By Michael Murphy
The Arizona Republic
April 9, 1999
By now, the horrifying death of Phoenix police Officer Marc Atkinson begins to recede from the headlines and the nightly news.
We return to the rhythm of daily life, of taking the kids to school, of working 9 to 5 and then relaxing in front of the TV.
But to police officers, the tragedy lingers and shows up in ways that only people like the Rev. John South can understand.
"We didn't lose just a police officer, we lost a member of the family," says South, who is chaplain at the Maryvale Precinct, where Atkinson worked.
"When you lose someone like that, you've lost a piece of yourself because really . . . the next time it could be you."
South, 53, is the Valley's only full-time law enforcement minister, the man cops turn to when the pain of working with death, dying and the dark side of life becomes overwhelming.
He was a police officer in California and Nevada who knows the pressures of being in the cross hairs, both on the street and in the jungles of Vietnam with the Army in the 1960s.
He is a man with vision, opening the nation's first chapel for police in Maryvale Terrace Mall in 1994.
South was among the first called when Atkinson was gunned down by a drug-dealing lowlife.
Clad in a uniform shirt and a collar, he conducts a kind of emotional triage, counseling officers, praying with them and talking. Always talking.
"Some seek you out, some stand there wanting someone to come up," he says. "You can feel the emotion, and you feel for them. Some of these younger officers haven't experienced this. It's, "How do I deal with my feelings?' "
For South, the trauma brings back memories of Vietnam, where a bullet passed through his left arm and then struck and killed his best friend.
The Valley's mean streets don't seem so distant from that dark time, South says:
"Officers are becoming more of a target than ever before. When I was a cop in the '70s, even the criminals had a certain amount of respect for authority. Today, they have a different mind-set, no respect for authority or for life in general. They have no remorse . . . it's not part of their attitude."
South grew up in Flint, Mich., where he was beaten regularly by his stepfather. The officers called to his house became South's friends, especially one Christian officer.
"Cops were my rescue constantly," he says.
He didn't plan to quit police work, but his injured arm became temporarily paralyzed in 1979 while he was subduing a mentally ill 300-pound woman.
In a way, it was providential. South decided he could still work on the streets helping officers. Four years later, be graduated with a master's degree in divinity and began working with the police chaplain in Portland, Ore.
Today, he is on call 24 hours a day, seven days a week, helping officers deal with everything from marital problems to the pain of seeing a murdered child.
In weeks to come, he'll continue to counsel officers shaken by Atkinson's murder. He wonders, though, whether the public will remain galvanized around law enforcement:
"You don't see that support until something like this happens. It's great to have the support, but it's unfortunate to have this kind of situation to gain that kind of support."
The challenge, then, is to pay tribute to Atkinson by thanking the men and women who risk their lives every day to protect us all. As South says, besides God, cops are the only ones standing between us and anarchy.
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Michael Murphy can be reached at michael.murphy@pni.com or at 1-602-444-7126.