by Gary Neece
PHIPPS HAD WORKED HIS WAY northward, unsure of his precise location or future destination. His sole plan was to survive the night. Occasionally, he’d stop and listen for unfriendlies over the deluge of sleet. It was during one of these pauses he’d heard the distinctive report of a high-powered rifle being fired at a steady cadence. The shooter had to be Thorpe, who was apparently still at work behind him—a safe distance away based on the sound of things. Phipps’ good news likely indicated the demise of Shaw, however.
Probably for the best, Phipps thought. The man was a walking Charlie Foxtrot.
With the gunfire well behind him, Phipps decided it’d be safe to use his cell phone to make Baker aware of recent developments. He’d have Baker look for a road that intersected Phipps’ northerly path. He retrieved his silenced phone and discovered two missed calls from Baker within the last few minutes. Phipps returned the calls.
AS THORPE PLACED ROUNDS IN the windshield, the SUV entered the turn at too high a speed. It left the roadway and struck a stand of scrub oak. Thorpe slapped in a fresh magazine and fired into the driver’s side door. Reaching the wrecked vehicle, Thorpe knelt behind the door and yanked it open. Stepping to his left, he illuminated the interior of the cab with the rifle’s attached flashlight. Brandon Baker lay in a heap, stomach down, his head in the passenger seat.
Thorpe fired two additional “insurance” rounds into Baker’s upper back, slung the AR, and ran to the passenger side. He pulled open the door, hoisted Baker onto the ground, and shone a flashlight into his vacant eyes—no dilation. Two fingers across a stagnant carotid artery confirmed death.
Baker no longer a threat, the vehicle presented Thorpe’s most pressing problem. He needed it gone. The engine was still running. Hopefully he’d be able to dislodge the SUV from the trees.
Thorpe opened the rear passenger door and, with considerable effort, managed to stuff the body inside. He hurried to the driver’s seat, put the vehicle into four-wheel drive, and was able to reverse the Durango. He cut the wheels, shifted into drive and got back onto the gravel road. Driving the SUV away from his home, Thorpe heard a cell phone ringing near his feet. He retrieved the device off the floorboard and saw the name displayed on the lit LCD screen. Phipps.
Thorpe accepted the call and let out an indiscernible grunt.
“Baker?” Phipps asked.
“Baker is feeling a bit under the weather at the moment; would you like to leave a message?”
“Thorpe?”
“And I believe they call you Mr. Phipps.”
There was a long silence on the other end of the line.
“You’re a funny motherfucker—even when you’re about to die,” Phipps finally said.
“I am a funny motherfucker. But you’re a little confused on who’s going to die.”
“You know who you’re fucking with, motherfucker?”
“I do, but you obviously don’t. Otherwise I wouldn’t be talking to you on your dead buddy’s cell phone. Would I, Recon?”
“I’m still standing, motherfucker!”
“No, I think you’re running scared, but I’m sure you’ll call it ‘tactically retreating’ to make you feel like less of a pussy. In fact, I bet you take some R & R for a few weeks like a good little bitch,” Thorpe said, purposely pushing the man’s buttons.
“I ain’t goin’ nowhere.”
“Well then, come on back, and we’ll finish this like warriors.”
“I’ll finish this on my terms, motherfucker, but I ain’t goin’ nowhere—you can count on it.”
“If you do leave, we’ll both know you’re the biggest gaping pussy this side of the Grand Canyon…by the way, is ‘motherfucker’ the only four syllable word you know?”
“Fuck you.”
“Way to improvise, Marine.”
Marines are a proud bunch, and Thorpe figured the insults had cast the man into a mild rage, hopefully mad enough to stick around to try and finish the job. It’d be nerve-racking if Phipps were to take a long vacation. Thorpe would have to worry if the man was really out of town or actually the new bush in his backyard.
Right now, he had other problems to worry about, like driving a Dodge Durango with seventeen bullet holes, front-end damage and a dead guy in the backseat. He needed to get the car well out of his neighborhood—and do it without getting pulled over by the police. Afterward, he’d have to find a way home that couldn’t be traced. Thorpe had one thing working in his favor: officers hate to stop cars in inclement weather, and conditions didn’t get much nastier than they were tonight. Thorpe sometimes jokingly commented if he sold drugs for a living, he’d only move his product when it was raining.
