Bicycle Shop Murder by Robert Burton Robinson (parable of the sower read online .TXT) đź“•
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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more everything.
But reality could not quell his imagination. If he tried hard enough, he could almost see Cynthia’s shadow kissing his. He could almost taste her sweet lips.
*
Cynthia was so shaken by her dream that she was having trouble falling back to sleep. Nightmares occurred nearly every night—but none this intense. Her mind started wandering to Greg. She was surprised by her attraction to him. He was balding, out of shape, and a few years older than her.
In spite of all that, an image formed clearly in her mind—the two of them in a loving embrace. She felt warm and safe in his arms. But how would she ever break free from her maniac husband?
Besides, how could Greg ever forgive her for what she had done? She sensed that his capacity for forgiveness was much greater than that of most people, but still
She got out of bed and walked into the kitchen to get a glass of cold water from the fridge. It was refreshing. But then she realized that cool liquid flowing down into her body might only serve to exacerbate the insomnia. She needed to settle down and get to sleep soon in order to have any hopes of functioning normally the next day.
Business customers would not be impressed with a baggy-eyed banker. That woman looked like she was out partying all night, they might say. Is she a heavy drinker? Maybe I should take my business elsewhere.
She could not afford to jeopardize her career.
Cynthia decided to check on Troy. She would turn off the TV if he had already passed out. But she would go into the living room very quietly, in case he was just sleeping. She had made the mistake of waking him one time. He had called her every vile name known to man. The only thing worse than a drunken Troy was a prematurely-awakened drunken Troy.
It was rather dark in the living room, with the TV providing limited, uneven illumination. As she approached the back of his recliner, she noticed something lying on the floor. An object, next to his chair. She couldn’t quite make it out. As she inched her way closer, she could not take her eyes off the object. Maybe an apple slice or a crushed beer can or
the Bowie knife?
As she stepped to the side of his chair, she redirected her attention from the floor to Troy. The erratic lighting from a Law and Order episode revealed something streaming down Troy’s shirt. And his head was resting awkwardly on his chest.
Forgetting about her fear of waking him, Cynthia reached for the nearby light switch. She turned, and was horrified to see that the object on the floor was the Bowie knife—the bloody Bowie knife. Troy’s shirt looked as though someone had opened a can of red paint and thrown it at him. The thick, crimson liquid flowed down his shirt, onto his pants, and into the fabric of the chair.
She called his name several times. But he didn’t move, and didn’t appear to be breathing. She pressed two fingers against the inside of his wrist. His skin felt cool. She could not feel a pulse. Who did this?
Then she realized the killer could still be in the house. She checked the kitchen door. It was locked. The front door was locked. But what about the windows? There was no sign that anything had been stolen or even disturbed. Why did someone want Troy dead? And did that same person want to kill her?
Cynthia ran to the bedroom, without considering that the killer might be waiting there. She grabbed her phone from the nightstand, flipped it open and started to call 911—then stopped. She called Greg instead.
“Hello?”
Cynthia was surprised that Greg sounded wide-awake. “I’m sorry for calling you at this hour, Greg.”
“Are you okay?”
“No—no, I’m not.”
“What did Troy do to you?” He could feel his anger building.
“He’s dead.”
Greg had never felt such fear and elation at the same time. Such thankfulness, yet guilt. Troy was out of the way. Great. They both wanted that. But not by killing him. Had Troy finally pushed her too far?
He must have beaten her up, and she couldn’t take it anymore. She might have had a gun hidden away in case this day ever came. She probably waited until he was in bed and sound asleep. Greg could picture the blood and brains splattered all over the bed and walls. He could also picture Cynthia in a prison uniform. NO!
“I’ll get there as fast as I can—but, you need to call the police right now, Cynthia.” Everybody knows that it always looks suspicious when you wait to call the police. Surely she could plead self-defense, considering the way Troy abused her. But she never told the police about the abuse. She only told her mother
and Greg. That could be a big problem.
“Okay. I will.”
Greg got dressed in record time, started to rush out the door, and froze—one hand on the doorknob, the other on the light switch. Every cell in his body was screaming rescue Cynthia. He wanted to run to her, take her in his arms, and hold her until the darkness passed_._
But he must not get to her house before the police. He paced the floor, looking at his watch every twenty or thirty seconds, forcing himself to wait fifteen minutes.
It was a five-minute drive to Cynthia’s house. He stayed well below the speed limit, still not certain he had waited long enough. He barely knew her. Three meetings and a few short phone conversations. Why did he feel so drawn to her? Was she feeling it too?
