Teen Bicyclist Left for Dead After Hit-and-Run in Victoria, Family Mourns and Seeks Justice. Hyn
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For four agonizing days, time stopped in a small corner of Southeast Texas.
The world outside kept moving—cars still passed, the sun still rose and set, people still clocked in and out of work—but inside one family’s life, everything was suspended over a hospital bed in San Antonio.
They were told he was brain dead.
They begged for a miracle anyway.
Seventeen-year-old Dennis Richardson Jr. was the kind of kid who didn’t ask for much.
He joked that he was “grown now,” but he still texted his mom to let her know when he’d made it to work, when he’d had a good shift, when he’d scored extra fries because “they like me in the back.”
He’d been saving for that bike for months.
Every small paycheck from McDonald’s had a purpose:
a little for school clothes,
a little for his little siblings when he wanted to surprise them with candy or a toy,
and, quietly, the rest for something that meant freedom.
Not a car. Not yet.
A bike.
Black and shiny, with smooth gears and tires that glided over pavement.
He bought it himself.
His mom, Lashay Murphy, remembered how he’d wheeled it into the living room the day he brought it home, grinning like he’d just won a trophy.
“Look, Ma,” he said, his voice light and proud. “No more begging rides. I’m good now.”
She laughed, rolling her eyes like moms do, but inside, she felt that pinch of bittersweet pride—that little ache that says, He’s really growing up.
That night, as he left for his shift, he texted her:
On my way in. Love you Ma.
She texted back:
Love you too. Be safe.
It was an ordinary message on an ordinary evening in Victoria, Texas.
No one knew that by the time anyone would see that bike again, its frame would be twisted, its paint scratched, its rider fighting for his life.
He finished his shift at McDonald’s tired but satisfied.
It had been a busy night. Drive-thru rush. Orders mixed up. The usual.
He clocked out.
Said goodbye to his coworkers.
Walked outside into the cool Texas night, the streetlights stretching thin shadows across the asphalt.
He unlocked his bike and swung a leg over, that small thrill of independence still sitting in his chest like a spark.
Home wasn’t far.
A quiet ride.
A chance to clear his head, think about the weekend, the next paycheck, the music he wanted to download, the shoes he’d been eyeing online.
He started pedaling.
The road hummed under his tires.
Somewhere, a dog barked.
A car passed, its headlights washing him in white for just a second.
No one saw the exact moment everything changed.
There was a car.
There was a sickening impact.
And then there was silence.
The driver never stopped.
No brake lights.
No door opening.
No voice shouting, “Oh my God, are you okay?”
The car just kept going, pulling its dented metal and shattered morality along with it into the night.
Dennis was left alone on the side of the road.
Minutes passed.
Five. Ten. Twenty.
Headlights swept by, throwing brief, indifferent light over a broken bike and a motionless body.
Cars came. Cars went.
No one stopped.
Nearly an hour went by before someone finally saw him—really saw him—crumpled near the intersection, the bike twisted nearby.
One phone call.
One siren.
One race against a clock that had already been counting down far too long.
He was rushed to Brooke Army Medical Center in San Antonio—BAMC, the place they send the worst of the worst trauma cases.
The doctors moved quickly.
Machines were turned on, wires connected, scans taken.
The room was a blur of activity, but in the middle of it all, Dennis did not move.
When Lashay arrived, she barely recognized her own son.
There were tubes in his mouth.
Monitors beeping in a rhythm that didn’t match the one she’d memorized from the days she’d held him as a baby.
His head was wrapped.
His body still.
This was her boy.
Her baby.
The one who’d left for work hours earlier on a brand-new bike he’d been so proud of.
Now, he lay between metal rails, in a bed that felt too big, too cold, too final.
A doctor stepped forward, voice gentle but firm.
They had done the tests.
They had checked for brain activity.
There was none.
They explained brain death.
How it wasn’t a coma.
How it wasn’t something you wake up from.
How, in their medical judgment, Dennis was gone, even if machines kept his chest rising and falling.
They urged the family to prepare to let him go.
Lashay heard the words, but they felt like they were coming from underwater.
She shook her head.
No.
Not yet.
He’s seventeen.
He was just working.
He was just pedaling home.
He just texted me.
