Cold Blue

by Gary Neece

  Skeptical, Thorpe returned his attention to the crime scene and headed toward the gate to the gravel drive that wound through the woods and to the barn. The gate stood open and was manned by another uniformed officer.

  “Hey, Todd, what’s going on?”

  “Don’t really know, Sarge, haven’t got to see the scene. I’m just guarding this driveway and some boot prints. Heard Marcel Newman’s body was found in a barn up there,” Todd said as he threw a thumb over his shoulder. “And he’s all fucked up.”

  “Couldn’t happen to a nicer guy.”

  “Ain’t that the truth.”

  “Where’s the boot prints?”

  Todd pointed at the ground near the section of barbed wire that Thorpe himself had severed.

  “Mind if I take a look?”

  Todd motioned to an acceptable vantage point. “Go ahead; you can see it from the gravel here.”

  Thorpe could see a portion of the boot print in the dirt, a print he knew would never be traced back to him. “They think it belongs to the killer?”

  “I don’t know what they think. They don’t let me in on their circle-jerks.”

  Thorpe pointed up the drive. “I get to the scene this way?”

  “Yeah, Sarge, but I gotta call you an escort. Hull says nobody comes up the drive without one.”

  “That’s okay, Todd, I can call Hull myself,” Thorpe said, retrieving his cell phone from his belt.

  Thorpe stood with his back to the media for several minutes before Hull came walking down the drive to deliver a handshake. Hull had been with the department for thirty-plus years but still projected a youthful appearance. A couple inches shorter than Thorpe with graying black hair, he wore a tan suit jacket and pants with a white dress shirt and no tie. He looked unshaven, but Hull was one of those guys who grew a five o’clock shadow well before lunchtime. He was a superlative detective and dedicated to his job—so much so it’d cost him several marriages and any semblance of a normal life.

  “John, this is a good one; gets my juices going.”

  “Bob, the last thing I want to hear about are your juices.”

  Both men laughed as Hull led Thorpe down Newton. “It all started this morning…” Hull said, talking with his hands and making a large circular motion in the air. “When Marcel’s baby’s momma, Lady Morgan—and, yes, Lady is her actual first name—called Marcel’s grandmother today and asked if she’d seen her grandson. Grandma tells Lady that Marcel must have caught a ride in the morning because his car was still parked outside of her house, and she hadn’t seen Marcel since the night before. Lady tells grandma she and Marcel had plans together and he never showed up. Grandma doesn’t get around too good, but now she’s concerned. She walks out to Marcel’s car and sees a blood smear on the driver’s side window. Then she finds what she thinks might be more blood on the street, goes back inside and calls 911.”

  The two men had reached the corner of Newton and Waco Avenue. Hull pointed to the north. “That’s Marcel’s car with the police tape around it. The blood was found just east of the car on the street. When the first two uniforms show up, they also notice the blood and one starts looking to the east to see if Marcel had been dumped into the ditch or crawled there. They notice the barbed wire cut at that location and began following a beaten-down path through the woods to a barn. They open the barn door and about crap themselves when they find a naked, bloody black male bound to a pole inside. They cleared the barn of suspects and, because Marcel was obviously deader ‘n shit, didn’t approach his body. They backed out and called it in. Good job protecting the scene on their part.” Hull pointed back in the direction they’d just come. “Let’s walk back to the gravel drive, and we’ll go in that way.”

  Arriving at the drive, Hull nodded at the cut barbed wire next to the gate. “We think the killers may have entered here, left from here, or both.”

  “Killers, as in plural?” Thorpe asked.

  “Yeah, there are multiple footprints left in the dirt floor of the barn that all seem to come and go from where Marcel was tied up. The prints are different shoe patterns and sizes. We think we’re looking at multiple suspects—at least three. We’ve got a partial print near this cut barbed wire that matches one of the prints left on the barn’s floor.” Hull glanced at Thorpe with a question. “Any ideas why they cut the barbed wire instead of just climbing the gate or cutting off the lock?”

  “You sure the killers cut the wire?”

  “Pretty. It’s definitely fresh.”

