December 13th Mixed Up Doubles Part 1 by LilyK

The telephone ran quietly; the ringer set on the lowest setting. His mother didn’t like being startled by the jangling of the bell. She claimed it gave her palpitations every time it chimed. The darned thing only brought bad news, she always said. Starsky was closest to the phone, so he picked up the receiver.

“Hello.”

“Starsk.”

“Hey, Hutch!” Starsky smiled into the phone. “How are–”

Hutch cut him off. “Listen… I can’t pick you up from the airport tomorrow.”

“Huh? Hutch? Can you speak up? I can barely hear ya.” Starsky moved away from the noise of the dining room where his mother, her sister, and Nicky were chattering away. “What?”

“I can’t pick you up tomorrow. I’m sorry.”

Hutch’s voice sounded so strange to Starsky. It was low, quiet, as if he were afraid of being overheard. He tensed. “What’s wrong?”

“Can you get a ride?”

“Ah, sure.” Starsky felt a stab of disappointment. He’d been in New York four days and already it felt as if he’d been separated from Hutch for weeks.

“You know it’ll always be me and thee, right?”

“Yeah,” Starsky drawled. “Okay.” That was a strange thing to say. Why the affirmation? “‘course. It’s okay. I’ll grab a cab. Is everything all right?”

“You know I’d pick you up if I could. You know that, don’t you?”

Starsky strained to hear Hutch’s voice. “I know. Hutch, what’s going on?”

“Nothing, Starsky. Listen… Love ya, mush-brain.”

“Love–” The dial tone rang in his ear. “Hutch?” Starsky pulled the receiver away from his head and stared at it. “Weird. Oh, well,” he mused aloud. “He must have got an important assignment from Dobey.” With a shrug, he went to rejoin his family. He’d see Hutch tomorrow and he could ask. The cryptic message would make perfect sense. He was sure of it.

“Hey, Starsky!” Minnie Kaplan called when Starsky strolled into the precinct early the following afternoon. “Dobey needs ya ASAP.” She kept walking past, waving at him as she went. “No delays!” she yelled.

“Thanks, Minnie. Got you a souvenir when you have a sec.”

She gave a backward salute, hurrying away. Starsky readjusted the gym bag in his hand and headed towards the squad room. He glanced over at his and Hutch’s shared desk, but it was vacant. Hutch must out working on whatever had prompted his call to Starsky yesterday.

“Bernie!” Starsky said. “Brought you something from the Big Apple.”

“Thanks, Starsky,” Bernie Chavez said, taking the small snow-globe of Times Square. “Angie will love it.”

“Great.” Starsky put a similar globe on Hutch’s side of their space, next to their pig. This globe had the Empire State Building among the dancing flakes.

Dobey’s door flew open.

“Cap,” Starsky said. He opened his mouth to ask about Hutch when Dobey barreled past.

“I need to speak to you. Pronto!” Dobey yelled.

Seems everybody was yelling over their shoulders at Starsky today.

Dobey never paused. “I got a hostage situation at the First Savings Bank. Don’t go anywhere until we talk. It’s important!” Without waiting for Starsky to reply, he pushed through the double doors and disappeared down the hall.

Starsky stood still, shaking his head. “Geez, get back an hour ago and I’m already in trouble. For what, I ain’t got a clue.” He looked around. Everybody was busy but him. Wondering what Hutch’s assignment was, he shuffled through the two pieces of paper on his desk. They revealed nothing about his partner’s current whereabouts. He dropped the papers and wandered to the coffee machine, feeling out of place in his own squad room. Out of place without his other half. His better half, Hutch would remind him teasingly. If he were here.

Coffee poured, Starsky sat down and picked up the phone. He dialed Hutch’s home number, let it ring a dozen times before hanging up. “He needs an answering service,” Starsky muttered before he sipped his coffee. It wasn’t bad, for cop coffee. Someone must have bought a fresh can of Maxwell House while he had been gone.

