by Gary Neece
Thorpe figured on paying fully for his sins and crimes. He had little doubt he would be captured, charged and convicted of several counts of premeditated murder, kidnapping, and a myriad of other felonies—but not until it was over.
Thorpe considered burning the body to dispose of physical evidence. But a fire would likely lead to an immediate discovery of Leon’s remains. He also contemplated severing Leon’s hands and feet. The Flexcuffs had left behind distinctive impressions that he would like to destroy. Even though the plastic cuffs were readily available to civilians, the fact they’d been used would immediately mark police officers as potential suspects. Picturing himself sawing through Leon’s limbs didn’t set well—too Jeffery Dahmerish.
Thorpe used a flashlight and searched the surrounding area for a place to secrete the body. When he located a suitable spot, he returned to Leon’s remains, hoisted it onto his shoulders, and shuffled into the woods toward a dense thicket of brush surrounded by a web of thorny vines. The leafless tentacles clawed at his clothing as he trudged into the thicket. He wore enough layers so as not to be concerned about his skin being ripped open and leaving DNA evidence, but he’d definitely have to ditch his shredded clothes. The annoying, flesh-tearing thorns should keep the casual teenager out of the area.
Not having brought a shovel, Thorpe concealed the body by tossing it in the thicket and covering it with fallen limbs and other vegetation. He had no doubt it would eventually be found, but hopefully not for a few days. By then the crime scene would have deteriorated because of the elements and with any luck, a hungry pack of coyotes.
Thorpe trekked back through the barbed scrub and scanned the area surrounding the oil tanks for signs he’d been there. The only visible evidence was footprints, tire tracks, and the contents of Leon’s stomach.
Thorpe entered Leon’s Cutlass, and with the headlights off, used starlight to navigate the dirt road. Not seeing any approaching cars, Thorpe pulled out onto 36th Street North hoping a patrol unit wouldn’t spot him emerge from the woods.
The chances of being pulled over driving this piece of shit at this time of night were fairly high. Working his way southwest, he hoped his luck would hold out. He breathed a sigh of relief as he pulled into a convenience store lot near Shaw’s house. He left the car running, grabbed his bag and stepped out of the vehicle. Since TPD never uses bait cars, Leon’s vehicle would be stolen—the only question was how long it would take.
Thorpe began the hike back to his Impala. The temperature had dropped into the teens, and he was thankful to be on the move. He was equally pleased to hear a wobble tone on his police radio. A shooting had just occurred in deep North Tulsa, ensuring all graveyard officers would be headed that direction.
Thorpe slipped into the neighborhood and broke into a jog. He wondered what the crew assembled at Shaw’s house thought of the disappearance of Leon. With Leon’s Cutlass missing coupled with his obvious paranoia, Thorpe figured their first conclusion would be he got scared and fled. Their biggest fear would be Leon talking to the authorities. That, and the fact they’d never received a second phone call from the anonymous blackmailer were probably making for some very nervous people right about now.
Thorpe approached his car and passed it, looking to see if anyone was watching his vehicle. Not spotting any surveillance, he got in his car and left the neighborhood. As he drove by the convenience store, he saw that Leon’s Cutlass was already gone. The car had been stolen within minutes. And its owner was in no position to file an auto-theft report. The Cutlass would probably pass hands several times before being recovered by police or stripped for parts. Any physical evidence left in the car would be greatly diminished.
WHILE THORPE RETURNED TO THE office, three men stood in the front yard of Shaw’s home, speaking in hushed tones. Leon’s disappearance was almost as disconcerting as the ransom call they were still waiting to receive. Phipps had been inside listening to the heated discussion. Growing impatient, he’d looked out the window and discovered Leon’s car missing. He summoned Price and the other man outside to discuss what needed done.
With limited information the three could only agree on two things. One, Leon Peterson and Jonathan Thorpe were threats to their freedom. Two, both men needed to die.
