A City Mourns the Loss of Officer Celal Cenker Surgit, Officer Durand Lee, and Officer Patricia Swank—Three Lives of Service, Lost to Silence
In every police department across the country, roll call begins with a headcount. Officers check in—ready for duty, ready to serve, ready to protect. But some names are no longer answered. Not because they chose to abandon the line, but because they carried a silent burden too heavy to bear.
Today, the city of Chicago is mourning the loss of three remarkable police officers, each of whom died by suicide within the past year: Officer Celal Cenker Surgit, Officer Durand Lee, and Officer Patricia Swank. Their names are now etched not just in the memories of their families and friends, but in the conscience of a city that must now reckon with what it means to truly protect those who protect us.
This story is written gently, with care, and for one purpose only: to honor these lives and to stand in solidarity with the families left behind. These are not just stories of loss—they are stories of love, service, and sacrifice.
Officer Celal Cenker Surgit, 54
Husband, Father, Immigrant, Veteran of the Badge
On the morning of April 4, 2024, Officer Celal Cenker Surgit was found unresponsive in his home in Chicago’s West Ridge neighborhood. A self-inflicted gunshot wound from his department-issued SIG Sauer P320 ended the life of a man who had spent two decades defending others while silently fighting his own internal battles.
Born in Istanbul, Turkey, Celal came to America in his twenties with a belief in the promise of hard work and the freedom to build a future. He studied criminal justice at night while working long hours by day, ultimately fulfilling his dream by joining the Chicago Police Department in 2004.
He was known on the force as “steady Cenker”—a nickname that reflected his cool-headedness in the field and his quiet confidence in stressful situations. His supervisors often praised his level-headed approach to crises, especially those involving youth or family-related calls. He had a particular skill for de-escalating tension with calm, thoughtful communication.
At home, he was a devoted father to two children and a loving husband to his wife of 23 years, Reema.
“He was the safest place in the world for our family,” Reema shared through quiet tears. “He loved us completely, and he always protected us. I just wish he had let us protect him too.”
In the months leading to his death, Reema noticed changes: insomnia, longer hours at work, and what she described as a “distant look in his eyes.” He spoke very little about the toll the job was taking, and even less about the things that weighed on his heart. Like so many officers, he believed that admitting pain was a burden others shouldn’t have to carry.
His family still struggles with the question that haunts so many survivors of suicide: Why didn’t he say something?
For his children—now teenagers navigating a world without their father—Celal remains a guiding light. His son wears his father’s ring on a chain around his neck. His daughter, a budding artist, created a mural of him standing proudly in his uniform. For the Surgit family, grief is now part of the landscape of daily life—but so is pride.
“He gave his life to this city,” Reema said. “I just wish the city had given more back.”
Officer Durand Lee, 29
Mentor, Brother, Leader with a Bright Future
A month after Officer Surgit’s death, the Chicago Police Department was again shaken when 29-year-old Officer Durand Lee was found in his West Loop apartment, the victim of a self-inflicted gunshot wound.
Young, ambitious, and deeply committed to community policing, Officer Lee had recently been recognized for his work in the department’s youth outreach initiative. He was known to volunteer regularly at high schools and community centers, where he spoke about making positive life choices and trusting the police.
Born and raised in Bronzeville, Officer Lee had always wanted to return to his own community in a position of service. After graduating from the police academy at the top of his class, he requested to be stationed near the South Side. He saw policing as a bridge—not a barrier—and sought to be part of the change he knew was possible.
“He was one of the most selfless people I’ve ever known,” said Sgt. Nina Lopez, his field supervisor. “He didn’t want to make arrests—he wanted to make relationships. That was his strength.”
But behind the accolades and success, Durand was also carrying a heavy emotional burden.
According to close friends and family, he had recently confided in a fellow officer that he felt “burnt out” and “emotionally exhausted.” He had been responding to an increasing number of violent calls involving young people—children not much younger than his own siblings.
“I think he started to internalize every tragedy,” said his older brother, Jordan Lee. “He wanted to fix everything. And when he realized he couldn’t, I think it broke his heart.”
On May 14, 2024, he missed a scheduled shift. Fellow officers stopped by his apartment and discovered him unresponsive. He was pronounced dead at the scene.
His funeral was attended by more than 800 people—officers, friends, family, and young people he had mentored. There were notes, letters, and stories from lives he had touched in just a few short years. He is remembered not for how he died, but for the way he lived: with heart, humor, and hope
