In emergency services there is a moment most people never see.
It usually happens sometime after midnight, when the world is quiet and the station lights are dim. The calls have slowed down just enough that someone finally drifts off in the Bunkroom.
Then the tones drop.
Within seconds the calm disappears. Boots hit the floor, radios crackle to life, and another emergency begins.
For many first responders, that moment repeats itself again and again over the course of a shift. Sleep comes in fragments—ten minutes here, twenty minutes there—if it comes at all.
Yet the work still has to be done.
Patients still need treatment. Ambulances still need to move quickly and safely through traffic. Decisions still have to be made in seconds.
So how do first responders manage when sleep is scarce?
The answer, in many cases, is a combination of training, teamwork, and habits built over years of long nights.
Coffee: The Unofficial Fuel of Emergency Services
Walk into almost any firehouse, EMS station, or dispatch center. You will find a coffee pot that never truly turns off.
Caffeine has become the unofficial fuel of emergency work. It sharpens focus, pushes back fatigue, and gives providers the extra edge they need when exhaustion begins to creep in.
But caffeine is a temporary solution, not a cure. It can help providers stay alert for short periods, but it cannot replace the restorative effects of real sleep.
Still, for many crews working through the night, that cup of coffee becomes a small but necessary ally.
The Power of the Partner Check
Another important defense against fatigue is something emergency services have relied on for decades—watching out for each other.
In EMS and law enforcement alike, partners often double-check each other’s work when exhaustion sets in.
One medic confirms a medication dose while the other prepares it. A partner reviews a treatment decision before it is carried out. A tired driver is reminded to pull over or slow down when fatigue becomes obvious.
These small moments of teamwork are often invisible to the public. Still, they are an important safety net inside the profession.
Experience and Muscle Memory
Years of training also play a role in helping providers function when they are tired.
Many of the most critical skills in emergency medicine are practiced repeatedly until they become almost automatic. Starting an IV, assessing a patient’s airway, or reading a cardiac monitor are actions that experienced providers perform almost instinctively.
That muscle memory helps bridge the gap when fatigue clouds thinking.
But even the most experienced provider is still human. Fatigue eventually catches up with everyone.
Humor in the Middle of the Night
One of the most common coping tools in emergency services may surprise outsiders: humor.
First responders have a long tradition of gallows humor. It’s a way of releasing tension, staying connected with coworkers, and pushing through difficult moments.
A quiet station at three in the morning may suddenly erupt in laughter. It might be over a joke, a story from a previous call, or something completely ridiculous.
That humor isn’t about disrespect. It’s about survival.
Sometimes laughter is the only thing that keeps a tired crew moving through the night.
The Quiet Drive Back to the Station
After the sirens fade, the patient is delivered to the hospital. There is often a quiet drive back to the station.
For many providers, that ride is the moment when exhaustion becomes most noticeable.
The adrenaline of the call is gone. The road stretches ahead. The body begins to remember how tired it really is.
Those moments are why conversations about fatigue are becoming more important within emergency services.
First responders have always found ways to push through exhaustion. However, the goal should never be simply to endure it.
The goal should be to manage it.
A Profession Built on Dedication
The reality is that fatigue has always been part of emergency services.
Long shifts and unpredictable calls are part of the job. The responsibility of protecting the public adds to it. This means the job will never fit neatly into a normal sleep schedule.
But despite those challenges, first responders continue to answer the call.
They rely on training, teamwork, and professionalism to carry them through the long nights.
And when the tones drop again—whether it’s midnight, three in the morning, or just before sunrise—they get up and go.
An International Discussion For Police,Fire, EMT’s, Dispatch and You!
WHEN EMERGENCIES ARRISE AND THOSE RESPONDING ARE TOO TIRED TO BE THERE
For paramedics, EMTs, and first responders, sleep often becomes the one thing emergency medicine never seems to deliver. The science is clear—fatigue affects judgment, safety, and patient care. Yet the process still runs on sleepless shifts.
When the Tones Drop at 3 A.M.: Fatigue and the Reality of EMS Life
For EMS providers, fatigue isn’t just an inconvenience or a badge of honor. It’s a real operational risk that affects patient care, provider safety, and the long-term health of the workforce. Research over the past several decades has repeatedly shown that lack of sleep slows reaction time. It interferes with judgment. It also increases the likelihood of mistakes and accidents.
You understand something the general public rarely sees if you’ve ever been jolted awake in a station Bunkroom. This happens when the shrill sound of dispatch tones rings at 2:47 in the morning. In emergency medical services, sleep often feels like something promised but rarely delivered.
Anyone who has worked long shifts in emergency services knows exactly what that looks like in the real world. The medic drives back from a call, fighting heavy eyelids. The paramedic double-checks medication calculations at four in the morning because the numbers won’t quite settle in the brain. The crew member stares at a cardiac screen, trying to push through mental fog.
Before we talk about solutions, it helps to understand how EMS developed this culture of chronic sleep deprivation. It’s also important to know why meaningful rest can be so difficult to find on the job.
Sleep isn’t a luxury. It’s a biological need that allows the brain and body to recover and operate properly. Most adults need somewhere between seven and nine hours of restorative sleep within a 24-hour period.
For EMS providers, reaching even half that amount during a shift can feel like a victory.
Research shows that the effects of sleep deprivation can be dramatic:
• After approximately 17 hours awake, a person’s cognitive performance declines significantly. It begins to resemble someone with a blood alcohol concentration around 0.05%. • After 24 hours without sleep, impairment can resemble a 0.10% BAC, well above the legal driving limit in most states. • Fatigue affects reaction speed, memory, and the ability to make complex decisions—all critical skills in emergency medicine.
Studies examining EMS providers have also revealed troubling patterns. Many report experiencing severe fatigue regularly. A significant number acknowledge that they have fallen asleep behind the wheel after finishing a shift.
For providers in the field, these statistics aren’t abstract numbers. They show up in everyday moments:
• struggling to concentrate on a pediatric medication calculation • catching yourself drifting at a stoplight on the way back to the station • taking longer than usual to interpret patient data during a call
The long-term consequences of chronic sleep deprivation can also be severe. Poor sleep has been linked with higher risks of heart disease, diabetes, obesity, depression, and anxiety. Over time, fatigue contributes to burnout and drives experienced providers away from the profession.
Ironically, other industries that rely on safety-critical decision making—like aviation and commercial trucking—strictly regulate work hours and rest periods. EMS, nonetheless, often operates under schedules that allow providers to stay on duty for 24 hours or longer.
How EMS Ended Up With 24-Hour Shifts
Many EMS scheduling practices trace their roots to the fire service.
When modern EMS systems began developing in the 1960s and 1970s, many ambulance operations were integrated into fire departments. Firefighters traditionally worked 24 hours on duty. They followed this with 48 hours off. This schedule was manageable when fire calls were relatively infrequent.
EMS adopted this structure, even though medical call volumes soon far exceeded those of fire responses.
There were several reasons the schedule remained popular:
Staffing efficiency Long shifts need fewer personnel to keep coverage.
Fewer commutes Working a 24-hour shift means fewer trips to and from work during the week. This is something many providers appreciate, especially those in rural areas.
Overtime opportunities Long shifts make it easier to pick up extra work. This increases income for providers. It also reduces hiring pressure on agencies.
Tradition Like many aspects of emergency services culture, once a system becomes established it tends to stay that way.
Other Scheduling Models
Although the 24-hour shift remains common in many departments, other models are used as well.
12-hour shifts Common in high-volume urban EMS systems. They reduce extreme fatigue but need more staff and more frequent shift changes.
Kelly schedules A modified version of the 24/48 rotation that periodically adds an extra day off for recovery.
48/96 rotations Two days on duty followed by four days off. Some providers enjoy the extended time off, but fatigue can become severe if call volume is high.
Peak-hour staffing Extra crews are scheduled during the busiest times of day to reduce workload during overnight hours.
Each system has advantages and disadvantages. The challenge for agencies is balancing staffing levels, budgets, and provider well-being.
The Reality of Multiple Jobs
Another factor contributing to fatigue is the financial reality of EMS work.
Many providers hold second—or even third—jobs to make ends meet. A medic often finishes a 24-hour shift at one service. Then, they report to another agency for extra hours.
In some cases, providers stay awake and working for 48 hours or longer. While overtime can be financially appealing, the physical and mental toll can be enormous.
Why Sleep Is So Difficult in EMS
Even when schedules theoretically allow for rest, real-world conditions often make sleep difficult.
Unpredictable call volume One shift is quiet, while the next produces a constant stream of calls.
Station environments Bunkrooms are noisy, crowded, or poorly designed for restorative sleep.
Cultural expectations In some departments, daytime naps are still discouraged despite overnight calls.
Stigma surrounding fatigue Many providers hesitate to admit exhaustion for fear of appearing weak.
The result is a workforce that often operates on minimal rest while still being expected to deliver high-level medical care.
What Agencies Are Trying
Across the United States and internationally, EMS organizations have begun experimenting with strategies to tackle fatigue.
Fatigue management programs Training and policies designed to recognize fatigue as a safety hazard.
Improved sleep spaces Some agencies are redesigning stations to create quieter, darker rest areas for crews.
Adjusted shift schedules Shorter shifts or hybrid scheduling models may reduce extreme fatigue.
Data-driven staffing Deploying extra units during peak call hours can reduce workload during overnight periods.
None of these solutions is perfect. Budget constraints, staffing shortages, and operational demands make large changes difficult for many agencies.
Still, awareness of the issue is growing.
