Near killed in hail of madman’s bullets

An enraged ex-con, strip-club bouncer ambushed, overpowered and wounded four San Antonio police officers at a Denny’s restaurant at Perrin-Beitel and NE Loop 410 on January 3 last year. When the attack was over, the officers lay severely injured – one with the dead body of the offender on top of him.

Policemen John Bocko, David Evans, Nathan Murray and Michael Muniz battled gunman Jamie Lichtenwalter for about five minutes, and survived. But none of them could ever have guessed the impact those five minutes would have on the city of San Antonio – and their lives.

Paul H Schlesinger reports from Texas.

The story begins in 1992, when Jamie Lichtenwalter, at the age of 16, drove by a group of unarmed youths standing outside a Universal City E-Z Food Mart and sprayed them with bullets from a semi-automatic pistol. Arrested and charged with attempted murder, Lichtenwalter was prosecuted as an adult and received a sentence of 12 years.

Lichtenwalter served only seven of those 12 years. During his tenure in prison, he took advantage of the weight and exercise equipment the prison system made available to him. He was paroled in July 2001 on the basis of his clean disciplinary record.

Maintaining the conditions of his parole, the 182cm-tall, 103kg Lichtenwalter eventually settled in as a bouncer at various San Antonio topless clubs. Sources say his chest measured 132cm and his waist 78cm; and he could easily bench press 227kgs. His arms were described by police as being “thick as tree trunks”, with his biceps supposedly measuring 48cm at rest. In March 2002, he entered a relationship with a stripper he met at one of the clubs he worked.

The last hours

In the early morning of January 3, 2003, Lichtenwalter observes his stripper girlfriend and another man together entering and later leaving the Far West Rodeo Dance Club. Suspecting his girlfriend of cheating on him, Lichtenwalter follows them a short time, and later returns to his parents’ home. From there, he calls his girlfriend, claiming he needs a house key. When she arrives, Lichtenwalter pulls a shotgun on her, commandeers her vehicle, and forces her to accompany him to the Denny’s restaurant where the man he had seen her with is dining.

Cover of the San Antonio Police Officer's Association magazine, The Centurion

Leaving the gun in his girlfriend’s car, both Lichtenwalter and the girl enter Denny’s. Sure enough, the man in question is there, and an argument ensues. At some point, the girlfriend asks the Denny’s manager to call the police. The manager places the call at 3:30am.

The police

Arriving at 3:33am, Officer David Evans sees Detective John Bocko preparing to enter Denny’s, both independently responding to the call. The two policemen find a relatively calm Lichtenwalter, and are able to diffuse the argument without much effort. At the officers’ request, Lichtenwalter, without much hesitation, returns his girlfriend’s car keys to her. Bocko and Evans tell Lichtenwalter he is free to go, and begin to escort him out of the restaurant. The girlfriend then whispers to Bocko that Lichtenwalter’s shotgun is still in her car.

Lichtenwalter explodes into action, his powerful left fist delivering a jaw-breaking blow to Bocko while almost simultaneously driving his right elbow into Evans’ head. The force of impact slams Evans backwards into a brick planter, severely lacerating his scalp and right ear. The blow to Bocko drops him immediately.

Turning his attention toward the still-conscious Evans, Lichtenwalter tells him that he is going to take his gun and kill him. Lichtenwalter then physically attacks Evans. Bleeding from the head, the 52-year-old Evans fights for several minutes, using every tactic he knows to protect his gun, until the 26-year-old bodybuilder finally overpowers him. Lichtenwalter seizes Evans’ pistol, stands over the fallen officer, and shoots him three times: in the chest, abdomen, and left arm.

Bocko, still dazed from the initial blow that broke his jaw, comes to and staggers to his feet. Seeing Bocko, Lichtenwalter turns and opens fire, emptying the clip at the officer who tries to go for cover in the kitchen. One of the bullets rips down between Bocko’s back and his bullet-proof vest. Out of bullets and in full rage mode, Lichtenwalter physically attacks the injured Bocko, savagely kicking and beating him in the head with the empty gun. In the end, he is able to wrest Bocko’s gun away from the incapacitated detective.

