Crime

Unraveling Family Ties: A Crime Scene Journey

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Benjamin GroffMedia© | benandsteve.com | 2025 Truth Endures©

4–6 minutes

“The Andersons”

Tim Roff Meets The Andersons
Tim Roff The Andersons Assignment

It was supposed to be a quick assignment.

Officer Tim Roff was headed to a remote corner of the county to interview a key witness. This witness was a young girl named Cissy, the only eyewitness to a serious crime.

Nothing about it sounded very difficult. It was a straightforward drive, with a few questions, and Tim wanted to return for lunch.

He fueled his cruiser and pulled out of Delk View, heading west on the highway. The farther he drove, the thinner the traffic got. Eventually, it was just him and the radio. A long ribbon of blacktop stretched toward the horizon.

Forty miles later, he turned off at a row of faded, leaning mailboxes. They looked like they’d been abandoned decades ago.

A dirt road led up a shallow ridge, ending at a rusted metal gate with a handmade sign nailed to it:

“IF U R HEar TO C the Anderson Folks, U-will walk up here.”

Tim squinted at it.

“Charming.”

He parked the cruiser on the shoulder and climbed the gate, boots crunching dry gravel as he started the walk. It was unusually quiet—no dogs barking, livestock, or even a bird in the trees. That struck him as odd for a farm.

The shack was sagging. It stood at the end of the trail, leaning slightly. It looked like it had given up on fighting gravity. Tim knocked. After a few moments, the door creaked open, revealing a woman standing in shadow.

“Ma’am,” Tim said, flashing his badge. “Officer Roff, Delk View PD. I’m here to speak with Cissy.”

The woman gave him a long, assessing look before replying, 

“I’m her mother. But Cissy ain’t here. She’s up at my great-grandparents’ place.”

Of course, she was.

The woman stepped outside and pointed behind the shack.

“You’ll wanna follow the trail goin’ north. Not northeast, not northwest—north. Climb the hill. When you hit the first house, keep going. That ain’t it. Go around back and find the east trail. That’ll get you to Great-Grand Pap’s.”

Tim nodded, trying to chart the path mentally. 

“Appreciate it,”

He said. 

“Wish I’d worn jeans.”

The trail was steep and rocky, winding uphill through thickets and trees. After nearly an hour of hiking, sweat soaking through Tim’s dress shirt, he reached a cabin. An elderly couple sat out front on mismatched chairs, sipping something cold.

“You lost?”

The old man called out.

Tim waved.

“Looking for Great-Grand Pap’s place. Cissy’s supposed to be there.”

The woman laughed. 

“You’re close. Just head east from here. And watch out for bees—they’ve been feisty.”

Tim scratched his neck, thinking out loud ––

“Bees? Terrific.”

Tim trudged on and eventually reached a much nicer house between two ridgelines. Two cars were parked out back.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” 

He muttered.

“They have a driveway.”

A white-haired man and woman sat on the stoop, smiling like they’d been expecting him.

“Howdy!”

They chimed in unison.

“Howdy,”

Tim replied, a little breathless.

“I’m Officer Roff. I need to speak with Cissy.”

The couple exchanged a look.

“She’s over at Grand-Uncle Maxwell’s place.”

The old man said.

Tim sighed. 

“Grand-Uncle?”

“Yup. Her grandfather’s brother. She’s watchin’ him today while his wife’s out shoppin’.”

Tim, peeking through his sunglasses, looks up –

“Watching him?”

The great-grandfather nodded. 

“Ain’t much to it. Maxwell’s tied to a tree out front. Forty-foot chain. Keeps him from wanderin’ off.”

Tim blinked. 

“I—what?“

“Yeah,”

The old man said. 

“See, Maxwell was showin’ his boy how to clean a rifle last year—told him you never clean a loaded gun. The boy asked why. So Maxwell loaded it up, held the barrel to his head like he was cleanin’ it. And said, ‘Because if you pull the trigger, this could hap—’ And bam. Shot himself right through the nose and out the top of his skull.”

The woman nodded solemnly. 

“He ain’t been the same since. I can’t trust him to stay put. We lost three family members to gun cleanin’ accidents.”

“And y’all still own guns?”

Tim asked.

“Well, of course,”

The old man said. 

“But we’re real careful now.”

Tim rubbed the back of his neck. 

“So… why is he her Grand-Uncle and not a Great-Uncle?”

The old man sat up a little straighter. 

“Well, see, Cissy’s mama’s brothers are her uncles. Her mama’s parents are her grandparents. You followin’? But Maxwell’s her grandfather’s brother—so he’s a grand-uncle—different branch. You followin’? My brothers are Great uncles, just like I am a Great Grandpa.You followin’?“

“I think so,”

Tim said. 

“But I’m pretty sure Ancestry.com would call him a great-uncle.”

“City folks,”

The old man muttered, shaking his head.

Eventually, they led Tim to Cissy. She was a wide-eyed girl with a thick accent. Her vocabulary included terms Tim had never heard. She explained what she saw, pointing to where it happened, who was there, and what she heard. Tim took meticulous notes. He jotted down not just the events but also the phrases she used. Some of these need translating in court.

He chuckled softly in the cruiser as he rewound his way to civilization. He thought about the chains and the bees. The hand-drawn family tree in his mind intrigued him. He pondered the odd logic of backwoods kinship.

And he couldn’t help but remember what the old man had told him as he left:

“Cousins are once or twice removed, then after that, well… you can marry ’em.”

Tim hoped the DA had a good sense of humor—and a good translator.

The Mayor Who Helped Kill Women

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6–8 minutes

Jethro’s patrol car rounded the corner in the middle of the night. He had been around the block once before. His patrol practices always involved retracing where he had been. Burglars would often wait for a police car to pass and then start their craft. This practice by Jethro helped him lead the department in felony arrests for two years. 

Half-dressed a week earlier, he had come across the Town’s Mayor. The Mayor, Tim Awning, was running across the front lawn of a residence. Jethro had to calm him down. He then heard a story that the Mayor had been a victim of a holdup. Reportedly, a group of thugs had taken his car. The Mayor’s story was in bits and disoriented. Oddly, Mayor Awning said he only wanted to go home. He didn’t want to file a report. 

While driving the Mayor to his home, they came upon his car less than a block away, and Mayor Awning said –

“Stop here; I have an extra set of keys; I will drive it home myself.”

Jethro thought it odd that the Mayor didn’t want to file a report. Even more suspicious, the Mayor insisted that looking inside was useless. He said whatever the hooligans may have done was not an issue. Mayor Awning went even further, insisting Officer Jethro not look into his vehicle. The Mayor claimed his right to privacy through search and seizure rights. 

Now, Jethro was patrolling the same area. He cruised slowly. His patrol car’s lights were turned off, and the windows were rolled down so he hear. Near where Jethro had come upon the Mayor a week earlier, he went to a near stop. The hair on his neck started to rise; his sixth instinct was telling him something, but what? He crept his patrol unit further when he heard a lady screaming. He stopped and tried to find where the screams were coming from.

He looked over his right shoulder. He saw a lady in night clothes running across the front lawn of a home. The same home he had come across the Mayor. He radioed his headquarters his location and told the operator he was out with a distressed resident. The operator sent an extra unit as a precautionary measure. As Jethro exited his unit, he turned on his overhead red and blues, and the lady ran to him screaming –––

“Officer, it isn’t good. I can’t believe it. I just got home and changed for the night. I went in to say goodnight to my roommates. They are all dead. Blood is everywhere!”

Officer Jethro wasn’t sure what to make of the hysterics. But he asked her to catch her breath. And told her another unit was responding. Understanding that whatever she sees is in the house was dramatic he told her they are safe outside. He made sure she had a seat in his unit. Then, he waited for the backup officer to go into the home to see what she had reported. 

The backup arrived. Her name was Officer Jilly. Jethro and she worked together in the South Division for over a year. As they entered the home with their weapons drawn, they went from room to room, securing it. Finally, in the back of the house, they came to the bedroom where the carnage was found. Three women were found slashed to death.

