Marlene Rittmanic, Bradley Police Department sgt. killed, was ‘leader in community policing’

Credit: https://abc7chicago.com/post/bradley-police-shooting-department-marlene-rittmanic-clancy-gernon-funeral-home/11420855/

Clancy Gernon Funeral Home in Bourbonnais assisting with her arrangements

Bradley police warn of fraudulent fundraisers

The Bradley Police Department is warning people of fake fundraisers for fallen officer.

BRADLEY, Ill. (WLS) — The Bradley police sergeant killed in the line-of-duty last week is being remembered as “a leader in community policing.”

Illinois State Police released a statement Monday morning on behalf of the family of Sgt. Marlene Rittmanic and the Bradley Police Department, heralding her dedication to her work and thanking the community for their outpouring of support.

“Marlene believed in people and her ability to speak to the community with respect; meet them where they are in life; try to understand their true needs; and work together to find a solution that produced the least disruption in people’s lives,” the statement said. “To her – the job was about making her community safe for everyone, she believed – and stated, ‘just because you can, doesn’t mean you should.'”

Rittmanic, 49, was killed and her partner Officer Tyler Bailey, 27, was critically wounded in a motel shooting last week.

Rittmanic and her partner responded to a call Wednesday night of dogs barking in an unattended car in the parking lot at the Comfort Inn off of Route 50, the Kankakee County Sheriff’s Office has said. They went to the hotel room where the car’s owner was staying when police say the people inside the room began attacking the two officers, shooting them.

Two suspects were eventually taken into custody after going on the run. Darius D. Sullivan was arrested in North Manchester, Indiana Friday morning, authorities said. Later that day, Xandria Harris turned herself in to Bradley police.

Indiana police provide an update on the arrest of a suspect in the shooting that killed a Bradley police officer and wounded another.

Rittmanic was awarded Law Enforcement Officer of the Year in 2020, the ISP statement said.

She was also a published poet, amateur photographer and film producer for family events, Bradley Police Department recruiting and community events.

“The community of Kankakee County came to a complete stop to stand in the cold to witness our hero, wife, mother, sister, daughter, aunt – Sergeant Marlene Rittmanic-Stua be transferred from Riverside to the Kankakee County Sheriff’s Department and again from the Sheriff’s Department to Clancy Funeral Home,” the statement said. “We saw many familiar faces and complete strangers – We are more than grateful for you all and we know that you too are feeling the loss.”

WATCH | Community honors Bradley police sergeant killed in line of duty

Hundreds of people lined up in silence to honor Rittmanic during a procession to a Bourbonnais funeral home Thursday afternoon.

But the Bradley Police Department is also warning people of fake fundraisers claiming to be for Rittmanic.

The department said there are no fundraising pages from her family.

In lieu of flowers, memorials in her honor may be made to the Marlene Rittmanic Memorial Fund at Federated Bank in Bradley. Memorials will be accepted at the services and the Clancy Gernon Funeral Home in Bourbonnais, which is assisting with arrangements, which have not yet been announced.

They say no account will be created on GoFundMe and if you see one, they recommend reporting it as fraudulent.

However, there is one fundraiser page for Officer Bailey.

Rittmanic first became an officer in 2000 with the Iroquois County Sheriff’s Department. She had been with the Bradley Police Department for 14 years, and her niece said she was just five years away from retirement. She leaves behind her wife, Lynette Stua.

“Our world has been turned upside down, obliterated and hopelessly broken,” her family and colleagues said.

