By SUSAN THURSTON
© St. Petersburg Times, published July 13, 2001
TAMPA -- Lois Marrero and Mickie Mashburn exchanged wedding vows 10 years ago and planned to grow old together.
They were as good as married, as far as they were concerned.
But not under Florida law.
Which means Mashburn isn't eligible for the pension that ordinarily would go to the spouse of a slain police officer, the chairman of the police pension board said.
Marrero's death at the hands of a bank robbery suspect has reignited a simmering debate over domestic partnership benefits.
Private companies, and even some government agencies, have offered benefits to domestic partners for years. But the state does not and neither does the city of Tampa.
Police Chief Bennie Holder presented a flag to Mashburn at Marrero's funeral Tuesday as if she were a grieving spouse. But there's nothing Holder can do about the pension.
At least one lawmaker is considering legislation to make Mashburn eligible for the pension, and Mashburn herself has hired an attorney to research the issue.
Pension officials are sympathetic.
"It's a sad situation," said police Detective Tom Singleton, chairman of the city police and fire pension fund. "I'm sure some activist groups feel it is discriminatory, but it goes toward the legal definition of a spouse."
While their sexual orientation prevents gays and lesbians from legally marrying in Florida, a man and a woman living together outside of marriage are not eligible for police pensions in Tampa either, Singleton said.
"I told Mickie it's not a same-sex partner thing. It's just how the law reads," Singleton said. "She understands. She's not bitter."
A surviving spouse receives 50 percent of a Tampa police officer's pay for life. Surviving children get up to 15 percent.
Mashburn, a police detective, hired lawyer Danny Castillo this week to field phone calls and assess a course of action. He plans to research the benefit issue once the shock of Marrero's death subsides.
"Just because state law doesn't recognize her doesn't mean there isn't any avenue for dealing with it," Castillo said. "We're going to do whatever is necessary to make sure she gets what she's entitled to."
Castillo said Mashburn, 48, needs time to mourn before focusing on the pension. He stressed, however, that Mashburn did not want to use Marrero's death for political gain.
"We're just exploring everything. Nothing is a sacred cow," he said. "Who's to say the law can't be changed?"
Changing the rules requires the police and fire unions to expand the definition of a spouse in their contracts. Union members would have to approve the change, and the Legislature must approve it.
Lawmakers could seek benefits for Mashburn because her partner was killed in the line of duty. State Rep. Bob Henriquez, D-Tampa, said Thursday his office has made some inquiries, but he needs more information about options.
"Politically, it's a very sticky situation," Henriquez said. "You want to be compassionate, but you don't want to treat this situation differently just because she was a police officer. There's some equity questions."
Bills establishing domestic partnerships were introduced in the Florida Legislature in 1999 and 2000 but died in committee. Henriquez said a tragedy like Marrero's death could make a difference next time.
Nadine Smith, executive director of Equality Florida, said her group hopes a domestic partnership bill will be introduced again next year. It's unfortunate Marrero's benefits are even up for debate, she said.
"This is the last thing that a lot of people want to think about right now," she said. "This makes the healing process more difficult because these issues are unresolved."
Smith remained hopeful for Mashburn. "What I'm hearing is that there is a lot of internal pressure from other police officers who want to do right by their colleague," she said.
Marrero listed her mother, Maria Marrero, as the beneficiary of a $50,000 life insurance policy and a $75,000 accidental death policy for officers killed in the line of duty, said Sarah Lang, Tampa's director of administration. The money Marrero contributed to her pension, estimated at $50,000, goes to her estate.
City Council member Bob Buckhorn said he believes the majority of police officers and city officials want Mashburn to receive a pension. "This is the first time we have had to deal with this, and we're still in a state of shock," he said. "It's a much bigger issue than this one tragic incident."
- Times staff writer Amy Herdy contributed to this report. Susan Thurston can be reached at (813) 226-3463.
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| Copyright Times Publishing Co. Jul 11, 2001 |
The police officer stood in front of the draped coffin, holding in the palms of his gloved hands a black silk sash. The words "Officer Lois M. Marrero 2001" were emblazoned in gold.
Another officer in the back of the church walked forward. His hands gripped a pole holding the Tampa Police Department flag. Two dozen silk sashes, stitched with the names of the department's 24 officers killed in the line of duty and the years they died, cascaded from the top.
They clasped Marrero's sash to the tip of the flag, joining her name with those of her fallen comrades.
Outside, rain began to fall.
It was an emotional tribute Tuesday morning for Marrero, a 19- year veteran gunned down by a bank robber Friday.
More than 700 people filled Sacred Heart Church to grieve with Marrero's family and friends. Most were Tampa police officers who squeezed into pews, shoulder to shoulder, their hats in their laps, tears flowing. When every open space was filled, those who could not find a seat in an overflow room stood in the back.
Outside, thousands of police and fire officials from more than 30 agencies across the state stood in the rain, listening to the service over speakers and waiting to take part in a procession to the cemetery that would stretch more than 5 miles.
"Because of the sacrifice of Lois and her predecessors, the world is a little better, a little safer," the Rev. Joseph Diaz told mourners. "There is more to Lois' journey than this short life on Earth. She's walking a new beat now."
Marrero was ambushed last week when she confronted bank robbery suspect Nester DeJesus in front of a south Tampa apartment complex. She became the first female Tampa police officer killed while on duty.
It was a tragic end to the life of a tenacious cop respected by peers for her dedication and attitude.
Marrero's memorial service began when a bagpipe wailed I See the Hill, and her casket, covered in an American flag, was carried into the church.
Members of the Police Department honor guard, on which Marrero once served, escorted red-eyed members of her family, including her companion, Mickie Mashburn, to their seats, just a few feet away from her coffin.
They wore round pins on their shirts with a color photograph of Marrero that had been snapped at a happy time.
Marrero, 40, was remembered during the 90-minute service as a spunky officer who loved children, made friends easily and defended her beliefs until the end.
Chief Bennie Holder said he found comfort in his friendship with Marrero, an officer he fired in 1997. Marrero sued and got her job back, but was stripped of her rank as sergeant.
"Through all the controversy, that friendship remained there," Holder said. "I'm at peace, because I know Lois died in peace, because that friendship is still there. It will always be there. So I share your pain."
Marrero's casket was taken to a hearse outside the church where waiting officers smartly saluted.
Motorcycle officers led the procession to the cemetery as clutches of residents gathered by the roadside to watch the slow-moving river of patrol cars, their lights flashing under a darkening sky.
At 11:27 a.m., the hearse traversed 40th Street, a block from the cemetery, and was met with the salute of a 34-year-old school bus driver.
"My dad was a cop in Jamaica, so it touched home," said Lorraine Muirhead, the woman standing at attention. She wiped tears from her eyes.
Nearby, Elizabeth Simpson held a billowing American flag and a handmade sign. "God Bless Officer Marrero and God Keep All Officers Safe," it read.
Simpson, 37, met Marrero 10 years ago when she came to her house to investigate a burglary.
"We had a rottweiler that didn't like anybody," Simpson said, "and (Marrero) put her hand over the fence and petted her. She was the only one who could ever do that. The dog must've sensed something good about her."
The cruisers rolled on: Metro-Dade, Clay County, Marion County, Winter Haven. Seminole County, Brevard County, St. Petersburg police - the patrol cars kept coming and coming. It took an hour for them all to pass by.
Bob Masters, a trucker for 35 years, stood erect with cap in hand. He had mounted tiny American flags with masking tape atop his pickup truck.
"It's too many of them lost," Masters, 61, said quietly. His eyes were moist. "It's a job I wouldn't do."
The last scene like this was in 1998, when murdered Tampa police detectives Randy Bell and Ricky Childers were buried.
Before the procession made its way to Myrtle Hill Memorial Park, Tampa police Cpl. Steve McDonald watched silently as three diggers prepared his comrade's final resting place, in the shade beneath a stand of oak trees.
Her simple bronze plaque, with only her name written on it, leaned against a tree. Her family chose the plot Saturday.
"She was a good officer," said McDonald, who once served with Marrero in the department's honor guard. "She'll be missed."