Jethro’s gut twisted at the sight before him. Blood filled the room with a metallic stench. The dim light from the bedside lamp cast eerie shadows over the bodies. The women sprawled across the bed and floor, their nightclothes soaked in deep crimson. Jilly covered her mouth, swallowing the bile rising in her throat.

Jethro took a deep breath and turned to Jilly. 

“Call it in. We need the homicide unit and CSU here now.”

Jilly nodded and stepped into the hallway to radio for assistance. Jethro scanned the room, taking in every detail. There were no signs of forced entry. The door had been unlocked, and there was no shattered glass or overturned furniture. This wasn’t a robbery gone wrong. This was something else—something far more sinister.

Then, he noticed it: A single business card on the nightstand, smeared with blood. He pulled out a glove from his belt, careful not to contaminate any evidence, and picked it up. 

The card read:

Timothy Awning – Mayor

Jethro’s jaw tightened. His mind flashed back to the Mayor’s bizarre behavior a week earlier. He remembered the frantic running across the lawn. There was also the refusal to report the car theft. The Mayor insisted that Jethro does not look inside.

Jethro was a thorough officer. He made notes of everything, time-stamped his reports, and carried a voice-activated tape recorder in his patrol unit. Anything said inside the vehicle was considered public, and Officer Jethro had recorded the entire meeting with Mayor Awning. Now, he had a reason to review it.

“Jilly!” 

He called.

She reentered the room, her face pale. 

“What is it?”

Jethro held up the card. 

“We need to talk to the Mayor. Now.”

——

Mayor Tim Awning sat in his lavish den when Jethro and Jilly arrived. He held a tumbler of whiskey in his hand. 

His eyes flicked toward them, momentarily startled, before he forced a grin.

“Well, Officers, this is a surprise,” he said, shifting in his chair. “What brings you to my home at this hour?”

Jethro stepped ahead, tossing the bloodied business card onto the coffee table. 

“We just left a crime scene. Three women were murdered in the same house where we found you last week.”

Awning’s face paled, but he quickly regained his composure. 

“That’s—terrible. But I don’t see what that has to do with me.”

Jilly folded her arms. 

“Your business card was found at the scene.”

Awning scoffed. 

“I’ve given out thousands of those over the years. That proves nothing.”

Jethro leaned in.

“Your behavior last week was unusual. You were running half-dressed across the lawn. You claimed your car was stolen but refused to file a report. What happened that night, Mayor?”

Awning’s grip on the tumbler tightened. 

“I told you what happened.”

Jethro’s voice dropped. 

“No, you told me a story. But the real story is that you were at that house that night. You saw or did something that made you run. And I think whatever happened, it’s connected to what we found tonight.”

Awning’s jaw clenched. Beads of sweat formed at the Mayor Awning’s temples. Jilly took a step closer. 

“Where were you tonight, Mayor?”

Awning exhaled sharply and downed the rest of his whiskey. He set the glass down with a sharp clink. 

“At home. Alone.”

Jethro exchanged a glance with Jilly. They had him.

——

The crime scene investigators recovered more evidence. Fibers from the Mayor’s vehicle matched traces found in the victims’ home. Security footage showed his car in the vicinity the night of the murders. And then there was the most damning piece of evidence—blood found in the trunk of his car.

Faced with overwhelming proof, Mayor Awning finally broke. He confessed that he had been involved in a secret arrangement with influential figures in town. The house was where illegal dealings occurred—deals that had gone wrong. That night a week ago, he had seen a gruesome execution. He panicked and fled, leaving behind his car. The killers, nonetheless, had unfinished business.

By the time Jethro and Jilly had put the pieces together, it was too late for the three women. But it wasn’t too late for justice.

Tim Awning was arrested, and his political career ended in disgrace. As he got led out of his mansion in handcuffs, the weight of his crimes hung heavy in the air. Jethro knew this case would haunt him. Nonetheless, at least now, the Mayor would finally pay for his sins. This Mayor had helped kill women.

The Last to Fall

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3–5 minutes

The stories of “The Magnificent Seven” were told with reverence in the small, aging town of Canadian. It nestles in the shadow of a mountain range near the Comanche Indian Reservations. They were not just police officers. They were beacons of bravery. Each one was a sentinel of justice. They had shaped the history of law enforcement in the area. Their tales of courage, integrity, and unyielding commitment to the badge echoed in the walls of the old precinct. Black-and-white photos of the seven adorned the main hallway.

Now, only one of them remained.

Thomas “Tommy” Wade was the last to fall. At 82, he still carried himself with the dignity that had defined his career. Time had dulled the sharpness of his features. Nonetheless, his piercing blue eyes—eyes that had stared down criminals and shielded victims—had not lost their fire. Tommy had outlived his brothers-in-arms. It was not because he was the strongest or the fastest. It was because, as he often quipped, –––

“I was just lucky.”

Yet, his legacy, his unwavering commitment to service, and his enduring impact on the community, was far from luck.

It was more than luck, though. Tommy had survived gunfights, ambushes, and even a close call with a car bomb planted by a vengeful felon. But his survival wasn’t the story. The story was about how he and his six comrades had redefined serving and protecting.

The Legends

Each member of the Magnificent Seven had a chapter in the book of Canadian history.

  • James “Big Jim” Hawthorne was the largest and strongest of the group. He was known for breaking up a bar brawl single-handedly. He tossed men around like rag dolls without ever drawing his weapon. He always said –––
    • “Strength is knowing when not to use it.”
  • Eddie Diaz, the marksman, had ended a three-day hostage standoff with a single, precise shot that saved a child’s life. He was quiet and almost shy, but his calm precision made him a hero when danger arose.
  • “Doc” Peterson, the team medic, was a genius at keeping people alive in harrowing circumstances. A former Army medic, he carried his battlefield skills into the streets of Canadian.

Walter “Walt” Grayson, the thinker, used his sharp intellect to outwit criminal masterminds. He often ended conflicts before they began by anticipating a felon’s next move.

Frankie “Spitfire” McNeil, the youngest, was impulsive but had a heart as big as the town. He chased down burglars on foot and once shielded a family from gunfire with his own body.

Samuel “Sam” Colton, the leader, brought them all together. Sam’s vision for law enforcement was rooted in community service and compassion. He was a mentor, a father figure, and a friend.

And then there was Tommy Wade, the glue that held them together. He was the everyman who listened, mediated disputes, and ensured the team had each other’s backs.

A Legacy Remembered

On the day of Tommy’s memorial, the whole town gathered. The mayor spoke, recounting the officers’ countless acts of heroism. Citizens shared personal stories. They spoke of how one of the Seven had saved their lives. Others talked about how the Seven brought justice to their families.

But Tommy’s granddaughter, Emily, delivered the most poignant eulogy. She stood before the crowd, holding the silver badge her grandfather had carried for over thirty years.

“My grandfather used to tell me stories of these men,”

she began, her voice trembling.

“He told me that each carried a burden—of duty, danger, and sacrifice. They didn’t wear capes or fly through the air. They walked the streets, often alone, and faced fear head-on so the rest of us didn’t have to.”

Emily paused, holding the badge close to her chest.

“He also told me that they weren’t perfect. They made mistakes and carried regrets. But what set them apart was their unwavering moral compass. They believed in justice, fairness, and the value of every life.”

As the crowd listened, she added,

“They were the best of us. My grandfather was the last to fall. He always said it wasn’t about the badge or the recognition. It was about the people they served.”

The Eternal Flame

A statue now stands in the Canadian central park: seven figures, shoulder to shoulder, their badges gleaming in the sunlight. Inscribed at the base are the words: “To serve and protect—the legacy lives on.”

The Magnificent Seven are gone, but their stories endure. These tales are whispered in classrooms and retold at family dinners. They are honored in the lives of the officers who came after them. Tommy Wade have been the last to fall, but the spirit of his team will never fade.

Uncovering Crime: The Relentless Pursuit of Justice

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It was a typical summer night in western Oklahoma, and Officer Ben Groff enjoyed a rare night off. He planned to eat at a restaurant on the city’s west side. He drove there in his newly purchased 1985 Dodge Ram. Gaming gold and black under the streetlights, the pickup was his pride and joy. As he cruised along old Route 66, he rolled down the window to enjoy the cool evening breeze.

