TICKET TO DIE

This story was originally written for a 'Big Bang' on Live Journal.

It appears here in its original version

Once again - huge thanks to Anja for the illustrations

 

(1971)

 

Captain Harold Dobey fingered his long service medal and wondered yet again why he didn’t just call it a day and quit the force; get a job with an attorney’s office working as an investigator or maybe with an insurance firm, something that would give him more time with Edith and the kids. Instead he was sitting in his office listening to his good friend John Blaine talking him into taking a raw, newly promoted young detective onto his Robbery Homicide squad.

He and John went back a long way; they were Rookies together and worked on the same squad for years in uniform and out. After his partner Elmo was killed, Harold decided to take the quickest route to the nearest desk job to reassure Edith; but John stayed on the streets and refused to go further than Lieutenant to stay there.

“He’s more than just good, Harold. I’ve known Dave since he first came out here. I taught him how to fight back when the local kids bloodied his nose. I guess I reminded him of his dad.”

Dobey looked up from the file; “it says here he had other influences in his life too, John, you want to tell me about that?”

“His dad was a cop in New York; he was killed and the kid saw it. They shipped him out here to his aunt and uncle.”

Dobey glanced at the file again.

“Al Kaufman; that’s the link to Goldberg, right?

Blaine nodded.”Al and Rosa are my neighbors.  Al is OK; Goldberg’s his brother-in-law on the other side, it’s true; but he wanted Dave to stay on the straight like his dad.”  John shook his head. “Harold, I’ve eaten too many of Rosa’s lousy meals to let this kid down now.”

“But it says here…”

“Dave worked with his cousin; they were Goldberg’s dream team.  They never actually did anything illegal,” John smiled, “they just ‘persuaded’ bad losers to pay their debts.”

“Persuaded? That sounds dangerous to me.”

“Dave’s dangerous if he’s cornered. But he refused to carry a gun and neither did Harvey; they just put the fear of God into the guy. If that didn’t work, Goldberg sent in his heavies. But Dave and Harvey are clean. Remember this, Harold: ever since he was a little kid Dave wanted to be a cop like his dad; and he’s no fool…not by a long way.”

Dobey flipped a page. “His army record is interesting.”

“A couple of medals and a few other things he doesn’t talk about either. Believe me I know what he went through. He’s tough. He saw things that are still in files that no-one sees.  He nearly lost a leg out there Harold, and when he came back he was determined to get into the Academy.” Blaine closed his eyes, “he would prop his crutches up against the wall and climb into the ring with me to practice his punches.”

Dobey grunted. He had just read the Academy report and the notes written by the young cop’s current commanding officer. “Unpredictable. Hot-headed.  Instinctive. Talented.”

“Add to that intelligent and street-wise; charming and infuriating and you get….” Blaine was interrupted by a knock on the door.  Dobey called out to come in and the door opened to reveal a tousle-headed young man wearing the scruffiest, tightest jeans he had ever seen. He grinned at Blaine and walked over to hug him. “You talked me in yet?” The accent was Brooklyn crossed with West Coast. He turned and saluted Dobey before standing at ease; his jacket swung open to reveal a shoulder holster under his right arm. “Don’t believe everything he says about me sir; he’s prejudiced.”  He flashed a big grin at Blaine who sat back and smiled. “Harold, meet Dave Starsky. If this boy doesn’t end up in your chair one day I’ll eat my dress uniform.

Dobey took in the sparkling intelligent eyes and the winning lop-sided smile and nodded.

“Welcome to the squad Starsky. I’m going to team you up with Hank Medway. You start tomorrow, after you’ve had a haircut!”

Starsky grinned and ran his fingers through the curls. “But I had one a couple of weeks ago.”

“Get another one.”

Dobey got a preview of the fun he was going to have when Starsky flipped a salute and said with a grin: “Yes sir!” before walking out of the room and catching it closed with his foot.

After Starsky had left the room, Dobey turned to John. “I hope I’m not going to regret this.”

“You won’t Harold; believe me, that kid will be a Detective Second Class before you’ve had time to put on another five pounds.”

Dobey put on six pounds and Starsky proved his worth in record time.

 

 

1978

 

Dobey never regretted taking Dave Starsky onto his Robbery Homicide Squad. A couple of years later the higher echelons of the BCPD decided that it would be better to take RH out of the Force’s headquarters and put a team in each of the most troublesome precincts. Dobey’s seniority gave him the choice; he chose the 8^th and took his ‘boys’ with him. By then Starsky was partnered with Ken Hutchinson; his old buddy from the Academy, on whose behalf he had nagged and cajoled since the day he learned that Hutch had finally made Detective. And Dobey had been only too happy to get himself a quiet life. 

Ken ‘Hutch’ Hutchinson was the chalk to Starsky’s cheese; his cool mid-west approach hid a sometimes explosive temperament, but ninety-nine percent of the time it was Hutch who kept calm while Starsky exploded. Hutch took his time while Starsky rushed in head down like a footballer rushing the line. The two of them graduated the Academy joint first in their class (much to Hutch’s surprise because although he didn’t doubt his friend’s intelligence he didn’t see him as the type to do well with exams) but they were separated after the Academy and Hutch was left to follow his path while Starsky fast-tracked to detective following his participation in a bust that made the headlines across the state.  

Dobey knew from Starsky’s file that this was exactly what had happened in Viet Nam; he’d been made a Lieutenant after two field promotions, one of them for outstanding bravery. Hutch, on the other hand, took his time to learn everything as he went along: maybe it was because his more privileged background, growing up as he did in the kind of mid-west suburb where all the houses had big yards and maybe even a maid, gave him the feeling of security that let him do so.

They had been working together for a long time now; anticipating one another’s moves, sensing when something was more than wrong, weeping and raging when the other was hurt or sick. They were inseparable, a dream team.  ‘Starsky’n’Hutch’: all one word, one entity roaring around the town in Starsky’s crazy car and keeping the streets of Bay City as safe as they could given the wildlife that lived on them.

 

Now Dobey was once again listening to a man in the chair opposite his desk; but this time he was wondering whether the Starsky-Hutch partnership was about to come to an end.

 

Chapter one

Elmwood Drive is the kind of suburban street you could find anywhere in the United States. Rows of neat one-storey houses with small porches and sixty-square foot lawns out front and a yard out back big enough for a barbecue and maybe a small pool, in streets that all lead to a mall. Most evenings the residents gather in backyards to grill dinner on the charcoal and swap beers. The sprinklers keep the grass green and the mothers keep the houses clean while their kids go to school and their men go to work.

Some of the garages have hoops attached to the side wall or above the door. Some have a station wagon parked outside, maybe on the driveway, maybe in front of the house. Some have a compact, indicating that the occupants are childless. In a street like this a childless couple is either retired or starting out on life together.

Maybe eighty percent of the houses are owner occupied; those that are rented are often less well cared for, and it shows.  The Hopkins family owned their house. Gordon Hopkins did his best to keep the house in good condition. He painted the outside and tended to the roof shingles after storms. He sprayed the driveway to stop the weeds from growing up between the cracks in the concrete. Every Sunday he mowed the lawn in front of the house and in the backyard. He kept the house neat and tidy outside.  Sundays he washed his car and his son earned extra allowance money by polishing it. Inside the house was a different story.

Janet Hopkins never recovered from the death of her daughter. At the age of thirty-two, after six long years of marriage and miscarriages, she gave birth to twins; a girl and a boy. The girl was born with the umbilical cord around her neck; her brother’s foot was entangled in it. As the boy was born he strangled his sister. Janet forced herself to love the child that survived. He was beautiful child; but when she looked at him, his mother would always see the perfect little girl that she had longed for and mourn her. She’d swing from loving to loathing in a split second and the boy turned to his father for some semblance of love.

She was over-protective at times and negligent at others. Over the years she became more and more dependent on Valium and vodka. When she was up she encouraged Jimmy in everything he did. When she was down she turned on him like a Fury, throwing away his favorite toys and locking him in a closet. When his mother locked him in the closet, Jimmy stroked the silk scarves on the shelf. Their softness reminded him of his mother’s cheek when he was little.

Gordon Hopkins worked for the SFPD; he drove the tow truck that took illegally parked cars to the pound.  He was killed when a car he was unloading from the truck rolled down on him. The car was illegally parked by a hydrant; it had been there long enough to have collected six tickets on the windshield.  Jimmy was fifteen.

 

Janet went to pieces. Slowly but surely she disintegrated, emotionally and physically. She started drinking in the morning and by lunchtime when Jimmy came home she would be slumped on the couch in front of the TV soaps. She wasn’t watching them – she was too far gone by then. Jimmy would prepare his lunch, soup from a can and saltines. His mother didn’t notice. She ate what he put in front of her and later, when she believed he had gone back to school, she threw up. Jimmy would silently remove the dirty stuff from the sink and wash and dry the dishes before putting everything away neatly. He shopped for food and arranged the packets and cans in order in the cabinets.

 

Jimmy didn’t go back to school after the day his dad died; he went to the library or spent his time watching the cops and the meter maids putting tickets on cars. He knew that it was just a matter of time before he found the ones who put the tickets on the car that killed his father. He was ready to wait…he had nothing else to do. 

 

When he was sixteen he followed a meter maid home one night and crouched in the bushes behind her house. He watched her silhouette on the shades as she performed an unwitting strip-tease show for him. It was his first sexual experience. He hunched behind the bush and rubbed his dick against his thigh; panting and gasping as he felt his own hot spurt in his hand. He looked at it in disgusted fascination before wiping it on the grass and walking away.

 

Janet sat on the couch and watched the TV; a woman with red hair and wide heavily made up eyes lived in a world of crazy domesticity.  Canned laughter echoed from the set; Janet watched and tried to understand why.  She couldn’t understand where that time had gone, when she was like Lucy, young and full of hope, happily married to a man who was going to give her the children she had been brought up to believe were her ambition and her destiny. Lucy had Lucy and Desi junior; Janet had her son to remind her of the daughter that didn’t survive. The sister that he killed with his tiny foot.  She called him after her favorite actor.  Other times she sat screaming the answers at quiz-show hosts and hurled abuse at the contestants. But whenever there was an advertisement with a pretty little girl she went to pieces.

