Community Support

K Hanna Korossy

Written: 1998

Published: Seasoned Timber 4 (2008, Agent With Style Press)

Based on a true story

            "I can't believe it."

            Hutch's eyebrows rose as he turned to look at Starsky in the passenger seat. But his partner was only peripherally aware of it, busy looking out of the car, across the street, while his hand reached for his gun. Hutch automatically followed his lead, reaching for his own weapon while his eyes followed Starsky's gaze to the blue sedan as it pulled up to the curb a little bit down the street.

            He didn't get it, Starsky knew, and answered before he was asked. "That's PeeWee Sanders. Didn't think he'd be dumb enough to come back to town after—"

            "Uh-huh." Hutch apparently recognized the man now, and slid smoothly out of the parked car just as Starsky did, both of them watching the escaped bank robber across the street. PeeWee had been a thorn in the city's side long enough, even if brains weren't his strong suit.

            One quick motion from Starsky and they set off, Hutch into the street to the left, Starsky to the sidewalk to the right, to cover the sedan with guns drawn. PeeWee opened his door, still oblivious, and began to get out as Hutch circled farther around into the street behind him, gun poised now.

            "Police. Freeze, PeeWee."

            Sanders froze, his hands already beginning to inch up. Starsky felt his heart slow a little; PeeWee wasn't exactly the dangerous kind, but every bust was a risk. He lowered his gun, pulling cuffs out as he started around the car to restrain their prisoner.

            The sudden squeal of rubber on the road jerked his attention away for a moment, but only fast enough to see the car that was accelerating toward them—no, toward Hutch—its driver hunched purposefully over the wheel. Hutch, with his back to the car and his attention fully on his prisoner, didn't see it, and Starsky opened his mouth to yell a warning, knowing even as he did that there was no time.

"Hutch!”

            His scream preceded the impact by mere fragments of a second, and yet Hutch was already turning in response. The car's fender therefore caught him on only one leg, but the speed of the car gave the glancing blow enough force to throw the blond into the air.

            Hutch landed several feet away, face down, with a thud that threatened to turn Starsky's stomach. And, incredibly, the car stopped a little farther down the road and waited.

             Not again—how could it have happened again? Starsky's mind sped up into a chaos of panic, but he allowed himself no sign of it as he began to move. He couldn't help Hutch until he secured the area, and Starsky flew at PeeWee, doing the fastest search and restraint he'd ever performed in his life, cuffing the man to the frame of his open car door.

            Hutch moved in the corner of his eye.

            Starsky was nearly heaving with each breath now, not thinking, just acting. Sanders no longer an issue, he glanced up at the car. It still sat by the edge of the road, idling, not moving. He couldn't see the driver. Fine. As strange as that was and as much as Starsky would have taken great pleasure in going after the driver, there was one thing he wanted to do so much more. He quickly noted the license number, then, tuned to the car's running motor, Starsky turned back to his partner.

            Hutch stood swaying in the road. Starsky would have been much more encouraged by the sight if not for the way his partner's arms were wrapped around himself, and how he was shaking in spite of it.

             Starsky hurried to his side, automatically scooping up Hutch’s dropped Colt on the way. It looked like they had enough problems already. "Hutch, what're you doin'?" he chided gently, stopping himself before he reached for an arm. He didn't know what was hurt, and as he met his partner's eyes, he knew something had definitely been hurt besides the obvious scrapes. They stared back at him full of confusion, the pupils tiny. "Hutch?" he tried again.

            Finally, the bloody brow wrinkled and empty eyes focused on him. Then they shut, and the tremors grew more pronounced. "Starsk...?"

            The uncertain whisper scared him more than anything. Enough was enough. "C'mon, partner, let's get you safe and off your feet," Starsky coaxed. No longer able to avoid contact, he carefully slid an arm around the other's waist, trying not to put pressure on anything. Hutch was obviously in shock and wouldn't be too aware of it if he did, but Starsky had no desire to do more damage to the battered body.

