by Gary Neece
“It’s not that. I just have some people to kill, and you’re putting a cramp in my style.” Thorpe was joking—well, he was pretending to be joking.
How would she react to the comment?
After several moments of silence, Collins finally responded. “Is that one of your attempts at humor again?”
“Was it funny?”
“No.”
“Then it wasn’t. I’m always humorous when I make the attempt.”
“You realize I am a federal agent assigned to this investigation. It’s not in your best interest to make those kind of statements in case one or both of us end up in federal court.”
“Shit, you’ve lost your entire sense of humor overnight.”
Thorpe had a feeling they were being monitored and recorded. She was trying to avoid ambiguous conversation. He decided to have a little fun.
“Agent Collins, what are you doing?”
”What are you talking about?”
Thorpe spoke with feigned agitation. “Agent Collins, please do not grab my crotch again. I have a girlfriend, and while I find you mildly attractive, I am not interested.”
“What the hell? Have you lost your mind? I haven’t touched you.”
“Agent Collins, please pull your sweater back down…I don’t want to see those. They are hideous!”
“Sergeant Thorpe! I don’t know what you’re trying to pull but…”
Thorpe cut her off. “Oh my God, pull your pants back up. Holy shit…when was the last time that thing saw a pair of scissors?”
“Sergeant Thorpe!”
“Screaming my name doesn’t do it for me. Damn, it looks like you have Don King in a leg lock down there.”
Collins flushed red. He couldn’t tell if it was from anger or embarrassment. A deep inhalation chambered a bellow, but then a look of recognition washed over her face.
“You think I’m wearing a wire?”
She still looked pissed.
“Aren’t you?”
“No.”
“Is someone listening to us?”
“No.”
“If there is—they’re laughing their asses off.”
“You’re a prick. I thought you’d lost your damned mind.”
Collins face began to regain its natural color, and Thorpe heard her giggle as she repeated, “Don King in a leg lock. Ugh, you’re an asshole.”
“Admitted. What would you do if one of your FBI buddies talked to you like this?”
“I’d chew his ass up one side and down the other. I’d let him know if he ever did it a second time, it’d be his last.”
“That’s what I figured.”
“Based on what information?” Collins asked.
“Based on how your coworkers act around you. They treat you like you’re a real…”
“Bitch? They might be right.”
“How ‘bout me… going to write me up?”
“You? No. I have to work with those guys…” Collins had a slight smile as she completed her thought. “You, on the other hand, I’ll never have to see your sorry ass again.”
“Unless it’s in federal court.”
Thorpe doubted Collins honesty; he figured the conversation was being monitored. Plus, she’d forgiven his outburst way too easily. Thorpe pictured a room full of suits all nodding their heads when the word “bitch” was mentioned.
A dispatcher making an announcement over the protective detail’s sub-fleet interrupted their verbal Judo.
“All units be advised a large group is gathering outside the rally at the Main Station. Officers on scene are requesting additional units. The crowd is growing in size and in animosity toward police.”
In response to the recent killings, a famous figure in the black community had scheduled a press conference at the Main Station to be held tomorrow. Hoping to capitalize on the national attention, the KKK had organized a rally at the same location for today.
Klansmen were experts at getting police officers injured and sued while at the same time getting protestors arrested. Because officers have a sworn duty to protect all citizens, they are called upon to provide security for these idiots while they spew their bullshit. Klansmen claim ulterior motives, but their true intentions are to prod protestors into such frenzy that they do something stupid. Unfortunately, there are always more than a few willing to fall victim.
Demonstrators often wrongly assume that the police agree with the Klansmen’s views since they’re providing security. Regardless, cops are the only thing standing between them and the devils in the pointy hats. This results in protestors battling officers while Klansmen speed away with their first-cousin wives at the wheel. If cities would just refuse to provide security, there wouldn’t be public protests by hate groups like the KKK or Westboro Baptist Church; stupid they are, suicidal they are not.