As he turned the corner onto her street, he could see three patrol cars and a couple of black sedans in front of her house. Good. But maybe he shouldn’t be seen there at all. What was his connection to Cynthia Blockerman? Why had she called him? He decided to drive by her house and come back after the police were gone.
Headlights were coming toward him from the opposite end of the street. He could pull into someone’s driveway and turn around. No, that would be too obvious. Better to drive by. After all, he was just a Coreyville citizen out for an evening cruise. Yeah, at 3:15 in the morning.
The other car stopped in front Cynthia’s house. As Greg was approaching, a woman got out of the car. It was Angela Hammerly—the District Attorney! She looked directly at Greg as he passed.
Greg panicked. He nearly jammed on the accelerator, but caught himself. What if the D.A. had recognized him? What if she thought Greg and Cynthia were having an affair? Motive. Why hadn’t he thought this through before driving to her house?
This could make quite a scandal. By day, two men serving on a jury, arguing angrily. By night, one man having an affair with the other man’s wife, conspiring to knock off the husband. Oh, what a mess. He could be charged in connection with the murder, and even if acquitted, he would lose his church job and probably all of his private music students.
*
I was nearly 4:30 AM when Greg’s cell rang.
“Cynthia?”
“Greg, where are you?”
“I’m sorry. I’m at home. I drove to your house, but then I saw all the cars, and thought I’d better stay away.”
“I know. The policemen and a detective and a crime scene investigator and even the D.A. were all over the house. It’s good that you didn’t stop. I don’t know what I was thinking, asking you to come. And they’re still there. But, they let me leave. I’m on my way to the Holiday Inn. I couldn’t stay at the house. I may never be able to go back there again.”
“Cynthia, I’m afraid the D.A. saw me when I drove by.”
“You think she recognized you?”
“I don’t know, but she might have recognized my car. It’s the only one like it in town, you know. And if she suspects that we’re having an affair, she might figure we plotted to kill Troy.”
“An affair? Would she think that?”
“I don’t know, but it’s going to be hard to look her in the eye tomorrow if I pass her in the hallway.”
“I don’t think you’ll need to be at the courthouse tomorrow. I overheard her say she was planning to ask the judge to postpone jury deliberations until this murder can be fully investigated. I guess she wants to make sure Troy wasn’t killed because he was a juror.”
“But, I thought that you
“
“What? You thought I killed Troy?”
“Well, you didn’t say, and I thought he was beating you, and you were just protecting yourself.”
“No. I got up at about 2:30 to get a drink of water and found him dead in the living room. Somebody cut his throat with his own knife. I was terrified when I found him—trying to comprehend that he was really dead, and then realizing the killer could still be in the house.”
“Cynthia, I’m so sorry you had to go through this. I wish I could have helped you in some way.”
“You did. And you’re helping me right now. Just talking to you makes me feel better.”
“Good.”
“Okay, I’m pulling up to the hotel. I’m going to try to get some rest. Talk to you tomorrow, Greg. Bye.”
“Goodbye, Cynthia.”
*
Mark Myers had investigated numerous murder cases throughout his career in Fort Worth. But by age 55, he was feeling the burnout. He took an early retirement and moved to Coreyville. His mother and his sister lived there, so it had been an easy decision. But after a year of trying to enjoy fishing and golfing, he heard there was an opening for a detective, and couldn’t resist. After all, he was still a relatively young man.
Angela Hammerly didn’t mind getting out of bed in the middle of the night to go to the scene of a murder. Two murders in one year—wow. Coreyville averaged only one murder every five years.
“So, what do you think happened here, Mark?”
“There are no signs of forced entry. So, that makes the wife the prime suspect. And, although she didn’t strike me as someone who would do this—look at that pile of beer cans—on a Wednesday night.
“So, you’ve got a husband who gets drunk every night. Then he starts cursing and beating up on the wife. She puts up with it night after night. Finally, she’s had enough. She waits until he’s passed out, grabs his knife, one quick slice, and her misery is over.”
“Okay, that makes sense,” said Angela.
“Or, she’s having an affair. She wants out of the marriage, but the husband says he’ll come after her if she tries to leave. He’ll track her down like a dog and cut her body into a hundred pieces after he tortures her. So, she waits until he’s good and drunk, lets the boyfriend in, and he does the deed. But if so, they blew it—they should have made it look like a home invasion.”
“Yeah. So, she probably did it herself.”
“That would be my guess—unless the CSI comes up with something. Should we pick her up?”
“No, not tonight. We’ll bring her in tomorrow. She’s not going anywhere.”
“I’m sorry—the D.A. is not available right now. I’m Assistant District Attorney, Andrea Newly. What can I do for you?”
“This is Dorothy Spokane. I have information regarding
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