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10 years later: Remembering Officer Rick Cromwell
Lodi police officer recounts the day tragedy struck police department
"Is it clicking for you yet?" Rick Cromwell yelled. I could barely see him across the dimly lit employee parking lot at the old police department. "Is it clicking for you?"
He had the biggest smile I'd ever seen plastered across his face.
It was November 1988. Rick and I had graduated from the San Joaquin Delta College Police Academy in May and were in our third month as trainees at the Lodi Police Department. We were nearing the point where our training officers would have to decide whether to send us out on our own.
I wearily shrugged my shoulders as I passed him. The last three months had taken their toll. The lack of sleep, stress of being evaluated daily, prodigious amounts of caffeine and unrelenting demands of learning to be a police officer had left me exhausted mentally and physically. I wasn't sure I was going to make it.
Rick excitedly told me he was having a great time and couldn't wait to head out without a training officer. I nodded and wished him well.
He was committed and he was absolutely sure of himself. As I slowly trudged toward the locker room, I thought of how much I envied him.
We were both released from the training program for solo patrol a few weeks later. Thanks to a lot of good people in the department, my family and a little bit of good luck, it turned out all right for me.
But my classmate wasn't so fortunate.
On Dec. 9, 1998, Rick became the first Lodi Police Department officer to die in the line of duty.
Rick was doing something he loved the day he died. He was a traffic officer, patrolling the streets of Lodi on his motorcycle.
He was heading east on Kettleman Lane when an elderly driver pulled out in front of him. Rick tried to minimize the impact by dropping the motorcycle on its side and sliding toward the car. He crashed into the vehicle near the driver's door and his upper body absorbed the force of the collision.
Officers and citizens wiped away tears as they tried to keep him alive. But he was too far gone. They gently loaded him into an ambulance that took him to Lodi Memorial Hospital, where he was pronounced dead a short time later.
His crumpled motorcycle and cracked helmet lay in the middle of the street for hours.
A decade has passed since that cold and clear December morning. As with any significant anniversary — the 10th, 20th, 30th — thoughts of the event trickle into our minds whether we want them to or not. Some recollections are good; some are not so good.
Rick and I were hired the same day. The two of us, along with fellow academy classmates Mike Morris and Rick Landre, spent our orientation holed up in an upstairs conference room for a week studying our policy and procedure manuals.
The most important thing we learned was, according to policy, our robin egg blue ties could not be wider than six inches.
Rick fidgeted and groused about the inactivity. He made sure we all knew he was ready to get out on the street and start "taking care of business."
Picture Tackleberry in the old Police Academy movies and that was Rick, circa 1988.
We all made it through the training program and, after several years on patrol, went off into special assignments. Rick always loved motorcycles and jumped at the opportunity to become a traffic officer.
It was as though the job had been designed specifically with him in mind. He got to use his intellect and tap his creativity at the same time he got paid to ride a motorcycle.
There's a large picture tucked into the corner of the lobby of the police department today. It hangs above a nondescript glass display case containing Rick's gun belt, radio microphone and dusty old black ball cap. "Lodi P.D. #33," Rick's badge number, is sewn on the hat.
His motorcycle boots stand at attention, perfect except for the gray scrape down the outside of the left boot.
The picture depicts Rick the way he would want to be remembered 10 years after his death. He is on his motorcycle, proudly leading the traffic unit down the street during the Grape Festival parade on a warm sunny afternoon in September 1998. Officer Chuck Fromm and then-Lt., now Chief David Main, are on his right; Capt. J.P. Badel, then a sergeant, and Officer Lee Patterson flank him on the left.
It is obvious Rick is in the lead.
•••
Patterson was one of Rick's closest friends. They shared a thousand laughs as they barbecued for the Partners, Eagles or department K-9 team. They also spent hundreds of hours in wreckage-strewn intersections in the middle of the dark night or blazing sun investigating fatal collisions.
Patterson said Rick was one of the best motorcycle riders he'd ever seen. He had a natural ability to ride and excelled at motor school.
