Work Text:
Death Pattern
by TLR
Plot: Starsky and Hutch consult an incarcerated serial killer about a new case that appears to be a copycat.
:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
They found the latest victim just after dawn.
He lay on the slope behind an office strip, by a dumpster and a bent chain-link fence, where the first hint of sun didn’t reach. Patrol had the alley cordoned off; uniforms moved in careful lines, evidence techs already working. Starsky and Hutch came in under the crime scene tape.
The body was on his back, hands folded on his chest with careful, unnatural precision. White cloth circled each wrist, loose but deliberate. His eyes were open.
Hutch stopped a step short.
“Hell,” Starsky said quietly. “Another one.”
The medical examiner glanced up from his crouch. “Matches the others. Ligature marks around the throat, postmortem posing, same brand of cloth. Blond, with the same skin coloring, at least at first glance. We’ll confirm at the lab.”
Hutch stared at the folded hands. “He always did like his staging.”
Starsky read his partner. “Professor Virek?”
Hutch nodded once. Some details he'd rather forget.
Captain Dobey pushed his way toward them, tie rumpled, eyes tired. “You two see enough?”
“Too much,” Starsky said.
Hutch didn’t move. “Whoever it is, is imitating Virek. The cloth, the wrists, the alley behind a place open all night. All of it. Looks like we have a copycat on our hands.”
::
The squad room sounded louder than usual when they came back in, phones ringing over the constant tap of typewriters and voices. News of the alley had beaten them to the station. Someone had a radio going low in the corner, a talk show already discussing a serial killer.
Dobey’s door stood open. He waved them in and shut it behind them.
“Sit,” he said.
They did.
Dobey took his time settling behind his desk. “Hutch, Virek was one of your professors, correct?”
“Criminal psychology course.”
“The Gentleman Surgeon,” Starsky reminisced. “Infamous for the calm way he carved up his victims. Such a polite serial killer.”
Dobey scrubbed his mustache. “Since our new killer appears to be following Virek's old pattern, the DA wants us to talk to Virek, see if he knows anything.”
Hutch looked up sharply but didn't say anything.
Dobey continued. “Maybe the new guy's in Virek's 'fan club', an admirer. Virek may know something that can help us, and since you knew him, and you and Starsky put him away, maybe he'll talk to you.”
“I'm sure he would. He'd enjoy the attention, and it would certainly stroke his ego.”
Starsky noticed how Hutch brushed at something on the knee of his corduroys and gazed at the corner of Dobey's desk--a micro expression of discomfort. Starsky's mind went back to Hutch's words during the Virek case a few years before:
I'm telling you, Starsky, I think he had a thing for me back then. He never said anything, or acted on it, but I just got this feeling...
Back then, Hutch hadn't given Starsky a chance to say or do anything about it. He hadn't confided in Starsky until after Virek was tried and convicted of killing six male college students. Even though he fit the description of Virek's victims, Hutch had put his feelings aside for the case. But now?
Starsky said, “I'll do it. He may not enjoy my presence as much as Hutch, but he'd still like the attention on what's going to be big news in the media.”
“Good,” Dobey said. “I'll call the psych hospital and arrange it.”
Hutch said, “No.”
Starsky said, “Yes.”
Dobey sat and waited for an explanation, but he didn't quite get one, yet he trusted that their disagreement was for a good reason even if he didn't understand it.
Tacitly they stood up and left the office to walk down the hall to the men's room, which was empty at the moment.
“Starsky,” Hutch said in a low voice as he put a forefinger to his partner's chest. “I can handle this.”
“But you don't have to. I'm your partner, and whatever leftover dynamic is there, could actually compromise this new case. Ever think about that?”
Hutch’s lips pursed in thought. “So you think you're immune? Let's go together.”
“It'll work better with one of us. And we want to nail this new guy, do we not?”
Hutch's forefinger relaxed and he let his hand rest on Starsky's shoulder, his voice softening. “Okay, partner. You win this time.”
::
Dobey sat on the edge of his desk, arms folded, when they came back in. He waited for one of them to speak.
“Coin toss,” Starsky winked. “I win.”
::
Bay State Hospital sat on a hill north of the city, a spread of pale buildings that didn’t look like a prison unless you knew what the fences and cameras meant. Starsky drove up in the Torino the next afternoon, the sky pressing low and hazy.
