Starsky and Hutch 1. Chapter 1

Although David Starsky didn't go to synagogue, his apartment and car often had items of décor which bore witness to the fact that he wasn't about to give up certain Judaic holidays. Also enjoying Christmas and Easter, he didn't have a problem with putting his hand on a book which contained the sacred writings of the Christian religion. Inside of a courtroom that was approximately 400 miles away from Bay City, he was about to testify against Alfred Snider King. The bailiff had just instructed him to place his hand on the Bible and repeat, "I solemnly swear to tell the whole truth and nothing but the truth, so help me God."

Chapter One

It wasn't all that long ago that Starsky and Hutch had become sergeants. Starsky's stint in the Army had something to do with him being the first one to acquire the title. Yet it was only a short time later that Hutch got his promotion, and joined Starsky in often having authority over detectives and uniformed officers who were older. All the same, Starsky and Hutch would not have been given the higher rank if they did not deserve it.

The men were partners, but that did not mean they always worked together on a case. When Chief Arnold placed the long distance call to his good friend Captain Dobey, he wanted only one of his best detectives who didn't live or work anywhere nearby the city known for among other things _The Golden Gate Bridge_ to approach King's house and pretend to be a fill-in for the regular postman. After the genuine piece of mail was signed for, produce from the delivery bag another envelope. This one without a certified mail receipt taped to the front. The back having been left intentionally unsealed, show the drug dealer the money inside, with the amount not so enormous to cause even a hint of suspicion that he was being set up. At the same time, hopefully the sum would stir up enough greed in King so that he would sell the Bay City officer with the precautionary undercover name 'Bill Marcum': Heroin, Valium, Phenobarbital, and other drugs _all_ which were classified as 'Controlled Substances' by the DEA.

Airfare, a rental car, a stay at a reasonably nice motel, meals and any other expenses incurred being taken care of by the S.F.P.D.--- Dobey selected Starsky to be Bill Marcum.

Although the captain was highly aware that being the key player in the sting operation was the more stimulating assignment, he needed Hutchinson (also a fine actor but the better typist) to remain in Bay City and work on some important, albeit, extremely boring paperwork.

After arresting King, Starsky had flown home. Then he left again for King's trial. But because Hutch hadn't been present when Starsky purchased the ample supply of illegal drugs from the dealer, there was no way any police department in California, or the world, was also going to pay for his airfare to San Francisco. It depended on the criminal case but sometimes, just for the fun of it, Hutch liked to watch the trial.

The long-legged cop was never the only person who was sitting behind the waist-high wooden divider inside of the courtroom, he'd been told before that he was a real weirdo, utterly bananas, _insane_ for classifying watching any kind of trial as being fun. In no way implying that this friend of Hutch's and who once again would say that he was "crazy" was being malicious with any of the name-calling; King's trial was something that Hutch would like to see. However, the past few months he had encountered some expenses. Ones which had left his checking and savings accounts dry enough that though he had groceries and thankfully the utilities were still on, he couldn't afford an airline ticket. Using an American Express or Visa to purchase it was out of the question. Back in March, while looking at the billing statement for one of his minor credit cards, Hutch had been quick to spot a purchase he hadn't made. No reason to lose his temper over it--especially when a computer had to be responsible for the error-- he whistled, dialing the toll-free number. Before someone had a chance to pick up having the decency to end the shrill sound, the female customer service representative who answered still snarled, "Hello! May I help you!?"

_Keeping a smile on his face, he explained the problem. So much for his charm---_

_Snapping so many questions at him that the interrogation in combination with the persistent rudeness began to wear heavily on his nerves, being put on hold for eternity __did not__ help any. He was known to swear but the word 'witch' was much more applicable to what the woman was. When she finally returned, she said that the rather small charge he'd called and griped about had been deleted. _

_Certainly he was relieved that it had been erased from his bill but, "You call $75.00 a rather small charge!? And I did what!?" Hutch hollered at the top of his lungs. Demanding to speak to the head executive and feeling his blood pressure shoot to an unhealthy level when the lady he hadn't succeeded in temporarily deafening with his yelling replied, "You're speaking to her," he slammed the handset into the cradle as loud as he could. Next he took some sharp scissors to every piece of plastic he had._

Then, though Hutch's current heavily dented Ford had a full tank of gas, and he had some coins in a glass jar that could be used to put more fuel in, he didn't wish to watch King's trial badly enough when to make it there in time, he would have had to get up at a ludicrous hour in the morning. Still, Hutchinson would have hauled his butt out of bed and wearing nothing but boxer shorts put on some pants, grabbed a shirt out of the closet, and then driven the approximate 400 miles to the San Francisco courtroom if he thought Starsky's life was in danger_---------"Objection!" Hutch would cry out. His protectiveness of his partner, who was that much more extremely special to him when Starsk was also his best friend, went tremendously deeper than that!_

Last night at precisely 7:58 Starsk had flown out of Bay City. If Starsk was in jeopardy of being murdered, the one hour and fifteen minute flight to Frisco could've cost Hutch well over a zillion dollars and he would have found the finances to be on board. Not just having a gun on him, he would be Starsky's personal body guard.

Upon arrival at the airport, Hutch would've accompanied Starsky to the luggage pick-up area and afterwards walked with him to the rental car checkout desk. Rode with him to the roach-less and non-seedy motel that the S.F.P.D had paid for only one person to stay in. Escorted him into the courthouse and until Alfred Snider King's trial was over and they were safely back home again, Hutch would've been everywhere with Starsk. That meant if Starsky was in danger of being murdered that he wouldn't be able to use the toilet without Hutch tagging along.

It was a long story why Chief Arnold wanted King busted so badly that he'd found within the police department's budget the finances to bring in one of Captain Dobey's best detectives. However, the good news was that the city with the world-famous cable cars did have cops, plain clothes and otherwise, who were great at their job. Because of those particular law enforcement officers, King's buddies-- _and ones_ _who knew how to use several types of weapons to kill Starsky to keep_ _him_ _from_ _testifying_ _against_ _the drug dealer_-were in jail on various charges and awaiting their own trial.

Besides, there was no reason for Hutch to be worried about Starsky's safety. Before the brunet flew out of Bay City for King's trial, he reminded Hutch that nothing bad had happened to him when he'd pretended to be a mailman and arrested the drug dealer. Having just finished downing another soft drink with the legal central nervous system stimulant 'caffeine', Starsky gave Hutch an extra hearty pat on the back, assuring him that nothing bad was going to happen this time.


	2. Chapter 2

Sorry all for originally posting the story as 'Complete.' I thought that 'Complete' meant that I was finished with writing the story! Not that I was done posting all of it!