At the front of the mausoleum area where the burial service was held, dozens of flowers lined the wall. There were bouquets from the Florida Highway Patrol, the widows of Childers and Bell and the Crossings apartments, where Marrero was shot.
The rain, which had been falling about 30 minutes, cleared as the motorcade arrived at the cemetery. About 70 motorcycle officers pulled into the cemetery, riding two by two, their lights flashing, their engines roaring. More than five miles away, the tail end of the procession was still waiting to leave the church.
"Wow," Sgt. Jose Penichet said. "That brings chills."
As Tampa police officers lined the sidewalk, bagpipes played and a riderless horse led the way.
Marrero's family filed out of white limousines, still wearing their buttons with photos of Marrero. A 21-gun salute went off, followed by the lonely sound of taps and Amazing Grace on bagpipes.
Holder presented a folded American flag to Mashburn, then Marrero's father, William Marrero. He said a few words and hugged them both.
Overhead, four helicopters appeared in the sky. As they passed over the cemetery, one trailed off in the maneuver known as the missing man formation.
Afterward, the family walked about 200 yards to the burial plot beneath the trees for a private service, past the grave sites of slain officers Bell and Childers.
Donna Bell, Randy Bell's wife, waited by her husband's grave, awash in memories.
"It seems so strange to be on the other side," she said, remembering the 1998 death of her husband. "I didn't think it would happen this soon. But it was good to see people lining the streets. You don't think people care, but some still do."
At Marrero's grave, the Rev. Paul Osterle assured them Marrero was with God. Then, as Marrero's cherry wood-finish casket was lowered into the ground, and her family broke into sobs, a dispatcher read the final radio call to Marrero over all local police frequencies:
All units stand by. Radio to Badge 327. Calling Badge 327. Do I have Officer Lois Marrero on frequency? No response. Units be advised, Badget 327, Officer Lois Marrero, is 10-7 (out of service) for the remainder. She will never be forgotten. May she rest in peace and God bless.
As the family walked away, Mashburn sprinkled a handful of dirt into the grave and whispered a few last words to the woman she loved, the one lying peacefully inside the casket, clutching in her hands the sergeant's stripes that once had been taken from her.
- Times staff writer Amy Herdy contributed to this report.
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The amazing thing is that this guy, a kid's uncle, wrestles a
7-foot bull shark to the shore last Friday up in the Panhandle, a 200-pound shark that has just torn off his nephew's arm, throwing that giant slap-thrashing fish up onto the sand so that a park ranger can shoot it in the head, and they prop open the mouth with a police baton and reach in and pull out the kid's arm so it can be reattached. Oh, man.
Then, the uncle and his wife are tying off the kid's limbs with beach towels as tourniquets - beach towels! - and administering CPR. And the uncle calls 911 and talks to the dispatcher to make sure help is on the way. And the dispatcher says, "Everybody is on the way, okay?" And the uncle finishes the call by telling the dispatcher, "Okay, thank you." See, he remembers to say thank you.
Two weeks ago, a woman is swimming at a lake in Pasco County, and suddenly she gets jerked under the water, one second she's there and the next she's not, just like, as her husband put it, "one of the scenes out of Jaws." So this is what he does, he starts fighting it and kicking it, whatever that thing is in the water, which turns out to be a 9-foot,
8-inch, 350-pound alligator, until it lets his wife go. This was an entirely impressive feat, not diminished even by the fact that they later called a news conference to say they were trying to find somebody to sue.
Two weeks before that, a guy's car gets hit on the Howard Frankland Bridge, plunges over the side, and the guy is thrown out of his car and is floating away in Tampa Bay. So this car with two teenage lifeguards pulls up and they see his body floating away and they talk about jumping in.
A woman comes running up with a little pink kiddie-toy inner tube. One of the lifeguards takes it without any hesitation and jumps off the bridge into Tampa Bay. He can't see because the water is rough and it's dark and so he relies on shouts from the bridge above for direction to the victim's body. The victim turns out to be dead, but the kid cradles him for the next 45 minutes, at first alone and then with a police diver.
On Tuesday they buried a Tampa police officer named Lois Marrero. She was shot and killed while she was chasing a pair of bank robbers. The guy shot her in a parking lot and she didn't stand a chance, as if in an ambush - if not planned then that's the way it worked out. She didn't get to draw; they took her gun as she lay on the ground.
Can we say from these stories what heroism is? The shark- wrestling uncle surely is a hero. So is the alligator-fighting husband, the bridge-jumping lifeguard. So was the guy from Jacksonville who gave his life last weekend trying to save a kid from a riptide. The rest of us hear about these people with awe and ask ourselves silently: Given the same split-second, would I do the same? Could I?
Here is one difference, though. Nobody wakes up in the morning saying, "Today I might have to wrestle a bull shark, or save my beloved from an alligator, or jump off a bridge." But every police officer, every day, goes to work knowing what might be.
The fact that police take on this risk does not mean that they catch any special breaks, either, and this is not to say they should. Their decisions are second-guessed. Their powers are constantly debated, as they should be. The police know these hard political facts very well. Do you know what would have happened had Lois Marrero shot and killed the bad guy, instead of the other tragic way around? Today she would be suspended, getting questioned. Maybe, as often happens, some citizen would be claiming that he saw it all and that she used too much force.
That's how the world works for police officers. It does not seem too maudlin, or too worshipful, to say to each of them this morning, thank you.
- You can reach Howard Troxler at (727) 893-8505 or at troxler@sptimes.com.
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"All units stand by. Radio to Badge 327. Calling Badge 327. Do I have Officer Lois Marrero on frequency? No response. Units be advised, Badge 327, Officer Lois Marrero, is 10-7 (out of service) for the remainder. She will never be forgotten. May she rest in peace and God bless."
- FINAL RADIO CALL TO MARRERO READ OVER ALL LOCAL POLICE FREQUENCIES
Daniel Manigan of Tampa pays his respects to slain Tampa police Officer Lois Marrero with a salute during a visit to the Tampa Police Memorial on Tuesday with his wife, Jewel. Marrero once helped Manigan when he had trouble with his van. "She wasn't even on duty," he said.
Clearwater police Officers Frank Fleming and Liz Alvarez comfort each other at Myrtle Hill Memorial Park, where Officer Marrero was buried. At right law enforcement officers from around the state get into position at the corner of Florida Avenue and Madison Street in Tampa after Tuesday's funeral service. A flag that draped Marrero's casket, top right, was folded and given toMarrero's companion of 10 years, Mickie Mashburn.
Motorcycle officers lead the procession to the cemetery. Residents gathered by the roadside to watch the patrol cars: Metro Dade, Clay County, Marion County, Winter Haven, Seminole County, Brevard County, St. Petersburg police. It took an hour for them all to pass by.
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Re: Fleeing man kills officer, July 7.
How dare you print a picture Tampa police Officer Lois Marrero's uncovered, dying body. Have you no respect for her family or the local law enforcement community? Obviously not! All I have to say is that if that were my husband's picture on the front page, you would have some serious problems! Officer Marrero did not have children, but can you imagine if she did? No, you didn't think about that. You have no consideration for anything except the bottom line.
The picture is upsetting to children in general and is something they do not need to see, in my opinion. My children usually get access to the newspaper, but not on that day. There is no way they are going to see that picture. Their dad is a police officer and they are too young to have that image in their little minds. Kids worry enough these days, and they know that police officers get killed.
Law enforcement is a unique profession. When you live the life and have a family member on the force, you have a bond with all the other police families. As a part of that law enforcement family, I felt the need to write and condemn the media for their lack of respect for us, the police community. The media must not show live footage of police standoffs. This puts our families in danger!
So, please back off and show some common sense, consideration and respect for law enforcement and their families.
Tracie White, Clearwater
A sickening image
Re: July 7 front page.
I was appalled and sicked by the picture on the lower half of the front page of Tampa police Officer Lois Marrero lying in the street as another officer comes to her aid.
I would expect this type of journalism - and poor taste - from the tabloids, not a paper such as this one. This has been the last issue of this newspaper I will ever purchase.
