Cold Blue (3 page)

“Why would those two assholes kill a cop’s family?” Thorpe demanded.

“How da fuck I know?” Marcel replied, still able to muster up attitude. “Musta’ been stealin’ yo shit when it went bad.”

Thorpe rose and walked away, his mind scrambling to catch up. What were the chances two North-side bangers would end up in Thorpe’s South Tulsa neighborhood, attempt to burglarize his home, shoot and kill his family, and be killed themselves a few hours later?
Not very damn likely.
If they were in fact the killers, then someone had sent them, and that same person or persons had bought their silence with a couple of bullets. Thorpe returned to Marcel, determined to get at the truth.

“Who sent the Double D Brothers to kill my family?!” Thorpe demanded.

“I don’t know what you fuckin’ talkin’ ‘bout. Just kill me already.”

Thorpe knelt and peeled off Marcel’s hood. Then he pulled his own ski mask up over his headlamp so that it filtered minimal light. Eyes uncovered, Thorpe stared at his captive. “Marcel, you’re right. I
am
going to kill you. No matter what you say, or what you do, you are going to die tonight. I know you’re a solider, and I doubt you’re afraid of death. A part of me actually has respect for you because in your own fucked-up way, you have some honor about you. But you’re about to make the most important choice of your very short life.”

Through the dim light, Marcel stared defiantly into Thorpe’s eyes
. Good
. He had the man’s full attention, and he needed it to drive home his next bluff. Death was nothing to Marcel; he’d accepted his ultimate fate years before. Most bangers have no regard for human life, sometimes not even their own. Marcel had no problem dying like a soldier. He would have the respect of his crew and enjoy a legacy—much like a radical Islamic dreams of dying a martyr. Thorpe had to convince Marcel he would strip that respect away…even in death.

“Marcel, I’m about to ask you a series of questions. You can answer these honestly, or you can lie…it’s
your
choice. Either way, before I kill you I’ll give you a moment to make peace with God. If I think you’ve told me the truth—and I’m pretty good at sifting through bullshit, Marcel—you’ll die painlessly. But, and listen real carefully to this, I’m going to take a little insurance policy out on your ass.”

Thorpe paused while continuing to stare into Marcel’s eyes; he needed to ensure he understood. “After you’re dead, your body leaves here with me. It may be in one piece, or it may be in several; that’s up to you. What happens to it afterward is also up to you. If I determine you’ve been truthful, your body will be found on a street somewhere. Your homies will assume you’ve been killed by rival gang members. They’ll come to your funeral and remember you as a soldier and pay you the respect you deserve. You still listening, Marcel?”

His captive nodded his head as he stared back with unblinking eyes.

“Good. Because if you lie to me, Marcel, they won’t ever find your body. Instead I’ll start writing search warrants on all your homies, and I’ll name you in those warrants as my snitch.”

Marcel’s eyes widened and intensified with even more anger.

“That’s right, Marcel. You will have disappeared and warrants will start popping up with your name written all over them. Everyone will think you’ve turned informant. You’ll be dead, but no one will come to your funeral to pay respect. The only reason they’d show up would be to piss on your grave. Now look in my eyes and ask yourself—will he really do this?”

Thorpe really needed to sell this bluff to make sure he got truthful answers. In effect, he was forcing Marcel to be a snitch in order to avoid being labeled one. He was about to find out what was more important to the man: real honor or the perception of honor.

Marcel stared into Thorpe’s unwavering eyes for a full minute before he turned his head away, his body appearing to collapse in upon itself. All Marcel had in this world was his reputation, and this cracker motherfucker was prepared to take that from him as well.

He watched as fear and doubt clawed its way into Marcel’s being. Thorpe knew he’d won the battle. Marcel still might offer slivers of resistance, but was now a broken man.

“All I heard was—it was something else got fucked up,” Marcel finally admitted.

“Explain.”