Inside, a guard checked his shield and ID and signed him in, then walked him down a corridor lined with offices and double doors. The deeper they went, the quieter it got, until only the squeak of the guard’s shoes broke the silence.
“Doctor Virek’s in the secure wing,” the guard said. “You’ll be in an interview room with a reinforced glass barrier. He’s not restrained unless he acts up. He doesn’t usually act up.”
“Nice,” Starsky said. “I feel better already.”
The guard opened a heavy door and gestured him in.
The room had a table bolted to the floor, two chairs on Starsky’s side, one on the other. A thick wire-reinforced window divided the space, with a steel frame and a slot at the bottom for a phone cord. A black telephone sat on each side.
Starsky took off his jacket and draped it over the chair. He sat. His own reflection looked back at him in the glass, faint and double.
A few minutes later the inner door opened and Dr. Malcolm Virek came in wearing hospital whites and soft shoes. His hair had gone a little grayer since the last time Starsky had seen him, but his face still had that genteel, attentive look that made people want to talk. He sat with unhurried grace and picked up his phone.
Starsky picked up his.
“Detective Starsky,” Virek said, voice mild and clear. “I didn’t expect to see you again.”
“Life’s full of surprises. Some of them lousy.”
“Some of them necessary. How is Kenneth, my star pupil?”
Starsky felt the little twist in his gut at the sound of Hutch’s first name in that voice. “He’s fine. Thanks for asking.”
“I follow your work. The newspapers are generous with details, when one knows what to look for. The Marcus cult. The unfortunate situation with Professor Jennings. That must’ve been difficult for you both.”
“Not here to talk about my scrapbook. We have a problem. Somebody’s killing young men in the style of your handiwork. I figured you’d want to know about this copycat. A man with your ego either hates that or loves it. Either way, you got an opinion and I'd like to hear it.”
Virek smiled a little. “You have an interesting way of beginning, Detective.”
“Works for me.”
“And for Kenneth?” Virek asked, almost idly. “Does he approve of you coming here in his place?”
Starsky met his eyes, kept his own voice even. “Hutch and I discuss our cases. He knows why I’m here. This isn’t about your old lectures. It’s about the victims who are going to die if this keeps up.”
Virek folded his hands. The glass caught the reflection so it looked like there were four of them. “I gave those lectures in good faith, you know. The material was solid. The cases I used as examples were real, yes, but the statistics, the principles, they were accurate. Kenneth submitted excellent work. To this day, I consider those papers among the best I received. He understood instinctively about patterns and profiles, even before the FBI made it textbook.”
“You hunted your young men in alleys and left them where some kid would find ’em on his way to work or school. So my sympathy level’s low.”
“I regret that your view of me is so narrow. But we’re not here to litigate the past, are we. You have your copycat. Tell me about him.”
“Victims so far are young men leaving night shifts or late classes. No sexual assault we can see, and that's the only difference we find between your victims and these new ones. Ligature strangulation, posed, cloth around the wrists, hands folded. No robbery. Blond. He leaves ’em in alleys behind twenty-four-hour places. Sound familiar?”
Virek looked pleased. “Very much so. You should be careful, Detective. If you give me too much information, the temptation to take credit as his hero might overwhelm me.”
“I need your insight. Does this pattern sound like someone you know, or who writes to you in here, or looks up to you?”
Virek studied him. “You’re angry.”
“Three college boys are dead. I have a right.”
“And you’re still holding resentment on Kenneth’s behalf. I haven't heard from him since my conviction. I admit I’d hoped he’d come himself. I was his teacher, after all, and he's the one who clipped the cuffs on me. I’d have liked to ask how he felt to be right about me in the end.”
Starsky’s fingers tightened on the phone. “'Was' is the word. You think he wants a reunion?”
“I think he’s conflicted. Kenneth always wanted to believe there was a reason for people, even when they disappointed him. He has a gift for seeing the structure under chaos and connecting dots. That’s why I took an interest in him. He doesn’t know how much, of course, but I followed his progress with great care. His cases, your partnership. Your survival of trauma. The Marcus incident alone would’ve ruined a lesser man.”
