My father died when I was too young to understand what happened—but not too young to know that something about it didn’t make sense.
It was called an accident.
That explanation never held.
Growing up, I didn’t have memories of my father the way most people do. I didn’t have long conversations or shared experiences to look back on. What I had were fragments—stories, photographs, and the way people spoke about him when they thought I wasn’t paying attention.
I knew he had been a police officer.
I knew he had died in the line of duty.
And I knew something about it didn’t add up.
In our house, the past wasn’t hidden. My mother made sure we understood who our father was—not just how he died, but how he lived. He had a past. He had made mistakes. But he had worked to become something better.
And he did.
As I got older, the story never changed—but the details around it began to feel incomplete. There were things that didn’t fit. Questions that didn’t have answers.
At first, I ignored it.
But some things don’t stay where you leave them.
They follow you.
Over time, the questions didn’t fade.
They sharpened.
This book is not an accusation.
It is a record.
Of what happened.
Of what didn’t.
And of everything that still doesn’t make sense.
From the preface of Broken by the Badge · © 2026 Kris Hamrick