 

Jimmy lived as much of his life as he could in his bedroom. He filed his collections carefully. He kept his room neat and tidy – although he soon gave up the battle to do the same for the rest of the house. He heard his mom moving around in the rest of the house. Kitchen utensils clattered; she swore. He heard her outside his door. The last time she had tried to clean up, his baseball cards were sacrificed to the goddess of home-making. He shoved his collections into their boxes and stowed them under the loosened floorboard. Janet didn’t come into his room. He heard her walking into the bathroom.

Jimmy took jobs and lost them for reasons that made no sense to him. Why should anyone want pickles and mayonnaise and ketchup in a burger? Why make change from a ten when he could see the guy had a five in his wallet?

His mother was usually in no state to notice or care if he was home too early; if she asked he said that he’d found something new. She rarely asked.  They lived in the same house but they were strangers; moving around one another without communicating.

 

One day when Jimmy needed to go to the bathroom his mom had been in there for over an hour.  He knocked on the door and called to her to open the door. He listened to the silence. He opened the door and found his mom on the floor by the bath. At first he thought she had fallen. Then he noticed the silk scarf around her neck; it was still attached to the door handle. He touched her but she was already cold. Jimmy didn’t understand why his dick hardened, but it did. He returned to his room and jerked off before deciding what to do next.

There was no reason to stay.

He gathered up all his things; put his collection into a carton and his clothes into a suitcase. He walked out of the house on Elmwood and drove away. He was twenty-two years old.

 

They found Janet’s body a week later. A neighbor noticed that the papers were piling up on the lawn and that Janet’s son hadn’t been home for days. The verdict was suicide. The pills and the vodka the best witnesses to the fact.  Nobody thought to look for Jimmy; he was old enough to look after himself.

 

Chapter Two

 

Sometime in 1974 the FBI began to put together a file on what was beginning to look like a serial killer. The nascent Behavioral Sciences Unit at the new center in Quantico was brought in to analyze the pattern of murders and to try to create a profile of the killer; they had little to go on aside from these facts.  One: the killer always used a silk scarf to kill his victims. Two: the killer had sexual intercourse with his victims during or after their final moments of life. Three: the murderer appeared to be working his way south from San Francisco. Two murders in Nevada made this a federal case. The precision of the killings led Dr Edgar Schulman and his team to conclude that the killer was obsessed by routine. He showed manic repetitive behavior. The team also concluded that the killer was emotionally immature. This conclusion was drawn in part from his need to leave his victims in a ‘mise en scène’. Each woman was found naked except for the silk scarf round her throat. Each victim was found seated on the toilet in her bathroom.

The FBI team was correct on many of these points but unfortunately these highly trained and sharp-minded agents missed one important point. They missed it because they didn’t even think to look for it. All the victims lived, or had lived, in the same area of San Francisco during the previous ten years.

 

***************   

 

 

 

The sea- fog had been oozing across the bay for the past four days; slipping in and out between the buildings on the waterfront.  It wrapped itself around those who dared to venture out of their warm homes. It left its greasy paint on windshields and on windows.  The fog was cold and damp; it was ethereal and tangible. To add insult to injury, only a few miles inland the city was shimmering in a heat wave.

Starsky shivered and wrapped his Mexican wool jacket around himself. He hated this kind of stakeout. He was sitting on the boardwalk where he had a good view of the booth behind the Ferris wheel. Hutch was sitting in his car over on the other side of the road, waiting for Starsky to signal that a deal was going down. This was the second night of the stakeout. Last night Hutch sat on the bench and Starsky sat in the Torino enjoying the residual warmth that the heater left after he cut the engine.

Hutch’s heater died the week before; Hutch was as cold as Starsky.

The radio in the car crackled and Starsky’s voice came out of the speaker. “You still awake?”

“Yes.”

“Play twenty questions with me?”

“What?”

“I need something to keep me awake and I can’t play with myself.”

Hutch laughed. “Starsky!”

“What?”

“Did you think about what you just said?”

Starsky laughed. “Maybe.  Did you?”

“Was that the first question?”

“Depends on your answer.”

Hutch grinned and shook his head.

“Hutch.” Starsky’s tone had changed.  “Yes?”

“I think something is going down.”

“I don’t see anything.”

“Over by the cotton candy stand.”

Hutch turned to see two men walking slowly towards the booth. The light of the booth glowed out of the door as it opened to let them in.

 

Hutch had to twist himself around in the seat to see what was happening. Starsky was moving into position. Starsky had learned to move as silently as a cat when he had to; he was crouching low, slipping under the window and soon he was leaning on the wall alongside the door. He pulled out his gun and held it high above his head. Even without being able to see him clearly, Hutch knew that Starsky’s fingers were splayed away from the barrel poised to grip and fire if he had to. Hutch watched and waited for a signal. Starsky was motionless, listening and waiting for his moment. Suddenly the door burst open and a runty little man with a bald spot rolled out of the door. He struggled to his feet but was knocked down again by a second man who appeared to have been thrown out of the booth. The door slammed shut and Hutch caught sight of his partner leaning on the wall trying not to laugh. Hutch crossed his fingers that that his car door would open without creaking or setting off the horn. It did. He ran over to join Starsky who was already hauling the bald man to his feet. Starsky had his hand over the bald man’s mouth and Hutch followed his example whilst dealing with the other apparent victim. They manhandled their captives back to the car and shoved them into the back. Starsky climbed in alongside them and Hutch took the passenger seat because it was easier to turn to the back without the steering wheel in his way.

Starsky pulled out his badge. “You want to explain what’s going down?”

“We- uh- we were playing cards and he cheated.” The bald guy said quickly. Starsky snorted. “What were you playing, Old Maid? Let’s try again.” He leaned back as if he was thinking about something and Hutch took his cue. “Starsky, I have an idea.”

Starsky turned to look at their two car-guests and smiled slowly. “He has an idea. Now when my partner here has an idea it is usually something good. I vote we listen to his idea, ‘K?” He turned back to Hutch. “What’s your idea?”

“I thought maybe we could ask them their names. It makes conversation easier.”

Starsky’s grin spread from ear to ear. “See I told you he’s clever.” His eyes hardened as he turned to the man beside him. “Name?”

The man looked at him and turned away.

Starsky turned and grabbed him by the collar. “Your ears not working right?  Let’s try again.”

“Harry Stevens.”

“Say hi to Harry, Hutch.”

“Hi Harry.” Hutch beamed at him.

Starsky leaned over and grabbed the other man by the first thing he could get hold of, his big nose. “Don’t tell me let me guess, Pinocchio?” Hutch laughed quietly; his partner was on form.

 “Dick Wallace.”

“Hi Dick.”

“Doh…it’s Dick.”

“Yeah? Oh I get it.” Starsky released his grip, “Nick?”

“Yes.” He was rubbing his nose.

Starsky patted Stevens on the shoulder. “So why don’t you tell us what is really going on in there?”

“I don’t know.”

Starsky sighed. “You know what Hutch?  I think we’re going to have to arrest these guys.”

Hutch shook his head sadly and slid across to the driver’s seat.

 

Starsky recited Miranda and their passengers went for the temporary silence option.  Starsky could understand that; what with the clunking under the hood and the rattling of junk in the trunk of Hutch’s lame excuse for a car no-one would have made out much of what they said anyway. Wallace shifted uneasily and pulled a monkey wrench out from under his butt. Hutch glanced up in the rear view and smiled. “I wondered where that was.”

Starsky raised an eyebrow. “He doesn’t know anything about mechanics,” he muttered to his neighbor on the back seat, “can’t think why he has it in the car…unless…” He opened his eyes wide as if he’d had sudden inspiration. “Hey Hutch was that the wrench you lost after that guy refused to tell us where the numbers racket was?”

The two passengers exchanged uncomfortable glances. Starsky caught Hutch’s eye in the mirror and gave one of his almost imperceptible winks. Hutch took his cue. “I don’t know Stark. Does it still have the bloodstain on the handle?”

Starsky examined it carefully and grinned.

“I think I want a lawyer.” Wallace said.

“Good idea. What about your friend here?”

“Me too.” Stevens said quietly. Starsky noted that he sounded scared.

 

Interrogation rooms four and five were the smallest, the coldest and the furthest away from the cafeteria; they were also linked by a two-way mirror, which was why Starsky and Hutch favored them when they were dealing with a double interrogation.  Both rooms had concrete floors that had been covered in well-worn linoleum the same shade of gray that can be found in public buildings all over the world. The floor was scuffed where chairs had scraped away from the table. The walls were covered with Styrofoam sound-proofing tiles that showed damage where something or someone had been slammed against them. Starsky and Hutch had at least an hour before any lawyer arrived. Enough time for an informal little chat…or something like that.

Starsky led Stevens into room five and pulled out a chair for him to sit at the table. Starsky leaned one shoulder against the wall crossed his legs at the ankles and folded his arms. He watched Stevens in silence.

Stevens took a pack of cigarettes out of his jacket pocket and shook one out. He held up the packet to Starsky who shook his head with a brief smile. Stevens lit his cigarette and made a visible effort to relax.

Hutch settled Wallace into room four and suggested coffee. Wallace accepted and Hutch left him to enjoy the show.

As soon as he heard Hutch close his door Starsky went into action. He flipped the switch to make all that happened in this room visible and audible in the other. He removed his jacket, undid his holster strap and sat down. He leaned forward and looked at Stevens with an un-nerving, steady gaze.  Stevens tried to look away and quick as a flash Starsky leaned over and grabbed him by the collar. “Look at me when I’m talking to you Stevens.” Stevens swallowed hard and nodded. Starsky released him.

“Ok, now there are two ways we can play this. We can sit here while you lie to me until I decide to beat the crap and, or, the truth out of you.”  Stevens watched as Starsky rolled up his sleeves revealing his lean muscular forearms. He swallowed again.  Starsky smiled with his mouth but not with his eyes. “Or, you can tell me what the fuck was going on in that booth and then we’ll call your lawyer who will probably plea bargain you down to a parking ticket.”

Stevens sneered; he was getting his nerve back, convinced that Starsky’s last crack was a sign that he was kidding.  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Starsky was across the table in a flash. This time he hauled Stevens to his feet and shoved him hard against the wall. “Don’t make me lose my temper, Stevens. I’ve got a hot date tonight and I want to look my best.”

Hutch slipped back into the room with Wallace and said quietly “it’s almost as good as the TV isn’t it? Except my partner isn’t acting and when he loses his temper the scenes are more like an x-rated movie.”