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My husband drugged me every night “so I could study better,” but one night I pretended to swallow the pill and lay perfectly still. He thought I was asleep. At 2:47 AM, he walked in with gloves, a camera, and a black notebook. He didn’t touch me with love. He lifted my eyelid and whispered: “Her memory still hasn’t returned.” My name is Valerie Reed, and for two years I thought my husband, Marcus, was just an overly controlling man. Marcus was a neurologist. Elegant. Serious. One of those doctors who speak softly and make everyone else feel ignorant. When I started my master’s degree at Columbia University, he told me I was anxious. “You’re having trouble sleeping, honey. This little pill will help you rest and focus.” I believed him. Every night, after dinner, he would leave a glass of water and a white capsule on my nightstand. “Take it in front of me.” At first, I thought it was sweet. Then, it became a rule. If I didn’t take it, he got mad. If I asked what it was, he changed the subject. If I woke up dizzy, he said it was stress. The worst part was the gaps. I would wake up with small bruises on my arms. Smelling like rubbing alcohol on my skin. With wet hair, even though I didn’t remember taking a shower. With sentences written in my notebook that I didn’t recognize. One said: “Don’t let Marcus know you remember.” I thought I was going crazy. He told me that, too. “Valerie, your mind is making things up. Trust me.” But one night, while washing the sheets, I found a tiny camera hidden inside the smoke detector. It wasn’t pointing at the door. It was pointing at my bed. At me. That same afternoon, I checked the trash in Marcus’s home office. I found empty blister packs, torn-off labels, and a folded piece of paper with my name on it. “Patient V.R. Stable nocturnal response. Phase 3.” Patient. Not wife. Patient. That night, I pretended to be tired. Marcus gave me the capsule. I put it on my tongue. I drank water. I smiled. But I didn’t swallow it. I hid it under my tongue until he turned off the light. When he went to the bathroom, I spit it out into a tissue and lay back down. I breathed slowly. Very slowly. Just like he had seen me do so many times. At 2:47 AM, the door opened. It didn’t creak. He had already oiled the hinges. He walked in barefoot, wearing black gloves and carrying a small flashlight. He grabbed my wrist. He checked my pulse. Then, he lifted my eyelid. I wanted to scream. I didn’t. “Good,” he whispered. “No resistance today.” He took out the black notebook. He wrote something down. Then he placed his cell phone next to my ear and played a voice recording. It was a woman’s voice. Sweet. Older. Broken. “Valerie, my daughter… if you are hearing this, wake up. Your husband didn’t save you. He found you.” I felt my heart drop into my throat. Daughter. That voice wasn’t my mother’s. My mother died when I was five years old. Or so Marcus said. He turned off the audio immediately. “Still nothing,” he muttered. “She’s still blocked.” Then he went to the closet. He pushed the wooden back panel and opened a door I had never seen before. A narrow hallway appeared behind my dresses. Marcus came back to my bed. He tried to pick me up. I let my body go limp. He carried me down that hidden hallway to a cold, white room, lit with hospital lamps. There were monitors. Files. Photographs of me sleeping. Videos of me walking around the house with a blank stare. And on the wall, a timeline. “Accident.” “Amnesia.” “Marriage.” “Pharmacological control.” “Pending inheritance.” Inheritance. Marcus laid me down on a gurney. He didn’t tie me up. That scared me even more. He trusted his drug too much. He opened a safe and pulled out a red folder. The cover said: “Lucy Archer Case. Missing since 2014.” Lucy Archer. That name pierced through me like lightning. I didn’t know why. But my body did. My eyes burned. Marcus dialed a number. “She’s ready,” he said. “Tomorrow she signs the transfer, and we’re done.” A woman’s voice answered on speakerphone. “What if she remembers before then?” Marcus looked at me. He smiled. “She won’t remember. I’ve spent two years killing Valerie every single night.” The secret door opened again. My mother-in-law, Eleanor, walked in wearing a long coat and carrying a bag of documents. “Don’t underestimate that woman,” she said. “Her mother didn’t seem dangerous either, and look what happened.” Mother. My mother. The one who supposedly died of cancer. Eleanor placed the bag on the table. Inside, I saw a fake marriage certificate, a power of attorney, and an old photo. A fifteen-year-old girl. Me. But with a different name embroidered on the uniform: Lucy Archer. Marcus took a pen and placed it between my sleeping fingers. “We just need her signature.” Eleanor leaned close to my face. She observed me. “And what if she doesn’t wake up after the final dose?” Marcus answered without hesitation: “Then Valerie Reed dies exactly as she existed: without a family, without a past, and without questions.” I felt a tear escape. Just one. I thought they wouldn’t notice. But Eleanor did. She froze. “Marcus…” He turned around. His face changed. I opened my eyes. And before I could scream, a video call lit up on the dark monitor on the wall. A woman with a face full of scars appeared on the screen. It was the same voice from the audio recording. The woman cried upon seeing me awake and said:

