson.”
“Bob, please, it’s Bob,” I
protested. “Captain, I was wondering if
I might have your permission to ride with someone else tomorrow.”
His eyebrows
rose. “They managed to alienate you
already?”
“Oh, no, nothing like that,” I said
quickly. “It’s just that they are
supposed to be in court for most of the day tomorrow. I’m looking to make a comparison between them and another set of
detectives.” Dobey looked dubious.
“Apparently I’m not invited tomorrow
anyway, so it wouldn’t be a big deal,” I added hopefully.
“The ride-along program requires you to
stay with one set of officers throughout,” he started out thoughtfully, rubbing
his chin. “But I think I can make an
exception this once.”
He got up and walked over to his door. “Dalen.
Connelly. My office,” he
bellowed. I noted with amusement that
Dobey seemed to have only two modes of communication: cautious and loud.
The pair came as summoned. I had met them a few times when they chatted
up Starsky and Hutchinson in the mornings.
They seemed like all right guys, both young and serious.
“You’ve
inherited Bob for the day tomorrow.
You’re in at 8:00, right?”
“Yes sir,”
Connelly replied. “Starsky and Hutch
giving you up for the day, Bob?”
“I want to see
how the other half lives,” I joked.
Dobey spoke up. “My only request is, you catch up with Starsky and Hutchinson at
the end of the day. That way if the
brass asks, I can tell them you were with them at some point.”
“Fair enough,”
I said.
“See ya tomorrow, Bob,” Connelly
said. “Tomorrow,” Dalen echoed. They left the office.
I paused at Dobey’s door. The question that had been nagging me all
day came to the forefront. “Hey
Captain,” I asked, “Why aren’t I invited to court tomorrow?”
The captain looked at me for a moment,
that cautious gaze again. “Remember
when I said Starsky’s fiancée had passed away last year?” he said.
I nodded.
“Well, the man who shot her has a
sentencing hearing tomorrow. As the
arresting officer as well as the woman’s fiancé, he was subpoenaed to
testify. This isn’t for your
story. I’m only telling you so you’ll
not badger Starsky about it tomorrow; he doesn’t need that.”
I was shocked. For the last couple of days, I had seen a man who was focused and
energetic, often seeking to buoy the spirits of his moodier partner. There was no sign that something like this
was weighing so heavily on his shoulders.
“Detective Sergeant David Starsky is an
intensely private man,” Dobey said in answer to my surprised look. “There are things about him that no one
knows, except Hutch. And they will
close ranks to keep it that way, no matter how long you ride with them.”
*
Connelly and Dalen didn’t have any big
cases on their hands at the moment. We
spent the day riding their beat in Dalen’s relatively comfortable Buick. I had ample opportunity to quiz them about
Starsky and Hutch.
“How long have
you guys known them?”
“Dalen and I have been in homicide for a
year and a half, so maybe about that long,” Connelly answered. It was really funny; although both men were
quiet, Connelly was apparently the appointed spokesman. He did all the talking, with Dalen driving
and nodding vigorously in response to everything his partner said. I guess Starsky and Hutch weren’t the only
symbiotic pair in this department.
“You guys hang
out after work with the other detectives?”
“Sometimes,”
Connelly said. “All of us do, you know,
a drink or dinner or whatever.”
“Double-dates?”
I joked, not expecting an answer.
Connelly snorted. “Starsky and Hutch go through women and
booze like some guys go through handkerchiefs.
Even before I got married, that kind of pace woulda killed me.”
“Me too,”
Dalen echoed.
“Someone told
me Hutch was married once,” I said casually.
“Yeah. My wife knew her, but I never met her.”
“Hmm,” I said noncommittally. Sometimes the best way to get someone
talking was to shut up.
“Married him
for his dough, I guess, then dumped him when he became a cop.”
Dough?
Med school? What did this guy
turn his back on, just to be a cop? “What a bitch,” I muttered, shaking my head
in sympathy.
“You’re
telling me,” he said, having heard my mutter.
“Hey, Ronnie,”
Dalen tugged at his partner’s shirtsleeve.
“Radio.”
“Gotcha,”
Connelly said, picking up the mic to answer a call.
I couldn’t hear very well what came over
the radio, but I could hear Connelly’s succinct reply: “10-4, Zebra-10
responding.” With one hand he flipped
on the sirens, while with the other he slapped the mars light atop the Buick’s
roof.
“What is it?”
I asked, seeing the concerned look on his face.
“Another one
of those fires. Another body.”
Dalen added nothing to the conversation,
but stepped harder on the gas as we zoomed down streets lit by the hazy
afternoon sun.
*
As a long-time features reporter, dead
bodies were not a part of my experience.
The smell of charred flesh was overwhelming, although it was pointed out
to me by the crime lab people that I was probably smelling burned hair, not
skin.
“Skin is basically fat,” one of them
explained. “Burning fat isn’t that
bad. But the hair on the skin, that’s
what adds the ‘ick’ factor.”