Wallace found a cigarette, his hand was shaking so much that Hutch had to hold the match for him. “Stevens doesn’t know anything; he works on maintenance – the rides? –he comes in for a drink and a smoke now and then. He shouldn’t have been there; that’s why they threw us both out.  No witnesses.”

“But you do know about it right?”

“Yeah but I’m not telling you anything until you call your partner off.”

Hutch strode over to the window and knocked in it. Starsky came over and said “Yeah?”

“Party’s over buddy, my guest is ready to sing.”

Starsky smiled at Stevens. “Don’t go away.”

 

Wallace sang the whole opera from overture to finale in half an hour. He gave them the names of the dealer and the financier. He told them where they would find the pushers and the junkies who were so strung out they didn’t know their names any more. As an encore he came up with an address.

Starsky leaned back in his chair and stared at the ceiling.  “Hutch,” he whispered, “we need to discuss this in private.” He used the wall phone to call for another officer to come and take Wallace and Stevens to be processed. “You’ll be safer in custody until we’ve got these people off the streets.”

 

In the corridor Hutch asked what was so important but Starsky just shrugged and said “not now.”

He continued walking quickly and Hutch followed him to the parking lot and into the Torino. Starsky drove back to his house.

 

Settled on the couch with a beer, Starsky finally broke his infuriating silence. “That address Wallace gave us?”

Hutch sipped his beer, “yes?”

“I know who lives there.”

“You’ve already busted him?”

“No.” Starsky said quietly.

“When you say that you know him; you mean you know who he is or you know him.”

“I know who she is; and she knows who I am. I can’t go in there, Hutch.”

Hutch sensed that Starsky was uneasy about something. He put down his beer and sat back on the couch. “Tell me about it buddy.”

“Sam Westerman; does that mean anything to you?”

Hutch shook his head.

“He runs a big numbers network out of Pasadena. The place Wallace gave us is his daughter’s house;

I dated Kathy for a while.”

“You dated the daughter of a numbers king?” 

Starsky nodded unhappily.

“It didn’t work out, right?”

Starsky nodded again. “Yeah, but not what you’re thinking; we dated for about six months but then her dad found out about me.”

“That you were a cop.”

“No she dropped me when her old man found out that I was Al Kaufman’s nephew.”

Hutch looked confused. “Did he buy a dud car from your uncle?”

Starsky grinned; Hutch could see the relief that a little humor brought. “No; but when he found out who I was he also knew who I worked for.”

“Like I said, he found out you were a cop.”

“It was before I joined the police.”

Starsky went into the kitchen and busied himself with the coffee pot. Hutch sat and digested the information – or lack of it. “Starsky?”

“Mmm?”

“What did you do before you joined the Police?”

It wasn’t the first time he’d asked; but Hutch still hoped to get a full answer one day.

“A lot of different stuff:  I drove a cab, I fought a war, I perfected my pool….”

“Stop it.”

“Stop what?”

“Avoiding the answer.  Starsky you are a great poker player when you have to be, but you are a lousy liar with me.”

Starsky fiddled with the coffee scoop. “I’m not lying to you.”

“No, but you’re not telling me the answers either.”

“Let’s just say I’m being careful with the truth.”

“Careful? Are you trying to protect someone from the truth?”

Starsky poured coffee into two mugs; added cream and sugar to his and walked back to his chair. He handed a mug to Hutch and sat down, sipping and looking at his partner over the rim of the mug.

“Maybe.”

 Silence.

“You don’t have to tell me.”

Starsky looked at Hutch carefully; Hutch was aware that he was being assessed, analyzed, put to the test. The test of Starsky’s trust; he was used to it, it no longer bothered him.

“No, you’re right, I don’t have to.” Starsky finished his coffee before adding, “yet.”

Hutch accepted that; he had no choice. He had learned a long time ago that there were things in Starsky’s past that he might have trouble understanding. Over the years Starsky had fed him bits of information if and when he felt the situation required or demanded it. When he had pulled up from a chase limping and biting back tears; Hutch learned about his injured leg and his long, terrified fight to walk again. When a child ran to her father, shot in an alley; Hutch learned about the kid hiding in an alley, watching his father go down to three bullets. Hutch knew about Uncle Al and his somewhat shady friends; he also knew that John Blaine had been the kid’s mentor. Starsky had more than once hinted at the times he worked with his cousin Harvey but Hutch had never found out exactly what they did or who they worked for. He noted that occasionally Starsky had privileged information, but decided to honor the cops’ code about not asking about snitches. He chose not to push for the answers; because he also knew and understood Starsky’s fragile vulnerability. Starsky kept his privacy preciously guarded, even from his best and closest friend. If and when Starsky thought that Hutch should know about his connection to Westerman, he would tell him. And Hutch was comfortable with that.

Starsky was back in the kitchen getting stuff out of the fridge. “What do you want in your omelet?”

“Whatever you have.”

Starsky grinned and started chopping cheese, onion and jalapeno peppers.

 

They ate at the kitchen counter; two forks, one skillet.

“We need to get that address checked out.” Hutch said, the omelet was good and he was scraping the edge of the pan.

“No reason why you shouldn’t go there without me.”

“Do I need back up?”

“No; I’ll be out there in the car watching. If I think you are in trouble I’ll call in a black and white.”

“If there is one in the area.”

“There usually is.” Starsky looked up at Hutch from under his eyebrows. Hutch caught a hint of sadness in his eyes.

“We are assuming she still lives there, aren’t we buddy? I mean…”

“She still lives there.”

 Hutch accepted the statement without question.

 

 

Chapter three

 

Hutch wasn’t sure what to expect. Starsky drove ahead and Hutch kept the Torino in his sights as they made their way to the address that Wallace had given them. The streets got wider and leafier and the houses spaced further apart as they drove away from the city and into its dormitories. Hutch recognized the signs of middle class prosperity; the cars got newer and cleaner, the lawns were tended with more care and cluttered with brightly colored bikes and toys rather than the detritus of poverty that they were used to seeing in their stakeouts. The fog of yesterday had given way to humid, hazy smog as the heat came in from the mountains and desert that surrounded the city. Kids were playing on the sidewalks and in the front yards; Hutch was pretty sure that their moms were gathered in the back yards sipping cool drinks and gossiping. The Torino slowed down and its right indicator flashed for a few seconds before it accelerated and disappeared around the next bend in the street. Hutch spotted a station wagon and was about to park behind it when a car pulled up in the space and a harassed looking woman started extricating a kid and two sacks of shopping.

He drove on and parked a few hundred yards further up the road; far enough from his quarry not to be seen but close enough to see the comings and goings from the pink stucco house set back just a little further from the road than its neighbors. The young woman finally succeeded in gathering up child and supplies and started to walk up the driveway of the house that Hutch was there to watch. He looked at her carefully. She was in her late twenties maybe early thirties; pretty in a faded and weary way. Her light gold hair was gathered in a pony tail and she was wearing the modern uniform of flared jeans, platform soled sandals and a muslin peasant blouse.  In other circumstances Hutch might have tried to date her. As she hitched her purse onto her shoulder he noted the glint of gold at her wrist. The door opened before she got to it; enough for the child to run in but not enough for Hutch to see who had opened it. The young woman seemed to be speaking to someone; she handed over her shopping sacks and returned to the car.

 

“Starsky.”

“Yeah?”

“One of us has to tail the lady and one of has to stay here.”

“You tail, I stay.”

Hutch started the car and waited for her to drive past. He let another car pass and pulled away from the curb. They had to slow down to allow the Torino to turn right across them at a four way stop.

Hutch followed her to a small mall where there was a health club, a beauty parlor and a coffee shop. He hoped she was going to meet a friend for coffee and sighed when she walked into the beauty parlor. Hutch settled down for a long wait.

 

“Hey Hutch” Starsky’s voice broke the silence.

“I’m still here.”

“Wanna play I-spy?”

“Starsky, how can we play that if you can’t see what I can see?”

Starsky chuckled, “that makes it more fun.”

Hutch sighed. This was likely to be a long lonely wait so why not?

“You can start.” Starsky said.

Hutch looked around and spotted something.

“We’ll play later, Starsk, I may have to move on.”

“You been made?”

“Meter maid.”

Starsky’s laughter filled the car.

 

Hutch flashed his badge. “I’m on a stake-out, give me a break.”

“OK but move away from the hydrant.” She was not a lady for small talk.

Hutch moved the car over to the other side of the parking lot; from here he had a better view of the beauty parlor and could even see the back door. He settled down to wait. He pulled out an old newspaper and started to do the crossword, glancing up now and again to be sure that Kathy was still under the drier. He had almost finished when he saw someone else walking into the beauty parlor. He was a slightly built man with nondescript fair hair. He walked as if he was avoiding his own shadow. Hutch was sure that this guy didn’t work in the beauty parlor and he certainly didn’t look like he was a customer either. He folded his newspaper and watched what was going on.

“Starsky.”

“Yeah.”

“I think we have something. The lady has a visitor.”

“Can you get some kind of make on him?”

“No. Wait, I think I see his car.”

“Call it in, you never know.  Hey I’m taking time out here; I need to pee.”

 

Hutch decided to take a look at the car parked over in front of the beauty parlor.

 

Hutch’s car always inspired a combination of exasperation and derision from Starsky. The Torino was always in good condition; Starsky washed and waxed it lovingly whenever he had a free day and he made sure that the engine was tuned to perfection. The one time it had given him trouble, by constantly overheating during a heat wave, he had taken it to Merle to be tweaked and retuned and have an air-conditioning system fitted. The interior was always tidy; Starsky removed all evidence of stake-out meals as soon as possible. In contrast, Hutch’s car was a repository for the detritus that he had gathered over his years as a detective. The rear seat was littered with sandwich wrappers and empty cans. Newspapers and paperback books were scattered on the floor and more than once a wizened and half-eaten apple had rolled under Starsky’s feet as Hutch accelerated to give chase to a suspect or a villain; if, of course, the car cooperated with that idea. Starsky’s derision was based on the fact that Hutch not only knew little or nothing about cars but he apparently cared even less. Hutch’s car frequently stalled, the engine made noises that Starsky had never heard coming from under the hood of a car before. When it came to the bodywork; Dave Starsky just gave up. He had tried hijacking Hutch’s heap to Merle’s place but to no avail. Hutch announced that he liked his car as it was, even if one door was not the same color as the rest of the bodywork. “At least I don’t drive a striped tomato.”

