by Gary Neece
McDonald had started referring to himself and his associates as The Band a couple of years ago, not to sound cool, but to simplify conversation. Price had accused him of naming the group after the miniseries Band of Brothers; said he’d been trying to pull an inside joke because four of the six men were black. In reality, a different movie, Band of the Hand, was the source of the name.
Whatever. The Band they were. How they’d come into being hadn’t been planned. It just happened.
Though perhaps not the most moral of men, McDonald had joined the department with good-enough intentions. He spent his first years working Gilcrease Division, or as it was called then, Uniformed Division North. Between marriages, he earnestly went about putting criminals behind bars. Promoted early in his career, his work ethic earned him the supervisory position on the department’s Organized Gang Unit. That’s where he first dipped his toe in murky waters.
An extensive background check is performed on all applicants for the Tulsa Police Department. Officers who later transfer to the Special Investigations Division go through additional checks, most of which financial. SID personnel are perpetually around large sums of money and drugs, an environment not conducive to those with monetary debts.
McDonald had been supervising the OGU for several months and succumbing to a suspicion most officers share some time during their careers—the feeling he was nothing more than a hamster on a wheel. No matter how many criminals he and his unit tossed into jail, no matter how many drugs and how much dirty money they took off the street, their efforts seemed useless. The dealers were often back on the streets only hours after being arrested.
The DA’s office, wanting a high conviction rate, offered plea deals to everyone. Those actually given prison time normally had their already-short sentences cut by half. McDonald felt he was a member of a losing team in an inconsequential game; the only people not making good money were the good guys.
Why shouldn’t he profit as well? Is stealing from criminals really stealing at all?
A twenty started disappearing here and there, enough to buy his lunch for the next week. Then one day, he pulled his toe out of that murky water and dove headfirst. The plunge happened on a search warrant where he found himself alone in a bedroom staring at sixty-thousand dollars in cash.
If he took just a little, who would notice? If he turned it in, who would get it anyway? A bunch of fucking politicians who hadn’t done anything except make his job harder—that’s who.
Fifty-five thousand dollars made its way into evidence. No one missed the five K. No one even asked about it.
In filling his pockets that night he’d emptied his soul. Having taken the dive, swimming was easy.
People of like mind always have a way of finding each other. With little conscious thought, he’d formed a tight group of officers who began planning search warrants and other endeavors with the purpose of financial gain. The Band was born. Before long, they’d started stealing dope as well. They’d either give the drugs to informants to sell, or they’d offer those they busted an option: lose your dope and go to prison, or keep it and share the proceeds with The Band. For most, the choice was easy.
McDonald knew better than to meet with dealers directly. The easiest way for a criminal to avoid prison was to give up a dirty cop, and McDonald sure as hell wasn’t going to let that happen. On those rare occasions where a personal visit was necessary, he’d always concealed himself.
As for The Band, he made it perfectly clear if anyone in the group snitched, the man’s loved ones would pay—a promise he intended to keep. If any one of these assholes even thought about turning on him, he’d kill them and their families. They knew the score. Just as he knew if he talked, Phipps would kill his family. The cost of betrayal had to be more expensive than the threat of prison. It was the only way he could survive; a simple but effective technique he’d learned from Mexican cartels—rat and everyone you love pays the price.
It’d all been going smoothly until Jonathan fucking Thorpe replaced him as supervisor of the OGU. The man had been doing serious damage to his enterprise and arresting far too many people who were associates of The Band. Sooner or later, one of those associates would decide to talk. They wouldn’t be able to identify McDonald, but they’d damned sure be able to name others. If Band members were exposed, they might consider federal protection despite the threat to their family’s lives.
The situation escalated further when Thorpe arrested Charlie Peterson’s sons. The two sold dope for The Band and were extremely close to Price. Lyndale was sentenced for one hell of a stint. McDonald and Phipps in particular feared Lyndale would tire of sitting in prison while the rest of The Band continued in prosperity. That’s when McDonald hatched the idea of planting dope in Thorpe’s home. If Thorpe was discovered to be a dirty cop, all the cases he’d been involved with would be closely scrutinized and many overturned. Coupled with the allegations from Lyndale’s father that Thorpe had planted drugs on his sons, Lyndale’s release would be certain. As an added bonus, Thorpe would be fired and sent to prison. The man wouldn’t be around to fuck up McDonald’s business anymore.
Within The Band, Daniels presented his biggest worry. The man simply didn’t have the stomach for what needed done. Folks with a conscience as developed as Daniels’ had no business swimming with sharks. He’d have Phipps keep a close eye on him—maybe provide a reminder of what awaited him if he talked.
If Phipps ever had a conscience, it’d abandoned him years ago. His brutal demeanor was matched by his physical appearance. A battering-ram shaped skull sat atop a thick frame packed with dense muscle. Small deep-set eyes peered out from beneath his pronounced forehead. When unsavory acts were required, he was the man McDonald called. Unfortunately, Phipps had just made his opinion known to the rest of the group.
“We need to do what?”
“You heard me the first time, Daniels. You wearing a fucking wire or something?” Phipps accused.