Thorpe stopped in a secluded area and surveyed the Durango’s damage. A headlight was busted. The windows on both front doors were nearly gone. The windshield was shattered. And there were bullet holes in the driver’s side door.
Thorpe located the vehicle’s lug wrench and used it to rake the remaining glass from the two front windows. Then he returned to the driver’s seat and kicked out the windshield. Yet another pair of boots I have to replace.
It would be hell driving sixty miles an hour in the sleet without a windshield, but seeing through the shattered glass was nearly impossible. Thorpe located a pair of Baker’s sunglasses and put them on. The tinted lenses weren’t optimal but would be an improvement over speed-driven sleet ripping at his eyes.
Thorpe dropped the SUV into drive and sped toward Tulsa in an open cockpit. As he neared the city limits, he retrieved Shaw’s cell phone from his pocket and thumbed through its contacts. He located the one he wanted, and dialed.
“Thadius? What are you doing calling me in the…” Samantha Daniels—Cole Daniels’ recent widow—answered the phone, clearly irritated.
Hoping to keep his voice indiscernible, Thorpe interrupted her with raspy speech aided by the whipping wind.
“Samantha? Samantha, I need help. They’ve got me…the same people who got Cole got me…”
Thorpe didn’t like using Samantha, considering the woman had just lost her husband, but now was not the time for niceties.
“Thadius, what’s going on? I…”
“Listen! I’m in the trunk of a white Lincoln Town car. They’re going to kill me, Samantha. My phone couldn’t get through to 911. You gotta call the police.”
“Where are you?”
“I don’t know. We’re parked somewhere in North Tulsa. I think we’re close to Reservoir Hill. White Lincoln Town car. Three white males. You gotta call. They’re going to hear me…I gotta go.”
Hopefully Samantha would phone 911 and make for a credible caller. Even if she thought it was a prank, she’d most likely report the phone call. Every available unit would respond to North Tulsa, looking for three white males in a white Lincoln Town car. Taking into consideration the caller and recent events, even the State Troopers and the Tulsa County Sheriff’s Department would be notified. Thorpe should have a “police free” zone where he was headed.
Even if units did remain in the area, they’d be looking for three Caucasian males in a white Lincoln—a far cry from a black Dodge Durango with one headlight. Thorpe turned east onto the Creek Turnpike making his way around the south side of the city before connecting with Highway 169 and continuing north. He merged with I-244 before exiting onto Memorial Drive, thankful he hadn’t yet spotted a marked patrol unit and angry with himself for not having brought along a police radio. He entered a neighborhood north of McClure Park, where he removed his equipment from the Durango and set out on foot.
The offices of SID were just over a mile away, but since he’d be traveling peripheral streets, his urban hike would be closer to two miles. He looked forward to the exercise; despite his layers of protective clothing, sixty-mile-an-hour subfreezing winds had taken its toll. Thorpe hid his AR and equipment in the shrubbery of a nearby house. Not many people were up at this hour, but a man ensconced in camouflage toting an assault rifle would likely raise an eyebrow or two. Thorpe h
ad some distance to travel, but in an effort to keep all eyebrows at an acceptable elevation, resisted the urge to run.
Twenty-two minutes later Thorpe approached the offices from the southwest. He only had keys to one extra vehicle in the lot. If that car were gone, he’d have to enter the building via his keycard, which would electronically record his presence. He preferred to avoid leaving any indication he’d been in the area.
Thorpe climbed the parking ramp and avoided using his keycard by scaling the chain link gate. The sight of the green Jeep Wrangler brought instant relief; he wouldn’t have to enter the office to retrieve a set of keys. Thorpe got behind the wheel and pulled up to the gate, where a weight-sensitive pad released him without any electronic documentation.
He wished he could buy a gas can and fuel, but knew every convenience store in the Tulsa area would receive follow-up investigations after tonight. And most stations had video, at least on the inside of the stores. Instead of using a gas can, he had another idea.
