Authors: Gary Neece
MARCEL WOKE AT 5:45 A.M
., groggily pulled the blankets aside, and slung his legs over the edge of the bed. He reached and turned off an alarm radio blaring a nineties rap song, then slipped into his baggy black jeans, extra-long white t-shirt, puffy black coat, and Timberland boots—his “Tims.” Marcel liked to sleep at his nana’s house because it sat on a dead-end street, which decreased the likelihood of his rivals attempting a drive-by. Plus, he’d never conducted business at the residence so he wouldn’t likely be bothered in the middle of the night by an annoying search warrant service. In short, he felt safe at his grandmother’s house.
Marcel shuffled into the kitchen, pulled the refrigerator out a couple of feet, and reached around until he fingered a nylon holster secured to the back with duct tape. He slipped a Taurus 9mm Millennium Pro out of its cocoon and stood admiring the pistol’s weight. The weapon had a matte stainless-steel slide with a black-checked polymer grip. He’d had an acquaintance purchase the weapon for him at a gun show at the Tulsa County Fair Grounds; it was far superior to the Ravens and Jennings pistols most of his associates carried and well worth the 400-plus dollars he’d paid. The magazine held ten rounds plus another in the throat. At just over six inches in length, the weapon slipped easily into his coat pocket and could be withdrawn rapidly. Marcel dug his heels into the puke-green linoleum, pushed the heavy refrigerator back into place, walked to the front door, and flipped on the porch light. Swinging open the frost-covered storm door, he stood behind the threshold, uncommitted.
Marcel scanned the area, then offered himself to the dark, placid morning.
WHEN MARCEL ACTIVATED THE PORCH
light, Thorpe was ready. He’d already used the same pair of bolt cutters to cut the three strands of barbed wire separating himself from the Cutlass. He watched Marcel cascade from the steps like an NFL halfback alighting from the team bus. At an inch or two under six feet, his foe was solid. Thorpe had been wise to bring along the weapon. Marcel probably fought like most any other gangbanger, his head down, swinging wildly with absolutely no technique. But one lucky punch slipping through Thorpe’s defenses could be devastating. It amazed him how some guys amassed so much muscle by sitting and smoking dope all day. During surveillance, his squad had never seen Marcel exercise once. Of course when a guy went to prison, the government ensured he got his requisite time with the weights. They generally entered society with an extra twenty pounds of muscle along with a reenergized hatred for authority.
As Marcel rounded the front of the Cutlass and stood near the driver’s side door, Thorpe watched through a red-dot scope as his target looked cautiously to the south. He kept the sight level as Marcel turned and peered directly at his position. Thorpe held his breath fearing the rising condensation would be visible in the frigid morning. Marcel seemed to shrug off whatever alarmed him and returned his attention to the car.
Should have trusted your instincts, asshole
. Thorpe sighted down and left from the edge of Marcel’s right shoulder, taking into account approximately four inches of coat insulation.
AS MARCEL STEPPED AROUND THE
front of his Cutlass and stuffed his right hand into his pants pocket for the vehicle’s keys, he tried to shake the chill crawling its way up his spine. He turned back to his car, cupped his hands against the lightly frosted glass, and checked his backseat floorboard in one last salute to his paranoia. Seeing nothing, he took the key out of his pocket and inserted it into the lock.
Marcel heard it as much as he felt it—the thwack that drove his right shoulder forward. As the pain registered, he instinctively reached across with his left hand to probe for injury. Brain playing catch up, he attempted to retrieve pistol from coat pocket, finding his right arm unresponsive. Switching to his left, he was suddenly yanked back by the injured shoulder as if his body were conspiring against him. Marcel landed flat on his back; he tried to push himself up with his good arm when it was kicked out from under him. A boot crashed down on his injured arm. A knee pinned his other to the pavement. Above him loomed a masked man in coveralls. The dark figure pressed a large knife into the skin below Marcel’s left eye.
“If I wanted you dead, you would be. You make one sound, I’ll pop your fucking eye out and feed it to you.” Burning green eyes, remarkably brilliant in the darkness, reinforced the stranger’s threats.
NOT WANTING TO LINGER IN
the street, Thorpe quickly gagged Marcel with a rag and duct tape. He rolled him over and cranked his left arm behind his back. The wounded right shoulder offered little resistance as Thorpe brought the wrists together and bound them with tape. He removed Marcel’s pistol, unzipped his own coveralls and secured the weapon. Then he directed his captive to draw up to his knees. Marcel complied, and Thorpe pulled him to his feet. When Thorpe spun Marcel around and pushed him toward the woods, a muffled cry emanated from beneath the tape. Apparently Marcel had hoped they’d be heading back to the house, with the stranger unaware his grandmother was inside. Marcel stumbled into the ditch and purposely fell to the ground; Thorpe would have to drag him the rest of the way. Off the street and in the shadows, Thorpe switched on a hands-free LED headlamp mounted on his forehead.
Thorpe had shot Marcel with a crossbow. Attached to the bolt was high tensile, braided fishing line. He’d used the line to yank Marcel backward as he reached for his weapon. The barbed broadhead was still buried in Marcel’s shoulder. Thorpe cut the strand so it wouldn’t get caught on foliage as he dragged his cargo through the woods.
At an even six feet with little body fat, Thorpe was 190 pounds of compacted muscle. He had a fighter’s physique. Still, Marcel was a thrashing encumbrance, and the fifty-yard haul through the underbrush was grueling. Arriving at the barn, Thorpe pulled Marcel across the threshold and over to a support pole in the corner of the pitch-black interior. He slammed Marcel’s back against the timber and held him by the throat. Thorpe wrapped tape around the pole and his captive’s neck several times, but wouldn’t leave Marcel in this position for long as suffocation would soon follow. Having secured Marcel to the pole, Thorpe cut the tape on his captive’s wrists, brought his arms behind the pole and secured them again. Then he cut the tape around Marcel’s neck and placed a black hood over his head. Afterward, he used additional tape to cinch Marcel’s lower torso securely to the support pole.
