VI

He was jolted suddenly into wakefulness.

The scene was, at once, familiar and very strange. He'd been to enough accident and crime scenes in his life. The bright lights, the sound of sirens, the noise of cops doing their job. It was all something he knew about. But this seemed different, somehow. He tried to sit up.

Someone put a firm hand on his shoulder. "Stay still, Mac," a gruff voice said. "I'm Sheriff Collins."

He opened his eyes and found himself staring at a large man in a brown uniform. "Huh?" he said.

"Keep quiet until the doctor here has a chance to look you over."

Hutch shook his head, not in denial, but trying to clear away the fog. It helped a little. He started to remember. The little car. No brakes. A crash. He blinked. As he focused, the scene came in more clearly. A body on a stretcher was being carried past; a plastic sheet covered the body. Hutch tried again to sit up and again the hand pushed him down.

"Stay still." It didn't sound like medical advice; it sounded like an order.

"Who's that?" Hutch asked.

Collins looked at him. "Who do you think it is?"

Hutch closed his eyes briefly, then opened them again. "Somebody got killed in the crash? Oh god . . . I was trying . . . to stop us. Who was it?"

"I think you know."

Hutch didn't understand why he couldn't seem to get through to Collins. "Where's my partner?"

The doctor straightened. "He's okay, Bud. A knock on the head is all."

"Okay, Doc, thanks. What's your name, Mac?"

It took just a moment. "Hutchinson. Ken Hutchinson. Hey, my partner?"

Collins crouched in front of him. "All right, Hutchinson, you listen to me real good. You understand what I'm saying?"

Hutch nodded.

"Okay." Collins took a deep breath. "You have the right to remain silent. Do you understand?"

"Huh? Yeah," Hutch said, bewildered.

"Fine. If you choose to give up that right, anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. Do you understand?"

"Yeah, but—"

"You have the right to speak with an attorney and to have that attorney present during questioning. If you wish to speak with an attorney and cannot afford one, an attorney will be appointed for you without charge before questioning. Do you understand all these rights as I have explained them to you?"

Hutch moistened his lips. "Yeah, sure . . . sure, look, I'm a cop . . . I know the law . . . but I don't . . . ."

"A cop?" Collins exchanged a glance with one of his men. "That explains the gun."

"Yep."

Hutch felt that if somebody didn't answer his questions pretty soon, he'd start breaking heads. "Man, what the hell is going on? Where's my partner?" He realized that his nose was bleeding a little and he wiped at the red trickle with the back of one hand. "You booking me for something? I wasn't drunk. I had a few drinks, yeah, but I wasn't drunk."

"You giving up the right to remain silent?"

"Yeah, yeah, hell, just tell me what's going on. You booking me for drunken driving? Where's my partner? Was he hurt bad? Lemme see him, huh?"

"Hutchinson, we're arresting you for murder."

He thought he'd heard wrong. "What?"

"I said, you're under arrest for the murder of Kimberly Wright."

Hutch stared at him dumbly. "Murder? I didn't . . . I didn't." He wiped more blood away. "Where's my partner?"

"Think you can walk to my cruiser?"

"I can walk." Hutch swatted away the helping hand offered by Collins. "I can manage," he said tightly, "but I'm not moving one inch until you tell me what happened to my partner. If he's . . . dead, I want to know it now."

"I don't know what you're talking about."

Hutch spoke very precisely. "I'm talking about my partner, David Starsky. He was in the back seat with . . . with the other girl. I don't remember her name." He took a deep breath. "Tell me where he is."

Collins shook his head. "Hutchinson, that hit on the head must've scrambled your brains. There was nobody in the car but you and Kimberly Wright. And she was dead, shot once in the head. There was a gun in your hand. No other girl. Nobody else."

Hutch stared at him. "But . . . but that can't be."

"Come on, man."

He quit fighting. They pulled him to his feet and propelled him toward the car. Hutch stumbled twice before he was shoved into the back seat. He realized numbly that he had been cuffed, without knowing when it had been done. Collins got into the front and turned to face him. "Want to tell us about it?" the cop said in a friendly tone.

Hutch shook his head. He found that he was shivering and couldn't seem to stop. "I don't want to talk anymore. Call my captain. Captain Dobey, L.A.P.D. He'll tell you . . . ."

"You can make a call when we get to the station," Collins said sounding disgusted.

It only took ten minutes.

The police station was in the center of San Manuel, a pseudo-Spanish style building lit by a glaring array of lights. Someone had apparently alerted the local press, because a photographer was poised at the doorway. He snapped a shot of Hutch as the deputy pushed him toward the door. The bright flash made Hutch flinch and raise his hands protectively.

He was ushered quickly through the lobby and given a chair in a small interrogation room. Collins came in and sat across from him. A stenographer took her place in the corner. "You feel like talking now, Hutchinson?"

"I want my phone call."

"Oh, sure, no problem. We want everything kept nice and legal."

He waved at someone in the hall. A phone was brought in and placed on the table. The cuffs were removed.

Hutch wiped one hand on his jacket front, smearing some blood, and lifted the receiver. As well as he knew it, he had to think a moment before Dobey's home number came to mind. The phone rang four times.

Obviously Dobey had been sleeping. He grunted something into the phone .

"Captain? It's Hutch."

"Yeah? Huh? Hutchinson?"

"There's some trouble."

There was a pause and when Dobey spoke again, he was wide awake. "What's up?"

Hutch wiped his eyes. "They just arrested me, Captain. They say I killed some broad."

"Where are you?"

"San Manuel."

"You've actually been arrested?"

"Yeah."

Dobey swore softly and Hutch could hear a woman's voice in the background. "You okay?"

"Yeah . . . I just . . . I don't know what the hell is happening."

"You sound like it. Is Starsky there?"

Hutch shook his head. "No. He's gone."

There was another pause. "What do you mean, gone?"

"I don't know," Hutch whispered. "I don't know."

"Let me talk to whoever's in charge."

click illo to see larger image

Hutch handed the phone to Collins. The sheriff didn't talk long. His eyes never left Hutch. In a couple of moments, he hung up. "Your captain said to tell you he's on his way. With a lawyer." Collins leaned back, propping his foot on the edge of the table. "Says you're a good cop."

"What do you say?" Hutch mumbled.

"I say cops—even good cops—sometimes go bad."

"I didn't kill her."

Collins shrugged. "I'm not a big city detective like you. To a simple country cop you look guilty as hell. But that's only my opinion. I expect we'll have to let a jury decide."

