Текст книги "Cold Blue"

Автор книги: Gary Neece

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Текущая страница: 11 (всего у книги 21 страниц)

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.”

“Jesus, Chuck! I got buck fever the first time I shot a rifle at a deer—shook like a little girl. I can’t imagine shooting a bow at an armed cop and having the nuts to follow the arrow up there. Whoever our someone is—he’s killed before.”

“I’d bet on current or ex-military. Maybe Special Forces,” Lagrone said.

“Or SWAT. Something to check into.”

“There’s something else we should consider. What if Price didn’t activate his emergency button? What if our shooter did? We never did find his radio.”

“Why the hell would the killer hit the emergency button?” Hull asked.

“The only thing I can think of is he wanted us to find Price’s body sooner rather than later. Either that or he was sending a message.”

“The damned knife in his throat was message enough. Maybe the killer was only hitting buttons—didn’t know what he was doing?” Hull pondered out loud.

“If what we’ve been guessing about this guy is true, that doesn’t sound likely.”

“I agree. We pretty sure our killer hit the button?”

“No. Just something to consider. But Price’s emergency button was activated eleven minutes after he went 10-97. If I were a betting man, I’d guess Price was killed within a couple of minutes of arriving on scene.”

Hull had already reached the same conclusion. Price had probably checked the front door, found it intact, and circled the house. It had likely taken him less than a couple of minutes to reach the back door.

“You’re probably right.”

“Another thing; everyone who knows Price says he carries a cell phone—always. We couldn’t find one on his person or in his car.”

“No shit? We need to start pinging that phone right now, Skull.”

“One step ahead of you. It’s off the grid. Suspect either turned the phone off or removed the card.”

“Figures. Why do you think the killer risked taking a phone off Price’s body with a house alarm waking up half the neighborhood?”

“Only one reason, boss. Whoever killed him really wanted that cell phone. The question is, why? To get information, or to destroy it?”

“We need to get his phone records ASAP, Skull…I know, I know, you’re one step ahead of me.”

“Always am. Don’t have ‘em yet, but we’re working on it.”

The two men sat staring at the desk between them before Hull broke the silence again. “You said something interesting when you were giving me your theory. You said the killer waited for Price behind the shed. Not waited for an officer, but waited for Price.”

“I didn’t mean to imply the suspect knew the specific officer he was going to kill, though that’s obviously something we’ll have to look at,” Lagrone explained as he studied his boss’s sour expression. “There’s something you’re thinking, Bob. Let’s hear it.”

Hull paused a few moments before responding. “Close the door, Chuck.”

Lagrone performed the task and returned to the couch.

“From the scene it’s obvious this was a premeditated murder on a police officer. Let’s have a discussion presuming Price was specifically targeted. We have no evidence of this, but let’s travel down the road a ways and see where we end up.”

“Okay, Bob, but I get the feeling you’ve already traveled down this road.”

“Just wild speculation; speculation facilitated in part because it was Price who was killed. He just happens to be one of the most loathed officers on the department, and in my opinion, probably dirty as hell. In fact, if he were killed in a drive-by I’d just chalk it up to one of his associates popping him. But this bow and arrow shit doesn’t fit that profile. I think we’re looking at someone with a tactical background.”

“I know what you’re saying. Bit of a coincidence that one of the most despised officers on the department gets taken out with a professional-looking hit.”

“If Price was specifically targeted, I’d have to say the hitter was a cop. What do you think?”

Lagrone thought for a full minute before responding. “I’d agree with you. First, the killer would have to know Price’s hours and days off. Second, he’d need to know what beat Price worked to make sure he was the one who responded. Third, he’d almost have to be in possession of a police radio to know if Price were available to take the call. Fourth, he’d more than likely be knowledgeable about how we handle alarms. So yes, if we are assuming Price was specifically targeted, I’d say the killer is probably a cop and probably TPD.”

“Big assumption—yes. We’re just tossing around ideas. I don’t want to think one of our own did this either. In addition, the killer would have known officers tend to advise on alarm calls. I also agree he’d have to be in possession of a police radio, not just a scanner that would be skipping around all the different frequencies; otherwise he’d never be sure he was going to end up with Price in the backyard. It would also explain how the killer would know how to activate an emergency button—if in fact the killer did hit the button. Okay, with all these assumptions taken into consideration, who on this department has the motivation, the skill, and the cold-bloodedness to pull this thing off?”

“Again, I think you’d be looking at someone ex or current military, someone who has killed before. Maybe someone fresh from Sand Land who doesn’t get the shakes about taking a human life anymore.”

“I agree the suspect has killed before. You don’t carry out your first killing with a fucking bow and Buck knife. I could see someone using a rifle or something, but I can’t imagine a first-timer taking a guy out the way Price was killed.”

“We also need to consider some SOT guys; a couple on the team have multiple kills,” Lagrone added.