  Thorpe feigned contemplation before responding. “Maybe they’d planned to drag Marcel out through the opening and figured they wouldn’t be able to lift his heavy ass over the gate. I don’t know.”

  Hull responded with a simple nod, and the two men continued north on the gravel driveway. As they approached the barn, Thorpe saw several homicide detectives and crime-scene investigators busying themselves with measurements and photographs.

  Hull stepped to the threshold of the open barn door and pointed inside. “Marcel’s still bound to the pole. No big hurry to move him—he ain’t goin’ nowhere. We’ve marked off a path that’s been processed already. We can access the body this way.” Thorpe followed on his heels, and they both paused to allow their eyes to adjust to the gloom. “We’re in the process of getting some better lights set up in here,” Hull offered.

  Except for crusty, congealed blood and the ghastly swelling of flesh puckered between bands of tape, the body appeared the way Thorpe had left it. Hull walked over and stood beside the corpse.

  “From what we can gather so far, the killers took Marcel down at his car, dragged him through the woods and bound him here. Marcel has a wound in his right shoulder that appears to be through-and-through. One of his nipples has been torn off and tossed over there.” Hull pointed to a patch of what now looked like shriveled leather lying in the dirt. “Don’t know the cause of death yet. His mouth, nose, throat—all his airways—were taped up. If that happened when he was still alive, it surely would have done the trick.” Hull pointed down and behind Marcel’s body. “There’s the initials I told you about. So what do you think?”

  Thorpe knelt and studied the scene. “Looks like he was still alive when they pulled the nipple off. Lot of blood. He’s pretty jacked up. I’d say his killers were trying to get information from him or were just really, really, pissed off. My first impulse is to believe they were probably after something though—trying to find out where dope or money was hidden. Any signs of his car or his grandma’s house being ransacked?”

  Hull shook his head. “No. Why do you think they were looking for something instead of just out to kill him?”

  Thorpe stood. “Because these guys don’t do this shit. Your Mexican and El Salvadorians do this, sometimes motorcycle gangs, but generally not black gangs. They just jump in a car with their buddies and go shoot the shit out of a house, usually without checking if the target’s even inside first. The dude’s little sister is the one who ends up catching a bullet.”

  Thorpe looked at a nodding Hull. The homicide detective knew all of this already but liked to hear what other people were thinking to see if it matched his own thoughts. Hull always gave the appearance of studying you while you spoke, which he probably was. An excellent interrogator, he could smell bullshit like a fly in summertime. Because the behavior represented Hull’s usual demeanor, Thorpe wasn’t alarmed. He could only remember one instance when Hull didn’t behave that way—the night Erica and Ella were killed. Hull had made it clear he didn’t believe Thorpe was a suspect in the killings.

  History suggests when a wife and child are murdered, the husband is, more often than not, the culprit. Though Thorpe believed Hull didn’t seriously consider him a suspect, it would have been negligent not to cast part of the investigation his way. Hull’s detectives would have looked into Thorpe’s life to some degree, even if only to focus on those who may have held a grudge against the supervisor of the OGU.

  There would have been hundreds o
f arrest reports to sift through. What were the circumstances? Were they sentenced to prison? If so, were they still in incarcerated? If not, were they living in the Tulsa area? That line of investigation alone would have been extremely time-consuming. Of course, Thorpe’s life away from the department would also have been scrutinized. How much of his past and current life Hull had uncovered, Thorpe wasn’t sure. This he did know: Hull was a good cop, but more importantly was a good man. If Hull unearthed something not pertinent to the case, it would only be filed away in his brain. And no one possessed a key to that labyrinth.

  “What do you make of the ‘L.A.’ scribed in the dirt?” Hull inquired.

  Again Thorpe paused as if gathering his thoughts. In reality, he anticipated this line of questioning and had prepared his responses. The trick was to appear spontaneous.