Steve O'Brien, Spring Hill
Too much was said
Re: Officer Lois Marrero.
A person applies for the position of police officer and in doing so asserts that he or she is willing to lay down his or her life for the sake of the community. When a police officer is killed in the line of duty, he or she should be considered a hero and nothing else! Why is Officer Marrero's "sexual orientation" even being discussed?
Officer Marrero left behind a grieving family. Enough said!
Jim Marsh, Spring Hill
Coverage goes too far
I feel the Times was very lacking in taste to run the story of Lois Marrero's sexual life. Her family and friends are suffering enough with her death, and it is no one else's business. She hadn't been laid to rest when you printed the article about who should get her pension. I'm very disappointed in your paper.
Edna Mae Westendor, St. Petersburg
Racial profiling?
Re: "On two, he shot himself," July 10.
If the officers surrounding the Crossings apartments had encountered a white male running at the scene, would they have handcuffed him for precautions, as they did Isaac Davis? After being held hostage in his own apartment, Davis escaped and ran (while being black) for his life.
Even though Davis is thrilled to be alive, it appears as though we have another case of racial profiling.
JoAnn Lee Frank, Clearwater
The activist and the officer
Re: Remembering a partnership of pride, July 6, and Fleeing man kills officer, July 7.
Thank you for the wonderful article about Dana Whitehurst. Aside from his commitment as an activist, he was also a bright, beautiful, creative and talented young man beloved by all who knew him. What a shame to lose him at such a young age. He had such a zest for life and would have been an interesting and active man far into an older age.
Ironically, and sadly, the lessons he tried to convey through his activism were made all the more apparent last weekend. As the article pointed out, Dana always dressed in business clothes when attending gay pride events in order to counter stereotypes. His point, I think, was that gay people exist in all areas of our daily lives and cannot be separated from the rest of us by their sexual orientation. They are our business people, our real estate agents our doctors and nurses, the checker at Albertson's, the cable guy, our teachers, our neighbors, our children and brothers and sisters. And yes, our police officers, who sometimes die in the line of duty, serving and protecting us.
Dana, wherever you are we miss you, and the foundation of your work lives on. To Officer Lois Marrero's family, friends and to Mickie Mashburn, my condolences and sorrow for your loss.
Donna Lee Smith, St. Petersburg
Board appointments are diverse
Many editorials and articles have been written about my appointments to the new state Board of Education and to the boards of trustees at each institution in the state university system. While I stand behind my appointments at each school, it's important to look at the big picture.
Overall, our record of diversity is remarkable. More than 20 percent of my appointees are African-American, 14 percent are Hispanic and more than 35 percent are women. These numbers vary based on each institution and the composition of its qualified applicant pool, but overall my appointments are quite diverse. This continues my commitment to appointing qualified people to posts throughout state government regardless of race, and shows why overall my appointments are more ethnically diverse than those of the previous administration.
Those determined to find fault with my appointments can certainly look at them selectively and reach a variety of misleading conclusions. But I have faith in every single one of my appointees, and I have confidence that each one of them will prove invaluable in guiding our state universities to greater success.
Jeb Bush, governor, Tallahassee
Water management problems
Re: Estuaries need the water, letter, July 5.
I found this letter very interesting. The writer, Ronnie Duncan, who is chairman of the Governing Board for Southwest Florida Water Management District, gave an excellent description of an estuary and its dynamics regarding freshwater inflows and fish habitats. He was apparently attempting to defend the policies of Swiftmud, Tampa Bay Water and the Master Water Plan, but I think he makes a better argument for the other side.
He stated that reducing the flow of freshwater into an estuary, thereby raising salinity, can cause irreparable harm to the estuary and the fishery. Isn't Tampa Bay an excellent example of an estuary system, and aren't we already drawing water off the rivers that flow into the bay and planning to draw more in order to fill the proposed 15-billion gallon reservoir?
Aren't we also planning to build a desalination plant, or plants, on the bay, which will dump concentrated salt brine and chemicals back into the bay as a result of the process? Salinity in the bay is already at historically high levels. These combined projects will increase salinity even further - and dangerously.
I agree wholeheartedly with, and I applaud the earlier letter that Duncan criticized. The "local sources first" statute, like Tampa Bay Water, has only been with us for about three years. Both were, and are bad ideas. The only way Florida will solve its water concerns is through the creation of a state water authority, which can manage our water resources on a larger scale and in the most practical, efficient and environmentally friendly manner. The natural springs of Florida discharge almost 9-billion gallons of water daily - and we're building desal plants.
We have no water supply problem here. What we have is a water management problem.
Keith Martin, Apollo Beach
Try moving water heaters
Re: Water shortage and restrictions in Florida.
I am wondering why nobody mentions one of the worst culprits in water waste - namely, the placement of the water heater, which is usually out in the garage, 30 or 40 feet from where it is needed. In thousands of homes, the subsequent waste comes as water goes down the drain while we wait for warm water to arrive.
I would be interested in knowing why we rarely see small water heaters, say 8- to 10-gallon size, placed under the kitchen sink where water is used most.
This method is widely used in other countries where serious water shortages are prevalent, and it surely would help to curtail the usage of the much-needed water here in the Sunshine State.
Lorna M. Anderson, Clearwater
Will prosecutors stay employed?
Re: Bungled Aisenberg case might cost dearly,
July 3.
Federal prosecutors acknowledge that they blew the case against Steve and Marlene Aisenberg. The bill for their blowing the case could range from mid-six figures to a few million dollars.
It seems to me that a couple of people really messed up. If a regular Joe messed up that badly at his job, one could bet that he would be out of work. I hope these inept prosecutors don't keep their jobs. It seems to me that they could much better serve the public by working the drive-through at McDonald's.
John F. Marretta, Port Richey
Top universities should participate
Re: Top colleges to aid needy more, July 6.
It troubled me to note the egregious absence of both Harvard and Princeton universities from the list of leading U.S. schools that have agreed to follow more generous guidelines in determining student eligibility for financial aid. Probably few other universities' graduates have consistently contributed more importantly to policy formulation and personal staffing at upper echelons of government and the nation's business-professional sector.
Wouldn't our country be the real loser if academically qualified but financially needy future candidates for education at Harvard or Princeton should have to miss the quality education they offer simply because, for whatever reason, these schools failed to join such a worthy program?
Jeff Corydon, Lutz
Thomas story was refreshing
Re: 10 years later, an inside look at Clarence Thomas, July 6.
I was extremely happy to see your favorable article about Supreme Court Justice Clarence Thomas. Like many of my friends, I usually feel that your "news" articles are quite biased toward the liberal view. It is refreshingly pleasant to see a positive report about a conservative who has long been maligned by the press and liberal organizations.
I consider myself a moderate and feel the same way about conservative vilification of liberals. The sad part about this contention is that most people can see a middle ground that, with a lot of pain, can be, and usually is reached.
Robert Shane, Palm Harbor
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The death of a police officer in the line of duty always provokes an emotional reaction throughout a society that tends to take the dangerous demands of law enforcement for granted in normal times. The murder of Tampa police Officer Lois Marrero, gunned down July 6 by a fleeing bank robber, was an especially shattering event - in part because Marrero shattered so many stereotypes over the course of her career.
Marrero was the first female Tampa police officer ever killed in the line of duty. For all the progress women have made in occupations traditionally reserved for men, most people surely felt an extra frisson of horror that a female officer was the victim of such a callous act of violence. Such risks were willingly accepted by Marrero and thousands of other women in law enforcement as part of the bargain for a chance to succeed to the best of their ability in their chosen profession.
Marrero broke the mold in another respect. She and Mickie Mashburn, a female detective with the Tampa Police Department, had been in a loving relationship for a decade. "I can honestly tell you that a part of me died," Mashburn said. But Mashburn also voiced her appreciation for the support of her fellow officers: ". . . When things like this happen, everyone comes together as a family."
Marrero's friends and relatives have come together. They knew the three-dimensional person the media can only imperfectly convey. They share stories of Marrero's favors and acts of kindness for her neighbors. They tell of Marrero's doting on her 2-year-old niece and her ailing father.
