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January 3rd, 1977. The tree was still up at Venice Place, though its needles were dropping fast. Hutch wanted it gone. Starsky insisted it “still had cheer.”
“Cheer?” Hutch muttered as he vacuumed for the third time that week. “I’m finding pine needles in my socks.”
Starsky stretched out on the couch, smug. “Better than sand. You ever try gettin’ sand outta your socks?”
“Starsk,” Hutch said, snapping the vacuum off. “We need to talk.”
“Sounds serious.”
“It is. We’ve had three unexplained incidents in the past week: someone in my apartment, a mysterious badge, and a star-shaped ornament appearing out of nowhere. We treat every other weird thing as a case. Why not this?”
Starsky’s smirk faded. He sat up, resting his elbows on his knees. “You’re sayin’ we investigate… Santa Claus?”
Hutch gave him a look. “I’m saying we investigate whoever is pretending to be Santa Claus.”
Starsky nodded slowly. “Good. Because if you were serious about the other thing, I’d have to get you a padded cell for your next birthday.”
The first lead came from the watch commander, who mentioned a peculiar break-in on Christmas Eve. A family on the North side of Bay City swore a large man in a red coat left gifts under their tree. No forced entry, no missing property.
“The guy even ate the cookies,” the mother told them, wringing her hands. “I know I left six on the plate. The next morning, only two were left.”
Starsky scribbled notes in his book. “Description of the suspect?”
“Tall. Round. White beard.” She hesitated. “And he laughed.”
The father added, “Sounded like a freight train. Deep. Rumbly.”
Hutch and Starsky exchanged a glance.
A second report came from a convenience store clerk in Santa Monica. He’d closed at midnight, counted the till, and then locked up. When he came back the next morning, the door was still locked—but a thermos of hot cocoa sat on the counter with a tag: For Joey. Be good this year.
The clerk’s name was Joey.
“Okay, now this is gettin’ weird,” Starsky muttered as they walked back to the Torino.
“Weirder than carrots on my windowsill?” Hutch asked dryly.
Starsky shot him a glare.
By the third report, Hutch started a file. They called it Case 77-01: Claus.
On January 5th, they staked out a toy store rumored to be the next “hit.” Starsky brought coffee and doughnuts. Hutch brought his skepticism.
They sat in the Torino, heater humming, watching their breath fog the windows.
“You ever think,” Starsky began, “that maybe it’s better to not explain this stuff? Like… maybe some mysteries are supposed to stay mysteries.”
Hutch shook his head. “There’s always an explanation. Always.”
At that moment, a shadow moved near the store’s rooftop. A massive shape, broad-shouldered, red against the night sky.
Hutch sat bolt upright. “Tell me you see that.”
Starsky gripped the steering wheel, jaw tight. “I see it.”
The figure bent down, as if checking a list—or a sack. Then, as quickly as it had appeared, it vanished.
Starsky blinked. “Did he just…?”
Hutch opened the car door, gun in hand. “Come on.”
They sprinted across the street, boots slapping pavement. But when they reached the roof access ladder, there was nothing. No prints. No sign of tampering. Only a faint, lingering sound carried on the cold January air.
Ho. Ho. Ho.
Starsky leaned against the wall, chest heaving. “Well, Hutch… looks like the fat man’s real after all.”
Hutch holstered his weapon, staring at the empty rooftop. His logical mind screamed for answers. But his gut, the same gut that had told him to trust Starsky on a hundred cases, whispered something else.
“Maybe,” he admitted softly.
Starsky grinned. “Guess we’ll be seein’ him next Christmas.”
Hutch sighed. “God help us.”
Case File: Claus – The Impostor
By mid-January, Hutch’s “Claus file” had thickened with reports: sightings, odd gifts, no break-ins that made sense. But then one case finally smelled like the real thing—real as in criminal.
A jewelry store in West Hollywood reported a man in a Santa suit emptying the safe. Witnesses swore he laughed all the way out the door.