Despite being beaten and shot three times, Evans miraculously gets up and runs out of the restaurant as Lichtenwalter works over Bocko. Evans makes it to the Econo Lodge motel located directly next door, and bangs on the front glass for help.

When the gunfire initially erupted, the dozen or so diners eating in Denny’s quickly ducked under the tables. Many of them had mobile phones, and promptly called 911.

Answering the call was Officer Nathan Murray who, upon arrival, finds Evans beating on the windows of the Econo Lodge. Unaware of the extent of Evans’ injuries, Murray approaches him and asks what is going on. At the same instant, Lichtenwalter, now armed with Bocko’s gun and in pursuit of Evans, emerges from Denny’s. He enters the parking lot, sees Murray, and demands he drop his gun. Lichtenwalter shoots twice. One round hits Murray in the face: the bullet tears through his right cheek and shatters the right side of his jaw.

Lichtenwalter’s attention is quickly diverted from Murray by a new threat: a fast-approaching Officer Michael Muniz. Lichtenwalter opens fire on Muniz and rushes him. Muniz, standing in the face of the onslaught of lead, quickly returns fire. Bullets fly everywhere, with Muniz taking four hits: in the neck, upper chest, left thigh, and right buttock. Lichtenwalter lunges on top of Muniz and both fall on the ground. Unable to move his left side, Muniz summons his last bit of strength to bring his gun forward and deliver the final shots into Lichtenwalter.

Lichtenwalter took six bullets before he finally collapsed dead on top of his intended prey. Muniz, too weak to move, was unable to push the body off. By all accounts, the exchange of gunfire and final assault lasted only a few seconds. Muniz had arrived at about 3:35am; by about 3:37am, EMS units began to arrive. Muniz and Evans were transported to Brooke Army Medical Center; Murray and Bocko were taken to University Hospital. The immediate families were notified and quickly made their way to the hospitals.

Shockwaves

Reporters were soon asking questions about Lichtenwalter’s early release from prison. San Antonio police chief, Albert Ortiz, was quoted as saying the decision was “reprehensible”. Members of the parole board involved with his release offered the statement: “Sometimes you get it right, and sometimes you don’t get it right.”

From that point on, the news media followed the condition of the officers closely for several months. Talk radio programmes were jammed with calls from people offering support; lines at blood banks increased as people donated blood for the felled officers. Periodic press conferences were held with the officers and families, giving step-by-step accounts of their recoveries. Civic and law enforcement associations honoured the officers with awards, churches sent food, business donated goods, and school children sent hundreds of get-well cards.

In the mix of all the emotional turmoil, one of Lichtenwalter’s associates began making noise about seeking revenge against the officers who killed his friend, and finishing the job. Security was increased in the hospitals. Fortunately, police convinced the individual to cool it, but the officers’ families keenly felt the effects of those statements.

Aftermath

In the end, all of the officers survived the ordeal. Detective John Bocko, 34, with seven years on the force, is back on duty. Officer David Evans, 52, with 25 years on the force, is on light duty. Officer Nathan Murray, 33, with eight years on the force, is still on injured leave. Officer Michael Muniz, 23, with five months on the force (at the time of the shooting) is also on injured leave.

Eight months later, the officers and their families had all had a chance to return to some semblance of normality, and were willing to discuss the incident. Their stories, and insights into their forever changed lives, appear below.

Officer Michael Muniz

The news media thrust Officer Michael Muniz into the spotlight more so than his injured comrades, and understandably so – at the time a 22 year-old rookie with only a few months on the force, he fatally shot the gunman after being shot four times himself in a ferocious gun battle. Front-page headlines read: Wounded rookie cop ends wild shootout. Follow-up articles announced: Rookie hero fighting battle to get well. Television news coverage billed Muniz as “Denny’s Shooting Hero.”

Eight months after the incident, a recovering Muniz is still uncomfortable with the term “hero”. Says Muniz: “A ‘hero’ to me is someone that is larger than life. I don’t see myself as being larger than life. All of the other officers do the same things I do… They want to come home every night.”

Still, the accolades continue to pour in. Dan Elizondo, Muniz’s stepfather, proudly displays the plaques and certificates Muniz has received since the shooting: the Military Order of the Purple Heart, the American Legion Citation for Meritorious Service, and the Optimist Officer of the Year. “There’s been others, and we still have another function to attend,” says Elizondo.