            A little tug and some directing was enough, and Hutch went with him, his arms still across his chest and the unsteady steps threatening to knock him off his feet at any moment. Starsky felt every inch of those few feet to the curb, then practically lifted Hutch up onto the sidewalk. Safety. He released a long-held breath, then faced Hutch again.

            "Okay, babe, I want you to lie down now. We don't know what you hurt and you shouldn't be on your feet. C'mon...."

            Hutch seemed to be reacting purely to the tone and familiarity of his partner's voice, but let himself be eased down to the ground. There, he curled up half on his side, his eyes once again shut.

            A crowd had begun to gather around them, the inevitably curious. Starsky usually ignored them, but now looked up and quickly picked out a reliable-looking face.

            "You. Go call for an ambulance, tell 'em a police officer's down, and then come back here, got it?"

            The anonymous face nodded, and Starsky jerked his head once in acknowledgment. Then the crowd shifted back into unimportance as Starsky returned to his injured partner.

            "‘S me, Hutch," he soothed as he pulled off his jacket and wrapped it into a bundle to cushion his partner's head. "Gotta check you out. Just relax." Hutch swallowed and nodded, to Starsky's relief. He kept talking, hoping some of it was getting through. "Easy, partner, it's gonna be okay...."

            Breathing and pulse were both rapid, but strong enough, although the skin was clammier than Starsky would have have liked. Shock, just as he'd thought, though he had no idea if it was just a natural reaction to the sudden trauma or a sign of some more serious problem. Some of the blond hair was reddish-gold from blood, but that seemed to be coming from the scrape on his forehead and, miraculously, there was no sign of concussion besides the confusion. Hutch's cheek was also scratched and oozing blood, and there were various other scratches and bruises, but none seemed serious. So what was wrong?

             Starsky couldn’t believe they’d gotten off that easily, though. Early in their career, Hutch had also been grazed by a car, a fleeing rapist who’d tried to run him down. That time he’d bruised his hip deeply and been in considerable pain for weeks after, and he’d only been knocked down then, not thrown like now. Something more serious was wrong this time.

            "Hutch, let me see where you're hurt," Starsky said softly, both to calm and to avoid the attentive ears all around them. Listening to the rapid breaths, he pulled gently at the outer arm, the right one, and it loosened its hold enough for him to give the hand a quick squeeze and lay it on the ground. He'd almost grasped the other one when something about its angle struck him, followed by the realization that what he could see of it above the shirtsleeve was already a little swollen and off-color. Clearly broken, and badly enough that it had to be causing tremendous pain. Maybe enough to account for the shock, Starsky fervently hoped. Leaving the arm be, he ran his hand lightly over the ribcage, jerking his hand back when Hutch moaned.

            "S'okay, partner, I'm done now," Starsky whispered automatically, his hand straying up to stroke the unbloodied blond hair, not sure where to touch without hurting, but needing to help ease those gasping breaths. "Shh, it's okay." Hutch's right arm moved back to cradle the left, and he curled again toward Starsky's voice, visibly calming.

            Starsky sat back on his heels for a moment without stopping his hand's motion. Okay, arm and ribs. If that's the worst of it, we were lucky. His immediate need to know satisfied as much as possible, he considered the next step.

            "Officer? I had a blanket in my car...."

            The tentative voice made him raise his head, and he looked at the short businessman who stood before him, holding out a folded blanket. Starsky's grateful smile didn't take much effort. "Thanks," he said, taking it and spreading it at once over Hutch, tucking the edges around him. The blond seemed to unfold a little under the warmth.

            "They're sending an ambulance right away," another voice offered, and Starsky recognized the older man he'd sent on the errand. He absently nodded his thanks again.

            That was when, despite the noise of the crowd and of continued, slowed traffic in the background, he heard the car he'd been listening for. It came closer—backing up, by the sound of it—and he caught a glimpse of tan between the people around him.

            He gave Hutch's cheek a quick pat. "I'll be right back, partner. Gotta take care of somethin'."

