When a Los Angeles police officer has been killed in the line of duty in recent years, his absence has been symbolized by a riderless horse in the funeral procession.

At the funeral of Officer Charles D. Heim, the horse was absent as law enforcement personnel gathered to say farewell to the 11-year veteran who was gunned down October 22, 1994. For it was Heim whose duty it had been to lead the horse.

The 33-year-old Heim, on temporary assignment to the LAPD’s Hollywood Division, was shot when he and his partner, Officer Felix F. Pena, acted on a tip given to them during a traffic stop. Someone was dealing drugs from a motel room in the same block.

They knocked on a door at the Dunes Motel, and the suspect’s girlfriend opened it, department sources said. When Heim stepped into the doorway, he was shot twice in the upper body and Pena was wounded in one hand. “There weren’t even words exchanged,” said one officer familiar with the shooting. “The guy just opened fire.” Heim died a few hours later Pena was treated for his wound and released.

SWAT officers were called to the shooting scene. A 26-year-old gang member, Manuel Vargas Perez, was wounded by a police rifle shot during the standoff and died from a self-inflicted gunshot to his head.

Heim’s wife Beth, also an LAPD officer, said a friend, Officer Michelle Botello, called to say two unidentified officers had been hit. “I knew immediately it was him,” said the widow, pregnant with the couple’s first child. “I don’t know why. I just knew.”

The slain officer also leaves a 12-year-old son, Charles Heim II, who lives with Heim’s ex-wife in Kernville.

Throughout the department, colleagues remembered Heim as an outstanding officer who had yearned to work in the LAPD’s mounted unit from the day he first heard about it.

“There was no finer officer,” said Lieutenant Mike Hillman of the Metropolitan Division.

Few crises tested the mounted unit, or the department, more than the riots that erupted after four Los Angeles officers were found not guilty in the beating of Rodney G. King. The slain officer’s colleagues said they relied on him in those frightening and sleepless days. “We went days without rest,” said Sgt. Kirk Smith, Heim’s longtime supervisor. “One of the things that kept the unit going was Clark. He just hammered out one-liners, one after the other. It got so that people were just waiting for the next one.

Few things gave Heim deeper satisfaction than the solemn role he played in the funerals of fellow police officers. In 1989, the military custom of a riderless horse, empty boots reversed in the stirrups to honor a fallen officer, was introduced into police funerals.

Heim’s parents, Paula and James Heim of Santa Clarita, said their son had wanted to become a police officer ever since catching a thief during his senior year at Canyon High School.

Heim was remembered as a meticulous and aggressive policeman, a caring father and husband, a prankster, a horse lover, a cowboy and an embellisher of stories. “Many of you have asked me not to forget to say he was just an ordinary cowboy,” LAPD chaplain Richard Bargas told the crowd of 4,800 gathered at the funeral. “No frills, no lace, just a good guy.”

As the chaplain finished his remarks, the air was filled with the strains of a Willie Nelson singing “Mama, Don’t Let Your Babies Grow Up To Be Cowboys.”

The Los Angeles Police Protective League set up a trust fund for Heim’s family. Donations can be sent to the Officer Charles Heim Fund, c/o Getzoff Accounting, 16255 Ventura Blvd., Suite 525, Encino, CA 91436.

Officer Richard Maxwell fired all 12 bullets from his handgun during the gun battle that erupted after he stopped a stolen car on July 11, 1994.

The shotgun blast which struck him above the neck-line of his bulletproof vest made Maxwell the first homicide victim in the California Highway Patrol Bakersfield Division, said division Commander John Anderson.

Maxwell, a five-year CHP veteran, died at a hospital about 45 minutes after the shooting. Maxwell stopped a stolen car in a residential area, said Corporal Dave Carr, CHP watch commander. “He requested backup. When the backup officer got there, he called in, ‘Shots fired. Officer down. Need an ambulance,”‘ Maxwell was a tenacious tracer of stolen cars, earning a commendation pin for his success at catching car thieves. “Sometimes he looked a little too hard, I think, and that’s probably what happened,” Carr said. “At briefing he talked about finding a vehicle that had run from him.”

Fatal shootings involving CHP officers are rare. Since 1929, 10 CHP officers based out of the Bakersfield office have been killed while on duty. Maxwell was the first to be fatally shot.

Friends and family remembered Maxwell as an athletic man who outgrew his shyness as a boy, but never left behind the affability, good manners and compassion that went along with it.

