Authors: Gary Neece
About a month ago, uniformed officers had cornered a homicide suspect inside one of Bainbridge’s units. A mob formed and started throwing rocks at the police. During the subsequent melee, a reporter became part of the story when a reveler grabbed her by the hair and threw her against the side of a news van. The event culminated with a couple of shots fired at officers. As with most incidents like this, the complex became one of the safer places in the city for the next week as officers made examples of anyone who poked a head out a door. Prior to the riot, the North side community complained of a lack of police enforcement: after, they claimed racial profiling.
Damned if you do…
Police personnel had since been shuffled to other hotspots, and the complex resumed its status as a federally funded criminal housing project.
Thorpe drove through the complex with the hope of spotting Kaleb’s car parked outside his girlfriend’s apartment. The vehicle wasn’t in the lot, and Thorpe couldn’t linger without drawing attention. But he needed to find Kaleb soon; these guys had a way of leading short lives, and if Kaleb went and got himself killed before Thorpe got a chance to interrogate him, the secret would die with the little shit.
Thorpe exited and stopped at a nearby convenience store, yet another prime crack-buying location, and a place where Thorpe had initiated many foot pursuits. The store provided a payphone, which the drug dealers appreciated, and didn’t have surveillance cameras, which the dealers loved. Thorpe climbed from the vehicle and used the payphone to dial Kaleb’s cell phone number.
“Who this?” A male answered.
Thorpe pulled a name out of his ass. “This is Sergeant Thomas Brightling. I’m a detective for the Tulsa Police Department’s Office of Integrity and Compliance.”
“Office of who?”
“I’m an Internal Affairs investigator with the police.”
“So?” Kaleb said with feigned disinterest.
“So…I know you’re working for TPD as an informant. Your case officer is Brian Hickey.”
Several seconds of silence preceded Kaleb’s response. “What do you want?”
“I need to see you right now, Mr. Moment. What you need to know is this: your case officer is suspected of providing information to people he shouldn’t. He will be relieved of duty before the night is over. I need to speak with you in reference to the Chamberlain case you handed to Hickey. If you cooperate, you’re done, your contract is fulfilled; you won’t have to do anymore work for the department. If you don’t, or if you decide to call Hickey after I hang up, I will personally negate any progress you’ve made on your contract and send your ass straight to prison. Now, where you at?”
“Shit…I’m at my place.”
“Where’s that?”
“Bainbridge.”
“I just drove through there and didn’t see your car.”
“My car ain’t here ‘cause the fucking thing got stolen,” Kaleb said with overt hostility.
“Anyone there with you?”
“My woman.”
“Make up an excuse and walk to the park just north of the complex. I’ll be in a dark gray Chevy Tahoe. Do not tell her what you’re doing.”
Five minutes after Thorpe pulled into the park, he watched a figure cross the darkened grounds. Kaleb approached the passenger side door, opened it, and climbed inside. A blast of cold air and the smell of marijuana entered the car along with its new occupant.
“You don’t look like a cop.”
“I thought you might appreciate that since I came to pick you up in your ‘hood. You want to see my I.D.?”
“No. What’s this about?”
“We think Hickey’s been selling information, including the names and addresses of his informants.” Thorpe’s intention was to scare the shit out of his guest. It worked.
Kaleb sat in stunned silence before his lips started working. “Fuck! Fuck me! This is fucking bullshit! Fuck, I’m a fucking dead man!” DNA-laden spit flew out of Kaleb’ mouth onto the dash. Thorpe made a mental note to give the area around Kaleb a thorough scrubbing…after.
“Kaleb, I need you to calm down. We’re going to take care of this, and you.”
“Take care of ME! You fucks can’t even find my fucking car! Fuck!”
“Kaleb, we can’t let this get out. What did you tell your girlfriend when you left?” Kaleb didn’t respond. Terrified his homeboys would discover he was a snitch, he wasn’t listening. In Kaleb’s mind, he was already dead. Thorpe needed to refocus the man’s attention.
“Kaleb, listen to me! What did you tell your girlfriend when you left?”
“I didn’t tell the bitch nothin’! She don’t need to know what I do.”
“Bullshit, Kaleb, you told her something.”
“I told her I’d be right back, that’s all.”
“Well, it’s going to be a few minutes. My captain and I need to get a recorded statement. I’m taking you to a motel room.”
“A motel room? Why we going to a motel room?”
