This week, as our nation observes National Police Week, we pause to honor the brave men and women who serve and protect our communities every single day. Since 1962, this special week has recognized the immense dedication of our first responders, celebrating their commitment and remembering those who have made the ultimate sacrifice in the line of duty. While many overlook this vital observance, Our American Stories proudly shines a light on these heroes, ensuring their acts of courage and service are heard and remembered. Join us as we pay tribute to the incredible individuals who uphold peace, both here at home and across the globe.
One such hero was Police Officer Diego Moreno, whose story reflects the profound love and sacrifice at the heart of law enforcement. In a tragic night in Kent, Washington, in July 2018, Officer Moreno bravely stepped forward during a high-speed chase, laying down spike strips to stop a dangerous situation. He was then tragically struck and killed, leaving behind a family and a community who cherished him. This week, we don’t just mourn his loss; we celebrate the vibrant spirit of a man who was fiercely dedicated to his police work, but even more so, to being a loving husband and a devoted father. His legacy, filled with laughter, dedication, and selfless service, continues to inspire us all.
📖 Read the Episode Transcript
This is Our American Stories, and it’s National Police Week all week this week. And it’s been happening in this country since 1962, and not nearly enough folks in the media cover this. We do. And we honor all of our first responders in this country, and of course, our men and women serving in uniform all around the world, and we particularly pay homage to the people who’ve paid the
ultimate price for their service.
In late July 2018, in Kent, Washington, a disastrous combination of 15 and 16-year-olds, alcohol, and guns resulted in a teenager leading the police on a high-speed chase, hitting speeds of 95 miles per hour
at night.
Police Officer Diego Marino got in front of the fleeing truck and laid down spike strips to stop the dangerous chase. After this beating truck spun out of control, Moreno was accidentally struck and killed by a pursuing police vehicle. A week later, thousands from across the country gathered to celebrate Moreno’s life, and the procession stretched for over six miles. His widow wanted everyone to see her goofy, big-hearted husband as she did.
I’m Shelley, Diego’s wife. From what you know about Diego and the way we have honored him today, it’s easy for you to see that Diego loved police work. But there’s one thing Diego loved more than that: being a daddy. Although it was police work that ultimately took Diego from us, it was police work that allowed him to be the father that he was. While he was here, Diego worked late swing, which rewarded him with daytime daddy shift. My phone used to ding every morning, and I would take it out and find multiple Instagram messages of riotous singing and dancing in the car while waiting in the parking lot
for school to start.
Then, without complaint of his 5 hours of sleep, he would walk our daughter to class and stand in line with her until he saw her safely in the classroom. Then, 40 minutes later, my phone would dig again as the process started all over again at preschool. To say he was protective was an understatement, and he loved his children fiercely. When Diego’s boots were unlaced for the final time, more evidence of fatherhood excellence was found. A fresh pedicure in primary blue. Diego had taken our daughter for pedis just last week, and she got to choose his color. He was impressed that the lacquer made them so shiny. Diego’s childish enthusiasm for life was contagious. When playing sidewalk chalk, he wouldn’t just draw with the kids; he’d help them make our dog walk into a pink-striped zebra. And this week, when many of you stopped by, you asked, “What is wrong with your dog?” And I replied with the standard answer you all know so well: “Eh, Diego,” and no more explanation was necessary. A few months ago, he and our son went to get a fresh cut with his cherished hairdresser, who I had bribed on many occasions to make a mistake on his hair. Afterward, as a reward for a job well done in a chair, he took our son to pick out a new toy, a three-foot Nerve sniper rifle with a six-round magazine capacity. In multiple magazines. It has been open season on me ever since, with Diego as their platoon leader. I now have a 4-year-old with a two-second reload time and a daughter that can apply a tourniquet. A speech about Diego would be incomplete without mentioning his affinity for food. My “skinny fat” kid, Diego, has passed this tradition onto his children. That’s my daughter’s sushi set, Barbie stuff, down there. Our children are young, and their future memories of their father will be few and faded. But Diego left so much of his larger-than-life character with all of you, and I ask that in the coming months and years, that you join me in helping them remember.