 

The car that Hutch was looking at was devoid of any indication about its owner. Hutch could have believed that had only come out of showroom the day before.  There was nothing inside the car. No candy wrappers; nothing. He noted the details on the plate and went back to his car. He didn’t see the owner of the car watching him.

But the owner saw him and made a note of Hutch’s car.

 

An hour later Kathy came out of the beauty parlor; Hutch couldn’t see that anything was different about her.

“We’re on our way Starsk.”

“’K. I’ll make sure she goes home safely.  See you tomorrow.”

Fifteen minutes later Starsky watched his old flame walk into the house and drove away.

Hutch set off for home.

 

 

Chapter four

 

Jimmy was making a delivery; he hadn’t had any luck finding number six so far and he was beginning to feel frustrated. He spotted a magazine on a rack by the door as he walked in, there it was; a photo of number six. Jimmy removed the page from the magazine and folded in carefully before putting it into his wallet.

 

Back in his apartment he looked at the street directory and found the address he was looking for. He traced his route with his finger and smiled. This time would be different but first he needed to learn a new trick.

*****

 

The FBI team had drawn a blank so far. The killer’s trail suddenly disappeared in the fall of 1975. His last killing was in LA and that was as far as they could get. In a big sprawling metropolis covering hundreds of square miles like LA, a man can disappear easily. Bundy, Zodiac and the Sacramento Vampire attracted their attention and as the California strangler was apparently inactive the file was relegated to ‘suspended’.

Then in early 1977 a new murder attracted LA field Agent Fairchild’s attention. The victim was found strangled with a silk scarf. This in itself was nothing to indicate that the killer was active again – silk scarves are surprisingly popular amongst the strangling fraternity, second only to a stocking or panty-hose when it came to murders with a sexual connotation. The victim was found in the bathroom. Again Fairchild was told that this meant nothing “Do you know how many domestic murders take place in the bathroom?” His chief asked him. The case was put to one side until four months later the body of Juan De Santos was found seated on the toilet of a motel room in a small town to the north of Los Angeles; he had been strangled with a silk scarf. This time Fairchild refused to be put off the case. The first murder may have been a coincidence but this time the MO was the same as the strangler’s. Fairchild called the County Coroner and asked for the autopsy report. He read it carefully but the answer to his question was not there. He called the pathologist who had carried out the autopsy.

“Raped? I doubt it.”

“Did you check?” Fairchild had already sensed that the man at the other end of the ‘phone line was reluctant to consider that rape happened to both sexes.

“No, I didn’t. The man was a small time thief; he was probably killed because he short-changed his fence.”

“Is it possible to check?”

“I’m sorry; the body was claimed by the family and cremated.”

Fairchild stared at the telephone in his hand; the murder was less than a week ago and the body had already been disposed of. What kind of Keystone cop operation was this? He resigned himself to wait for the next installment of the series. It came six months later and this time the murder took place in the LA County jurisdiction. Fairchild called the Coroner’s office as soon as he saw the report on the telex.

“You want him checked for what?”

“Possible rape.”

“OK. I’ll call you back when I’ve finished.”

An hour later the pathologist called him back. “You were right.”

Fairchild confronted his chief with the evidence.

 

This time his boss had to agree with him; the case was too close to the California strangler’s MO to be ignored. He read through the file. “You’re right; this is too close for a coincidence. We have a ninety per-cent match: strangulation; the murder weapon; the positioning of the body. The only variation is that the last two victims are male. This is something we need to study and try to understand. I have a feeling that this is the key to the murders.”

“Perhaps the killer’s father raped someone?”

“No, I don’t think so.”

Fairchild took that for a green light.

He called a meeting with the local police chiefs, LA County, Ventura County and the outlying sheriff’s departments. Chief Ryan took Fairchild aside when the briefing was over. “Two of my men over at the eighth precinct are working on another one.”

“Are you sure?”

“Male, strangled with a silk scarf, left on the toilet, raped. What do you think?”

“When did this happen.”

“It was called in this morning. The hotel staff found him.”

 

Fairchild looked at the two cops who were working on the case and feared the worst. He had worked with cops who resented the arrival of FBI agents because they felt that their territory was threatened; but these two eyed him with a hostility that went deeper. He turned to the tall blond

who was minimally better dressed than his scruffy partner. “What do you have against the FBI Detective Starsky?”

“I’m Hutchinson; he’s Starsky.” He indicated the man perched on the water-cooler stand. Fairchild looked at him and was momentarily disconcerted by the deadpan stare that greeted him. He sensed something he had rarely encountered; the conviction that he was being outplayed by someone capable of teaching him a few tricks.

 

The cop identified as Starsky slowly unfolded himself from his unconventional seating arrangement and came to sit on the arm of Hutchinson’s chair; “FBI’s fine as long as you remember that we work for him,” he looked at Dobey for a second, “and not for you. And,” he paused as if weighing his words carefully, “as long as you don’t try to take the credit for our detective work.”

Fairchild smiled. “I wouldn’t dream of doing that. We are here to help you, not to steal your glory.”

Starsky grunted and Hutch touched his arm as if to calm him.

“What do you have?”

Starsky rolled his eyes to the ceiling. “We have a dead male prostitute. Death was by strangling. He was found seated on the toilet in the bathroom of a room in one of the less swanky hotels in town.” Starsky turned to Fairchild and said “what do you have?”

“We have a series of murders over the past few years starting in San Francisco and continuing in towns in California and Nevada. Until recently all the victims were female, all were strangled, all were left on the toilet seat and all were raped.”

“What makes you think they are linked to our killer?” It was Hutch who spoke.

 “Yours and the last two; since the killer arrived in the LA area he seems to have changed his sexual preference.”

Starsky reached for the file on the desk and started to leaf through it. “Hey Hutch, the first killing happened just before you left Hippyville.” He grinned at the others, “It’s OK, I can vouch for him since then.”  He stood up, still holding the file; “come on buddy let’s go read this stuff and see if we can find what the smart guys missed.”

 

Hutch watched Starsky reading the cases in the file. He was leaning back in his chair and pulling at his upper lip. Hutch knew he was concentrating and processing each detail as he saw it.

“What do we have?”

“I don’t know. All the victims once lived in San Francisco. That might be a good place to start.” He looked up. “Got any ideas who we could talk to?”

 

Not long after graduating the Academy, Hutch had been sent to San Francisco as part of an experimental program designed to contribute to inter-force cooperation. He was there for six frustrating months during which the chief of the precinct he was assigned to expressed his disdain for the scheme by allocating Hutch to traffic duty for the first three months and to a desk job for the rest of the time. He looked at Starsky sourly; “don’t remind me.”

“Shame Linda isn’t still up there.” Starsky smiled at the memory of the young policewoman who had managed to fool them that she was a gangster’s spoiled daughter in need of their protection. “You must have someone you can contact up there.”

“Yes; maybe.  I don’t have the number here; I’ll call when I get home.”

“A personal number, huh?” Starsky wiggled his eyebrows.

“Oh shut up.”

 

The next morning Starsky and Hutch were in Dobey’s office arguing their way onto a flight for San Francisco.  “We promise not to kidnap any cab drivers this time, Captain.”

 

Hutch watched Starsky go through his usual routine at the airport. He went to the bathroom between checking in and boarding. He insisted on buying a coke that he didn’t drink and a book Hutch knew he wouldn’t read (it would be left, as usual, on a seat in the waiting area) and a candy bar. Starsky always ate the candy bar.

Once on board the plane Starsky insisted that Hutch take the window seat; he buckled his seat belt and sat white knuckling the arm-rests until they were in the air. As soon as the light went out, Starsky undid his seat belt and sat staring at the back of the seat in front of him, trying to ignore the terrifying safety demonstration.  When the stewardess arrived, offering tea or coffee; Starsky asked for a pillow and a blanket. He pulled the blanket over his head and curled up burying his head in the pillow trying to ignore the fact that he was a few thousand feet up in the air. After ten minutes they hit turbulence.  “Your friend needs to sit up and fasten his seat belt,” the stewardess told Hutch. Hutch uncovered Starsky’s head and touched his shoulder gently. “Hey buddy.”

“Are we there?” Starsky’s question ended in a terrified yelp as the plane bumped slightly.

“It’s OK, you need to do up your seat belt. Put your head on my shoulder and go back to sleep.”

“Sleep? You think I’m gonna sleep when we’re going to nosedive any minute?”

“It’s just a little turbulence, Starsky. “

Starsky pushed the pillow against Hutch’s shoulder and did his best to sleep.”

 

Hutch’s contact was ready to meet them at the airport. They drove straight to the SFPD headquarters. “When you called I started to wonder why it was that no-one took any interest after Kelly was killed.”

“Kelly? Kelly Blackwood?”

“Yes; she got married a few months after you left. Her baby was two months old when she was killed. The department was on the case for weeks and then suddenly it went cold. I guess no-one took much notice of the other killings; they weren’t in our jurisdiction so maybe we didn’t even hear much about them. I took another look at that list. All of the women who were murdered were members of SFPD at some time; and they were all on traffic detail.”

Starsky sat up straight. “Wait a minute; maybe that’s the missing link.”

Gary Harwood looked at Hutch for an explanation. Starsky continued: “has anyone thought of taking a look at their records to see if they had anything else in common. You know: someone who got aggressive over a ticket, something like that.”

“I’ll get the files. It might take a while; where are you guys staying?” Hutch gave him the name of their hotel and he suggested a restaurant nearby where they could all meet for dinner. “If I can get the files by then I’ll bring you some bedtime reading.”

 

Harwood came to the restaurant empty handed. “I’m sorry; I can’t get clearance from personnel to let you see the files.”

 “I guess we’ll just have to watch that TV series with the guy with the double nose and learn a few tricks.” Starsky said with a grin.

They flew home the next day; the flight passed without incident and Starsky skipped off the plane happy to be back on solid ground.

 

“There has to be something that connects them.” Starsky was driving Hutch home from the airport.

“If there is, Gary will let us know.”

“Yeah. In the meantime I guess we need to find out more about the men this whippo has killed. I mean why would he suddenly start killing men?”

“I guess we’ll find out if and when we catch him.”

“Yeah.” Starsky pulled up outside Venice Place and Hutch got out of the car. They touched each other briefly, the wordless ‘goodnight, safe-dreams, see you in the morning’ communication that both men understood. They were both tired; they both needed to rest. Starsky pulled the Torino around the car parked outside the restaurant and drove home.