‘Ick’ was a good word for it. I barely kept my lunch in my stomach as I
watched the coroner’s team scoop up the remains of the body for further
examination at their lab. Dalen walked
around the room, lifting pieces of debris seemingly at random. Connelly talked with the fire investigators.
“Ronnie?”
Dalen summoned his partner over to a corner of the room.
Connelly and I made our way to him. Smoke still rose from some of the debris,
forcing us to side-step and stumble.
Dalen held a blackened piece of…something…in his hand.
Connelly took a closer look, then called
the fire investigator over. “Looks like
a heroin kit. There’s the syringe, and
that may be a spoon?” He gestured at various components of the item in his
partner’s hand. Dalen said nothing but
nodded vigorous agreement as his partner named different bits and pieces for
the investigator.
Connelly’s droning, matter-of-fact voice,
combined with the heat, the smell and the overwhelming aura of death was too
much for me. I had to rush out, barely
avoiding tripping over debris as I made for the exit.
I leaned into a light pole outside,
relishing the feeling of cool metal against my forehead. I was in the middle of taking a deep,
shuddering breath when I felt someone’s presence behind me.
“You OK?”
Connelly asked.
“Yeah,” I said. “I…I just can’t believe you do this every day. For a living, I mean.” My voice shook as I spoke.
“Someone’s gotta do it. Might just as well be us,” he
responded. I couldn’t argue with that
logic.
I was now ashamed of my rolling stomach,
my shaking voice, the weak-kneed feeling that had prompted me to flee the
building. But Connelly merely gave me a
friendly slap on the shoulder and walked toward the car, where Dalen was
waiting.
I turned to follow him, but not before
taking a final look at the building where the fire had raged only hours
before. The front façade was nearly
gone. But a sign posted near the front
door could still be read clearly. My
stomach renewed its flip-flops as I read what it said.
“This property
offered for sale by Bellman Enterprises.”
*
Connelly and Dalen dropped me at the
courthouse, where we had been told the sentencing hearing was wrapping up.
“Thanks guys,
it was an enlightening day,” I said.
“No problem. Anytime,” was Connelly’s reply.
“Anytime,” Dalen echoed, nodding energetically in agreement.
I entered the courthouse and headed for a
large bulletin board, which showed the docket for the day. Earlier in the day I had learned Terry
Roberts and George Prudholm’s names from Connelly. It was short work from there to find out where in the building I
should go.
People were leaving the courtroom,
signaling to me that the hearing was at an end. But before looking for the two detectives, I desperately needed
to take a leak. I wandered the halls
looking for the bathroom. Turning down
one corridor, I spied Starsky and Hutchinson, deep in conversation.
I was about to call out to them when
something about their body language made me pause. Starsky turned away from his partner and slapped the wall a
couple of times. Frustration dripped
from his posture like a dark rain.
Hutchinson grabbed his arms from behind and spun him back around so they
were face to face. Hand on the back of
Starsky’s neck, Hutchinson drew the other man close, whispering something
fiercely in his ear. Starsky’s body sagged, the usually confident posture
dissolving into his partner’s arms.
I backed out
of the corridor without saying a word, feeling like I had no right to intrude.
*
I had been standing by the Torino for
about 15 minutes when the partners came out.
Starsky was pale, but the confident swagger was back. Hutch regarded me curiously, a sharp look in
his eyes.
I had no intention of bringing up the
hearing and adding to Starsky’s pain.
Somehow I had to get that message to the blond detective before he tore
my head off. I was fast learning that
Starsky wasn’t the only protective partner in this relationship. I figured my best bet was to ignore the big
pink elephant in the building, as the old saying goes, and instead bring up
what I’d seen earlier.
“There was
another fire today, and another body.”
“We heard,” Hutchinson said, with
something akin to relief in his voice.
“Dobey had us paged.”
“I don’t know if it means anything, but
there was a ‘For Sale’ sign on the building.
By Bellman Enterprises.”
The partners looked at each other. “Let’s go,” Starsky said, running for the
driver’s seat. Hutch quickly opened the
backseat for me before sliding into the car.
We took off with tires screeching.
“What are we
doing?” I asked.
Hutchinson’s
answer was to pick up the radio mic.
“Dispatch, Zebra-3. Get me
Minnie.”
“Sure thing,
Hutch,” Mildred answered. A few moments
later, Minnie was on the line.
“Minnie, Hutch. I need past and present ownership information on all the
buildings that burned, and I need it yesterday.”
“Oh darlin’,
I’m pretty backed up at the moment.”
“Make it a
priority and I promise Starsky will make it up to you.”
Hutchinson grinned at his partner, who
had started singing “When I’m Calling You…ooo…ooo” obnoxiously loud.
“Tell Starsky I can hear that. I’ll have it for you in a half hour, and
tell your partner I really like Chinese food.”