Born in Portage, Wisconsin, Maxwell graduated from Portage Senior High School, where he set a school high-jump record. A devout member of the Assembly of God Church, he went to Evangel College in Missouri and graduated in 1982.

Maxwell earned a teaching credential, moved to California and taught a few years. But he found his true calling in law enforcement and attended the CHP Academy in Sacramento.

“He was really excited about it, really into it,” said his father, William Maxwell. “He was quiet and unassuming,” Officer Gary Sheetz said. “He was our buddy; cheerful all the time.”

Laurie Pauley, Maxwell’s next door neighbor recalled an incident about a year ago when Maxwell heard noises near her house about 10 p.m. “He came over with his big flashlight to see if we were OK,” Pauley said. “He was always watching out for us.”

Despite his commitment to his job, Maxwell always took time to be with his family. He adored his daughter. He also liked athletics and tinkering with the engine on his Dodge truck.

CHP Officer Doug Brewer described Maxwell as a quiet man. “He was one of those listeners,” Brewer said. “The good Lord needed him more than we did.”

One of Maxwell’s biggest admirers paid her respects in her own way. Fawn Finney and her two daughters owe their lives to Maxwell’s quick action following a traffic accident in 1991. Finney and her then 5-week-old and 2-year-old daughters were sideswiped by a big rig on Highway 99, Karlie, the newborn, was thrown from the car Fawn slammed into the front windshield, and her other daughter was wedged in the car.

Maxwell rescued the family, called for an ambulance and radioed ahead to have the truck driver arrested. After the accident, Finney frequently delivered balloons, cards and flowers to the CHP station to thank Maxwell. On the day he was killed, she delivered flowers to officers still shaken by their comrade’s death.

Maxwell is survived by his wife, Freda Marlene, and daughter, Megan, 8, of Bakersfield; his father, William, and mother, Joan, of Portage, Wisconsin; a sister in Deerfield and a brother in Brazil.

An account for Maxwell’s wife and daughter was established by the CHP 420 Club, an officers club in the Bakersfield area. Contributions can be made to Paramount Savings Bank, 8200 Stockdale Highway, Bakersfield, CA 93311.

Officer Miguel Soto of the Oakland Police Department was gunned down June 22, 1994, in a northwest Oakland neighborhood.

A veteran police officer, Soto, who risked gunfire to arrest a robber seven years ago and planned to retire in a few months, was fatally shot outside his patrol car.

Soto, 43, a 22-year veteran who had six children, was the 42nd Oakland officer to die in the line of duty. The department and the Oakland Police Officers Association established a $10,000 reward for information leading to the killer’s arrest.

Investigators said they didn’t know what kind of call Soto was on but said the neighborhood was known for heavy prostitution activity and violent drug gangs.

A motorist saw an unconscious Soto lying on the pavement behind his patrol car, which still had its engine and lights on, at 2:30 a.m. The motorist used the officer’s car radio to call for help.

Soto, who was wearing a protective vest and whose gun was still in its holster, had been shot at least twice. He died at Highland Hospital at 2:53 a.m.

Because of the way Soto’s car was parked, it was “consistent with a walking stop as opposed to a vehicle stop.” Normally, officers notify communication dispatchers when they make such stops, but, perhaps because the shooting happened instantaneously, he did not radio in.

Soto, who used to work at the police academy where he trained hundreds of officers, including some who were among the first to respond to where he was found shot, was an extremely popular officer. He was also a highly capable evidence technician, having received several commendations from district attorneys and investigators.

His death hit especially hard, coming less than seven months after the fatal shooting of Officer Bill Grijalva, murdered by an irate dog owner.

Soto had told other officers he hoped to retire by the end of the year so he could devote his time to his wife Janet, his children and his family-owned construction business.

Soto received the Medal of Valor, the department’s highest bravery commendation, for his actions June 4, 1987, while he was off-duty and unarmed. He saw a teenager snatch a woman’s purse and started chasing the robber. The robber fired several shots at Soto, who, with the help of a citizen, was able to capture and disarm the suspect.

Soto was born in Oakland and graduated from St. Elizabeth High School in 1969. He became a police officer in 1972 and received a bachelor’s degree in criminal justice administration from California State University at Hayward in 1989.

Fellow officers described him as an extremely knowledgeable cop who dedicated his life to the Oakland Police Department. “It seemed like he lived here sometimes,” said Sgt. Patrick Haw, a police academy coordinator. “He was a real go-getter who just ate up anything that was physically demanding.”