 

 

 

Chapter five

 

Starsky and Hutch were convinced that the clue lay in the personnel files that had finally arrived from San Francisco after Chief Ryan had personally raised hell with his counterpart in that city. 

 

Wallace and Stevens were no longer their primary problem; Starsky and Hutch were assigned full time to the strangling. A week later another victim was discovered; this time the mise en scène had changed but the other elements left no doubt that the same killer was at work. The victim was strangled with a silk scarf. But instead of being found on a toilet, he was found in the trunk of his car. And he had not been raped.

 

“There has to be a link.” Starsky kicked the nearest trashcan in a gesture of frustration and instantly regretted it. He hopped over to lean melodramatically on Hutch’s shoulder while they watched the Coroner’s wagon drive off.

“Of course, if he wasn’t raped then we may have a copycat on our hands.” Hutch said quietly.

“No,” Starsky was suddenly solemn, “it’s the same guy.”

“How can you be sure? I mean do you know the statistics for strangulation with silk scarves?”

“No; but that’s not the point. I can’t put my finger on it, Hutch, but I get a bad feeling about all this. It’s like this fruitcake is practicing for something.” He paused. “Or someone.”

“Who?”

“If we ever get to see those files maybe we’ll find out.”

“Zebra Three; come in Zebra Three.”

Starsky leaned into the car. “Zebra Three.”

“Patching you through to Captain Dobey.”

Starsky looked at Hutch over the roof of the car and raised an eyebrow. “I wonder what our beloved Captain wants.”

“I want you to listen to me Starsky.” Dobey’s voice rumbled out of the car.

“Sorry Captain. We’re all ears.”

“I have the files from San Francisco. Get back here and start reading.”

Hutch looked at his watch. It was nearly time for them to go off duty and he had a date with Angie, a Stewardess with American who only got to LA once every six weeks. Starsky winked at him.

“Captain, I’ll be in just as soon as I’ve dropped Hutch off; he thinks he’s getting some kind of stomach bug.”

“OK.  Hutchinson?”

“Yes sir?” Hutch did his best to sound sick

“Take the day off tomorrow; keep your bug to yourself.”

“Yes Captain.”

 

Starsky dropped Hutch off at his apartment. He didn’t know it yet but from now on he was working on this case alone.

*****

Starsky couldn’t sleep. He was sure that there was a missing link and he was determined to find it before the suits from the FBI’s latest brainchild did. He rolled out of bed and dressed. There was little or no traffic on the streets at four a.m. and he was in the office within fifteen minutes. He exchanged a couple of words of greeting with the cop on desk duty and made his way up to the squad room. He made a pot of coffee and raided the candy machine while it was brewing. He took his supplies into Dobey’s office and sure enough the files from San Francisco were on the desk. He settled into the Captain’s chair and started to read.

 

After reading each file, Starsky made a few notes on a legal pad beside him. He drew up two lists. The things he had found and needed to look at again; and the things he wanted more information about.

After the fifth file a pattern began to emerge.

All five victims had worked the same part of the city; they issued parking tickets and they called in the tow truck when a contravention was enough to justify immediate removal of the vehicle.

 

When Dobey arrived in the office he found Starsky asleep in the armchair opposite his desk. A collection of empty packets and wrappers and a mug with a little coffee congealed in the bottom were all he needed to know that Starsky had been there a while. The San Francisco files were neatly arranged to the side of the blotter and a pad covered in Starsky’s left-handed scrawl was beside them. Dobey glanced at the pad and understood what Starsky wanted. He slipped out of the office and used the phone on Starsky’s desk to call Ryan.

“We need a couple more things from San Francisco.”

“Fill me in Harold and I’ll do my best.”

“Starsky’s been working on the files. He’s found a couple of things he wants to follow up. The file on a guy named Hopkins, he drove an SFPD tow truck in the late sixties early seventies.”

“I guess Starsky had his reasons. I’ll call it in.”

 

 

“Thanks Cap’.”

Dobey turned to see Starsky sitting up rubbing sleepy eyes.

“Why don’t you go home and get some rest then come back and tell me what this is about and …”

“Hutch isn’t sick he’s on a date, Captain. She isn’t in town often and you know how it is.” Starsky answered the question before it was asked. “I’ll go get a shower downstairs.” He wandered off to the locker room.

 

Fifteen minutes later Starsky reappeared looking refreshed but unshaven.

“I have an electric razor you can use.” Dobey told him.

“Thanks I usually wet shave and …no-one here has a razor that suits me.”

Dobey decided that this was probably some crazy idea Starsky had about being left-handed and let it go.  “OK, sit down and tell me what you found in the files.”

He listened as Starsky listed the points in common and explained why he wanted the other information.

“You think maybe Hopkins had a reason to hold a grudge against them?”

“Could be.”

 

There was knock on the door and Dobey called out to come in. Minnie Kaplan walked in. “This came through from San Francisco for you Starsky sweetheart,” she said as she dumped a bundle of the continuous paper that rolled out of the fax machine. Starsky grinned up at her. “Thanks Minnie.”

“You want anything else, honey?”

“Coffee and a donut?”

“OK.” She turned to Dobey; “and you Captain?”

“Just coffee thanks, Minnie.” Starsky and Minnie exchanged smiles. Dobey was on another diet!

 

Starsky read quickly; he ran his eyes down each page skipping anything that he didn’t need to know. After a while he looked up in triumph.

The door opened and Fairchild came into the room just in time to hear Starsky say “I’ve found it!”

“What have you found, Detective?”

“How about an FBI agent with no manners?”

“Starsky!” Dobey’s warning went ignored.

“Don’t know how it is in Virginny but we boys here in Californ- I-A say good morning to people.” Starsky said in the tones that anyone who knew him meant that the volcano of his anger was close to eruption.

Fairchild gave a slight shake of his head and swallowed. “Excuse me.”

“OK.” Starsky smiled.

“So what have you found?”

“Something you should have looked for.”

Dobey leaned across his desk and pointed a pudgy finger at Starsky. “That’s enough!”

Starsky rolled his eyes; he ambled over to the water cooler, took his time to serve himself and drain his goblet before tossing it neatly in the trash basket and walking back to his seat.

“What I found was that the first five victims were all indirectly involved in the death of a certain Gordon Hopkins.”

Dobey and Fairchild stared at him.  Starsky enjoyed the moment. “Hopkins was killed in a freak accident; he drove the tow truck for the city pound. He was killed when a car he was unloading slid off the truck and killed him. The car must’ve been abandoned because it had six tickets on the screen and guess who put five of them on it.”

Fairchild took a moment to reflect.

“I’ll start a search for known members of his family.” He stood to leave the room but Dobey signaled him to sit down.

Dobey looked at Starsky; he knew him well enough to detect that he was uneasy about something.

“What is it?”

“I know why he’s started killing men.”

“Why?” Fairchild looked interested; this young cop was beginning to impress him.

“Because I know who put the sixth ticket on that car.” He paused and took a deep breath.  “Hutch.”

Fairchild looked from Dobey to Starsky and back again. Starsky didn’t wait for the question. “He was sent up there after we finished the Academy; some cockamamie idea about inter department cooperation. The guy who graduated first from the Academy got stuck on traffic and a desk job.” Starsky sounded sour. “If anything happens to Hutch I’m going up to there to find the asshole who thought that was cooperation.”

“I might join you.”Dobey said grimly.

 

Starsky took a moment before he spoke again. “Captain, I have a hunch.”

“Yes?”

“The car that ‘killed’ Hopkins; I’d like to know what it was. What happened to it?”

Fairchild raised an eyebrow. “You have a theory on that too?”

“I don’t know yet.”

“I’ll pull all the strings I can.”

“You do that.  I’ll be downstairs – I haven’t eaten properly since I got off the plane.”

 

 

Fairchild had been at work while Starsky was eating. He had the full details of the car that had fallen on Hopkins. “It was a Ford Fairlane, a 66 model; registered to Jessica Reynolds. It turned out that Mrs. Reynolds died of a heart attack while shopping. She had no family so no-one thought about the car. The pound sold it to pay the fine and fees.”

“Who bought it?”

“James Dean.” Fairchild waited for the reaction. Starsky didn’t oblige.

“Do we have a photo?”

“Yes.” Fairchild produced a grainy reproduction of a driver’s license. Dean was a nondescript type; according to the description. Medium height, light hair, gray eyes. “The interesting thing is that my people ran a second check on the name and date of birth; Dean doesn’t exist.”

“Yes he does.” Starsky said evenly. “He just didn’t use his full name.” He searched through the files on Dobey’s desk and pulled out the one on Hopkins. He read out: “Wife, Janet; deceased, I’ll come back to that.  Son: James Dean Hopkins.”

“The son.”

“Yeah. Janet Hopkins was apparently a depressive before her husband was killed.  She committed suicide a few weeks after his death; hanged herself with a silk scarf in the family bathroom.”

Fairchild looked up. “I think we can start putting together a profile.”

“I already did.” Starsky was matter of fact. “James Dean Hopkins is a nut. His dad got killed by a car and he blames the cops who ticketed it. He blames them for his mom’s death too so he uses  her suicide method to kill them. The only thing I’m not sure about is why he raped them.”

“If it’s any comfort to you, Starsky, neither am I. Maybe we can work on that together once you’ve found your partner.”

“Yeah, maybe.”  Starsky was pale. “What color was the Fairlane?”

Fairchild ran a finger down the page; “blue.”

Starsky let loose a string of curses that neither of the other two men had heard before.

“Starsky!” Dobey tried to remonstrate.

“He’s already found Hutch!”

“How can you be sure?” Fairchild asked.

“We were on a stake-out a while back. Hutch called in a car; check it out. A blue Ford Fairlane; and I’ll bet it’s a 66 model.” He ran out of the room.

 

 

Starsky grabbed red bubble light from under the passenger seat, Hutch’s seat, he reminded himself, and plunked it on the Torino’s roof. He ran round to his door and slid into his seat, he reversed out of his space with the siren already wailing.