“10-4 on that Minnie,” Hutchinson answered. I could feel the change in atmosphere in the
car. There was a break in the case, and
I was privileged enough to be there to see them work it. I flipped to a new page in my notebook,
determined not to miss a single nuance of the next several hours.
*
Technically the partners were off at 5:00
that day, but between the court hearing and the information on Bellman, they
were too worked up to quit. So we
gathered up our records from Minnie and headed to Starsky’s place to look them
over.
Starsky was shedding his
court-appropriate tie and sports coat even as he was walking into his
apartment. He carefully hung both in a
closet. His gun and holster found a
home on a hook in there as well. His
denim button-down shirt went into the hamper and was replaced by a red
t-shirt. He had worn his jeans and
sneakers to court. Everything about the
apartment showed evidence of the man’s love of cleanliness and order, from the
tastefully masculine decorations, to the floor that you could eat from in a
pinch. There were even a few plants,
probably courtesy of his green-thumbed partner.
By contrast, Hutchinson unceremoniously
tossed his holster, nice suit and fashionable tie into a pile on his partner’s
bed, and kicked his leather boots into a corner. Dressed in nothing but a t-shirt and boxers, he started rooting
through drawers for something.
“It’s in the
hamper,” Starsky said from the kitchen, where he was procuring us some
beer.
Hutchinson withdrew a blue jogging suit
from the hamper in the closet. After a
cautious sniff, the suit went on without comment.
Hutchinson took a seat on the couch,
drinking from the bottle offered to him.
He wiggled his sock-clad toes atop the coffee table. Starsky took up residence on the floor, sitting
cross-legged in front of a pile of files.
They quickly worked up a rhythm, Starsky skimming the files for the
meat, and Hutchinson analyzing the information that his partner fed to him.
After about 20 minutes of this
give-and-take, Hutchinson carefully scooted over on the couch, positioning
himself so that his partner sat between his knees. The blond detective leaned forward to get a better look at a
file, resting his chin on his partner’s curly head. I felt a sudden bite of nostalgia; my brother and I used to watch
TV like that.
“See here?” Starsky pointed out. “Bellman Industries used to own the
place. Just like the other ones, either
they own them or they used to, or a subsidiary did.” He paused for a moment to wiggle his head. “You know your chin is pretty pointy,” he
complained.
Hutch cushioned his chin with his hand
and continued to lean forward on his partner’s head to read the file. “So it’s not a psycho killing these people,”
he commented, his voice slightly muffled by his chin’s limited movement.
“Wait, I don’t understand,” I
interrupted. “If it’s not a psycho,
then why are they trying to burn these buildings down?”
“Insurance,”
the detectives said in unison.
“The hypes are
a distraction,” Hutch explained.
“A McMuffin,”
Starsky added.
“That’s McGuffin, moron,” Hutch said,
gently cuffing his partner upside his head before carefully replacing his hand
and chin on their curly perch. “A red
herring.”
“McGuffin. Whatever you call it in the movies when Hitchcock throws in
something to make you think it was something, when it was really something
else,” Starsky said.
I smiled at
the explanation. “So what do we do
now?” I asked.
“We need the final link,” Starsky
said. “Who’s actually killing the hypes
and setting the fires.”
“Maybe it’s
time for a visit to Uncle James.”
“Good
thinking, Ollie.”
“Indubitably.”
All this male-bonding was way too much
fun, but I had to get home to my family.
“I gotta go guys. When do you
plan your visit with James Bellman?”
“Meet us at Metro at 8:00 tomorrow and
we’ll get the ball rolling,” Starsky suggested. “Oh yeah, I forgot to ask, how was your day with Dalen and
Connelly? Let me guess - Connelly did all the talking.”
We all chuckled at the truth of that
statement. “Seriously though,” Starsky
said. “Dalen may not say much, but he
was analyzing evidence in the womb. And
Connelly can see into people’s minds and motivations like no one’s business.”
“I did notice that they got the job
done. Maybe not in the way you would
have done it, but it got done. They
don’t have the psychic thing going on, though,” I teased.
Starsky laughed, while his partner shook
a finger at me. “You’ve been listening
to Huggy too much,” Hutchinson scolded, an embarrassed smile easing the tired
creases from his face. “Get outta here,
and we’ll see you tomorrow.”
I left the apartment and got all the way
to my car before realizing I’d left my wallet on Starsky’s coffee table. I trudged back upstairs, irritated that I
would be late for dinner at home yet again.
This assignment was sucking the life out of me.
Starsky’s door was ajar. I was about to walk in, when I heard the
voices. Something about their tone
stopped me in my tracks. It was somehow
different than what I was used to when dealing with these two men.
“He got 30 years for her Starsk, plus
another twenty for the other counts.
That has got to feel good.”
“It won’t bring her back.”
“Nothing will. We covered that back at the courthouse. So why dwell on it?”
