Cold Blue (6 page)

When Thorpe reached the top of the stairs, he found another hallway with three bedrooms and a bath. He motioned for additional officers and together they cleared the bathroom and two of the three bedrooms. The door to the final bedroom at the end of the hallway was closed. Thorpe took up a position in a room on the left side of the hallway near the closed room. Another officer approached the door from a room on the right side of the hallway. That officer approached from the hinged side and reached across for the doorknob. As the officer reached, Thorpe was overcome with a feeling of impending doom unlike any he’d ever experienced.

Thorpe hissed, “Stop.” Sensing the urgency in his sergeant’s voice, the officer stepped back into the room on the right and took cover.

Thorpe remembered feeling flustered as he had not heard, seen or even smelled anything indicating circumstances more dangerous than usual. The only thing substantiating his concern was that Intelligence had been certain the main target was inside, yet his squad had not encountered a single suspect. Still, Intelligence had erred on numerous occasions. Rather than dismiss his unwarranted apprehension, Thorpe called for an officer to retrieve a bullet-resistant shield and sent another officer to collect the ram, which had been discarded on the front porch.

When both officers were in place, he directed the officer with the shield to approach the door and crack it open, about an inch “to let the room cook.” The room sat dark, nothing moved. Yet Thorpe felt a
presence
. Thorpe stood just inside the doorway using the doorjamb for cover. Attached to his Glock was a high-intensity flashlight slicing a wedge of illumination inside the partially open door eight feet ahead.

Thorpe tapped all his senses in an effort to understand his foreboding of the room beyond. He was sure every officer felt it, or maybe they just sensed Thorpe’s unease. Regardless, he was so attuned he could hear fabrics stretching and contracting as weary officers breathed in and out under the mounting stress. Still, nothing tangible seeped from the space ahead, only darkened corners and silence. Despite the quiet, lack of odor, or any visual clues, the room may as well been aglow with brimstone based on Thorpe’s nape hairs standing at attention.

Thorpe could smell Donnie Edward’s cologne. In fact he could pinpoint the officer’s exact location solely from his labored breaths. In addition to the stress everyone felt, Donnie had raced to fetch the ram and lugged the heavy instrument back up the stairs. Donnie resembled in size an NCCA Division I defensive end, and with good reason; that’s what he was before joining the department. These days his appearance was closer to a “one percenter” motorcycle club member—his hair and beard approximated two feet in length. Because of Donnie’s size, Thorpe often put him in charge of the ram—as was the case on this warrant.

“Donnie, on my right,” Thorpe ordered the officer to his side.

“What’s up, Sarge?”

“Donnie, I want you to launch that ram at the door and get your ass back in here before it hits. You think you can do that?” Thorpe whispered, never taking his eyes off the room ahead.

“Yeah, no problem. What’s the deal?”

“Just got a bad feeling.” Thorpe directed his officer into the hall with a bit of pressure on the larger man’s shoulder.

Donnie threw the ram and stepped behind Thorpe before the eighty-pound projectile slammed into the door, knocking it wide open. A shotgun blast came from the right side of the unsecured room, taking out a chunk of sheetrock just left of the battered door.

A shotgun blast in an enclosed space will definitely wake your ass up. Following the blast, a redheaded maniac with saucer-size eyes came running out of the room kamikaze style, carrying a long-barrel gun in his hands. Thorpe fired one shot with his Glock .40-caliber handgun into the center of the man’s face, the round catching the man in the bridge of the nose. Because of the suspect’s forward motion, he began to fall face first into the middle of the hallway near Thorpe’s feet. Not taking any chances, Thorpe fired two more rounds downward, into the back of the man’s head before it impacted with the floor. Then he immediately brought his weapon up toward the open door, scanning for additional threats.

At the conclusion of the warrant service, one of the officers asked how he knew what had been waiting on the other side. Thorpe answered with his usual sarcasm, “Didn’t you know I was psychic?”

The officer responded, “Yeah, right, Carnac the Magnificent.” And the nickname stuck.