Thorpe played on Kaleb’s fear. “Do you want the wrong cop seeing you and me walk into Internal Affairs together? This can’t get back to Hickey.”
“Motherfucker! I don’t want to testify against no cop. I’ll have fucking everyone huntin’ my ass then!”
Thorpe put the SUV into drive. “You won’t have to testify. He won’t know you talked. He’s done a lot more than this. You’re just another nail in the coffin.”
“Fuck! I knew that motherfucker was dirty.” For some reason all drug dealers think all cops are corrupt. Maybe it makes them feel better about themselves.
Thorpe possessed keys to several repellent motel rooms scattered around the city. Under the guise of being cooperative with law enforcement, the motel managers allowed police free access to designated rooms. Everyone knew the managers of these motels relied on drug dealing and prostitution; otherwise, they wouldn’t have any customers at all. The Vice Unit used them for John stings and other operations. The motels were never filled to capacity, so it didn’t cost anything to let officers have keys to some of the ‘suites.’ Management only bothered to have the rooms cleaned once a week or so, but Thorpe figured the regular rooms didn’t receive much more attention than theirs.
As Thorpe drove to the motel, he gave Kaleb instructions. “We’ve rented this room for a full week. You’re welcome to stay here until we figure out what all information Hickey leaked.”
Kaleb nodded his head dazedly.
“I’m going to let you out around the corner. Here’s the key to room 142. It’s located on the south side of the building. You don’t want everyone to know you’re here with the cops. I’ll wait a couple of minutes before I follow you in.”
Thorpe parked in a secluded lot near a Whataburger fast food restaurant and let Kaleb out. “You take off, it’s your ass! I’ll have a warrant out for your arrest within an hour. You give a statement, you’ll never see us again. You have my word.” Kaleb ambled off toward the motel, staring at his feet and mumbling profanities.
Even though the Tahoe’s tags weren’t on file, Thorpe walked behind the SUV and removed the license plate. He then opened the back and spread heavy plastic over the cargo area. Having completed those tasks, Thorpe drove to the motel and backed the Tahoe up to room 142.
Pulling a baseball cap low on his head and turning up his collar, Thorpe grabbed the roll of plastic and a backpack. He walked to the motel’s door with his chin tucked to his chest. He knocked lightly. Kaleb opened up. Thorpe stepped inside the musty room, closed the door and tossed the backpack on the bed. As Kaleb’s eyes followed the pack through the air, Thorpe moved toward Kaleb and cracked him on the jaw with a sharp elbow. The informant reeled backward onto the floor. In a matter of seconds, Thorpe had Kaleb’s mouth, hands, and feet secured with tape.
The blow didn’t knock Kaleb unconscious. He lay on the carpet and stared at Thorpe with wide, terrified eyes. Thorpe searched Kaleb’s person and found a voice-activated digital recorder in a pocket of his jacket. Thorpe hit rewind on the small machine and then pressed play. Some of the discussion he and Kaleb had had on the trip over played on the machine.
Fucking snitches
, Thorpe thought as he
rewound to the beginning and hit play again. The recording began in the middle of his earlier phone conversation with Kaleb. After the phone conversation terminated, a woman’s voice could be heard: “Who’s that?”
“Fucking pigs again. They won’t leave my ass alone. I ain’t done shit,” Kaleb replied on the recording.
“What they want?”
“They keep trying to blackmail me into giving up my homies. I ain’t told them nothin’. Just keep feedin’ ‘em fulla shit.”
“Tell them to fuck off,” replied the woman’s voice.
“Baby, who’s going to take care of you if they send me to prison on some bullshit case?”
“Always fuckin’ the black man,” the female agreed.
“Ain’t that da truth. Don’t tell anybody what I’m doin’, baby. Nobody will understand I’m just playin’ em.’ I’ll shovel some shit into this cracker and be right back.”
Thorpe pressed stop on the recorder. “Kaleb, Kaleb… I wish you hadn’t told your girlfriend.”
The girl presented a problem but there was nothing he could do about it. Thorpe pulled out his knife—the act instantly eliciting muffled cries and a thrashing on the floor. Thorpe carried the knife to the bed where he cut off a section of plastic and spread it on the floor. Then he propped a wooden chair in the middle of the plastic before lifting Kaleb off the filthy carpet and setting him on the seat. All of Thorpe’s actions were purposely theatrical.
