As a corporal and senior squad trainer for the Tampa Police Department, Rendall-Walker was just the person for the job.
She laughs about it now.
``She [Marrero] would see a drug deal going on in Robles Park, and she would want to open the door and jump out of a moving police car. In those days we didn't wear seat belts. I'd have to reach over and grab her by her gun belt,'' Rendall-Walker recalled. ``She used to call me her `ball and chain.' ''
The two cops quickly became dear friends. They patrolled the beat in a ``big, wide St. Regis'' cruiser assigned to Rendall-Walker. Sometimes even the most serious things were too funny, like the time Marrero - determined to investigate something more thoroughly - tried to drive the cumbersome old cruiser through a too-narrow alley.
``Glass was popping under the tires and brush was scratching both sides of the car,'' said Rendall-Walker.
``I said, `Stop the car, Lois. Stop the car.' I wouldn't let her back out. We traded places in the car. She was a scream.''
During those months, Rendall-Walker learned a lot about the rookie cop that would stick with her for years.
One of those things was Marrero's microscopic attention to detail that once allowed her to find a badge case belonging to an off-duty police officer who had been robbed.
A badge case is a plain, usually dark-colored billfold that protects an officer's badge.
``It was under oak leaves, under a chain link fence, in an alley,'' Rendall-Walker remembered. ``No one else would have found that.''
Marrero also confided to her friend that she was gay. It was a time when rumors were flying and the department was a much more homophobic place than it is today.
``I know Lois had lots of friends,'' Rendall-Walker said. ``But I think of her as one of my best friends. She was a loyal and steadfast person. I have no doubt that she loved me as a friend.''
It was a friendship that would span 20 years of promotions and schedule changes and occasionally not seeing the other person for months.
``But when we did see each other, it was like we were never apart. Have you ever had a friendship like that?'' Rendall-Walker wondered aloud. ``We would meet for coffee and just catch up on our lives.''
Now Marrero is dead, and her friend is coping.
Rendall-Walker was driving back from vacation in North Carolina when she heard on the radio that a Tampa police officer had been shot.
She called in for more information and learned it had been Marrero.
Tears streamed down her face.
She and her husband, Richard, pulled off at an abandoned gas station near Micanopy. There, they just held each other and ``cried and cried.''
``I got it a little bit out of my system,'' she recalled.
``Then I sucked it up until I got home where I knew my husband would give me two Tylenol and I could get into bed and cry some more. If you don't let yourself cry sometimes, you'll get a heart attack.''
After that, she pulled herself together.
``Police work is crisis management,'' she said. It's a cop's short-term decision-making skills, she said, the kind they use out on a call to help people cope. And her Methodist faith.
``You can't get mad at God,'' she said. ``God didn't kill her. Nester [Luis DeJesus] did.''
The last time she saw her friend was two weeks ago when their shifts coincided for a day and Marrero discovered a cache of cash-register drawers stolen in a recent robbery.
Rendall-Walker was excited to work with her friend and praised her on her good work.
She remembers Marrero standing in her office doorway at the end of the day.
Marrero's last words to Rendall-Walker were, ``OK. See ya later.''
Elizabeth Bettendorf covers social services and can be reached at ebettendorf@tampatrib.com
TAMPA - Nester Luis DeJesus loved three things, neighbors say: His girlfriend, Paula Gutierrez, their daughter - and his yellow sport utility vehicle.
He loved his car so much neighbors said he recently argued with a man he accused of scratching his Nissan SUV.
``I was always afraid to park next to him for fear I'd get too close,'' said Caroline Isern, a neighbor at The Crossings.
DeJesus, 25, was born in New York, and after moving to Tampa had worked as an apartment porter and a tire technician, records show.
His mother is a maintenance supervisor at the complex and tried to get him to surrender.
During the tense hours, Mayor Dick Greco spoke with the mother, whose name was withheld.
``She just said she couldn't understand why [her son] was doing what he was doing,'' Greco said. ``His father died of AIDS a short while ago, and that's when he started acting strange. But she never thought he would do something crazy like that.''
DeJesus was sentenced to 20 days in jail and six months' probation in 1995 for petty theft, records show.
Neighbor Selene Browne said DeJesus and Gutierrez were a quiet couple. DeJesus often took his daughter for rides in a toy car.
``I'm completely shocked,'' Browne said. ``It was the last thing I would've expected.''
