The True Story Behind the First Officer's Suicide Following Jan. 6
Howie Liebengood took his own life three days following the events of January 6. His family is certain about the underlying cause of his death.
TroibNews 
Three days had elapsed since the riot, and Capitol Police Officer Howie Liebengood’s brother and sister had yet to communicate with him. Although they knew he was physically unharmed, they were concerned about the psychological effects of the attack and its aftermath. Eager to hear from him, they waited.
On the evening of January 9, Howie found an opportunity to call his younger brother, John Liebengood, during his commute home from Capitol Hill. John connected their younger sister, Anne Winters, and the three spoke about Howie’s well-being. It had been an exhausting few days for him, he shared. He had worked shifts exceeding 14 hours and managed only a few hours of sleep each night, leading his siblings to perceive him as despondent.
“I’m done,” Howie said. “I’m quitting.”
After 15 years on the force, Howie, age 51, had resolved to retire. His plan was to work through the upcoming inauguration of President-elect Joe Biden, not wanting to inconvenience his fellow officers, who were equally exhausted after the Capitol crisis. “I can’t do that to them,” Howie said.
For John and Anne, this decision brought extraordinary relief. They had long believed that Howie’s tenure with the Capitol Police was negatively affecting his health, urging him repeatedly to leave. Now, he was ready to move on, delivering some of the best news he had shared in 15 years.
Once the call ended, Anne turned to her teenage sons to convey her relief. “He’s going to quit,” she said. “He’s OK.”
When Howie returned to his northern Virginia home, his wife, Dr. Serena Liebengood, was waiting. After dinner, which he barely touched, he informed her about his plans to leave the department. He expressed a desire to relocate to Indiana, where his family still owned farmland. Serena was skeptical that he was serious about moving, and given his extreme fatigue and early work schedule the next day, she chose not to press the issue. Instead, she suggested he get some rest.
Before Howie headed upstairs, Serena checked on him, inquiring how he was feeling and if he had thoughts of self-harm. She made it a habit to reach out to him if she sensed he was troubled, understanding that the past few days had been especially stressful. For a moment, Howie hesitated. He admitted that earlier he had briefly contemplated harming himself. But he assured her he was fine now.
As Howie went to bed, Serena remained awake. Around 10:45 p.m., she heard a loud noise from upstairs and initially thought he had fallen out of bed. When she went to check, she discovered Howie’s lifeless body; he had taken his own life using his service weapon.
Howie Liebengood became the second Capitol Police officer to die following the January 6 attack, first among four officers who responded to the riot and subsequently took their own lives in the ensuing days, weeks, and months.
Public response to his death was, in many ways, both fitting and respectful. Senate staffers erected a memorial by the door to the Russell Senate Office Building, complete with photos, flowers, and an American flag. Later, in 2022, House Speaker Nancy Pelosi honored him with a Congressional Gold Medal, while in 2023, President Biden awarded him the Presidential Citizens Medal.
However, the chaos surrounding the riot and the subsequent partisan disputes have overshadowed both Howie Liebengood’s life and the circumstances leading to his death. The specifics of his passing—he had been on duty during the insurrection but was not one of the officers physically assaulted by the mob—were lost amid political conflict. Some on the left condemned the attack, merging the casualties—Trump supporters and police—into a single figure. Conversely, voices on the right sought to minimize the violence and its ramifications, even insinuating that Howie and other officers who died by suicide were part of a far-left plot.
As the fourth anniversary of January 6 approaches, and with the figure behind the insurrection plotting to pardon many of the rioters, Howie’s closest family members are sharing a comprehensive account of his life and the fight they faced to ensure his death was recognized as a tragic outcome of his profession. It tells the story of a man who dedicated himself to safeguarding an institution he cherished since childhood, only to witness its politics become increasingly toxic, the policing environment more perilous, and the daily demands of his role grow heavier. For Serena, Howie’s struggles stemmed from the inherent challenges faced by law enforcement officers. His siblings concurred, believing his tragedy had an added dimension: “A very large part of it is the personal story and the grief that he carried,” John Liebengood stated, “and the family legacy that he felt tied to.”
In the throes of their own grief, Howie’s family—Serena, John, and Anne—committed themselves to honor Howie’s legacy while working to prevent other families from experiencing similar tragedies. In the ensuing months, they uncovered a mental health crisis within the law enforcement community, exacerbated by outdated policies and biases that rendered officer suicides as less deserving of acknowledgment. They collaborated with lawmakers Howie had befriended while on duty—including Senators Chris Coons and Tim Kaine—while resolutely sidestepping the political strife surrounding January 6. Serena stated, “Howie didn’t care about a person’s political ideology, and neither do I.”
Through their efforts, they successfully advocated for a new wellness center within the Capitol Police, participated in legislative initiatives, and witnessed Howie become the first law enforcement officer who died by suicide to be recognized by the Department of Justice as a line-of-duty death under the new law.
Howie’s connection to the U.S. Senate began nearly fifty years earlier, with his father, Howard S. Liebengood, serving as assistant minority counsel for the Senate Watergate Committee in 1973. A conservative Republican, Howard quickly became a trusted aide to Howard Baker, the Tennessee Republican who served as the Senate panel's vice chair in its investigation of the scandal.
For Howie and his younger siblings, the Senate office complex transformed into a place of childhood wonder. The absence of weekday crowds allowed them to explore the grand staircases and traverse the expansive hallways. “You’re just sort of in awe of it,” John recalled. Empty statue alcoves became a playground for the kids, who would enact their best Founding Fathers poses.
To the Liebengood children, the Senate represented a warm, caring institution, more akin to a community center than a bureaucratic machine. Secretaries taught them to type, while aides regaled them with ghost stories. They enjoyed Fourth of July fireworks displays from Baker’s office. “I recognized it as a place of significance and something special without really knowing how or why,” John reflected. For young Howie, however, the most influential figure was his own father.
In 1981, after serving as a military police officer during the Vietnam War, Howard became the Senate’s sergeant-at-arms. This role placed him in charge of the Capitol Police—a department of approximately 500 officers—and required him to perform ceremonial duties at major Washington events, including the first inauguration of President Ronald Reagan. “I’m the only one who can arrest the president,” he humorously told his children.
From the age of four, when his father first took him to the Indy 500, Howie envisioned becoming a professional race car driver. Yet as he observed his father’s role in the Senate—offering guidance to staff, consulting with lawmakers, and posing for photographs with global leaders—Howie began to contemplate a future for himself on Capitol Hill. “If I’m not a race car driver,” he told his sister as a teenager, “I want to be a Capitol police officer.”
In 1987, Howie enrolled at Purdue University in Indiana, his father’s home state. Although he obtained a degree in history, he continued to pursue a career in racing, his father’s passion. Howie's professional racing pursuits deepened the bond between father and son. “They were best friends,” Anne noted. While traveling the country to compete, Howie lived with his parents in the Washington suburbs, working part-time jobs. By this time, Howard Liebengood had left the Senate for K Street, where he became a powerful lobbyist, yet he still devoted time to securing sponsorship funds for Howie's racing endeavors.
One day, Chuck Merin, a former lobbying partner, saw Howard bent over his desk, sketching on a notepad.
“Hey, what are you doing?” Merin inquired.