Captain Larry Rodriguez said Soto’s death would have an impact on all police officers, especially the veteran officers who have known him a long time. “It makes you think that if it can happen to a veteran officer like Mike Soto, it could happen to me.

A trust fund was established for Soto’s wife Janet and their six children. Contributions may be sent to: Miguel Soto, Oakland POA, 717 Washington St., Oakland, CA 94607.

A jury convicted Raymond Scott of first-degree murder in the 1994 shooting death of Soto. The jury has decided that he will spend the rest of his life in prison.

William “Bill” Lehn was devoted to his community and his profession – and to motorcycles. He loved motorcycles and had always wanted to be a motorcycle officer.

That’s what some of his friends recalled the day after Lehn was killed, June 21, 1994, when his Fresno police motorcycle collided with a car while he was attempting to make a traffic stop.

Lehn was in pursuit with his lights flashing and siren on when a car pulled out in front of him. His motorcycle crashed into the Toyota Camry near the rear of the driver’s side door. The driver, who was not injured, was questioned and released. The vehicle Lehn was chasing was later found abandoned. It had been stolen.

“It was Bill’s dream to work motorcycles,” said Jerry Costner, another Kings County sheriff’s deputy. “That was part of the reason he went to Fresno P.D. He was an excellent officer. Very nice, very gentle, unless you riled him up. He was a joy to work with,” Costner said.

Lehn began his career in law enforcement in 1979 when he joined the City of San Joaquin Police Department as a reserve officer. In 1980 he was hired by the Kings County Sheriff’s Department where he was a deputy until he was hired by the Fresno Police Department in 1986. In August 1991 he was assigned to Traffic Bureau, working traffic on a motorcycle.

Lehn, 38, was born in Hanford and raised in Lemoore, graduating in 1974 from Lemoore High School, where he was active in student government and a member of the baseball and basketball teams.

“He was just a great kid,” Fred Mahoney, his former high school basketball coach, recalled. “He was the type of player all coaches would like to coach.”

Richard Coxsey, Lehn’s high school chemistry teacher, remembered his former student. “He was so pleasant and cooperative and with a great sense of humor.”

Lehn worked as a reserve officer for the San Joaquin Police Department from September to December 1977, when the department disbanded. The Kings County Sheriff’s Department helped put him through the police academy, and he went to work for the department on July 24, 1980.

Lieutenant John Estes, a sheriff’s patrol sergeant at the time, said Lehn was the type of officer every supervisor would have been happy to have. “You never heard anyone say anything bad about him,” Estes said. “He was a pleasure to know and to work with.”

“Everybody liked him,” Tim McFadden, a Fresno police sergeant, said. “Really, there is no other way to describe him; he was a nice guy. You asked him to do something and he would do it.”

Sergeant Mitch Gerking said he kidded Lehn for years for riding Kawasakis instead of “real” motorcycles. As his eulogy was ending, Gerking looked down at the casket, saying, “To my friend, Bill, rest in peace with the knowledge that we will take care of your family.” Then he added, “I can no longer call you ‘scooter jockey’ because where you’re going they all ride Harleys.”

Lehn is survived by his wife, Tina, of Fresno; three daughters, Christina, 16, Valerie, 14, and Melissa, 11, all of Hanford; a stepson, Robert Gretsch, 7, of Fresno; and his mother, Evelyn. Remembrances may be sent to Officer William “Bill” Lehn Memorial Fund, 994 N. Van Ness, Fresno, CA 93728.

The sky was gray the day of Theodore Brassinga’s funeral, but the farewell by nearly 1,000 family members, friends and fellow police officers was brightened by shared memories.

“When you’re the best, your star will always shine,” Palo Alto police Sergeant Larry Peterson wrote to Brassinga’s 14-month-old son Andrew in a letter read during services at Our Lady of Mount Carmel Church in Redwood City.

Brassinga, 33, a Palo Alto reserve officer since1993, died May 15, 1994, in a training exercise accident. A salesman for a San Leandro moving company and a police academy graduate, the Redwood City resident was about to become a full-time officer.

The exercise was based on a scenario of a terrorist taking hostages, and Brassinga played the part of the terrorist. He was shot in the abdomen by a Mountain View officer whose gun had at least one live bullet in it, despite safety checks.

Departmental weapons check procedures involve two range masters who inspect officers’ guns and check each other’s weapons. Range masters are specially trained and considered responsible for weapons instruction and safe conduct with weapons.

At the weapons check, one range master’s gun was found to be dirty, leading to a discussion that diverted the officers’ attention from a careful check of the other range master’s weapon, Davies said. The second range master was the officer who fired at Brassinga.

