Brenda Wilson holds a photograph of her father, Lt. Delbert Roush. She keeps his guitar and Bible with her.
CHARLESTON, W.Va. -- It was five days after Father's Day in 1981. Brenda Wilson's husband was in the funeral business, so middle-of-the-night calls were not uncommon. When her husband handed the phone to her, she knew something was wrong.
"He said to me, 'Brenda, it's Charleston Memorial Hospital calling.' I wasn't used to it being for me," Wilson explained.
"Brenda Wilson, your father has been injured and we need you to come right away to the hospital," the voice on the phone said. She asked what happened. The voice said he had been shot.
***
Today, June 26, is the 30th anniversary of the night Antoine Hickman shot and killed Lt. Delbert Roush and Patrolman Eddie Duncan after the officers stopped his car on the West Side. The two men were shot shortly before 3 a.m. at Washington Street and Pennsylvania Avenue. A memorial stands near the site today.
Before 1981, the last city police killing was in 1948. The murder of two policemen led the newspapers and news broadcasts in the days following as a search for Hickman and his eventual arrest kept citizens and police on alert. Hickman, now serving two life sentences at Mount Olive Correctional Complex, was 22 at the time. A graduate of North Fork High School, he had attended Marshall University. A fight at a Summers Street bar was the impetus for stopping his car that night. Officers from around the state mourned the two fallen policemen, but the families of the men were changed forever.
A 'streetwise' policeman
Delbert Roush was friends with everyone, from the criminals to the preachers. He had an eighth-grade education, but he became a respected police lieutenant as well as the founder of a church on the West Side, where he walked the beat.
"Daddy was a city boy -- he married Mama, a country girl," Brenda Wilson reminisced recently on a visit to Charleston. "We had a pig called Oink Johnson and a duck named Donald. There was a rabbit named Bugs and roosters named Mutt and Jeff. There were chickens, dogs, cats ...
The Roush family lived in Meadowbrook, near where Capital High School is now. Brenda was a member of the Charleston High School class of 1969.
An illness in her early childhood changed her father's life.
"I was sick when I was 18 months old, in the old Staats Hospital. Daddy said if I was OK, he would change his ways. And he did. When I was 8, the whole family was baptized in the Elk River near Big Chimney -- my mother, Annalee Frances; my father, Delbert; and me. Sam Graley was the pastor."
That's when Roush started to play the guitar.
"Daddy started a little church, he was church director," Wilson said. "He knew the bootleggers, and they contributed to his little church on Slack Street, Sign of the Cross Chapel. It was originally a saloon, a beer joint. He turned it into a church. He was always a singer.
"He was so patient. If I would just be half the person he was. People who knew him, knew he was street-smart, he had common sense."
Roush was raised on the streets of Charleston. His parents were raised near Spring Hill Cemetery -- Roush was buried there with full graveside uniformed honors after a mile-long cortege of patrol cars passed through the streets where he had been an officer for 33 years. The governor, the mayor, the secretary of state and other dignitaries attended the funeral.
"Put me up there," he had told his daughter, pointing to the cemetery on the hill one day. "If anything happens to me, Brenda, there will be a lot on your shoulders."
Her mother was in ill health, so it fell to her and the other siblings to make the funeral arrangements. That part was eerily easy for Wilson.
Early in their marriage, Brenda and Jim Wilson lived over Snodgrass Funeral Home. She knew the names of the casket models and she chatted casually with her father, several days before he was killed, as they walked through the casket showroom. He pointed out a simple one that he favored.
"I'll make good fertilizer," he said with a laugh. But when it was time for his burial, Brenda knew exactly which one she would choose: "The 18-gauge Batesville Neopolitan Blue with the Tree of Life carved into it -- it would be draped with an American flag."
Not just a father
The death of Delbert Roush affected all generations. His sons, Delbert and Jimmy, from his first marriage, as well as Brenda and Donald from his second marriage, struggled with the tragedy. Jimmy now lives in Beckley, Brenda in Virginia Beach, Va., and Delbert Jr. and Donald are deceased.
Brenda Wilson was 29 years old, and her sons Greg, 10, and Rob, 8, when the tragedy struck.
"Daddy used to tease those boys all the time," she recalled. He helped her raise the boys, so the news of his death was especially hard on them.
Immediately after the shooting, during the citywide manhunt for Hickman, roadblocks were set up.
The Wilson boys were on a field trip and their bus was stopped by the police. An officer got on the bus to tell the teachers what had happened. Greg asked, "It was Pawpaw, wasn't it?"
Antoine Hickman
Brenda is soft-spoken and spiritual, but blunt in her feelings for Hickman.
