by Glenn Trust
Now that the two tough kids had established mutual respect, Barnes looked over at the deputy who was seating himself behind the wheel. He wore his brown sheriff’s uniform pants with a white shirt and a tan waist-length jacket with scuffed brown boots on his feet. No fedora, or hat of any kind. Andy smiled, he had thought maybe all these country deputies wore baseball caps.
Simple as he looked, Andy knew from his conversation with Shaklee and Price that George Mackey could be tough. Unstoppable when it came to the hunt. He would not give up or turn back. They said when it came to it, he was driven. They didn’t go into why.
Barnes figured it didn’t matter. Mackey had ended the hunt for the predator, killing him in a firefight, alone in the woods. Appearances could be deceiving.
Pulling out of the small airport parking lot, George turned towards Everett. First stop, get Andy checked in at the Colonial.
“Pickham 101,” the radio crackled, alerting one of the county day shift deputies. “Pickham 101, 10-43, 207 Mill Street, Everett.”
Andy looked over at George, who had suddenly pressed the accelerator to the floor causing the pickup to lurch forward, engine roaring. “That mean what it does, in Atlanta?”
“I reckon it does. Murder reported,” George said, focused on his driving.
“Gonna, be our case, too?” Andy asked.
George nodded. “Pretty sure it will. Address is next door to the Wright’s place.”
“Shit.”
George nodded again. “Yep.”
Watching the houses and trees and lawns of Everett speed by the window in a blur as George pushed the truck’s limits to get to the scene of the murder, Andy could only think that things were becoming very interesting.
65. He was very motivated.
Perry Boyd walked into the conference/interrogation room where Terrell Perkins had been waiting, crossed the room, and sat down directly across from him. Shaklee released the handcuffs from the table leg and then re-cuffed Perkins’ hands in front.
As they had planned, Boyd started speaking before Perkins could open his mouth. There would be no dead, silent lapses in time during which he might decide to request a lawyer. When that happened, the game was over. They might get information later, as part of a plea bargain during the trial process, but they needed information now. Without it, their chances of preventing the murders of others on the list were slim. They had known about the Martz connection, and Martz died anyway, thanks to Mr. Terrell Perkins. These people were determined and apparently had resources reaching far beyond Perkins. So far, the known score was killers, four, and the good guys, zero, with one in custody, but not speaking...yet. Perry Boyd was determined to change that.
Boyd placed a stack of papers on the table, taking a sheet from the top.
“All right, Terrell, we have some paperwork to fill out before we take you over to Jackson.”
“Jackson? What you talkin’ about, man?” He eyed the Atlanta homicide captain who leaned over the paper with his pen in his hand as if about to fill some blanks on a form. “Jackson’s the death house. What you takin’ me there for? I ain’t even been to court yet. You can’t take me there.”
Boyd looked up. “Jackson is a state penitentiary. This is a state case. We told you. This is part of a task force rounding up the killers of a number of people.” He shrugged, looked down, and scrawled something on the paper.
Perkins’ mind raced, filled with questions. There they go again, talking about killers and rounding them up, he thought. Damn. Who did they already have? What were they saying? These motherfuckers hadn’t even asked him a question.
“You ain’t even gonna ask me a question?”
Boyd looked up again, raising his eyebrows in a look of indifferent curiosity. “Told you in the car Terrell, nothing to say, my man. You’re going down. You know why and so do we.”
Terrell’s clenched hands lay in front of him on the table, cuffed at the wrist. The fingers began closing and opening in nervous spasms. Boyd and Shaklee did not miss the slight nervous tic that made his cheek twitch under his left eye spasmodically. Mr. Perkins was nervous, and while outwardly they were calm and businesslike, merely preparing a prisoner for transport to a detention facility, inwardly they smiled. Terrell Perkins was breaking. Now they had to get him to speak without asking questions and before he requested an attorney.