Thursday
February 8
Nearing midnight
FOOT ON THE GAS, REVENGE on the mind, Thorpe sat behind the wheel of a nondescript Ford Taurus, his gear and a change of clothing in the backseat. He was headed to an isolated neighborhood with large, heavily wooded lots—and non-coincidentally sat in the middle of Stephen Price’s police beat. Driving south on Yale Avenue from 91st Street, Thorpe turned right near the crest of a steep hill, into the rolling neighborhood. He scoured the area until he found what he was looking for—a dark home with a backyard screened by an abundance of trees.
The house displayed a “Smart Dog Alarms” sign in the front yard and a newspaper wrapped in yellow plastic lying in the driveway. Thorpe decided the house, which sat near the end of a dead-end street, had an empty feel. The road ran east/west but at this location curved back to the north before it ended in a cul-de-sac. Thorpe memorized the house’s features and continued on.
He exited the neighborhood, pulling the Taurus into a shopping center on the northwest corner of 81st and Yale. He found a dark parking space and climbed into the rear seat. Shielded by tinted windows, Thorpe changed clothes, exited the vehicle and removed the license plate. Climbing back into the driver’s seat, he laid the plate face down on the passenger floorboard and drove to another neighborhood west of his target location. He stopped just north of the Thousand Oaks housing addition, which, unlike most neighborhood names, actually made sense.
A vacant lot sat east of where Thorpe parked. Isolated homes were situated on either side of the empty property. A streetlight stood vigil thirty yards north. If someone did notice his vehicle, they would likely only recall a white Taurus with tinted windows. That would narrow the search down to a couple hundred-thousand cars. Because Thorpe was dressed in heavy garb, anyone who might see him wouldn’t be able to provide much of a description.
He was monitoring Riverside’s frequency and had heard Price go “46” on a dinner break ten minutes ago. Thorpe scanned the area, strapped a soft padded olive-green case to his back, and walked briskly across the street and through the vacant lot. A greenbelt ran north and south directly behind the property. The air was glacial; like a steam engine, Thorpe left puffs of condensation as he chugged up a steep incline across the greenbelt toward a heavily wooded area. Enough moonlight shone that Thorpe, laden with equipment, risked being spotted by a neighbor as he traversed the open expanse. Because running or skulking always drew attention, he walked steadily and as upright as the incline would allow. If he heard a call on the radio in reference to his suspicious activity, he would return to his car and choose another location.
Thorpe entered the sanctuary of the trees, squatted and peered down at the area he’d just crossed, looking to see if any eyes had followed him into the woods. It was cold, near midnight, and a weekday, so Thorpe hoped his passing had gone unnoticed. The radio was dead silent. Much darker here in the trees, Thorpe retrieved the night-vision device he’d obtained from the office. The NVDs were not military grade and could be a bit disorienting, but he didn’t want to use a flashlight and risk being seen. Thorpe continued his climb up the hill, navigating through trees displayed in hues of green and black.
A few minutes later, Thorpe felt confident he’d rediscovered his target house. Looking at the back of the structure, he removed the NVDs and confirmed the siding and trim were painted the same colors. The backyard was surrounded by a six-foot wooden privacy fence, the planks attached so that the support posts faced outward. Avoiding the clamor that kicking pickets would generate, he used a large knife as a prying instrument, loosening and removing several planks. After making an opening through which he could easily escape, Thorpe stepped into the yard.
A woo
den storage shed and clumps of trees rose out of a choppy sea of copper and brown. Waves of raspy leaves, feet thick in places, covered every inch of the yard. A raised wooden deck, three feet off the ground and accessed by stairs, led to the back door. An illuminated porch light guarded the rear entrance.
Thorpe waded through the leaves, stepped up onto the deck, and using a hammer fist, loosed three booming knocks on the back door. Right hand tingling, he retreated deep into the yard, watched for indications of someone being home, and monitored the police radio. Except for hearing Price go “10-8”—meaning he was now available to take calls—nothing pertinent to Thorpe’s activities had been reported.
Thorpe noted the gate leading to the front yard was on the southeast side of the home—to Thorpe’s right. The storage shed sat to his left about thirty yards from the deck and offered the only sufficient concealment; the yard’s tree trunks were not large enough in diameter to screen him from his prey. Unfortunately, launching an attack from the shed would be difficult because of the deck’s higher elevation and railing. He needed to be about ten yards closer for what he had in mind.