Thorpe drove the Jeep to a dark, isolated area inside McClure Park where prostitutes often serviced their johns. He doubted any officers would check the area because, hopefully, they were busy searching for a Lincoln Town car, and because like cops, hookers hate working in poor weather. Having parked, Thorpe returned to where he’d stashed his equipment, retrieved the items and made his way back to the Durango.
There, he considered his options on how to collect an accelerant.
There were really only two: he could slide under the SUV and go to work on the plastic gas tank with a knife. It probably wouldn’t take long to puncture, and the drainage would be fast. There was just one problem: he’d end up with gasoline—a.k.a. evidence—all over his person and clothing. Plus, he’d transfer that evidence to the Jeep when he drove away. He decided on option number two, which would be much cleaner but more time consuming.
Thorpe climbed into the driver’s seat, inserted the key and turned it on to activate the fuel pump. He then popped the hood, removed the bladder from his Camelbak, stepped outside and dumped the water on the street. Lifting the hood and using his knife as a screwdriver, Thorpe released the fuel rail and slowly began filling the bladder. When it was full, he poured the gasoline in the cab of the vehicle and on the body of Brandon Baker, careful not to get any on his own clothing.
Taking one last look around, Thorpe sparked a lighter he’d found in the console. Flames leapt into the air. This time, Thorpe did run. As he approached the Jeep, he removed his gloves hoping to avoid leaving traces of the accelerant on the steering wheel. He started the engine and with a flaming ball in his rearview mirror, headed for home.
He still had work to do.
Saturday
February 10
Morning
IT WAS 9:00 A.M. WHEN Thorpe’s pager started going off. He’d been asleep for exactly one hour and still had a dead man lying in the woods across from his house. Thorpe returned the page and reached his captain, Don Cory. The captain had “unsettling news.”
“Brandon Baker was killed last night and set on fire, and Thadius Shaw is missing. I’d give you more details, but I have about a hundred calls I need to make. There’s going to be a full briefing at SID at 1300 hours. Everybody’s coming in, regular days off or not. Vacation and comp days are cancelled. Be here.”
The line clicked dead.
Thorpe would be paid overtime to help search for the killers. He conceded to the irony, looked at his watch, and decided to get a few more hours of sack time. His father’s words floated alongside him into unconsciousness.
Sleep is like water son, if you don’t know when you’ll find it again, get as much as you can.
Three hours later, Thorpe packed his gear while watching CNN. Tulsa had become the lead story on the national networks: two black Tulsa police officers had been killed within the last two days and a third had gone missing. The story went on to describe the methods used to kill the officers and brief biographies of their lives. The requisite “experts” were on hand to lend their opinions, and, as usual, the experts were full of shit. They did get one thing right when suggesting the suspect could be a fellow cop or cops, their theory based on the fact that the slain black officers were outspoken about alleged racial inequalities on the department and had been parties to several lawsuits. The hitch in their theory was the murder of Baker, a white officer. Some of these same experts spun a web of possible explanations. One suggested that Baker might have been a collaborator in the black officers’ deaths and had since been silenced. As was the case these days, the reporters preferred to generate news rather than report it.
The story was accompanied by sound bites from TPD’s inept interim police chief, Jason Kampmann. As a general rule, TPD promoted its chief from within. Being one of the first departments in the country that required newly hired officers to hold the equivalent of a bachelor’s degree, TPD was stocked full of competent, educated personnel. Unfortunately, Tulsa’s current mayor didn’t like the fact the chief had civil service protection and couldn’t be completely dominated. Although several TPD candidates were determined to be qualified, he sought and selected a chief from an outside department and made him an “at will” employee. The mayor essentially made the position a political one, in which the chief would have to ask “how hard” when ordered to suck it. The contested arrangement was now in the hands of the state supreme court.
In the meantime, the department was stuck with a chief who had a propensity for falling asleep in meetings and couldn’t figure out how to turn on a police radio. One of his first proposals was to make the force “college educated.” The deputy chiefs advised him he was twenty-some years late with the idea but congratulated him for his enterprising concept.
Now Kampmann, wearing a TPD uniform he hadn’t earned the right to wear, stood on the national stage doing a first-rate impersonation of Captain Kangaroo. Thorpe couldn’t help but wonder how such idiots rose to positions of power in this country. The most important information Thorpe took from the news report was that the Federal Bureau of Investigation had assumed the lead on the homicides.
