In the summer of 2009, John Connolly, chief of police in Manchester, was fired.
"Aldermen are mum on reason," said a headline in this newspaper. Getting fired is bad enough, but having it in the newspaper with a headline like that?
So yes, it was humiliating, but Connolly figured things would work out. There had been no allegations of impropriety. His management style bothered some officers — he had been hired from the outside — and he had gotten sideways with some of the aldermen, most notably because of his support for a proposal to require kids to wear helmets while riding bikes.
That proposal came up for a vote twice and lost both times. The second time, Connolly brought in a member of the county health department to argue for the proposal. But a majority of the aldermen felt that this was too much Big Government. "You may as well ban bicycles," said one longtime resident during the debate.
Given this background, Connolly was not stunned when he was fired. Bruised and humiliated, but not stunned.
He tried to be upbeat about it. He knew that whenever a person in public life gets fired, there will be rumors, but he figured any rumors would be put to rest when he got a new job. After all, no municipality would hire a new chief without thoroughly checking into his past.
Furthermore, he had a fine reputation in the local law enforcement community. He'd been a cop for 33 years. He had spent the majority of his career at Richmond Heights. He'd gone to Normandy as chief in 2000 and was hired by Manchester in 2006. He had a master's degree from University of Missouri-St. Louis and had attended the FBI National Academy.
He thought he'd have no problem finding another job in the criminal justice system. Maybe getting fired would be a good thing. That's what he told himself.
But weeks turned into months, and he couldn't find a job. He was 55. Was that too old for a new start? Or maybe it was the fact that he had been fired. Maybe he was damaged goods. Maybe it was the national economy. Maybe it was all of that.
He decided to lower his sights. He didn't need a top-tier job. He'd take anything related to law enforcement. Still, no luck.
Fortunately, he and his wife — she's a teacher — don't live extravagantly. Of course, there are still bills. His stepson is in high school. It's not like Connolly could just quit working.
Last month, just as his savings were running out, he was thumbing through a copy of the St. Louis Review, the weekly newspaper of the St. Louis Archdiocese.
Connolly is Roman Catholic. As a youngster, he wanted to be a priest. In fact, he attended St. Louis Prep South, a high school on the grounds of Kenrick Seminary. The high school fed its graduates into Cardinal Glennon College, which in turn funneled its graduates into the seminary.
He graduated from the high school, did two years at the college and then decided that he did not want to be a priest. He got a job as a police dispatcher and pretty soon had found a new calling.
He never lost his love of the church, but over the years, his attendance grew sporadic.
"If being Catholic were a crime, there would not be proof beyond a reasonable doubt to convict me," he said.
Still, he subscribes to the Review. He saw an ad for a job as a security guard at a nursing home on North Florissant Avenue run by the Little Sisters of the Poor.
He answered the ad and was invited for an interview. First, he was interviewed by a man. That went well. Then the Mother Superior interviewed him. Mother Chantal wore a full habit. She looked at his application and asked him why he had been fired at Manchester. She talked about the philosophy of her order. She was followed by Sister Maria Ann, the director of nursing. She too was completely professional.
Connolly attended grade school at Little Flower Catholic Church when half of the teachers were nuns. So nuns are authority figures to him. They are tough and nurturing. And more. They represent the church of his childhood, the church he loved.
He was offered the job and he took it.
The former police chief now spends much of his time sitting in a guard shack in the parking lot or at the desk in the main lobby. He works from 4 p.m. to midnight, four nights a week.
"This is a wonderful place and a wonderful job," he said. "It's brought my ego into check. You spend time here and you see what's important."
Nursing homes can be depressing places, but Connolly has been rejuvenated.
"This is like a halfway house between this life and the next. It's nice to be part of something like this," he said. "I feel very fortunate."