Thorpe carried a police radio underneath his coveralls. A wire ran from the instrument, up his sweaty back, and into a bud inserted in his left ear. So far the radio remained quiet. No one had phoned in a disturbance regarding Thorpe’s activities, leaving him free to interrogate his captive.
First, Thorpe removed his own boots and exchanged them for a different pair inside his canvas bag. He then left the barn to retrieve his crossbow as well as Marcel’s Timberlands and his baggy-assed jeans. The unlaced boots and loose pants had come off as he was dragged through the woods. Thorpe also needed to evaluate the crime scene he’d created. The time Marcel spent alone, cloaked in silent darkness, would only facilitate the coming interrogation.
Contrary to what the movies would have you believe, there was no magical truth serum. Several mind-altering chemicals, including PCP and LSD, had been used with varying degrees of success. Ultimately, drugs weren’t reliable because the subject’s reality became distorted. Plus, drugs took time—a commodity of which Thorpe was in short supply. No time for drugs and no time to implement stress positions. He could use sensory deprivation to a degree, but was mostly going to have to rely on pain, fear, pride, and humiliation.
Thorpe returned to the barn where his captive sat gagged, hooded and bound to the pole. His headlamp cast an eerie glow on the prisoner as he circled Marcel several times in silence to help build tension. He knew Marcel could sense his presence; the man turned his head to Thorpe’s movements, desperately using his ears to gather information. Thorpe returned to the equipment bag, withdrew additional items, switched on a battery-powered lamp, and again changed boots.
Back at his prisoner’s side, Thorpe squatted and spoke into Marcel’s ear. “All I want from you are answers to my questions, nothing more. Do you understand?”
Unable to speak, Marcel nodded his head.
Thorpe continued, “I’m going to remove the gag from your mouth; if you scream out, you’re going to cause yourself a shitload of pain. Understand?”
Marcel nodded again as Thorpe raised the hood to remove the tape and rag from Marcel’s mouth. He let the cloak fall into place then spoke in an even tone, “Honest answers earn your freedom. Lies cause you pain. What’s your full name?”
“Marcel Newman.”
“What’s your girlfriend’s name?”
“Which one?”
“The one you bring sandwiches and drinks to every fucking morning,” Thorpe replied. He was asking baseline questions to gauge Marcel’s responses. At the same time, he was letting his captive know his interrogator was an informed man.
“You tell me then, motherfucker.”
Marcel’s toenails appeared to be on a semi-annual clipping schedule. So it was no difficult task when Thorpe clamped a pair of needle-nose pliers on a thick, yellowing nail and tore it from his prisoner’s big toe. Marcel’s muscles appeared to solidify into rock, and though he growled in pain he didn’t scream. Thorpe stepped away from the ragged breathing of his captive. Marcel muttered an onslaught of profanity as saliva ran down his neck.
Thorpe gave him a few minutes to recover from the shock before continuing his interrogation. “Now,
what’s
your girlfriend’s name?”
“Cynthia,” Marcel relented.
“Cynthia what?”
“Cynthia Barnes.”
“That’s better.”
Thorpe got to the meat of his questioning: “About a year ago, a woman and her child were shot to death in a South Tulsa home. They were the wife and daughter of a Tulsa police officer.” Thorpe paused, letting the statement register before he asked, “Who murdered them?”
The question hung in the air. “I don’t know nothin’ bout dat shit,” he spit. The silence before his answer said more than his words.
Thorpe unsheathed his knife and cut open Marcel’s shirt from waist to neck. Marcel thrashed to the extent his restraints would allow.
“What da FFFUCK?”
“Shhhhh,” Thorpe hissed, as he stuck the blade through the hood into Marcel’s left ear and slowly began to push. “Marcel, are you going to shut the fuck up, or am I going to have to kill you an inch at a time?”
Marcel closed his mouth. Thorpe used the knife up one side of Marcel’s boxers then ripped the material away. His prisoner now sat naked, with much less pride, on the dirt floor. As Marcel contemplated his new predicament, Thorpe changed into yet another pair of shoes, using the lull to his advantage. Silence accelerates fear. The freezing barn would increase discomfort and pain; everything hurts more when it’s cold.
Thorpe directed his light onto Marcel, who shook uncontrollably. Steam rose from his body. Slobber flowed down his chest. Thorpe knelt and spoke softly.
“I know you know. This is where things get real fucking ugly if you don’t change your attitude. I’m going to ask you the same question again, and if you don’t tell the truth, you’re going to cause yourself a lot of agony. It’s up to you to help yourself.” As Thorpe finished the sentence he clamped the pliers on Marcel’s left areola, then asked, “Who killed the woman and her child?”
Though Marcel couldn’t possibly see, he turned his hooded head toward Thorpe’s voice and replied through clenched teeth, “Fuck you, you cracker motherfucker.”
Tough guy
. As if disappointed with an obstinate child, Thorpe sighed theatrically, then, using both hands and all his strength, pulled and twisted at the same time. Marcel’s nipple was ripped away as a ragged chunk of flesh. Thorpe tossed the skin to the side as Marcel shrieked and passed out, blood darkening the slobber on his chest.
Marcel was a solider. Twice, he’d been “caught-up-short” on drug violations. On both occasions, he could have avoided incarceration had he cooperated with authorities. But to Marcel, his rep and his name were more important than his freedom. He went to prison, served his sentence, and came back to Tulsa with a wealth of street cred. Thorpe was going to use that against him.
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.