“Now we’re talkin’,” Starsky said as they pulled up to the scene. “Not jolly ol’ Saint Nick—just a crook in a costume.”
“Finally,” Hutch agreed. “Something logical.”
The store manager, pale and shaken, gave his statement. “Red suit. White beard. Big guy. He said—” the man hesitated— “‘Merry Christmas,’ and then he was gone.”
“Gone how?” Starsky pressed.
The manager pointed to the alley. “One second he was there, the next he wasn’t. Just… gone.”
Hutch scribbled in his notebook but muttered, “Nobody just vanishes.”
Starsky raised an eyebrow. “You keep sayin’ that, but this file’s gettin’ really inconsistent with your logic, partner.”
They tracked a lead: a low-level thief named Eddie Greco. Eddie was known for disguises, and a pawn ticket in his name surfaced with one of the stolen bracelets.
Starsky and Hutch cornered him in a dingy bar two nights later.
“Eddie,” Starsky said as they slid into the booth across from him. “How’s business? You and the elves keepin’ busy?”
Eddie froze, then smirked nervously. “Okay, okay—you got me. Yeah, I wore the suit. Easy cover, right? Nobody questions Santa.”
Hutch’s eyes narrowed. “How’d you get out of that alley?”
Eddie blinked. “What alley?”
“The one you disappeared into.”
Eddie swore he’d never been in an alley. He ran out of the store, around the corner, ducked into his car and drove off slowly like a model citizen. No rooftop, no magic. Just a car and a disguise.
“See?” Hutch said when they left Eddie in custody. “Case closed. Impostor in a Santa suit.”
Starsky wasn’t convinced. “Then how’d the manager see him vanish?”
Hutch shrugged. “People panic. They misremember. Witnesses are unreliable.”
That night, Hutch returned to Venice Place, exhausted but relieved. At least one mystery solved.
Until he noticed the box on his coffee table. He groaned.
Wrapped in green paper, tied with twine. Tag addressed to Kenneth.
Heart thumping, Hutch peeled back the paper. Inside was the exact bracelet Eddie had pawned—only this one sparkled brighter, as though newly made. Tucked beside it was a note, written in looping script:
“Not all Santas are impostors. – S.C.”
Hutch sat back, stunned.
The bells on the greenhouse door that Starsky refused to let Hutch remove – Burglar alarm - jingled softly though no one touched them. Outside, faint but deep, came the sound again.
Ho. Ho. Ho.
Starsky banged on the door a minute later, bag of takeout in his hands. “You’ll never believe what Huggy just told me—another Santa sighting at the pier!”
He stopped short when he saw Hutch holding the bracelet and note.
Starsky groaned. “Guess the case ain’t closed after all, huh?”
Hutch managed a shaky smile. “No, Starsk. I think it’s just getting started.”
Case File: Claus – The Big Reveal
Christmas Eve, 1978.
It was Christmas Eve again at Venice Place. The lights from the little tree blinked steadily, casting colorful shadows across the apartment.
The Claus file had grown to three inches thick. Dozens of witness reports, odd gifts, unexplained sounds, and impossible vanishings.
That night, Venice Place was warm with the smell of cocoa and pine. The tree twinkled, the wind chimes outside the greenhouse window sang whenever the wind blew.
Starsky flopped on the couch, flipping through the thick folder. “A whole year we’ve been on this. A year of laughs, vanishing acts, and cookies missin’ off plates.”
“And jewel theives named Eddie Greco,” Hutch added.
Starsky grinned. “Don’t forget your mystery ornament.”
Hutch sighed, rubbing at the back of his neck. He didn’t want to admit anything, but his eyes kept drifting to the silver star on top of the tree. The one he hadn’t bought. The one that had shown up under the branches last year, with a neat little engraving: See you next year.
He set his cocoa down. “Starsk, what if tonight’s the night? What if we stake it out, really stake it out?”
