Short on time, Thorpe held smelling salts underneath Marcel’s nose, bringing him to consciousness. “Can you hear me, Marcel? You are going to answer my questions, or you’re going to die here on this dirt floor.”

Marcel stirred, and after a few seconds of coughing, sputtered, “Man, I’m fucking dead anyway. Just ‘cause I’m black don’t mean I’m stupid. Don’t take a genius to figure out who you are. You da husband. You da cop.” Marcel let out a long, wet cough then continued, “But I’ll tell you so you kill me quicker. It don’t matter none anyways. Da two niggas killed ya kin…they dead. Killed da same night they killed ya family.”

Thorpe considered Marcel’s declaration. It was possible Marcel gave him the names of two dead men so he could protect the real killers and end his misery now rather than endure more pain. On the other hand, he doubted Marcel would remember the two murders occurred on the same night given it happened a year ago—unless in fact there was a connection. Thorpe knew of the two men but wanted to see if Marcel could produce their names.

“What were the names of the two who were killed?”

Marcel paused as if considering whether providing the identity of two dead gangbangers would be a violation of his personal code. He must have decided it wasn’t.

“Big D and Little D.”

Thorpe knew Marcel was referring to the brothers Deandre and Damarius Davis, both of whom were killed in North Tulsa the same night Thorpe’s wife and daughter were slain. Homicide had looked into whether the murders were related but had been unable to find a correlation. It didn’t make sense. Out of all the people Thorpe had sent to prison, he’d had only limited contact with “the Double D Brothers.” At most, he’d conducted little more than a cursory pat-down of either man, certainly nothing to reap this harsh a retribution.

“Why would those two assholes kill a cop’s family?” Thorpe demanded.

“How da fuck I know?” Marcel replied, still able to muster up attitude. “Musta’ been stealin’ yo shit when it went bad.”

Thorpe rose and walked away, his mind scrambling to catch up. What were the chances two North-side bangers would end up in Thorpe’s South Tulsa neighborhood, attempt to burglarize his home, shoot and kill his family, and be killed themselves a few hours later? Not very damn likely. If they were in fact the killers, then someone had sent them, and that same person or persons had bought their silence with a couple of bullets. Thorpe returned to Marcel, determined to get at the truth.

“Who sent the Double D Brothers to kill my family?!” Thorpe demanded.

“I don’t know what you fuckin’ talkin’ ‘bout. Just kill me already.”

Thorpe knelt and peeled off Marcel’s hood. Then he pulled his own ski mask up over his headlamp so that it filtered minimal light. Eyes uncovered, Thorpe stared at his captive. “Marcel, you’re right. I am going to kill you. No matter what you say, or what you do, you are going to die tonight. I know you’re a solider, and I doubt you’re afraid of death. A part of me actually has respect for you because in your own fucked-up way, you have some honor about you. But you’re about to make the most important choice of your very short life.”

Through the dim light, Marcel stared defiantly into Thorpe’s eyes. Good. He had the man’s full attention, and he needed it to drive home his next bluff. Death was nothing to Marcel; he’d accepted his ultimate fate years before. Most bangers have no regard for human life, sometimes not even their own. Marcel had no problem dying like a soldier. He would have the respect of his crew and enjoy a legacy—much like a radical Islamic dreams of dying a martyr. Thorpe had to convince Marcel he would strip that respect away…even in death.

“Marcel, I’m about to ask you a series of questions. You can answer these honestly, or you can lie…it’s your choice. Either way, before I kill you I’ll give you a moment to make peace with God. If I think you’ve told me the truth—and I’m pretty good at sifting through bullshit, Marcel—you’ll die painlessly. But, and listen real carefully to this, I’m going to take a little insurance policy out on your ass.”

Thorpe paused while continuing to stare into Marcel’s eyes; he needed to ensure he understood. “After you’re dead, your body leaves here with me. It may be in one piece, or it may be in several; that’s up to you. What happens to it afterward is also up to you. If I determine you’ve been truthful, your body will be found on a street somewhere. Your homies will assume you’ve been killed by rival gang members. They’ll come to your funeral and remember you as a soldier and pay you the respect you deserve. You still listening, Marcel?”

His captive nodded his head as he stared back with unblinking eyes.

“Good. Because if you lie to me, Marcel, they won’t ever find your body. Instead I’ll start writing search warrants on all your homies, and I’ll name you in those warrants as my snitch.”

Marcel’s eyes widened and intensified with even more anger.

“That’s right, Marcel. You will have disappeared and warrants will start popping up with your name written all over them. Everyone will think you’ve turned informant. You’ll be dead, but no one will come to your funeral to pay respect. The only reason they’d show up would be to piss on your grave. Now look in my eyes and ask yourself—will he really do this?”

Thorpe really needed to sell this bluff to make sure he got truthful answers. In effect, he was forcing Marcel to be a snitch in order to avoid being labeled one. He was about to find out what was more important to the man: real honor or the perception of honor.

Marcel stared into Thorpe’s unwavering eyes for a full minute before he turned his head away, his body appearing to collapse in upon itself. All Marcel had in this world was his reputation, and this cracker motherfucker was prepared to take that from him as well.

He watched as fear and doubt clawed its way into Marcel’s being. Thorpe knew he’d won the battle. Marcel still might offer slivers of resistance, but was now a broken man.

“All I heard was—it was something else got fucked up,” Marcel finally admitted.

“Explain.”

“’Bout a week after your daughter was killed, dude told me the Double D Brothers were the hitters. He said it was some fucked-up shit. I asked him about it, but he quit talking. He said he shouldn’t have said anything. He tried to act like he was being solid by keeping his mouth shut. But I could tell he was scared.”

“Who told you this?”

“I don’t know his name,” Marcel lied.

Thorpe placed the blade of his knife at the base of Marcel’s penis. He very slowly began drawing the serrated edge across when Marcel blurted out the name, “Kaleb.”

“Kaleb…Kaleb Moment?” Thorpe asked.

“Yeah,” Marcel said, defeated, “…fuck!”

“What else did he tell you?”

“Just it was no coincidence the brothers got killed the same night. That’s all; he wouldn’t say no more. I think he knew he fucked up by talking about it. Every day after he told me not to say a fucking word…and I never did.”

Thorpe weighed the information. He believed Marcel was telling the truth. For one thing, he could see the devastation in Marcel’s face and in his body posture. He’d become almost demure and had substituted nearly Standard English in lieu of street talk. But most importantly, he’d just snitched on one of his best homeboys, Kaleb Moment. Marcel had to know he was bringing hell itself down on Kaleb, as his friend would soon be in a similar predicament as his own.

Thorpe leaned in. “Marcel, if you’re withholding anything else from me, a lot of people are going to have warrants served on them…courtesy of you.”

“Man, that’s it; I don’t know nothin’ else.”

“One more thing, Marcel…I’m gonna’ wipe away the word you wrote in the dirt.” Marcel’s hands were taped behind his back, inches off the dirt floor. Earlier he’d used his finger to spell “cop” behind the wooden pole. “That was very clever of you. After I wipe it away you’re going to use the same finger to write the letters ‘L.A.’” Thorpe stepped onto the word and dragged his sole across the dirt before telling Marcel to proceed.