“It’s just that it all came back
today. I thought I’d dealt with
it. It’s been almost a year for
Christ’s sake. I thought I’d dealt with
the fucking thing!”
I took another step forward, far enough
to see the two men sitting on the couch, legs stretched onto the coffee table,
beers in hand. Starsky suddenly pulled
his feet up, hugging his knees to his chest.
Hutchinson scooted over on the sofa and put an arm around his partner. The brunet sank his head into the other
man’s shoulder, while long, nimble hands traced a comforting circuit from curly
hair to back.
I couldn’t see Starsky’s face. But I heard the sobs.
“You’ll stay?” It was a heartrending plea
from an otherwise strong man.
“I’ll stay.”
I’d seen enough. It was time to go; my wallet could wait
until tomorrow.
*
“It was heartbreaking, Linda. Here I was all this time thinking that
Starsky was the caretaker of the relationship, especially the first day I met
them. But really they take care of each
other. It’s like one takes over when
the other runs dry.”
“Did you ride with the other partners
today?” she asked. We lay in bed
reading, her with a romance novel, me with my dog-eared copy of “The New
Centurions.”
“Yeah.
I learned, among other things, that my guys have a real reputation as
hard-drinking ladies’ men. But I can’t
believe that, after what I saw today.
Starsky is wrecked, and it’s been almost a year.”
“He may find a certain comfort in going
from woman to woman, with no expectations.
He’s probably a little scared of loving again.”
“Sounds like a bunch of Harlequin Romance
bullshit to me,” I said. I affected a
high-pitched voice. “Oh, my dear, I’m
scared of lovin’ agin,” I squeaked.
Linda grimaced and threw her book at
me. “I’m just giving my opinion. Take it or leave it. I’m telling you though, from what you describe,
they love each other as much as any married couple.”
“That Huggy Bear guy called it a sexless
romance,” I mused.
“That would certainly stand to
reason. They go to the women for the
sex, but get the emotional aspect of a relationship from each other.”
I shook my head. “We’re talking about a couple of hard-assed
cops here. I don’t think they look at
it that deeply. As far as they are
concerned, being partners means looking out for each other’s safety…and that
includes emotional safety, I guess.”
Linda shrugged and retrieved her book
from where it had landed at the foot of the bed. I thumbed through “The New Centurions,” eventually landing on a
passage where the veteran officer Gus tells a rookie why police are slow to
trust outsiders.
“We see people when they are taking
anything of value from other people and when they are without shame or very
much ashamed and we learn secrets that their husbands and wives don’t even
know, secrets that they even try to keep from themselves, and what the hell,
when you learn these things about people… well then, you really know. Of course you get clannish and associate
with others who know. It’s only
natural.”
Starsky knew as he watched his fiancée’s
killer be sentenced. Hutch knew as he
was nearly crippled by a car. Connelly
and Dalen knew as they worked around the body in the burned-out building, its
limbs like charred tree branches, its skull shrunk and blackened by heat. For a brief time I had known too, long
enough to know that I didn’t want to know anymore.
*
As we drove to Bellman Enterprises the
next morning, I asked the question foremost on my mind. “Do you think James Bellman knows Johnny is
in the drug business?”
“I would be really surprised if he didn’t
know. On the other hand, we’ve learned
to never assume anything in this business,” Hutchinson said.
“Yeah,” Starsky agreed. “We once released a sweet little old lady
with a pet poodle, cane, lace hanky and everything, only to find out she’d
killed her whole family and a neighbor too.
Now we suspect everyone, all the time.”
I didn’t believe the old lady story for a
minute, but I got the idea. “It’s hard
to trust people, huh?” I asked, thinking back to the book I was reading last
night.
“Gets to where all you can trust is each
other,” Starsky confirmed. I
nodded. Now I understood.
We pulled up to an industrial park on the
outskirts of town. It appeared that
Bellman Enterprises occupied the whole thing.
Starsky steered the Torino to a likely looking building and we got
out.
Once inside, we encountered a secretary
in the lobby. “James Bellman. I called earlier. Starsky and Hutchinson.
We have an appointment,” Hutchinson said. I noticed he spoke with a suave, matter-of-fact tone, rather
unlike his usual demeanor. It was
obvious that he knew how to use his apparent upper-class upbringing to his
advantage, as the secretary quickly sized up the blond and reached for the
phone.
As far as I knew, we didn’t have an
appointment. But I was proved wrong as
we were shown into a waiting room.
“When did we get an appointment?” I
asked.
“Hutch called this morning and dropped
the name of a local architecture firm,” Starsky said with an evil grin.
“Why can’t we just tell him we…I mean
you…are cops?”
“Because he’d suddenly, miraculously, not
be available for us. Even if he doesn’t
know anything, these business bigwigs usually find time to disappear when the
law shows up,” Starsky explained.
The secretary summoned us to James
Bellman’s office. I hovered by the
doorway, out of the way, while the detectives moved forward.
