I produce a lot of special programming at my television station.  While my daily job is to oversee our nightly newscasts, a job that keeps me in the newsroom, my real love is being in the control room, in charge of our coverage of a live event.  During the preparation for those sorts of programs, I make notes, lots of notes, some on the computer, but most on scraps of paper with one of my many Sharpies.  And then when the program is over, I gather up every note, along with every script, every memo, every scrap of paper and tuck them into a folder, just in case I ever produce a similar special again.

In my drawer, there is a big hurricane folder, there is a “Stadium Implosion” folder, a “Mayoral Inauguration” folder, a “Playoffs Preview Special” folder.

Next week I am going to going into another folder, a folder that will be used for the 4th time in less than a year.

It is the one with the red Sharpie title “Cop Funeral.”

On Tuesday, I will sit in the control room and produce our live coverage of yet another funeral for a Philadelphia Police Officer, killed in the line of duty.

This time it was Officer Patrick McDonald.

Two weeks ago (yes, two weeks ago) the folder came out for the funeral of Officer Isabel Nazario (I was off that week, another producer used the folder).  In May, I produced the coverage of the funeral for Sergeant Steven Liczbinski.  Back in November it was the funeral of Officer Charles Cassidy.

Enough, already.

Officer McDonald was shot 7 times on Tuesday by a guy who was already wanted for assaulting police, a guy who had been in prison, a guy who by all accounts was a bad guy in prison.  Officer McDonald was shot 7 times by a guy who got out of prison LAST MONTH.  The guy made it one month living in our civilized society before opening fire on a police officer who apparently asked to see his ID.

Earlier this month Officer Nazario was involved in the pursuit of a suspect when that suspect t-boned her cruiser.  She was killed.

In May, Sergeant Liczbinski was trying to arrest suspects in the robbery of a bank in a supermarket.  As he exited his cruiser, one of those men opened fire with a rifle.  He was killed.

In October, Officer Cassidy was making his daily rounds, checking up on a business that had been robbed in the past.  He didn’t know that it was being robbed at that very moment.  He walked in, the robber shot him.  He was killed.

Since I have been on the job at my station, 15 years, there have been 18 line of duty deaths in the Philadelphia Police Department.  Each of those stories is worthy of detail, but I only go into these recent four because they all happened within the past year.

I don’t understand.

I can’t imagine what is going on in the mind of a person who, choosing a life of crime, knowing they’re doing something illegal, knowing that they are breaking the rules of a society, decides that killing anyone, let alone a man or woman who has dedicated a life to helping others, is an option.

I don’t understand.

I do know, though, that I want to put that folder in the drawer, in the back of the drawer, and never have to open it again.

Sentiment is not my first feeling.  Sarcasm, cynicism, smart-assedness, those are my personality traits.

But tonight I have to express my sentiment to the men and women who are trying to keep my city safe and free and livable.  I don’t know how they do it every day, how they keep from going, “Fuck this shit, these people, this job,” but they do.

And I thank them.

And if it happens again, I will be in that control room, making sure this city sees the heartbreak and the pain and at the same time, the honor, the tradition and the respect.

But I don’t want to.