The Hunters Series: Volumes 1-3

by Glenn Trust

  “What did I do?” George asked raising his hands and arms in an innocent shrug.

  “Nothing, just go.”

  “I don’t have anything to do until Andy Barnes gets here with Rince. They’re not due until about ten.”

  “George, I don’t care what you do. Take a ride, wash your truck, go fish for a couple of hours, just get as far away from here as you can until that plane gets in.”

  George nodded. “Okay, Ronnie. Whatever you say.” He stood and walked to the door. “I didn’t know you cared about my career that much.” Putting his hand on the handle, he turned his head back grinning. “It’s kind of touching, and all.” The door banged shut behind.

  Ronnie Kupman sat looking at the door wondering if George Mackey was his friend or self-appointed tormentor. He also wondered how he could keep George Mackey as far away from the sheriff as possible.

  60. Telling the Truth

  Craning his neck to see around Bill Quince, Lee looked down the Wright’s street as Quince drove the old tan pickup past the intersection. The sheriff’s car was not in front of the house. There were no cars in the driveway.

  He gave a jerk of his head in the direction of the Wright’s house. “Turn down the street, Bill.”

  Always happy to oblige his partner, Quince turned the vehicle smoothly and cruised in a steady, calm way down the residential street. Ole Bill might be a little slow on the uptake, Lee thought watching him drive, but he was a pro at some things, like driving. He never got rattled. He never looked hurried or drew suspicion.

  As the pickup moved steadily by the Wright’s home, Lee examined the house in detail. He too was a professional. His expert eye could pick up an enormous amount of information from a mere glance at a location or a person. Together, they made a formidable, and to some, a frightening team.

  “Shit.”

  “What’s the matter, Sim?”

  “They’re gone.”

  “You sure?”

  “Yeah, pretty sure. The car, the white SUV that’s been in front of the place for the last two days is gone. The house looks closed up. Blinds all drawn. They were up yesterday. Looks like they went away on vacation or somewhere.” Watching in the side view mirror as the pickup moved down the street, Lee saw a neighbor come out and pick up a newspaper from the front walk then walk across the grass to the Wright’s house where she picked up their newspaper.

  Lee sat thinking while Quince cruised smoothly to the end of the block and made a right turn. Shit! He did not want to have to tell Rodney Puckett that they had lost the Wright’s….the whole family. That would not go over well.

  “Pull over.”

  Quince coasted the truck smoothly to the curb and looked over at his partner.

  “What’s the matter, Sim?”

  “I’m getting out.”

  “What?”

  It took five minutes for Simon Lee to explain the plan to his partner. Quince listened attentively, nodding a couple of times, and then repeated it back to Lee. When Lee was satisfied that Quince had his role down, he pushed the pickup’s door open and got out. He watched the truck roll slowly away and make a right turn at the next corner.

  On the Wright’s street, the tan pickup, having made a circuit of the neighborhood, turned once more and rolled slowly down the street. This time, Quince feathered the accelerator up and down, making the truck stop and start as if it had engine problems. Rolling slowly past the Wright’s house, he cut the engine. When it stopped, he put the transmission in neutral, and then standing in the open door, he pushed the truck, rolling it slowly to the curb. This last little bit of theatrics was his contribution to Lee’s plan. It was very convincing. Bill Quince was now a driver whose truck was old and broken down in the street.

  Lifting the truck’s hood, he leaned in and pretended to be examining the engine. After a few minutes, he stood up straight, wiped his brow with a slightly greasy hand, leaving a black smudge on his nose, and looked around as if seeking assistance from some passerby. There were none. He was also able to see that the street was deserted, everyone snug in their homes or off to work or school.

  Leaving the hood raised on the truck and shaking his head in disgust, he proceeded up the walkway of the house where he had stopped the truck. Unlike the Wright’s house next door, the curtains and blinds were open, allowing the morning light to filter into the home. As he approached the door, Quince could see through the window all the way to the kitchen in the rear of the house where a woman, backlit by the light coming through a sliding glass door, sat reading a newspaper and drinking coffee. Her head came up as he knocked on the door.

