Annette John-Hall | What about all the others?

"I heard them saying, 'We're going to find this man . . . We're not going to rest . . . $150,000 reward money . . . ' I only wish my son's life meant as much to someone other than me," she said. "Why can't they look for all criminals the same?"

For as much pain as Bivines felt for the slain police officer and his family, as much as she hoped the killer would be caught, her heart broke all over again for her own son, Ivan Simmons. It's been almost a year since the 17-year-old was gunned down in Nicetown, and his killer hasn't been found yet.

She tries to check in with detectives once a month, because she's lost faith that they might give her a courtesy call. It might be a lack of manpower, or too many murders to keep track of, or uncooperative witnesses, or detectives desensitized to her pain.

Every time, she's told the same thing: "No leads. No witnesses. No one's talking."

Yet police tell her to be patient. They reassure her that there's no statute of limitations on murder.

Not much a comfort. There's also no statute of limitations on her grief.

"It's almost like you're the victim twice," she says.

We all know there are too many victims. To date, 259 officers in the city have been killed in the line of duty, that since 1828. Just this year alone in Philly, 348 people have been murdered - 43 percent of those cases still unsolved.

It's no secret that most homicide victims are African American males, in many cases, poor and struggling.

In other words, invisible.

Nobody's naive enough to think the police have the manpower to deploy a full army of helicopters and dragnets for every homicide. You'd need to double the police force just to do half the work investigators put in to find Cassidy's killer.

Still, you can't help but wish that every victim would get the same urgent response - black or white, rich or poor, in or out of uniform.

It's been eight months, and the person who shot and killed Gregory "Mustafa" Lucas, 37, an Army vet fighting the demons of addiction, still hasn't been captured. Detectives have told his family that leads have dried up, says his sister, Shanda Lucas. A "cold case," is how they've described it.

But Shanda believes the "undignified" way in which the police have handled her brother's case demonstrates an overall lack of concern. "I feel like they're ranking people by importance."

Shanda says it was surreal to realize the city's 97th homicide - an unidentified black male whom she had already read about in the newspaper - was her own brother. Surreal because police didn't notify her family until two whole days after his shooting.

"Of course, if he were more prominent, we would have been notified right away," she theorizes.

Though she tries not to, Shanda can't shake the feeling that in death, Greg - whom she lovingly remembers as the guy who demanded attention whenever he walked into the room - was tossed aside like a bag of recyclables.

"It definitely makes me feel like my brother was unimportant," she says. "He didn't have the best life, but he had a family that loved him, that supported him.

"What makes one life more important than another?"

It's understandable and expected that whenever an officer is killed, public passion and grief is all-consuming.

And especially when surveillance video is played over and over to remind us of that horrific moment.

But police officers know that danger is part of the job description and that just putting on a uniform doesn't make them a hero. That's not what they strive for.

And the one wish they all share is that they don't end up canonized in a big, ritualistic funeral fit for a head of state, with hundreds of their fellow officers saluting and bagpipes playing. That can only mean one thing.

Officer Cassidy - husband, father, cop - took seriously his oath to protect and serve. He would have hated all the fanfare, one of his relatives said. Somehow you knew that.

A real tribute is simple, really.

The most meaningful way for his fellow officers and for grieving citizens to honor his memory - and that of others who have been slain - is to help arrest and convict their killers.

Until then, Kisha Bivines waits.

"I often remind myself that I'm not the only one, because there are a lot of unsolved murders," she says. "I just ask God to give me the grace to bear it, because I might not ever find out. You pray for justice but you pray for peace of mind, too, regardless of the outcome."

And while she waits and prays, her son's killer continues to roam a street near you.

To read her recent work: http://go.philly.com/annette.