Cold Blue

by Gary Neece

  Sue led Collins to a booth. Thorpe had been to the restaurant so often that the hostesses knew he’d only sit with his back to the wall in a location where he could observe fellow customers and the entryway. The restaurant was one of the few routines Thorpe allowed himself.

  When they reached the table, Agent Collins sat on the side Thorpe had planned to occupy. This left him unsure how to proceed, but eventually he sat next to his new partner, shoulders and hips touching.

  “Excuse me?” Agent Collins said, her voice raising several octaves.

  “Relax. You don’t have anything I want, except a seat facing the room.” Thorpe smiled. “If you want to keep your distance, you’ll have to sit on the other side.”

  Collins stared at Thorpe for what seemed like a full minute before she relinquished and slid over. She redirected her gaze to a menu while a waitress brought two glasses of water and placed a large Sapporo in front of Thorpe. Collins’ eyes—accompanied by a pair of arched eyebrows—again found his.

  “Sushi just doesn’t taste right without Sapporo. You going to report me?”

  “Actually, a beer sounds good. Waitress, please bring me one of those.”

  “Step one, establish trust. Check.”

  “Are you going to be a smartass this entire assignment?” Collins asked, with a hint of hostility.

  “I’ve been a smartass my whole life; I don’t see any reason to change now.”

  “So this is normal behavior?”

  “Unfortunately…yes.”

  Collins put down her menu and faced Thorpe. “You know…every TPD officer and official I’ve come into contact with has been incessant in their questioning me about this case. You, on the other hand, haven’t asked me one question. Why?”

  “Would you tell me anything I haven’t already seen on the news?”

  Collins kept her eyes locked on Thorpe but paused before answering. “No.”

  “There’s your why,” Thorpe remarked. “Thanks for being honest.”

  “I believe in diplomacy, when I’m dealing with people who may be thin-skinned. But I didn’t think I needed to be anything but blunt with you.”

  “Where did you get your psychology degree?” Thorpe asked, taking a shot in the dark.

  “Is that another joke or a legitimate question?”

  “Legitimate question.”

  She again paused before responding. “Florida State University.”

  “Is that where you received your undergraduate degree or your doctorate?”

  “Undergraduate.”

  “Where did you get your doctorate?”

  “Boston University,” Collins answered with reluctance in her voice.

  “Those who earn their doctorates usually insist on being referred to as ‘doctor.’ It generally supersedes ‘agent,’ and absolutely overrides ‘miss.’ Why don’t you want people to know you’re a doctor?”

  “Sometimes it puts people on the defensive. And considering the circumstances, I thought the title might make officers… paranoid.” Collins finished the sentence with a wry smile. “How did you know I had a doctorate?”

  “I didn’t.”

  “One of those Carnac feelings again?”

  “Just fishing.”

  “You’re very deductive.”

  “Please, let’s keep this professional.”

  “But you’re not funny.”

  Thorpe laughed. “So you think a person like—oh let’s say me—might be paranoid if the FBI blew into town to investigate a series of murders where the most likely suspect is a cop. The ‘me’ finds out his FBI partner—who claims to be in charge of protection—is most likely a criminal profiler. Now why would anyone find that worrisome?”

  Collins took a long pull from her Sapporo before turning and facing Thorpe. “Frankly I didn’t expect to be having this conversation within the first hour of riding with you. For someone who doesn’t ask a lot of questions, you somehow deftly reversed this discussion so I’m on the defensive. I bet you’re one hell of an interrogator.”

  Collins paused and now seemed to be very carefully choosing her words. “How ‘bout we jump to the end of the path you’ve been leading me down. Yes, I am part of the investigative detail. Yes, part of my assignment was to garner your trust and get you to open up about potential suspects. That’s all I can reveal at this time, and, believe me, I wouldn’t be telling you this if I didn’t think you already had that much figured out. I hope you appreciate the honesty.”

  “That wasn’t so hard, was it?”

  “By the way I really am in charge of protection, so let’s focus on shoring that up first. Deal?”