Regardless of how he sees himself, Muniz and his family have no doubt the events of that January morning altered the paths of their lives. Denise Elizondo, Muniz’s mother, describes how time for the family literally “froze” the moment they received the phone call informing them Muniz had been seriously wounded. “Things got frozen – Christmas was frozen,” she says. “It was right after the holidays. We actually didn’t take the tree down until February.”

For Denise, the initial phone call was the hardest part. For Elizondo, things really hit home when he collected Muniz’s personal effects. “I held his badge in my hands…” he says. “It had been torn off. It still had a piece of his uniform on it.” Says Muniz: “EMS cut it from my uniform to ensure I or my family would receive it.”

The first three days after the shooting, Muniz’s life depended on life support machines. Despite his condition, friends, colleagues, and reporters came through the hospital by the score to visit, shake his hand, and collect interviews. His doctor finally had to put a stop to the visits from non-family so he could rest. “I had a couple of media guys sneak into my room, claiming to be relatives,” he says.

Fortunately for Denise and Elizondo, the respective companies they worked for allowed them time off to care of Muniz. Muniz’s sister, Angela, also was available to assist. Says Muniz: “When you sign yourself up to become a police officer, you forget you are signing your family up, too.”

Denise says one of the ways the family coped with the nightmarish events was by setting small goals or “milestones”. “The first was survival,” she says. “The second was getting off life support. The third was to see him come off the chest tube. The fourth was Mike’s return home. To see him go through so much pain was difficult, and each move was another victory.”

Muniz’s stay in BAMC lasted nearly four months; the first was the most difficult. Explains Muniz: “It hurt to breathe; it hurt to turn over. I lost so much blood and weight. I tried to force myself to eat, but couldn’t. In addition, my left arm atrophied, and I couldn’t use it.”

When it came time for Muniz to leave BAMC, a rehabilitation centre had to be selected. Denise explains the choice of a centre rested with the whole family, and they agreed Santa Rosa fitted the bill. There, Muniz received therapy from the head doctor. Says Elizondo: “He got the best of care, which was a big relief.” Denise adds: “Everything we needed to put Michael back together came to us.”

Muniz remained as an in-patient for two-and-a-half months before being allowed to return home. Adjustments had to be made to their house in Schertz – rails were added to the bathroom and staircases.

Denise helped Muniz get through the night by reading short inspirational stories from God’s Little Devotional Book.

Limited in his ability to do much of anything except lie in bed for the first several months, Muniz had plenty of time to study the impact the shooting had on his life. “It was weird…” he says, “I was lying in bed, and I would watch all of the events on television. I realized the world keeps on turning without you, even when you’re near death. It doesn’t stop. If the world would have ended for me, it would have kept on going.”

All during the ordeal, the family vigilantly cut out every news story that was printed, and taped every news broadcast related to the incident. Says Denise: “Michael hasn’t been interested in seeing any of it.”

Since July, the family agrees things have taken on the trappings of normality once again. Muniz is beginning to drive, albeit his mother’s automatic-shift car. He is down to 19 pills a day, mostly to combat the pain stemming from damaged nerves. He still attends three-hour physical therapy sessions at Santa Rosa on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays. However, he is faced with a grim reminder: every day they drive to rehab, they must pass the Denny’s restaurant where the ordeal began.

On his way to recovery, Muniz and his family can now look back over the events of the last seven months and reflect. They happily point out their family had always been close, even before the incident. They often speak of the “what-ifs” and try to make some sense as to why things happened the way they did, and how the whole thing could have been prevented.

Two matters weigh heavily on Muniz’s mind. The first is the fact that inmates are given access to all sorts of weight and exercise equipment that allows them to build themselves into “giants”. Says Muniz: “I disagree strongly about having all of that weight equipment available to them. They tend to become more violent in prison, and the bodybuilding orients them towards violence, feeding the fire. I don’t have a problem with them staying in shape, running laps or whatever, but these guys are coming out of prison twice as strong as when they went in, and they hate anything to do with a badge. Lichtenwalter took six shots and still kept coming. If he didn’t have access to the weights, that probably would not have happened.”

