Lois Marrero and I met in 1986 while working at the Tampa police department. Lois had been an officer for four years, and I was a new recruit. Initially Lois and I were just friends. I admired her because she was so very passionate about life. Eventually she and I fell in love and realized we were soul mates. One day in 1990 I asked her, “Would you consider spending the rest of your life with me?” She told me, “I would like that very much.” Lois moved in, and on May 25, 1991, we held a commitment ceremony at the Metropolitan Community Church in St. Petersburg. That was the happiest day of my life. I know she felt the same way.

For more than 10 years we were inseparable. Every morning I told Lois, “I love you more today than yesterday.” She always replied, “Me too.” We both loved sports, we worked out together daily, we volunteered at the Tampa AIDS Network. We went to as many spring training baseball games as we could. Lois loved Disney World and the Orlando Miracle, the women’s basketball team. She often said, “Let’s go to Orlando.” I’d tell her, “You need to rest sometimes,” but she’d answer, “When you die you can sleep.”

Then came July 6, 2001.

Lois was so happy that summer morning, looking forward to a Miracle game we had tickets for after work. I phoned her at about 9 a.m. to see how her day was going. At 10:03 a.m. she sent a message to my beeper, like she often did—the numbers 45683968, for “I love you.”

Later we talked briefly, in what would be our last conversation. I heard the dispatcher on her police radio. Lois said, “I’ve got to hurry.” I said, “Be careful, I love you.” She replied, “I love you too.”

For lunch a bunch of us bought sandwiches to eat at the station. Minutes later a lieutenant walked into the office. From the look on his face, we knew something terrible had happened. He glanced at me and then quickly looked away. My heart sank. He motioned for Betsy, another policewoman, to come outside. I said, “Something’s happened to Lois.” When Betsy returned, she knelt down in front of me. I said, “All I need to know is whether she’s still alive.” Betsy just started sobbing. I was devastated.

Lois was gunned down by a bank robbery suspect as she chased him into a parking lot. She was the first Tampa policewoman to be killed in the line of duty, just 40 years old. On her finger was the gold wedding ring we each wore, inscribed with the date of our ceremony and the words FOREVER LOVED.

I was taken to the hospital where Lois’s body was brought. Mayor Dick Greco, police chief Bennie Holder, and the top brass were there. They all knew about our relationship and wanted to help me any way they could. The department helped me make arrangements. Thousands of officers stood at attention outside her funeral. At the end Chief Holder took the American flag that had been draped over Lois’s coffin and placed it, folded, in my lap; everyone treated me as the spouse.

But after the funeral, things changed with Lois’s family. We had been close, but when I applied for Lois’s pension as the surviving spouse—which would have been half Lois’s salary for the rest of my life, probably about $500,000—the family opposed me and sought the benefits themselves.

In August the pension board unanimously turned me down, voting to award Lois’s pension contributions, about $50,000, to her estate; since Lois and I never made a will, the money goes to her blood relatives. Her family also demanded that I turn over a lot of personal things: Lois’s clothes, photo albums, diplomas. They’re even trying to claim the car she used, though we both helped buy it.

Other than making a will, Lois and I couldn’t have done any more to make sure we were treated as spouses, because we weren’t allowed to marry. I’m fighting the pension board’s rejection of spousal benefits, and my appeal will be heard February 26. Lois was a fighter. If I had been killed instead, Lois would have demanded to be treated like any other spouse. She fought for justice. Now it’s my turn.

As told to Peter Freiberg. Mashburn remains a police officer in Tampa, Fla.

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