Bone Thief by Thomas O' Callaghan Read Free Book Online Page A

“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.
    â€œEverythin’ cool, my man?” said Jamal.
    â€œYeah, 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.
    â€œThe Farm,” as it was called, was an old retreat house located so deep in Delaware County that the nearest town was