Personal Responsibility Matters Too
While system design plays a major role, providers also have some responsibility for managing fatigue.
That means prioritizing sleep on off-days, maintaining healthy routines, and recognizing when exhaustion affect performance.
Emergency services professionals often pride themselves on toughness, but fatigue is not a personal weakness—it’s a biological reality. Recognizing its effects is part of professional responsibility.
When fatigue becomes normalized within a profession, the consequences ripple outward.
Operational efficiency declines. Morale suffers. Experienced providers leave the field.
Most importantly, fatigue can affect the quality of care patients get.
Communities depend on EMS professionals to respond quickly and make critical decisions under pressure. Those responsibilities need clear thinking and alertness—something difficult to keep without adequate rest.
Moving Forward
Fatigue will always be part of emergency services to some degree. The unpredictable nature of the job makes perfect schedules impossible.
But acknowledging the problem is an important first step.
Agencies can explore smarter scheduling, better rest environments, and policies that recognize fatigue as a safety issue. Providers can take steps to manage their own sleep habits and recovery time.
The tones will still drop in the middle of the night. That’s part of the job.
The profession can continue working toward systems. These systems protect both the providers who answer those calls. They also protect the communities they serve.
Tomorrow Part II – Running on Coffee and Commitment: How First Responders Survive Fatigue
References
Williamson AM, Feyer AM. Moderate sleep deprivation produces impairments in cognitive and motor performance equivalent to legally prescribed levels of alcohol intoxication. Occup Environ Med. 2000 Oct;57(10):649-55. doi: 10.1136/oem.57.10.649. PMID: 10984335; PMCID: PMC1739867.
Billings JM. Firefighter sleep: a pilot study of the agreement between actigraphy and self-reported sleep measures. J Clin Sleep Med. 2022 Jan 1;18(1):109-117. doi: 10.5664/jcsm.9566. PMID: 34314350; PMCID: PMC8807900.
Patterson PD, Martin SE, Brassil BN, Hsiao WH, Weaver MD, Okerman TS, Seitz SN, Patterson CG, Robinson K. The Emergency Medical Services Sleep Health Study: A cluster-randomized trial. Sleep Health. 2023 Feb;9(1):64-76. doi: 10.1016/j.sleh.2022.09.013. Epub 2022 Nov 10. PMID: 36372657.
Cox M, Cramm H. Laying the foundation: exploring the family impact of public safety personnel sleep health. FACETS. 2025;10:1-14. doi: 10.1139/facets-2025-0081
Holland-Winkler AM, Greene DR, Oberther TJ. The Cyclical Battle of Insomnia and Mental Health Impairment in Firefighters: A Narrative Review. J Clin Med. 2024 Apr 9;13(8):2169. doi: 10.3390/jcm13082169. PMID: 38673442; PMCID: PMC11050272.
Marvin G, Schram B, Orr R, Canetti EFD. Occupation-Induced Fatigue and Impacts on Emergency First Responders: A Systematic Review. Int J Environ Res Public Health. 2023 Nov 12;20(22):7055. doi: 10.3390/ijerph20227055. PMID: 37998287; PMCID: PMC10671419.
Huang G, Lee TY, Banda KJ, Pien LC, Jen HJ, Chen R, Liu D, Hsiao SS, Chou KR. Prevalence of sleep disorders among first responders for medical emergencies: A meta-analysis. J Glob Health. 2022 Oct 20;12:04092. doi: 10.7189/jogh.12.04092. PMID: 36269052; PMCID: PMC9585923.
Billings JM, Jahnke SA. Effects of a 24/48 to 48/96 Shift Schedule Change on Firefighter Sleep and Health: Short-Term Improvements and Six-Month Stability. Int J Environ Res Public Health. 2025 Nov 5;22(11):1678. doi: 10.3390/ijerph22111678. PMID: 41302624; PMCID: PMC12652382.
Be sure to follow up on emergency news and information at JEMS.
This Story From The Classics. Posted Originally in 2024 it is Reposted this year as part of the best of the best stories benandsteve.com are sharing at years end.
I have driven thousands of miles in my police patrol unit. I have also answered nearly as many calls. I can attest that there are no ‘Good Dog Calls’ a police officer can be assigned to on duty.
Getting sent to a call involving a dog always includes extra concerns that should be more welcome. Dogs can be unfriendly, mean, unruly, and generally not trustworthy.
Case in point: I have responded to dog calls where the dog got reported missing. It was just across the street and refused to return to its owner. It came to my patrol unit and refused to get out. It insisted on staying, growling when we tried to pick it up and carry it back to its home. I can only guess why it didn’t want to go home.
I have been to dog calls where the dog has bitten a neighbor and had to get put in confinement. The owner objected to the dog’s removal, and a brigade of officers confiscated the dog. The animal control officer was not on duty. So the dog went into the police cruiser and made a hairy mess. It took weeks to get all the fuzz out. No pun intended. Then a day later, and while patrolling through the neighborhood, you see the dog getting walked by the owner’s child. Only to discover they have broken it out of doggy jail. You also have to file more serious charges against the dog owner. Something that you wish didn’t have to happen. The dog is confused over the whole back and forth. The Canine would have been home sooner had the owners only cooperated with the city.
Then, the next step is the crisis intervention, which is your own. It is early in the morning. And dispatch sends you to a home where a pit bull has a family trapped in their home. It will not allow them to get to their cars to leave to go to work or school. You arrive and see this dog running between the front and back doors, preventing the homeowners from exiting the house. You call your backup unit to bring the animal control unit since they are not on duty (as usual).
The backup officer arrives in the Animal Control Unit—the beauty of every small-town police department. You get the dog loop poles when they arrive and devise a plan. The homeowners will call the dog to the backdoor. This will allow an officer to enter the house through the front door. Then your backup partner will go in the house and go to the back door and call the dog. When he rushes to the back door he will use one of the loop poles. Slipping a loop over the dog’s head. As he does, I will come up from behind and slip a loop over the head. And we will have a two loop pole control of the dog. Then together we will be able to control the animal to get it into the animal control vehicle. As we carry out the plan, the dog fights with all it has. Trying feverishly to bite and attack us. We get it to the truck, lift it in, and slide it into a carrier. Loosening the pole loops, we leave them intact so we can use them when we get out to the shelter. So to place the animal in a pen. We close the gate and say farewell to the family that had got trapped inside their home. Waving to us, they are grateful for our service. The dog is fighting like crazy inside the truck. It sounds like we have the Tasmanian Devil inside.
We drove six miles to the shelter, and our anxiety peaked. We were ready to take on this beast we had struggled with earlier. It is now eerily quiet. We cracked open the gate and took hold of the poles. We tightened the slack in the loops. To make sure the dog had tension around its neck so we can control it. We flipped open the gate, and ––––– NOTHING. The dog was dead. DEAD! IT WAS LIMP.
We are dumbfounded at what the hell happened. We had put it in the back of the truck and drove six miles. An investigation indicated that the dog continued fighting even inside the truck’s cage. And either had a heart attack or choked itself while fighting within the closure. We had no choice but to take the dog to the shelter. Had we left it at large we would have had to fight the dog. And even got put in a position to shoot the animal due to its violence. We intended to try and avoid that scenario, but sadly, it ended the dog’s life anyway.
This Story From The Classics. Posted Originally in 2024 it is Reposted this year as part of the best of the best stories benandsteve.com are sharing at years end.
The last three days of the year often get overlooked. During this time, services go unnoticed around the average town or city. This well can be the case where you live.Police, Fire, Ambulance, and 911 Operators all do an incredible job. They work tirelessly in the build up to the New Year Eve Celebration and all the socializing involved. All the socializing is not celebratory, and the people they deal with are not all friendly.
As the year drew close, the city was abuzz with anticipation for the New Year’s celebrations. But for the fire, police, and ambulance services, the last three days of the year were anything but quiet. These dedicated men and women often worked long shifts. They sacrificed their own celebrations. They were on the front lines, ensuring the community’s safety and well-being.
Day One: December 29th
The fire department received a call about a house fire in the early morning hours. Flames engulfed the old wooden structure, and the firefighters worked tirelessly to control the blaze. They managed to rescue a family trapped inside, their faces covered in soot but grateful to be alive. Investigators later determined that a faulty space heater caused the fire. This serves as a stark reminder of the dangers of winter.
Meanwhile, the police were called to a domestic disturbance in a quiet suburban neighborhood. A heated argument escalated. Officers arrived with their professional demeanor and calm approach. They managed to defuse the situation. This ensured that both parties were safe and had a chance to cool down.
The ambulance service was dispatched to a car accident on the icy roads. A young driver had lost control of his vehicle and skidded into a tree. Paramedics worked quickly to stabilize him and transport him to the hospital. Despite the crash’s seriousness, the driver was expected to fully recover.
Day Two: December 30th
The fire department responded to a call about a gas leak in an apartment building. Residents were evacuated as firefighters located the source of the leak and shut it off. Their quick response and decisive action prevented a potential explosion. This reassured the residents. They were allowed to return to their homes once it was deemed safe.
The police were called to a robbery at a local convenience store. The suspect had fled the scene, but officers gathered evidence and track him down. The thief was apprehended and taken into custody, and the stolen goods were returned to the relieved store owner.
The ambulance service received a call about an elderly woman who had fallen in her home. Paramedics arrived to find her in pain and incapable of moving. They carefully lifted her onto a stretcher. They transported her to the hospital. At the hospital, she was treated for a broken hip. Her family was grateful for the swift and compassionate care she received.
