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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