Next up, one of the people will help the Moreno kids remember their dad. And that’s his longtime police partner, who recently switched uniforms to become a firefighter.
My name is Matt Molenox.
I was a City a Kent police officer for 8 years, and I got hired about the same time Diego did. And I can hear his voice now saying, “What the hell is a firefighter doing talking at my service?”
We talked about this
day coming, if it ever came, and Diego always said, “I don’t want you guys sitting in a chair staring at the corner. I want you guys to celebrate.” My first impression of Diego was made before I even met him. I had just graduated the police academy myself. I’d just been on the street for a couple of months, and I heard about this hard charger, this young guy that we just tired, very promising prospect. Halfway through the academy, he blew his knee out, and that’s a career-ender, a
lot of the time. I’ve done it.
And instead of having surgery to fix his knee and finishing the academy later like a normal person would do, Diego slapped a knee brace on his leg and finished the rest of his academy with a blown-out knee, completing all the physical and academic requirements, and then he got his knee fix. That was my first impression of a man that I am honored to call my best friend.
Who was a coworker. Good Lord, Diego, healed up.
We were a signed to the same beat, and we were beat partners for many, many years. Diego lived his life at 1,000 miles an hour with such a fierce intensity.
I’ve never seen anything like it. I don’t know how he did it.
He would walk into the break room at work, and whether you knew this man for 10 years or 10 seconds, he would immediately infect everyone in that room with that energy. He’d take a lap around the break room. He’d crack a joke, sit on someone’s lap, make them extremely uncomfortable. He did in hail a burrito or a donut as fast as human possible, and then one
of us would get dispatched to a call.
And through his mouthfuls of carne soada and delicious pastry, and out on top of that is Venezuelan accent, which made it difficult to understand him in the first place.
He would key up his radio. His call sign was 2 King 526.
He’d key up his ready and say, “2 King 526. That unit is about to secure. We’re about to go home. I’ve got it. Show me en route.” And then you need to do a little dance, and he’d go out of the room, and you’d go to the call.
That’s who Diego was as a coworker to me and to so many of us as a friend.
When Diego and I began to hang out more outside of work, we text each other, “Hey, what are you doing right now?
What are you doing later today? What are you doing tomorrow? This weekend?”
Whenever he texted me first, the message always began with, “Hey,” and then a word that rhymed with swat. And after about the 30th or 40th time that he called me that, I said, “Hey, is there anything wrong with you saying,
‘What’s up, buddy? How’s your day going? What are you up to?'”
And it seemed like before I’d even sent that message, he had responded with about 4 or 5 more very creative ways of using that same term. And so I thought, “You know, this is just Diego. This is a term of endearment.” And I thought that for many years until last week, when I was reminiscing with some very close friends and coworkers, and I just mentioned, “You know, I always thought it was funny. How do you who called me that name or that word? And I’m sure he called you the same thing.” And everybody got me a really weird look. They said, “No, Matt, Diego liked us, and I think you were a special case.”
And even now, buddy, after you’re gone, you’re still making me feel special.
As a father, Diego and Shelley were kind enough to allow me to be a part of Peyton and Adrian’s lives pretty much since they were born.
I was always an
awe and how he was able to amplify that intense and fierce energy that
he lived his life with, whether it was work or play. And
by a thousandfold, with Shelley in the case, put that energy back into them. I don’t have kids of my own, but I always told myself that if I ever had a kid, if I could be half the dad Diego was, I would be a resounding success. And maybe I set the bar a little high for myself, even at half, but
that’s the kind of dad Diego was.
I’ll close with this, Diego. I’m now talking directly to you. You always had our backs, buddy, whether we knew we needed a back or not. We’d turn around, and there you were. And I make this promise to you and to you, Shelley, that the people who are the most important to you in this world, your family, will want for nothing ever until my dying breath.
