You can learn a lot about a person from going through their trash, right down to their menstrual cycles. In this instance, officers found blister packs from numerous cold and allergy pills, which contained pseudoephedrine. They’d also located Heet bottles and items covered with iodine stains. All of these components are used in the “Red-P” method of methamphetamine production. A background check on the occupants revealed prior arrests for drug possession and related offenses. The contents of the trash, bolstered by the resident’s criminal history, were more than enough to obtain a search warrant for the property.

Search warrant services on methamphetamine labs are rarely fun. They’re inherently dangerous because of a multitude of toxic chemicals used in the manufacturing process. In addition, the “cook” itself produces phosphorus gas, which is lethal. Added to the mix are cooks who are at the extreme end of paranoia. Labs often explode, and cooks sometimes implement booby traps to injure officers.

The residence involved in this particular search warrant was the quintessential crank house. Located in the midst of lower-class homes, it had a large lot surrounded by an eight-foot privacy fence, vehicles in various stages of disrepair carpeting the yard, black plastic sheeting on the windows to provide concealment, and upholstered furniture on the front porch. The only things missing were the requisite Chevy El Camino and Confederate flag.

In addition to their usual equipment, the first three officers staged at the front door wore self-contained breathing apparatuses (SCBAs) and Nomex fatigues. The SCBAs protected against toxins in the air, while Nomex offered minimal protection against explosions and flash fires. The first officer wore an air monitor around his neck that checked for toxic and explosive chemicals. The monitor is designed to let out a piercing alarm if it detects specific elements above a certain threshold. If the alarm goes off, the search warrant is over, and everyone gets out. Immediately.

Upon knocking the front door off its hinges with a battering ram, the first thing they saw was—you guessed it—a Confederate flag. The air quality seemed fine and the entry team entered the residence. Two officers “held” the staircase to the second floor as others cleared the lower portion of the dwelling for suspects. Earlier, surveillance reported observing the main target enter the house, yet they hadn’t yet encountered a single person. Ground level rendered safe, Thorpe ascended the stairs after notifying another officer to follow at a reasonable distance.

Hallways are one of the most dangerous portions of any search warrant. Officers call them fatal funnels because you progress down a corridor with no cover or concealment. If a suspect steps out and fires rounds down a hallway, he’s likely going to “cut meat.” Stairways are even more perilous. They’re hallways with uneven footing where the bad guy has the high ground. Consequently, a bunch of officers on a stairway at the same time is a worse idea than entering an adolescent male’s bedroom without knocking.

When Thorpe reached the top of the stairs, he found another hallway with three bedrooms and a bath. He motioned for additional officers and together they cleared the bathroom and two of the three bedrooms. The door to the final bedroom at the end of the hallway was closed. Thorpe took up a position in a room on the left side of the hallway near the closed room. Another officer approached the door from a room on the right side of the hallway. That officer approached from the hinged side and reached across for the doorknob. As the officer reached, Thorpe was overcome with a feeling of impending doom unlike any he’d ever experienced.

Thorpe hissed, “Stop.” Sensing the urgency in his sergeant’s voice, the officer stepped back into the room on the right and took cover.

Thorpe remembered feeling flustered as he had not heard, seen or even smelled anything indicating circumstances more dangerous than usual. The only thing substantiating his concern was that Intelligence had been certain the main target was inside, yet his squad had not encountered a single suspect. Still, Intelligence had erred on numerous occasions. Rather than dismiss his unwarranted apprehension, Thorpe called for an officer to retrieve a bullet-resistant shield and sent another officer to collect the ram, which had been discarded on the front porch.

When both officers were in place, he directed the officer with the shield to approach the door and crack it open, about an inch “to let the room cook.” The room sat dark, nothing moved. Yet Thorpe felt a presence. Thorpe stood just inside the doorway using the doorjamb for cover. Attached to his Glock was a high-intensity flashlight slicing a wedge of illumination inside the partially open door eight feet ahead.

Thorpe tapped all his senses in an effort to understand his foreboding of the room beyond. He was sure every officer felt it, or maybe they just sensed Thorpe’s unease. Regardless, he was so attuned he could hear fabrics stretching and contracting as weary officers breathed in and out under the mounting stress. Still, nothing tangible seeped from the space ahead, only darkened corners and silence. Despite the quiet, lack of odor, or any visual clues, the room may as well been aglow with brimstone based on Thorpe’s nape hairs standing at attention.

Thorpe could smell Donnie Edward’s cologne. In fact he could pinpoint the officer’s exact location solely from his labored breaths. In addition to the stress everyone felt, Donnie had raced to fetch the ram and lugged the heavy instrument back up the stairs. Donnie resembled in size an NCCA Division I defensive end, and with good reason; that’s what he was before joining the department. These days his appearance was closer to a “one percenter” motorcycle club member—his hair and beard approximated two feet in length. Because of Donnie’s size, Thorpe often put him in charge of the ram—as was the case on this warrant.

“Donnie, on my right,” Thorpe ordered the officer to his side.

“What’s up, Sarge?”

“Donnie, I want you to launch that ram at the door and get your ass back in here before it hits. You think you can do that?” Thorpe whispered, never taking his eyes off the room ahead.

“Yeah, no problem. What’s the deal?”

“Just got a bad feeling.” Thorpe directed his officer into the hall with a bit of pressure on the larger man’s shoulder.

Donnie threw the ram and stepped behind Thorpe before the eighty-pound projectile slammed into the door, knocking it wide open. A shotgun blast came from the right side of the unsecured room, taking out a chunk of sheetrock just left of the battered door.

A shotgun blast in an enclosed space will definitely wake your ass up. Following the blast, a redheaded maniac with saucer-size eyes came running out of the room kamikaze style, carrying a long-barrel gun in his hands. Thorpe fired one shot with his Glock .40-caliber handgun into the center of the man’s face, the round catching the man in the bridge of the nose. Because of the suspect’s forward motion, he began to fall face first into the middle of the hallway near Thorpe’s feet. Not taking any chances, Thorpe fired two more rounds downward, into the back of the man’s head before it impacted with the floor. Then he immediately brought his weapon up toward the open door, scanning for additional threats.

At the conclusion of the warrant service, one of the officers asked how he knew what had been waiting on the other side. Thorpe answered with his usual sarcasm, “Didn’t you know I was psychic?”

The officer responded, “Yeah, right, Carnac the Magnificent.” And the nickname stuck.

All shootings involving a police officer are investigated by both Homicide and investigators with the Office of Integrity and Compliance, formerly known as Internal Affairs. Thorpe didn’t know the reason for the name change—maybe they thought the elaborate term lent more credibility or maybe they just wanted to soften their image. Police departments around the country were too busy trying to pacify leftwing liberals instead of doing their jobs, which used to be fighting crime. Despite the official name change, officers still referred to them as Internal Affairs.