For this rally, mounted patrol and uniformed officers had been assigned as security but not in sufficient numbers. The ongoing protection details had strained resources. Command had hoped the event’s early hour would keep things relatively peaceful. Based on radio traffic, Thorpe figured those hopes had been dashed.
Despite the call for help, Agent Collins grabbed the radio and advised all units on protective detail to remain in position.
Thorpe took exception. “If a cop gets hurt because they don’t have enough bodies, there’s going to be hell to pay.”
“And if a cop gets killed because we abandon our posts there’s going to be hell to pay.”
“At least let the relief units start.”
“Fine.”
Thorpe picked up the microphone and instructed those units to start to the rally to assist on-scene officers. Thorpe then changed directions toward downtown.
“Where do you think you’re going?” Collins asked.
“We’re headed to the officers in need.”
“No, we are not. We will continue with our assignment.”
“Well, I’m going to help those officers. Do you want me to let you out?”
“Sergeant, who is in charge here?”
“You are.”
“Then you will turn this car around and continue with our current assignment.”
“No, I will not. Now unless you plan on physically restraining me, this argument is over.”
Thorpe risked a glance at Agent Collins, who stared straight ahead with a clenched jaw. At least for the moment, the jaw was shut.
Thorpe traveled down the Broken Arrow Expressway, taking the Inner Dispersal Loop around the south side of the city. He exited onto Denver Avenue and turned north. When he reached 6th Street, he found a blockaded intersection. Vehicles couldn’t travel in front of the Main Station. A half-block from the agitated crowd, Thorpe jumped the curb and parked.
This was exactly what Thorpe had feared would happen, and he felt personally responsible for having set events in motion. This was not about race. This was about some crooked-assed cops, a few of whom were black, who’d made a fatal error. Unfortunately, Thorpe couldn’t get on the news and announce the reason behind the killings. But if an innocent person were hurt—and God forbid it be a fellow officer—he’d never forgive himself. He had enough blood on his hands already.
Investigators with the Intelligence Unit usually integrated themselves into volatile crowds. Whether it was the KKK, biker rallies, or those “Occupy” idiots, the Intel guys were in the mix looking for troublemakers before they could instigate civil disobedience—today’s politically correct name for a riot. In addition to infiltrating the crowd, one or more usually filmed its members. The department liked to have video that contradicted a demonstrator’s edited version of events. Because SID had been depleted by the formation of protective details, no such provisions were available for this rally.
Thorpe concealed a radio inside his jacket and ran the ear-bud out his collar. He left the Jeep, walking briskly toward 6th Street with Collins in hot pursuit. Thorpe rounded the corner on the south side of 6th and noticed additional responding units.
They included a couple of unmarked cars. He recognized two day-shift narcotics investigators pile out of an Impala. Thorpe flagged them over.
“What’s up, sarge?”
“Stay next to me. Look for troublemakers. And let’s try not to get our asses kicked.”
On the north side of 6th Street, Thorpe saw a man with a red beard in a white robe with dark sunglasses preaching hatred behind a podium. The man’s pulpit sat atop the first of three sets of concrete stairs. He was surrounded by four hooded friends with so much pride they chose to hide their faces. Uniformed cops covered the steps in front of and behind the Klansmen. The Mounted Patrol Unit—six officers on horseback—completed the detail. The police presence continued to grow.
Thorpe and company approached the protesters from behind. Though the crowd was racially diverse, the majority was black. Most of those assembled appeared peaceful, but a small core had trouble on their minds.
“Agent Collins, circle around, get your identification out, and join the officers across the street,” Thorpe ordered.
“I’m coming with you.”
“I need you away from here. I’ve seen this before. There are some in this group looking for any opportunity to cause trouble. And believe me…you’re an opportunity.”
“I can take care of myself,” she said, clearly insulted.
Thorpe swung around and pointed his index finger at Collins. “I’m sure you can. But if someone decides to cop a feel, and we have to take him down, the fight’s going to be on. Then all those officers across the street will have to come over here to save our asses. And if one of them gets hurt, it’ll be on you.”