“I’m working on a design for Howie’s racing helmet,” Howard replied.
Howie celebrated success on multiple occasions, including winning the Motorola Cup Sport Touring class championship in 2000. These victories were equally exhilarating for both father and son. “They were living their dream,” John stated. However, by the early 2000s, diminishing sponsorship funds made Howie’s professional racing aspirations financially untenable. By 2004, he moved to Tennessee—the state where his father had begun his own career—to pursue a master's degree in sports management at the University of Memphis.
At that time, Howard had returned to Capitol Hill as chief of staff for Senate Majority Leader Bill Frist. However, life took a tragic turn when Howard’s wife, Deanna, began showing symptoms of early-onset dementia. Howard eventually retired from the Senate to care for her. In January 2005, when Howie attempted to call home from Memphis but couldn’t reach his father, he asked John to check on their parents. Tragically, a neighbor discovered Howard had died from a heart attack.
Howard’s passing at age 62 shocked the Beltway community. Major publications covered the loss, and numerous lawmakers, including then-Senator Joe Biden, attended the funeral. Howie’s siblings believe this profound loss was especially hard on him, as he sought to care for his ailing mother and reassess his own future. “My dad was his anchor, and he was no longer here,” John recalled. “Howie was very much struggling with the direction of his life.”
Not long after, Howie began to consider applying to the Capitol Police, aspiring to join the ranks of the officers he had admired as a child and to work for the department his father once led. “He was looking for some relief from this grief,” John said, “and thought that doing something in sort of the footsteps of our dad would help.”
“What if you don’t like it?” Chuck Merin asked him.
“Then I’ll make a change,” Howie replied. “But right now, this is where I need to be.”
In 2005, Howie attended the training academy in Cheltenham, Maryland, accompanied by John. Following an overview of their new careers, Howie turned to John and expressed, “Well, I hope Dad would be proud of me.”
Howie served much of his 15 years in the Capitol Police at an entrance to the west side of the Russell Senate Office Building, typically reserved for lawmakers and staff. To those who passed through daily, this entry was simply known as “Howie’s door.”
This assignment felt like a homecoming for Howie, who had known several aides in the building since childhood. “Everybody who knew Howie knew how important this place was to him,” observed Virginia Senator Tim Kaine. Howie possessed an intuitive understanding of Senate internal politics and routinely inquired about which lawmakers were collaborating and which proposals were likely to pass.
“He liked to know whether we were voting on a motion to proceed or whether we were voting on an amendment—and, like, he knew the difference,” said Sherman Patrick, a former top aide to Senator Patrick Leahy. “That’s fairly unusual, even for some Senate staff, unfortunately.”
When it came to security, Howie adhered strictly to regulations. Regardless of one's status as a summer intern or senior aide, everyone had to remove their belts and march through the metal detector. However, to those who interacted with him daily, he was more than a mere security guard. He greeted individuals warmly on their way into the building and would remind them not to forget their coats as they left. Liz Johnson recounted returning to the Russell Building after her then-boss, Senator Kelly Ayotte, narrowly lost reelection. As she approached Howie’s door, his expression of sympathy was evident. He “knew what we had just gone through,” she reflected. “It was very comforting.”
Both Republicans and Democrats often visited Howie’s post to solicit his insights on sporting events or discuss weekend plans. He played fantasy football with staffers, attended office parties, and sometimes socialized with those who frequented his entrance. Many senators opted for a longer route to the Capitol simply to say hi to him. “It was a grounding point for what should be eternal about the institution,” Patrick noted, “that people who were different from each other were trying to do this self-governing thing together.”
In 2008, a few years after joining the Capitol Police, Howie met Serena through the dating site eHarmony. Their shared backgrounds as first responders—Howie as a police officer and Serena as a radiologist in training—helped forge a deep connection. “Everything was just so easy,” Serena recalled. The couple married in October 2011.
During the late 2010s, as the political landscape in Washington became increasingly divisive, Howie grew disheartened by the partisan conflicts that stymied Congressional progress. Ian Koski, who served as a senior advisor to Senator Coons from 2010 to 2015, remembered stopping by Howie’s door to lament incidents of dysfunction, like the government shutdown of 2013. “I guess I don’t technically know what his politics were, but we were both very frustrated by the manufactured nonsense that ratcheted up tensions,” Koski remarked. “He was putting his life on the line, doing his job for what was often obvious nonsense.”
Donald Trump’s election in 2016 intensified the protests Howie was required to handle. For example, the confirmation hearings for Justice Brett Kavanaugh drew outraged crowds to Capitol Hill. Howie reported to his siblings that some demonstrators glued their hands to doorknobs, making him confront the same protesters repeatedly. Some were even paid to create disturbances, which frustrated him. “Dad would be so upset to see how things are right now,” he lamented to his sister.
At the same time, department developments heightened Howie’s frustrations. Due to a shortage of officers, he was often compelled to take on last-minute overtime shifts. As a result, he found it increasingly challenging to secure holidays off, according to Serena. The additional workload meant Howie had no respite, and both John and Anne noted that he began expressing resentment towards Capitol Police leadership, feeling they promoted the wrong officers and unfairly punished those in the rank and file.
The looming fear of making a mistake on the job, with accompanying repercussions, weighed heavily on Howie. “And if something didn’t go well or meet his expectation, or he would worry that he messed up something,” Serena explained, “he would bring that home with him, and it would upset him.”
Occasionally, this stress would spiral into anxiety or despair. “I’m struggling,” Howie confided to his siblings. In late 2018, Serena contacted John and Anne, informing them that Howie was upset after a minor incident at work. While the specifics of the incident were unclear, the siblings recall Howie expressing distress about the mistake, leading them to call a suicide prevention hotline. They met up with him after his shift and drove him back to his home with Serena. Seated at the kitchen table, Howie reassured his family he was alright. They noted he didn't deny contemplating self-harm but insisted he would never act on those thoughts.
“I wouldn't do that to Serena,” he assured them.
Howie agreed to keep his service weapon outside the house, following the hotline’s recommendation.
Over the years, Howie had contemplated leaving the police. In the early phases of his career, he utilized much of his vacation time to visit Memphis for his master’s program in sports management, maintaining a continued interest in education. Alongside a former lobbying partner of his father, Martin Gold, Howie co-authored a chapter on Congress’s influence on sports for a 2010 book titled Introduction to Sport Management: Theory and Practice. Around this time, he could have pursued a Ph.D. in sports management at either the University of South Carolina or the University of Northern Colorado but opted against both due to not wanting to be away from Serena.
Recognizing the toll work stress was taking on their brother, John and Anne advocated for him to leave the police force. Yet for officers grappling with workplace stress or mental health concerns, leaving their job is often a complex decision. Police identities are tightly intertwined with their profession; thus, suggesting they quit can lead to feelings of diminished options, intensifying their stress. For Howie, as noted by John and Anne, the idea of leaving Capitol Hill was compounded by an allegiance to his father's legacy. “I also feel like he felt like he would be disappointing our dad if he wasn’t working up there,” John stated.
A family friend remembered a lunch with Howie, during which he expressed his work woes.
“You can always quit, remember,” the friend suggested.
“My parents taught me never to quit,” Howie elaborated.