Day Three: December 31st
On New Year’s Eve, the fire department was on high alert as fireworks lit up the night sky. They responded to several small fires caused by stray sparks, but thankfully, none resulted in severe damage. Firefighters patrolled the city, ensuring that everyone enjoyed the celebrations safely despite the potential dangers they faced.
The police were busy with calls about noise complaints and public intoxication. Officers maintained a visible presence in the city center, where crowds had gathered to watch the fireworks show. They worked to keep the peace and make sure everyone rang in the new year without incident.
The ambulance service was called to help a young woman who had collapsed at a New Year’s party. Paramedics quickly assessed her condition and determined that she had consumed too much alcohol. They provided her with the necessary care and transported her to the hospital for further observation.
When the clock struck midnight, the city erupted in cheers and celebrations. The fire, police, and ambulance services continued their vigilant watch, ready to respond to emergencies. For them, the end of the year was just another day. They served and protected their community. This often came at the cost of their own family celebrations.
Remember this New Year’s Eve and throughout the Holiday Season, Do Not Drink And Drive. Party Responsibly. Stay Alive For 2025!
First responders are trained to notice patterns long before studies are commissioned or policies are rewritten. Sometimes danger announces itself not with a single catastrophic event, but with repetition—quiet, unsettling repetition. Over a single 24-hour period, I recorded eight separate headlines. Each headline involved police officers being struck by vehicles while working crashes or traffic stops. Eight. Different states. Different agencies. Same outcome. This situation raises a controversial and long overdue question. Are modern LED strobe lights unintentionally putting first responders in greater danger?
There was a time when emergency lights rotated. They swept. They moved with rhythm. The old beacons gave drivers something important—a visual break. A moment for the brain to process direction, distance, and motion. Today’s LED systems don’t rotate; they pulse. Rapidly.
Aggressively. Relentlessly. High-intensity strobes which floods the visual field, especially at night. Instead of guiding a driver away from danger, it overwhelms the brain’s ability to react. The result, in theory, is not panic—but fixation. The eyes lock on. The vehicle drifts toward the brightest point. Not out of intent, but neurological confusion.
Some call it “target fixation,” a phenomenon well known to pilots, motorcyclists, and tactical drivers. Under stress, humans often steer toward what they’re staring at—even when that object shows danger. Combine that instinct with modern LED strobes. These strobes flash faster than the brain comfortably processes. The warning light becomes a lure. A hypnotic point of focus. A tragic beacon.
Eight Officers Were Struck In 24 Hours. Different States. Same Strobe Style Lighting.
Is it time to ask whether modern emergency strobes are warning drivers—or pulling them in?
Within just one day, these were the headlines recorded:
• 1 arrested for allegedly driving while intoxicated after rear-ending a police cruiser on I-465
• Las Vegas police officer injured after vehicle hit while investigating a separate crash
• Effingham County deputy hospitalized after being struck by a vehicle, authorities confirm
• Police cruiser struck by car, officer injured in Naugatuck
• State trooper vehicle damaged after being hit during a traffic stop
• Norman police officer critically injured after being struck by a car on State Highway 9
• Winston-Salem police officer injured after impaired driver crashed into three patrol cars
• Waterbury man injured Naugatuck officer in hit-and-run crash
Eight incidents. One recurring element: emergency lighting designed to protect, now contributing to harm.
This is not an indictment of technology, nor a dismissal of impaired or reckless driving. Accountability still matters. But safety demands that we ask difficult questions—even when the answers challenge long-standing assumptions. If the very lights meant to warn motorists are instead disorienting them, then tradition, training, and procurement policies deserve re-examination.
Officers and firefighters shouldn’t have to stand in the road. They shouldn’t be wondering whether the light behind them is helping. They shouldn’t wonder if it’s painting a target on their back.
Sometimes progress requires us to look backward. Sometimes the old way worked better. And sometimes, the most dangerous thing on the roadside isn’t the driver who fails to slow down. Instead, it’s the light that never lets them look away.
This isn’t meant to be the final word — it’s meant to start a conversation.
If you’re a first responder, dispatcher, firefighter, EMT, tow operator, or a motorist, your experience matters. If you have ever felt disoriented by modern emergency lighting, your experience matters.
Have you noticed drivers drifting toward scenes instead of away from them? Do today’s LED strobes feel different than the rotating lights of the past? Or do you believe visibility has improved safety overall?
Share your thoughts, experiences, or observations in the comments. Respectful discussion is encouraged. If patterns are being noticed on the roadside long before they’re studied in boardrooms, it’s worth listening. Lives depend on it.
Benjamin Groff is a former police officer and radio news anchor. He has hosted programs for CNN and ABC News affiliates in Oklahoma, Colorado, and Wyoming. His career in law enforcement began in 1980 and lasted more than two decades. This gave him first hand insight into the criminal mind and public safety. Moreover, it provided him with an understanding of the human stories that often go untold. His writing draws on these experiences, blending street-level truth with a journalist’s eye for the bigger picture.
In the heart of the bustling city, the frigid December air carried the soft hum of holiday cheer. Festive lights adorned streetlamps, casting warm glows onto the snow-dusted streets. For the officers of the 8th Precinct, Christmas Eve was far from quiet. Calls came in relentlessly: domestic disputes, stranded travelers, and even a wayward reindeer reported near the city park. These dedicated officers were on duty, ready to serve and protect.
What the officers didn’t know was that they had three spectral protectors watching over them—The Guardians of Christmas Eve.
Each of these ghostly policemen had once served the city. They were bound by duty. A deep sense of loyalty held their spirits. They lingered to make sure that no harm would come to those who now walked the beat.
Inspector Miles Hanley
Miles Hanley was a tall and imposing figure. He had been the precinct’s first chief when the station was founded in the late 1800s. Known for his wisdom, he fiercely protected his officers. He carried his ghostly silver pocket watch. He used it to guide the others through the city. On this night, Hanley floated above a lone patrol car. It was parked at the edge of a dark alley. His translucent form shimmered in the moonlight.
“Johnson’s heading into a bad spot,”
Hanley muttered, watching the young officer approach a shadowy figure rummaging through garbage bins. With a flick of his watch, he whispered through the veil of time, nudging Johnson’s instincts. The officer hesitated, then called for backup—averting a potential ambush. Hanley grinned.
“Still got it.”
Officer Rosie McKinney
Rosie, affectionately called “Mama Mac” by her peers, had patrolled the city during the 1940s. She had an uncanny knack for reading people, even in death. Tonight, she hovered near a busy intersection where Officer Emily Torres was directing traffic midst a chaotic pile-up.
“Stay sharp, Emily,”
Rosie murmured, spotting a distracted driver barreling toward the scene. With a wave of her ethereal baton, she sent a gust of icy wind straight into the driver’s face. The man slammed on his brakes just in time, his car skidding to a halt inches from the officer. Rosie chuckled, tipping her ghostly hat. “That’s one less hospital visit tonight.”
Detective Lou Vargas
Lou had been a beloved detective in the 1970s, known for his quick wit and unshakable resolve. He now roamed the precinct’s cold case archives, whispering clues to frustrated officers. But tonight, Lou focused on Officer Brandon Lee. Officer Lee had just been called to investigate a suspicious package left near a crowded shopping district.
As Brandon approached the package, Lou materialized briefly behind him, a shadowy whisper in the winter night. “Check the wires, kid. Look left before you kneel.” Obeying the faint warning in his gut, Brandon discovered the package was harmless—a forgotten Christmas gift. Still, he felt the hairs on his neck stand like someone had been there with him.
A Christmas Morning Promise
As dawn broke over the city, the officers returned to the precinct, exhausted but safe. Unseen by human eyes, Miles, Rosie, and Lou gathered on the station’s rooftop, gazing at the snow-covered streets below.
“We did good,”
Lou said, leaning on his ghostly cane.
“Not a single officer lost,” Rosie added softly.
Miles held up his pocket watch, the spectral clock hands freezing as the sun rose. “Until next year,” he said, and the three faded into the morning mist.
Below, Officer Torres rubbed her arms against the chill. “Did you feel that?” she asked Officer Lee.
“Yeah,” he replied, staring at the horizon. “Like someone was watching over us.”
Police work operated on instinct, humor, and gritty common sense before body cameras. Every arrest didn’t turn into a viral upload back then. This approach belonged to another era. Officers learned from veterans who passed down unwritten rules — some practical, some questionable, and some downright hilarious. These stories aren’t a manual. They’re memories from a world that helped shape the officers we later became.
Don’s Lessons for Rookie Officers
Don was a seasoned officer whose wisdom mixed patience with a dry, knowing humor. He often told rookies about the prisoners who would scream for an entire transport ride. These are the same kind you see in fifteen-minute viral videos today.
He’d tell the infamous alum-powder story with a wink.
“Keep a plastic bag of it in your shirt pocket.
If you get a screamer, take a pinch and flick it – they will shut up!”
This always left rookies unsure whether he was pulling their leg. Or, was he sharing some relic from an era with fewer rules and more noise? His message was never about techniques. It was about the mindset: don’t let chaos set the tone. And always keep your humor intact.
The “Dog!” Brake Test
Another bit of old-school folklore involved the rowdy back-seat prisoner who wouldn’t stop cussing or kicking. Officers had a classic trick:
Get the patrol car up to about forty-five miles an hour.
Slam on the brakes.
Yell,
“Dog!”
The prisoner would slam into the cage divider and go silent. This silence would last until the second dog ran across the road. By the time they arrived at the jail, the only thing left in them was concern for the imaginary dogs.
