Текст книги "Cold Blue"

Автор книги: Gary Neece

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Текущая страница: 3 (всего у книги 21 страниц)

Monday

February 5

Evening

POLICE LOVE THEIR ACRONYMS, AND the Tulsa Police Department was no exception. Thorpe supervised the Organized Gang Unit, or OGU. The OGU operated out of the Special Investigation’s Division or SID, which housed the department’s undercover units. In addition to the OGU, the division was also home to the Vice Unit, two narcotics units, the Intelligence Unit, and the Organized Crime Drug Enforcement Task Force or OCDETF, a unit comprised of DEA agents and Tulsa police officers—both entities being cross deputized. Tulsa officers, integrated with the FBI’s counter terrorism unit, also worked out of the office. The personnel working at SID were a motley bunch. Some had the boy or girl next-door appearance while others looked as though they should be shooting crank in a darkened corner of a seedy bar.

The Special Investigations Division, more commonly referred to as “The Office” by those who worked there, was relocated every few years in an attempt to keep the location secret, thereby deterring countersurveillance. Currently the office was located on the southwest corner of a busy intersection in East Tulsa. SID personnel accessed the office via a concrete ramp on the south side of the building. At the top of the ramp, a tall gate and an electronic card reader kept the uninvited at bay. The gate was posted “ITPS Inc., AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY.” ITPS stood for It’s The Police Stupid—a testament to the fact that cops do have a sense of humor. If allowed through the gate, one parked on a lot that—in reality—was the roof of the second floor of the building. The first two floors were occupied by regular citizens who didn’t have access to the third. The third level was half parking lot and half office building.

Situated in a fairly nefarious neighborhood, officers could sit atop their own elevated parking lot, look over the short wall, and observe drug sales occurring on a daily basis. The Sheridan Commons, a low-rent, pay-by-the-night or by-the-week “whoretel,” sat just to the south. It was a major prostitution and street-level narcotics hub, owned and operated by a Middle Eastern man shadier than a Live Oak in July.

Thorpe arrived at the office a few minutes before 6 p.m., when darkness was already descending. Thorpe had ten investigators and one corporal under his command. His corporal and four of his officers normally worked dayshift hours from eleven in the morning to seven at night. Thorpe chose to work the late shift from 6 p.m. till 2 a.m. with the six nightshift officers. However, because of the nature of the work, schedules changed on a daily basis and overtime was abundant. Well, it had been abundant until the new division commander arrived a few months ago. Now officers went home on time even in the midst of developing investigations—all in order to make the new major, Richard Duncan, look like an overtime savior to his bosses.

Thorpe docked his undercover truck beneath the amber lights of the parking area. Then, dimly illuminated by the yellow haze, strode across the lot and swiped his card a second time to gain entry. As usual, the division’s secretary and all the brass had left for the evening. Deeper into the building, he found two of his nightshift officers already at their desks. One, Jennifer Williams, shouted at him across the OGU bullpen.

“Hey, Carnac, can we serve a warrant tonight?”

“Carnac” was a name Thorpe picked up a couple of years earlier. Most criminals had cool nicknames like Deuce, Fast Eddie, Machine Gun Kelly, whatever. But a police officer would never give another cop a good moniker. A few had tried to assume favorable nicknames for themselves—always with disastrous consequences.

Thorpe’s label was a reference to “Carnac the Magnificent,” a character made famous by the late Johnny Carson. In the skit, Johnny would wear a ridiculously gigantic turban on his head. As always, Ed McMahon played the straight man. Carson as Carnac would produce an envelope, which McMahon would claim was “hermetically sealed.” Carnac would then use his psychic powers to come up with a punch line answer to an unknown question. After announcing the punch line, Carnac would open the envelope and read the question. The bit would go something like this:

Carnac would hold an envelope to his turban and state, “A triple and a double, catcher’s and fielder’s, and Dolly Parton.”

McMahon: “A triple and a double, catcher’s and fielder’s, and Dolly Parton.”

Carnac: “Name two big hits, two big mitts…and a famous country singer.”

Thorpe had earned this nickname while serving a search warrant on a methamphetamine lab near Lewis and Independence. One of his officers had obtained the warrant utilizing a “trash pull.”

The courts have deemed once refuse is abandoned at the curb it is no longer protected by search and seizure laws. Investigators generally “pull” the trash and replace it with another bag in the early morning hours while everyone’s asleep (though it’s sometimes difficult to determine when a crankster sleeps, since they’re often up for days on end). And it’s always a bit awkward when you get caught stealing garbage. Feigning being drunk off one’s ass is the preferred tactic for avoiding lengthy explanations. No one likes talking to someone who’s shitfaced, not even meth-heads.

