“Yeah, but I don’t know if I want to say them out loud.”
“Price had a lot of people who didn’t like him, and a lot of them are on the department,” Hull answered for him.
“Yeah; remember 1982?” Lagrone was referring to a case in which a former Tulsa Police Officer, Jimmy Dean Stohler, shot the ex-girlfriend of another TPD officer in the chest, killing her. The weapon he’d used was a poison-tipped crossbow.
“Fuck...that’s all we need. With this being Price, Tulsa will have another race riot.”
Price was one of several black officers who’d accused TPD of discrimination. His name had been attached to many a lawsuit, and he was always happy to provide an outrageous quote for the local liberal rag. Although relations had greatly improved over the last couple of years, his past claims had earned him plenty of enemies on the department. And because of those previous allegations, his murder would be ample reason for the media to start speculating instead of reporting.
“By the way, look at Price’s gun belt. Notice anything?” Lagrone asked.
Hull studied the body for a minute. “His police radio’s gone.”
“Yup.”
“Huh. Do me a favor, Chuck. The chief and every other high-ranking fucknut are going to want in this backyard. Pass it on to the uniforms that no one enters the crime scene without my permission—that includes our illustrious chief; he can get his face time with the media some other place.”
Hull descended the deck and shuffled through the leaves to a mature tree where he leaned against its rough bark. He stuffed his gloved hands into his coat pockets and watched as SIU and his men went about their work. Over time, he blocked out the activity swirling around him. In his mind, he tried to picture the scene undisturbed by emergency personnel and through the killer’s eyes.
Lost in his own thoughts, the wash of crime-scene lights snapped Hull to attention. Looking down at his watch he realized he’d been leaning against the tree for nearly a half-hour, though it only felt like minutes. Hull stepped away from the tree and again trudged through the yard. After a thorough inspection, he returned to the deck and checked in with his senior detective.
“Got it figured out yet?” Lagrone asked.
“Got some theories brewing. Anything new?”
“A few things. Both the porch light and the kitchen light were on when the first officer arrived. He reported climbing the deck and finding Price. He’s feeling bad because he didn’t think to check Price’s pulse; he retreated and waited for his backers. Two backers show, one checks his pulse, can’t find one, and all three go inside to clear the house.
“Looks like the arrow penetrated the back of Price’s vest but not the front. May have hit bone, or just didn’t have the oomph to get through two panels of Kevlar and muscle. We were able to get hold of the family who lives here. They’re in Texas because the husband’s father had a heart attack. Wife or both will be back en route and should be here in five to seven hours. The house doesn’t look like it’s been burglarized, but we’ll have to wait till they arrive to know if anything’s missing. Marcus has been notified, as well as Price’s mother. The word is Marcus was somewhat unemotional about his nephew’s demise, but who knows what’s going on in his head. Everybody grieves in different ways.”
“Where’s Marcus at?” Hull asked.
“He’s still at home. He told the chaplains they could leave. We got someone sitting outside his house—just in case.”
“What are we doing with Price’s car?”
“It’s already been towed. We’ll process it in the barn.”
“Chuck, I’m going to talk to PIO.” The Public Information Office was responsible for disseminating information to the press. “Then I’ll talk to the brass. After that, I’m heading to the office to jot things down. If you come up with anything significant call my cell. Also make sure the area behind the house gets a thorough search. We’ll be looking for clothing, Price’s radio, a bow, whatever.”
“Will do.”
“One more thing, Skull. You notice the path that’s been cleared in the leaves?”
“Yeah, I saw that. Whattaya make of it?”
“Wouldn’t make any noise if you approached the deck from that path, would you?”
“No, no, you wouldn’t.”
Friday
February 9
Early morning
JONATHAN THORPE SAT IN HIS living room sipping a cold beer. After activating Price’s emergency button, he’d driven a prudent distance from the scene and gone through Price’s cell phone. Most of its contents were useless. Price seemed to have the entire TPD roster saved in his contacts. But Thorpe did find one telephone number of interest.
He’d scrolled through the cell’s call history until reaching the date and time he’d dialed Price from the QT payphone. A couple minutes after receiving Thorpe’s anonymous ransom threat, Price had made an outgoing call to a number saved as “Carl.” Thorpe recorded Carl’s contact information.
He’d wanted to spend more time with Price’s cell but thought it unwise with today’s technology. Many an armed robber had been caught because he held on to his victim’s cell phones. Cellular companies cooperate with law enforcement to triangulate the phone’s general location, or if GPS equipped, pinpoint it. Usually the dumb-assed robbers were found walking around with their victims’ phones still in their pockets.
Thorpe had removed the batteries from Price’s radio and cell phone and tossed the pieces into the river. Maintaining appearances, he’d returned to SID where he pretended not to have heard the frantic radio traffic. Several of Thorpe’s investigators had responded to help canvass the neighborhood, but otherwise the scene and investigation were being handled by Homicide detectives and uniformed officers.
It wouldn’t take long for investigators to conclude the killing was premeditated. Whether they determined Price had been specifically targeted remained to be seen. Thorpe also realized two murders committed with a bow in one week wouldn’t go unnoticed. Thorpe couldn’t recall ever before having seen a homicide investigation involving a bow. The only one he’d ever heard of was the Tulsa crossbow murder, an ugly incident that occurred before he joined the force.
On his way home from the office, Thorpe had driven to another pay phone and tried the number he’d retrieved from Price’s cell. The call went straight to voice mail—the voice mail of one Carl McDonald, a TPD sergeant who happened to be the previous supervisor of the OGU before Thorpe replaced him.
The fact that Price had called McDonald didn’t condemn the man. But it sure as hell was incriminating. Price receives a phone call accusing him of murder. The very next call he makes is to McDonald? Thorpe wondered if McDonald was the mysterious “white boy” with a propensity for donning ski masks while attending clandestine meetings.
As Thorpe sat in his living room, he considered a problem he hadn’t fully explored. Unless his targets were unmitigated idiots, they’d soon reach the conclusion Thorpe was responsible for Price’s death. Leon’s disappearance might be attributed to him getting cold feet and skipping town, but Price’s killing would be sure to open the group’s eyes: first, Price receives an ominous phone call from someone who claims to know what he’s done. Then the supposed extortionist never calls back to make his demands. Finally, Price takes an arrow to the kidney and a hunting knife to the throat. If someone wanted to blackmail the group he wouldn’t kill a potential cash cow. When the members realized their anonymous caller was motivated by anger instead of money, it wouldn’t take long for Thorpe’s name to slip off their forked tongues.
What would be their course of action after connecting the dots? They couldn’t go to the authorities.