The officer was not charged with a criminal offense. “This was an accident,” Santa Clara County Assistant District Attorney Dave Davies said. “It shouldn’t have happened, but gross negligence just wasn’t there.”

Davies stated that a charge of involuntary manslaughter requires a finding of gross negligence – conduct that to a reasonable and prudent person shows disregard for human life. Incidents triggered by inattention or misadventure do not qualify.

More than 400 officers from all over the state, black mourning bands on their badges, filled the church to pay their respects to Brassinga. Many stood at attention outside during the two-hour service. Inside, the fallen officer was remembered for his warmth and compassion, his “magical goofiness” and his pride and joy in his work and his family – especially his young son. Andrew behaved beautifully during the long service, although he did fidget at one point and called out, “Daddy, Daddy.”

“Nothing can make up for the absence of one we love,” said the Rev. Michael Harriman. “We must simply hold out and see it through.”

Escorted by a procession of police cars to Holy Cross Cemetery in Menlo Park, Brassinga’s casket was lowered into the grave. A cornet sounded “Taps,” bagpipes played “Amazing Grace,” and fellow Palo Alto reserve officers folded the flag that had draped Brassinga’s casket. An especially emotional scene followed as the officers saluted, each hand pausing over the heart in a fist as it descended from forehead to side. Tears streamed down the face of more than one officer.

Out of the silence, the sound of helicopters emerged. Five police choppers flew the missing man formation, one peeling off to disappear into the clouds.

The Palo Alto POA arranged a trust fund for Brassinga’s wife Angela and their son Andrew at the Palo Alto City Employees’ Credit Union, 250 Hamilton Ave., Palo Alto, CA 94301.

It is a thankless and often perilous job, one that Arnold Garcia performed without a gun, baton, chemical spray or personal alarm.

For nearly two decades he worked the graveyard shift at the Dorothy E. Kirby Center, supervising locked cottages housing some of Los Angeles County’s most youthful and troubled offenders. Like all of the Probation Department’s 3,000 employees, he had only two weapons: muscle and guile.

Something has changed about teenagers who run afoul of the law. They are less respectful, more menacing – often hardened veterans of bloody gang wars. One of them, bent on escape, allegedly clubbed Garcia to death on April 4, 1994, with a metal leg from a desk.

Garcia, the first Probation Department employee killed in the line of duty since the agency was formed in 1903, is survived by his wife Alma and 11 children.

His family remembered him as a devoted husband and father who dedicated himself to his delinquent wards as if they were his own blood. But, to many of his coworkers at the county’s three juvenile halls and 20 probation camps, he also was a symbol of their increasingly hazardous mission.

“By wits, cunning, personality and, occasionally, force, we have been able to keep a lid on things,” said Mary Ridgeway, a veteran Eastside probation officer. “But if a major incident breaks out, our people have nothing except themselves.”

“When he left for work, he would say: “I’ve got to go take care of my kids,” said Garcia’s son Arnold III. “He tried to make them feel he was their father.”

About 1 a.m. on April 4, a teenager knocked on a bedroom door from inside. He asked to be let out to use the bathroom. As soon as Garcia unlocked the door, he was struck in the head with a desk leg. The alleged assailant then fled with another teenager, but the two boys, ages 16 and 17, were captured a short time later.

California Youth Authority officers are given chemical spray and, in some cases, batons. Under Probation Department guidelines, officers are pretty much on their own. “We believe our brain is our best weapon,” said Craig Levy, media relations officer.

“We don’t control the place any more,” said a guard who once had to break up a fight by spraying a group of youths with a fire extinguisher. “I hate to say it, but these kids could get away with almost anything.”

Although agency guidelines recommend one guard for every 10 juveniles in custody, Kirby Center employees said Garcia was alone watching over a 20-bed cottage. “We call them minors, but they’re as dangerous and volatile as some of the inmates in maximum security prisons,” said Richard Shumsky, president of Local 685 of the probation officers’ union.

Chief Probation Officer Barry J. Nidorf presented Garcia’s widow with the American flag that had covered the casket. “Garcia was a peace officer,” Nidorf told mourners, “one of a relative handful of citizens whose mission is to foster and maintain and assure a community in which other citizens can live at peace.”