Hutch shook his head. "Collins, will you for god's sake listen to me? I did not kill Kimberly Wright. I don't know what happened after we hit the barricade." He leaned forward a little. "I do know that my partner, David Michael Starsky, and some other girl . . . Mary or Maura, that's it, Maura Something, they were in the back seat. I want you to find my partner."

Collins sighed. "Hutchinson . . . ." He shrugged and signaled the patrolman standing just outside. "Book him, Dan."

**

"Right hand first," the booking clerk said.

His fingers went into the black ink. This is a joke, right? It has to be.

"Left hand."

The process was repeated. They really think I killed her . . . mygod . . . .

"Step up on the platform, please." A placard was shoved into his hands. "Hold this, please." He was photographed again. 21345. "Face front."

Maybe that knock on the head is making me dream this.

"Face left."

"Face right."

Damned flash . . . if this is a dream, why don't I wake up? Wake me up, Starsk, please? I don't like this dream.

"Over here. Empty your pockets into the box."

They inventoried: One blk. leather wallet, contents as follows: two credit cards, one California driver's license issued to Hutchinson, Kenneth Richard, one library card issued from L.A. Public Library, four photographs, and 125 dollars cash. One blk. leather badge case with police I.D. from L.A.P.D. issued to Hutchinson, Kenneth Richard, Detective Sergeant. One set car keys. 74 cents in change. One silver good luck piece on a chain. One green plastic comb. One room key from the mission Motel. Leather shoulder holster. One gold ring. One watch. One gold chain with half-moon.

"Anything else?"

"No."

"Don't whisper. Speak up."

"Nothing else."

"Sign here."

He signed his name.

"Take him."

The guard led him down the hall, pausing to unlock a door and then locking it again after they were through. The cell block was dimly lit. They went to the fourth cell. It was a busy night in San Manuel. The festivities had brought out a lot of celebrants, some of whom had seen fit to celebrate a little too enthusiastically.

One such unfortunate fun-seeker lay stretched out on the lower bunk, snoring loudly. Hutch stood in the center of the cell, his hands at his sides. The cell stank of urine and vomit and too many dirty bodies that had passed through over too long a time. Already the odor seemed to attach itself to him, working its way into the center of his being. The filth and the corruption crept through him. He carefully wiped one hand and then the other on the front of his shirt.

The important thing, he decided, was to just stay calm. Hang loose. Keep his cool. Dobey would be here in the morning and everything would get straightened out. These local yokels would realize that they had made a mistake, a big, big mistake. Damn, they'd be stumbling all over themselves trying to apologize.

And tomorrow Starsky would show up.

Yeah, Starsky would show up. By noon, probably, they could be back on the road to San Francisco. Tomorrow night they would have dinner on Fisherman's Wharf. Fresh shrimp, maybe.

Hutch nodded once sharply. This was a nightmare, sure, but it would be ending very soon. Dawn would chase away the hobgoblins. He took off his jacket and hung it with care over the foot of the upper bunk. He draped the tie next to it.

The man in the other bunk stirred. "Lemme alone," he mumbled drunkenly.

Hutch hoisted himself up. "Shut up and sleep," he said wearily.

"Bastard."

Hutch curled on one side and stared out into the shadowed corridor. Someone in another cell was crying, hoarse, masculine sobs that echoed from one end of the block to the other.

"Shut the fuck up," another voice said.

Hutch closed his eyes, trying, as well, to close himself off from the place he was in.

**

VII

The first thing he heard the next morning was the sound of someone throwing up.

He rolled over and watched his cellmate bend over the sink. The man splashed some water on his face and stumbled back to the cot. "I'm gonna kill that motherfucker," he said loudly.

Hutch didn't answer. He slid off the bed and went to stand by the bars. A guard sat behind a desk at the end of the hall. "Hey," Hutch said.

The guard glanced his way and then went back to reading his magazine.

"Hey," Hutch said again.

After a moment, the guard heaved a put-upon sigh, tossed the magazine onto the desk, and walked to the cell. "Listen, pal, breakfast ain't for twenty minutes yet."

"I don't want breakfast. I want to find out if my captain . . . Captain Dobey of the L.A.P.D. was supposed to be arriving sometime this morning. Is he here?"

The man shrugged.

"Could you find out?"

"Can't leave my post."

Hutch rested his forehead against the bars. "Maybe you could make a call? Please?"

"You're Hutchinson, right? They got you for wasting the Wright girl?"

"I didn't . . . waste anybody."

"What'd you say?"

"Nothing. Could you call?"

"Yeah, yeah, all right." He ambled back to the desk and sat down.

Hutch couldn't hear what was being said, but only a minute later the guard walked back. "Well?"

"Sheriff Collins said this captain . . . Dobey was on his way over and they'd let you know when he gets here. Oh, he also said to tell you that your prelim is scheduled for tomorrow morning."

Hutch only nodded.

He was still standing by the bars when a deputy delivered two breakfast trays. The drunk roused enough to carry his tray back to the cot. He began to eat the chilly powdered eggs with apparent relish. Hutch stayed where he was and managed to down a cup of lukewarm coffee. Just as he finished, a guard appeared and unlocked the cell door. "Hutchinson?"

Hutch nodded and dropped the empty metal cup back onto the tray. Grabbing his jacket and tie, he followed the officer down the hall. As they headed for the same interrogation room he'd been in the night before, Hutch draped the tie around his neck and shrugged into the jacket.

Collins and Dobey were waiting in the room, along with a young man in a grey pinstripe suit. Dobey stood as Hutch came in. "Ken, you okay?"

"Yeah." He smoothed at his hair.

"You look terrible," Dobey said gruffly.

Hutch tried to tuck his shirttail in. "Yeah, I slept in this." His voice cracked a little. He cleared his throat.

"Sit down, Hutchinson," Collins ordered. Hutch obeyed. "This is Mr. Phipps from the District Attorney's office. He's going to ask you some questions about last night."

Dobey sat down again. "Detective Hutchinson won't say anything more without his lawyer."

Dobey's words hit Hutch like a physical blow and he reeled back a little. Until that very moment, Hutch had truly believed that once Dobey arrived, bringing a voice of sanity from the outside, this whole thing would end. He would wake up and the nightmare would be over. But now Dobey was here and it wasn't happening like that. It felt as if the very ground under Hutch was beginning to crumble. He wanted to thrash out and grab onto something safe. It was another jarring blow when he realized that there was nothing and no one to grab. He squeezed his eyes closed briefly, then looked at Dobey. "Where's Starsky?" he asked.