“’Bout a week after your daughter was killed, dude told me the Double D Brothers were the hitters. He said it was some fucked-up shit. I asked him about it, but he quit talking. He said he shouldn’t have said anything. He tried to act like he was being solid by keeping his mouth shut. But I could tell he was scared.”

“Who told you this?”

“I don’t know his name,” Marcel lied.

Thorpe placed the blade of his knife at the base of Marcel’s penis. He very slowly began drawing the serrated edge across when Marcel blurted out the name, “Kaleb.”

“Kaleb…Kaleb Moment?” Thorpe asked.

“Yeah,” Marcel said, defeated, “…fuck!”

“What else did he tell you?”

“Just it was no coincidence the brothers got killed the same night. That’s all; he wouldn’t say no more. I think he knew he fucked up by talking about it. Every day after he told me not to say a fucking word…and I never did.”

Thorpe weighed the information. He believed Marcel was telling the truth. For one thing, he could
see
the devastation in Marcel’s face and in his body posture. He’d become almost demure and had substituted nearly Standard English in lieu of street talk. But most importantly, he’d just snitched on one of his best homeboys, Kaleb Moment. Marcel had to know he was bringing hell itself down on Kaleb, as his friend would soon be in a similar predicament as his own.

Thorpe leaned in. “Marcel, if you’re withholding anything else from me, a lot of people are going to have warrants served on them…courtesy of you.”

“Man, that’s it; I don’t know nothin’ else.”

“One more thing, Marcel…I’m gonna’ wipe away the word you wrote in the dirt.” Marcel’s hands were taped behind his back, inches off the dirt floor. Earlier he’d used his finger to spell “cop” behind the wooden pole. “That was very clever of you. After I wipe it away you’re going to use the same finger to write the letters ‘L.A.’” Thorpe stepped onto the word and dragged his sole across the dirt before telling Marcel to proceed.

“I’ll make sure this barn gets searched after they find your body.” Thorpe thought he caught the hint of a smile as Marcel etched the letters into the dirt floor.

“Marcel, you have two minutes to try and save your soul if you think you have one. Pray to whatever god you worship. I’ll tell you when it’s time.”

Resigned to his fate, Marcel closed his eyes and appeared to be engaged in silent prayer. Thorpe used the break to gather equipment. Two minutes later, he returned to Marcel, checked to make sure the L.A. initials were still intact, and informed him it was time.

“Marcel, earlier tonight when you approached your car, you paused and looked around. You even stared in my direction. You see or hear anything?”

Marcel turned his head toward Thorpe. He seemed genuinely contemplative before responding. “No, I just
felt
something. Guess I fucked up.”

Ain’t no guessing ‘bout it
. Thorpe held a rag in front of Marcel’s face.

“Open your mouth. I have to remove the bolt, and it’s going to hurt like a bitch. I don’t want you screaming out.”

It must not have crossed Marcel’s mind that Thorpe could wait to remove the bolt until after he was dead. He did as he was told. But when Thorpe continued wrapping Marcel’s mouth and nose completely shut with tape, his eyes bulged with realization and fear.

“Marcel, when I told you I respected you, it was one of several lies you bought tonight. You’re a piece-of-shit child killer just like the ones I’m after. When you made peace with God, I hope you mentioned the little girl you killed.”

With that, Thorpe picked up a stray two-by-four from the barn’s floor, dropped to a knee, and swung it like a baseball bat at Marcel’s throat. Bone and meat were crushed between the board and the wooden pole. Marcel’s bound body convulsed and lurched on the dirt floor as he suffocated in his own blood.

Even as Marcel sat dying, Thorpe went to work. He cut the forward end of the bolt with his bolt cutters and used the pliers to pull the shaft through the front of the shoulder. He put all of these items in a large, heavy-duty, plastic bag. Thorpe then removed a small Ziploc plastic baggy from his pocket, used a pair of tweezers to remove a hair from inside, and placed it on the sticky side of loose tape attached to Marcel. Thorpe gathered his equipment and left Marcel’s body bound to the pole. He stepped out of the barn at 0655 hours.

