Erica came from money—old money. Her father, Phillip Hessler, made no attempt to hide the fact that he disapproved of the man who’d “knocked-up” his baby. He had higher aspirations for his daughter. Thorpe figured the man had hoped for an Ivy League investment banker as a future son-in-law, not some knuckle-dragging civil servant with a gun. The two married in a large downtown Methodist church with Erica clearly showing in her white wedding dress. When the father gave his daughter away, he did so with a glare that should have burned a hole right through Thorpe’s rented tuxedo. The relationship with his in-laws would never improve.

Thorpe, in the delivery room on the night Ella was born, didn’t experience any of those overwhelming emotions other fathers describe when excitedly recalling the births of their children. He made sure he said all the right things and smiled on cue. Two days later, mother and child came home to the apartment. Erica didn’t feel well, and Thorpe was burdened with the majority of childcare. One short week of tending to Ella—the diaper changing, the bottle feedings at 3 a.m., the standing over the crib to make sure the baby still drew breath, the worrying that comes with caring for something so small, fragile, and, yes, precious—had broken Thorpe down.

He loved his little girl more than anything he had loved in his entire life. Childcare wasn’t a burden any longer; it was a privilege. This innocent baby, Ella, looked to Thorpe to take care of her, and that’s just what he planned to do. Thorpe wasn’t the only one changed by being a parent. Erica settled down, and, to his surprise, turned out to be an excellent mother. As Ella grew, so did the relationship between Erica and Thorpe. He might not have been in love, but his caring deepened. Thorpe’s love for Ella, however, grew beyond even his own comprehension. He knew if he lost her, he too would be lost forever.

FOLLOWING THEIR WORKOUT, JEFF LEFT Thorpe’s property more concerned than when he’d arrived. When they’d partnered together, they spent upwards of eight hours a day with each other five days a week and had often hung out on their off days. When you’ve spent that amount of time with a person, you damned well got to know him. Maybe not his history, if he were unwilling to share. But you reach a point where you knew another person’s thoughts, even if the words weren’t spoken.

Jeff sensed a shift within Thorpe. He’d already been close to becoming unhinged, but now there was something…new. Jeff couldn’t quite pinpoint what it was but decided he’d be keeping a closer eye on his best friend.

Monday

February 5

Evening

POLICE LOVE THEIR ACRONYMS, AND the Tulsa Police Department was no exception. Thorpe supervised the Organized Gang Unit, or OGU. The OGU operated out of the Special Investigation’s Division or SID, which housed the department’s undercover units. In addition to the OGU, the division was also home to the Vice Unit, two narcotics units, the Intelligence Unit, and the Organized Crime Drug Enforcement Task Force or OCDETF, a unit comprised of DEA agents and Tulsa police officers—both entities being cross deputized. Tulsa officers, integrated with the FBI’s counter terrorism unit, also worked out of the office. The personnel working at SID were a motley bunch. Some had the boy or girl next-door appearance while others looked as though they should be shooting crank in a darkened corner of a seedy bar.

The Special Investigations Division, more commonly referred to as “The Office” by those who worked there, was relocated every few years in an attempt to keep the location secret, thereby deterring countersurveillance. Currently the office was located on the southwest corner of a busy intersection in East Tulsa. SID personnel accessed the office via a concrete ramp on the south side of the building. At the top of the ramp, a tall gate and an electronic card reader kept the uninvited at bay. The gate was posted “ITPS Inc., AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY.” ITPS stood for It’s The Police Stupid—a testament to the fact that cops do have a sense of humor. If allowed through the gate, one parked on a lot that—in reality—was the roof of the second floor of the building. The first two floors were occupied by regular citizens who didn’t have access to the third. The third level was half parking lot and half office building.

Situated in a fairly nefarious neighborhood, officers could sit atop their own elevated parking lot, look over the short wall, and observe drug sales occurring on a daily basis. The Sheridan Commons, a low-rent, pay-by-the-night or by-the-week “whoretel,” sat just to the south. It was a major prostitution and street-level narcotics hub, owned and operated by a Middle Eastern man shadier than a Live Oak in July.

Thorpe arrived at the office a few minutes before 6 p.m., when darkness was already descending. Thorpe had ten investigators and one corporal under his command. His corporal and four of his officers normally worked dayshift hours from eleven in the morning to seven at night. Thorpe chose to work the late shift from 6 p.m. till 2 a.m. with the six nightshift officers. However, because of the nature of the work, schedules changed on a daily basis and overtime was abundant. Well, it had been abundant until the new division commander arrived a few months ago. Now officers went home on time even in the midst of developing investigations—all in order to make the new major, Richard Duncan, look like an overtime savior to his bosses.

Thorpe docked his undercover truck beneath the amber lights of the parking area. Then, dimly illuminated by the yellow haze, strode across the lot and swiped his card a second time to gain entry. As usual, the division’s secretary and all the brass had left for the evening. Deeper into the building, he found two of his nightshift officers already at their desks. One, Jennifer Williams, shouted at him across the OGU bullpen.

“Hey, Carnac, can we serve a warrant tonight?”

“Carnac” was a name Thorpe picked up a couple of years earlier. Most criminals had cool nicknames like Deuce, Fast Eddie, Machine Gun Kelly, whatever. But a police officer would never give another cop a good moniker. A few had tried to assume favorable nicknames for themselves—always with disastrous consequences.

Thorpe’s label was a reference to “Carnac the Magnificent,” a character made famous by the late Johnny Carson. In the skit, Johnny would wear a ridiculously gigantic turban on his head. As always, Ed McMahon played the straight man. Carson as Carnac would produce an envelope, which McMahon would claim was “hermetically sealed.” Carnac would then use his psychic powers to come up with a punch line answer to an unknown question. After announcing the punch line, Carnac would open the envelope and read the question. The bit would go something like this:

Carnac would hold an envelope to his turban and state, “A triple and a double, catcher’s and fielder’s, and Dolly Parton.”

McMahon: “A triple and a double, catcher’s and fielder’s, and Dolly Parton.”

Carnac: “Name two big hits, two big mitts…and a famous country singer.”

Thorpe had earned this nickname while serving a search warrant on a methamphetamine lab near Lewis and Independence. One of his officers had obtained the warrant utilizing a “trash pull.”

The courts have deemed once refuse is abandoned at the curb it is no longer protected by search and seizure laws. Investigators generally “pull” the trash and replace it with another bag in the early morning hours while everyone’s asleep (though it’s sometimes difficult to determine when a crankster sleeps, since they’re often up for days on end). And it’s always a bit awkward when you get caught stealing garbage. Feigning being drunk off one’s ass is the preferred tactic for avoiding lengthy explanations. No one likes talking to someone who’s shitfaced, not even meth-heads.