Cold Blue (4 page)

Thinking of his family, Thorpe felt the familiar emotional undertow start to drag him under. He’d been there too often, knowing it’d take him days to claw his way back to the surface if he allowed himself to dwell. Thorpe pushed thoughts of his wife and daughter away, instead concentrating on his environment and current predicament.

It was warm for February, but Thorpe could still feel the chill though his sweats and Under Armor. A steaming cup of coffee in his hand helped stave off the cold. Enveloped by oaks and towering pecans, the flowing creek whispered wordless poetry. Crisp, clean, air intermingled with the rich aroma of his morning brew as he scrutinized last night’s events, trying to uncover any mistakes he might have made.

Generally, there were four major pitfalls that resulted in a suspect’s undoing—first and foremost was motive, followed closely by collaboration. There’s an old saying, “Two people can keep a secret…if one of them is dead.” Nothing is truer in the snake-eats-snake world of the criminal. Over the years, several high-profile thefts had been pulled off to near perfection. The most notorious were usually burglaries or robberies of armored cars and other currency-transport systems, where the perpetrators made off with millions of dollars. Though these cases sometimes went unsolved for weeks or even years, invariably one of the suspects would do something stupid that brought the spotlight down on everyone else. The thieves might live above their means with no explanation for their newfound wealth, or feel the need to brag about what they “got away with” to a buddy or girlfriend. Or, they might get busted for something unrelated and turn witness to avoid prison time. Thorpe knew collaboration would be the downfall of his family’s murderers. One or more of them had already spoken about it, the information filtering down to Marcel from Kaleb Moment and now to Thorpe.

Physical evidence constituted the third pitfall, especially damning in the era of DNA. One hair follicle left at a crime scene was all it took. Blood, semen, saliva, fingerprints, bite marks, tool marks, ballistics—the list nearly infinite.

Pitfall number four—witnesses. Witnesses were not reliable and in today’s courtroom the easiest piece of evidence to discredit. Thorpe had responded to many a scene to find supposed witnesses giving irreconcilable descriptions of the same suspect. Those witnessing stressful events were especially prone to making misidentifications. DNA testing had exonerated numerous suspects who had spent years in prison based on the testimony of “reliable” eye witnesses. Rape cases, where victims experience extreme amounts of stress, were some of the most common convictions overturned by DNA evidence. Even trained and experienced police officers were not immune to these errors.

When officers are involved in a stressful event such as a shooting or a high-speed chase, huge amounts of adrenaline are dumped into the body. The mind is essentially under the influence of chemicals meant to help the individual survive, but they also alter perception. Studies have shown officers involved in high-speed pursuits experience similar physiological symptoms as a soldier in the midst of combat. At the pursuit’s conclusion, officers aren’t able to just switch off these “fight or flight” chemicals; the pursuing officers are literally drugged. The results are spectacles on the ten o’clock news
a la
Rodney King. Anyone who was a police officer prior to that fiasco knew that if a suspect ran, the law and an ass whippin’ were going after him.

Thorpe figured eventually he himself would be discovered. He didn’t have to worry about collaborators and was reasonably certain there were no witnesses who could provide anything valuable. But he had motive. And one just never knew if physical evidence had been left behind—regardless of the precautions taken.

He doubted his motive could be tied to Marcel, at least not at this point. Marcel had nothing to do with his family’s murder except for hearing something he shouldn’t have. Thorpe had gotten lucky. He hadn’t a clue if Marcel was in the know. Thorpe had chosen five killers in the Tulsa area; five gangbangers who swam in the information stream of Tulsa’s underworld; five men who deserved to die and who he’d have little remorse killing even if it turned out they had no useful knowledge. He’d considered the possibility of killing all five thugs and still not acquiring anything of use. Instead, he’d found a starting bock with his first target. Marcel had given-up someone who knew something, his best friend Kaleb Moment. Now Thorpe had direction. But with each kill the connection would grow stronger between his family’s killing and the ones Thorpe would be committing. Thorpe might become a suspect, but hopefully not until all those responsible for his family’s death had been put in the dirt. Even then, a colossal distance separated suspicion from conviction.