I promise you both that.
And just for you, buddy, I’ve got one last radio trans position in me as a cop. 2 King 54 to 2 King 56. I know you’re ready to secure, and you’re going home.
You can clear.
We’ve got this. And my goodness, it doesn’t get more beautiful than that, folks. And you don’t hear men loving on men that way in public. You always had our backs, buddy. And we can count, if we’re lucky, a few people in our lives who always have our back.
We just heard from a bride and a partner. National Police Week. Officer Diego Moreno of the Kent Police Department in Washington State.
This is Our American Stories.
ultimate price for their service.
In late July 2018, in Kent, Washington, a disastrous combination of 15 and 16-year-olds, alcohol, and guns resulted in a teenager leading the police on a high-speed chase, hitting speeds of 95 miles per hour
at night.
Police Officer Diego Marino got in front of the fleeing truck and laid down spike strips to stop the dangerous chase. After this beating truck spun out of control, Moreno was accidentally struck and killed by a pursuing police vehicle. A week later, thousands from across the country gathered to celebrate Moreno’s life, and the procession stretched for over six miles. His widow wanted everyone to see her goofy, big-hearted husband as she did.
I’m Shelley, Diego’s wife. From what you know about Diego and the way we have honored him today, it’s easy for you to see that Diego loved police work. But there’s one thing Diego loved more than that: being a daddy. Although it was police work that ultimately took Diego from us, it was police work that allowed him to be the father that he was. While he was here, Diego worked late swing, which rewarded him with daytime daddy shift. My phone used to ding every morning, and I would take it out and find multiple Instagram messages of riotous singing and dancing in the car while waiting in the parking lot
for school to start.
Then, without complaint of his 5 hours of sleep, he would walk our daughter to class and stand in line with her until he saw her safely in the classroom. Then, 40 minutes later, my phone would dig again as the process started all over again at preschool. To say he was protective was an understatement, and he loved his children fiercely. When Diego’s boots were unlaced for the final time, more evidence of fatherhood excellence was found. A fresh pedicure in primary blue. Diego had taken our daughter for pedis just last week, and she got to choose his color. He was impressed that the lacquer made them so shiny. Diego’s childish enthusiasm for life was contagious. When playing sidewalk chalk, he wouldn’t just draw with the kids; he’d help them make our dog walk into a pink-striped zebra. And this week, when many of you stopped by, you asked, “What is wrong with your dog?” And I replied with the standard answer you all know so well: “Eh, Diego,” and no more explanation was necessary. A few months ago, he and our son went to get a fresh cut with his cherished hairdresser, who I had bribed on many occasions to make a mistake on his hair. Afterward, as a reward for a job well done in a chair, he took our son to pick out a new toy, a three-foot Nerve sniper rifle with a six-round magazine capacity. In multiple magazines. It has been open season on me ever since, with Diego as their platoon leader. I now have a 4-year-old with a two-second reload time and a daughter that can apply a tourniquet. A speech about Diego would be incomplete without mentioning his affinity for food. My “skinny fat” kid, Diego, has passed this tradition onto his children. That’s my daughter’s sushi set, Barbie stuff, down there. Our children are young, and their future memories of their father will be few and faded. But Diego left so much of his larger-than-life character with all of you, and I ask that in the coming months and years, that you join me in helping them remember.
Next up, one of the people will help the Moreno kids remember their dad. And that’s his longtime police partner, who recently switched uniforms to become a firefighter.
My name is Matt Molenox.
I was a City a Kent police officer for 8 years, and I got hired about the same time Diego did. And I can hear his voice now saying, “What the hell is a firefighter doing talking at my service?”