Starsky’s heartbeat thumped harder. “We’re not talking about Marcus.”
“You woke on the dirt floor of a zoo surrounded by torturers in robes, expecting to be brutalized and sacrificed. You were drugged, if I recall the accounts and rumors correctly. You trusted Kenneth to reach you in time, and he did. That bond is... mesmerizing.”
“Stop.”
“And then there was Jennings. Such theatricality. Twenty-four hours to live. A cruel poison, a ticking clock, Kenneth running around the city with that weight on his back, watching you fade and not being able to change the chemistry until the very last moments. And yet, once again, you lived. You must consider yourself lucky if not chosen.”
“Cut it out,” Starsky said thickly. “You got anything on this copycat, or are we just walking down memory lane for your amusement?”
“You’re deflecting because you don’t like me touching those nerves. It’s all right. Most men prefer the illusion of control, even when they’re bleeding.”
“I’m not bleeding.”
“Not yet.”
Starsky leaned toward the glass. “You ever hear from anybody who wants to be like you?”
Virek considered. “I receive correspondence from a number of people. Some scholars, some investigators, some fools, some merely titillated, one or two serious students of human behavior. One in particular wrote me several times in the last year. He’s a therapist of sorts, working at a community clinic. He believes society is corrupt. He admires the elegance and thrift of, how shall we say, surgical solutions.”
“Name.”
“It wouldn’t be ethical to betray a patient relationship,” Virek said, satisfied with himself. “However, I can tell you this. He’s young, eager, vain. If he’s copying my pattern, he won’t stop till he thinks he’s made a complete set.”
“Six, right?”
“In my case. Our young admirer may be seeking to surpass that number.”
Starsky felt the weight of the three bodies they already had. He hung up and stood up. “We’re done for today.”
“You should bring Kenneth next time,” Virek said through the glass. “I’d like to see what three years of experience has wrought. There’s still so much to discuss.”
Starsky didn’t answer. He walked out.
::
The lights in Hutch's Venice Place apartment were low when Starsky dropped by later that night. Two hot mugs were on the coffee table, and something herbal wafted from them.
“You look like you spent the afternoon in a wrestling ring with a bear.”
“Nah, not too bad,” Starsky said shrugging out of his jacket and dropping onto the sofa. He tried not to show how tired he was.
Hutch handed him a mug. “So. How’s our gentleman serial killer?”
“Soft-spoken. Polite. Knows way too much about us.” Starsky sniffed. “What'd you brew in that kettle, hay?”
“Herbal tea,” Hutch said. “With lemon and honey. What do you mean, knows too much?”
Starsky watched the steam curl. “He saves the newspapers. He knows about Marcus. Jennings. What we went through. He studies me like I'm a bug under a microscope.”
“Want me to take a crack at it?”
“No way. He had a pen pal, which could be a lead. Therapist at a community clinic. Young, cocky, hates the world, loves ‘surgical solutions.’ Virek won’t give me a name, but he says if this guy’s the copycat, he’ll go for at least six bodies, maybe more just to one-up Virek.”
Hutch rubbed at his forehead. “Any other crumbs?”
“He says the guy’s vain, wants to be noticed. If he’s copying the old pattern, he’ll stick close to it, at least till he gets bored. Alleys behind twenty-four-hour places, no robbery, same staging. It narrows our list. We cross-check community clinics in those neighborhoods for male therapists hired in the last couple of years and work out from there.”
“That’s something.”
Hutch reached over and squeezed the back of Starsky’s neck, fingers warm. “You want to back out, say the word. Dobey can re-assign it.”
Starsky let out a pent breath. “Yeah, partner. I hear you, but I don't think Virek will confide in any other cops, do you?”
::
They spent the next two days buried in files.
Dobey got them lists of community clinics around the city and in the suburbs. Starsky and Hutch split the stack at their desk, coffee cups in front of them while typewriters tapped around them.
“The guy Virek described,” Starsky said, flipping pages, “young, vain, likes the idea of ‘surgical solutions.’ That’s half the headshrinkers in this town.”
“Other half are burned out and want to move to Arizona,” Hutch said. “We’ll start with the new hires.”
They built a list: male therapists, mid-twenties to early thirties, hired in the last couple of years, working at clinics near twenty-four-hour businesses. It wasn’t a short list.
