Friday
February 9
Afternoon
BECAUSE OF HIS ASSIGNMENT, THORPE was required to keep a pager and cell phone on his person at all times. And because of Price’s untimely death, he knew gossip seekers would be out in force, so he’d turned off both devices before going to sleep. He’d never before missed a call-out so he shouldn’t get in much trouble for his first offense. After rising from bed in the early afternoon, Thorpe checked his messages and, as expected, most were inquiries about Price’s murder. No pages had been sent directing him to come into work—good, he wouldn’t have to explain why he hadn’t responded. From the assortment of missed calls, he only returned one.
“What’s up, Carnac?” Jeff answered.
“You rang?”
“Just letting you know I won’t be working out today. We’re all too busy with Price’s murder—no long lunch breaks for a while. Crazy shit. I assume you’ve heard?”
“Oh, yeah. That’s why I turned everything off. Didn’t want to be woken up by the grinding of the gossip mill. Any leads?”
“Not according to Homicide. Looks premeditated though. Fucking bow and arrow! Can you believe that shit?”
“Like you said, ‘crazy.’ How’s Marcus handling his nephew’s death?”
“I heard he took it pretty well. Who knows what’s going on inside his head though. Gotta be rough losing your…uhh, sorry, man.”
“Jeff, don’t you start that crap, too. I’m tired of everyone walking on egg shells around me.”
“Well, just wanted to let you know I wouldn’t be working out. I might be on a tight leash for a few days.”
“That’s all right. When we’re sparring, I hardly notice you’re there anyway.”
“Bite me. I’m going to whip your ass next time.”
“You are making progress.”
“Want to go out this weekend? I should be able to get a pass from the wife.”
“How ‘bout you go out, and I’ll make a pass at your wife.”
“She don’t like white meat. We on or what?”
“We’re on. Saturday night?”
“Sounds good. See you then.”
Terminating the call, Thorpe looked out his front window, happy to see Al and Trixie chasing one another around the yard. He needed to do something about the two dogs. He’d purchased the shepherds for purposes of security, but recently realized the animals served an entirely different need—companionship. Al and Trixie, like most people’s dogs, had become part of the family.
He decided to implement measures to protect them even at the expense of his own safety. If someone came after him here, the perpetrators would most likely want to remove Al and Trixie from the equation. To keep them safe, he’d lock them in the barn at night while he was away. Hopefully, the furry little bastards wouldn’t shit all over his gym equipment in gratitude.
Thorpe dressed and grabbed some cash. Because the dogs appeared relaxed, he stepped outside without fear of a bullet parting his skull. He entered the barn and rolled up his wrestling mat before callings his dogs inside. Thorpe pointed at his friends.
“No shitting, understand? No poo poo.”
With two cocked and confused heads staring back at him, he locked the animals inside. Then he left for the Bass Pro Shops in nearby Broken Arrow. The outdoorsman’s paradise carried equipment he planned to put to use. Plus, since he’d been in the unfortunate but necessary habit of destroying his soiled garments, he needed to replenish his outdoor clothing.
THERE WERE SIX MEN PRESENT in Cornelius Johnson’s North Tulsa home. All of them were having heated discussions about the killing of Stephen Price. Sergeant Carl McDonald sat back and carefully regarded his fellow officers, wondering who’d crack first.
Technically Corn Johnson wasn’t a police officer any longer, having resigned after a nasty little affair in which he was accused of providing sensitive information to some of his old neighborhood pals. The department gave him an option—resign or face criminal charges. Corn wisely chose the former. Though no longer a police officer, he remained in the group and needed his lucrative friends now more than ever. Aware of the man’s financial desperation, McDonald had asked Corn to host this meeting. McDonald never assembled The Band at his own home.
McDonald had started referring to himself and his associates as The Band a couple of years ago, not to sound cool, but to simplify conversation. Price had accused him of naming the group after the miniseries Band of Brothers; said he’d been trying to pull an inside joke because four of the six men were black. In reality, a different movie, Band of the Hand, was the source of the name.
Whatever. The Band they were. How they’d come into being hadn’t been planned. It just happened.
Though perhaps not the most moral of men, McDonald had joined the department with good-enough intentions. He spent his first years working Gilcrease Division, or as it was called then, Uniformed Division North. Between marriages, he earnestly went about putting criminals behind bars. Promoted early in his career, his work ethic earned him the supervisory position on the department’s Organized Gang Unit. That’s where he first dipped his toe in murky waters.
An extensive background check is performed on all applicants for the Tulsa Police Department. Officers who later transfer to the Special Investigations Division go through additional checks, most of which financial. SID personnel are perpetually around large sums of money and drugs, an environment not conducive to those with monetary debts.
McDonald had been supervising the OGU for several months and succumbing to a suspicion most officers share some time during their careers—the feeling he was nothing more than a hamster on a wheel. No matter how many criminals he and his unit tossed into jail, no matter how many drugs and how much dirty money they took off the street, their efforts seemed useless. The dealers were often back on the streets only hours after being arrested.
The DA’s office, wanting a high conviction rate, offered plea deals to everyone. Those actually given prison time normally had their already-short sentences cut by half. McDonald felt he was a member of a losing team in an inconsequential game; the only people not making good money were the good guys.
Why shouldn’t he profit as well? Is stealing from criminals really stealing at all?
A twenty started disappearing here and there, enough to buy his lunch for the next week. Then one day, he pulled his toe out of that murky water and dove headfirst. The plunge happened on a search warrant where he found himself alone in a bedroom staring at sixty-thousand dollars in cash.
If he took just a little, who would notice? If he turned it in, who would get it anyway? A bunch of fucking politicians who hadn’t done anything except make his job harder—that’s who.
Fifty-five thousand dollars made its way into evidence. No one missed the five K. No one even asked about it.
In filling his pockets that night he’d emptied his soul. Having taken the dive, swimming was easy.
People of like mind always have a way of finding each other. With little conscious thought, he’d formed a tight group of officers who began planning search warrants and other endeavors with the purpose of financial gain. The Band was born. Before long, they’d started stealing dope as well. They’d either give the drugs to informants to sell, or they’d offer those they busted an option: lose your dope and go to prison, or keep it and share the proceeds with The Band. For most, the choice was easy.
McDonald knew better than to meet with dealers directly. The easiest way for a criminal to avoid prison was to give up a dirty cop, and McDonald sure as hell wasn’t going to let that happen. On those rare occasions where a personal visit was necessary, he’d always concealed himself.