Healthy families and communities share a bond that transcends their superficial differences. Today, the Tampa Bay community in its collective mourning has seen past the stereotypes sometimes associated with gender or sexual orientation - or certain kinds of uniforms. We feel more empathy for the human beings behind the badges. We may also have a deeper understanding of the community that officers such as Lois Marrero have devoted themselves to protecting.
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Nearly 5,000 people filed by the casket where Officer Lois Marrero lay Monday night in her dress uniform, her hands wrapped around a mother-of-pearl rosary.
Some knelt at her casket and said a quick prayer. Others couldn't make it that far and had to sit in the pews to regain their composure. Husky 200-pound men carrying guns wept openly and leaned on other officers for support.
Tampa Mayor Dick Greco, Tampa police Chief Bennie Holder and Capt. Jane Castor met with Marrero's family and her life partner, police Detective Mickie Mashburn, behind closed doors for nearly an hour of the four-hour wake. Greco and Holder said they offered support to the family.
Marrero, 40, was fired by Holder in 1997 but fought the decision and got her job back. Throughout it all, Holder said Monday, he and Marrero remained friends.
"I've lost a friend, and true friends are hard to come by," Holder said. "One thing I can tell you about Lois and Mickie is that they were true friends to me. Regardless of the situation, the friendship was always there."
Greco, who reportedly was rebuffed by some family members on Friday for his role in Marrero's firing, said he did his best to offer his condolences Monday night.
"What can you tell the family?" Greco said. "You can tell them that you're sorry, but it feels very inadequate. We can't imagine the pain that they're feeling right now."
Their pain started Friday morning, when a 25-year-old bank robber, Nester DeJesus, gunned down Marrero as she chased him near the Crossings apartments off S Dale Mabry Highway. Marrero, who was wearing a bulletproof vest, was shot three times in the neck and side.
Marrero is the third Tampa police officer to die by a criminal's bullet in three years, and the first female officer killed in line of duty.
Most of Monday's mourners were in uniform or had a pair of handcuffs discreetly tucked into the back waistband of their street clothes. Tampa police officers were joined by sheriff's deputies from Hillsborough and Pinellas counties, St. Petersburg police and other law enforcement officers from around the state.
Miramar police officers Doug Lockhard and Richard Hennessy drove six hours from Broward County to offer their support.
"Law enforcement is like a big family for us," Hennessy said. "We feel the loss like we would for a family member."
The law enforcement community was joined by a large number of civilians who never met Marrero but were touched by her loss.
"It's just something about police officers and firefighters. They seem like a part of you," said Ann Carey of Tampa. Carey, her daughter Stephanie Blair-Jenkins and 9-year-old grandson Ke-martia Jenkins wore blue ribbons in honor of Marrero. "I just felt like we had to come."
Florida Attorney General Bob Butterworth paid his respects, as did council members and mayoral hopefuls Bob Buckhorn and Rose Ferlita.
So many mourners sent flowers that the air was thick with the perfume of roses, orchids and gladiolas. A huge arrangement was sent by the management at the Crossings.
Mashburn, 48, Marrero's companion of 10 years, fought to remain composed Monday, hugging other mourners and consoling others.
"It probably happened just the way she wanted it," Mashburn told one crying friend. "And I'm at peace with that. I am."
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Nester DeJesus held a gun under his chin as he told police he and his girlfriend were letting their hostage go.
They had robbed a bank and he had killed a cop and now, after a three-hour standoff inside hostage Isaac Davis' apartment, it was about to end.
But not the way he told police.
With a phone in one hand and a Mac 11 semiautomatic weapon in the other, DeJesus looked at his girlfriend, Paula Gutierrez, who stood a few feet away holding the slain police officer's gun.
"On a count of three, I'm going to let him out," DeJesus told hostage negotiators.
"On a count of three, Paula," DeJesus said, signaling to her with his gun.
"He said, one, two - and on two, he shot himself," Davis recalled Monday. DeJesus slumped to the floor, blood gushing from his head. "That's when I turned around and ran out the door."
Davis said he fell, lost a shoe and crawled downstairs from his second-floor apartment.
"I ran to the cops on the lawn," he said. "A cop came up, grabbed me, and helped me over the bushes." Unsure of his role, police handcuffed Davis and took him to headquarters, treating him well and explaining their precautions.
DeJesus, 25, died at the scene. He was cremated at a Tampa funeral home Sunday. Gutierrez, 24, walked out of the apartment and into police custody. She remains in jail without bail, facing first- degree murder and armed robbery charges.
Police Officer Lois Marrero, gunned down by DeJesus before she could draw her gun, will be buried this morning.
Davis spent a couple of nights away from his apartment-turned- crime scene but returned Sunday night. He didn't sleep well, he said, but hopes to stay there.
Memories of Friday morning, however, linger - a bullet hole in a ceiling, the carpeting where DeJesus died cut away.
Sick with the flu, Davis had just finished some toaster waffles and was in his living room watching The View TV talk show when his world caved in.
"I heard what I thought was firecrackers, then arguing," said Davis, 20, a University of Tampa marketing student.
"The next thing I knew, the whole wall shook. . . . I heard four kicks. As I got up, the door flew in."
Gutierrez entered first, wearing denim shorts, a camouflage T- shirt and carrying a black 9mm pistol in her hand. She was closely followed by DeJesus, who turned and fired five shots outside from the Mac 11 he carried from a strap on his shoulder.
Davis took one look at the pair and ran to his bedroom.
It was 11:31 a.m.
As Gutierrez ordered him out of his bedroom, DeJesus asked him if he had a car.
Davis said no, though it was parked outside.
DeJesus put the door back up and had Davis prop a dining room chair against it.
The two suspects then gathered all the phones - Davis' house and cell phones and his roommate's home phone - on the dining room table.
They tried to reassure their hostage.
"We're not going to hurt you," he recalled them saying. "We really f----- up. It wasn't supposed to go this way."
"Right then I said, 'I'm sick,' " Davis recalled. At times, Gutierrez and DeJesus seemed solicitous, asking how he felt, or if he needed water. At one point they had him get in the bathtub in case police burst in shooting.
At other times, he recalled, DeJesus would point his weapon directly at him while ordering him around: Look out the window, pull the shades, retrieve the phone and cigarettes left outside the door that DeJesus requested from police.
"He was hysterical, and she was really nervous," Davis said. They didn't seem connected as a couple and showed no affection toward each other, he said.
Gutierrez ate saltine crackers and she and DeJesus drank orange juice, with DeJesus adding vodka from Davis' cabinet. He didn't seem drunk, Davis said.
"It was like they were trying to make the best of a bad situation," he said.
Then the phone calls began, from police and family.
Gutierrez would break into Spanish, Davis said, and alternately cry and yell into the phone.
The pair passed the phone back and forth, with DeJesus calling his mother.
It was obvious from the conversation DeJesus had with his mother that the two recently had argued, Davis said.
"He said it hurt him to ask her for money, and he said that he did it because he was trying to move out," he recalled. "He said it hurt him she told him she would quit her job if it weren't for him."
Gutierrez said she wanted her mother to take care of their daughter, and repeatedly said on the phone: "Tell Ashley I love her. Tell her I'm going to miss her."
The couple turned the TV channel to Bay News 9 to see where police were positioned, Davis said. DeJesus tried to call the newsroom, but couldn't get through.
"Bay News 9 showed everything," Davis recalled. "They showed cops coming up to the building. That's how they found out the SWAT team was downstairs." (A Bay News 9 spokesman disputed that account, saying the station did not show SWAT team movements.)
A turning point came when they learned from TV that Officer Marrero was dead.
They had been pressing that question for hours with police negotiators, Davis said. The negotiators would not reveal her condition, Davis said. (Police said telling them would have made the couple more desperate and more dangerous.)
DeJesus told Davis that Marrero had run up to him in the parking lot and said, "Stop, or I'll kill you."
" 'Kill me?' " DeJesus said arrogantly to Davis. His only regret, he told Davis, was that he had not stolen a get-away car.