Chapter Two

Today was May 15th, 1972. One hundred and five days from now it would be Hutch's 29th birthday. Currently he was twenty-eight and though he looked younger, it was only by about two or three years. Because he was a grown man and not a kid, he did not need to explain to anyone why he had not been scheduled to go into work.

Having the entire day off, there were few reasons he would spend most of it in bed. He'd stay there if he woke up with a massive hangover. And he wouldn't dare move off of his mattress if he woke up with the kind of influenza that wasn't going to kill him, though it most certainly felt like it! But last night before he took Starsk to the airport, he hadn't anything that contained alcohol. Arriving back to his bungalow- the one by a canal-- the bottle of beer and that he drank all of didn't even give him a slight buzz. Having then gone to bed, the hours of sleep had been plentiful enough so that he awoke magnificently refreshed. This particular morning he was in fine health!

Unfortunate for them there were people who started off feeling great, only to become sick as the day wore on. That hadn't happened to Hutch in so long that this a.m. he wasn't worried, and smiled as he watched the sun rise. As it worked its way up the horizon, streaks of soft pinks and light blues appeared, replacing what had been a dusky sky. He was a man, but he liked the pastel colors. Also getting delight from his plants which hung from the slanted ceiling (the greenery potted in soil so rich and dark it was emitting an earthy aroma that could be smelled throughout the enclosed back patio) he was enjoying a breakfast that included bran flakes with skim milk, a slice of whole wheat toast with homemade raspberry jelly, and a banana.

Done eating the cereal, there remained a few specks of bran floating in the white liquid. Bringing the bowl to his lips and tipping it, although drinking from a bowl was something that a lot of people frequently did---

It had been years since he'd done such!

But why had it been approximately twenty-one years since he'd drunk from a hemispherical vessel, wider than it was deep?

Hutch's mood going from fantastic to not so good, he'd found himself taking a trip down memory lane. Without meaning to, it was something that every so often he did. He didn't mind when the journey involved pleasurable reminiscences. It was the recollections which weren't enjoyable that he'd sincerely like to fore-go!

He had some unpleasant memories alright when many of the years that he was living with his parents, he had been abused.

He couldn't remember if the man who he called "Father", "Dad", and sometimes "Karl" was cruel prior to him being a toddler. But able to recollect bits of life going clear back to when he'd been just a little over two, he was certain he had been around that age when his dad began to purposely do things that caused him bodily pain. It was also then that his father started to say things to him that were mean and degrading.

* * *

The more that Hutch's father harmed him, the more he came to realize that Mom let the man do it! 

The years growing up that he was abused to the day the mal-treatment finally stopped; any physician who saw him when his injury or injuries required medical attention kept quiet the dirty secret. And why not, when his father had been the one to provide his mom with the cash to purchase food and also the liquor for the fund-raising parties held at their house? The guests never got too rowdy to cause anyone humiliation, the alcohol sure loosened them up so enough money had been given to build a health clinic much better than the one serving Duluth at the time.

So, how old was Hutch when his father stopped hurting him? Most definitely, it was when he was fifteen. For no apparent reason at all, his elder, who would always be larger and taller, had started to strike him. Instead of crying out, "Oh no! Please, Dad, don't!" he sternly said, "Don't!"

The first time in his life to raise his index finger, which later would be known as _The Hutchinson Finger_, doing so helped to emphasize he meant precisely what he said.

Having finally stood up for himself, Dad no longer laid a hand on him, nor did anything else mean to him. Father even stopped saying such things as, "Watch where you're going you stupid klutz! What's wrong with you boy!? A newborn calf walks more graceful than you!"

Karl also put an end to saying things much worse than that.

Nevertheless, it had been at least thirteen years that Hutch had put up with his father's unkindness. Fortunately, the mal-treatment hadn't taken place on a daily basis. Hutch couldn't say that it occurred each week or month of a calendar year. But it did happen.

Thankfully he hadn't had to endure being burned with hot irons, lit cigarettes, pieces of log that still glowed fresh from the fireplace. He hadn't been touched with anything like that at all.

He hadn't been so severely abused that he suffered split-personality disorder. An example of such would be if he (a grown man) began to babble baby-talk, crawled underneath the reading table in his living room, curled into a fetal position and suckled his thumb.

But just because he wasn't a mental basket case needing psychological treatment didn't mean he hadn't suffered. Take for example this thing with the cereal bowl. Hutch had been seven years old at the time, when his father stepped into the kitchen. The man didn't say, "Good morning, Son." Didn't inquire of him if he'd had a good night's sleep.

Nope!

Because as soon as Dad walked into the kitchen, noticed the bowl tipped at his lips, and that he was drinking from it, he immediately said, "Kenneth, you look like an animal! You know you're supposed to pour whatever milk that's left in the bowl into a glass."

_After lowering the bowl from his mouth; then looking into the dish with strands of shredded wheat (not bran flakes) floating in the milk,_ _the boy asked:_ "Isn't pouring it into a cup an unnecessary use of clean dishes?" _The adult Hutch was certain that his voice tone had been that of child's innocence. The question hadn't been asked snobbishly, which meant his inquiry shouldn't have incited any punishment._

The expression on his father's face and also his mom's who'd just entered the room without a doubt confirming it would be a needless dirtying of a clean glass, it was only Father who said, "We'll still have no son of ours drinking from a bowl. It's not proper etiquette."

* * *

Hutch's parents owned one of the finest houses in Duluth, Minnesota. To get to the main entrance door any visitors first needed to walk up a few steps, then onto the wooden porch that was painted white. This same porch passed the kitchen window. That morning the kitchen curtains were tied back to allow in the sunshine. 

Dad continued: "What if the mayor or any of our other friends had decided to stop by for coffee? Why, if they'd seen you (implied: through the window) we'd be greatly embarrassed!"

Father then picked up a wooden clothespin—the kind not painted and with springs that allowed it to open and close. It somehow had found its way into the kitchen. It was supposed to be outdoors, inside of a bag that hung from the clothesline. "Put the bowl on the counter, and then follow me," he instructed.

As the almost 29-year-old Hutch continued to recall the time he was seven, he remembered that he'd obediently put the bowl on the counter. He was certain that he had been good and had immediately followed his father to a spot in the house where if the mayor or any other person showed up on the wooden porch, they couldn't see or hear anything.

But even though in 1950 Hutch was a good two feet shorter than the 6'3" Karl who had sinister black hair----that one particular morning he wasn't afraid of his male parent who would always have a significantly larger body build.

What he was:

_Was _totally puzzled why his dad had picked up the clothespin, and being in second grade at the time (his blond hair of course! cut in some appropriate style) his blue eyes expressed his utter bewilderment.

