Resignation

K Hanna Korossy

Written: 2001

Venice Place Times 2 (2002)

  “Haven’t you helped enough?”

  Hutch had pretended not to hear the uniformed officer’s scathing parting words to Starsky. Bad enough they’d been said. But it was impossible to ignore the stunned, hurt expression on his partner’s face as he stared after the uniform, after the stretcher bearing the body of a cop killed in his name.

  Not that Starsky was to blame in any way, of course. Hutch knew that, Dobey knew that, all of Starsky’s friends and any other cop who was thinking clearly knew that. The monster murdering police officers in order to force Starsky to resign was the one at fault, and once he had a face and a name, the beat cops would have someone else to rage against. But for now, their only target was Starsky, who hadn’t done a thing wrong, who was already hurting more than any street cop would know.

  Hutch stood next to his partner, watching the funereal procession retreat to the ambulance, where the fallen officer was loaded inside. One more ugly look at Starsky from the dead man’s partner, and the uniform marched stiffly off to his patrol car to provide escort. Hutch looked back at his own partner, but Starsky’s eyes were still on the ambulance, wide and uncomprehending, anguished. That nearsighted cop had no idea the detective he was accusing already condemned himself far more than anyone else ever could.

  Hutch’s shoulders sank. Of all the lousy timing. Starsky was still tormenting himself over the kid he’d had to shoot a few days before, a kid with a gun who was about to use it. Even the hearing clearing him hadn’t taken away his guilt and self-recriminating what-ifs. He’d already paid dearly for the shooting, and the last thing he needed was some looney determined to kick him off the force as punishment. And hang another murder on his neck in the process.

  Well, wasn’t a partner supposed to be on your side even when you weren’t? Hutch gave his friend’s shoulder a gentle cuff, waiting until those wounded eyes tore away from the ambulance to look at him. He offered a smile, more tender than playful.

  “We gonna stand here all day, or get back to work?”

  It wasn’t wholly appropriate humor, but he needed to shake Starsky out of the dark paths he could see the brunet’s mind taking. Hutch had been down that way himself a few times, and the farther you went, the harder it was to get back.

  That was another thing partners were for: to show you the way.

  Starsky shrugged minutely, all the agreement he was going to give, and Hutch flexed a hand on his partner’s shoulder, directing him back toward the car.

  Their trip to the station was as silent as it had been to Lonnie Craig’s wake. Hutch had rarely been so proud of his partner as when Starsky had waded into that hostile group, determinedly alone, to offer his condolences and get some information from Lonnie’s mother. From across the street, Hutch hadn’t been particularly surprised to see she’d willingly shaken Starsky’s hand afterwards, but that was just testament to Starsky’s sensitivity. Her forgiveness had begun to help him find his own peace, Hutch had seen it.

  Until Officer Forest had been ambushed and killed.

  Frequent glances at the Torino’s driver showed Starsky was thinking about the same thing. The brunet could brood with the best of them, but this wasn’t anger or self-pity. The blue eyes were over-bright with sorrow.

  Hutch’s jaw set and he chewed the inside of his lip with a huffy sigh. Maybe Starsky wasn’t angry, but he was--furious, in fact. How dare someone play executioner with cops’ lives and lay the blame at Starsky’s feet?

  For that matter, why did Starsky have to accept it?

  But Hutch already knew the answer. For the same reason Starsky had gone to see Mrs. Craig the way he had. Because he cared. And Hutch couldn’t honestly say he would have wanted that to change. Which always left him back at square one, unable to do anything but support his partner no matter what.

  No matter what.

  With a sober flicker of a smile at the thought, Hutch reached over across the back of the seat and rested his knuckles on Starsky’s shoulder as if he wasn’t even aware they were in contact. Or of the sorrowful, defensive curve of the shoulders beneath Starsky’s worn windbreaker. Or that they yielded under his touch ever so slightly, molding into his hand rather than pulling away. It told him just how much his partner was hurting. They were never shy of giving or receiving love--you needed it to counter the hate and hopelessness of their job. But it was when one of them was wounded, in body or spirit, that the acceptance became need. Hutch was counting on his partner’s anger later; that kind of rage focused the mind and would help them find the needle in the haystack they were looking for. But for the moment, it was time to tend to grief.

  He just wished he could believe whatever he did would be enough.

  By the time they reached the station, Starsky knew what he had to do. Hutch following just a step behind, he hurried up to the squadroom, to his desk, and immediately sat down to type.

  Hutch flopped down across from him, at his side of their shared desk, and watched him, chin tilted down but eyes raised as if he were looking over the top of a pair of glasses. If he was trying to be subtle, it wasn’t working too well. Starsky knew his partner was worried about him and honestly appreciated it, but now wasn’t the time.

  He typed with deliberation; he’d been practicing the words in his head since Parker had come into sight. His fingers hit the keys hard, but he was too focused to make any of his usual mistakes. He had to be, or he’d start thinking about the consequences of what he was doing and he’d never be able to follow through. It was the same reason he was deliberately ignoring Hutch’s worried, suspicious stare.

  The last few words came so easily, as if it was a relief to have them written. And it was, because Starsky doubted he’d have had the strength to write the whole thing once more. How many times could a man steel himself to throw away everything he held dear? Teeth clamped together in furious denial, Starsky jerked the paper out of the typewriter and scrawled his name on the bottom. Two sharp folds of the sheet and he stood, turning toward Dobey’s office.

  Hutch’s hand snagged his arm. The pull in a different direction was so abrupt, Starsky followed before he could even think about it.

