Officer Down

   “No good deed ever goes unpunished.” Said by Mark Twain or Clare Boothe Luce or Somebody. 

     It started with a good deed.  The Goodwife’s club held a rummage sale twice a year.  Like a dog in the pasture, she always managed to drag home an antler or a bone or some other treasure discovered among the junk at the sale.

     This treasure was an email-only computer.  This time, the treasure wasn’t headed for burial in our over-crowded store room.  It was headed for a friend’s friend’s 80-year-old mother who wanted to email, but didn’t feel up to tackling a computer. 

     Perfect, and the price was right, one dollar.  It was brand new, had never been out of the box, donateded to the rummage sale by an indignant woman whose daughter-in-law had the temerity to suggest she learn to use email by giving her the machine as a Christmas present.        

     We set out one cold evening in March, headed to Denver to engage in a musical performance of some kind. We could deliver the cheap computer on our way. We left Kansas after school was out, wanted to get to Denver at a reasonable hour, and didn’t really have time to make a side trip to Hugo where the friend’s friend lived. 

     The Goodwife tried to contact the friend’s friend throughout the day to arrange a place to meet along the way.  Contact was not made until we were well on the way.  No, they couldn’t meet us anywhere, as it being Friday evening, they had other obligations.  But yes, she really wanted the machine.  Could we leave it in Limon with a good friend of hers?  Great!

     It turned out that the friend’s friend’s friend in Limon was the Chief of Police.  We pulled into the driveway, but no one was home.  After another call, we were instructed to “just leave it in the front door.  I’ll call and let them know it’s there.”  Also good enough for us.

     The Goodwife made a second trip to the front door, opened the storm door, propped the computer against the inside door and closed the storm door.  Back to the warm car she hurried.  Out of the driveway we backed and headed down the street. 

     We hadn’t gone a half a block before this car obviously in a hurry pulled right up behind us and followed too closely for another two blocks.  I turned right and the obnoxious headlights turned right behind me, still following much too close.  When I got to the road that would take us to the interstate, I determined to get out of his way.  I turned right and went clear over to the left lane, leaving the other car a clear path in to get around me in the right lane.

     The obnoxious one followed my exact trail, and then the red and blue lights flashed in my mirror.  I knew I was in for a lane violation, so rather than violate again by pulling back across the right lane, I signaled a left and pulled into the parking lot of a gas station convenience store.  The lights followed and parked right behind me.  I rolled down the window, but before the officer could get to my window, a guy across the lot came toward us and shouted, “When you get done there, can I talk to you?”  That request wouldn’t get me off the hook.

     The uniformed young man leaned down to the open window and explained that I had violated the lane changing procedure.  I had enough sense not to tell him why I had crossed lanes illegally.  He asked for my license, went back to his car for about five minutes, during which I began to figure out that the real reason I got stopped was because the cop saw me back out of the chief’s driveway.

    The officer returned handed me my license, said, “You know we have the same birthday?”  I said, “You were born on June 18?”

      “Sure was.  You play the guitar?” he asked as he flashed his flashlight beam across the bass leaning at an angle in the back seat. 

      “Well, that’s an upright electric bass, but yes, I can play the guitar, too.  You play?”

      “No, no,” he said.  “I wish I could but I can’t.  I guess I better go see what this guy wants.”  He turned his head and glanced in the direction of the person who had accosted him as he approached my car the first time.  He pulled a business card from his pocket and handed it to me. “Here’s my card.  You have a good evening.” He was gone before I could ask if he saw me pull out of the chief’s yard.

       That would be the end of the story, and it would only be a small blip in my chronology, a forgotten incident, which it nearly was, until one morning I turned on the radio and heard that a Limon policeman had been killed in the line of duty.

      Some days later, when the Limon paper arrived, I read all about it.  According to the newspaper story, three officers attempted to serve papers on a guy in a trailer house.  The subject of the warrant shot and killed Officer Jay Sheridan before killing himself.

     The officer’s obituary appeared in the same issue of the paper.  I saw that his birthdate was June 18.

     The memory of the cold March night came back.  What had been a sensational news story with local color became a little more personal.  I didn’t know the man, but I had met him, I knew of him.

    I struggle to explain to myself why a chance encounter should make any difference in my reaction to the tragic story.  But it does, somehow make a difference.  I’m not allowed to forget.

      Reminders of the tragedy appear yearly as the anniversary date of the crime comes around.  Recently, a flag that flies at the funerals of policemen and fire fighters killed in action made its way up I-70 on its way to a funeral in Denver.  It received a special escort through town in memory of Officer Sheridan.

      Strange how a forgettable incident evolved into a rather pointless story that I’m not allowed to forget.  All because the Goodwife did a good deed.