Bicycle Shop Murder by Robert Burton Robinson (fiction novels to read .TXT) 📖

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