"So you'll never drink from a bowl again, stick out your tongue."

_Oh. Somehow he guessed what his father was going to do with the clothespin._ But knowing that having a laundry pin pinched open; then clamped to his tongue was going to feel terribly unpleasant, he couldn't immediately obey. He couldn't! His eyes filled with tears. He turned, and looked to his mother who trailed behind them and was on her way to another spot in the house for help. He didn't know why he had even bothered. Re-emphasizing that the woman with blue eyes and fair hair like his had a habit of not doing something…anything at all… to save him from being hurt, as usual she remained silent. When:

"You heard me!" Dad hissed.

Spinning back around so that once again he was fully facing his father, he stuck out his tongue; trying hard not to grimace though being pinched!

Only five or six seconds had passed, but blasted! The pin hurt! He wanted it off! Too young to realize that 'fear' had a cruel tendency of intensifying how much pain a person was in, it didn't help that Dad was using a manly-sized forefinger and a thumb to pinch more tightly closed the clamps to assure the clothespin didn't slide off his moist tongue.

His dad's large hand was in the way of cupping his tinier hand over his mouth, but raising it toward his mouth anyhow —in hopes that would in _someway_ reduce the pain- Dad only had to glare at him to make him lower it.

"Repeat after me. I will never drink from a bowl again."

"IIIweelnebber..inkumabllahhgin."

"Say it again!" bellowed the man.

"IIIweelnebberinkthumba-oh-bowl-agun." The tears big time rolling from his eyes, which weren't even near being the same color of his dad's dark brown irises, he was so distressed he thought he might barf. He hadn't…

* * *

So maybe the grown Hutch hadn't remembered that the curtains inside of his parents' kitchen had been drawn back. If one wanted to be realistic, maybe too much time had gone by for him to recall that Karl had said, "What if the mayor or any of our other friends had decided to stop by for coffee?" 

To be truthful, he would have to find a wooden clothespin, clamp it on his tongue, and pinch it with his forefinger and thumb to get an idea of how he had sounded when he'd said, "I will never drink from a bowl again."

But it was obvious that this morning in May he had recalled plenty of what had happened that morning in 1950 and because of it, although this a.m. his father wasn't around to see him, as a deliberate act of rebellion Hutch didn't pour the milk with specks of bran flakes floating in it into a glass. Keeping the bowl tipped to his mouth, he took his sweet time drinking the liquid! Then he did something else that his father would say was not proper to do. Instead of using a napkin to dab away the milk mustache, he ran the back of his hand over his clean-shaven upper lip.


	3. Chapter 3

**NOTE: There have been some ****changes ****made**** to Chapter 3 in hopes that the story will read smoother. For those of you who have already read the original version, I hope that you don't mind re-reading this version and telling me what you think. BTW, Mother's Day in 1972 really did fall on May 14th.**

When I first began writing this story, I had no idea it was going to involve child abuse. At the same time I discovered such, I read in the newspaper that a child abuse prevention association was having a charity event. I went to it and learned things about child abuse that I hadn't previously known. They also have a lot of information at their Web site and I strongly urge everyone to do a Web search for "Child Abuse Prevention Association-CAPA" "Independence"

I would provide the Web site here, but I'm not sure if this fiction Web site has rules against giving it.

Also, if you do a Web search for "Child Abuse Prevention Association-CAPA" you will find other states that have associations.

-o-o-o- Please note that the below chapter includes a remark about daily horoscopes, palm reading, and carrying a rabbit's foot that some might find offensive. However, please be assured that none of this story is intentionally meant to offend anyone.

_Parents, Treat Your Children Well _

_Chapter Three_

Those who didn't work with Captain Dobey had no reason to address him by the rank. They called him "Mr. Dobey", "Dobey", or "Harold." A family man, he dearly loved his wife Edith and their two children. The boy, Cal, was eleven, and Rosie was only three. The four went to church…

They used to attend religious services elsewhere, but Luther W. Bassett was now their preacher. The minister had recently formed the congregation, and because several people within the rather large assembly of believers in Christ didn't know each other, Bassett held a series of classes inside the main auditorium entitled:

EYES: THE ENTRANCE INTO THE SOUL.

The class concerning the orbs hadn't been taught for the church members to then turn into busybodies---constantly prying into each others personal lives. However, an elderly man who was full of wisdom and was about to die had told Bassett that he could rapidly find out things about someone _simply_ by looking at their eyes. With so many within the church congregation being strangers, and even with those they sat next to-- the preacher felt that the sooner everyone learned certain facts about each other, the sooner they would become close friends. The congregation had several adults, but it also had quite a few youngsters who hadn't yet reached the age of thirteen. The only downfall of Bassett imparting to the church the elderly and now deceased man's knowledge was that one needed a seventh grade education to understand the oral information, and the accompanying lesson book.

-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-

Harold Dobey never read his daily horoscope, wasn't interested in having his palm read, and didn't carry with him a rabbit's foot. But the minister, with a church body that without intention consisted of all African Americans, also wasn't involved in such fluff. Because of that, Dobey hadn't griped about using an entire week's worth of vacation to attend the class which related to the eyes and the soul. By the time the special week long class was over Dobey, Edith, and the majority of those who were of age to understand what Bassett had taught them had gone from being strangers to being good friends, just like the preacher intended. Dobey, however, had gotten so caught up with what Bassett had told the congregation that he found himself also observing the eyes of those outside of his church family.

Certainly, when Dobey was a cadet in the police academy, he'd been given some instruction on how to interpret body language. Specific body movements could indicate that a criminal who was being questioned, yet still needed to be placed under arrest, was going to try to flee. And when it came to the _eyes_, the cadets at the academy had been taught that if the one they were interrogating looked down while answering the question, they most likely weren't disclosing the truth. All the same, Luther W. had gone into more detail on how to find out things about someone by not just looking into their eyes, but by also paying attention to the position of the brows and eyelashes.

-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-

Yesterday was Sunday and when everyone arrived for morning services although the church newsletter with May 14th, 1972 printed at the top made mention of the success of the EYES : THE ENTRANCE INTO THE SOUL class, the main focus of the newsletter and Bassett's sermon revolved around it being Mother's Day. When the service was over, later on in the afternoon, first Edith, and then Dobey, made a long distance phone call to their mothers, both who resided in Florida.

Of course they weren't the only ones who had made a long distance phone call. Although David Starsky had no intentions of ever moving back to New York, he and his mother, Rachel, had a very good relationship.

Also yesterday afternoon, and before taking Starsky to the Bay City airport to fly to San Francisco to testify against Alfred Snider King, Hutch wasn't so financially broke that he hadn't phoned his mom. When they were finished talking, he asked to speak to his dad. But while the contact with his parents had gone a lot better than what it usually did, and could even be considered 'enjoyable', it was apparent that this morning something had generated the unwelcome trip down memory lane.