All shootings involving a police officer are investigated by both Homicide and investigators with the Office of Integrity and Compliance, formerly known as Internal Affairs. Thorpe didn’t know the reason for the name change—maybe they thought the elaborate term lent more credibility or maybe they just wanted to soften their image. Police departments around the country were too busy trying to pacify leftwing liberals instead of doing their jobs, which used to be fighting crime. Despite the official name change, officers still referred to them as Internal Affairs.

Most IA investigators were pretty decent cops. Unlike their portrayal in the movies, the busting of a fellow officer was not a fast track to promotion—at least not in Tulsa. Recently, Thorpe’s buddy Jeff Gobin had transferred to IA.

As far as Homicide, Thorpe had the utmost respect for the sergeant in charge of that unit, Robert Hull, and for the majority of investigators under his command. In Thorpe’s opinion, Robert Hull was one of the finest cops on the department. During the subsequent investigation, most questions centered on how Thorpe knew a threat lurked behind the closed door. Thorpe’s disclosure that he “had a feeling” raised the eyebrows of several investigators though none officially called bullshit on the matter.

Another point of contention was the two slugs to the back of the head. After Thorpe’s first shot the suspect fell in such a way that he had a line of fire into the room where Thorpe’s team huddled, and Thorpe didn’t want to learn the man was still alive via a shotgun blast cleaving one of his officer’s heads. Homicide and IA had no problem with his explanation. However, the Tulsa County District Attorney hesitated signing off on a justifiable shooting because of the last two rounds. For political reasons, DA’s often went after police officers with fervor, a potential problem when you have lawyers—most of whom who would shit themselves if placed in similar circumstances—reviewing deadly force situations. Yet they sit back in their air-conditioned offices and Monday-morning quarterback events that at the time were tense and rapidly evolving. After five weeks of paid suspension, the DA finally blessed the shooting justifiable, and Thorpe was reinstated to the Gang Unit.

“Hey, Carnac, can we serve a warrant tonight or what?” Jennifer asked again. Officer Williams had many good qualities; patience not one of them.

“I don’t think there are any in front of you. Let me see it,” Thorpe said, carrying the warrant back to his office to review.

Every sergeant at SID had his own office. Most garnished theirs with lamps, pictures, and the requisite framings of all the accolades they’d received since kindergarten. Thorpe’s was sparse. Besides his desk and computer station, he had a small television and a confiscated leather couch for late nights at work. Otherwise, everything that hung on his wall was functional. He had two cork boards filled with various documents and a large paper calendar serving as his décor.

Besides, Thorpe spent as little time as possible inside his office. He answered emails, returned phone calls, and distributed case assignments within an hour of arriving. He devoted the rest of his shift to what officers should be doing—throwing bad guys in jail. The new major, Richard Duncan, had arrived only a few months ago and was already making that job more difficult. He seemed determined to turn the division into a bunch of gun-toting secretaries. Officers now spent half their shifts with busywork instead of crime fighting. They wasted countless hours feeding a cumbersome case-management system. A simple drug arrest now resulted in five hours of post-booking paperwork. Progress.

Major Duncan looked like a walrus—an ugly one. He was a good four hundred pounds, and no one could remember having seen the upper third of his pants because of copious amounts of fat spilling over his belt and submitting to the effects of gravity. Since transferring to the division, he’d taken advantage of the relaxed grooming standards and grown a long mustache extending down his jowls. That, and his bald head, only accentuated his walrus-ness.

The chiefs had probably transferred Duncan to SID to get the man out of uniform and away from public view. Back when Duncan was but a lowly street officer, he rarely saw the inside of a jail—
probably couldn’t fit
. Now here he was, commander of the Special Investigations Division, bogging down a bunch of go-getters with red tape. It was one of the many reasons Thorpe chose to work nights instead of days—he didn’t have to see much of the fat-ass brass.