It wasn’t policy. It wasn’t pretty. It was one of those stories officers shared over coffee. They shook their heads at “the way things used to be.”
The Gilligan’s Island Sobriety Test
DUI stops had their own brand of comedy. When you already knew the drunk driver was going to jail, the roadside field tests became… creative.
The “Gilligan’s Island Test” was a favorite:
Place your left hand over your head. Hold your right ear with your right hand. Balance on one foot. Sing the theme to Gilligan’s Island.
Most never made it past “a three-hour tour.”
It broke the tension. And after a long, cold night, sometimes everyone needed that.
Jurisdiction and the Art of Paperwork Avoidance
Jurisdiction lines used to shift like sand depending on who wanted — or didn’t want — the call. If the incident required endless paperwork, officers suddenly cared very deeply about city-limit boundaries, council-meeting notes, and outdated maps.
Veterans avoided calls they weren’t dispatched to, knowing the penalty: days off lost to court subpoenas. Midnight-shift officers often clocked out at dawn. They then sat in a courtroom until midafternoon. They did this while waiting for cases where they never said a word.
It was exhausting, but it was part of the rhythm of old-school policing.
A Time Before Cameras — And a Time With More Witnesses
These stories sound wild today, but much of policing back then was driven by common sense and community trust. People knew officers, and officers knew their people.
Citizens were often the first to speak up if an officer crossed a line. This happened long before social media or body cams existed. Even without technology, accountability came from individuals who believed in keeping standards high.
Most officers didn’t stop someone without a genuine reason. Those who abused that privilege rarely lasted. It was an unwritten rule — understood, enforced, and expected.
Closing Reflection
Old-school policing wasn’t perfect — not by a long shot. But it existed in a different world with different expectations. Humor softened harder edges. Community relationships carried more weight. And the job, for better or worse, relied on improvisation.
Today’s policing is built on transparency and technology, and that’s a good evolution. But these stories stay important. They are reminders of the human side of the badge, the long nights, and the strange solutions. These stories also recall the characters who trained us and the moments that shaped us along the way.
One persistent problem is untruths. Misinformation continues to mislead the public. These actions make the police look unfavorable.
Benjamin Groff is a former police officer and radio news anchor. He has hosted programs for CNN and ABC News affiliates in Colorado and Wyoming. His career in law enforcement began in 1980 and lasted more than two decades. This gave him firsthand insight into the criminal mind and public safety. Moreover, it provided him with an understanding of the human stories that often go untold. His writing draws on these experiences, blending street-level truth with a journalist’s eye for the bigger picture.
Henry had been laying low for months. He wasn’t exactly on the best terms with the brass at his small police department. He’d been on the midnight shift so long, most people in town barely remembered he worked there. To entertain himself, he left funny notes about the place signed “John Henry.” The detective division took six months to figure out who was behind the jokes. They learned the truth only by accident.
Henry confessed to one of the detectives during a neighborly beer session. The young detective was desperate for some action. He had gone a year without a single arrest. He thought maybe Henry can teach him a thing or two. Henry didn’t hold back: “For starters, I’m not sitting on my ass in the office for eight hours.” It stung. The detective had only one unit in his division. His wet-hen supervisor kept him glued to a desk. Henry, on the other hand, led the department in felony arrests for two years straight. His bluntness was legendary, especially among supervisors who loved to hate him.
But it was what happened at 3:00 a.m. one night that sealed Henry’s reputation. He pulled his black-and-white patrol unit up to the north entry door of the station. He wanted to check his oil. He also wanted to check his transmission fluid. Both were low. As he topped the transmission, some spilled onto the exhaust pipes and burst into flames. In seconds, the underside of the cruiser was lit up like a bonfire. Henry shouted, “Shit! Shit! Shit!” sprinted inside, grabbed the fire extinguisher, and went to work.
The flames went out. A massive cloud of extinguisher powder billowed everywhere—under the car, across the pavement, and straight into the police department itself. The breathalyzer, computers, and half the office equipment were dusted in a fine white film. To anyone walking in, it looked like a cocaine snowstorm had blown through the station.
Henry realized it would take 18 hours to clean, and he wasn’t about to spend his shift playing janitor. He called to a cat he saw over in a alley way. It came to him. He picked it up and threw it into the station. Then he rolled the extinguisher across the floor causing it to seem that it had knocked over. He dusted off his hands and thought: “Shit happens. Things happen. And I’ll be in the far south district when they find this mess.” shut and locked the door and headed south. And that is where he was at 0800. Day shift radioed saying they were 10-8. Henry replied, good I am Ten Dash Seven!
To this day, no one ever heard the story—until now. The Cat? No one ever mentioned it again!
Walking the White Line: From Hymns to Highway Patrols
If you’ve ever been told to “walk a straight white line,” the meaning depends a lot on where you’re standing. It also depends on who’s watching. In the Welsh valleys of How Green Was My Valley, the “white line” was a poetic path. It symbolized memory and loss. In American trucker slang, it’s the hypnotic blur of endless road miles. But to a police officer at 1 a.m. on the shoulder of a highway, that white line is all about one thing: sobriety.
A Path in Song and Story
In How Green Was My Valley, the final scene drifts to Alfred Newman’s Finale. It is woven with the Welsh hymn Pen Calfaria. Its the “white line” was a poetic path of memory and loss. “This shall never leave my memory”, feels like a pledge. This pledge is to never forget where you’ve walked. The “white line” here is a metaphorical road. It signifies a way home, a journey of life. It is the one path you try to stay true to.
Road Paint and Real Lines
Outside of metaphor, the first real white lines appeared on American roads in the early 20th century. Two names claim credit:
A leaking milk wagon inspired Edward Hines in 1911.
Dr. June McCarroll, who proposed painted center lines after a close call in 1917.
Whichever story you buy, the point is safety—keeping drivers in their lane and avoiding head-on collisions. And from there, the idea of “walking the line” naturally started meaning “stay where you’re supposed to.”
Law and Order: The Walk-and-Turn
The “walk the white line” sobriety test isn’t ancient Irish pub lore or a circus stunt. It’s a product of late 1970s American law enforcement. The U.S. National Highway Traffic Safety Administration (NHTSA) funded research to standardize roadside sobriety tests. Out of those studies came the now-famous “Walk and Turn” test:
Nine heel-to-toe steps along a straight line.
Turn in a prescribed way.
Nine steps back.
It’s part of the Standardized Field Sobriety Tests (SFSTs), along with the horizontal gaze test and the one-leg stand. The idea is to challenge both balance and divided attention—two abilities alcohol loves to mess with.
Officers used informal techniques before the SFSTs. They asked suspects to touch their nose. Suspects were also asked to recite the alphabet or, yes, walk a straight line. These early “white line” walks have been inspired by the painted road markings. They also have been inspired by circus balance acts. Alternatively, the practical idea of watching someone try to move in a perfectly straight path have been the inspiration.
Beyond the Pavement
Hymns about life’s journey include the image of a narrow path you must follow. Truckers experience “white line fever.” Country music promises fidelity with songs like Johnny Cash’s“I Walk the Line.” This imagery runs deep in human storytelling. The white line is painted down the middle of a highway, showing control and direction. It can also be imagined across the green hills of Wales. It shows the consequences of straying.
The modern police test feel clinical—clipboards, flashlights, and a yellow legal pad. Nevertheless, the symbolism is the same. Can you keep your feet steady? Is your head clear, and can you stay on the line?
Sometimes, the answer to “where did it come from?” is that it came from everywhere. It came from roads, songs, and courtrooms. It also originated from the human habit of evaluating a person’s worth. This is done by observing how well they adhere to the path.
A driver aimed to set a land speed record. He was going 283 mph during a racing event at Utah’s famed Bonneville Salt Flats. He died August 3rd, 2025, after losing control of his rocket-like vehicle called the Speed Demon, organizers said. The team had got detoured due to traffic lanes being improved. They and others would arrive late to the event.
Driver Chris Raschke
Driver Chris Raschke lost control about two and a half miles into a run. He was treated by medical professionals at the scene, but died from his injuries. The Southern California Timing Association has organized the popular land-speed racing event. This event is known as “Speed Week” and has been organized since the late 1940s.
For decades, the flat, glasslike white surface has drawn drivers from all over. They seek to set new land speed world records. Motorcycle and car fans come to watch. The salt flats are a remnant of a prehistoric lakebed. They are about 100 miles (160 kilometers) west of Salt Lake City. They have also been a backdrop for movies like “Independence Day” and “The World’s Fastest Indian.”
There is a question to be answered; why wasn’t there something soft for the man to land on? Case in point, a bouncy house, there is something soft. It would need to be ten or twenty fold. So, when his car popped off course, it would have bounced around the desert without killing anyone. Which is obvious to anyone looking at the desert.
For decades, people have used the flat, glasslike surface at Bonneville Salt Flats. It is located 100 miles (160 kilometers) west of Salt Lake City. They use it to set speed records, sometimes topping 400 mph (644 kph). Speed Week has long been a draw for motorcycle and car fans.
Raschke, 60, drove a streamliner. This long, narrow, aerodynamic car was made to run at high speeds and was known as the Speed Demon. He had worked in motor sports for more than four decades.
According to the Speed Demon racing team’s site, Raschke worked at the Ventura Raceway in the early 1980s. He raced 3-wheelers and cars in the mini stock division. Raschke learned to fabricate and keep race cars when working with an acclaimed engine builder. He later became a driver for the Speed Demon team.
Keith Pedersen, the association’s president and Speed Week race director, said Raschke was a respected driver within the racing community. He also worked for a company that makes fasteners for race cars.
