Chapter Three

 

The Torino sped through the city streets, the two detectives silent, each mulling over the encounter from moments earlier.  They’d questioned the first witness, Agnes French, eighty-one, a widow who lived a block and a half from the market.  When she’d moved there with her husband over fifty years ago, it had been a nice neighborhood.  All that had changed in recent years, but she wasn’t about to be driven from her own home by a bunch of street hoodlums.

 

Agnes seldom went out alone these days unless it was necessary.  The streets were no place for an old lady, she’d told them.  Usually her daughter, Claire (who’d moved to a safer neighborhood years ago) drove her to the market once a week for groceries.  But her memory, not being what it once was, Agnes had forgotten the cat’s food.  It was just her unfortunate luck to be in the store picking up a bag of kitty chow for her gray and white tabby, Boots, when the robbery took place. 

 

If he lived to be a hundred, Starsky was sure he’d never forget her accusatory voice as she squinted up at him with watery gray eyes and blurted out, “You’re the one that shot that poor man in the market, aren’t you?”

 

Starsky’s head ducked momentarily before he met her piercing gaze again and confessed, “Yes, ma’am.  I’m afraid so.”

 

Hutch had stepped in front of Starsky protectively and presented his badge to her.  “We’re Detectives Hutchinson and Starsky, Mrs. French, and we’d like to ask you a few questions about what happened this morning.”

 

The old woman, no longer wearing the funny little knit cap from that morning, pursed her lips and lifted her chin defensively.  “I’ve already given my statement to the officer, and I don’t know if I ought to be talking to you two.  They said there would be an investigation.”  She peered past Hutch at Starsky and added, “Why’d you shoot that man, anyway?  Don’t they teach young hooligans anything before they give you gun and turn you loose on the public?”

 

Although he couldn’t see Starsky’s face, Hutch instinctively felt Starsky tense behind him.  Biting back an angry reply, Hutch’s jaw clenched tightly.  Instead, he answered for Starsky, “It was an accident, ma’am, as I’m sure you must realize.  We just want to find out why Mr. Kramer stepped into the line of fire.”

 

“Well, what happened is pretty simple,” she snapped.  “Like I told the officer, this one missed the holdup man and shot that poor fellow.  You don’t have to be a detective to figure that out.”

 

“He wasn’t that close when I fired,” Starsky said in his own defense.  “I couldn’t have been that far off the mark.”

 

She cocked a reproachful eye at him and asked cryptically, “You Wyatt Earp or somebody?”

 

“He has the highest marksmanship scores in our department,” Hutch answered matter-of-factly.  He wasn’t exaggerating.  Starsky had consistently outscored everyone in the Department for the last five out of six years he’d been there.  Hutch was trying to keep his objectivity intact, but was quickly developing a strong dislike for the old woman.

 

“That right?  Well, everyone makes mistakes.”  She stepped back and began closing the door.  “You’ll have to excuse me now.  My soap is about to start, and they left us hanging yesterday, so I sure don’t want to miss the beginning.”  With that, she promptly closed the door in their faces.

 

Hutch, his lips already forming a protest, felt his temper flash.  But before he could speak, Starsky said cryptically, “Nice to know she has her priorities in order.”

 

“Yeah,” Hutch growled, following him back down the stairs and to the car.  “And such an open-minded lady, too.”

 

That had been more than twenty minutes ago, and Starsky hadn’t said another word.  Hutch stole a glance at his partner—hands tightly gripping the steering wheel of the Torino, the muscle in his right cheek rigid with tension.  Hutch could almost see the wheels turning in his head, replaying the shooting nonstop, blaming himself for something that didn’t make sense. 

 

“Starsk,” Hutch began softly.  “Don’t let the old lady upset you.  You know how elderly folks are sometimes.  They don’t always see things clearly.”

 

“I don’t know that I agree with you,” Starsky answered.  “I think they’re like kids.  They speak their minds and say things that others don’t have the nerve to say.  Maybe she was just tellin’ it how it happened.”  He turned tormented eyes to Hutch, his voice rough with emotion.  “Maybe I did just fire wild, Hutch.”

 

“No!” Hutch said with conviction.  “Aw, come on Starsky!  You didn’t—couldn’t miss by that much.  Now, you may be willing to take a fall for this, but I’ll be damned if I’ll stand by and watch you destroy yourself out of some misplaced sense of guilt!”  The words had come out sharper than Hutch had intended, but he could see they’d hit the mark.

 

Starsky looked at Hutch, meeting his determined stare.  Despite his ever-increasing feeling of dejection, a ghost of a smile played upon his lips.  “Ya really know how to sweet talk a guy, Blondie.”  Although his words were teasing, Starsky was grateful someone believed, without reservation, in his innocence.

