From his comrades, a final salute

Thousands of police officers from around the country escort the slain detective's body from his boyhood church -- where he was married and his children were baptized -- to his final resting place.

09:58 AM EDT on Friday, April 22, 2005

BY MICHAEL CORKERY, AMANDA MILKOVITS and MARK ARSENAULT
Journal Staff Writers

More than 2,000 police officers on motorcycles, in cruisers and on foot led the flag-draped casket of Detective Sgt. James L. Allen yesterday from his family's parish in Providence to a sun-swept cemetery in Cranston.

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Multimedia: Experience the funeral procession, in sound and photos

Slideshow: See images from the funeral

Audio: First for Sgt. Shaw, now for Det. Sgt. Allen, a patron saint invoked in song / Hear Lt. Mary Day's song, St. Michael By His Side

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View scenes from the funeral, procession and cemetery

Thousands of people lined the sidewalks, some holding U.S. flags, others saluting and bowing their heads, as the casket passed in a slow, quiet march.

Police from around New England and from as far as California stood in dress uniforms, several deep, outside St. Thomas Church on Fruit Hill Avenue.

Along the 1.7-mile route were boys on bikes, babies in strollers, mothers and grandmothers, mourners speaking Spanish and Hmong -- many expressing shock at Allen's violent death and gratitude for his life-long service to Providence.

Allen grew up in this city, met his wife here, and had two teenage daughters. He died early Sunday morning inside police headquarters when a suspect he was interviewing allegedly grabbed his gun and shot him.

He was honored in a funeral Mass by the stories his friend, Deputy Chief Paul Kennedy, told about his humor, his faith, and his humanity.

He was honored by the people he protected, who fell silent as a horse-drawn carriage bearing his casket passed single-family homes, a cabinet shop, a playground and a red-brick firehouse draped with black bunting.

"IT WAS my honor to be a pallbearer for this boy," said former Smithfield Chief Vincent O'Connell.

It was just before 8 a.m. at the Johnston police station, where O'Connell and the seven other pallbearers -- all former and current police chiefs from around Rhode Island -- were assembling.

Johnston Police Chief Richard Tamburini handed out black mourning bands for their police shields and fresh white gloves that crinkled in their cellophane wrappers.

Outside, the sky looked angry and gray and threatened rain.

Journal photo / Gretchen Ertl

Providence Police Chief Dean M. Esserman, who stayed behind at St. Ann Cemetery, in Cranston, for the burial, offers the final salute for Detective Sgt. James L. Allen.

The pallbearers hustled out the back door of the station and climbed into two unmarked police cars.

It was 8:30 a.m. Hundreds of police from around New England started gathering outside St. Thomas Church.

A sea of uniformed officers stretched up and down the street in front of the church, and filled the lawn from one side of the church to the other.

Color guards from the Providence police and fire departments flanked the front door.

The Fire Department's contingent included several members who had provided medical services to Allen after he was shot.

Providence detectives assembled together in a group on the front lawn. They wore suits and ties, and pins with Allen's badge number 297 over their own badges covered with black mourning bands.

The men in the front row had worked the closest with Allen: Detectives John Coughlin Jr. and John Murray Jr., John Carchia Jr., Sgt. Vincent Mansolillo, John Finegan, Robert Washburn, Philip Hartnett, Daniel O'Connell, Sgt. Michael Sweeney, and Lt. Hugh Clements Jr.

Nearby stood 26-year-old April LeBlanc, shivering in the damp air and clutching a store-bought bouquet with three roses: two violet, one red.

LeBlanc, a student at Katherine Gibbs School, dreams of being a police officer on the Providence force one day.

She woke up before dawn at her home in Taunton and took the bus to Providence.

She carried with her a card for the Allen family, a poem she wrote about his death, and the flowers, which she hoped to give to Allen's children.

IT WAS a little before 10 a.m., and the sun started breaking through the clouds.