Dobey met his gaze. "I don't know."

Collins was lighting a small black cigar. "He took off," he said bluntly.

Hutch looked at the sheriff. "You do believe he was there now?"

"We talked to the people at the Whistling Parrot. I believe there were four of you when you left the bar. Maybe you all got into the car together."

"We did."

"Hutch," Dobey said quietly, "wait for the lawyer."

Hutch nodded.

The room fell silent, except for the sound of Collins puffing on the cigar, Hutch leaned back in the chair, watching the doorway thoughtfully. Well, Dobey couldn't fix it. Obviously he couldn't fix it himself. This lawyer, maybe? Well . . . . No, if he was going to put his trust in somebody to get him out of this, he would put it right where it had always been.

It was up to Starsky. Okay, no problem. Starsky could handle it. Captain Marvel.

"Did that injury receive treatment?" Dobey asked suddenly.

"Huh?" Hutch lightly touched the bruise on his forehead. "Oh. I guess."

"The doc checked him at the scene," Collins said.

"I assume his rights were read to him?"

Collins eyed Dobey. "We know how the law works, Captain, even here in San Manuel."

"I'm sure you do. But I just want to make sure that my man doesn't get run over in some precipitate rush to justice." Dobey paused. "I saw the paper."

Collins seemed a bit abashed. "You know how the press is."

"We have newspapers in Los Angeles, too."

"You have to remember, Captain, that Kimberly Wright wasn't just some hooker he picked up in the Whistling Parrot."

"I picked her up in the Lobster Pot," Hutch muttered.

Collins shot him a glance and then continued. "She was the daughter of Owen Wright. An important man in this town. This case is going to be very carefully watched."

"Indeed," Dobey agreed rather obliquely. "Oh, here's Mr. Kramer."

Kramer came into the room, a well-built black man who looked more like a linebacker than an attorney. He dropped a bulging briefcase onto the table and smiled. "Harold, good to see you."

"Sam. This is Ken Hutchinson."

They shook hands. Kramer greeted Collins and Phipps with only a little less ebullience and pulled another chair to the table. He opened the briefcase. "Could I have a few minutes alone with my client, Sheriff? Then, I'm sure Mr. Hutchinson will be glad to answer any questions you have."

Collins and Phipps left the room.

"It's Detective Hutchinson," Hutch said softly.

"Sorry, of course it is. Harold told me that. Well, why don't we just make it Ken and Sam?" He waited for Hutch's nod before going on. "You want to tell me exactly what happened last night? Try to remember everything, no matter how insignificant it may seem." Kramer smiled again. "But then, you know that already, don't you?"

Hutch nodded. He waited as Kramer took a yellow legal pad and a pen out of his case. "We went into the Lobster Pot for dinner," he began.

"Why were you in San Manuel?" Kramer broke in.

Hutch sighed and started over, started way back before they even left Los Angeles, telling Sam Kramer why he and his partner had wanted a vacation. As he talked, he toyed idly with the ends of the tie draped unknotted around his neck.

Dobey paced the room during the recitation.

It took a long time to tell the whole story and when he was finally finished, Hutch slid down in the chair a little, exhausted. He stared at Kramer. "Is anybody looking for Starsky?" he said after a minute.

"Everybody," Kramer replied dryly.

"Good."

"There's a warrant out on him. Accessory to murder. And probably a couple of other charges before the day is over."

"Shit." There ~as a newspaper shoved into Kramer's briefcase. Hutch reached over and pulled it out. There he was on the front page, the picture that had been snapped as he was first entering the police station. He almost didn't recognize himself. The man in the picture looked pale, scared, and guilty. He stared at it for a long time.

Finally Kramer reached over and gently took the paper from him, folding it out of sight. "You ready for them now?"

"Could I have something to drink?"

"Sure."

Dobey went out to the soda machine in the hallway. When he came back, Collins and Phipps were with him. A moment later the stenographer arrived. Hutch wrapped his hands tightly around the Coke can and waited for it to begin.

**

VIII

PHIPPS: Give us your full name, address, and occupation, please.

HUTCHINSON: Kenneth Richard Hutchinson, 1027½ Ocean. Apartment 2. I 'm a detective sergeant in the Homicide Bureau of the Los Angeles Police Department.

PHIPPS: When did you arrive in San Manuel?

HUTCHINSON: Uh . . . yesterday. Yeah, yesterday afternoon.

PHIPPS: What time, please?

HUTCHINSON: Uh . . . it was . . . it was a little after seven in New York . . . that would make it . . . .

PHIPPS: Shortly after four?

HUTCHINSON: Yeah, I guess.

PHIPPS: Why did you come to San Manuel?

HUTCHINSON: We just—

PHIPPS: We? You were with someone else?

HUTCHINSON: Yes.

PHIPPS : Who?

HUTCHINSON: My partner, David Michael Starsky.

PHIPPS: Thank you. Why did you come to San Manuel? I understand you were on your way to San Francisco.

HUTCHINSON: Huh . . . oh, we just stopped for the hell of it. Starsk thought . . . we thought it might be fun. Because of the, ah, festival or whatever it is.

PHIPPS: Okay, go on, What did you do after you arrived?

HUTCHINSON: We checked in at the motel . . . the Mission Motel.

PHIIPPS : Then?

HUTCHINSON: I . . . took a nap, I guess. Then we went out to dinner.

PHIPPS : Where?

HUTCHINSON: To the Lobster Pot.

PHIPPS: Why there, in particular?

HUTCHINSON: Why the hell not?

PHIPPS: That's not an answer.

HUTCHINSON: We went there because it was close. Starsk wanted lobster, I guess.

PHIPPS: What happened when you reached the restaurant?

HUTCHINSON: We saw the two girls . . . Kimberly and . . . uh, Maura sitting at the bar.

PHIPPS: Maura who?

HUTCHINSON: (No response)

PHIPPS: The stenographer can't record a shrug, Hutchinson.

HUTCHINSON: I don't know her last name. Just Maura.

PHIPPS: You and this Starsky approached the girls?

HUTCHINSON: You make it sound . . . we didn't "approach" them . . . we just introduced ourselves and asked if they wanted to have dinner with us and then go to the dance.

PHIPPS: The town dance in the square?

HUTCHINSON: Yeah.

PHIPPS: The girls agreed to this arrangement?

HUTCHINSON: Yes.

PHIPPS: And then?

HUTCHINSON: Look, can I ask a question?

