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Starsky hung up and surveyed the human wreckage of the room. Burk was still slumped at the table, breathing heavily, but in no immediate danger. He could whistle dixie until the paramedics arrived as far as Starsky was concerned. Nothing turned his stomach faster than a cop gone bad. Speaking of which, his gaze swept over the lifeless body of Corman before fixing, inevitably, on his partner. Hutch was still seated on the floor, back braced against the fridge, head bowed.
Starsky frowned. There. That was what was wrong with the picture. His partner was already starting out on one of his patented guilt trips. Picking his way over, Starsky skirted a fallen chair and halted next to the crooked up knees. He nudged one.
"Hey."
Not caring for the rather glassy look Hutch cast his way, Starsky put his left hand down and tilted his head toward the open door. At first it seemed Hutch was going to decline the offer, but with a final look at Corman, he allowed himself to be hauled up and led outside. Not stopping at the door, Starsky moved off and set a gentle pace away from the cabin, clearly expecting his partner to fall in next to him. Hutch hesitated, then followed.
"Clean shoot, partner." Starsky didn't look at Hutch as he spoke, just continued along the track from the cabin.
"Yep,"
"You or him,"
"I know."
"Then, what?" This time Starsky did stop, forcing his partner to stop with him.
Hutch didn't answer, he fidgeted for so long Starsky was about to start walking on.
"A cop, Starsk," his eyes skittered off his partner's, "whichever way you look at this, I just killed a cop. It's--"
"A dirty cop." Starsky interrupted, his calm tone belying the steel beneath. "Listen up, Hutch, and you listen good. The second Corman touched that kilo, he put himself right there with Striker."
He paused. Hutch was still looking at the ground, fingers on his hips.
"Worse even, buddy. You and I both know Striker's nothing but a dealer with a cheese fetish and a fancy suit." He gestured back to the cabin. "But Corman? Did the same thing and hid behind a badge." Starsky spat his disgust. "Ain't no hole deep enough, and you know it." He took a step closer. "'Sides, let's not forget that he popped Crandall in cold blood, was gonna drill--"
"Okay."
Hutch's sudden head lift took the wind right out of Starsky's sails, mid-sentence.
"Huh?"
Hutch smiled and held his palms up. "Okay, as in 'you're right'," he shrugged, "I'm convinced."
Starsky narrowed his eyes, not at all sure it wasn't a ruse to brush him off.
"Just like that?"
"No, not just like that." Hutch sobered a little, "I just... I mean," he sighed. "I-I wish..."
"...you hadn't killed him," finished his partner.
"You didn't."
Starsky blinked. "I wasn't wrestling mine on a kitchen table."
Hutch glanced away, nodding. Starsky gave him a moment or two, pretended to scan the horizon. He looked back when Hutch cleared his throat.
"You are, you know," said Hutch.
"I am what?" asked Starsky, puzzled.
"Pushy," replied Hutch amiably.
Starsky smiled, nudged him with his elbow. "Shut up, and get ready to buy me another beer."
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