My husband drugged me every night “so I could study better,” but one night I pretended to swallow the pill and lay perfectly still. He thought I was asleep. At 2:47 AM, he walked in with gloves, a camera, and a black notebook. He didn’t touch me with love. He lifted my eyelid and whispered: […]

My husband asked me for a divorce. He said: “I want the house, the cars, everything… except the boy.” My lawyer begged me to fight. I said: “Give it all to him.” Everyone thought I had gone mad. At the final hearing, I signed everything over to him. He didn’t know I had already won. He smiled… until his lawyer… When Daniel told me he wanted a divorce, he didn’t even bother to soften his voice. We were sitting at the kitchen island of the house I had helped design—the one with the skylight he used to brag about to his friends. He folded his hands, calm, almost bored, and said: “I want the house, the cars, the savings. Everything.” He paused and then added, as if it were a minor detail: “You can keep our son.” Our son, Ethan, was eight years old and upstairs doing his homework. I remember thinking about how carefully Daniel avoided saying Ethan’s name, as if calling him “the boy” made it easier to give him away. My chest tightened, but I didn’t cry. I had learned long ago that Daniel confused tears with weakness. My lawyer, Margaret Collins, almost dropped her pen when I repeated Daniel’s demands in her office a week later. “Emma, this isn’t reasonable,” she said. “You contributed financially. You’re entitled to half. And full custody isn’t something that’s just granted without negotiation.” “I want to give him everything,” I replied. She looked at me as if I’d lost my mind. “Why would you do that?” Because the primary conflict had already happened, even if no one else saw it yet. Daniel had underestimated me throughout twelve years of marriage, and that blind spot was about to cost him everything that truly mattered. In mediation, I didn’t argue. I didn’t haggle. I signed wherever they told me to sign. Daniel seemed almost euphoric, drumming his fingers on the table, already imagining himself alone in the big house in Greenwich, driving his new car, free from responsibilities except for a monthly child support payment he assumed would be minimal. My friends called me reckless. My sister cried and begged me to reconsider. Even Margaret tried one last time. “There has to be a reason,” she said quietly. “If there is, I hope it’s a solid one.” “It is,” I told her. The final hearing was brief. The judge reviewed the agreement, raised an eyebrow at the imbalance, and then asked if I understood what I was giving up. I said yes. Daniel smiled for the first time in months—a wide, satisfied grin. He looked at me as if he had finally won a game he’d been playing for years. I signed the last document and slid the pen across the table. Daniel’s lawyer leaned in to whisper something to him, and his expression shifted as he read the attached addendum. Daniel’s smile froze

My husband asked me for a divorce. He said: “… My husband asked me for a divorce. He said: “I want the house, the cars, everything… except the boy.” My lawyer begged me to fight. I said: “Give it all to him.” Everyone thought I had gone mad. At the final hearing, I signed everything […]

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Have you ever noticed the quiet moments that shape a person’s day? Dalton, an 18-year-old from Nichols, New York, reminded me how much those moments matter. He loved connecting with family and friends, showing care and kindness in everything he did. His story made me reflect on how important it is to check in with the people around us. Even small gestures, listening, and attentiveness can make a difference. Communities, friends, and family all play a role in noticing when someone might need support or understanding. How do you stay present for the people you care about, and how do you notice when someone might be struggling? Share your experiences below, and let’s remind each other to offer support and connection. 📌 Full story ⬇️