Physical evidence was another matter. Thorpe had taken steps to avoid leaving incriminating DNA, while at the same time planting items of misdirection. He kept his hair short, had covered his body, and shaved his goatee prior to his visit with Marcel. Still, one dog hair transferred from his clothing to the crime scene would be enough to link him if he ever became a suspect. However, he had a reasonable excuse if that scenario arose. Because of his job, Thorpe had legitimate contact with most potential “victims” prior to engaging them. Tonight, he would dispose of many of the tainted items from last night’s encounter with Marcel. He also had one more piece of misdirection to plant, contingent upon Marcel’s body remaining undiscovered for a bit longer.

Thorpe heard the crunching and popping of laden rubber on gravel as he turned his head to watch a gleaming silver Toyota 4-Runner dock in his driveway. It was Jeff, his good friend and old partner. Jeff Gobin stood no taller than Thorpe but weighed a good forty pounds heavier. When Thorpe and Jeff suffered through the academy together they’d weighed about the same. Today they probably carried similar amounts of muscle on their frames, but Jeff sheltered his with an insulating layer of fat. Jeff was in excellent shape; he just enjoyed his pizza, spaghetti, fettuccini, and anything else Italian. Though black, if one had to guess Jeff’s ethnicity based solely on stomach contents, one would likely surmise he was fresh-off-the-boat from Sicily. They were no longer partners, but they remained close. Following the murders, Jeff often checked up on Thorpe. The last few months, and nearly daily, he’d been visiting Thorpe’s property to exercise. Jeff probably thought himself a Good Samaritan by venturing out to Thorpe’s
compound
as his friend liked to refer to it, but Thorpe figured he visited as much for his own mental stability as anything else. He rarely complained, but Jeff wallowed in a not-so-happy marriage.

Thorpe rose from the deck and walked to a large metal barn about fifty yards west of his home. The modern structure measured 24 X 20 and was outfitted with double doors, a loft, steel support, and stained concrete floors. Thorpe appointed it with weights, a heavy bag, wrestling mat, and various pieces of equipment catering to Crossfit regimens.

“What the fuck are you smiling at?” Jeff remarked, without a smile of his own.

“I’m thinking of the ass whipping you’re about to get,” Thorpe said as he opened a pedestrian door beside the larger double doors.

“Why are you always talking about my ass? There something you want to share with me?”

“Huh, your ass ain’t bad, but your boobs are a little big for my taste,” Thorpe joked.

“Fuck you.”

That was how their pleasantries usually went. A transcribed conversation between the two would read like two sworn enemies thrown in a very small room together. It was how most police officers talked to each other; if a fellow cop wasn’t giving you shit, then he probably wasn’t your friend.

Thorpe pushed open the double doors. Having been trained, Al and Trixie remained outside.

“Jeffro, it’s chest day. Let’s try to firm up those man boobs of yours. Otherwise I’m going to have to buy you a manssiere.”

Jeff smirked and displayed his middle finger.

Following strength conditioning, he and Jeff began thirty minutes of cardio circuit training that involved jumping rope, working the heavy bag, and scrambling on the mat. During the workout, last night’s conversation with Marcel kept looping through Thorpe’s mind. The trigger-pullers were already dead, but it was obvious there had been a more sinister undertaking than a burglary gone bad. Someone had
sent
the Davis Brothers, someone who would pay dearly. Thorpe’s workout intensity rose to meet that of his rage, until he collapsed on the mat, rolled over, and vomited on the smooth concrete.

Thorpe had always exercised, but since his family’s death he’d immersed himself in his workouts. The physical exertion would, temporarily at least, help dull his emotional torment. Pain, adrenaline, and a mission—Thorpe’s version of an alcoholic drinking himself numb.

“Damn, John, that’s why I don’t want to spar with you anymore. That shit ain’t normal.”

“People puke all the time when they work out,” Thorpe sputtered—still hunched over the concrete.

“Yeah, when they got Bobby Knight all over their ass. Not when they’re working out at their own home.”

“I didn’t throw up from my workout,” Thorpe smiled. “I got sick from watching your man boobs flop around inside that nasty shirt of yours.”

“Have I told you to fuck off lately?”

“Yeah, couple times.”

“Good.” Then Jeff added, “Brother, you need to go see someone before this shit kills you.”