Thorpe removed a small pair of bolt cutters from his pack and cut the lock on the shed. Inside, he felt comfortable using a flashlight. It didn’t take long to find what he needed—a plastic leaf rake. Thorpe used the rake to clear an area behind and to the left of the shed. He then cleared a ten-yard path leading up to the deck. Finished, he tossed the rake aside, crossed the deck and kicked in the back door. Pulling the door closed, he returned to his hide. Thirty seconds later, the home’s piercing alarm system shattered the once still night. Thorpe monitored the surrounding houses for lights or movement in reaction to the shrill alert.
Nearly ten minutes passed before dispatch assigned the call.
“Ida 304, Ida 304 and a car to back. Smart Dog intrusion alarm, 4530 E. 86th Street, four-five-three-zero east eight-six Street, break.”
Price answered the call. “Ida 304, I’ll advise.”
“Ten-four, Ida 304. Trip is rear entry. Copy you’ll advise. Time zero-zero-three-six hours,” dispatch acknowledged.
Price had done exactly what Thorpe knew he would, what almost every police officer does; he “advised” on an alarm call. Advising meant he would respond alone; no backer would be assigned. It was a bad habit. Because the vast majority of alarms are false, they’re rarely taken seriously—especially in South Tulsa. Officers usually only request additional units if they locate a “good break” on the perimeter of the home.
After a few minutes the alarm fell silent. Thorpe ceased to watch the gate and retreated fully behind the shed. Anyone walking into the yard would be announced by their footsteps thrashing through leaves. He unslung the padded case and removed its deadly contents. For the next nine minutes, Thorpe stood ready beside the shed, concentrating on his breathing. Finally he heard Price go “10-97” on the radio. The announcement spiked his heart rate ever so slightly. Price had arrived on scene.
FAR FROM THE PROPER STATE of mind to be on patrol, Stephen Price had been operating on autopilot all evening. In the academy, rookies learned about three different mindsets, which were based on the traffic light system.
“Condition Green” was the mindset an officer has while sitting in the sanctuary of his own home, scratching his balls and watching reruns of Seinfeld. “Yellow” was cautionary, a condition he needed to enter anytime he donned a police uniform—danger could be around any corner; from the minute he leaves the house, he should be scanning his surroundings for threats. “Condition Red” meant one was “in the shit,” or likely to be soon.
After the ominous ransom call, Price had been operating exclusively in the green; he wasn’t focused on his surroundings.
Price pulled in front of the address with the sprung alarm. Another rich asshole who wouldn’t shell out his inherited money for a decent alarm system. After having performed a cursory check of the front, he found a gate on the left side of the house and stepped into the backyard. He walked around the corner, feet shuffling through accumulated leaves, toward the lit back porch. Price directed his flashlight to the wooded yard but quickly turned his attention to the back door.
Who the fuck called me last night? He thought as he stomped up the wooden stairs. As he crossed the deck, he noticed the splintered doorframe. His mind was just registering that he had a good break when he heard, and felt, a thud in the small of his back.
What the hell? At first he experienced no pain, only spreading warmth. Then came the burning hurt and the realization he was “in the shit.” As Price’s mind bridged the gap between green and red, he realized he should be drawing his pistol. His right hand on weapon, Price heard something on the deck behind him. He unsnapped his retention holster, lifted the Glock and turned—only to get knocked off his feet and through the back door. The warmth in his back became excruciating when he landed on the kitchen floor. His tormented mind registered a piercing noise, a brightening of the room, then pressure on his arms and torso. His eyes focused. Looming above him was Sergeant Jonathan Thorpe.
Fuck.
THORPE’S PLANS OF INTERROGATING PRICE were dashed. The arrow from Thorpe’s compound bow didn’t have the incapacitating effect he’d hoped for, and the speed with which Price reacted was surprising. The man had been close to clearing his holster by the time Thorpe reached him. His safest option had been to knock him off his feet. Unfortunately, the blow had knocked Price straight through the back door, reactivating the house alarm.