“Okay, Terrell, This your correct address?” Boyd held up the driver’s license they had taken from him, prepared to jot the information down on the book-in form. He looked Perkins in the eyes, calmly waiting. Almost, he thought, watching the cuffed hands clench and unclench.
“Look, you gotta ask me some questions, man.”
“Terrell, I don’t have to do anything except fill in the paperwork and transport you to the prison…man.” Boyd smiled. “Is this your correct address?”
“But they’s others in this…you know.” Perkins’ words came out in a whining rush.
Boyd nodded. He gave another slight smile as if to say, yes, Terrell, we know about the others, and they gave you up big time. You are going down. Dirt nap. But he said nothing. No questions. No threats. No statements implying a plea bargain deal. Nothing.
Completely unnerved, Perkins leaned across the table, his clenched knuckles bulging as if ready to burst from his fingers. “Listen, you got to listen. I know shit, man. I know shit that can help you. I don’t care what them other motherfuckers said. I know shit they didn’t tell you.” His eyes locked pleadingly with Boyd’s. “I – will – give – them – to – you.” He spoke the words separately, emphasizing each for Boyd, his voice begging for the chance to speak and save his own ass. “All of it. Shit they didn’t tell you. Shit I know they wouldn’t tell you.”
Boyd laid his pen on the table. “Mr. Perkins, are you saying that you wish to make a statement?”
“Perkins’ head bobbed up and down emphatically. “A statement, yeah that’s right. I want to make a statement.”
Speaking clearly for the video camera recording the interrogation, Boyd next said, “Mr. Perkins, we advised you of your rights at the time of your arrest, did we not?”
Perkins’ head bobbed up and down again.
“Please speak for the recording.”
“Yeah, yes you read me the card with my rights on it.”
“For the record, let me review those rights with you one more time.” Boyd pulled the small Miranda warning card that every law enforcement officer carries out of his pocket and reviewed the rights verbatim from the card. When he got to the part about the right to have an attorney present during questioning, he looked up from the card and added, “We are not asking you questions, or for your statement, but if you request an attorney now, this session ends. We will wait for your attorney and proceed with our prosecution of the case. You understand this, Mr. Perkins?”
It was not exactly a threat. He simply let Terrell know that they would not take any statement or ask any questions. They would simply wait for his attorney and proceed with their prosecution of the case. He might have been a street punk, but Terrell Perkins was not stupid. He understood completely. Talk now or go to prison and die. They were not interested in hearing anything he had to say with his attorney present. And Terrell knew that his attorney would do what they always do and tell him not to say anything. Easy for him to say. He wouldn’t be the one lying in that room with the needle in his arm waiting to die.
“Do you understand these rights as I have explained them to you?” Boyd concluded his reading of the Miranda warning.
“Yeah, I do. I understand.” Terrell nodded his head emphatically.
“Do you want to make any statements at this time?”
“Yeah, I do. I wanna make a statement…but …first I need to know…uh, what can I get?”
“Excuse me?” They knew that this question would come. They knew how they would respond.
“What can I get? I mean if I tell you something…something good…what can I get…you know, a deal, a plea deal?”
“You understand, Mr. Perkins, that we will take your statement. If the information is credible and useful, we will speak with the district attorneys here in Atlanta, and in Savannah, and make sure they understand that you were cooperative. That is only, of course, if the information is useful and helps the case move forward beyond what we already have.”
Damn, there it is again, Terrell thought. What do they have. He thought for a second and then said, “Okay, right, but what can I expect…you know, for cooperation?”
“We cannot discuss that here.” Boyd’s response was simple, direct, and emphasized the word ‘here’.
Perkins understood immediately. Looking at the video camera he said plainly, “I need to take a leak…use the restroom.”
Bob Shaklee escorted Terrell Perkins from the room and down the hall to the men’s room. Perry Boyd sat calmly with his hands on the table waiting for their return.
Shaklee leaned against the sink while Perkins stood at the urinal. Over his shoulder, Perkins said, “So, what do you think? What can I get? What kind of deal?”
