“That potential difficulty occurred to Bob Skinner,” the colonel said. J. Robert Skinner, Esq., one of the founders of JOCCW, was an attorney, specializing in corporate liability. “We expected to be incorporated within the week. If somebody sues JOCCWI-‘I’ for ‘Incorporated’-the corporation treasury will be empty, or nearly so.”
The chief, therefore, was concerned but not surprised when his bedside telephone rang at 1:30 A.M. (2:30 A.M. Philadelphia time) and the police dispatcher somewhat excitedly told him, “Chief, we just got a call from Jabberwocky. Request assistance at the Yacht Club Condominiums. Shots fired.”
“I’m on my way. Call the mayor.”
Christ, it was inevitable. I’m only surprised that it didn’t happen long before this.
Dear Jesus, please don’t let them have shot some kid, or some guy trying to sneak into his own house.
When the chief turned off Highway 98 into the drive of the Lake Forest Yacht Club, he saw that three Daphne police cruisers and one each from the Fairhope police department, the Baldwin County sheriff’s patrol, and the Alabama state troopers had beat him to the scene.
When he got out of the car, the wail of sirens he heard told him that additional law enforcement vehicles were on the way.
Then he saw there had been a vehicular collision just inside the brick gate posts. A Chevrolet Impala on its way out of the complex had slammed into the side of a Mercedes sports utility vehicle sitting sideward in the road. He recognized the Mercedes to be that of Chambers D. Galloway, retired chief executive officer of Galloway Carpets, Inc., and a founding member of JOCCWI, who lived in one of the big houses overlooking the beach and Mobile Bay.
The chief shouldered his way through the spectators and law enforcement officers.
“Who was shot?” he demanded, before he saw a very large man wearing black coveralls lying facedown on the ground, his wrists handcuffed behind him.
“Nobody was shot,” the retired Green Beret said, just a little condescendingly.
“I was told ‘shots fired’!”
“I didn’t try to hit him, Charley. At that distance, I could have easily popped him. But I knew that Galloway could intercept him at the gate-I’d already alerted him and others- but I figured, what the hell, if I let off a couple of rounds into the air, he might give up back there.”
He pointed into the condominium complex.
“Why?… What did he do to attract your attention?”
“He had a ski mask on and he was trying to pry open a window with a knife… great big sonofabitch. It’s still in his car-I looked… For some reason, I got a little suspicious. So I alerted the shift, told them to block the entrances, and then I shined my light on this clown and asked him, ‘Excuse me, sir. May I ask what you’re doing?’ At that point, he took off running.”
“Chambers Galloway stopped him?” the chief asked, just a little incredulously.
And then the chief saw Chambers Galloway. The tall, ascetic septuagenarian was standing beside the state trooper, chatting pleasantly, looking more than a little pleased with himself.
Mr. Galloway was wearing a tweed jacket with leather patches on the elbows and shoulder and a matching brimmed cap. He held a twelve-bore Belgian Browning over-and-under shotgun, the action open, crooked over his right arm. He could have been standing in a Scottish field, waiting for the beaters to start the pheasants flying.
As the chief looked, a flashbulb went off, and then a second and a third. The chief saw Charley Whelan, of the Mobile Register, standing atop his Jeep Cherokee in such a position that he could get Mr. Chambers D. Galloway; the prone, handcuffed man in black coveralls; and most of the police officers and their vehicles in his shot.
In a sense, Mr. Whelan was Mobile’s Mickey O’Hara. He was considerably younger, and far less well paid, but he was the crime reporter for the Register.
And he had a police frequency scanner both on his desk in the city room of the Register and in his Cherokee. He had been in the city room-the Register had just gone to bed- when he heard the call announcing that shots had been fired at the Lake Forest Yacht Club.
He almost didn’t go to the scene. No matter what he found at the Yacht Club, it was too late to get it in the morning’s paper. But on the other hand, it might be an interesting story. Shots were rarely fired on the eastern shore of Mobile Bay, which was not true of other areas in Mobile.
So he got in the Cherokee and raced across the I-10 bridge, which connects Mobile with the eastern shore.
And when he saw what was happening, he was glad he’d come.
This was hilarious. Half the cops on the eastern shore had gathered at the scene of a captured Peeping Tom. And the actual capture of this dangerous lunatic had been made by an old fart with a shotgun, who looked as if he was about to bag a couple of quail.
Charley Whelan got off the roof of his Cherokee, tried and failed to get the Peeping Tom’s name from the chief, got the old fart’s name and another picture of him, and then drove back to Mobile, this time exceeding the speed limit by only fifteen miles per hour.
The city editor was still there, and Charley made quick prints of the images in his digital camera and showed them to him.
“Well, it’s too late for today’s rag,” the city editor said. “Put it on the Atlanta wire; those big papers close later than we do. We’ll run it tomorrow.”
Charley sat down at his computer terminal and quickly typed,