With a sigh, he rose, stretched, and glanced out of the double doors. A familiar sight greeted him. It was the back of a shirt but not any shirt: an embroidered guitar shirt. His mood lifted. His feet were light when he raced out into the hallway. Kaplan was chatting with Hutch. He touched his partner’s shoulder, practically dancing with delight. He hadn’t seen his beloved in five days–

“What the fuck?” he said.

“Starsk!” said the man in the guitar shirt, throwing out his arms.

“Who the hell are you?” Starsky demanded. Sure, the dude resembled Hutch. Slightly. He was lanky. He was wearing Hutch’s favorite shirt and his tan leather shoulder holster. Hutch’s gun rested in that holster.

“Starsky, did you speak to Dobey?” Kaplan asked, giving him a strange look.

“Huh? What?” he blurted out, not taking his eyes from– whoever this was.

“Did you speak to Dobey?” she repeated.

“Yeah.” Starsky waved her off.

“All righty then.” Kaplan smiled. “Catch you boys later!”

“Minnie,” Starsky said, catching her wrist to stop her from leaving. His voice dropped to a whisper. “Do you know who the hell this is?”

Kaplan started laughing. “Right,” she drawled. “You’re such a kidder.” She punched him in the upper arm. He dropped her wrist, and she hurried off, giggling.

Not-Hutch hadn’t said a thing during his questioning of Kaplan. Now he gave a wide grin, showing teeth. “Starsk, good to see you.”

“Who are you?” Starsky demanded. “Ya got Hutch’s gun and shirt.”

“Ergo–”

“Ergo?”

“Therefore, I am Hutch.” Not-Hutch grinned. “How was New York? Mom and Nicky?”

“How the hell do you know about Mom and Nicky?”

Not-Hutch shook his head, patting Starsky’s arm, looking at him as if he were a dolt of the highest degree. Starsky pulled away from the unwelcome touch.

“You spoke to Dobey. I heard you say you had.”

“All right! I talked to the captain!” Starsky threw out his hands. “Why does everybody keep asking me that?”

“Ahh, one of the greatest questions man can ask: why?” Not-Hutch shrugged and went through the double doors. He hung the jacket he had slung over his arm on the back of Hutch’s chair and pulled it out to sit down. Grabbing an arrest form from the top drawer, the stranger slid it into the typewriter. The fellow acted like he belonged. Here. In Hutch’s chair!

Starsky stared at Not-Hutch the entire time. This guy knew which chair was Hutch’s. Knew where the arrest forms were. This– person tapped on the keys as if he’d done it a thousand times before, even knowing that the ‘s’ key sometimes stuck. Who was this? What the blazes was going on?

Which brought up the most important question. Why did not one other person in the squad room wonder who this man was? Every fellow cop and secretary should be able to see that this was not his Hutch! Even Kaplan had been chatting as if she knew the dude.

“I’m in an episode of The Twilight Zone,” he muttered, pulling out his chair. He slumped down, unable to pull his gaze away from Not-Hutch. He stared, contemplating. What the f-? What now? Glaring at the creep in his partner’s chair, he considered his next move. After all, he was a detective, so detect!

“Hey, Bernie,” he said, strolling over to Bernie’s desk. Bernie Middleton was a 30-year veteran. He’d seen it all. He and Starsky got along well. Bernie would tell him… whatever.

“Yeah?”

“Ya see Hutch over there?” He waved a hand in Not-Hutch’s general direction.

Starsky watched as Not-Hutch tapped away on the keyboard before he looked over at the report, took a bottle of white-out, and fixed a mistake. He blew on the paper for a moment before returning to his task.

“Yes, Starsky, I can see that far, even without my specs.” Bernie snorted with laughter.

“Does that look like my partner to you?” Starsky queried, keeping his tone light.

Bernie craned his neck to stare up at Starsky. “You’re joking, right?” Starsky shook his head. “You spoke to Dobey first thing, didn’t cha?” Starsky shrugged. “Well, then, yes, sir, that’s Detective Sergeant Ken Hutchinson right there, blond hair shining ‘n all.” He snorted again as if something was amusing and went back to his files.