  “We’ve gotten several tips Dwayne Foster and the late Marcel here have been shooting at one another for some time now. They’ve never hit each other. But a couple of their homeboys have taken superficial wounds. Foster’s street name is L.A. The most logical conclusion would be L.A. and friends were kicking Marcel’s ass when he realized he might not make it out of this barn alive. Marcel then wrote the initials in the dirt so the police or his crew would know who to look for.” Thorpe paused before speaking again. “Or someone other than Foster killed Marcel and set Foster up as the fall guy.”

  “Interesting. Anyone else want Marcel dead?”

  “Shit, Bob, that list could be almost as long as the one for you.”

  “Not fucking likely,” Hull laughed. “By the way, if I ever wind up dead and tethered to a pole, make sure my ex-wives are looked at extensively.”

  “You know it’s weird, Bob, we just stopped surveilling Marcel a couple of weeks ago. Didn’t get anything of use from it.” Thorpe spent a few minutes describing the investigation and what they’d learned and agreed to hand over all their notes.

  “Too bad this didn’t happen then, you guys would have been here when the shit went down,” Hull commented.

  “Good thing we weren’t here; we might‘ve stopped it,” Thorpe said with a grin. “Bob, I’ve already got Tyrone dressed up like a hab and en route to L.A.’s house. L.A. lives near Sixth and Lewis, so Tyrone should fit-in dressed like a homeless drunk. Jennifer’s at the office and ready—with help from your guys—to knock out a search warrant. Given the documented background we have on these two and the physical evidence here at the scene, we should be able to get a warrant pretty quick.”

  Hull spoke with artificial irritation. “John, I am the head Homicide dick around these parts, you know.”

  Thorpe smiled. “Too easy. What do you want from my end?”

  “How ‘bout you get eyes on L.A.’s house and have one of your people start on a search warrant?”

  “Gee, that’s a good idea. Where do you come up with these epiphanies?”

  “Epiphanies… big words don’t compensate for your small penis,” Hull shot back.

  “Small penis? Your wife been talking in her sleep again?”

  “No, but your sister has.”

  “Ouch. You cut me deep, Bob, real deep,” Thorpe joked. “One of your guys can get together with Jennifer. With what we’ve got on file, and with what you guys come up with here, we should be able to spit out a warrant in no time.”

  The two sergeants walked to Marcel’s car where they met with Hull’s senior homicide detective, Chuck Lagrone. Lagrone was in his early sixties but looked eighty if he was a day. He was short and slight, maybe 130 pounds. Most officers physically expand along with their tenure, but Lagrone weathered away with each passing year; one day he might disappear altogether. He was a thin layer of skin wrapped tightly around bone. Because of his appearance, he’d earned the departmental nickname of “The Skull.” The Skull was one hell of a detective and, despite his looks, a genuinely nice guy. A gruff but nice guy.

  Lagrone extended his hand. “Well, if it isn’t Carnac the Magnificent. How’s it going, asshole?”

  “Skull, the seventies called; they’re running out of polyester,” Thorpe shot back as he accepted the handshake. “I’m good. How you doin’?”

  “Ain’t dead yet, but I got one foot in the grave and another on a banana peel.”

  “Just like your clothes, that joke is worn out.”

  The three men discussed the case for several minutes before Thorpe excused himself. As he walked to his truck, he reflected on his conversation with Hull. Thorpe had jokingly insinuated he was sleeping with Hull’s wife, and Bob instantly shot back about having relations with Thorpe’s sister. No hesitation. Lagrone had interviewed his sister following the murders. Standard procedure. But Hull had popped off with “sister” instantaneously. Thorpe wondered how much Hull knew about his life.

  AS LAGRONE WATCHED THORPE WALK away, he spoke to his boss out of the corner of his mouth. “Bob, I’ve been in the shit in Vietnam and been in three shootings on the force, so it means something when I say…I wouldn’t ever want to get cross with that boy.”

  “Me either, Chuck, but that’s because you and I know what he’s capable of. Most people don’t. And John’s gone through a lot of trouble to keep his skills a secret—so we’re going to honor that.”

  “How’s he holdin’ up anyway?” Lagrone asked.

  “This was the first time in thirteen months he didn’t ask about his family’s investigation.”

  “Huh. If John ever finds those cocksuckers before we do, they’re in for one helluva bad day.”

