The Sound of TAPS: A Brother’s Reflection on Sacrifice and Service

Nov 16

Written By Bert .

The Weight of Loss

I’ve been contemplating what topic my next article should be on, and the one thing that has been gnawing at me for some time now, because of the relentless attacks on law enforcement nationwide, is the loss of one of our own. Those who read my articles and the many others that ThinkAmerican.news publishes are no doubt supporters of our police. Many of those who are left-leaning to the extreme are not, and won’t care what I have to say about this topic. But our supporters may not understand what happens during and after one of our own goes down in the line of duty, so I wish to explain.

When I tape one of my podcast episodes, Sgt. Maverick — The Podcast, my guests and I pay tribute to the fallen police and firefighters who have died in the line of duty during the past several weeks. Since my last one taped, and as I am preparing for my next podcast this month, I’ve added 18 names since August 9th, and still counting.

Nothing Is Ever “Routine”

In police work as in life, there are certain inevitabilities that cannot be changed or avoided. The sun will rise, and it will set. Day turns into night and back into day. This we know and cannot change. In life, death will eventually come to us all, and hopefully, it is far down the road for everyone. In our line of work, it is an eventuality that an officer will die at some point during our careers, and not just once but many times over. Learning to cope with these losses comes with the job, but it isn’t easy and can be very difficult if that loss is of a colleague with whom you worked.

The ironic tragedy that has now prompted me to finally put pen to paper has once again hit home here in Miami-Dade County, where on October 28th, we lost Officer David Cajuso of the Miami Beach Police Department due to a crash on his department motor. Just yesterday, November 8th, my former department, now called the Miami-Dade Sheriff’s Office, senselessly lost a young, legacy deputy named Devin Jarramillo, the son of one of my retired contemporaries, in a shooting/murder/suicide incident, where he was attacked during what was thought to be a “routine” crash investigation. Both hurt, and I want to tell you why and what happens now. And as a reminder to all, the term “routine” is casually bandied about when describing some of the seemingly mundane and low-risk duties we have, but this is once again a stark and horrifying reminder that in police work, nothing is “routine.”

The Aftermath

The death of a colleague, whether police, fire, or military, brings a great deal of pain as well as glory and honor with it. The pain involved is forever endured by the family of our fallen, but the rest of us carry it with us as well. Yes, it subsides over time as all things do, but it’s always there, ever-present and back there somewhere, only waiting to reveal itself when it happens again.

In the week following the death of any officer, preparations are made for what is tantamount to a state funeral. The family chooses where the service and interment will take place, and the department makes the arrangements for the formal honoring of its fallen hero. Hundreds of officers from agencies far and wide are in attendance with honor guard units from everywhere. The fallen officer is guarded by our department’s Honor Guard while he or she lies in repose at the church, never being left alone.

After the service, the motorcade itself is an incredibly awesome and, at the same time, sad sight to see. Hundreds of police vehicles with overhead lights turned on, led by police motorcycles escorting our brother or sister and their family, make their way to the burial site. Citizens pull over, some standing outside their cars to pay tribute. Thank you for that.

The Final Goodbye

Once we arrive at the cemetery, the graveside service begins. Bagpipes play Amazing Grace and Going Home. The 21-gun salute follows, then TAPS — the moment that breaks even the toughest among us. At my first funeral, for Officer Bobby Zore in 1983, I cried almost uncontrollably. That pain never really leaves. I even have TAPS on my playlist today — not because I enjoy it, but because I need to remember.

The service closes with the folded American Flag presented to the family — a painful but powerful gesture of gratitude. I once presented one myself, and I’ll never forget it. As I often say, “Those who disrespect our flag have never been handed a folded one.”

The final radio call — the End of Watch — is broadcast. The dispatcher calls the officer’s name, badge number, and the words “09/06 — transfer.” The service may be over, but for us, it’s never really over.

The Numbers Behind the Names

The numbers are staggering. Since I came on in 1983, more than 6,000 officers have died in the line of duty — over 21,000 since records began. That’s the capacity of Arthur Ashe Stadium in New York. Think about that — 21,000 brothers and sisters who made the ultimate sacrifice.

The leading causes range from shootings to crashes, heart attacks, and training accidents. The worst year was 2001, with 243 deaths — including the 72 NYPD officers and 343 firefighters lost on 9/11. Heroes, all of them.

Why We Carry On

I don’t believe in platitudes like “things happen for a reason” or “they’re in a better place.” Their place is with us. But we go on, because we must. This is what we signed up for — and though we know the risks, it never hurts less.

Remember this: we do this for you — for the communities we love, right alongside our brothers and sisters in fire and military service. So please, take a moment. Say thank you to the officers, firefighters, and soldiers you meet. It means more than you’ll ever know.