Burden of Guilt

TibbieB

 

 

Chapter One

 

“Thirty more minutes,” Starsky said, checking his wristwatch for the fifth time in fifteen minutes.  “Just thirty minutes and we’re off duty.”

 

Hutch cut his eyes over at the impatient man in the car seat beside him.  “I told Carol we wouldn’t finish our shift until mid-morning.  They know we might be late, Starsk.  It’s not like they’ve never gone out with us before.”

 

“My point exactly,” Starsky came back.  “We were late the last time we took them out.  What if they decide we aren’t worth the wait this time?”

 

Hutch glanced toward Starsky again, smiling at the genuine look of worry on his partner’s face.  “What?  And miss out on a fun-filled day at the beach with two terrific guys like us?  You’re the one always telling me how the ladies can’t resist that ‘Paul Muni’ charm of yours.”

 

Before Starsky could reply, the dispatcher’s voice interrupted over the two-way radio.  “Attention.  Any unit in the vicinity of Sheraton and Third.  Please respond.  Repeat—Sheraton and Third.  A 10-94 in progress at 324 Sheraton Street.  Suspect armed and dangerous.”

 

Starsky stomped the gas pedal to the floor, as Hutch reached for the mic and simultaneously fished the Mars light out from beneath the car seat.  “Zebra Three responding, Control,” Hutch answered.  “ETA approximately eight minutes.”

 

“Make it six,” Starsky interjected, jerking the steering wheel sharply to make a quick left onto Sheraton.

 

“Correction,” Hutch added.  “ETA six minutes.”

 

“Ten-four, Zebra Three.  Back-up en route.  ETA twelve minutes.  Witnesses report customers in the building.  Possible hostage situation.”

 

Starsky shot a look at his partner and mumbled irritably, “So much for bein’ on time to pick up the girls.”

 

˜  ™

 

A block from the grocery store, Starsky pulled the Torino to the curb and jumped out.  Hutch bailed out, too, and sprinted down the sidewalk toward the crime scene.  As they approached the market’s parking lot, both detectives ducked back out of view from the glass storefront.  Hutch pulled his .357 Magnum and checked the cylinder.  “How do you want to play it?”

 

“The usual routine,” Starsky answered, checking his weapon as well.  “You wanna stroll in the front door while I find a back way in?”

 

“Fine with me.  You played the dummy last time,” Hutch answered, holstering the Magnum and zipping the baseball jacket to hide the weapon.

 

Starsky gave him a lopsided grin.  “Yeah, well I know that part comes a lot easier for you, Blintz, so be my guest.” 

 

Hutch curled his lips in mock disgust, but didn’t argue. 

 

Heading toward the alleyway, Starsky turned back for one last look at Hutch.  “Hey—”

 

Hutch stopped and looked back over his shoulder.  With a nervous smile, he tilted his head slightly toward Starsky, acknowledging the silent warning to be careful.  “You, too,” he muttered beneath his breath.  It was a ritual that often passed between them in those final moments before facing danger. 

 

Starsky nodded back before continuing quietly down the alley in search of a back entrance.  Relieved there were no vagrants sleeping behind the buildings, he quickly located the back door of the market, eased it open, and slipped inside.  Cautiously flattening himself against the wall, he held his breath and listened for the sounds of what was going down in the front part of the store.

 

“I said get down!  You, there!  Keep those hands flat on the floor or I’ll blow your freakin’ head off!”

 

The robber’s voice was too high-pitched and nervous, riddled with fear.  Starsky heard a frightened whimper in reply to the gunman’s warning.  From behind, the man appeared to be young, his body as tall and straight as a basketball player’s.  His longish blond hair curled in unruly patches along the nape of his neck and around his ears, showing his obvious disdain for barbers.  Why aren’t you out on a court shootin’ a few hoops, kid?

 

“I ain’t tellin’ you again, bitch!  Either stay down, or I’ll put ya down!”  Despite the bold words, Starsky could tell this kid was about to lose it.  Probably his first heist.  Holdup guys like him were the most dangerous—easily spooked, rarely thinking before pulling the trigger.