  The woman shuffled in her slippers from the kitchen and across the living room to the front door. Peering out the window, she squinted to see who would be knocking so early in the morning. Her head turned, noting the pickup in front with the hood up, and she nodded. A moment later, the latch turned and the door opened.

  “Yes?” She was in her mid-fifties, wearing a purple robe, her gray hair pulled back and held with a clip.

  “Yes, Ma’am,” Quince said in his simple way. He did not need to act. All he had to do was be the good old country boy he was and talk to the woman as he would to any neighbor back home. “Ma’am, my truck broke down. Wonder if you could call some help for me, or let me borrow your phone for a minute.”

  She looked past him to the truck in the street. “What’s wrong with it?” Her eyebrows raised in the direction of the pickup.

  “Don’t know, exactly. Fuel line or fuel pump I think.” Quince shrugged. “Not much of a mechanic myself,” he said with a shy, country boy grin. “Just an old piece of…junk.” Again the grin as if embarrassed that he had almost used coarse language to the lady.

  She nodded and gave Quince a smile. He seemed like a good old boy, just needed a little help. “You have a number I can call for you?”

  “Yes, Ma’am.” Bill Quince fumbled in his pockets looking for an imaginary piece of paper with an imaginary phone number on it, the woman waiting patiently while he searched.

  The woman’s head turned at the sound of the sliding glass door opening back in the kitchen. “What…who…?” Quince’s large frame pushing into the house and his beefy hand over her mouth prevented her from saying more. With the other hand, he shut the door gently behind. Holding the woman firmly, he moved her towards the kitchen.

  “Morning, Ma’am.” Sim Lee smiled at the woman held firmly in his partner’s strong hands. “Mind if we sit down and chat for a few minutes?”

  Virgil Turnfeld nodded, placed the pages of the warrant affidavit he had been reading neatly on the desk, and looked up over his glasses at the two men standing before him.

  “Captain Boyd, may I ask you a question?”

  “Of course.”

  “Why the hurry to obtain a warrant for a known criminal with a known address? Why call me? Why the rush?”

  Boyd smiled. “Well, Judge, that’s actually three questions, but I guess they are the same, really.” He looked Turnfeld in the eye. “We need this case to be handled carefully, confidentially.”

  Turnfeld nodded. “Fine. What am I keeping confidential? Certainly not the murder of a jewelry store owner in Savannah. There must be more to this.”

  Boyd nodded. “There is.”

  Judge Turnfeld listened quietly while Perry Boyd explained the investigation they were working. He went through the basics of the case, the link to ‘Term Limits’, and the blog contributors. He reviewed the murders of Marswell, Somerhill and Timmy Farrin, and now Rubin Martz. At the end of the explanation, Judge Virgil Turnfeld had only one question.

  “Captain Perry Boyd, do you swear that the information set forth in this affidavit for the issuance of an arrest warrant for Terrell Perkins is true and correct to the best of your knowledge?”

  “I do,” Boyd said, nodding his head affirmatively.

  The pen in Turnfeld’s hand raced across the paper, scratching his signature in blue ink. He handed the warrant to Boyd, who nodded a
nd walked out of the judge’s office followed by Bob Shaklee.

  Martha Crandall sat terrified across her kitchen table from Sim Lee. He had not hurt her. He had not even threatened her, but her hands trembled so violently that she kept them clenched together on the tabletop.

  The big white man had disappeared through the door leading from the kitchen into the garage. The slim black man spoke mildly to her. His voice was pleasant, soft and friendly. He smiled broadly at her. But his eyes examined her curiously, as if she were a mouse fallen into a fish bowl and unable to climb out of it. The eyes were detached and uncaring, watching her with a curiosity that was deeply disconcerting. It was his eyes that frightened her.

  “One more time, Martha. I need you to be completely honest.”

  She nodded, trembling hands clenched together.

  “Where are the Wrights?”

  “They went to their cabin, out in the backcountry.” Her voice croaked, just barely more than a whisper as she struggled to control her panicked breathing.

  “Good,” Lee said. “And where in the country is the cabin?” He watched her closely, listening for any change in what she had told him previously.

