Bicycle Shop Murder - Robert Burton Robinson (good beach reads .txt) 📗
- Author: Robert Burton Robinson
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“But I still would have been okay if Arabeth Albertson hadn’t seen Kantrell that night. I had no way of knowing whether he had held on to the envelope.”
“He probably took out the money, and threw it away.”
“But maybe he kept it. And if the trial had been going badly, and it looked like he was going to be found guilty, he might have told his lawyer he was hired to kill Sam. Then his lawyer would have tried to work a deal with the prosecutor to get a reduced sentence in exchange for information about the person who hired him. Then the police might have ended up with the envelope.”
“So, why didn’t you just hire somebody to kill Kantrell? That would have solved your problem.”
“Because, Marty, I didn’t want to kill anybody else.”
“So, you do have a tiny conscience. That’s news to me.”
“And—I didn’t know how Dorothy Spokane would react if there were more murders. As much as she must have hated me for Sam’s murder, she knew he didn’t have much time left. And, let’s face it—those last couple of months could have been sheer misery for him. She would have had to watch her husband suffer through it.”
“But if she knew you were behind it, why didn’t she tell the police at the time Sam was murdered?”
“Because she was trying to protect Sam’s reputation. He couldn’t bear go to his grave with our terrible secret. But Dorothy could have lived with it. Sam was well loved and highly respected in the community. She didn’t want to destroy his legacy.
“If she had gone to the police, everything that happened in 1988 would have been made public. Then everybody would’ve known that Sam Spokane had helped to cover up —.”
“—murder. He helped you get away with murder.”
“It wasn’t murder. It was an accident. I didn’t mean to kill that boy. But if it came out now, it would be seen as murder.”
“Yeah. Because why didn’t you call the police if it was an accident?”
“Anyway, that’s why I sent you to Coreyville. And it’s the reason I wanted Troy Blockerman and Greg Tenorly on the jury. I had done my homework. And I knew Troy Blockerman would want to flush Kantrell down the toilet—just because he was black.
“And I knew we had a good shot at getting Greg Tenorly on the jury. And that as a minister, he would fight the other jurors to the bitter end if he thought the defendant was not getting a fair trial.
“Some of the jurors would want to vote ‘Guilty.’ But then, they would find themselves embarrassed to be on the same side as a racist like Troy. So, Greg Tenorly would have convinced them to give the poor black boy the benefit of the doubt.
“After all, nobody actually witnessed the murder. And after the deliberations had dragged on for several days, Troy would have finally caved, just so he could get back to his job. But just to make sure Greg was sufficiently motivated, I had you enlist the help of Cynthia Blockerman.”
“I didn’t enlist her. I drafted her.”
“But then you murdered Arabeth Albertson.”
“That’s right. Because she was a major threat to the acquittal you wanted.”
“But at least you made that one look like an accident. When you killed Troy Blockerman—it was obviously murder. That’s what caused Dorothy Spokane to call the D.A. She couldn’t live with any more murders. So, you killed her too.”
“I was just trying to do my job. I didn’t want the job. You forced it on me. And then you decided you didn’t like the way I was doing it. So, you sent in your hit boy.”
“Okay, I’ll admit it. John X was a mistake. He was too green.”
“If he had been better at his job, then I wouldn’t be sitting here right now.”
“Don’t remind me.”
“So, you really made a mess of things, didn’t you, Buford?”
“Yes. I did.”
“Just so you could be governor.”
“Yes. Someday.”
“Too bad you’re never gonna make it to Austin. It would have been amusing to watch you trying to have your way with the legislature.”
“Yeah.”
“Well, it’s a sad story, Buford. But that’s not all of the story.”
“Yes, it is. I told you everything. Every detail.”
“No. You told me everything that you know. And now I’m gonna tell you what you don’t know. All these years, you’ve never known. It’s even worse than you think.”
Marty had said that he didn’t plan to kill Buford. But if that was true, then why was he wearing gloves? Buford wondered if he would ever get a chance to reach for the pistol in his top right drawer. Come on, Marty, he thought, get up and walk around the room while you talk. Turn your back to me for just a few seconds.
Marty said, “Three years ago I got a new cellmate. His name was Henry Brown. And he really annoyed me, because he was always inviting me to go to chapel with him. I told him I had no interest in chapel, or church, or anything to do with God. Then one day, he was telling me about something that had happened when he was a kid.
“He was 12 years old when he moved to this new town with his mom and big brother. He and Harry were good boys. But they were poor. And the other kids made fun of them.