_**"Kenneth, you look like an animal! You know you're supposed to pour whatever milk that's left in the bowl into a glass." Karl had said a little over twenty-one years ago. **_

This Monday morning with no painful to the tongue wooden or for that matter no _plastic_ clothespins in view, the total draining of the bowl at Hutch's lips was indubitably an intentional act of rebellion against his overly concerned with etiquette father. So was it a continuation of the defiance when instead of using a napkin to properly dab at the milk mustache, Hutch wiped the white liquid off by sliding the back of his hand across his upper lip. But making the decision to not let his father ruin the rest of his day off work, and one that was turning out to be pleasantly sunny and warm, he put the cereal bowl in the sink, and knowing that he was a good singer, picked up his guitar.

o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o

This a.m. when Dobey had pulled out of his driveway it was still pitch dark outside. The headlights on their highest beam and making it safely to his office, the extra-long shift he'd put in mercifully hadn't left him exhausted and grouchy. Arriving back home, he hadn't minded when Hutch phoned his house at five p.m. to ask if he could borrow the power drill. After Dobey said that he could, he informed Hutch to meet him in the backyard.

Dobey was overweight, but being heavy didn't discount the fact that he was hungry and needed to eat.

When the nicely muscular, physically fit, slim blond arrived at the fence lining the entrance into the backyard, his captain was barbequing. Dobey was turned away from the picnic table that his dark brown wallet was on. Used to just stuffing his money in it, the corner of a five dollar bill was peeking out.

Also on the table was a partially used box of stick matches (some of them having been used to start the grill), the hamburger patties, and the salt and pepper shakers.

Hutch had opened the fence entrance gate and moving further into the backyard then heard Cal, who was standing in the grass and behind his dad on the concrete patio, ask if he could have the $5.00 to walk to the store to get some comic books.

"Comic books?" Dobey sounded incredulous. "Not with my money." Then remembering how much his boy liked reading the narration while looking at the cartoon drawn super-heroes doing their best to protect the world from the overly evil villains--"You can buy them tomorrow," he amended, keeping watch over the grill while waiting for the surface of the black coals to turn white or ashen. When the surface became either color, sometimes it seemed as if the fire had gone out, when in actuality it hadn't.

Cal was usually a well-behaved kid, but not perfect, he remained standing behind his father, not realizing that Hutch was there and could see him if he did something that wasn't right to do.

The eleven-year-old didn't desire the comics badly enough to try to sneak the cash out of his dad's wallet. But having run out of things interesting to do and bored silly, he picked up the open matchbox, cupping it in his left hand.

Taking a match out when not only his parents, but also _Smokey the Bear_ from television commercials had many times warned not to play with them, yet deliberately striking the match on the side of the box, he positioned himself to the right side of a tree that had plenty of leaves which were green. The lower branches, however, had foliage that wasn't the lush color. Those particular leaves were dead and brown. Cal's intention was to light one of those, he thought he could blow out the match before it had a chance to set the house ablaze. He thought that the building that was more than a 'house' when in spite of his boredom he considered it 'Home' would be fine; even though the dead leaves, including the one he was going to light, were touching the back wall of the dwelling.

And while he was correct to think that once the dry brown leaf was lit the initial flame wouldn't be that much bigger than the one going at the end of the matchstick… Once he set the brown leaf on fire, he was mistaken to think he could blow it out before the flame got larger and spread to another non-green leaf. One glowing ember of the foliage dropping onto the lawn that wasn't dead, but needed watering, and Cal would come to understand why no one, including adults, should play with matches.

-o-o-o-

Hutch had seen Cal position himself by the tree and would've yelled, "Stop!" but had no need to when the kid's father had things under control.

Dobey had heard the match being lit. Had smelled the sulfur, and his peripheral vision had captured what his boy was about to do. Obese, but turning around a lot speedier than most people would think he could, he stepped off the concrete patio and blew out the match.

Then snatching hold of Cal's right wrist, he was gripping it with just enough force to keep the hand still.

-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-

Hutch enjoyed children. Contrary to what some people thought kids, and of _all_ ages, liked him a lot too. But because of the boy's misbehavior, he had no problem with his boss, who was his friend, using one of his beefy palms to spank the top of Cal's right hand ---the appropriate hand being as it was the one that had lit the match- just as long as Dobey didn't strike the flesh so repeatedly it began to turn a darker shade. From where Hutch was standing it would be hard to tell when the skin became the unnatural color. In that case, he figured six slaps would be a sensible amount and wouldn't be going overboard with the punishment.

-o-o-o-o-o-

As Dobey looked at the hand he so far had spanked three times, he could also see Hutch's face. Those three slaps obviously hadn't caused Hutch any concern and his face remained placid. But when Dobey smacked Cal's hand again, "Four" Hutchinson suddenly whispered as if in some kind of trance. Dobey couldn't actually hear him, but he was real good at reading lips.

Another smack and "Five," Hutch also whispered and instantaneously afterwards a troublesome fear began to creep into the Caucasian's orbs. An anxiety that grew rapidly, extending into the lift of the eyebrows and lashes, with the panic holding on for more than a second. Though Hutch sincerely trusted that Dobey wasn't the type to go overboard with the corporal punishment, by being an _actual_ observer to Cal being disciplined-- something about it surely had him mesmerized. When Dobey slapped Cal's hand the sixth time, Hutch also mouthed the number. Although he did quit counting when Dobey (who had on a belt, but it was so common for men to wear one with their pants that Hutch didn't realize that it also tied into how come he had become distressed) let go of Cal's wrist.

-o-o-o-o-o-o-o

Hutch moved even further into the backyard. Apparently Cal was too busy sulking to yet notice he was there. Though the kid believed he deserved his father's chastisement, he was itching to go to his room. Dobey nodded his head, and though no words had been spoken, it was indication plenty that Cal could go wherever he wished.

Watching his off-spring walk into the house, the man, who used to be slim, turned his attentions back to Hutch. Throughout the year Hutchinson's hair always some fair hue… though Dobey would never call him affectionate names…not "Blondie", "Blond-Blintz", and not "Goldilocks" which better described the current color; he was fond of Hutch to think of him also as a son. Starsky, whom Dobey had known longer, was considered such too, but in regards to Hutchinson…

Just moments ago a breeze had gotten hold of his bangs that in public he wore combed back. Styled that way he looked his actual age when he was only five months and three days younger than his partner. Starsky had earlier phoned to tell him that King's lawyer was real good, but not so fantastic to stop the drug dealer from going to prison.

