PASCO COUNTY | BOUND BY MEMORIES - Honoring Pasco’s Fallen Officers
By Joe Potter
On a warm May 1st afternoon, the north lawn of the Historic Pasco County Courthouse in Dade City felt like a quiet harbor, prepared to hold a memory. More than 100 people gathered for a 45-minute ceremony honoring nine law enforcement officers who had given their lives in Pasco County over the past 117 years. From the ground came the careful sound of footsteps and the distant rumble of a riderless horse from PSO’s Posse, its reins held by a rider who moved in slow, respectful circles around the fountain at the edge of the lawn. The moment seemed to tilt between ceremony and reverie as the horse traced a solemn path, a living tribute to men and women who had served before them.
Detective Jaime Garcia of the Pasco Sheriff’s Office stepped forward to sing the National Anthem, his voice crisp and clear across the gathered crowd. Prayers followed: a chaplain from PSO spoke first, then the Reverend Brian Butler from St. John’s Missionary Baptist Church, his words a quiet anchor. “Holy and Sovereign God,” he began, “we pray for every law enforcement officer standing watch today. We remember the officers of Pasco County and our nation who stepped into danger that others might have peace. May each of them know that their work matters, their presence matters, and their safety matters to all of us who call this community home.”
On the courthouse lawn, plaques glowed softly in the shade, each one bearing the End of Watch date and the name of a fallen officer: Sheldon “Shelly” Nicks (1909), the first Pasco County deputy killed in the line of duty; Constable Arthur “Fleece” Crenshaw (1922) and Federal Prohibition Agent John Van Waters (also 1922), whose funerals in Dade City drew a crowd of about a thousand as J. Edgar Hoover stood to honor them. Others followed—William “Henry” Nix O’Berry (1926), John Herbert “Bert” McCabe (1948), James Bradford-Jean Crooks (1998), Charles “Bo” Harrison (2003), John Charles Mecklenburg (2011), and Detective Raymond Orion Williamson (2021). The years stitched a long, near-mistakenly quiet history of vigilance.
As the names were spoken, families stood with folded roses pressed into their hands, laying blossoms beside the plaques. Normita Woodard, the Mayor Pro Tem of Dade City, spoke with gravity that matched the moment. “A moment of remembrance, a moment of honor, a moment bigger than this ceremony,” she said. The city had not forgotten; they stood with these families, offering a quiet pledge: that protection is not passive, and peace does not arrive by accident.
PSO Colonel Tait Sanborn followed, admitting that many of the fallen were before his own birth, yet every story mattered. “They didn’t want to leave widows and orphans,” he reflected, “but they knew that reality existed.” The room seemed to lean closer, listening for what courage costs. Hours of memory condensed into brief, sharp rituals: three rifle salutes from the Honor Guard, a helicopter slicing the sky in a final nod to those who wore the badge, and at last a benediction that sealed the moment in a calm, lasting hush.
The ceremony closed, but the memory lingered—an ordinary day turned sacred on the courthouse lawn, where every name remained written in the living air of a community that remembers. ♥