“So assuming Price was targeted, we’re looking for a Tulsa police officer with an array of tactical skills who has killed before and has a beef with Price.”

“I can start compiling a list,” Lagrone offered.

“Do it on the down-low. If the brass comes up with the same idea and asks you about it, just tell them we’ve already considered the possibility and we’re investigating it. If they want more, refer them to me.”

The two men sat on opposite sides of Hull’s desk both staring at the cluttered workspace with unfocused eyes. Lagrone shook his head.

“There’s something more you’re not telling me.”

“Skull, are you having psychic fantasies again?”

“Kiss my ass. I’ve worked with you long enough to read you like a cheap comic book.”

Hull looked up at the ceiling and let out a long breath. “Chuck, we’ve been making a ton of assumptions, and I’m about to throw out a name with absolutely no just cause. I’m way off the fucking reservation with this one, and I don’t want my mentioning his name to turn him into a suspect on this deal. Got it?”

Lagrone slowly nodded his head; he rarely saw his boss this concerned. “Understood.”

“Let’s talk about Jonathan Thorpe.”

Hull didn’t follow the announcement of Thorpe’s name with any further discussion. He let it hang in the air and studied Lagrone’s reaction. Having worked with his lead investigator for decades now, Hull watched the older man’s face parade an assortment of responses—surprise, contemplation, and possible acceptance.

“But before we talk about John, let me ask you a question. If someone killed your wife and children, and you found out who it was, but the police didn’t, what would you do?”

“You know what I’d do. I’d kill ‘em deader ‘n’ shit. So would you,” Lagrone stated emphatically.

“It’s hard to even imagine something like that. But, yeah, I’m pretty sure I’d kill them. If I didn’t have any proof that could be used in court, I know I would.”

“You think Price killed Thorpe’s wife and daughter?”

“I don’t know shit. I’m fucking thinking out loud and pretty pissed at myself for doing it.”

Hull would question Lagrone in an effort to support or poke holes in his own theory. He wouldn’t make that theory known until he’d asked all his questions, if he revealed it at all. Generally he let Lagrone reach his own conclusions through the questions he’d posed.

“Okay, Chuck. We both agree if our family was murdered and we knew the shithead who did it, we’d most likely kill the bastard…especially if we didn’t think the police had enough to get a conviction. First, do you think John would react the same way?”

“Without a doubt.”

“I agree. Secondly, for months John has been pestering me for information in reference to his family’s murders, and understandably so. Then, when Marcel Newman was killed, I spend an hour with the kid, and he never brings it up. Chuck, tell me the reason why someone who has asked me about his family’s murders every time I’ve seen him for thirteen months suddenly stops asking?”

Lagrone thought for several seconds before responding. “Either he’s stopped grieving and decided to move on, or he’s given up hope.”

“Can you think of any other reasons?”

“Or he’s discovered the answers.”

“Which one do you think most likely applies to our boy?”

“He doesn’t strike me as a quitter, Bob.”

“Me either.”

“Chuck, this morning I called the ME’s office. You know the shoulder wound Marcel Newman had? ME said the injury was likely caused by an arrow.”

“Whoa. That’s definitely strange, but doesn’t implicate Thorpe; just a possibility that these two murders are related.”

“We haven’t had a murder with a bow and arrow in twenty-five years, and then we get two within a week of each other. Not to mention that the one back then involved a Tulsa police officer as a suspect.” Hull paused for a few seconds before continuing. “Assuming Price was specifically targeted, we agreed the suspect was probably TPD, has killed before, has tactical skills, is one cool customer, and has a beef with Price. Now the motivation is unknown, but John certainly possesses all the other attributes. Again, this is pure speculation, I can think of other officers who possess these skills as well.”

“I realize we’re just talking here, Boss. I like the kid, and I know you do too.”

“Hell yeah, I like him. This discussion doesn’t go past the two of us. Let’s discuss what we know about John, starting with the murder of his family.”

THIRTEEN MONTHS AGO, DURING THE early morning hours, Thorpe had arrived home from work, pulling his undercover truck into the driveway of his South Tulsa residence. In subsequent interviews, he reported sensing something wrong as soon as he inserted his key into the front lock. He stepped into the entryway, registered the rear door standing open, and then saw the body of his wife, Erica, lying in the hallway surrounded by a pool of blood. He reported running to Erica’s side to check her condition, instantly recognizing she was dead. He then charged up the stairs to his daughter’s room where he found her lying on her bedroom floor, bloodied, shot in the back of the head.

Thorpe had been immobilized by shock and didn’t immediately phone 911 or check the house for possible remaining assailants. Instead, he sat on the bloody carpet and held his fallen daughter. After some time had passed, Thorpe hadn’t been sure how long, he used his cell phone to call dispatch and report the murders. Uniformed officers arrived in minutes, but because detectives were already working a separate double homicide, it took them considerably longer to respond.

