by Gary Neece
Having detached himself from the rest of the unit, Thorpe’s first objective was to scout the residence of Dwayne Foster, aka “L.A,” a drug dealer from New Orleans who had been displaced by Hurricane Katrina. How Foster got the nickname “L.A.” was a mystery; as far as OGU could figure L.A. had never lived in California, let alone Los Angeles. Whatever, it didn’t really matter.
Despite the fact that both men were Hoover Crips, L.A. and Marcel Newman were sworn enemies. They had purportedly fired rounds at each other on several occasions, not once hitting their intended target. Thank God bangers held their weapons sideways in an attempt to look cool. They never acquired a site picture and rarely hit what they were aiming at.
When Thorpe instructed Marcel to write L.A.’s initials in the dirt of the barn, Marcel smiled. He’d figured out what Thorpe was planning: L.A. was going to take the fall for Marcel’s murder.
On the floorboard of Thorpe’s borrowed Chevy sat the plastic bag. The bag contained a pair of boots. The boot’s distinctive soles would match imprints left in the dirt around Marcel’s abandoned carcass. The dirt on the soles would match the barn’s floor. The blood splatter on the boots would be linked through DNA to Marcel Newman. The hair Thorpe had placed on the duct tape binding Marcel Newman would be matched through DNA to L.A. Thorpe had retrieved the hair from a comb during an earlier search warrant they had served at L.A.’s residence. This physical evidence would be discovered during search warrants served after Marcel’s body was found with the initials “L.A.” written in the dirt by the victim’s own finger.
The discovery of the boots wasn’t a necessity, and if Marcel’s body had already been discovered, Thorpe wouldn’t risk planting them. But if he could get the footwear in place, the evidence would be insurmountable. It didn’t matter how many witnesses L.A. could come up with who would place him elsewhere at the time of the murders. Today, when juries think CSI Miami is the real deal, physical evidence—especially DNA—is king.
L.A. lived near 5th and Lewis Avenue in a shithole neighborhood where Vice had an easy time snatching up whores and street-level drug dealers. The area, a mix of old, low-rent apartment buildings and decaying homes, was inhabited by a blend of races and ethnic backgrounds. Even a few Middle Easterners resided there. The blighted neighborhood adjoined the grounds of the University of Tulsa; expensive and private, it was nationally recognized as one of the premiere universities in the nation. Yet a couple of blocks away you could get curb service for a blowjob, crack cocaine, marijuana—whatever your particular vice might be.
Geographically, Tulsa’s land area was as large as San Francisco, Boston, Pittsburgh P.A., and Minneapolis—combined. If you placed all the city’s arterial streets and highways together end to end, they would stretch from New York City to Los Angeles, back to Tulsa again and beyond. The Tulsa Police Department employed roughly 800 sworn officers and was in desperate need of more. There was just no way to be proactive enough to make the city as safe as needed with the limited amount of personnel.
The current mayor represented the latest in a long line of trust babies. Every Tulsa mayor in recent history had been the son, daughter, wife, or husband of a multimillionaire. Not one had earned their fortune on their own. Just once, Thorpe would like to have a bona fide leader who hadn’t bought his or her office. Empty promises, especially in regard to public safety, grew tiresome. In just a few short months the current administration had decimated the department, systematically reducing its ranks. Meanwhile calls for service went unanswered for hours. Thorpe wasn’t sure who he disliked more, politicians or criminals.
Thorpe pulled into a parking lot and changed into a pair of woodland camouflage pants and an old Vietnam-era army field jacket he’d obtained from Goodwill. He put the boots into a beat-up backpack and slipped on a gray stocking cap and dark cotton gloves. Suitably attired for the area, he drove west on 11th Street—part of historic Route 66. The small motels left over from the famous highway‘s heyday were now homes to harlots, drug dealers, and meth labs. Thorpe spotted a couple of working girls along the way.
As a police officer, Thorpe had encountered hundreds of prostitutes, but not one approximated Julia Roberts’ character in Pretty Woman. Most were missing teeth, had open sores, and smelled like unrefrigerated, ten-day-old tuna. Why men stepped out on their wives for these walking petri dishes he would never understand.
