Cold Blue

by Gary Neece

  L.A. had removed his coat about thirty minutes ago, draping it across the backrest of his chair. Thorpe took a circular stroll behind L.A. and noticed the man wasn’t wearing the boots Thorpe had left as a gift. However, he also noticed the right side of L.A.’s jacket stretched tight toward the floor, while the left remained slack. A heavy object occupied the right pocket, most likely a gun. Thorpe returned to his seat and spoke into his cell phone as a song blasted over the bar’s speaker system.

  “Tyrone, I think L.A. has a handgun in his right coat pocket. Don’t wait for him to get in his car. Take him down in the parking lot. Approach him from the east. If he runs, he’ll come back toward me. Get some uniforms set up around the neighborhood in case his buddies run. Got it? Sound it back to me.”

  Several minutes later, L.A. took a call from his own cell phone, shot to his feet and almost dumped the girl who’d been sitting on his lap to the floor. He motioned to his companions and hurried for the exit as he pulled on his coat. Thorpe began to follow and used the direct-connect to warn Tyrone. Candy, worried she was about to lose potential income, approached. For the benefit of both Tyrone and Candy, Thorpe spoke loudly into the cell phone.

  “Yeah, honey I’m coming home now, RIGHT NOW!”

  On the other end, Tyrone decoded the message.

  “We’re on boys.”

  The six OGU investigators, dressed much like Thorpe, had parked a van next to L.A.’s car. They got out and stood behind it in a circle, pretending to be shooting the shit and drinking beer. L.A. tore out of the bar with his associates in tow. When L.A. drew to within ten yards, Tyrone pulled out his neck badge and yelled, “Police!” Simultaneously, the officers drew their weapons. Associate number one was farthest away from the officers. He broke and ran toward where Thorpe staggered across the parking lot.

  Being an ex-con, L.A. would be sent back to prison if caught in possession of a firearm. He took off and followed on the heels of his friend. Tyrone and Jake pursued him. Associate number two remained still and was immediately introduced to the gravel lot.

  L.A. would try to run far enough to get rid of his weapon without being seen. Unfortunately for L.A., he fled directly toward Thorpe, who was still doing his best impersonation of a staggering inebriate. In full stride, L.A. risked a glance at his pursuers, giving Thorpe the opportunity to put a shoulder into L.A.’s ribs. The blow knocked L.A. completely off both feet, sending him crashing to the lot. He landed awkwardly on his right side with Thorpe pinning him down. Jake and Tyrone drew near.

  “I’m okay. Get his buddy.”

  Associate number one was fast, Jake faster, and Tyrone not fast at all. Jake caught his prey in the parking lot of another bar across the street. Though fast, Jake wasn’t much in a fight. He grabbed the larger suspect from behind by the collar of his shirt. The suspect spun and caught Jake with a left hook under his armpit. To Jake’s credit, he held onto the man’s collar as he fell to the ground. Bad guy remained on his feet, bent over at the waist.

  What Tyrone lacked in speed, he made up for in mass. Just as the suspect was about to deliver another blow to Jake, Tyrone drove his 250-pound frame into the backside of the jackknifed suspect. With Tyrone on top, the man was driven forward face first onto the asphalt. The landing peeled off a good helping of flesh from the suspect’s forehead and nose. Tyrone almost ripped the man’s arm off as he brought it behind his back and placed him in handcuffs.

  Turned out the runner was also an ex-con in possession of a firearm, not to mention seven grams of crack cocaine in his briefs. A lot of people who shouldn’t have seen the undercover officers’ faces came out of the two bars and watched the show. The investigators quickly handed the suspects over to uniforms and got out of sight. Thorpe called Hull.

  “What’s up, John?”

  Thorpe filled him in, then asked, “What’s happening with the warrant?”

  “Just cleared the house of suspects. No one home. Haven’t really started searching yet. I’ll let you know if we come up with something.”

  “Be careful, L.A. got a phone call right before he leapt out of his chair to leave this place. Someone’s watching you guys and gave him a call…you going to try and interview L.A. tonight?”

  “Think he’ll talk?”

  “Doubt it. This ain’t his first rodeo. Don’t know about his buddies yet.”