PHIPPS: Later. You just answer for now. What happened next?

HUTCHINSON: What do you think? We had dinner. And before you ask, both the girls had shrimp. I had stuffed salmon. Starsky had the lobster. It was all very good and we all cleaned our plates.

PHIPPS: Lot of drinking going on with dinner, was there?

HUTCHINSON: We had some drinks, sure, but—

PHIPPS: A lot?

HUTCHINSON: I guess that depends.

PHIPPS: Depends on what?

HUTCHINSON: Oh, hell, I don't know.

PHIPPS: How much did you have to drink?

KRAMER: Excuse me, was a sobriety test done on my client?

COLLINS: No . . . it should have been, I admit. It was an oversight. However, let me just check my notes here . . . when asked at the scene, Hutchinson denied being intoxicated. He said, "I wasn't drunk . . . I had a few drinks, yeah, but I wasn't drunk." End quote.

KRAMER: Had he been informed of his rights at the time he made that statement?

COLLINS: Yes, and he waived his right to counsel.

PHIPPS: How much did you have to drink, Hutchinson?

HUTCHINSON: A couple drinks before dinner. Some wine. A snifter of brandy. And some beer later.

PHIPPS: But you weren't drunk?

HUTCHINSON: No.

PHIPPS: What about the others?

HUTCHINSON: Huh?

PHIPPS: Were any of the others drunk?

HUTCHINSON: Not drunk. Kimberly was all right. Maura was a little loaded.

PHIPPS: What about this Starsky?

HUTCHINSON: He was . . . a little high. Not much.

PHIPPS: Could he walk?

HUTCHINSON: Of course.

PHIPPS: Okay. So what happened after dinner?

HUTCHINSON: Could I have another Coke?

PHIPPS: Sure. Collins, get him a Coke, please. What happened after dinner?

HUTCHINSON: We went to the dance.

PHIPPS: How did you get from the restaurant to the dance?

HUTCHINSON: In Kimberly's car.

PHIPPS: Who drove?

HUTCHINSON: She did.

COLLINS: Here.

HUTCHINSON: Thanks.

PHIPPS: You were with Kimberly, is that right?

HUTCHINSON: What do you mean?

PHIPPS: She was like your date, right? And Starsky was with Maura?

HUTCHINSON: Yeah.

PHIPPS: Why?

HUTCHINSON: (No response)

PHIPPS: He still can't record a shrug, Hutchinson.

HUTCHINSON: I don't understand the question.

PHIPPS: Why were you with Kimberly?

HUTCHINSON: Who knows? 'Cause Starsky has a thing for blondes, I guess.

PHIPPS: So you went to the dance?

HUTCHINSON: Yes.

PHIPPS: Have a good time?

HUTCHINSON: Not particularly.

PHIPPS: Why not?

HUTCHINSON: I don't know.

PHIPPS: Maybe Kimberly wasn't cooperating? Was that it?

HUTCHINSON: Cooperating? What the hell does that mean?

PHIPPS: Maybe you wanted her to be a little friendlier than she was? Could that be it?

HUTCHINSON: No, that's not it. Look, I didn't pick her up with the idea of jumping into bed. We only thought it would be fun to have a little company at the dance. Is there anything wrong with that?

KRAMER: Take it easy, Ken.

HUTCHINSON: He keeps asking me all these stupid questions that don't mean anything and he won't answer my question.

DOBEY: Hutch, you know how these things go down.

HUTCHINSON: Yeah, I know.

PHIPPS: So you didn't enjoy the dance. Why?

HUTCHINSON: I was tired, I guess. Kimberly didn't want to dance, so we just sat at one of the tables and talked.

PHIPPS: What'd you talk about?

HUTCHINSON: Nothing special. She asked me about my job.

PHIPPS: You told her that you were a cop?

HUTCHINSON: Yes. It's not a secret.

PHIPPS: What else?

HUTCHINSON: Ah . . . she told me about her father.

PHIPPS: What about him?

HUTCHINSON: Just that he's some kind of big shot in town.

PHIPPS: I see. Okay, what happened next?

HUTCHINSON: Well . . . Kimberly suggested that we should go down to the Strip.

PHIPPS: She suggested it?

HUTCHINSON: Yes.

PHIPPS: Not you?

HUTCHINSON: I didn't even know about it, man.

PHIPPS: Who drove?

HUTCHINSON: I did.

PHIPPS: Why?

HUTCHINSON: I don't know.

PHIPPS: What happened after you reached the Strip?

HUTCHINSON: We went into the penny arcade.

PHIPPS: What'd you do there?

HUTCHINSON: Played the pinball machines for a little while.

PHIPPS: Anything else?

HUTCHINSON: No . . . oh, Starsky and Maura had their picture taken in one of those quickie places. Did you find the picture in the car?

PHIPPS: No. Then what?

HUTCHINSON: I was ready to go. Back to the motel.

PHIPPS: Oh?

HUTCHINSON: Not with them. I just wanted to get some sleep. We were supposed to drive on to San Francisco today.

PHIPPS: But you didn't go back to the motel?

HUTCHINSON: No . . . well, Kimberly insisted we go have a nightcap.

PHIPPS: Kimberly insisted?

HUTCHINSON: Yes. So we went over to the Whistling Parrot.

PHIPPS: Not exactly the kind of place to take a couple of ladies into, is it, Hutchinson?

HUTCHINSON: No. It was her idea. In fact, I suggested that we should go somewhere else, but . . . .

PHIPPS: But you stayed?

HUTCHINSON: Yes.

PHIPPS: Had a few more drinks?

HUTCHINSON: I had two beers.

PHIPPS: The girls?

HUTCHINSON: Yeah . . . they each had a couple . . . I don't remember what.

PHIPPS: And Starsky?

HUTCHINSON: He had a couple. Whiskey, I think. With some beer.

PHIPPS: Anything happen in the bar?

HUTCHINSON: Like what?

PHIPPS: Like anything. A fight, maybe?

HUTCHINSON: No.

PHIPPS: You were together, the four of you, the whole time?

HUTCHINSON: Yeah . . . well, except, I went to the john once. To take a leak, if you want me to be specific.

PHIPPS: Starsky was alone with the girls?

HUTCHINSON: For a couple minutes. Then he came into the john.

PHIPPS: Was he sick?

HUTCHINSON: No. He was drinking beer. He had to piss.

PHIPPS: You talk?

HUTCHINSON: Of course.

PHIPPS: What about?