  “Out in the swamp. Near the Okefenokee.” Martha Crandall described the back roads that would lead to the cabin.

  “How do you know where the cabin is, Martha?”

  “My husband and I have been there with the Wrights, hunting and fishing.” Her lip trembled, near the point of breaking down completely.

  “And how do you know the Wrights went to the cabin?”

  “Naomi asked me to look out for their place for a while. She told me they were going to the cabin for a little rest.”

  “Did that seem strange to you?”

  The terrified woman nodded.

  “Yeah, I’m sure it did. She didn’t say anything else about why they were going to the cabin?”

  “No,” she said shaking her head.

  Lee gave a nod and smiled again, satisfied that she was telling the truth. He reached over to the kitchen counter, took a pad of paper and pen near the telephone and slid it over to Martha.

  “Draw me a map, Martha. Make it clear so we can follow it to the cabin. All right?”

  Martha nodded again, unable to speak and glad to have something to do besides answer the questions of the man with the frightening eyes. She worked for several minutes and then slid the map she had sketched across the table to Lee.

  Studying it closely, Lee asked Martha a few questions, verifying roads and turns. When he was finished, he said, “Thank you, Martha. You’ve been a big help. Thank you for telling the truth.”

  Their eyes locked and Martha Crandall could barely force her words from her throat. “It’s true. I wouldn’t lie. Please don’t…” The man’s eyes bored into hers. “You…you’re not going to hurt them…are you? Please don’t hurt them. Naomi’s my friend…she…” Her throat seemed to clamp shut so that she could say no more.

  His eyes still locked with hers, Lee said smiling, “Naw, we’re not going to hurt her. We’re not going to hurt anyone.”

  The ballpeen hammer in Bill Quince’s large hand arced through the air from behind, striking Martha Crandall in the right temple. She was dead before her body slumped from the chair onto the kitchen floor.

  Nodding at Quince, Lee said, “Used to see my daddy kill pigs that way at butchering time. No reason to waste a bullet he used to say.”

  Bill Quince stood quietly looking at his partner, the ball end of the hammer in his hand dripping blood onto the floor beside the body of Martha Crandall.

  61. It was a longshot

  Perry Boyd and Bob Shaklee stood to either side of the door to apartment 2-C. The door to the second floor apartment was located midway along an exterior concrete walkway with apartment doors on one side and an iron railing on the other. The railing was obviously intended to prevent people from walking off the balcony. Examining it as they prepared to enter Terrell Perkins’ apartment, Bob Shaklee noted that it was rusted through in places, and the concrete crumbled where the iron was anchored into it. It was not a very upscale home for an up and coming member of Atlanta’s underworld. Everybody has to start somewhere, Shaklee thought. But for Mr. Perkins, the end was already here. He just didn’t know it…yet.

  Boyd looked around checking things for a moment. Two APD uniformed officers stood with Boyd and Shaklee to the sides of the door. There were two more stationed in the back watching the windows. Boyd looked at one of the uniformed officers and gave a nod.

  Stepping forward the officer swung the heavy sledge, striking the door on the handle. The doorframe splintered as the impact forced the lock bolt back through the wooden frame, throwing the door open violently.

  Boyd and Shaklee rushed into the apartment, followed by the uniformed officers. All had their weapons drawn. One of the uniforms carried a twelve-gauge shotgun.

  “Atlanta Police!” Boyd said loudly.

  The lone occupant of the room, a woman, looked up at them from the sofa. She was sprawled on it watching television, clad in panties and a bra. She seemed distinctly unconcerned at the intrusion.

  “Terrell Perkins,” Boyd said. “Where is he?”

  Shaklee and the other officers were already moving through the apartment checking the two bedrooms and the kitchen. Shaklee looked out the kitchen window to the back and saw the two APD officers stationed there. One gave him the all clear. No Perkins there.

  Walking back into the living room, Shaklee noted that the woman remained in her position on the sofa, ignoring them entirely. Apparently, she knew enough not to get involved. She was neither aiding the police, nor aiding her boyfriend. He smiled. Smart girl. Just because Terrell was going to jail didn’t mean that she had to go with him. No, she would just sit there and watch game shows while they did what they had to do, and Perkins did the same.