  Just outside the squadroom, he shrugged free, frowning as he turned to his partner. “What do you think you’re doing?”

  “I want to talk to you.” Imperturbably, Hutch reached for his arm again, but Starsky pulled away.

  “Later.” Another move toward Dobey’s door, once more checked by his partner. Angry now, Starsky wheeled back to the blond, but Hutch’s words forestalled his lashing out.

  “Starsk, I need to talk to you.”

Together with a look of naked pleading, it was an appeal he couldn’t ignore. Starsky wilted despite himself. His spirit was almost too weary to ignore his own emotions, let alone Hutch’s.

  Hutch led them both into a nearby interrogation room, locking the door behind them to make sure they weren’t disturbed. Starsky took an aimless few steps to the far corner of the small room and then hovered there, watching his partner.

  Hutch turned to him, and the blue eyes were soft now, sympathetic. Starsky swallowed unconsciously, trying to dislodge whatever was suddenly blocking his throat.

  The blond head nodded. “What’s that?”

  He numbly followed Hutch’s gaze down to the paper in his hand as if he’d forgotten it was there. “Hutch...” He didn’t want to be doing this now; he wasn’t ready.

  But Hutch wasn’t letting it go. “It’s your resignation, isn’t it?”

  He wasn’t really asking. The realization brought unexpected annoyance. Who was his partner to dictate his actions, anyway? Starsky nodded curtly in answer.

  The soft, miserable curse wasn’t what he expected. Hutch was beginning to look as desperate and grieved as he felt. “Starsky...this isn’t the answer, you know that. You give him what he wants and maybe he’ll go away...for a while. But what about the next cop he gets mad at? He supposed to resign, too?”

  “No, ‘cause you’re gonna catch the creep first. But at least he’s not gonna be killin’ cops in the meantime.”

  “You don’t know that.” Hutch held his hands out reasonably. “This guy’s nuts. He probably won’t stop even if you resign, and even if he does, what kind of message does that send? We give in to this guy and all the crazies come out of the woodwork--suddenly we’re gonna have threats and demands for resignations all over the place.”

  Starsky hung on to his anger to keep him from wavering in face of that persuasive voice and worried pair of eyes. It was black-and-white to him--why did Hutch have to make things harder? “Hutch, if I can keep somebody from getting killed by writin’ this one stupid letter,” he waved the resignation, “I have to do it.”

  Hutch seemed dangerously close to losing his temper. “What you do or don’t do isn’t going to stop this guy any more than what you did started him off in the first place. You’re just his excuse, Starsky, can’t you see that? You give in and you’re throwing your career away for nothing!”

  And a long and incredible partnership. Hutch wasn’t saying it, was too fair to be reminding Starsky of that now, but that was the truth and they both knew it. Starsky had offered to quit once before, when Hutch was still dealing with the aftermath of his forced drugging and withdrawal. Neither of them had been sure those first few days if Hutch would ever want to return to work, and Starsky had made the quiet offer to ease his partner’s decision, so Hutch could choose about the job without having to choose about them. But Starsky wasn’t giving him any choice this time. He hadn’t had any himself.

  He shook his head slowly, not looking away from his partner’s face even though he could see the effect his decision was having in the aching sky blue eyes. “I have to, Hutch,” he said softly, firmly.

  The look held for a long moment, then Hutch’s head dropped, hanging disconsolately for a moment as he rubbed the back of his neck. “Okay,” he finally said. A resigned glance up at Starsky. “But I wish you’d at least give it a little time. You’re still tied in a knot over Lonnie Craig.”

  That truth didn’t negate what he had to do, but there was a dryness in Starsky’s throat no amount of swallowing would get rid of and a hollowness in his chest it felt like nothing could fill. “I can’t,” he said, still quiet, no less firm. “I got a deadline, remember?”

  “I remember.” Hutch hesitated, then crossed the distance between them, the width of the small room, in two of his long strides. His finger shook at Starsky’s chest even as his expression and voice were as mesmerizingly earnest as Starsky had ever witnessed. “But you remember this--you can quit the LAPD, but you can’t quit me.”

  There was something that could fill that emptiness, after all. At least the worst of it, the part that yawned bottomless with despair that he had to give up what he cared about the most. Some things just refused to be given up. Starsky softened, almost smiling. “I won’t forget.”

  An answering almost-smile on his partner’s sober face. “Good.” He gave Starsky’s arm a lingering squeeze, then stepped aside.

  Starsky’s smile vanished as his eyes fell on the interrogation room door and the reminder of what he had to do. He squared his shoulders, not allowing himself a fortifying look at Hutch as he crossed the room and unlocked the door to stride out to Dobey’s office. There had been enough pain already. It was time to end this.

  Hutch sank into one of the two chairs in the room, suddenly tired. He had to admire his partner’s determination and self-sacrifice, even if he didn’t agree with it. He had shown Starsky the way back, but the brunet had his own reasons for wanting to stay on the path he was on, and Hutch had to respect that. And support it, no matter what.

  He still hoped Dobey would talk some sense into the man. The captain could be pretty persuasive when he wanted to be, and he was on Hutch’s side on this one. But if he couldn’t, well... Hutch would have a few big decisions of his own to make. He’d meant what he’d said--he’d be damned before he’d let Starsky end their partnership as easily as he was ending his job.

  Now he’d have to go see what he could salvage of both. Hutch pulled himself to his feet, and with a resigned shake of the head, went out the door after his partner.