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Seventy-one years after her father was killed in the line of duty while interrupting an armed robbery, Helen Killion-Morahan still has trouble talking about it without tears coming to her eyes. Patrolman James Killion would be proud to know today that his youngest daughter has been married to State Sen. Thomas Morahan for nearly 54 years and that he is the grandfather of their seven daughters. In fact, between Helen and her older sister Joan, Patrolman Killion is survived by a total of 9 grandchildren and 20 great-grandchildren, whom he has never had the pleasure of knowing. But they certainly know all about Patrolman Jim Killion, shield number 6906, of the 17th Pct. Helen and Tom have made sure of that. It was the evening of January 18, 1935. Fiorello La Guardia was the mayor, Lewis J. Valentine the police commissioner and Jim Killion a handsome 30-year-old Irishman married to a beautiful woman named Nellie. They had two adorable daughters, Joan, 5, and Helen, 18 months. Jim, on the job for six years, was working a 4-to-12. Nellie took in a movie that evening. |
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For Killion and his partner, Patrolman Walter Curtis, it was just another patrol until they encountered a robbery in progress at a luggage shop at 548 Fifth Avenue in Manhattan. Shots were exchanged and Killion fell mortally wounded. The shooter fled but was later arrested by a mounted officer named Henry Ferger. Curtis engaged in a fire fight with the three remaining gunmen, cornering them in a back room. “Surrender or I’ll blow your heads off,” he ordered. Meekly, they complied, only to learn later that the cop had been long on courage but short on bullets. They had surrendered to the empty cylinder of his service revolver. Jim Killion died that day at Polyclinic Hospital. Killion, posthumously, and Curtis were awarded the Medals of Honor at a City Hall Plaza ceremony officiated by Mayor La Guardia. The gunmen, ages 19 to 21, were convicted of murder in the first degree and executed in Sing Sing’s electric chair on January 9, 1936, nine days shy of a year since they killed Killion. When the National Law Enforcement Officers Memorial was dedicated in Washington a few years back, Helen and family attended. They spent much of their visit to the nation’s capital dwelling on the life and sacrifice of their honored forbear. “The whole family was talking about him,” said Senator Morahan. “It was almost like he was alive again.” In a place of prominence in the Morahan home is a gilt-framed display case containing a photo of the young patrolman in his winter tunic, a letter of condolence from Commissioner Valentine the officer’s cap device, his traffic whistle and, of course, the ribbons and medals that his valor had earned. These, and other things, keep his legacy alive. |
“Families of officers killed in the line of duty live with the damage for the rest of their lives,” said Sen. Morahan. “My children never saw their grandpa. There’s a hole in their lives. And he never had the opportunity to see any of the great grandchildren the way my mom did. The killers snuffed all that out. We keep his memory alive for our grandchildren. I’m very proud of my wife’s family history and her father’s sacrifice.” Things were different back then for the families of police officers killed in the line of duty. The support systems in place today didn’t exist at the time. “They gave you a medal and that was it,” said Helen Morahan. The only financial support the city provided was a monthly pension of $125, raised slightly in the 1950s. “I had a good life, in spite of the difficulties,” Mrs. Morahan added. “My mother and grandmother were very good. I grew up without a father and I guess sometimes I didn’t know what I was missing because I was so young when it happened. Then, sometimes you wonder...” But Patrolmen James Killion’s 30 or so other descendants don’t have to wonder. They know what a great man their close ancestor was. Helen and Tom Morahan have made sure of that.
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