HUTCHINSON: Nothing. We just decided that it was time to call it a night, 'cause like I said, we wanted to get an early start.

PHIPPS: That's all?

HUTCHINSON: Yeah . . . .

PHIPPS: What next?

HUTCHINSON: We left the bar and got into the car.

PHIPPS: You driving again?

HUTCHINSON: Yes.

PHIPPS:: Kimberly was next to you?

HUTCHINSON: Uh-huh.

PHIPPS: Maura and Starsky—?

HUTCHINSON: They were in the back.

PHIPPS: How fast were you going?

HUTCHINSON: Not fast.

PHIPPS: So what happened?

HUTCHINSON: The car had no brakes.

PHIPPS: What do you mean?

HUTCHINSON: That was a simple enough statement, wasn't it? There were no brakes on the fucking car. I tried to slow down for the curve and there were no brakes. The emergency brake was gone, too. I saw the barricades and figured I could bring the car to a stop. It worked.

PHIPPS: What happened next?

HUTCHINSON: Nothing.

PHIPPS : Nothing?

HUTCHINSON: The next thing I knew, Collins was bending over me.

PHIPPS: You don't remember what you did, is that what you're saying?

HUTCHINSON: I'm saying I didn't do anything. I didn't do anything.

PHIPPS: You don't remember taking your gun from the holster and shooting Kimberly Wright once in the head?

HUTCHINSON: (No response)

PHIPPS: It was your gun, Hutchinson. You were holding it. No other prints on the weapon.

HUTCHINSON: I didn't kill her.

PHIPPS: Where's your partner?

HUTCHINSON: I don't know. Christ, haven't I been asking you that?

PHIPPS: Was it an accident, Hutchinson? Maybe you didn't mean to kill Kimberly. Maybe you were aiming at someone else, maybe even Starsky, and you hit her by mistake.

HUTCHINSON: My god. You think I'd shoot my own partner?

DOBEY: Take it easy, Ken.

HUTCHINSON: Do you hear what he's saying? I've had enough of this crap. Sam, do I have to listen to anymore of this? Do I have to talk to him?

KRAMER: No, Ken.

HUTCHINSON: I don't have anything else to say.

**

IX

Dobey was waiting in the visitor's room a couple of hours later when they brought Hutch in. The captain was pacing the room like an angry black cat. "You all right?" he asked again.

Hutch started to nod, then only shrugged. "I don't know. Maybe I'm losing my mind. Maybe I've lost it." He sank down into a chair and waved one hand. "Down the rabbit hole. Through the looking glass."

"I brought you some clothes and things. They'll give 'em to you."

"After they make sure you're not smuggling in a file or anything, right?"

"Right." Dobey smiled faintly. Hutch only looked at him blankly. "Thought you might like to clean up a little before the hearing tomorrow."

"Will it matter?"

"What's that mean?"

Hutch leaned forward, resting both arms on his knees. "Is it just me, Cap'n, or does everybody already have me sent up the river for this thing?"

Dobey avoided his gaze. "The town is pretty keyed up. Wright is an important person and he's raising hell all the way to the statehouse."

"So they need a scapegoat," Hutch said flatly.

"Yes. And with the evidence they have, there's not much doubt they'll get an indictment."

"What evidence?"

"Come on, Hutch, you know as well as I do. Good Lord, man. It was your gun. You were holding it."

Hutch got to his feet so swiftly that the chair went crashing to the floor. "You think I did it, too, don't you?" he yelled.

"No, I don't think that," Dobey shouted back. He smashed one fist into his open palm. "But I don't know what the hell I can do right now," he said more quietly.

Hutch bent to pick up the chair. "Sorry," he said his voice muffled. He sat down again. "Any word on Starsk?"

Dobey shook his head.

"You think maybe the killer snatched him and Maura?"

"It's possible."

"What's the official version of what happened?" Hutch had been a cop long enough to know that there was an "official" version of every crime. Sometimes it happened that the official version coincided with the truth. Sometimes it didn't.

"They don't seem to know. Most popular at the moment seems to be a theory that you and she got into an argument, probably when she 'refused your advances' as Collins so nicely puts it. Enraged, you pulled the gun and shot her. The crash came then."

Hutch shook his head. "Jesus. How do they explain Starsky and Maura disappearing?"

"Probably just got scared and took off. Didn't want to get involved. Or there's a sort of splinter-group theory that Starsky and you conspired in the whole thing and he probably killed the other girl. They're looking for her body."

Hutch shook his head. "I can't believe this."

"I know, Ken, but Sam is a good man. Everything will work out."

"Yeah?" He stood and began to pace the small room. "Why do I feel like I'm on a runaway roller coaster?"

"Hutch, I'm going to ask you just one question and I want you to answer it straight. Don't waste any time getting mad at me for asking it. Understand?"

"What?" Hutch stood poised behind the chair, staring at Dobey with bloodshot eyes.

"You told Sam everything, right? There's nothing you held back?"

Hutch opened his mouth immediately to retort, closed it again, and finally shook his head. "No. Except . . . ."

Dobey stiffened. "Except what?"

"It has nothing to do with this."

"Let me be the judge of that."

"It was just a stupid conversation Starsky and I had in the john at the Whistling Parrot."

"What about?"

"He was talking about the Tyler Monroe thing. Wondering why he couldn't pull his gun. He was upset about freezing."

"That's it?"

"Yeah." Hutch ducked his head. "He was pretty uptight about it, 'cause he was afraid I wouldn't trust him. Stupid bastard. He said, 'It won't ever, ever happen again. The next time you need me, man, I'm gonna be there.'" Hutch cleared his throat and after another moment, raised his head. "Damn. I didn't know I could quote his words. Guess that proves I wasn't drunk." He lifted the chair and moved it a couple of inches to the left and set it down again. "I told him he was the best damned partner in the world."

"How drunk was he?"

"Not that drunk."

"What's that mean?"

Hutch straightened his shoulders and met Dobey's gaze. "Not drunk enough to kill somebody and run off, if that's what you're thinking."

"I'm not thinking anything of the kind. But—"

"Oh, to hell with it. I'm tired. I don't want to talk anymore."

He signaled through the window to the guard that he was ready to go.

"Cap'n, thanks . . . and if there's any word, anything at all . . . ."

"I'll let you know immediately. And I'll see you in court tomorrow."

"Yeah."

His previous cellmate had departed, theoretically, at least, a more sober and a wiser man. He had been replaced by a sullen young man in blue jeans and bare feet. He sat on the upper bunk and glared down at Hutch.