The traffic parted like the Red Sea for Moses as the Torino weaved and swerved its way to Venice Place. Starsky left the siren and lamp running and ran up the steps to Hutch’s apartment two by two. He felt along the lintel for the key…it wasn’t there. For a split second he was relieved. Hutch was probably up to his thingummyjig with Angie in bed. Reality sent a shiver down his spine. If Hutch was in the apartment he would have heard the cacophony coming from the street; screwing his ears off or not he would have wanted to know why Starsky had arrived on a Code Three. He tried the handle. The door wasn’t locked.

Starsky drew his gun and checked the safety; holding the barrel close to his cheek he pushed the door open with his foot and slipped into the darkened apartment. 

“Hutch?”

Silence.

Starsky edged forward into the room he knew so well; he skirted the low table and made his way to the bedroom. “Hutch?” He called again although he knew that he was alone in the apartment.

He made his way over to where he knew the light switch was.

The apartment was in chaos. Even by Hutch’s standards of middle-grade bachelor slob it was in a mess. Starsky picked up a candle from the floor and surveyed the mess. He picked up the ‘phone and dialed. “Captain; Hutch isn’t at his place and it’s been ransacked. Send a team over to take prints and stuff.”

“You said he had a date Starsky; he might be over there.”

“I’ll check it out.”

 

He spotted the phone book on top of Hutch’s piano and grabbed it. He leafed through the pages until he found what he was looking for and dialed again. “This is Detective Sergeant David Starsky; I need the home address of one of your stewardesses.”

…

“This is a police matter ma’am; she might be in danger and I don’t have time to get a warrant. But I will find time to come over and arrest you for accessory if she does come to any harm.”

…

“Angie…” he stopped. Damn! He didn’t know her other name. He thought for a second and remembered that Hutch had mentioned that she was coming in from Madrid. “I don’t know her full name but she was working the Madrid flight; she got back yesterday evening….yes I’ll hold.”

It took a couple of minutes but soon Starsky was scribbling an address on the first available surface he could find – the leg of his jeans. He ran down to the car.

 

The apartment block had an entry-phone system. Starsky buzzed Angie’s number and sent up a silent prayer. “Yes?” It was Angie.

“Angie, it’s Dave Starsky, is Hutch there?”

“No, he’s not.’ Her voice betrayed her anger.

“Can I come up? It’s important.”

“I guess so. Third floor, the apartment on the right.”

The door buzzed open and Starsky ran up the stairs to the third floor. Angie was already standing in the open doorway; any anger she had was replaced by worry.

“Has something happened to him?”

“I don’t know.” Starsky walked into the apartment. “Was he here?”

“No. He was supposed to meet me at the airport but he didn’t show up.”

“When was that?”

“Last night. My flight got in at six thirty. When he still hadn’t appeared at seven thirty I called his apartment but he wasn’t in” Her anger was changing to worry. “I figured that he was working and couldn’t be bothered to let me know.”

Starsky put a hand on her shoulder; “he was looking forward to your weekend, I even covered for him with our Captain.”

“Then where is he?”

“I don’t know but I’ll find him.”

She walked to the door with him. “I fly out for Rome on Tuesday.”

“He’ll be there to see you off.”  Starsky hoped he sounded convincing.

 

 

 

Back in the car Starsky radioed in to see if Dobey and Fairchild had come up with anything.

“We have an address Starsky.”

Dobey started to give the details; “I know where it is, Captain. I’m on my way.”

 

The Fairlane was parked outside a small one-storey house that looked as if the owners had driven away and left it like the Marie Celeste. Something didn’t ring right. Starsky edged his way to the back and peered in through the window. The kitchen was tidy. Hopkins came into the kitchen Starsky watched as he checked the day on the calendar before selecting a can of soup out of the cupboard. While the soup was heating Hopkins placed a box of saltines by the bowl. He sat down to eat his meal. When he finished he carefully rinsed the bowl and spoon and placed them to drain. He replaced the saltines in the cupboard and left the room. Starsky heard the front door open and Hopkins’ footsteps on the path.  He ran back to the Torino and was ready to tail the Fairlane as it drove away.  He radioed for a unit to come to the house and check it out for any sign that Hutch was being or had been held there.

 

Hopkins drove to a small shopping mall and parked outside a candy store Starsky watched and waited.

 

“Control to Zebra Three.”

“Zebra Three.”

“Patching you to Charlie Baker Two.”

“Go ahead.”

“Starsky, there’s no sign of Hutch in the house.”

“Thanks Joe.”

He wasn’t sure if he was relieved or even more worried.

 

Hopkins came out of the candy store and Starsky walked up behind him; he pressed his gun into the small of Hopkins’ back. “Shut up and get in my car.”

“What? Why?”

“I’ll think of something.” Starsky said grimly as he shoved Hopkins into the passenger seat of the Torino.

 

 

 

Chapter Six

 

Hopkins didn’t want a lawyer.  He resisted all of Fairchild’s efforts to make any kind of contact with him. He submitted in silence to the process of being fingerprinted and photographed. His prints were immediately faxed to the FBI office where the other murders had been correlated.

Starsky didn’t need to wait for the confirmation; he knew instinctively that this was the California strangler. He walked into the interrogation room and sat down opposite Hopkins. Fairchild observed from the other side of the mirror, accompanied by Dr. Freda Perchnik, Consultant Psychologist to the Behavioral Sciences Unit.

They watched as Starsky settled into his chair. He sat back and waited for Hopkins to speak.

After five minutes of silence he leaned forward.

“Why don’t you tell me all about it from the beginning?”

Hopkins began to speak.

 

 

Interrogation report #1

 

Arresting Officer :  David STARSKY (Detective Sergeant Second Class)

Witness/Suspect:  James Dean Hopkins

Arresting Officer’s comments:   The following is a transcription of a taped interview with the suspect James Dean HOPKINS, held during the investigation of a series of murders, at his request. It is believed that HOPKINS is responsible for the disappearance of Detective Sergeant Ken Hutchinson.

[Handwritten annotation by psychiatrist Dr. Freda Perchnik:  Note that HOPKINS refers to himself in the third person. His attention to detail, almost a fictional narrative, indicates his obsessional nature.]

TRANSCRIPT OF TAPE #1 Dated  5/10/1975. Tape begins at 14.30. Tape ends at 15.30

Detective Starsky: OK Jimmy, just tell it in your own words. Tell me all about the ladies and then we’ll talk about Hutch, OK?

Dean is heard to mutter something.

Detective Starsky: Jimmy, you said you wanted to talk to the machine. It’s running but it won’t pick up what you say if turn your back on the microphone.

(Sounds of furniture moving.)

Sergeant Starsky: OK Jimmy. You comfortable now? You want more coffee?

Hopkins: Yes.

Sergeant Starsky is heard asking for coffee to be brought to the interview room.

(Sounds of the door opening; Sergeant Starsky is heard to thank someone and the door closes. Sounds of mugs being placed on the table.)

Sergeant Starsky :  OK now Jimmy?  The time is two thirty pm on May tenth, nineteen seventy five. This is the testimony of James ….

“Jimmy.”

..James-Dean HOPKINS.

 

HOPKINS speaks:

Jimmy-Dean collected tickets. He had boxes full of them.  They were carefully filed by date, location and value. Some were also sorted by the place they came from: fairground, movie theater, grocery store, museum, bus or tram; Jimmy-Dean was methodical. His apartment was full of the filing boxes; they took up all the spare shelf space; invaded his closets and cupboards and covered most of the other surfaces in the place. He spent hours placing each new ticket; his system was complicated. A grocery till ticket had to be filed by value, by the items bought and by location.

He started his collection when he was in his teens; after his mom threw away all his baseball cards when she’d had too much vodka and too many pills.

Like all collectors Jimmy-Dean admired his collection. He whiled away hours leafing through his collection tickets. He smoothed out their creases with loving fingers. He spent happy moments totaling the values of the movie theatre tickets from a month or a year. In one box he had his special collection: six parking tickets; six names. He made a list. He went to the public library and he looked in the ‘phone books. He learned how to find out where people were. It took him a long time but one day he had all the names and addresses he needed; except one.

 

Jimmy-Dean was a man of habit; a man of routine. He got mad if an object was not in its correct place. He refused to answer the ‘phone if he was working at his files. He had lost two girlfriends that way. His third girlfriend gave him an answering machine for his birthday; he refused to use it because in order to install it he would have to move the ‘phone book from the left of the table to the right.

 

Every morning Jimmy-Dean’s alarm clock woke him at exactly five forty four. It was an old fashioned wind up clock with two bells above the round clock face.  At five forty five Jimmy-Dean reached out to stop the ringing. He switched on the transistor radio on the nightstand and lay on his back waiting for the six o’clock news report. When the presenter started to take calls for the first discussion Jimmy-Dean sat up swinging his legs off the bed and slipping his feet into the slippers that were positioned in exactly the right place. He walked into his bathroom; it was exactly eight steps from the bed to the shower. Jimmy-Dean took off his  pajamas (always blue and white striped, with a cord tie for the pants and four buttons on the shirt, always one inch wide blue and a half inch wide white stripes) and turned the faucet to mix the water to the correct temperature. He stepped into the shower and soaped himself methodically; right arm, left arm, chest, back, right leg, left leg, genitals, buttocks. He stood under the shower facing the wall to rinse the front of his body before turning his back to the wall to rinse. The shower head was not fixed; Jimmy-Dean detached it from the hook and rinsed his genitals. When he was satisfied that he had removed all trace of soap, he rinsed his hair and ran the water over his face. He replaced the shower head and stepped out of the shower. The towels were on a hook to his left; he toweled his hair and took a second towel to dry his body and wrap around his hips while he shaved. He soaped his stubble carefully; he used a standard Gillette safety razor. He always shaved the left side of his face first and always finished with his upper lip.  Freshly shaved and showered, Jimmy-Dean returned to his bedroom and selected a white T-shirt and a pair of Levis from his closet. He never wore any other clothes. In cold weather he added a jacket. He always wore brown lumberjack boots.

At six twenty five Jimmy-Dean walked out of the apartment and down the four flights of steps to the street. The uptown bus moved away from the bus-stop as he emerged from the door; Jimmy-Dean waited for it to pass before crossing to the diner exactly five yards to the right of the bus-stop.

Jimmy-Dean preferred to sit at the second table from the left of the door. It was a table for four; Jimmy-Dean took the seat by the wall with his back to the counter. If someone else was sitting at the table Jimmy-Dean took a seat at the counter. When he sat at his table, Jimmy-Dean ordered ham and eggs. If he sat at the counter he ate pancakes and syrup. Ham and eggs, and tea. Pancakes and coffee. Jimmy-Dean never varied his order but all the staff knew that he expected them to ask: ‘what’ll it be today Mister?’  None of them knew his name.

