Cold Blue

by Gary Neece

  Contrary to what the movies would have you believe, there was no magical truth serum. Several mind-altering chemicals, including PCP and LSD, had been used with varying degrees of success. Ultimately, drugs weren’t reliable because the subject’s reality became distorted. Plus, drugs took time—a commodity of which Thorpe was in short supply. No time for drugs and no time to implement stress positions. He could use sensory deprivation to a degree, but was mostly going to have to rely on pain, fear, pride, and humiliation.

  Thorpe returned to the barn where his captive sat gagged, hooded and bound to the pole. His headlamp cast an eerie glow on the prisoner as he circled Marcel several times in silence to help build tension. He knew Marcel could sense his presence; the man turned his head to Thorpe’s movements, desperately using his ears to gather information. Thorpe returned to the equipment bag, withdrew additional items, switched on a battery-powered lamp, and again changed boots.

  Back at his prisoner’s side, Thorpe squatted and spoke into Marcel’s ear. “All I want from you are answers to my questions, nothing more. Do you understand?”

  Unable to speak, Marcel nodded his head.

  Thorpe continued, “I’m going to remove the gag from your mouth; if you scream out, you’re going to cause yourself a shitload of pain. Understand?”

  Marcel nodded again as Thorpe raised the hood to remove the tape and rag from Marcel’s mouth. He let the cloak fall into place then spoke in an even tone, “Honest answers earn your freedom. Lies cause you pain. What’s your full name?”

  “Marcel Newman.”

  “What’s your girlfriend’s name?”

  “Which one?”

  “The one you bring sandwiches and drinks to every fucking morning,” Thorpe replied. He was asking baseline questions to gauge Marcel’s responses. At the same time, he was letting his captive know his interrogator was an informed man.

  “You tell me then, motherfucker.”

  Marcel’s toenails appeared to be on a semi-annual clipping schedule. So it was no difficult task when Thorpe clamped a pair of needle-nose pliers on a thick, yellowing nail and tore it from his prisoner’s big toe. Marcel’s muscles appeared to solidify into rock, and though he growled in pain he didn’t scream. Thorpe stepped away from the ragged breathing of his captive. Marcel muttered an onslaught of profanity as saliva ran down his neck.

  Thorpe gave him a few minutes to recover from the shock before continuing his interrogation. “Now, what’s your girlfriend’s name?”

  “Cynthia,” Marcel relented.

  “Cynthia what?”

  “Cynthia Barnes.”

  “That’s better.”

  Thorpe got to the meat of his questioning: “About a year ago, a woman and her child were shot to death in a South Tulsa home. They were the wife and daughter of a Tulsa police officer.” Thorpe paused, letting the statement register before he asked, “Who murdered them?”

  The question hung in the air. “I don’t know nothin’ bout dat shit,” he spit. The silence before his answer said more than his words.

  Thorpe unsheathed his knife and cut open Marcel’s shirt from waist to neck. Marcel thrashed to the extent his restraints would allow.

  “What da FFFUCK?”

  “Shhhhh,” Thorpe hissed, as he stuck the blade through the hood into Marcel’s left ear and slowly began to push. “Marcel, are you going to shut the fuck up, or am I going to have to kill you an inch at a time?”

  Marcel closed his mouth. Thorpe used the knife up one side of Marcel’s boxers then ripped the material away. His prisoner now sat naked, with much less pride, on the dirt floor. As Marcel contemplated his new predicament, Thorpe changed into yet another pair of shoes, using the lull to his advantage. Silence accelerates fear. The freezing barn would increase discomfort and pain; everything hurts more when it’s cold.

  Thorpe directed his light onto Marcel, who shook uncontrollably. Steam rose from his body. Slobber flowed down his chest. Thorpe knelt and spoke softly.

  “I know you know. This is where things get real fucking ugly if you don’t change your attitude. I’m going to ask you the same question again, and if you don’t tell the truth, you’re going to cause yourself a lot of agony. It’s up to you to help yourself.” As Thorpe finished the sentence he clamped the pliers on Marcel’s left areola, then asked, “Who killed the woman and her child?”

  Though Marcel couldn’t possibly see, he turned his hooded head toward Thorpe’s voice and replied through clenched teeth, “Fuck you, you cracker motherfucker.”

  Tough guy. As if disappointed with an obstinate child, Thorpe sighed theatrically, then, using both hands and all his strength, pulled and twisted at the same time. Marcel’s nipple was ripped away as a ragged chunk of flesh. Thorpe tossed the skin to the side as Marcel shrieked and passed out, blood darkening the slobber on his chest.

  Marcel was a solider. Twice, he’d been “caught-up-short” on drug violations. On both occasions, he could have avoided incarceration had he cooperated with authorities. But to Marcel, his rep and his name were more important than his freedom. He went to prison, served his sentence, and came back to Tulsa with a wealth of street cred. Thorpe was going to use that against him.

  Short on time, Thorpe held smelling salts underneath Marcel’s nose, bringing him to consciousness. “Can you hear me, Marcel? You are going to answer my questions, or you’re going to die here on this dirt floor.”

  Marcel stirred, and after a few seconds of coughing, sputtered, “Man, I’m fucking dead anyway. Just ‘cause I’m black don’t mean I’m stupid. Don’t take a genius to figure out who you are. You da husband. You da cop.” Marcel let out a long, wet cough then continued, “But I’ll tell you so you kill me quicker. It don’t matter none anyways. Da two niggas killed ya kin…they dead. Killed da same night they killed ya family.”

  Thorpe considered Marcel’s declaration. It was possible Marcel gave him the names of two dead men so he could protect the real killers and end his misery now rather than endure more pain. On the other hand, he doubted Marcel would remember the two murders occurred on the same night given it happened a year ago—unless in fact there was a connection. Thorpe knew of the two men but wanted to see if Marcel could produce their names.

  “What were the names of the two who were killed?”

  Marcel paused as if considering whether providing the identity of two dead gangbangers would be a violation of his personal code. He must have decided it wasn’t.

  “Big D and Little D.”

  Thorpe knew Marcel was referring to the brothers Deandre and Damarius Davis, both of whom were killed in North Tulsa the same night Thorpe’s wife and daughter were slain. Homicide had looked into whether the murders were related but had been unable to find a correlation. It didn’t make sense. Out of all the people Thorpe had sent to prison, he’d had only limited contact with “the Double D Brothers.” At most, he’d conducted little more than a cursory pat-down of either man, certainly nothing to reap this harsh a retribution.

  “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.