“Mr. Bellman,” Hutchinson said, taking
the lead. He reached out for the man’s
hand. Bellman hesitated before shaking
it. He appeared to be in his mid-60’s,
gray-haired with streaks of darker brown, a sharp jaw line and gray eyes.
“I’m sorry, I don’t recognize you from
the firm,” he said cautiously.
“That’s because we are not from the
firm,” Hutchinson confirmed.
“Detectives Starsky and Hutchinson, Metro Division. We are investigating a series of murders and
we need to ask you some questions.”
The detectives flashed their badges. Wow, right into it, I thought. This was nothing like the interrogation of
Louie Minelli.
“I don’t understand,” said Bellman.
“Your nephew Johnny’s name has come up in
connection with our investigation. I
need you to tell me what his position is with your company.” Hutchinson’s voice had retained its
blue-blooded tone, and I fully expected that Bellman would answer the
question. I was not disappointed.
“He works with our overseas vendors as a
liaison,” Bellman confirmed. “Johnny is
involved in a murder investigation?
Would you mind explaining?”
“I can’t get into details on that just
yet, Mr. Bellman,” Hutchinson said.
“But I can tell you that, with your help, we will be able to clear your
nephew’s name quickly.”
“But yes, of course,” said the older
man. He was being surprisingly
helpful. I wondered if this meant that
he wasn’t involved. He was pleasant
enough, and I found myself hoping that he wasn’t.
“We need help establishing his
whereabouts on certain nights. Are you
close with him? Do you spend much time
with him?” Hutchinson asked.
“It depends on the day of the week, and
whether or not I’m traveling. Or if he
is, on my behalf. But yes, I’d say we
spend plenty of time together. I was
very close to his mother, my sister, before she died. I practically raised him. I’m sure this is all a mistake.”
“Do you have the time to sit with us and
go over some dates?” Hutch’s voice was
all charming, smooth persuasion. I
expected him to whip out a cigar any minute and order up a scotch on the rocks.
“Actually gentlemen, I have a meeting
with my accountant in about 15 minutes.
If you could come back this afternoon, say, around 2:00 pm, I’ll have my
secretary clear my schedule.”
“That works, Mr. Bellman. Thank you for your cooperation.”
“And thank you for coming to me. I’m sure we can clear up this
misunderstanding right away.”
The detectives started for the door. Starsky paused, and spoke up for the first
time since we entered the office. “Mr.
Bellman sir, do you know where your nephew is this morning?”
“It just so happens that I do,” James
Bellman replied. “He works paid-on-call
for the Pittsfield Fire Department. His
hobby, we call it. He had a shift
scheduled this morning, and I imagine that’s where he is now.”
*
Ohmygod, ohmygod, ohmygod.
My heart beat a rapid staccato against my ribcage. This thing was wrapping up before my very
eyes. I was so excited I could barely listen
to the men sitting in the front seat. I
was on the front lines, privy to the investigation and possible solution of a
murder case!
Funny though, Starsky and Hutchinson
didn’t seem to share my excitement.
“You thinkin’ what I’m thinkin’?” Starsky
asked his partner. I was surprised he
had to ask, given their apparent ability to read each other’s thoughts.
“That it was too easy,” Hutchinson
replied.
“Way too easy,” Starsky agreed.
“So what do we do about it?”
“Put in a call to Pittsfield?”
“For starters.”
“Talk to Dobey?”
“Goes without saying.”
“Arrange back-up for this afternoon?”
“You think so?”
“Can’t hurt.”
“OK.”
I broke into their conversation. “You really think he’s that dangerous? He seemed like a nice old guy to me.”
“It’s the nice ones you have to watch out
for,” Starsky said. “They’ll screw you
every time.”
*
Back at the detectives’ desk, I fed spare
change to the partners’ piggybank, while Starsky talked on the telephone with
Pittsfield Fire Department. Pittsfield
was a small suburb with both volunteer and part-time firefighters. Apparently Johnny Bellman was one of the
part-timers.
“Thank you, Chief, for your
cooperation. And if you could not talk
about this with the guys, especially Bellman, I’d appreciate it… OK…we’ll be in
touch.” Starsky hung up the phone.
“I got a list of dates that Bellman
worked over the past few months. Let’s
match ‘em up.”
Hutch pulled out the list of dates of the
deadly fires. Two heads, light and
dark, leaned over the list, shoulder-to-shoulder. Hutchinson stabbed at the paper with his finger. “There you go, Starsk. There, there, there-- he was off for all of
‘em!”
The two men got up and went into Captain
Dobey’s office, bursting in unannounced.
Starsky kicked the door closed with his foot, prompting an exasperated,
“Knock it off, Starsky!” from his superior.
Hutchinson sat in a chair. Starsky claimed the arm of that chair,
practically perched on his partner’s shoulder.
I followed them in and claimed the other chair, sick of always having to
hover.