Many people perceived Rick as being gruff and aloof but they failed to realize that, deep down, Rick had a softer side. His wife Cindy and their young daughters, Ashleigh and Lindsey, were his foundation.
"Those girls were his life," Patterson recalled.
Badel, the traffic department sergeant 10 years ago, said Rick had a tough persona but would do whatever it took to help his fellow officers.
He had an ideal blend of technical ability and passion for the job. He authored a detailed accident investigation manual that raised major collisions investigations to the level of homicide investigations.
He was an expert at reconstructing accidents, he was a skilled mechanic and he could barbecue with the best of them. He conducted a challenging, nononsense, in-house basic motorcycle school that stretched the limits of new traffic officers, including Badel and Main.
By all accounts, he was a good teacher.
"Rick was gruff on the outside but you knew he was much different inside," Fromm said.
Members of the unit realized all it took was a phone call and Rick would be there for them. He basked in the perception he was the "ringleader" of the group — so much so that they often toyed with him just to irritate him.
Fromm and Patterson would intentionally not carry out Rick's instructions as they barbecued for a civic group, just to see him explode.
Rick was the glue that kept the unit together, Fromm said.
Main said that although he and Badel technically oversaw the traffic unit, Rick was the real leader of the group.
"I have so much trust, respect, and admiration for the man," Main said. "He was a great family man, outstanding police officer and someone you could always count on as a friend. We used to call him 'King Crom,' for he was truly the king of the traffic unit."
•••
The hours and days after Rick's collision were hazy and out of focus for most of us.
I was at a local store when I received a page from dispatch that said an officer had been involved in a serious accident. I called immediately and Officer Brian Scott answered the phone. In a quiet voice, he said Rick had been killed in an accident.
People always tell you moments like that are surreal, and they're right. This couldn't be happening, right? It happens other places, not Lodi.
I told my wife I had to go to work immediately. I dropped my family off at home and headed to the station. I put on my uniform and headed out, not knowing what I would do or where I would go. As a new sergeant, I thought I could just help out supervising the officers on the street.
Several hours passed. The normal day-to-day chatter on the radio was gone. There were no calls for service.
It was as though the citizens of the city had taken notice of what happened and were pausing to pay their respects in any way they could.
I parked my patrol car in the lot near the crash site and got out. Kettleman Lane was cordoned off from Hutchins Street to Ham Lane.
Yellow barricade tape hung from light poles and patrol cars along the block. Highway patrol officers were busy measuring and documenting the scene. They spoke in hushed tones as they huddled with county protocol detectives.
Curious citizens stood in small groups nearby. It was so quiet.
I just stared at the mangled motorcycle and Rick's damaged helmet as I tried to make sense of what happened. I have no idea how long I stood there.
I'd known him since the first day of the academy and now he was gone. I turned and walked away.
A sign-up sheet was circulating around the department. In the best military tradition, an honor guard detail would be posted around the clock outside the room where Rick's body would lie at a local funeral home during the coming week. Morris and I signed up for the 4 a.m. to 6 a.m. shift.
The next week passed quickly. Funeral arrangements were made, notices sent out and dress uniforms were dusted off. The entire department attended, along with dozens of officers from outlying agencies.
I remember how eerie it was walking past the dispatch center as I headed out to the funeral at Century Assembly Church. For the first time in my career the center was empty.
Dispatch responsibilities had been transferred to the Sheriff's Department. Officers from several agencies would be handling calls for service during the funeral.
Century Boulevard and Hutchins Street became makeshift parking lots, filled with police motorcycles, patrol cars and unmarked vehicles from agencies across the western United States.
Larry Hansen, the chief at the time, delivered a moving eulogy in which he implored those in attendance to remember Rick and those like him who made the ultimate sacrifice.
Officer Robert Paine and I rode together in a patrol car as part of the procession from the church to the cemetery. As we headed north on Ham Lane, I noticed people standing on the sidewalk. Tears welled up in my eyes when I realized why they were there.
They were ordinary people. Seniors, kids, families, or just a man or woman standing off by themselves. Some came to attention and saluted as we passed. Others held signs or waved.