In between paperwork they canvassed alleys, talked to clerks and waitresses and janitors who worked nights. They got a tall dark guy in a sport coat from one witness, a ginger-haired man in a raincoat from another. Shadows and guesses.
Late on the second day, the phone on their desk rang. Hutch grabbed it, listened, and his shoulders sank just a little.
“Yeah,” he said. “We’re on our way.”
He hung up and looked at Starsky. “Number four.”
::
The alley behind an all-night laundromat looked like the others. Dumpsters, greasy puddles, a light over the back door that flickered off and on indecisively. The young blond man lay between two parked cars, hands folded on his chest, white cloth around his wrists.
“Looks like the same killer,” the medical examiner said.
Dobey came in, overcoat over his arm. He took one look and let out a breath.
“Bay State called before I left the station, boys,” he said. “Virek’s asking for you, Starsky. Says he’s got more, and he wants another interview.”
::
Virek was already seated statuesquely when Starsky walked in, hands folded like he’d been carved that way. Same glass, same phones and faint reflection of himself floating over the man on the other side.
“Detective Starsky,” Virek said. “I read about the laundromat. Our admirer’s keeping busy.”
Starsky sat, picked up the phone. “You sound proud.”
“I’m interested. There’s a difference.”
“Not one that matters much to the men he’s killing. You said he’d try for six. He’s at four. You wanna help stop him or sit here and rate his technique?”
“You give a little,” Virek ventured lightly, “I give a little. Isn't that how it works?”
Starsky’s grip tightened. “You give me something real or I hang up and tell the DA you were just bored. He cuts off your extra privileges. You sit in here with nothing but the walls.”
“You overestimate my need for entertainment. And underestimate my curiosity about you. You said you knew the drill with men like Marcus and Jennings. Indulge me, after the cult, how long did the nightmares last?”
“We’re not talking about Marcus.”
“I read the transcripts and reports so generously provided,” Virek went on, like Starsky hadn’t spoken. “You woke on that stone floor thinking you were going to die. You’d been drugged. You hallucinated Kenneth above you as a kind of... angel of rescue. That’s quite a powerful imprint.”
“Cut it out.”
“And Jennings,” Virek continued, unruffled. “The poison, the clock. Twenty-four hours. As cops, you knew what death looked like from the outside. Then Kenneth got to watch it creeping up on the inside of someone he loves while the hands ticked. That must’ve left marks on both of you.”
Starsky’s stomach twisted. “You done?”
“Kenneth is tenacious. Does part of you resent him for that? For dragging you through the hell you call cases? For the nights you lie in a hospital bed wondering if this is the time you, or him for that matter, don’t pull through? Do you ever wish you’d chosen a partner who didn’t lean so hard into the fire?”
Starsky felt the words land in places he didn’t like to visit when he was alone, let alone in front of glass and a killer. “No,” he said. His voice came out thick with vulnerability. “You want me to say yes so you can nod like you figured something out. But the answer’s no. I’d take a thousand Marcus freaks and a hundred Jennings clocks before I’d walk away from my partner. That’s the part you’ll never get.”
Virek studied him. “You’re bleeding again,” he said quietly, and with some gloating.
“You got a name or not? Because if all you’ve got is amateur hour, I’ve heard better from guys on barstools.”
Virek smiled faintly. “Alan is his first name.”
Starsky blinked. “Last name?”
“No idea. It could be a false name. Claims to be a counselor at a community clinic. He wrote me about the ‘futility’ of therapy with certain clients. He’s frustrated, feels unseen. A blond man betrayed him once. He wants the world to recognize his clarity. I’ve never met him, but his letters showed... potential.”
Starsky scribbled. “Clinic?”
Virek shrugged. “He’s been at more than one. He mentioned big rooms with metal folding chairs and coffee machines that never quite work. Male support groups. Alcohol. Relationship issues. Trauma.”
“Neighborhood?”
Virek named an area that fit two of the clinics on their list and came close to the others.
“He feels the alleys are appropriate,” Virek added. “That’s how he put it. No decorations. Just the back side of things.”
Starsky watched him. “What else?”