“OK, so this is what we got, Cap,”
Starsky explained, ticking off points on his fingers. “We’ve got a bunch of hypes dead in fires. We’ve got all the fires, set by an apparent
expert, in buildings linked to Bellman Enterprises. We got the nephew of Bellman’s founder working as a drug
connection for one of the victims, a victim who happened to double-cross the
nephew. And we’ve got the nephew’s
favorite hobby as a part-time firefighter.”
I knew that Dobey was already aware of
most of these details; Starsky seemed to be repeating them to blow off steam as
much as anything else.
“Oh, and an FYI Cap, we got a bunch of
this from Louie Minelli, Stryker’s old middle man,” Hutchinson said.
I was surprised to see Dobey flinch at
this information. “Stryker. It’s always Stryker, damn it. The man is gone, Elmo’s dead, and he’s
still…” Dobey paused and took a deep breath.
Yet another story I was probably never going to hear.
“Well that’s neither here nor there,”
Dobey said, looking at me warily. “You
talked to the uncle this morning?” he asked the detectives.
“Yeah.
We’ve got another appointment with him this afternoon to go over some
details. We’ve confirmed that the
nephew, Johnny Bellman, was not on duty at the fire department when the fires
were set. What we haven’t confirmed is
if he was working for his uncle at the time.”
He didn’t need to tell me: if Johnny was
working for his uncle at the time of the fires, that would be an almost
airtight alibi given his uncle’s position in the community.
“Motive?”
Dobey asked.
“It’s gotta be insurance, or something
like that,” Starsky said. “Except when
he offed Miguel. That was his mistake.”
“Cap, a nutjob serial killer wouldn’t be
choosing his buildings so carefully.
There are too many coincidences.
I can feel it in my bones,” Hutchinson added.
Dobey considered for a moment, doodling
aimlessly on a scratchpad. Coming to a
decision, he tossed his pencil on the desk.
“OK. Good enough for me. Get what you can from the uncle this
afternoon, and we’ll go to the DA for the nephew when you get back.”
“One other thing, Cap. The uncle may be on the up-and-up. But something’s got our Spidey-senses
tingling. Could we arrange for a couple
of black-and-whites to be near the industrial park when we interview the uncle,
just in case?” Starsky requested.
Hutchinson shook his head; I could tell
that he thought his partner was being a little overcautious. But he didn’t verbalize those feelings,
probably figuring better safe than sorry.
“I’ll see what
I can do,” Dobey responded, picking up the phone.
The detectives began to walk out of their
superior’s office. I followed close
behind. They were stopped short by
Dobey’s voice.
“Starsky? Hutchinson?”
“Yeah, Cap?”
they replied in unison, turning to face their boss.
“Be careful.”
“When aren’t we?” Starsky said with a
shit-eating grin. Dobey chuckled
ruefully as we left his office.
*
It was the first time I had really
understood the old cliché about cutting tension with a knife. I really felt like I could have done so as
the detectives and I walked back into Bellman’s building that afternoon. Before we left the car, they had given me
the game plan.
“OK, Bob,” Starsky began. “We didn’t bother introducing you last time
since we weren’t there long. This time
we’ll probably have to, so we’ll make up some bullshit excuse for your
presence. Don’t say a word, and play
along with whatever we say or do. Stay
close to the door, look menacing, and don’t sit down even if he invites you
to.”
“If one of us asks you to go back to the car
for some files, that’s your cue to get the hell out,” Hutchinson said. “Drive the Torino back to the road - the
keys are in it - and signal the black-and-whites. You got all that?”
“Yes,” I said breathlessly. Just like he had at the range the other day,
Starsky pulled his gun from his holster, checked the clip, chambered a round
and slipped the safety off. Hutchinson
checked out his weapon as well before putting it back in his holster.
“You really think all this is necessary?”
I asked, voice shaking. I was having
second thoughts about that release I had signed.
“Probably not,” Hutchinson said, patting
my shoulder reassuringly. “But your
wife would be pretty pissed off if we got you killed by not preparing for all
possibilities.”
I chuckled uncomfortably. My wife would probably be pissed right now
anyway if she saw me in the presence of two armed police sergeants on the
alert. I quickly removed that idea from
my head and focused back on the matter at hand.
In Bellman’s office, I took up my
position at the door. I crossed my arms
in front of my chest, and tried to look mean.
I’m not convinced I pulled it off, but I tried for the sake of the detectives
to radiate an air of confident menace.
“Hello, gentlemen,” James Bellman said,
walking in after us. “Have a seat,” he
gestured at the chairs in front of his desk.
“Thank you,” Hutchinson answered, sitting
down. Starsky followed suit. I remained at the door.
“I don’t think we introduced our
colleague, Bob Smith, to you last time we were here. He’s assisting us in this investigation,” Starsky explained.
Smith. That wasn’t an obvious alias, huh?
I held back a snicker.