They explained that because he was a minor, a second test was required by law—a safeguard, a confirmation.
So the family waited.
The hours stretched into days.
Hospital time is strange.
Day and night blur under fluorescent lights that never dim.
Coffee cups pile up.
Blankets pulled from carts become makeshift beds for parents who refuse to leave.
Family came.
Friends came.
They took turns holding his hand, careful not to disturb the lines and tubes, whispering in his ear just in case he could still hear them.
“Hey, D-Man,” an uncle murmured, forcing a broken laugh. “You still owe me that rematch on the game, remember?”
“Baby, it’s Mama,” Lashay whispered, stroking his forehead the way she had when he was five and feverish. “You hear me? I’m right here. We’re all right here. You fight, you hear? You fight, baby.”
They prayed.
Hands clasped in tight circles in the hallway.
Heads bowed in corners of the waiting room.
Text messages went out:
Please pray for my son.
Keep Dennis in your prayers.
We’re believing for a miracle.
Somewhere between midnight and dawn, when exhaustion blurred the edges of grief, hope did strange things.
They imagined him suddenly squeezing a hand.
Blinking.
Moving a toe.
They imagined the doctors rushing in, shocked, admitting they’d been wrong.
The machines kept beeping.
The numbers on the monitors remained steady and empty at the same time.
On the second test day, the doctor came back.
There was no change.
There was no brain activity.
The words landed like a hammer hitting glass.
Dennis was pronounced dead.
Seventeen years old.
Not in a car racing down the highway.
Not in a fight.
Not out doing something reckless.
He died coming home from work.
On a bike he’d bought himself.
The grief that followed was not a single feeling.
It was a tangle of emotions so heavy his family could barely stand under them.
There was sorrow, deep and endless.
There was disbelief, a part of the mind still insisting this couldn’t be real, that this must be some horrible mix-up.
And there was anger.
Not abstract anger.
Specific. Directed.
Somebody hit him.
Somebody saw a human body fly or fall or crumple.
Somebody felt damage in their car.
And that somebody kept driving.
They didn’t call 911.
They didn’t get out.
They didn’t stay.
They left a teenage boy on the side of the road for nearly an hour.
That hour replayed itself in his family’s minds over and over.
What if someone had stopped sooner?
What if a passerby had called earlier?
What if help had come in time to change something, anything?
Questions with no answers are their own kind of torture.
Back home, his room waited.
Shoes kicked off in the corner.
A fast-food uniform shirt draped over a chair.
The charger still plugged in by the bed, as if waiting for a phone that would never be picked up again.
Lashay stood in his doorway, hand braced on the frame, unable to cross the threshold for a long time.
Finally, she stepped inside, each footstep feeling like walking into a memory and a wound at the same time.
She picked up one of his hoodies, pressing it to her face.
It still smelled like him.
She sank onto the bed and let herself cry in a way she couldn’t in the hospital, where there had always been someone to hold it together for, someone to be strong for, someone to answer questions for.
Here, alone in the quiet, the sound that came out of her wasn’t just crying. It was something deeper, something pulled from the center of a mother’s soul.
A man in a car had made a decision in an instant.
And now she would live with its consequences for the rest of her life.
Today, they plan to return to the intersection.
The place where his bike was found.
Where his body lay unseen for far too long.
They will not go quietly.
They will bring candles.
Flowers.
Posters bearing his photo—a smiling seventeen-year-old with his whole life ahead of him.
They will stand in the grass and on the sidewalk, and maybe even in the edge of the road, forcing the world to look where it once looked away.
His family will gather.
Friends from school.
Co-workers from McDonald’s.
Neighbors who watched him grow from boy to young man.
People who never met him but read his story and couldn’t shake it.
There will be prayers.
Spoken aloud, whispered into the wind, shouted through tears.
There will be moments of silence, the kind that feel like the whole sky is listening.
Cars will drive by.
Some will honk in support.
Some will slow down, roll down their windows, ask what happened.
They will hear the words “hit-and-run,” and something will tighten in their chests.
Dennis’s family isn’t just mourning.
They are calling for justice.
They want answers.
They want accountability.
They want the person who took their son’s life to step into the light, to face what happened, to acknowledge that a life was stolen, not just lost.