At an intersection, a red Jeep pulled up beside him. Its driver, a man about Groff’s age, turned down his radio and hollered over the traffic.

“I like your truck; that is slick, man!“

Groff grinned.

“Thanks! Your Jeep’s pretty nice too!”

The man motioned toward the Sonic drive-in up ahead.

“Pull over. Let’s talk!”

Curious and lacking close friends outside the police department, Groff agreed. They parked at Sonic, grabbed burgers, and swapped stories about their vehicles and work. The man introduced himself as Lenny and said he had a knack for making fast friends. Groff, still, couldn’t ignore the possibility that this chance meeting lead to more than small talk. Lenny’s interest in trucks worried Groff. His easy charm also raised Groff’s suspicion.

That night, over beers at Groff’s house, a tentative friendship began to form. But Groff had a strategy. He suspected Lenny was his way into a group linked to a string of thefts plaguing the city. The Chief of Police gave a cautious blessing. Groff embedded himself in this new circle of acquaintances. He balanced camaraderie with the thin line of professional detachment.

Walking the Tightrope


The deeper Groff immersed himself, the more skeptical his fellow officers became. Some resented his approach, accusing him of consorting with known criminals. Others were envious of how the community responded positively to Groff’s efforts. For Groff, the criticism was a necessary price. He knew abandoning the operation would make months of effort meaningless.

By late November 1985, Groff’s relentless work—juggling undercover meetings, regular patrol shifts, and state-mandated training—was starting to pay off. A critical breakthrough came unexpectedly when one of Lenny’s associates sold Groff a set of truck railings. The thrill of the chase was palpable as Groff made the buy and then cross-referenced recent police reports. Sure enough, a burglary at Bill’s Auto listed truck railings among the stolen items.

It was the break he’d been waiting for.

Closing the Net


The next day, Groff burst into the Chief’s office, his excitement barely contained.

“I’ve got them, Chief! One of them sold me stolen property. If I press him, I can flip him and take down the whole operation!”

The Chief, weary but intrigued, leaned ahead.

“Are you serious? You’re sure this will work?”

Groff nodded.

“I’m sure. But I need to move fast before they catch wind of it.”

“Not alone,”

the Chief said firmly.

“We’ll grab a detective. Let’s do this right.”

The weight of responsibility was heavy on Groff’s shoulders. He agreed but insisted on leading the first confrontation alone. He wanted to avoid spooking the suspect. The Chief and the detective parked discreetly down the street as Groff pulled into the suspect’s driveway.

Groff agreed but insisted on leading the first confrontation alone to avoid spooking the suspect. The Chief and the detective parked discreetly down the street as Groff pulled into the suspect’s driveway.

The suspect, Joey, took his time answering the door. His surprise was clear when he saw Groff in uniform.

“Joey,”

Groff began, his voice steely,

“I know everything—the railings, the bumpers, all of it. This is your one shot to come clean before this place gets torn apart. Don’t blow it.”

Joey’s defiance crumbled.

“How’d you find out?”

he stammered.

Groff played it cool.

“You sold me stolen property. It wasn’t hard to figure out.”

Joey hesitated, then blurted,

“There’s more—way more.”

The Haul


Inside Joey’s attic, Groff and the suspect found a treasure trove of stolen goods. They discovered jewelry, electronics, vehicle accessories, and a firearm. Over $40,000 in items were recovered from Joey’s residence alone. Joey’s confession led to six extra arrests, dismantling a theft ring that had operated for three years.

But the investigation didn’t end there. Interviews with the subjects hinted at more profound corruption, implicating former high-ranking officers in a grocery robbery scheme. Groff pressed for a deeper probe, but political resistance and departmental politics hampered his efforts.

Despite these setbacks, Groff’s work earned him a reputation as a relentless investigator. He was willing to make personal sacrifices to serve justice. The satisfaction of justice served was palpable. Groff’s relentless pursuit of the truth led to the dismantling of a major theft ring. That summer night on Route 66 started a chain of events. It led to one of the most significant cases of his career.

The Day Communications Sent the Cavalry to My Rescue ––– Thanks To Chester

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3–5 minutes

It was one of those perfect spring days in April when everything felt right. The sun warmed the air to a comfortable 70 degrees. I rolled down my cruiser’s windows for the first time in months. I patrolled the streets of Elk City. That morning, the west side was my focus, a quiet stretch where anything unusual instantly stood out. That’s where I spotted Chester Hessman.

Ah, Chester Hessman. Everyone in Elk City knew him. Born and raised here, Chester was as much a part of the town as its aging brick buildings. He shared the unofficial title of “town drunk.” Another character held this title, too, whose story fills its chapter. Chester, though, was unique. He had a charm akin to Otis Campbell from The Andy Griffith Show. Otis was a regular at the jail with a presence so familiar that he also had his key.

Chester was skinny and of medium height. He was always disheveled. If he was out in public, he was most certainly drunk. Today, he was directing traffic in the middle of a bustling four-lane intersection, completely ignoring the functioning traffic light overhead.

I flipped on my red-and-blue lights and eased my cruiser into the intersection, pulling up beside him. Stepping out, I called him ––––

“Chester, you’re going to put me out of a job! How about I give you a ride home instead?”

Chester turned toward me, swaying on unsteady legs. He gave me a gummy smile—he hadn’t had teeth for years—and replied, –––

“I’d love ya for it!”

I chuckled, helped him into the passenger seat, and gave him a friendly warning. –––

“Now listen, Chester. I need you to sit tight and behave. Don’t think about jumping out or causing trouble, or it’s straight to jail. Got it?”

“I plomise!”

he slurred, laughing and babbling as I buckled him in.

Pulling away, I turned off the lights and debated whether to radio in the meeting. Chester had just been released from jail that morning. I hoped he would stay out of trouble if I got him home—at least for the day. I decided to keep it off the books. What would go wrong?

Well, a lot, as it turned out.

We were only a few blocks from Chester’s house when a priority call came over the radio.

Unit 3, Unit 4, Unit 2, and Unit 6: Report of six individuals behind Braum’s on 3rd Street. They are shooting at each other with a gun.

I was the closest unit, just a block away. Chester looked at me, confused as I explained the situation. –––

“Chester, you’ve ridden along before. You know the drill—stay in the car, keep your head down, and don’t touch anything for the love of God. Got it?”

He nodded solemnly, briefly giving the impression he was sober.

“I’ll watch out for ya, Officer Ben. Don’t worry.”

As I pulled up to Braum’s, I spotted six figures loitering near the back of the building. I radioed in,

“Unit 3: Headquarters, I’m 10-97 with six 10-12s. I’ll be out with them.”

Communication was acknowledged, and I stepped out to approach the group. But as I got closer, my portable radio began emitting a garbled, high-pitched noise. Annoyed, I assumed it was interference and turned the volume down.

The six “suspects” were kids playing with a toy air gun. We had a brief chat about how their game looked to the public. I suggested they move their play to a less conspicuous location. They nodded, embarrassed but cooperative.

As I headed back to my cruiser, I heard sirens approaching from all directions. Confused, I quickened my pace and opened the car door to find Chester holding my radio mic.

“Chester,”

I said, trying to process the scene.

“What are you doing?”

He grinned at me like a naughty child caught red-handed. –––

“Just makin’ some sounds, Officer Ben. Ain’t it funny?”

It wasn’t. The “interference” I’d heard earlier was Chester making garbled noises on my radio. When I turned my portable’s volume down, Communications assumed the worst. They thought I was injured. Worse, they thought I was trying to signal for help. They’d dispatched every available unit, fire, and ambulance to my location.

Chester’s laughter echoed as the reality of the situation sank in. What was supposed to be a quiet favor for Chester had turned into a full-blown emergency response.

I drove Chester straight to jail. He laughed the entire ride, still holding the microphone like his toy. I went to radio headquarters. I needed to explain to my supervisor how Elk City’s most infamous drunk had hijacked my radio, sparking chaos.