"I told the attorneys, 'Tell me no governor will ever come along and pardon him,'" Brenda said. Mike Roark was the prosecutor in the case.
"I would have liked the death penalty," she said.
CHARLESTON, W.Va. -- It was five days after Father's Day in 1981. Brenda Wilson's husband was in the funeral business, so middle-of-the-night calls were not uncommon. When her husband handed the phone to her, she knew something was wrong.
"He said to me, 'Brenda, it's Charleston Memorial Hospital calling.' I wasn't used to it being for me," Wilson explained.
"Brenda Wilson, your father has been injured and we need you to come right away to the hospital," the voice on the phone said. She asked what happened. The voice said he had been shot.
***
Today, June 26, is the 30th anniversary of the night Antoine Hickman shot and killed Lt. Delbert Roush and Patrolman Eddie Duncan after the officers stopped his car on the West Side. The two men were shot shortly before 3 a.m. at Washington Street and Pennsylvania Avenue. A memorial stands near the site today.
Before 1981, the last city police killing was in 1948. The murder of two policemen led the newspapers and news broadcasts in the days following as a search for Hickman and his eventual arrest kept citizens and police on alert. Hickman, now serving two life sentences at Mount Olive Correctional Complex, was 22 at the time. A graduate of North Fork High School, he had attended Marshall University. A fight at a Summers Street bar was the impetus for stopping his car that night. Officers from around the state mourned the two fallen policemen, but the families of the men were changed forever.
A 'streetwise' policeman
Delbert Roush was friends with everyone, from the criminals to the preachers. He had an eighth-grade education, but he became a respected police lieutenant as well as the founder of a church on the West Side, where he walked the beat.
"Daddy was a city boy -- he married Mama, a country girl," Brenda Wilson reminisced recently on a visit to Charleston. "We had a pig called Oink Johnson and a duck named Donald. There was a rabbit named Bugs and roosters named Mutt and Jeff. There were chickens, dogs, cats ...
The Roush family lived in Meadowbrook, near where Capital High School is now. Brenda was a member of the Charleston High School class of 1969.
An illness in her early childhood changed her father's life.
"I was sick when I was 18 months old, in the old Staats Hospital. Daddy said if I was OK, he would change his ways. And he did. When I was 8, the whole family was baptized in the Elk River near Big Chimney -- my mother, Annalee Frances; my father, Delbert; and me. Sam Graley was the pastor."
That's when Roush started to play the guitar.
"Daddy started a little church, he was church director," Wilson said. "He knew the bootleggers, and they contributed to his little church on Slack Street, Sign of the Cross Chapel. It was originally a saloon, a beer joint. He turned it into a church. He was always a singer.
"He was so patient. If I would just be half the person he was. People who knew him, knew he was street-smart, he had common sense."
Roush was raised on the streets of Charleston. His parents were raised near Spring Hill Cemetery -- Roush was buried there with full graveside uniformed honors after a mile-long cortege of patrol cars passed through the streets where he had been an officer for 33 years. The governor, the mayor, the secretary of state and other dignitaries attended the funeral.
"Put me up there," he had told his daughter, pointing to the cemetery on the hill one day. "If anything happens to me, Brenda, there will be a lot on your shoulders."
Her mother was in ill health, so it fell to her and the other siblings to make the funeral arrangements. That part was eerily easy for Wilson.
Early in their marriage, Brenda and Jim Wilson lived over Snodgrass Funeral Home. She knew the names of the casket models and she chatted casually with her father, several days before he was killed, as they walked through the casket showroom. He pointed out a simple one that he favored.
"I'll make good fertilizer," he said with a laugh. But when it was time for his burial, Brenda knew exactly which one she would choose: "The 18-gauge Batesville Neopolitan Blue with the Tree of Life carved into it -- it would be draped with an American flag."
Not just a father
The death of Delbert Roush affected all generations. His sons, Delbert and Jimmy, from his first marriage, as well as Brenda and Donald from his second marriage, struggled with the tragedy. Jimmy now lives in Beckley, Brenda in Virginia Beach, Va., and Delbert Jr. and Donald are deceased.
Brenda Wilson was 29 years old, and her sons Greg, 10, and Rob, 8, when the tragedy struck.
"Daddy used to tease those boys all the time," she recalled. He helped her raise the boys, so the news of his death was especially hard on them.
Immediately after the shooting, during the citywide manhunt for Hickman, roadblocks were set up.
The Wilson boys were on a field trip and their bus was stopped by the police. An officer got on the bus to tell the teachers what had happened. Greg asked, "It was Pawpaw, wasn't it?"
