Yesterday, Sharon and I were privileged to join in the celebration of the life of Bill Swineberg. Several folks eulogized Bill, telling the story of a man who first of all would have been incensed that we had gathered in his memory. He was that kind of guy, unpretentious, letting his career speak for itself. You see, Bill was a legendary Captain on Missouri’s State Water Patrol, commanding a district where the absurd was ordinary. He did so with a quiet grace and the confidence of an officer who had seen it all as he lent dignity to impossible scenarios.
Bill was a Marine combat veteran of the Vietnam war, tested on blood stained ground during the peak of the conflict. He used the English language sparingly, with every syllable reflecting something worth remembering. By any and all accounts, Bill was the gift that every new officer should have, quietly delivering lessons that were invaluable in a tough enforcement environment where knowledge was power. There is no doubt his tutelage molded my daughter, Stacey, from the beginning of her career as a water patrol officer until his last breath. He was humorous when humor was necessary, and gloved up, ready to wade into the next bar fight or boat wreck. His ability to judge character and respond accordingly was the stuff text books are written about.
Without delving into the inevitable litany of police war stories, a single event characterized his courage when he was confronted by pure evil in the form of a hardened and armed killer in the Ozark timber. Somehow this killer knew he was overmatched and capitulated to the aura of strength of a lawman who was supremely confident as he engaged. The killer was arrested, cuffed and given sound advice that only a Swineberg could deliver. He was the kind of leader who was always there for his subordinates, calmly pulling on a corncob pipe as he checked on each of his charges, making sure they were in and off the water before he went home, often exhausted but consumed by the need to protect his officers and insure their safety.
Most important, I am proud to be among those who considered Bill a friend. We attended the FBI Academy together, graduating in March of 1987. Bill carefully studied the variety of officers in his class, and could be charming and disarming in the same conversation. His section, within this class, referred to Bill as “the real thing”. Even though terminally ill, Bill took time in his last days to call me and offer encouragement in my challenge of a reticent Veterans Administration reminding me the government was handing out out money to anybody who could navigate a river on the border of Texas. His last words were “get yours, Stevie, you have earned every damned penny”. Although terribly sick, Bill’s concern for a friend was easily more important than his personal circumstance.
On behalf of the folks who came under the spell of this quiet centurion, thanks Bill. If there is water in heaven, you’ll be bumping docks and dispensing wisdom every day, your old pipe smoking and a twinkle in your eye. You left a tremendous wake, a fitting analogy for one hell of an officer. In Stacey’s own words, rest easy 1205.
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