  “Okay, John. By the way Jennifer’s been a huge help.”

  “Yeah, she knows her shit. Best warrant writer I got…Bob, if you don’t need me for anything else, I’ll probably be taking off after I fill out my supplemental report; go home and get some sleep.”

  “Squeeze in a couple of hours for me…no. Go home. I appreciate your help, John.”

  “You bet. Talk to you tomorrow.”

  “Don’t call me, I’ll call you. Gonna get some sleep of my own. Maybe.”

  Thorpe doubted Hull would get much if any rest. The man probably worked a hundred hours a week. He made good money from overtime, but it’d cost him in other areas. What guys like Hull did for entertainment after leaving police work Thorpe had no idea; probably had a heart attack and died six months into retirement.

  Thorpe wouldn’t be getting much sleep tonight either, though it had nothing to do with job devotion.

  Wednesday

  February 7

  Early morning

  ACCORDING TO MARCEL NEWMAN, KALEB Moment held secrets about the murder of Thorpe’s family. What Marcel hadn’t known was that his good friend was a police informant. Kaleb had been caught trafficking crack cocaine, and instead of spending his early twenties in the custody of the Department of Corrections, he signed a contract with the Tulsa County District Attorney’s office and was “working off” charges by setting up his friends and associates.

  SID maintained a confidential informant file inside the office. Confidential informants, or CIs, were the backbone of undercover dope investigations. Without their assistance, ninety percent of the most substantial cases would cease to exist.

  Only SID supervisors had access to CI files. Each CI was assigned a number, and those numbers were the sole identifiers on any related documents. The file was kept in the administrative sergeant’s office in a locked cabinet. Via several simple Rolodexes, supervisors could look up sequential numbers to obtain a CI’s identity. Once they had the informant’s name, they could retrieve his information and case history from a set of alphabetically labeled file cabinets that were secured with a combination lock.

  Earlier, Thorpe had gone to the cabinet marked “M,” entered the proper digits and pulled Kaleb Moment’s file. In addition to the cases resulting from Kaleb’s cooperation, it listed personal information, including contact numbers and addresses. Thorpe recorded pertinent data and noted Kaleb’s handler was Brian Hickey, an evening-shift narcotics investigator.

  The files led Thorpe to the Bainbridge Apartment complex. Bainbridge, by any name, was one of the most malignant locales in the city. Federally funded, the apartments constantly changed names. As an officer, Thorpe had once been assigned to the Foot Beat Unit. Foot Beat officers had patrolled these housing complexes nightly, but the unit faded away with grant losses and manpower shortages. Now the only crime fighting the apartments applied were name changes. When a particular housing project was featured one too many times on the evening news, preceded by the words “another shooting at,” the complex would simply change its name.

  About a month ago, uniformed officers had cornered a homicide suspect inside one of Bainbridge’s units. A mob formed and started throwing rocks at the police. During the subsequent melee, a reporter became part of the story when a reveler grabbed her by the hair and threw her against the side of a news van. The event culminated with a couple of shots fired at officers. As with most incidents like this, the complex became one of the safer places in the city for the next week as officers made examples of anyone who poked a head out a door. Prior to the riot, the North side community complained of a lack of police enforcement: after, they cla
imed racial profiling. Damned if you do… Police personnel had since been shuffled to other hotspots, and the complex resumed its status as a federally funded criminal housing project.

  Thorpe drove through the complex with the hope of spotting Kaleb’s car parked outside his girlfriend’s apartment. The vehicle wasn’t in the lot, and Thorpe couldn’t linger without drawing attention. But he needed to find Kaleb soon; these guys had a way of leading short lives, and if Kaleb went and got himself killed before Thorpe got a chance to interrogate him, the secret would die with the little shit.

  Thorpe exited and stopped at a nearby convenience store, yet another prime crack-buying location, and a place where Thorpe had initiated many foot pursuits. The store provided a payphone, which the drug dealers appreciated, and didn’t have surveillance cameras, which the dealers loved. Thorpe climbed from the vehicle and used the payphone to dial Kaleb’s cell phone number.

  “Who this?” A male answered.