 

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The second interview didn’t go much better.  Although the man who’d been standing beside the young mother in the market at the time of the shooting didn’t seem determined to blame Starsky, he did express surprise that the policeman had fired “while the robber was holding a hostage.”

 

“Hold on, Mr. Luponi.  Now, think carefully before answering,” Hutch encouraged him.  “Hodgins, the gunman—did you see him hold Mr. Kramer in front of him like a shield?”

 

The pudgy little Italian’s dark eyes narrowed and he gazed past the two detectives, trying to recapture the image of the incident from memory.  Without realizing it, Starsky held his breath.  Mr. Luponi rubbed the graying stubble on his chin thoughtfully. 

 

“Hmmm...  You know...I’ma not sure.  Now that you ask, I’ma not so sure.  Right after it happen, I think, Mr. Kramer, he was a hostage.  But now...now, I cannot say for certain that he was.”

 

Starsky felt the breath flow from his body, relieved Luponi hadn’t immediately declared him guilty.  It wasn’t the confirmation he’d hoped for, but a small deviation from the resolute testimony the man had given the officer at the scene that morning.

 

Hutch smiled.  Even more encouraged than Starsky, he asked, “Did you see Hodgins grab Mr. Kramer?  Or could Kramer have tripped?”

 

Still concentrating, the little man’s bushy brow crinkled indecisively.  “No...no...I don’t think so.  I didn’t see the thief reach for him.  I guess that’sa why I think earlier that he was already a hostage.  It all happen so fast.  As you say, ‘in the blink of an eye’.”  It appeared Mr. Luponi was beginning to rethink the entire incident and found himself becoming more confused by the moment. 

 

“I don’ta know.  Now I don’ta know anything.”  He stepped back from the door, clearly flustered.  “Please, I need to clear my head and think on this.  I’ll call you once I ama sure.”

 

Disappointed, but not discouraged, Hutch reached into his wallet and took out a card.  “Please, if you remember anything—one way or the other—please call us.”

 

The little man’s wary eyes darted back and forth between the officers, suspecting they really wanted to hear from him only if he could clear the dark-haired one of wrongdoing. 

 

It seemed that Starsky had read his mind, when he added, “Really, Mr. Luponi.  Whatever you remember, we want to know.  We’re just tryin’ to get at the truth here.  I’m very sorry about what happened this morning.  And believe me, I need to know what went wrong.”

 

Less skeptical now, the little Italian smiled and nodded to the two detectives.  “I will call.  Gooda day, gentlemen.”  With that, he quietly closed the door.

 

Hutch turned and descended the steps two at a time, Starsky in his wake. 

 

Neither spoke until they were in the car.  “What do you think?” Starsky asked, while focusing on the traffic, then pulling away from the curb.

 

“I think he’s not as judgmental as the old lady,” Hutch answered honestly.  “Maybe when he thinks about it, he’ll have a clearer recollection.”  Turning in his seat, Hutch laid a hand on Starsky’s shoulder and added, “We’re going to solve this.  I promise.”

 

Starsky smiled skeptically and gave a quick nod, then drove back to the station in silence.

 

“What do you say we grab a bite to eat?” Hutch suggested, as the car pulled to a halt in the police parking garage.

 

“Nah…I’m not all that hungry.”

 

“Since when are you not hungry?” Hutch teased.  “We didn’t even have lunch.  Look, Starsk, you’ve got to eat.  May as well be with me.”

 

The engine rumbled quietly, and Starsky made no move to cut it off.  “I’ll stir up somethin’ at home,” he assured Hutch.  “I’m kinda wiped out.”

 

“We could order pizza,” Hutch countered.

 

“Thanks, buddy, but I’m just not in the mood for company.”  Starsky’s head snapped up, a sick look on his face.  “Oh, man—Hutch—I didn’t call Bonnie.  How could I forget to call Bonnie and tell her we weren’t comin’?”

 

“Relax,” Hutch said.  “I called Carol when we got back to the station.  She was going to explain everything to Bonnie for you.”

 

Starsky sighed, relieved that Hutch had taken care of canceling their date.  “Thanks.”

 

Reluctantly, Hutch opened the door of the Torino and got out.  “Well, if you change your mind about dinner—”

 

“I know where to find you,” Starsky finished for him. 

 

Closing the door, Hutch stepped up onto the curb and gave the car roof two “all clear” raps.  Still discomfited by the thought of Starsky spending the evening alone and miserable, Hutch didn’t move toward the beat-up old Ford until the red car disappeared from sight.

 

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