Post by SoulTrainOz on Jul 27, 2006 6:59:19 GMT -5
As I read the list of Fort Worth police officers who have died in the line of duty, 2 names jumped out at me.
One was an officer whose death I witnessed late one autumn night in 1971. The other was an officer whose killer I watched being executed in 1985.
Both officers' names are among the more than 80 that will appear on the proposed Fort Worth Police and Firefighters Memorial to be built on 5 acres in Trinity Park.
In 1971, I was the only reporter in the Star-Telegram newsroom one October night when the police radio blurted out something about multiple shots at a south-side nightclub. I was working late to finish up a story for the Sunday paper. The regular police reporter was covering another shooting on a freeway, so night city editor Doug Clarke asked me to go check out what was going on at the Electric Circus, a club in a shopping strip at South Riverside Drive and East Berry Street.
Dozens of police officers were there when I arrived before midnight.
Just as I walked up to a group of officers and asked "What happened?" a shot rang out, and I saw an officer fall to the ground, obviously mortally wounded.
For a split second -- while running for cover on the vast parking lot -- I realized that I could be a target either for the sniper or for the many officers with guns drawn who were ready to shoot and who might mistake me for the gunman. It remains my most frightening moment as a reporter.
After getting to a pay phone at a motel across the street, I called Doug and told him that a police officer had been shot and that I was sure he was dead.
"How do you know he's dead?" Doug asked.
After describing what I had seen, including the massive head wound, Doug was convinced.
It was one of the few times in my journalism career that the presses were stopped. The news of the officer Edward M. Belcher's death made the morning paper.
His name is imprinted in my memory.
Originally, investigators thought the sniper was on the roof of the club, but a rifle was found later in a field more than 200 yards away.
A teenager, David Lee Nelson, was convicted and sentenced to death. His sentence was commuted to life in prison when the U.S. Supreme Court suspended executions. Nelson eventually was paroled.
Several years later, when I first got to know Henry Martinez Porter, who had been convicted of killing a police officer, I didn't recall the case at all. I had to go back and look it up in the files.
Porter, a drug addict from San Antonio who had robbed to support his habit, was stopped in Fort Worth on Nov. 29, 1975, by officer Henry P. Mailloux. When backup officer David Malone arrived at the scene, Mailloux was lying in the street, shot in the chest.
Malone "lifted Mailloux into his patrol unit and took him to John Peter Smith Hospital, where he died minutes later," said Fort Worth police Sgt. Kevin Foster, research director for the memorial project.
Although this is difficult for some people to understand, Mailloux's
killer and I became friends.
Porter began writing to me while he was in the Tarrant County Jail and later from death row. I made several visits to see him, and I told his story on public television more than once.
When it came time for him to die, Porter didn't want his family there but asked if I would be with him. I could not turn him down.
Watching him on the gurney with the needle in his arm that Tuesday night -- actually early Wednesday morning -- is one of the most painful memories of my life.
That Thursday, at the request of his brother, I went to Porter's funeral in San Antonio.
Anyone who knows me knows that I'm against the death penalty regardless of the crime or victim. But my opposition to capital punishment doesn't take away from the heroism of public servants who give their lives to protect our community.
Foster has compiled the stories of all the officers and firefighters whose names will appear on the memorial. I'll share a few more in Friday's column. Also, I'll tell you how you can help to immortalize our community's heroes.
(source: Column, Bob Ray Sanders, Fort Worth Star-Telegram)
One was an officer whose death I witnessed late one autumn night in 1971. The other was an officer whose killer I watched being executed in 1985.
Both officers' names are among the more than 80 that will appear on the proposed Fort Worth Police and Firefighters Memorial to be built on 5 acres in Trinity Park.
In 1971, I was the only reporter in the Star-Telegram newsroom one October night when the police radio blurted out something about multiple shots at a south-side nightclub. I was working late to finish up a story for the Sunday paper. The regular police reporter was covering another shooting on a freeway, so night city editor Doug Clarke asked me to go check out what was going on at the Electric Circus, a club in a shopping strip at South Riverside Drive and East Berry Street.
Dozens of police officers were there when I arrived before midnight.
Just as I walked up to a group of officers and asked "What happened?" a shot rang out, and I saw an officer fall to the ground, obviously mortally wounded.
For a split second -- while running for cover on the vast parking lot -- I realized that I could be a target either for the sniper or for the many officers with guns drawn who were ready to shoot and who might mistake me for the gunman. It remains my most frightening moment as a reporter.
After getting to a pay phone at a motel across the street, I called Doug and told him that a police officer had been shot and that I was sure he was dead.
"How do you know he's dead?" Doug asked.
After describing what I had seen, including the massive head wound, Doug was convinced.
It was one of the few times in my journalism career that the presses were stopped. The news of the officer Edward M. Belcher's death made the morning paper.
His name is imprinted in my memory.
Originally, investigators thought the sniper was on the roof of the club, but a rifle was found later in a field more than 200 yards away.
A teenager, David Lee Nelson, was convicted and sentenced to death. His sentence was commuted to life in prison when the U.S. Supreme Court suspended executions. Nelson eventually was paroled.
Several years later, when I first got to know Henry Martinez Porter, who had been convicted of killing a police officer, I didn't recall the case at all. I had to go back and look it up in the files.
Porter, a drug addict from San Antonio who had robbed to support his habit, was stopped in Fort Worth on Nov. 29, 1975, by officer Henry P. Mailloux. When backup officer David Malone arrived at the scene, Mailloux was lying in the street, shot in the chest.
Malone "lifted Mailloux into his patrol unit and took him to John Peter Smith Hospital, where he died minutes later," said Fort Worth police Sgt. Kevin Foster, research director for the memorial project.
Although this is difficult for some people to understand, Mailloux's
killer and I became friends.
Porter began writing to me while he was in the Tarrant County Jail and later from death row. I made several visits to see him, and I told his story on public television more than once.
When it came time for him to die, Porter didn't want his family there but asked if I would be with him. I could not turn him down.
Watching him on the gurney with the needle in his arm that Tuesday night -- actually early Wednesday morning -- is one of the most painful memories of my life.
That Thursday, at the request of his brother, I went to Porter's funeral in San Antonio.
Anyone who knows me knows that I'm against the death penalty regardless of the crime or victim. But my opposition to capital punishment doesn't take away from the heroism of public servants who give their lives to protect our community.
Foster has compiled the stories of all the officers and firefighters whose names will appear on the memorial. I'll share a few more in Friday's column. Also, I'll tell you how you can help to immortalize our community's heroes.
(source: Column, Bob Ray Sanders, Fort Worth Star-Telegram)