Work Text:
Widower
by TLR
Plot: Starsky and Hutch investigate a family tragedy.
::::::::::::::::::::::::::
By the time Starsky and Hutch got there, dawn was trying to erase the dark.
Crime scene techs were already moving through the Reynolds house, and uniforms kept the neighbors behind a wavering line of yellow tape. A woman in curlers was crying into a handkerchief across the street. Somewhere a radio murmured low.
Starsky came up the walk with his brown jacket open and a notebook in his hand, Hutch beside him in a tan suede jacket with the collar turned up.
A uniformed officer met them at the door.
“Mother and two boys,” he said quietly. “All shot in their beds. Husband found them when he got home from his late shift this morning, called it in.”
Starsky exhaled slowly. “Damn.”
The uniform turned slightly and indicated the den.
Jack Reynolds sat on the sofa with a blanket around his shoulders and a cup of untouched coffee in both hands. He was thirty-eight, clean-cut, decent-looking; a Little League coach. His face was gray with shock, his eyes red but dry.
Starsky took him first.
“Mr. Reynolds? I’m Detective Starsky. This is Detective Hutchinson. We’re very sorry for your loss.”
Reynolds looked up at him as if the words had taken a long time to form. “Have you found their killer?”
“Not yet,” Starsky said. “You didn't see anyone coming or going from the house when you got home?”
Jack swallowed. “No. I got home this morning around five as usual, and heard... I heard the TV on upstairs in the bedroom because Elaine likes to fall asleep with it on, but I found her in the bed and then, and then the boys, and then...”
Starsky let the silence sit a second. “You didn't hear anything before or after that?”
“No. My mind was blank. I don't even remember dialing 0 for the operator, but I must've.”
Hutch hadn't sat down. He stood near the archway between the den and hall, listening and looking in a way Starsky knew well. Quietly. Completely. His eyes moved once toward the family photos on the mantel, then back to Reynolds in a way that Starsky wouldn't decipher until later. “Did your wife have enemies?”
“No.”
Starsky asked, “Anybody holding a grudge against you or your family?”
“Not that I know of.”
Hutch asked, “How was your marriage?”
Jack gave a short, tired laugh. “We were married twelve years, Detective. That means it was fine one day and not the next. I'm being real. But it was nothing off the rails.”
“Any affairs?” Hutch asked.
“No. I was faithful, and I guess my wife was, but you never know.”
“Anything valuable taken?”
“Besides their lives? No. I live from paycheck to paycheck.”
Starsky spoke up with, “We’ll be in touch. If you can think of anyone who'd want to do this, please contact us immediately.”
Jack nodded.
Outside, after the questions, Starsky tucked his notebook away and looked back at the house.
“Whatcha think, Hutch?”
Hutch kept his gaze on the curtained den window. “I think something about him is wrong.”
“Ah come on. He seems like a hard-working guy. Family man. Clean record. I mean, a guy'd have to be a psycho to off his wife and kids. What's the motive?”
Hutch shoved his hands into his jacket pockets with a shrug. “Yeah, guess you're right. We need to look at all possibilities I guess.”
“Yeah. Let's see what the lab results and ballistics and autopsies say. We got time.”
The two watched a chaplain get out of his car and walk to Reynolds front door, where the husband fell into his arms in tears.
Hutch nudged Starsky's arm. “Let's go to my place for a drink, huh?”
::
At Hutch's they shared a drink and skimmed the morning paper, then headed to the precinct to brief Captain Dobey, who said, “Stay on the Reynolds case, but don't neglect the others. And you should check the wife's family. They may know something the husband doesn't.”
::
The only living relative was Mrs. Reynolds' sister, Evelyn, who was distraught but said, “I don't think either one of them had any enemies. And neither of them was stepping out on the other, as far as I know. Elaine told me everything. I'd know if there was an affair going on.”
::
They attended the Reynolds funeral, watching, evaluating, listening discreetly, yet it yielded no new information or insights. The toughest part was seeing the closed caskets, and the oversized framed photos of Mrs. Reynolds and the two boys, Luke and Kevin.
::
Three nights later, Hutch left a grocery store on Venice Boulevard with one paper sack tucked under his arm and another balanced on his hip.
It was after ten. The lot was mostly empty, washed in pale lamps and long shadows. He was halfway to the LTD when he heard quick footsteps behind him and turned.
The man came from the dark in a ski mask and denim jacket and assaulted him before he could set the bags down.
Groceries spilled to the ground as the masked man punched him to the asphalt, knelt on him, and smashed his head against the pavement once, twice. White light broke across Hutch’s vision, but just before all went silent the man whispered in a hiss, “Back off Reynolds. Next time it won’t be just you. It’ll be your partner too, and neither of you will live long enough to tell the tale.”