Antoine Hickman
Brenda is soft-spoken and spiritual, but blunt in her feelings for Hickman.
"I told the attorneys, 'Tell me no governor will ever come along and pardon him,'" Brenda said. Mike Roark was the prosecutor in the case.
"I would have liked the death penalty," she said.
Hickman was originally imprisoned in Moundsville State Penitentiary, which led to a chance encounter with one of Roush's old acquaintances.
"Jim Akers, a deputy who worked with Dad, used to transport prisoners to Moundsville. He was assigned to transport Antoine Hickman because he had had his teeth knocked out and needed to have dental work done," Brenda said.
"Turns out Antoine Hickman had been playing basketball at Moundsville and bragged about what he had done to another prisoner who knew and respected my dad. He beat him up and knocked out all of his teeth. Shame they didn't kill him."
Hickman's defense
John Mitchell Sr. was asked to defend Antoine Hickman.
"I got more criticism on that case than any other," the Charleston lawyer said recently. "Judge John Hey told me he wanted Hickman to have a good defense so his conviction would stick.
"We called in doctors as experts from California and Morgantown. Hickman never complained once. I think that he knew that we gave him the best in defense. He knew that there wasn't a chance in hell he would get off. Nobody kills two police officers and gets away with it."
Hickman was sentenced to two consecutive life sentences without mercy.
"I had no illusions about this case. I tried to go for a second-degree -- it was a drug-induced situation. I'm not dearly beloved to these police officers, you know, but I did my job," Mitchell said. "I haven't seen or heard from him for 10 years."
Difficult memories
Delbert's widow, Annalee, who died in 2001, attended the annual memorials held in honor of her late husband, but Brenda stopped going after a while. The memories were just too hard.
She said the 2009 shooting death of Charleston Patrolman Jerry Jones from friendly fire while pursuing a suspect was hard for her to read about.
"The amount of drugs present today, the meth labs and all ... it's awful. When I see it all, I feel the trauma all over again. Every year, they had a memorial service; I went for 10 years, with Mom, but at one point I just couldn't go anymore. Mom always went."
Wilson got together a couple of times with Pam Duncan, whose husband, Eddie, also was killed, but she's lost touch with her now.
"It was twice the tragedy for her because she was left with two small children and one on the way."
Brenda's mementoes are tucked away in boxes in her son's basement, clippings and photographs, her father's uniform and his Billy club. She keeps his Bible and guitar with her.
A little dark humor surfaces when Brenda tells of her funeral home experiences and their link to her father's death.
She learned all about the funeral business from her husband. One time she went with him to meet Irwin Sopher, the state's former medical examiner. He proffered a bloody hand to her as he looked up from an autopsy table, and she politely declined. Years later, that incident came back to her.
"The surgeon came out of the operating room, covered with blood. He told me they did everything they could to save my father. I thought to myself, 'Well, if he's not dead now, he will be when Irwin Sopher gets a hold of him.'"
Ready to retire?
Delbert Roush's doctor had lectured him to slow down.
"The doctor wanted him to have a stent put in his heart, and they said it would last five years," Brenda recalled. "Daddy decided not to have it, and he died before the stent would have worn out. He always told me to clean out his locker if anything happened to him. I did, and I found a letter that he had written that said he was going to resign in a month."
She didn't go to the trial -- she was working at Thomas Memorial Hospital and couldn't miss work. She remembers breaking down when she read an account from the trial that described his clothing as "blood soaked and torn."
Kind and caring
"People were always asking him to sing at funerals. His favorite hymn was 'The Old Rugged Cross,' and we used to sing 'Where Will I Shelter My Sheep Tonight.'
"The only time he got into trouble was when a cop had been drinking and came into the station and waved his gun around. Dad just talked to him. He took him home. They said he should have thrown him in jail. Dad was suspended for three days for not following protocol. But he just wanted to help his fellow officer.
"He was used to dealing with that sort of thing. Mom's brothers from Hurricane would get drunk and come to town and get thrown into jail. Dad would get them out and give them bus fare back to Hurricane."
Brenda plans to return to West Virginia in two years when she retires.
"I'm coming home to live," she said, adding that she'll be 60 in October. Until then, she will continue caring for the elderly, filling a need she saw when she was dealing with her mother's health issues. Until then, her daddy's pride and joy -- his guitar -- will stay with her, and she will continue to remember the Delbert Roush she knew as father, grandfather, police officer and faithful disciple.
"I know people will remember the Christian Delbert Roush. It's what he was."
Reach Sara Busse at sara.bu...@wvgazette.com or 304-348-1249.