Deputy Chief Gary Maddocks, of the Johnston police, steered his cruiser away from the Nardolillo Funeral Home on Park Avenue in Cranston.

Maddocks and Lt. Robert Voas were in a scout car charged with clearing the way for the funeral procession.

Maddocks turned right onto Dyer Avenue and a massive chain of motorcycles trailed behind as if connected to the car by an invisible string.

"I've never seen so many police in my whole life," said Daniella Garcia, 9.

She watched from the sidewalk with her 5-year-old brother Alexander, as the convoy turned onto Plainfield Street and moved toward the church.

Inside the church, tall white candles were lit by the altar and two enormous arrangements of roses were placed at the front of the church. The scent of roses wafted even into the balcony.

The procession arrived with a rumble. First the motorcycles, then cruisers from more than 100 different departments, their blue lights flashing.

The sounds of a Celtic marching band grew louder. The band crested the hill near the church.

There were 30 officers on horseback.

A Providence police cruiser and an unmarked cruiser with black bunting draped across their hoods escorted the hearse.

The pallbearers walked alongside. Five limousines carrying family members followed.

Mayor David N. Cicilline, Chief Dean M. Esserman, police union president Sgt. Robert Paniccia, and the top police commanders lined one side of the church entrance, facing the police color guard.

At 10:55 a.m., an officer shouted out a command.

The officers raised their hands in salute, as Allen's casket was moved into the church.

"EARLY SUNDAY morning, Jimmy continued on his path to discipleship," the Rev. Francis P. Kayatta told the congregation, filling every pew and an overflow room in the St. Thomas basement.

This sandy brick church was Allen's boyhood parish, where he'd grown up, married, and where his children were baptized.

His daughters are altar servers, his wife is a secretary at St. Thomas school, and Allen was a greeter.

Yesterday his wife, Marguerite, and daughters Jennifer, 15, and Caitlin, 14, sat together in the front pew, alone.

"I knew in Jim's career as a police officer he received many commendations for his exceptional work and bravery," Father Kayatta said.

"However," the priest said, "Sunday morning, Jim received the ultimate commendation from his Lord God when they met face to face. When Jesus put his arm around him and said, 'Well done, good and faithful servant of mine.' "

Lt. Mary Day sang the song she wrote for Sgt. Steven M. Shaw, who was killed in the line of duty in 1994.

As Day sang, Allen's daughters laid their heads on their mother's shoulders. Mrs. Allen rubbed their backs.

Some of the detectives wiped their eyes.

"You were the finest, the most caring of all men," Day sang. "Most of all, you were our friend . . . "

In his eulogy, Kennedy, who graduated with Allen from the police academy in 1978, delivered his own tribute.

He told cop stories.

Allen wearing his rumpled Columbo trenchcoat, long after the TV show went off the air.

Allen grabbing an armed robber at the New York System weiner joint in Olneyville -- and the grateful manager offering the detective free weiners for life. The detective insisted on paying.

His perfect recall -- so perfect he could rattle off all 60 graduates in his academy class.

His piercing stare, as if his mind was recording everything he saw. It wasn't just the other cops who noticed it, Kennedy said. One time, a suspect Allen was interviewing piped up, "Hey, I know you. You're the guy who's always staring."

The crowd chuckled. "I can still see those eyes," Kennedy said. "I imagine they're looking down on us right now."

Allen was also shy. So shy, that although he and the future Mrs. Allen attended St. Thomas Church, they didn't really speak to each other.

It wasn't until her house was broken into on Priscilla Street that the two struck up a conversation.

Journal photo / Kathy Borchers

Thousands of police officers make their way along Cranston Street, in Cranston, yesterday before entering St. Ann Cemetery, where Detective Sgt. James L. Allen was buried. The funeral for Allen, who was shot to death at Providence police headquarters Sunday, drew officers from around New England and the nation.

