In D.C., remembering 4 fallen Phila. officers

WASHINGTON - An enormous American flag snapped sharply against a cold, overcast sky as two engravers knelt yesterday before a low curved wall to etch the names of four slain Philadelphia police officers into the National Law Enforcement Officers Memorial.

Huddled under a blue and white canopy behind the workers, the officers' families and friends watched as the two men aimed a long, hoselike contraption - a special dustless sandblaster - at the stenciled names: Stephen Liczbinski, Patrick McDonald, Timothy Simpson, Isabel Nazario. When the work was finished a half-hour later, they brushed off the drifts of powdery residue to reveal, in knife-edged precision, a permanent acknowledgment of sorrow and sacrifice.

"It's not just a job to us," said Kirk Bockman. "It's a service and an extreme honor to do this for the survivors." Bockman and his partner, Jim Lee, work for a Denver-based company, Engravewrite. They have etched every one of the 18,661 names on the memorial that opened here in 1991 on a patch of federal parkland across from the National Building Museum. They have also added about 200 names to the Vietnam Veterans Memorial.

The Philadelphia families met early yesterday morning for coffee and pastries at the FOP headquarters on Spring Garden Street. The 74 family members and fellow officers of the slain police officers then boarded two comfortable buses and were dropped off at the memorial site shortly after noon.

In his brief remarks, Police Commissioner Charles Ramsey said that the memorial offers a measure of immortalityto those it honors. "Their names will be here forever," he said, then offering his blessings to each of the four officers' families, he said, "God bless all of you and may he keep you in the palm of his hand."

The officers' families – sisters, mothers, sons, daughters and Liczbinski's 11-month-old grandson, who was born shortly after the sergeant was killed – consoled one another. Several spoke of their mixed feelings attending what sometimes seems like an endless string of events honoring their lost loved ones.

The comfort that comes from knowing that their loved ones have not been forgotten is almost always accompanied by the pain of reopened wounds. And emotions are running particularly high now. Not only is it the first anniversary of Liczbinski's death, but the pace of events is picking up because National Police Week begins May 10.

"He deserves every honor that's being bestowed upon him," said Larry McDonald, the white-haired father of Patrick McDonald.

"But this is not a birthday party we're here for," McDonald said, explaining that as much as he appreciates that his son is being honored, all the ceremonies are emotionally crushing. "It's killing," he said. "It's ripping your insides out."

But he does it for his son. "He did his job and now, I have to do mine," McDonald said.

Every year, these ceremonies are held at the engraving, in part to make the official unveiling less shocking, said Craig Floyd, chairman and chief executive officer of the National Law Enforcement Officers Memorial Fund. He thanked the survivors for attending, even though it was a "bittersweet" occasion, and invited them to return in two weeks for the next ceremony, which includes a candlelight vigil.

The police memorial, a horseshoe-shaped wall guarded by bronze lions, commemorates officers who died in the line of service as far back as 1792. Last year, Floyd said, 387 names were added. And while police deaths were down nationally in 2008, he said, Philadelphia that year lost more officers than any other U.S. law enforcement agency.

Since the first killing in 1828, Floyd said, Philadelphia's police force has lost 251 officers, the third most, behind New York City and Chicago.

When the etchings were completed, family members were invited to make impressions of the names by placing thin strips of paper over the stone and rubbing them with a bar of charcoal. Some, like Liczbinski's 17-year-old daughter, Amber, handled the task with stoicism, as her mother broke down beside her. Nazario's mother, Pat Santiago, collapsed against the shoulder of one of her daughter's fellow officers as her other daughter, Mimi Mohamad, made the rubbing, crying quietly.

Later, Mohamad said, "the ceremony was beautiful, touching."

"This one was a little different because it was at a historical site. They do all this recognition now that they're dead," she said. Then, wistfully, confessed "but sometimes you just wish they were recognized when they were alive."

Family members said they were grateful to the FOP for taking great care of the police officers' survivors - from checking in to see how they are doing to handing them tissues when they break down at events such as this.

Simpson's mother, Theresa, and his wife, Kathy, could not bear to take the charcoal in hand, so they were assisted by another member of their family, while fellow officers stepped in to console the women.

McDonald, surrounded by a clutch of fellow Vietnam veterans whom he called "The Dirty Dozen," all wearing black memorial T-shirts that read "Rest in peace, soldier" on the back, knelt on one knee, tipping his head so close to the wall that the tip of his baseball cap nearly touched the stone.

He finished making the rubbing, slowly stood up, kissed his fingers and then touched his son's name again and again and again, before turning away in tears.