  Thorpe pulled a name out of his ass. “This is Sergeant Thomas Brightling. I’m a detective for the Tulsa Police Department’s Office of Integrity and Compliance.”

  “Office of who?”

  “I’m an Internal Affairs investigator with the police.”

  “So?” Kaleb said with feigned disinterest.

  “So…I know you’re working for TPD as an informant. Your case officer is Brian Hickey.”

  Several seconds of silence preceded Kaleb’s response. “What do you want?”

  “I need to see you right now, Mr. Moment. What you need to know is this: your case officer is suspected of providing information to people he shouldn’t. He will be relieved of duty before the night is over. I need to speak with you in reference to the Chamberlain case you handed to Hickey. If you cooperate, you’re done, your contract is fulfilled; you won’t have to do anymore work for the department. If you don’t, or if you decide to call Hickey after I hang up, I will personally negate any progress you’ve made on your contract and send your ass straight to prison. Now, where you at?”

  “Shit…I’m at my place.”

  “Where’s that?”

  “Bainbridge.”

  “I just drove through there and didn’t see your car.”

  “My car ain’t here ‘cause the fucking thing got stolen,” Kaleb said with overt hostility.

  “Anyone there with you?”

  “My woman.”

  “Make up an excuse and walk to the park just north of the complex. I’ll be in a dark gray Chevy Tahoe. Do not tell her what you’re doing.”

  Five minutes after Thorpe pulled into the park, he watched a figure cross the darkened grounds. Kaleb approached the passenger side door, opened it, and climbed inside. A blast of cold air and the smell of marijuana entered the car along with its new occupant.

  “You don’t look like a cop.”

  “I thought you might appreciate that since I came to pick you up in your ‘hood. You want to see my I.D.?”

  “No. What’s this about?”

  “We think Hickey’s been selling information, including the names and addresses of his informants.” Thorpe’s intention was to scare the shit out of his guest. It worked.

  Kaleb sat in stunned silence before his lips started working. “Fuck! Fuck me! This is fucking bullshit! Fuck, I’m a fucking dead man!” DNA-laden spit flew out of Kaleb’ mouth onto the dash. Thorpe made a mental note to give the area around Kaleb a thorough scrubbing…after.

  “Kaleb, I need you to calm down. We’re going to take care of this, and you.”

  “Take care of ME! You fucks can’t even find my fucking car! Fuck!”

  “Kaleb, we can’t let this get out. What did you tell your girlfriend when you left?” Kaleb didn’t respond. Terrified his homeboys would discover he was a snitch, he wasn’t listening. In Kaleb’s mind, he was already dead. Thorpe needed to refocus the man’s attention.

  “Kaleb, listen to me! What did you tell your girlfriend when you left?”

  “I didn’t tell the bitch nothin’! She don’t need to know what I do.”

  “Bullshit, Kaleb, you told her something.”

  “I told her I’d be right back, that’s all.”

  “Well, it’s going to be a few minutes. My captain and I need to get a recorded statement. I’m taking you to a motel room.”

  “A motel room? Why we going to a motel room?”

  Thorpe played on Kaleb’s fear. “Do you want the wrong cop seeing you and me walk into Internal Affairs together? This can’t get back to Hickey.”

  “Motherfucker! I don’t want to testify against no cop. I’ll have fucking everyone huntin’ my ass then!”

  Thorpe put the SUV into drive. “You won’t have to testify. He won’t know you talked. He’s done a lot more than this. You’re just another nail in the coffin.”

  “Fuck! I knew that motherfucker was dirty.” For some reason all drug dealers think all cops are corrupt. Maybe it makes them feel better about themselves.

  Thorpe possessed keys to several repellent motel rooms scattered around the city. Under the guise of being cooperative with law enforcement, the motel managers allowed police free access to designated rooms. Everyone knew the managers of these motels relied on drug dealing and prostitution; otherwise, they wouldn’t have any customers at all. The Vice Unit used them for John stings and other operations. The motels were never filled to capacity, so it didn’t cost anything to let officers have keys to some of the ‘suites.’ Management only bothered to have the rooms cleaned once a week or so, but Thorpe figured the regular rooms didn’t receive much more attention than theirs.

