 Why it was Spencer shot by the police at the bar?
Opening the desk drawer, which was almost empty, Pembroke removed an automatic pistol fitted with a silencer. Pointing it at the amazed customer, he fired four .22 caliber longs into the narrow chest. The series of events leading up to Pembroke's present occupation had commenced on a dismal, overcast evening in the South Pacific a year earlier. Bound for Sydney, two days out of Valparaiso, the Colombian tramp steamer Elena Mia had encountered a dense greenish fog which seemed vaguely redolent of citrus trees. Standing on the forward deck, Pembroke was one of the first to perceive the peculiar odor and to spot the immense gray hulk wallowing in the murky distance. Then the explosion had come, from far below the waterline, and the decks were awash with frantic crewmen, officers, and the handful of passengers. Only two lifeboats were launched before the Elena Mia went down. The wallet in his pocket contained exactly what it should, approximately three hundred dollars. One in particular, an attractive woman of about thirty, tossed back her long, chestnut locks and gazed up intently at Pembroke as he passed. "You're not casual enough, for one thing," said Pembroke, deciding to play along with her for the moment. But as he left the shop he began checking off every west coast state, city, town, and inlet. "Which way is it to San Francisco?" asked Pembroke.
 He refused to tell the policeman what was wrong with him.
 He had treated the women poorly, which is against the law.  He refused to tell the policeman what was wrong with him.  There was no reason, it was a random act of violence.  He had refused to pay his bar tab.