From what Phipps understood, federal agents had been assigned to all on-duty SID personnel. Thorpe would effectively be muzzled during work hours, allowing Phipps to concentrate on hunting instead of worrying about being hunted. Of course, Phipps would be much better informed if McDonald hadn’t fled town—fucking pussy. Earlier, the man had called to say he’d taken three weeks vacation to let things settle down. He wouldn’t even tell Phipps where he was cooling his heels.
Phipps should never have revealed what happened in those woods. Relating the details, he’d seen doubt and fear cloud McDonald’s eyes. Now, instead of helping to finish this thing, McDonald had packed up and fled town, leaving Phipps to wage war for the both of them.
Just like the military, the REM’s—Rear Echelon Motherfuckers—relaxed in comfort while grunts swam in the shit. If Phipps wasn’t successful tonight, he’d force Corn Johnson’s enlistment; yet another pussy who’d been less than willing to lend his help.
Several years ago, Corn and Phipps had been best friends. They worked and played together. Phipps acquired a position in SID’s Narcotics Unit, and Corn snagged a spot in Gilcrease Division’s Street Crimes Unit. Both units performed basically the same job except SID investigators had access to more toys and money. Corn was caught providing sensitive information to nefarious citizens. Some of that information had been filtered down through Phipps at SID. In fact, Phipps had disseminated as much, if not more, sensitive material as Corn—Phipps just didn’t get caught. Corn never voiced it, but the man was bitter he’d been forced to resign while his friend skated.
Did Corn expect him to confess and give up his career out of friendship?
So far, Corn had warmed the bench during this fight—their fight. Phipps checked his watch for the third time in the last fifteen minutes and decided Thorpe must have left in a different vehicle. His only remaining option was to monitor the radio and hope to get a location on his quarry. If that didn’t work, he’d make sure Corn entered the game.
THORPE LEFT THE RESTAURANT HALF-expecting a bullet to punch through his cranium. His only consolation: he’d never see or hear it coming, and he had a note in his pocket that would make life hell on Phipps, Corn, and McDonald. Thorpe was relieved when he entered the Ford and drove away with his brain stem still attached. If he’d been followed, he would have already been killed in the parking lot. Thorpe reached up and pulled down his hoodie.
“You’re not afraid of blowing your cover anymore?”
“I felt it unfair…” Thorpe remarked, jokingly pursing his lips. “…to deny you the privilege of my profile.”
“Oh, brother.”
Thorpe and Collins discussed the night’s agenda. There were nine officers under the umbrella of the security detail. Officer Andrew Phipps declined protection but, true to his word, had remained in town. Against Phipps’ wishes, a team had been ordered to watch his house anyway and follow at a distance when he traveled.
That meant there were nine two-man surveillance teams and four two-man relief teams. Two shifts, meant there were fifty-two men and women assigned to the protective detail, the bulk of which were TPD officers. The remainder was filled with United States Deputy Marshals, FBI agents, and a couple of OSBI investigators—OSBI being the Oklahoma State Bureau of Investigation—a state agency. It was a lot of manpower, and Thorpe couldn’t see any of the departments using so many resources for an extended period of time. TPD barely had enough officers to handle routine calls for service as it was. Although Tulsa’s mayor maintained the department was adequately manned, some calls already held three or four hours before patrol officers were able to respond.
Thorpe and his new partner would visit the nine locations to determine protection deficiencies. He’d persuaded Collins not to use the radio so that the details wouldn’t know they were coming. He’d used the argument that it would better show which officers were being lackadaisical. Keeping Phipps in the dark in reference to his whereabouts was Thorpe’s true intention.
Collins broke the silence with a loaded question, “What’s the relationship between black and white officers on the department?”
“With the exception of a few who make life miserable for all of us, the relationship is excellent.”
“Those few you mentioned, are they black or white?” Collins asked.
“That’s a hard question to answer without coming off as racist. I suppose it comes down to who you ask.”
“Care to be more specific?”
“Not really,” Thorpe answered truthfully.
“Please indulge me.”
Thorpe didn’t know if he wanted to tackle the query; an honest answer might make him appear more appetizing as a suspect. Ultimately, he found no reason to lie about it. Ninety-five percent of the department felt the same way he did—though some wouldn’t admit it publicly.
“Are there white racists on this department? I’m sure there are,” Thorpe answered his own question. “But overall, I don’t think there is friction between white and black officers. Almost everyone on this department is college educated, and they do a pretty good job of judging someone on character rather than race. What friction does exist, in my opinion, was generated by a few malcontents.”
Thorpe could speak for hours on what he thought were injustices against whites on the department, but he also knew blacks could do the same in reference to their perceived injustices. He knew true prejudices were born from an uncompromising belief you were the only one who was right. Usually, reality lurked somewhere in between.
“Do you think black officers have any legitimate complaints?” Collins persisted.
“Let’s be clear here. Most black officers aren’t complaining. I’d estimate the percentage to be very small. I can understand some of their viewpoints. I’ve tried to picture myself on a department comprised of ninety-percent black officers. I can see where I could blame my misfortunes on the color of my skin, and I could also see the perception of special treatment being extended to others. I mean, there are some real assholes on this department. I’ve been treated like shit by a few superiors for absolutely no reason—in my opinion. If I were a minority, I can see why I might use race as a possible explanation because, in my mind, no others existed. Since I don’t have that excuse, I have to chalk it up to people having a shitty day or them just being all-American assholes. Also, I’ve seen some whites on this department get away with some crazy shit. But I don’t think it relates to race as much as it does to the good ol’ boy system.
“The bottom line is…if you’re buddies with a sergeant, captain, major, deputy chief, whatever, it’s going to lessen your disciplinary action on this department—depending on how much stroke your friend has. If you play golf with a deputy chief on a weekly basis, there’s going to be some mishaps swept under the carpet. That’s not a black/white thing, though. It depends on who you are and your rank. But if I were a black officer and I was sitting back watching some of this shit, sure…I’d think, ‘Those assholes take care of themselves.’”
Thorpe wanted to change the subject and chose a statement that’d be effective in doing so. “Maybe these killings have nothing to do with race.”
“For example?”
“Maybe someone’s pissed for other reasons…some of those guys who were killed were downright dirty. Or one of their own is mad about something…maybe it has nothing at all to do with race at all. Baker was white, explain that.”
“All things to consider. But right now our best assumption is a racially motivated Tulsa police officer or officers.”