            "Okay," was the soft response, and he realized then that Hutch's eyes were already opened and watching him with sharpening awareness and clarity.

            Starsky's pat became a grateful caress, and he smiled at his friend before climbing to his feet, his Smith & Wesson back in his hand. His quick prayer of gratitude was relenting before bitter anger. The crowd parted respectfully for him, revealing the tan car that was now pulled up next to the sidewalk, and the driver, who was just beginning to get out.

            Starsky blinked, then his narrowed eyes widened in surprise.

            The woman couldn't have been less than fifty, dressed neatly in a yellow suit and matching hat and high heels. Her silvering hair was done up in a neat bun under the hat, and a yellow handbag swung on one arm. Her face was pale and strained, but she was about as far from a dangerous-looking would-be murderer as Starsky could have imagined.

            "Did you see what that man was doing?" she gasped, hurrying unsteadily toward Starsky. "He was trying to rob that poor man in the car. He even had a gun! Someone should call a police officer!"

            Starsky stared at her in bewilderment, but his voice was more level than he'd have expected as he pulled his ID out of his pocket. "Detective Starsky," he identified himself.

            She was only a few feet away from him now, and paused with surprise to look at his ID. Then, unexpectedly, she smiled. "Oh, I'm so glad you're here, Officer. I didn't realize you were a policeman. Did you see what happened?"

            Light was beginning to dawn, but Starsky still couldn't believe it. Coldly, he said, "Yes, ma'am. You nearly killed my partner while we were trying to make an arrest."

            The words took a moment to sink in, and then her face drained completely of color. Starsky honestly thought she was going to faint and let go of his gun to put out a steadying hand. She hung onto him apparently without even realizing it.      

            "You...you mean that man I hit..."

            "Detective Sergeant Ken Hutchinson, ma'am." It was hard to stay unrelenting in face of her distress. From what he was beginning to gather, she had actually been trying to help. The sound of Hutch hitting the pavement was hard to forget, though.

            "Oh, no.... Oh, my. I thought.... All I saw was that man—Officer Hutchinson?—pointing a gun at the other man, and he didn't look like a police officer. He wasn't in a uniform. And I didn't even see you. I just thought.... Oh, dear God. Is he all right?" she added anxiously.

            The woman looked so utterly miserable and shocked, Starsky unthawed a little. He couldn't manage to stay furious, even if he couldn't quite think warmly of the reckless good Samaritan. "I hope so, lady. But he's got a broken arm and maybe some cracked ribs." He looked over his shoulder again at the heap of his friend on the sidewalk behind him, feeling mixed relief at the sight of Hutch sitting up and watching him, if leaning on a young woman from the crowd. Starsky made a face at him and turned back to the woman. "Look, Ms.—"

            "Cora. Cora Hanley," the woman said faintly.

            "Ms. Hanley. I want you to go back to your car, turn off the engine, and wait for one of the officers who'll come to take a statement from you. Okay?" It wasn't standard procedure, of course, but then, none of this was the least bit standard, and Starsky could already hear the sirens in the distance.

            The woman nodded distractedly, her eyes also on Hutch. "I will. I won't go anywhere. But I'm so sorry, Officer. I had no idea. Please tell Detective Hutchinson. I feel so awful...."

Good, Starsky couldn't help but think, but only said, "I will. Go back to your car now, ma'am."

            "Yes, yes, of course," she murmured, and returned to the sedan, turning several times to look at them both. Starsky watched her warily until she got into the car, before turning back to his partner with a sigh.

            The girl by Hutch immediately moved out of the way as he neared. She was pretty, Starsky noticed vaguely, but it was hard to think about anything else for long with a bloody Hutch sitting in front of him. But the blond's quick improvement was greatly encouraging. His initial shock had shaken Starsky badly, but he already looked better to Starsky's examining eye, if still in considerable pain. Starsky slipped into the girl's place, wrapping an arm around his partner's shoulders as support, and Hutch immediately leaned against him, his head resting on Starsky's shoulder.