“Arnold Garcia was not a highly visible figure, as are many officers in our department who service courts and supervise probationers. Nor did he patrol our streets in uniform, as Police officers and sheriffs do. He was an almost ‘private’ – but no less important – peace officer. He did his duty with selfless dedication for 17 years until, on April 4, the peace he sought to assure for others was shattered so violently and senselessly for him.”

The Arnold Garcia Memorial Fund was established to assist the family. Donations can be sent to Mary Dederick, Director, Dorothy Kirby Center, 1500 S. McConnel Ave., Los Angeles, CA.

Thousands of peace officers and friends gathered at the funeral for rookie Officer Christy Lynne Hamilton – less to mourn her death than to celebrate her as a woman whose refusal to let go of her dream inspired them as well.

Hamilton’s dream of becoming a Los Angeles police officer had cost her her life at the age 45.

Hamilton became the second female Los Angeles police officer to die in the line of duty when she was shot to death February 22, 1994, after four weeks on the force. She had graduated from the Police Academy just four days before she died, in a quake delayed ceremony, with an award as the most inspirational cadet in her class.

“Some of you are experiencing guilt for what happened to Christy,” said Sgt. Ron Moen, a Los Angeles Police Department chaplain. “But this was her lifelong dream, and nothing any of you could have done would have discouraged her from pursuing that dream… Christy would have wanted to die doing what she loved most: being a police officer in the field.”

As family members and colleagues smiled at speakers’ tales of her foibles, her sense of humor and her passion for the job and brushed away tears at reminders of her lost potential and her sudden death.

After the memorial service, Hamilton’s father Kenneth Brondell said his daughter’s first career as a mother of two children, now grown, would have made her a cop with a unique sense of compassion. “She would have worn her badge without arrogance. She didn’t want a badge to have authority; she wanted to go out and help people,” Brondell said.

Moen remembered the time Hamilton spent a few hours with two toddlers left homeless after she arrested their parents. “Inside of her was a heart so big I’m surprised her body was able to keep it all,” the chaplain told the mourners.

Chief Willie L. Williams, Governor Pete Wilson and more than 1,500 police officers from as far away as Oklahoma City attended services at Grace Community Church in Sun Valley and later at Forest Lawn Mortuary. “It’s a tragedy that we’re here,” said Williams, visibly moved by the ceremonies. “Five officers killed in the line of duty in the 20 months I’ve been here. It’s a tragedy and a shame.”

Hamilton died when she was struck by a bullet fired by a 17-year-old Northridge youth who killed his father, then ambushed arriving police officers. Hamilton was hit by one bullet through the armhole of her bullet-resistant vest.

Hamilton had refused to let her age keep her from completing the rigorous Police Academy training. Knowing she would have to show she could scale a six- foot wall to graduate, she built one in her back yard in Thousand Oaks home and made one bruising practice run after another. “Your maturity and desire were unspoken inspirations that we drew from as a class,” Linda Thompson, drill instructor for Hamilton’s academy class, said. “You taught us all to keep our dreams alive.”

Kelley Steven, 24, Hamilton’s daughter, recalled when Hamilton first said she wanted to become a police officer, after the LAPD’s age ceiling was lifted. She asked me if she was crazy,” Steven said. “I thought she didn’t have a chance. But if you tell my mom she’s incapable of anything, she will prove you wrong.”

“Mom, you lived and died a hero,” Steven said. “We all love you. And we will miss you.”

Hamilton is also survived by a son, William Steven, 20, and her husband, Steve Hamilton, a Los Angeles firefighter.

Family, friends and colleagues filed past Hamilton’s gold-hued casket, where she lay in her blue dress uniform, a single rose resting atop clasped hands.

“The Los Angeles Police Department will never know the type of officer it lost this morning,” Chief Williams said Hamilton’s father had told him. “Only her family will know.”

As a lone bagpiper played a soulful rendition of “Amazing Grace,” an estimated 4,000 mourners gathered February 21, 1994, on a grassy knoll overlooking Los Angeles harbor to bid farewell to two slain Palos Verdes Estates police officers.

Captain Michael Wayne Tracy and Sergeant Vernon Thomas Vanderpool were lauded as heroes for saving fellow officers by breaking up an armed robbery. The veteran officers were honored with a 21-gun salute, a sheriff’s helicopter flyover, a procession of 64 motorcycles, and a motorcade of numerous black and whites.

Among the dignitaries who attended the funeral were Governor Pete Wilson, Los Angeles Police Chief Willie L. Williams and Los Angeles County District Attorney Gil Garcetti.

