“What about your brother? He know about any of this shit?” Lyndale was still incarcerated.
“No.”
“I find that hard to believe.”
“He’s in fuckin’ prison. They monitor his phone calls and his mail. I’m not going to talk about this shit with him.”
“What else you have to tell me, asshole?”
“I’ll be waiting for you in hell,” Leon growled between clenched teeth.
Thorpe stood. “You have two minutes to make peace with God. Then I’m sending you to one place or the other.”
Thorpe gathered his equipment as he heard Leon praying under his breath. There truly are no atheists in foxholes. Despite the damage Thorpe had inflicted on Leon, there was little blood to show for it. Thorpe wanted to keep it that way. After a couple of minutes, he returned to his captive and pulled on Leon’s collar until the man sat upright, his arms dangling unnaturally at his sides. Thorpe stood behind Leon and dug a knee into his ribs.
“It’s time.”
Leon began to protest in vain. Thorpe grabbed Leon’s chin with his right hand and palmed the top of his head with the other. In one violent motion, Thorpe pulled up and back with his right as he pushed down and away with his left, snapping Leon’s thin neck and fatally damaging the spinal cord.
Thorpe dropped the limp vessel of what was once Leon to the ground. He needed to find a place to conceal the body in an attempt to prolong its discovery and buy enough time to complete his mission. If a letter truly existed, and if Leon’s corpse were discovered, it wouldn’t take long for investigators to focus on Thorpe, especially after certain TPD officers’ life expectancies took a sudden plunge.
Thorpe figured on paying fully for his sins and crimes. He had little doubt he would be captured, charged and convicted of several counts of premeditated murder, kidnapping, and a myriad of other felonies—but not until it was over.
Thorpe considered burning the body to dispose of physical evidence. But a fire would likely lead to an immediate discovery of Leon’s remains. He also contemplated severing Leon’s hands and feet. The Flexcuffs had left behind distinctive impressions that he would like to destroy. Even though the plastic cuffs were readily available to civilians, the fact they’d been used would immediately mark police officers as potential suspects. Picturing himself sawing through Leon’s limbs didn’t set well—too Jeffery Dahmerish.
Thorpe used a flashlight and searched the surrounding area for a place to secrete the body. When he located a suitable spot, he returned to Leon’s remains, hoisted it onto his shoulders, and shuffled into the woods toward a dense thicket of brush surrounded by a web of thorny vines. The leafless tentacles clawed at his clothing as he trudged into the thicket. He wore enough layers so as not to be concerned about his skin being ripped open and leaving DNA evidence, but he’d definitely have to ditch his shredded clothes. The annoying, flesh-tearing thorns should keep the casual teenager out of the area.
Not having brought a shovel, Thorpe concealed the body by tossing it in the thicket and covering it with fallen limbs and other vegetation. He had no doubt it would eventually be found, but hopefully not for a few days. By then the crime scene would have deteriorated because of the elements and with any luck, a hungry pack of coyotes.
Thorpe trekked back through the barbed scrub and scanned the area surrounding the oil tanks for signs he’d been there. The only visible evidence was footprints, tire tracks, and the contents of Leon’s stomach.
Thorpe entered Leon’s Cutlass, and with the headlights off, used starlight to navigate the dirt road. Not seeing any approaching cars, Thorpe pulled out onto 36th Street North hoping a patrol unit wouldn’t spot him emerge from the woods.
The chances of being pulled over driving this piece of shit at this time of night were fairly high. Working his way southwest, he hoped his luck would hold out. He breathed a sigh of relief as he pulled into a convenience store lot near Shaw’s house. He left the car running, grabbed his bag and stepped out of the vehicle. Since TPD never uses bait cars, Leon’s vehicle would be stolen—the only question was how long it would take.
Thorpe began the hike back to his Impala. The temperature had dropped into the teens, and he was thankful to be on the move. He was equally pleased to hear a wobble tone on his police radio. A shooting had just occurred in deep North Tulsa, ensuring all graveyard officers would be headed that direction.
Thorpe slipped into the neighborhood and broke into a jog. He wondered what the crew assembled at Shaw’s house thought of the disappearance of Leon. With Leon’s Cutlass missing coupled with his obvious paranoia, Thorpe figured their first conclusion would be he got scared and fled. Their biggest fear would be Leon talking to the authorities. That, and the fact they’d never received a second phone call from the anonymous blackmailer were probably making for some very nervous people right about now.
Thorpe approached his car and passed it, looking to see if anyone was watching his vehicle. Not spotting any surveillance, he got in his car and left the neighborhood. As he drove by the convenience store, he saw that Leon’s Cutlass was already gone. The car had been stolen within minutes. And its owner was in no position to file an auto-theft report. The Cutlass would probably pass hands several times before being recovered by police or stripped for parts. Any physical evidence left in the car would be greatly diminished.
WHILE THORPE RETURNED TO THE office, three men stood in the front yard of Shaw’s home, speaking in hushed tones. Leon’s disappearance was almost as disconcerting as the ransom call they were still waiting to receive. Phipps had been inside listening to the heated discussion. Growing impatient, he’d looked out the window and discovered Leon’s car missing. He summoned Price and the other man outside to discuss what needed done.
With limited information the three could only agree on two things. One, Leon Peterson and Jonathan Thorpe were threats to their freedom. Two, both men needed to die.
Thursday
February 8
Nearing midnight
FOOT ON THE GAS, REVENGE on the mind, Thorpe sat behind the wheel of a nondescript Ford Taurus, his gear and a change of clothing in the backseat. He was headed to an isolated neighborhood with large, heavily wooded lots—and non-coincidentally sat in the middle of Stephen Price’s police beat. Driving south on Yale Avenue from 91st Street, Thorpe turned right near the crest of a steep hill, into the rolling neighborhood. He scoured the area until he found what he was looking for—a dark home with a backyard screened by an abundance of trees.
The house displayed a “Smart Dog Alarms” sign in the front yard and a newspaper wrapped in yellow plastic lying in the driveway. Thorpe decided the house, which sat near the end of a dead-end street, had an empty feel. The road ran east/west but at this location curved back to the north before it ended in a cul-de-sac. Thorpe memorized the house’s features and continued on.
He exited the neighborhood, pulling the Taurus into a shopping center on the northwest corner of 81st and Yale. He found a dark parking space and climbed into the rear seat. Shielded by tinted windows, Thorpe changed clothes, exited the vehicle and removed the license plate. Climbing back into the driver’s seat, he laid the plate face down on the passenger floorboard and drove to another neighborhood west of his target location. He stopped just north of the Thousand Oaks housing addition, which, unlike most neighborhood names, actually made sense.