Wrong Place, Wrong Time

A week out of police academy, Henry had finished celebrating his first day walking the beat with friends. They had gone on bar hopping, but he had to get home, it being a work night and all. It was too early in his career to be hungover on the job.

He walked home, a new bounce to his stride, as if imbued with new power. Then he heard three shots. Pop, pop, pop! He instinctively reached to his waist, but he didn't have an off-duty piece yet. Still, he ran towards the noise.

In the alley way, a figure laid on the grown, still. His footsteps made splashing noises in the puddle as he came to the man. His shirt was bloodstained and the crimson was spreading quickly. He was dead.

Next to the man was a crumpled paper bag. Henry peered inside. In the light of the street lamps, he saw stacks of bills held together with rubberbands. The money was in small denominations--ones, fives, tens and twenties--and old. They were frayed at the sides, creased and worn. Even though they were small bills, there was enough in the bag that there must have been at least a thousand dollars.

"Put the bag down," a voice commanded.

He turned around and looked at the barrel of a gun.

"Put the bag down and step away from the body," the woman said.

"I'm a cop."

She shrugged. "Makes no difference to me."

"I've already called for backup. They'll be here soon."

"No, you didn't."

He was going to argue, but he didn't think she could be convinced. He put the money down and backed away.

"It's a shame," she said. "Why did you have to be here? Now what will I do with you?"

"Why don't you give me your gun--"

His words were cut off by two blasts of a pistol. The woman collected the shells, picked up the paper bag, and left.