Great, now there’d be pile of armed accountants in the mix.
Thorpe flipped off the television and stepped outside. He’d left Al and Trixie out last night, and they didn’t seem overly concerned with their surroundings. He doubted Phipps would take another shot at him here; the next attempt would come while Thorpe worked. Looking past his dogs, he was grateful coyotes hadn’t yet dragged Shaw’s body out into the middle of the road. He’d deal with that problem tonight after dark. At least the cold would keep Shaw from getting too ripe.
The first thing Thorpe noticed when he pulled into SID’s parking lot was the deluge of plain sedans and black Chevy Suburbans. Gail greeted him as he stepped into the office.
“Hello, James,” she said, looking up from her desk.
“Miss Moneypenny…you are bewitching.”
“Oh, James, you’re such the flirt.”
“Only with you, Miss Moneypenny…only with you. Are we being absorbed by the Famous But Incompetent?”
“Uhhh? Oh, I get it. The FBI. Seems like it; they’re everywhere.”
“Careful, that’s what people with tinfoil on their heads have been saying for years,” Thorpe joked. “I guess I have a meeting to attend. Arrivederci, Miss Moneypenny.”
“Arrivederci, James.”
Thorpe walked to his office, threw his gear onto the couch, and meandered through the building to the conference room. When he entered the rectangular chamber, he was reminded of a junior high school dance: SID supervisors occupied one side of the room opposite a bunch of uptight looking men in suits, neither group acknowledging the presence of the other. In this case the dance floor was a long, oval-shaped conference table that might as well have been the English Channel.
Thorpe took a seat near the exit and nodded at the sergeant over Vice, Gary Treece, who promptly rolled his eyes, leaned to one side, and loosed a lengthy fart. The SID boys burst
out laughing, but the suits didn’t seem to get the joke—very unprofessional.
A couple of guys were close to shedding tears, either from the laughter or the stench, when Deputy Chief Brad Elias strode into the room.
His appearance reversed the direction of gaseous output as assholes collectively sucked up oxygen, tempting Thorpe to check the barometer on his watch to gauge the loss of atmospheric air pressure. The first of a foursome, Deputy Chief Elias was followed by Major Duncan and Captain Cory. An attractive woman wearing a conservative pin-striped skirt suit brought up the rear. She was long, slender and moved with an athletic grace. Her thick black hair was pulled back and wrapped in a tight bun. Thorpe made a conscious effort not to stare.
As the foursome made their way to a podium, Thorpe noticed that the eyes of every other SID supervisor were locked on the raven-haired beauty…cops. There’s an old saying amongst police officers, “You can trust a cop with your money and life, but never leave one alone with your wife.”
The woman had an olive complexion suggesting Mediterranean, Brazilian or some other exotic ancestry. Thorpe noted that not one of the suits gave the woman more than a fleeting glance. Maybe they knew something the undercover guys didn’t. Thorpe sided with the feds on this one topic and refrained from drooling on himself as she pulled up a seat next to the podium. The other TPD personnel in the room had no such concern. They looked like a collection of schoolboys who’d been given a Playboy bunny as a detention monitor. Chief Elias took a position behind the podium and introduced the three figures who sat to his right, including Special Agent Ambretta Collins.
Chief Elias spoke for several minutes. His words felt bridled and failed to disclose the entire scope of the investigation or the FBI’s role in the matter. Toward the end of his comments, he was more candid.
“To be perfectly honest, as of this moment, a member or members of this police department are possible perpetrators of these murders. Therefore, I can’t fully divulge the details of this investigation to potential suspects. I’m not accusing anyone in this room. But you understand our predicament. Regardless, SID personnel will not be involved in the investigation of these murders. Your assignment will be—with the assistance of the FBI and U.S. Marshals Service—to help provide security for specific officers on the department. Particularly, for individuals who’ve initiated litigation against TPD. Again, because we can’t inadvertently assign the killer to guard his next victim, you and your units will be working in conjunction with the FBI and Marshals and more than likely will have an agent or marshal monitoring your activities. We’ll be addressing the entire division at 1400 hours but wanted to get the supervisors on board first. Ms. Collins…”