Cold Blue (22 page)

Friday

February 9

Early morning

JONATHAN THORPE SAT IN HIS
living room sipping a cold beer. After activating Price’s emergency button, he’d driven a prudent distance from the scene and gone through Price’s cell phone. Most of its contents were useless. Price seemed to have the entire TPD roster saved in his contacts. But Thorpe did find one telephone number of interest.

He’d scrolled through the cell’s call history until reaching the date and time he’d dialed Price from the QT payphone. A couple minutes after receiving Thorpe’s anonymous ransom threat, Price had made an outgoing call to a number saved as “Carl.” Thorpe recorded Carl’s contact information.

He’d wanted to spend more time with Price’s cell but thought it unwise with today’s technology. Many an armed robber had been caught because he held on to his victim’s cell phones. Cellular companies cooperate with law enforcement to triangulate the phone’s general location, or if GPS equipped, pinpoint it. Usually the dumb-assed robbers were found walking around with their victims’ phones still in their pockets.

Thorpe had removed the batteries from Price’s radio and cell phone and tossed the pieces into the river. Maintaining appearances, he’d returned to SID where he pretended not to have heard the frantic radio traffic. Several of Thorpe’s investigators had responded to help canvass the neighborhood, but otherwise the scene and investigation were being handled by Homicide detectives and uniformed officers.

It wouldn’t take long for investigators to conclude the killing was premeditated. Whether they determined Price had been specifically targeted remained to be seen. Thorpe also realized two murders committed with a bow in one week wouldn’t go unnoticed. Thorpe couldn’t recall ever before having seen a homicide investigation involving a bow. The only one he’d ever heard of was the Tulsa crossbow murder, an ugly incident that occurred before he joined the force.

On his way home from the office, Thorpe had driven to another pay phone and tried the number he’d retrieved from Price’s cell. The call went straight to voice mail—the voice mail of one Carl McDonald, a TPD sergeant who happened to be the previous supervisor of the OGU before Thorpe replaced him.

The fact that Price had called McDonald didn’t condemn the man. But it sure as hell was incriminating.
Price receives a phone call accusing him of murder. The very next call he makes is to McDonald?
Thorpe wondered if McDonald was the mysterious “white boy” with a propensity for donning ski masks while attending clandestine meetings.

As Thorpe sat in his living room, he considered a problem he hadn’t fully explored. Unless his targets were unmitigated idiots, they’d soon reach the conclusion Thorpe was responsible for Price’s death. Leon’s disappearance might be attributed to him getting cold feet and skipping town, but Price’s killing would be sure to open the group’s eyes: first, Price receives an ominous phone call from someone who claims to know what he’s done. Then the supposed extortionist never calls back to make his demands. Finally, Price takes an arrow to the kidney and a hunting knife to the throat. If someone wanted to blackmail the group he wouldn’t kill a potential cash cow. When the members realized their anonymous caller was motivated by anger instead of money, it wouldn’t take long for Thorpe’s name to slip off their forked tongues.

What would be their course of action after connecting the dots?
They couldn’t go to the authorities.

“Hey, we killed Thorpe’s wife and kid, and we think he’s really pissed about it, and now he’s killing us. You guys need to do something.”

Their only option was kill Thorpe first—if they had the balls.
Would they find someone else to do their dirty work, or would they do it themselves?

They’d tried getting outside help before with the Double D brothers and that didn’t pan out so well. Thorpe surmised his greatest threat was Andrew Phipps, an ex-military and current TPD sniper. Thorpe was pretty sure the Surgeon General would deem having a trained sniper as an enemy as being detrimental to one’s health.

Where would Phipps take his shot?
Thorpe willfully violated departmental policy by providing his employer with a bogus home address. Too many people were entrusted with the information, which often made its way into the wrong hands. Only a few officers with TPD knew where he lived. Still, thanks to the internet, it wouldn’t take much detective work to retrieve his true address.

Remote and secluded, Thorpe knew he lived in the perfect place to be ambushed. If he were hunting himself, he’d locate a sniping position in the woods across the road. He’d be most vulnerable while in the front yard or when opening and closing his gate.

Tomorrow, Thorpe would turn that weakness into a strength. First thing in the morning, he would change his contact information to the correct address. He’d also take protective measures while at work, but felt confident if they came for him, it’d be at his home—and he’d be ready.

Beyond his personal safety, there were other consequences to consider. The premeditated killing of Price, a known black activist, would become a political nightmare. If he killed a second black officer, the race-baiting media would be cast into a feeding frenzy.

Instead, he’d first go after the two white officers—McDonald and Baker—and avoid ringing the media’s Pavlovian bell. Not yet one hundred percent positive McDonald was involved, Thorpe wasn’t going to kill the man based on circumstantial evidence and hunches. That left Brandon “Big Foot” Baker as his next target. Eventually, he’d have to move against the remaining black officers, and their deaths would surely garner national attention. When that happened, the media would be quick to point out the city’s history of disastrous race relations.

Most people weren’t aware that Tulsa was the site of the nation’s largest and deadliest race riot. In 1921, the city erupted into two days of rioting. More than thirty city blocks were destroyed. When the fighting ended, at least eight hundred people were admitted to hospitals, most of those white. Because the two black hospitals were burned to the ground, blacks’ injuries were likely vastly underreported. Officially, thirteen whites and twenty-six blacks were killed, though many believe the death toll among blacks was much higher. Some estimates put the number of blacks killed as high as three hundred. The majority of the rioting took place in the Greenwood section of Tulsa, a prosperous commercial district owned by black businessmen. At the time, the area was known as “the Negro Wall Street.”