You can learn a lot about a person from going through their trash, right down to their menstrual cycles. In this instance, officers found blister packs from numerous cold and allergy pills, which contained pseudoephedrine. They’d also located Heet bottles and items covered with iodine stains. All of these components are used in the “Red-P” method of methamphetamine production. A background check on the occupants revealed prior arrests for drug possession and related offenses. The contents of the trash, bolstered by the resident’s criminal history, were more than enough to obtain a search warrant for the property.

Search warrant services on methamphetamine labs are rarely fun. They’re inherently dangerous because of a multitude of toxic chemicals used in the manufacturing process. In addition, the “cook” itself produces phosphorus gas, which is lethal. Added to the mix are cooks who are at the extreme end of paranoia. Labs often explode, and cooks sometimes implement booby traps to injure officers.

The residence involved in this particular search warrant was the quintessential crank house. Located in the midst of lower-class homes, it had a large lot surrounded by an eight-foot privacy fence, vehicles in various stages of disrepair carpeting the yard, black plastic sheeting on the windows to provide concealment, and upholstered furniture on the front porch. The only things missing were the requisite Chevy El Camino and Confederate flag.

In addition to their usual equipment, the first three officers staged at the front door wore self-contained breathing apparatuses (SCBAs) and Nomex fatigues. The SCBAs protected against toxins in the air, while Nomex offered minimal protection against explosions and flash fires. The first officer wore an air monitor around his neck that checked for toxic and explosive chemicals. The monitor is designed to let out a piercing alarm if it detects specific elements above a certain threshold. If the alarm goes off, the search warrant is over, and everyone gets out. Immediately.

Upon knocking the front door off its hinges with a battering ram, the first thing they saw was—you guessed it—a Confederate flag. The air quality seemed fine and the entry team entered the residence. Two officers “held” the staircase to the second floor as others cleared the lower portion of the dwelling for suspects. Earlier, surveillance reported observing the main target enter the house, yet they hadn’t yet encountered a single person. Ground level rendered safe, Thorpe ascended the stairs after notifying another officer to follow at a reasonable distance.

Hallways are one of the most dangerous portions of any search warrant. Officers call them fatal funnels because you progress down a corridor with no cover or concealment. If a suspect steps out and fires rounds down a hallway, he’s likely going to “cut meat.” Stairways are even more perilous. They’re hallways with uneven footing where the bad guy has the high ground. Consequently, a bunch of officers on a stairway at the same time is a worse idea than entering an adolescent male’s bedroom without knocking.

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.

Usually the team parked around a corner and approached the target on foot, but the logistics of this particular warrant required a faster response. The neighborhood contained too many spotters for a foot approach to be feasible; any drugs would be well on their way to the Arkansas River via Tulsa’s sewage system before officers made entry. The same concerns prevented Thorpe from having a surveillance team monitor the residence prior to their arrival. An unfamiliar vehicle or pedestrian would be noticed by lookouts. Spotters were most often young men who patrolled the area on foot or bicycles. They were either paid cash or given small amounts of crack they could then sell on their own. Sometimes the spotters were addicts who received free product for their security services.

Jennifer pulled along the right curb, one house short of the target. Thorpe broadcast over the radio that there were three black males in the driveway and again told officers not to chase. Most cops seem afflicted with extra nerve endings in their legs, which cause them to pursue anything that runs. Sometimes they had to be reminded to switch the impulse off. Thorpe then advised “Police One,” one of two helicopters operated by TPD, to make its approach.

The team poured from the van with the distinctive sound of weapons being unloosed from molded laminate holsters. One of the suspects broke into a run for the backyard. Another ran through the open front door, slamming it shut behind him. The third froze—eventually dropping to the ground in compliance with officers’ commands.

Two officers had the assignment of running to the back of the residence for rear containment. They had permission to pick one individual fleeing the house and pursue.

Thorpe went directly to the front door, and since the team had been compromised, was permitted to forgo the “reasonable amount of time” rule. He ordered Donnie to breech the door and announce, “Tulsa police, search warrant.”

Donnie swung the heavy ram. The door exploded inward, catching a skinny female smoker in the face. The term “crackhead” took on new meaning as the woman, with a flap of skin hanging from her forehead, flailed backward onto a glass coffee table. Jennifer and Jake tactically “split” the door, meaning Jake stood to the right of the opening and Jennifer to the left, both with opposing views of the room inside. Thorpe performed a “step around,” acquiring a sight picture of the center portion of the living room. After several announcements, Thorpe gave the order to enter the residence. The two officers did so simultaneously, Jennifer low with Jake coming over the top, both pistols scanning the deep corners as Thorpe followed on their heels.