Hutch stood just inside the cell door. "Upper bunk's mine," he said quietly.

The young man lit a cigarette with the arrogance of his generation. "Yeah?" he said. "I didn't see no sign with your name on it."

"I slept in it last night."

"So tonight you'll have a change of scene."

"I'd rather not."

"What the hell are you, some kind of big shot? Just cause you're a cop that gives you rights?" He laughed harshly. "Way I see it, a cop in the joint is just one more con."

Hutch took a deep breath. It had been a long day, almost the longest day in his life. He was worn out and he was scared. And he was tired of getting his ass kicked around by other people. Before the young man could react, Hutch was across the cell. He grabbed the other prisoner by the shirt front and pulled him off the bunk. "I said that's my bed," he muttered, shoving him away. "So keep your butt off it."

The man looked for one moment as if he might like to challenge Hutch. After a fleeting consideration, he apparently decided against it. "Oh, hell, man, who cares so much about a frigging bed?" he mumbled.

Hutch didn't answer. He climbed into the bed and stretched out.

So. Here it was. Reality was staring him in the face. Let Dobey say all he wanted about Sam Kramer being a good lawyer. Didn't matter. Let Dobey himself do all he could. That wouldn't matter either. Hutch had been around long enough to recognize a fast shuffle when he saw one. Kimberly Wright was dead and somebody was going to take a long fall and he was it.

Innocent men sometimes went to jail.

That was a fact he had always known, but only considered in the abstract. Had given it a little thought, perhaps, back when Van was killed and a warrant had been issued citing Hutchinson for murder one. But there had been something he could do that time. Something they could do. This time, he was locked up. Helpless. Alone.

The guard brought their dinner trays to the cell, but Hutch turned his back on it, staring at the grimy wall with its scribbled graffiti. JESUS SAVES. JOE WAS HERE. FUC YOU. Hutch closed his eyes.

Where the hell was Starsky? Was he dead, like Kimberly Wright? As the hours went by and there was no word from him, it began to appear that he might be. What else could keep him away?

Hutch hurt. I need you, man, I need you, so where the hell are you? His eyes squeezed shut more tightly. He wouldn't give them the satisfaction of breaking him. His head hurt from the blow it had received in the crash. He ached from the night spent in the damp cell and from the tension of holding his body in tight restraint all day when what he really wanted to do was bust out and start smashing everything in sight.

He didn't care much about his pounding head or his aching body.

The worst thing was the way his heart was hurting, aching with fear and loneliness. "Ahh, Starsk," he whispered into the thin mattress.

Finally he fell asleep and the unshed tears dried behind the lids.

**

X

A guard escorted Hutch to the shower room the next morning. He leaned against the wall, obviously bored, as Hutch washed, shaved, combed his hair and donned the clean slacks and sport shirt Dobey had brought. Then he was taken hack to the cell and drank the coffee from his breakfast tray.

The courthouse was directly opposite the police station, so, cuffed and escorted by three deputies, Hutch walked across the grassy mall separating the two buildings. The local press was out in force, as well as some reporters from Los Angeles. Someone reached through the cordon of police and shoved a microphone in his face, shouting a question at him. Hutch only shook his head and kept moving. He could see Dobey and Sam Kramer standing on the steps of the courthouse waiting for him.

"Morning, Ken," Kramer said with a smile.

He nodded.

"You look better today," Dobey said, determinedly cheerful.

"Any word on Starsk?"

"No."

"Okay." He didn't say any more. They went down the hallway to courtroom B and took their places at the defense table. The media and the just plain curious crowded the room. A hush descended suddenly as a tall man in a well-cut and expensive Italian suit entered, flanked on either side by a couple of musclemen. His eyes met Hutch's for a long moment.

Kramer leaned closer. "That's Owen Wright," he said in a low voice.

"I figured." Hutch turned his head away. "Cap'n, what happened to all our stuff at the motel? And the car?"

"I'm taking care of it, Hutch."

A moment later the judge came into the room. Kramer, Phipps, and Hutch approached the bench. To anyone who is unfamiliar with the procedure, a preliminary hearing can be a confusing, unintelligible experience. None of the spectators could really hear what was being said. They could only watch as Phipps spoke fervently for a time, gesturing often to make his points, and presenting pages of written testimony. Kramer spoke briefly and quietly. Hutch stood a step back from the attorneys, his gaze directed at some point above the bench. Once the judge spoke directly to him and Hutch shook his head in response.

In only a few minutes, the principals returned to their seats. Dobey patted Hutch's shoulder as he sat down. The judge studied the papers in front of him, then raised his head to address the room. "This court finds that there is sufficient evidence to justify binding Kenneth Hutchinson over to the Grand Jury on the charges presented." That was all he said.

Hutch got to his feet, feeling numb all over. Wright, on his way out of the room, paused at the defense table and stared at Hutch. Kramer reached up to pull Hutch down into his chair and Wright left. "Ken, they had the Grand Jury sitting by, so this is going to move very fast. I expect they'll schedule the arraignment for late this afternoon. I'm going to try and get a reasonable bail set so we can keep you from being sent out to the county jail."

Hutch smiled faintly. "Reasonable bail? I'd say the chances of that are pretty piss-poor, wouldn't you?"

"We can try."

"They're sure in one helluva hurry to get rid of me, aren't they?" He sighed and shook his head. "You'll take care of my stuff at the motel, Cap'n?"

"Don't worry about it, Hutch."

"And Starsk's stuff? You'll take care of that, too?"

"Of course. Man, you're talking like you're all ready to give up. We're going to fight this, Ken, all the way."

Hutch nodded. "Sure, sure." The guard was waiting and Hutch stood slowly. "Except that I'm tired, Captain. I'm just tired." A sudden thought occurred to him. "I'm off the force, right?"

Dobey looked away. "Until this is all cleared up, Hutch. You know how it is."

"Oh, yeah. I sure do." Hutch straightened his shoulders and followed the guard to the holding room to await the word from the Grand Jury. Kramer came along. Dobey went out for hamburgers.

Kramer sat in one corner of the room pouring over his notes, talking quietly to himself. A guard stood just outside the door. Hutch sat at the table, his feet propped up, his face a blank.

"Ken," Kramer said shortly.

"What?"

"I want to ask you some questions. If anything I say makes you mad, just remember that I don't know you and I don't know anything about David Starsky, either. Understand?"

"Yes."

"You and he were partners for a long time?"