At seven a.m. Jimmy-Dean returned to his apartment, stopping at the stand to buy his morning newspaper; he placed the newspaper on the table in the living room and went into the bathroom to brush his teeth. He squeezed exactly one half inch of toothpaste onto his brush. Jimmy-Dean brushed his teeth from the left to the right, top to bottom. It took precisely three minutes. He rinsed and flossed before replacing the toothbrush and the tooth paste tube in the glass to the right of the faucet. He dropped the used floss into the wastebasket and wiped the basin dry with his towel before throwing it into the laundry basket. Jimmy-Dean used clean towels every day; each day had a color.

 

Jimmy-Dean sat at his table and read the paper. He didn’t read anything that was continued on another page. This would mean turning the pages back and forward and creasing the paper unnecessarily. At ten o’clock Jimmy-Dean folded the paper and took it down to the trash can on the sidewalk outside his apartment building. He drove his car into the city, his car was a blue Ford Fairlane; the 1966 model with no extras. Jimmy-Dean always checked the tires and the oil before driving his car. He took care of his car. Jimmy-Dean parked his car outside the city library and went inside; he waited exactly ninety minutes. He read from a book and replaced it on the shelf.

 Then he drove home.

 

Jimmy-Dean ate his lunch at one o’clock. Some people like to eat lunch at mid-day, some eat even earlier, but Jimmy-Dean was brought up to eat at one o’clock. At twelve forty-five Jimmy-Dean prepared his lunch. He set his place at the small table in the apartment. He placed a glass exactly two inches from the top right corner of the tablemat. He placed a spoon to the right of the mat; the tip of the handle aligned with the bottom right hand corner. He set the salt and pepper cruet one inch from the center of the mat – at exactly midway along the length.

Jimmy-Dean only ate Campbell’s Tomato Soup. He only used Heinz Cream of Chicken soup. He ate tomato soup on Monday, Wednesday and Friday.  He ate Chicken soup on Tuesday, Thursday and Saturday.  On Sunday he went to the diner across the street and ate the blue plate special (unless it was fish, in which case he asked for a cheeseburger without the upper half of the bun.) He ate six saltines with his soup; Jimmy-Dean only ate Nabisco saltines. He drank one glass of water with his lunch.

After lunch Jimmy-Dean washed the dishes and left them to drain by the sink.

 

The day that Jimmy-Dean started to work through his list he went to eat his lunch in a diner in a new part of town. They served vegetable soup and Ritz crackers. Jimmy Dean didn’t mind; he was starting a new life. The lady he was looking for had changed her job; she was a waitress in this diner. He followed her home and watched outside her house for the rest of the day.

The next day Jimmy-Dean drove to her house and opened the door. He waited for her to come home. He gave her a nice silk scarf before he raped her. He pulled the scarf tight when he came and he felt her die.

Jimmy-Dean knew that the police would try to find his car and find where he lived. That didn’t matter because Jimmy-Dean was ready to move on.

 

Detective Starsky: Why did you move on Jimmy-Dean? Whose names on the list?

 

Hopkins laughs before resuming his recital:

 

Jimmy-Dean stopped at a drugstore and bought everything he needed to shave and to wash and to clean his teeth. He bought a change of clothes in an Army surplus store. Jimmy-Dean drove away from the city. The landlord would not notice he had gone until the rent was due next month.

 

Jimmy-Dean drove for exactly ninety-five minutes. Jimmy-Dean did not use the freeway. Jimmy-Dean did not use the Interstate highway. Jimmy-Dean preferred the back roads. When he got to the place he was going he stopped at the first motel he saw.

He asked for a room back of the parking lot, where he could park his car within his sight. Jimmy-Dean paid for one week in advance. The next morning Jimmy-Dean ate scrambled eggs and drank coffee in the motel coffee shop. He went out to find a newspaper and looked for a new apartment.

 

Jimmy-Dean stayed in the town for six months until the day he found the lady. Jimmy-Dean followed her home. The next day he went to the store and bought a silk scarf.

He knocked at her door. “Do you like this scarf ma’am?”

She stopped moving when he came. Jimmy-Dean drove for exactly ninety five minutes the next day and the next day until he got to the place he was looking for. Jimmy-Dean found a motel and went out to look for an apartment to rent; and a place to park his car.

 

Town after town.

Name after name.

Jimmy-Dean worked his way through the list.

Some people live in the same place all their lives; some people move around. Jimmy-Dean followed his list.

He crossed the Nevada state line twice.                                                                                                

One, Two, Three, Four, Five; Jimmy-Dean found them and he killed them.

It took Jimmy-Dean four years to drive from San Francisco to Los Angeles. He found an apartment in the dock area. He found a place to park his car. Los Angeles is a big city. Jimmy-Dean moved three times in a year. He always found a new place to park his car. He had one more name on his list. He was looking for the one he called ‘Six’.

 

 [end of first tape].

 

Starsky stood up and stretched. Hopkins voice had been grating on him and he was glad to get a break. He led Hopkins out to the officer waiting to return him to his holding cell. Starsky joined Fairchild and Perchnik in the hallway.

He looked at his watch. “I’m off duty; if you want to talk to me you’ll have to join me at The Pits.”

“The Pits?”  Dr. Perchnik looked worried. Fairchild grinned. “It’s not as bad as it sounds Freda. It’s a bar run by a friend of Starsky’s. What’s his name again?”

“Huggy Bear.”

Perchnik laughed; “this is something I have to see.”

 

 

 

Chapter Seven

 

Hutch climbed the stairs to his apartment. The trip to San Francisco hadn’t roused any nostalgia – more a total relief that he hadn’t been expected to stay there any longer. He was tired after the day’s work but a date with Angie was too rare and precious to refuse; he would take a shower, swallow a cup of coffee and drive out to the airport to meet her. He checked his clock and saw that he had two hours. He took his time under the shower, washing his hair and body with a new herbal soap that he’d found in the health store he favored. He shaved and splashed aftershave on his cheeks. He smelled of lemon grass and he knew that turned Angie on. He poured himself a glass of orange juice; it seemed bitter, but that was probably because it had been open too long.

He selected some of his smarter clothes, tan cord pants, a black turtle neck sweater and his tan jacket. He reached for his holster but left it on the hook. He slipped his back up pistol into his pocket, in case. In case of what?  He didn’t know, but Hutch was too much of a cop to go anywhere unarmed.

 

He watered his plants and was ready to leave for the airport. He felt dizzy again and sat down heavily on the couch; as he tried to focus he thought he heard the door open. 

 

The next thing he knew he was in the back of a car; his feet and hands were tied and by the feel of things they were attached behind his back. He opened his eyes only to discover that he was blindfolded. He tried to open his mouth but adhesive tape prevented it.  He groaned and resigned himself to concentrating on staying on the seat and not rolling off onto the floor. The car was an older model; he could smell leather not the usual vinyl. The ride was a little hard but the car was obviously well cared for because the engine was running smoothly – even Hutch could tell that. Since he couldn’t see he decided to concentrate on what he could hear. The car’s engine; a rock music station on the radio was playing a Beatles medley.  The tires were humming; they were on a concrete road surface. Hutch couldn’t be sure but judging by the steady speed they were probably on a freeway. The car slowed and took a turn; the road surface changed under the tires. Hutch felt too groggy to be able to keep track of the turns and stops; and anyway, he had no idea where he was so it wouldn’t be of any use if he did.

Suddenly the car stopped and Hutch rolled onto the floor despite his best efforts.  The door opened and he was hauled by his hair and collar out onto the ground.  Hutch felt the cool damp grass beneath him as his feet were released. His captor dragged him to his feet and started to push him forward. Hutch knew instinctively that it was his own gun pressing into the small of his back. He passed from the cool evening air to the relative warmth of the inside of a building. Their footsteps didn’t echo – Hutch decided that this was a house or maybe a trailer. He was shoved against a wall and he managed to slide down it so that he was sitting not lying on the floor. The adhesive tape was ripped off his mouth and he was glad he had shaved after all.

“Who are you? What do you want?” He got no answer; unless being hit over the head was an answer. Hutch lost consciousness again.

 

When he came to, he was lying on a bed. He was attached to the frame by a well-tied cord. He was no longer gagged or blindfold – that was relief of sorts - he shouted out. “Hey! Who are you? What do you want?”

The door opened and a slightly built sandy-haired man walked in.  He was holding a bundle of papers in his hand.  “You’re Six. I’m going to kill you.” His voice was flat and nasal and lacked all emotion. Hutch swallowed; it was the voice of a psycopath.

 

“Wh-what do you mean? Six? What are you talking about?”

“Jimmy-Dean has all the parking tickets. One, Two, Three , Four, Five, Six. Jimmy-Dean found the others. Now he has found Six.”

“What are you talking about?”

 “You really don’t know? You really don’t know what you did and why you have to die?”

“No. No I don’t know what it is you think I did. No, I don’t know why you want to kill me!” Hutch was fighting to keep the fear out of his voice. He’d dealt with some crazy people in the past but he had never been held captive by one like this. The chilling thought came to him; this guy Dean had killed five other people, the five names on the parking tickets. Slowly it dawned on Hutch that he was in the hands of the California Strangler.  He swallowed and tried to work out why

Dean stepped back to the door. “Jimmy-Dean has to go to work.” He closed the door and left Hutch in the darkness. Listening to the fading footsteps, Hutch understood that he was in some kind of cellar. He tried to work the knots loose but he was tied expertly. He looked around frantically for something to work against the rope. As he moved around on the thin mattress he scraped his cheek against a piece of sharp metal.  He swore as he felt blood trickle down his face. He lay back and waited for it to congeal. His face was sore but at least he had found a way to try to escape from his prison.

He didn’t get the chance. He had no idea how long it was before the door opened and Dean came into the room again. He lifted Hutch’s face and surveyed the damage. “That was a dumb thing to do. Jimmy-Dean will clean it up for you.” He left the room and returned with a wad of cotton. He wiped Hutch’s face. “Jimmy-Dean doesn’t like things to be damaged.”

“Who are you?”

“I’m Jimmy-Dean.”

Hutch snapped: “I know that, Jimmy!”

“Jimmy-Dean.”

Hutch understood; “Ok Jimmy-Dean; who are you?”

