Buck Vs. the Bulldog Ants

by David Kersey

CHAPTER 66

  “Sheriff Sims, this is Detective Jonas Andrews, Atlanta PD. We’ve located a vehicle I think you may be looking for. White Oldsmobile Alero, right?”

  “So far you’re making my day. What else you got?”

  “It’s at a local auction house here in Marietta. It came from Jasper Jeep and Automotive up state in Jasper. It was traded a few weeks ago for a 2008 Jeep Patriot, navy blue. Does that help make your day?”

  “Getting better all the time. Gotta name to go with it?”

  “See if you have Gregory Minnick on your list of Alero owners? Your day getting even better?”

  “I’d give you a kiss but you wouldn’t like my color of lipstick.”

  “Nor would you like mine. I’m Goth.”

  “Hang on. Damn, here he is, Gregory Minnick, Port Charlotte, Florida. Here’s the VIN. If it matches, impound the damn thing and shake it real good.”

  “It’s a match Sims. You want it down there, right?

  “Gotta have it, how soon can I get my hands on it?”

  “I’ll do my best to get it on a flatbed tomorrow, that soon enough?”

  “Perfect. I bet you’re wearing all black with eight earrings.”

  “Wrong, wearing a yellow chiffon dress today.”

  “Me too. Let’s do lunch.” Sims hung up and pounded his desk. “Sarah!” he yelled. He checked his watch, then wrote on a legal pad; Saturday 19:44 Atl PD Jonas Andrews.

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  Sylvester let Cassie and me out to take care of business. I saw Marlene and Tillie in the garage. They were loading the ATV with the boxes of Tillie’s books and the ten paint cans. We walked up to them before conducting business.

  “Hey Buck, there you are. Listen, get the word out to your little group that the hayride is on for tomorrow night. We’ll be ready to go around one hour after dark. Understand what I’m saying?”

  I barked once, then turned to high five Cassie. Her paw was already in the air. On our way to find Oliver we got our business done, separately of course.

  Marlene and Tillie began unpacking the books and loading them into the new bookcase. When that was done there was one shelf left for Marlene to dig out of her own box. Training manuals and the leather bound album she had received as a going away present, and two framed pictures.

  “Oooh, mom, is that Charles?”

  “It is, honey, this one in dress uniform was taken two years ago, and this other one in his football uniform was from high school some seven years ago. I’ve got a bunch more photos of him in the house but they’re not framed.”

  “Heavens to Betsy, mom, he is a hunk! Ain’t he about my age?”

  “He’s six years younger than you Tillie.”

  “For sure about my age.”

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  George Garrison looked out the portal into the pitch black of the 3 am night sky. He guessed that he was 30,000 feet above the Indiana/Ohio state line. So far it had almost gone according to plan.

  When he left 30th Street and travelled the dirt road into the Indy utility acreage he encountered a gate. That was not bad news, however, for the gate was swung open. So it was dubious news, not bad news. That meant there might still be activity and eyeballs to witness him driving to the lakeside. He shut off the engine and watched for five minutes. He neither saw nor heard movement but it was dark, his vision was limited. And the longer he sat there the more likely a dump truck would approach him from behind. He took the chance, drove the car to the edge of the lake with his headlights off. There was enough moonlight to barely make out the lake’s edge. He jimmied the tire tool onto the accelerator using the driver seat as a brace. With the engine revved to 3,000 rpm, he reached in and shifted the whatever into Drive. He stood and watched it disappear, but it took its nerve wracking time, floating there for too many anxious moments before the influx of water sunk the whatever over its roof.

  The rest of his agenda; the ditching of the hardware, the taxi ride, the airport check in and boarding went off without a hitch. There was an anxious moment when the TSA opened his suitcase to examine its contents, but it passed, as it should have.

  He would use the balance of his flight time to sleep, if he could.

  At 12:15 am the Port Charlotte, Florida police, search warrant in hand, rammed the front door of Gregory Minnick’s single family home. Officers continued to arrive, car after squad car. In fifteen minutes there was an officer in each room of Minnick’s house, searching, opening drawers, gathering photos, bank records, bills, and prescription bottles from the medicine cabinet. One officer was dusting for prints, another in the garage, another peeking into the attic. When finished it looked like a water spout had singled out the interior of this house in an otherwise unscathed neighborhood. What the cops didn’t have was the full sixteen numbers of Minnick’s credit cards. They would have no trouble getting that information, it would just take time. They did find a file folder which contained the title to a 2003 Oldsmobile Alero. There had been a lot of time wasted hunting down a judge that was willing to sign off on the warrant. Three hours wasted. Three hours that could be critical to the success of an investigation. Nevertheless, the son-of-a-bitch sick serial killer would get nabbed. They had him. It was just a matter of time.