            "Did I tell ya you could sit up?" Starsky grumbled.

            "M'okay."

            "Sure y'are. Hutch, you were just hit by a car. You could've hurt your spine or have busted ribs or something. You shouldn't be sitting up."

            "Bossy." Hutch was still breathing too fast and his voice lacked strength, but the teasing was dissolving a lot of the weight in Starsky's insides.

            "You need it," Starsky answered mildly. A beat. "Y'know you let yourself get run over by the president of the Lady's Society? She thought you were stickin' up PeeWee. The guys at the station are never gonna let you live this down, y'know."

            Hutch craned back to look at him with wide eyes, wincing as he did. "Seriously?"

            "Hey, would I make up somethin' like that? Shoulda seen her face when I told her you were a cop. Crazy. Coulda killed you."

            "M'okay, Starsk," Hutch answered at once. "Really. My arm hurts...and I'm sore...all over, but...nothing's messed up...inside, I...can feel it."

            Starsky rolled his eyes. "You don't mind if I get a second opinion, do ya? You can't even put five words together yet. I swear, Hutch, you gotta stop running into these cars or you’re gonna give me a heart attack."

             He got a weak chuckle for that, immediately followed by his battered partner stiffening at the pain of movement. Hutch squeezed his eyes shut.

            "Dummy," Starsky whispered as he pulled the blond head back against his shoulder and, blanket and broken arm and all, wrapped his friend in a careful embrace to try to ease the pain and wait for help.

            Actually, Hutch's optimism wasn't far from wrong. Starsky was allowed to stay in the emergency room with his partner during the examination, and while x-rays confirmed the broken arm and cracked ribs, they also showed no other severe damage than a wrenched knee. Hutch's initial reaction was judged to be traumatic shock, as there was no more sign of his earlier glassy-eyed daze. That, along with the absence of a serious head injury, qualified him for same-day release, despite the doctor's suggestion of an overnight stay.

            "I still think you should stay here for the night, y'know, just in case." Starsky tried to keep his concern out of his voice as he pushed the wheelchair down the hospital corridor toward the main doors.

            Hutch's answer was of practiced patience. "Starsky, all I'd do here is try to sleep while they wake me up every hour to take my temperature. I'll rest better at my place." Already he'd sounded a little drowsy from the pill they'd given him to take the edge off the pain.
            Starsky couldn't argue with that from his own past experience with hospitals, but he didn't have to like it. It was completely different when Hutch was the injured one. "Yeah, well, if you'd have seen the way you looked a coupla hours ago...." He trailed off. He still saw the impact played out in his head, especially Hutch hitting the ground so hard....

            A touch on his hand startled him back into the present, and he looked down to see Hutch reaching back to pat his clenched fingers. "I'm okay, Starsk. It was an honest mistake and I'll be good as new in a few weeks." Hutch couldn't turn his head back too far without pain, but he did a little, and Starsky bent forward to meet him half way. Warm blue eyes shone at him, such a contrast to the shocked ones of before. "But thanks," Hutch said simply, smiling.

            "Yeah, yeah," Starsky said impatiently. But he was smiling, too.

            The hall doors opened ahead of them, and Starsky glanced up automatically, his face hardening at the sight. Hutch glanced curiously at the woman who hurried up to them.

            "Oh, Officer Hutchinson, Officer Starsky," she said nervously, her gaze flitting from one to the other but then sticking to Hutch. "I'm sorry, I know you probably don't want to see me ever again in your life and I wouldn't blame you, but I had to come see how you were doing and tell you in person how sorry I am. All I saw was you and that gun, and I just never thought.... I mean, can you imagine how it looked? But that's no excuse, is it? I'm so very sorry, I don't know how I can ever make it up to you—"

            Hutch interrupted her breathless monologue with an upraised hand. "Uh, do I know you, ma'am? Starsky?" he turned toward his partner for help.