We talked about this
day coming, if it ever came, and Diego always said, “I don’t want you guys sitting in a chair staring at the corner. I want you guys to celebrate.” My first impression of Diego was made before I even met him. I had just graduated the police academy myself. I’d just been on the street for a couple of months, and I heard about this hard charger, this young guy that we just tired, very promising prospect. Halfway through the academy, he blew his knee out, and that’s a career-ender, a
lot of the time. I’ve done it.
And instead of having surgery to fix his knee and finishing the academy later like a normal person would do, Diego slapped a knee brace on his leg and finished the rest of his academy with a blown-out knee, completing all the physical and academic requirements, and then he got his knee fix. That was my first impression of a man that I am honored to call my best friend.
Who was a coworker. Good Lord, Diego, healed up.
We were a signed to the same beat, and we were beat partners for many, many years. Diego lived his life at 1,000 miles an hour with such a fierce intensity.
I’ve never seen anything like it. I don’t know how he did it.
He would walk into the break room at work, and whether you knew this man for 10 years or 10 seconds, he would immediately infect everyone in that room with that energy. He’d take a lap around the break room. He’d crack a joke, sit on someone’s lap, make them extremely uncomfortable. He did in hail a burrito or a donut as fast as human possible, and then one
of us would get dispatched to a call.
And through his mouthfuls of carne soada and delicious pastry, and out on top of that is Venezuelan accent, which made it difficult to understand him in the first place.
He would key up his radio. His call sign was 2 King 526.
He’d key up his ready and say, “2 King 526. That unit is about to secure. We’re about to go home. I’ve got it. Show me en route.” And then you need to do a little dance, and he’d go out of the room, and you’d go to the call.
That’s who Diego was as a coworker to me and to so many of us as a friend.
When Diego and I began to hang out more outside of work, we text each other, “Hey, what are you doing right now?
What are you doing later today? What are you doing tomorrow? This weekend?”
Whenever he texted me first, the message always began with, “Hey,” and then a word that rhymed with swat. And after about the 30th or 40th time that he called me that, I said, “Hey, is there anything wrong with you saying,
‘What’s up, buddy? How’s your day going? What are you up to?'”
And it seemed like before I’d even sent that message, he had responded with about 4 or 5 more very creative ways of using that same term. And so I thought, “You know, this is just Diego. This is a term of endearment.” And I thought that for many years until last week, when I was reminiscing with some very close friends and coworkers, and I just mentioned, “You know, I always thought it was funny. How do you who called me that name or that word? And I’m sure he called you the same thing.” And everybody got me a really weird look. They said, “No, Matt, Diego liked us, and I think you were a special case.”
And even now, buddy, after you’re gone, you’re still making me feel special.
As a father, Diego and Shelley were kind enough to allow me to be a part of Peyton and Adrian’s lives pretty much since they were born.
I was always an
awe and how he was able to amplify that intense and fierce energy that
he lived his life with, whether it was work or play. And
by a thousandfold, with Shelley in the case, put that energy back into them. I don’t have kids of my own, but I always told myself that if I ever had a kid, if I could be half the dad Diego was, I would be a resounding success. And maybe I set the bar a little high for myself, even at half, but
that’s the kind of dad Diego was.
I’ll close with this, Diego. I’m now talking directly to you. You always had our backs, buddy, whether we knew we needed a back or not. We’d turn around, and there you were. And I make this promise to you and to you, Shelley, that the people who are the most important to you in this world, your family, will want for nothing ever until my dying breath.
I promise you both that.
And just for you, buddy, I’ve got one last radio trans position in me as a cop. 2 King 54 to 2 King 56. I know you’re ready to secure, and you’re going home.
You can clear.
We’ve got this. And my goodness, it doesn’t get more beautiful than that, folks. And you don’t hear men loving on men that way in public. You always had our backs, buddy. And we can count, if we’re lucky, a few people in our lives who always have our back.
We just heard from a bride and a partner. National Police Week. Officer Diego Moreno of the Kent Police Department in Washington State.
This is Our American Stories.
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