Jefferson Weaver
I have no idea why I couldn’t sleep the night of Oct. 16-17, 2018.
I hadn’t taken a long nap that evening, or had too much coffee.The animals were behaving. I wasn’t worried about anything in particular— we were all still dealing with the shock and numbness of seeing people’s lives piled beside the road, waiting for a front-end loader and a garbage truck to haul away evidence of the wrath of Hurricane Florence. We were getting used to the inconveniences, but things were getting back to normal, too.
There was no reason for me to be wide awake, but after a few minutes of thrashing I knew it was going to be one of those nights. I got up as quietly as possible, and made my way to the living room.
I couldn’t focus on the “regular” book I was reading. I can’t tell you the title. I read my Bible for a bit, picking through the prophets, then over to some of the instructional letters. I do not recall exactly what passages I read. I looked over some other things so I could possibly make some good use of the time. It was around 1:30 or 2 a.m.
As we all seem to do nowadays when there’s nothing else to do, I turned on Facebook. I figured to visit with some of my fellow insomniac friends; a couple are most active at that time of the night. A couple more are on the other side of the world, and it was daytime for them.
But there were pictures I didn’t understand on my news feed.
Pictures of a badge with a black ribbon. I knew what that meant, but it didn’t connect. I just knew there was a tragic loss somewhere. It meant the loss of a law enforcement office. As I write this, there have been 72 such intentional deaths this year across the nation.
But the people posting the badges were people I know — telecommunicaters, firefighters, EMS workers, and yes, law enforcement. All of them in Columbus and Bladen counties.
Then I got a text message, asking if I was up. I replied that I was, and called the person who sent it.
There was a trooper down, possibly killed, south of Whiteville. My caller didn’t know for sure, but he thought it was B-551, Kevin Conner.
We talked for a minute. We prayed. We prayed, hard, that it wasn’t true, but it was.
I flipped the switch and started working.
I got a quick “live” story online, then worked frantically to get more information. I awakened Rhonda early, and hit the road for Fair Bluff, where they had caught one of the suspects. The weather was changing, and the Lumber River was making a lot of fog that morning.
I had spoken to Kevin a couple weeks before. I needed information on a wreck he investigated. He pulled over to talk to me, having just lectured a young woman for texting while driving. I told him how Miss Rhonda had barely escaped a wreck when a teenager doing the same thing broke her driver’s side mirror. She lectured her teenager, too, and gave him a break.
When business was over, we talked about hunting, and we laughed.
That was the Kevin Conner I remembered. Laughing, giving someone a break. Helping someone change a tire. Helping save a motorist who had wrecked and was trapped in a burning car.
I didn’t want to remember the image that came together in bits and pieces, a mental picture of a stranger shooting a good man in the chest and face, and another stranger trying to save his life as he lay beside a highway.
I do not know why I couldn’t sleep that night, but I didn’t have more than a couple hours rest until the next night.
It was a long, long 36 hours for me.
But it was nowhere near as long for me as it was for my friends behind the badge and their families.
All I do is tell the stories. Those folks are the ones who live them. I don’t have the right to stand in their shadows.
I do not know why I couldn’t sleep that night, but I do know this: we can sleep because of the folks behind the badge. There are an infinitesimal few who are bad, but there are so many more who go to work so we can sleep soundly in our beds at night.
People like Master Trooper Kevin Conner, callsign B-551, a husband, father, car fanatic, hunter, and friend to many.
A man who could make anyone laugh.
A man we all miss.
Godspeed, Kevin.