Now with Hutch's bangs disarrayed and splayed out across his forehead, his cheeks which were naturally dimpled were adding to the boyish appearance. He didn't look like he was almost twenty-nine. Didn't look twenty-six. Too young to be a cop. _Even a cop whose only job was to hold up a stop sign and walk pedestrians across a street that didn't see a whole lot of traffic in the first place,_ was how he appeared to Dobey, who couldn't get out of his head how anguished Hutch had become when Cal was being disciplined. Nevertheless, unless it was Edith, Cal, or his three-year-old daughter Rosie who needed his compassion, normally Dobey didn't do a lot of touching. But right now he felt like placing a sympathetic and supporting palm on the Caucasian son's back.

And why not, when after seeing the previous anxiousness he deducted that Hutch had been a victim of child abuse.

Of course, even Preacher Bassett would say that Dobey had taken things too far. Although he would be in agreement that it was possible to tell by the look to Hutchinson's irises, pupils, sclera, and position of the brows and lashes that much of his years while growing up hadn't been so grand, Bassett would also say it was impossible to look at the eyes and pinpoint the exact reason why those particular childhood years hadn't been all that good.

Mr. Bassett would tell Dobey that, and in response the police captain would affably but boldly tell the minister that he hadn't been at his house to witness Cal being punished. Neither had the preacher observed Hutch mouthing the word 'four' and then 'five' and then 'six' keeping count of how many times the top of Cal's hand was being struck. It wasn't natural for a person to do such unless they'd been traumatized by a past event, which also had to do with their hand being slapped.

That wasn't proof that sometimes during his past Hutch had --and on more than one occasion-- been treated cruelly.

However-- "Oh dear God!" Dobey loudly gasped, having kept his vocalizations to himself to not startle Hutch, while simultaneously wishing that the sickening knot that had formed in his large, but still unfed stomach was simply caused from his blood sugar dropping so low that it was making him imagine things that weren't in anyway so!


	4. Chapter 4

Aussie Angie, Nelleke (who wrote of the child in the Netherlands who was beaten and starved to death by her parents----How horrid that the parents did such!) and my wonderful friend, Karen (KKBelvis): **A reminder that Chapter Three has some changes in hopes that it will read smoother.** Thank you for commenting on the original version, but if you have the time I'd like your opinion on the new version. XXXXXXXXXXOOOOOOO

Another thing….. I don't know if anyone is interested in watching this child abuse music video I found on the web, but if you do decide to watch it I must warn you that some of the photos are very graphic! Have a box of tissues close by! The song that the person who made the video used is "Alyssa Lies" written and sung by Jason Michael Carroll. I still am not certain if this fanfic forum allows us to post websites, so if you want to watch the video please email me for the link.

_Parents, Treat Your Children Well_

Chapter Four

Dobey had read the background histories of everyone who was under his leadership. In each man and woman's manila folder there were very official looking forms. The paperwork had a section for the person who was filling out the forms to list the current place of residence and as many former addresses as could be recalled. Also asked for were the dates lived at each address, educational history, and like questions so that when reading Hutchinson's file, Dobey learned that he resided with his parents from the time he was born 'till he moved to California to attend college. Mentally recollecting it wasn't until 1961 that Hutch arrived to the West Coast, the captain was experienced in his job to conclude that it wasn't a grandparent, aunt, uncle, or cousin who had deliberately hurt his detective and friend. It had to have been Karl or Hutch's mother, Malena. Or possibly it was the both of them that had done horrible things to their only off-spring?

But although Dobey felt enormously sorry for Hutch, the one he felt pity for: His facial expression no longer matched that of someone who was even a fraction of a bit distressed. With no haunted look to Hutch's blue eyes, which Dobey had noticed long before now that the hue sometimes depended on the color and shade of shirt being worn... the un-slumped shoulders and back were also excellent signs that clearly stated Hutch was no longer anxious and did not need anyone's concern. Hutch's current mood not that of sadness either, he didn't feel like a kid---vulnerable and open to attack from biological parents who were supposed to love him more than anyone else. Didn't crave for Dobey to console him; though he was getting rather frustrated that each time he ran his fingers through his bangs, in an attempt to style them back to their proper place, they were determined to fall back onto his forehead.

Reminding Dobey that he'd come for the power drill, he reached down, picking up an item that was lying on the concrete patio. Entirely giving up being irritated with his hair, the object Hutch held in his palm was a baseball. Kind of grayish colored--

_The last time he had gone to Minnesota his parents wooden porch continued to be painted the same pristine white as that of a brand new baseball. _But this baseball…it was dirty. This ball…it had been battered. This object had nicks and cuts grooved into the leather skin covering. Markings on it the same black as dark bruises. A person or persons had struck it and hard! But even though it looked as if it had been hit with a bat numerous times, it was in good enough shape to toss in the air. Should Hutch miss catching the object it wasn't human. It couldn't feel pain.

Already walking in the direction of the tool shed which wasn't all that far from the picnic table while in a care-free manner going ahead and throwing the sphere approximately 3 inches in diameter as far into the sky as it could go, Hutch tripped over his own feet.

Not hearing inside his cranium the echo of his father calling him "klutz" when it truly had been several years since his dad had called him that and names a lot worse (to be honest, those harsher names had cut even deeper into Kenneth Hutchinson's tender, sensitive heart but neither was he currently hearing Karl call him "worthless"-- more than once telling him that he wished he'd never been born, and…) while here in the backyard with Dobey it was obvious that the tendency of sometimes being ungraceful hadn't entirely disappeared. Thankfully in control of his long legs to not take a fall, the ball Hutch expertly caught.

Actually, Hutch was quite the athlete and participated in a variety of sports. Throwing the baseball way up in the air a second time and again having no trouble catching it, Dobey was looking at him. But the scrutiny had nothing to do with admiring his skill and once more Hutch's eyes traveled to Dobey's waistline. Moments ago though his blue eyes had detected that Dobey was wearing a belt to the degree it had caused him to start anxiously counting the closer that Dobey had come to smacking the top of Cal's hand six times when according to Hutch anymore wouldn't have been a sensible amount and would've been going overboard with the punishment---it was only now that his brain was fully conscious of the fact that Dobey even had on the black leather strip with a silver-colored buckle. Staring at it, Hutch recollected a certain childhood incident. One that was traumatic but some people might not believe he had forgotten it had transpired. Regardless of what they thought, this particular incident, though it hadn't involved lighting a match with the intentions of setting a leaf or anything else on fire, it _had involved_ a backyard, a baseball, a belt and buckle, and yet another one of Karl's abusive outbursts.