They had taken time out of their busy day, left work or school early to pay their respects to a fallen Lodi officer.
Paine and I never said a word to each other. We wouldn't have been able to talk had we wanted to anyway.
The only sound in the car was the steady clicking coming from the switch that controlled the flashing red and blue lights on the roof.
We made our way to the cemetery. We gathered in formation, all of us standing in our neatly pressed, dark blue dress uniforms. The pallbearers brought Rick's casket to the open grave.
After a few words, they removed the American flag, meticulously folded it, and handed it to Chief Hansen.
He slowly knelt down in front of Cyndi, leaned into her and whispered a few words, and handed her the folded flag. She gently patted it as he walked away.
The song "Angel" gently drifted through the cemetery. "You're in the arms of an angel, may you find some comfort here."
I swallowed hard as the verses hit home. I saw tears steaming down the faces of men I had not seen cry before or since that day.
A police radio crackled in the distance. "33 Lodi, 908" came over the loudspeaker. Rick had signed off the air for the last time.
They dismissed us and a tough SWAT sergeant came up and puts his arms around me. He could not see the tears behind my sunglasses. It was time to leave Rick with his family.
There were memorials and ceremonies commemorating Rick for the next few years. His name was engraved on the peace officer memorials in Sacramento and Washington, D.C.
A stretch of Kettleman Lane from Lower Sacramento Road to Cherokee Lane was dedicated to him a year or so after the accident.
Motor officers wear a gold traffic officer pin with a winged wheel and the blue number 33 engraved on it. White oval stickers on our patrol cars remind of his sacrifice.
Training officers take new officers out to Rick's gravesite and show them his headstone. Forever the motor cop, the stone has a copy of his badge and a picture of him on his motorcycle etched into it.
The Cromwell Circle street sign is mounted permanently in the back lot of the police department. Rick gets to tell us all where to go on a daily basis.
A small memorial on the grass near the spot where Rick died on Kettleman Lane began with a small arrangement of flowers late on the afternoon he passed away. Soon there was a tiny Christmas tree and more flowers. A kind citizen maintained the spot for years, first with fresh flowers, then potted plants, finally plastic arrangements.
But time takes a toll on just about everything. I checked the site a few days ago and sadly found it overgrown with grass.
Ten years have passed. The flowers have faded and the ceremonies are few and far between.
Officers still visit his grave once a year during Peace Officer Memorial Week and I'm sure Rick enjoys the attention. But people are busy, time is short, and we all find it harder to make it out there more often. That's the way life turns out.
If I could talk with Rick one more time I'm sure he'd say he was happy it all clicked for me one day. And it pleases me to know deep down that wherever he is, he's enjoying the ride.
Lt. Chris Piombo has served with the Lodi Police Department for 20 years.
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Reader Feedback
educator wrote on Dec 12, 2008 5:32 PM:
I also remember their was a civil action. I also don't know what ever came of that.
Can someone fill me in? "
waterwalker wrote on Dec 12, 2008 5:23 PM:
Whoa Nellie! wrote on Dec 12, 2008 2:55 PM:
My continued prayers to Cindy and the girls. Phil 4:13 "
Cogito wrote on Dec 12, 2008 8:26 AM:
Observer wrote on Dec 12, 2008 7:36 AM:
educator wrote on Dec 12, 2008 7:14 AM:
A few months later I stood on the corner of Hutchins ans Pine (I think) to watch the funeral procession. I will never forget seeing patrol cars from as far away as NYC. I believe that there was another officer funeral closely preceding his up in Sacramento. So many agencies stayed around to also make it to Rick's.
It seemed like it took forever for the procession to pass. I had never before or since seen a spectacle like this in Lodi.
All was well, for me, until I saw Mrs. Cromwell in the back of that big car with those two little girls. She looked and smiled at me. That was it. The tears were overwhelming. "
A Lodi Mom wrote on Dec 12, 2008 5:58 AM:
steve wrote on Dec 12, 2008 5:54 AM:
Comments on this story are now closed.