Starsky’s eyes lit. “You mean catch the big guy red-handed? You’re on.”
Hutch straightened. “We do this like any other case. Lights off. Quiet. Wait him out.”
“Except instead of bustin’ a perp, we’re waitin’ for a giant elf.”
“Starsk.”
“Okay, okay.” Starsky grabbed the thermos from the table. “But if I hear sleigh bells, you owe me ten bucks.”
The Stakeout
Midnight found them crouching behind the greenhouse door, lights off, the door to the kitchen area cracked open just enough to hear. Starsky held a thermos. Hutch held his breath.
Minutes ticked by. Starsky started to yawn, and Hutch shot him a glare.
Starsky stifled another yawn. “This is just like watchin’ Huggy’s bar after hours. Nothin’ happens till—”
Jingle. Jingle.
The bells on the other side of the greenhouse door stirred, soft and deliberate.
Both men froze.
A faint glow seeped under the door. Not headlights. Not moonlight. A golden shimmer, pulsing gently like a heartbeat.
Then—footsteps. Heavy, deliberate. Boots.
Starsky mouthed, You seein’ this?
Hutch could only nod.
The doorknob turned. The door creaked open.
The Encounter
He filled the doorway like a storybook illustration come to life. Red suit trimmed with fur, beard white as snow, eyes twinkling like city lights reflected on water. His presence was warm, but powerful.
“Evening, boys,” Santa said, voice low and rolling, carrying the warmth of a fireplace.
Starsky’s jaw dropped. “Holy—”
Hutch raised his hand, trembling despite himself. “You’re… you’re real.”
Santa chuckled, a sound that filled the room with something Hutch had never felt on a case before—peace. “As real as you’ve always known me to be. But you two…” He shook his head, smiling. “You’ve been trying awfully hard to put me in a file folder.”
Starsky blinked. “You know about that?”
“Son, I know about everything.” Santa winked. “Names on lists, who’s been good, who’s been bad. I even know who ate all the gingerbread last year.”
Starsky flushed. “Hey, I was hungry.”
Santa reached into the sack slung over his shoulder. He pulled out two neatly wrapped gifts and handed one to each man.
“For keeping the faith, even when you didn’t realize it.”
Starsky tore his open first, fingers clumsy with excitement. He froze when he saw what was inside: a baseball mitt, scuffed just right, perfectly broken in. His prized possession until he was fifteen and it was accidentally added to a donation box at church. He’d quietly grieved for that mitt.
His throat tightened. “I… I never told anybody about this.”
“You didn’t need to.” Santa winked.
Hutch’s package was smaller, but heavier. He unwrapped it carefully, reverently, and his breath caught. It was a fountain pen, gold, elegant, the exact kind that had been on his father’s desk in the den for long as Hutch could remember. He’d coveted that pen and was convinced it would be his for his twelfth birthday, but his hints to his father had been misinterpreted and he’d received his own silver pen and pencil set instead.
His voice cracked. “How could you possibly—”
Santa laid a gentle hand on Hutch’s shoulder. “Some mysteries, son, aren’t meant to be solved. They’re meant to be believed.”
The Farewell
The bells jingled again as Santa slung the sack over his shoulder. “Now, I’ve got a busy night ahead. But don’t worry—I’ll see you both next year.”
“Wait!” Hutch stepped forward, desperate. “Why us? Why show yourself to us?”
Santa paused in the doorway. His eyes softened. “Because sometimes, even the best detectives need to be reminded—some mysteries aren’t meant to be solved. They’re meant to be believed.”
And with that, he was gone.
The glow faded. The room was still.
Starsky clutched the mitt to his chest, shaking his head in wonder. “Hutch… we just met Santa Claus.”
Hutch stared at the silver star on the tree, heart pounding but strangely light. For once, he didn’t argue.
“Merry Christmas, Starsk,” he whispered.
Outside, clear and strong, came the sound carried across the night sky—
Ho. Ho. Ho.
And this time, neither of them doubted it.