The renewed tension over what had taken place sixteen years ago so powerful it felt to the blond detective as if someone had dropped on the nearby hard concrete patio a tuning fork----with the exception being that the incessant _huuummmmmmmmmmmm_ was going on literally inside of him! --- the infuriating sensation was concentrating on making its presence known in the nerves and muscle tissue of both long arms, extending into his hands, and into his fingers! Having no control over his digits that were involuntarily twitching and letting go of the sports ball that was currently in his right palm so that it fell into the grass, a few minutes later the breeze caused the short sleeves of his light-weight shirt to stroke both upper arms.

Those same caresses, though gentle, might just harass him into yanking open the garment, popping off the buttons. Once his torso was bared, twist and keep on coiling the cloth as if he were strangling the very life out of it. But though the sleeves blowing against his triceps and biceps weren't so irritating to have taken on the persona of a big bully pushing and shoving him into the heightened degree of insanity… as a matter of fact, the fabric tickling his upper arms he found relaxing enough so that the tuning fork was disappearing and his fingers no longer jerked… Hutch desired something more than what 'any' piece of clothing could give him.

_Something that wouldn't make him look like a wimp_, he sincerely wished for Dobey to offer him some potato chips which were unhealthy but tasted good, and were right there on the picnic table along with the hamburger that still needed to be cooked.

Staying with the scenario, he envisioned eating the chips, and at a speed no different than any other time he'd snacked while visiting Dobey.

The other man, who right now he needed to remain a tad more his superior than friend, Hutch hoped would also dig into the chips. That way as they were eating the atmosphere would transpire into a normal, casual one.

Technically it already had as Dobey was no longer looking directly at him. Now if Dobey would just open the bag of chips when to complete the scenario… While they were making unintentional but naturally occurring crunching noises that came with eating certain foods, Hutch sincerely wished that Dobey would say, "Tell me about it," as he needed to talk about the time he was twelve. Tell Dobey about it, or else end up needing the services of a professional psychiatrist after all.

o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o

If Starsky ever learned of just 'one' of the times the six foot three Karl who was built like a brick house had ill-treated Hutch, Starsky would go to Minnesota and kick him in the nuts! Starsky wasn't just fond of Hutch. He was in love with his partner and best friend. That shouldn't be shocking. People didn't need to want to have sex to have such strong feelings for another human being. And with Starsky's protectiveness of Hutch being so ferocious---

While Karl lay on the ground holding his family jewels, the chewing out Starsky would give him for having hurt Hutch would include foul language that the brunet Midwesterner had never heard before.

And if Hutch's mother Malena was home she would call the police. If she wasn't… they'd show up anyway.

Charged with both physical and verbal assault Starsky would go to jail. Or maybe Starsk would go to prison? At the very least he would lose his badge and that's why Hutch hadn't divulged certain things about his childhood to him.

For several reasons all very complex but in someway all involved fear, worry, or the combination of both, Hutch hadn't told his teachers or the principal of the schools he attended that not every day, each month, but often enough that he was being abused. Had not dared to whisper anything about it to his grandparents, who lived in a different state, but he saw a few times a year. There were different excuses (in a victim's eyes all which seemed valid) why he hadn't told Jack Mitchell about it. Their classmates in high school had given Jack the nickname 'The Prince' Hutch had been 'The Pauper' only because Mitchell's parents weren't just wealthy, they were filthy rich. By the time he'd met Jack the mal-treatment had ended, but the emotional damage…the hurt remained...

_Hutch had moved to California and was at a public library. From the aisle he was in, he had no clue what the female who would become his wife looked like. He wasn't a genius, but he was very intelligent and her knowledge of the novel she was discussing with some young men and women who were about their age, and who were obviously her friends, propelled him to wander over to the walkway she and they were on. His shy but brilliant smile being an immediate success in getting the attractive brunette to notice him, just the two of them left the library and went out for coffee._

_Then as Nancy and Hutch's attraction for each other grew so that every day of the week they did something together, his idea of wooing her into then marrying him wasn't by telling of his father's cruelty. The wedding rehearsal and ring ceremony wasn't the place to mention it, even if both sets of parents hadn't been present. After the honeymoon Hutch might have told Nance, but_ _there was something else that he wanted to converse with her about. Why would anyone think that he was the kind of guy who believed that just because he was the husband- the Head of the Household---he had the right to walk into the house and announce that he was going to quit his job to attend the police academy? He hated it that some people thought he would do such, when her opinion was very important to him. But before he had a chance to sit down on the couch with her, she came home from a shopping trip and informed him that she'd legally gotten her first name changed to one more glamorous. _

_Though he couldn't say he'd found himself in 'yet' another abusive relationship when so far 'Vanessa' had never slapped him or scratched him with her mid-length fingernails, she began to push his buttons in other ways besides just getting the name change without his input. Enough so that he went ahead and gave his boss a two-week quitting notice and entered the police academy._


	5. Chapter 5

Currently the twenty-eight-year-old homicide detective wasn't thinking about the woman that he was still married to, but after their last fight she packed all of her belongings into some boxes and left him.

His thoughts weren't on such either, but in 1959 from the first week in June thru the third week in August he and his parents lived in the state of Alabama. The corporation in which his father was employed owned the big house in the city of Birmingham; when they'd moved from the equally large and roomy house in Duluth, Minnesota and that his father had purchased with his work salary, they hadn't brought with them the furniture and appliances. The temporary place of residence in Birmingham was furnished with such. It also had dishes, silverware, dish towels, bath towels, bed sheets and pillow cases, and the only things it didn't have were food, clothing, and personal toiletries.

oooooo

In Birmingham it wasn't unusual for those who weren't poor, but with less income, to reside close to those who were rich. The recently widowed, newly employed Mrs. Laurel and her daughter Arlene lived just down the road from the Hutchinson family and in a brick house that wasn't a rat-trap though it was modest in size with only two bedrooms, one bathroom, a small eat-in kitchen, and a family room. The ten-year-old girl needed a big brother if only for a short time, Hutch played cards and various board games with her. Did stuff that took place outdoors, including some gardening.

Fond of Arlene, but it was also real important to get her back to doing things with friends her own age of whom at the death of her dad she'd become withdrawn from, Hutch succeeded in doing so. Also having gotten her re-involved in activities outside of the neighborhood, there was one particular day that they were on the same bus. But while _she_ was heading to dance lessons, _he_ was only on it to have something to do and found himself thinking about Duluth. In September he would enter his junior year of high school. Also a shoo-in for being next year's class valedictorian and extremely excited about it, while on the bus he fondly recalled that in Minnesota he'd gone ice skating, sledding, horseback riding, bowling, fishing, and when school began he would once again sign-up for boys' track. Still, with all the incredibly fun things, the permission, along with the money to do the activities not once had been his father's way of saying, "I'm sorry. I'm sorry for mistreating you from the time you was a little over two years old until you finally stood up to me just a few months before we temporarily moved to Alabama."