“Right.” Starsky rubbed his hands down his face. “I’m going nuts. Drugs, maybe. A hallucinogen in the coffee?” He considered. “Nah. I’m in a coma? Hmmm. Could be. Hard to tell, isn’t it?”

The telephone on their shared desk rank. Not-Hutch answered, “Hutchinson.” He listened before hanging up. Glancing up at Starsky, he said, “We got a DB in Griffith Park. Let’s roll, partner.”

Starsky gave a curt nod. He followed Not-Hutch when he saw a half-eaten donut on Not-Hutch’s desk. Weird, since Hutch, his Hutch, didn’t care for the treat. He said he had a more sophisticated palate and preferred a well-made French pastry sometimes. Hutch could be a dork, Starsky thought affectionately, when an idea slammed into him. This dude wasn’t Hutch. He was sure of it. Looking at the pastry, he saw that it had a huge bite taken out of it. A bite revealed the indentation of teeth. Teeth. Hutch. Forensics. Ha!

Starsky skirted the desk, lifted the pastry that lay on a piece of donut-shop waxed paper, and stared at it. Not good enough denture impression for forensics, he figured. He started making a mental list. One: fingerprints. Two: teeth. Three: to be determined. Blood type? Maybe. He replaced the donut and hurried to follow Not-Hutch to the parking garage.

“I’ll drive,” Not-Hutch said, pulling his keys from his pocket of familiar tan cords.

“What’cha drivin?” Starsky drawled. This is it. The big reveal. This–

“You’re such a dork,” Not-Hutch said, pausing beside a battered 1973 Ford Galaxie 500. He grinned over the roof and opened the driver’s door. The horn blared.

“This is Hutch’s car!” Starsky cried.

Not-Hutch laughed. “No shit, Sherlock.”

Starsky clenched his fists to keep himself from screaming. Hutch’s clothes, Hutch’s gun, Hutch’s car… Hutch’s partner. He was going bananas. With a weary sigh, he climbed in and settled in the seat. Jet lag. That was it. It had to be jet lag. The spring that always bit his butt bit his butt. He was going bonkers. Maybe he needed a few weeks’ rest in Cabrillo, complete with nice, relaxing drugs. Starsky scrubbed at his face. With a sideways glance at– whoever this was, he rolled down the window and stared numbly at the passing city, wondering what could go wrong next.

Not-Hutch was efficient. Like his Hutch, Starsky observed. The guy took notes; he studied the body; asked the right questions. Starsky stood back, letting Not-Hutch take the lead. Satisfied with his jottings, Not-Hutch thanked the forensics team and headed back to his car.

“One of Morty’s runner’s,” Not-Hutch told Starsky. “More than likely dipping into the cash, taking some for himself.”

Starsky nodded. “Open and shut.”

“Probably.” Not-Hutch started the engine. “Lunch?”

“Sure,” Starsky said.

“Mel’s?”

“Not much in the way of tofu curds and bean sprouts at Mel’s.”

“They have a nice Cobb salad.” Not-Hutch tossed Starsky a grin. “I’ll skip the dressing.” He patted his flat belly.

“Of course you will,” Starsky muttered. Like his Hutch would. And he wanted his Hutch! Now!

Lunch had been… acceptable. Not-Hutch was good company and Starsky relaxed. Until he remembered. Then an icy fear raced down his spine. What if this… Not-Hutch was his partner from now on? How in the hell was he going to explain to anybody that this was not his partner? He would end up in Cabrillo, no question.