“Mr. Smith,” Bellman acknowledged. I gave a little shrug and wave, feeling like
a dope. I wasn’t all that sure what to
do with my hands, as I alternated between keeping them in and out of my
pockets.
Starsky winked at me, and turned back to
Bellman. “As my partner explained
before, we have a list of dates that we need to research, to see if Johnny was
working for you those days. Just part
of the routine, you understand.”
“Yes indeed,”
Bellman answered.
Starsky, Hutchinson and the older man
went over the dates, Bellman frequently referring to a calendar at his desk as
well as some files piled nearby. From
what I could hear, it appeared that Johnny was “out of town” for all of the
dates in question.
“You must understand gentlemen, that as a
liaison to my foreign vendors, Johnny often travels overseas,” Bellman
explained. How handy, I thought
cynically. It would be easy to verify
Johnny’s whereabouts on a domestic trip but, conveniently, almost impossible on
a foreign trip.
“And you must understand, Mr. Bellman,
that without confirmation of Johnny’s whereabouts on those days, he becomes a
top suspect in a gruesome murder case.”
“Yes, I understand,” Bellman said,
obviously irritated. “I read the
papers. I know you are investigating
the deaths of those unfortunate drug addicts in the fires. Rest assured that Johnny has nothing to do
with any of that sordid business.”
“Mr. Bellman,” Hutchinson said, “Johnny
has been directly linked to at least one of the victims. And I hesitate to point out, all of the
buildings in question either are, or were, owned by you.”
Bellman paled slightly. “I think this interview is over,” he
said. “Get out. My attorney will be contacting you.”
“Fair enough,” Starsky said. He leaned over the man’s desk, staring
intently into the gray eyes. “But Mr.
Bellman, we’ll be talking to your nephew next.
And if get a whiff, even an inkling, that you are involved, rest assured
we’ll be right back in this office with an arrest warrant.”
I jumped back as Starsky suddenly stalked
out the door, followed by Hutchinson and myself. As the door closed, Starsky grabbed me, a hand over my
mouth. Hutchinson did the same with the
secretary before she could even squeak a word.
We listened through the closed door as James Bellman picked up the
phone.
“Johnny, it’s Uncle Jim. Get out of here. Take the access road behind the industrial park. I can’t explain now, Johnny. Just do it… Oh Johnny, I don’t know what
you’re into, but just get out now.”
The detectives were out the door like a
shot, leaving me trailing behind at a much slower pace, and the shocked
secretary sitting stiffly at her desk.
“Now would be a really good time
to get those files, Bob,” Starsky yelled over his shoulder.
I understood, and ran toward the
car. I hopped behind the wheel and
skidded off toward the main road. The
damn thing was way over-torqued, and in the rear-view mirror, I saw a cloud of
dust behind me. Pulling up next to a
squad car, I waved madly until one of the officers rolled down his window to
speak to me.
“They’re chasing a suspect now. Behind the main building, on the access
road,” I managed to blurt out. The
officers took off, and I followed them back into the parking lot. Getting out of our cars, we heard gunshots.
“You, stay here,” one of the officers
snapped at me. I was all too willing to
comply as they ran off behind the buildings.
I heard more gunshots. I wondered who was doing the shooting. Curiosity got the better of me. I crept, legs shaking like jello, toward the
vicinity of the shooting.
Once I got behind the building, it all
became clear. A frightened man with
dark brown hair and the Bellman jaw crouched behind a dumpster, a gun in his
hand. Starsky knelt behind a truck
tire, aiming his weapon toward Johnny Bellman.
Hutchinson was creeping alongside a semi-truck, in an effort to get
behind the gunman. I could only imagine
what that movement was doing for his back.
I crouched behind the uniformed officers, wondering what was going to
happen next.
At that moment, Johnny started
shooting. I heard a pop and hiss as a
bullet found its mark on the tire Starsky was hidden behind. The officers opened fire, causing the gunman
to take cover again behind his dumpster.
“Shit! What did I tell ya?” Starsky yelled as he
scooted behind another tire.
“OK, remind me when we come out of this
alive that you were right!” Hutchinson hollered back. He continued to maneuver closer to the suspect.
“Johnny,”
Starsky called out. “Give yourself
up. We know you set the fires.”
Another voice range out. “Johnny!”
It was the voice of James Bellman.
“Give yourself up, boy. I’m not
angry. I just want you to be safe.”
My head practically swiveled on my
neck. The old man stood out in the
open, calling to the son of his beloved sister. “Whatever you did Johnny, I’m sure you did it for the best of the
firm. We can talk Johnny. We can fix this.”
Johnny’s voice echoed through the
lot. “I burned down the buildings, Uncle
Jim,” he said. I winced at the
confession; he could not have sounded more pathetic.
“I’m sure we can work something out
Johnny,” the older Bellman said. “Give
yourself up.”
“I did it for you. You raised me. Took me in when Mom died.
I wanted you to be proud of me.
