Greg Tenorly Suspense Series Boxed Set

by Robert Burton Robinson

  “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.”

  42 - THE MOTIVE

  “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 mont
hs 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 I addressed it, and put the stamp on. But then when I dropped it off at the post office, I forgot to use my gloves. I realized it as soon as I had dropped it in the chute.

  “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.”

  43 - JUSTICE

  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, bo
y?’

  “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 someday.