A troop of uniformed Boy Scouts helped guard the casket of Vanderpool, who had been the troop’s assistant scoutmaster for seven years. While tough street cops fought back tears, the chief of the close-knit Palos Verdes Estates Police Department broke down as he described his fallen comrades, particularly Tracy, who was his best friend.

“They loved being cops and they loved helping people, and when they were called, they were heroes,” said Chief Gray Johansen who witnessed the killings. “They saved the lives of the other 11 people in that room, and I speak from experience, because I was there. These two officers saved our lives.”

After praising Vanderpool as one of his most reliable officers, Johansen turned toward Tracy’s coffin while reaching beneath his glasses to wipe away tears. “God bless you, my friend,” he said, his voice cracking. “I love you.”

Tracy, 50, and Vanderpool, 57, were gunned down on Valentine’s Day, Vanderpool’s 36th wedding anniversary. The shooting took place during a police management meeting on the 12th floor of the Torrance Holiday Inn. Witnesses said the gunman, 32-year-old David Joseph Fukuto, the son of a state appellate judge, burst into the meeting room shouting, “This is a robbery!”

Authorities say they may never know whether Fukuto, who was wearing a bulletproof vest, intended to rob the group, or whether he had a grudge against police officers. When Tracy and Vanderpool lunged at him, he shot them. Other officers subdued Fukuto and he died in the ensuing struggle.

Tracy and Vanderpool were the first police officers killed in the history of the affluent South Bay city, which prides itself on having its own small police force rather than contracting with the Los Angeles County Sheriff’s Department as some neighboring communities do.

In a eulogy delivered for his father, Tracy’s son, Sean Michael Tracy, said plaintively, “I don’t understand many things in life. Funerals happen to be one of them.”

Security was tight at the funeral. Five sharpshooters were stationed on the church’s roof. Because the families of the officers wanted the services to be private, only uniformed police officers and family members were permitted to enter the 1,100-seat chapel. Members of the media watched on closed-circuit television, as did about 1,000 mourners who arrived too late to get a seat in the sanctuary. Others stood outside.

The ceremonies were laced with humor as well as sadness.

Vanderpool’s nephew, Oceanside Police Detective Ken Gow, prefaced his eulogy with a gesture: Sergeant Vernon Thomas Vanderpool taking off his tie and unbuttoning his top shirt button. “Tom hated ties,” Gow proclaimed, as the crowd erupted in applause. “He also hated long-sleeved shirts, but there’s nothing I can do about that now.”

Gow then talked of how his uncle had guided him into a career in law enforcement, pushing him to finish his education.

He also shared the recollections of Vanderpool’s children, who sometimes heard their father crying in solitude after he had spanked them. “Tom was a big man, but he had a gentle heart,” Gow said.

Tracy’s three children wrote a eulogy for their father, read aloud by Drake Morton, the department’s chaplain. They described a man who loved dirt-bike racing, who thought he was “the funniest man alive,” who believed in backing his friends and making other people feel special.

Then, in apparent reference to their father’s taste for beer, the letter closed with these words: “P.S., Dad, we’re looking forward to seeing your cheesy smile someday at the big Bud keg in the sky.”

After the funeral, a lengthy motorcade of police cars, motorcycles and limousines carried family members, city officials and Palos Verdes Estates police officers to nearby Green Hills Memorial Park for the memorial service. The rest of the mourners walked to the cemetery, where they stood behind a low cinderbiock wall and a human blockade of police officers, to witness the service from a respectful distance.

Dozens of American flags lined the winding route into the cemetery, waving against a clear blue Southern California sky. At times, all that could be heard was the flapping of the flags in the afternoon breeze.

The somber ceremony lasted 45 minutes. At its close, after widows Billy Jean Vanderpool and Becky Tracy were presented with the flags, the members of the Palos Verdes Estates Police Department filed past their colleagues’ bodies, laying a white glove atop the blue steel coffins in a final gesture of solidarity.

Raised in Torrance, Tracy graduated from Torrance High School and pursued his lifelong ambition to become a police officer. He began his career in 1966 as a reserve officer with the Palos Verdes Police Department and police officer with the Garden Grove Police Department. After attending the Los Angeles County Sheriff’s Academy, he hired on full-time with Palos Verdes Estates in 1969.

Tracy was a member of the Los Angeles County POA, California Peace Officers Association and the FBI National Academy Association. He was well-known and respected within a wide circle of law enforcement professionals.

In addition to his wife Becky, Tracy is survived by daughters Tammy Andersiand and Leslie, son Michael Sean, grandchildren Aaron and Kendall Andersiand and Ellisse Tracy, parents Dorthea and Andy Acampora, and in-laws Pat and Ray Hendershot.