Though the sky was beginning to lighten, he still had twenty-seven minutes till sunrise. Thorpe walked around the outside of the barn, wearing the different boots and using varying strides before heading south down the gravel road. Before he reached the gate, he stepped a few yards to the east, removed the spool of fishing line from the crossbow, and concealed the weapon in vegetation. He didn’t want to be spotted with the crossbow out on the street. Thorpe didn’t care if the weapon was found—it couldn’t be traced back to him. He put the spool in his pocket and monitored the police radio as he calmly walked to his vehicle.

Monday

February 5

Afternoon

TULSA, OKLAHOMA, IS THE FORTY-FIFTH
largest city, by population, in the United States. Nearly 400,000 people live within its limits—almost a million in the metro area. Originally part of Indian Territory, the city flourished when large pools of oil were discovered in the early 1900s. In 1927, a Tulsa businessman campaigned to create a highway system connecting Chicago to California. Because of his efforts, Tulsa became known as “the birthplace of Route 66.”

Today, the swath old Route 66 cuts through Tulsa is the city’s easiest place to locate “women of the night.” An archaic name, for these days prostitutes were as likely to be peddling ass during the lunch hour as any other time. If the old highway were to be renamed today, Route 69 might be a more apt description—though that particular service would undoubtedly cost extra.

Tulsa sits in the northeast corner of Oklahoma in a region known as Green Country. Unlike the western section of Oklahoma, Tulsa is surrounded by lush woodlands, lakes, and rolling landscape. The climate can change forty degrees or more in a single day. The fickle conditions prompted the famous quote by native Oklahoman Will Rogers, “If you don’t like the weather in Oklahoma, just wait a minute.
”

The city itself is divided by locals into four major sections. The North Side has a predominantly black populace and is comprised of older homes and very few businesses. It’s the place most rookie police officers cut their teeth—at least those who join for the pursuits, fights, and action. The North Side is where Thorpe spent the majority of his career before supervising the OGU.

The West Side is mostly lower-income whites; the East Side is a kaleidoscope of Caucasians, Hispanics, blacks, Asians, and comprised of medium to lower-priced homes and industrial complexes. The South Side is where the money lives.

These socio-economic dynamics were the basis for S.E. Hinton’s
The Outsiders
, a 1960s novel pitting Greasers against Socials or “Socs.” Francis Ford Coppola would later take the high school author’s book and make it into a blockbuster movie. Today, with the proliferation of gangs and gun violence, South Side Socials keep their lily-white asses away from the North Side.

Though not immensely populated, Tulsa was bigger and busier than Thorpe wanted in his off hours. He chose to live outside the city, near the small town of Mounds, Oklahoma. His neighborhood, a twenty-five minute drive south of downtown Tulsa, consisted of fifteen homes. Each home sat on ten to twenty wooded acres. He’d moved there about seven months after his wife, Erica, and his daughter, Ella, had been murdered.

The previous home had been a museum of better times. Every square inch pierced his heart with memories. Scents lingered on hairbrushes, pillows, clothing and toys. On occasion, Thorpe would think he heard his daughter’s giggles, finding himself rushing into an empty room only to find a new depth to his misery. Even the new carpet in his daughter’s bedroom provided a constant reminder; the plywood beneath was no doubt permeated with Ella’s blood.

After their deaths, Thorpe immediately listed the home with a Realtor and rented an apartment. Not able to bear being surrounded by his family’s belongings, he also couldn’t stomach discarding them; he moved all their possessions into storage. He accepted the first offer on his house and took a huge loss. He wanted out and knew no one would pay market price for a home in which a double homicide had recently occurred.

Secluded, his new house sat near the front of twenty wooded acres; a creek snaked its way through the property forty yards behind his home. A pine deck was built above the creek. The wooden perch was a place Thorpe spent many hours and was where he sat now, accompanied by his two German shepherds, Al and Trixie.