It was Shaklee’s turn to tighten the screws. “You don’t get it, Terrell. We told you. We have you. We know.” He paused, watching Perkins’ head slump to the side, thinking of what to say next. “So how about this. You give us something…something we don’t already have…” Bob didn’t mention that they didn’t really have much of anything beyond Perkins, so anything Perkins said would be something they didn’t have. “You give us that, and we’ll talk to the DA about not putting you on death row for the rest of your short life, covering your ass with your hand every time you bend over in the shower. How about that, Terrell? If you don’t like that deal, shut up so we can get you booked into Jackson.”
Walking back into the conference room, Terrell Perkins took his seat and began talking.
He explained the Marswell killing team. There were three altogether. He and two others, a black guy named Sim Lee and a big white guy. He only knew him as Quince. Yes, Terrell had pulled the trigger on Marswell, but they had forced him to. Shaklee and Boyd looked at each other knowingly as Terrell spoke. Both doubted that the man who had shot Rubin Martz seated behind his desk had had to be threatened to kill Clayton Marswell in his car. They said nothing and let Perkins speak, and he did.
The leader of the killers was a dude named Rodney. They never used his last name. Perkins was the new guy so they all knew his name, but, except for Lee who had recruited him, he did not know the full names of the others, or if the names he had were even their real names.
Rodney had been down south somewhere going after some guy that did something with computers. Shaklee noted on his pad the link to Timmy Farrin and looked back up at Perkins.
Another dude, big too, like Bill, was brought in. Went by the name of Bud, or Big Bud. He was supposed to take care of some state senator. The link to the Somerhill murder was duly noted by Shaklee and Boyd.
After Marswell, Perkins was sent to Savannah to take care of Martz. Supposed to be an easy job. Would have been if he had changed clothes and thought about the cameras all over the store. He should have at least taken off his jacket. He shook his head, as if to make a mental note not to fuck up like that again on future robbery-murders.
The others had their own jobs to do. Sim and Bill were headed south to take out some newspaper guy. The Porter Wright link was now covered.
Rodney and Big Bud were supposed to take out some other state senator guy. Make it look like a car accident. Shaklee and Boyd exchanged glances again. So, Stanton James’ death was a part of this for some reason, although the link was still not clear. He was on the road leading to PT Somerhill’s mountain cabin when he died. It was definitely time to do some follow up on Mr. Somerhill. His connection to events was leaving a bad taste in their mouths.
“So, who is the leader? Rodney?” Boyd asked.
“Of us, our group, yeah, he’s the leader.”
“But someone else gives him orders?”
Perkins nodded. “Yeah. There’s someone else who tells him what we supposed to do. Don’t know who though. He never let us talk to him or hear him. Rodney calls him the Boss or Counselor in front of us. Says he knew him when he was comin’ up. You know, when they were young. Stayed in touch, I guess.”
The information Perkins provided did not crack the case open. It provided links and let them know they were, in fact, on the right path. It answered some questions, and as frequently happens, it raised a good many more.
Still, they were further along than they had been. They had some names, maybe just street names, but names. Terrell told them about the meeting at the small cabin by the lake and drew a map to the location for them. A check of county assessor records would give them the name of the owner, and another link to the killers. They had some more pieces to the puzzle even if they did not have enough to solve it yet.
Perkins talked for over an hour. Boyd and Shaklee made notes and asked an occasional question, but mostly Terrell talked. He was very motivated.
66. Good Name
The brown Ford F-150 slid to a stop in front of the Crandall residence on Mill Street. The ubiquitous black hearse from Morton’s Funeral Parlor was parked in front of the house next door. It was the home of Porter and Naomi Wright, but they were not at home.
Walking up the front walk from the pickup, George and Andy met Ronnie Kupman on the front porch.
“George,” Kupman said, eyeing the fedora on Andy Barnes’ head. “This must be Detective Barnes.” He put his hand out.