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TAMPA - The scene in the video looks eerily like the famous Kent State photo. A horrified woman is crouched over a body sprawled on the ground.
But the woman in the video is a Tampa police officer with her hand on the back of Lois Marrero, a downed fellow officer shot by a suspect in a bank robbery Friday morning.
In the video, the officer keeps looking around the scene - as if for a sniper - as she pats Marrero's back.
Tampa Police Department spokesman Joe Durkin would not release the officer's name. He only would say she was too upset to talk, and he did not want to identify her.
Tampa Tribune photographer Cliff McBride arrived moments after the first officers and captured the scene by crouching in bushes about 75 yards away. He was the first photographer there, finding himself in the middle of a tense situation as he shot video. Photographers arriving later were kept farther away.
An image from his video, showing the officer patting the back of the downed officer, appears on the front page of today's Tribune. Portions of the video aired Friday on WFLA, News Channel 8.
While the officer waits with Marrero, a male officer comes up to her, carefully scouting the area as he approaches. A motorcycle officer pulls up. Soon, more police officers fill the scene, some with guns drawn. Sirens scream; a dog barks. An ambulance pulls up; emergency medical workers put Marrero on a stretcher, then into the ambulance and take off.
McBride, 37, a photographer for the Tribune for 17 years, captured it all for five to eight minutes before he was ordered by police to get back to safety.
He said when he saw that the person on the ground was a police officer, he immediately thought of the three law enforcement officers killed by Hank Earl Carr in 1998. He contributed to the Tribune's coverage of that day on the photo editing desk.
McBride got involved in the situation early Friday, when he was sent to the Bank of America to shoot photos after it was robbed.
``It was quiet there, but a FedEx delivery man was there and told me, `They're picking up money down the street.' So I went down the street and saw three police officers carrying two bags of money. Some witnesses said the dye pack on the money exploded in the vehicle, so they threw the money out the window.''
McBride was shooting pictures of the money, when the police with him got ``an incredibly frantic call saying an officer was down.''
``The policeman said, `I gotta go,' grabbed the money and peeled off,'' he said.
McBride jumped into his car, called the Tribune to get the address of the shooting and headed there. He pulled up beside the officers, jumped out and started shooting video the scene.
But McBride, the father of two sons, 9 and 12, said he was never afraid of being shot.
``I knew I needed to be careful,'' he said. ``I knew I needed to stay crouched down.''
``What a senseless act for an officer to have to die for just a little bit of money,'' he said. ``It shouldn't have happened.''
Officer Lois M. Marrero, the first Tampa policewoman ever killed in action, will be laid to rest at Myrtle Hill Cemetery after a 10 a.m. service at Sacred Heart Church.
Myrtle Hill also is where Tampa police Detectives Randy Bell and Ricky Childers are buried. They were shot to death while on duty in 1998.
Hundreds began the long goodbye Monday night, attending a wake for Marrero at a funeral home on Armenia Avenue. Some wept. Others, mostly fellow officers, wore stoic expressions masking the shocking reminder that their jobs sometimes carry great risks and deadly consequences.
Elsewhere, investigators moved ahead with the grim task of piecing together the details of what happened, and why. The latter was proving the most difficult … though more was emerging to suggest that Marrero's killer, Nester Luis DeJesus, 25, had been sliding toward his own death spiral for months.
And while the investigators worked, hundreds of people who never knew Marrero made donations and signed a giant card of sympathy, while still more kept coming to the memorial in front of police headquarters downtown, piled high with flowers.
Marrero, 40, was killed Friday in an ambush at The Crossings apartment complex in south Tampa, where DeJesus lived with his girlfriend, Paula Andrea Gutierrez, 24, and their 2-year-old daughter.
Marrero and other officers were searching for two suspects in a robbery at a Bank of America branch on Church Avenue. Police say DeJesus and Gutierrez were trying to get away in a neighbor's car. As Marrero approached, DeJesus crouched behind the car, then popped up and fired at her point-blank with a MAC11 pistol. She was hit in the side and neck.
At Marrero's wake, mourners streamed down a narrow aisle past an open wooden casket lined in white satin. Marrero, her hands bound with rosary beads, wore a crisp Tampa police uniform.
Ed ""Pappy'' Plourde was one former colleague who attended. A 30-year veteran of the Tampa Police Department, Plourde is a strong man, a big man, a tough cop. He was a sergeant who turned police academy rookies into streetwise officers.
