Death. It's been a part of my life as long as I can remember. Cops see more death and dismemberment than most people could ever be expected to tolerate, let alone handle. Sometimes death kinda sneaks up on you and smacks you in the back of the head. March 4, 1997, was a day like that. I was starting the first day of my two relief days lying in bed, watching the sunset outside and listening to the radio. My phone rang. The dispatcher began rattling off information. "Rick went down while running on the track … Gibby and Don started CPR …He's at Medina Community, AirLife's en route…You need to hurry if you're gonna see him before they take him to San Antonio."
"Rick" was Sergeant Rick Taylor, our DARE officer and the answer to our prayers. Rick was training for the FBI National Police Chiefs Academy. He wanted to be our chief and, more important, we wanted him as our chief. Rick as chief would be considered a community policing dream. I've never met anyone who didn't like Rick. Not only did Rick know community policing, he practiced what he preached, and was loved by all because of it. I grabbed some blue jeans and threw myself into my Ford Bronco. I drove way too fast for the road conditions. It's about ten miles from my house to the Medina Community Hospital; it might as well have been a hundred. Time-to-think …can suck, to put it mildly. As I drove, I kept thinking about would-a, could-a, should-a. If I got up when I should have, I'd have been there exercising with Rick when he went down. I would have been there …I don't suggest using "would-a, could-a, should-a" in your daily life; you'll never get out of bed.
As I zipped through the parking lot, I saw the blue LZ lights blink off. I came to a grinding stop and jumped from the Bronco. One of the day-shift guys, Greg came up to me. "He's gone, Mo," Greg grunted through a sob.
No, this can't be happening.I saw Gibby and Don sitting on a curb, crying, with several people trying to console them. The hurt in their eyes burned deep in my stomach. We hugged and held each other and cried. We cried. As each additional officer arrived, we experienced the pain again and again.
The death of an officer deeply wounds each and every department that loses that good man or woman. When your department numbers thirteen souls, the hurt is that much more personal for the officers. It also means there aren't other divisions to fill the gap as you mourn. I distinctly remember how infuriated the officers were when the Chief spoke to the local newspaper on our behalf. He implored the townspeople to bear with the officers during this trying time. He said they need to understand why we might have short tempers. We were very insulted. We're professionals; we could handle it.
Or so we thought.
I was working second shift, two p.m. to ten p.m., and the night was going well. We'd had few calls. Most of our issues had been with each other and not the general public. Rick's funeral was tomorrow and our tempers were short. We had no one to take out our grief and anger on but each other. I got dispatched to a keep-the-peace call. This type of call can usually be pretty mundane and is often very boring. We're not supposed to give them more than fifteen minutes.
The woman came rushing outside. I copied down her identification just in case something happened while I was there. "Wow, she's only twenty and she has three kids. Poor Momma." She was leaving her boyfriend. "Again," I thought to myself.
"I just need to just get my clothes, some of my stuff, my kids' clothes and their toys," she yelled as she ran back toward the house.
"I can only stay for about fifteen minutes," I called after her. "817 … 811" My handheld radio crackled to life. "811, go," I answered.
"You gonna finish anytime soon?" The sarcasm in his voice made me angry, and he continued to tap-dance on the land mine. "I would like to take my lunch before all the restaurants close." I looked at my watch. Six twenty-eight p.m. Restaurants didn't close for hours. What he was really saying was, "I don't want to take any calls, and the longer you stay out with the bull shit call, the greater chance I'll have to work."
Momma was racing furiously back and forth between house and minivan, shoving things into every empty crevice.
"Ma'am, we need to get a wrap-up on this. I've been here for over twenty-two minutes." Hello, I'm bored… Can't you see that? Momma pushed her hair back from her face and quietly said, "I'm just trying make sure I get the kids' stuff."
"Alright, just hurry."
Momma returned to her frantic pace.
Excuse me, sir." A young man about twelve years old walked out of the tree line.
"Yeah?" I answered.
"I just had a question," he timidly asked.
"What's that?" This should help to pass the time.–"Are you a friend of Mr. Rick?" Aw, crap. Not one of the usual questions we got from kids. "Do you shoot people? …Have you killed people? …Do you drive fast? …Why do you hate my daddy?" Those were easy compared to "Are you a friend of Mr. Rick?"
I felt my temperature rise and my spine tingle. Somehow I kept the tears from crashing over my eyelids. My head ached and my stomach turned. "Yeah, Rick was a friend of mine," I whispered as I tried to clear this huge lump from my throat.
He pretended not to notice the tears welling up into my eyelashes. "I just wanted to say I'm sorry. We loved him so much and we miss him a lot. So, you must miss a lot, too."
Just as quickly as he arrived he was gone. I cupped my hands over my face trying to regain my composure. I began laughing. I laughed until I cried, and then I did both at the same time.
I dried my tears and looked up to the sky. I walked back to the minivan. Momma was even more flustered than before. "I'm hurrying, I swear," she called out quickly.
"Stop. Look at me," I told her as I touched her elbow. "Make sure you get all the clothes and toys for your kids, OK?"
She quietly nodded and returned to the house. Lunch was going to wait a little while longer.
I looked up at the sky and said, "I hear ya, Rick."
Mike "Momo" Martinez's service includes twelve years with the Hondo, Texas PD.