The recognition of imminent death in Price’s eyes gave Thorpe a measure of satisfaction. He buried a large hunting knife in Price’s neck, severing both the internal and external carotid arteries as well as the internal jugular vein. He must have also penetrated Price’s spinal cord because death was instant. Purposely leaving the knife in his victim, he removed the dead man’s radio and cell phone and backed out the door.
Thorpe recovered his bow and case and exited the opening in the fence. As he made his way through the woods and down the steep hill he tossed the bow to the side and continued toward his car. Just before reaching the greenbelt, he knelt and retrieved a plastic bag from a pocket. Thorpe pulled off his gloves and put them in the bag, then pulled on a different pair and continued walking to the car.
Safely in the Ford, Thorpe drove south until he found a secluded area to reattach the license plate. He also activated the emergency button on Price’s radio; he saw no sense in having a family traumatized by returning to find a slain police officer in their home. The activation of the emergency button would have officers respond immediately to Price’s last known location. His lifeless body would be discovered within minutes.
Friday
February 9
Early Morning
AS SUPERVISOR OF THE DEPARTMENT’S Homicide Unit, Sergeant Robert Hull didn’t respond to every murder scene. He did respond to most—and absolutely responded to any killing involving a police officer, especially when the officer was the victim. When Hull answered his page at 1:30 this morning, he’d been told a TPD officer had been killed on an alarm call and that no suspects were in custody. He hadn’t asked for the officer’s name; he wasn’t eager to know.
As Hull approached the entrance to the neighborhood, he encountered a patrol unit restricting access to the area. The officer manning the post waved him through, and Hull wove his way into the neighborhood. As he grew closer, he noticed the towers of several news vans. The carrion-enticed media were circling the fresh kill. There would be no shortage of discussion for the talking heads this Friday morning.
Hull passed the hungry-eyed reporters and continued to another checkpoint manned by three officers and police tape. He parked behind a string of modest, American-made sedans lining the street. As he stepped from his car, a blast of arctic air prompted him to return for his gloves before walking toward a large home that appeared to be the center of activity. He ducked under more tape as an officer in uniform marked his arrival on a clipboard.
“They�
��re all around back, Sarge. There’s a gate on your left.”
Hull nodded, walked across the yard’s dormant grass, through the gate, and around the corner of the home, where he was met by his gaunt detective. Chuck Lagrone stood shin deep in an ocean of leaves.
“Skull, whatta we got?”
“I’ve never seen a killing like this before, boss, let alone a cop. You know who it is right?”
Hull had been afraid to ask. “No.”
“Stephen Price.”
Hull released his held breath, relieved it hadn’t been an officer he was close to—or even liked for that matter. Then he experienced guilt over his initial reaction. His dueling emotions must have been apparent.
“Don’t worry about it, Bob. I didn’t care much for him either.”
“His uncle been notified yet?”
“Got two uniforms and a chaplain en route to his house. Should be arriving any minute now.”
“Better get some more officers on the perimeter. We don’t need him showing up and knocking down our crime scene.”
“I’ll put some guys on it. Come on, Bob, you better see this one for yourself, even if you don’t want to.”
The two men rounded the deck and ascended the wooden stairs, taking care not to step on potential evidence. The rear door stood open. Price lay on his back just inside the kitchen, his dark form in sharp contrast to the stark white tile. The first thing Hull saw was the large knife protruding from the side of Price’s neck. When he got closer he noticed the shaft of a metal arrow beneath the body. A significant amount of blood had pooled on the floor around the head. Hull was taken aback.
“Son of a bitch.”
“Fucked up, ain’t it?”
“That’s an understatement,” Hull breathed, then, “How pure is this scene?”
“Three officers stepped over the body and cleared the rest of the house for suspects. Two firemen entered and pronounced Price dead. After that, everyone exited the house and locked it down. The list of people who have been crawling around the backyard is more extensive. SIU is already finished with their video.” SIU was the department’s Special Investigation Unit. Its detectives were responsible for collecting evidence at major crime scenes.