As I left the station that day, I still heard Chester laughing from his cell. I didn’t find it nearly as amusing.

Highway Reckoning – When There Is Real Blood On The Highway ––– “He said we were both going to die!”

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Groff Media 2024© Truth Endures IMDbPro

Presented by benandsteve.com By: Benjamin Groff II©

3–5 minutes

Officer Ben Groff had been juggling back-to-back court appearances at the Beckham County courthouse all morning. The docket was full of traffic violations and a few petty crimes, each case chewing away precious hours he would rather spend patrolling Elk City streets. 

The courtroom’s musty air and the monotony of testimonies felt like a prison until his radio crackled to life with a voice that cut through the monotony like a razor.

“Priority call for Elk City PD. Possible domestic disturbance turned vehicle crash at Interstate 40 and State Highway 6. Ambulances en route. Officers needed to secure the scene. Witnesses report shots fired. Groff and Wheeler, you’re closest.”

Groff glanced at his fellow officer, Lieutenant Wheeler, seated across the room as a witness for a separate case. Wheeler’s eyes mirrored the same urgency. Without needing words, both men left the courthouse, striding quickly to their cruisers.

Moments later, Groff sped East on Interstate 40 toward the reported scene, the shrill wail of his siren slicing through the rural quiet. The chaos became evident as he neared the overpass where Interstate 40 crossed Old Highway 66.

A mangled pickup truck rested askew across the interstate median, its engine smoking and horn blaring. A crushed sedan lay twenty yards away, its front end obliterated. Skid marks and shattered glass littered the asphalt like jagged scars. Traffic had stopped, and several drivers had exited their vehicles to rubberneck or assist.

Groff slowed only enough to navigate the melee before parking behind Wheeler’s cruiser. As Groff exited his vehicle, he took in the scene—a woman, visibly distraught, sat against the guardrail, holding a bloodied handgun. Paramedics surrounded her, carefully taking the weapon from her trembling hands.

“Groff, over here!” 

Wheeler shouted, pointing toward the pickup.

Inside, a man slumped lifelessly in the driver’s seat, a gunshot wound to his head. His hands still gripped the steering wheel, frozen in what seemed to be the final moment of his fatal decision. He had experienced the syndrome known in police work as having a Cadaveric Spasm or Instantaneous Rigor. 

“She shot him, Ben,” 

Wheeler said grimly. 

“Witnesses say he tried to crash the truck into the underpass while she fought him off.”

Groff nodded, taking in Wheeler’s words while scanning for immediate threats. 

“What caused the head-on with the sedan?”

“When she shot him, the truck swerved across the median into oncoming traffic,”

Wheeler explained. 

“A family of three was in that car. Paramedics say they’re alive, but it’s bad.”

“He said we were both going to die!”

Groff approached the woman at the guardrail, her tear-streaked face contorted in anguish. 

“Ma’am, I’m Officer Groff. I need you to tell me what happened.”

Through sobs, she explained the escalating argument at a gas station on Old Highway 66. Her husband, enraged over perceived slights, had driven recklessly onto the interstate, swerving wildly. When she tried to grab the wheel to prevent him from crashing into the underpass, he attacked her. In desperation, she retrieved the handgun from the glovebox and fired.

“He said we were both going to die!”

She whispered, her voice quaking. 

“I didn’t want to hurt him, but I couldn’t let him kill us.”

Groff nodded solemnly, trying to balance empathy with the need for clarity. 

“You did what you thought was necessary to survive. Right now, our focus is ensuring you’re safe and getting everyone the help they need.”

As he spoke, highway patrol officers arrived to assist with traffic control. Paramedics transported the injured family to the hospital, and the medical examiner began their grim work on the deceased husband.

Groff and Wheeler pieced together the scene as investigators. The domestic dispute was the tragic catalyst but also underscored the unpredictable volatility of police and emergency calls.

Hours later, Groff sat on the hood of his cruiser, staring at the fading sunlight over Interstate 40. Wheeler joined him, his expression weary. 

“Another senseless tragedy,” 

Wheeler said.

“Yeah,”

Groff replied, the day’s weight pressing down. 

“But at least she survived.”

The call would haunt them both for a long time, a stark reminder of the thin line officers walk between preserving life and untangling the wreckage of human conflict. For Groff, it was just another chapter in a small-town officer’s unpredictable, often harrowing life.

Justice Served: Stolen Vehicle Chase in Elk City

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Presented by benandsteve.com By: Benjamin Groff II©

3–4 minutes

Officer Ben Groff had just started his shift at the Elk City Police Department when the call came through dispatch:

“Units should be advised of a report of a stolen vehicle spotted heading north on Main Street. It collided with several vehicles in front of the theater and continued. The suspect is a white Dodge Charger. All units respond.”

Ben’s patrol car roared to life as he drove through Third and Madison Avenue to intercept the vehicle on Main Street. Ben hit the lights and siren, merging into the city’s bustling evening traffic. Main Street was alive with its usual commotion—families grabbing dinner, teens cruising, and trucks rumbling through on their way to the interstate. The Charger weaved recklessly through it all, its driver seemingly unfazed by the chaos.

Ben’s adrenaline surged as he radioed in.

“Unit 3 in pursuit. The suspect vehicle appears to be trying to head towards Washington Street through alleyways.”

As the stolen vehicle blew past a red light, narrowly missing a minivan, Ben deftly maneuvered around other cars, keeping his pursuit controlled but relentless. He’d chased suspects before, but this one felt different—the driver was audacious and desperate, taking wild risks that jeopardized everyone on the road. The danger was palpable, the stakes high, and the adrenaline was pumping.

When the Charger made a sharp turn onto a quieter side street, Ben followed, his tires screeching on the asphalt. For a moment, the streetlights flickered off the Charger’s rear window, and Ben caught a glimpse of the driver—a young woman, her face twisted with determination.

Finally, the suspect tried to cut through an alley too narrow for her car’s speed. The Charger clipped a dumpster and spun out, slamming into a utility pole. Smoke billowed from the crumpled hood.

Ben skidded to a stop, jumping out with his weapon drawn.

“Show me your hands! Out of the car, now!”

The woman hesitated before stepping out, her hands trembling but raised. She was strikingly familiar—Lisa Rhodes, the girlfriend of the auto magnate and social media influencer John DeLorean. The revelation sent a shockwave through the scene, a twist in the narrative that no one, not even Ben, saw coming.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,”

Ben muttered under his breath.

Lisa tried to talk her way – out of it, her voice honeyed but shaky.

“Officer, I didn’t steal this car. It’s one I borrowed. A man, let me borrow it—this is just a misunderstanding!”

Ben wasn’t buying it. As he cuffed her, he noticed her purse on the passenger seat. When he peeked inside, his suspicions were confirmed—a substantial stash of drugs, including pills and small baggies of powder.

Backup arrived moments later, securing the scene. Lila’s protests grew louder as the reality of her arrest sank in.

“You don’t know who you’re messing with! John will have his attorneys save me and get your badge for this!”

Ben smirked as he read her rights.

“Maybe he will, but not before I make sure you face the consequences of tonight’s little joyride.”

Ben’s determination was unwavering, and his commitment to upholding the law was resolute, making it clear that justice would prevail.

Back at the station, the news spread like wildfire. Lila Rhodes, the woman frequently seen on John DeLorean’s arm at high-profile events, was booked for possession and vehicle theft. Reporters swarmed the station, eager for a statement. As she promised, high-profile attorneys showed up the following day to post bail and escort her back to California.

Later, as Ben completed his report, his sergeant clapped him on the shoulder.

“Hell of a job tonight, Ben. You nabbed someone who thought she was untouchable.”

Ben nodded, exhausted but satisfied. In Elk City, justice didn’t care about status or connections—it only cared about the law. This matter would become evident as Ben brought in well-known individuals on burglary, auto theft, and other felony charges. That is a story coming soon.

NOTE: Some names, locations, and information are changed or edited to contain alternate identifications for privacy reasons.