Vanderpool is survived by his wife Billy Jean, daughters Kathleen and Debra, son Thomas, father Vernie T. Vanderpool, sisters Judith Gow and Debra Frazee, and brothers Raymond and Russell Vanderpool.

A memorial fund for both officers was established. Contributions should be mailed to: Palos Verdes POA, RO. Box 1153, Palos Verdes Estates, CA 90274.

As a lone bagpiper played a soulful rendition of “Amazing Grace,” an estimated 4,000 mourners gathered February 21, 1994, on a grassy knoll overlooking Los Angeles harbor to bid farewell to two slain Palos Verdes Estates police officers.

Captain Michael Wayne Tracy and Sergeant Vernon Thomas Vanderpool were lauded as heroes for saving fellow officers by breaking up an armed robbery. The veteran officers were honored with a 21-gun salute, a sheriff’s helicopter flyover, a procession of 64 motorcycles, and a motorcade of numerous black and whites.

Among the dignitaries who attended the funeral were Governor Pete Wilson, Los Angeles Police Chief Willie L. Williams and Los Angeles County District Attorney Gil Garcetti.

A troop of uniformed Boy Scouts helped guard the casket of Vanderpool, who had been the troop’s assistant scoutmaster for seven years. While tough street cops fought back tears, the chief of the close-knit Palos Verdes Estates Police Department broke down as he described his fallen comrades, particularly Tracy, who was his best friend.

“They loved being cops and they loved helping people, and when they were called, they were heroes,” said Chief Gray Johansen who witnessed the killings. “They saved the lives of the other 11 people in that room, and I speak from experience, because I was there. These two officers saved our lives.”

After praising Vanderpool as one of his most reliable officers, Johansen turned toward Tracy’s coffin while reaching beneath his glasses to wipe away tears. “God bless you, my friend,” he said, his voice cracking. “I love you.”

Tracy, 50, and Vanderpool, 57, were gunned down on Valentine’s Day, Vanderpool’s 36th wedding anniversary. The shooting took place during a police management meeting on the 12th floor of the Torrance Holiday Inn. Witnesses said the gunman, 32-year-old David Joseph Fukuto, the son of a state appellate judge, burst into the meeting room shouting, “This is a robbery!”

Authorities say they may never know whether Fukuto, who was wearing a bulletproof vest, intended to rob the group, or whether he had a grudge against police officers. When Tracy and Vanderpool lunged at him, he shot them. Other officers subdued Fukuto and he died in the ensuing struggle.

Tracy and Vanderpool were the first police officers killed in the history of the affluent South Bay city, which prides itself on having its own small police force rather than contracting with the Los Angeles County Sheriff’s Department as some neighboring communities do.

In a eulogy delivered for his father, Tracy’s son, Sean Michael Tracy, said plaintively, “I don’t understand many things in life. Funerals happen to be one of them.”

Security was tight at the funeral. Five sharpshooters were stationed on the church’s roof. Because the families of the officers wanted the services to be private, only uniformed police officers and family members were permitted to enter the 1,100-seat chapel. Members of the media watched on closed-circuit television, as did about 1,000 mourners who arrived too late to get a seat in the sanctuary. Others stood outside.

The ceremonies were laced with humor as well as sadness.

Vanderpool’s nephew, Oceanside Police Detective Ken Gow, prefaced his eulogy with a gesture: Sergeant Vernon Thomas Vanderpool taking off his tie and unbuttoning his top shirt button. “Tom hated ties,” Gow proclaimed, as the crowd erupted in applause. “He also hated long-sleeved shirts, but there’s nothing I can do about that now.”

Gow then talked of how his uncle had guided him into a career in law enforcement, pushing him to finish his education.

He also shared the recollections of Vanderpool’s children, who sometimes heard their father crying in solitude after he had spanked them. “Tom was a big man, but he had a gentle heart,” Gow said.

Tracy’s three children wrote a eulogy for their father, read aloud by Drake Morton, the department’s chaplain. They described a man who loved dirt-bike racing, who thought he was “the funniest man alive,” who believed in backing his friends and making other people feel special.

Then, in apparent reference to their father’s taste for beer, the letter closed with these words: “P.S., Dad, we’re looking forward to seeing your cheesy smile someday at the big Bud keg in the sky.”

