Bicycle Shop Murder by Robert Burton Robinson (parable of the sower read online .TXT) 📕
Greg heard a man shouting in the background, then a commotion. The phone went dead. He felt sick and helpless, like a kid who had just been spun on a merry-go-round at breakneck speed until he flew off. And the dizziness would not soon go away.
Greg wanted to call the police, but what would he tell them? And why did she call him instead of 911? He would call her back. No, he couldn't--he didn't have her number.
Then he felt something on his leg. The ice cream was melting beneath the chocolate shell, and it had collapsed under its own weight, and fallen onto the bed of napkins in his lap.
Still dazed, he sat for a full minute studying the ice cream as it dripped down the sides of the cone onto his hand and arm. Gradually the streams of white turned to pink, then to red-- running down Cynthia's face! A cold chill ripped through his body, and jolted him back to reality. He dropped the cone onto t
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“Yep, it’s me, Buford. What’s the matter? Didn’t expect to see me today? Or ever?”
“No, no. I just thought you’d be out fishing somewhere. You said it was all you dreamed of doing.”
“Yeah. Well, I had to put that off for a while. Had some unfinished business.”
“I see.”
“And, by the way, you’ll be happy to learn that Greg Tenorly and Cynthia Blockerman are alive and well—no thanks to you. And your young hit man is a doornail. Or, as dead as one, anyway.”
“I’m afraid I really don’t know what you’re talking about, Marty.”
Marty completely ignored Buford’s response. “Yeah, the stupid punk shot himself in the baby-maker. When I left him, he was bleeding to death.”
“Marty, I don’t even know who you’re talking about.”
“Right.” Marty stood. “Come over here, and sit down at your desk, Mr. Big Shot. I want you to be comfortable for this.”
You want me to be comfortable while you murder me? thought Buford. But wait—there’s a pistol in the top right drawer. Maybe if Marty looks away for a second
“There you go. Just relax. I have something here you might be interested in.” Marty held up an envelope, and walked toward Buford. “Recognize the handwriting?” It read, Open Upon My Death, and was signed by Sam Spokane.
“You were supposed to burn that letter.” Buford was both indignant and horrified.
“I almost did. But then I decided to wait—once I realized you were sending somebody to kill me.”
The career I’ve worked so hard to build, thought Buford, is crumbling before my eyes.
“And he nearly succeeded. He was a good shot, but a little too sure of himself. He put the bullet right in the center of my chest. But apparently he never considered I might be wearing a vest.”
Why did I try to save money? wondered Buford. I should have paid top dollar to get it done right.
“So, after I survived your Mr. John X, I decided it was time to read Sam Spokane’s letter. Then I knew why you wanted Kantrell Jamison to be acquitted. And now I know the biggest secret of all.”
Buford hung his head.
“That’s right. I know about the horrible thing you did back in 1988. It’s what you’ve been hiding all these years. But soon everybody in the world will know what a despicable human being you are.”
Buford’s anger was overtaking his fear. “So, what do you want from me?”
Marty pulled a chair to the side of Buford’s desk, and sat down. “I want you to tell me the entire story in your own words.”
“Why? So you can record it, and send it to the press?”
“No. I’m not gonna record it. I just want the satisfaction of hearing you admit what you did.”
“And if I refuse?”
Marty raised his gun, and held it within three feet of Buford’s head. “I don’t plan to kill you today, Buford. As long as you do what I say. Now, you will tell me what happened in 1988. And you will not leave out any of the gory details.”
“So, if I tell you the whole story, then you won’t kill me?”
“Buford, I didn’t come here today to commit murder. I just want to enjoy watching you squirm, while you explain, in full detail, the terrible thing you did.”
“Come on, Marty—it was an accident.”
“No. I don’t want to hear any spin. Just give me the facts.”
Marty rested the gun in his lap. Buford was not at all convinced Marty would let him live. But at least he would live until the end of his story.
And maybe at some point Marty would let down his guard, pace the floor, turn his back to Buford. There was a slim chance Buford could get the gun out of the top right drawer, and get a shot off before Marty could react. A very slim chance. But a chance.
“Okay. On April 1, 1979, a tornado came through Coreyville. It was a Category 3, and it did several million dollar’s worth of damage. And killed several people. After that, every year as April 1st approached, people joked about whether a tornado would make us April Fools again. Nobody thought it could really happen. But on April 1, 1988, it did. The exact same thing happened again.”
“Another Cat 3 tornado?”
“Yes. And it did about the same amount of damage. And two or three people were killed.”
“Weird.”
“Yeah.”
“So, what does that have to do with your story?”
“I’m getting there. In the spring of 1988, I was 18 years old, and a senior in high school. I had worked for Sam Spokane full-time in the summer. Then I went part-time when school started. He was a great boss. More like a dad, really. More of a dad than my own.
“Sam had always been crazy about kids. But he and Dorothy were not able to have any of their own. So, when he was in his late 20’s, he volunteered as a coach on a little league baseball team. And the kids loved him.