Allen was a young patrolman who took the report of Marguerite's break-in, Kennedy said. And, he went above and beyond the call of duty, hand-delivering the police report to her.

Allen was one of the department's top detectives. When someone shot up the Mount Hope substation shortly after it opened, Allen was one of the lead investigators who solved the case.

That shooting had violated the sanctity of the substation. Allen's murder, inside police headquarters, had done the same. The department had lost one of its greatest guardians, Kennedy said, but he'd left a legacy of compassion and professionalism.

"No one doubts this unspeakable tragedy will make us stronger," Kennedy said.

He stepped down from the podium, walked by the coffin and blew a kiss to Allen, his wife and their daughters.

AS THE Mass concluded, thousands of police officers readied for the procession to the cemetery.

They formed a long line in the former Almacs parking lot on Plainfield Street.

Vincent Martino, a disabled Providence patrolman, was one of them. Martino was in the same 1978 class as Allen and Paul Kennedy at the academy. "A little piece of all of us is going to buried with him today."

Martino recalled an incident at the former Bushwhacker's bar on Richmond Street downtown in which Allen, always cool, disarmed a man.

"I saw Jimmy take a sawed-off shotgun off a guy, loaded. Jimmy walked up to this guy with an Army jacket," who had the shotgun sticking out of a sleeve, Martino recalled. "The next thing you know, Jimmy just reached down and took it away."

Hundreds of residents gathered on Plainfield Street, holding signs, flags and flowers.

One boy had a dark "Police" T-shirt; another boy wore a red Seekonk fire hat. His mother says he wants to grow up to be a police officer.

Mario Corse, a retired meat cutter from Johnston, arrived early to find a spot along the procession route. He can't stand for too long so he brought a lawn chair and his camera. He welled with emotion. "I wanted to be part of it," he said.

Ray Tessaglia, director of the city's Neutaconkanut Recreation Center, watched the assembling officers from the recreation center window. He said he recalled seeing Allen come by the recreation center over the years.

The children at the center have been talking about the shooting all week. He reminds them that the police are there to help people. "They are wide-eyed. They have questions," said Tessaglia.

"It was hard to believe that someone would walk into the police station and kill a police officer," said Tessaglia.

THE MOTORCADE left the church and arrived on Plainfied Street shortly after 1 p.m. The crowd -- now numbering several hundred people -- fell silent.

The ceremonial horse and carriage -- or caisson -- pulled out in front of the line of police assembled in the parking lot.

Two stout, broad-shouldered European Belgian horses named Burt and Ezra, each weighing about 2,000 pounds, stood with their black tails swaying in the bright sunshine.

They had black harnesses with silver studs and pulled a maroon lacquered carriage that was a converted trolley.

Burt and Ezra have had many sad duties. They pulled the caisson at the funerals of Sen. John H. Chafee in 1999, and Sgt. Cornel Young Jr. in 2000.

Allen's casket, draped in an American flag, was placed on the caisson at 1:30 p.m.

The cruisers and motorcyles led the way along the 1.7-mile route to the cemetery.

Next came the thousands of officers, firefighters and political officials, walking in step.

At least 150 police and fire departments and security outfits were represented in the procession, according to the Providence police.

The farthest marchers came from the California Highway Patrol. All the New England states were represented.

There were tribal police, campus police, correctional officers, environmental police and hospital security guards.

Police Sgt. Todd Freyer of Jaffrey, N.H., said, "It's all about part of the brotherhood. Whether or not we're separated by boundaries, we all look out for one another. It's a matter of respect."

The only sound that could be heard was their black boots and shoes hitting the pavement and the responding bells of St. Mary and St. Ann Churches at the base of the cemetery gates.

Journal photo / Steve Szydlowski

A black mourning band covers the badge of a Providence police officer.

People stood or sat on the sidewalk and watched in silence. They stood at windows. They left their businesses and went outside. Some clutched flags. Some held handmade signs, which said "Thank You" and "God Bless."

