Injured Belleville cop is tough — and he needs to be

Jon Brough says goodbye to his friend Jim Luchtefeld and hiswife, Dotti Luchtefeld, at his home in Belleville on Oct. 3, 2008.They left behind a fresh-baked pie for Brough and his wife, Wendy.Brough had recently received prosthetic eyes. Elie Gardner |Post-Dispatch

August 6, 2008 - Doctor J. Scott Ferguson examines the woundsfrom Jon Brough's leg surgery as, from left, Margaret Hook, EnamHaque and Wendy Brough listen and watch at the doctor's officebuilding at St. Louis University Hospital. Ferguson and Hook haveworked with Brough since his initial gunshot wound. Haque wasbrought over from plastic surgery for a consultation. The Broughsgo for check ups every other week. On this visit, they werechecking in on how Brough's leg was healing. He had surgery on hisleg for compartmental syndrome, which he developed after beingshot.

BELLEVILLE • For Jon Brough, something assimple as a trip to Wal-Mart can be terrifying.

During one outing to the store, his wife, Wendy, pushed Jon'swheelchair through the entryway and parked him near the cashregisters. She would be back quickly, she assured him, then rushedoff to grab some toothpaste and toilet paper.

Alone, Jon's mind wanders as a swarm of noise engulfs him.Strangers' voices. The beeping cash registers. Wailing children.Ordinary sounds that can shock a man who lost his sight when muchof his face was blown off.

His thoughts turn to panic: What if Wendy doesn't come back?What if she gets sick and collapses? What if the fire alarm goesoff and I have to get out of the building?

He grew angry at himself. How did he suddenly become so fragile?Less than two years ago, he was a cop. A sergeant for Belleville'sfinest. He had taken down drug dealers. Faced gunfire. Felt therush of high-speed chases.

One blast from a shotgun, and everything changed.

Now he's 50 years old, blind, disfigured, sitting in thewheelchair among a swirl of shoppers, praying his wife willreturn.

To so many, he's a hero. But he doesn't feel like one. Survivingwasn't some final, grand feat. His most difficult battles are aheadof him - regaining the strength to walk, being able to talknormally, not feeling like a freak. It's a long, painful path thatwon't make any headlines.

He wonders what it will take to feel like the man he was - thecop who could control his fear.

"At this point in my life, I have to have someone close to me orI start to feel lost," Jon says.

"I get scared."

'THE COP'

It's difficult to sleep when you have nightmares about gettingshot. Waking up isn't much help either. It's still dark to Jon, andthe nightmare is still real.

Wendy feeds him from a TV table in the living room of theirranch home. She bandages his leg where a section of bone was takento help rebuild his mouth. She gives him his medications.

They spend hours going to doctors' offices and physical therapy.The last of a dozen surgeries went poorly. It's what caused the legproblem he has now.

On the way to the doctor, people study Jon's disfigured face. Hewears dark sunglasses to cover his absent eyes.

He feels the stares.

One man walks up and asks, "Are you the cop?" Jon answers, yes.The stranger thanks him for being such an inspiration.

Wendy grabs her husband's hand and leads him into theexamination room. Doctors and nurses gather around. Nurse JenniferJones calls him "our little angel."

Going out to eat is one of the few highlights for the 28-yearpolice veteran. He loves to taste the food. To have a littleconversation. Mostly, just to get out of the house.

It's a far cry from his old life.

Jon felt free when he would ride in a motorcycle club, the BlueKnights. He longs for the feel of the open road - cruising down anendless highway.

His voice quakes when he talks about his life now.

"I have private moments where I've complained to myself, 'Whyme? Why did it take my eyes?'" he says.

Yes, he's grateful to be alive. But mostly, he thinks ofeverything he lost that November day.

OFFICER DOWN

Jon was fixing his breakfast on Nov. 10, 2006. It was supposedto be his day off, but then the phone rang. It was a Bellevillepoliceman. They had found Larry Sicka, the man who had stabbed hisex-wife's parents in nearby Swansea a day earlier.

Jon dialed Wendy, who was working at St. Elizabeth'sHospital.

"I just want you to know how much I love you," he told her.

"I love you, too, " Wendy said. "What's wrong?"

"They found the bad guy and called out the team," Jon said.

Off he went, clad in his bulletproof vest, fatigues and helmet.At the police station, Jon grabbed a bulletproof shield.

The team quickly arrived at the house where they would findSicka. Police Chief Dave Ruebhausen assembled the group in front ofthe home. They pulled their bulky, bulletproof helmets over theirheads.

The chief ordered the team in. Jon led the way, holding thebulky shield, several officers behind him in single file. OfficerCraig Stafford stood next to Jon, carrying the battering ram. Whenthey got to the door, they yelled, "Belleville police! Bellevillepolice!"

Stafford rammed the door, and a gunshot blasted through the doorwindow. Stafford was bleeding from the shattered glass. Jon movedthe shield to the door to protect his team. Another shot blew out.Jon went down.

I can't see, I can't see, Jon thought. My helmet is covering myface.