Thorpe sat at his desk and reviewed the “controlled buy” search warrant Jennifer had prepared. “THE STATE OF OKLAHOMA, Plaintiff vs. CORRINDER RAY HIGHTOWER AKA: C-NOTE, Defendant.” Tonight OGU would be searching for “COCAINE, COCAINE BASE, FRUITS, INSTRUMENTALITIES, MONIES, RECORDS, PROOF OF RESIDENCY, FIREARMS, AMMUNITION AND PROOF OF OWNERSHIP OF SUCH ITEMS.” Simply stated, the warrant was for “crack” cocaine on a known 107 Hoover Crip’s house and written like ninety-five percent of the other warrants he reviewed; the only differences were dates, location, and suspect information. All the rest was standard search warrant fluff. He approved the warrant, called Jennifer’s desk phone, told her it was a go, and set a time. He then went to work on The Walrus’s plethora of demands—for there were other matters needing his attention this night.

Monday

February 5

Late evening

THREE HOURS LATER, THORPE AND
four of his investigators rode in a 1997 puke-green Ford Aerostar van rumbling toward
The Kitchen
, a nickname given to one of the most violent and gang-infested sections of the city. The old family wagon was a certified piece of shit and the perfect undercover “jump-out” van. They occupied the lead vehicle of a five-car caravan. Two marked police units brought up the rear of the modern-day posse.

Because she’d prepared the warrant and helped plan the approach route, Jennifer sat behind the wheel. Jennifer was one of the more fit officers on the department when it came to strength conditioning. She spent several hours in the gym hitting the weights every day. Despite her efforts, she hadn’t developed a mannish-looking physique like female bodybuilders often obtain, but she could damn well kick some ass.

Thorpe looked over his shoulder at the three men squeezed into the rear bench seat as he made adjustments to his DEA-issued entry vest. The vest had built-in Kevlar throat and groin protectors and “POLICE” emblazoned in white across the front and back. He also donned a Kevlar helmet, Oakley sunglasses with clear lenses, and his nylon gear with dropdown rig made to house his Glock 22C with light attachment. Topped off with black Harley Davidson boots, dark jeans, and a long sleeved black t-shirt, his appearance was intimidating. Wearing similar equipment, the entry team looked like a small band of black-clad warriors—or maybe a group of jackbooted thugs depending on one’s conservative or liberal leanings.

Thorpe was provided with a good view of the three officers; the center seat had long since been removed to facilitate the rapid deployment of large men with bulky equipment and hostile intentions. At the ends of the rear bench sat Jack Yelton and the college football star, Donnie Edwards, both of whom only made the man in the middle, Jake Holloway, seem even smaller. Bookend number one, Jack, sported a red mane and proud beer belly. He stood a few inches shorter than Donnie, but weighed nearly the same. Jake, at a hair over six feet one and a sandwich shy from a buck-sixty, looked the part of a high school senior—one of the reasons he was such a great UC (undercover). No one would ever believe he was a cop.

All appeared alert but relaxed. They’d been on too many search warrants to develop the nervous tics and wide eyes some of the less experienced officers exhibit while en route to a warrant service. That’s why Thorpe always placed new guys and uniformed officers at the back of the line—one could never predict what they might do. Even veteran officers sometimes lost their composure; sprinting solo into the house was a common occurrence, an action that put the whole team at risk.

As Jennifer turned north on Hartford Avenue, Thorpe conducted a radio check to make sure all the vehicles were still in line. When she turned west on 51
^st
Place North, Thorpe advised the dispatcher monitoring the tactical channel they were “less than a minute out” and requested a time. Jennifer brought the van north on Frankfort Avenue, approaching the target from the south. The house would be on the team’s right as they piled out of their vehicles.

Because of limited manpower, Thorpe instructed officers not to pursue anyone who ran from the front yard; they were already stretched thin enough without chasing rabbits in four different directions. As Jennifer neared the target, she switched on the van’s bright lights; the cars following extinguished theirs. The intended effect was to blind anyone in the yard so they couldn’t see the trailing marked police units.