Coming back to the present--

While Starsky and Hutch were serving and protecting people they didn't even know, it was common for the criminals to call them all kinds of vile names. Although the Bay City, California detectives were talented in self defense to keep from being bodily harmed-- more than a few times they'd been punched in the face and in the stomach, kicked in the shins, and more than once someone else's spit had landed on their lips. But just like Starsky and countless of others in law enforcement, Hutch's decision to work in a profession which involved frequently being called names and at times physically maltreated had no connection whatsoever with his father's past history of verbally and physically abusing him.

It would be a couple of years from now before Starsky would spot in a new car showroom a candy-apple red Torino with a white stripe. But the Ford which Starsky did currently own, though used, had not one dent in it. Hutch preferred Fords too, but he had a tendency to purchase ones with the metal bashed in and in several places. But neither did Hutch's choice in wheels have anything to do with his father having been violent with him. It was just that second-hand cars, which looked as if someone had beaten them with something, were much cheaper to buy.

In addition, just yesterday when he'd called Duluth to wish his mom, "Happy Mother's Day," he had a pleasant conversation with both of his parents, whom in spite of everything, he did happen to love. However, still needing to get off his chest that in the past his father often behaved more like a beast than a man, Dobey must've been able to read his mind because without being asked, he had opened the bag of chips.

**Flashback: **

**Reminding Dobey that he'd come for the power drill, he reached down, picking up an item that was lying on the concrete patio. Entirely giving up being irritated with his hair, the object Hutch held in his palm was a baseball. Kind of grayish colored--**

**_The last time he had gone to Minnesota his parents wooden porch continued to be painted the same pristine white as that of a brand new baseball. _But this baseball…it was dirty. This ball…it had been battered. This object had nicks and cuts grooved into the leather skin covering. Markings on it the same black as dark bruises. A person or persons had struck it and hard! But even though it looked as if it had been hit with a bat numerous times, it was in good enough shape to toss in the air. Should Hutch miss catching the object it wasn't human. It couldn't feel pain.**

**Already walking in the direction of the tool shed, which wasn't all that far from the picnic table, while in a care-free manner going ahead and throwing the sphere approximately 3 inches in diameter as far into the sky as it could go, Hutch tripped over his own feet.**

**Not hearing inside his cranium the echo of his father calling him "klutz" when it truly had been several years since his dad had called him that and names a lot worse (to be honest, those harsher names had cut even deeper into Kenneth Hutchinson's tender, sensitive heart but neither was he currently hearing Karl call him "worthless"-- more than once telling him that he wished he'd never been born, and…) while here in the backyard with Dobey it was obvious that the tendency of sometimes being ungraceful hadn't entirely disappeared. Thankfully in control of his long legs to not take a fall, the ball Hutch expertly caught.**

**Actually, Hutch was quite the athlete and participated in a variety of sports. Throwing the baseball way up in the air a second time and again having no trouble catching it, Dobey was looking at him. But the scrutiny had nothing to do with admiring his skill and once more Hutch's eyes traveled to Dobey's waistline.**

**Continuing with the flashback:**

**Moments ago though Hutch's blue eyes had detected that Dobey was wearing a belt to the degree it had caused him to start anxiously counting the closer that Dobey had come to smacking the top of Cal's hand six times, when according to Hutch anymore wouldn't have been a sensible amount and would've been going overboard with the punishment--it was only now that his brain was fully conscious of the fact that Dobey even had on the black leather strip with a silver-colored buckle. Staring at it, Hutch recollected a certain childhood incident. One that was traumatic, but some people might not believe he had forgotten it had transpired. Regardless of what they thought, this particular incident, though it hadn't involved lighting a match with the intentions of setting a leaf or anything else on fire, it had involved a backyard, a baseball, a belt and buckle, and yet another one of Karl's abusive outbursts.**

**The renewed tension over what had taken place sixteen years ago so powerful it felt to the blond detective as if someone had dropped on the nearby hard concrete patio a tuning fork--with the exception being that the incessant _huuummmmmmmmmmmm_ was going on literally inside of him! -- the infuriating sensation was concentrating on making its presence known in the nerves and muscle tissue of both long arms, extending into his hands, and into his fingers! Having no control over his digits that were involuntarily twitching and letting go of the sports ball that was currently in his right palm so that it fell into the grass, a few minutes later the breeze caused the short sleeves of his light-weight shirt to stroke both upper arms.**

**Those same caresses, though gentle, might just harass him into yanking open the garment, popping off the buttons. Once his torso was bared, twist and keep on coiling the cloth as if he were strangling the very life out of it. But though the sleeves blowing against his triceps and biceps weren't so irritating to have taken on the persona of a big bully pushing and shoving him into the heightened degree of insanity… as a matter of fact, the fabric tickling his upper arms he found relaxing enough so that the tuning fork was disappearing and his fingers no longer jerked… Hutch desired something more than what 'any' piece of clothing could give him.**

**_Something that wouldn't make him look like a wimp_, he sincerely wished for Dobey to offer him some potato chips which were unhealthy but tasted good, and were right there on the picnic table along with the hamburger that still needed to be cooked.**

**Staying with the scenario, he envisioned eating the chips, and at a speed no different than any other time he'd snacked while visiting Dobey.**

**The other man, who right now he needed to remain a tad more his superior than friend, Hutch hoped would also dig into the chips. That way as they were eating the atmosphere would transpire into a normal, casual one.**

**Technically it already had as Dobey was no longer looking directly at him. Now if Dobey would just open the bag of chips when to complete the scenario… While they were making unintentional but naturally occurring crunching noises that came with eating certain foods, Hutch sincerely wished that Dobey would say, "Tell me about it," as he needed to talk about the time he was twelve. Tell Dobey about it, or else end up needing the** **services of a professional psychiatrist after all.**

Present:

But even though both men had enjoyed their fill of potato chips and also had drank all of the refreshingly cold iced tea that Dobey had poured from a thermos bottle into two plastic throw-away cups, Hutch was still having a lot of difficulty opening up to him. It wasn't due to the difference in skin color, but while on the subject 'because' Dobey lived in a white man's world, he had to have certain skills to advance to the rank of captain in the short amount of time that he had. Wisely, rather than say, "Tell me about it," deliberately Dobey said nothing.