Those buildings, they weren’t gonna sell. The neighborhoods were changing. Burning them down was the best
way to collect the insurance.”
The old man’s voice caught in his
throat. It sounded almost like a
sob. “J-Johnny,” he said, “I would have
written them off. I would have broken
even.”
“What about
the drugs, Johnny? Tell him about the
drugs,” Starsky called out.
Johnny hesitated. “It’s OK, Johnny,” James Bellman said. “Nothing you say will keep me from loving
you like my own son.”
“I was using the drug money to buy up
real estate of my own. I wanted to
start my own business. To f-f-follow in
Uncle Jim’s footsteps.”
I listened, fascinated, as Johnny
confirmed what the detective partners had suspected all along.
“But… I was leaving it all to you anyway,
Johnny. It was going to all go to you,”
his uncle said. He moved closer to his
nephew, reaching out a hand. “Come with
me, Johnny. We’ll work this out. Put down the gun and come with me.”
James Bellman inched even closer. Johnny Bellman moved his gun hand to point
his weapon at his own head. “I’m
s-s-sorry, Uncle Jim,” he said.
What happened next is imbedded in my
memory forever. It was like
slow-motion: the old man leapt toward his nephew and started wrestling with the
gun. Starsky jumped at the old
man. Hutch dove at the gunman. The officers who stood with me sprinted
toward the fray.
A shot went
off. All four men were on the
ground. And time stood still.
Eventually a voice broke into
my paralysis. “You moron, he could have
killed you!” It was a frantic Detective
Hutchinson. The mist lifted from my
brain and I saw that the uniform officers had a struggling Johnny Bellman down
on the ground. Old Man Bellman was
sitting on the pavement nursing his elbow.
Starsky sat beside him, holding his left hand with his right. Blood dripped from between his fingers.
“You fucking
moron!”
“You are making my hand hurt more by
yelling at me, Hutch,” the curly-headed detective whined.
“I don’t care. You deserve it. You just
took 20 years off my life.” Hutchinson
practically paced a furrow into the pavement, one hand gripping his lower
back. He pointed a finger at his
partner.
“You…you…” he
blustered, waving the finger.
“Don’t you point
that finger at me. Shut up and help me
up,” Starsky said.
Hutchinson
hooked a hand under his partner’s arm and helped him up off the pavement.
“Here, let me see that,” he said gruffly,
examining the bloody hand. “Jeez, you
did a number on it.”
“I think the
bullet skimmed across the top.” Starsky
smiled contritely at his partner.
“Yeah, prob’ly,” Hutch replied. His expression softened. “C’mon dummy, let’s get that looked it.”
They walked together toward the Torino,
Hutchinson’s arm across Starsky’s shoulder, gripping him tightly. Once again, I didn’t exist.
*
I never let my subjects read my stories
before they are published. I don’t want
my writing influenced by any friendships I might develop. But that rule has never applied to my wife,
who has proofed every longer feature I have ever written. As a former high school English teacher, she
often has insights that are helpful to me.
She sat curled up on the couch a few
weeks after the shooting, reading my draft story for the Times on Detectives
Starsky and Hutchinson, all five parts of it.
Occasionally she picked up a red pen and scrawled a comment or edit
mark. But mostly she just read,
silently. It was rare that I could keep
her quiet through this process; I wondered if it was my writing this time
around, or the subject matter.
She put down
the papers and turned to me. “So he’s
already back to work?” she asked.
“Yeah.
He’s got some tendon damage. But
he was at the range just the other day, proving to Hutch that he can shoot just
as well right-handed. I think they’ll
do just fine.”
“You still
harbor any boyhood fantasies about cops and robbers?”
“No more. I’m happy to sit behind a typewriter and write fluff features for
the rest of my life.”
“I’m glad. Just reading about it frightened me.” She chewed on the end of her red pen. “I made a few comments, flipped a few things around. Nothing big. At least you could tell the difference between ‘its’, ‘it’s’,
‘their’ and ‘there’ this time.”
I smiled. It was an old joke between us, my lack of
grammar skills.
“There’s just
one thing,” she said.
“What?”
“I’ve circled a few parts that, um, I
think should come out. Parts that make
them sound, kinda, um, well, I can’t really describe, it but it’s not like a
gay thing. It’s more like…” she trailed
off.
“It’s like they’re a little too dependent
on each other,” I finished her thought.
“I worried about that too. It’s
the best part of the story. But I’m not
sure I can tell it.”
I sat next to her on the couch, arm
around her shoulder, remembering how Hutchinson had held Starsky close on the
sofa the night after the sentencing hearing.
I hadn’t wanted to intrude.
And I didn’t want to intrude on them
now. Splashing their unique
relationship all over the L.A. Times would be invasive, and risked exposing
them to the raised eyebrows of their superiors. I took the papers from my wife’s hand and headed back to my
typewriter, ready to permanently edit from the public record the proof of two
men forever bonded by mutual affection and love.
The End