"This is truly the wall of blue. This is an unbelievable sight," one woman said. "I'm glad I came."

Seth Martin, 7, sat in a chair on Dyer Avenue with a sign for the officers. His mother, Patricia, was crying as they passed. His father, David, had taken time off work loading trucks to be there.

Justin Scheer, 8, held up a placard that read: "Gone But Not Forgotten PPD RIP Sgt. James Allen".

Two women watching the procession from the intersection of Cranston and Dyer streets are married to police officers.

"Every time your husband walks out the door, you say a prayer that he comes home safely," said Carol Cooney, who is married to Cranston Detective Joseph Cooney.

Cooney said no matter what she was doing, or where she was, she would be on the parade route yesterday to watch and pay her respects. Her husband has been on the police force 27 years, just like Allen.

"My worst fear came true for her [Mrs. Allen]," Cooney said. "My heart breaks for this family."

After the funeral procession passed, Ann Blackmar stood under a tree with her hand over her heart.

"I'm trembling," she said.

As the officers passed by, the children at the Sunshine Pre-School stopped playing and stood on their playground equipment or against the chainlink fence to watch.

As the procession turned the corner by Dyer Avenue and Cranston Street, the mass of bystanders was several people deep. Few spoke. Few moved.

The officers marched into the cemetery. Their black boots crushed the white and ruby rose petals scattered at gates.

THE ST. ANN CHURCH bell rang, a low gong that repeated every nine seconds.

Then the bell at St. Mary Church, next door, began to ring, too -- a higher, more metallic chime that hummed between strikes.

The bells echoed each other as the squad cars, color bearers and the river of men and women in blue passed through the black iron gates for the next 45 minutes.

In the rising heat, a Providence patrolman fainted and fell heavily to the cemetery ground. "Man down," someone loudly called out. He was helped by emergency medical technicians. Some of his buddies razzed him.

The carriage carried the casket behind the bagpipers, through the fields of headstones, to the chapel at the far end of the cemetery. The casket arrived at the chapel at 2:58 p.m. It was placed before a white stone crucifix for the blessings by Father Kayatta.

Allen was saluted by rifle fire, and then the solemn playing of taps.

Two Massachusetts State Police helicopters roared low in a flyover above the cemetery.

At 3:20 p.m., Chief Esserman gave the traditional last police call over crackling loudspeakers:

"Car 1 to Car 431."

The answer was silence. Two more times he repeated the call.

Then the chief ordered: "Place Detective Sgt. James Allen out of service, now and forever."

On that cue, a police car blared its siren and drove off, until the noise faded in the distance.

People throughout the crowd sniffled and dotted their eyes with tissues.

As they left, Allen's family took red roses from the bouquet on the casket.

The crowd of assembled officers was dismissed, to squad cars, motorcycles and a fleet of buses. Many returned to the Rhode Island Convention Center, where they ate sandwiches and drank beverages.

Esserman stayed behind. He rubbed a white glove over the shiny brown casket, then slumped nearby in a chair and stared.

Then the chief helped black-suited men wheel the casket out of sight, into the chapel.

Later that afternoon, when the thousands of mourners had gone, a truck carried the casket through the empty cemetery, over a bridge that crosses a quiet marsh, past the pink granite stone that marks the resting place of Steven M. Shaw, the Providence officer shot and killed by a robbery suspect in 1994.

About 200 yards from where Shaw is buried, Esserman watched as Allen's grave was filled with three loads of dark brown loam.

As cemetery workers raked the fresh soil, the chief stood alone at the foot of the detective's grave and saluted.

With reports from Liz Anderson, Cathleen F. Crowley, Gregory Smith and Seth McLaughlin.

Digital Extra: View more photos of the funeral and surrounding events, hear the song sung at the service, post messages to an online sympathy book, and experience the procession, in sound and photos, at:

http://projo.com