This is an archived article that was published on sltrib.com in 2017, and information in the article may be outdated. It is provided only for personal research purposes and may not be reprinted.

The format for "Kirby's Disturbing History" has changed. Many of you have asked for more than just glimpses of the state's less-flattering past. Starting today, we'll be taking a deeper look at some of Utah's stranger episodes.

Before we start today, a disclosure. Most of you know that I'm a former cop and currently the historian for the Utah Law Enforcement Memorial. My task is to search old newspapers and records for police officers killed in the line of duty and whose death was subsequently forgotten.

Once we identify the officer and determine a valid law enforcement status, that name is added to the memorial. Last year, we honored Box Elder County Deputy Albert L. May, who drowned during a 1954 search operation on the Bear River. Somehow his death had slipped through the cracks.

Like most obsessions, there are drawbacks. I get headaches from squinting at microfilm and digital databases. Hours and hours of scrolling through the past also play havoc with my sense of balance. But the occasional payoff makes it all worthwhile.

Two weeks ago, I found another lost soul.

After his triumphant solo New York-to-Paris flight in May 1927, Charles Lindbergh flew the Spirit of St. Louis to Salt Lake City on Sept. 3. The entire Wasatch Front lost its mind as throngs of people poured into Salt Lake City to get a glimpse of Lucky Lindy.

A crushing parade wandered through the business district and ended at Liberty Park, where Lindbergh spoke to thousands of admirers. It was the largest crowd ever recorded in the park's history.

Not everyone was thrilled by the turnout. A couple of lions in the park's zoo found the screaming mob and accompanying sirens and bands more than a little annoying.

Along comes Salt Lake City Officer Rollin R. Tanner. The 66-year-old husband, father and grandfather was a former Beaver County attorney and sheriff. He'd also been a U.S. marshal and had even served a term as a state senator.

On May 1, 1924, Rollins had been appointed a "special officer" by Chief Joseph E. Burbidge and confirmed by the Salt Lake City Commission.

"Special officers" were commonplace in the early 20th century as communities tried to stretch their police budgets. Retired and former police officers were hired for the purposes of covering special beats like parks, businesses, schools and neighborhoods.

On the day Lindy spoke in Liberty Park, Officer Tanner was working the crowd. Walking past the lions' cage, he reached in to pet a lion, something he had done hundreds of times before.

Already seething because of the mob, the lions were in no mood for gestures of affection. The cat immediately sank his teeth into Tanner's hand, then used its claws to drag the officer up against the bars. Another lion joined in the attack.

The lions didn't get to eat all of Officer Tanner. An unidentified citizen seized a metal rod and used it to drive back the snarling animals. Tanner was rushed to the hospital, where his gruesome wounds were treated. He then was sent home to recover.

Thanks to the public fixation on the Lone Eagle, the attack on Tanner didn't even make the back pages of the newspapers until a week later, when he died of blood poisoning Sept. 10.

Pulled from the dim past of history, Salt Lake City Officer Rollin R. Tanner's name will join those of 141 officers during a May 4, 2017, ceremony at the Utah Capitol.