The second matter pertains to the design of the police holster, and the need to make the Raptor 3 triple-retention holster standard equipment for all officers. Such a holster, explains Michael, would make it extremely difficult for an assailant to pull an officer’s gun out of it.

Did any of this have a positive impact? Says Denise: “So many doors have opened for him now. He’s been chosen for something. It happened for a reason. We don’t know what it is now, but at one point he’ll look back and see this as a pivotal point in his life. Now he sees it as a set back. Right now, his emotions are focused on his physical limitations.”

Both Denise and Elizondo are quick to point out the positive influence CLEAT had in their lives. Because Muniz killed the gunman, San Antonio Homicide is compelled to investigate the matter. “If we would have had to pay for all the legal fees we would have been bankrupt,” says Elizondo. “Vince Wiseley (staff attorney) was great. He was there the day after it happened. CLEAT protected our interests, and made the appropriate statements to Homicide.”

Says Denise: “I was so glad he had the foresight to sign up with CLEAT. There are a lot of young men and women coming out of the academy who don’t have CLEAT coverage… It should be mandatory that first year as a rookie.”

The incident made Muniz’s sister Angela think twice about her career path. “I had given serious thought to a career in medicine,” she says. “I had seen a lot of it before, but this hit too close to home.”

It is no surprise that all four officers have almost become another family to Muniz. “Nobody has a better understanding of the incident than the four of us,” he says. “When one of us needs to talk, we all get in touch with each other. No more than a month goes by when we see each other.”

Says Denise: “When he regained consciousness in the hospital, the first thing he wanted to know was ‘who made it’.”

Muniz fully intends to return to active duty as soon as he is able. Naturally, the decision makes his mother and stepfather a little apprehensive.Says Denise: “He made a difference at that moment, but it’s been difficult to see what he’s had to go through. I am so grateful he is still alive. I still can’t believe all this happened.”

Says Muniz: “Fresh out of the academy, you have a different approach. I’ll have a newfound respect, a new wisdom of the streets.”

Officer Nathan Murray

Eight months after the shooting, Nathan Murray and his wife Cynthia believe a lot of good actually came out of the ordeal. “We’ve been married for eight years…” says Cynthia, a PE teacher at Rudder Middle School. “We’ve spent more times together these past eight months than the previous eight years.

“I come from a big family with eight kids, and I was never by myself. After we got married, I was always by myself. Nathan worked ‘dogwatch’ from 10pm to 6am. I went to functions and nobody ever saw my husband… He couldn’t go. We would see each other for a couple of hours in the evenings.”

Murray concurs. “I see a lot more of my wife because I’m not working,” he says. “I’m still on injured leave.”

Both take their religious faith more seriously. Says Murray: “I guess two or three months after the incident – once health allowed – my wife and I started attending church a lot more regularly. We were then asked to work with the Village Parkway Baptist Church Youth Group. I help out the youth minister. The kids are junior-high and high-school age, and I set an example for them and do car pooling.”

Murray’s daily routine is also a drastic change from his street beat. He says: “I wake up, read a few books. From noon to 2pm, I do housework, then watch TV – Dr Phil. I work out from 4pm to 6pm. Then my wife gets home, and we have dinner together. Sundays and Wednesday evenings we spend time at church.”

A history buff, Murray admits he is spending more time these days reading books on police tactics. “I’ve been reading The Tactical Pistol by Gabriel Suarez,” he says. “I’ve learned some valuable lessons from the shooting. If you see an officer down, you wait for cover. Second, if you do run in to the officer that’s down, drag him out of there anyway you can – at least 30 to 40 yards away. Third, if you see gun, shoot gun! Meaning, if you see a threat holding a gun, start shooting.”

Murray was whisked away to University Hospital with Detective John Bocko after the shooting. “At first, I was just thinking about my wife… I was scared,” he says. “I took off my wedding band and told one of the officers to give it to my wife. I didn’t know I was going to make it. As we were riding in the ambulance to University, I wasn’t passing out. I thought this was a good thing. I told the EMS guys that it was just a flesh wound.”

Not only was Murray’s right cheek torn up from the bullet, he also suffered a shattered jaw. When he came out of surgery, his face was stitched up and his jaw wired shut. He says: “I was in ICU when I came to. My mother and my wife were on each side of me, and they were both crying.”