Were? What the hell kind of a word is were? "A long time. Over eight years. A long time."

"Must have been a good partnership."

"It is."

"You friends?"

"Yes."

Kramer was making unintelligible notations in purple ink on yellow paper. "What kind of a man is he?"

Hutch shrugged.

"Too vague? Well . . . okay. He honest?"

"Yes."

"Smart?"

"Yes."

"Loyal?"

Hutch kicked a small tin ashtray across the table and it fell to the floor. "He's a goddamned boy scout, Kramer, is that what you want to hear?" Kramer didn't reply and the explosion ended as quickly as it had begun. Hutch took a deep breath and spoke more softly. "David Starsky is . . . a good man."

"You think he's dead?" Kramer spoke with a bluntness that forbade any emotional reaction.

Hutch did not react; he met the other man's icy black gaze with his own icy blue one. "I don't know. I hope not. Sometimes I think he must be, though, or else he'd be here."

"Maybe he's scared. Maybe he's hiding."

"And letting me go through this?" Hutch shook his head. "No."

"Not even to save his own skin?"

"Hell." Hutch smiled. "Like you said, Sam, you don't know Starsky."

"You trust him completely?"

"No." Kramer glanced up in surprise; he'd obviously not been expecting the negative response. "Not completely. I wouldn't trust him to pick out a blind date or a car. With my life, I trust him."

Dobey came in carrying two paper bags. "Food, Hutch. You better eat, because you're starting to look like death warmed over."

Hutch tried. He took a couple bites of the cheeseburger and a few french fries. Dobey scowled at him, but he only shrugged apologetically. "Sorry." He turned to Kramer. "Assuming I can't make bail, what happens?"

"They'll take you straight out to county." Kramer grimaced. "I think they've got a driver standing by."

"Terrific."

Dobey gave him a sharp glance and again Hutch shrugged.

Kramer was arranging his papers. "If that happens," he said, "I'll do what I can to make it easier for you. After all, a cop inside is not the most popular inmate."

"Right. As my current cellmate said, a cop in the joint is just another con."

"Worse than that," Kramer said, but he didn't elaborate. He didn't really have to.

They seemed to have exhausted the conversation. Kramer went back to his solitary mutterings; Dobey, his hands clasped behind his back, paced the small room repeatedly. Hutch just sat. None of them was really there, anyway; they were on the second floor of the building, in a richly-paneled room where the Grand Jury held its deliberations.

**

The dictionary defines an arraignment as the "calling of a prisoner before a court to answer an indictment." The same book defines a formality as "compliance with formal or conventional rules." What happened in the San Manuel courthouse later that day was a little of both. Kenneth Richard Hutchinson was, in fact, summoned before the bench to answer the charge of murder in the second degree. But the entire affair seemed staged. Everyone knew the right words to say and said them right on cue. Sam Kramer was a persuasive man, a damned good lawyer. But his opponent was not just Phipps, from the district attorney's office. Kramer was also fighting an outside force, a man not even in the courtroom. That man was Owen Wright.

Hutch barely listened to the proceedings. He spoke only once, saying a soft "not guilty" in response to a question from the judge. Otherwise, he just slouched in his chair at the defense table and stared at the wall.

Bail was set at $500,000. Someone in the room whistled at the amount, but Hutch only shrugged. When it was made clear to the court that the accused, a hard-working, underpaid police officer, had no way to raise the necessary $50,000, the judge remanded him immediately to the county jail. Kramer requested that his client be put into protective custody, citing the acts of violence often committed against law officers incarcerated in penal institutions. Without making any promises, the judge said that all necessary precautions would be taken to watch over Hutchinson.

That was pretty much it.

Kramer and Dobey came with him back to the holding room for a few minutes to await the prison van. Hutch seemed resigned to what had happened. "Cap'n," he said, "my plants at home . . . the neighbor was going to take care of them for a week, but . . . ."

Dobey seemed to have aged ten years in the last twenty-four hours.

He nodded slowly. "I'll take them to my place. Edith will watch over them for you."

"Thanks. And Belle . . . could you—" He lost the thread of what he had been saying.

"I'll take care of the car, Ken."

"Better close up my apartment." He shrugged. "I don't know. This is kinda funny . . . all the people I've sent away and I never gave a thought to . . . what they did with the pieces of their lives." He paused again. "And Starsky's place. His car is over at Merle's getting a new windshield. It was supposed to be ready by the end of the week. Maybe if you talked to Merle, he'd store it. Belle, too, maybe."

Dobey gripped Hutch's shoulder. "Listen, don't worry about any of those things. I'll take care of it."

"Thanks."

Kramer gave him an encouraging smile. "We haven't had our chance yet, Ken. When it gets to trial, we come to bat."

Hutch sighed. "Starsky's into sport metaphors, Sam, not me."

A guard appeared in the doorway and signaled that the jail van was waiting. Hutch got to his feet. "Okay," he said, "I gotta go."

"Ken—" Dobey gave his shoulder another squeeze. "We're going to beat this."

"Sure, Cap'n." He walked to the door, then stopped. "There is one more thing you can do for me."

"What?"

"Find my partner. Find Starsky."

There was a long pause. "I'll try, Ken," Dobey said quietly.

"Thank you."

He walked out into the hallway. The guard cuffed his hands and feet. Hutch looked back once to where Dobey and Kramer stood watching and then he walked away, moving with the characteristic shuffle of the prisoner, his head bowed.

In a moment, he was out of sight.

**

click illo to see larger image

Hutch was taken back across the mall to the jail and escorted into a small changing room manned by a complacent deputy with a fleshy, bored face. The cuffs were removed. "Strip," the deputy said around a huge wad of gum.

"What?" Hutch said vaguely.

"What're you, a blushing virgin? I said strip. Take it off, Mac, all of it."

As Hutch slowly took off his shirt, trousers, underwear, the deputy tagged each item and dropped it into a plain brown bag. Naked, he endured a superficial body search, a task the deputy accomplished to the tune of his popping gum. "Okay," he said finally, handing Hutch a much-washed white coverall. "Put this on." The large manila envelope with Hutch's personal effects was dropped into the sack as well.

When he had donned the coverall, the cuffs and leg irons were put back on and Hutch was led down a dimly-lit corridor to the garage. Two other prisoners watched without interest as he joined them in the van and was duly cuffed yet again, this time to the crossbar of the seat.

As the van pulled out of the garage and started away, Hutch looked through the barred window and saw Dobey and Kramer standing on the front steps, watching. He tried to raise his hands to wave at them, but he couldn't lift them high enough.