Collins conceded to the logic; she nodded and took a circular route toward the uniformed officers. When she neared the line of blue, she displayed her identification and was allowed inside the perimeter. Thorpe watched her climb the steps and assume an elevated position where she could observe.
A few minutes ago, the man behind the podium had been citing FBI statistics in an effort to show that blacks commit far more crimes against whites than vice versa. The tempered comments had been but a warm up. The speaker had ratcheted up his rhetoric; he now spouted inflammatory remarks along evolutionary lines.
Thorpe felt pride as he looked upon the stoic faces of the officers, many of whom were black, protecting a man even as he insulted them. Thorpe’s pride in his fellow officers was tainted with personal shame, because he knew it was his actions that had tarnished one of the finest police departments in the country.
Thorpe estimated the crowd to number three hundred plus, with fifty or so having the potential to make real trouble. They were the young and angry, and most of them had worked their way toward the front of the pack. Within this assemblage, Thorpe identified an even smaller clique of five. Each one wore long white t-shirts visible below their coats. All but one hurled racial insults at the officers across the street. It was the quiet one in the group who most troubled Thorpe. Younger than the rest, maybe sixteen or seventeen, the kid paced like a caged predator. He appeared to be working up the courage to do something he shouldn’t. Whatever he was planning, it bothered him so much he’d disconnected from his surroundings. His attention had turned inward.
Thorpe risked moving through the crowd to get a closer look. The three undercover investigators managed to maneuver within several feet of the clique. The quiet one continued to pace behind his buddies, sweating despite the cool weather. Thorpe noticed the kid’s eyes flash downward on two separate occasions.
Shit.
People in possession of illegal firearms often touched them or looked down to where they were concealed. They feared the weapon produced an identifiable outline in their clothing. Instead of a bulge giving them away, it was usually their behavior.
Thorpe glanced at the two narcotics officers. A nod of their heads indicated they’d also recognized the potential threat. The tricky part was what to do about it. Taking down an armed man in a hostile crowd does not constitute easy work, but Thorpe had to step in before the kid committed to his foolish intentions.
The three undercover officers formed a small huddle and discussed their play.
“Snatch and grab,” Thorpe began. “The kid is the football; I’m going to wrap him up and pin his arms to his side. Tanner, as soon as I do, you grab his legs. Frank, clear a path for us to the skirmish line; knock the piss out of anyone who gets in our way. Got it?”
Both men nodded. Thorpe looked up and locked eyes with Collins. He made a circle above his head with his finger and pointed down indicating the three of them. Then—continuing with the football analogy—made a motion similar to the tomahawk chop toward the officers across the street. He didn’t want the skirmish line to think the three of them and their football were demonstrators breaking ranks. Collins appeared to understand his message. She descended the stairs and spoke to the sergeant in charge.
“Hard and fast. Let’s go,” Thorpe commanded.
He hoped to hell the kid had a gun. Their makeshift fullback, Frank, had just knocked two guys out of the way and kicked over the wooden barricade while Thorpe and Tanner followed carrying the “football” through the defensive line. If Thorpe had guessed wrong, and the kid was unarmed, they’d all get their asses sued. Never mind they were trying to save people’s lives.
Football safely across the plane of the end zone, Tanner unloaded his share of the burden. Thorpe crashed to the pavement on top of the pigskin. It was then that Thorpe heard the sweetest sound—the clank of heavy metal striking concrete.
Fumble.
Thorpe rolled the kid over and was rewarded with a chrome handgun lying on the sidewalk.
Thank God.
If the little shit hadn’t been armed, ten different camera angles would’ve captured another rogue white cop abusing minorities. With juicy footage like that, Thorpe might be charged with manslaughter after Jessie Jackson’s body was found in front of his television—killed by one of those fabled four-hour hard-ons.