The ones who made it … some didn't … became Pappy's "children,'' he said. They included Marrero. He was her sergeant when she broke into the ranks in 1982.
"When they come out of the academy, they are like diamonds in the rough,'' he said. ""It was my job to polish those diamonds.''
Marrero was one who polished well.
"She was a very conscientious individual,'' said Plourde, who retired 10 years ago. "She was enthusiastic about every assignment she had, whether it was driving the wagon or walking the beat.''
Tampa Police Chief Bennie Holder also came, hugging teary-eyed cops and offering words of condolence to family and friends.
"What makes this so tough is with Lois, I was not just her chief, I was her friend,'' Holder said.
Mayor Dick Greco recalled Childers' and Bell's funerals three years ago.
"I had hoped I never would have to see that again, and being here today brings all that back.''
Meanwhile, investigators were still saying little about the why of it all. But some details were emerging that drew the case into sharper … if still blurry … focus.
Marrero was shot twice, not three times as previously believed. DeJesus committed suicide afterward, while he and Gutierrez were holed up with hostage Isaac Davis in Davis' apartment at The Crossings, by firing a single gunshot upward beneath his chin. And the evidence was growing that DeJesus was in a spiral of despair.
He had become aggressive and angry and was growing more so when the end came. Little things were setting him off, like an accidental ding in the door of his be loved yellow Nissan XTerra. Even his friends noticed it.
His father had died of AIDS. A family friend said he'd begun using drugs. He'd lost a job as an air conditioning repairman, was sick of Tampa and missed family and friends in New York.
Maybe that's what the bank robbery was all about, neighbor Michael Debacker speculated: going back to New York where he was born and raised and had family and friends.
"Once you're tired of the sunshine in Florida, what is there?'' another friend, Mark Kokojan, recalled DeJesus saying.
According to police documents, Gutierrez told police that she and DeJesus robbed a south Tampa flower shop, Flowers by Patricia, a few days before the bank holdup.
DeJesus' behavior then was odd, too. He kept demanding that Catherine Haddad, co-owner of the shop, give him the keys to a yellow Mercury Cougar parked outside. Haddad kept telling him that she didn't have the keys and didn't know the car's owner. But he wanted the yellow car, he said. He didn't give up until Haddad told him to just kill her.
Whatever was unraveling, DeJesus finally snapped when the police closed in after the bank holdup. He grabbed a neighbor's car keys and was trying to unlock the car door with them when Marrero approached. He was panicking, witnesses said, and didn't know the door already was unlocked. Then he shot Marrero and holed up in Davis' apartment with Gutierrez.
A police negotiator made con tact by telephone, and DeJesus' mother, who did maintenance at The Crossings, got on the line to try to talk DeJesus into surrendering. But DeJesus wasn't listening, and as the minutes passed he grew increasingly irrational. He and Gutierrez talked of suicide. As a police tactical unit prepared to move in, DeJesus put the MAC11 to his chin and pulled the trigger.
Police documents show that Gutierrez has told detectives more about what happened. But she has rejected requests for interviews and remains in isolation and under a suicide watch at the Orient Road jail. She is charged with murder, robbery and kidnapping. A lawyer from the Hillsborough County public defender's office saw her on Monday, but otherwise she has kept to herself.
DeJesus' body was released Monday by the medical examiner's office to the Florida Mortuary Funeral Home, where a woman who answered the telephone said the family asked that no details be released about services.
Investigators also were tracing the MAC11. Carlos Baxauli, a spokesman for the U.S. Bureau of
Alcohol, Tobacco and Firearms, said results, expected today, should show the gun's history from manufacture to wholesaler to dealer to purchaser. Similar weapons can fire 1,600 rounds per minute when fully automatic.
Out on the street, meanwhile, Marrero's co-workers in blue kept trying to cope. Maj. K.C. Newcomb said the mood was grim at the District 1 station where Marrero worked. About 200 officers are based at the station house, across from the Hillsborough Community College campus off Dale Mabry Highway.
Newcomb said the funeral would be difficult. ""But after that, every day will get a little bit better. Life goes on in this profession, unfortunately,'' he said.
The funeral will feature a police honor guard, a special unit of about 20 officers. Wearing dress uniforms, they will march, play taps and fire a salute at graveside.
Decorating Marrero's casket will be a spray of nearly 300 red and white roses, donated by Catherine Haddad of Flowers by Patricia.
