It was November 19th, 2002 at 1:27 a.m., Red Bluff police officer David Mobilio was filling up his police cruiser at gas station in the fog. That's when a former Army Ranger by the name of Andrew Mickel ambushed Mobilio, squeezed off three rounds from his SigSauer handgun and instantly left a young boy without his father, a wife without her husband.

The aftermath of that murder and the court drama that followed consumed a large portion of my early years reporting. Linda Mobilio, David's widow, became a friend. Sitting in a Colusa County courtroom for Andrew Mickel's sentencing, no moment of my career has stuck in my consciousness as much as what Luke (David's son) told his mother one day while they were at the park playing on the swings. He said, "Push me higher, so I can touch Daddy in heaven."

As a journalist, it hurts when an officer is killed in the line of duty. These men and women become our friends in the field and trusted sources. Often, we see them more than our own families. It can be hard to remain objective when you're that close. It can be even harder to do your job and not feel like a total jerk, asking traumatized family and friends the overused question of "How do you feel" -- when you already know the answer.

When the call came over the scanners Thursday night of an officer down, my heart sank. I took a deep breath and realized I had a job to do and it wasn't going to be fun. As the details of Detective Jarrod Shivers death on Redstart Avenue started to come together, it was a reminder that our men and women in uniform (military or otherwise) are always a target.