Gunfire was blaring around him.

"I was screaming, trying to get someone - anyone - to take myhelmet off," Jon recalled.

Suddenly, he couldn't breathe.

Stafford and another officer pulled Jon away from the home. Jonclung to his .45-caliber handgun, waving it around. Stafford heldhim down.

"Jon, this is Craig," Stafford said. "Let your weapon go."

I can't breathe, Jon thought. I can't breathe.

He wanted to pull off his helmet. He just had to get it off.

But Stafford wouldn't let him move, Jon said.

"He wouldn't let me touch my face."

LIFE OR DEATH

Jon was shot in the right temple with a 12-gauge shotgun. Thebuckshot went through Jon's temple, exploded just above the tip ofhis nose behind his eyes and exited out the left side of hishead.

He was airlifted to St. Louis University Hospital and put in adrug-induced coma. His face was covered when Wendy saw him inintensive care. She stroked his arm gently. It was the only comfortshe could give.

"I couldn't pray because I didn't know what to pray for," Wendysaid. "If I prayed for Jon to live, I was praying for a long, hardroad he would have to travel to recover. I left it in the hands ofGod to let him choose life or death for Jon."

Jon woke up three weeks later.

"Wendy was at my side," Jon said. "I'm thinking this is just thenext day."

He continued to fall in and out of consciousness. Each time hewoke up, he would ask, "Who shot me?"

"Larry Sicka," Wendy answered each time.

"Where?"

"In the face, " Wendy said.

Jon's face had to be reconstructed. His eyes couldn't be saved,so they were removed. Stomach tissue was used to cover his exposedcheek bones and eye sockets. The roof of his mouth was rebuiltusing a piece of bone from his ankle.

A bone was stripped from the back of his skull to build a newbridge for his nose. The skin from his forehead was pulled down tothe tip of his nose, so that it would have skin.

"The surgeon would come in and rub the skin on the bridge of mynose," Jon said, laughing. "But it felt like he was touching myforehead."

Jon was released from the hospital in January 2007. It was athome that it all finally sunk in. I can't ever be a cop again, hethought.

He would never again see his wife, his children, his futuregrandchildren.

"It all came down on me at once. I broke down and cried," Jonsaid. "We cried together. We cried a long time."

REBUILDING

Jon has a pretty good idea how he looks. He uses his hands tofeel the scars on his face. All but his forehead, teeth and chinare numb. Sometimes he asks others what they see when they look athim.

He still lacks nasal passages, so to breathe he must rely on atracheotomy, which hinders his speech.

But Jon is working to regain control. He wants to talk normally,which will mean more surgeries so he can breathe through areconstructed nose. When that's over, Jon wants to go to school forthe blind.

But before he becomes a student, he already has taken his firststeps as a teacher, speaking to new police recruits training at theSouthwestern Illinois College in Belleville. He encourages them tobe cautious and teaches them how to work with disabled people.

"For 28 years, I was a police officer dealing with the sameevents you were taught at the academy," Jon told one class ofrecruits. "Because of one bad day at work, I became a disabledperson."

He's learning that a disabled person doesn't have to be ahelpless one.

Wendy and Jon, married for 30 years, have been inseparable sincethe shooting. The last day either of them worked was the day he wasshot. The couple is living on Jon's disability pension and supportfrom community fundraisers.

"Wendy told me that she's going through this with me," Jon said."She's not going to leave me. She's going to take care of me."

Just weeks ago, Jon went with Wendy to the supermarket. Insteadof sitting alone while his wife got what they needed, Jon pushedthe shopping cart.

'LIVIN' AGAIN'

On a recent weekend, Jon was lifted onto the back of a HondaGold Wing motorcycle - a gift from "Good Turn Trike," a nationalprogram designed to allow those who love motorcycles to keep ridingdespite their physical disabilities. The bike was reconfigured soJon could ride behind a driver.

Bob Biby, a retired Illinois State Police officer, took Jon onhis first ride, a 20-mile trip to a restaurant for lunch.

Jon felt the revving engine, the speed of the bike, the wind inhis face. It felt like his life before the shooting.

When he got off the motorcycle, he couldn't hold in the feeling.He thrust his arms in the air and shouted, "I'm really livin'again!"

It felt like freedom.

And he wasn't afraid.

On Wednesday, Jon finally received prosthetic eyes. His new eyesare brown, just like the ones he was born with. He said he wasexcited about beginning to look more normal again.

Such special moments only stoke his desire to move on, Jon said,another step closer to being the man he once was.

"I don't feel like everybody's staring anymore. ... Like I fitin."

About this story

The article was written and edited after two months ofextensive reporting. A Post-Dispatch reporter and photographer metwith Jon and Wendy Brough for lengthy interviews. The P-D alsoobserved Jon Brough when he was given a motorcycle, received anaward at Belleville City Hall, visited doctors and spoke to acollege class. Those also interviewed included Belleville policeofficers, other authorities, doctors and nurses.

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The company agreed to settle a lawsuit by former Sgt. JonBrough.