"It's the least we could do,'' said her daughter and shop co-owner Rania Haddad, 26. "But we're highly upset it had to end up this way.''
Marrero's sister, Brenda Ayoub, said Marrero was 15 months from retirement and weighing several second-career options.
Ayoub remembered her sister, who was 5-foot-1, as "very intense, very focused, very loyal.''
Having grown up in Puerto Rico, Marrero was in school working on a sports medicine degree when she got hooked by policing.
"The passion she had when she started was so strong, it prompted her to change careers,'' Ayoub said. ""She fell in love with the academy and police work and dedicated her life to it.''
The family is still in shock.
"It's just hard to believe this is the end,'' Ayoud said.
Tribune reporters Elizabeth Bettendorff, Paula Christian, Geoff Dutton, Ivan Hathaway, Lyda Longa and Andrew Meadows contributed to this report.
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More than 800 uniformed officers, friends and family crowded into Sacred Heart Catholic Church, two blocks from police headquarters, for the funeral of Tampa Police Department officer Lois Marrero.
Outside, officers six deep lined both sides of the street for several blocks to pay their final respects to the 40-year-old officer.
``Open the gates of paradise,'' a priest prayed over the casket. On one side of the casket sat an American flag made of red, white and blue flowers. On the other was a big spray of white flowers shaped like Marrero's badge.
Marrero, a 19-year veteran of the force, was killed Friday as she chased armed bank robber Nester Luis DeJesus. After the shooting, DeJesus barged into someone's apartment and barricaded himself for nearly three hours before taking his own life. His girlfriend, Paula Gutierrez, has been charged with bank robbery, first-degree murder and kidnapping.
``Remember, there is more to Lois' journey than this short life on earth,'' the Very Rev. Joseph H. Diaz, of Holy Trinity Episcopal Church in Clearwater, said in the homily. The service was conducted jointly by Catholic and Episcopal priests.
``Even as we speak, she's walking a new beat,'' Diaz told mourners.
An honor guard walked up the center aisle with the blue department flag. Atop it were black streamers, one for each of the 24 Tampa police officers killed the line of duty before Marrero, who was the first woman killed on the job in Tampa. A ribbon of honor bearing Marrero's name was added.
``Blessed are the peacemakers, for they shall be called children of God,'' Diaz said, picking up on the gospel theme which Jesus taught as a way to gain heaven.
``You the peacemakers have a special calling, a calling from God,'' he said. ``Don't let the bad guys win. Do the job God gives you to do and leave vengeance to God.''
In a front pew sat Marrero's parents, sister and brother, longtime companion, and other relatives, some from Puerto Rico.
Mayor Dick Greco and Police Chief Bennie Holder gave brief eulogies as did several colleagues, friends and her sister, Brenda Marrero. They remembered Marrero, described as a team player and a caring, compassionate person.
At the cemetery, bagpipes played ``Amazing Grace,'' a bugler played ``Taps'' and police helicopters did a missing man fly over. The flag that draped the casket was folded and given to Marrero's parents. Another flag was given to her 10-year companion, Detective Mickie Mashburn.
Her badge number - 327 - was called over the police radio, then signed off following the silence.
``She was a very special person, she loved unconditionally asking nothing in return,'' said her sister.
``I will remember Lois as a 5-foot, fast-talking, tenacious firecracker,'' said colleague Deputy Chief G.H. Wright. ``Even in heaven Lois will still be a firecracker.''
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Companion not eligible for slain officer's
pension
Published:
Marrero's spouse would have been entitled to monthly pension payments
equal to half her salary. But Marrero had no spouse - at least not one
recognized by Florida law.
The 18-year police veteran shared her life with Mickie Mashburn, a
detective on the force. Though the women had been a couple for 10 years,
Mashburn can't collect spousal benefits from the department's pension fund.
Florida law does not recognize same-sex marriages, and the pension
plan only pays a pension to the surviving spouse or children, according to
pension board Chairman Tom Singleton.
``It's a tragic situation,'' Singleton said. ``It's a whole new arena
for us - same-sex partners. I can say it's something we'll be looking into.''
Tampa City Councilwoman Linda Saul-Sena floated the idea of a
domestic-partner ordinance last year, but the council never acted on the
measure. Such laws in other cities create domestic partner registries to give
legal status to gay and unmarried couples. They typically allow city employees
to purchase health insurance for their life partners. Similar laws are on the
books in Broward County, Gainesville and Key West.