Daniels began to pull off his shirt.
McDonald had remained silent till now. But things were getting out of control, and he needed to instill calm.
“Keep your shirt on, Daniels,” McDonald said. “We know you’re not wearing a wire.”
“Damn right, I’m not. I’m also not going to be part of no killin’.”
“If we don’t act first, he’s damn sure going to kill us,” Phipps argued.
“We don’t even know if Thorpe was the one who killed Price.”
“Let’s go over this one more time, you fuckin’ moron,” Phipps growled. “On Wednesday night, Price got an anonymous phone call from someone saying he knew about the incident last year.”
“Incident? We killed an innocent woman and child,” Daniels interrupted.
Phipps warned off the man with a glare, and continued. “Let me finish, Daniels. The anonymous caller told Price he was going to the police with this information unless we paid him twenty-thousand dollars. After getting the call, Price called McDonald, and we all met at Shaw’s house. Daniels, you were the only one not there because you didn’t answer your fucking phone. Price, Leon, and the rest of us met, and we talked about who might have known what we did. We figured someone in this group was talking. Leon starts trippin’ about a police sting. He went out the back door. Says he left to see if anyone was watching us. After a few minutes, we look for him and notice his car missing. We all figure he got scared and skipped town…”
“I guarantee he took off. That boy was scared to death,” Corn interrupted.
“Corn, you mind?” Phipps growled. “Now, as we all know, Price was killed last night. I hear detectives think the murder was more like an assassination. This shit ain’t no damn coincidence. Price was blackmailed about the incident one minute and killed the next. It’s all connected.”
Phipps drew a deep breath and acknowledged the nodding heads before continuing. “If that’s not enough for you, this morning Shaw’s neighbor called him over to look at his fence. There was a hole cut
in it. The hole faces the front of Shaw’s house. I think whoever called Price that night followed him to Shaw’s. I think when Leon went outside to look for surveillance, he was killed. No one has seen or heard from him since.”
Phipps surveyed the room making eye contact with each man. “Leon is dead—murdered. Thorpe killed Leon, then turned around and killed Price.”
Phipps raised his voice to drive home his next point. “I think every damn one of us who were at that meeting is in danger of being killed next!” Phipps paused to let his last statement sink in. “Baker, you’ve been awfully quiet. What do you think?”
Baker cleared his throat. “I’d have to agree. This is no coincidence. The phone call, Leon disappears, Price is killed. We all know Thorpe’s behind it. Who else would start killing people over this shit? Anybody else would turn us in. The only question is, what are we prepared to do about it?”
“We all know what needs done. We just gotta nut-up and do it,” Phipps screamed. “This is fucking war!”
“We’re the ones who started the war when we killed his wife and kid,” Daniels shouted back.
“That was an accident; we didn’t mean for anyone to get hurt,” Baker chimed in.
“That’s a bullshit excuse, Baker. You start fucking around like that, and what do think is going to happen? We never should’ve done what we done.”
Phipps shook his head. “Doesn’t matter. It happened, and you’re a part of it, Daniels. Right now, we need to concentrate on the threat to our lives. We have to deal with Thorpe before he kills each and every one of us!”
“Phipps, the way I see things, I’m safe,” Daniels said as he headed for the door. “I didn’t show up to your little meeting the other night, and Thorpe doesn’t know I’m involved in this shit. I can’t believe you’re actually discussing murdering a man…I won’t be a part of it!”
As Daniels stormed out the front door, Shaw also stood up to leave. “Daniels is right. I ain’t gonna be part of no murder.”
McDonald had lost control of the meeting. “Sit down, Thadius. We’re not getting anything accomplished by fighting with each other.”
“Fuck you. I’m gone.”
“Please, Thadius. Have a seat. No one is killing anyone. I think I have an idea where no one will get hurt,” McDonald implored.
The five remaining men sat down, shiny with sweat despite the relatively cool temperature of the room. McDonald began laying out his plan. Every time he looked Phipps’ direction, he was rewarded with a piercing glare.
After revealing his plans, McDonald stood and told the other men he needed time to work out the details. Once outside the door, he sent Phipps a text.
“Lacy Park. Now.”
Five minutes later, Phipps pulled next to McDonald with murder in his eyes. “You sit in there the whole fucking meeting not saying a word and when you finally do…”
McDonald held up a hand, cutting Phipps off. “Everything I said in there was bullshit. You’re right. But we have to be careful about what we say and who we say it around. The others don’t have the balls to do what needs to be done…understand?”
“So what are we going to do?”
“I don’t think Daniels can be trusted any longer.”
“I’ve never trusted him.”
“He and Shaw are tight, right?” McDonald asked.
“Real tight. They’re like brothers.”
“I think I have an idea that will eliminate one problem and get the rest of the group on board.”
RETURNING FROM BASS PRO, THORPE called dispatch and obtained the phone number for his neighbor, Deborah Jennings.
“Well, this is an unexpected surprise,” she told him. “What can I do for you?”
“I hate to impose, but I was wondering if I could park my truck on your property for a while.”
“Park your truck on my property? Is that what you men call it these days?”