Hull had been at the scene of the double homicide in North Tulsa where two brothers, Deandre and Damarius Davis, were murdered and their bodies set on fire. Still working the scene, dispatch informed him officers had another homicide in South Tulsa. He’d told dispatch to instruct the Southside officers to hold what they had, that it would be a while before they could respond. About a half hour later an officer called his cell phone and notified him the other crime scene involved an officer’s family. Enraged he hadn’t been informed of that fact earlier, he immediately responded to Thorpe’s home.

Usually, Hull assigned one of his detectives to head each case—with his oversight—but in this instance, he decided to take the lead himself. Upon arrival, he found Thorpe in a state of mild shock, sitting in a patrol car outside his home. Hull felt a great deal of empathy for the man; Hull had children of his own and couldn’t fathom having to go through a similar experience. He also knew, regardless of the circumstances, Thorpe would have to be investigated for any possible involvement in his family’s murder. Statistics show the husband/father is generally the offender in such situations. It’s tragic enough to lose one’s family in a violent manner, but to have your peers suspect you of being their killer would devastate most men.

Hull quickly determined Thorpe had been with several of his officers during the time frame of Erica’s and Ella’s deaths. Speculation arose the killings of the Double D brothers the same night in North Tulsa might have been related. Damarius and Deandre Davis had been shot to death on a dead end street before their bodies and vehicle were doused with gasoline and set ablaze. The heat from the fire had been so intense their remains were barely discernible. The seats had completely melted down to the coils. The vehicle in which they were burned did fit the general description of a car that’d been seen parked in Thorpe’s neighborhood around the time of his family’s murder. The Davis brothers were documented gang members, and Thorpe supervised of the Organized Gang Unit. Hull looked into the possible connection, but the two brothers and Thorpe had only limited contact with each other. Associates of the Davis brothers were interviewed, but as usual didn’t know anything about anything.

Luckily, Thorpe’s whereabouts during the murders of the Davis brothers were also confirmed, eliminating any suggestions he hired the brothers to kill his family, then later killed the brothers to cover his tracks. The only red flag in relation to Thorpe was the fact he’d taken out a life insurance policy on his Erica shortly before her murder. Thorpe explained he and his wife’s family didn’t exactly care for one another, and he didn’t want to depend on his father-in-law for help raising Ella in the unlikely event his wife died.

Hull was certain Thorpe had no involvement in the death of his family. However, the media has an insatiable appetite for attractive, murdered white women and their angelic children, and the department knew the case would receive plenty of attention. Despite Hull’s assurances that John wasn’t a suspect, his superiors ordered him to discover everything he could about Thorpe’s past so there would be no surprises. With Lagrone’s assistance, Hull led this discreet investigation himself. Their research uncovered more than they’d anticipated. Some of these revelations they passed along to their superiors; others they thought best kept to themselves.

Looking into Thorpe’s history, the first thing Hull had done was pull the man’s pre-employment background investigation. Every officer who is considered for the Tulsa Police Department undergoes a background check by an investigator assigned to the Training Academy. Some of the probes are more involved than others, depending on how many alarms are raised during criminal checks, initial interviews and so forth. Because of Thorpe’s superior scholastic achievements, and a record’s check revealing just one traffic citation and zero arrests, his background check had been very limited.

Hull immediately found one glaring concern somehow overlooked by his background investigator. The city physician documented a myriad of scarred lacerations on Thorpe’s torso, head and limbs during his mandatory physical. In response to the physician’s inquiries, Thorpe stated he’d been assaulted by an assailant with a knife while residing in Kansas City, Missouri. TPD’s background investigator never followed up on Thorpe’s claims. Hull and Lagrone were unsuccessful in their attempt to locate any paperwork substantiating the assault. Had this actually occurred, surely the boy’s parents would have insisted upon a police report. Thorpe’s only documented contact with law enforcement was the aforementioned traffic citation.

In his background questionnaire, Thorpe reported that his father, Benjamin, served in the United States Army. Hull learned the elder Thorpe had been a supply sergeant for the army but had been honorably discharged when John was eleven. From tax records, Hull determined Benjamin Thorpe had been employed by USA International, a private security company that hired mostly ex-military personnel, especially ex-commandos. Hull and Lagrone repeatedly got the runaround and could barely get the company to admit it once employed Benjamin Thorpe. The US Army was equally uncooperative.

Both men had been preparing to pay a personal visit to USA International when Hull’s captain told him to cease investigating Benjamin Thorpe’s employment. Hull had asked if that meant he were to end his investigation of John Thorpe as well. His boss informed him to continue the investigation, but anything relating to John’s father was irrelevant and off limits. Clearly, Hull had been poking his nose somewhere sensitive. He didn’t know what Benjamin Thorpe had done in the Army or for USA International but was certain it didn’t have a damn thing to do with ordering supplies.