His death stunned the law enforcement community and sparked discussions in the union halls about how to get retirees back into the fold. There is talk of a campaign to get them computers and teach them e-mail so they will be on a network.
City Councilwoman Mary Pat Clarke simply said: "We all need to do better."
Lucille Blue came from Aberdeen. She had lived across the street from Eldridge and recalled how her two sons, then 7 and 8, bounded inside one morning after a snowstorm, each clutching a crisp 20-dollar bill. "We shoveled Mr. Ed's snow," they proudly proclaimed.
Eldridge had provided the shovels and cleared most of the snow.
He fixed children's bicycles and handed out candy. He told one neighbor with a big family to use his yard. A friend of his late mother's invited him to family gatherings but stopped when he didn't attend. Blue had offered him her number when she moved a few years ago, but he never called.
"Now, I wish I had stayed in touch with him," she said.
Eldridge didn't hang out with fellow cops - he stayed away from their parties and quietly disappeared when a profanity was uttered. Colleagues simply thought he had a life beyond the department; they learned later that he had no life at all.
For years, he was the Central District's wagon man, speeding to arrests and hauling "the worst of Baltimore" to the cells, He listened to the action on the radio, anticipated an arrest and positioned his boxy van to get to the call fast when it came.
Matthew Corell came to the Central as a rookie cop in 1997 - the days when a young officer would ask for a radio and be shouted down by a stern sergeant, "You don't need a radio. Rookies don't talk."
Corell, a youngster from the county, said Eldridge helped him. "I had no idea where Pennsylvania Avenue was or what Etting Street was," Corell told mourners. "Officer Eldridge was the only senior officer who spoke to me. ... He was the only person who I thought when I came to work, 'God, I hope Eddie is working today.' "
It was only a few days ago that Detective Wynn found a place to bury his former colleague. Nearly lost in stacks of paperwork, he discovered that Eldridge's late parents, Edward and Ruth, had paid for a family plot. The parents had taken care of their son beyond their years and beyond his.
The service over, pallbearers carried the coffin from the funeral home, past an honor guard and cops standing at attention. Police motorcycle officers escorted the hearse and mourners around the Beltway to the Garden of Faith Cemetery in Overlea, the final words of the police chaplain echoing:
"You may not be able to depend on anybody, but you can depend on God."