But such an ordinance would have had no effect on police pension
disbursements, which are governed by state law and can only be changed through
an act of the Florida Legislature.
Marrero's estate will be reimbursed the amount she contributed to the
plan - a minimum of 2 percent of her salary. Although the police pension fund
has more than $1 billion in assets, it will not pay interest on Marrero's
contributions.
Singleton, a longtime friend of both women, said he wishes he could
do more. ``Lois was a hell of a cop, and Mickie is, too,'' he said.
Although she won't receive her partner's pension, Mashburn may be
eligible for other benefits.
The city will pay the equivalent of one year's salary, up to $50,000,
to whomever Marrero named as her beneficiary. The Central Florida chapter of the
Police Benevolent Association also contributes at least one year's salary.
The PBA also pays an emergency death benefit of $2,000 to the
beneficiary when an officer is killed in the line of duty.
Florida offers a $75,000 payment to a designated beneficiary for a
police officer who is unlawfully or intentionally killed in the line of duty.
Laura Kinsler can be reached at lkinsler@tampatrib.com
Return to
TBC Tribute July 9, 2001
Death may help save others
Lois M. Marrero's death may help other police stay
alive.
Law enforcement officers across the country will analyze the final
moments of her life, examining Marrero's gunshot slaying by a fleeing bank
robber for lessons that could help them avoid a similar fate.
``Whenever an officer is killed, there are going to be agencies
around this country who are going to point to this incident and let their
officers and trainees know what happened,'' said Craig W. Floyd, president of
National Law Enforcement Officers Memorial, a Washington-based group that keeps
statistics on police deaths.
``Maybe nothing could have been done to change what happened,'' he
said. ``But maybe there were some things that could have been done
differently.''
Police say Marrero, an 18-year Tampa police veteran, was gunned down
Friday as she chased Nester Luis DeJesus, 25, through a parking lot after a bank
holdup.
Witnesses said that as Marrero approached, DeJesus stood up in a
breezeway of an apartment complex, aimed a semiautomatic weapon at her and fired
over the roof of a parked car.
Two bullets hit Marrero in the neck and side. DeJesus took his own
life after a three-hour standoff.
Joe Durkin, spokesman for the Tampa Police Department, said the
shooting will be a ``training aid'' for officers.
It appears, however, that Marrero died in an ambush she could have
done nothing to avoid, he said.
``The sad reality is that it could have been any one of us,'' Durkin
said.
The slaying comes at a time when line-of-duty law enforcement deaths
have been steadily dropping since the 1970s, mainly due to a piece of equipment
that Marrero wore, but that didn't save her: a bulletproof vest.
``We can't provide a foolproof level of safety for our officers, but
we'd basically be having about double the number of police deaths without those
vests,'' Floyd said.
Vests save roughly 100 lives a year, he said, and officers who wear
them are 17 times less likely to die by gunfire.
Together with improvements in training, communication and on- scene
medical help, body armor has helped snip away at the grim statistics, Floyd
said.
In the 1970s, an average of 222 officers were killed each year in the
line of duty, he said. That dropped to 185 a year in the 1980s and 155 annually
in the 1990s.
``There are more officers serving now, so the odds of getting killed
are going down,'' Floyd said.
But one thing hasn't changed since the first police officer was
killed in New York in 1792: the pain such deaths leave behind.
A police officer's family and friends can count on having to relive
the pain again and again.
``The next time an officer gets killed, the most recent deaths are
portrayed again on the news,'' said Debora Geary of Concerns of Police
Survivors, a 10,000-family national support group.
Reporters call. The details are dredged up again in newspapers and on
TV.
``It goes on for years and years,'' Geary said.
Durkin said Marrero's death has opened wounds still fresh from the
1998 deaths of Tampa police Detectives Randy Bell and Ricky Childers and Florida
Highway Patrol Trooper James Crooks. All died in Tampa at the hands of accused
child-killer Hank Earl Carr, who later committed suicide.
``Immediately, the dark days of 1998 were brought out once again,''
Durkin said.
Many times, the pain is made worse when the agency a slain officer
worked for seems to forget the tragedy, Geary said.
``They don't do it purposefully. Time just goes on. But someone's
husband or father worked for that agency and gave their life for that agency,
and after a year or two, they are forgotten,'' she said.
She urged Marrero's co-workers to reach out to the slain officer's
family and friends, even if doing so is painful.