 

Starsky crept forward, stayed low to the floor, and made his way to the swinging aluminum door separating the back of the store from the front.  He carefully peeked around the seven-foot panel, getting his first glimpse of the action out front.  He waited only a heartbeat before hearing his partner’s noisy entrance.

 

“Hey…w-w-what’s goin’ on here?” Hutch stuttered.

 

Starsky peered through the crack in the door, as the jittery gunman swung in Hutch’s direction and pointed his weapon at the detective.  He watched as Hutch’s eyes went wide with fear—genuine or feigned, he was pretty damned convincing.

 

“You!  Lock that door behind you and get over here.  This is a stickup, and if you don’t wanna find yourself dead, you’ll do like I say!”

 

Holding his hands up before him, Hutch played the part of the startled interloper.  “Sure, buddy, sure.  Just don’t shoot.  All I wanted was a pack of smokes—whatever you say.”

 

Seeing the gunman focused on Hutch, Starsky seized the moment and slipped silently through the swinging door, making his way to the cover of a precariously stacked pyramid of huge juice cans at the end of a nearby aisle.  Once in place, he began sizing up the location of hostages in relation to the gunman, quickly weighing his options. 

 

There was no one in the line of fire between himself and the gunman.  That was good.  But immediately to the robber’s left was an elderly woman, sporting a funny little knit cap.  To his right was a man about forty, balding and thin, wearing the expression of a deer caught in the headlights of an oncoming car.  Probably some unfortunate businessman making a quick stop before work, Starsky figured.  If he’d just step away two more feet, Starsky would feel a whole lot better. 

 

But what concerned him most was the frightfully thin young blonde woman who stood to the right of the businessman.  She’d gathered a brood of small children around her legs and seemed to be trying to shield them with her pencil-thin body.  A cigarette dangled from her lips, and her eyes¾the size of saucers¾were focused on the scraggly gunman before her.  If the thief decided to take a hostage, five would get you ten it would be one of the children.  Starsky knew he couldn’t let that happen. 

 

Hurriedly, his eyes traveled to the right and landed on an older man in a jogging suit standing beside the thin woman.  Had the old guy not been scared out of his wits, the two of them would have made a comical picture.  He was almost half the woman’s height and three times her girth.

 

In the meantime, Hutch fumbled with the lock and complained loudly, hoping to keep the gunman’s attention while Starsky got into position.

 

“Shut up and get away from that door!”

 

Hutch locked the door, then turned to face the jumpy young man.  “Look, I don’t want any trouble, kid, but are you sure you wanna do this?  I mean, no one’s been hurt yet.  Why don’t you call the whole thing off?” Hutch cajoled.

 

“I said shut up and I meant it.  I don’t need no advice from you.”  Hutch noticed fine beads of perspiration covering the frightened youth’s face as he thrust the gun even farther out before him.  He fidgeted momentarily, but didn’t back down from his aggressive stance.

 

“Okay, I’ll do as you say.  Just stay calm.”  Hutch stepped away from the door and went to stand to the right of the man dressed in the worn out jogging suit.

 

Starsky crept from behind the tower of cans and silently moved to the next grocery aisle.  From here he had a clean shot.  He prayed he wouldn’t have to take such drastic measures.

 

“Now, you—behind the register—take the money out and put it in a bag,” the young man demanded, still pointing the gun in the general direction of Hutch’s group.  “The rest of you, empty your pockets in here.”  He tossed a small soiled canvas bag to the businessman, who quickly emptied his pockets into the bag and passed it on. 

 

Seeing the gunman’s attention divided between the hostages, the clerk at the register, and the canvas bag, Starsky decided to make his move.  Looking past the robber, his eyes locked on Hutch.  Intuitively, Hutch looked up and met his stare head-on.  Starsky signaled with a nod, then stepped from behind the aisle, his gun held at arm’s length before him.

 

“Police!  Drop your weapon and turn around slowly.”

 

The young assailant spun in place and aimed directly for Starsky, his intention clear.

