The funeral was held four days later on a searing afternoon. Thousands of police officers from across Canada and the United States defied the heat in dress uniforms to pay their respects. Officers from Britain, Australia and other countries around the world sent representatives. It was a global display of police unity, a declaration of the price all officers were willing to pay and a statement of defiance to those who would see the world in chaos.
Ranks of officers stood solemnly outside the church listening to the service over speakers; inside, people stood shoulder to shoulder with bowed heads. Friend, co-worker or stranger, they had all come to bid farewell to a fallen brother, to support those personally touched by the tragedy and to support themselves: when one officer falls, all officers feel the loss.
The day was not without its victims. Men and women, indomitable in spirit, collapsed, succumbing to the heat or to overwhelming grief. Yet, where a few fell, others, be they officers, medics or civilians, helped them to stand and, more often than not, return to the ranks to resume the vigil.
At the conclusion of the service, the same officers who had braved the heat marched to line the route from church to cemetery. Away from church grounds, citizens approached officers to offer condolences, prayers and words of gratitude. Water was freely given, gratefully accepted. On a day of tremendous grief, the union between police and those they protected was at its strongest.
Amid an ocean of solidarity and brotherhood, Jack walked alone. Sy’s cap, the cloth brushed a lustrous black, the brim and badge polished to gleaming brightness, lay on a cushion in his arms as he marched behind the casket, a solitary figure. Karen was somewhere in the crowd, her parents with her to show a rare moment of compassion and understanding for their daughter’s husband, but still, he was alone.
It shouldn’t be his hat. He threw it in the trunk of the car every day. It should be something that meant something to him, shows who he was.
Jack had a sudden urge to fling the hat over the heads of the officers lining the road. He could picture it spinning through the air, the sun flashing off the badge. His hands twitched beneath the cushion, then were still.
The intense August sun glared down on him, burning him from above and baking the asphalt beneath him. As much as the sun punished him, it was a guttering candle compared to the firestorm of grieving guilt within him. If he had run faster, pushed himself harder, reacted quicker. If, if, if . . .
Beneath the grief, under the layers of sorrow, lay something else. It waited patiently, knowing it would have its time once the wounds inside Jack began to heal, to lose their raw tenderness. Now was the time for Jack to say goodbye to Simon. Now was the time for grief.
But soon, it would be time for rage.