“He won’t be satisfied with alleys forever. He wants to go bigger. Something tied to his work. Public enough to send a message, private enough to give him time. You’ll want to watch where men gather together, then walk alone back to their cars or down dark alleys.”
“You could’ve said all that last time.”
“I didn’t know if you’d earned it yet. Now I see that you have.”
Starsky almost dropped the phone. “Earned it?”
“You’re under pressure. You’re questioning yourself. That’s fertile ground. I’m pleased.”
“We’re done for now.”
“You should bring Kenneth,” Virek said as Starsky stood. “He owes me a conversation.”
“Yeah,” Starsky said. “In your dreams.”
He walked out.
::
Hutch went to Starsky’s house for an update, but the door was unlocked, which stopped him cold.
Starsky didn’t normally leave his door unlocked, so Hutch stepped inside with his hand inside his jacket of the too-quiet apartment.
“Starsk?”
Nothing.
The living room was untouched. No sign of a struggle, no overturned furniture, no broken glass. The kitchen table held a cold empty mug, a ring of dried coffee at the bottom. Time had passed. Too much of it.
Hutch moved through the apartment carefully, cataloging. Jacket gone. Shoes gone. Gun gone.
In the bedroom, he found the scrap of paper on the nightstand, torn from the small notebook he carried in his pocket. One word written in his handwriting: ~Alan~
Hutch looked at it, studying and processing. An obvious possible lead Virek had given him regarding the copycat killer.
“Damn it,” Hutch breathed.
The name settled into his stomach like a stone. He didn’t know who Alan was, yet, but he knew with a certainty that chilled him, that the copycat case had just turned personal.
::
Virek smiled before Hutch said a word.
It was the same small, indulgent smile he’d used before, the one that suggested anticipation rather than surprise.
“You came to see me, Kenneth,” Virek said mildly. “Thank you.”
Hutch stayed standing. “You know why I'm here.”
Virek folded his hands on the table, eyes bright with interest. “Of course I do.”
Hutch felt it then. The click, the alignment of pieces that had never been random. The copycat murders. The escalation. The way Virek had studied Starsky a little too closely.
“You used someone to get to me, by abducting Starsky,” Hutch said. “You know how to push buttons, and you know how to hurt people. Alan. Who is he?”
Virek’s smile deepened. “Alan Pierce. Very talented. Very... receptive.”
Hutch’s chest tightened. “Where is Starsky.”
“In safe hands. As safe as he can be, given the circumstances.”
Hutch leaned forward, hands on the table. His voice came out rough. “Where.”
Virek tilted his head, and silence stretched. Virek studied him with open fascination now, no longer pretending this was about anything else.
“You know,” Virek said delicately, “I always wondered how far you’d go.”
Hutch didn’t answer.
“How much you’d give.”
Still nothing.
Virek’s gaze dropped, then lifted again, deliberate. “Would you do anything to get him back?”
Hutch closed his eyes.
When he opened them again, something inside him had gone very still.
“Yes, Professor,” he said. “Whatever you want. If it brings Starsky back.”
Virek’s satisfaction was immediate, as if very pleased, and he wore a fond smile.
“The basement. Pierce’s clinic. Go quickly. Time matters. Then come back and see me.”
Hutch turned without another word.
::
Alan Pierce was dead when Hutch found him in one end of the basement in his home.
Slumped at his desk, gun on the floor, blood drying dark against paperwork. A neat hole. No hesitation and no drama.
The opposite end of the basement was worse.
Starsky lay on a gurney, wrists bound, shirt half-unbuttoned, skin waxy and pale. There was a bruise along his jaw, another at his cheek, another at his temple, a swollen eye, a split lip. An IV line hung uselessly nearby.
“Starsk,” Hutch gasped, already moving toward him.
He checked breathing. Pulse. Weak, but there.
Relief hit him so hard his knees nearly gave out, and cupped the unbruised side of his partner's face. “Oh buddy. I'm here. Help won't be long now.”
But this time Starsky didn't respond. He couldn't.
::
Hutch called it in. Ambulance. Dobey. Coroner. Crime lab.
He stayed with Starsky until the paramedics took over, one hand never leaving his shoulder.
::
Later in a recovery room at Memorial Hospital.
Starsky woke to white light and the steady beep of a monitor.