Says Cynthia: “I didn’t cry until I saw Nathan. He just came out of surgery. I had never seen him like that.”

Murray stayed in the hospital for four days. Once he was able to talk, Murray’s first concern was if he came through on the radio. As he went down during the shooting, he had radioed in and given a description of Lichtenwalter. “He wanted to know if he had done his job,” says Cynthia.

Since his mouth was wired shut, all of Murray’s food had to be liquefied in a blender before he could eat. “Mint chocolate chip shakes were a mainstay,” he says. “Being a cancer survivor, compared to radiation therapy where it was difficult to retain food, this wasn’t so bad. With this, you could eat anything, as long as it was liquefied.”

Says Cynthia: “I made so many shakes! Then we got brave and started putting hamburgers in the blender, and pizza with ranch dressing. The taco meat, cheese, and sour cream blended together (and) actually wasn’t too bad.”

When asked about the damage done to his face by the bullet, Murray explains that it is merely superficial. “I place my worth, wife, education, career, and religious convictions above cosmetics,” he says. “I’m not beating the bush about a skin graft.”

On the subject of Lichtenwalter, Murray is determined not to let the actions of that individual change the direction of his life. He recently returned with Michael Muniz to the Denny’s where the ordeal all started. “I wanted to bury the hatchet – a sense of closure,” he says. “I went there and looked around. But I had the guy there who saved my life – just in case.

“We talked about the shooting. We went to the parking lot and relived the incident – minus Lichtenwalter. Both of us had a couple of milkshakes. Yes, I could eat by then, but I wasn’t really hungry. But I was not going to let Lichtenwalter change what I do.”

Like the family of Michael Muniz, Murray and Cynthia share the same disdain for the ability of prison inmates to get so much access to bodybuilding equipment. Says Murray: “I don’t think convicted felons should get to work out on free weights at the taxpayer’s expense... It’s insane… The only reason they work out with weights is to become a stronger criminal. Rehabilitation in prisons does not work, I never agreed with the concept – even before the shooting.”

Murray holds all three of the other officers involved in the shooting in high regard – especially Michael Muniz. Says Murray: “If you ask me, Michael Muniz hasn’t had his parade yet. I can’t say enough about the guy. I can’t think of anybody more deserving of praise than him… Muniz slayed the dragon.” Cynthia concurs. “If Muniz wasn’t there,” she says, “then Lichtenwalter might have shot Nathan again, and probably killed him… Muniz knew what he needed to do, and he did it.”

The Murrays keep a scrapbook of all the newspaper articles pertaining to the ordeal, and videotape all the news coverage. “Seeing it and hearing it in the news didn’t bother me much,” says Murray. “Right after it happened, it was kind of awkward… people coming and shaking my hand and all of that. I wasn’t used to that with my limited celebrity status.”

Like the other officers, Murray received accolades from both public and law enforcement agencies. Get-well cards from police departments, the Officer of the Month award from the Shields of Christ, and the Military Order of the Purple Heart Distinguished Service Award are but some of the honours he has been bestowed.

Once his doctors declare him fully recovered, Murray plans to return to duty, a decision Cynthia accepts. She says: “I married a police officer. When he goes back to work, I just have to trust God to take care of him. You just can’t live your life with that kind of fear.”

Murray and Cynthia had been planning to start a family. They say the shooting pushed those plans off for another year.

When asked about what else has changed with his life, Murray shrugs his shoulders. After a brief pause, a smile crosses his face. “I do put up a picture of Jamie Lichtenwalter in front of my TV when I work out,” he says. “It’s probably the only positive thing he ever did in his life.”

Officer David Evans

Fun guy, radiant personality, cool head, and a “real stand-up guy” are all words friends and colleagues used to describe Officer Dave Evans for the news articles at the time of the shooting. One account extols Evans as the kind of cop you want to say “thank you” to after he gives you a ticket. His generosity is also limitless: in preparation for this interview, Evans invited his whole family out to dinner at the Pompeii Restaurant in San Antonio and bought everyone’s meal – including mine.

