Sean Kirst: How do you carry on Aaron Salter's legacy? Through life

It was Aaron Salter Jr., a childhood classmate at Public School 78 and the kind of guy – for a million reasons – you do not forget.

“He had an adventurous mind,” said Pitts, who always figured “Salt Dog,” as his buddies knew him, would become an engineer or scientist, and most certainly an inventor.

Salter gestured toward the patrol car and Pitts' uniform, and asked a question: “How do I get in?”

He wanted to be an officer, and Pitts – knowing of Salter’s knowledge and technological skills – was initially surprised. But it was clear that Salter had been thinking hard, for a long time, about why the job mattered.

“He was adamant,” said Pitts, achingly conscious of that early milestone in a admirable policing career that would eventually lead, 11 days ago, to the act of ultimate selflessness in which Salter lost his life.

Pitts, Earl Perrin and Nate Goldsmith, all now retired, formed a tight kinship with Salter, as young officers. They bonded while on patrol in the predominately Black neighborhoods where they grew up. The sense of homegrown mission was so powerful, they say, that it did not feel like they were on the clock when they were together.

All of it brought them Wednesday to Salter’s funeral at The Chapel at CrossPoint, an impassioned farewell to a guy who died, as a Tops Market security guard, while confronting a heavily armed killer. Retired police deputy commissioner Kim Beaty introduced Perrin, who had an announcement.

Perrin surprised Salter's widow, Kim, and her family with a tribute, one Perrin and his buddies hope in some quiet and lasting way will stand up against the sickening grief amplified again by Tuesday's mass murder at a school in Uvalde, Texas.

“The question is how do you carry on the legacy?” Perrin said, and their shared two-word answer is: Through life.

They are creating a scholarship at Hutchinson Central Technical High School, where Salter graduated almost 40 years ago. The annual award will go to a student “mechanically inclined and interested in improving upon existing technology in such a way that would make life easier and better for future generations,” someone whose work ethic and civic passion echo Salter’s.

Perrin said he received commitments for more than $2,000 shortly after he started texting with other retired officers about the scholarship, and he said readers seeking to donate can use cash app ($salterschol) or send checks to the Buffalo Police Federal Credit Union, 68 Court St., Suite 180, Buffalo 14202, with note on the envelope that it involves honoring their old friend.

Pitts said his bond with Salter reignited when they were together at the old Precinct 16, known today as E District. It was close to where Salter spent his childhood, modeling himself as a kid after his know-how-to-do-anything dad, which routinely led to such magic as using a lawn mower engine to create a go-kart.

“Cops, as a whole, are tightknit, and we all grew up on the East Side,” Perrin said. “We could talk to each other, talk about taking care of our families. The more time we were on call together, the more we had each other’s backs. The whole purpose was to get each other home.”

In retirement, they assumed they had succeeded in that goal. They hardly imagined Salter, a beloved regular at Tops, faced any lethal risk on that job. At Wednesday's service, Buffalo Police Commissioner Joseph Gramaglia gave Salter two posthumous honors, promoting him to lieutenant and presenting the family with the Medal of Honor, the department's highest measure of bravery.

On that quiet Saturday, Gramaglia said, Salter was helping a shopper near the door when an accused 18-year-old mass murderer began firing upon the Black women and men whom investigators say he drove hours to target.

Ten people died. Salter lost his life when his bullet could not penetrate his attacker's body armor. Yet Gramaglia said the toll would have been even higher if Salter’s actions had not allowed many others to flee or hide.

Goldsmith – whose emotional tribute to his friend brought many to their feet – said every officer vows to place the lives of others above his own. But Pitts said Salter provided an unforgettable answer in a situation none of us would want to face.

“We all have to wonder if we would do as Aaron did,” said Pitts, who said Salter's choice reflected his training and his essential nature: He put himself between a murderer and every checkout clerk, everyday shopper and worker in that store.

In an essay Pitts wrote for Salter’s family, he described his lifelong friend as brilliant, insightful and kind, “someone who was able to grasp things a little quicker than most, while never looking down or belittling those who may not have caught on as fast.”

Salter believed in green technology long before it was trendy. His buddies speak of how he put solar panels in his home decades ago, installed solar lights in his yard and devised an intercom system by his front door years ahead of the rush to install Ring doorbells.

His dream, his driving mission until the day he died, was the idea of developing a completely “green” engine that could be fueled by water.

“We used to tell him that someday we’d need to serve as his security,” said Perrin, who never doubted such ingenuity might someday achieve fame.

Goldsmith met Salter when they were in different Buffalo high schools and they attended a Christian-based retreat in the Allegheny Mountains. Years later, when Goldsmith returned from serving with the Marine Corps, it was Salter “who planted the seed” about joining the Buffalo police.

“He was one of the smartest guys I’ve ever known,” said Goldsmith, godfather to Salter’s daughter Tanya. He, Pitts and Perrin all said Salter was willing to help put brakes in their cars, or countertops in their homes, or even – in Goldsmith’s case – to assist with an actual kitchen sink.

Perrin described Salter "as mechanic strong," hands toughened up by years of tinkering with a well-loved recreational vehicle. That RV became the centerpiece for many gatherings at Buffalo Bills games or Darien Lake, which had particular meaning at a time when none of the young officers had much money.

“We weren’t going to Disney World,” said Pitts, remembering a day when Salter offered an invitation: How about if Pitts and his family joined the Salters on an RV road trip to Cedar Point?

They had left Buffalo and were on their way when Kim Salter put up some balloons and pulled out a cake: She and her husband somehow remembered it was the 7th birthday of Pitts’ daughter Chantel, and decided to make a surprise party out of it.

Looking back on it now, Pitts understands: It was as precious a vacation as he will ever take.

Goldsmith, 53, lives in Louisville. He and Salter had been talking about the chance of Goldsmith moving back so they could work together in one more law enforcement venture. As for Pitts, who handled security at the Jefferson Avenue Tops when it opened years ago, he said the gentle assumption he could touch base with Salter at any time was shattered when Pitts' son, Bradford Jr., a Buffalo officer, called on that Saturday from the store parking lot.

Perrin was at a church conference when his phone “began going off,” grieving friends offering news that seemed impossible to bear, but he said prayer and love brought him to one conclusion:

They had to create a living remembrance. He loves the idea of seeking out a bright and selfless kid at Hutch-Tech who might otherwise not get much attention, maybe a kid who can fix anything and worries about elderly neighbors down the street, and then telling that kid on graduation day:

You know what? You remind us a lot of Aaron Salter, which in Buffalo, forever, is as good as it can get.