“The Cattle Crossing”

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Presented by benandsteve.com By: Benjamin Groff II©

2–3 minutes

The radio crackled with urgency.

“All Units Be On The Lookout – suspect fleeing northbound on Highway 34 in a black pickup. Speed exceeding 90 miles an hour. Be advised; driver is armed and dangerous.”

Officer Ben Groff tightened his grip on the steering wheel of his cruiser, eyes scanning the road ahead and radioing his headquarters as he spotted the vehicle from the broadcast.

“Headquarters, Unit 3, I see the suspect vehicle Northbound on Highway 34 from the Love’s Travel Stop!”

The highway stretched endlessly, bordered by barbed wire, open pastures, and woodrail fencing for the local ranches. A faint plume of dust in the distance marked the suspect’s location.

“Unit 3 in pursuit,”

Ben confirmed, activating his siren.

The pickup swerved erratically, weaving around slower vehicles as the chase intensified. Ben could see a rifle strapped to the back window of the truck and a pile of what looked like stolen tools in the bed.

“Suspect heading into open ranch country,” 

The dispatcher warned. 

“Roadwork ahead near Hammon. Proceed with caution.”

Ben knew the area well. It was dotted with cattle crossings—gates sometimes left open by careless ranchers. He pressed the accelerator, narrowing the distance between him and the fleeing truck.

Ahead, the suspect veered sharply onto a dirt road, kicking up a cloud of grit. Ben followed, his cruiser skidding slightly on the loose gravel. The air was thick with dust, obscuring his view, but he kept his focus sharp.

Suddenly, the truck skidded to a halt in the middle of the road. Ben braked hard, stopping a safe distance away. Before he could exit his vehicle, he heard the lowing of cattle.

A herd of cows, dozens strong, unexpectedly strolled across the road. The nightlight, reflecting the full moon’s setting, backlit their black and brown, and their movement was leisurely, indifferent to the chaos.

The suspect jumped out of the truck, shouting and waving his arms to clear a path through the herd. The cows, unimpressed, continued their slow march, blocking any escape.

Ben saw his opportunity. He exited his cruiser, drawing his weapon.

“Hands up, don’t move! You’re surrounded!”

The suspect froze, looking back and forth between the officer and the unyielding wall of cattle. A few other units arrived, their sirens wailing as they boxed him in. The man dropped to his knees, his hands raised in surrender.

Ben moved forward cautiously, cuffs in hand, as the cows watched the scene unfold with mild curiosity.

One of the arriving officers couldn’t help but joke, 

“Looks like the cows did our job for us.”

Ben chuckled as he secured the suspect.

“Sometimes justice moves at its own pace. You should have seen his face when I told him –– he was surrounded!”

As the sun dipped below the horizon, the herd finally cleared the road, leaving behind a trail of hoofprints and a story for Ben to tell at the station.

Navigating Ethics in Law Enforcement

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Presented by benandsteve.com By: Benjamin Groff II©

4–5 minutes

After completing my training, I got assigned to a two-person unit for part of my shift. Unfortunately, this arrangement led to the exposure of my partner’s extramarital affair with a young woman who worked at a nightclub on the city’s east side. His behavior was hard to ignore. Night after night, he would leave the patrol unit to spend hours inside the club, leaving me alone to monitor radio calls. Each absence grew longer and my frustration deeper.


The city grappled with a surge in burglaries targeting vehicles, garages, homes, and businesses. As crime reports piled up, the department needed to be closer to solving the problem. Sitting in the patrol car logging incidents while my partner dallied at the bar weighed heavily on me. Worse, my delayed response times to calls had begun to draw attention, placing me in a difficult position.

Addressing the issue felt like navigating a minefield. On one hand, I had a duty to uphold the integrity of our patrol duties. On the other, reporting my concerns to a sergeant or lieutenant risked exposing my partner’s personal life, which I preferred to avoid. Going over their heads to the Captain or Major felt equally precarious. However, during my travels to pistol shooting competitions, I established a good rapport with the Chief of Police. I decided to take a chance.


One afternoon, I invited the Chief for coffee to discuss an upcoming qualification event. Once seated, I confessed my more profound concerns. I told him about my partner’s absences, the nightclub, and the woman I suspected was involved. I explained why I had yet to go through the chain of command and emphasized that my primary concern was the integrity of our patrol duties. To my relief, the Chief not only understood but also reassured me that I had made the right choice. His promise to handle the situation discreetly was a weight off my shoulders.


A week later, the schedule was released, and to my disappointment, I again got paired with the same partner. The pattern continued, with him vanishing into the nightclub and leaving me to manage radio calls alone. Frustration mounted, but I stayed focused on my responsibilities.
At the following briefing, Lieutenant Wheeler announced a significant change: I would get assigned to a solo unit. My former partner, now in a solo unit, would no longer work with me. Other patrol officers, except the K9 unit, were paired up. The decision felt like a small but meaningful vindication, a recognition of my commitment to upholding the integrity of our patrol duties.


Working solo was a challenge. Within my first three days, I responded to two fatal calls—more than many officers encounter in a month. However, I was not alone. I appreciated the support of my fellow officers, who often checked in during traffic stops or guided me through the intricacies of field reporting. Their support was a testament to the camaraderie in law enforcement and the importance of teamwork.


One night, around 1:00 AM, I intercepted a burglary alarm call at a sporting goods store. I was close to the location and informed dispatch I would respond. Oddly, my former partner claimed the call, though he was across town. Dispatch redirected him to return to headquarters instead. I only thought of it once I reached the station later.


The pieces fell into place. The Chief observed my partner’s behavior, noting how long his patrol unit lingered at the nightclub each night. The Chief orchestrated a fake alarm call to confirm his suspicions and monitored my partner’s response time. This thorough investigation led to the end of my partner’s career; he resigned the following day.


The aftermath was messy. My former partner left town with the barmaid and her four children, abandoning his wife of many years. She was devastated and began calling the department, requesting me by name to visit her. I got met with her anguish and accusations each time: “Why didn’t you tell me?” At just 21 years old, I struggled to understand why she held me responsible for policing her husband’s fidelity.


While I tried to console her, the experience left a deep impression. It wasn’t just a lesson about personal integrity and the far-reaching consequences of a lack of it. From then on, I made it a point to know my partners better, ensuring they had solid personal ethics or no attachments that could spill into their professional lives.


This early chapter of my career shaped my approach to law enforcement. It reminded me that while we wear a badge to uphold the law, we also carry the weight of trust—not just from the public but from those who depend on us, on and off duty. The importance of personal integrity in law enforcement cannot be overstated. It is not just about following the rules, but about the impact of our actions on the lives of others.

Saying Goodbye to The Old Station – And Hello to A New Destination 16

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Presented by benandsteve.com By: Benjamin Groff II

The days felt strange for those of us who worked nights. As the darkness stretched on, one night blending into the next, daylight seemed more a memory than reality. Law enforcement is more than just a job; it’s a close-knit community, a world. There’s a deep-rooted fellowship among officers and an unbreakable chain of command that’s everything. Yet, that structure was sometimes a challenge for me to accept.

In a large family—four older brothers, two older sisters, a strict father, and a devoted mother—order was part of life. In a rural setting, the school was the only place outside the home where I experienced a different structure. Dad was the highest authority in our household, followed by Mom, then the eldest sibling present, down to the youngest. Dad’s words held firm even in his absence; his authority was an invisible force that needed no reinforcement.

Adjusting to the chain of command in law enforcement took me time, especially after starting in small departments with more relaxed structures. But at Elk City Police Department, things were different. There was a formal hierarchy: chief, assistant chief, major, captain, lieutenant, sergeant, patrolman, and communications officer. Here, I quickly learned that approaching the chief directly with questions or concerns was a breach of protocol, often met with a firm reminder to follow the ranks.

Simple tasks became lessons in patience. Whether I needed a lightbulb replaced or advice on a report, the chain of command required me to go through several levels before reaching a solution; I would have to wait days to get a minor answer. Frustrated, I eventually bit my lip and followed the structure, even if I didn’t like it. My captain called me out over the most minor lapses, like failing to change a burnt lightbulb on time, and I’d swallow my frustration, understanding that order was paramount.