After learning Marrero was dead, Davis said, Gutierrez began yelling at police on the phone.
"Why are you lying to me?" Davis said she yelled. "We just heard on Bay News 9 she's dead!" (A Bay News 9 spokesman said the station did not report Marrero's death until Chief Bennie Holder announced it).
DeJesus already had talked of suicide, but at that point the couple got angry and he became firm in his plans.
The pair asked police to bring them their 2-year-old daughter. Police refused, so the couple asked if she could be brought to the parking lot so they could see her through the window. They wanted one last look before they killed themselves, Davis said.
At one point, Davis said, Gutierrez wavered and asked DeJesus to give up.
"He said no, we talked about this," Davis recalled, with DeJesus saying he would rather kill himself than go to jail. Jail, DeJesus said, would mean he was a failure.
"There's a cop dead out there," DeJesus told Gutierrez and Davis. "I'm not stupid. There are two ways I'm going out. It's just a difference of whether I die now or die later."
- Times staff writer Eric Deggans and researcher John Martin contributed to this report. Amy Herdy can be reached at (813) 226- 3386 or herdy@sptimes.com
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Normally, the spouse of a police officer killed in the line of duty would get survivor benefits for the rest of her life.
But because Mickie Mashburn and her life partner, slain Officer Lois Marrero, weren't legally wed, it's unclear what she will get.
Marrero, 40, was shot to death Friday while chasing a bank robber near an apartment complex off Dale Mabry Highway in Tampa. She left behind countless friends and loved ones, including Mashburn, her companion of 10 years.
Tampa police and city officials said Sunday they did not know whether Mashburn, 48, would be eligible to receive benefits. First, they need to look into the union contract, department policies and state law.
"This is going to be an issue for personnel and the pension board," police spokeswoman Katie Hughes said. "We have no policy addressing this situation that I know of."
On Friday, Marrero was shot three times in the neck and side by Nester Luis DeJesus, 25, who lived in the Crossings apartment on Cleveland Street. He committed suicide in an innocent bystander's apartment. His alleged accomplice, girlfriend Paula Andrea Gutierrez, is in jail on first-degree murder and robbery charges.
Gay and lesbian activists say Mashburn should get the same treatment that any spouse would.
"They were the epitome of the perfect married, suburban, middle- class couple. They did everything together," said Don Bentz, president of Tampa Bay Pride. "She is entitled and deserves those benefits. If she doesn't get them, it's an injustice."
Bentz met Marrero and Mashburn about 10 years ago when they were working off-duty security for Tracks, a popular gay club in Ybor City that is now the Pleasuredome. He remembers them as a happy, committed couple.
"Their relationship was just as valid and deserves as much respect as any piece of paper that a church or government can give you," he said.
Brad Behnke, who has been involved with a man for six years, said treating Mashburn as a spouse is the right thing to do.
"She put up with her spouse going to work every day and risking her life, and she supported her for 10 years," he said. "That shows a life commitment was there."
Mashburn, who is a detective with the Police Department, said Sunday she had not discussed the benefits issue with the top brass.
"Their main concern right now is making arrangements for the funeral," she said.
Mashburn noted, however, that she was familiar with the pension and knows a lot about it.
Usually, in cases involving a husband and wife, the surviving spouse receives 65 percent of the officer's pay, said Tom Singleton, a police detective who serves as chairman of the Tampa Fire and Police Pension Fund. He didn't know who, if anyone, would be entitled to Marrero's pension.
"I can only go with what's mandated by law," he said. "I've known Mickie and Lois a long time. It's one of those situations we'll have to deal with."
Mayor Dick Greco said he hoped the city would be able to grant whatever Marrero would have wanted.
"I think if it's in her will, we might give it to her, but I'm not sure how it works," he said.
Depending on what the documents show, the issue might come up for a vote before the pension board, which includes police and fire representatives. It would be the first time the issue has come up.
Only Vermont legally recognizes the marriage between people of the same sex. About 35 states have enacted Defense of Marriage Act laws restricting marriage to heterosexual couples. Nevada and Nebraska have gone a step further and banned the recognition of civil unions.
Gay and lesbian couples have been fighting for years for the right to legally wed. They argue it's unfair for lifelong companions to be denied benefits that heterosexual couples have, including insurance and tax benefits.
Marrero's death came on opening night of PrideFest, an annual gathering of gays and lesbians in Tampa, which ended Sunday. Participants observed a moment of silence in Marrero's honor. Some brought flowers and flags to a memorial set up in front of the Tampa Police Department on Franklin Street.
Longtime friend Robert Sanders of Tampa called her a "super, super lady" who will be sorely missed. She was the first female officer in Tampa killed in the line of duty.
"She's a neighborly person. She's always been there for everyone," he said. "There was nothing to dislike about her. Her heart was three times as big as her size."
Sanders recalls often telling Marrero to be careful working in Ybor. She always dismissed him, saying she could handle it. Being 5- foot-1 didn't matter.
Sanders last saw Marrero about three weeks ago at a Shell gas station on Kennedy Avenue. Had he known it would have been the last time he saw her, he would have told her how special she was, he said.
Marrero had 19 years on the force and planned to retire in 15 months. The spirited Latina weathered plenty of controversy, including a firing in 1997 for lying about attending a law enforcement seminar when she was really on vacation. She sued the department, claiming she lost her badge because she had written a grievance letter to the police chief.
Marrero got her job back, but was stripped of her rank as sergeant. Her friend Sanders said that through it all she didn't hold a grudge. She loved her job too much.
"She never got upset," he said. "You never heard her say a bad thing about the Tampa Police Department."
Detective Kevin Durkin, who is president-elect of the West Central Police Benevolent Association, said it was a tough weekend for the force. He was focusing more on plans for Tuesday's funeral than on discussions about pensions and benefits.
"I hope it works out for Mickie," he said. "We're heartbroken for her."
- Staff writers Angela Moore and Amy Herdy contributed to this report.
SLAIN IN THE LINE OF DUTY
Public visitation today
Friends of slain police officer Lois Marrero can say their goodbyes today during a public visitation from 4 to 8 p.m. at Blount, Curry & Roel Funeral Home at 4730 N Armenia Ave. in Tampa.
A public funeral is planned for 10 a.m. Tuesday at Sacred Heart Church, 509 Florida Ave. in Tampa. The church holds about 700 people.
Marrero will be buried at Myrtle Hill Memorial Park, 4207 E Lake Ave. in Tampa.
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Loving a cop means facing the reality they can die in the line of duty. For Tampa police officers Lois Marrero and Mickie Mashburn, a couple for 10 years, the situation was one they acknowledged together.
"We had discussed it many times, because Lois loved her job," Mashburn said. "She worked every day at 150 percent."
After being informed of Marrero's death, Mashburn said, officers and other employees at the Tampa Police Department gathered to comfort her.
"We had good times and bad times at TPD," she said, "but when things like this happen, everyone comes together as a family."
Marrero, 40, had 19 years on the force and planned to retire in 15 months.
At a monument to slain officers outside police headquarters Saturday, flowers, cards and candles were left by friends, fellow officers and residents touched by the tragedy.
Marrero's sister, Brenda Ayoub, remembered Marrero as a loving aunt and godparent to Ayoub's 2-year-old daughter.
"She was extremely dedicated, loyal, intense," she said. "At the same time, she was a very loving person."
As a gift, the sisters were planning to take their ailing father on a trip to Germany in the early fall, Ayoub said, and she had recently fought the nagging fear they were running out of time.
"In my heart, I knew something was going to happen," she said.
Saturday, at the site of the shooting, a makeshift memorial in honor of Marrero included flowers, a rosary and a small flower pot perched on an orange emergency cone with the words "Never to be Forgotten."
James Quinn of Seffner has a 26-year-old son who is a patrolman in Bartow. Quinn, who sometimes does maintenance work for Sears in the area, didn't know Marrero but came to pay his respects.
"I'm just reintegrating the fact how serious it can be and how they put their lives on the line for us," he said.