The eldest of the four officers involved in the Denny’s ordeal, Evans has witnessed plenty during his 25-year career as a police officer. However, none of the incidents he experienced – including being hit by a drunk driver while on duty writing a report – measure up to being shot.

“I never really felt the bullets,” says Evans. “I knew I had been shot. Lichtenwalter went after Bocko. I was lying there, and the whole room lit up, totally bright. I heard a second person telling me to get up, and ‘come with me’.”

Who was the second person? “I’m telling you it was Jesus Christ,” says Evans. “I believe there was Divine intervention for four police officers that night.”

Evans believes the signs of Divine intervention were there all along, but he really didn’t notice them until well into his recovery. “The shooting occurred on January 3rd, 2003,” says Evans. “I arrived on the scene at 3:33 in the morning. I was shot three times. All occurrences of the number 3.” Upon being asked the significance of the number 3, Evans pauses, and then thoughtfully replies: “The Father, Son, and Holy Spirit.”

After the shooting, both Evans and Officer Michael Muniz were rushed to Brooke Army Medical Center (BAMC). When he actually woke up in the hospital, Evans really didn’t realize that he had been shot. “I just thought I had a good butt-kicking,” he says. “I had no idea what had happened. The doctor showed me my injuries with a mirror – I had staples in my head, a hairline fracture of the jaw.”

Things were touch-and-go for Evans the first few days. He dealt with collapsed lungs, infection, and even removal of part of his colon. However, within three days, he was walking and talking again, and visiting Muniz, who was still in critical condition.

Today, there are still two bullets inside of him, one lodged in his pelvis. Evans says: “I’ve had extensive nerve damage. I have no feeling in my lower jaw. I have no feeling in my left hand. I have no feeling between my hip and my knee in my right leg.”

Evans’ two children, son Jeff and daughter Jennifer Belt, were both able to take emergency leave from their jobs. The situation was complicated enough dealing with the typical medical, insurance, and business headaches, but Evans’ notoriety as a law officer and the public interest in the shooting added another facet to the mix. Jeff and Jennifer had to participate in press conferences, as well as control the 700-plus people who eventually passed through the waiting room during Evans’ hospital stay.

Son Jeff – who is a state trooper and lives in the town of Cotulla with his wife Olivia and infant daughter Madylon – clearly recalls the frantic morning of January 3. Unusually sleepless, the couple received the phone call from Jeff’s mother, informing him that his dad had been shot. The family made the mad rush from Cotulla to BAMC and learned of the situation from the sketchy details on the car radio as they drove. Says Jeff: “They would say: ‘more coming up after this’, and there would be five minutes of commercials.” Upon arrival at BAMC, Jeff explains the situation didn’t clear up any faster, as Evans was still in surgery. “It was nerve-wrecking to see dad go across the hall in a stretcher,” says Jeff. “It didn’t look good.”

Fortunately, there were lighter situations. “I always like a lot of light,” says Evans. “When I was in the hospital, I would ask the nurse to open the blinds in the morning. Outside my window was this big Denny’s billboard! I would curse and demand that the sign be torn down.”

Evans’ 25-year law enforcement career brought him into contact with many people in all walks of life. His easy-going, jovial nature has touched the lives of many people, and is probably one of the main reasons so many people came to his support after the shooting. Son Jeff and daughter Jennifer both say they’ve heard from policemen, firemen, and paramedics who chose their careers because Evans influenced them. “They wanted to be the type of person (Dad) was,” says Jennifer.

Public support became so fervent, family members would be recognized on the street. One of Evans’ brothers, Brian, relates: “I went to the San Antonio permit division. A gal behind the counter said: ‘You’re Dave Evans’ brother!’ She said Dave taught her driver’s ed, and wanted to pass along her best wishes.”

Son Jeff says that, on several occasions, the family would not have to pay for meals. “We’d go to eat,” he explains, “and they would ask: ‘You’re the family of Dave Evans?’ We’d then be told our meal was taken care of.”

The celebrity status undoubtedly peaked the night Evans and Jennifer attended a local ice hockey game. There, a person approached Evans and asked him if he would mind doing a promo for the game. Says Jennifer: “I look up on the Jumbo-Tron screen, and here’s this huge picture of dad, holding a foam rubber hockey puck. It said: ‘buy a hockey puck, like Officer Dave Evans did!’ The crowd in the stadium roared.”

