Interlude One

June 17, 1962 - Chief Simmons Office

Chief Bill Simmons sat at his desk, phone pressed to his ear, waiting while the line connected to Rochester, New York. The wall-mounted fan oscillated overhead in a steady rhythm, doing little to combat the oppressive midday Florida heat that seemed to seep through the very walls of the station. His office door was closed, affording him the privacy he needed for this particular call. Outside, the sounds of the police department carried on without him—the murmur of voices, the occasional crackle of a radio dispatch, the mundane activity of a small town going about its business.

[Catholic Youth Organization of Rochester, how may I direct your call?] a woman’s voice answered, bright and professional.

“I’m trying to contact William O’Shanahan, please,” the Chief said, his free hand flipping through a folder containing Thomas Hardy’s limited records. The pages felt thin, inadequate somehow. Everything he’d managed to gather about the boy could fit in this single manila folder, and that fact troubled him more than he cared to admit.

[Coach O’Shanahan is teaching a class right now. May I take a message?]

Chief Simmons straightened in his chair, his fingers drumming once against the desk blotter before he caught himself and stilled his hand. “This is Police Chief William Simmons calling from Lake Sebring, Florida. It’s regarding one of his former students, Thomas Hardy. It’s important.”

A pause stretched across the telephone line, long enough that he wondered if the connection had dropped.

[I’ll make sure he gets the message immediately. He should be able to return your call within the hour.]

“I appreciate that, ma’am.” He provided his direct line and hung up, settling back into his chair as the receiver clicked into place.

The Chief spent the next forty-five minutes reviewing what little he knew about Thomas Hardy. The boy’s medical records showed no regular doctor visits in years, nothing that suggested any kind of ongoing medical relationship with a family physician. No official complaints of abuse had ever been filed through proper channels, though the scattered references to injuries—a broken wrist here, bruises there, a incident report from school mentioning unexplained marks—painted a troubling picture if you read between the lines carefully enough. School transcripts indicated an above-average student, someone who demonstrated focus and intelligence, yet rarely missed days, which struck Bill as odd. Most kids who dealt with what he suspected Thomas dealt with at home didn’t maintain that kind of consistency.

He leaned back in his chair, the leather creaking beneath his weight, and stared at the photograph paper-clipped to the file. Thomas Hardy looked back at him with clear, direct eyes and a composed expression that seemed beyond his years.