The discovery of the boots wasn’t a necessity, and if Marcel’s body had already been discovered, Thorpe wouldn’t risk planting them. But if he could get the footwear in place, the evidence would be insurmountable. It didn’t matter how many witnesses L.A. could come up with who would place him elsewhere at the time of the murders. Today, when juries think CSI Miami is the real deal, physical evidence—especially DNA—is king.
L.A. lived near 5th and Lewis Avenue in a shithole neighborhood where Vice had an easy time snatching up whores and street-level drug dealers. The area, a mix of old, low-rent apartment buildings and decaying homes, was inhabited by a blend of races and ethnic backgrounds. Even a few Middle Easterners resided there. The blighted neighborhood adjoined the grounds of the University of Tulsa; expensive and private, it was nationally recognized as one of the premiere universities in the nation. Yet a couple of blocks away you could get curb service for a blowjob, crack cocaine, marijuana—whatever your particular vice might be.
Geographically, Tulsa’s land area was as large as San Francisco, Boston, Pittsburgh P.A., and Minneapolis—combined. If you placed all the city’s arterial streets and highways together end to end, they would stretch from New York City to Los Angeles, back to Tulsa again and beyond. The Tulsa Police Department employed roughly 800 sworn officers and was in desperate need of more. There was just no way to be proactive enough to make the city as safe as needed with the limited amount of personnel.
The current mayor represented the latest in a long line of trust babies. Every Tulsa mayor in recent history had been the son, daughter, wife, or husband of a multimillionaire. Not one had earned their fortune on their own. Just once, Thorpe would like to have a bona fide leader who hadn’t bought his or her office. Empty promises, especially in regard to public safety, grew tiresome. In just a few short months the current administration had decimated the department, systematically reducing its ranks. Meanwhile calls for service went unanswered for hours. Thorpe wasn’t sure who he disliked more, politicians or criminals.
Thorpe pulled into a parking lot and changed into a pair of woodland camouflage pants and an old Vietnam-era army field jacket he’d obtained from Goodwill. He put the boots into a beat-up backpack and slipped on a gray stocking cap and dark cotton gloves. Suitably attired for the area, he drove west on 11th Street—part of historic Route 66. The small motels left over from the famous highway‘s heyday were now homes to harlots, drug dealers, and meth labs. Thorpe spotted a couple of working girls along the way.
As a police officer, Thorpe had encountered hundreds of prostitutes, but not one approximated Julia Roberts’ character in Pretty Woman. Most were missing teeth, had open sores, and smelled like unrefrigerated, ten-day-old tuna. Why men stepped out on their wives for these walking petri dishes he would never understand.
Thorpe turned north on Atlanta Avenue and passed yet another dish on the corner of 7th Street. This girl was, in reality, a man. His name was Desmond Jones, and made for a fairly convincing transvestite; at least at night and in poor lighting. Giraffe-like, Mr. Jones walked the streets on long skinny legs. The sad thing: he was better looking than most of his female companions. Jones had been in a considerable amount of fisticuffs over the years as many of his customers became rather disconcerted when they reached down and discovered an outie while expecting an innie. As a result, Jones had become quite the scrapper. Two Vice guys once picked up Jones and negotiated a threesome. When they identified themselves as police officers and attempted to take Mister/Miss Jones into custody, the fight was on. Jones wore copious amounts of makeup to help disguise his true gender. He also sported two water-filled balloons to give the appearance of having ample breasts. The struggle started in the officer’s undercover car and literally spilled out into the street as both water balloons burst. The water mixed with Jones’ heavy makeup. When the officers finally got Jones into custody, all three looked like they’d been dunked in a cauldron of CoverGirl. The sight of the two officers booking Jones into the jail made a lot of police officers’ and inmates’ night. Funny shit.
Thorpe turned the truck west on 6th Street and drove past L.A.’s house. As always in this area there were pedestrians, but it appeared as if L.A.’s vehicle was not in front of his home. Thorpe continued to Lewis Avenue and pulled into a convenience store parking lot on the northeast corner. He parked on the side of the building, grabbed the backpack and walked north toward an alley leading east. The dark mouth of the alley was bordered by two tall wooden privacy fences and flora that rose into an overhead canopy. Several yards into the alley the wooden fences gave way to chain link with openings that branched off into seedy apartment complexes, vacant plots, and parking lots. The area usually had a few knaves lurking about, and the last thing Thorpe needed was for someone to try to rob him. He didn’t want to be forced into a shooting and have to explain why he was walking down the “alley of death,” fearing no evil, with God and his Glock his only comforts. Carrying a backpack, he knew he’d be prime picking for a robbery.
Inside the botanical tunnel, Thorpe was dismayed to see a clump of Tulsa’s less-than-finest citizens about thirty yards ahead. The group, four males wearing bloated coats, resembled malevolent arachnids awaiting their next meal. A distant street lamp cast an orange glow over the men as he neared. Thorpe walked confidently forward, placing his right hand in the zipper of his field jacket to imply he was armed, which he was. He hoped to intimidate the group into waiting for a safer-looking dolt to come along.
As he passed, one of them said, “What you got in your bag?”
Dammit. “Your death certificate. Ready to collect?” Thorpe said, trying to use intimidation to dissuade the pack.
Three of the men laughed—much to the dismay of the one who’d spoken. That man just stared straight at Thorpe, expressionless. Having passed the group, Thorpe turned—backpedaling to face the threat—his hand still in his jacket. The foursome scurried away. Shit. They were going to get a gun—probably stashed in a nearby car.
He should’ve just kept his mouth shut; he’d disrespected a gang member in front of his homeboys and would be made to answer. He couldn’t afford a scene; his only option was to disappear. Finding a gap in the chain link, Thorpe slipped out of the alley and knelt down in an area where he could see through the vegetation. He’d stay concealed until the potential threat passed. Twenty seconds later, Thorpe heard a car engine accelerating on the street to the north. Shortly after, he observed a dark SUV turn from southbound Atlanta into the alley and slowly drive toward his position. Because the SUV’s windows were deeply tinted and the alley poorly lit, Thorpe couldn’t see the occupants. Nevertheless, he was sure the SUV contained the foursome. Unable to make out the tag, he noted the SUV was a Chevy product and rode on twenty-inch chrome rims.
Thorpe remained hidden for ten minutes and the SUV never made a second pass. Hopefully, the men concluded their prey had fled, and they’d decided to move on to other troubles. Thorpe reentered the alley and continued to Atlanta Avenue. Before stepping out, he scanned his surroundings for the SUV. Not seeing any obvious threats, he headed south. He turned west on 6th and walked alongside the curb while eyeing L.A.’s residence on the opposite side of the street. A few people milled about, but none in the immediate vicinity of L.A.’s property.