Despite having family support, Howie struggled to access necessary care. An unwelcoming culture within the Capitol Police deterred help-seeking behavior. According to former officers, mental health difficulties were viewed as a weakness, and openness about these struggles was rare. Barber, a spokesperson for the Capitol Police, stated that confidential assistance was offered through a partnership with the House of Representatives’ employee assistance program. However, John and Anne noted that Howie feared that seeking help through the Capitol Police could lead to professional consequences, feeling uncertain about the confidentiality of the process.
Instead, Howie sought care externally, but again, barriers arose. The mental health professionals he consulted were often unfamiliar with the distinctive pressures faced by law enforcement. One therapist gave Howie the same advice he’d previously heard: to quit his job. Subsequent visits to his primary care physician after the 2018 incident did little to alleviate his workplace stress.
The challenges of Howie’s career intensified during the COVID-19 pandemic in early 2020. Both he and Serena, as frontline workers, had to report for duty daily. Serena recalled the anxiety of navigating the Capitol where people wore masks while others didn’t. “That was an extremely stressful component of Howie’s last year,” she said. Amid the pandemic’s isolation and fear, both grappled with increased anxiety.
Then, the May 2020 death of George Floyd sparked nationwide protests against police violence. During one protest in Washington, Howie confronted a demonstrator who had parked in a restricted area, asking her to move her vehicle. She accused him of discrimination due to her race. This experience devastated Howie. “Because he was anything but a person who will harbor racism,” Serena stated. “He was heartbroken by that.”
As negative sentiments towards policing escalated, Howie began concealing his badge and uniform while commuting home from work. “He did not want people to know that he was a police officer,” Serena remarked.
Nonetheless, Howie's service in the Senate remained profoundly important to him. In late 2020, he received a decorative gold pin in recognition of his 15 years on duty. “He felt so proud,” Serena recounted.
Around that time, Howie shared plans for his life post-police. After reaching 20 years, he could retire with a federal pension, allowing him to pursue a new career while still being relatively young—around 56—with financial stability.
When Serena suggested he could leave before things became overwhelming, Howie was resolute in his commitment to reaching 20 years.
“Five more years,” he would assert. “Five more years.”
On January 6, 2021, Howie prepared to drive to Capitol Hill for his shift. He placed his coffee mug on the vehicle’s roof and turned to look at Serena, who was standing at their front door. “Don’t run towards danger,” she teased. “I want you to come back home to your wife.”
Howie laughed. He knew that Trump had called his supporters to Washington to protest what he falsely claimed was a stolen election. However, protests were a common occurrence in the capital. John asserted that while Howie believed the former president’s constant attempts to overturn the election results would make this rally particularly charged, there was nothing to indicate it would escalate into chaos. The night before, Howie had sent a text to his siblings: “Tomorrow is going to be a show!”
Arriving on Capitol Hill, Howie encountered a situation he had never anticipated: a violent mob of Trump supporters overtaking police barricades and invading the Capitol; extremists attacking law enforcement with flagpoles, bats, and even a hockey stick; lawmakers fleeing for their lives down hallways barely ahead of the chanting rioters. “It is a shit show,” he texted his siblings. “We found two pipe bombs and have been pepper spraying protesters.”
Though not in the thick of the riot, as a member of the department’s civil disobedience unit’s “soft squad”—which utilized helmets and batons rather than full riot gear—Howie was assigned to patrol outside the Senate office buildings. Nevertheless, the lawlessness felt like a personal attack on him, his siblings asserted. As children, Howie and his family would watch Fourth of July fireworks from the majority leader’s Capitol office; now, rioters desecrated the rotunda and left debris in the hallways. “He was traumatized,” John remarked.
At around 4:30 a.m. on January 7, Howie finally returned home from his shift.
“Are you OK?” Serena asked, having anxiously awaited his return.
Howie explained that although he felt exhausted, he was fine. When Serena asked about the day’s events, he recounted a distressing encounter with a protester. Approaching a man whom he believed to be lost, Howie offered assistance, but as he got closer, the man raised his hand in a Nazi salute and made an aggressive remark to him in German.
“I’m tired,” Howie told Serena. He bid her goodnight and went to bed without showering. Two hours later, he was up again to begin his 9:30 a.m. shift.
After the attack, Howie and his colleagues had little time to process their experiences. The department's historic failure to protect the Capitol, combined with ongoing safety concerns for Congress, compelled police leadership to mobilize all available resources. Officers were required to work extended hours with limited breaks. Howie’s family reported that the compounded workload, chronic sleep deprivation, and the trauma of the attack itself pushed him into a severe state of exhaustion.
On January 7, around 8:30 p.m., Howie was involved in a car accident while driving a police cruiser after working approximately 11 hours. He unintentionally rear-ended another vehicle, rendering himself unconscious for about 20 seconds—though he was never diagnosed with a concussion—and injuring his partner in the process. Howie had to stay late to write up an accident report. For someone who had always been critical of himself over workplace errors, this misfortune weighed heavily on him. “It’s been an absolutely terrible week,” he texted his siblings. “Riots, death, and I wrecked a cruiser last night and got a coworker injured. It is my fault.”
John and Anne urged him not to blame himself. Anne offered to chauffeur him home so he could lie down in the back seat. “How are you mentally?” she asked in a text.
“I am just tired and disgusted,” Howie replied, “and my face hurts from the airbag.”
The next day, he notified his siblings that he had been assigned to work 12-hour shifts daily for the rest of the month. For a man already drained and trying to make sense of recent trauma, this was yet another distressing turn. “There’s no end in sight,” he told Serena.
Then, on January 9, Howie told his family he was finished.
As they grappled with Howie’s shocking death, the Liebengood family found themselves at the center of a political firestorm. News of his passing spread quickly across cable networks and newspapers, with reporters arriving at Serena’s doorstep. During this time, someone on Capitol Hill—though his family cannot recall who—proposed that Howie lie in honor in the Capitol rotunda, an honor usually reserved for individuals of notable distinction and granted to the two Capitol officers killed in 1998. To Howie's devastated widow and siblings, this seemed a fitting tribute for someone who had selflessly served Congress. Thus, John was puzzled when, weeks later, that suggestion was withdrawn without clear explanation, especially since Brian Sicknick, the Capitol Police officer who suffered two strokes after defending the Capitol from the mob, received that honor on February 2, 2021.
“It sort of did raise a flag,” John said. “Like, wait a second, this is being treated differently because it’s a suicide.”
As the Liebengood family became aware, Howie’s death was not an isolated incident; it was a tragic addition to the ongoing mental health crisis within law enforcement. Research by Dr. John Violanti, a former New York State trooper and current research professor at the University at Buffalo’s School of Public Health, indicates that law enforcement officers are 54% more likely to die by suicide than the average American worker. Factors contributing to this heightened risk include easy access to firearms, negative public attitudes toward policing, and the emotional burdens officers face on the job—such as dealing with death or interviewing abuse victims.
For officers involved in the Capitol riot, additional risk factors also contributed to their struggles. Metropolitan Police Officer Jeffrey Smith, who died by suicide on January 15, 2021, suffered a traumatic brain injury during the riot, which further heightened suicide risk according to Dr. Violanti. Howie, a former race car driver, was so sleep-deprived after the attack that he crashed a police cruiser. “Lack of sleep also has a physiological effect,” Dr. Violanti emphasized. “Put that together with trauma, and it makes decision-making even more irrational.”