As the community passed a tax to fund a new police station, we began to outgrow the quirks of our aging headquarters at 303 West Fifth Street. The old building, despite its shortcomings, was more than just a structure. It was a part of us, a place where we shared stories, laughed, and supported each other. Built in the 1930s, it had weathered time and neglect. Prisoners on the second floor could flood toilets, causing wastewater to seep into the dispatch and booking area below. But it was our home, filled with memories and camaraderie.

The new station was completed in 1984. Moving was bittersweet, not just for the community, who’d grown used to stopping by the old station for a friendly chat, but for us, too. The new facility was a symbol of progress, outfitted with state-of-the-art security, bulletproof glass, and advanced communication systems. The dispatch had better lighting, new mirrors, and high-tech computers; the National Law Enforcement Telecommunications System and National Crime Information Center computers were side-by-side. Every call was recorded and could be retrieved at any moment.

The jail had electronically controlled gates, holding cells, a kitchen, and a secure emergency exit. Security cameras covered the entire facility, displaying activity on monitors in the booking area. There were dedicated offices for records, evidence, detectives, and the command staff. In every way, it was an upgrade.

On the day of the move, I was instructed by ‘Captain Bick’ to stay home and prepare for the night shift. Despite my eagerness to be part of the transition, I respected his orders. Later that evening, I found myself driving to the old station out of habit. As I parked and entered, I was struck by the emptiness of the dispatch office. This was where I had sent officers out, received urgent calls, and coordinated responses. Now, it was a mere shell of its former self. Assistant Fire Chief Bob, who was also present, chuckled, ‘You’re at the wrong place—no cops here anymore!’

I smiled, feeling a wave of nostalgia, and pointed to the old wall that separated our side from the fire department. ‘Did you know President Carter’s original ‘Beast’ limousine was parked right on the other side of that wall one night? All the fire trucks were cleared out, and our officers watched to ensure no one touched it.’

Bob laughed, “Yeah, I remember that night. I was here too.”

It was hard to let go of stories like that—stories that had lifted people’s spirits and given them a break from their own troubles. With a sigh, I left the old building, heading to the new station, marveling at the thought of a facility so high-tech that even the door lock had a security code… which someone had promptly taped over because officers kept forgetting it.

After settling in, I was tasked with a significant assignment: entering city burglary data into the new computer system. I approached this task with the same dedication I gave every task, and it quickly provided me with valuable insights into the patterns of theft in the city. Over the next two years, this groundwork would prove instrumental in helping us dismantle a significant theft ring. But that’s a story for another time—this one is about the journey to a new place and the adjustments, big and small, that shaped us along the way.

Responding To The Last Call ––– The Last Of The Calls As They Were Reported 16

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It had been a long year. On January 5th, 1983, we lost an officer in the line of duty. That spring, three officers were arrested for stealing from a business they’d responded to on an alarm call. By summer, automobile burglaries and thefts were on the rise. The suspects were careful, leaving no evidence. Their modus operandi was smooth and untraceable—no one ever heard, saw, or interrupted these thieves. Most stolen items ranged in value from around $200, making each theft a felony under Oklahoma law.

The city was facing yet another wave of crime. Typically, it had about 10,000 residents, but the recent oil boom brought an influx, swelling the population to around 25,000. The sudden increase in population put a strain on the city’s resources, leading to a rise in crime. Jobs attracted people from all over, but housing needed to catch up. Tent cities sprang up in the southern sector, and parks filled with tents when vacant lots overflowed. Expecting thousands of oil jobs, many newcomers broke and scraped by.

Among the job seekers were newly released inmates from Cook County Detention in Chicago. Judges offered a stark choice: a one-way bus ticket to Elk City, Oklahoma, or a lengthy jail sentence. Most took the bus ticket. Upon arrival, they had to call the detention center from Elk City’s bus depot to check-in. Ducks in the city park began disappearing as desperate people scavenged for food. In response, the city council enacted a law prohibiting the molestation of ducks, with fines and jail time for violations. Signs reading “DO NOT MOLEST THE DUCKS” popped up, adding a hint of levity to an otherwise grim situation.

But ducks were far from the town’s biggest problem. It wasn’t the bars, the transient hotels renting beds by the shift, or even the “ladies of the night.” The real threat seemed to be the string of broad daylight robberies plaguing the community’s three leading grocery stores, and each hit at least once. One robbery even happened just a block from the police station, with the suspects abandoning their getaway vehicle behind the station in a post office lot.

The police department’s image was suffering. Officers worked 12-hour shifts, often doubling up due to the flood of calls, sometimes stacked five to ten deep. I reported at 5 p.m. for a 6 p.m. start to my 12-hour shift one day, noticing a huddle of high-ranking officers and county deputies outside an office. Figuring I’d get briefed later, I didn’t poke around—I had enough court subpoenas already without getting involved in another incident. And this was one situation I was glad to avoid.

“You have got to be kidding me,”

When my Captain came over, he told me they’d just brought in an officer for raping his daughter. This shocking revelation not only shamed the individual officer’s reputation but cast a shadow on the entire department; as police officers failed, the public’s trust in law enforcement was further eroded.

“You have got to be kidding me,” was all I could say.

This scandal was nearly the final blow for our department, already reeling from the recent departure of a chief struggling with personal issues. Within hours, newspapers and television stations caught wind of the arrest, and the phone lines lit up. Callers unleashed waves of abuse, condemning every officer affiliated with the department. The calls went on for days, creating a hostile environment for all officers and making their jobs even more difficult.

The officers arrested earlier in the year were convicted, further damaging the department’s reputation.

Amid this turmoil, my law enforcement career truly began. Although I had worked in various positions and departments, it was in this community that I found my calling. This city is where I started my adult life and career earnestly. I remained loyal to this place, forming memories with people in the booking area, the jail, and the streets. A shift in the workforce followed, which opened doors for me—an unexpected opportunity in a turbulent time. Could it get any worse? The heat was about to get turned up. In coming stories!

(You’ve been reading the back story for the big news over the next forty years involving several lives and lifetimes.)

Killed Walking Along The Highway – How A Killer Is Captured –– By Two Keen Deputies!

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Presented by benandsteve.com By: Benjamin Groff II©

On a dark, silent night in 1980, the highways through Caddo County near the rural communities of Gracemont and Binger, Oklahoma, were deserted. Residents had long settled in their homes, leaving the quiet stretches of U.S. Highway 281 nearly void of movement. It was a time when law enforcement in rural Oklahoma had limited resources and technology, making cases like this all the more challenging to solve.

That night, an Indigenous man, Jasper Williams, had set out on foot from his home, heading south along a dirt road that eventually led to the pavement of Highway 281. It was common for community members to walk from one home to another, no matter the distance, and Jasper was going to a friend’s house. The night was pitch black, with no moonlight or streetlights to guide him, save for the faint outline of the highway stretching before him.

As Jasper walked, visibility was almost nonexistent. The road was shrouded in darkness, with no nearby lights to help him stay clear of the highway’s center. At some point, as he walked around six miles north of Gracemont—almost midway between there and Binger—tragedy struck. Jasper was hit by a passing vehicle, which left him severely injured on the side of the road. By daylight, he was found deceased, having bled to death, with no car in sight and no immediate reports of an accident.

Upon closer inspection, deputies discovered fragments of evidence scattered on Jasper’s clothing and body: broken glass, bits of chrome, a hubcap, and remnants of a car’s signal light and headlight assembly, as well as traces of paint. With these clues, investigators determined the incident might not be an ordinary accident but potentially a case of vehicular homicide.

Deputy Hamilton drove a
Ford Ranchero

The case was assigned as a homicide due to the absence of witnesses, the lack of any report from the driver, and the fact that the vehicle fled the scene. Caddo County Deputies Hamilton and Ware—both of whom have since passed—took on the painstaking task of finding the person responsible. Armed with the physical evidence, they began an exhaustive search of autobody shops across the county and surrounding areas, hoping to find a vehicle with damage matching the debris at the scene.