  “If we do find those cocksuckers first, I’ll personally help John put those sons-of-bitches in the grave.”

  “Sounds like something worth going to prison for. Count me in, boss.”

  “Shit, Skull, a life sentence for you is the equivalent of a long weekend. Whatta you got to worry about?”

  “Fuck you. I’m going to outlive all you bastards.”

  “Probably, you are a bit like a cockroach.” Hull laughed, heading back toward the barn. “Let’s get to work.”

  “Yeah. Dead body pick up.”

  Tuesday

  February 6

  Evening

  THORPE SAT IN A DARKENED corner of Monkeyshines Gentlemen’s Club. The strip bar’s property abutted that of a cheap motel. If you wished, you could pick up a crab-infested stripper-whore and retire to a flea-infested motel room. Because Monkeyshines was “all nude,” liquor or beer could not be served inside. Crack or crank, sure, but not alcohol. To compensate, the patrons took frequent bathroom breaks and trips to their vehicles to consume the mind-altering drug of their choice. To be fair, the bar’s customers did include the “Average Joe” types who returned to their car every thirty minutes or so to slam beers before returning to “the beautiful women of Monkeyshines.”

  Thorpe currently had one of those “beautiful” women sitting on his lap as he watched L.A. and two friends at a table across the dim, expansive room. The woman seated on his thighs went by the stage name “Candy,” and by Thorpe’s reasoning, must have had plenty of the sweets growing up because she had at least two missing teeth and those still in her mouth were in various stages of decay. Candy had the classic look of a crankster.

  Heavy methamphetamine use causes calcium depletion in the bones, often resulting in a fine set of Billy Bob teeth. In addition to a winning smile, Candy was also emaciated and covered with crank sores. Very sexy!

  Most Tulsans didn’t realize Monkeyshines was owned and operated by associates of an outlaw motorcycle club, who made a fair amount of untaxed profits from the sale of meth, and who were also, in all likelihood, Candy’s supplier. One of the reasons methamphetamine earned the name “crank” was because motorcycle gangs—so the rumor goes—used to transport the illegal substance in the crankcases of their bikes.

  Often the employees of Monkeyshines were blatant enough to wear their club’s patches inside the bar. Thorpe couldn’t understand why black patrons like L.A. continued to drop huge amounts of money in a bar operated by a gang known
to commit hate crimes against them. One thing was certain, they were happy to take L.A.’s cash, and L.A. seemed to enjoy giving it away. Everyone’s a winner.

  As Thorpe sat conducting surveillance, he continuously received updates on his cell phone. Lagrone and Jennifer had obtained a night-service warrant for L.A.’s residence and vehicle. They’d also gotten a warrant for L.A.’s person in order to collect DNA evidence.

  Jennifer was the only investigator from Thorpe’s unit who would participate in the warrant service on L.A.’s home, which should be executed any minute now. The rest of Thorpe’s investigators were concealed in the parking lot of Monkeyshines and were to execute the warrant on L.A.’s car after he drove it from the bar. Thorpe had been sitting inside the club playing the part of a sexual deviant while he watched L.A. and his crew. Thorpe wore a wool skullcap pulled down to his eyebrows, blue jeans and an insulated flannel shirt. He was thankful for the extra layers of clothing as Candy ground her rancid wares on his thigh. His first order of business upon returning home would be to toss the jeans into the washer with a generous supply of detergent.

  Candy offered Thorpe a trip to the “Champaign room”, an especially dark area separated from the rest of the bar. In the private room, handjobs could be had for a hundred bucks and blowjobs for two hundred. If you didn’t bring enough cash with you, an ATM machine was conveniently located next to the bathrooms. Thorpe politely declined the offer, claiming he wanted to watch the other girls for a while. But he insisted she return later. Candy accepted a twenty dollar bill courtesy of the city of Tulsa and promised she’d be back. Investigators at SID were given “buy money” to use for purchasing dope, beer, whatever. The Vice Unit dropped quite a bit of taxpayers’ dollars on lap dances, massages and beer—the poor bastards.