Colorado Springs – When Jamie Parker learned of Jared Jensen’s death nearly 250 miles away from Montrose, where she works as a patrol officer, she did what hundreds of other peace officers and emergency workers did Monday.
She hit the highway.
“We go to great lengths to share respect and honor,” Parker said as she stood in the parking lot of New Life Church.
And great distances. Around her, hundreds of others lined up in preparation for the funeral for Jensen, a Colorado Springs officer shot to death last week. Nearby, their police cruisers and emergency vehicles sat bumper-to-bumper, with the jurisdictions emblazoned on the sides offering a roll call of the Rocky Mountain West.
Officers from Cheyenne to Albuquerque, from Grand Junction to Brush, made the journey in what has become a traditional send-off for slain officers. But the massive show of support also illustrates how a death hundreds of miles away bumps uncomfortably against the lives of anyone in the same line of work.
When word of Jensen’s death spread across the region, men and women in uniform found themselves in sometimes awkward conversations with spouses, children or other relatives – giving voice yet again to the worry that always lurks quietly until jarred to the surface by a sudden news report.
For some, this death marked only the latest that they’ve had to reconcile with family members’ concerns.
Last summer, Richard Ryan of the Albuquerque police sat down with his 6-year-old son after two local officers were killed on the same call.
“I explained to him how danger is part of the job, and sometimes the bad guys hurt police officers,” said Ryan.
Monday morning, he slid behind the wheel of his cruiser and began the five-hour drive north, alone with the chatter of his radio and thoughts about what can go wrong, even with the right training and a cool head.
Detective John Basile rode south from Cheyenne. He’d spoken with his wife about Jensen’s death. From the time Basile began police work 13 years ago in Texas, she has understood the sometimes dicey dynamics of the job – she did a ride-along with her husband to get a feel for what he goes through.
“Looking back, she’d never do it again,” Basile said. “But it was important to her to see. Now she understands.”
Basile and his wife kept the news of the Colorado Springs tragedy from their three daughters, ages 9, 7 and 5.
“It’s nothing they need to be burdened with,” he said.
For Parker, the Montrose officer, words often fail when she faces the concerns of her family. And so they deal with the issue in another way.
“Silence,” she says. “Just silence. I haven’t found what you can say to ease their minds. There’s nothing you can say to take away that worry.”
Jeff Thomason, who worked nearly 10 years as a Lakewood officer before finding his way to the force in Silverthorne, hasn’t missed a funeral for a Colorado officer killed in the line of duty since 1994.
“Every one affects me,” he said. “It affects every guy that wears blue. Because you know it could easily happen in your neck of the woods.”
And so they came – mostly blue-clad ranks with the lights flashing silently atop their cruisers.
“There’s no borders,” said Mike Tracey, an officer with the Aspen police, as he prepared to join the procession leaving the church. “There’s no place that’s too far to go.”
Staff writer Kevin Simpson can be reached at 303-820-1739 or ksimpson@denverpost.com.