“I’m working it out… it’s getting better.”

“You say so.”

Jeff was with Thorpe when he first met his wife, and he’d tried to be with him as much as possible ever since her death. The chance meeting occurred seven years before. At the time Thorpe was twenty-eight years old and enjoying the bachelor life. He’d been on the force for several years, had not yet been promoted, and was working as a Strategic Oriented Police Officer (SOPO). There were six SOPOs assigned to Gilcrease Division. SOPOs were selected because they demonstrated a proficiency at tossing shitheads in jail. Their assignment: put out fires across the city; if a particular area experienced a high amount of violence or drug trafficking, it was the SOPO’s job to come in and quell the criminal element. Tulsa police officers generally operate solo but because of the inherent danger of their assignment, SOPOs worked with a partner.

One Saturday night in August, Thorpe and Jeff were patrolling outside a downtown Tulsa nightclub—the site of several late-night shootings. They were conducting checks on a couple of pedestrians dressed out in gang colors, when Jeff observed two ladies exit an adjacent bar and head toward a parking lot. Thorpe noticed Jeff’s attention shift and followed his partner’s gaze. Even at fifty yards, both officers could tell the women were attractive, attractive enough that both Thorpe and Jeff forgot the term “officer safety,” distracted by four sauntering, slender, white-stocking-adorned legs. The gangbangers could have clubbed both officers over the head like baby seals had they wanted. But their attention had also been drawn to the women. It must have been quite a sight: two uniformed officers standing next to a couple of dressed-out “Red-Teamers,” all four of them drooling on themselves like best friends and fellow deviants.

The ladies walked west down First Street and rounded a corner heading north into a darkened parking lot and out of sight. Thorpe was returning his attention back to matters at hand when he observed two men across the street near where the women had passed. One of the men elbowed his buddy in the ribs and nodded in the direction the women had gone. The men began to follow. Thorpe looked at Jeff and could tell by the look on his partner’s face he shared the same concern. Jeff returned the I.D.s to the bangers, and both officers jogged toward the area where the women and their stalkers had disappeared.

When Thorpe rounded the corner, he saw the women near a red BMW. One of the men was just catching up with the women from behind. He estimated the guy to be about five-ten, a couple hundred pounds, and highly intoxicated. The man, doing his best impersonation of a drunken ninja, snuck up behind the nearest woman and lifted her black pleated skirt. The woman spun on her attacker and attempted a wide, right-handed slap, but Drunken Ninja was sober enough to catch her right wrist with his left hand and push her up against the car. The two drunks then began saying things only inebriates think are clever. The second, smaller man began maneuvering toward the other almost equally attractive woman.

Thorpe had come up behind Drunken Ninja, who had a hold on both the woman’s wrists. The woman caught the movement and glanced over her assailant’s shoulder at Thorpe. The man, a little sharper now because of an adrenaline rush, recognized someone must have been standing behind him. Drunken Ninja stepped back with his left foot, spun, and took a right fisted swing that began somewhere near the Canadian border. Instead of backing away from the telegraphed punch, Thorpe stepped into and underneath it, driving Drunken Ninja’s body over his shoulder. Thorpe lifted the man off the ground and had him draped across his shoulders in a fireman’s carry. Though not taught in any respectable martial arts dojo, it’s a move handed down from every father to every son, a move to use on your buddies when you’re horsing around, especially effective when they’re drunk. It’s not a practiced law enforcement tactic, for good reason, but Thorpe was showing off a little. He gave the drunk a “helicopter ride,” spinning him rapidly through the air.

Thorpe released the man mid-flight. Drunken Ninja was unable to activate his landing gear and skidded across the lot via his stomach and forearms. And, just like any self-respecting drunk, Ninja stood to address the threat. Unfortunately for him, his world was spinning out of control and he couldn’t keep his feet. Drunken Ninja began staggering to his right, and instead of just falling down (and saving himself further embarrassment), he picked up speed as he tried to stay upright. He took several sideways running steps before plowing headfirst into the tailgate of a blue, Ford F-150, knocking himself unconscious.

The woman in the skirt had just been in tears but began laughing as she looked down on Drunken Ninja, who emptied his bladder through his jeans onto the gravel lot.