“Yeah, we told him we have the boots he wore at the scene. Told him he didn’t clean all the blood off. Told him if the lab proved the blood was Marcel’s, he was fucked. He asks, “What boots?” So we show him. You know what he says then?”
“I have no idea.”
“He says, ‘Those aren’t my boots.’”
“Ah, the old ‘these aren’t my pants ploy.’” It wasn’t uncommon to arrest someone, find dope in his pocket—only to have the suspect claim, “These aren’t my pants.” Apparently drug dealers would like cops to think they share pants with one another, which would explain why they were always ill fitting and falling halfway down their asses.
“Yeah. So we say, ‘How come you have someone else’s boots in your closet?’ and you know what he says to that?”
“He claimed you planted them there,” Thorpe answered.
“Close. He said someone left them on his front porch. He thought they were mint, and they fit, so he decided to keep them.”
“Yeah, people leave free boots on my porch all the time. How did he explain the ‘L.A.’ Marcel wrote at the scene?”
“He didn’t. He said ‘Fuck you, I want my lawyer.’”
“Probably the smartest thing that’s ever come out of his mouth. You guys find anything else?”
“We’re still sifting through a lot of stuff at the crime scene and from the warrant. Plus we’re waiting on the autopsy. That’s the biggest news so far. What time are you coming in?”
“Sorry, Bob, I know it’s bad timing, but I took the night off. Needed a break. Something you should consider doing every once in a while.”
“I’ll rest when I’m dead.”
“That won’t be long if you never take off. In the meantime, can I take out…what is it now…wife number ten…for you tonight? I’ll show her a real good time.”
“Fuck you, John. She’d rather get twelve inches from me once a month then three inches from you every night.”
Thorpe laughed. “Sounds like you’ve used that line before, Bob.”
“Maybe a time or two. We can make do without you, John. Take a break. You’ve earned it.”
Hull was a good cop and one hell of an interrogator. Thorpe noticed Hull kept prompting him to hypothesize L.A.’s responses to his questions.
Was he being interrogated himself? Hard to determine—Bob was a tough guy to read. Thorpe hoped he was equally difficult to decipher; he’d tried to respond as though he hadn’t known the truth.
Thorpe also noticed Bob hadn’t mentioned L.A.’s hair fiber on the duct tape. But, there was a lot of evidence to sift through and the results of the autopsy were still out. Thorpe doubted L.A. could come up with an alibi strong enough to contradict the physical evidence mounting against him. These guys were notorious for producing not-so-credible witnesses who would swear the offender had been in their presence at a faraway location at the time whatever heinous crime was committed. Unless L.A. had been sitting in a casino with a hundred cameras trained on him during the time period Marcel was killed, he’d be convicted.
Thorpe felt little remorse about L.A. serving a life sentence or possibly being condemned for a killing Thorpe had committed. L.A. was a murderer, and everyone knew it, even the judge who’d been forced to release him because of uncooperative witnesses—witnesses who’d probably been threatened into silence.
Thorpe looked at his watch and realized he’d been working out for nearly two hours. He’d been in such a state of concentration he wasn’t even sure what exercises he’d completed. Earlier, he’d convinced himself not to act until tomorrow. Now he realized he needed to move quickly and decisively. He hadn’t thought it possible for this to get more personal, but it had. His family may have been murdered by fellow police officers—by his brothers in blue. They might not have intended to kill his wife and daughter, but that consideration wouldn’t be enough to spare those responsible. They’d meant to falsely accuse Thorpe of a crime that would cost him his job and his freedom. Instead they’d taken so much more.
He’d waited thirteen months for Hull and his crew to find the killers. But Thorpe had found the bastards on his own and was prepared to secure reparations the same way.
Wednesday
February 7
Evening
THE RIVER FALLS APARTMENTS ON South Memorial Drive had neither a river nor a falls but was nice, upscale complex situated behind a Wendy’s fast food restaurant and a QuickTrip convenience store. Thorpe had entered by riding the rear bumper of resident who’d remotely activated the apartment’s iron gates. He waited there now, in the privacy of a blacked-out Chevy Impala.
Earlier, Thorpe had stopped by Riverside Division (RID), the department’s uniformed subdivision that covered the southwest section of the city. Because of current manpower shortages, the front desks of the uniformed divisions were only manned during business hours. Thorpe found it ridiculous that the buildings were closed at any time, day or night—people should be able to find and talk to a cop at a police station. However, this evening, the lack of basic services had worked to his advantage; he’d needed information contained behind the front desk of RID, and no one was around to watch him snoop. Thorpe had used a four-digit code to enter the building, walk behind the desk and locate a file with Riverside officers’ names, addresses, and phone numbers. Once he recorded the pertinent information, he checked third-shift’s lineup, pleased to see Stephen Price was on duty.
His next stop had been at SID to procure equipment for the night’s activities. He’d hoped to get in and out of his office without being noticed but had been pulled into a brief conversation with the sergeant over Vice, Gary Treece. Thorpe had explained that despite taking the night off, he’d needed to come in for a few minutes in order to keep the long tusks of The Walrus from chewing his ass. Not a fan of Major Duncan, Treece required no further explanation. Following the encounter, Thorpe made it out of the building with a “Birddog” tracking device, directional microphone, voice changer, and keys to a gray Chevy Impala—none of which he signed out.
The Birddog consisted of a magnetic transmitter easily placed on a vehicle’s undercarriage. It emitted an RF signal detected by a directional receiver with a range of two to four miles. Thorpe could have selected a GPS tracking device, which was much more accurate and functional, but the Birddog did have an advantage crucial for this mission: it left no electronic signature that could later be traced back to the device or to Thorpe. GPS units left an easily tracked electronic footprint. Plus, SID’s GPS trackers had external antennas that—unless you had access to the car’s interior or the engine block—made them much more likely to be discovered by the persons you followed.
The Birddog’s disadvantage was its limited range. If you slipped outside its realm, the only way to reacquire your target was to stumble around until reentering the transmitter’s radius. Then it became a game of Marco Polo. But in this case, Thorpe had no choice. He couldn’t use a unit that could be traced back to SID equipment. The directional microphone he’d borrowed was able to pick up conversations in open areas but couldn’t penetrate enclosed spaces.
Outside Stephen Price’s apartment, Thorpe lurked behind the Impala’s deeply tinted windows as a patrol car turned the corner and found a parking space. Thorpe checked his watch; Price wasn’t scheduled to get off work for another thirty minutes. Nevertheless, his unmistakable form—akin to an NBA forward—uncoiled from the cruiser and lumbered toward his apartment. He’d hoped Price would give an indication which personal car was his, but no such luck. Price’s apartment was situated on the middle floor of the three-story building. Its balcony overlooked the parking lot where Thorpe sat. The lights to Price’s unit snapped on, and Thorpe exited his car.