Thorpe listened to the radio as responding officers arrived on scene. Their first responsibility would be to protect human life. That meant they’d check to see if the downed individual was confirmed DOA or in need of medical treatment. Then they’d clear the house of potential threats and establish a perimeter. After the area was rendered safe, the officers would focus on scene security and preserving witnesses. An inner and outer perimeter would be set up, and a crime scene recorder would document the arrival time of every person who entered the outer ambit, including officers, detectives, medical examiners, police chaplains, funeral personnel—everyone. Every officer noted by the scene recorder would be responsible for completing a supplemental to the original homicide report, documenting the actions he or she took while on location.
Thorpe arrived fifteen minutes after the alert tone was broadcast, finding nearly twenty police units parked in the drive and on the street. Daniels’ house was located on the northern edge of Tulsa’s city limits. The properties here were large, with the homes a good forty yards off the road.
Thorpe approached a patrol sergeant who had two decades with the department but had only recently been promoted.
“What you got, Mike?”
“It’s bad,” he said, glancing back at the house. “He’s down in the living room with half his head missing.”
“Cole Daniels? Gunshot, I guess?”
“Yeah…Cole. Wife says she was in the kitchen, heard a thud, ran in the living room and found her husband splayed out with his brains all over the wall. Can you imagine?” Remembering John’s family, Mike’s face reddened in an instant. “Sorry, John, I…”
“Don’t worry about it, Mike. Go on.”
“Shit. There’s a hole in the living room window. Looks like someone fired a high-caliber gun through the glass and killed him with one shot.”
Sniper, Thorpe thought, but asked, “We’re sure the wife didn’t shoot him?”
“We’re not sure of a damn thing right now; this thing’s only fifteen minutes old.”
“Okay, Mike. Some of my guys are heading this way. You need any help from us?”
“We’ve got too many people tripping over each other already. Right now we’re mainly working at keeping officers out of the crime scene. We have a canvass going, but there aren’t a whole lot of houses within view ‘round here. I guess the most I can ask of your guys is to start driving the neighborhood and cracking some heads, see what you can come up with.”
Thorpe had already noticed one thing about the crime scene that needed to be corrected. They’d cordoned off the property at 56th Street North to prevent sightseers and the media from getting too close, but the inner perimeter only extended about twenty yards from the front of the house. He decided not to raise the issue of extending the northern radius, which was based on his concern that a sniper might have fired the round from a considerable distance. Thorpe was still speaking with Mike when he saw Hull coming up the drive.
Hull stepped up and spoke quietly. “Hey, John. Hey, Mike, fucking some week we’re having, huh?” Hull nodded toward the house. “What we got?”
Mike reiterated all he had just told Thorpe—just as he would have to do twenty more times in the next thirty minutes.
Hull listened without interruption and then asked, “So what do you think?”
“Two black officers killed two nights in a row. I don’t know what to make of it,” Mike said with a shrug of the shoulders.
“How ‘bout you, John? What do you think?”
Thorpe looked directly at Hull. “You’ve got two black police officers killed one after another in what looks like professional work. Not only that, but both officers have made multiple claims of rampant racism within the department. I think you’ve got a suspect who’s possibly a cop, and you absolutely have a political nightmare on your hands.”
Hull returned Thorpe’s gaze. “Stay out of my brain.”
“Too dark in there for me.”
“Well, Carnac, it felt like you were reading my mind. I doubt it will take long for the media to jump to the same conclusion. These are going to be some rough times ahead. Our liberal rag of a newspaper is always looking for TPD conspiracies even without this bullshit.”
“Bob, my guys are here; can you think of any way you can use them right now?” Thorpe offered.
“You can start by asking them where they’ve been for the last couple hours. We’re going to have to begin compiling information on where every officer was during these two murders so we can eliminate potential suspects. We might as well ask while it’s fresh in their minds.”
Thorpe gave Hull a hard look. “Well, you can scratch my entire evening-shift unit off your suspect list. We’ve all been together the last two hours serving a search warrant. I’ll have all my guys send you an interoffice stating their whereabouts for the last two nights.”
Thorpe turned and walked away just as Chuck Lagrone arrived at his boss’s side. Thorpe turned back and pointed his finger with feigned anger.
“And the next time the Hull-and-Skull show comes to watch me fight, sit on the front row and buy me a fucking beer afterward.”
MIKE ARCHED HIS EYEBROWS. “WHAT the fuck was that about?”
“Nothing, Mike. Let me talk to Chuck alone for a minute,” Hull said as he grabbed Skull and pulled him to the side.
“What the hell, boss! Did you tell him what we’d been discussing?”
“No. I just suggested he poll his squad about their whereabouts during these shootings. I told him every cop was going to be a suspect.”
Skull pointed a boney finger at his boss. “Yeah, but he was the first person you told to do it. No wonder he took it personally.”
“I wanted to shock him a little, see how he responded. The good news is he said his whole unit was in the middle of a search warrant when this went down. If that pans out, he’s in the clear.”
“No shit…well…good!”
“He’ll get over it—he’s got a thick skin. Besides, we’re going to piss off a lot of people before this thing is over,” Hull assured his lead detective.
INITIALLY, THORPE PLANNED TO RETURN to SID but realized it was the perfect opportunity to tie up a loose end. As he drove, he considered the feigned anger he’d directed at Hull. Thorpe wasn’t really angry with the man; the department would have to consider its own force as primary suspects—especially after tomorrow’s probable headlines. Besides, even if Hull had made an insinuation, he was absolutely correct—at least about Price’s killing.
With every North Side officer tied up on the homicide of Cole Daniels, Thorpe decided to make a brief stop at the law office of Jessie Leatherman. The man’s office sat across the street from a convenience store where crack cocaine was the commodity most often sought and sold. A restaurant with an excellent reputation sat next to the store and satisfied a different kind of addiction—barbeque. The rest of the neighborhood, however, was one “shotgun” crack house after another. Thorpe wasn’t sure why the small narrow homes were referred to as shotgun houses but thought it might have to do with the fact if you fired one of the weapons through the front door, you’d probably stand a fair chance of striking everyone inside.
He didn’t like using his assigned truck for tonight’s task but wanted to strike while officers were still busy with Daniels’ crime scene. Earlier, Thorpe had made an excuse to enter the law office during daylight hours—to get a layout of the building. Window stickers and signs warned wannabe intruders of an alarm that didn’t exist. It wouldn’t take much ingenuity to gain entry, and Thorpe’s truck contained the few tools he’d need. Apparently Jessie wasn’t too worried about burglars—and after Thorpe had a look around the office he understood why: there wasn’t a damn thing worth stealing, not even a computer.
Thorpe parked in the restaurant’s lot, removed a pellet gun from the glove box, and retrieved a wire clothes hanger from the backseat. He kept the pellet gun in his truck for a variety of reasons, primarily for search warrants when porch lights needed to be extinguished from short distances.