Cold Blue

“Brandon Baker was killed last night and set on fire, and Thadius Shaw is missing. I’d give you more details, but I have about a hundred calls I need to make. There’s going to be a full briefing at SID at 1300 hours. Everybody’s coming in, regular days off or not. Vacation and comp days are cancelled. Be here.”

The line clicked dead.

Thorpe would be paid overtime to help search for the killers. He conceded to the irony, looked at his watch, and decided to get a few more hours of sack time. His father’s words floated alongside him into unconsciousness.

Sleep is like water son, if you don’t know when you’ll find it again, get as much as you can.

Three hours later, Thorpe packed his gear while watching CNN. Tulsa had become the lead story on the national networks: two black Tulsa police officers had been killed within the last two days and a third had gone missing. The story went on to describe the methods used to kill the officers and brief biographies of their lives. The requisite “experts” were on hand to lend their opinions, and, as usual, the experts were full of shit. They did get one thing right when suggesting the suspect could be a fellow cop or cops, their theory based on the fact that the slain black officers were outspoken about alleged racial inequalities on the department and had been parties to several lawsuits. The hitch in their theory was the murder of Baker, a white officer. Some of these same experts spun a web of possible explanations. One suggested that Baker might have been a collaborator in the black officers’ deaths and had since been silenced. As was the case these days, the reporters preferred to generate news rather than report it.

The story was accompanied by sound bites from TPD’s inept interim police chief, Jason Kampma

In the meantime, the department was stuck with a chief who had a propensity for falling asleep in meetings and couldn’t figure out how to turn on a police radio. One of his first proposals was to make the force “college educated.” The deputy chiefs advised him he was twenty-some years late with the idea but congratulated him for his enterprising concept.

Now Kampma

Great, now there’d be pile of armed accountants in the mix.

Thorpe flipped off the television and stepped outside. He’d left Al and Trixie out last night, and they didn’t seem overly concerned with their surroundings. He doubted Phipps would take another shot at him here; the next attempt would come while Thorpe worked. Looking past his dogs, he was grateful coyotes hadn’t yet dragged Shaw’s body out into the middle of the road. He’d deal with that problem tonight after dark. At least the cold would keep Shaw from getting too ripe.

The first thing Thorpe noticed when he pulled into SID’s parking lot was the deluge of plain sedans and black Chevy Suburbans. Gail greeted him as he stepped into the office.

“Hello, James,” she said, looking up from her desk.

“Miss Moneype

“Oh, James, you’re such the flirt.”

“Only with you, Miss Moneype

“Uhhh? Oh, I get it. The FBI. Seems like it; they’re everywhere.”

“Careful, that’s what people with tinfoil on their heads have been saying for years,” Thorpe joked. “I guess I have a meeting to attend. Arrivederci, Miss Moneype

“Arrivederci, James.”

Thorpe walked to his office, threw his gear onto the couch, and meandered through the building to the conference room. When he entered the rectangular chamber, he was reminded of a junior high school dance: SID supervisors occupied one side of the room opposite a bunch of uptight looking men in suits, neither group acknowledging the presence of the other. In this case the dance floor was a long, oval-shaped conference table that might as well have been the English Cha

Thorpe took a seat near the exit and nodded at the sergeant over Vice, Gary Treece, who promptly rolled his eyes, leaned to one side, and loosed a lengthy fart. The SID boys burst out laughing, but the suits didn’t seem to get the joke—very unprofessional.

A couple of guys were close to shedding tears, either from the laughter or the stench, when Deputy Chief Brad Elias strode into the room.

His appearance reversed the direction of gaseous output as assholes collectively sucked up oxygen, tempting Thorpe to check the barometer on his watch to gauge the loss of atmospheric air pressure. The first of a foursome, Deputy Chief Elias was followed by Major Duncan and Captain Cory. An attractive woman wearing a conservative pin-striped skirt suit brought up the rear. She was long, slender and moved with an athletic grace. Her thick black hair was pulled back and wrapped in a tight bun. Thorpe made a conscious effort not to stare.

As the foursome made their way to a podium, Thorpe noticed that the eyes of every other SID supervisor were locked on the raven-haired beauty…cops. There’s an old saying amongst police officers, “You can trust a cop with your money and life, but never leave one alone with your wife.”

The woman had an olive complexion suggesting Mediterranean, Brazilian or some other exotic ancestry. Thorpe noted that not one of the suits gave the woman more than a fleeting glance. Maybe they knew something the undercover guys didn’t. Thorpe sided with the feds on this one topic and refrained from drooling on himself as she pulled up a seat next to the podium. The other TPD perso

Chief Elias spoke for several minutes. His words felt bridled and failed to disclose the entire scope of the investigation or the FBI’s role in the matter. Toward the end of his comments, he was more candid.

“To be perfectly honest, as of this moment, a member or members of this police department are possible perpetrators of these murders. Therefore, I can’t fully divulge the details of this investigation to potential suspects. I’m not accusing anyone in this room. But you understand our predicament. Regardless, SID perso