Thorpe turned north on Atlanta Avenue and passed yet another dish on the corner of 7th Street. This girl was, in reality, a man. His name was Desmond Jones, and made for a fairly convincing transvestite; at least at night and in poor lighting. Giraffe-like, Mr. Jones walked the streets on long skinny legs. The sad thing: he was better looking than most of his female companions. Jones had been in a considerable amount of fisticuffs over the years as many of his customers became rather disconcerted when they reached down and discovered an outie while expecting an innie. As a result, Jones had become quite the scrapper. Two Vice guys once picked up Jones and negotiated a threesome. When they identified themselves as police officers and attempted to take Mister/Miss Jones into custody, the fight was on. Jones wore copious amounts of makeup to help disguise his true gender. He also sported two water-filled balloons to give the appearance of having ample breasts. The struggle started in the officer’s undercover car and literally spilled out into the street as both water balloons burst. The water mixed with Jones’ heavy makeup. When the officers finally got Jones into custody, all three looked like they’d been dunked in a cauldron of CoverGirl. The sight of the two officers booking Jones into the jail made a lot of police officers’ and inmates’ night. Funny shit.
Thorpe turned the truck west on 6th Street and drove past L.A.’s house. As always in this area there were pedestrians, but it appeared as if L.A.’s vehicle was not in front of his home. Thorpe continued to Lewis Avenue and pulled into a convenience store parking lot on the northeast corner. He parked on the side of the building, grabbed the backpack and walked north toward an alley leading east. The dark mouth of the alley was bordered by two tall wooden privacy fences and flora that rose into an overhead canopy. Several yards into the alley the wooden fences gave way to chain link with openings that branched off into seedy apartment complexes, vacant plots, and parking lots. The area usually had a few knaves lurking about, and the last thing Thorpe needed was for someone to try to rob him. He didn’t want to be forced into a shooting and have to explain why he was walking down the “alley of death,” fearing no evil, with God and his Glock his only comforts. Carrying a backpack, he knew he’d be prime picking for a robbery.
Inside the botanical tunnel, Thorpe was dismayed to see a clump of Tulsa’s less-than-finest citizens about thirty yards ahead. The group, four males wearing bloated coats, resembled malevolent arachnids awaiting their next meal. A distant street lamp cast an orange glow over the men as he neared. Thorpe walked confidently forward, placing his right hand in the zipper of his field jacket to imply he was armed, which he was. He hoped to intimidate the group into waiting for a safer-looking dolt to come along.
As he passed, one of them said, “What you got in your bag?”
Dammit. “Your death certificate. Ready to collect?” Thorpe said, trying to use intimidation to dissuade the pack.
Three of the men laughed—much to the dismay of the one who’d spoken. That man just stared straight at Thorpe, expressionless. Having passed the group, Thorpe turned—backpedaling to face the threat—his hand still in his jacket. The foursome scurried away. Shit. They were going to get a gun—probably stashed in a nearby car.
He should’ve just kept his mouth shut; he’d disrespected a gang member in front of his homeboys and would be made to answer. He couldn’t afford a scene; his only option was to disappear. Finding a gap in the chain link, Thorpe slipped out of the alley and knelt down in an area where he could see through the vegetation. He’d stay concealed until the potential threat passed. Twenty seconds later, Thorpe heard a car engine accelerating on the street to the north
. Shortly after, he observed a dark SUV turn from southbound Atlanta into the alley and slowly drive toward his position. Because the SUV’s windows were deeply tinted and the alley poorly lit, Thorpe couldn’t see the occupants. Nevertheless, he was sure the SUV contained the foursome. Unable to make out the tag, he noted the SUV was a Chevy product and rode on twenty-inch chrome rims.
Thorpe remained hidden for ten minutes and the SUV never made a second pass. Hopefully, the men concluded their prey had fled, and they’d decided to move on to other troubles. Thorpe reentered the alley and continued to Atlanta Avenue. Before stepping out, he scanned his surroundings for the SUV. Not seeing any obvious threats, he headed south. He turned west on 6th and walked alongside the curb while eyeing L.A.’s residence on the opposite side of the street. A few people milled about, but none in the immediate vicinity of L.A.’s property.