Thorpe’s relief was short-lived. The football’s friends had stood in shock for a few seconds but now realized one of their own had just been abducted. They stepped over the fallen barricade in an ill-conceived plan to retrieve their comrade. Others in the crowd, believing they’d witnessed Thorpe face plant a black man for no good reason, decided to join in the festivities.
Chaos. The drove, which had been headed straight toward Thorpe and his prisoner, were now fleeing every direction but—thanks to six mounted police officers and seven thousand pounds of horse meat. Most people were just trying to get the hell out of the way, but the fifty or so who’d been looking for an opportunity had found it. Several youths had entered the parking lot to the southeast and were now in the process of expressing their freedom of speech by smashing car windows.
His fellow officers were going to be busy for a while, but Thorpe had had enough. He handed his football off to a uniformed patrolman, dropped the magazine out of the suspect’s handgun, and jacked a round out of the chamber.
“Hey, Tanner, Frank, good job. You two ever want to come over to Gangs, just say the word.”
“No offense, Sarge, but fuck you.” Tanner smiled.
“Oh, come on. It’s the land of milk and honey. Hey, could you do me a favor and turn in the gun? There’s nothing left for you guys to do here anyway. I think our cover has officially been blown.”
“Yeah, no problem.”
Thorpe looked at Collins, who’d joined his side.
“Let’s get inside.” He nodded toward the rivers of fleeing people between them and the Jeep. “I don’t think we’ll be able to get to our ride for a few minutes.”
The two ascended the stairs and started for the entrance to the Main Station. “You did a good job back there, you know?” Collins offered. “Probably saved someone’s life, the kid’s for sure.”
“Yeah, now he’ll have a chance to grow up and learn how to kill a cop without getting caught.”
Collins shook her head. “Don’t make this som
ething ugly. You can’t control everyone and everything. Some things are just going to...happen.”
“And some things can be prevented,” Thorpe argued.
“Look, tragedies happen every minute of every day. And someone’s always left behind wondering ‘what if I had done this, or said that.’ None of it can be predicted, yet we all wallow in guilt.”
Thorpe was already thinking Collins’ speech sounded rehearsed when she stopped and put a hand on his shoulder.
“You’re hurt,” she said.
“Look, you’ve obviously done your homework on me, and you know what happened to my family. You’ll know I want your psychobabble when I lie down on a couch for you.”
“Uhh.” Collins nodded down at Thorpe’s hand. “I mean you’re physically hurt.”
Thorpe dripped blood onto the sun-bleached concrete. He looked back, discovering he’d left a crimson trail up the stairs. He felt his face turning the same shade he’d painted steps.
“Look, I’m sorry, I…”
“Forget about it,” Collins said, cutting him off. “Is it painful?”
“Not till you pointed it out. Guess I still have an adrenaline dump.”
Thorpe tugged on his sleeve revealing a gash on his wrist. Until it’d become saturated, his sweatshirt had kept the blood from running down his hand.
“Let’s get you cleaned up.”
Sunday
February 11
Afternoon
AMBRETTA FOLLOWED THORPE ALONG THE empty hallways of the Main Station. Because it was Sunday, the building was closed to the public and the few detectives on duty were occupied with the mess outside. Thorpe led her to the offices of the Domestic Violence Unit, where he said he’d remembered seeing a first aid kit bolted to the wall. While she sifted through the metal box, she noticed him step into a glassed-in office, turn his back, and make a phone call. He was either unable to reach who he’d dialed or didn’t have much to say, because thirty seconds later he returned and sat in a rolling office chair.
Upon her arrival in Tulsa, Ambretta had been given four tasks, two of which were secondary to the others. One was to coordinate security details using local officers and federal agents. Another was to assist with, and oversee the progress of, the investigative unit. But her main objectives were to monitor the movements of Sergeant Jonathan Thorpe and to learn as much as possible about the man. Normally this would be a simple task; she generally had no problem getting men to do nearly anything she wanted. The skill had served her well over the last two years.