1908 – Hamilton, Ohio
The shots rang out and his blood flowed. His chest was on fire. It wasn’t supposed to be like this, he thought to himself. Someone had set him up, and he’d been warned but had refused to believe it.
Thinking of the woman he loved, he hoped she would find the strength to go on without him. Despite the problems that plagued their relationship, she would mourn him and mourn him hard. He resented not having more time with her. He knew he was dying. It wasn’t like they had often told him; he didn’t see any angels coming for him or see any light…yet he felt the life draining from him.
He only heard the horses and wagons and saw the lanterns and flashlights of his fellow officers rushing to his aid. It wouldn’t help; he knew that with a certainty that appalled him. How could he be so very alive with so much power rushing through him one minute and dying at the hands of a traitor the next?
The kids were both full grown now, but they would mourn. Oh, his sweet, little Millie; and that rascal, Richard…he found he was shaking from the cold now. How could that be? It’s mid-July and hot as a fire cracker, but he felt so very cold….
His partner was standing over him now—had grabbed his hand, but he didn’t hear or feel anything any longer.
“Hang in there, Danny boy,” Michael Williams shouted at him. “Hang on! Danny! Danny?”
Daniel Robert Martin was gone at age fifty-eight—killed in the line of duty. The beer would flow tonight, along with lots of stories about a good cop they had all loved and respected. Tomorrow they would start to really feel the loss. Tonight, numb with the shock of the sudden loss, they would drink to the memories of Officer Danny Martin—the best damned cop to walk a beat! Or was he?