Shortly after sunrise, Constable Bill McDearmotte is already on the beat. I see him from a distance, about four blocks from here. He should be resting, taking his deserved time off. But he’s so dedicated that he doesn’t seem to know when to quit. I can hear his standard-issue police shoes beating the pavement, even from this distance. Like an old-school officer, he tips his hat to the ladies and nods to the men. He waves to Joe the grocer, Milla who runs the cheese shop, and the numerous other merchants that he’s gotten to know over his nearly thirty-year career. Even though this is the city and everyone is too busy these days to notice anyone else, everyone that knows him sees him, watches him pass. He’s kept them safe for decades; they all love him. They also know that he should be resting; most of them have heard the news. But they are not surprised; his devotion to duty is legendary.

I see Bill, too. He’s on time, as usual. He’s never missed a day of work in his life - healthy as a horse, as far as anyone knew, and never apparently sick. A devoted husband and father of five, he’s seen four daughters get married and give him nine happy, healthy grandkids. He has a lot to live for. Which might be why he’s arisen early, even today. I know his schedule, having been his partner for so long.

Sharp at 5:00 AM, he wakes up, without an alarm clock, kisses his still sleeping wife, Jane, puts on a jogging suit, then jogs for 45 minutes. After jogging, he returns for a quick shower, shave, and all the rest. At 6:05, Jane has a hearty breakfast ready for him. Two eggs, sunny-side up. Four slices of brown toast - two for dipping into the runny yolks, the other two slices to make an egg sandwich afterwards. Three links of sausage - or sometimes several strips of bacon. Three very thin slices of tomato lightly salted and peppered. A hearty helping of home fries, partly soft, partly crunchy, dusted with sesame seeds and chopped green onions - his favorite part of breakfast. Finally, a nice big glass of orange juice freshly squeezed. He’ll have milk at lunch, he always tells Jane. OJ makes the milk curdle in his stomach. Then he follows all that up with a bit of fresh fruit for balance.

He relaxes and reads the morning paper for about 45 minutes after his meal, then puts on his uniform. Since his beat starts right outside their apartment, he kisses Jane and leaves right at the stroke of 7:00 am, billy club in hand. Bill always wished his salary allowed them to buy a house. Jane would shush him and call their large apartment more than respectable. What’s important is that they and their kids are all healthy. She is more than happy with what he has provided her.

He goes through the motions. First, he checks into the station during the morning part of his beat, then returns home for lunch around 10:45. He has a quick but small lunch - including the glass of milk he promised Jane at breakfast that he’d drink - and leaves again at 11:45. While he tries to allow 45 minutes for digestion, he is in a hurry, as usual, to get back on the beat. Lunchtime for the city is a busy time, and hoodlums and hooligans are about the streets then as often as not. He leaves the apartment, sometimes returning a moment later to retrieve the billy club he occasionally forgets after kissing Jane.

At 4:00 PM, he’s back in the apartment. Jane asks him how his day went. Sometimes he has stories to tell her of the lowlife types he’s caught. Other times, there’s not much to say. He settles down to an afternoon paper before supper. Supper is always good. Jane is an excellent cook with her own healthy appetite. She eats like a real woman, he says, not like a bird. They enjoy a bit of casual conversation during supper. Then it’s an hour of TV news, a half-hour nap, a few comedies, and a walk together to the park and back. At 9:00 PM, it’s bedtime. He needs his eight hours of sleep. He’s got to do this all over again tomorrow. At least, that’s been his schedule for years.

Even on weekends, when he’s not working, he still gets up at 5:00 AM. That’s been his waking hour everyday for nearly thirty years. On Saturdays, he goes through part of his regular morning schedule, walking his beat until 10:45 AM, but without the uniform and billy club. In the afternoon, he helps neighbors fix problems around their apartment or relaxes at home. On Sundays after church, he does some volunteer yard work in the back of the apartment building, or visits at the local retirement home to play chess or checkers with the residents. In the late afternoon, he settles down to watch whatever sports suit the season.

None of us saw it coming. It shouldn’t have been an issue for a man as active as Bill. But the doctor said the heart problems might have been a hereditary thing - Bill was adopted and didn’t know his biological parents. And the hearty breakfasts may have contributed, despite his apparent fitness. They buried him yesterday, with a full salute. Officers from precincts all over the city - and some outside - attended. Not all of them knew him; those who did will miss him. But not me, who knew him better than anyone else, save maybe Jane.

I won’t miss him because he still walks the beat - sometimes with me, sometimes by himself. Bill isn’t going to let something so small as the big sleep stop him from his rounds. Scientists say that relatives and friends often claim to see the deceased for up to two weeks, due to something or other about photons and human auras - spirit or soul - having memory. But I know that it’s because Bill is so dedicated to serving and protecting that he just doesn’t know when to stop. Something tells me that Bill will be seen doing his rounds long after those theoretical two weeks have passed.

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