“He is one of the big ones. He had done all sorts of racing,” Pedersen said.
The Race Week event began on Saturday and runs through Friday. Are you in The Phoenix metro area and want to see vehicles passing the set speeds. All you have to do is drive on any of its freeways. And be safe!
Dawn broke over a transformed Ajo. The Mexican beagle crickets, now thoroughly stuffed with peanut butter goodness, retreated to the desert brush. The crickets appeared content. It was as if the agreement had fulfilled their mission. A sense of calm, albeit a wry and weary one, settled over the town.
Buck found himself standing amid the remnants of last night’s epic showdown. Discarded taco wrappers were all around. A few broken garden hoses added to the debris. An old margarita blender lay as if a token of an absurd battle. The Mayor, still in full “wartime” regalia, shook hands with retirees. He even gave a slight nod of respect to Carl for his unorthodox diplomacy.
At the gas station, the local newspaper was already printing the headline:
“PEANUT BUTTER PACIFIST: HOW BUCK MILFORD CALMED THE CRICKET STORM”
— Ajo Today, alongside a coupon for “Buy One, Get One Free – Peace of Mind.”
Buck, ever the humble hero, tipped his hat.
“Sometimes, all it takes is cooler heads…and a couple of sandwiches,”
he remarked dryly.
The final act of the evening unfolded with a local radio show, hosted by Marty the janitor. Marty, now reformed, played a slow, soulful tune. The music blended cowboy ballads with cricket chirps in the background. Buck’s patrol car, dusty and battered, stood as a symbol of resilience against absurdity.
As the sun climbed higher in the sky the next morning, Ajo prepared for another day in the desert. Danger and humor mingled that day. There was also the possibility of another bizarre escapade in the shimmering heat. And Buck, always ready, knew that in a town like this, adventure was never too far away.
The sun dipped low. It cast long shadows over the scorched earth of Ajo. The stage was set for the ultimate confrontation. Every faction had gathered. Mayor Gonzalez stood with her fleet of feisty seniors armed with flyswatters. Carl Sandlin rode his tinfoil-covered dune buggy, banjo in hand. A defiant Barney Fife-lookalike still clutched his oversized ticket book. Buck was caught in the middle, displaying a mixture of resignation and amusement.
Across the dusty open space, the beagle crickets aligned themselves in rows that shimmered in the golden glow. Their usual hum was replaced by a rising, almost militant chorus of chirps. It was a rallying cry that sent a shiver down everyone’s spine (or was it just the cool desert breeze?).
Mayor Gonzalez stepped up, megaphone in hand, and declared,
“Today, we settle this once and for all! You bugs have terrorized our town long enough, and you’re coming to justice!“
At the same time, Carl revved his banjo as if it were a trigger. He let out a wild, improvised yodel. This merged into a banjo riff—a challenge thrown down in musical form. The tension was palpable.
Then came the unexpected moment. Buck acted on pure instinct. His genius shone brightly from a half-forgotten lunch order. He pulled out a thermos of peanut butter sandwiches.
“Folks, and… critters,”
he announced, his voice steady.
“Sometimes all you need is a little tad of nourishment. It’s a reminder of simpler days.”
He scattered the sandwiches across the open space. The crickets, baffled by the offering (and even enticed by the rich aroma), paused their chorus. Slowly, as if savoring each bite, they began to nibble at the offerings. One by one, the insects lowered their guard. In that surreal instant, music and mayhem faded into an almost peaceful tableau.
Barney Fife-like hollered,
“This is it—the bug truce is on!”
While Mayor Gonzalez’s frown slowly morphed into a reluctant smile as her deputies put down their flyswatters.
For a heartbeat, the desert held its breath.
How long can everyone hold their breath? Too long, and we’ll have folks fainting in the streets—because that’s what happens when you forget to breathe! We hope the Mayor will remind the crowd to inhale. Barney Fife or Buck himself might do that too. We need this reminder before we move on to Chapter 10—the final installment of this wild ride.
If you’ve been reading since Chapter 1, you already know how it started. It began with unidentified flying toilets. Additionally, there was a full-blown invasion of Mexican Beagle Crickets across Southern Arizona’s Sonoran Desert. But if you just tuned in now… do yourself a favor—go back to the beginning. Otherwise, you’ll be as lost as the lady in the blue ’74 Buick LeSabre. She’s still sitting at the stop sign outside Ajo. She’s waiting for directions that may never come.
The Mexican Beagle Crickets Hum “Play Misty For Me?
As news of the impromptu peace talks spread, another mystery began simmering like the endless desert heat. The highway crew’s newly installed solar-powered misting stations were intended to cool workers. They were also meant for eager beagle crickets. Nonetheless, they were causing far more problems than anticipated.
While Buck was patrolling near a row of these glistening stations, he noticed something amiss. Where the mist should have provided relief, it instead made the crickets multiply. A bizarre swarm of shiny, water-dappled insects was now marching in almost perfect formation.
Investigating further, Buck discovered that the misting stations weren’t a product of innovative engineering at all. They were part of a shady government contract mixed with local corruption. Additionally, there was a janitor who seemed to know every secret corridor in the county. The janitor was a quiet, stooped fellow known as Marty. He confessed that he had been “tinkering” with the control systems. He did this in exchange for a steady supply of his favorite snack: spicy cactus crisps.
“This here mist is subsidizing a bug bonanza!”
Buck grumbled as he took notes in a dog-eared notebook, the pages fluttering in the arid wind.
Suspicions mounted. Someone is using the misting stations to create a perfect breeding ground for the cricket phenomenon. This move would be designed to turn Ajo into a quirky tourist trap. It also would be a covert experiment in behavioral acoustics. Trust, it seemed, was as scarce as shade in the desert.
Before Buck confronts Marty with a ticket, the misting systems churned out another puff of fog. It sent confused retirees and cricket mediators scattering in every direction. Buck still intended to give Marty a stern talking-to.
Those misting machines didn’t cool things down—they cranked the chaos up a notch! Now, Mexican Beagle Crickets are swarming Ajo and its neighboring towns faster than you can shake a jalapeno-laced stick. Somewhere in the background, the ghostly voice of Karl Malden echoes. It is from a dusty 1978 American Express commercial. “What will you do? What will you do?” That, dear reader, is the burning question for Chapter Nine… and trust us, the heat is just getting started.
Salsa Dancing To A Deal With The Mexican Beagle Crickets
The escalating cricket crisis soon took a bizarre turn. After the Mayor declared martial law, Buck inexplicably found himself roped into a ceasefire negotiation. It was by invitation and circumstance, not entirely by choice.
Under the twilight sky, Buck set up a pair of folding chairs near the old taco stand. It was now decked out as a makeshift negotiation table. He sat alongside Carl Sandlin, who was still sporting his sequined –––
“diplomatic vest.”
An unexpected guest joined them: Gladys “The Negotiator” Ramirez. She is a spry 82-year-old with a background in community organizing and a penchant for peanut butter.
A gentle breeze stirred the desert sand as dozens of beagle crickets gathered in a semicircle. Their chirps and hums intermingled with the soft strumming of Carl’s banjo. It was not a formal diplomatic session at all. Instead, it was a surreal backyard barbecue meeting. Buck found himself as the unintended mediator.
Carl, with a dramatic flourish, announced,
“I propose we work together! You bugs, you stop the invasions, and we guarantee a steady supply of fresh, organic salsa.”
The crickets, of course, did not respond with words, but their synchronized humming seemed to offer a tentative –––
“aye.”
Then, Gladys cleared her throat.
“Now listen here, critters. We are not capable to talk your language, but I do know a thing or two about compromise. How ’bout a trade?”
There was a pause that lasted nearly two seconds in cricket time. A single cricket marched ahead. It tapped an abandoned sombrero with its leg, as if in silent agreement.
Buck, rubbing the bridge of his nose, grinned. He thought,
“I have to admit, this is just the most peculiar peace talk.”
It was indeed the most peculiar peace talk this side of a cactus convention.
The ceasefire was as fragile as the morning dew on the desert floor. For one mystical, humid moment, man and cricket reached an understanding.
Will this agreement hold? The Mexican Beagle Crickets and man—finally in harmony? Or will the crickets grow weary of salsa and develop a taste for avocado dip instead? Will a sudden craving for classic TV jingles like Sanford and Son or The Beverly Hillbillies derail the peace? And what happens when today’s senior citizens pass on—will the next generation need to renegotiate the whole deal? With only a few chapters left, Buck better hustle—answers aren’t going to find themselves!
Mayor DeeDee Gonzalez wasn’t one to take a half-measure. Her town’s only claim to fame was a bug outbreak with a penchant for humming and line-dancing. Mexican beagle crickets had commandeered a taco stand once more. They also interrupted a high-stakes karaoke contest at the community center. She had had enough.
The emergency meeting took place in the town hall. Chairs were hastily arranged in a circle. The table was littered with half-eaten enchiladas. The Mayor banged her gavel with a determined clatter.
“Enough is enough!”
She declared.
“These pests have overstepped their bounds. As of now, martial law is declared on all cricket activity in Ajo!”
In a matter of minutes, local retirees received “bug defense kits.” These kits featured oversized flyswatters and garden hoses. They also included homemade “cricket deterrent” spray (an odd blend of cactus juice and a hint of mint). The newly minted “deputies” marched down Main Street. The Beagle Cricket Brigade paused their evening serenade. It was as if to say, “They brought reinforcements!”
Buck, watching from the window of the Impala, smirked.
