Thorpe had shot Marcel with a crossbow. Attached to the bolt was high tensile, braided fishing line. He’d used the line to yank Marcel backward as he reached for his weapon. The barbed broadhead was still buried in Marcel’s shoulder. Thorpe cut the strand so it wouldn’t get caught on foliage as he dragged his cargo through the woods.
At an even six feet with little body fat, Thorpe was 190 pounds of compacted muscle. He had a fighter’s physique. Still, Marcel was a thrashing encumbrance, and the fifty-yard haul through the underbrush was grueling. Arriving at the barn, Thorpe pulled Marcel across the threshold and over to a support pole in the corner of the pitch-black interior. He slammed Marcel’s back against the timber and held him by the throat. Thorpe wrapped tape around the pole and his captive’s neck several times, but wouldn’t leave Marcel in this position for long as suffocation would soon follow. Having secured Marcel to the pole, Thorpe cut the tape on his captive’s wrists, brought his arms behind the pole and secured them again. Then he cut the tape around Marcel’s neck and placed a black hood over his head. Afterward, he used additional tape to cinch Marcel’s lower torso securely to the support pole.
Thorpe carried a police radio underneath his coveralls. A wire ran from the instrument, up his sweaty back, and into a bud inserted in his left ear. So far the radio remained quiet. No one had phoned in a disturbance regarding Thorpe’s activities, leaving him free to interrogate his captive.
First, Thorpe removed his own boots and exchanged them for a different pair inside his canvas bag. He then left the barn to retrieve his crossbow as well as Marcel’s Timberlands and his baggy-assed jeans. The unlaced boots and loose pants had come off as he was dragged through the woods. Thorpe also needed to evaluate the crime scene he’d created. The time Marcel spent alone, cloaked in silent darkness, would only facilitate the coming interrogation.
Contrary to what the movies would have you believe, there was no magical truth serum. Several mind-altering chemicals, including PCP and LSD, had been used with varying degrees of success. Ultimately, drugs weren’t reliable because the subject’s reality became distorted. Plus, drugs took time—a commodity of which Thorpe was in short supply. No time for drugs and no time to implement stress positions. He could use sensory deprivation to a degree, but was mostly going to have to rely on pain, fear, pride, and humiliation.
Thorpe returned to the barn where his captive sat gagged, hooded and bound to the pole. His headlamp cast an eerie glow on the prisoner as he circled Marcel several times in silence to help build tension. He knew Marcel could sense his presence; the man turned his head to Thorpe’s movements, desperately using his ears to gather information. Thorpe returned to the equipment bag, withdrew additional items, switched on a battery-powered lamp, and again changed boots.
Back at his prisoner’s side, Thorpe squatted and spoke into Marcel’s ear. “All I want from you are answers to my questions, nothing more. Do you understand?”
Unable to speak, Marcel nodded his head.
Thorpe continued, “I’m going to remove the gag from your mouth; if you scream out, you’re going to cause yourself a shitload of pain. Understand?”
Marcel nodded again as Thorpe raised the hood to remove the tape and rag from Marcel’s mouth. He let the cloak fall into place then spoke in an even tone, “Honest answers earn your freedom. Lies cause you pain. What’s your full name?”
“Marcel Newman.”
“What’s your girlfriend’s name?”
“Which one?”
“The one you bring sandwiches and drinks to every fucking morning,” Thorpe replied. He was asking baseline questions to gauge Marcel’s responses. At the same time, he was letting his captive know his interrogator was an informed man.
“You tell me then, motherfucker.”
Marcel’s toenails appeared to be on a semi-annual clipping schedule. So it was no difficult task when Thorpe clamped a pair of needle-nose pliers on a thick, yellowing nail and tore it from his prisoner’s big toe. Marcel’s muscles appeared to solidify into rock, and though he growled in pain he didn’t scream. Thorpe stepped away from the ragged breathing of his captive. Marcel muttered an onslaught of profanity as saliva ran down his neck.
Thorpe gave him a few minutes to recover from the shock before continuing his interrogation. “Now, what’s your girlfriend’s name?”
“Cynthia,” Marcel relented.
“Cynthia what?”
“Cynthia Barnes.”
“That’s better.”
Thorpe got to the meat of his questioning: “About a year ago, a woman and her child were shot to death in a South Tulsa home. They were the wife and daughter of a Tulsa police officer.” Thorpe paused, letting the statement register before he asked, “Who murdered them?”
The question hung in the air. “I don’t know nothin’ bout dat shit,” he spit. The silence before his answer said more than his words.
Thorpe unsheathed his knife and cut open Marcel’s shirt from waist to neck. Marcel thrashed to the extent his restraints would allow.
“What da FFFUCK?”
“Shhhhh,” Thorpe hissed, as he stuck the blade through the hood into Marcel’s left ear and slowly began to push. “Marcel, are you going to shut the fuck up, or am I going to have to kill you an inch at a time?”
Marcel closed his mouth. Thorpe used the knife up one side of Marcel’s boxers then ripped the material away. His prisoner now sat naked, with much less pride, on the dirt floor. As Marcel contemplated his new predicament, Thorpe changed into yet another pair of shoes, using the lull to his advantage. Silence accelerates fear. The freezing barn would increase discomfort and pain; everything hurts more when it’s cold.
Thorpe directed his light onto Marcel, who shook uncontrollably. Steam rose from his body. Slobber flowed down his chest. Thorpe knelt and spoke softly.
“I know you know. This is where things get real fucking ugly if you don’t change your attitude. I’m going to ask you the same question again, and if you don’t tell the truth, you’re going to cause yourself a lot of agony. It’s up to you to help yourself.” As Thorpe finished the sentence he clamped the pliers on Marcel’s left areola, then asked, “Who killed the woman and her child?”
Though Marcel couldn’t possibly see, he turned his hooded head toward Thorpe’s voice and replied through clenched teeth, “Fuck you, you cracker motherfucker.”
Tough guy. As if disappointed with an obstinate child, Thorpe sighed theatrically, then, using both hands and all his strength, pulled and twisted at the same time. Marcel’s nipple was ripped away as a ragged chunk of flesh. Thorpe tossed the skin to the side as Marcel shrieked and passed out, blood darkening the slobber on his chest.
Marcel was a solider. Twice, he’d been “caught-up-short” on drug violations. On both occasions, he could have avoided incarceration had he cooperated with authorities. But to Marcel, his rep and his name were more important than his freedom. He went to prison, served his sentence, and came back to Tulsa with a wealth of street cred. Thorpe was going to use that against him.
Short on time, Thorpe held smelling salts underneath Marcel’s nose, bringing him to consciousness. “Can you hear me, Marcel? You are going to answer my questions, or you’re going to die here on this dirt floor.”
Marcel stirred, and after a few seconds of coughing, sputtered, “Man, I’m fucking dead anyway. Just ‘cause I’m black don’t mean I’m stupid. Don’t take a genius to figure out who you are. You da husband. You da cop.” Marcel let out a long, wet cough then continued, “But I’ll tell you so you kill me quicker. It don’t matter none anyways. Da two niggas killed ya kin…they dead. Killed da same night they killed ya family.”