Interconnected

The trooper kept looking back and forth at everyone in the diner, holding his gun outstretched, but not pointing at anyone in particular.

The hat on the trooper's head flew across the room, and all eyes followed it as it flew, hitting the back wall and dropping to the floor. All eyes turned back to where the trooper stood, only now the trooper was on the floor, bleeding from a gunshot wound to the head. Fourteen people hit the floor, but no more shots came into the diner. The glass door was crazed and had a bullet hole through it, the same one that had hit trooper Larson.

Jake crawled towards the trooper, looking at the six young men and the four on the ground by the counter. “Did any of you hear a shot?” he asked. They all shook their heads as if they were on one cord being pulled by a marionette operator.

“Stay still.” He looked at the manager, or at least where the manager had stood. “Call 911, tell them a cop's been shot.” He continued crawling towards the trooper, but as he neared, he realized there was little he could do.

“Have them send an ambulance and tell them there is probably a shooter out there still. Tell them they need a supervisor here as fast as possible.” He looked back at the 13 others still on the floor. “Everyone remember what you saw, you're all witnesses to this.” He reached the trooper and pulled him back from in front of the window, then behind the counter. Jake grabbed the trooper's radio and called out on it. “We are at the diner in Shelbyville by the Interstate,” he looked at the manager, still on the ground, “What is the address here?” The manager told him and he relayed that information over the radio. “This trooper has been shot in the head, he's hurt bad.” Jake tossed the radio microphone away from the trooper and grabbed some napkins and dishrags to put on the trooper's wound.

“I can't stop the bleeding. Someone needs to look out and see if you can see anyone out there who wasn't there a couple of minutes ago.” No one moved. Jake stopped his care of the trooper long enough to lift his head over the counter and out to the parking lot. Nothing moved outside. Jake stood and walked around the counter. He walked over to the table of young men, all scattered across the floor.

“Any of you know first aid?”

“I do,” said one of the young men.

“Come over and start with the trooper. He needs all the help he can get.”

Jake reached down and took the pistol from the outstretched hand of the trooper, then slid out the door. It was dark, about midnight-thirty, and Jake was wearing dark clothing. He blended in with the surroundings, good for him now, not so good when other police and troopers and EMS workers arrived on scene.

First, Jake made sure he did not track up the area where the shot might have come from. Judging from the angle of the bullet, the broken glass in the door, the hat on the back wall, and what looked like a bullet hole in the wall, the shot would have come from a line of bushes about 20 yards from the diner.

Jake sat down against the outside wall of the diner, letting his eyes adjust to the darkness. Nothing moved. He figured if anyone was still out there, they would have shot him by now as well, but there was nothing. No movement, no grating of shoes on the gravel in the lot, no cars or trucks moving, nothing. He heard a long, piercing, whining noise coming from somewhere, and he knew reinforcements were on the way, but, just as with General Custer, they would probably be too late.

Jake got up and walked back inside the diner. He placed the gun back down by the trooper's hand. Everyone stood back up when he came in, but no one left.

“Remember what this guy said, you are all suspects in a shooting, now a double shooting,” he said. “Think of what you were doing when he came into the diner. Remember what he said, how he looked, remember the time.”

Twelve of the people in the diner looked at Jake, each other, the clock on the wall, then sat down.