“Hutch?” he moaned as, first his eyes searched around for his blond head, then his hand. “Hutch?”
Captain Dobey stood at the foot of the bed.
Starsky’s heart kicked hard. “Where? Where is he?”
Dobey didn’t answer right away. That told Starsky everything.
“I’ve got an APB out,” Dobey said carefully. “Soon as we know more I'll--”
Starsky tried to sit up, and pain detonated through his ribs.
“Easy,” the nurse said, already reaching for the syringe.
Starsky shook his head, panic sharpening. “He wouldn’t just... leave me here like this. He'd be here. He'd leave a note or somethin'.”
The injection burned, then the room blurred around him as Dobey’s voice drifted closer.
“Rest, son.”
Starsky fought it as much as he could, confused, lost, and dazed; and fell back into the darkness with Hutch’s name caught in his throat.
::
Dr. Virek’s cell smelled faintly of cologne and newspaper ink. He had quite a collection of articles on murders in Bay City, going back a few years, some specifically pertaining to the ones solved by Detectives Starsky and Hutchinson.
Hutch sat where Virek gestured. The tables had turned, and not in a good way, but it was too late to care about that now. It was time to pay the piper. A memory of Artie Solkin rose so strongly in his mind that he nearly retched, or bolted. But he hadn't come to back out. This was for Starsky, and he would do anything for Starsky.
Virek looked radiant.
“My dream, Kenneth,” he said. “Is you. Realized. I think you understand that now.”
Hutch said nothing as he felt the man's eyes travel from the bottom of his shoes to the top of his head, to finally linger on his blond hair and face. He'd been deceived. He hadn't seen this coming, not by a long shot. The orchestration was mindbending.
“You’ll visit me here,” Virek continued with a mild certainty. “Every other Sunday. Either here in my cell, or in the visiting area, or with glass between us, it doesn't matter. You’ll write me once a week, and I want you to enclose photographs of yourself, and thoughtful gifts.”
Hutch nodded.
“I'm permitted jewelry with no sharp edges,” Virek added. “Candy. Cigars. I have discerning tastes.”
Hutch’s stomach clenched.
“And in return,” Virek said kindly, “Starsky remains... untouched.”
Hutch swallowed. He'd never felt so childlike, useless, and impotent in all of his life. “I understand.”
Virek reached across the small table, not touching him, but close enough to make the point.
“I knew you would.”
::
Hutch went to see Starsky as if nothing had happened, sitting next to his hospital bed and handing him a movie magazine and a chilled soda.
“Huh?” Starsky asked. “Hey, you okay? Where you been?”
“Just tidying up some loose ends on the Pierce case. How you doing?”
Starsky sensed something beneath Hutch's friendly demeanor, but didn't press. Not yet. He'd wait until he was out of the hospital, and then he'd get to the bottom of it, with or without Hutch's help.
“Pain meds are dreamy,” Starsky shrugged. “Dobey tried to fill me in, but I was loopy, so...”
“Pierce abducted you on Virek’s orders. They were more or less collaborating, but I was too dense to see it until it was too late. Pierce offed himself because, maybe Virek told him to, or Pierce knew we were too close, or Virek ratted him out.”
Starsky watched him too closely, eyes narrowing. “You weren't dense. You were worried about me. But no matter, huh? He's dead, and just look how peachy I am.”
Hutch had to smile as he reached out and fluffed some dark curls away from his eyes. “I'm lookin'.”
::
Two weeks later, Dobey called them into his office. Starsky had healed to perfection and had dived back into other cases, but the captain noticed Hutch looking somewhat distracted, though chalked it up to yet another close call.
“Yes, Cap'n?” Starsky asked as he slung an arm around Hutch's neck, as if he too sensed something was off with his partner and wanted, out of habit or instinct, to be close and supportive.
“Check this out,” Dobey said handing Starsky a copy of Bay City's morning newspaper.
~KILLER PROFESSOR VIREK FOUND DEAD IN CELL~
The detectives noted the photos of both Virek and Pierce above the article.
“Autopsy says heart attack,” Dobey said cutting to the chase.
Hutch read the article twice.
Starsky didn’t read it at all, as if he weren't surprised.
After a few minutes, Starsky and Hutch looked at each other, and said nothing.
End