  “Deal.”

  Still on duty and with work to do, they ordered sushi rolls and nursed their one beer. During the meal, the conversation mostly centered on TPD operations, chain of command, and various specialty units.

  Before the two left, Collins excused herself to the ladies room, and Thorpe removed a notebook and pen from the interior of his jacket.

  He wrote, Feb 10. The man who killed me tonight is Officer Andrew Phipps. He, Cornelius Johnson, and Sergeant Carl McDonald are the only three left responsible for the death of my family.

  ANDREW PHIPPS EXPENDED A LOT of effort to get a room in the Sheridan Commons. The three-story motel sat across from the offices of the Special Investigations Division where Thorpe worked. First, though he had declined protection, Phipps had to slip out the back door to avoid a two-man unit guarding his home. Then, because his car was parked in his driveway, he had to borrow a vehicle from a friend, claiming he didn’t want to drive his own for fear he might be recognized and killed. Finally, Phipps had given a prostitute a hundred bucks to rent this thirty-dollar, third-story room, give him the keys and disappear.

  The room faced north toward the Special Investigations Division. Because of SID’s elevated parking area, Phipps couldn’t see the entire lot, but he could watch cars enter and exit the gate. His observation post left much to be desired: outside the room, he had a five-foot balcony that extended the length of the building, and because all the rooms opened up to the same balcony, he couldn’t use it as a shooting platform—lest he have residents stepping over his prone body. He’d considered concealing himself inside the room and shooting through the open door but soon discovered the opening was an invitation for prostitutes and drug dealers to stop in for a chat. He’d even had a 60-year-old white dude stumble into his room, asking to buy crack; it’d taken Phipps a couple minutes to shoo the pest outside. Even then, the screwy bastard kept walking up and down the balcony, mumbling to himself.

  With the door closed, he’d have to fire through the motel window, between the balcony’s iron rails, and through the glass of his target’s vehicle. Dismissing the idea of taking a shot from the room, Phipps had left his rifle in the trunk of his borrowed car and was armed only with a pistol, binoculars, and police radio. He’d been monitoring the sub-fleet that had been assigned to the protection detail but had yet to hear his target’s voice over the radio. He’d hoped to see Thorpe’s truck pull up to the gate—either entering or exiting the offices—and wait for it to leave. Phipps planned to exit his room via the motel room’s southern door, which opened to an interior hallway, hurry down to his car, and follow Thorpe until he found an opportunity to take the man out.

  From what Phipps understood, federal agents had been assigned to all on-duty SID personnel. Thorpe would effectively be muzzled during work hours, allowing Phipps to concentrate on hunting instead of worrying about being hunted. Of course, Phipps would be much better informed if McDonald hadn’t fled town—fucking pussy. Earlier, the man had called to say he’d taken three weeks vacation to let things settle down. He wouldn’t even tell Phipps where he was cooling his heels.

  Phipps should never have revealed what happened in those woods. Relating the details, he’d seen doubt and fear cloud McDonald’s eyes. Now, instead of helping to finish this thing, McDonald had packed up and fled town, leaving Phipps to wage war for the both
of them.

  Just like the military, the REM’s—Rear Echelon Motherfuckers—relaxed in comfort while grunts swam in the shit. If Phipps wasn’t successful tonight, he’d force Corn Johnson’s enlistment; yet another pussy who’d been less than willing to lend his help.

  Several years ago, Corn and Phipps had been best friends. They worked and played together. Phipps acquired a position in SID’s Narcotics Unit, and Corn snagged a spot in Gilcrease Division’s Street Crimes Unit. Both units performed basically the same job except SID investigators had access to more toys and money. Corn was caught providing sensitive information to nefarious citizens. Some of that information had been filtered down through Phipps at SID. In fact, Phipps had disseminated as much, if not more, sensitive material as Corn—Phipps just didn’t get caught. Corn never voiced it, but the man was bitter he’d been forced to resign while his friend skated.

