Cold Blue

by Gary Neece

  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 51st 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 (For
ward 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 56th 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.

  Thorpe instructed Adams to bring Thor over for an article search. The suspect nearly jumped out of his torn skin at the sight of the approaching shepherd. “Relax, he’s just going to sniff your balls, maybe get in one last bite, and then he’s going to find whatever it is you threw.”

  “Fuck that, I’ll show you where I tossed the gun.”

  …Even better. The ever-so-compliant suspect led officers to vegetation near the base of a tree and nodded. With the aid of a flashlight, it only took a few seconds for Jake to locate a loaded Taurus 9mm lying on the ground.

  Weapon and rabbit secured, Thorpe returned to the location of the warrant. He met Jennifer as she walked into the living room from the rear of the house. She informed Thorpe they hadn’t found any dope yet but had recovered about twenty-five hundred in cash. Jennifer pointed down the hallway and asked, “You see the tiny window that crazy fucker dove out of?”

  Apparently, the guy they’d pulled from the culvert had fled the house by diving headfirst through a window. Jennifer led Thorpe to the back of the house, into a bathroom, and pointed at an incredibly small opening. On the bottom portion of the lifted window dangled a tuft of black curly hair, flesh, and blood.

  “He dove out of that? So that’s how he got the gash on his noggin. I thought Thor had bit his head.” Thorpe told Jennifer of the large wound on the back of the suspect’s scalp.

  “He was a determined little shit. I’ll give him that.”

  Just then Tyrone called Thorpe on the tactical frequency. “I’ve got some good news and some bad news. Which do you want first?”

  “The bad.”

  “First, our little prisoner is going to need a lot of staples.” That meant officers would have to babysit him at the hospital for hours before booking him. Why they were called “emergency” rooms made no sense to Thorpe. In the time it took to finally be seen by medical personnel, the guy would lose enough blood to satisfy a sex-starved covey of teenage vampires.

  “The other bad news is our little dog treat here is only seventeen.” Great, after babysitting him at a hospital for hours they’d just end up releasing him to a guardian. He’d be back slinging dope before Thorpe’s squad even finished their paperwork.

  “You said something about good news?”

  “Yeah, we found a sack under his sack,” Tyrone answered, referring to a baggy of crack cocaine hidden under the suspect’s scrotum.

  “How much?”

  “Looks like about ten grams, definitely trafficking weight.”

  “He got a record?”

  “Couple of stolen cars and a marijuana arrest.”

  “Maybe juvie will take him then.” Since the suspect possessed trafficking weight and had priors, JBDC might actually accept him. Like its adult counterpart, The Juvenile Bureau of the District Court was understaffed and overcrowded. Thorpe knew even if the suspect was admitted, he wouldn’t be kept long. Such was the job. Everyone screamed for the police to do more but it was the judicial system, no truth in sentencing, and the lack of prisoner space that was failing miserably. The proof could be found in any newspaper. Nearly all articles covering a homicide or serious crime included a variation of “ten years ago the suspect was sentenced to thirty years in prison for an unrelated charge of ….” Then why the hell is he out murdering people wh
en he should be incarcerated for two more decades? It was damned ridiculous.

  The search wrapped up with trace amounts of cocaine being recovered from the toilet bowl. Before imitating Superman by flying out the bathroom window, Clark Kent had apparently flushed some of his kryptonite down the commode. Three suspects were booked on various charges. Two were transported to the hospital before being taken to the county jail.

  While the rest of his squad guarded prisoners in hospitals and tackled the hours of paperwork, Thorpe excused himself under the guise of completing administrative chores for The Walrus.

  Monday

  February 5

  Late evening

  MIDNIGHT NEARED AS THORPE WALKED through SID’s web of desks to a separate section that housed the equipment officer’s space and most of the division’s toys. There, he retrieved night-vision goggles and a handheld thermal imaging device much like the FLIR on the helicopter. Thorpe didn’t bother signing out either item; he planned on having both returned before the equipment officer arrived in the morning.

  Leaving the building and walking into the parking lot, he took a plastic bag from his assigned truck before borrowing one of the extra undercover vehicles. He chose a red Chevy short bed confiscated from a local drug dealer. Like all the other cars in SID’s fleet, the license plate was not registered with DPS. Because the plates came back as “Not on file,” SID’s undercover investigators were routinely pulled over by patrol officers. These encounters could be a real problem when the UCs had a bad guy in the passenger seat and a uniformed officer walked up and said something like, “Shit, Sergeant Thorpe, I didn’t know it was you,” marking the end of an operation. The Training Academy taught recruits not to show recognition when they crossed paths with an undercover, but those instructions were sometimes forgotten.