Thorpe sat down on the sidewalk across from his target, removed the handheld thermal imaging device and discreetly surveyed the screened porch of L.A.’s home. No hot spots; the porch appeared to be clear of occupants. Putting the device back into his coat, he zipped his collar up to his chin before crossing the street. Thorpe entered the unlocked screen door and shrugged off the backpack. Removing the boots from the plastic bag, he placed them in the corner.
The leather boots were L.A.’s size—a fact determined while serving the previously mentioned search warrant. L.A. would probably be curious as to how the footwear wound up on his porch but would most likely keep them; they were expensive boots. Hopefully L.A. would take them inside his house. Thorpe had removed most of the blood splatters but made sure trace amounts remained to be discovered in lab tests.
Thorpe exited the porch and took a more expedient route back to his vehicle, purposely avoiding the alley. Working his way through the neighborhood, Thorpe arrived at his truck and observed a dark SUV approach from the north. It pulled into the lot just as Thorpe entered the cab. The Chevy SUV with chrome wheels backed into a space and parked. No one got out. Damn, either he had shitty luck or the foursome had put spotters in the neighborhood—probably the latter.
Thorpe sat for a moment and considered his options. Obviously, the men didn’t want to approach him in this parking lot. It was well-lit and too many cops drove up and down Lewis. Thorpe didn’t want to call the police and be placed so close to L.A.’s house. He considered flashing his badge at the SUV from a distance to scare them off—but what if one of the spotters had seen him enter L.A.’s house? No, he couldn’t risk that coming up in an investigation—someone seeing a cop sneak into a murder suspect’s home. He had to try and lose them. Thorpe decided to drive away as if unaware of the men’s presence and to stay on populated streets so as not to get shot—always a good plan.
Thorpe pulled out onto Lewis Avenue, immediately getting a green light at the intersection. He continued south to 11th Street. The dark SUV followed. Catching a red light, Thorpe stopped in the inside lane with a compact car on his rear bumper and the SUV behind the compact. The signal turned green but Thorpe remained still. The driver of the compact got intimate with his horn. The SUV did nothing. Thorpe ignored the impatient honking and waited for the signal to turn red again. When it changed, Thorpe allowed cross traffic to begin moving before he accelerated hard. As Thorpe cut through the intersection, the compact’s honking was joined by those of other irate motorists.
To Thorpe’s surprise, the compact car also ran the red light, followed by the SUV.
“Damn it.”
Either the compact was really pissed with Thorpe’s shitty driving or the group had split into two cars. Or worse, they might be reinforcements. There was at least one way to find out.
Everything inside the cab slid to the right as Thorpe made a hard left onto 13th Place. A street sign indicated the road was a dead end, but Thorpe knew that wasn’t exactly true. The compact and the SUV followed. No doubt now, they were together. Here, 13th Place was only a block long, bordered by a steep, wooded embankment on his right, and a closed charcoal-grill manufacturing plant on his left. The street came to an abrupt end at a wooded area, but one could make a sharp left turn behind the plant onto a gravel road that curved back to Lewis.
Thorpe pushed the truck down the short street, pumped the brake pedal, and turned behind the plant. He briefly accelerated before sliding across the gravel to a stop. The area was isolated, and the building now sat between him and his assailants. He jammed the truck into park and sprang from the cab with a Beretta 9mm in hand just as the nose of the compact car made the corner of the building. Thorpe fired five rounds into the driver’s side window and three more into the windshield of the car. He was already climbing back into his truck when he heard the SUV slam into the rear of the compact. Thorpe fed the accelerator and sped down the gravel road and back onto Lewis Avenue. He raced north, checking his mirrors. Nothing followed. He had no idea if he’d struck anyone in the vehicle and wasn’t going to wait around to find out.
Thorpe increased the volume on his police radio and concentrated on slowing his breathing. He turned into a neighborhood to avoid major intersections. If a shooting call were dispatched, nearby officers would respond as quickly as possible using arterial streets.
Ten minutes later, Thorpe pulled into a parking lot near the office and changed back into his original clothes. So far he hadn’t heard any radio traffic reference his extracurricular activities.