“Now that’s what you call bugging out,”
He muttered. He anticipated the chaos. It would ensue when a troop of seniors met a swarm of rhythmic insects.
How dare they! A Taco Stand? Those evil Beagle Crickets! It is only a matter of time before someone is called to main street for a shootout at high noon. But, will Buck’s aim hit something as small as a cricket in a shootout? Would the crime fighter be outmatched by crickets?Or will they challenge him to Karaoke sing off?
Buck Milford wasn’t the type to complain. He’d driven through sandstorms. He had broken up fistfights at quilt raffles. Once, he gave a field sobriety test to a goat wearing sunglasses. That day was different. The Arizona sun scorched the earth like a microwave set on vengeful. Even Buck was close to breaking.
The heat index had hit 127. A road sign melted. Melted. The “SLOW CHILDREN AT PLAY” sign now reads “OW.”
Buck had parked his cruiser under the only tree between Ajo and Yuma. It was a desperate little mesquite. It looked like it had made some poor life choices. He sipped water from his melted ice chest and tilted his hat over his forehead.
That’s when he saw Elvis.
Plain as day.
Standing next to the patrol car, wearing a powder-blue jumpsuit and holding a chili dog.
“Elvis?”
Buck mumbled.
“That you?”
Elvis gave him a nod.
“It’s hot out here, hoss.”
Buck blinked.
“I must’ve been out in the sun too long…”
Suddenly, another figure emerged from behind the tree.
Skinny. Nervous. Clutching a clipboard and a sheriff’s badge held on by Scotch tape.
“Buck! Buck, there’s been a violation!”
The man squeaked.
“A code triple-seven! Unlicensed harmonica discharge in a non-musical zone!”
Buck sat up straight.
“Barney Fife?”
It was indeed Barney Fife. Or instead, it was someone who looked, sounded, and panicked exactly like Don Knotts. This person was holding a ticket book the size of a Bible.
Barney fumbled with his pen.
“Now, now, Buck, I don’t want any trouble, but this whole desert’s outta code. These crickets! The yodeling! There’s dancing! Dancing, Buck! It’s indecent!”
Buck stood up, swaying slightly.
“Barney, are you… real?”
Barney narrowed his eyes.
“As real as a jelly doughnut on a Wednesday morning, Trooper. Now I’m gonna need you to confiscate Carl Sandlin’s banjo and suspend his taco license—right away!”
Behind them, Elvis leaned against the cruiser and took a bite of his chili dog.
“Let the boy yodel, Barney.”
“I will not!”
Barney barked.
“This is law and order, not Hee Haw Live!”
At that moment, Carl himself drove by in a dune buggy. It was covered in tinfoil and wind chimes. He waved like a parade marshal.
“I’m playin’ at dawn!”
Carl shouted.
“Bring earplugs or bring maracas!”
Barney turned purple.
“I’ll have his badge!”
Buck stared in stunned silence.
A cricket landed on his shoulder and began humming ––
“Love Me Tender.”
The next thing Buck remembered was being propped up in a folding chair outside the Ajo gas station. A bag of frozen peas was on his forehead. He had a bottle of Gatorade in each hand.
“You passed out cold.”
Said Melba, the station clerk, who also claimed to be a licensed Reiki therapist.
“Said something about Elvis, Barney Fife, and indecent line dancing.”
Buck blinked.
“I didn’t… wrestle Carl off a unicycle, did I?”
“Not today.”
Buck took a long drink, sighed, and muttered,
“I’m starting to think this desert has a sense of humor.”
A Desert with a sense of humor? Barney Fife? Elvis? Our Crime Fighter has been out in the nether regions of the Sonoran Desert too long. That, or he sees dead people. Whatever it’s going to lead to, it’s another exciting story of Arizona’s most famous crime fighter, Buck Milford!That Mexican Beagle Cricket is sorta cute, isn’t it?
The Mexican beagle crickets arrived five days ago. Already, the Arizona Department of Wildlife had received over 300 complaints. Not about damage, mind you—but about the music.
“They’re too dang punctual,”
one retiree griped.
“They hum like my mother-in-law when she’s judging me,”
wrote another.
One anonymous caller just yelled. “MAKE IT STOP!” for forty-two seconds before hanging up.
Buck Milford was used to desert weirdness. He’d once ticketed a man for driving a dune buggy made entirely of rattlesnake skins. But nothing prepared him for Carl Sandlins latest idea: The Great Cricket Peace Yodel.
“I’ve been listenin’ to ‘em closely,”
Carl explained, pacing in front of his yurt-slash-taco-stand.
“And I think they respond to pitch. What we got here is a musical species. They ain’t hostile—they just need harmony!”
Carl wore what he called his “diplomatic vest.” It was a sequined denim jacket with fringe. He also equipped himself with an old harmonica, a rusted washboard, and a five-gallon pickle bucket labeledAMBASSADOR DRUM.
Buck just stared at him.
“You sure you haven’t been drinking your aloe again, Carl?”
But Carl was undeterred. That night at 2:00 a.m., he set up two lawn chairs. Fifteen minutes before the crickets’ usual humming ritual, he arranged a battery-powered spotlight. He also prepared a megaphone duct-taped to a broomstick.
“Alright, fellas,”
he said into the megaphone.
“Let’s talk tunes!”
Buck sat in the cruiser, sipping lukewarm coffee, radio off. “This is going to end with him either arrested, abducted, or somehow elected,” he muttered.
At exactly 2:15 a.m., right on schedule, the desert came alive with humming.
But this time… Carl joined in.
He yodeled.
He drummed.
He played a harmonica solo that sounded like a walrus stepping on bubble wrap.
And for thirty glorious seconds… the crickets paused.
Then, they hummed louder than ever.
They didn’t just hum The Andy Griffith Show this time. They mashed it up with Achy Breaky Heart. It sounded suspiciously like a 1996 Taco Bell jingle.
Carl dropped his bucket.
“They answered me, Buck! I think we’re collaborating!”
Buck opened his door.
“Carl, I think they’re angry.”
Suddenly, thousands of beagle crickets surged toward the yurt, drawn to the sounds of tin, harmonica, and misguided ambition. They swarmed Carl’s taco stand, leapt onto the megaphone, and—somehow—turned on his margarita blender.
It spun wildly. Salsa flew.
The crickets began line-dancing.
Buck had seen a lot, but beagle crickets doing synchronized grapevines under a disco light powered by solar lawn gnomes? That was new.
The next morning, the bugs had gone quiet. Carl stood in the rubble of his salsa bar. He was shirtless and proud.
“We made contact,”
he said, eyes shining.
“They danced, Buck. They danced!”
Buck surveyed the scene: overturned lawn chairs, chewed speaker wire, a cricket still stuck in a jar of queso.
“Well, Carl,”
he said,
“either they liked your music—or they mistook you for a piñata.”
Carl smiled.
“Doesn’t matter. Tonight, I’m bringin’ in the banjo!”
SO! CARL. He is bringing in the Banjo! Will it be on his knee? And will someone named Ole Susanna show up in Chapter Five if Carl swings that Banjo too wildly? That is a story for tomorrow. So be sure to check back and see if the Mexican Beagle Crickets have segued into classical jazz. Also, will the Highway Patrol get Buck a larger fly swatter?
If there was one thing Arizona didn’t need more of, it was heat.
But if there was one thing Arizonans couldn’t resist, it was a challenge.
Influencer Lacey Blu—a 24-year-old “solar chef” with 1.2 million followers and zero life experience—announced she’d be filming a bacon-cooking demonstration. Doing so on the hood of her Tesla at high noon. Trooper Buck Milford knew it was going to be a long day. Especially since Teslas were along way off from being invented.
“Cooking with the sun is so sustainable,”
she chirped into her phone.
“And so am I! #SizzleWithLace #SolarSnackQueen”
She parked off Highway 85 near a dead saguaro. She laid out her cookware—an iron skillet, three strips of thick-cut hickory bacon, and a side of emotional entitlement.
Buck arrived just as the bacon began to curl. He was curious about the cell phone since those too were new to this century. They were at least twenty five years from being even a brick phone.
“I’m gonna need you to step away from the car, ma’am,”
he said, tipping his hat.
“It’s 119 degrees, and your bacon grease just started a brush fire the size of a toddler’s birthday party.”
Lacey didn’t look up.
“Sir, this is my content.”
Behind her, a small flame began creeping across the sand toward a long-abandoned outhouse that somehow also caught fire. A confused jackrabbit ran out holding what looked like a burning flyer for a 1997 monster truck rally.
“Content’s one thing,”
Buck said, reaching for his fire extinguisher,
“but that yucca plant’s fixin’ to blow like a Roman candle.”
Just then, Carl Sandlin appeared on an electric scooter with a garden hose coiled like a lasso.
“I saw the smoke!”
he cried.
“Is it aliens again? Or someone makin’ fajitas?”
Buck didn’t answer. He was too busy putting out the bacon blaze while Lacey livestreamed the whole thing.
“Look, everyone!”
she squealed to her followers.
“This is Officer Cowboy. He’s putting out the fire I started! So heroic!”
Carl joined in, spraying more bystanders than actual flames.
“We got trouble, Buck! The beagle crickets are back. They were hummin’ ‘Jailhouse Rock’ this time!”
Buck finished dousing the car. He shook the foam off his arms. He wiped a trail of sweat from his forehead. It had been working its way toward his belt buckle since 10 a.m.
“Well, Carl, if the crickets are Elvis fans now, we’re all in trouble.”