“It didn’t bother Henry so much that they made fun of his clothes. But the fact that he didn’t have a bicycle—that ate at him. Because every day Henry had to walk to school, while his classmates rode by on their bicycles. So, every night, he would beg his mom to get him a bike. Any old bike would do. Just something that would get him to and from school.
“But his mom was straining just to put food on the table. She told him to be patient. She would buy him a bicycle when she could afford it.
“But finally, big brother Harry, who was 14, decided to stand up, and be the man of the family. He told Henry he would get him a bike. So, that night, Harry took Henry out to get one. Henry wondered how his brother had money for a bike. Harry told his little brother not to worry, as he got the tire tool from the trunk of the family car.
“Henry started to worry when he saw his brother pry open the window with the tire tool. The inside of the building was even darker than outside. But Harry had brought a flashlight. He lifted his brother up to the tall, narrow window so he could climb in. Henry was in awe, as he walked through the small building to unlock the door for Harry. There were about as many new bicycles as there were used ones.
“Harry quickly picked out an old bike that looked road-worthy. Henry was not sure he agreed with his brother’s choice. He continued to study a couple of other possibilities, which faded into the darkness as Harry turned the flashlight, and began to walk toward the door.
“Henry looked back at his brother, and was about to call to him, when he saw a head peek in the door. He scurried behind a bicycle box, thinking his brother would also hide. But the room went bright, and somebody said, ‘What are you doing in here, boy?’
“He saw Harry try to run out the door. But the other boy was much bigger than his brother. He pushed Harry on the ground, and sat on top of him and said, ‘I’m gonna teach you a lesson, boy.’ Then he picked up a huge screwdriver.
“Henry tried to scream, but nothing came out. He saw the screwdriver going down toward his brother’s face with vicious force. He ducked behind the box. Henry heard the screwdriver hit its target with a sickening crunch. Then the boy walked out, turned off the light, and locked the door.
“Henry called his brother’s name. Whispering at first. Then louder. No answer. He walked toward the flashlight, which was still turned on, facing the door. Henry picked it up, and went to check on his brother. He was not moving. The large screwdriver had gouged his left eye, and blood was all over his face, running down onto the floor.
“Henry ran to the door, unlocked it, and darted out. Then he stopped, turned around and went back to lock and shut the door. He didn’t want to leave any clue he’d been there.”
“I never had any idea somebody else was in there,” said Buford.
“Henry never told anybody. Until years later. After he was in prison.”
“I’m surprised he didn’t go home, and tell his mother.”
“He was too ashamed. He figured it was his fault Harry died. His mother had told him to be patient. But no. He kept begging for a bike, until Harry came up with the plan to steal one. His mother would never have forgiven him.
“People looked everywhere for Harry. The police couldn’t find him either. Soon Henry and his mother left Coreyville. They had come to the little town with nothing, and moved away with even less.”
“So, he didn’t tell his mother what had happened until he was in prison?”
“She was dead by then. OD’ed on sleeping pills, soon after Henry went off to prison. She never knew the truth.”
“How did Henry end up in prison?” Buford didn’t really care—he was just stalling.
“When he was 18, he was sitting on some guy’s motorcycle in a parking lot. He thought it was so cool. And that maybe he’d get one some day.
“But when the owner walked out of the store, and saw the skinny black kid on his motorcycle, he ordered Henry to get away from his bike. And he told him he’d never be able to afford a bike like his. And that he didn’t deserve one anyway. And then he told Henry, ‘If you ever come snooping around my bike again, I’m gonna teach you a lesson, boy.’
“That statement struck a raw nerve in Henry’s brain. It was the exact same words Harry’s killer had said right before stabbing him in the eye with a screwdriver. A rush of adrenalin instantly transformed him into a killing machine.
“He ran at the guy, full-out, and knocked him down. Then he sat on top of him, and proceeded to pound his face, until it was hammered into bloody mush. His brain bounced around in his skull like a ping-pong ball. He was dead before the ambulance showed up.”
Buford wished he hadn’t asked.
“So, see what you’ve done, Buford? See how many lives you’ve ruined? Just think about all the people who’ve died because of you, and all the friends and family members who’ve suffered, and a nice young man like Henry—that you turned into a killer. You really don’t deserve to live, do you?”
“I knew you were lying, Marty. I knew you came here to kill me.”
“No. You’re wrong. Because of Henry, and how he turned his life around, I finally did start going to chapel. And I made my heart right with God.”
“Yeah, right. And then as soon as you got out of prison, you started murdering again.”
“I know. I broke my vow to God. But after I survived John X, I started praying to God again. I confessed my sins. And he’s
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