'Mountain of a man': Hundreds gather to mourn death of Frederick police lieutenant

Aug. 28—Just a couple of weeks ago, Det. Steve Radtke arrived at work to find his own face plastered on a police bulletin and pinned to his cubicle.

There were copies of it everywhere, Radtke soon realized — stuffed into drawers, tucked into folders, even hanging in bathrooms across the Frederick Police Department headquarters.

And he knew exactly which of his coworkers was behind it.

"I could just hear him giggling like a little kid," Radtke said. "And when I looked at him, he said: 'You're going to be finding these until the day you retire.'"

The perpetrator was Frederick Police Lt. Andrew Alcorn IV — "Stew" to all who knew him. A 14-year veteran of the police department and the head of its criminal investigations division, Alcorn died unexpectedly at his Middletown home on Sunday. He was 39.

Hundreds of mourners gathered in Frederick on Friday to remember Alcorn, a man they said was relentlessly caring, quick with a joke and bursting with a seemingly boundless energy. He loved his family and his work deeply, those who knew him said, describing a skilled handyman with a soft spot for Skittles and Garth Brooks.

The day after he lost his friend, Radtke stumbled upon yet another of Alcorn's fake bulletins as soon as he showed up to the office. He guessed there might be 200 more waiting to be found.

"They're never getting thrown away," Radtke said.

Alcorn's official police headshot adorned the front of the funeral programs Friday. It stood next to his casket, too, framed by colorful bouquets. A uniformed Alcorn is clearly smiling in the photo — wearing a full-blown grin that appears to have been suppressed, just barely, into something like a smirk.

That image was the most serious one anybody could have gotten out of Stew, said Pastor Randy Miller, who officiated the service and knew the Alcorn family. He recalled the photographer's many failed attempts to capture a somber-faced Alcorn, ruined over and over by the man's inclination toward laughter.

Despite the grief that filled the room Friday, attendees couldn't help but chuckle as speakers shared memories of Alcorn. Frederick Police Chief Jason Lando recalled the first time he met the lieutenant. It was Lando's first day on the job, and he'd popped into a coffee shop wearing nothing to identify himself as the new head of the department.

That's when an oblivious and frazzled Alcorn — covered in spilled coffee — showed up.

"He cut in front of me, politely excused himself, and said, 'Hey, buddy, I'm really sorry. I just poured coffee all over myself,'" Lando said. "'And I dropped my avocado toast on the sidewalk outside. And I'm also late for a meeting. Do you mind if I cut in front of you?'"

Laughter filled Frederick's International Community Church.

Despite the lightness with which he carried himself through his personal life, Alcorn's coworkers said he was a serious and dedicated officer who took naturally to the field.

Radtke, for one, was there on Alcorn's first day at the academy. He was steeled and capable from the beginning, he said. Later, Alcorn became Radtke's field trainer. Radtke learned a lot from his mentor, he said, but the pair would also tell jokes and sing along to Garth Brooks songs in the patrol car.

"He would belt out the notes to 'Baton Rouge' like it was never gonna play again," Radtke said. "It's a stressful time being in field training as a new officer, and I just never felt that stress with him. It was like riding around with my brother."

Alcorn made all his coworkers feel that way, said Sabrina Swann, a crime scene supervisor with FPD. As a lieutenant, the door to his office was never shut. No matter how many times Swann would instinctively call him "sir," he'd correct her — "Call me Stew," he'd say.

Fellow officers looked up to Alcorn, Swann added. His warmth coupled with his quiet self-assuredness made him a natural leader in the department, she said.

"If you were confused, or you felt like you didn't know what to do, you just fell in line with him," Swann said. "And you knew that everything was gonna be OK, and it was all going to be good. Because he just handled everything with such a calm excellence."

As the years ticked by, Alcorn distinguished himself in the force, winning a Bronze Star, three Life Saving Awards and three unit citations. When he talked about an important case, Lando said, "his eyes lit up like a kid at Christmas."

Though he eventually found purpose in his work, Alcorn's brother, Jon, said Stew had struggled to find direction as a young man. He'd excelled as a student and athlete at Urbana High School — the crowd laughed Friday at the mention of Stew winning the first-ever "Mr. Urbana" award in 2000 — and played football at Towson University. But after graduation, he wasn't sure what he wanted.

One day, Jon said, their mother looked at Stew from across the breakfast table and said, "You know, you'd make a good cop."

He didn't look back.

Tears poured down Jon Alcorn's face as he stood before the sizable crowd gathered to remember his older brother. He told stories of childhood fights and high school parties and both their ventures into fatherhood.

"You had to challenge me one more time," Jon said, shaking his head as he addressed Stew. "Force me to rise to the occasion. I hope I made you proud."

He steadied himself, looking down at the casket.

"Just know that I looked up to you since the moment I took my first breath," he said. "And I look forward to seeing you and hanging out with you when I take my last one."

Alcorn's wife, Jenn, and their three children — Drew, Mackenzie and Addison — clutched each other as they made their way to the microphone. As a husband and a father, they said, Stew gave them everything he had.

Whatever was left over, he readily gave to his coworkers, officers said. He treated them — and most people he met — like they were an extension of the family he held so dear. He'd send handwritten postcards to each member of his unit when he went on vacation.

"Stew stories" flow out of law enforcement officers in waves. Officer Dan Sullivan estimated the week before Alcorn died, he had been to the homes of at least three coworkers, helping them remodel their kitchens or complete repairs. His carpentry skills were in high demand, and though Sullivan doesn't understand when Alcorn slept, he wasn't stingy with them.

Quote

When Sullivan needed back surgery and was hospital-bound near Christmas one year, Alcorn dispatched his entire unit to wrap presents and put up a tree for Sullivan's family.

"He was a mountain of a man in so many ways," Pastor Miller said as the service wound to a close.

Dozens of uniformed officers saluted as pallbearers carried Alcorn's casket from the church. They embraced and wept in the bright August sunshine.

"I'm going to miss everything about him," Radtke said. "He made us all better."

Follow Jillian Atelsek on Twitter: @jillian_atelsek