Despite the evident mental health risks associated with the profession, many law enforcement departments still regard officer suicides as a sign of weakness. A 1968 law stipulated that officers who die by suicide were not classified as line-of-duty deaths, rendering their survivors ineligible for death benefits.
In contrast, Howie’s family viewed his situation as a direct consequence of the stress endured on the job on January 6 and its aftermath. “I felt that Howie would have been here if it wasn’t for his job,” Serena stated. They couldn’t fathom why his passing should be treated differently simply due to its nature.
The Liebengood family reached out to lawmakers who had known Howie during his service in the Russell building. Staff from Tim Kaine’s office contacted the U.S. Department of Justice but soon learned that the department was unlikely to grant the family’s request for a line-of-duty designation due to the 1968 law.
Simultaneously, Congresswoman Jennifer Wexton, Howie’s representative, spoke by phone with Acting Capitol Police Chief Yogananda Pittman and other law enforcement officials, advocating for Howie’s death to be classified as in the line of duty—a classification the department did not consider for law enforcement suicides at the time. According to Wexton, some law enforcement officials on the call expressed concern that officers might die by suicide to obtain this designation and recognition. Barber, the Capitol Police spokesperson, stated he could not confirm Wexton’s recollection of the call, saying, “[D]oesn’t mean it didn’t happen, just don’t know who was on [the call] or what was said.”
As this unfolded, Serena, John, and Anne banded together with Chuck Merin, a former lobbying partner of Howard Liebengood, to explore solutions to the surge in law enforcement suicides. Following their advocacy, Wexton, in May 2021, secured over $4 million to fund new mental health professionals within the Capitol Police. She also announced the creation of the Howard C. Liebengood Center for Wellness inside the department.
However, the family’s other goal remained elusive. In May 2021, Serena attended a memorial service for Capitol Police officers who had died in the line of duty over the years. Howie’s passing was acknowledged during the ceremony, but he was not formally honored. Serena received warm greetings from officers present, but rather than sitting among the other widows, she was seated elsewhere.
Within two months of the attack, Merin had reached out to Jim Pasco, the executive director of the National Fraternal Order of Police and a longtime friend of Howard Liebengood. Merin expressed the family’s frustration over the Capitol Police’s reluctance to classify Howie’s death as in the line of duty.
“We really need your help,” Merin implored.
“As a matter of fact,” Pasco replied, “we need yours, too.”
Pasco, who had lost his own brother to suicide, was simultaneously working to build support for legislation that would allow officers who died by suicide to be recognized as line-of-duty deaths. The resulting bill, known as the Public Safety Officer Support Act of 2022, enables families of officers to apply for line-of-duty death benefits if their loved ones experienced traumatic events on the job since 2019.
Previous attempts at similar legislation had faltered, largely due to stigmatization around discussing mental health and suicide. “And candidly, when January 6 came along,” Pasco noted, “we saw it as a vehicle to put faces on the issue.”
After connecting with Pasco, the Liebengood family joined the campaign to advance the bill. Serena went to Capitol Hill and shared Howie’s story with lawmakers, while legislators familiar with Howie worked to rally support for the initiative. Senator Tammy Duckworth authored the bill in the Senate, with Senators Kaine and Coons co-sponsoring it. “I viewed myself as trying to get the policy right while being a personal advocate for this family,” said Kaine, noting, “I had Howie and his family principally in mind in pressing this forward,” echoed Coons.
The Liebengoods were not alone in pushing for the legislation. Erin Smith, widow of Metropolitan Police Officer Jeffrey Smith, who died by suicide after responding to the Capitol riot, became a key advocate, collaborating closely with Duckworth. Nonprofit organizations focused on first responders' mental health, including First H.E.L.P., also took leading roles in the campaign. Kaine emphasized that Howie’s case offered an emotional context: “It was connected to a person that we knew and loved,” he said, “and that enabled it to be embraced in such a bipartisan way by this Senate.”
In May 2022, as the legislation prepared to pass both houses of Congress, Jim Pasco attended the National Peace Officers’ Memorial Service in the Capitol. Before the event, he encountered President Biden, a long-time supporter of the National FOP. Pasco thanked the president for his assistance.
“Jimmy,” Biden replied, “We’re doing this for Howard as much as anybody, right?”
In November 2022, just three months after the law was passed, the Department of Justice recognized Howie Liebengood’s death as in the line of duty, marking him as the first law enforcement officer who died by suicide to receive such acknowledgment under the new legislation. For the Liebengood family, this recognition served as a bittersweet triumph during their time of loss. “This is about Howie,” Serena remarked, “but it’s also about all of these other families and law enforcement officers who died by suicide.”
The Liebengoods realize that success is still far off. Officers continue to contend with mental health challenges, and despite the passage of the legislation, many families await the death benefits they’ve requested, according to Karen Solomon, co-founder of First H.E.L.P. Nevertheless, Serena, John, and Anne remain committed to the cause. Last January, Serena established the Howard C. Liebengood Foundation, aimed at enhancing the health and wellness of law enforcement through interdisciplinary research and education. John and Anne continue to meet with staff at the Liebengood wellness center, sharing Howie’s story to advocate for mental health. John encourages officers to utilize the wellness center’s resources: “I would encourage people to use the wellness center,” he said. The family remains dedicated to having Howie acknowledged at the National Law Enforcement Officers Memorial in Washington, which has yet to recognize an officer who died by suicide.
In response, Barber, the Capitol Police spokesperson, stated that the department has “dramatically increased its focus on employee well-being” since January 6, 2021. The Liebengood wellness center was created “to deliver programming for every domain of human well-being and to provide resources and support for USCP sworn and civilian employees and their families,” he explained. “Services originally targeted mental health, mind-body medicine, nutrition, and physical fitness, but the program has since expanded to offer peer support and spiritual care through Chaplaincy programming. Wellness support dogs are now included to assist with stress mitigation. Through the combined efforts of each program element, the Liebengood wellness center strives to offer proactive support to USCP employees and their families, while also being available in times of crisis or loss.”
Barber added that workshops addressing suicide awareness and prevention are offered to all new recruits and supervisors, with additional opportunities available to the general workforce monthly. New recruits also participate in a comprehensive three-day wellness curriculum, ensuring every new employee is fully informed about available support and resources from day one.
Each anniversary of January 6 poses challenges for Howie’s family. This year, with President-elect Trump’s plans to pardon many involved in the Capitol attack, those challenges will intensify for John and Anne. Still, they have resolutely opted not to engage in the persistent political disputes stemming from that day, believing that focusing on their advocacy could alienate valuable allies in their mission to prevent officer suicides.
“[Other] families are going through very similar things that we’re going through. We know there is another layer to ours because it is tied to this national historic event,” John observed. “But I’m choosing to not spend my energy on that as much as I am on trying to make change happen.”
For Serena, the upcoming anniversary is especially poignant for reasons beyond political turmoil. “This upcoming Jan. 6 will be especially challenging for me,” she shared, “knowing that officers will once again stand ready to protect and serve even as they continue to endure the trauma they sustained four years ago.”