Starsky looked across the squad room at Not-Hutch. He was sitting on the edge of Morrison’s desk, chatting away as if it were an everyday occurrence. Why didn’t Morrison say something, anything? Because, Starsky surmised, he was the only one who knew this was not Hutch. Not-Hutch. Not-Hutch bit his fingernail. Hutch would never, ever bite his fingernail! He giggled before covered his mouth. He couldn’t lose it. Not until he found Hutch. Hutch could be in danger and this- this Invasion of the Body Snatcher‘s Not-Hutch could be the only person who knew about his Hutch. He narrowed his eyes, going back to his idea from the morning. Forensics. Teeth! Fingerprints! Maybe even blood type!

Hurrying from the squad room, Starsky went to booking and looked around. No one paid him any attention. On the desk were two clean fingerprint cards and an ink pad. He pocketed the items while considering the dental identification process. He could go out and buy some Play-Doh, but maybe there was something closer to home. He paused before he smirked to himself. The morgue. Using his best cajoling tone, he sweet-talked a tech into giving him something for the impression. The handsome tech flirted with Starsky and he flirted back. Anything for Hutch, he told himself.

“It tastes like shit,” the tech said, putting a hand on Starsky’s shoulder.

Starsky grinned. “Thanks, pal. You’re a lifesaver.” He made his escape before the tech could make his move.

Returning to the squad room, Starsky stood in the doorway for a few seconds to gather himself before he sauntered over to Not-Hutch. His current partner was continuing to chat with Morrison.

“Starsky,” Morrison said.

Starsky nodded. “Hey.” He tried to appear friendly and relaxed.

“What’s up, partner?” Not-Hutch asked.

Starsky made himself look right at Not-Hutch, a warm smile on his lips. “Personnel just called up. They were doing some refiling and a secretary dumped an entire pot of coffee on her desk. They’re calling all the officers and workers whose identification cards are unusable. You know, in case one of us gets wasted and they have to identify the body.”

“Right,” Not-Hutch said. “I hope it isn’t me or you, partner. I want you around for a good long time.”

“Thanks… buddy. Anyway, I told them I’d get yours since you’re one of the lucky winners whose crap got ruined.” He smiled, rolling his eyes. “Gotta love the efficiency.”

“Sure, Starsk. Considerate of you to help.” Not-Hutch followed Starsky back to their desk.

“Here ya go,” Starsky said, handing Not-Hutch the ink pad and cards. “It’s good practice for you when you’re retired to desk duty in booking,” he teased. “Coffee?”

“Please,” Not-Hutch said. He sat down and methodically did each finger print.

“Great work. You get an ‘A’ for neatness and originality.”

Not-Hutch laughed, touching Starsky’s arm. “Thanks, pal.” He handed Starsky the card. “You and me, we are good together.”

“Yeah, right. Nice.” Starsky set Hutch’s coffee cup down. “Before you take a drink, you’re gonna have’ta bite down on this shit. I did mine, and it tastes awful.” He added a sympathetic smile for good measure.

“Anything for the department, right?” Not-Hutch said, taking the square of poly material and biting. “Yuck.” He handed it back.

Starsky gave Not-Hutch his warmest look. “I’m gonna hit the head and then deliver these.” He waved the block of poly and the card.

Not-Hutch smirked. “Do not touch that candy machine!”

“Me?” Starsky said, putting his hand over his heart, acting the devil-may-care Starsky that his partner knew and loved. “Never! This body is a temple!” He winked, making himself appear as normal as possible despite the urge to dash out to compare the prints and the dental impression. He’d keep the rending of clothing and screaming for later.

The phone on his desk rang. “Detective Sergeant Starsky.”

“Dispatch. You have a call to meet the informant named Sweet Alice ASAP at The Brig.”

“Thanks.” Starsky hung up.

Not-Hutch looked up at him, his blue eyes bright. “What?”

“Sweet Alice wants us now.” Starsky carefully slipped the forensics material into his desk. “Later,” he told the items under his breath.

“What?”

“Nothin’. Let’s roll.” Starsky led the way to the parking garage and to the Torino.

“I’d rather drive. The striped tomato gives me a backache,” Not-Hutch said.

“Tough. I need to charge the battery. It’s been sitting here for a week.”