  Did Corn expect him to confess and give up his career out of friendship?

  So far, Corn had warmed the bench during this fight—their fight. Phipps checked his watch for the third time in the last fifteen minutes and decided Thorpe must have left in a different vehicle. His only remaining option was to monitor the radio and hope to get a location on his quarry. If that didn’t work, he’d make sure Corn entered the game.

  THORPE LEFT THE RESTAURANT HALF-expecting a bullet to punch through his cranium. His only consolation: he’d never see or hear it coming, and he had a note in his pocket that would make life hell on Phipps, Corn, and McDonald. Thorpe was relieved when he entered the Ford and drove away with his brain stem still attached. If he’d been followed, he would have already been killed in the parking lot. Thorpe reached up and pulled down his hoodie.

  “You’re not afraid of blowing your cover anymore?”

  “I felt it unfair…” Thorpe remarked, jokingly pursing his lips. “…to deny you the privilege of my profile.”

  “Oh, brother.”

  Thorpe and Collins discussed the night’s agenda. There were nine officers under the umbrella of the security detail. Officer Andrew Phipps declined protection but, true to his word, had remained in town. Against Phipps’ wishes, a team had been ordered to watch his house anyway and follow at a distance when he traveled.

  That meant there were nine two-man surveillance teams and four two-man relief teams. Two shifts, meant there were fifty-two men and women assigned to the protective detail, the bulk of which were TPD officers. The remainder was filled with United States Deputy Marshals, FBI agents, and a couple of OSBI investigators—OSBI being the Oklahoma State Bureau of Investigation—a state agency. It was a lot of manpower, and Thorpe couldn’t see any of the departments using so many resources for an extended period of time. TPD barely had enough officers to handle routine calls for service as it was. Although Tulsa’s mayor maintained the department was adequately manned, some calls already held three or four hours before patrol officers were able to respond.

  Thorpe and his new partner would visit the nine locations to determine protection deficiencies. He’d persuaded Collins not to use the radio so that the details wouldn’t know they were coming. He’d used the argument that it would better show which officers were being lackadaisical. Keeping Phipps in the dark in reference to his whereabouts was Thorpe’s true intention.

  Collins broke the silence with a loaded question, “What’s the relationship between black and white officers on the department?”

  “With the exception of a few who make life miserable for all of us, the relationship is excellent.”

  “Those few you mentioned, are they black or white?” Collins asked.

  “That’s a hard question to answer without coming off as racist. I suppose it comes down to who you ask.”

  “Care to be more specific?”

  “Not really,” Thorpe answered truthfully.

  “Please indulge me.”

  Thorpe didn’t know if he wanted to tackle the query; an honest answer might make him appear more appetizing as a suspect. Ultimately, he found no reason to lie about it. Ninety-five percent of the department felt the same way he did—though some wouldn’t admit it publicly.

  “Are there white racists on this department? I’m sure there are,” Thorpe answered his own question. “But overall, I don’t think there is friction between white and black officers. Almost everyone on this department is college educated, and they do a pretty good job of judging someone on character rather than race. What friction does exist, in my opinion, was generated by a few malcontents.”

  Thorpe could speak for hours on what he thought were injustices against whites on the department, but he also knew blacks could do the same in reference to their perceived injustices. He knew true prejudices were born from an uncompromising belief you were the only one who was right. Usually, reality lurked somewhere in between.

  “Do you think black officers have any legitimate complaints?” Collins persisted.

  “Let’s be clear here. Most black officers aren’t complaining. I’d estimate the percentage to be very small. I can understand some of their viewpoints. I’ve tried to picture myself on a department comprised of ninety-percent black officers. I can see where I could blame my misfortunes on the color of my skin, and I could also see the perception of special treatment being extended to others. I mean, there are some real assholes on this department. I’ve been treated like shit by a few superiors for absolutely no reason—in my opinion. If I were a minority, I can see why I might use race as a possible explanation because, in my mind, no others existed. Since I don’t have that excuse, I have to chalk it up to people having a shitty day or them just being all-American assholes. Also, I’ve seen some whites on this department get away with some crazy shit. But I don’t think it relates to race as much as it does to the good ol’ boy system.