If you or someone you know is struggling with suicidal thoughts, help is available 24/7 through the National Suicide Prevention Lifeline at 1-800-273-8255 or by texting TALK to 741741.
James del Carmen for TROIB News
On the evening of January 9, Howie found an opportunity to call his younger brother, John Liebengood, during his commute home from Capitol Hill. John connected their younger sister, Anne Winters, and the three spoke about Howie’s well-being. It had been an exhausting few days for him, he shared. He had worked shifts exceeding 14 hours and managed only a few hours of sleep each night, leading his siblings to perceive him as despondent.
“I’m done,” Howie said. “I’m quitting.”
After 15 years on the force, Howie, age 51, had resolved to retire. His plan was to work through the upcoming inauguration of President-elect Joe Biden, not wanting to inconvenience his fellow officers, who were equally exhausted after the Capitol crisis. “I can’t do that to them,” Howie said.
For John and Anne, this decision brought extraordinary relief. They had long believed that Howie’s tenure with the Capitol Police was negatively affecting his health, urging him repeatedly to leave. Now, he was ready to move on, delivering some of the best news he had shared in 15 years.
Once the call ended, Anne turned to her teenage sons to convey her relief. “He’s going to quit,” she said. “He’s OK.”
When Howie returned to his northern Virginia home, his wife, Dr. Serena Liebengood, was waiting. After dinner, which he barely touched, he informed her about his plans to leave the department. He expressed a desire to relocate to Indiana, where his family still owned farmland. Serena was skeptical that he was serious about moving, and given his extreme fatigue and early work schedule the next day, she chose not to press the issue. Instead, she suggested he get some rest.
Before Howie headed upstairs, Serena checked on him, inquiring how he was feeling and if he had thoughts of self-harm. She made it a habit to reach out to him if she sensed he was troubled, understanding that the past few days had been especially stressful. For a moment, Howie hesitated. He admitted that earlier he had briefly contemplated harming himself. But he assured her he was fine now.
As Howie went to bed, Serena remained awake. Around 10:45 p.m., she heard a loud noise from upstairs and initially thought he had fallen out of bed. When she went to check, she discovered Howie’s lifeless body; he had taken his own life using his service weapon.
Howie Liebengood became the second Capitol Police officer to die following the January 6 attack, first among four officers who responded to the riot and subsequently took their own lives in the ensuing days, weeks, and months.
Public response to his death was, in many ways, both fitting and respectful. Senate staffers erected a memorial by the door to the Russell Senate Office Building, complete with photos, flowers, and an American flag. Later, in 2022, House Speaker Nancy Pelosi honored him with a Congressional Gold Medal, while in 2023, President Biden awarded him the Presidential Citizens Medal.
However, the chaos surrounding the riot and the subsequent partisan disputes have overshadowed both Howie Liebengood’s life and the circumstances leading to his death. The specifics of his passing—he had been on duty during the insurrection but was not one of the officers physically assaulted by the mob—were lost amid political conflict. Some on the left condemned the attack, merging the casualties—Trump supporters and police—into a single figure. Conversely, voices on the right sought to minimize the violence and its ramifications, even insinuating that Howie and other officers who died by suicide were part of a far-left plot.
As the fourth anniversary of January 6 approaches, and with the figure behind the insurrection plotting to pardon many of the rioters, Howie’s closest family members are sharing a comprehensive account of his life and the fight they faced to ensure his death was recognized as a tragic outcome of his profession. It tells the story of a man who dedicated himself to safeguarding an institution he cherished since childhood, only to witness its politics become increasingly toxic, the policing environment more perilous, and the daily demands of his role grow heavier. For Serena, Howie’s struggles stemmed from the inherent challenges faced by law enforcement officers. His siblings concurred, believing his tragedy had an added dimension: “A very large part of it is the personal story and the grief that he carried,” John Liebengood stated, “and the family legacy that he felt tied to.”
In the throes of their own grief, Howie’s family—Serena, John, and Anne—committed themselves to honor Howie’s legacy while working to prevent other families from experiencing similar tragedies. In the ensuing months, they uncovered a mental health crisis within the law enforcement community, exacerbated by outdated policies and biases that rendered officer suicides as less deserving of acknowledgment. They collaborated with lawmakers Howie had befriended while on duty—including Senators Chris Coons and Tim Kaine—while resolutely sidestepping the political strife surrounding January 6. Serena stated, “Howie didn’t care about a person’s political ideology, and neither do I.”
Through their efforts, they successfully advocated for a new wellness center within the Capitol Police, participated in legislative initiatives, and witnessed Howie become the first law enforcement officer who died by suicide to be recognized by the Department of Justice as a line-of-duty death under the new law.
Howie’s connection to the U.S. Senate began nearly fifty years earlier, with his father, Howard S. Liebengood, serving as assistant minority counsel for the Senate Watergate Committee in 1973. A conservative Republican, Howard quickly became a trusted aide to Howard Baker, the Tennessee Republican who served as the Senate panel's vice chair in its investigation of the scandal.
For Howie and his younger siblings, the Senate office complex transformed into a place of childhood wonder. The absence of weekday crowds allowed them to explore the grand staircases and traverse the expansive hallways. “You’re just sort of in awe of it,” John recalled. Empty statue alcoves became a playground for the kids, who would enact their best Founding Fathers poses.
To the Liebengood children, the Senate represented a warm, caring institution, more akin to a community center than a bureaucratic machine. Secretaries taught them to type, while aides regaled them with ghost stories. They enjoyed Fourth of July fireworks displays from Baker’s office. “I recognized it as a place of significance and something special without really knowing how or why,” John reflected. For young Howie, however, the most influential figure was his own father.
In 1981, after serving as a military police officer during the Vietnam War, Howard became the Senate’s sergeant-at-arms. This role placed him in charge of the Capitol Police—a department of approximately 500 officers—and required him to perform ceremonial duties at major Washington events, including the first inauguration of President Ronald Reagan. “I’m the only one who can arrest the president,” he humorously told his children.
From the age of four, when his father first took him to the Indy 500, Howie envisioned becoming a professional race car driver. Yet as he observed his father’s role in the Senate—offering guidance to staff, consulting with lawmakers, and posing for photographs with global leaders—Howie began to contemplate a future for himself on Capitol Hill. “If I’m not a race car driver,” he told his sister as a teenager, “I want to be a Capitol police officer.”
In 1987, Howie enrolled at Purdue University in Indiana, his father’s home state. Although he obtained a degree in history, he continued to pursue a career in racing, his father’s passion. Howie's professional racing pursuits deepened the bond between father and son. “They were best friends,” Anne noted. While traveling the country to compete, Howie lived with his parents in the Washington suburbs, working part-time jobs. By this time, Howard Liebengood had left the Senate for K Street, where he became a powerful lobbyist, yet he still devoted time to securing sponsorship funds for Howie's racing endeavors.
One day, Chuck Merin, a former lobbying partner, saw Howard bent over his desk, sketching on a notepad.
“Hey, what are you doing?” Merin inquired.
“I’m working on a design for Howie’s racing helmet,” Howard replied.