The bacon was ruined. The hood of the Tesla had buckled like a soda can. And the only thing Lacey cared about was that the foam had splattered her ring light.
“You just cost me a brand deal!”
she snapped at Buck.
“I was working with MapleFix! It’s the official bacon of heatwave influencers!”
Buck gave her a long, flat stare.
“You can mail your complaints to the Arizona Department of Common Sense.”
That night, the local paper ran the headline:
INFLUENCER IGNITES BACON BLAZE; TROOPER BUCK SAVES CACTUS AND PRIDE — Saguaro Sentinel, pg. 3 next to coupon for 2-for-1 tarpaulin boots.
The Mexican beagle crickets showed up that night, as always. This time, they hummedRing of Fire.
Buck had just finished adjusting the old police scanner. It had been playing reruns of Hee Haw for the last hour. Suddenly, his radio crackled to life.
“Unit 12, please respond. Caller at mile marker 88 reports a suspicious hovering object. Caller believes it is extraterrestrial. Or a reflective commode. Please advise.”
Buck sighed and reached for his hat, which had molded to the dashboard like a forgotten tortilla.
“Lord help us,”
he muttered.
“If this is Carl again, I’m asking for hazard pay.”
Carl Sandlin, local yodeler and self-certified UFOlogist, had a unique reputation. It’s one you earn from a lifetime of heatstroke. Add to that expired beef jerky. Lastly, he had a mother who named him after her favorite brand of tooth powder.
Buck shifted the Impala into drive and pulled away from the shade of a sagging mesquite tree. The tires made a sound like frying bacon as they peeled off the scorched asphalt.
When he reached mile marker 88, Carl stood there. He was shirtless, shoeless, and sunburned. Carl was waving a fishing net wrapped in tin foil like a broken butterfly catcher.
“There it is, Buck!”
Carl bellowed.
“Hoverin’ just above my taco stand for forty-five minutes. Scared off my lunchtime crowd. Even the iguanas cleared out!”
Buck squinted toward the horizon. Sure enough, something metallic shimmered in the distance. It wobbled slightly in the heatwaves, casting a strange, shiny glow.
“You mean that thing?”
Buck asked, pointing.
Carl nodded so hard his hat flew off.
“Absolutely. That’s either an alien escape pod or a deluxe Porta-John.”
Buck pulled binoculars from his glove compartment, which were so fogged up with heat condensation they doubled as kaleidoscopes. After rubbing them on his sleeve, he focused in.
“…That’s a new solar-powered PortaCooler,”
he said finally.
“The highway crew’s been installing them for the road workers. It’s got misting fans, Bluetooth, and a cactus-scented air freshener.”
Carl squinted, unimpressed.
“You sure it ain’t Martian technology? Smells like sassafras and bad decisions over there.”
Buck stepped out of his patrol car, the soles of his boots sticking to the pavement with every step.
“Carl, unless the Martians are unionized and drive state-issued work trucks, I’m pretty sure they’re not putting in restrooms. Those restrooms aren’t off Route 85.”
Just then, as if to punctuate the point, a group of Mexican beagle crickets marched across the road. All in unison. All humming the Andy Griffith Show theme at exactly 2:15 p.m.
Carl froze.
Buck froze.
Even the misting PortaCooler froze up and made a high-pitched wheeze like it, too, was creeped out.
Carl whispered,
“You reckon they’re trying to send a message?”
Buck tipped his hat back and said,
“Only message I’m gettin’ is that we need stronger bug spray… and fewer heat hallucinations.”
The crickets finished their tune, executed a perfect pivot, and disappeared into the desert brush.
Carl crossed his arms.
“I still say that cooler’s alien.”
Buck opened the door to his cruiser and called over his shoulder.
“Well, if they are aliens, they’re better at plumbing than our city council.”
He chuckled as he pulled away, leaving Carl saluting the shimmering cooler like it was the mother ship.
It had been a hot day in the Arizona Desert. The sun had sizzled the sands in the Sonoran Desert for the last month. High temperatures reached over 115 degrees for each day during the past seven days. The weather forecast warned of night temperatures reaching 120°F or higher in the days ahead. Arizona State Trooper Wayne Milford had his 1968 Chevrolet Impala Patrol car parked outside Ajo. He had filled the fuel tank with fuel. An ice chest was filled with water. This was in case motorists or hikers needed rescue in the barren desert regions. Buck was known for his mishaps.
Trooper Milford was widely appreciated for his sense of humor. He would show community members safety tips during public meetings when he had spare time. He also attended public events during his off-duty time. He was respected by those even that received traffic tickets from and who had been arrested by the state trooper. Because he was known as a fair individual.
That summer was challenging. The extreme heat and the invasion of the Mexican beagle cricket placed the whole state under stress. Trooper Milford became essential because there would be more surprises than one could shake a stick at. And Buck had ton’s of sticks!
The Mexican beagle cricket wasn’t actually from Mexico. It didn’t bark like a beagle. Yet, it did hum the theme song to The Andy Griffith Show at exactly 2:15 a.m., every night, in unison. No one knew why. Some said it was a mating call. Others blamed radiation. Buck didn’t care. He kept a fly swatter in the glove box and an old harmonica to confuse them.
On this particular Thursday, Buck had just finished explaining the dangers of cooking bacon on your car hood. This activity was a popular desert pastime. He was speaking to a group of overheated tourists from Connecticut when his police radio crackled.
“Unit 12, we’ve got a report of a suspicious object at mile marker 88. The caller says it might be a UFO or possibly a very shiny porta-potty. Please respond.”
Buck took a sip from his melted water bottle, sighed, and muttered,
“Well, that’s probably just Carl again.”
Carl Sandlin is a local conspiracy theorist and professional yodeler. He had been filing UFO reports ever since a silver taco truck passed him on I-10 doing 95.
Still, the procedure was the procedure. Buck fired up the Impala. He turned on the siren, which sounded more like a kazoo than a siren thanks to a duct-tape repair. Then, he rumbled down the dusty road.
When he reached mile marker 88, he saw Carl. Carl was shirtless and shoeless. He was holding up what appeared to be a fishing net wrapped in aluminum foil.
“There it is, Buck!”
Carl shouted, pointing to a shimmering metal shape in the distance.
“That thing’s been hovering over my taco stand for an hour. My queso is boiling itself!”
Buck squinted. The heatwaves shimmered, giving everything a wobbly, dreamlike quality.
“Carl… that’s a new solar-powered PortaCooler. The highway crew just installed it yesterday. It’s got a misting feature and Wi-Fi.”
Carl blinked.
“You mean I can update my blog from out here now?”
“Yes, Carl.”
“Well, dang.”
Just then, a convoy of beagle crickets marched across the road in front of them, humming their nightly tune.
Buck and Carl watched in silence.
Carl finally said,
“You reckon they take requests?”
Well! You Reckon? They Take Request? We’ll have to wait until tomorrow. We need to find out if Buck will have to drive across the Grand Canyon State. He might be swatting at those Mexican Beagle Crickets. Or will the state hook a sprayer up to his unit? Check back tomorrow for another very exciting story, from the Valley of The Sun, where this story is being written!
The Day the Radios Fell Silent: A Personal Account of May 26, 1978
It was a warm May morning in 1978. I was 15 years old, working the phones at my dad’s office at Camp Red Rock in western Oklahoma. For several days, law enforcement radio traffic had been intense—more active than usual, more urgent. Something serious was happening.
An All-Points Bulletin had been issued statewide: two inmates had escaped from the Oklahoma State Prison in McAlester. They were described as extremely dangerous men, capable of committing horrific crimes. The Oklahoma Highway Patrol (OHP) and local authorities launched a massive manhunt, focusing on the southeastern region of the state. While there were scattered reports from other areas, the belief was that the fugitives remained nearby and on foot.
Trooper Houston F. “Pappy” Summers, Motor Vehicle Inspection (MVI) Division in Enid.
Still, troubling reports emerged—houses broken into, firearms stolen, and even a car gone missing. An army of troopers scoured the countryside. The fugitives had to move carefully, methodically, to avoid detection. The search had only been underway for days, but it felt like weeks.
May 26, 1978, arrived. It would become one of the darkest days in the history of the Oklahoma Highway Patrol.
Although I was hundreds of miles away from the action, the search was broadcast live to my ears. The ranger office where I worked was equipped with radios that picked up all law enforcement frequencies. I heard it all: the calls, the coordination, the chaos.
Trooper Billy G. Young, Woodward MVI detachment.
That morning, a somber message came over the radio from Highway Patrol District Headquarters:
“Attention all stations and units: All nets are 10-63 until further notice.”
In plain terms, this meant that the radio network was reserved exclusively for emergency traffic related to the escapees. No unnecessary chatter. But maintaining a “10-63 net” requires constant reinforcement. Officers rotate shifts. New dispatchers come on duty. Without reminders, the rule starts to fade, and soon enough, radio traffic returns to normal. That’s exactly what happened.
As the air unit tried to communicate with ground teams, their messages were drowned out by unrelated conversations. Then, something chilling unfolded.
Lieutenant Pat Grimes, Internal Affairs.
I listened in real time. The air unit tried to warn a team of troopers. They had approached a area. The escapees were hiding—just beyond the trees, lying in wait. The troopers, thinking it was a routine check, got out of their car casually. Suddenly, gunfire erupted. It was an ambush.
One of the troopers managed to retreat to his vehicle and tried to call for backup. The air unit, having seen everything from above, struggled to get through. The radio frequencies were jammed with idle chatter. It was a communications nightmare that have cost lives.