At PrideFest, an annual gathering of gays and lesbians in Tampa, a moment of silence was observed in Marrero's honor, said Equality Florida Executive Director Nadine Smith.
She hoped Mashburn would be entitled to survivors benefits that a surviving spouse would receive.
"The reality is . . . they're treated like strangers under the law," she said. "And I hope that's not the case here."
Tampa police spokeswoman Katie Hughes said she did not know Saturday how such a case would be handled.
Mashburn, a detective with the department, said that no matter how she was recognized by the department, "There is no doubt that Lois was Tampa's finest."
When she lost Marrero, Mashburn said, "I can honestly tell you that a part of me died."
The downtown lunch crowd rushed by Friday afternoon, oblivious to the flags flying at half-staff and the plainclothes officers gathered outside Tampa police headquarters.
The officers whispered, smoked and cried quietly. They felt what the lunch crowd couldn't. One of their own had been shot dead, the third to die by a criminal's bullet in three years.
A little after 1 p.m., a woman with tears streaming beneath her sunglasses stood before the black granite memorial to the department's fallen. She placed a lavender rose at the base of the monument, on the side where Officer Lois Marrero's name will be carved. She stood back, made the sign of the cross and took a deep breath. Her frustrations came pouring out.
Her name was Karen O'Hair. She is a member of Friends of TPD, an organization that collects donations to buy extra safety equipment for police officers.
"We try to save their lives," O'Hair said in a shaky voice. "We give them vests to keep them safe and then they get shot in the neck. . . . No matter how much we give them, we can't stop a bullet to the neck. I don't know what else we can do."
As Tampa police officers know, equipment like bulletproof vests and metal-detecting wands can only do so much. The rest is up to fate.
"I've been here 27 years," said Officer Craig Harridge. "And I've buried a lot of my friends in that time. It's the toughest part of the job. . . . They all hurt. Every single one of them hurts just as bad as this one."
Just over three years ago, Tampa police lost two detectives in one day. Randy Bell and Ricky Childers were shot by Hank Earl Carr, a suspect already in custody. For family members of the two detectives, Friday's shooting was jarring.
Loujean Brittain was Randy Bell's ex-wife. Her 19-year-old son, Dustin, is a criminology major at the University of South Florida who wants to be a police officer.
"When I first heard about this shooting and all those feelings came back, I thought to myself for a split second, 'Dustin can't do this,' " Brittain said. "But Randy could've been diagnosed with cancer and died a long, lingering death. Instead, he died doing a job that he did exceptionally well and that brought him immense peace."
According to those who knew her, Marrero, a 19-year veteran, also died doing a job she loved.
Former City Council member Scott Paine placed a small basket of purple flowers at the police memorial about 6 p.m. Paine met Marrero through his work on the council when she was one of the officers helping clean up Ybor City. Marrero, he said, was "one of those people that stick out in your mind."
As the first woman to die in the line of duty at TPD, Marrero willalso have a place in history.
"She ends up with a place in history no one wanted her to have," Paine said. "But she would say she was an officer and she was just doing her job."
Capt. Jane Castor, one of the highest-ranking women at TPD, said that those who emphasize Marrero's gender are missing the point.
"I think that every female that is a police officer wants to be known as a police officer, not as a female police officer," Castor said.
"Every police officer feels the pain, feels the same devastation, when another officer is killed," Castor said. Being a woman does not make that pain any more or less acute, she said.
The Rev. Beverly Lane, a TPD chaplain, said she would be available to any officers who needed her in the coming days and weeks.
"Chaplains have to be strong, too," Lane said. Lane remembered Marrero as a small woman with a firm handshake who used to wave and say, "Keep praying, Chap!" whenever they met.
"Lois did not lose her life in vain," Lane said. "She was a brave woman. There is a price, and she paid it just as Christ paid the price."
Outside police headquarters, Maj. Scott Cunningham wore his long- sleeved black dress uniform to show his respect for Marrero.
"Unfortunately, this situation is too familiar for us. . . . That memorial over there has too many names on it," he said. "When Lois' name is added, it will be a very small reminder of an extraordinary life."
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Lois Marrero was never one to duck a fight. It made her life difficult at times. It also made her a cop with the right stuff, colleagues said.
Marrero was fired in 1997. Police brass determined she had lied about attending a law enforcement seminar when she was really on vacation.
The spirited, petite Latina refused to go quietly.
She sued the Tampa Police Department, claiming the real reason they yanked her badge was that she had fired off a six-page letter of grievances - to the chief of police, no less.
As a whistleblower, Marrero didn't want just money. She wanted her job back.
She got it. The department reinstated her, but stripped her of her rank as sergeant.
In the quasi-military culture of police work, bucking the system is left to the hardy few. Marrero was one of the fighters - both inside the department and out. She hated injustice on the streets. And she didn't tolerate it within her organization either, officers said.
"She was a battler," said police spokesman Joe Durkin. "She had get-up-and-go."
In her private life, she was nurturing and devoted. Tampa Officer Mickie Mashburn was Marrero's companion the past 10 years. They were on the phone Friday morning, reveling in their plans to see a WNBA basketball game in Orlando later that night. Marrero had to hang up abruptly.
"I've got a (radio) call and I've got to get out there quick," Marrero said. It would be the last call Marrero would respond to. She ended the conversation the way she always did.
"She told me she loved me," said Mashburn, 48. "It has me in peace that way."
Marrero, 40, had 15 months left before retirement. She was training for another marathon. And though she was nearing the end of a rocky and often unhappy career, Mashburn said, she was as driven as ever.
Just two days ago, Marrero was investigating a report of a suspicious auto repossesser a block from where she would be shot, when she saw one dog attack another. She darted over.
"Get the dog collar or I'm going to handle the dog myself," she warned the owner, said Karen Breit, the person who had called about the repo man.
"She was very outgoing and bubbly. But you could tell she didn't take any c--- from anybody," Breit recalled. "She had no fear."
With 19 years on the police force, she had a firm handshake and a sharp mind. "Very good personality," Capt. Jane Castor said.
Marrero cultivated her tough, street-wise reputation. Her diminutive size - she was 5-foot-1 - never held her back. In fact, it was something she traded on.
"She would tell us stories about her stature and some of the drunks she had to deal with," said Scott Paine, a former City Council member. "They'd look down at her and snicker and say things like, 'You going to make me, lady?' And then she would."
Said Officer Craig Harridge, "I don't think that Lois would back away from anything. She had a heart that was twice as big as her physical size."
In her early years, Marrero was a rising star. Supervisors wrote in evaluations in the 1980s that she was a "model officer."
She and another officer were recognized publicly in 1988 for doing what would prove to be the future of police work, community-oriented policing. Assigned to Ybor City, at the time a crime-ridden district, Marrero and her partner, Dana Singer, got the electric company to fix street lighting. They went after the city to condemn dilapidated buildings. Police officials praised them for making Ybor City safer.
"When she did her shift, the people of Tampa always got their money's worth," said Officer Josh Pinney, who worked with Marrero about five years ago in community affairs.
By the mid 1990s, she was head of the unit that fought gang activity.
But she was soon making waves of different kind. The letter she sent to the chief, dated June 25, 1997, was remarkably fiery for an underling.
Among a litany of complaints, Marrero was angry Holder didn't order a formal investigation of an officer for allegations of stealing uniforms from the department.
"Sir, once again there is No consistency here," Marrero wrote.
When she was fired three months later, police officials criticized her for conducting her own investigation of the Police Athletic League, an officer-staffed outreach program, instead of going through other channels.
Though reinstated, Marrero felt she had been wronged, not vindicated, Mashburn said.
Tampa Mayor Dick Greco showed up Friday at the hospital where Mashburn and family members were mourning. Mashburn told him he wasn't welcome. The mayor hadn't shown any support for Marrero during her travails, she said.
"She loved her job so much and it tainted it for her," Mashburn said.
Maj. Scott Cunningham said Friday that residents had been calling all day to say Marrero stopped frequently to talk. "One citizen called and said, 'Lois was with me just yesterday.' "
The size of her commitment will be long remembered, he said. "Her memory will be a lot bigger than her stature."