Stretching the silence out so that someone needed to say something, Dobey patiently waited for the younger man to speak. Yet Hutch stuttered a bit, especially when horribly stressed out, and when he did it-it-t-talked, he told Dobey a joke and one that had nothing to do with child abuse or the terribleness of it. Both chuckling at the joke about cats and dogs, the laughing then stopped.

"Mom, who had no cause to fear anyone, for some reason…um…ah…she never protected me.

School… in Duluth…was out for the summer.

Just a few months to go until I became a teenager, my father…Karl… said in a firm tone of voice no different than any parent who expected to be listened to that I was not supposed to go outdoors.

Then, turning to Dobey, looking him directly in the eyes when confessing it had been wrong to sneak to the backyard…"I pitched a baseball to Anson Hudson." Taking a breath in, whistling it out, feeling the nervous tension drain from his body; finally opening up to someone even if Dobey didn't have a degree in psychiatry was providing him with a healing that he very much so needed--CRAVED was more like it, and he knew now that he shouldn't have been silent for so long. Of course that didn't mean that 'just like that' he was 100 percent emotionally recovered and he continued telling the story. One which was non-lengthy, but suitably informative, and finally got around to enlightening Dobey (who still had on the belt with the silver-colored buckle) how come he had become so anxious when Cal's hand was being slapped. Of course Hutch didn't continue the story in the narrative, but--

The overhand throw was one of Hutch's best and Anson's swing powerful, they heard the 'whack' then the ball, and by complete accident, crashing through a window.

Inside the house and right underneath the previously non-shattered glass was the bed that Hutch's parents shared-- the almost thirteen-year-olds, who were still children, stood frozen with their eyes bugged out and their mouths hanging wide open.

Putting them in added shock was Karl, glaring at them. Thirty-four years in age, standing six foot three and with shoulders the width of a huge quarterback, big wrists, large hands, and grip strength that matched, he yelled to Anson that he better run; also making it clear that he wasn't to ever again step foot on his property.

With the sandy-haired Anson gone, Karl moved closer to the window. Angrier each second that he looked at the damage he bellowed, "Come here!" but being impatient marched over to his son who was athletic, but whose body wasn't emaciated although it was still skinny as a beanpole, not fully matured.

The boy was tall, but at the time he was several inches shorter than his father. Finally able to voice out loud a sincere apology for having gone outside in the first place… promising to take care of the window--Karl anyhow grabbed hold of his right wrist. It was the appropriate wrist being as it was the one Hutch had used to throw the baseball with and then Karl began smacking the top of his hand.

Except for the spanking didn't stop at six slaps which according to the child would be a sensible amount, and like a lot of men the brunet, bearded Karl wore a belt with his pants. Whipping it out and looping the black strip of flexible but sturdy leather, _to Kenneth- Ken- 'Hutch' that to this day his father never addressed him as:_ The blows with the thick belt had gone on _forever!_

Causing the blond to totally loathe the whipping even more so than he already utterly did was that sometimes the belt was turned so that the shiny silver-colored buckle also struck his flesh. His parent eventually finished with him, even before the discipline had ceased he'd suffered welts and bruises. His thumb and several fingers also black-and-blue, the digits and the rest of his hand, to include the bottom which hadn't been hit, were viciously throbbing. No……wait… His ring and little finger were tingling, and no matter how hard he concentrated the brain signals weren't getting through to his right wrist to lift up. It hadn't been squeezed as hard as it could have, but he was just a kid and scared, even when he was keeping his thoughts to himself and wasn't speaking them out loud he couldn't get rid of the speech impediment that only appeared when he was suffering with an extreme amount of stress.

It—it--it His wr-wr-wrist continued to hang l-l-limp.

oooooo

The physical pain alone was robbing him of his happiness. Was stealing from him the ability to do several of the fun recreational activities (and also the industrious things that though involved a lot of hard toil were also enjoyable) and that he'd planned on doing during his summer break from school.

His father, who'd taken punishment too far, was a criminal.

When Hutch was old enough to drive it was without question that the cars he would buy and which looked as if someone had intentionally beaten them with a baseball bat, or a hammer, or something else had nothing to do with his dad. When he bought them he wasn't consciously or subconsciously thinking about how he'd been abused. But maybe (just maybe) Karl's bad-guy behavior did have something to do with him becoming a cop after all?

The answer to whether or not his father had something to do with the career choice might never be known, but the fair-haired boy needed treatment regardless, at the health clinic an ice bag had been put on Hutch's hand to reduce the swelling. Afterwards there were x-rays and other examinations and Dr. Lars, who'd been told most of the truth how the injuries had transpired, stated that he couldn't find any broken bones. Shaking his head in disbelief, he took another look at the x-rays and still--not one hairline fracture.

Afterwards the doctor placed Hutch's palm to mid-way up his forearm onto an immobilizer. An Ace bandage having already been retrieved from the medical supply cabinet, the physician wound the material around all four of his fingers and his thumb. Next the doctor wrapped the bandage down the rest of his hand and halfway up his forearm to a bit past where the immobilizer ended, securing the material in place with the clamps.

A prescription for the persistent pain having been written-- on the way to the health clinic's pharmacy Hutch's dad whispered in his ear that if anyone inquired, "What happened?" he was supposed to say, "I'd rather not talk about it," and leave it at that.

_**During the years that Kenneth Hutchinson had been harmed, he hadn't been hauled by his father to the bathtub. Hadn't been instructed to turn on the faucets, knowing that once the tub was filled he'd be made to plunge his entire head under and keep it there while his lungs burned with horrific fire, his eardrums pounded in beat to the terror, and he thought he might drown.**_

**He was a lucky one alright when there were children who were no longer living, having suffered much worse abuse than he.**

With physical therapy Hutch's right hand was as good as new. Holding in it the power drill he had earlier telephoned Dobey to ask if he could borrow, when he had called he was thinking about his partner and best friend. Hutch hadn't forgot this morning and inside a courtroom approximately 400 miles from Bay City that Starsky had testified against the drug dealer, Alfred Snider King. Neither had it slipped Hutch's mind that later on in the afternoon Starsky had called him to say that King's lawyer was real good, but not so fantastic to stop King from going to prison. Tomorrow, Starsky would be flying home and the electric power drill was needed when 'just because' Hutch was going to make Starsk, who enjoyed playing with toys, one out of wood.

Story is now complete. However, you might wish to read the below.

**I was almost finished writing "Parents, Treat Your Children Well" when I decided to do a Web Search on Norwegians. One discussion site said that those who have fair hair are tall. Though this holds true for Hutch. who has Nordic ancestors, I pictured his blonde mother as average in height-- 5'5" or thereabouts. This same site said that Norwegians with dark hair are short, which doesn't match my description of Karl Hutchinson. Another discussion site said that Norwegians with black hair are rare. **


End file.