“Yeah, I remember. I dropped you at the airport, in case you’ve forgotten.”

Starsky stared at Not-Hutch. How in all that is holy and spicy did this man know about that? His brain hurt. It was impossible, but there it was. Maybe he was really in the fucking Twilight Zone. Starsky could only watch helplessly as Not-Hutch climbed into the passenger’s side and settle in as if he belonged there. Starsky stifled a sob, taking in a deep breath in and out to calm himself. Getting behind the driver’s seat, he started the engine and drove to their meet up with Sweet Alice. What else could he do?

Sweet Alice gave them some interesting info about a big drug shipment coming in next week. Pillow talk sometimes paid off. Why had Sweet Alice treated Not-Hutch like… real Hutch? His brain hurt.

Starsky snorted to himself as he parked the Torino in front of the station house.

“What?” Not-Hutch asked, apparently hearing Starsky’s nose noise.

“Nothin’. Hoping Sweet Alice’s intel pays off, is all.”

“She’s a useful informant, and a decent person,” Not-Hutch said.

“Yeah.” Starsky turned off the engine. “Do me a favor, would ya?”

“Sure, partner.” Not-Hutch turned in his seat and smiled. “What’s up?”

Starsky resisted the urge to break his teeth. “Could you tell Morrison about the info we just got? They have a pretty big case going down in the docks, and we don’t want to step on anybody’s toes.”

“Morrison. Right. Captain of the Drugs Squad.” Not-Hutch patted Starsky’s arm.

Starsky once again resisted the urge to not only break teeth but fingers. “No sense doing double work if they already have this on their radar.”

“You’re a smart cookie.” Not-Hutch beamed, acting as if Starsky’s smarts were all his doing.

Starsky forced a smile. “Thanks, ah, buddy. I got a few stops to make. Meet you in the squad room.”

Not-Hutch looked at his watch. “After I speak to Morrison, I’m heading out. Long day, and I gotta date.”

Starsky froze. A date? Not-Hutch had a date? Wait. His Hutch wouldn’t have a date, not unless it was something they’d discussed beforehand. Since they’d become lovers about eight months ago, they had been careful, even paranoid. Dates were something that were required to keep up their cover, to remain partners on the force. They always, always knew about each other’s dates in advance, and unless it was imperative to keep that cover, they kissed their dates goodnight at the door.

Starsky sent up a silent ‘thanks’ to any god who was listening that this man, this Not-Hutch had no clue about him and his true partner. A tsunami of relief washed over him, warming his spirit and his heart. He would get to the bottom of this weirdness, and he’d find his partner, or die trying.

Giving Not-Hutch a small wave, he nodded. “Okay. See you tomorrow, then.” Starsky didn’t wait for a response, nor for the usual request to pick up his so-called partner for work in the morning. He trotted up the steps and down the hallway until he reached his desk. Forensic prizes in hand, he strolled to his first destination, the files.

His request for Hutch’s personnel record didn’t even raise an eyebrow from Sergeant Gomez. Being partners for six years gave one some clout with the folks in records, and asking to see Hutch’s file didn’t seem to register as odd to the sergeant. Gomez handed over the file, with a ‘good evening’ from the clerk, and a big ‘thanks, you’re a lifesaver’ from Starsky. Along with as dazzling a smile as he could muster.

In the corridor, Starsky looked for an empty room. Locking the door behind him, he opened his partner’s file. It didn’t take long for him to compare the fingerprints and the dental impression. He was no expert, but he knew what he saw.

“Woohooooo!” Starsky shouted. The cry echoed off the walls of the room, and he glanced around, startled at his own loud voice. Undeterred, he chortled. “Got ya, ya faker! I’m gonna have the captain throw the book at you! Imposter!” Starsky paused. “What the hell have they done with you, Hutch?” Gathering up his papers, he ran full tilt to the squad room.

To be continued….

Author Note: My take on a Starsky & Hutch version of the great Due south episode Burning Down the House. No knowledge of that episode or series is necessary to read this story.