Howie celebrated success on multiple occasions, including winning the Motorola Cup Sport Touring class championship in 2000. These victories were equally exhilarating for both father and son. “They were living their dream,” John stated. However, by the early 2000s, diminishing sponsorship funds made Howie’s professional racing aspirations financially untenable. By 2004, he moved to Tennessee—the state where his father had begun his own career—to pursue a master's degree in sports management at the University of Memphis.
At that time, Howard had returned to Capitol Hill as chief of staff for Senate Majority Leader Bill Frist. However, life took a tragic turn when Howard’s wife, Deanna, began showing symptoms of early-onset dementia. Howard eventually retired from the Senate to care for her. In January 2005, when Howie attempted to call home from Memphis but couldn’t reach his father, he asked John to check on their parents. Tragically, a neighbor discovered Howard had died from a heart attack.
Howard’s passing at age 62 shocked the Beltway community. Major publications covered the loss, and numerous lawmakers, including then-Senator Joe Biden, attended the funeral. Howie’s siblings believe this profound loss was especially hard on him, as he sought to care for his ailing mother and reassess his own future. “My dad was his anchor, and he was no longer here,” John recalled. “Howie was very much struggling with the direction of his life.”
Not long after, Howie began to consider applying to the Capitol Police, aspiring to join the ranks of the officers he had admired as a child and to work for the department his father once led. “He was looking for some relief from this grief,” John said, “and thought that doing something in sort of the footsteps of our dad would help.”
“What if you don’t like it?” Chuck Merin asked him.
“Then I’ll make a change,” Howie replied. “But right now, this is where I need to be.”
In 2005, Howie attended the training academy in Cheltenham, Maryland, accompanied by John. Following an overview of their new careers, Howie turned to John and expressed, “Well, I hope Dad would be proud of me.”
Howie served much of his 15 years in the Capitol Police at an entrance to the west side of the Russell Senate Office Building, typically reserved for lawmakers and staff. To those who passed through daily, this entry was simply known as “Howie’s door.”
This assignment felt like a homecoming for Howie, who had known several aides in the building since childhood. “Everybody who knew Howie knew how important this place was to him,” observed Virginia Senator Tim Kaine. Howie possessed an intuitive understanding of Senate internal politics and routinely inquired about which lawmakers were collaborating and which proposals were likely to pass.
“He liked to know whether we were voting on a motion to proceed or whether we were voting on an amendment—and, like, he knew the difference,” said Sherman Patrick, a former top aide to Senator Patrick Leahy. “That’s fairly unusual, even for some Senate staff, unfortunately.”
When it came to security, Howie adhered strictly to regulations. Regardless of one's status as a summer intern or senior aide, everyone had to remove their belts and march through the metal detector. However, to those who interacted with him daily, he was more than a mere security guard. He greeted individuals warmly on their way into the building and would remind them not to forget their coats as they left. Liz Johnson recounted returning to the Russell Building after her then-boss, Senator Kelly Ayotte, narrowly lost reelection. As she approached Howie’s door, his expression of sympathy was evident. He “knew what we had just gone through,” she reflected. “It was very comforting.”
Both Republicans and Democrats often visited Howie’s post to solicit his insights on sporting events or discuss weekend plans. He played fantasy football with staffers, attended office parties, and sometimes socialized with those who frequented his entrance. Many senators opted for a longer route to the Capitol simply to say hi to him. “It was a grounding point for what should be eternal about the institution,” Patrick noted, “that people who were different from each other were trying to do this self-governing thing together.”
In 2008, a few years after joining the Capitol Police, Howie met Serena through the dating site eHarmony. Their shared backgrounds as first responders—Howie as a police officer and Serena as a radiologist in training—helped forge a deep connection. “Everything was just so easy,” Serena recalled. The couple married in October 2011.
During the late 2010s, as the political landscape in Washington became increasingly divisive, Howie grew disheartened by the partisan conflicts that stymied Congressional progress. Ian Koski, who served as a senior advisor to Senator Coons from 2010 to 2015, remembered stopping by Howie’s door to lament incidents of dysfunction, like the government shutdown of 2013. “I guess I don’t technically know what his politics were, but we were both very frustrated by the manufactured nonsense that ratcheted up tensions,” Koski remarked. “He was putting his life on the line, doing his job for what was often obvious nonsense.”
Donald Trump’s election in 2016 intensified the protests Howie was required to handle. For example, the confirmation hearings for Justice Brett Kavanaugh drew outraged crowds to Capitol Hill. Howie reported to his siblings that some demonstrators glued their hands to doorknobs, making him confront the same protesters repeatedly. Some were even paid to create disturbances, which frustrated him. “Dad would be so upset to see how things are right now,” he lamented to his sister.
At the same time, department developments heightened Howie’s frustrations. Due to a shortage of officers, he was often compelled to take on last-minute overtime shifts. As a result, he found it increasingly challenging to secure holidays off, according to Serena. The additional workload meant Howie had no respite, and both John and Anne noted that he began expressing resentment towards Capitol Police leadership, feeling they promoted the wrong officers and unfairly punished those in the rank and file.
The looming fear of making a mistake on the job, with accompanying repercussions, weighed heavily on Howie. “And if something didn’t go well or meet his expectation, or he would worry that he messed up something,” Serena explained, “he would bring that home with him, and it would upset him.”
Occasionally, this stress would spiral into anxiety or despair. “I’m struggling,” Howie confided to his siblings. In late 2018, Serena contacted John and Anne, informing them that Howie was upset after a minor incident at work. While the specifics of the incident were unclear, the siblings recall Howie expressing distress about the mistake, leading them to call a suicide prevention hotline. They met up with him after his shift and drove him back to his home with Serena. Seated at the kitchen table, Howie reassured his family he was alright. They noted he didn't deny contemplating self-harm but insisted he would never act on those thoughts.
“I wouldn't do that to Serena,” he assured them.
Howie agreed to keep his service weapon outside the house, following the hotline’s recommendation.
Over the years, Howie had contemplated leaving the police. In the early phases of his career, he utilized much of his vacation time to visit Memphis for his master’s program in sports management, maintaining a continued interest in education. Alongside a former lobbying partner of his father, Martin Gold, Howie co-authored a chapter on Congress’s influence on sports for a 2010 book titled Introduction to Sport Management: Theory and Practice. Around this time, he could have pursued a Ph.D. in sports management at either the University of South Carolina or the University of Northern Colorado but opted against both due to not wanting to be away from Serena.
Recognizing the toll work stress was taking on their brother, John and Anne advocated for him to leave the police force. Yet for officers grappling with workplace stress or mental health concerns, leaving their job is often a complex decision. Police identities are tightly intertwined with their profession; thus, suggesting they quit can lead to feelings of diminished options, intensifying their stress. For Howie, as noted by John and Anne, the idea of leaving Capitol Hill was compounded by an allegiance to his father's legacy. “I also feel like he felt like he would be disappointing our dad if he wasn’t working up there,” John stated.
A family friend remembered a lunch with Howie, during which he expressed his work woes.
“You can always quit, remember,” the friend suggested.
“My parents taught me never to quit,” Howie elaborated.
