Police officers filled the pews of a Mount Greenwood church Wednesday morning to say goodbye to former Chicago police Officer James B. Crowley, who died from traumatic brain injuries he suffered after a drunken driver hit the squad car he was in 37 years ago.
The September sunshine beat down on a group playing bagpipes outside St. Christina Catholic Church, following a service where prayers were offered for the fallen former officer, who everyone called Jim.
“Patrolman James B. Crowley #4169: End of Watch August 22, 2024,” read the program. On the front of the pamphlet was a young, serious photograph of Crowley in uniform — mirrored on the back with a smiling portrait of him years later, after his injuries. He was lying in the grass, his hands behind his head.
The September 1987 accident killed fellow police Officer William Morrison and left Crowley in a wheelchair, unable to do many things alone. The injury prompted his younger sister, Beth Carter, to become a nurse.
“Jim didn’t recognize the new version of himself,” Carter said to the crowd Wednesday morning. “I suspect his world suddenly seemed dark and small with little to look forward to.”
Inside the church, dozens of police officers — past and present — were in attendance, including Chicago police Superintendent Larry Snelling, who gave a speech addressing the vicarious trauma that Crowley’s family endured after the accident. Since then, Chicago police have better supported families going through tragedy, Snelling said, adding that he had a conversation with Carter over the phone beforehand.
“There was a level of resilience in the way she spoke, the way she talked, that was contagious,” he said.
Snelling had just graduated high school when Crowley’s life was irrevocably altered. He said that he, like Crowley at the time, was just starting his adult life and career. Snelling, just like the fallen officer, had no idea what his future might hold.
Paul Toner, a retired police officer who went to grammar school with Crowley, described his former classmate as “straitlaced and intelligent.”
Toner grew up in the Morgan Park neighborhood a few blocks from the Crowley siblings. He said he experienced many tragedies in his 31 years with the police force, but Crowley’s accident was his first. They had graduated from the police academy three weeks before the crash. Toner retired six years ago.
“We were so young,” he said, with tears in his eyes.
Crowley was 22 on Sept. 4, 1987, when he and four other officers were on a special detail crossing Ashland Avenue in a marked patrol car. Juan Soliz, who had been drinking, broadsided their car, according to authorities. Morrison died that night, and three other officers were injured.
Soliz, from the city’s West Side, was later sentenced to three years in prison for reckless homicide and felony drunken-driving charges, according to a Tribune report at the time.
Crowley eventually moved to a home for specialized care in San Marcos, Texas, and came back to visit Chicago only once, in 2019 when his sister drove him home for Christmas.
But on Wednesday, the service focused less on the losses suffered by family and friends after the accident in the 1500 block of South Ashland Avenue nearly four decades ago and more on Crowley’s strength of character.
Minister Ryan Brady described Crowley as a “rule follower.” He said that after the accident, Crowley could “live in the moment with you in a very beautiful way.”
“The past 37 years have allowed him to live a far different, heroic selflessness,” Brady said.
Carter recounted the moments she and her brother shared with their next-door neighbors when they were kids. She said that in his later years, Crowley loved pizza and was cherished by all of his caretakers in Texas.
“Remember Jim for his incredible sense of humor, his life of service to others and the joy he experienced throughout his lifetime,” she said.
While she thanked the Chicago Police Memorial Foundation, which provides support to the families of officers killed or gravely injured while on duty, she also openly relayed the lack of support she received from the city at the time of the car accident.
“I faced opposition at nearly every turn,” she said.
Friend and retired police Detective Pat Madden reflected on that time, saying he and other officers were “heartbroken.” They brought him groceries and sat next to his bed. They would play the radio, he remembered.
“We really had no support. It was just guys like us going down to see Jim,” Madden said.
Madden said Crowley was the youngest in their class, and whip-smart. Crowley had a degree in library science but saw his job as a police officer as his true vocation. There was no doubt he had a bright future and would go on to lead the department, Madden said.
Ald. Matt O’Shea, 19th, said the city has made significant “strides and investments” under Snelling’s leadership to support the families of officers affected in the line of duty.
“I wish looking back, we did a better job then,” O’Shea said. “But we can only look forward.”
The funeral culminated with a ceremony outside where eight officers wearing uniforms adorned with yellow stripes carefully folded a Chicago city flag above Crowley’s casket. Snelling handed the folded light blue triangle to Carter and embraced her.
Toner said the long-standing police ceremony, complete with an honor guard and bagpipers, was an important way for officers of all ages to come together and appreciate the degree of risk accompanying the job. His brother Paul and their father were also police officers.
And Crowley proudly carried police traditions until the day he died, Carter said. One of the last things he said to her was: “Don’t forget the doughnuts.”
