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

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.
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    â€œCedric, 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.
    It was Driscoll. He had sobering news. They had found victim number two.

Chapter 13
    Margaret poked her head inside Driscoll’s office. “Lieutenant, there’s a call for you on line two. You’re not gonna like who’s calling. It’s from the office of the Chief of Detectives,” she said.
    Here it starts , thought Driscoll. From this day forward, every higher-echelon moron with a star on his shoulder would be looking to get into the act. He picked up the phone and hit line two.
    â€œStand by for Chief Walters,” came the voice on the other end.
    â€œHello, John. How are you holding up?” asked Walters. Walters was the second in command at the office of the Chief of Detectives. He was an old-time Bureau veteran, and he understood just how the game was played. Thank God it was Walters, thought Driscoll.
    â€œI’ve been better, Chief. How are things there?”
    â€œHeating up, John. Santangelo wants to see you at nine o’clock tomorrow morning in the conference room. He says to bring the pretty sergeant with you.”
    â€œWill do,” said Driscoll begrudgingly.
    â€œTake care, John. See you in the morning.”
    As soon as Driscoll hung up the phone, his head began to pound. Goddamn it, he thought. “Things are heating up” was an understatement. They’ll want a head to chop off if this case doesn’t turn around soon. Well, this head is staying right where it is.
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    At eight-thirty the next morning, Margaret and Driscoll were ushered into the oak-paneled conference room on the twenty-first floor of One Police Plaza. Bill Walters was already there, as were several Captains and Inspectors from the Detective Bureau all seated around a large table.
    Walters took Driscoll aside and whispered, “Santangelo’s in rare form today, so be careful.” Driscoll nodded, grateful for the tip, and took a seat next to Walters. Margaret sidled up next to Driscoll. At precisely nine, the door opened, and Chief of Detectives Joseph Santangelo walked in. He was a man who was universally despised throughout the Bureau. Behind