Sergeant George Daniel Sullivan

26 1/2 years later:

My life changed forever on January 13, 1998. It was a cold January night, and George had gone to work for the graveyard shift, which was 11 pm to 7 am. He had been assigned that shift by Chief K. S. of the University of Nevada Police Department as a punishment for standing up for his guys. George was a senior officer and Sergeant at the department, having 18 years of employment there. He always stood up for the guys when the administration made policies that went against the Police Union’s fair labor standards. George was heavily involved in the union to prevent these things from occurring.

A knock on the door woke me from my slumber sometime after 2am, and our two-year-old cocker spaniel was barking incessantly, while our 4 children, ages 3 – 15, were sleeping upstairs. With a very foggy head, and telling the dog repeatedly to be quiet, I answered the door. Standing before me, were two men: one I recognized, and the other I did not. The one I recognized was Chief K. S., and we both knew I did not like him. He was a drunk, gruff, unfair to my husband, and overall, a horrible chief. He had assigned George to the “supervisor cover shift”, which meant that George worked two graveyard shifts, then two swing shifts, followed by one day shift. All without a day off. And now he was on straight graveyard.

When K and M Sjoen came to town, they were looking for a home. My dream home up the street had been on the sales market. It was a ranch-style home on the corner of a dead end street, so hardly any traffic. It had a lovely yard with peonies growing along the walk way in the back, and a very nice layout. George and I had eyed it for ourselves, but in the end, decided we would not make the move, and so I told George that he might mention that one to K. We didn’t know them well, just that they needed a home. They did indeed buy this favorite house of mine, and we all walked over on moving day to greet them with a platter of cookies, and lend a hand if needed. The children were young, and it was too much for K. He yelled at them for being on the sofa. Mistake #1. Don’t mess with my kids. Mistake #2. Don’t miss with my husband at work. And mistake #3. And don’t mess with my family, by taking their Dad away at all crazy hours when he was senior man at the department.

Back to January 13. Both men were wearing civilian clothes, and in the fog of sleep, I couldn’t understand why they were there. Chief S asked if they could come in. I later found out that the second man was a Police Chaplain, trained to do what they were doing that early morning, inform a family of the passing of their officer at work. But K wanted in on the action, and told the man that he was welcome to come, but that he would do the notification.

As they entered my home, K directed me to a couch, where he told me that George had been killed at work. I was stunned, not quite awake and not really able to process his words. I asked if they had taken him to the hospital, and could I go. George would want his organs donated. Chief S told me he had not been transported. Again, I did not understand. The Chief put his arm around me and told me, “You have to get over this”. No more ridiculous words had ever been uttered. I got off the couch, away from this man whom I intensely disliked, and walked to the dining room table to open a large envelope that I had picked up the day before. One month prior, on Meghan’s 15th birthday, we had family pictures taken. The envelope contained those pictures. I looked at them and showed them to both men.

“How could he be gone?” I asked. “ I just picked up these pictures yesterday.” I finally began to cry. George had left for work at about 10:30 pm, just a few hours ago. I remembered him coming out of the closet all dressed for work, hearing the leather on his duty belt, each piece rubbing against the other, and keys clanging into one another. He always held them so they wouldn’t make too much noise, but I heard them anyway. I had just been drifting off to sleep at the time. George had been tired from working the graveyard shift because he could never really get adequate sleep before returning to work for his next shift. One word from me and he would have called in sick. I didn’t do it. And now he was dead. I didn’t find out how he died until the morning, when Steve Sauter, George’s friend from the University Police Department, came over to share in our grief.

