Community Mourns Fallen Lower Burrell Police Officer

Cinnamon pinecones perfumed the room, painting our bodies in the aroma of an Autumn night. I was nestled underneath Pappy’s arm, sheltered in the warmth of a grandfather’s love. My hands, dripping with butter and salt, reached further into the bag of popcorn only to be met with leftover kernels. I returned my attention back to the television set, licking my fingers clean as witches flew aimlessly across the screen. Before I could drift into fantasies of pumpkin picking and pillowcases filled with sweets, the droning of a telephone ringing echoed throughout the house. The world hesitated as Nana answered the unknown call; the living room fell still. Her lips parted, only to remain sealed. The phone fell from her grasp, breaking the silence in a cacophony of plastic shattering against the linoleum. Her tongue softly smacked against her teeth— “Ch… ch… ch…” She never started the sentence or could even finish the word. Her inability to speak forced the room to overflow with mute confusion. Pappy removed me from his lap, leaving me to bask in the tension of the room alone. I picked up the remainders of the phone, drawing up countless possibilities of who could have been on the other line of the call—  hit with the sudden realization the house was more empty than usual. 

Dirtbag of Lower Burrell

Only a month had passed, yet our bodies had grown accustomed to the absence of sound that took over the house. Like every other year, Nana slaved over Thanksgiving dinner. She spent days pickling eggs, weeks eying up the perfect turkey. Nana set everything out on the kitchen island, while Pappy watched the football game in the living room. I waited eagerly, my sight locked on the array of colorful dishes splayed before my hungry, little eyes. My mouth watered as marshmallows melted into her sweet potato casserole. The sweet scent of brown sugar danced around me. Despite the little money we had, our meals always appeared rich. Nana even bought the plastic forks and knives disguised as real silverware. When we finally assembled our dishes and brought them to the dining room table, Pappy called for us to join hands before eating. “Dear Heavenly Father, we thank you for the gift of this food— ” my aunt Nicole faceplanted into the mashed potatoes, interrupting Pappy. I’ve found her like this before, using whatever was in front of her as a pillow. Previously, it had been a pizza pie or bowls of cereal, once even perogies. She had lost her appetite for anything but Xanax. Nana yanked her from the plate by the hair on the back of her head; Pappy proceeded to pray. I picked apart my cornbread piece by piece, staring at the extra two placemats beside me. I patiently waited for my older sister, Amanda, to come down from her room to fill some of the space, but she never came. Instead, she sat in her windowsill for months, smoking Newport Kings only to put them out on her leg. She stared out the window as if preparing herself for the day blue and red lights would reflect across the glass. Both placemats remained empty.

Friends, Community Members, Helping Fallen Officer’s Family

For Christmas, we were gifted newspapers with Nicole and Amanda’s mugshots parading across the front page. The Walters’ name had grown familiar in every local household. We were once known for having the best decorations in all of Lower Burell. The second Thanksgiving was over, Nana would put up her tree in front of the window facing the street. It came with lights attached, remote activated so it could easily change from white to purple to green and red. Nana tirelessly stalked the QVC channel, ordering an army of animatronics. A path of lit-up candy canes led to the front door manned by polar bears and penguins alike. Angels swirled through the lawn, holding trumpets to their wire mouths. Pappy spent days on the roof, stapling a light to every inch of the shingles. This year, Santa and his reindeer remained in the solitude of our basement. The decorations never left their boxes. Our home had been christened with vandalism, baptized as a murder house. I had never been to a funeral; I barely knew people could die; yet suddenly, I was a killer. Forced onto my knees, I repented for a crime I never committed. 

Women Plead Guilty to Helping Lower Burrell Policeman’s Killer

On my eleventh birthday, my family celebrated at the courthouse. Nicole and Amanda were hours away from pleading guilty. For the first time in five months, I allowed myself to think of Charlie. Our birthdays were fifteen days apart, and for many years we celebrated together. He would throw me onto his shoulders, running around the house singing “Happy birthday to you and me! To you and me, to you and me! Happy birthday to you and me, to the birth of we, to you and me!” Amanda chased us from behind snapping pictures, while Nicole belly-laughed from the sidelines. I always thought she was enamored of Charlie, that he was her soulmate. Her eyes followed him everywhere he went, studying every twitch in his spine. Can fear be disguised as love? He was the closest I had to an uncle. I felt remorse for mourning his death, criticizing myself for every tear shed. Every piece of Charlie was erased from my family, degraded to a lingering reminder of lawyer bills and scars on Nicole’s body. Yet, I struggled to remember him by shell casings or the trail of dirty needles that followed him. I couldn’t grasp that he died with hands tainted red.

Charles Post Obituary 

In his last known phone call, Charlie told an officer his gun was loaded with fourteen bullets. “Thirteen for the cops, one for me.” He had been surviving off of a burner phone and sixty dollars, given to him by Nicole and Amanda. After remaining hidden for ten days, the cops found him at a Dairy Queen. He was laying in the back of an SUV. Officer Kotecki approached the vehicle. Charlie shot him in the arm, the abdomen, and the head. He died instantly. Two children fell asleep without a father. Before the other officers could get him, Charlie ran to a nearby dumpster. He shot himself in the head. Kotecki’s partners repeatedly shot Charlie’s limp body. His death was ruled a suicide. The community mourned the officer’s death; I mourned the death of my family. I accepted that only eleven years old, I was a cop killer—  No, I accepted that Nicole and Amanda were cop killers— No, I accepted that Charlie was a cop killer— No, I accepted that I am a Walters. I accepted that I cannot confess sins that have never been my own.