When my sister Cherokee was born in 1965, I was only 10, and thought she was the greatest thing in the world. I still do today, but now she's a woman, and I only hear from her in letters from the mainland. And then there's my baby brother Brandon. He was born in 1968, and by then, I was already fully prepared to deal with another young kid following me all over the house asking "why?" to everything I said. Cherokee had already been doing plenty of that as it was, but with Brandon, once he finally got to about the same age, he was just my shadow. Everywhere I went in the house, he had to be there, too. He loved to mimic things I said and did, which meant I had to be real careful sometimes.

As they got older, Cherokee and Brandon both began to formulate their lives in the direction of their individual interests. Dad had new hopes for one of his kids to follow in his footsteps, but since it turned out that Cherokee’s forte was more in the realm of psychology and social sciences, the hope was placed on Brandon. Luckily, Brandon had the same curious and investigative spirit as Dad, and began to make plans to be a police officer. So, Dad was now the husband of a talented novelist, and the proud father of 1 professional musician, 1 budding psychologist, and 1 aspiring policeman.

Cherokee now teaches criminal psychology at community college in Dallas, which she loves completely. She did spend some time working for the Ft. Worth PD as their psychologist, and helped a great deal with a few murder cases. She used to come visit me occasionally on Morada, but after a rather nasty attack in Old Waterfront, she decided that the mainland was the place for her.

Brandon graduated from high school in 1986, went into the military for a while, where he did end up in Saudi Arabia for a time, and then fought in Operation Desert Storm. Upon being honorably discharged just after the war ended, Brandon enrolled in the Police Academy, graduating from there with top merits. He finally ended up as an officer for the Houston Police Department. He spent 10 years in the force, making me very proud, and Dad even prouder. After Dad passed on, Brandon worked even harder to live up to Dad's legacy. But he tried way to hard, I think.

My brother started taking risks that he shouldn't have taken, putting himself in the line of fire for the sake of others, which is honorable, but to take that kind of risk, you need to have some preparation. One night, he went in on a call with his partner, a domestic dispute between two lovers which had turned violent. Shots had been fired, but up until they arrived, no one had been seriously hurt. Brandon and his partner entered the house upon hearing more shots, Brandon entering from the back door, and his partner from the entrance in the garage.

They each came upon the suspect, who was taking aimless shots to the ceiling, and shouting threats to his girlfriend, who was lying on the floor shrieking in terror. Upon being ordered to drop the gun, the suspect wheeled around and fired at Brandon twice, the first shot striking him in the abdomen, the second square in the chest. His partner shot the suspect dead, but the return fire was too late. When his partner got to him, Brandon was already dead. All attempts to revive him did no good. He hadn't put on his bullet proof vest before patrol that evening, as he'd been rushed for time. My guess is that he figured he wouldn't need it. It's a mistake he made that cost him his life, and gave our family another loss to mourn.

We buried Brandon next to Dad and Grandpa Keith on March 16, 1999. I miss him very much, and think about him everytime I go on assignment for the CMPD. Somehow I feel that in each confrontation with a perp, he's up there with Dad. Both of them watching me and shouting, "Duck & cover, dangit! Whoo! Good shot!"