“We can’t bring him back,” someone will say into a microphone or to a local news camera. “But we can make sure he’s not forgotten. We can make sure someone is held responsible. We can make sure nobody else’s child is left on the side of the road like his was.”
For those of us reading, watching from a distance, this story is more than a headline.
It’s a mirror, asking what kind of world we are willing to accept.
Do we drive a little slower?
Do we watch more carefully?
Do we stop when we see something that doesn’t look right?
Do we speak up when we know something?
Do we pray for strangers whose names we only know from a screen?
Right now, one Southeast Texas family is navigating the unthinkable: picking out clothes for a funeral instead of for school pictures, choosing flowers for a casket instead of a corsage, making room in their vocabulary for words like “trial” and “case” when all they want to say is “my son.”
They could really use our prayers.
Our condolences.
Our uplifting words, yes—but also our willingness to care enough to ask for justice alongside them.
Dennis was more than the worst thing that ever happened to him.
He was a teenager proud of his first big purchase.
A worker coming home from an honest shift.
A son who texted his mom, “Love you,” on an ordinary night.
Today, as his family stands at that intersection to honor his memory, we can stand with them in spirit.
We can say his name.
We can stop for a moment in our own busy lives and whisper a simple, powerful sentence into whatever we believe is listening:
“Lord, be close to them.
Give them strength.
Let justice be done for Dennis.”
Let’s all help—by remembering him, by supporting his family in thought and prayer, and by choosing, in our own lives, never to look away from someone who needs us to stop.
A Son Wanted His Parents’ Inheritance—So He Allegedly Had Them Murdered in Their Own Home.5977
On December 15, 2025, a horrific double murder shook the community of Clovis, New Mexico.
A chilling truth emerged that rocked not only the family but also the entire town.
A teenager, in the depths of greed and manipulation, orchestrated a plan to have his parents murdered so he could claim their inheritance.
This crime, which involved not only betrayal but also the ruthless use of a close friend, became one of the most disturbing stories the community had ever encountered.
It’s a story of deception, malice, and the heartbreaking lengths some are willing to go when driven by the promise of wealth and power.
The First 911 Call
The day began like any other on December 15, when the Clovis Police Department received a distressing 911 call about a potential burglary at the Munoz family’s home.
The caller, Darren Munoz, seemed calm on the phone, though there was an underlying tension in his voice.
When officers arrived at the house, Darren greeted them and claimed that everything was fine.
But something about his demeanor struck the officers as suspicious.
He told them that his parents, Oscar Steve Munoz, 58, and Dina Munoz, 71, were still asleep in their bedroom, and he didn’t want them disturbing them because “they sleep naked.”
After some persuasion, Darren finally allowed the officers to enter the house, where they discovered a scene that would haunt them forever.
Both Oscar and Dina Munoz had been shot in the head.
Dina Munoz had already passed away at the scene, while Oscar Munoz was rushed to the hospital but tragically succumbed to his injuries.
The officers were left stunned by the brutality of the act, as the house seemed to hold so many secrets beneath its quiet, suburban exterior.
Darren Munoz’s Suspicious Story
During his interrogation, Darren Munoz explained that his parents had just returned from a wedding anniversary trip.
He claimed that he had gone to bed around 9:00 PM and woke up only when he heard the garage door alarm go off.
But the details of his account didn’t add up.
How could he have heard the garage alarm from the other side of the house, yet not heard the gunshots coming from the bedroom just a few feet away?
There was no sign of forced entry, and nothing had been stolen from the house.
These inconsistencies raised immediate suspicions in the minds of the officers.
As they pressed him further, Darren’s story began to unravel.
He had lied about being the one who made the 911 call, and his behavior seemed increasingly odd.
He appeared to be playing up his confusion, almost as if trying to appear helpless and innocent, but his actions spoke volumes.
Something was terribly wrong.
A Pre-Planned Murder Scheme
As investigators delved deeper into the case, they uncovered more disturbing revelations.
A close friend of Darren’s and his girlfriend came forward with information that changed the entire course of the investigation.
The friend revealed that Darren, along with his friend Julio Zamora, had been plotting the murder of his parents for weeks, if not months.
The motive was disturbingly simple: to inherit his parents’ wealth once they were gone.