The rear containment team broadcast they had a suspect in custody in the backyard but another had dived out a window fleeing west toward a drainage culvert. Police One advised they were “10-97” (on scene), and were tracking the target running northbound in the canal. The helicopters were equipped with “FLIR,” a thermal-imaging camera that picks up differences in temperature. FLIR (Forward Looking Infrared) track persons and vehicles by their heat signatures and is most effective in colder temperatures and at night. The projected image resembles a film negative. The best aspect of FLIR is the operator can track a person without him or her knowing; there is no spotlight to indicate to the suspect he is being followed. In fact, the crew often directs the NightSun away from the “hidden” suspect to make him feel all warm and cozy, as if he’d successfully avoided detection; all the while the helicopter crew is directing officers with boots on the ground right up their ass.

Back inside the residence, a black male stepped out of the kitchen, both hands stuffed in oversized coat pockets. Officers were ordering the suspect to get on the floor, but he chose to ignore their commands; he stood there expressionless, hands removed from view. The suspect very slowly and with exaggerated enunciation said, “Fuck you, cracker motherfuckers… Get out of my house.” Thorpe inched his way across the room, weapon out and pointed at the nose of the now smiling tough guy. Thorpe got to within three feet, then, with gun still trained on Smiley, brought his right foot up and used his weight to heel-kick the man below the sternum. Smiley went sailing, a countertop stopping his backward flight as he bounced off cheap Formica onto the rotting linoleum. Thorpe stepped into the kitchen and cleared it of additional threats before bending over the grimacing clump of meat on the floor.

“Who’s smiling now, asshole?”

Smiley tried to talk shit, but the wind had been knocked out of him. Instead he made squeaking noises as Thorpe secured him with handcuffs.

Cops love search warrants or “legalized home invasions,” as they sometimes refer to them. Because of search warrant’s inherent danger, failures to comply with commands were not tolerated. Where else can a person find this kind of adrenaline pump and get paid for it?

Thorpe and his team cleared the rest of the residence, finding no one else inside except for the crackhead with the cracked head and Mr. Smiley. The crew of Police One advised they had observed the window diver run north through a culvert underneath 56^th Street North. The suspect continued from there to another street they couldn’t identify from the air. When he passed beneath, he never exited the other side.

Police One had also seen the runner “toss something hot” prior to hiding under the street. Depending on material and the outside air temperature, discarded items can retain a heat signature from the suspect’s body for several minutes. Thorpe took Jake and another one of his investigators, Tyrone Benson, with him to the street that passed over the culvert. Police One directed Thorpe to where Frankfort Avenue and Elgin Avenue intersected. Technically the streets shouldn’t be able to cross since they’re both north-south streets. Yet they somehow managed to form a Y at this location. Police One advised the suspect remained inside. Here, the canal leading to the culvert grew smaller. Walled concrete gave way to mud and vegetation before funneling into the four-foot diameter tube.

Thorpe posted Jake and Tyrone on the south side of the culvert where the suspect had entered. The interior was ink black, and Thorpe didn’t relish the idea of silhouetting his pumpkin to have a look. He called for a K-9 officer, Justin Adams, who arrived five minutes later with Thor, a very large German shepherd who found much enjoyment in biting humans. Thor didn’t care if the victim was a bad guy, another cop, or sometimes his own handler; if something got near his muzzle, he was going to eat it.

It’s standard practice for K-9 officers to give the bad guy a chance to surrender before releasing their dogs. Adams gave no such notice before setting his partner loose into the lightless cavern. Scent-gathering snorts and the clicking of nails echoed out of the chamber as the dog worked his way down the tunnel. Thorpe thought if the suspect hid inside, the man was most definitely expelling another odor right about now which would only aid in his discovery.

Several seconds later, Thorpe heard a scream and the guttural sound of a large beast that’d found its prey. It didn’t take long for the suspect to shout, “Get this fucking dog off me,” and express his strong desire to submit. After a few more seconds, Adams called for Thor to return.

After the K-9 officer tethered Thor, Thorpe shouted instructions for the suspect to exit the south end of the tunnel with empty hands. Upon exiting, the suspect was greeted by Officer Benson who leg swept the man to the ground. Tyrone then dropped his nearly 250-pound frame to one knee, landing on the suspect’s kidneys. Bad guy’s arm was badly bitten and a chunk of flesh hung from the back of his head. Thorpe requested an ambulance for the injured prisoner, and then asked Police One to direct him to the area where the suspect had discarded the item. Whatever he tossed had cooled to air temperature and was no longer visible to thermal imaging.