Thorpe pulled into the office lot and wiped down the borrowed truck. Gathering his belongings, he entered his assigned vehicle. He spent the next twenty minutes driving to the Arkansas River, where he threw the pistol in the water part by part. The Berretta had been a fine weapon he’d acquired during an earlier search warrant. He’d dispose of his tainted clothing later.
Almost an hour after perforating the compact car, Thorpe heard radio traffic that could be related: “Lincoln 101, Lincoln one-zero-one and a car to back. Shooting victim at St. John Hospital, 1923 South Utica Avenue, one-nine-two-three South Utica Avenue, break…See security in the E.R. Black male arrived with a gunshot wound to the face. Security reports the car he arrived in, a white Ford Focus, has multiple bullet holes.” That had to be the car. Thorpe retrieved his cell phone and contacted one of his investigators.
“What’s up, Sarge?”
“Hey, Jack, I just heard a shooting call go out over the radio. Sounds like someone got himself and his car all shot to hell. A couple of uniforms are en route to St. John Hospital to contact the victim. Don’t know where it happened. You mind running over there to see if he’s one of ours?”
“Yeah, no problem. I’ll start that way.”
“Thanks, Jack, let me know what you find out.”
Thorpe’s unit was responsible for investigating gang-related shootings. Sending one of his officers to the hospital wouldn’t be seen as unusual. First, Jack would check to see if the suspect was a certified gang member. If so, the OGU would handle the investigation. If not, Jack would inspect the suspect for gang tattoos, associates and so on. If he discovered the victim should be certified, OGU would take the case. If Jack found no indications of gang involvement, matters would be left to uniformed officers and the Special Investigations Unit.
Thorpe had planned to gather intel on Kaleb Moment tonight, but in light of recent events, he decided it would be best to stand-down and assess the situation. He drove back to his office to tackle some of Major Duncan’s deforestation experiments.
Sitting at his desk, Thorpe had barely put a dent in his in-basket, when Jack used his phone’s direct-connect feature to reach his boss.
“Hey, Sarge, you over here?”
“Yeah, Jack. Whatta you got?”
“Kid’s name is Christopher Ruble. He’s not certified yet but probably should be. Has some tats indicate he’s a Blood.”
“What’s up with the shooting?”
“Kid was hit in the face. Bullet went in his left cheek, fucked up his teeth, and exited his right cheek. He’s going to live, but he’ll be eatin’ thro
ugh a straw for a while.”
“Who, where, and why?” Thorpe inquired.
“Don’t know who the shooter is. Kid can’t talk worth a damn, so he’s writing shit down with a pen. Claims he was driving down the street minding his own damned business, when someone just shot up his car for no good reason. Typical deal. Didn’t see anything and doesn’t have any idea who would want to hurt him.”
“Got a crime scene?”
“Not that we know of yet. Kid said it happened on Apache somewhere. Uniforms are heading up there now to see if they can find anything. Going to have his car towed for evidence—let SIU process it. Guess the little fucker drove to the hospital himself—no teeth and all.”
“Okay, Jack, thanks. Let me know if you need any help.”
For once, an uncooperative victim would work in Thorpe’s favor. It didn’t sound like the guy was going to be a problem; he’d even lied about where the shooting occurred.
Before Thorpe left the office for the night, he removed a two-pound bag of sugar from the cafeteria, went out to the red Chevy he’d been driving earlier and poured most of it into the gas tank. The sugar should cause enough engine damage to keep the Chevy out of action for a while. In fact, since the vehicle was an older confiscation, the department would probably just scrap the truck instead of having it repaired. The last thing Thorpe wanted on his conscience was a fellow officer driving the Chevy and getting ambushed by a revenge-seeking gangbanger.
Tuesday
February 6
Early morning
THORPE TRAVELED THE ROAD ALONGSIDE his property just after two thirty in the morning. Inside the fence, Al and Trixie paced his truck until both parties met at the gate. Ablaze in headlights, the dogs’ wagging tails projected shadowy ribbons on the otherwise still barn. Removing the lock and chain, Thorpe reached through the metal gate and scratched both dogs under the chin before ordering them to back up. The dogs dutifully obeyed, allowing Thorpe to push open the gate, climb into his truck, and enter his drive. Once inside, Thorpe slid out of the cab and gave his friends a proper greeting—a thorough scratching behind laid back ears.