This was not a crime of impulse; it was a carefully thought-out plan born from greed and the desire for control over his parents’ assets.
The friend explained that he had seen Darren with a gun and had overheard discussions about killing his parents.
This revelation was a turning point in the investigation, and the police began to focus on Darren as the key figure behind the murder.
The friend also mentioned that Darren was planning to trade an AR-15 rifle for a “ghost Glock,” a firearm without a serial number, which made the situation even more alarming.
It was clear that Darren had been preparing for this crime for some time, and his actions were driven by a cold and calculating mindset.
The Role of Julio Zamora
The investigation soon turned to Julio Zamora, Darren’s friend who was alleged to have played a key role in the plot.
Zamora was arrested at his home later that day.
When questioned, he invoked his Miranda rights but eventually admitted that Darren had asked him to help kill his parents.
Zamora also revealed that Darren had provided him with the weapon, a Glock, which was later confirmed to be the firearm used in the murder.
Zamora’s confession was a chilling piece of the puzzle, showing just how deeply involved he had been in carrying out the plan.
The police also discovered text messages between Darren and Zamora, which contained explicit plans for the murder.
These messages showed that the crime had been meticulously planned and executed with a level of coldness that left the investigators in disbelief.
It became clear that this was not a spontaneous act of violence, but a premeditated and deliberate effort to eliminate Oscar and Dina Munoz for financial gain.
The Motive Behind the Murders
Darren Munoz’s belief that his father owned a chain of Allsup’s convenience stores played a significant role in his motivation.
Local news reports confirmed that Oscar Munoz worked as a regional manager for Allsup’s, and Darren believed that the family fortune was tied to the success of these stores.
This misguided belief drove him to take extreme measures to secure the financial future he thought was rightfully his.
He saw the murders of his parents as a means to an end—an opportunity to take control of their assets and live a life free from the constraints his parents had placed on him.
However, what Darren failed to realize was that his actions would destroy not only the lives of his parents but also his own life.
The impact of his crime would forever change his future, and the consequences of his choices would be felt for years to come.
The Tragic End and Arrests
After the murder, Darren Munoz tried to cover his tracks.
He continued to act normal, pretending as if nothing had happened, but the evidence was mounting against him.
The investigation, which included a review of security footage, phone records, and testimony from friends, ultimately led to his arrest.
On December 22, Darren Munoz and Julio Zamora were both charged with two counts of first-degree murder, conspiracy to commit murder, and solicitation of murder.
They were both held without bond at the Curry County Jail and awaited their trial.
For Darren, the dream of wealth had turned into a nightmare that would haunt him for the rest of his life.
He had betrayed the very people who gave him life, and the consequences of his actions were now inescapable.
The Impact on the Community
The double murder of Oscar and Dina Munoz sent shockwaves through Clovis.
Their deaths were not just the tragic loss of two individuals; they were the loss of a family, a community, and a sense of trust.
People who had known the Munoz family for years were left reeling, unable to comprehend how a son could orchestrate such a heinous act.
It was a stark reminder of the darkness that can lie hidden beneath the surface of even the most ordinary lives.
The impact on the community was profound, and the memory of this crime would linger in the hearts of those who knew the Munoz family.
A Lesson on Greed and Betrayal
The case of Darren Munoz and Julio Zamora serves as a disturbing reminder of the lengths to which some will go for money and power.
It also highlights the deep and painful reality that greed can destroy everything it touches, leaving destruction and heartbreak in its wake.
For Darren, what began as a desire for wealth and freedom has ended in a life of incarceration, shame, and regret.
His actions have forever altered the course of his life, and the repercussions of his crime will echo through the generations to come.
This tragic tale is a powerful reminder that greed, when left unchecked, can lead to devastating consequences.
The loss of two lives, the destruction of a family, and the betrayal of trust are the ultimate price of one man’s hunger for wealth.
The Path Forward
As the trial approaches, the question remains:
Can justice truly heal the wounds left by such a brutal crime?
Or is there a deeper, more tragic truth about the human capacity for cruelty and greed that cannot be undone?
The Munoz family will never recover from the loss of Oscar and Dina.
And Darren Munoz, once a son, now faces a future marked by the terrible weight of his choices.
