Cold Blue Read Free

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