I called my friends down the street at the urging of the Chaplain, as they were they closest. Jim and Jan Haggarty. Then I called my sister, too, from east Reno, and she came over too. The house seemed to get fuller and fuller as dawn approached. One of the earliest arrivals was Pastor John Ackers from Sparks Christian Fellowship, a church we had begun attending only 6 months previously. As the sun began to peek over the horizon, I asked Pastor John, “How do I tell my children?” They were all still asleep upstairs. John suggested we do it together, and helped me with my words. Meghan was awakened first, and I brought her into Brian’s room. They learned of their Dad’s passing together, and we all went down to the family room where they could be supported by friends and family. Then Pastor John and I went into the youngest boys’ room to wake Scott and Kyle, ages 6 and 3. The pastor and l explained that Daddy would not be coming home, as Jesus had taken him to Heaven.

The Chief and the Chaplain had long since left, having given us the horrible news, and they had been replaced by our Pastor and our family and friends. In the coming days, friends came by to feed us, bring flowers, and share tears. There was one common theme: George was the kindest man on the planet, and no one could believe he had been senselessly murdered. Friends picked up the children at various times and took them away from the ache of their home, showing them a little laughter and companionship with friends. We planned a memorial service, which I thought could be at our previous church, as they had offered it to me. We had left St. John’s Presbyterian Church just a few months earlier, looking for a more local church where we would be in the same community as the schools the children attended.

As Steve, Jim, Pastor John and I gathered in the quiet of the den, we discussed the memorial plans. They said I didn’t understand how many people would be coming to George’s service and that we would have to have it at Lawlor Events Center on the University campus. Though George had missed only one local line-of-death memorial service since I had known him, I just didn’t realize what one really looked like. I was about to find out.

George had died on a Tuesday morning, just after midnight. On Friday of that same week, limousines arrived in front of my house to transport all of the immediate family and friends who would be attending George’s service. As the procession made its way to the Events Center, led by and followed by several police cars and motors with lights flashing, people lined the streets and pulled over, saluting the procession and waving American flags. George was loved in this community. He was born and raised here, and had attended Reno High School and graduated in 1972. He knew so many of these people.

The police motorcycles stopped traffic all along the way for us to pass….not just on the streets, but on the freeway too. They blocked the on-ramps so that cars could not enter while the procession passed. While on the freeway, I turned around to look back, and the freeway was empty except for our procession. It looked like a sea of red and blue flashing lights, as far as they eye could see, as police cars from our local area and beyond were escorting our procession to the memorial service for a final good-bye and salute. Before arriving at Lawlor Events Center, the procession stopped at Walton’s Funeral Home and picked up a hearse with a coffin in it that I had picked out with Steve, though George’s remains were not in it. He was to be cremated, so this was just ceremony so the Honor Guard could do the folding of the American flag, giving it to our family. It was a cold and cloudy day on January 16, 1998. The wind was blowing, and a few snowflakes blew through the sky. But when the service which was attended by 3,000 people was over, the clouds parted and the sun peeked out, leaving swaths of blue sky. I think God did that for us, symbolizing that better days were coming. The Raven helicopter did a flyover, causing us all to look up and observe the beauty of the sky and the hope it brought. Many of us went to the Eldorado Casino in downtown Reno afterwards. As a kindness, this local family and business owner had offered to host a wake for anyone who wanted to attend. That was all a fog for me, though I do remember I never had a chance to eat anything, as I was busy speaking to hundreds of well-wishers, also engulfed in grief. We then returned to our house on Firtree Lane, which would never be the same again, one occupant short.

Brian would turn 11 years old three days after the memorial service. When that hit me, I realized I had to have a celebration for him, one that would remind him of what his life was going to be like in the future. So on Sunday, January 18th, I started calling his friends’ parents, inviting their children to a roller skating party at Wild Island the next day. Brian’s birthday often coincided with a national holiday in memory of Martin Luther King. This year, his birthday was actually on the holiday. It gave me an opportunity to create a new normal for us all, with smiles, laughter, and friends. Dad flew home to Orange County a couple days after that, having attended benefits meetings with me, and helping me understand my new financial situation. Mom stayed for another week, helping me to get back on my feet and into a pattern that made sense to me. I cried when she left as I contemplated the adult aloneness I was facing, and the overwhelming task of raising four children without their Dad. I didn’t know how to live my life now, my best friend gone from my side. George had been the voice of reason in our home when I had crazy ideas. He had comforted me when things were challenging at work, and I did the same with him. If I was working and he was home that day, I came home to a clean house, the laundry done, and a man in an apron helping with dinner. We were partners, friends, and lovers.