Despite having family support, Howie struggled to access necessary care. An unwelcoming culture within the Capitol Police deterred help-seeking behavior. According to former officers, mental health difficulties were viewed as a weakness, and openness about these struggles was rare. Barber, a spokesperson for the Capitol Police, stated that confidential assistance was offered through a partnership with the House of Representatives’ employee assistance program. However, John and Anne noted that Howie feared that seeking help through the Capitol Police could lead to professional consequences, feeling uncertain about the confidentiality of the process.
Instead, Howie sought care externally, but again, barriers arose. The mental health professionals he consulted were often unfamiliar with the distinctive pressures faced by law enforcement. One therapist gave Howie the same advice he’d previously heard: to quit his job. Subsequent visits to his primary care physician after the 2018 incident did little to alleviate his workplace stress.
The challenges of Howie’s career intensified during the COVID-19 pandemic in early 2020. Both he and Serena, as frontline workers, had to report for duty daily. Serena recalled the anxiety of navigating the Capitol where people wore masks while others didn’t. “That was an extremely stressful component of Howie’s last year,” she said. Amid the pandemic’s isolation and fear, both grappled with increased anxiety.
Then, the May 2020 death of George Floyd sparked nationwide protests against police violence. During one protest in Washington, Howie confronted a demonstrator who had parked in a restricted area, asking her to move her vehicle. She accused him of discrimination due to her race. This experience devastated Howie. “Because he was anything but a person who will harbor racism,” Serena stated. “He was heartbroken by that.”
As negative sentiments towards policing escalated, Howie began concealing his badge and uniform while commuting home from work. “He did not want people to know that he was a police officer,” Serena remarked.
Nonetheless, Howie's service in the Senate remained profoundly important to him. In late 2020, he received a decorative gold pin in recognition of his 15 years on duty. “He felt so proud,” Serena recounted.
Around that time, Howie shared plans for his life post-police. After reaching 20 years, he could retire with a federal pension, allowing him to pursue a new career while still being relatively young—around 56—with financial stability.
When Serena suggested he could leave before things became overwhelming, Howie was resolute in his commitment to reaching 20 years.
“Five more years,” he would assert. “Five more years.”
On January 6, 2021, Howie prepared to drive to Capitol Hill for his shift. He placed his coffee mug on the vehicle’s roof and turned to look at Serena, who was standing at their front door. “Don’t run towards danger,” she teased. “I want you to come back home to your wife.”
Howie laughed. He knew that Trump had called his supporters to Washington to protest what he falsely claimed was a stolen election. However, protests were a common occurrence in the capital. John asserted that while Howie believed the former president’s constant attempts to overturn the election results would make this rally particularly charged, there was nothing to indicate it would escalate into chaos. The night before, Howie had sent a text to his siblings: “Tomorrow is going to be a show!”
Arriving on Capitol Hill, Howie encountered a situation he had never anticipated: a violent mob of Trump supporters overtaking police barricades and invading the Capitol; extremists attacking law enforcement with flagpoles, bats, and even a hockey stick; lawmakers fleeing for their lives down hallways barely ahead of the chanting rioters. “It is a shit show,” he texted his siblings. “We found two pipe bombs and have been pepper spraying protesters.”
Though not in the thick of the riot, as a member of the department’s civil disobedience unit’s “soft squad”—which utilized helmets and batons rather than full riot gear—Howie was assigned to patrol outside the Senate office buildings. Nevertheless, the lawlessness felt like a personal attack on him, his siblings asserted. As children, Howie and his family would watch Fourth of July fireworks from the majority leader’s Capitol office; now, rioters desecrated the rotunda and left debris in the hallways. “He was traumatized,” John remarked.
At around 4:30 a.m. on January 7, Howie finally returned home from his shift.
“Are you OK?” Serena asked, having anxiously awaited his return.
Howie explained that although he felt exhausted, he was fine. When Serena asked about the day’s events, he recounted a distressing encounter with a protester. Approaching a man whom he believed to be lost, Howie offered assistance, but as he got closer, the man raised his hand in a Nazi salute and made an aggressive remark to him in German.
“I’m tired,” Howie told Serena. He bid her goodnight and went to bed without showering. Two hours later, he was up again to begin his 9:30 a.m. shift.
After the attack, Howie and his colleagues had little time to process their experiences. The department's historic failure to protect the Capitol, combined with ongoing safety concerns for Congress, compelled police leadership to mobilize all available resources. Officers were required to work extended hours with limited breaks. Howie’s family reported that the compounded workload, chronic sleep deprivation, and the trauma of the attack itself pushed him into a severe state of exhaustion.
On January 7, around 8:30 p.m., Howie was involved in a car accident while driving a police cruiser after working approximately 11 hours. He unintentionally rear-ended another vehicle, rendering himself unconscious for about 20 seconds—though he was never diagnosed with a concussion—and injuring his partner in the process. Howie had to stay late to write up an accident report. For someone who had always been critical of himself over workplace errors, this misfortune weighed heavily on him. “It’s been an absolutely terrible week,” he texted his siblings. “Riots, death, and I wrecked a cruiser last night and got a coworker injured. It is my fault.”
John and Anne urged him not to blame himself. Anne offered to chauffeur him home so he could lie down in the back seat. “How are you mentally?” she asked in a text.
“I am just tired and disgusted,” Howie replied, “and my face hurts from the airbag.”
The next day, he notified his siblings that he had been assigned to work 12-hour shifts daily for the rest of the month. For a man already drained and trying to make sense of recent trauma, this was yet another distressing turn. “There’s no end in sight,” he told Serena.
Then, on January 9, Howie told his family he was finished.
As they grappled with Howie’s shocking death, the Liebengood family found themselves at the center of a political firestorm. News of his passing spread quickly across cable networks and newspapers, with reporters arriving at Serena’s doorstep. During this time, someone on Capitol Hill—though his family cannot recall who—proposed that Howie lie in honor in the Capitol rotunda, an honor usually reserved for individuals of notable distinction and granted to the two Capitol officers killed in 1998. To Howie's devastated widow and siblings, this seemed a fitting tribute for someone who had selflessly served Congress. Thus, John was puzzled when, weeks later, that suggestion was withdrawn without clear explanation, especially since Brian Sicknick, the Capitol Police officer who suffered two strokes after defending the Capitol from the mob, received that honor on February 2, 2021.
“It sort of did raise a flag,” John said. “Like, wait a second, this is being treated differently because it’s a suicide.”
As the Liebengood family became aware, Howie’s death was not an isolated incident; it was a tragic addition to the ongoing mental health crisis within law enforcement. Research by Dr. John Violanti, a former New York State trooper and current research professor at the University at Buffalo’s School of Public Health, indicates that law enforcement officers are 54% more likely to die by suicide than the average American worker. Factors contributing to this heightened risk include easy access to firearms, negative public attitudes toward policing, and the emotional burdens officers face on the job—such as dealing with death or interviewing abuse victims.
For officers involved in the Capitol riot, additional risk factors also contributed to their struggles. Metropolitan Police Officer Jeffrey Smith, who died by suicide on January 15, 2021, suffered a traumatic brain injury during the riot, which further heightened suicide risk according to Dr. Violanti. Howie, a former race car driver, was so sleep-deprived after the attack that he crashed a police cruiser. “Lack of sleep also has a physiological effect,” Dr. Violanti emphasized. “Put that together with trauma, and it makes decision-making even more irrational.”
