Good Cop/Bad Cop. Rebecca Cofer - Dartt
adored his children and saw as much of them as possible on his days off from the narcotics unit in Binghamton. He was waiting for the kids to arrive when his boss called.
“You said you wanted to be assigned to Ithaca, David. Well, here’s your chance,” Carl Shaver told McElligott after, giving him the bare facts of the quadruple homicide in Ellis Hollow. “I want you to head up to Ithaca right away and start coordinating the investigation.” Shaver knew McElligott had worked on many cases in the Ithaca area, so he knew the place. Moreover, Shaver could count on McElligott.
McElligott hated telling his kids that their outing was off, and when he did, they were very disappointed. Once again McElligott felt guilty. He’d left them many times at the dinner table, and hadn’t been at other family and school affairs, all because of his work. In fact, McElligott being on call like a doctor was a major reason his marriage had broken up.
David McElligott had been with the New York State Police for over twenty years, the last twelve as senior investigator in the Bureau of Criminal Investigation. Troop C, headquartered in Sidney. Troop C covered nine counties in the central part of the state.
“The only thing I ever wanted to be in my life was a detective, like my older brother, Jerry,” he liked to tell his children.
He was proud of his Irish background. McElligott’s father had come to America from the County of Limerick, as a young boy in the late 1800s. His father had worked hard to make something of himself. He’d tried professional baseball among many other pursuits, before starting a general contracting business in New Jersey. After the Depression, during which he’d lost all of his money, McElligott’s father decided that railroads were here to stay and became a telegrapher for the New York, Ontario and Western Railroad in upstate New York. He moved his family to Sidney where he and his wife, thirty years his junior, raised seven children. David was second to the youngest.
McElligott’s father was still working as a telegrapher in his early eighties. Having a secure job was so important to him, that he made sure that his sons learned a good trade. David started as a railroad telegrapher right out of high school following another brother, then spent four years in the Marine Corps. When he got out, David’s brother, Jerry, already in the state police, suggested that David take the examination to be a trooper. David McElligott was accepted the day he got out of the service.
On Thanksgiving day four years later, he was promoted to investigator and sent downstate to Monticello, New York. It was an eye-opener for someone who had lived and worked in the rural part of the state. The Monticello station in Sullivan County had eighteen investigators and sixty uniformed men. David had been used to the small staffed stations upstate. At first he liked the excitement of being in a big operation. When he was sent to New York City on a homicide investigation, David began to think of himself as a city detective. But fate had another plan.
Less than a year later David’s brother phoned him from Sidney and asked if David would like to replace an investigator who had passed away suddenly. McElligott hesitated, but called his brother back in a few minutes to accept the offer. He never regretted the decision.
He stood in a bam a week later, talking to a judge as he milked the cows, and looking down at his wing-tipped shoes in the manure, he murmured to himself, “I’ve come home. I belong here.” He might have dressed like a city-slicker but he knew these people and could talk to them.
McElligott had the presence of a man who knew who he was and what he was about. Early in his career he’d taken advice from others he respected, especially his brother, who told him never to depend on a gun he carried for confidence. “You talk like you have it on.” His talent at conversation—he could talk to anyone—make him one of the best interrogators in the BCI. He knew when to push and how to cajole a suspect into giving him information or a confession.
McElligott didn’t let the military-style organization of the state police bother him. He wasn’t like some of his colleagues who were clearly nervous in the company of higher ranking officers. He had worked in an undercover operation for a year under the then Captain Tom Constantine who was now the superintendent. They were on friendly terms, but McElligott never forgot Constantine’s rank, addressing him with military decorum.
Of course, there were times when he disagreed with his superiors. When this happened he might voice his frustration to a good friend but to a boss, it was always “yes, sir. I’ll get right on it.” The unfailing politeness fit his practical nature and made him popular with his superiors. He was a cop’s cop.
McElligott was rooted in the team approach to solving crimes. Working in the narcotics unit for many years had taught him that. But as he progressed up the chain of command, he knew that someone had to be in charge and he accepted the role with ease. He liked to get things rolling as soon as he found out exactly what happened. Officers who took a slow approach to the job irritated him. He wanted action and he didn’t mince words about what he wanted done. He’d tell investigators who hadn’t worked with him before, “Patience is not one of my virtues.”
McElligott’s reputation became almost legendary in the BCI. He expected the best from the men on his team. He could blow his Irish temper with a flood of expletives if someone didn’t follow his instructions or did something McElligott thought was stupid.
But investigators who got to know him on a personal level learned he had a big heart that went along with this demand for excellence. He understood human nature. He knew how to listen to a troubled or scared young officer and give him encouragement. He passed along tips to newcomers that his brother had given him when he became an investigator.
Having to witness the unsavory side of life on an almost daily basis hadn’t embittered him or made him feel it was a rotten world. It was easy for him to understand how people who didn’t have anything got themselves into trouble. The first time he saw several children sleeping on a bare and dirty mattress, his heart went out to them. He felt badly that any kids had to live in such shabby conditions. He often felt sorry for people he had to arrest.
The challenge of the work continued to invigorate him. Each new case meant a different puzzle to solve. And no matter how bleak the situation looked, he stayed upbeat. “We’ll get ‘um. It’s just a matter of time,” he’d say to his team.
However, there was stress on the job and sometimes it got to him. To relieve the tension he smoked over a pack of cigarettes a day. He had cut down some, but couldn’t break the habit. Also, he sometimes showed a nervous trait of opening and shutting his eyes rapidly while in conversation.
He and his friend, Charlie Porter, gave up drinking altogether a few years back when both of them realized that alcohol had become a liability. He was middle aged and knew he had to change some habits to keep feeling good. Another one he’d given up was, after a bout with skin cancer, baking in the sun on the Jersey shore.
His work habits matched his neat, color-coordinated appearance. McElligott worked in an orderly fashion. Nothing was out of place in his office. No matter how busy he was, his desk was not cluttered. He could immediately find what he wanted because of a filing system he’d devised for himself.
There were visible contrasts to the man. He had a strong, intelligent face with the reddish complexion and rugged good looks of an outdoorsman—he looked easily capable of splitting logs, yet he dressed impeccably like a Wall Street banker.
He’d rather own a few well-made, expensive shirts than have a drawer full of cheap polyesters. The same with shoes and suits. He bought good ones and kept them in excellent condition. His shoes always had a military shine. What he wore looked well thought-out. One could imagine his closet and drawers organized by color and style.
He and his good friends in the force were all snappy dressers. When they went to a meeting in Albany, they’d try to out do each other wearing the nicest suit they owned.
McElligott’s shoulders sagged a bit now on his slim five foot eleven inch frame and his thick, wavy hair was peppered with gray, but he approached his job as vigorously as he had those first years. There was still passion in his belly.
As David McElligott drove to Ithaca on Route 79 from Binghamton he spoke