Officer died as he lived, protecting and serving
It is fitting that we pause at the end of the year to remember that which we have lost, the people who helped grow this community and left it just a little stronger, just a little kinder, just a little better.
This year’s list, compiled for azcentral and The Arizona Republic, contains all manner of notable Arizonans who left us this year. It includes a football coach who defined an era at Arizona State University and a businessman who founded a dairy that has been a fixture in this state for more than 50 years. It includes a civil rights activist who fought all her life against injustice and an Episcopal priest turned Phoenix Fire Department chaplain who devoted the last years of his life to rescuing the rescuers.
It’s a good list, a powerful list. An incomplete list.
Any list of Arizona’s most notable losses surely must include El Mirage Police Officer Paul Lazinsky.
St. Johns Police Chief Lance Spivey, who worked with Officer Lazinsky early in his own career, contacted me to point out that his friend and mentor surely belonged on a list of notable Arizonans who died this year.
“Paul gave his life to protect the community he chose to protect,” Spivey told me. “He died doing the job he loved to do so much. Chasing someone that chooses to prey on people. To me Paul is a notable Arizonan we lost in 2017 and tragically the only police officer to die in the line of duty in 2017.”
It could be said that Officer Lazinsky was born to serve. He spent 23 years in the Army, including tours of duty in the Gulf War, before retiring as a first sergeant.
He then went to work for the Phoenix Police Department. Eventually, he moved to the El Mirage Police Department, where he served for 17 years in every aspect of policing: patrolman, SWAT operator, HOA liaison, school liaison, field training officer.
Those who knew him or encountered him — on both the right and wrong sides of the law — offer different titles for Officer Lazinsky: friend, mentor, counselor. The kind of police officer who took pains to learn the names of everyone he met and to remember them. The kind who enforced the law fairly and with compassion.
He was a familiar face at Thompson Ranch Elementary School, where he often could be found eating lunch with students. He was a fixture at community events and in the town’s neighborhoods where he was known, on occasion, to shoot hoops with whatever kids were hanging about.
“Officer Lazinsky was the type of man who would stop and say ‘hello’ to every kid in our neighborhood,” Beth Simek told a Republic reporter.
Sammy Lopez told ABC15 that Offi-
In a small town like El Mirage, the loss is like a punch in the gut.
cer Lazinsky treated him with respect when arresting him a decade ago and helped steer him toward a better path.
“The way I look with tattoos, you would think I’d been in prison and all this stuff, and he didn’t judge you like that,” Lopez told the TV station. “He would come up to you and talk to you like a normal person. That’s what I liked about him.”
Those who knew him say Officer Lizinsky was a natural leader, one who won people over with an unforgettable smile, a keen intellect and a hefty dose of common sense — but mostly because he genuinely cared about the people he worked with and those he pledged to protect.
In a small town like El Mirage, the loss is like a punch in the gut.
“Having seen combat, he didn’t get rattled like many do,” El Mirage Police Chief Terry McDonald told me in an email. “While his friendly demeanor often hid his ‘soldier’ persona, it was there. He could charm a homeowner’s association, talk sense to a young adult and then take the point position providing AR-15 rifle coverage on a dangerous situation. When he took position with his rifle, you knew he was no novice.
“The citizens of El Mirage have come out in (d)roves to two vigils and told many stories of their positive and inspirational contacts with Paul.”
On Dec. 12, Officer Paul Lazinsky was chasing a 14-year-old boy wanted for damaging property.
During the chase, he collapsed and later died, two days before his 59th birthday.
In just 10 months, he would have retired and had more time with his wife, Tammy, their three daughters and four grandchildren.
Instead, he died just as he lived. Serving, protecting.
Leaving this place he loved just a little stronger, just a little kinder, just a little better.