- Times staff writers Christopher Goffard, Graham Brink, Angela Moore, Babita Persaud and David Karp and researcher John Martin contributed to this report.
Police say residents were calling all day Friday to say that Officer Lois Marrero often stopped to talk with them. Here she hugs Reggie McCarter, then 3, at a workshop in November 1993 aimed at improving police relations with youngsters.
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Holding an automatic weapon, the man stood in the breezeway of an apartment complex, his eyes locked on a Tampa police officer running toward him.
As Officer Lois Marrero approached, the man pointed his gun over the roof of a parked car and sprayed her with bullets.
The officer crumpled to the ground without drawing her gun.
"It's almost like he ambushed her," said Daniel Tatum, a car salesman who witnessed the chilling scene as he drove to work Friday morning. "She didn't have a chance."
Within seconds, other officers arrived and were greeted with a hail of bullets. One grazed another officer in the thigh. The man then ran into the apartment complex.
The day's tragic events began with a bungled bank robbery about a mile away. They ended with the gunman - identified as Nester Luis DeJesus - killing himself inside the barricaded apartment of an innocent bystander. A female accomplice was expected to be arrested on first-degree murder charges.
Police surrounded the building for nearly four hours, fighting through their grief.
Master Patrol Officer Lois Marrero, 40, became the first female Tampa police officer killed in the line of duty.
The bank robbery
The first thing John Silberman noticed was how the bank officer's face turned sheet white. Then he heard the command: "Everyone down on the floor!"
The robber brandished a machine gun at waist level, a strap holding it taut over his right shoulder. Silberman, in the Bank of America at Church Avenue and Neptune Street with his wife, got only a quick glimpse as he got down on the floor.
The gunman wore long sleeves and long pants, a military-style hat and a bandanna pulled up over his mouth and nose. Only his eyes were visible through the small slit.
He moved fast, beelining for the tellers, Silberman said. In a foreign accent, his female accomplice told customers to keep their heads down. "Don't look up," she said.
Polite and mild-mannered, the duo appeared to know exactly what they were doing, Silberman said. On the way out, the robber thanked everyone for cooperating.
It was 10:42 a.m. It was all over in about 30 seconds. No shots were fired and no one was injured. The police are unsure how much money was stolen.
The robbers ran out of the bank just as Patricia Scaife emerged from the front door of the Mortgage Contracting office next door for her cigarette break.
They pushed past her and the man yelled that the bank had just been robbed and he was calling police.
Scaife ran back inside, alerted her boss, who ordered all employees to the top floor. Police were on their way.
DeJesus and his accomplice drove away in a yellow Nissan Xterra. Within minutes, a dye pack exploded, staining the bills. They ditched the money on W Estrella Avenue. Police later recovered it.
DeJesus then dropped his accomplice off at the Crossings apartments on Cleveland Street and Church Avenue and drove to the Regency Apartments at nearby Manhattan Avenue and Kennedy Boulevard, according to police and witnesses. Witnesses said his mother picked him up and drove him to the Crossings, leaving behind his SUV.
Dan Matheny was stepping into his Dodge Dakota at the Crossings apartment complex when DeJesus' mom's burgundy Ford pickup pulled up. Matheny could not see who was driving, but DeJesus emerged from the passenger door. It was 11:02 a.m.
The confrontation
Matheny had crossed paths with DeJesus at the complex during the past two years. Matheny said DeJesus lived there and his mother worked maintenance at the complex. In the past, they had talked politics.
"Hey, Nester," Matheny said to DeJesus.
No reply. DeJesus walked briskly away, head down, eyes forward.
Matheny did not see a gun, but he sensed something wasn't right. DeJesus always said hello to him. The truck slowly pulled away.
"He was in a hurry, but the truck wasn't," Matheny said. "It felt weird, really weird."
About that time, officers in a police helicopter had found the SUV in the parking lot of the Regency. Four officers - Marrero, Cole Scudder, Gary Mezger and James Zipler - scoured the area.
Minutes later, Marrero made her way to the Crossings and came face to face with DeJesus, who was about to take an Oldsmobile Cutlass parked in front of him with keys he had stolen from a Crossings tenant.
Justin Castleberry, a car parts courier, was about to make a pick- up at nearby Lindell Volkswagen Honda, when he saw Marrero running across the apartment complex parking lot toward a breezeway.
He also saw the dark-clothed suspect standing still, waiting.
"He just unloaded in her," Castleberry said. "She hit the ground. She never moved."
Marerro, who was wearing a bulletproof vest, was shot three times in the neck and side.
Within moments, the gunman was stepping toward the body and police cars were screeching up from all directions. With bullets flying at them, police ducked for cover behind their motorcycles, landscaping trailers, any shields they could find.
"We were sitting between the police cars," said Tatum, the passing car salesman who was with a colleague. "We were trying to figure out what to do. He keeps shooting. It's slow motion. Everything was just moving in slow motion.
"The kid that had the gun just didn't care," said Tatum. "He let out two or three bursts after he shot the police lady. He was shooting at whatever was moving."
The siege
On a break from cleaning her apartment, Sherry Williams stepped out on to her first-floor patio a little after 11 a.m. and heard a series of shots: pow, pow, pow, pow, pow, pow. Williams hit the ground and crawled back into her apartment.
Hiding inside, she heard someone trying to break through her front door. It was DeJesus, trying to run from police.
Terrified, she balled up on her bathroom floor. She was too scared to go for the phone to dial 911. Seconds later, a bullet hit her back door.
She mustered the courage and went for the phone. The 911 operator told her to hide, she said. DeJesus ended up running up the stairs to Apartment 226.
"I don't know what would have happened if he had got through my door," said Williams, who also called her mother and her preacher for support. "It sounded like a war out there."
Marrero was sprawled face down, her right leg slightly bent at the knee. A fellow officer kneeled over Marrero's body as police whizzed by, yelling for residents to return to their apartments.
One witness described the first moments as sheer chaos, with officers trying to restore order among panicked residents. All the while, the officer remained with Marrero, her hands on Marrero's back. She shouted for help and cried.
When a police officer called for something to cover Marrero's body, Tom Shindel, a mechanic at the dealership, grabbed a cloth fender cover and gave it to the officer.
Marrero was taken to Tampa General Hospital where she was pronounced dead. At police headquarters, someone lowered the flag to half staff.
At 12:40 p.m., officers unfurled yellow police tape and cordoned off the spot where Marrero died.
A male officer sobbed on the shoulder of another officer. "Let's get them," he said between clenched teeth.
At 12:54, they laid out cones to mark Marrero's last steps.
The end
At 1:15 p.m., a SWAT team member in black clothes and a helmet ran across from the complex with a blond-haired child in his arms. A woman in a tie-dye shirt ran next to him. She took her child when they reached the far end of the yellow police tape. She kept running.
DeJesus' mother helped hostage negotiators plead with her son to surrender.
At 2:45 p.m., four hours after the Bank of America was robbed, a woman walked out of the apartment with her hands up. She was arrested and later identified as Paula Andrea Gutierrez, 24. A minute later, a man walked out with his hands up. He was later identified as Isaac Davis, 26. Police say he was home alone when DeJesus burst in and was not involved in the shootings.
Inside the apartment, police found DeJesus dead.
A police officer gestured with a finger beneath his chin like a gun. "Self-inflicted," officers murmured.
Marrero was the first officer to die in the line duty since Tampa police detectives Ricky Childers and Randy Bell and Florida Highway Patrol Trooper James "Brad" Crooks were killed in a murderous rampage in 1998.
"It's going to be hard to deal with tomorrow morning," Officer Rob Larose said. "It's always on your mind. We'll grieve and go on."
Police spokesman Joe Durkin said the dangers of the job has become a sad reality.
"Our men and women never know what's awaiting them when they round those dark corners or pursue suspects," he said. "Sometimes its tragedy."
- Times staff writers Wes Allison, Linda Gibson, Kevin Graham, Jeff Harrington, Angela Moore, Leanora Minai and Kathryn Wexler and Times researcher John Martin contributed to this report.