The riot’s spark occurred on Memorial Day 1921 when a 19-year-old black shoe shiner was en route to a “colored” wash room on the top floor of a downtown building. Some accounts suggested the shoe shiner tripped when he entered the elevator—and grabbed a white 17-year-old female elevator operator in an attempt to break his fall. Others believed the two were lovers and had a loud quarrel. There was little doubt the two were at least acquaintances, because the shoe shiner would have had to use the elevator every time he needed to visit the restroom. Regardless of the circumstances, what happened next was less ambiguous. A clerk from a clothing store on the first floor of the building heard the scream, saw the black male hurriedly leave, and found the elevator operator in distress. The employee concluded the operator had been sexually assaulted and called the police.

The next morning, a detective and a black patrolman located the shoe shiner, Dick Rowland, on Greenwood Avenue and brought the man in for questioning. Later that day, the Tulsa Tribune printed a story titled “Nab Negro for Attacking Girl in Elevator.” By evening, several hundred whites had assembled outside the courthouse and demanded Rowland be handed over. The sheriff reportedly fortified the courthouse by disabling the elevator and having his deputies barricade the stairs with orders to shoot anyone attempting to breech their defensive perimeter. The sheriff unsuccessfully attempted to disperse the increasingly agitated crowd.

Fearing Rowland would be lynched, a group of armed black men assembled on Greenwood Avenue and marched to the courthouse. Having seen the measures the sheriff had taken to assure Rowland’s safety, the group reportedly returned to the Greenwood district. Whites, having heard of the actions taken by the blacks, armed themselves, and the crowd outside the courthouse grew to 2,000 or more.

Details are sketchy but it is widely believed the armed black men kept returning to the courthouse to ensure Rowland’s safety. During one of those occasions, an altercation ensued, and a white man was shot dead by one of the armed blacks. Whites then began firing on the group of blacks, and both sides exchanged gunfire killing one another. The group of black men fled to Greenwood Avenue with the large group of whites in pursuit. Throughout the night, whites and blacks engaged in firefights, and many black owned businesses were set afire. By morning, an estimated 5,000 whites had assembled and attacked Greenwood in a coordinated effort. Black residents began fleeing the area to the north where they were reportedly gunned down by white rioters. By any account the riot was a horrific event.

Thorpe hoped that history would not compare what happened in 1921 to the events he was about to set in motion. In his mind, his wife and daughter were the ones who’d been unjustly lynched. But he wouldn’t fire indiscriminately like the rioters of 1921; he’d be a precise instrument of death with no collateral damage.

For the first time in a long while, Thorpe retrieved a family photo album and began turning the pages. As he wept, he asked for forgiveness for what he had done, what he had neglected to do, and what he was prepared to do; he asked forgiveness not from God, but from his daughter.

Friday

February 9

Morning

SANDWICHED BETWEEN THE OLD PUBLIC
Safety Communications Center and Municipal Courts, the Detective Division was housed inside the Civic Center building near 6
^th
and Denver in downtown Tulsa. Officers referred to the building as “the Main Station.” In addition to the Detective Division, the Main Station accommodated the Chiefs Section, the Office of Integrity and Compliance, and various other support divisions of the Tulsa Police Department. The Detective Division occupied the second floor of the three-story building.

Sergeant Robert Hull sat in his office adjacent the homicide bullpen. He had just gotten off the phone and was staring blankly at the wall when Lagrone walked in, plopped down and punctured a seat cushion with his boney ass.

“Boss, you daydreaming again?”

“Just thinking, Chuck. Got anything new?”

“Neighbors didn’t see dick. A couple heard the house alarm but didn’t bother getting out of bed to see what was happening. As for Price, pretty sure the arrow went through the lower back panel of his vest, traveled upwards, but doesn’t look like it penetrated the front panel. It’s possible the arrow struck the inside of his trauma plate,” Lagrone said, while tapping his chest.

Nothing more than a piece of steel wrapped in additional Kevlar, most officers wore the plates in front of their vests. Vests are bullet resistant, not proof, and typically only stop projectiles fired from handguns. Rifle rounds will go through a vest like a hot knife through butter unless it strikes the trauma plate. Kevlar only provides minimal protection against sharp objects like ice picks, edged weapons and arrows.

“Your theory about the path in the leaves would fit the trajectory the arrow took through his body,” Lagrone continued.

“How do you think it went down?” Hull asked.

Lagrone gathered his thoughts before speaking. “I think someone selected that house because it was empty and had an alarm system. I think someone then cleared a path in the leaves so he could close ground on the officer in silence. I think that
same
someone then kicked in the back door and waited for Price behind the shed. When he saw Price, he waited for him to walk up the deck and then moved in on him from behind, fired the arrow, ran up the steps and knocked him into the kitchen. Then he stuck a knife in his neck.”

Hull sat silently for a few moments. “That would take a pretty cool customer.”

“Ice cold,” Lagrone agreed. “What’s your theory?”

“I was thinking the same damn thing…but hoping I was wrong. All we need is a professional killer running around knocking off cops. How long of a shot would that have been with the bow?”

“I don’t have the measurements on me, but I’d say between twenty and thirty yards.”

“So besides picking the perfect locale and all that bullshit, our shooter has the foresight to clear a path in the leaves so he can stalk his prey silently, he waits in the freezing cold, takes a shot at a uniformed police officer with a fucking bow and arrow at around twenty-five yards, and then has the balls to charge up there on an armed cop and plunge a knife in his neck. Is that what we’re saying?”

“Sounds about right.”