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CHAPTER ELEVEN
By that time most of the neighbors had been alerted by the gunshot, and the police captain’s house is where most people decided to check first. Before long a crowd had gathered in the front room of Captain Greg Jones. Widow McGregor had stopped the bleeding from the shoulder, and mopped up the blood on Jones’ face, but he was still out cold.
Many of his neighbors milled about the room wondered just what had happened, and after congratulating each other on their bravery, wondered if the person who had wounded their police captain was still somewhere close by, waiting to shoot them, too.
While they had called 911, any medical help would take about 30 minutes to reach the small town. That’s about the time someone got the bright idea to call the state police, and get some more protection here in their town. There had never been much more than accidental gunshot wounds in Ridgeway, and there had been that excitement several years ago with the drug dealer and the car chase.
But it was especially unnerving to see your police captain, the man you depended upon for protection, bleeding in his own hallway. It was at times like these the townspeople were grateful that someone else took the risks to protect them. But if their protection was out of commission, how were they supposed to feel protected?
Luckily, it was now that Greg Jones sat up and put his hand on his jaw, rubbing slowly. Looking around at his neighbors, and seeing the fear in their faces he said, “Did anyone get the license number of that truck?”
Ray had the keys to the safe, transportation, and a weapon. He didn’t intend to stay in Ridgeway a second longer that was necessary, because it didn’t seem to him that the shot he gokilled the cop. He wasn’t planning on staying around to see if the cop followed him to where they both knew he was going. The station.
The shack Ridgeway called a police station was an embarrassment. It was so run down and dilapidated that no one ever talked of fixing the place up, just what kind of building to have next. Most people favored moving it to the old woolen mills, which had been empty for 25 years and whose roof leaked in most places.
It wasn’t hard for Ray to break a window and unlock the door. Even easier was finding the safe, since it seemed to be the only reinforced part of the entire structure. Having both keys made all that reinforcement unnecessary. No one ever anticipated both officers being attacked.
Ray was into the safe and grabbed the bundle in seconds. He rummaged around for anything else valuable and decided that Ridgeway must have been a very dull town indeed. He tucked the bundle under his arm and quickly walked to Larry’s car. With the bundle, the car, Larry’s gun and a substantial head-start on anyone who might want to follow, Ray decided to drive away from town, away from Tommy in his cell, and toward the bank they had originally robbed. The cops would never think of looking for him in that direction. Now all he had to do was find a place to hide for a day or two.
Smitty was on the way to Ridgeway when the call for help came. He listened to the details, and reflexively sped the car up when he heard his good friend’s name mentioned. Smitty had seen the news broadcast earlier that night, and cursed himself for suggesting it to Greg. He had forgotten Greg was being chased by that cute blond from WGHH. He never imagined when he gave Greg the suggestion that the story would show up on the news that same night. He had wanted a couple of days to get some surveillance set up.
As soon as he saw the story on the television, Smitty knew there would be trouble, and this call about Greg being shot only confirmed his fears. This criminal was quick, and Smitty kicked himself for not thinking all this through. Of course the guy would come back for the money, because he thought only he knew where the drop-off had been. When he saw the news that night, that short guy who had ditched his partner must have done a back flip thinking he knew where the money was. Smitty also thought he knew why Greg had been shot.
The short guy wanted the vault key.
“So, if I am finally reading this right,” muttered Smitty to himself, “we are dealing with a pro. Someone who isn’t afraid to shoot a cop, or anyone else.” His thoughts raced, and he reached out the window to set the bubble gum machine turning. He sped up even faster.
John Graham stood looking at his friend Greg Jones. Widow McGregor had fixed him up so fast there was practically no blood on his arm at all. Greg was up walking back and forth in his kitchen, tethered to the phone by a cord that was too short. He had tried to call his deputy, but there had been no answer.
Greg was now trying to get Smitty on the phone. He was also unavailable, and no one could tell Officer Jones where “Harold” was at the moment. When Greg hung up the phone, John pulled his friend down onto one of the kitchen chairs.
“Greg, take it easy”, said John. “You’ve been shot. You should get your arm looked at.”
“Just a flesh wound,” Greg laughed, imagining himself to be striking a heroic figure. “Really, John, it was a clean shot, no bone, and the muscle is a little sore. I don’t know what Old Lady McGregor put in that hole, but it has closed over and the ibuprofen is taking care of the pain.”
“What I’m worried about,” he continued, “is that out there somewhere is a guy who thinks it was worth it to shoot me for the key to the office vault.”
John’s eyes met Greg’s.
“You mean this is over the money?” John’s eyes got big. Greg nodded and then said, “You saw the news tonight, right?”
John nodded.
“The state police said that might get the other robber out of hiding,” explained Greg, “but I didn’t think it would work this fast. This has been one wild couple of days.”
Greg shook his head. “First a robbery, a train gets stopped, you find the money, and now someone wants my key bad enough to kill me for it. I would say we got his interest.”
“But why would he go to all this trouble just to get the $1800?” asked John, trying to seem innocent, while really wondering if it was time to ‘fess up and go get the rest of the cash.
Greg looked at John for a moment, and then shook his head. “Someone must have got to the money first, and our robber thinks he has the whole wad.” Greg paused for effect. “Any other ideas why he would do this?” Greg asked, indicating his wounded arm.
Silence. Then John said, “I really have no idea why he would shoot you.” Then more silence.
Greg thought to himself that John probably knew more that he was saying, but for the second part of Smitty’s suggestion to work, it was better not to press John right now. Greg looked at his watch.
“Is it really eight in the morning?” he exclaimed.
John saw no significance in the hour. “Yeah, it’s eight, why?”
“I’m late for a breakfast appointment,” Greg said, and grabbed his coat and dashed out the door. John and the other neighbors looked at each other, and decided that if Greg wasn’t going to stay home, maybe they had better leave his house, too.
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