Daughter's worst nightmare

It takes just minutes to bleed to death.

The blue living room carpet turned purple as blood spilled from Doc Norris' mutilated face. A bloody cordless phone lay on the floor.

Next door, his daughter Beth Norris busied herself with spring cleaning. She did not hear the shot over the whir of her vacuum cleaner. But the blinking red light on the telephone caught her attention. The caller ID told her it was from her parents' house.

She picked up the phone and heard gurgling. "Daddy, what's wrong?" She feared her father was having a heart attack.

Running next door, she screamed into the phone. "Daddy, I'm coming."

She threw open the front door of the house. Her dad was doubled over in the living room, clawing at a chair. Blood covered everything.

Beth knew CPR, but the shot from the hunting rifle blew away her dad's mouth. Diving to the floor, she heaved her dad's limp body to her chest. Norris' body writhed, his feet kicked and his arms flailed. She wrestled to keep him still while forcing her hand into the void of his face to clench the spurting blood vessels. She fumbled with the phone in her other hand and reached a neighbor, who called 911.

The emergency dispatch call went out over the radio as a suicide attempt. An ambulance sped toward Missroon Street. Medics rushed inside and tried to make sense of the injury through the rush of blood spilling onto the floor. It was the type of wound usually seen on a battlefield.

Paramedics did all they could as the ambulance sirens wailed down the highway toward Georgetown Memorial Hospital, but they were sure they were carrying a corpse. Seconds later, the heart monitor wired to Norris flatlined. He'd lost so much blood.

***

Franklin Lee McGirt's heart pounded as he darted through the woods. He sprinted to a friend's house and bummed a ride to a store along the highway. As they drove, he could see police cars and an ambulance careening toward Missroon Street. He'd committed dozens of burglaries over the years, but none had escalated to such violence.

Neighbors gathered in the street. They shook their heads and wiped

their eyes as deputies strung crime scene tape around the house. Inside, investigators pieced together the clues: A box of rifle cartridges dumped out. A blue suitcase open on the bed and filled with prescription medicines and silverware. Blood and chunks of flesh splattered on the walls. Shards of dentures scattered on the blue carpet. A hunting rifle missing from the gun cabinet in the master bedroom.

Detectives zeroed in on a splintered section of door framing between the kitchen and the living room. They traced the trajectory of a bullet and ruled out suicide.

Beth Norris wanted to be in the ambulance with her father, but investigators kept her at the house for questioning. They asked if she had any reason to want him dead. She muttered responses as best she could. But she had trouble answering as the blood on her clothes and skin began to dry, and she felt like vomiting. Deputies tested her hands for gunshot residue and searched her house before letting her follow her father to the hospital.

Investigators' suspicion turned to an intruder. It appeared to be a botched burglary. They discovered a fresh footprint in the woods behind Norris' house. A team of bloodhounds sniffed out more tracks nearby until the trail turned cold.

McGirt wore gloves during the break-in, so investigators found no fingerprints. But if they could find the shoe that made the imprints in the dirt, that would be nearly as valuable.

Georgetown County Sheriff A. Lane Cribb cleared the decks and told his deputies and investigators that solving this crime would be their top priority. He feared residents would panic as news spread that the shooter had gotten away and was armed.

***

The Rev. Brad Morris arrived at the hospital in time to see paramedics wheel in his parishioner. But the man on the gurney was unrecognizable. Morris peered through the window of the emergency room where doctors and nurses swirled around Norris.

A doctor came out, sullen. "Are you a minister?"

Morris replied with a soft "yes."

"You need to get in there. You can do more for him now than we can."

Morris walked into the room and took a spot in the corner, bowed his head, squeezed his eyes tight and prayed.

"God, please take care of him in the passage from life to death."

— CONTINUED ON TUESDAY, DEC. 5, 2006 —

Contact Ron Menchaca at 937-5724 or rmenchaca@postandcourier.com