City mourns slain officer

Sgt. Stephen Liczbinski was buried in the gloom and rain of Resurrection Cemetery in Bensalem yesterday, the gray dampness matching the unrelenting melancholy of the day.

Along with bagpipes, a bugle and the blasts of a 21-gun salute, family and fellow police officers gathered at the graveside of the slain officer also heard something unexpected and startling - the amplified sound of Liczbinski's final radio call. "Aramingo Avenue. . . . Two black males wearing Muslim garb exiting the building . . . a robbery in progress," the dispatcher says.

"24 Andy," Liczbinski, who would have turned 40 this week, acknowledged using the code for his squad car, 24A. "I'm starting out."

With palpable sadness, police and kin heard Liczbinski, without hesitating, take the call last Saturday that would be his last.

Hours before the burial yesterday, a line of about 1,500 officers from jurisdictions around the country dressed in black or yellow slickers slowly filed into the Cathedral Basilica of SS. Peter and Paul.

Hundreds of other officers, their badges wrapped in black bands, gathered beneath white tents in a park across the street. Still more policemen and policewomen simply stood at attention in the rain, as though weathering the elements was a form of tough-cop homage to a fallen colleague.

"It's very important that we be here," said Sgt. Bryant Jeter of the Washington metro police. A native of Southwest Philadelphia, Jeter said he once was a Philadelphia transit police officer.

"When something like this happens, it's like family coming to support each other," he continued. "The reality of our jobs resurfaces. We all know there's chaos out there."

Standing wet and pensive on 18th Street, Philadelphia Crime Scene Officer Adrian Makuch struggled to make sense of the day. "I don't have words to express how I'm feeling," he said. "For us, this goes beyond being part of a fraternity. It gets personal. You don't want to talk about it.

"You hope he departed his family that day with love and affection. It's really the toughest job in the world, and this proves it."

Before the ceremony began, Elvis Presley recordings of "My Way" and "I Can't Help Falling In Love With You" played in a continuous loop on a loudspeaker in the park. At the same time, a jumbo video screen set up to televise the service to the overflow crowd showed slides of Liczbinski, his family and colleagues.

Bagpipers waited in the rain, smoking and straightening their kilts. Inside the cathedral, officers walked up to the casket and crisply saluted, many also making the sign of the cross. A spray of flowers and a Philadelphia Flyers insignia were attached to the casket.

Before the Mass began, Police Commissioner Charles H. Ramsey spoke to the congregation, which included U.S. Sen. Robert Casey Jr., Mayor Nutter, District Attorney Lynne M. Abraham, and other officials. "Killed in the line of duty - those are the six words we never hope to hear," Ramsey said. Addressing Liczbinski's family, he added: "I cannot imagine the pain you're going through."

Then, he added: "He's not a hero because he died. He's a hero because years ago . . . he answered a call [to serve]. He knew he wanted to help others."

During the Mass, Auxiliary Bishop Joseph McFadden said, "Sgt. Stephen Liczbinski laid down his life for all the citizens of this great City of Brotherly Love. We cannot and will not forget his act of love."

At one point, Liczbinski's widow, Michele, tilted her head sadly, listening while she put her right arm around their daughter, Amber, 15, who was wiping tears from her eyes. She and her brothers, Matt, 25, and Steve, 23, together presented the gifts before Communion.

Toward the end of the ceremony, Matt described his father as "a simple man," adding, "The only thing he wanted was respect."

Then, in a brief light moment, Matt reminded people of his father's love for the Flyers and asked the mourners to join him in a chant for the team, playing last night in the playoffs: "Let's go, Flyers, let's go," Matt said, as people joined in, then applauded.

When the two-hour service ended, Liczbinski's casket was led out of the cathedral and was met on 18th Street by a block-long wall of officers standing rigid in salute. Pipes and drums played and echoed along the Benjamin Franklin Parkway, reverberating in the sternum like thunder. Liczbinski's family members followed the fallen officer out of the cathedral, and into the procession toward the cemetery.

As the burial ceremony progressed later in the afternoon, two very interested observers looked on.

Anna Diaz and Raul Rodriguez stood shivering in shirtsleeves, their eyes on the grave 50 yards away, but their minds on their daughter, 26-year-old Police Officer Yaritza Rodriguez, who was standing at attention in the cemetery.

A new patrol officer in the 24th District where Liczbinski worked, Rodriguez was a mere recruit in the police academy six months ago, when Patrolman Chuck Cassidy was gunned down on the job, her parents said.

Six months a cop, and already two of her colleagues killed in action, Diaz and Rodriguez fretted. "We are proud of her, but we're scared, too," said Diaz, who held the hand of Naythan, Rodriguez's 5-year-old son. "I always prayed for her. Now I'm praying more and more."

Then, as though speaking for every officer in Philadelphia and their families on a hard and awful day, Diaz added: "The streets are not easy."