            "Ms. Cora Hanley," Starsky said stiffly. "PeeWee's guardian angel."  

            Recognition dawned. "Oh." An awkward pause. "Well, Ms. Hanley, I really will be all right. But I trust you won't be running over any more people without checking the circumstances first."

            The woman blushed down to her toes. "Oh, no, Officer, I most certainly won't. We've just had so many hold-ups in the area recently...."
            "Really?" Both the cop in him and Hutch's sympathetic spirit were fully engaged now, Starsky sourly noted. "So when you saw someone being held at gunpoint, you decided to do something about it."

            "Well...yes."

            Starsky could hear the charm come to life in his partner's voice. "Well, Ms. Hanley, that was brave of you. Your method could use some improvement, but I wish more people were willing to do something when they see a crime being committed."

            Starsky made a face at the back of the blond head. Hutchinson charm, guaranteed to work on all women over forty and under twenty.

            Ms. Hanley blushed again, this time with a smile. "Thank you, Officer, but I'm still so very sorry. Could I do anything for you? I'm quite a good cook, or perhaps I could bring you some vegetables from my garden...?"

            Starsky sighed quietly. The woman had already done more than enough, and she was rapidly using up the little bit of sympathy he'd nevertheless been able to scrape together for her.

            "No, Ms. Hanley, I'm okay, really. Thank you." Hutch was patting her hand now.

            "Well...all right. I talked to one of the officers already, and he said I may have to come back in. Anything they need.... I feel so terrible...."

            Starsky had had enough. He straightened up and rolled the chair forward a little. "Yes, well, thank you, Ms. Hanley. I have to get Officer Hutchinson home so he can rest now."

            "Of course." Her tongue tripped on her discomfort, and she didn't meet Starsky's eyes as she pressed Hutch's hand once more. "Goodbye, Detectives."

            Starsky pushed right past her, cutting off his partner's answering goodbye. "Probably bring ya a poisoned casserole," he muttered under his breath. He didn't slow until they were outside and almost at the car.

            "Don't like her very much, huh?" Hutch asked wryly as Starsky helped him out of the chair and into the Torino.

            "Nope," Starsky answered laconically, busy with seatbelt buckles.

            "You didn't have to make faces behind my back," Hutch said mildly. Starsky frowned at him, not even bothering to wonder how he knew. Then Hutch suddenly grew serious. "Starsk, she's a middle-aged lady who was trying to help somebody," he said softly.

            Starsky finished with the seatbelt and started to draw back out of the car. But he stopped partway, his face inches from Hutch's.   

            "She nearly killed my partner."

            Hutch's mouth opened slightly, then closed again. Starsky shut the door and went around to his side, and neither of them said another word until they reached Venice. But halfway there, Hutch reached awkwardly over to rest his right hand on Starsky's leg for a moment, and Starsky knew the sentiment was understood.

            It was a slow day, if two murders and a string of apartment complex rapes could be considered slow, but they were riding a desk until Hutch was certified for street duty again, and the work was steady but easy. In fact, boredom was turning out to be their worst enemy.

            Starsky turned to his partner with a yawn. "Hey, Hutch, what'd you—"

            "Hutchinson! I need to see you in my office."

            Starsky felt his shoulders deflate from the captain's summons, giving Hutch an aggrieved look. His partner shared the contagious yawn, then just grinned at him. Starsky felt an unwilling smile pull at his own lips. Darn it, why couldn't he keep a good sour mood with Hutch around? Maybe because their too-recent brush still reminded him how lucky they'd been and how much he had to be thankful for.

            He still kept a watchful eye on his partner as Hutch limped around the desk into Dobey's office. The knee was almost well now, but the slight hitch in his walk and the cast and sling, not to mention the ginger movements, reminded Starsky of how far his partner had come—and how much he had left to go. Starsky sighed inside. Sometimes it was hard being a Jewish mother. Not that Hutch was any better.