“Well, one day after practice, this boy was having trouble with his bicycle. So, Sam worked on the bike, and got it fixed. A few days later, he fixed another kid’s bike. First thing you know, every kid in town was going to Sam with their bicycle problems.”
“Word gets around fast in a small town,” said Marty.
“Yeah. Especially back then. This was the 1950s. So, he started a little part-time bicycle repair business. He ran it out of his workshop behind the house. But if somebody couldn’t afford to pay, Sam would do the work for free.
“And then he started selling bikes. Pretty soon, he had so much business he quit his day job. After a year or two, he decided he needed a real sales floor for new bikes. So, he and Dorothy bought another house, and converted the old house into his new bicycle shop. Sam’s Bicycle Shop - Sales & Service. It was a nice looking store.
“But then on April 1, 1988, the tornado came through, and did major damage to the store. Amazingly, the old workshop in the back was untouched. And we were able to salvage some of the bikes. We actually ran the business from the workshop for a several weeks, while they were building the new store where the old one had been.
“It was very crowded. We had to move most of the bikes outside during business hours, so we would have enough room to do repairs in the shop. Then we’d moved everything back in at night.”
“Almost sounds like you were working full-time,” said Marty.
“No, I went to school too. But I did spend every spare minute at Sam’s. So, one night, a couple of hours after closing, I was driving by, and thought I saw the workshop door ajar. I was sure I had locked it. But, I stopped to check it out anyway.
“As I was approaching the door, I heard a noise coming from inside. Somebody was in there. So, I peeked in and saw a skinny black kid with a flashlight. He was rolling a bicycle toward the door. He was robbing us! I had to stop him.
“So, I flipped the light on, and said, ‘What are you doing in here, boy?’ The kid must have been about 14 years old. He dropped the bicycle, and tried to run out the door. But I grabbed him, and pushed him down. He jumped up, and tried to get away again. This time I pushed him to the floor and sat on top of him.
“I said, ‘You’re gonna be real sorry you tried to rob us. I’m gonna teach you a lesson, boy.’ And then I started laughing at him. I could see he really wanted to hit me. But I had his arms pinned under my knees.
“Then he cleared his throat, and I knew what was coming, but I couldn’t react quickly enough. He spit in my face. Part of it went in my mouth and nose. I was furious. Back then, I had a tough time controlling my temper. And he had just pushed my button, and pushed it hard.
“Before I even thought about it, I grabbed for whatever was nearby on the ground. I was out of my mind with rage when I lifted it over my head. Then he spit in my face again. I held the object with both hands, and swung my arms down with the force of a sledgehammer. I didn’t know, and didn’t care what I was holding, or what damage it would do.”
“What was it? What was in your hands?”
“A big, sharp screwdriver. It went straight into his left eye, and down into his brain, so deep that it hit the back of his skull. His body went limp. Blood started gushing out. I was terrified by what I had done.
“I washed the blood off my hands. Then I locked up the workshop and drove to Sam’s house. He could see the fear in my eyes. He knew something was very wrong. I took him to the workshop, and explained what had happened. We knew we should have called the police.”
“Yes, you should have.”
“But Sam knew it was my dream was to become an attorney, and hopefully, someday go into politics. We used to joke about it all the time. He would say, ‘Now, don’t forget you promised me I’d be Texas Bicycle Commissioner when you become governor.’
“He told me that after this, I would never make it far in politics, because my opponents would always bring up the fact that I had accidentally killed a boy when I was a teenager.
“So, I suggested we bury the body. Sam swore he wouldn’t go along with it. But, I told him he was like a father to me. And I knew my father would want to protect me, and do what was best for my future. And I finally convinced him.”
“You conned him.”
“No. He wanted to do it for me. So, we buried the boy where the slab was about to be poured for the new shop. He’s still buried under Sam’s Bicycle Shop. Neither of us ever told anybody about it. Until Sam finally told Dorothy. But everything was fine, until earlier this year, when Sam found out he had prostate cancer. He had never been good about getting regular checkups. But he started having so much pain that he couldn’t ignore it anymore. The doctor told him he only had a few months to live.
“He could have tried Chemotherapy, but he didn’t want to go through that. But he knew his time was running out. And he couldn’t go to his grave without confessing what he had done. What we had done. So, he called, and told me if I didn’t go to the police, then he would.
“That might have sent me to prison. At the very least, my career would have been destroyed. So, I had to keep him from talking. I decided to find some poor kid in Coreyville, and offer him money to kill Sam.”
“Kantrell Jamison.”
“Yeah. I did a little research. He was black, poor, and about to flunk out of high school. I offered him $30,000. He never knew who had hired him.”
“Then why were you worried about his trial?”
“Because I made a stupid mistake when I mailed the cash.”
“Your DNA on the envelope?”
“Yes.”
“Idiot.”
“I had been so careful when
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