"The man is a success ..."

That beginning of a quote from author Robert Louis Stevenson always pops in my mind when we lose someone. Particularly in public service.

Death forces reflection. That reflection is difficult when someone's passing is at all too young an age -- the result of life's unfair hand cutting short a heroic struggle to continue living in the service of others, and those include not only entire communities but children.

This week’s loss of Sgt. Christopher Beach of the Town of Greece Police Department, a past Chief of the Caledonia, NY Fire Department, bears this out—to the point where while I write this, I need “Silent Lucidity” by Queensr?che on repeat in the background.

Chris was a friend and coworker to many, including me. We worked for and alongside each other as cops. When I needed something, he was one of my go-to guys.

The last time we worked together, I instructed for him at crime scene technician school and then at photography school. We were coming out of COVID-19, and Chris took on the exhausting challenge of running these two schools between cancer (Acute Myeloid Leukemia) treatments. He was exhausted and vulnerable because of his compromised immune system, but he carried on without complaint.

One day, while setting up a practical exercise, I asked him to share his cancer journey.? He obliged; he gave me detailed descriptions of the (at least) three times he almost died. When we were through, he apologized for leaving early – he needed some rest.

At the end of the day, I was finishing up with a room full of cops being cops -- you know -- the usual complaining about everything and moaning about wearing masks. The advantage of being retired and working part-time as a police instructor is that you don’t really answer to anyone. I explained what the good Sergeant was going through (most didn’t know) and pointed out that I never heard him complain. I punctuated the end of my rant with (please pardon my language): “Chris is the toughest M-F'er I know.”

It's an understatement to say Chris was a hard worker. He excelled at many important roles, including farmer, cop, police sergeant, crime scene technician, firefighter, fire chief, father, husband, son, and latent fingerprint examiner. I include fingerprint examiner because it's a job that requires perfection to attain and maintain, and it is critical in determining a person's freedom.

As a former colleague shared with me today, Chris' work ethic was exceeded by his dedication to helping others. A few years back, a retired police officer battling brain cancer was selling his home and had to relocate his furniture into storage. Chris and two other retired cops were there to help.

They were in the middle of moving a particularly large piece when the other guys saw Chris struggling with his end. They asked him if he was okay, and he told them he was just readjusting his position to get a better grip. It was only after the move was complete that he confessed he was working with a fractured vertebra in his neck.

It occurs to me that the last time I saw Chris was in my kitchen. He was in my neighborhood—early for an interview with a police recruit candidate—and dropped by to chat. I was honored then that he thought of me, and I am humbled even more now by the gesture.

Chris might not have been my closest friend or colleague, but he was among my most respected. During his cancer battle, including at the very beginning (because I pried), we had a few tough conversations about death. During those exchanges, as in every role I saw him fill, he was prepared, tough, matter-of-fact, and courageous.

If you didn’t know Chris, you can find Stevenson’s quote (below) overlaid on the last image I shot of him while I was still on the job. I recommend you play “Silent Lucidity” in the background while you read it.

It’ll come inadequately close.