 

“Drop it!” Starsky shouted again.  The kid’s eyes seemed to glaze over as his finger squeezed the cold metal trigger of the small Beretta.  Starsky heard the bullet whiz past his head before instinctively returning fire.  He was certain he had a clear shot at the gunman, but then in a heartbeat, the businessman was there—straight in his path.  It happened so unexpectedly, there was no time to react.  As the slug exploded from the barrel of his Smith and Wesson, time seemed to stop.  Starsky believed for an instant he could see it speed through the air, the lead slamming full force into the chest of the thin man in the oversized suit.  The man’s eyes sprang wide with shock, then fell as vacant as dull glass, as he crumpled at the feet on the wild-haired robber. 

 

Struck in the shoulder by a bullet from Hutch’s Magnum, the shooter spun and dropped the Beretta before collapsing beside the unconscious man.  “Okay!  Okay!  I give up,” he cried, squirming on the floor in pain.  The others, who had taken cover when the gun battle began, slowly ventured out from their hiding places as Hutch reached the downed gunman in two long strides and proceeded to cuff him. 

 

“Oh, God...” Starsky stumbled forward and bent over the fallen bystander, praying it wasn’t as bad as it looked.  But one glimpse at the vacuous eyes revealed the gruesome truth.  The victim had taken a bullet near the heart.  Too near.  Still trying to force his own lungs to breathe, Starsky sank to the floor on his knees and hesitantly reached out and checked for a pulse.  He knew it was hopeless, but went through the motions just the same.

 

“Starsk, are you hit?” Hutch asked.  Alarmed by the pallor of his partner’s face, he reached out and placed a steadying hand on Starsky’s shoulder, then knelt down beside him.  Still too stunned to speak, Starsky could only shake his head.  “Are you okay?” Hutch repeated.

 

Then, turning an ashen face to his partner, Starsky choked out the words, “No.  No, I’m not okay.  I just killed an innocent man, Hutch.”

 

“It wasn’t your fault,” Hutch countered.  Slipping his own weapon back into its holster, he leaned close and spoke as calmly as he could, hoping to fortify Starsky’s quickly deteriorating composure.  “There’s a room full of witnesses here who’ll testify that he wasn’t in your range until the last second.  I saw it—you saw it.”

 

Starsky shook his head again, as if disbelieving not only his eyes but Hutch’s as well.  “What the hell just happened, here, Hutch?  Huh?  Can somebody explain to me how I shot a guy who wasn’t there a half a second earlier?”

 

“I...I don’t know, buddy.  Maybe he panicked, tried to run for cover and just chose the wrong direction.  Who knows what went through his mind?  It’s going to be okay, Starsk.  Trust me.”  Hutch cupped the back of Starsky’s neck and gave a reassuring squeeze before standing up and turning his attention to the crowd of frightened onlookers.  Quickly, he scanned the room to make sure no one else had been hit. 

 

Seeing they were only shaken, Hutch flipped open his badge, focusing on the store clerk still behind the cash register, pale-faced and trembling.  “Don’t let any of these people leave.  We’ll need statements from everyone.  I’ll go out and call for back-up and an ambulance.”  Before heading for the car, he turned back to Starsky.

 

“Starsk, I need to call this in.  You gonna be okay?”

 

Starsky looked up with tormented eyes and nodded distractedly. 

 

“I’ll be right back,” Hutch told him quietly.  As he headed for the door, he stopped and pulled aside a young bagging clerk.  “Listen, how about finding something to cover that man, okay?” he said, motioning toward the corpse.

 

The pimple-faced young man quickly nodded, untied the string knotted behind his neck, and took his apron to Starsky.  “Here, you can use this,” the boy offered.

 

Starsky closed his eyes tightly, trying to steady his trembling hands, then reached up and accepted the full-length white apron and gently draped it over the dead man’s upper torso, concealing the red stain quickly pooling on his chest.  “Thanks,” he whispered.

 

The young clerk didn’t reply.  He just walked away, leaving Starsky to stare down at the covered body and watch the blood begin to seep darkly through the fabric of the snow-white apron.

 

˜      ™