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Eleven months after the 2004 tsunami, a surviving roll of film returned Deborah Garlick’s last ordinary moments to her mother, and made grief unbearably specific. There are tragedies so vast that the human mind protects itself by turning them into numbers. The Indian Ocean tsunami of 26 December 2004 became one of those events almost immediately, with reports of roughly 230,000 dead spread across country after country, coast after coast, family after family. But numbers do something cruel when they stand alone. They tell us the scale of loss while hiding the texture of it. They cannot show a daughter on holiday, a camera in her hand, or a mother many months later holding photographs that were never supposed to become sacred. They cannot explain why one recovered roll of film can feel heavier than any official death toll ever written. That is why Deborah Garlick’s story lingers. Not because it was louder than the others, but because it gives shape to the kind of grief that follows catastrophe when public history ends and private mourning begins. Widely shared accounts say Deborah was in Thailand, on and around Phi Phi, when the tsunami struck. They also say the final images found on her camera showed her enjoying the island before the sea rose and the day broke apart. That detail matters because the photographs were not dramatic. They were ordinary in the way that the most precious things often are before anyone knows they are about to become irreplaceable. A holiday photograph usually asks for nothing more from the future than to be developed, smiled at, and tucked away. It belongs to a world in which tomorrow still feels guaranteed. Then history intervenes. On the morning after Christmas in 2004, a massive undersea earthquake off the coast of northern Sumatra, generally recorded at magnitude 9.1, unleashed tsunami waves across the Indian Ocean basin with catastrophic force. Indonesia suffered the greatest loss of life, but Sri Lanka, India, Thailand, and other countries were also devastated. Entire communities were overtaken in minutes, and in many places people had little meaningful warning of what was coming. That lack of warning is one of the reasons the disaster still feels so haunting. Many of the people on those beaches were not making reckless choices or ignoring clear danger, but simply living inside a morning that looked normal until it no longer was. The sea, in stories like this, becomes almost impossible to talk about because it had looked so harmless just before it became lethal. It was the same horizon, the same light, the same shoreline that had invited people to rest, travel, swim, wander, and take photographs only hours earlier. Phi Phi carried all the visual language of paradise. Palm trees, bright water, boats anchored in calm bays, limestone cliffs rising behind the sand, and the easy rhythm of a place designed in memory as escape rather than danger. That is part of what the recovered film preserved, even if only indirectly. It kept alive the final ordinary version of the island, the one Deborah saw before disaster remade it. When people encounter this story now, they often focus first on the eerie fact that the film survived. Yet the real force of the story is not the survival of an object, but the survival of a sequence. The photographs reportedly showed Deborah spending time on Phi Phi before the wave struck. In grief, sequence matters because it gives the mind something to hold when the ending is too abrupt to understand. A family wants to know where she walked, what she looked at, how the day unfolded, what the weather might have been like, and which moments still belonged entirely to her before history took over. Those are not small questions after loss. They are often the only questions that feel human enough to ask. Accounts shared publicly say Deborah lost her life in the tsunami, and that her body was found four months later before being flown back to Britain for a memorial service. That long gap is one of the most painful parts of the story, because disaster grief is rarely one single blow. It comes in stages. First shock, then uncertainty, then waiting, then confirmation, then arrangements, then the numb practical work of mourning someone whose last day unfolded very far from home. For many families after the 2004 tsunami, distance itself became part of the wound. Borders, official processes, recovery efforts, missing persons lists, and delayed identifications meant that grief was stretched across months instead of contained in one terrible day. That helps explain why the return of Deborah’s film nearly a year later carries such emotional force. According to the same widely shared account, Thai authorities discovered the roll of film about eleven months after the tsunami and returned it to her mother, Margaret. By then, the funeral rituals had already happened. The public phase of mourning, at least in the eyes of the world, should have been over. But grief does not obey public timing. It waits inside drawers, documents, unanswered questions, and ordinary afternoons until something arrives that opens it all again. A returned roll of film is one of those things. It is small enough to fit in a hand, yet large enough to rearrange memory. It is difficult to imagine what Margaret Garlick must have felt when those images came back to her. Not because the photographs were sensational, but because they were likely calm. Calm can be harder to bear than devastation. Devastation belongs to the disaster, but calm belongs to the life that was still moving forward, unaware that it was nearing its last untouched hour. The photographs reportedly showed Deborah enjoying the island. That one word, enjoying, is what gives the story its ache. Enjoying means the trip was still a trip. It had not yet been transformed into tragedy, symbolism, or remembrance. Enjoying means there were still assumptions inside the day. Lunch later, another walk, another photograph, another conversation, another tomorrow. That is what disaster destroys first. Not only bodies, buildings, and coastlines, but the quiet human confidence that the next