::
Starsky got the call at 1:10 a.m.
He was out of bed and into his jeans before the voice on the other end finished saying “Memorial Hospital.”
By the time he hit the ER, his hair was still damp from the sink and his shirt buttons were misaligned.
A doctor caught him outside a curtained bay.
“You’re Detective Starsky?”
“Where's my partner?”
“He’ll live. He has a concussion, broken wrist, multiple contusions. He was beaten up pretty badly, but he'll be all right.”
“Can I see him?”
“For a minute.”
::
Hutch lay propped slightly on the bed, one cheek swelling purple, lower lip split, his right wrist in a temporary splint that would be replaced by a cast. He looked washed out and vulnerable at the same time.
Starsky came to the bedside and the fear in him came out angry.
“What happened?”
Hutch looked at him through one half-swollen eye. “Nice to see you too.”
Starsky softened, his hand going to Hutch's forehead, trying to find a smile. “So sue me.”
Hutch took a careful breath. “Grocery store lot. Guy in a ski mask. Beat the hell out of me.”
“Who?”
“I think it was Reynolds. Told me to back off or neither you nor I would live to tell the story.”
Starsky went still. Hutch watched the change cross his face and knew exactly what was coming.
“Starsk--”
“I’m gonna kill him.”
“No you aren't.” Hutch shifted, winced. “I can’t prove it was him. He was masked. Same build but... I can't be sure.”
“That’s enough for me.”
Hutch tried to reach for him with the good hand and only got hold of the sheet. “Don’t do anything dumb.”
Starsky gave him a hard, unreadable look and walked out.
Captain Dobey met him in the hall.
“Starsky.”
Starsky moved past him.
“Starsky!”
Dobey grabbed him. “Whatever you’re thinking, stop.”
Starsky’s eyes were hot jewels. “He beat Hutch half to death.”
“You think I don’t know that? Listen to me. Simmons and Babcock are going to help you on this. You go anywhere near him right now, you blow the whole thing.”
Starsky yanked free. “I'll be nice.”
Dobey jerked his tie back into place with a grunt of frustration as he watched Starsky march down the hall.
::
Reynolds worked nights at a factory that assembled small appliances down by the freight yards, loading boxed mixers, toasters, and portable air units onto pallets for shipment.
Starsky found him on the loading floor under white industrial lights and the rattle of conveyor chains.
He crossed the space fast, grabbed Reynolds by the front of the work shirt, and hauled him backward off the line.
Reynolds let out a startled cry. Men stopped working. Somebody yelled.
“You touch my partner again,” Starsky said through his teeth, dragging him toward the exit, “and I will bury you under this building.”
Reynolds stumbled and protested, but Starsky kept pulling until they hit the night air and the concrete apron outside.
He shoved Reynolds against a cinderblock wall and drew back a fist.
“Do it,” Reynolds said evenly, as if baiting him.
“Starsky!”
Simmons and Babcock came out of the dark at a run. Simmons caught Starsky’s arm before it could swing. Babcock pinned Reynolds in place.
“Get off me!” Starsky said as he twisted away.
Simmons pulled him off to the side and spoke in his ear. “We got something.”
This seemed to calm Starsky somewhat. He looked over at Reynolds, who merely panted at him.
::
An hour later.
Starsky joined Reynolds in Interview Room 2 while Simmons and Babcock watched through the glass.
Reynolds sat straight-backed in the chair, hands folded on the table. “Do you know what this looks like, Detective? You harassing a grieving husband and father?”
Starsky ignored him and laid photos down one by one. Grainy surveillance stills from a sporting goods counter. Reynolds taking the pistol case. Reynolds buying ammunition.
“So what?” Reynolds said. “I bought a gun and bullets for target shooting. I own three guns. So what?”
Starsky put a clear plastic evidence bag on the table. The revolver inside somehow looked deadly in its stillness.
“Your next-door-neighbor brought this to the front desk two hours ago. His dog got loose, jumped the fence between your houses, and dug this up from a patch of fresh dirt under your sycamore tree. Your prints are on it. Guess what Ballistics says?”
Reynolds posture became still. He glanced at the phone, as if wanting to summon a lawyer, but said nothing.
Starsky reached into the file and took out three more photographs.
Elaine Reynolds. Kevin, age 8. Luke, age 6.
He spread them on the table in front of the suspect, and something in the room changed.
Reynolds touched the boys’ pictures first, fingertips lingering with a terrible kind of tenderness. Then he picked up the photograph of Elaine and stared at it, and something broke.