Thorpe laughed. “Not that I know of…no, I’ve got some bad guys who’ve learned where I live and what I drive, so I’d rather not announce when I’m home.”
“Will you be putting me in danger?”
“Not if you have some place I can hide it.”
“You sure you’re not talking about sex?”
“Deborah, you have a one-track mind.”
“My gate code is 5432. I’m certain I have a place it’ll fit.”
Later, when he pulled onto the Jennings’ estate, he was surprised to see Deborah in slacks, a conservative blouse and coat. He’d expected something formfitting and easily removable. She directed him to the west side of the property where a large barn stood out of sight from the road. Deborah was friendly but not overtly sexual. She said she would explain the arrangement to her husband, adding he probably wouldn’t be too happy about it, but he could kiss her ass—she was doing it anyway.
Having pulled his truck inside the barn, Thorpe transferred his purchases to a new duffel bag, slung it across his shoulders and thanked Deborah. He walked through the gate onto the gravel road then into the woods. Teeming with thorny underbrush, the first part of the trek was tough going. But within a couple of minutes he sped along a trail that led to his house.
Thorpe had carved out this trail through the woods as a running route. The path passed through his and several of his neighbor’s properties, with one loop being nearly two miles. Thorpe preferred the solitude of trail running, and because he’d littered the course with obstacles, it offered a total-body workout.
After a few minutes, he neared the back of his house where he could see the deck overlooking the creek. Thorpe descended into the brook, waded through a foot of water and crossed to the opposite embankment. Climbing short of the rim, he sat his bag on wet leaves, retrieved a set of binoculars, and dropped to his belly. He crawled to the top, and, elbows in dirt, peered through his optics into the woods across the road.
If a competent sniper hid in the undergrowth facing his home, the shooter would be nearly impossible to spot, a scenario Thorpe considered unlikely to occur during daylight hours. His assassins would come at night, and though it was an assumption that could get him killed, he couldn’t spend his days peering into the deep dark across the road, flinching at every windblown limb.
Thorpe rose swiftly, sprinting to the rear of the barn so as not to present an easy target for any lurking marksman. If someone were going to shoot him, by God he’d make them work for it. His footfalls elicited a volley of barks from a startled Al and Trixie, who, sequestered inside the barn, had not yet gathered his scent. When Thorpe reached the rear, he threw open the back door and greeted his dogs. Reunion complete, he ordered the animals outside with a command, “Search.” The racket of sharp nails seeking traction where none was to be had echoed off the barn’s walls, as legs moved and bodies didn’t. Once free of the concrete floor, Al and Trixie tore off toward the front of the property, finely-tuned muzzles in exploration.
As the dogs went about their work, Thorpe conducted his own search—for evidence of outdoor animals having suddenly been confined indoors. Pleasantly surprised to find a sanitary gym, Thorpe waited for the dogs to empty their bladders and finish their search before retrieving his duffel bag near the creek bed.
Thorpe summoned the dogs, opened the rear door of his house, and aware muddy paw prints would most likely be their greatest accomplishment, ordered them to search the interior. Al and Trixie scattered to opposite ends of the home, returning a minute later with wagging tails. Thorpe walked inside and dumped the contents of the duffel on the living room floor.
He had much to do before reporting to work.
Friday
February 9
Evening
OFFICER COLE DANIELS SAT IN the living room of his modest home, wringing his hands in contemplation.
Were those crazy bastards really going to kill Thorpe? He knew Phipps wouldn’t hesitate; the man always did have a mean streak and war had twisted an already-troubled mind.
They should never have tried to frame
Thorpe in the first place. The plan had been set in motion without Cole’s input.
Still, he sure as hell didn’t do anything to stop it, did he? He’d tried to justify his inaction by pretending the matter was out of his hands. Then those two dumbasses killed Thorpe’s wife and daughter. Oh God, how had he gotten involved in all of this?
Even after the killings, he’d sat back and said nothing. He was afraid. Afraid of losing his wife, son and freedom. Fear had made him weak. Well, not anymore. First thing tomorrow, he’d get his family out of town, then drive to the local FBI office and tell them everything. Maybe he could even strike a deal to stay out of prison.
COLE’S WIFE, SAMANTHA, STOOD AT the stove preparing dinner. Samantha knew something was bothering her husband but had been asked to be patient while he worked matters out on his own. Having put the finishing touches on her trademark lasagna, Samantha called for her husband, announcing dinner was ready. As she carried the steaming dish from stove to table, she heard the faint but distinct sound of breaking glass followed by a thud. Samantha hurried around the corner to find her living room wall stippled with bloody bone fragments and brain tissue. Her husband lay face-down on the floor, the right side of his head an open cavity. The dish slipped from Samantha’s mitt-covered hands.
Later, it would prove difficult for detectives to determine where the lasagna ended and pieces of Cole Daniels began.
THORPE AND HIS UNIT WERE wrapping up a search warrant in East Tulsa when the emergency tone was broadcast over the radio. The tone signified an officer in distress. Everyone stopped what he was doing and tuned in to the dispatcher’s voice.