“It is sad, isn’t it? So what’s new in the Rat Squad?” Jeff was an investigative sergeant with Internal Affairs. Some officers just referred to the unit as The Rat Squad.
“Same old shit…officers beatin’ the hell out of innocent citizens,” Jeff sarcastically declared as he waved off a cup of coffee.
“My name come across your desk lately?”
“No. Maybe we should get you a damn medal…no complaints for an entire week.”
“Yeah. The only cops who don’t get complaints are the ones who don’t do real police work.”
“You don’t have to tell me, brother. You’re acting like I wasn’t your partner for four years.”
Thorpe smiled “Just making sure you haven’t crossed to the dark side.”
“Why does it have to be the dark side, asshole? Why can’t it be the white side?”
Both men laughed. Despite their lasting friendship, Thorpe and Jeff knew little of the other’s past. Thorpe figured his friend sensed his reluctance to talk of his childhood, or perhaps Jeff avoided inquires because he didn’t want to reciprocate. Either way, the arrangement suited Thorpe just fine.
Thorpe’s pager started going off. He recognized the number of Robert Hull, the sergeant over Homicide.
“Getting a call from Hull. A misdirected youth must have been on the wrong end of a bullet.” Thorpe punched the numbers into his cell phone.
“Hull.”
“Hey, Bob, what’s up?”
“John, I think we found one of your boys. You know a Marcel Newman?”
Sure Bob, I killed him just the other day. “Oh yeah, he’s a regular.” They found the body.
“This isn’t your typical spray and pray. You’ll want to see this for yourself.”
“Whattaya got?”
“Son-of-a-bitch has been bound to a pole, looks like he’s been tortured. Been dead a couple of days.”
Actually, Bob, it’s only been about twenty-seven hours. “Where you at?” Thorpe asked, already knowing the answer.
“Go to Newton and Waco. A uniform will guide you in.”
“Okay, Bob, I’m at the homestead. You going to be there for a while?”
“Oh, yeah. This is a pretty fucked-up scene. We’ll be here all afternoon and then some.”
“Okay, I’ll start my dayshift guys your way. I should be there in about thirty minutes.”
“Hey, John, one more thing.”
“Yeah?”
“You know anybody goes by the initials L.A.?”
“A couple guys. Why?”
“Looks like your boy wrote those initials in the dirt before he died.”
“No shit?” Thorpe said, feigning surprise. “Marcel’s been trading rounds with a guy named Dwayne Foster who goes by ‘L.A.’”
“Might be an easy case then.”
“Well, we definitely have a starting point. I’ll start that way, Bob.”
Thorpe left Jeff to finish the workout on his own. A few minutes later, as he crossed from the house to his truck, Thorpe heard the song “I touch myself” coming from the barn’s radio.
Thorpe stuck his head through the door and yelled, “You better not be touching yourself in my barn.” Jeff grabbed himself and smiled. Thorpe laughed and walked to his truck. By the time he started the engine, his smile was gone.
Tuesday
February 6
Afternoon
THORPE TOOK THE SAME ROUTE to the scene as he had one day earlier. Was it just yesterday? It seemed like so much had happened since then. Traveling west on Newton, he could see boom cameras from the local TV stations towering above the trees. Thorpe approached a herd of slavering reporters held back by magical “Police Line Do Not Cross” tape like mooing heifers at a cattle guard. Risking a stampede, Thorpe parted the crowd with his truck, badged the uniformed officer manning the post and was allowed to drive underneath the tape. He pulled behind an assortment of detective vehicles and parked. Climbing out of his truck, he noticed several cameramen had their lenses trained on him. Thorpe walked back the direction he’d come. He informed the gathered news personnel he was an undercover officer and asked that they not air his image for officer safety reasons. The cameramen assured him he’d be edited out or given the standard pixelated treatment.
Skeptical, Thorpe returned his attention to the crime scene and headed toward the gate to the gravel drive that wound through the woods and to the barn. The gate stood open and was manned by another uniformed officer.
“Hey, Todd, what’s going on?”
“Don’t really know, Sarge, haven’t got to see the scene. I’m just guarding this driveway and some boot prints. Heard Marcel Newman’s body was found in a barn up there,” Todd said as he threw a thumb over his shoulder. “And he’s all fucked up.”
“Couldn’t happen to a nicer guy.”
“Ain’t that the truth.”
“Where’s the boot prints?”
Todd pointed at the ground near the section of barbed wire that Thorpe himself had severed.
“Mind if I take a look?”
Todd motioned to an acceptable vantage point. “Go ahead; you can see it from the gravel here.”
Thorpe could see a portion of the boot print in the dirt, a print he knew would never be traced back to him. “They think it belongs to the killer?”
“I don’t know what they think. They don’t let me in on their circle-jerks.”
Thorpe pointed up the drive. “I get to the scene this way?”
“Yeah, Sarge, but I gotta call you an escort. Hull says nobody comes up the drive without one.”
“That’s okay, Todd, I can call Hull myself,” Thorpe said, retrieving his cell phone from his belt.
Thorpe stood with his back to the media for several minutes before Hull came walking down the drive to deliver a handshake. Hull had been with the department for thirty-plus years but still projected a youthful appearance. A couple inches shorter than Thorpe with graying black hair, he wore a tan suit jacket and pants with a white dress shirt and no tie. He looked unshaven, but Hull was one of those guys who grew a five o’clock shadow well before lunchtime. He was a superlative detective and dedicated to his job—so much so it’d cost him several marriages and any semblance of a normal life.
“John, this is a good one; gets my juices going.”
“Bob, the last thing I want to hear about are your juices.”
Both men laughed as Hull led Thorpe down Newton. “It all started this morning…” Hull said, talking with his hands and making a large circular motion in the air. “When Marcel’s baby’s momma, Lady Morgan—and, yes, Lady is her actual first name—called Marcel’s grandmother today and asked if she’d seen her grandson. Grandma tells Lady that Marcel must have caught a ride in the morning because his car was still parked outside of her house, and she hadn’t seen Marcel since the night before. Lady tells grandma she and Marcel had plans together and he never showed up. Grandma doesn’t get around too good, but now she’s concerned. She walks out to Marcel’s car and sees a blood smear on the driver’s side window. Then she finds what she thinks might be more blood on the street, goes back inside and calls 911.”
The two men had reached the corner of Newton and Waco Avenue. Hull pointed to the north. “That’s Marcel’s car with the police tape around it. The blood was found just east of the car on the street. When the first two uniforms show up, they also notice the blood and one starts looking to the east to see if Marcel had been dumped into the ditch or crawled there. They notice the barbed wire cut at that location and began following a beaten-down path through the woods to a barn. They open the barn door and about crap themselves when they find a naked, bloody black male bound to a pole inside. They cleared the barn of suspects and, because Marcel was obviously deader ‘n shit, didn’t approach his body. They backed out and called it in. Good job protecting the scene on their part.” Hull pointed back in the direction they’d just come. “Let’s walk back to the gravel drive, and we’ll go in that way.”