  “The bottom line is…if you’re buddies with a sergeant, captain, major, deputy chief, whatever, it’s going to lessen your disciplinary action on this department—depending on how much stroke your friend has. If you play golf with a deputy chief on a weekly basis, there’s going to be some mishaps swept under the carpet. That’s not a black/white thing, though. It depends on who you are and your rank. But if I were a black officer and I was sitting back watching some of this shit, sure…I’d think, ‘Those assholes take care of themselves.’”

  Thorpe wanted to change the subject and chose a statement that’d be effective in doing so. “Maybe these killings have nothing to do with race.”

  “For example?”

  “Maybe someone’s pissed for other reasons…some of those guys who were killed were downright dirty. Or one of their own is mad about something…maybe it has nothing at all to do with race at all. Baker was white, explain that.”

  “All things to consider. But right now our best assumption is a racially motivated Tulsa police officer or officers.”

  Thorpe parked a half block down from one of the protective details. According to his information, this particular house was being monitored by one of his investigators, Jennifer Williams, who’d been unlucky enough to draw an FBI agent as a full-time partner.

  “Let’s approach on foot,” Thorpe said, pulling the hoodie back over his head as he climbed out of the Ford

  He and Collins walked down the street toward the house in question. Thorpe recognized Jennifer’s car parked along the curb; he figured the hard-headed investigator would win the argument with the fed over who drove and which car they took. When Thorpe and Collins were about twenty yards from the rear of the vehicle, Jennifer scrambled out the driver’s side door and into the street with her right hand concealed behind her leg. Thorpe knew the hand held a pistol. A second later, the passenger door flung open, and a suit stepped out onto the curb, empty-handed.

  “Don’t shoot, it’s the po-po” Thorpe said—using one of the G-rated terms bangers use for the police.

  “Fucking Carnac! How ‘bout a warning first?” Jennifer spat.

  “Keeping you on your toes.” Thorpe winked.

 
; “If I’d seen the skirt next to you, I wouldn’t have gotten so damn excited. Only saw your hooded ass in my side-view mirror.”

  Thorpe introduced Jennifer to “the skirt,” and Collins asked her what she thought about the security situation.

  Never one to mince words, Jennifer gave the run down.

  “It’s a complete cluster. We’re sitting out here like ducks. If someone wanted to get in that house, they could plink us off like steel targets…or just go in the fucking back door.”

  Collins defended herself. “As I said in the briefing, your presence is more preventative than actual security. We don’t believe the suspect would risk capture by going in the back door with two officers sitting out front. We also don’t believe the suspect means harm to anyone other than his intended target.”

  “You believe, but you don’t know. You’ll know when SIU is scraping my brains off the asphalt,” Jennifer argued.

  “What do you suggest, officer?”

  “We should be inside the house.”

  “Most considered that too intrusive. Would you want two strangers sitting in your living room all day?”

  “We’re not strangers. We’re all fucking cops here. We’re not black, we’re not white, we’re blue. And no, I wouldn’t give a shit. They could sit and fart on my couch if they wanted to. If someone thinks we’re too intrusive, fuck ‘em; let them fend for themselves.”

  “That isn’t going to happen,” Collins assured her.

  Jennifer looked at Thorpe. “This is bullshit.”

  “I agree, but there’s not much we can do about it. If you’re worried about getting sniped, take precautions. Figure out the places a sniper would likely engage you from. Then split-up into two different cars so that both of you can watch the house and still see each other. Position yourself so it’d be difficult to acquire you both as targets in a short amount of time. That should force the shooter to wait for a better opportunity; unless, of course, we have multiple snipers.” Thorpe smiled. “Then you’re fucked.”

  He redirected his attention to his new partner. “I doubt Agent Collins here would have a problem with you being in separate vehicles so long as you can account for one another’s whereabouts the entire time.”