Jimmy Ray Collins had a long history of anger issues.
+++++In second grade, he had a tantrum and threw a chair at his teacher. In middle school and high school he was suspended numerous times for fighting with his classmates. After he graduated high school, he landed a job at a local gas station doing oil changes.
+++++Things calmed down for a while until he tied one on at the Blue Oyster Club in the south side of town and got into an argument with a visiting college student over a televised football game. Something snapped inside of him and by the time a bystander was able to pry Jimmy’s hands off the kid’s neck, the boy was dead.
+++++That landed him in criminal court where the jury reached its guilty verdict in record time. His new temporary home would be Benton Correctional Center. Temporary because he had a date with the needle. Then he’d have to bid everyone Sayonara.
+++++The prisoner transport bus was packed the day he was schedule for transport to Benton Correctional. Handcuffed to his seat just like the other ten prisoners in orange jumpsuits, he sat opposite the transport guard. His hands were balled into fists and his was jaw clenched tightly.
+++++He looked like a grenade itching to explode.
+++++It didn’t escape him that the guy seated one row behind across from him was giving him ‘the stink eye.’ He smiled, knowing he’d make short work of him when the time was right.
+++++The bus jerked unexpectedly, swerving on the road. Jimmy looked through the reinforced metal dividing screen and noticed the driver had collapsed over the steering wheel. He was about to say something when the tires suddenly squealed, and the bus flipped on its side. The sound of raw, scraping steel fell on his ears as the bus slid to a stop on the uneven pavement.
+++++The guard riding opposite him made a feeble attempt to stand as the bus began to flip. But he lost his footing, fell backward, and snapped his neck on the seat’s metal frame. The guy who gave Jimmy ‘the stink eye’ didn’t make it either. He was thrown against the window, and a piece of jagged glass severed the artery in his neck, making a crimson spray pattern on the bus floor. Jimmy smiled when he spotted him. Now he had one less thing on his to-do list.
+++++He slowly began to move, spotted the dead guard, and reached over and took his keys. He unlocked his handcuffs, looked himself over, and ran his hands over his body. Satisfied that nothing was broken or bleeding profusely, Jimmy stood up and unlatched the rear hatch of the bus. About four of the prisoners had survived, but the others weren’t so lucky. His good fortune had put him in a generous mood. He tossed the keys to the guy closest to him and said, “Have at it, fellas. Enjoy your freedom.”
+++++He knew that without transportation and money, his options were limited. He could carjack a vehicle, but those could get complicated if the driver resisted or there were kids in the car. He realized he hadn’t taken the guard’s gun, which would have made things easier for him. He shook his head in disgust. He couldn’t afford any more mistakes.
+++++The only other option was to lay low somewhere safe until he could figure out his next move. When he recalled spotting a sign for a cemetery about half a mile back, he thought it might be a perfect choice— private, quiet, and low visitor traffic. He would opt for plan B.
+++++He smiled as he considered the irony of a murderer hiding in a graveyard. But it was the most unlikely place the police would look for him. Knowing that his orange jumpsuit would stand out like an Olympic torch, he traveled slowly behind the recessed tree line that flanked the road.
+++++Once he made it to the cemetery, he waited until the security guard locked up the place and left the premises. Then, he scaled the cast iron fence and headed toward the cemetery office. The building was a single-story brick structure with a few shrubs around it that looked like they were on their last legs.
+++++Job one was to ditch the jumpsuit, so he broke into the building’s rear door by breaking the glass with his elbow. Once inside, he made his way downstairs to the morgue and snatched a suit he found hanging on a hook. He figured it belonged to some poor sap stored in the cooler who was waiting to be embalmed.
+++++Jimmy decided it was best to lay low inside the building until daybreak. Then, he would head out before anyone arrived and try his luck on the road. But the waiting weighed heavy on his mind, and he started to get jumpy. He needed to stay calm and get some sleep so he would be sharp for tomorrow. He decided to go outside, get some fresh air, and stretch his legs.
+++++He walked along the visitor’s path, entertaining himself by reading the headstones with the light cast by a full moon. He spotted one marking the death of a young man who was around the same age as the guy he killed at the club. It read: Stricken down in the prime of his life. May he rest in peace.
+++++He chuckled, wishing it was the grave of the kid he killed. If it were, he would have enjoyed expressing his lack of regret even if no one was there to hear it.
+++++The temperature had dropped, and he noticed his hands felt stiff. Cold weather will do that to fists that have inflicted a lot of punishment. Oddly enough, he noticed a pair of gloves beside the headstone. “Probably left by the maintenance crew,” he mused. This was the second lucky break of his day.
+++++He sat down to try them on and was amazed at how well they fit. Their warmth made him smile, and his hands began to loosen up. He could feel himself relax, so he leaned against the headstone, closed his eyes, and slipped into a deep sleep.
+++++He was jolted out of his slumber when he felt a pair of strong hands wrapped around his neck, which left him gasping for air. A combination of terror and bewilderment overcame him as he realized it was his hands doing the dastardly deed, and he was powerless to stop them. In seconds, he blacked out, fell over, struck his head on the edge of an adjacent gravestone, and bled out.
That was the end of Jimmy Collins.

***

“Over here, chief,” the deputy called out. “Looks to be late twenties and deader than a doornail.”
+++++“What did the coroner say?”
+++++The deputy shrugged. “He’s not one hundred percent sure yet. It’s either death by strangulation or from a head injury.
+++++The chief nodded. “It is beginning to sound like one of those ‘chicken or the egg’ scenarios.”
+++++“Maybe there was a struggle; the guy fell, hit his head on the headstone, and bled out.”
+++++“That could work,” the chief said. “What do we know about this guy?”
+++++“An escapee from the prison transport wreck. We found his jumpsuit in a trashcan outside the cemetery office.”
+++++The chief cocked his head. “I guess he can forget about making parole.”
+++++“That would never happen anyway. From what I understand, he strangled some kid in a bar. They convicted him of murder one and sentenced him to death by lethal injection.”
+++++“Sounds fair,” the chief said, rubbing his chin. “Any leads on who offed the guy?”
+++++“Not yet, but the M.E. is hoping he fought with his attacker. Then he might find some DNA on the gloves.”
+++++The chief shook his head. “Sounds like he’s grasping at straws.”
+++++“Probably.” He rubbed his chin and said, “I’ve got to say, I find this situation somewhat ironic.”
+++++The chief stuck an unlit stogey in his mouth. “How so?”
+++++“The guy who is buried here was a cold case I worked on about five years ago—death by strangulation. We never found the killer.”
+++++“I see what you mean.” He began to walk away but slowed to a stop. “I guess our dead convict failed to understand that the universe sometimes dispenses its own form of justice.”
+++++The deputy paused a beat, then smiled. “You mean payback, right?”
+++++The chief lit his stogey and nodded. “Wrap this up ASAP. I’ve got to get out of here. Cemeteries give me the creeps.”

[Image Credit : Photo by Johannes Andersson on Unsplash]

by

The following two tabs change content below.

• Bio
• Latest Posts

B.L. Stevens

B.L. Stevens lives in central North Carolina with his family and beloved dog, Ziva. He is an active member of the SCBWI Carolinas and various online writing forums. When not toiling away on his laptop writing his next piece of fiction, he enjoys exercising, abstract painting, struggling with guitar, and fixing old cars. You can learn more about him at www.blstevens.com.

Latest posts by B.L. Stevens (see all)

• No Good Deed Goes Unpunished - April 26, 2026
• Poetic Justice - June 24, 2025