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Authors: Thomas O'Callaghan
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either have a crafty one on our hands, or our two-killers-acting-in-tandem theory is looking better.â
Chapter 18
Detective Cedric Thomlinson was running late. Traffic had come to a complete standstill on Brooklynâs Belt Parkway. Flashing lights in the distance and the trickling of cars in the opposing lanes indicated an accident up ahead. There was nothing he could do but wait out the efforts of the EMS and other emergency personnel. It wouldnât be long before uniforms from Highway Patrol 2 would reopen the three-lane thoroughfare.
After fifteen minutes, Thomlinson was rolling again. He hastened over the Gil Hodges Memorial Bridge, hugged Beach Channel Drive as it curved left, and made it to his destination: Saint Rose of Limaâs Church on Beach Eighty-fourth Street in Rockaway Beach. He squeezed his Dodge Intrepid into a tight parking space, got out of the car, and headed toward the heavy oak door that led to the parish community room.
Father Liam OâConnorâs eyes narrowed as he watched Thomlinson enter the room and take his assigned seat. OâConnor, a titan of a man, was a Jesuit priest with a strip of white hair surrounded by gray. As a certified alcohol and substance abuse counselor, he had run the NYPDâs Confidential Alcohol and Drug Abuse Program for the last thirty-one years. Most of the inductees who filled the room had been ordered into the program by their commanding officer. For Thomlinson, this was his second go-round. A rarity for the department, but not a precedent. He had Driscoll to thank for the exception. The Lieutenant, who had become a good friend, was a master at calling in favors.
The crowd that surrounded Thomlinson tonight was a mix of men and women, all of them police personnel, and all with the same purpose: to gather the strength to keep from drinking. Thomlinson scanned the room, where faces displayed hope or despair. Most in the crowd were young rookie cops ensnared by the lure of local bars that neighbored their precinct, where they could revel the night away with other cops. Always with other cops.
Some of Father OâConnorâs fledglings recovered, regained their lives, and went on to become productive police officers. Some didnât. For them, often fighting off the inclination to put the barrel of their service revolver in their mouth and pull the trigger, another career awaited. Thomlinson, at age forty-three, with twenty years under his belt, felt he leaned more toward the whiskey-faced veterans who made up the rest of the crowd, many of whom were barely holding on until retirement.
âHello, Cedric. Glad you could make it.â OâConnor placed a warm hand on Thomlinsonâs shoulder before making his way toward the front of room. A young officer, with a wife and two kids, had just finished speaking about the struggle he was having with alcohol. A struggle that threatened both his marriage and his career.
âWould anyone else like to speak?â Father OâConnor asked.
Thomlinson cast his eyes to the floor. He had plenty to say but chose to keep it to himself. He knew he was not well respected by his fellow officers, present company included. The resentment stemmed from an incident that occurred while he and his partner, Harold Young, were undercover working Narcotics. A controlled buy was all that was to go down that afternoon. Nothing more.
It began with a drug dealer stepping out of the shadows of a darkened hallway and asking Thomlinson if everything was cool.
âYeah, mon. Everythingâs cool,â Thomlinson had assured him. But that wasnât the case. Thomlinson had spent the night before tossing back shots of tequila at Cassidyâs Hide-away and was hungover. So when a gun materialized in the dealerâs hand, followed by shots, the ill-prepared Thomlinson caught one above the right shoulder blade and was knocked to the floor. In the cross fire that followed, undercover police officer Harold
Chapter 18
Detective Cedric Thomlinson was running late. Traffic had come to a complete standstill on Brooklynâs Belt Parkway. Flashing lights in the distance and the trickling of cars in the opposing lanes indicated an accident up ahead. There was nothing he could do but wait out the efforts of the EMS and other emergency personnel. It wouldnât be long before uniforms from Highway Patrol 2 would reopen the three-lane thoroughfare.
After fifteen minutes, Thomlinson was rolling again. He hastened over the Gil Hodges Memorial Bridge, hugged Beach Channel Drive as it curved left, and made it to his destination: Saint Rose of Limaâs Church on Beach Eighty-fourth Street in Rockaway Beach. He squeezed his Dodge Intrepid into a tight parking space, got out of the car, and headed toward the heavy oak door that led to the parish community room.
Father Liam OâConnorâs eyes narrowed as he watched Thomlinson enter the room and take his assigned seat. OâConnor, a titan of a man, was a Jesuit priest with a strip of white hair surrounded by gray. As a certified alcohol and substance abuse counselor, he had run the NYPDâs Confidential Alcohol and Drug Abuse Program for the last thirty-one years. Most of the inductees who filled the room had been ordered into the program by their commanding officer. For Thomlinson, this was his second go-round. A rarity for the department, but not a precedent. He had Driscoll to thank for the exception. The Lieutenant, who had become a good friend, was a master at calling in favors.
The crowd that surrounded Thomlinson tonight was a mix of men and women, all of them police personnel, and all with the same purpose: to gather the strength to keep from drinking. Thomlinson scanned the room, where faces displayed hope or despair. Most in the crowd were young rookie cops ensnared by the lure of local bars that neighbored their precinct, where they could revel the night away with other cops. Always with other cops.
Some of Father OâConnorâs fledglings recovered, regained their lives, and went on to become productive police officers. Some didnât. For them, often fighting off the inclination to put the barrel of their service revolver in their mouth and pull the trigger, another career awaited. Thomlinson, at age forty-three, with twenty years under his belt, felt he leaned more toward the whiskey-faced veterans who made up the rest of the crowd, many of whom were barely holding on until retirement.
âHello, Cedric. Glad you could make it.â OâConnor placed a warm hand on Thomlinsonâs shoulder before making his way toward the front of room. A young officer, with a wife and two kids, had just finished speaking about the struggle he was having with alcohol. A struggle that threatened both his marriage and his career.
âWould anyone else like to speak?â Father OâConnor asked.
Thomlinson cast his eyes to the floor. He had plenty to say but chose to keep it to himself. He knew he was not well respected by his fellow officers, present company included. The resentment stemmed from an incident that occurred while he and his partner, Harold Young, were undercover working Narcotics. A controlled buy was all that was to go down that afternoon. Nothing more.
It began with a drug dealer stepping out of the shadows of a darkened hallway and asking Thomlinson if everything was cool.
âYeah, mon. Everythingâs cool,â Thomlinson had assured him. But that wasnât the case. Thomlinson had spent the night before tossing back shots of tequila at Cassidyâs Hide-away and was hungover. So when a gun materialized in the dealerâs hand, followed by shots, the ill-prepared Thomlinson caught one above the right shoulder blade and was knocked to the floor. In the cross fire that followed, undercover police officer Harold
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