Despite the evident mental health risks associated with the profession, many law enforcement departments still regard officer suicides as a sign of weakness. A 1968 law stipulated that officers who die by suicide were not classified as line-of-duty deaths, rendering their survivors ineligible for death benefits.
In contrast, Howie’s family viewed his situation as a direct consequence of the stress endured on the job on January 6 and its aftermath. “I felt that Howie would have been here if it wasn’t for his job,” Serena stated. They couldn’t fathom why his passing should be treated differently simply due to its nature.
The Liebengood family reached out to lawmakers who had known Howie during his service in the Russell building. Staff from Tim Kaine’s office contacted the U.S. Department of Justice but soon learned that the department was unlikely to grant the family’s request for a line-of-duty designation due to the 1968 law.
Simultaneously, Congresswoman Jennifer Wexton, Howie’s representative, spoke by phone with Acting Capitol Police Chief Yogananda Pittman and other law enforcement officials, advocating for Howie’s death to be classified as in the line of duty—a classification the department did not consider for law enforcement suicides at the time. According to Wexton, some law enforcement officials on the call expressed concern that officers might die by suicide to obtain this designation and recognition. Barber, the Capitol Police spokesperson, stated he could not confirm Wexton’s recollection of the call, saying, “[D]oesn’t mean it didn’t happen, just don’t know who was on [the call] or what was said.”
As this unfolded, Serena, John, and Anne banded together with Chuck Merin, a former lobbying partner of Howard Liebengood, to explore solutions to the surge in law enforcement suicides. Following their advocacy, Wexton, in May 2021, secured over $4 million to fund new mental health professionals within the Capitol Police. She also announced the creation of the Howard C. Liebengood Center for Wellness inside the department.
However, the family’s other goal remained elusive. In May 2021, Serena attended a memorial service for Capitol Police officers who had died in the line of duty over the years. Howie’s passing was acknowledged during the ceremony, but he was not formally honored. Serena received warm greetings from officers present, but rather than sitting among the other widows, she was seated elsewhere.
Within two months of the attack, Merin had reached out to Jim Pasco, the executive director of the National Fraternal Order of Police and a longtime friend of Howard Liebengood. Merin expressed the family’s frustration over the Capitol Police’s reluctance to classify Howie’s death as in the line of duty.
“We really need your help,” Merin implored.
“As a matter of fact,” Pasco replied, “we need yours, too.”
Pasco, who had lost his own brother to suicide, was simultaneously working to build support for legislation that would allow officers who died by suicide to be recognized as line-of-duty deaths. The resulting bill, known as the Public Safety Officer Support Act of 2022, enables families of officers to apply for line-of-duty death benefits if their loved ones experienced traumatic events on the job since 2019.
Previous attempts at similar legislation had faltered, largely due to stigmatization around discussing mental health and suicide. “And candidly, when January 6 came along,” Pasco noted, “we saw it as a vehicle to put faces on the issue.”
After connecting with Pasco, the Liebengood family joined the campaign to advance the bill. Serena went to Capitol Hill and shared Howie’s story with lawmakers, while legislators familiar with Howie worked to rally support for the initiative. Senator Tammy Duckworth authored the bill in the Senate, with Senators Kaine and Coons co-sponsoring it. “I viewed myself as trying to get the policy right while being a personal advocate for this family,” said Kaine, noting, “I had Howie and his family principally in mind in pressing this forward,” echoed Coons.
The Liebengoods were not alone in pushing for the legislation. Erin Smith, widow of Metropolitan Police Officer Jeffrey Smith, who died by suicide after responding to the Capitol riot, became a key advocate, collaborating closely with Duckworth. Nonprofit organizations focused on first responders' mental health, including First H.E.L.P., also took leading roles in the campaign. Kaine emphasized that Howie’s case offered an emotional context: “It was connected to a person that we knew and loved,” he said, “and that enabled it to be embraced in such a bipartisan way by this Senate.”
In May 2022, as the legislation prepared to pass both houses of Congress, Jim Pasco attended the National Peace Officers’ Memorial Service in the Capitol. Before the event, he encountered President Biden, a long-time supporter of the National FOP. Pasco thanked the president for his assistance.
“Jimmy,” Biden replied, “We’re doing this for Howard as much as anybody, right?”
In November 2022, just three months after the law was passed, the Department of Justice recognized Howie Liebengood’s death as in the line of duty, marking him as the first law enforcement officer who died by suicide to receive such acknowledgment under the new legislation. For the Liebengood family, this recognition served as a bittersweet triumph during their time of loss. “This is about Howie,” Serena remarked, “but it’s also about all of these other families and law enforcement officers who died by suicide.”
The Liebengoods realize that success is still far off. Officers continue to contend with mental health challenges, and despite the passage of the legislation, many families await the death benefits they’ve requested, according to Karen Solomon, co-founder of First H.E.L.P. Nevertheless, Serena, John, and Anne remain committed to the cause. Last January, Serena established the Howard C. Liebengood Foundation, aimed at enhancing the health and wellness of law enforcement through interdisciplinary research and education. John and Anne continue to meet with staff at the Liebengood wellness center, sharing Howie’s story to advocate for mental health. John encourages officers to utilize the wellness center’s resources: “I would encourage people to use the wellness center,” he said. The family remains dedicated to having Howie acknowledged at the National Law Enforcement Officers Memorial in Washington, which has yet to recognize an officer who died by suicide.
In response, Barber, the Capitol Police spokesperson, stated that the department has “dramatically increased its focus on employee well-being” since January 6, 2021. The Liebengood wellness center was created “to deliver programming for every domain of human well-being and to provide resources and support for USCP sworn and civilian employees and their families,” he explained. “Services originally targeted mental health, mind-body medicine, nutrition, and physical fitness, but the program has since expanded to offer peer support and spiritual care through Chaplaincy programming. Wellness support dogs are now included to assist with stress mitigation. Through the combined efforts of each program element, the Liebengood wellness center strives to offer proactive support to USCP employees and their families, while also being available in times of crisis or loss.”
Barber added that workshops addressing suicide awareness and prevention are offered to all new recruits and supervisors, with additional opportunities available to the general workforce monthly. New recruits also participate in a comprehensive three-day wellness curriculum, ensuring every new employee is fully informed about available support and resources from day one.
Each anniversary of January 6 poses challenges for Howie’s family. This year, with President-elect Trump’s plans to pardon many involved in the Capitol attack, those challenges will intensify for John and Anne. Still, they have resolutely opted not to engage in the persistent political disputes stemming from that day, believing that focusing on their advocacy could alienate valuable allies in their mission to prevent officer suicides.
“[Other] families are going through very similar things that we’re going through. We know there is another layer to ours because it is tied to this national historic event,” John observed. “But I’m choosing to not spend my energy on that as much as I am on trying to make change happen.”
For Serena, the upcoming anniversary is especially poignant for reasons beyond political turmoil. “This upcoming Jan. 6 will be especially challenging for me,” she shared, “knowing that officers will once again stand ready to protect and serve even as they continue to endure the trauma they sustained four years ago.”
If you or someone you know is struggling with suicidal thoughts, help is available 24/7 through the National Suicide Prevention Lifeline at 1-800-273-8255 or by texting TALK to 741741.
James del Carmen for TROIB News