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Holding a semiautomatic weapon, the man stood in the breezeway of an apartment complex, his eyes locked on a Tampa police officer running toward him.
As Officer Lois Marrero approached, the man pointed his gun over the roof of a parked car and sprayed her with bullets.
The officer crumpled to the ground without drawing her gun.
"It's almost like he ambushed her," said Daniel Tatum, a car salesman who witnessed the chilling scene as he drove to work Friday morning. "She didn't have a chance."
A woman with the man reached down and took the fallen officer's gun, police said.
Within seconds, other officers arrived and were met with a hail of bullets. One grazed another officer in the thigh. The man and woman retreated into the apartment complex, beginning a four-hour standoff with police.
The day's tragic events began when the couple robbed a bank about a mile away. They ended with the man - Nester Luis DeJesus - killing himself inside the apartment of an innocent bystander. The woman - Paula Andrea Gutierrez - surrendered and was later charged with first- degree murder and armed robbery.
Master Patrol Officer Lois Marrero, 40, became the first female Tampa police officer killed in the line of duty.
The bank robbery
The first thing John Silberman noticed was the bank officer's face turning sheet white. Then he heard the command: "Everyone down on the floor!"
The robber brandished a machine gun at waist level, a strap holding it taut over his right shoulder. Silberman, in the Bank of America at Church Avenue and Neptune Street with his wife, got only a quick glimpse as he got down on the floor.
The gunman wore long sleeves and long pants, a military-style hat and a bandanna pulled up over his mouth and nose. Only his eyes were visible through the small slit.
He moved fast, bee-lining for the tellers, Silberman said. In a foreign accent, his female accomplice told customers to keep their heads down. Police said she waved a gun. "Don't look up," she said.
Polite and mild-mannered, the duo appeared to know exactly what they were doing, Silberman said. On the way out, the robber thanked everyone for cooperating.
It was 10:42 a.m. It was all over in about 30 seconds. No shots were fired and no one was injured. The robbers got away with about $9,500.
They ran out of the bank just as Patricia Scaife emerged from the front door of the Mortgage Contracting office next door for her cigarette break.
They pushed past her, and DeJesus yelled that the bank had just been robbed and that he was calling police.
Scaife ran back inside and alerted her boss, who ordered all employees to the top floor. Police were on their way.
DeJesus and Gutierrez drove away in a yellow Nissan Xterra, police said. Within minutes, a dye pack exploded, staining the bills. They ditched the money on W Estrella Avenue. Police later recovered it.
DeJesus then dropped Gutierrez off at the Crossings apartments on Cleveland Street and Church Avenue and drove to the nearby Regency Apartments, according to police and witnesses. Witnesses said someone at the wheel of his mother's car picked him up and drove him back to the Crossings, leaving behind the yellow SUV.
Dan Matheny was stepping into his car at the Crossings apartment complex when DeJesus' mother's pickup pulled up. Matheny could not see who was driving, but DeJesus emerged from the passenger door. It was 11:02 a.m.
The confrontation
Matheny had crossed paths with DeJesus at the complex during the past two years. Matheny said DeJesus had lived there with his mother who worked maintenance at the complex. In the past, they had talked politics.
"Hey, Nester," Matheny said to DeJesus.
No reply. DeJesus walked briskly away, head down, eyes forward.
Matheny did not see a gun, but he sensed something wasn't right. DeJesus always said hello to him. The truck slowly pulled away.
"He was in a hurry, but the truck wasn't," Matheny said. "It felt weird, really weird."
About that time, officers in a police helicopter had found the SUV in the parking lot of the Regency. Four officers on the ground - Marrero, Cole Scudder, Gary Mezger and James Zipler - scoured the area.
Minutes later, Marrero made her way to the Crossings and confronted DeJesus. He had just stolen a tenant's keys to an Oldsmobile Cutlass parked in the lot and was about to jump in when he saw Marrero.
Justin Castleberry, a car parts courier, was driving by when he saw Marrero running across the apartment complex parking lot toward the Cutlass.
He also saw a dark-clothed man standing still, waiting for Marrero at the front of the car.
"He just unloaded in her," Castleberry said. "She hit the ground. She never moved."
Marrero, who was wearing a bulletproof vest, was shot three times in the neck and side.
Within moments, police cars were screeching up from all directions. With bullets flying at them, police ducked for cover behind their motorcycles, landscaping trailers, any shields they could find.
"We were sitting between the police cars," said Tatum, the passing car salesman who was with a colleague. "We were trying to figure out what to do. He keeps shooting. Everything was just moving in slow motion.
"The kid that had the gun just didn't care," said Tatum. "He was shooting at whatever was moving."
The siege
On a break from cleaning her apartment, Sherry Williams stepped out on to her first-floor patio a little after 11 a.m. and heard a series of shots: pow, pow, pow, pow, pow, pow. Williams hit the ground and crawled back into her apartment.
Hiding inside, she heard someone trying to break through her front door. It was DeJesus, trying to get away from police.
Terrified, she balled up on her bathroom floor. She was too scared to go for the phone to dial 911. Seconds later, a bullet hit her back door.
She mustered the courage and went for the phone. The 911 operator told her to hide in the closet, she said. DeJesus ended up running up the stairs to Apartment 226.
"I don't know what would have happened if he had got through my door," said Williams, who also called her mother and her preacher for support. "It sounded like a war out there."
Marrero was sprawled face down, her right leg slightly bent at the knee. A fellow officer knelt over Marrero's body as police whizzed by, yelling for residents to return to their apartments.
One witness described the first moments as sheer chaos, with officers trying to restore order among panicked residents. All the while, the officer remained with Marrero, her hands on Marrero's back. She shouted for help and cried.
When a police officer called for something to cover Marrero's body, Tom Shindel, a mechanic at the dealership, grabbed a cloth fender cover and gave it to the officer.
Marrero was taken to Tampa General Hospital, where she was pronounced dead. At police headquarters, someone lowered the flag to half-staff.
At 12:40 p.m., officers unfurled yellow police tape, cordoning off the spot where Marrero died.
One officer sobbed on the shoulder of another officer. "Let's get them," he said between clenched teeth.
At 12:54, they laid out cones to mark Marrero's last steps.
The end
At 1:15 p.m., a SWAT team member in black clothes and a helmet ran across from the complex with a blond child in his arms. A woman in a tie-dye shirt ran next to him. She took her child when they reached the far end of the yellow police tape. She kept running.
DeJesus' mother helped hostage negotiators plead with her son to surrender.
At 2:45 p.m., four hours after the Bank of America was robbed, Gutierrez, 24, walked out of the apartment with her hands up. A minute later, a man walked out with his hands up. He was later identified as Isaac Davis, 26. Police say he was home alone when DeJesus burst in and was not involved in the shootings.
Inside the apartment, police found DeJesus dead.
A police officer gestured with a finger beneath his chin like a gun. "Self-inflicted," officers murmured.
Gutierrez was being held in jail without bail late Friday. Police said she lived at 3909 W Cleveland St. Apt. 120, and had a 2-year- old child with DeJesus. An arrest report said she and DeJesus robbed a florist shop on S MacDill Avenue on Tuesday. During that robbery, Gutierrez held a gun on a female employee while DeJesus bound the woman with duct tape, police said. About $45 was stolen from the woman's purse.
Marrero was the first officer to die in the line duty since Tampa police detectives Ricky Childers and Randy Bell and Florida Highway Patrol Trooper James "Brad" Crooks were killed in a murderous rampage in 1998.
"It's going to be hard to deal with tomorrow morning," Officer Rob Larose said. "It's always on your mind. We'll grieve and go on."
Police spokesman Joe Durkin said the dangers of the job have become a sad reality.
"Our men and women never know what's awaiting them when they round those dark corners or pursue suspects," he said. "Sometimes it's tragedy."
- Times staff writers Wes Allison, Linda Gibson, Kevin Graham, Jeff Harrington, Angela Moore, Leanora Minai and Kathryn Wexler and researcher John Martin contributed to this report.
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