The Evans family: granddaughter Maddie, son Jeff, daughter-in-law Olivia, brother Brian, sister-in-law Lyonette, Evans, brother Harry, sister Marilyn Roberts, brother-in-law Donald Roberts, daughter Jennifer Belt, son-in-law Jacob Belt, and grandsons Matthew and Jacob Belt in foreground

Even today, people have not forgotten the events of eight months ago. “People come up to me in the mall to tell me they gave blood for me,” says Evans.

Nearly losing a loved one often makes families more thoughtful of each other. The Evans family is no exception. Says Jeff: “We do a lot more together. I have more interaction with the family than before.” Sister Marilyn Roberts relates: “Hugs are more frequent.”

Says Evans: “I call Marilyn twice a week. I would talk to my kids every single day. I see Brian twice a week. Right now I’m staying with my brother Harry. Jennifer and I went to a lot of hockey and Spurs games.”

Evans’ nine-year-old grandson, Matthew Belt, idolizes his grandfather. “Before he got shot, we had a real strong bond,” says Matthew. “After that, the bond got stronger. Now mostly all I talk about is him.” Jennifer, Matthew’s mother, agrees: “Matthew is very proud of his ‘po-po’. For school, he was required to make a life timeline project of a famous person. He chose his grandfather.”

Since Jeff is a state trooper, the whole ordeal affected the way he now approaches his job. He says: “Everything started from square one when I went back to work. One of the things that motivates me is getting into that black-and-white. I stop 15 to 20 cars a day, and it gets routine. After that happened, I think about everything I learned at the academy concerning a traffic stop. I’ve been a lot more cautious when I make my contacts… more on the defensive. Now I approach every car differently.”

At the time of the shooting, Evans was going through a divorce from his second wife, and living with his brother, Bill. Evans is now in the process of building a new home, which is nearly completed. He says: “I’m also wanting to get back together with my ex-wife. We’re building the house together. She makes me happy; we had a lot of fun. If it’s God’s plan, it will work.”

Always able to see the lighter side of any situation, Evans says the last four digits of his new phone number spell “shot”. He says: “My daughter works for SBC, and I wanted a phone number that was easy to remember.”

Evans also wears a flattened bullet fashioned on a gold necklace – a reminder that he survived.

On the subject of Lichtenwalter, Evans makes it clear he is not one to worry about what might have been. “You could armchair quarter-back this thing to death,” he says. “Nothing short of a cannon would take that guy out. He was that enraged. I went through the whole chain of command to find out what I did wrong. The only thing I can figure is I was too nice, and I let myself get too close to him. If I did it again, I would keep my distance.”

Officer Michael Muniz rates highly with Evans and the family. Says Jeff: “If I was in that situation, I hope I would react like Muniz did. As a family, we owe him everything.”

As both Evans and Muniz were in BAMC, Evans would go and visit him nearly every day once he was able to get around. “I honestly thought he was a whole lot taller that night than he actually is,” he says. “The punishment he took! Mike is definitely the hero in this story.”

Evans is also proud to point out that many San Antonio police officers – including many senior officers – are now wearing their bullet proof vests because of the Denny’s shooting.

Unlike Officers Murray and Muniz, Evans hasn’t returned to the Denny’s restaurant. “I don’t have any personal issues with Denny’s,” he says, “but I haven’t been back.”

Evans returned to light duty several months ago, working the homicide division. He has now transferred over to special projects. “I really enjoyed working the streets,” he says. “That’s where I want to be in my heart of hearts.”

When asked how it feels to be considered a hero, Evans says: “A miracle, I’ll buy into that. A hero, never. I got my butt kicked. You have to be right with God in order to make it out of this world. I take nothing for granted; I live each day as full as I can.”

• Early last year, shortly after the shootings, the CLEAT executive board approved awarding the Peace Officers Memorial Foundation Medal of Valor to John Bocko, Michael Muniz, Nathan Murray, and David Evans. The medals were presented at CLEAT’s annual convention in Galveston last October.
• Detective John Bocko could not be reached for interview by press time.
• This story first appeared in the Combined Law Enforcement Associations of Texas magazine, Family First.