Thorpe used duct tape to secure Kaleb to the chair by wrapping it around his chest. Finished, he stepped toward the door and engaged the deadbolt and chain. Then he moved to the bed and opened his backpack. For added effect, he removed several crude instruments, including a small pair of pruning shears and a rusty hacksaw. After, Thorpe approached his captive but stood to the side where he couldn’t be kicked.
“Kaleb, I need you to listen very carefully. Are you listening to me?”
Kaleb nodded his head briskly, causing several beads of sweat to drip onto his lap.
“Good. First of all, I apologize for lying to you. It was the only way I could get you here without making a scene. I don’t like scenes.” Thorpe was doing his best impression of a man deranged; then again maybe an act wasn’t required. “Second, as you may have figured out, I’m not a detective with Internal Affairs, but I assure you I am a cop. My real name is Thorpe, Sergeant Jonathan Thorpe. Maybe you’ve heard my name mentioned before…about thirteen months ago?”
It took some time register, but Kaleb’s eyes morphed from confused fear to terror.
“I see you recognize my name. Good, then you know why you’re here.” Thorpe was almost whispering now. “Kaleb, you’re going to tell me who killed my family, and if you try to play ignorant…” He nodded toward the instruments on the bed, “… you’re so going to regret it. If you don’t cooperate, you’re leaving this room piece by piece in bloody sheets of plastic. I realize that’s pretty fucked up, but given the circumstances, you can understand I’m pretty pissed off. Can’t you, Kaleb?”
Kaleb didn’t, or couldn’t, respond, and Thorpe decided to ease up on the scare tactics before his captive went into shock. Kaleb wasn’t like Marcel Newman; the man was already broken. Thorpe snapped his fingers in front of Kaleb’s face.
“But none of that has to happen, Kaleb. Just answer my questions truthfully. Some things I already know, so it’d better match up. I’m going to remove the tape now, and you’re not going to scream are you?” Kaleb shook his head, and Thorpe removed the tape. “Who killed my family?”
“Deandre and Damarius Davis,” Kaleb stated. His body and voice trembled so violently he was difficult to understand.
“
How
do you know that?”
“They called the night they done it. Wanted to meet. They said they was doing something for somebody and they…”
Thorpe held up a finger, walked over to the bed while repeating Kaleb’s words, and reached for the pruning shears. “Something for somebody?”
“Okay! Okay! Deandre called and said he had to see me right now. Me, Deandre and Damarius was real tight, friends since back in the day. I talk to the police, but I would never rat on them. We was like brothers. Anyway, he calls, and I can tell he’s spooked. Wants to meet me at my apartment. Tells me to kick whoever I got inside the fuck out. So I tell my girl to get lost, that some serious shit is going down and she don’t need to be a part of it.”
Kaleb spoke fast, not the kind of speech pattern a person uses when he’s fabricating details. He rattled off information rapid fire, his adrenaline causing him to speak in streams.
“Anyways, Deandre and Damarius show up a while later, and they’re scared crazy. Deandre says he met Stephen Price earlier and Price gave him a half key of cocaine. Says he wanted them to plant the coke in some cracker’s house to set him up….”
Stephen Price?
Thorpe felt an acute pressure inside his head, as if he’d plunged to the bottom of a deep pool. He momentarily lost his auditory senses and had to steady himself against a wall. His heart rattled like a drum, and his throat tightened. He began employing relaxation techniques and hoped Kaleb hadn’t registered his shock. When Thorpe finally regained control of himself, he found Kaleb still rapidly imparting information. As stunned as Thorpe had been, it didn’t come close to what his captive was experiencing. He didn’t want to interrupt Kaleb’s recounting of events, but Thorpe had missed a good portion of what the man had said.
“Hold on, Kaleb, I lost you back there. Start again at the point where Stephen Price gave Deandre a half-kilo of cocaine. You do mean Stephen Price, the Tulsa police officer, don’t you?” Thorpe asked, hoping against logic that Kaleb was referring to a different man with the same name.
“Yeah, Stephen Price, the cop. So Deandre says Price gives him a half-kilo of soft and wants him to hide it in this cracker’s house on the south side of town. We’re all tight: the brothers, Price, and me, and we’ve all done work before. But this shit was different, so Deandre asks Price what’s up. Price won’t tell him shit, says the less he knows, the better—won’t say who the cracker is or anything. He says if they do this they’ll be taken care of…
forever
. He tells them the job’s a piece of cake; that he got someone watching the place, and no one is home. He even gives them a key to the fucking house.”