  There are 56 FBI field offices in the United States, 54 if you discount Alaska and Hawaii. By 5:00 am Eastern Standard every field office in the country had two photos of Gregory Minnick. One was a copy of his Florida driver’s license, the other the best facial capture of the photos found at his house in Port Charlotte. Highway Patrol offices were notified to search for a 2008 navy blue Jeep Patriot bearing the Florida license plate number furnished by the FBMV. MasterCard and Visa were both searching for Minnick’s card usage. It didn’t take long. At 5:45 am the Indianapolis field office received notice that a Visa was used to purchase an airline ticket departing Indianapolis, destination Pittsburgh. The arrival time at PIT had already passed by two hours by the time the local Pittsburgh FBI agents swarmed the airport. They missed him.

  At 6:20 am a field agent discovered that a Gregory Minnick rented a car from Thrifty Car Rental. The invoice indicated the rental was for three days and would be turned in at the Baltimore, Maryland airport. The vehicle assigned to Minnick was a 2014 Ford Edge, maroon in color, with a PA license tag, number recorded. The manhunt was on at fever pitch.

  Minnick noticed he missed a call during his time of sitting and waiting for the Indy flight. It was from Millie Beaman, his neighbor in Port Charlotte. The call had been placed at 12:47 am. He checked his watch. It was 4:14 am. He was waiting for his luggage to appear on the carousel at the Pittsburgh airport. It concerned him. If you live in Port Charlotte that means you are in bed by the time American Idol is over. Something was wrong, way wrong. He checked text messages, though he thought texting would be too advanced for Millie who was approaching 80 years of age. She had sent him a text: ‘Greg, what is happening, where are you? Big trouble at your house. Yellow tape all around.’ He walked over to a trash can and threw his cell phone away. He was in huge trouble. Change of plans Minnick. He grabbed his suitcase and hightailed it to the first car rental counter available. Thrifty it would be. He paid cash but was required to show his license, which was copied. Damned tough spot to be in.

  He drove the maroon Ford Edge north out of the airport on University Drive and continued north for several miles, past Robert Morris University, then turned left onto Stoops Ferry Road. Another left on Shafer Road, then a right into the Newton Square apartment complex. Temporarily he was buried in the rolling hills of residential western Pittsburgh. He parked the Edge and looked for an apartment that had a light on inside. The dashboard clock registered 5:22. Sunrise would be in approximately an hour. This was a Sunday morning, there would not be many rising early in the complex unless they were Catholic. A light switched on in an apartment to his left. He couldn’t think of anyt
hing else to do so he went for it.

  Minnick knocked on the door of the lighted apartment.

  “Who is it?” came the female voice from inside.

  “Security,” Minnick lied.

  The door opened just enough for the woman to see who was calling at this odd hour. With his left arm he pushed the door open. With his right fist he crashed the 50ish woman to the floor. She was out cold. He heard a voice from somewhere in the apartment.

  “Agnes, you ok?”

  Minnick found a butcher knife in the kitchen and went searching for the voice. He found the voice inside the second doorway down a hallway. The man was sitting on the edge of the bed attempting to put his feet in the slippers that wouldn’t cooperate with the correct angle. Before the man could notice, Minnick had cut the poor soul’s throat with a ferocious swipe of the butcher knife. The man crashed into the nightstand beside the bed which impact knocked the table lamp onto the floor. The man would not be getting back up.

  He went back into the living room. The woman was still out cold. He dragged her into the bedroom, laid her beside her husband, then cut her throat. He checked a second bedroom to make sure all the inhabitants were accounted for. They were. The second bedroom had been turned into a TV room. He was alone except for the two dead bodies.

  He checked his watch. 5:41 am. He was hungry but resisted opening the refrigerator, however the fresh brewed coffee was irresistible. He found a cup with a smiling pussycat on it and poured, then carried it back to the bedroom to look for car keys and the man’s wallet. He found both on the dresser. A cell phone was an added bonus. He pocketed that. The set of keys revealed the car was a BMW. One of three other keys on the ring would be the house key. Probably the gold one with the three triangle inserts would be the correct one. The man’s wallet revealed he had killed Lawrence Faulkner, born in 1968. The driver’s license photo could possibly pass as himself if someone wasn’t watching closely. It would have to do. He shoved the wallet into his pocket, took the keys and the pussycat cup, and left. He was not concerned about leaving fingerprints, it was too late for that. It was the gold key that locked the apartment back up. The car door activation fob worked like a charm. Two headlights flashed just a few cars away from the Edge. He transferred his gear from one car to the other, locked the Edge, started the Beamer, and he was gone, all accomplished before daylight. He saw no early morning walkers in the parking area. He just might make it out of the state undiscovered. But he had to find a real knife somewhere. That would be next up on the agenda.