Intense, urgent manhunt

Tubes and wires snaked across Doc Norris' chest and what remained of his face.

If doctors had any chance to save him, they knew, they had to get him to the Medical University of South Carolina in Charleston, the closest hospital capable of treating his catastrophic gunshot wound.

Judy Norris, who had been at work when her husband was shot, rushed into the Georgetown Memorial Hospital emergency ward and begged to see him. The Rev. Brad Morris, the Norrises' pastor, blocked her. He did not want her to see the gaping hole where her husband's jaw and chin had been. The lips she knew in kisses were gone.

Norris' grasp on life slipped as a trauma helicopter lifted off from Georgetown for the 50-mile trip down the coast to Charleston. In mid-flight his heart stopped, but medics resuscitated him shortly before the helicopter descended to MUSC, where doctors and nurses readied a trauma room.

***

At dawn, the morning after the shooting, the morning after she'd used her hands to clamp the spurting arteries in her father's neck, Beth Norris gassed up the lawn mower to cut the grass.

Then she braced herself for the grisly task of cleaning up the room where a burglar shot her dad. As she scrubbed the blood splatter and hunks of flesh from the walls, her strokes grew faster and more vigorous and her mind filled with anger.

News of the shooting traveled fast, terrifying Georgetown residents. Deputies and investigators fanned across the county following tips and tapping informants. One name kept surfacing: Franklin Lee McGirt, a known petty burglar.

They plastered his mug shot on "Wanted" posters and hung them around the county. The Georgetown Times blasted a front-page headline — "Suspect identified in shooting" — over a mug shot of McGirt. Judy Norris stared at the photo of the man in the newspaper. He looked so young.

Investigators feared McGirt would shoot again to avoid being sent back to prison. They chased every lead as the case grew more urgent with each passing day. One tip had McGirt trying to flee to Connecticut on a Greyhound bus. Another said he tried to pawn the hunting rifle he used to shoot Norris. A search of a house where McGirt was said to be hiding came up empty.

McGirt did not behave like a fugitive. He brazenly walked along the railroad tracks outside the city holding the rifle, and he broke into at least one more house. He showed off the rifle to friends and concocted a story about how he'd run from Norris' house ducking bullets. He even carried his stolen rifle down to the banks of the Sampit River for target practice. As he fired, the recoil forced the hard black scope back into McGirt's forehead, leaving a nasty bruise.

Despite McGirt's frequent outdoor excursions, investigators did not get a break until a tipster revealed McGirt was hiding out at a friend's house in the nearby town of Andrews. In the early morning darkness, a SWAT team and a task force of officers and deputies from several surrounding jurisdictions raided the hideout, an old boat stored behind a house. McGirt was already gone, but in his haste he left behind a pair of black-and-white Nike shoes. Their size 8 1/2 footprint resembled an imprint that investigators discovered in the dirt behind Norris' house after the shooting.

Nearly a week into the manhunt, McGirt grew exhausted and paranoid. He knew police were closing in and he was tired of running. Early one morning, McGirt's mother and an aunt drove him to the Georgetown County Detention Center, where he turned himself in. Investigators could not believe their luck. A videotape of the interrogation started rolling just before 2 p.m. on May 19, 2003, almost exactly a week since McGirt shot Norris.

At first, McGirt was evasive and cocky with investigators. He clung to a weak alibi and said he didn't know anything about a break-in on Missroon Street. Desperate to get the rifle off the street, investigators grew impatient: "We need you to tell us where the gun is before somebody else gets hurt. I promise you if a child gets hurt by that gun, you'll go to the electric chair."

The physical toll of a week on the run drained McGirt. He puffed a cigarette to calm his jangled nerves. Where's the rifle, Frankie? Why did you shoot him, Frankie?

Finally, he cracked: "I didn't even look at him. I just pulled the trigger."

— CONTINUED ON WEDNESDAY, DEC. 6, 2006 —

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