  As Thorpe drove to the motel, he gave Kaleb instructions. “We’ve rented this room for a full week. You’re welcome to stay here until we figure out what all information Hickey leaked.”

  Kaleb nodded his head dazedly.

  “I’m going to let you out around the corner. Here’s the key to room 142. It’s located on the south side of the building. You don’t want everyone to know you’re here with the cops. I’ll wait a couple of minutes before I follow you in.”

  Thorpe parked in a secluded lot near a Whataburger fast food restaurant and let Kaleb out. “You take off, it’s your ass! I’ll have a warrant out for your arrest within an hour. You give a statement, you’ll never see us again. You have my word.” Kaleb ambled off toward the motel, staring at his feet and mumbling profanities.

  Even though the Tahoe’s tags weren’t on file, Thorpe walked behind the SUV and removed the license plate. He then opened the back and spread heavy plastic over the cargo area. Having completed those tasks, Thorpe drove to the motel and backed the Tahoe up to room 142.

  Pulling a baseball cap low on his head and turning up his collar, Thorpe grabbed the roll of plastic and a backpack. He walked to the motel’s door with his chin tucked to his chest. He knocked lightly. Kaleb opened up. Thorpe stepped inside the musty room, closed the door and tossed the backpack on the bed. As Kaleb’s eyes followed the pack through the air, Thorpe moved toward Kaleb and cracked him on the jaw with a sharp elbow. The informant reeled backward onto the floor. In a matter of seconds, Thorpe had Kaleb’s mouth, hands, and feet secured with tape.

  The blow didn’t knock Kaleb unconscious. He lay on the carpet and stared at Thorpe with wide, terrified eyes. Thorpe searched Kaleb’s person and found a voice-activated digital recorder in a pocket of his jacket. Thorpe hit rewind on the small machine and then pressed play. Some of the discussion he and Kaleb had had on the trip over played on the machine. Fucking snitches, Thorpe thought as he rewound to the beginning and hit play again. The recording began in the middle of his earlier phone conversation with Kaleb. After the phone conversation terminated, a woman’s voice could be heard: “Who’s that?”

  “Fucking pigs again. They won’t leave my ass alone. I ain’t done shit,” Kaleb replied on the recording.

  “What they want?”

  “They keep trying to blackmail me into giving up my homies. I ain’t told them nothin’. Just keep
feedin’ ‘em fulla shit.”

  “Tell them to fuck off,” replied the woman’s voice.

  “Baby, who’s going to take care of you if they send me to prison on some bullshit case?”

  “Always fuckin’ the black man,” the female agreed.

  “Ain’t that da truth. Don’t tell anybody what I’m doin’, baby. Nobody will understand I’m just playin’ em.’ I’ll shovel some shit into this cracker and be right back.”

  Thorpe pressed stop on the recorder. “Kaleb, Kaleb… I wish you hadn’t told your girlfriend.”

  The girl presented a problem but there was nothing he could do about it. Thorpe pulled out his knife—the act instantly eliciting muffled cries and a thrashing on the floor. Thorpe carried the knife to the bed where he cut off a section of plastic and spread it on the floor. Then he propped a wooden chair in the middle of the plastic before lifting Kaleb off the filthy carpet and setting him on the seat. All of Thorpe’s actions were purposely theatrical.

  Thorpe used duct tape to secure Kaleb to the chair by wrapping it around his chest. Finished, he stepped toward the door and engaged the deadbolt and chain. Then he moved to the bed and opened his backpack. For added effect, he removed several crude instruments, including a small pair of pruning shears and a rusty hacksaw. After, Thorpe approached his captive but stood to the side where he couldn’t be kicked.

  “Kaleb, I need you to listen very carefully. Are you listening to me?”

  Kaleb nodded his head briskly, causing several beads of sweat to drip onto his lap.

  “Good. First of all, I apologize for lying to you. It was the only way I could get you here without making a scene. I don’t like scenes.” Thorpe was doing his best impression of a man deranged; then again maybe an act wasn’t required. “Second, as you may have figured out, I’m not a detective with Internal Affairs, but I assure you I am a cop. My real name is Thorpe, Sergeant Jonathan Thorpe. Maybe you’ve heard my name mentioned before…about thirteen months ago?”