After several weeks, their search finally paid off. The deputies located a damaged vehicle that matched the evidence they’d collected. The owner was identified and subsequently interviewed, leading to the arrest of a man named Larry Johnson.

During questioning, Johnson admitted he had left a bar in Binger around 2 a.m. on the night Jasper was killed. On his drive home, he confessed to drifting in and out of sleep, initially thinking he had hit an animal, possibly a dog. However, he chose not to stop. Later, after hearing news of the fatal accident, he realized he was likely the driver involved but continued to hope he was wrong.

Binger Main St. There Were
Bars On Both Sides of Street.

Johnson was later tried in Caddo County, where a jury found him guilty of manslaughter. He was sentenced to serve 15 years at Oklahoma’s Granite Reformatory.

Note: Some names, dates, and details have been altered to protect individuals’ privacy.

The world is going to POT, and we are watching it go!

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A view of the world as it is today by: Benjamin Groff II© Groff Media 2024© Truth Endures IMDbPro

My dad and grandfather are gone now, but neither would support a liar, cheat, rapist, insurrectionist, dictator, or someone who supports one, or generally speaking, a creep or ‘weirdo.’ 

There are other reasons you can look at as well. For instance, a candidate such has a sexual offense judgment against him, and he is under indictment for countless federal crimes; in the last year, one of the candidates was in the air, flying, on their way to being arrested, just as much as he was campaigning at one point. 

One or more of those reasons would have been reason enough to consider looking into the person’s background. And three to four, would have been reason enough to reject a person all together. Someone who was strongly running for public office would have been rejected. Now, the GOP considers it a qualification required for all Republican candidates.

The candidates have endorsements from KKK members. They boast about, a presidential politician having endorsements from dictators. They wallow in such markings, and candidates publicly brag about laws they will violate first, if elected. And this makes them the most qualified candidate. Going as far as boasting about becoming a dictator. Going about telling people this is the last election they will have to worry about voting in. 

Why? Does that mean the Constitution is going to get ripped apart, shredded, and there will no longer be a United States where the people choose its leaders? It appears it doesn’t matter to the people who are numb and following this character. They appear to have zoned out of reality. 

My grandfather, father, uncles, aunts, and even a few dogs and horses I’ve had would not have allowed the goings on to persist. The greatest generation has died chiefly off; fewer of them now than ever are living, which sadly shows in our world. They were the ones who knew what happens when the world that falls to fascism. When reality hits and the world dies. It is beginning as America will turn grey; it will become a black-and-white construct of anything anyone remembers of its being, if these destructionists are permitted to have their way with the country. We only hope enough voters come to the polls and and vote, and save our America!

My dad had a favorite saying: the older I got, the wiser he’d get. And he was right; I wish he were here to help us out of this madness!

JD Groff At Rest And Getting Wiser Every Day!

In The Heat Of A Phoenix Stakeout, Two Police Officers Survive The Night By Having Each Other’s Back!

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A Story By Benjamin Groff© Groff Media 2024© Truth Endures -“Heat of the Night”

The sweltering summer heat of Phoenix had already claimed its territory, with temperatures still hanging in the triple digits long after the sun had sunk below the horizon. Officers Danny Vega and Clyde “CJ” Johnson sat in their aging, air-conditioner-less police unit parked under a flickering streetlight in a worn-out neighborhood. Their mission was to monitor the run-down house across the street, where they suspected a group of outlaws—wanted for heinous crimes from murder to rape and child abuse—were holed up.

Vega, a seasoned officer in his mid-thirties, wiped the sweat off his brow and leaned back in his seat.

“Man, it feels like we are cooking in here,”

he muttered, glancing at his partner, who sat silently. CJ, a younger officer relatively new to the force, looked straight ahead, his face a mask of concentration.

The silence between them was thick, palpable, as though the heat had baked it into something more solid than discomfort. Danny had been paired with CJ only a few months ago, and though they worked well enough together, there was a distance, an unspoken tension. Vega was a no-nonsense, street-smart officer who had grown up in Phoenix, and he was not sure what to make of the rookie—an out-of-towner who seemed too clean, too by the book for the brutal reality of their work.

CJ shifted in his seat, his uniform sticking to his skin. He glanced sideways at Vega.

“Think they are really in there?”

CJ’s voice was steady, but the doubt lingered.

Vega shrugged, his gaze never leaving the house.

“I would not be surprised. The word is out on them. They have no place else to hide. This neighborhood – it is the perfect cover. No one asks questions here.”

The hours passed slowly, sweat dripping from their faces and soaking through their uniforms. The house across the street remained dark and silent. The only noise came from the occasional shout in the distance or the hum of insects in the oppressive night air.

At some point, Vega pulled a crumpled cigarette from his pocket. He held it momentarily as if debating whether to light it.

“You smoke?”

he asked CJ.

CJ shook his head.

“Quit a couple of years back. My old man, well, it killed him, so I figured I would try to live a bit longer.”

Vega raised an eyebrow.

“Good for you.”

He tossed the cigarette out the window, respecting the sentiment. It was the most they had spoken since starting the stakeout, but Vega was not about to get personal.

Still, the night stretched on, and there was nothing but the two of them and the quiet of the deserted street. CJ finally broke the silence.

“You ever wonder if this is it? Like sitting here, baking alive, waiting for something to happen?”

Vega snorted.

“All the time. However, it is the job. It is what we signed up for.”

CJ leaned forward, resting his forearms on the steering wheel.

“Yeah, but I did not sign up to just sit and watch while guys like those,” he nodded toward the house, “hurt people and get away with it.”

Vega studied him for a moment, something clicking into place.

“You think I do not feel the same?”

CJ did not respond right away, and Vega continued.

“Look, kid, I have been doing this a while. It eats at one, they know. But rushing in and losing one’s head is how one makes mistakes. And mistakes? One will cost them or someone else their life.”

CJ turned to face him, eyes intense.

“So we just wait?”

Vega’s jaw tightened.

“Yeah. We wait. We stay smart. We stay sharp.”

A crackle of the radio interrupted them. The dispatcher’s voice was hushed but urgent.

“Unit 12, suspects confirmed inside the target location. SWAT en route. Hold position.”

Vega nodded to CJ, who picked up the receiver.

“Copy that. Holding position.”

The tension ramped up as the house finally stirred with movement. Shadows flitted past the windows. The outlaws were inside, and the knowledge settled like a weight between the two officers.

The time they crawled—minutes that stretched into an hour—SWAT was not coming fast enough. Vega kept his eyes trained on the house while CJ’s fingers drummed on the wheel, nerves on edge.

Suddenly, a door to the house slammed open. A figure darted out—one of the suspects, carrying a duffel bag. Without thinking, CJ moved, reaching for the door handle.

“Wait!”

Vega hissed, grabbing his arm.

“Let him go. SWAT will be here any minute.”

However, CJ’s body was coiled, ready to spring.

“He is getting away.”

Vega tightened his grip.

“No, he is not. He will circle back. Trust me.”

CJ’s jaw clenched, but he held back, fighting the urge to act. It took everything in him to stay in the car. Seconds later, the figure disappeared into the shadows of the alley.

Vega let out a slow breath.

“Good call, staying put.”

CJ glanced at him, eyes wide with disbelief.

“Good call? He has gone!”

“No,”

Vega said, his voice calm.

“He is not.”

A low rumble filled the air, and CJ turned to see SWAT units pulling into the street, lights flashing, breaking the stillness. Vega gave him a tight smile.

“See? Patience.”

The raid unfolded quickly after that, with the SWAT team storming the house and bringing out the suspects in cuffs. CJ and Vega watched from the sidelines, the rookie still coming to grips with how close he had been to jumping the gun.

When it was over, they sat back in their sweat-soaked seats, exhausted but relieved.

CJ broke the silence again.

“You were right back there. About not rushing in.”

Vega chuckled.

“Guess the old-timer knows a thing or two.”

CJ smiled, the first real smile Vega had seen from him.

“Thanks, man. For having my back.”

Vega nodded.

“You would do the same for me.”

