“I’ll make sure this barn gets searched after they find your body.” Thorpe thought he caught the hint of a smile as Marcel etched the letters into the dirt floor.

“Marcel, you have two minutes to try and save your soul if you think you have one. Pray to whatever god you worship. I’ll tell you when it’s time.”

Resigned to his fate, Marcel closed his eyes and appeared to be engaged in silent prayer. Thorpe used the break to gather equipment. Two minutes later, he returned to Marcel, checked to make sure the L.A. initials were still intact, and informed him it was time.

“Marcel, earlier tonight when you approached your car, you paused and looked around. You even stared in my direction. You see or hear anything?”

Marcel turned his head toward Thorpe. He seemed genuinely contemplative before responding. “No, I just felt something. Guess I fucked up.”

Ain’t no guessing ‘bout it. Thorpe held a rag in front of Marcel’s face.

“Open your mouth. I have to remove the bolt, and it’s going to hurt like a bitch. I don’t want you screaming out.”

It must not have crossed Marcel’s mind that Thorpe could wait to remove the bolt until after he was dead. He did as he was told. But when Thorpe continued wrapping Marcel’s mouth and nose completely shut with tape, his eyes bulged with realization and fear.

“Marcel, when I told you I respected you, it was one of several lies you bought tonight. You’re a piece-of-shit child killer just like the ones I’m after. When you made peace with God, I hope you mentioned the little girl you killed.”

With that, Thorpe picked up a stray two-by-four from the barn’s floor, dropped to a knee, and swung it like a baseball bat at Marcel’s throat. Bone and meat were crushed between the board and the wooden pole. Marcel’s bound body convulsed and lurched on the dirt floor as he suffocated in his own blood.

Even as Marcel sat dying, Thorpe went to work. He cut the forward end of the bolt with his bolt cutters and used the pliers to pull the shaft through the front of the shoulder. He put all of these items in a large, heavy-duty, plastic bag. Thorpe then removed a small Ziploc plastic baggy from his pocket, used a pair of tweezers to remove a hair from inside, and placed it on the sticky side of loose tape attached to Marcel. Thorpe gathered his equipment and left Marcel’s body bound to the pole. He stepped out of the barn at 0655 hours.

Though the sky was beginning to lighten, he still had twenty-seven minutes till sunrise. Thorpe walked around the outside of the barn, wearing the different boots and using varying strides before heading south down the gravel road. Before he reached the gate, he stepped a few yards to the east, removed the spool of fishing line from the crossbow, and concealed the weapon in vegetation. He didn’t want to be spotted with the crossbow out on the street. Thorpe didn’t care if the weapon was found—it couldn’t be traced back to him. He put the spool in his pocket and monitored the police radio as he calmly walked to his vehicle.

Monday

February 5

Afternoon

TULSA, OKLAHOMA, IS THE FORTY-FIFTH largest city, by population, in the United States. Nearly 400,000 people live within its limits—almost a million in the metro area. Originally part of Indian Territory, the city flourished when large pools of oil were discovered in the early 1900s. In 1927, a Tulsa businessman campaigned to create a highway system connecting Chicago to California. Because of his efforts, Tulsa became known as “the birthplace of Route 66.”

Today, the swath old Route 66 cuts through Tulsa is the city’s easiest place to locate “women of the night.” An archaic name, for these days prostitutes were as likely to be peddling ass during the lunch hour as any other time. If the old highway were to be renamed today, Route 69 might be a more apt description—though that particular service would undoubtedly cost extra.

Tulsa sits in the northeast corner of Oklahoma in a region known as Green Country. Unlike the western section of Oklahoma, Tulsa is surrounded by lush woodlands, lakes, and rolling landscape. The climate can change forty degrees or more in a single day. The fickle conditions prompted the famous quote by native Oklahoman Will Rogers, “If you don’t like the weather in Oklahoma, just wait a minute.”

The city itself is divided by locals into four major sections. The North Side has a predominantly black populace and is comprised of older homes and very few businesses. It’s the place most rookie police officers cut their teeth—at least those who join for the pursuits, fights, and action. The North Side is where Thorpe spent the majority of his career before supervising the OGU.

The West Side is mostly lower-income whites; the East Side is a kaleidoscope of Caucasians, Hispanics, blacks, Asians, and comprised of medium to lower-priced homes and industrial complexes. The South Side is where the money lives.

These socio-economic dynamics were the basis for S.E. Hinton’s The Outsiders, a 1960s novel pitting Greasers against Socials or “Socs.” Francis Ford Coppola would later take the high school author’s book and make it into a blockbuster movie. Today, with the proliferation of gangs and gun violence, South Side Socials keep their lily-white asses away from the North Side.

Though not immensely populated, Tulsa was bigger and busier than Thorpe wanted in his off hours. He chose to live outside the city, near the small town of Mounds, Oklahoma. His neighborhood, a twenty-five minute drive south of downtown Tulsa, consisted of fifteen homes. Each home sat on ten to twenty wooded acres. He’d moved there about seven months after his wife, Erica, and his daughter, Ella, had been murdered.

The previous home had been a museum of better times. Every square inch pierced his heart with memories. Scents lingered on hairbrushes, pillows, clothing and toys. On occasion, Thorpe would think he heard his daughter’s giggles, finding himself rushing into an empty room only to find a new depth to his misery. Even the new carpet in his daughter’s bedroom provided a constant reminder; the plywood beneath was no doubt permeated with Ella’s blood.

After their deaths, Thorpe immediately listed the home with a Realtor and rented an apartment. Not able to bear being surrounded by his family’s belongings, he also couldn’t stomach discarding them; he moved all their possessions into storage. He accepted the first offer on his house and took a huge loss. He wanted out and knew no one would pay market price for a home in which a double homicide had recently occurred.

Secluded, his new house sat near the front of twenty wooded acres; a creek snaked its way through the property forty yards behind his home. A pine deck was built above the creek. The wooden perch was a place Thorpe spent many hours and was where he sat now, accompanied by his two German shepherds, Al and Trixie.

Thinking of his family, Thorpe felt the familiar emotional undertow start to drag him under. He’d been there too often, knowing it’d take him days to claw his way back to the surface if he allowed himself to dwell. Thorpe pushed thoughts of his wife and daughter away, instead concentrating on his environment and current predicament.

It was warm for February, but Thorpe could still feel the chill though his sweats and Under Armor. A steaming cup of coffee in his hand helped stave off the cold. Enveloped by oaks and towering pecans, the flowing creek whispered wordless poetry. Crisp, clean, air intermingled with the rich aroma of his morning brew as he scrutinized last night’s events, trying to uncover any mistakes he might have made.