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Nick Hopkins' squad car, covered in tribute
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When Illinois State Trooper Nick Hopkins spoke to foster kids in Belleville not long ago, one said, "You catch the bad guys?" He smiled and shook his head. "There aren't any bad guys," he said, "just good people who make bad decisions."
A week ago, Hopkins, 33 years old, was fatally shot while serving a warrant. He was shot because the man he was serving (and who is now in custody) didn't want to go back to prison.
Hopkins' widow, Whitney Hopkins, wanted to be mad at something or someone, she admitted at his funeral service this morning. But he'd given her their children and worked so hard for their family, "and he died doing what he loved, next to a team of guys that meant so much to him." They'd had the hard conversations about his job's risk: "I always told him, 'Don't worry. Go do what you love. Have fun,'" she said. "I told him, 'If anything would happen, we would be OK. We would be brave.'" She waited, just for a second, until she could speak again. "How I wish that knock on the door didn't come."
As had Nick's brother, Zach Hopkins—who is also in law enforcement—she thanked the guys who gave him CPR in the field and the doctors and nurses in the ICU at Saint Louis University Hospital. They kept Nick alive long enough for his loved ones to say goodbye.
"I feel the power of your prayers when I have a hard time breathing," Whitney told the crowd, thanking them for showing up. She'd begun by saying of her husband, "He always showed up. Always. Not just for me but for everyone. He always followed through, even when it was hard."
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Hopkins' SWAT vehicle
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Waterloo Mayor Tom Smith, a former state trooper himself
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Waiting for the processional, law enforcement officers took time to chat--as Hopkins would have.
Flags lined the route of the long, stately, funeral procession that began from Hopkins' alma mater, Waterloo High School, where thousands of people had crowded the school gymnasium for the funeral service. The uniforms he'd worn as a high school athlete were there, and his badge number was up in lights on the Bulldogs' electronic scoreboard.
Standing at the podium above the flag-draped casket, Illinois Governor J.B. Pritzker, who lost his own father at age 7, assured Hopkins' three young children that they would never forget him. Pritzker then turned to Hopkins' colleagues on the south SWAT team: “I see your grief," he said. “I also see your heroism, your bravery, your incredible bond of community every day. Your strength is often lauded, but I know it is built at a high cost.”
Hopkins’ minister, Pastor Jamey Bridges of Life Community Church in Columbia, said, "We've gotta be better than this dark world," citing Hopkins as the best example. Again and again, his kindness was mentioned. In love with carpentry since he was a kid, he'd volunteered at a nursing home at age 10—Tool Time with Nick—showing residents how to do simple woodwork. A week before his death, he'd been helping somebody in Waterloo build a fence. Deeply religious, Hopkins was also witty and fun. He'd come home tickled by some new song he'd heard, and Whitney would roll her eyes, and they'd wind up dancing in the kitchen.
His work, though, he took seriously, treating it as an honor. He trained hard for his recent years on the SWAT team. And when his unit's SWAT vehicle rolled slowly down the street, flanked by a motorcycle guard and following dozens of law enforcement vehicles, lights flashing, from not only this region but Texas, Arkansas, Alabama, Wisconsin, Iowa, Kentucky, and Indiana, and including county sheriffs, state conservation police, federal postal police, fire departments, Customs and Border Patrol, and first responders—the residents of Waterloo who'd lined up along the route had their hands over their hearts.