hour will resemble the one before it. The 2004 tsunami remains historically important because it exposed how unprepared much of the Indian Ocean region was for a disaster of that kind. In the years after, governments and scientific agencies expanded warning systems, monitoring networks, and preparedness measures so that such a lack of warning would not be repeated so easily. Those changes matter. They are part of the legacy of the dead. But policy is not what a mother feels when she looks at her daughter’s last photographs. Preparedness reports cannot speak to what it means to see the exact light your child stood in on a day she never came home from. That is why the next part of Deborah’s story is so moving. Accounts say Margaret later flew to Thailand and used the recovered photographs to walk where Deborah had walked, retracing her daughter’s path through the places visible on the film. There is something devastatingly tender in that act. She could not bring Deborah back, so she went to the last places where the world had still held her. This was not tourism. It was not even closure, because closure is often too neat a word for what families like this carry. It was closer to witness. A mother refusing to let the final chapter of her daughter’s life be reduced to one sentence in the history of a global disaster. To walk where Deborah walked was to recover what the tsunami had tried to flatten. Place, pace, atmosphere, and the private dignity of a life that had not existed as a headline until after it ended. Photographs do this in a way almost nothing else can. They do not explain loss, but they preserve orientation. They tell you where someone stood, what direction they faced, what drew their eye, how close the water was, what buildings were nearby, and how ordinary the world still looked before it changed. Even when they cannot answer the biggest questions, they rescue smaller truths from disappearance. That may be why this story keeps resurfacing. It turns historical scale into human scale without diminishing either one. The tsunami was still one of the deadliest natural disasters in modern history. Deborah Garlick was still one person among many thousands. Yet one person is exactly where history becomes real. Every mass tragedy is made of private worlds abruptly interrupted, each one complete in itself, each one carrying relationships, plans, habits, and futures that no statistic can fully contain. That is the silent lesson inside Deborah’s camera film. It reminds us that the dead were not only victims in the abstract, but people inside unfinished days. A returned photograph can never undo the force of the sea. It cannot soften the fact that entire coastlines were destroyed, that families across multiple nations were broken, or that many survivors carried trauma long after the water withdrew. What it can do is prevent one life from dissolving completely into scale. It can restore face, place, and a trace of lived time. There is also something important in the contrast between the island’s beauty and what followed. The images of Phi Phi after the tsunami showed beaches buried in debris, shattered buildings, scattered belongings, and flowers later left among the ruins, as if grief itself had to find a visible place to stand. The island did not stop being beautiful. It simply became a place where beauty and grief would always coexist. That is often true of historical sites shaped by sudden loss. People return, rebuild, and continue living there, but the landscape is never only landscape again. Somewhere beneath the palm trees and bright water is the memory of who was there that morning. Somewhere in the rebuilt rhythms of tourism and daily life is the knowledge that thousands once stood in those same places under very different skies. Margaret’s journey through Thailand, as the shared accounts describe it, gives that knowledge a human center. She did what many grieving people long to do and what few are able to do so literally. She followed the fragments back to their source. She stepped into the geography of loss instead of only receiving its paperwork. That is why the story does not feel sentimental when told carefully. It feels exact. The emotion comes not from exaggeration, but from detail. A body found months later. A memorial in Britain. A roll of film discovered eleven months after the wave. A mother carrying photographs back to the island where her daughter had smiled without knowing history was closing in. There are many stories from 26 December 2004 that were never recovered in this way. Many families received no photographs, no mapped final hours, and no object that made the lost person’s last ordinary morning visible again. That should shape how we remember Deborah Garlick too. Her story is moving not only because of what was returned, but because it hints at how much else was never returned for others. So the lesson is larger than one family, even as it remains rooted in one family’s grief. We should remember the 2004 tsunami as a turning point in warning systems and disaster preparedness, but also as a reminder that history becomes shallow when it forgets the intimate record of human lives. Deborah’s final photographs did not survive to become famous. They survived because chance, damage, recovery, and time sometimes leave behind one fragile thread where everything else has been cut away. Margaret’s decision to walk where her daughter walked gave that thread meaning. It transformed a recovered object into an act of love, and private sorrow into a quiet lesson for everyone who comes later. That lesson still matters. We need to teach history in a way that keeps numbers and names together, because once they are separated, catastrophe becomes easier to mention and harder to truly understand.

‘We retraced our daughter’s last steps after tsunami death’ Family This photograph was taken from Deborah’s last roll of film, which was returned to her parents after her death Deborah Garlick was travelling with her boyfriend in Khao Lak, Thailand, when a huge tsunami struck 20 years ago, killing about 228,000 people in the biggest […]

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