A day of reflection

43 years ago today, a 13 year-old boy lost his father to a criminal's pistol shot. I was that boy. Every year on this day I have to stop and think about it all, and this blog will be about those reflections.

A little background for those of you who don't know or remember the story is in order.

My father, Frank Soukup, was in his 10th year of service with the Lincoln, Nebraska Police Department. He had advanced through the ranks to the rank of Detective Sergeant through 10 years of walking beats, graveyard shifts and putting his life on the line for all of us.

He was the first officer on the scene at the home of Carol Ann Fugate, Charles Starkweather's girlfriend. Little did he know that her parents were dead and hidden in the chicken coop behind the house, or that Charlie was waiting inside the house. That encounter ended safely for him, thank God; but not the one on the night of December 16, 1966. On that day, he was another first; the first officer killed in the line of duty for the Lincoln Police Department.

A check forging ring had been operating in Lincoln for a couple of weeks, and the officers received a tip to visit a local motel. My dad, his partner and another detective knocked on the door of the unit where they had been sent.

After being allowed in, they found 3 males and some females also. While questioning the occupants one of the other officers instructed the man laying on the bed to get his hand out from under the pillow he was laying on. The man did, brandisihing a weapon which he fired. The bullet struck my father's aorta. One of the other men rushed past my father and towards the bathroom. My dad's last official act was to draw and fire his revolver, fatally wounding the fleeing man. The other two officers also drew their weapons and saved the taxpayers a large sum of money by killing the man who had slain my father.

Later, interrogations revealed that the one who ended my father's life was an escaped convict who had vowed that he would never go back to prison. He got his wish, but took away one of the finest men on the face of the earth.

All of his life my father had helped those in need. Although his salary was small, he was more than willing to give until it hurt wherever it would do some good. A testament to that fact was the outpouring of donations to a fund to help see my mother and I through the tough times to follow. Nickels and dimes from people who probably didn't have a whole dollar to their names, but who had been aided by Dad. There was no big insurance policy, no huge settlement with the city. But, the good people of our town saw us through.

All these years later I still remember an officer coming by and saying that Dad had been wounded and was rushed to the hospital. He took my mother to be with him, but there was no hope. I was awoken very early in the morning to find my 2 brothers and mother in my room. The younger of the two said the words that will be with me until I shuffle off this mortal coil; "Daddy won't be coming home".

A thirteen year-old is not capable of understanding such things, and I'm not sure that I do now. Why would anyone kill him? He helped anybody and everybody he ever came into contact with; criminal and victim alike. This wonderful man was gone forever, taken away from the family who loved him. And why? Because he was doing his duty.

A friend e-mailed me a story about the funerals for the 4 fallen officers from Lakewood, detailing their funerals. Over 20,000 people were on hand for either the procession or funeral, or both. That included officers from all over the country and even Canadian Mounted Police. That too brought back a flood of memories. After the funeral, a scrapbook was made up by the local newspaper with photos of my father's funeral. One picture shows the casket being brought into the church flanked by officers on both sides. Another is of the procession that took my dad from Lincoln to his final resting place 62 miles away. That procession was over a mile long, filled with cruisers as far as the eye could see.

I remember kissing my father good-bye for the last time. I recall the 21-gun salute as he was laid to rest. I recall the wonderful lunch provided by the local ladies, and going to the bar to toast his life. Memories come flooding home every year on this day, even 43 years later.

But the strongest of them is the wondering. Why did this have to happen? What drives people to do such horrendous things? What would my father think of what I've become? Would he approve of the way I turned out? How can I possibly be more like him? How can I help out more; reach out to those in need?

I only wish my wife and sons could have known him; and my neice and nephew also. I wish that he were here now, to pull some silly joke on them so that they could see that side of him. He was a good father and a good husband; but most of all he was my father. And we all miss him more than words can convey.