“That would be me,” Andy said, returning the handshake.
Seeing Ronnie eyeing the fedora, titled stylishly across Barnes’ forehead, George said, “It’s a tradition.” Kupman’s eyes turned towards George. “It’s a tradition, Ronnie. We’ll tell you about it later. What do you have here?”
Kupman led the two task force members into the house. A deputy was dusting the front door knob and doorframe for latent prints. Another was doing the same in the kitchen, spreading the fine powder on every surface, leaving a mess that the family would have to clean up later. Sandy Davies, the responding deputy, took photos from every possible perspective in the room.
Passing through the living room, they saw Ron Crandall seated on the sofa. His head was lowered to his knees, his hands covering his face, he sobbed uncontrollably. He had discovered his wife’s body when he came back from a trip to the hardware store. He had been gone forty-five minutes.
Standing in the doorway to the kitchen, they examined the room. Martha Crandall lay on the floor, on her left side, beside the chair she had been sitting in when struck by the hammer. A small pool of drying blood circled her head.
Waiting until Deputy Davies finished a series of shots of the victim’s head and the surrounding floor, Andy knelt by the body. Pulling a pair of latex gloves from the side pocket of his suit jacket, he looked up at Kupman and Mackey. “Mind?”
Understanding that he wanted to examine the wound and impact point on her skull, they nodded simultaneously. Andy Barnes was an Atlanta homicide detective. Homicide investigation is what he did every day. Homicides were a rarity in Pickham County. There was no turf here. There was a dead body, and George and Ronnie wanted the killer. If Barnes was willing to bring his experience to the case, they were more than willing to have him participate.
Leaning over the body, Andy gently lifted Martha Crandall’s gray hair from around the crushed area on her skull and peered closely. He looked up at Davies and nodded. Sandy, watching the detective intently, understood and stepped forward, bending over the body for a better angle and taking several close-up images of the wound area.
Andy reached in the other suit pocket and took out a small measuring tape. Ronnie thought it looked like one that his wife might carry in her purse for measuring curtain rods.
Placing the tape beside the wound and lining the end up along one edge, he extended it a short way, and looked up at Davies again. Sandy stepped forward and took several more images.
Andy looked over his shoulder at George, who had his notepad out. “Width of the impact wound, one and three quarters inches,” he said. George nodded and recorded the measurement.
Gently, Andy leaned over and peered into the wound, close enough that Martha Crandall would have felt his breath had she been among the living. He began describing the wound and the damage done to Martha’s skull as the life was struck out of her by the strike of the hammer.
“The impact wound is cylindrical and even, indicating one clean blow. The visible wound penetration is approximately two inches with bone splinters and fragments visible at the bottom. The medical examiner will determine the actual depth. Minimal pooling of blood remaining in the wound. The blood on the floor appears to be from secondary tissue trauma. Scalp, face, eyes all oozing some blood from burst capillaries caused by the force of the impact.” Leaning back, he examined the head slowly from the wound outward. “The entire skull is slightly convex, curving in towards the wound on that side of the head.” He looked up at George and Ronnie. “I can’t do it here, but the medical examiner can calculate the force required to create the wound and the convex curving of a human skull. That will give us some idea about the size and strength of the person who did this. Could be useful in court for identification purposes.”
They both nodded while George continued recording Andy’s examination in his notepad. Looking towards the wall, Andy studied the ballpeen hammer that had been dropped on the floor. A numbered evidence card sat on the floor beside the hammer. He looked at Deputy Davies.
“Take some shots of the hammer already?” he asked.
Davies nodded without speaking, respectful of Barnes’ expertise.
“Any measurements?” Andy asked.
Sandy Davies shook his head no.
“Here,” Andy extended the small tape measure to him. “Get some images measuring the hammer’s head on both ends, the ball and the flat end. Get some overall measurements too. Bag it and we can dust it for prints back at the sheriff’s department.”