As the sun rose, casting long shadows over the empty street, the two men sat in the heat of the Phoenix dawn, no longer just partners but something more—a bond forged in sweat, silence, and survival.

Moreover, in that shared quiet, they realized that they had each other’s back no matter what came next.

Reminiscences

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A True Story By: Benjamin Groff© Groff Media 2024© Truth Endures

When the youngest officer on duty is the only resource available, the weight of responsibility rests heavily on his shoulders, underscoring the significance of his role.

Our town’s police force was small, with just twelve officers. Eight were assigned to the streets, patrolling, responding to calls, controlling traffic, and maintaining visibility. The remaining four worked in the office, answering phones, dispatching calls over the radio, and managing the jail’s inmates. The officers rotated between desk and patrol duties, ensuring they stayed sharp and well-versed in all aspects of the job.

Most shifts saw only one officer on patrol and one in the office. This lean staffing was the backdrop when I first joined the police department and met Chief Marion Toehay Jr., known to me simply as Junior or Chief.

Junior and I formed a friendship that spanned over fifty years. Together, we witnessed the stark realities of life and death, often arriving too late to save those in peril. The helplessness we felt in those moments was crushing, made worse by the accusing stares of grieving families who saw us as their last hope.

One such event took place at a State Park east of the City. We arrived in a secluded area and noticed a boat stalled in the middle of the lake. The people onboard were waving and shouting, but their words got lost in the distance. As we waved back, trying to assess the situation, it became clear the boat was sinking.

We shouted for them to stay with the boat, realizing quickly that we couldn’t reach them from where we stood. We jumped back into the car and raced toward the dam, sirens blaring and lights flashing. Junior was on the radio, desperately calling for the Lake Patrol or anyone with a boat to respond. But the only way to reach the sinking boat was to drive fifteen miles around the lake on rural roads.

When we arrived, only the boat’s nose remained visible, bobbing on the water. A man clung to it, the sole survivor. He told us that a father and his two children had drowned, trying to swim to shore instead of staying with the boat.

At that time, the Oklahoma Lake Patrol was often assigned to different lakes, a reality dictated by tight state budgets. Law enforcement presence on lakes was inconsistent, as it may still be today in some areas. The Lake Patrol recovered the bodies of the father and his children that night and the following day.

Junior and I found ourselves witnessing several drownings, often by tragic coincidence, whenever we were near the lake or river. It seemed almost inevitable.

The department was also where I encountered my first homicide—a brutal murder-suicide that has stayed with me. A couple going through a divorce ended their marriage in violence. The husband had hidden in their home, and when his wife returned to gather belongings, he slipped up behind her and shot her in the back of the head. She crumpled to the floor, unaware of his presence or intent.

He then went to the bedroom, entered the ensuite, and used a shotgun loaded with double-ought buckshot to end his own life. The blast obliterated his face, leaving a gruesome scene with skull fragments embedded in the ceiling and blood splattered across the walls. Fingerprints confirmed his identity, but everyone in town knew who he was.

That was my first assignment at 18, in a department stretched thin. A pow-wow was happening in town, and every officer was working overtime. The City’s ambulance had to transport a critically ill prisoner to a hospital 50 miles away, and someone had to accompany them. It fell to me. Despite having just finished a 12-hour shift, I boarded the ambulance at 7:00 AM, the roads shrouded in fog as we responded to Code 3. The nurse was upset that I’d handcuffed the combative prisoner to the stretcher, and the driver got lost on the way. It was chaotic, but in many ways, it was one of the best times of my life.

Riverton Police: A Night in the Life of Detectives Jake and Sam

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The city of Riverton never slept, nor did Detectives Jake Harris and Sam O’Reilly. Partners for over a decade roamed the nocturnal streets with the kind of synergy only best friends could muster. Their squad car, an unremarkable blue-and-white cruiser, was a beacon of hope for some and a symbol of fear for others.

Jake, with his gruff exterior and piercing blue eyes, was the kind of cop who could read a crime scene like a book. Sam, a lean figure with a quick wit and a knack for defusing tense situations, complemented Jake perfectly. Together, they led the department in felony arrests, arriving at calls faster than anyone else and building relationships with the community that others could only dream of.

One brisk autumn night, their radio crackled to life with a call that made their hearts race: an armed robbery in progress at the 24-hour diner on 5th and Maple. Without a word, Jake hit the lights and sirens, and they sped through the dimly lit streets. They arrived in just under three minutes, a record even for them.

The diner was eerily quiet as they approached, save for the distant hum of neon lights. Inside, a masked man brandished a gun, demanding cash from the terrified cashier. Jake motioned for Sam to flank the back entrance while he took the front.

Jake entered slowly, his voice calm but authoritative. ––––

“Riverton PD, drop the weapon and come out with your hands up.”

The gunman whipped around, eyes wide with panic.

“Stay back! I’ll shoot!”

From the rear, Sam’s voice cut through the tension.

“No, you won’t. You don’t want to hurt anyone. Put the gun down, and we can talk.”

The gunman’s grip on the weapon faltered. In that split second, Jake lunged forward, disarming him with a swift, practiced motion. Sam was at his side instantly, cuffing the man and guiding him to the squad car.

As they processed the scene, the cashier, a young woman named Maria, approached them with tears in her eyes.

“Thank you. I don’t know what would’ve happened if you hadn’t come.”

Jake gave her a reassuring nod. “Just doing our job, ma’am.”

The rest of the night was a blur of paperwork and patrols. But their most memorable interaction came just before dawn. While cruising through a quieter part of town, they spotted a boy sitting alone on a bench, clutching a backpack to his chest. They pulled over, and Sam approached him gently.

“Hey there, buddy. Everything alright?”

The boy, who couldn’t have been more than ten, looked up with tear-streaked cheeks.

“I ran away from home. My parents are always fighting.”

Sam sat next to him, listening with the patience of a father and says –––

“I get it, kid. Sometimes, home can be tough. But running away won’t solve anything. Let’s get you back home and see if we can help sort things out.”

Jake contacted the boy’s parents while Sam spoke with him. The sun was peeking over the horizon when they returned the boy home. Now more worried than angry, the parents hugged their son tightly and thanked the officers.

As they drove back to the station, Jake glanced over at Sam, sighs then says –––

“Another night, another set of stories, huh?”

Sam chuckled. “Wouldn’t have it any other way.”

In Riverton, one could become a legend in the shadows, and for Jake and Sam, every night was another chance to protect and serve, forging connections and fighting crime in ways that others could only admire.

Florida The Land Of Detention

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Florida has a new law that is designed to fill prisons.

Commercial Incarceration Facilities Prospering In Florida. Investments in private prisons contracted with Florida show favor with new laws designed to provide continous population on a rotational basis.

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The growth and prosperity of commercial incarceration facilities in Florida have been a topic of debate and concern for many. Investments in private prisons have indeed increased in recent years, and this growth can be attributed to several factors, including new laws and policies that aim to maintain a steady population within these facilities.

One of the key issues often raised regarding private prisons is the potential conflict of interest that arises when profit motives intersect with the administration of justice. Critics argue that the financial incentives associated with running a for-profit prison may lead to practices that prioritize cost-cutting over the well-being and rehabilitation of inmates.

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Proponents of private prisons, on the other hand, argue that these facilities can operate more efficiently than their public counterparts, potentially saving taxpayer money. They also point to contractual agreements that often include occupancy guarantees, ensuring a consistent revenue stream for investors.

However, concerns persist about the quality of care and services provided in private prisons, as well as the potential for abuse and neglect. Reports of overcrowding, inadequate medical care, and safety issues have raised alarm bells among advocates for criminal justice reform.

In Florida, the state has entered into contracts with private prison companies to house a portion of its inmate population. With new laws designed to ensure a continuous flow of inmates into these facilities, investors in private prisons may see this as a lucrative opportunity for growth.

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It’s essential to approach the topic of private prisons with a critical lens, considering both the potential benefits and drawbacks associated with their operation. As the debate continues, policymakers, advocates, and stakeholders must work together to ensure that any expansion of private prisons prioritizes public safety, justice, and the well-being of inmates.