After the funeral, a lengthy motorcade of police cars, motorcycles and limousines carried family members, city officials and Palos Verdes Estates police officers to nearby Green Hills Memorial Park for the memorial service. The rest of the mourners walked to the cemetery, where they stood behind a low cinderbiock wall and a human blockade of police officers, to witness the service from a respectful distance.

Dozens of American flags lined the winding route into the cemetery, waving against a clear blue Southern California sky. At times, all that could be heard was the flapping of the flags in the afternoon breeze.

The somber ceremony lasted 45 minutes. At its close, after widows Billy Jean Vanderpool and Becky Tracy were presented with the flags, the members of the Palos Verdes Estates Police Department filed past their colleagues’ bodies, laying a white glove atop the blue steel coffins in a final gesture of solidarity.

Raised in Torrance, Tracy graduated from Torrance High School and pursued his lifelong ambition to become a police officer. He began his career in 1966 as a reserve officer with the Palos Verdes Police Department and police officer with the Garden Grove Police Department. After attending the Los Angeles County Sheriff’s Academy, he hired on full-time with Palos Verdes Estates in 1969.

Tracy was a member of the Los Angeles County POA, California Peace Officers Association and the FBI National Academy Association. He was well-known and respected within a wide circle of law enforcement professionals.

In addition to his wife Becky, Tracy is survived by daughters Tammy Andersiand and Leslie, son Michael Sean, grandchildren Aaron and Kendall Andersiand and Ellisse Tracy, parents Dorthea and Andy Acampora, and in-laws Pat and Ray Hendershot.

Vanderpool is survived by his wife Billy Jean, daughters Kathleen and Debra, son Thomas, father Vernie T. Vanderpool, sisters Judith Gow and Debra Frazee, and brothers Raymond and Russell Vanderpool.

A memorial fund for both officers was established. Contributions should be mailed to: Palos Verdes POA, RO. Box 1153, Palos Verdes Estates, CA 90274.

Clarence Wayne Dean was not your typical cop. “God put Wayne in our lives as a gift,” said police chaplain Sgt. Ron Moen, “to bring laughter to a hurting world.”

More than 1,000 persons came to Rose Hills Cemetery in Whittier to remember the veteran Los Angeles Police Department motorcycle officer. Dean plunged to his death off a broken elevated section of the Antelope Valley Freeway minutes after sections of the freeway collapsed in the January 17, 1994 earthquake.

The graveside ceremony included traditional honors for an officer fallen in the line of duty: an honor guard salute, a riderless horse a helicopter flyby. But at the request of his family, to honor Dean’s individuality, taste for adventure and sense of humor, the service ended on an unconventional note.

As Los Angeles Mayor Richard Riordan, LAPD Chief Willie L. Williams and other dignitaries looked on, loudspeakers blasted out Dean’s favorite song, Steppenwolf’s “Born To Be Wild.”

“Get your motor running/ Head out on the highway/ Looking for adventure/ In whatever comes our way.” The song’s opening words personified Dean his friends said: a man looking for adventure.

Dean, 46, had left his Lancaster home and was on the freeway headed for work within minutes of the powerful 4:31 a.m. quake, even though his shift did not start for more than two hours. “I can only assume that he was hurrying on in because of the earthquake,” said Lt. Bob Normandy.

Dean was killed when he rounded a bend on the transition road from the Antelope Valley Freeway to the southbound Golden State Freeway. A section of the elevated road had collapsed in the quake, and Dean could not stop before plunging 30 feet off the severed roadway.

The gregarious Dean was remembered at the service as a man with a ready smile, a taste for practical jokes, and a ready stock of stories. “He was a great guy, one of those guys that everybody seems to know,” said Officer Jim Johnson.

Dean joined the Los Angeles force in 1968 after four years in the Marines, leaving the military with the rank of sergeant. He had been a motorcycle officer for ten years. In November 1993 he hurt his back and took a desk job. After the holidays, he returned to work healthy enough to go back on the street. He had been back only several days when he headed for work early the day of the quake.

“He could have come up with a million excuses why he couldn’t go to work that day,” said Officer Bill Harkness, Dean’s colleague in the LAPD’s Valley Traffic Division and a friend for 27 years. “But he got up, put on his uniform and went in. I consider Clarence Wayne Dean a hero,” Harkness continued. “No, he’s not a textbook hero. He was an everyday hero, the guy who made you feel good, who knew his obligation to his city.”

Dean is survived by his son Guy, daughter Traci Skaggs, mother Ruth, sisters Cindy Ramey and Debbie Barton, and brother Jimmy.