``They don't really need to say anything except, `I'm thinking about
you.' That's all they need to hear.''
In time, Geary said, survivors will learn to cope with the loss,
although it will always be painful.
``No survivor wants to hear that initially, but it's going to get
easier,'' she said.
Jim Sloan can be reached at (813) 259-7691 or jsloan@tampatrib.com
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July 7, 2001
Paramedics, TGH team are unable to save officer
TAMPA - Paramedics had opened an airway and were performing CPR.
As the ambulance carrying police Officer Lois Marrero raced through the streets of south Tampa, beepers erupted all over Tampa General Hospital.
Lewis Flint answered one. The medical director for the TGH Trauma Center had just left an operation. Chief trauma resident Colleen Jaffray left the cafeteria.
They joined an anesthesiologist; a radiologist; three trauma residents; nurses Don McCormick, Robyn Kellems, Lynn Schmidt, Karen Campbell and Debbie Chambers; a physician's assistant; and the chief of emergency medicine, David Orban, for what would become grim duty.
By the time Marrero's gurney slipped from sweltering heat into the cool recess of the emergency room at 11:50 a.m. Friday, a skilled trauma team had assembled, prepared to wrest her back to the living.
But no number of doctors could save her.
``These were mortal wounds,'' Orban said afterward, his face reflecting the futility of the day.
Tampa police said Marrero had been shot at least three times, all in the upper body.
She was pronounced dead at 11:55 a.m., but may well have been dead on arrival.
``The paramedics did a great job,'' Orban said. ``Everything was done. But on arrival there were no signs of life.''
Trauma workers at TGH see the ravages of gunshot wounds on a regular basis. The hospital, a regional trauma center, keeps trauma specialists on duty 24 hours a day, waiting for notice from paramedics that special care will be needed.
``We usually get five to 10 minutes notice,'' hospital spokesman John Dunn said. ``The doctors are in there, all ready and set to go when the patient arrives.''
But it was especially difficult Friday for physicians and emergency workers whose lives often involve friendly bantering with police officers.
``We hate to see the police officers come in,'' Orban said. ``It's like dealing with one of our own. We have police officers here a lot - we know many of them, we know some of the families - and this is always a really tough situation.''
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A lifetime passed as policewoman prayed for
help
Published:
But for now, Hills is haunted by the terrible images of Marrero dying
on the hard pavement of a parking lot.
``I know there will come a time when the Lord will take away the
images that keep coming to mind,'' Hills said. ``I know that I'll see Lois on
the other side. I know that. And I just thank God.''
As gunfire erupted around her, Hills rushed to help Marrero. She
knelt, placed a comforting hand on her back and covered her with a blanket.
Pictures of her act appeared on newspaper front pages and television newscasts
through the weekend.
Hills stayed with Marrero once her supervisor only until paramedics
arrived, but to her it seemed endless, she remembers now. Images of her two
children flashed through the 36-year-old mother's mind.
``And as I watched her there, not knowing where the bad guy was at,
we were out in the open; I heard gunfire,'' Hills recalled. ``I didn't know if
he was going to come to my right or my left, and I was scared. I was very
scared.
``But I started praying,'' said Hills, who is deeply religious. ``I
called on the Lord. I just told him, His will be done, because I knew I couldn't
leave her.''
Hills, a 10-year veteran of the department, remembered what led up to
that moment: the bank robbery nearby, the search for suspects. During the
search, she passed Marrero's cruiser twice.
She and others found the suspects' vehicle abandoned, then heard
about a foot chase seven blocks away over the police radio. They all took off to
help.
``Everything happened so fast,'' Hills said. ``I could see someone
was down. I had no idea at the time it was an officer down. ... I thought it was
anybody else but an officer.''
Hills parked about 150 feet away and ran to the body.
``I realized it was one of us and it was her,'' Hills said quietly.
``At that time I wasn't expecting that. ... I lost it initially.''
Another officer helped Hills snap out of her panic.
``I knew I had a job to do. I knew I could not leave Lois there,''
Hills said. ``I knew that if it was the other way around and if it were me or
any other fallen officer, Lois would have been right there.''
Hills and two other officers checked Marrero's pulse. Nothing.
``So we knew, even though we really didn't want to accept it,'' Hills
said. ``I thought that the paramedics could come in and work a miracle. But God
had His will, and His will was done.''