            Starsky followed his partner into Dobey's office and nudged him toward a chair, which the blond gratefully sank into. Starsky stood beside him, his arm brushing Hutch's shoulder. They were always allowed a week or two of protectiveness after a near miss; it was in the rules of partnership.

            Dobey made them wait for a moment, as usual, before dropping his pen and leaning back in his seat to eye them both, one raised eyebrow the only recognition of Starsky's unrequested presence. Starsky ignored it, and Dobey finally turned to the seated detective.

            "Hutch, do you know anything about the Baldwin Hills Civic Association?"

            Hutch frowned, turning to Starsky, who shook his head slightly. He'd never heard of it, either. "No, sir. Should I?"

            "Well, they're one of the leading local citizen organizations that work with police in their area to try to reduce crime. You know, crime watches, neighborhood clean-ups, stuff like that." He grimaced at their blank looks, and went on. "Anyway, it seems they occasionally give an award to a local officer for outstanding service. And I've just been notified that their next awardee is to be you, Hutchinson."

            Starsky cringed a little as his partner digested that. "Cap'n, has this got something t'do with that lady, Cora Hanley?"
            Dobey's eyebrows went up. "The woman who hit Hutch? I don't think so, at least I didn't see her name on the letter."

            Starsky unbent a little. Hanley had been a too-often present thorn in his side at first, showing up regularly at the station with food and plants and handmade gifts for Hutch, who seemed both embarrassed and touched by her concern. In fact, his partner appeared to be downright fond of the woman, and that fact Starsky found incomprehensible and more than a little uncomfortable. But she was visiting less as Hutch mended, and the blond had also done his best to keep her away from his partner. Starsky appreciated that. Hutch knew he wasn't quite ready to forgive Cora Hanley for what she'd done, but neither was he pushing Starsky to be.

            Hutch was watching him speculatively, and Dobey was talking again. Starsky quickly refocused on the matter at hand.

            "...haven't gotten so many sympathy calls and positive interest in a long time," Dobey was saying. "I'm sorry it happened, Hutch, but a lot of good came out of it, too. For once, the community seems to be seeing us as the good guys, and they want to help."

            Hutch looked as dazed as Starsky felt. What? The community was for them because of Hutch nearly getting killed?

            "Starsky." For some reason, Dobey was talking to him, and his voice had lost all its stridency. "How long ago was the Lonnie Craig trial? Three months?"

            Starsky flinched. "Almost four," he muttered. Lonnie Craig was still a very sore spot.

            "Right. And you remember the city's reaction to that? All they could see was that a young black boy had been killed by a white cop, not that Craig was a dangerous felon with a gun."

            Starsky waited, staring at the floor, feeling the captain's and Hutch's eyes resting on him. He wasn't even sure what he felt anymore.

            "Some are seeing us as people for the first time," Dobey went on. "Maybe sometimes they don't understand what we're doing, but this was a reminder that what we do is for them."

            A very high-priced reminder. But the people in the crowd that day had wanted to help, too, not just gawk. And even Cora, though her mistake was unforgivable, had risked a lot to do what she thought was right. It would earn her no medals in Starsky's eyes, but maybe some good could still come out of the mess.

            He glanced down at Hutch, who was still watching him with concern and empathy. Ironic, Starsky mused, that it should be harder for him to forgive someone who'd tried to kill his partner than it would have been someone who'd almost killed him. But Hutch was waiting to follow his lead, knowing what the cost had been for Starsky and willing to let him decide.

 Starsky took a breath and then smiled a little at him, content to see Hutch's satisfied silent approval. Starsky had become a cop to look after the innocent, and the job meant a lot more when they had the community's support and faith. But there was another kind of support that was even more important.

            "Outstanding service, huh?" He started to grin. "Maybe I should tell 'em about the time ya tried to frisk that hatrack? Or that time your allergies hit and you sneezed away the couple hundred dollars of coke we'd just seized?" Starsky cheerfully raised his voice to override Hutch's sheepish protests. "Or when—"

            Dobey kicked them out of his office.