The nearest telephone is downstairs in the apartment of the late Victor Bellamy, so Hutch lifts Starsky with a fireman's carry. He hates Starsky's grunt of pain, but there's no easier way to safely negotiate the stairs.
Bellamy's wife, Bellamy's widow, gazes wide-eyed around the doorway, and Hutch hopes she doesn't start screaming because he doesn't trust himself not to start screaming right along with her. Instead, she sobs with stifled hysteria as Hutch sidles in and lays Starsky down on the crappy sofa.
He phones for ambulances and back-up and whatever's necessary for a dead body shot by a cop's gun. "Guess we have an IA meeting in our future, buddy," he murmurs, gently pushing Starsky's hair back from the sweaty face.
"Look forward to it," Starsky says, so slurred Hutch wouldn't recognise the words if he didn't know Starsky.
Bellamy's wife rocks back and forth on a chair, wailing, and Hutch grits his teeth so he won't yell at her, so he won't stand up and backhand her into silence. He's angry, but he knows who the anger's really for. "He wouldn't have got the drop on me," he protests.
He isn't convincing anyone, least of all himself.