Physical evidence constituted the third pitfall, especially damning in the era of DNA. One hair follicle left at a crime scene was all it took. Blood, semen, saliva, fingerprints, bite marks, tool marks, ballistics—the list nearly infinite.
Pitfall number four—witnesses. Witnesses were not reliable and in today’s courtroom the easiest piece of evidence to discredit. Thorpe had responded to many a scene to find supposed witnesses giving irreconcilable descriptions of the same suspect. Those witnessing stressful events were especially prone to making misidentifications. DNA testing had exonerated numerous suspects who had spent years in prison based on the testimony of “reliable” eye witnesses. Rape cases, where victims experience extreme amounts of stress, were some of the most common convictions overturned by DNA evidence. Even trained and experienced police officers were not immune to these errors.
When officers are involved in a stressful event such as a shooting or a high-speed chase, huge amounts of adrenaline are dumped into the body. The mind is essentially under the influence of chemicals meant to help the individual survive, but they also alter perception. Studies have shown officers involved in high-speed pursuits experience similar physiological symptoms as a soldier in the midst of combat. At the pursuit’s conclusion, officers aren’t able to just switch off these “fight or flight” chemicals; the pursuing officers are literally drugged. The results are spectacles on the ten o’clock news a la Rodney King. Anyone who was a police officer prior to that fiasco knew that if a suspect ran, the law and an ass whippin’ were going after him.
Thorpe figured eventually he himself would be discovered. He didn’t have to worry about collaborators and was reasonably certain there were no witnesses who could provide anything valuable. But he had motive. And one just never knew if physical evidence had been left behind—regardless of the precautions taken.
He doubted his motive could be tied to Marcel, at least not at this point. Marcel had nothing to do with his family’s murder except for hearing something he shouldn’t have. Thorpe had gotten lucky. He hadn’t a clue if Marcel was in the know. Thorpe had chosen five killers in the Tulsa area; five gangbangers who swam in the information stream of Tulsa’s underworld; five men who deserved to die and who he’d have little remorse killing even if it turned out they had no useful knowledge. He’d considered the possibility of killing all five thugs and still not acquiring anything of use. Instead, he’d found a starting bock with his first target. Marcel had given-up someone who knew something, his best friend Kaleb Moment. Now Thorpe had direction. But with each kill the connection would grow stronger between his family’s killing and the ones Thorpe would be committing. Thorpe might become a suspect, but hopefully not until all those responsible for his family’s death had been put in the dirt. Even then, a colossal distance separated suspicion from conviction.
Physical evidence was another matter. Thorpe had taken steps to avoid leaving incriminating DNA, while at the same time planting items of misdirection. He kept his hair short, had covered his body, and shaved his goatee prior to his visit with Marcel. Still, one dog hair transferred from his clothing to the crime scene would be enough to link him if he ever became a suspect. However, he had a reasonable excuse if that scenario arose. Because of his job, Thorpe had legitimate contact with most potential “victims” prior to engaging them. Tonight, he would dispose of many of the tainted items from last night’s encounter with Marcel. He also had one more piece of misdirection to plant, contingent upon Marcel’s body remaining undiscovered for a bit longer.
Thorpe heard the crunching and popping of laden rubber on gravel as he turned his head to watch a gleaming silver Toyota 4-Runner dock in his driveway. It was Jeff, his good friend and old partner. Jeff Gobin stood no taller than Thorpe but weighed a good forty pounds heavier. When Thorpe and Jeff suffered through the academy together they’d weighed about the same. Today they probably carried similar amounts of muscle on their frames, but Jeff sheltered his with an insulating layer of fat. Jeff was in excellent shape; he just enjoyed his pizza, spaghetti, fettuccini, and anything else Italian. Though black, if one had to guess Jeff’s ethnicity based solely on stomach contents, one would likely surmise he was fresh-off-the-boat from Sicily. They were no longer partners, but they remained close. Following the murders, Jeff often checked up on Thorpe. The last few months, and nearly daily, he’d been visiting Thorpe’s property to exercise. Jeff probably thought himself a Good Samaritan by venturing out to Thorpe’s compound as his friend liked to refer to it, but Thorpe figured he visited as much for his own mental stability as anything else. He rarely complained, but Jeff wallowed in a not-so-happy marriage.
Thorpe rose from the deck and walked to a large metal barn about fifty yards west of his home. The modern structure measured 24 X 20 and was outfitted with double doors, a loft, steel support, and stained concrete floors. Thorpe appointed it with weights, a heavy bag, wrestling mat, and various pieces of equipment catering to Crossfit regimens.
“What the fuck are you smiling at?” Jeff remarked, without a smile of his own.
“I’m thinking of the ass whipping you’re about to get,” Thorpe said as he opened a pedestrian door beside the larger double doors.
“Why are you always talking about my ass? There something you want to share with me?”
“Huh, your ass ain’t bad, but your boobs are a little big for my taste,” Thorpe joked.
“Fuck you.”
That was how their pleasantries usually went. A transcribed conversation between the two would read like two sworn enemies thrown in a very small room together. It was how most police officers talked to each other; if a fellow cop wasn’t giving you shit, then he probably wasn’t your friend.
Thorpe pushed open the double doors. Having been trained, Al and Trixie remained outside.
“Jeffro, it’s chest day. Let’s try to firm up those man boobs of yours. Otherwise I’m going to have to buy you a manssiere.”
Jeff smirked and displayed his middle finger.
Following strength conditioning, he and Jeff began thirty minutes of cardio circuit training that involved jumping rope, working the heavy bag, and scrambling on the mat. During the workout, last night’s conversation with Marcel kept looping through Thorpe’s mind. The trigger-pullers were already dead, but it was obvious there had been a more sinister undertaking than a burglary gone bad. Someone had sent the Davis Brothers, someone who would pay dearly. Thorpe’s workout intensity rose to meet that of his rage, until he collapsed on the mat, rolled over, and vomited on the smooth concrete.
Thorpe had always exercised, but since his family’s death he’d immersed himself in his workouts. The physical exertion would, temporarily at least, help dull his emotional torment. Pain, adrenaline, and a mission—Thorpe’s version of an alcoholic drinking himself numb.
“Damn, John, that’s why I don’t want to spar with you anymore. That shit ain’t normal.”
“People puke all the time when they work out,” Thorpe sputtered—still hunched over the concrete.
“Yeah, when they got Bobby Knight all over their ass. Not when they’re working out at their own home.”
“I didn’t throw up from my workout,” Thorpe smiled. “I got sick from watching your man boobs flop around inside that nasty shirt of yours.”