The children went back to school the week after the memorial service, and I would be off work for almost 3 months before I felt ready to resume the schedule of a single, working mom. To be honest, the whole idea of it was daunting. I cried in the quiet of my bedroom every night, mourning the change in our family, and praying for the strength of God to carry me through, realizing I was now the leader of the family.
Everyone had gone back to living their lives, and I was picking up the pieces of our fractured world. In the early afternoon, instead of leaving our mail in the box by the curb, the mailman would knock on my door and hand me a large stack of mail that could NEVER have fitted in our box. I would open each card, and read the sentiment from someone who had known George, watched him grow up, or even a community member that neither of us had ever known. Some had checks in them, hoping to help make a financial difference in our lives. I remember receiving a note from an elderly woman in a retirement home nearby, with a $1000 check enclosed. She had lost her father in the line of duty as a young girl, and she wanted to make a difference in the lives of mine. I went to see her a few months later and she wasn’t there. But each card bore the grief of someone who had suffered loss, deep affection for a beloved officer, or a heartfelt message meant to encourage. I was incredulous as these deliveries continued for a couple of weeks.

One day, a week or two later, with Meghan, Brian and Scott back in school, Kyle and I were at home as was our new normal. He was only 3 years old, and though he realized his world had changed, I was still his constant. After lunch, we read a book upstairs in his room, I put him down for a nap, and turned on the baby monitor. I came downstairs to write thank you notes for the many kindnesses that had been shown our family in the previous weeks. I had a local printer make up some lovely note cards for me, so the job wasn’t as overwhelming as it might have been. I was still my mother’s child, and she had taught me well. Thank you notes were not optional. As I sat at the kitchen table, tears streamed down my face while I added a sentence or two to the cards that would be sent to those we knew. I heard the baby monitor tell me that Kyle was beginning to stir. These were days where I was beginning to find my way, but was failing miserably from an emotional perspective. I couldn’t eat; I couldn’t sleep. But I could do my chores, because I didn’t have to think. The house was orderly, but we were all still a mess.

I began to make my way to the staircase to get Kyle out of his bed, but I collapsed on the first riser. I had no strength to climb those stairs. I was spent. There was nothing left. I was lonely, sad, grieving for the life to which I could never return, and afraid of the one before me. There I sat, head on the stair, weeping, and calling out to God, the only One who could understand my grief.

“I can’t do this! How could you ask me to do this?” And I heard THE VOICE reply, “I’ll give you strength for the next five minutes.”

The radio was not on, nor was the TV. It had been stone silent while I sat working on the thank you notes. There was no one in our house besides Kyle and me. The voice was not in my head. It was in the room! I lifted my head off the stair, looking for the source of those encouraging words. I knew immediately I would not see the owner. Without question, God had sent the Holy Spirit to speak to me, as He had sent the Holy Spirit to speak to Joseph and the angel speak to Mary. This was a pivotal moment for me. God knew I needed a word from Him, so to speak. He knew I needed to hear from Him so that I could begin my recovery, and help my children in their recovery too. He knew I needed to trust Him, depend on Him, and feel His presence. He spoke to me that day in a way not too many people experience. Since that day, I have told my story to a few who might believe me. I heard the voice of God. And as I sit here today, twenty-six years later, I realize that He has been faithful all along. In those early days, and then again as the children were experiencing their growing pains in life, there was only one set of footprints in the sand, as Jesus, my Savior carried me, giving me strength for the next five minutes.

Carolyn
Still your wife

May 28, 2024