  As it turned out, Perkins was busy himself. Boyd and the uniformed officers stood outside the hall bathroom listening.

  “Terrell Perkins. Atlanta Police. We have a warrant for your arrest.”

  “Aw, man. I can’t come out right now. I’m taking a shit.”

  Perry Boyd gave one kick to the door with his heel, springing the flimsy lock and throwing the door open. True to his word, Terrell Perkins was sitting on the commode, apparently trying to squeeze one out, and annoyed at the interruption.

  “Man, you didn’t have to do that. I told you I was taking a shit.”

  “Let’s go, Terrell.” Boyd made a rising motion with the pistol in his hand indicating that Perkins should stand.

  The moment ruined by the three handguns in his face in the cramped bathroom, Terrell Perkins pulled some toilet paper from the roll, wiped his ass, and stood up, pulling his pants up at the same time. One of the uniformed officers cuffed him and walked him into the hallway where Shaklee led him out to the living room.

  Boyd made a quick inspection of the bathroom and looked in the toilet to see what Perkins had been up to. From the remains in the toilet bowl, he had evidently not had time to do much before they entered.

  In the living room, Boyd advised Perkins that he was under arrest for the murder of Rubin Martz and recited his Miranda rights to him. Shaklee grabbed a shirt off a chair and threw it over Perkins bare shoulders. Terrell looked over at the woman on the sofa. “Sorry about this, baby.” Shrugging nonchalantly, she never took her eyes off the game show.

  Five minutes later they were a mile away, Perkins cuffed and locked in the back of Perry Boyd’s car.

  “Who you say I murdered?” Perkins leaned to the side to find a more comfortable position for the handcuffs holding his wrists behind his back.

  “Rubin Martz,” Shaklee said from the passenger seat. “But you know that, Terrell.”

  “I don’t know nothin’, man. I’m just sittin’ there takin’ a shit and next I know you got guns in my face. That’s just bullshit, man. Bullshit.”

  Looking in the rear view mirror, Boyd caught Perkins’ eye to let him see
the smile on his face. He spoke softly, causing Terrell to lean forward to hear. “I’ll tell you what’s bullshit, Terrell. You.” Perkins started to open his mouth in response, but Boyd cut him off, continuing. “You know exactly who Rubin Martz is.”

  “Why you say that? I don’t know nothin’, man. I keep telling you.”

  “On top of that, Terrell,” Boyd continued calmly. “You know who Judge Clayton Marswell was. You know…” He paused to make sure Perkins was looking at him, wanting to see the look on his face. “You know…the man you shot in the carjacking on Sunday. Remember him, Terrell.”

  It was a longshot. They had no proof that Perkins had been involved in Marswell’s death, or that he had even been at the scene. But the connection with Martz was clear. He and Shaklee had talked about how to work the interrogation. They agreed that it was important to get Terrell thinking and worrying about what they had on him before they started asking questions and he demanded a lawyer. He was just a street punk, but he wasn’t stupid.

  To his credit, Perkins made no response, but the effect of Boyd’s words was apparent. His expression changed from one of street punk defiance to uncertain worry.

  “Bottom line,” Boyd continued, seeing the look of concern spread over Perkins’ face. “There is a world of shit about to come down on your dumb ass.” He shook his head with a smile. “And you can’t do a fucking thing to stop it, Terrell.”

  Bob Shaklee watched appreciatively as Boyd worked Perkins. Perry Boyd was clearly a master. He gave Terrell just enough information to create concern and make him doubt. Perkins’ bluster evaporated as they drove in silence.

  As Boyd pulled the car into the parking garage, Perkins shook himself out of his thoughts and said, “Hey, man. Where we goin’. This ain’t the police. Where is this?”

  “GBI,” Bob said without looking around.

  “GBI? GBI, that’s bullshit.” Perkins voice had taken on a whining tone as if to say that they weren’t playing fairly with him.

  “Not bullshit, Terrell. Captain Boyd and I are part of a GBI task force.”