He ripped the picture in half.
Then into quarters.
He stood up so fast the chair tipped over and threw his arms into the air as the pieces of his family fluttered down around him.
“She's a cheating whore! Those aren’t even my boys! They’re better off without her! In heaven where they belong!”
Starsky shot up and crowded Reynolds backward into the corner, fistful of shirt at his chest.
“Hutch called it! You're a coldblooded killer!”
Reynolds' face twisted from disgust to pain and sadness, his voice lowering as if in a confessional. “Yes. God, yes. They deserved a better mother, a better life. And innocence. I'm sorry they're gone, but it's for the best.”
He tried to cling to Starsky, as he had the chaplain. For forgiveness? Absolution? But Starsky shoved him back into the wall with his own sound of disgust and pain, turning so that Simmons and Babcock could come in and make the arrest.
Starsky didn't look back. He needed to be with his partner, so he ran.
::
When Starsky got to Memorial, the night nurse that knew him by name watched him run past.
Hutch was more upright now, bruised and bandaged and pale, but alert when Starsky rushed in. “Hey Starsk.”
Starsky leaned over panting, hands on knees, and Hutch thought he caught a glimpse of tears in his eyes but wasn't sure.
“Hey partner, you okay?”
Starsky sat down on the edge of the bed. “Reynolds confessed.”
Hutch watched Starsky as he relayed the information. The room stayed quiet except for the heart monitor and the rolling wheels of a cart somewhere out in the hall.
Finally Hutch reached out with his good hand and laid it over Starsky’s arm. “I know, buddy. It's a bad one.”
Starsky covered Hutch's hand and held on. “How’d you know it was him from the beginning, Blintz?”
Hutch leaned his head back against the pillow and looked at the ceiling, as if uncertain as to whether he even wanted to tell this story, but knew he had to for Starsky.
“When I was a kid in Minnesota,” he said in a much quieter voice, “we had neighbors next door. Ziggy and Stella. Husband and wife. They fought all the time. I used to hear it at night. I told Mom and Dad, but they said it had to be the television. They didn't believe me. But they had to have heard it. Ziggy and Stella had two children. Bobby and Jimmy. I used to play with them. We were all about seven or eight. One day it would be my backyard. Another day it'd be theirs.” He swallowed. “Then one night there were gunshots and... all four were gone.”
Starsky sat very still as he listened.
Hutch looked back at him. “I don’t know. I just had a feeling about this one, Starsk.”
Starsky’s fingers tightened around his hand, his face reflecting the anger and grief of the senseless loss.
They sat in silence for a while, trying to process and understand.
After a while Hutch asked, “How about some coffee? Think you can get us a cup without demolishing the vending machine this time?”
Starsky smiled a little and stood to his feet. “I'll try.”
::
Three weeks later, the water off Marina del Rey lay blue and glassy under a mild afternoon sun.
Hutch sat propped in the stern of a charter boat with a light jacket over his shoulders and his right wrist still in a cast, though the bruises on his face had faded to yellow ghosts. Starsky stood near the rail with a marlin rig in his hands and look of intense concentration on his face.
“You know,” Hutch said, “there are easier ways to meditate.”
Starsky didn’t look back. “Fish are honest.”
“And shrewd. You've been trying to outsmart the same one for forty minutes.”
Starsky grinned a little. “He hit once.”
“He laughed at you and swam away.”
The breeze moved soft over the water. Farther out, the coast sat hazy and pale. No sirens, crime scenes, or interrogation rooms.
Hutch watched Starsky shift his weight and cast again. There was something easier in him now, getting back to normal.
“You doing okay?” Hutch asked.
Starsky gave the line a little snap and let it run. “Terrific. You?”
“I'll be terrific when this cast comes off.”
“Yeah, Lefty. Hey, now I can tease you for a change, huh? See how you like it.”
The rod jerked suddenly.
“Hey--”
The line went taut, the reel singing. Starsky’s whole body came alive at once.
Hutch laughed outright this time and sat up straighter, pointing. “There he is!”
Starsky braced himself, grin flashing boyish and fierce in the sun. “Now we’re talkin’!”
The fish ran hard. Starsky fought it with both hands and all his stubbornness, boots planted, shoulders straining. Hutch leaned forward, watching, forgetting the hospital and the case and all the rest of it for one clean moment.
“Don’t lose him, Starsk!”
“Not a chance!”
The boat cut through the afternoon with the line bowed out over the water, Starsky swearing under his breath with smiles, Hutch laughing from the stern.
For the first time since the Reynolds house, everything inside them relaxed.
They would be all right, soon. And would still be partners, forever. Me and Thee.
end