“I’m  Gordon’s son.”

Hutch wracked his brain to think of anyone he had ever arrested by the name of Gordon. He didn’t come up with anything. “OK Jimmy-Dean you’re going to have to help me here. Gordon who?”*”

“Gordon Hopkins; the man you killed.”

“Wait a minute. I’ve never killed anyone by the name of Gordon Hopkins.” In his panic, Hutch was getting angry.

“My dad, Gordon Hopkins; he died because of you.”

That was different; Hutch started to think through the cases he had dealt with but the name Hopkins still meant nothing to him.

“Jimmy-Dean, I still don’t know what you’re talking about.” But Hopkins was leaving the room. He was chanting to himself. “One two three four five six; I found them all.”

Hutch slumped back on the uncomfortable bed and tried to work out what the hell was going on. He wondered when Starsky would start to look for him and didn’t even want to think about what would happen if his partner didn’t get to him in time.

Chapter Eight

 

Starsky and Fairchild were the other side of the mirror watching Hopkins settle into his place at the table.

“Do you want me to talk to him?”Fairchild asked.  Starsky shook his head sadly. “No, I get the feeling he trusts me; I think he wants to tell me but he doesn’t know how. So I have to listen to his crap until he’s ready to spit it out.”

“It isn’t all crap, you know.”

“Yeah, all he says can and will be used against him in a court of law – or more likely used by some smart-ass lawyer to get him judged a nut and unable to answer for his crime. He’ll end up in a crazy hospital until he manages to fool some asshole that he saw Jesus in an inkblot.”

“You sound bitter.”

“Sorry; Hutch and I worked on a case a while back; someone we cared about got killed because a shrink thought a nut was safe to go back into the world because he saw pretty pictures where normal people would see spilled ink.”

“If it’s any comfort to you I’ve never thought much of the Rorschach tests either.”

Starsky gave him a brief grin. “Guess that puts us on the same side then.” He took a deep breath and left the room.

Fairchild watched Starsky walk into the room and sit down opposite Hopkins.

 

“Ok, Jimmy-Dean, where were we?” He switched on the tape recorder and sat back to wait for the next monologue.

 

Interrogation report #2

Arresting Officer :  David STARSKY (Detective Sergeant Second Class)

Witness/Suspect:  James Dean Hopkins

Arresting Officer’s comments:   The following is a transcription of a taped interview with the suspect James Dean HOPKINS, held during the investigation of a series of murders, at his request. It is believed that HOPKINS is responsible for the disappearance of Detective Sergeant Ken Hutchinson.

[Handwritten annotation by psychiatrist Dr. Freda Perchnik:  Note that HOPKINS refers to himself in the third person.]

TRANSCRIPT OF TAPE #2  Dated  5/11/1975. Tape begins at 11.00 Tape ends at 12.30. Two breaks are noted; Sergeant Starsky records the timing of each one.

Sergeant Starsky speaks:  Feeling better now Jimmy-Dean?

Hopkins   Jimmy-Dean likes chocolate. Jimmy-Dean likes chocolate ice-cream; rocky road, chocolate chip mint, chocolate fudge. Jimmy-Dean likes chocolate bars; Hershey’s are best. Jimmy-Dean’s mom gave him chocolate when he was good boy.

 

The tape records silence. Someone coughs. A chair scrapes across the floor.

Starsky: Tape stopped at 12.05 and resumed at 12.10.

Starsky: Take your time Jimmy-Dean. I’m listening.

 

Annotation in Sergeant Starsky’s handwriting:   The tape was stopped because Hopkins seemed agitated. He was tearing up the candy bar paper and scattering the pieces on the floor. He seemed to notice this and started to repeat ‘Jimmy-Dean doesn’t like mess.’ I stopped the tape while I cleaned it up. I noticed that while I was putting the pieces of paper in the waste bin he smiled for the first time.

 

 

Dean Speaks

Jimmy-Dean doesn’t like mess. Jimmy-Dean doesn’t go to places that are messy. Jimmy-Dean doesn’t eat in diners where they don’t clear the tables. Jimmy-Dean doesn’t throw litter on the street.

Jimmy-Dean cleaned his bedroom like a good boy. Jimmy-Dean keeps his car clean and tidy like his daddy taught him to.  His Daddy taught him to respect his car.

 

Starsky: It’s Ok Jimmy-Dean, Calm down. Hey maybe you could do something about my partner’s car sometime.

 

Annotation in Starsky’s handwriting: He smiled again.

 

Jimmy-Dean liked Los Angeles. It is a big city and there are plenty of places for Jimmy-Dean to go and wait.

Jimmy-Dean’s first apartment was near the docks. Jimmy-Dean found a job at the docks. Loading things into ships.  Carrying heavy things out of ships. Jimmy-Dean is strong. Jimmy-Dean parked his car near the docks every day. Jimmy-Dean worked from eight in the morning until twelve o’clock and then he went home to have his lunch. Jimmy-Dean always eats his lunch at one.

 

Starsky (his voice is gentle, coaxing) Yeah Jimmy-Dean, you told me that already, remember?

 

Jimmy-Dean moved to a new apartment in West Hollywood. Jimmy-Dean looked out for famous people but he didn’t see any. He took a job in a parking lot; sitting in a booth taking the money and opening the gate.  One day a man asked Jimmy-Dean if he would like a new job. He said yes and started to work for the man with the big car. Jimmy-Dean delivered things. Jimmy-Dean was delivering something when he found Six.

 

A long period of silence.

 

Starsky (sighs) OK Jimmy-Dean I need a bathroom break.

Sound of a chair scraping on the floor, footsteps, a door opens and closes.

 

Starsky: Tape ends at 16.00.

 

 Starsky needed to talk to Fairchild.

“He’s got Hutch. I’m sure of it.”

“Do you want to go on?”

“No, but I don’t have any choice, do I?”

Starsky returned to the interview room.

 

Detective Starsky:  Tape resumes at…uh…16.05. Tell me about Six, Jimmy. Where is he?

 

Jimmy-Dean waited in his car and watched Six come home. He slid down in his seat while Six got out of the car and went inside. Jimmy-Dean was ready to wait. He needed to watch what Six did; get an idea of the daily routine. Jimmy-Dean liked routines. He liked to follow a routine, a pattern. He liked to do things the same way every time. Since he started looking for Six he had to change some of his routines. He had to get used to doing it to a man. He learned how to do it with men who wanted it and that was easy. But Jimmy-Dean didn’t like doing it to men so he decided that he would just kill Six anyway.

 

Detective Starsky: Is he still alive, Jimmy-Dean?

 

Jimmy-Dean waited and waited. Six went to work and he came home. Sometimes he worked night times and Jimmy Dean had to wait until morning to watch him come home. Sometimes Jimmy-Dean watched where Six worked.  He watched where Six went with his friends to have a drink after work. Jimmy-Dean even went into the bar and sat next to him. Jimmy-Dean didn’t speak to him but he listened to him talking to his friends, the man he worked with and the man who owned the bar.

Jimmy-Dean learned that Six didn’t get to go home much because of his work.

 

Jimmy-Dean watched Six drive away from his apartment. He went upstairs and found the key. Six left the key where it was too easy. He went inside the apartment. It was a nice apartment. When Six came home, Jimmy-Dean would be ready.

Jimmy-Dean had a bottle of sleeping pills. He ground some up and put them in the coffee jar. He ground up some more and put them in the sugar bowl. He put sleeping pill powder in lots of things so that Six would go to sleep. Jimmy-Dean could handle Six if he was too sleepy to resist him.

 

When Six came home Jimmy-Dean sat and watched. He saw the other man drive away. He saw Six go up to his apartment. He waited.

Jimmy-Dean went upstairs very quietly. He opened the door; Six was sitting on the couch, he looked sleepy. Jimmy-Dean walked over to him and put the silk scarf around his neck. Six woke up. Jimmy-Dean led him like a dog out of the apartment and down to his car.

 

Detective Starsky: Where is he Jimmy-Dean? Is he still alive?

 

Jimmy-Dean doesn’t want to talk to you any more now.

 

Detective Starsky: When Jimmy-Dean?

 

Tomorrow.

 

Detective Starsky: Is he still alive, Jimmy-Dean? Where is he?

 

He’s ok for now.

So near and yet so far.

 

Tape ends.

 

 

 

Chapter Nine

 

Hutch woke up to see Hopkins undoing the rope that attached him to the bed. He hadn’t been given anything to eat or drink since he was kidnapped and he felt weak. Too weak to resist. His head was fuzzy, as if he’d been drugged. For a moment of terror Hutch wondered if he’d been given heroin again. He looked at his arms but saw no sign of needle tracks.

“Get up.” Hopkins was holding Hutch’s gun; his hand was trembling slightly but the barrel was pointing at Hutch’s chest. Hutch obeyed; swaying slightly as he stood. Hopkins had a silk scarf in his other hand. “I brought this for you.  Do you like it?”

Hutch gulped and nodded. Hopkins pushed the gun into his belly. “Say yes.”

“Yes, Jimmy-Dean, it’s a lovely scarf.”

He had to play for time

“Tell me about Gordon, Jimmy-Dean.”

 “Gordon drove the tow truck.”

“Tow truck? What tow truck?” Hutch was confused.

“When a car gets a ticket it has to go to the pound.” Hopkins was getting agitated. Hutch realized he had to try to keep him calm if he was going to stay alive.

“Did your dad get a ticket?”

“No! I told you; Gordon drove the tow truck.”

“Ok. Tell me about Gordon and the tow truck.”

“He took the cars to the pound. He counted the tickets; one, two, three, four, five, six.” He smiled. “I counted them too. I saw the names. I counted the names and I found them all. One, two, three, four, five,” he pointed at Hutch, “Six.”

“But I’m a detective Jimmy-Dean, I don’t give parking tickets.” Hutch hoped he could calm him down again.

Hopkins reached into his pocket and held up a piece of paper. Hutch squinted at it against the sunlight. “Is that the ticket, Jimmy-Dean? Is it the one you think I wrote?”

Dean held it in front of his face. Hutch stared at his signature on an SFPD parking ticket. He felt sick.

“OK Jimmy-Dean, maybe that was me. But it was a long time ago. I didn’t kill Gordon.”

“Six tickets. I told you. Six tickets.” He looked at his watch. “Time for lunch.” He pushed Hutch back o