Hills will remember Marrero was a ``firecracker,'' an extraordinary
person who loved her job. As a supervisor, Marrero showed special concern for
her people. She often would pull Hills aside when she looked glum, just to see
if her underling was OK.
``She was small, but she had a smile and a heart so large,'' Hills
said.
In the past few days, Hills who worked in the auto theft and gang
suppression units before becoming a firehouse officer a few years ago has
thought about leaving police work.
``I have thought about not being a police officer,'' she admitted.
``But I love my job.''
And Hills imagines what Marrero would say if she knew what Hills was
thinking. That helps keep her in uniform.
``That firecracker would start popping off. She'd let me have it.''
WFLA, NewsChannel 8, reporter Rod Carter contributed to this report.
Paula Christian can be reached at pchristian@tampatrib.com(813)
259-7616.
TAMPA - Community members gathered at Ferman Chevrolet in Brandon this morning to honor fallen Tampa Police Department officer Lois M. Marrero and others who have died in the line of duty. WQYK radio gave out blue ribbons and accepted donations all morning for the Gold Shield Foundation, which benefits families of local officers and firefighters who have died in service to the community.
A bank robber fatally shot 40-year-old Marrero Friday during a chase in South Tampa. Marrero is the first woman and the 25th officer to die in the line of duty in Tampa.
"This gesture is a way that we as a community can show our support for the dedication of these brave men and women; it's a way to say 'thank you,'" WQYK morning show host Skip Mahaffey said.
WQYK 99.5 FM is has been airing a memorial tribute to all fallen police officers since the incident on Friday; it can also be found on their website at www.wqyk.com. Copies of the tribute will be sold at Ferman Chevrolet, with all proceeds going to the Gold Shield Foundation.
Mahaffey and WQYK hope to raise awareness and funds for the charitable organization that is quietly devoted to helping the survivors of slain police officers and firefighters in the Bay area.
For more information on Monday's memorial tribute and Gold Shield Foundation fundraiser in Tampa, contact Eric Logan at 813-637-7824.
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Cop killer's girlfriend accused
in robbery-slaying, other heist
an
Associated Press report 7/7/01
Tampa - The girlfriend of a bank robber who committed suicide after killing a Tampa policewoman was ordered held without bail today, charged in the robbery-slaying and another holdup.
Twenty-four-year-old Paula Gutierrez was charged with first-degree murder, kidnapping and two counts of armed robbery.
Gutierrez was the girlfriend of Nester Luis DeJesus who killed himself Friday after gunning down a 19-year-old veteran police officer.
Witnesses said officer Lois Marrero never had a chance. They say Nester Luis DeJesus ambushed Marrero in a parking lot following a bank robbery.
Police say DeJesus and Gutierrez robbed a bank shortly before noon Friday then barricaded themselves in an apartment after Marrero was shot.
After two hours of negotiations failed, DeJesus turned the gun on himself and took his own life.
Gutierrez surrendered and was taken in for questioning.
Shortly before midnight, she was charged. Police said she and DeJesus also robbed a florist on Tuesday.
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Tampa officer dies in shootout; police say
suspect killed self
Associated Press
report 7/7/01
TAMPA — A police officer was slain and another was wounded Friday as they chased at least one bank robbery suspect into an apartment complex, sparking a four-hour standoff.
The standoff ended when a suspect killed himself, police said. Two people were taken into custody as authorities tried to determine whether there had been hostages.
The incident began when police were notified of a robbery at a Bank of America. Officers spotted the suspects' car and gave chase.
``Sometime during that pursuit there was an exchange of gunfire between the suspect and three of my officers,'' police Chief Bennie Holder said.
Officer Lois Marrero, 41, was killed as she approached the gunman in the parking lot of The Crossing apartment complex. She was shot three times.
``He ambushed her, she didn't have a chance,'' said Daniel Tatum, a salesman at a nearby auto dealership who said he was driving down the street when the shooting began. ``He ran into the court yard, she started in behind him and when she came up behind the car he started shooting.''
The wounded officer was shot in the leg.
Officers surrounded the complex, a few blocks from the bank. Some residents were helped out of their second-story apartments with a ladder while police told others to stay put.
``This scares me. This guy could have come into any one of our houses,'' resident Karen Breit said.
The death is the first for Tampa police since 1998, when Hank Carr killed two detectives when they took him into custody for the shooting death of his girlfriend's son. Carr fled and killed a Florida Highway Patrol trooper before killing himself.
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