“I’ll catch this son of a bitch. That I promise,” he vowed as he turned his back on the victim and headed back to the beach.
Chapter 12
Cedric Thomlinson checked his watch and turned off the engine of his Dodge Intrepid. He was five minutes late for his meeting. He walked solemnly toward the heavy oak door that led to Saint Rose of Lima’s community room, and slipped inside. There was a large crowd, a mix of men and women, all of them police personnel, and all with the same purpose: to garner the strength to keep from drinking.
Thomlinson was greeted by Father Liam O’Connor, a Jesuit priest, a bulk of a man, sixty-five years of age, with a shock of white hair streaking otherwise gray. He was a Certified Alcohol and Substance Abuse Counselor and had run the Police Department’s Confidential Alcohol and Drug Abuse Program for thirty years. His successes recovered, regained their lives, and went on to become productive police officers. His failures didn’t. Some of them ended their careers by ending their lives. It wasn’t uncommon for a despondent police officer to put the barrel of his service revolver in his mouth and pull the trigger.
“Hello, Cedric. How are you tonight?” asked Father O’Connor.
“Doing fine, Father. And you?”
“Aside from a touch of arthritis, I’m doing fine myself. Thanks for asking.”
Thomlinson smiled and meandered over to his assigned seat within a circle of chairs. He glanced around him. The faces remained the same, some revealing hope; some, despair. Every once in a while a new inductee. The Department averaged two a month.
“How ya doin?” Thomlinson muttered to the rookie police officer to his right.
There were far too many young officers in the room caught up in the four-to-four lifestyle. These were officers who started out doing steady four-to-twelve shifts, then continued on to the bars until they closed at four A.M. Hence the classification: four to four. Most of the rest of the crowd were whiskey faced veterans holding on until retirement. At forty-two, Thomlinson felt caught somewhere between the two. “Caught” being the operative word.
The muted chatter that filled the small room ceased as Father O’Connor took his seat and began his invocation: “Almighty Father…”
That was all Thomlinson heard, for at that point his mind drifted back to the events that led him here in the first place.
He and his partner, Harold Young, were undercover working Narcotics. They had set up Jamal Hinsdale, an insidious drug dealer, for a medium-sized buy, and had entered a dimly lit hallway with marked money. There were to be no arrests that afternoon, just a controlled buy. Jamal stepped out of the shadows and approached them.
“Everythin’ cool, my man?” said Jamal.
“Yeah, mon. Everything’s cool,” said Thomlinson, despite the fact that he was very hungover from a night of binge drinking, and his view of the world was a blur.
That’s why Thomlinson never saw where Jamal’s gun came from. Shots exploded in slow motion, the first one catching Thomlinson just above the right shoulder blade and knocking him down. There were several more shots in rapid fire, followed by an eerie silence. When the smoke cleared, both Harold Young and Jamal Hinsdale were dead, and the stench of gunpowder and spilled blood filled the air. Thomlinson called for the Ghost, his backup team. They were already on their way. He heard the sound of sirens approaching, and the sound of tenants in the building opening their windows to look out. When the backup team finally reached him, all hell broke loose. Police radios crackled, a host of uniformed and plainclothes officers came running, and the sergeant in charge barked orders. As they put Thomlinson in the ambulance he heard very clearly what that sergeant said. And that was that Thomlinson still had his gun in his holster.
The official report stated that Thomlinson was situated behind Detective Young and therefore could not fire without hitting his partner. The Mayor and the Police Commissioner settled for what they got: a dead hero cop, a wounded hero cop, and a dead drug dealer. Young’s funeral made front-page news. Another hero lost in the war on crime. But, in two years’ time, only the people who knew him well would remember his name. Thomlinson would never forget him, and would never forget the gun battle and the true circumstances surrounding it. For it was Thomlinson’s binge drinking that helped bring down a fellow police officer. His partner, no less.
For his part in it, Thomlinson was awarded the Department’s second-highest medal, the Combat Cross. He was then transferred to the elite Homicide Squad, headed up by Lieutenant John Driscoll. It was every detective’s dream assignment.
But the street cops believed a story closer to the truth. Every time he walked in their midst, conversations stopped. Looks of disapproval surrounded him. He knew what was said about him as soon as he left the room. His partner was killed, and he had never even pulled his gun. That was tantamount to being incompetent or a coward, two things a cop could never be. Everywhere he went within the department, he was known as the cop who never pulled his gun.
His drinking became heavier after that, but since he could no longer hang out in cop bars, he turned to drinking alone. Many a morning, he woke up at the kitchen table with an empty bottle and a loaded 9 mm staring him in the face.
He began to duck work, often missing his first or last tour of duty, too drunk to make it in. When on duty, he would make excuses to go to his car, where he kept his stash: a sealed bottle of Jamaican rum. Other times, he simply disappeared for hours, returning with a mouthful of breath mints or some gum.
Driscoll was no fool, and after a few weeks he took the hardest step a police commander ever had to take. He called the representative from the Detectives’ Union and had Thomlinson “farmed.” Driscoll knew he was ruining Thomlinson’s career, but he hoped he was saving his life.
“The Farm,” as it was called, was an old retreat house located so deep in Delaware County that the nearest town was twenty-five miles away.
Thomlinson was stripped of his gun and shield and whisked away. He was given a choice. He could complete the program, or be fired. Those were his only options. The program, administered by a group of Certified Alcohol and Substance Abuse Counselors, consisted of six weeks of alcohol counseling that included regularly conducted one-on-one therapy sessions, and group therapy with past and present alcoholic police officers. It was interspersed with religious encounters as well. Lights-out and lockdown was at eight P.M. each night, and there were guards at every door.
Once you completed the program, you were sent back to Command without your gun or your shield, and were required to attend the self-help program run by Father O’Connor. At the end of one year, if the Department psychiatrist deemed you fit, you were returned to active duty. Your gun and your shield were returned, and supposedly your personnel record never reflected any of it. Of course, everyone knew better. There were few secrets in this man’s department.
It had been twenty-nine months since Thomlinson graduated from the Farm. He was now 868 days sober. His gun and shield had been returned to him, and he was eternally grateful to his commander and true friend, Lieutenant John W. Driscoll.
“Cedric, do you have anything to share with us this evening?” Father O’Connor’s question rocketed Thomlinson back to the present.
Thomlinson stood up and repeated his usual routine about how he had taken up drinking because his partner had been killed in front of him. He knew it was a lie, the priest knew it was a lie, and everyone else in the room knew it was a lie. But no one challenged him, so he sat back down.
As the meeting was drawing to a close, Thomlinson’s cell phone rang. He stepped outside to take the call.