Hutch settled back in the seat as the van passed through San Manuel, going by some of the same places he and Starsky had seen . . . when was it? Two days earlier? God, it seemed like an eternity. This nightmare had gone on forever. As they reached the edge of town he saw the Mission Motel and, in the parking lot, the shiny red VW.

. . . my car is candy apple red . . . this car is fire engine red . . .

That idiot. Red was red.

Hutch shook his head, trying to get rid of the thoughts that kept threatening his efforts at self-control. He became aware that one of the other prisoners was speaking to him. "What did you say?"

"I said, I thought pigs never got busted. Ain't that a rule? You ain't supposed to bust another pig. So how come you got busted?"

Hutch shrugged. "There's no rule like that."

The young black man smiled. "I guess not, cause here you be, right?"

"Right. Here I am."

"Bet it feels kinda funny, don't it?"

"Yeah." Hutch moved his hands against the chains. "Yeah, it feels funny."

A sudden and unexpected look of something very like compassion crossed the other man's face. "Well, it ain't so bad once you get used to it. It's just boring, is all. Nothing to do, you know?"

Hutch only nodded.

It took an hour and a half to get out to the county jail. There was no more conversation until the gray and white walls of the Diablo Correctional Facility came into view.

"Home sweet home," the black man said in a mournful tone.

The jail was set in the middle of a small valley that was very green and might have been pretty, except for the huge grey mass in its center. There were some houses scattered around the edge of the valley, pastel-colored stuccos, and a few other buildings with no purpose immediately evident. But the whole valley was dominated by the prison.

The van turned onto an asphalt drive, and after a brief pause at the gate, drove into a yard and stopped. The deputy unlocked the cuffs and leg chains and the three prisoners filed off the van. They went through a doorway and into a cramped concrete room with sickly green benches along the wall.

A man, by his insignia a sergeant, came in. "Welcome to Diablo Correctional Facility, gentlemen," he said in a singsong, faintly mocking tone. "We have just a little business to get through before we can get you tucked away in your new home, so let's all just cooperate and keep it moving." He gestured them through another doer marked Receiving and Release.

It looked much like the booking room back in Los Angeles. More wooden benches, a chipped and scarred wooden counter. A camera stood in one corner. A painfully thin trustee was fiddling with the adjustments on the camera. He ignored them as they sat down on one of the benches.

"Mug shots first," the sergeant said pleasantly. "Everybody all clean-shaven and pretty?"

Hutch was the first in front of the camera. The trustee adjusted a card with large black numbers in front of him. A new facility, a new number. 217890. Hutch stared at the sign which read LOOK HERE and the flash went off.

"Face to the left," the trustee droned.

He turned. Flash.

"Face to the right."

Turn. Flash. All of this, he decided, had nothing to do with him at all. It was happening to some stranger. Not to Ken Hutchinson. Not to Detective Kenneth Hutchinson of the L.A.P.D.

"Thank you. Step aside. Next please."

When the other two were finished in front of the camera, the sergeant got to his feet. "Okay, coveralls, shoes, and socks off. Dump 'em into the basket there. All personal effects into the bin. Nothing goes inside with you."

Again he stood naked. The sergeant started with the black man, but in a moment he was ready for Hutch. "Arms over your head." He peered into the armpits. "Run your fingers through your hair. Mouth open. Wider. Okay. Skin it back. Lift your balls. Turn around and bend over. Spread 'em. Straighten up. Lift your right foot. Left foot. All done."

Trembling a little, Hutch walked over to receive one of the faded blue coveralls and a pair of blue cloth slippers. Staring at the floor, he donned the garments and returned to the bench. When everyone was ready they left the room and walked through still another door, this one leading into a small open courtyard.

"Hutchinson, you first," the sergeant ordered.

A middle-aged woman, with beginning-to-grey hair and wearing a white jacket, sat behind a desk. "Have a seat," she said cheerfully.

He sat, his knees pressed together, hands gripping his legs.

"I'm Doctor Fisher, Mr. Hutchinson. Are you feeling all right?"

"Yes."

"I see that you were in an automobile accident recently. Any problems?"

"I have a headache."

"I'm sorry, what did you say?"

"I have a headache," he repeated more loudly.

"Do you want something for it?"

"Maybe some aspirin?"

She took a bottle from the drawer, shook out two white pills, and poured a cup of water.

He swallowed both aspirin in a gulp. "Thank you."

"Anything else?"

"No."

"When did you have your last physical examination?"

He tried to think. "Three weeks ago," he said finally. "From the department doctor."

She nodded slowly. "Oh, yes, that's right, you were a policeman." Her smile was warm. "Well, then, I think we can assume you're in good physical condition. If you have any problems, just come in."

"Thank you."

The next stop he made was in another small office, this one occupied by a balding man in a baggy flannel suit. "I'm the resident shrink," he said with a faint smile. "Any hang-ups you'd like to talk about?"

Hutch shook his head.

"You walk in your sleep?"

"No."

"Wet the bed?"

"No ."

"You gay?"

"No."

"Gee, you're almost normal, aren't you?"

Hutch shrugged.

He was sent next to the distribution center, where he was given everything he would need for his life now: two unbleached muslin sheets, a muslin pillowcase, two woolen blankets, a small metal mirror, a teaspoon, a comb, a tube of toothpaste, a toothbrush, a bar of soap in a plain wrapper, a razor and pack of blades, and a book listing the rules and regulations of the prison. Finally, he was handed a pair of blue denim pants, a blue work shirt, underwear, socks, and a pair of heavy brown shoes. That was it. The sergeant led them across the empty courtyard.

Diablo was built in a pod design, groups of twenty cells arranged around a central dayroom. Hutch followed one guard to the last group of cells. They stopped in front of J-I and Hutch stepped in through the door. He stopped. "I'm supposed to be in protective custody," he said. "That means a cell by myself."

The door clanged shut. "Yeah, well, we're a little jammed up right now, so you'll have to hack it here."

"But—" Hutch started to object, but the guard was gone.

His cellmate was somewhere else at the moment, but the cell was filled with evidence of his presence. Pictures torn from magazines, a calendar from some drug store, and a couple of black-and-white photos decorated the walls. The lower bunk was neatly made up.

Hutch dropped his bundle onto the floor and climbed onto the upper bunk. Somewhere a bell rang. He leaned forward, covering his face with his hands. "Oh, god help me," he whispered. "Please . . . ."

**

Part Three