I sat there, helpless, listening to the air unit reporting the tragedy to headquarters. The dispatcher pleaded for all units to clear the net so emergency aid is dispatched. I was stunned—devastated. This moment became a lasting lesson in why radio discipline can be a matter of life and death.
Later that day, I was shocked again—two more troopers had been shot in the same area. And then, I heard the message that signaled the manhunt was over:
“Be advised, the search for the escapees is over. All units and stations can return to regular assignments.”
That phrase said it all. The escapees were no longer a threat. They hadn’t been captured—they were dead. Had they been taken alive, the dispatch would have named the unit responsible for their arrest.
The Fallen
Three troopers lost their lives that day:
Trooper Houston F. “Pappy” Summers, 62, a 32-year veteran stationed with the Motor Vehicle Inspection (MVI) Division in Enid.
Trooper Billy G. Young, 50, with 25 years of service, attached to the Woodward MVI detachment.
Lieutenant Pat Grimes, 36, from Internal Affairs, nearing his 12th year with the Patrol.
Summers and Young died in a gunfight on a rural road near Kenefic. This occurred after the escapees stole a farmer’s truck and weapons. The troopers, unaware of what they were driving into, were ambushed.
Later that day, in the small town of Caddo, Lt. Grimes and his partner, Lt. Hoyt Hughes, were searching a residential area when they, too, came under fire. Grimes was fatally shot. Hughes was wounded but managed to exit the vehicle and return fire at close range, killing one of the fugitives.
Just moments later, Lt. Mike Williams of the Durant detachment arrived. He fatally shot the second escapee. This action brought an end to a 34-day reign of terror that had stretched across six states.
The two escapees caused the deaths of eight people. This number includes the three troopers. They also injured at least three others during their violent run from justice.
Final Thoughts
What I heard that day shaped me. During my time in the police academy, I learned something important. My account of the events closely aligned with what was eventually confirmed. The tragedy of May 26, 1978, became a case study. It highlighted the importance of radio discipline. The event also emphasized operational coordination and situational awareness.
But for me, it was more than that. It was personal. I was there—listening. And I will never forget the sound of silence that followed.
The mid-shift clocked out at 0200 hours. Officer Tim Roff was left alone on the graveyard shift. He was the only officer covering the North and South Districts. Every radio call felt heavier. Every silence stretched longer. He hoped the mutual aid agreement with neighboring jurisdictions would hold if things spiraled beyond his reach. But for now, it was just him, his determination a steady flame in the darkness.
Alone.
Roff approached every call with a practiced urgency. He arrived fast, assessed fast, and moved on fast. Each moment was calculated to cover as much ground as one man can.
At 0330 hours, the dispatch’s voice crackled over the radio, sharp and urgent:
“Tim, we’ve got a report. The male suspect drove an older blue Chevy Monte Carlo, heading to 230 North Madison Street. Planning to kidnap a child from the grandmother watching them tonight.”
A chill settled in Roff’s chest. Alone or not, this couldn’t wait. Dispatch gave him a phone number for more intel.
On Patrol
He stopped briefly at the north division substation and called the number. The story spilled out: Robert Sams, 38 years old, white male, born February 20th, was not alone—he was bringing others. He didn’t have custody of the children, but he was coming to take them anyway. He was planning to run, wanting to force the mother’s hand.
Roff parked his cruiser near the house and waited. Time slowed. Every passing headlight made his pulse jump. Then—there it was. Like clockwork, the Monte Carlo crept down NW 23rd and turned onto Madison. Roff pulled in behind. He hit the emergency lights and followed as the car swung into the driveway. The tension in the air was palpable.
Before Roff even opened his door, the driver bolted for the house.
“Damn it,”
Roff muttered, keying the mic.
“Need backup.”
But the nearest unit was a reserve officer, miles away, filling in from another city—not tonight.
Roff watched the front door swallow the man and grimaced.
“What is this?” he muttered bitterly. “National Take-the-Night-Off Day for cops—and no one told me.”
When backup finally arrived, Roff pointed to the car’s occupants.
“Watch them—don’t let anyone leave.”
Then he approached the front door and knocked.
A woman opened it, anxious, shifting on her feet.
“He ran out the back,”
she said.
Roff’s instincts flared. He circled to the rear, scanning the rain-soaked earth outside the back door. Not a single footprint. Untouched. She’d lied.
He jogged back around. His heart pounded harder now—not from the chase. It was from the relentless math of being outnumbered and alone. The fear was a heavy burden on his shoulders.
He called to the backup officer, loud enough for the woman to hear:
“If anyone comes out the back—shoot!”
He knew it wouldn’t happen, but fear was leverage.
Facing the woman again, he leveled his voice.
“I know you’re lying. If you don’t come clean, I’ll take you in for harboring a fugitive.”
It wasn’t airtight, but it was enough.
Her shoulders sagged.
“He’s in the garage,”
she admitted.
“Under the table.”
She led him through the house. At the garage door, Roff drew his sidearm. Alone again, with no cover. His stomach clenched.
“Come out,”
he commanded,
“or I’ll shoot.”
A shaky voice from under the table:
“Don’t shoot! I’m coming out!”
Roff cuffed Sam and walked him to the cruiser. He identified the other passengers and radioed dispatch for warrant checks. One by one, the answers came: felony warrant. Felony warrant. Felony warrant. Every single one.
Four prisoners. One patrol car. A 25-mile drive to the county jail. And no one else to cover his city.
Roff radioed neighboring agencies asking them to cover calls if any came in. Then he called the sheriff’s office for the official notification ––
“County, be advised I am 10-15 four times to your location. If there are any calls for my area, ask area units to cover calls per the mutual aid compact.”
He locked them in, buckled them tight, and checked the restraints twice. Just as he closed the last door, a car pulled behind him. A woman stepped out, flashing her ID—the child’s mother.
“It’s over,” Roff told her. “We stopped it.”
She followed him inside and retrieved her child. Relief flooded her face as she hugged her baby, her tears a testament to the fear she had endured. She left, her steps lighter, her burden lifted.
Roff radioed the sheriff’s office,
As Roff pulled onto the highway toward the jail, the prisoners chatted pleasantly in the back seat. Their casual demeanor was unsettling, given the gravity of their crimes. But Roff’s nerves stayed taut. His eyes flicked to the mirror every few seconds. He was alone with four felons and had 25 miles of dark road ahead.
At the jail, the booking officer whistled when he saw them.
“You win tonight’s prize, Roff. Biggest catch I’ve seen from one guy in a long time. Hell it will probably hold as a record for a month or two.”
Roff just nodded, the weight of the night still pressing against his chest. The adrenaline was fading, leaving a hollow feeling. He was alone again, with the echoes of the night’s events reverberating in his mind.
My grandfather had a host of brothers. Their father, Ulrich Groff Jr., had been married twice—the second time after his first wife died. Among my grandfather’s many brothers was one named Frank. In the family, he was known as Grand Uncle Frank or Great Uncle Frank, depending on who was telling. Frank lived a colorful, hard-worn life. He was the one who taught me how to ride a bike and always had a funny story to tell. He was raised on a farm. He worked odd jobs in his youth. Eventually, he found a steady calling with the Chicago Police Department.
Frank’s career on the force was mostly uneventful, at least by police standards. He would occasionally talk about the small-time crooks. He mentioned the drunks and the desperate people. He and his partner had to haul these people off to jail. But there was one story he told with a quiet solemnity—one that never left him. It was a time when being a police officer was a tough job, especially in a city like Chicago. The streets were rough, and the criminals should not be taken lightly.
Frank Groff
It was the night his partner died.
According to Frank, it had been a typical shift. He and his partner had picked up a couple of rowdy men, causing trouble. One of them shoved Frank’s partner during the scuffle. The man was quickly subdued and locked up. As far as Frank knew, it was nothing out of the ordinary. They had handled far worse and walked away without a scratch.
But the next morning, a knock at Frank’s door brought grim news. Fellow officers informed him that his partner, John Blazek, had passed away during the night.
John had hit his head during the scuffle—no one thought much of it at the time, including John himself. Like many men of his era, he brushed it off, finished his shift, and went home. Officer Blazek called a fellow officer to give him a ride. He didn’t feel quite right. Still, no one suspected anything serious. He went to bed and never woke up. The suddenness of his passing left everyone in shock and disbelief.
The official record read:
John Blazek
Patrolman John Blazek died after suffering a head injury. He fell or was pushed to the floor inside the 22nd District’s cell room. This incident occurred at 943 West Maxwell Street the prior night. He did not realize he had suffered a skull fracture. He attempted to go home at the end of his shift at 8:00 am. Blazek did not walk home and called another officer to pick him up. Once he got home, his condition worsened. He passed away the next day from the head injury.
Patrolman Blazek was a U.S. Army veteran of World War I who had served with the Chicago Police Department for 26 years. His sudden and unexpected death left a void in the community. His wife and two sons survive him.
Frank never quite recovered from that night. Though he stayed on the force, something in him changed. He stopped talking about the job as much. When he did, it was with a heavier voice. He had arrested many criminals and survived several street scuffles. Yet, the quiet death of his partner haunted him the most. They didn’t see it coming. He retired a few years later, and we see that the incident had taken a toll on him. He spent his days quietly, often lost in thought.
Years later, after Frank’s retirement, we found a worn copy of the police report. It was on John Blazek’s death and among his things. It was folded carefully into the pages of his Bible. Eventually, Frank passed on. On the back, in his handwriting, were the words:
“We don’t always know the moment something changes us. But we carry it. Always.”
I keep a photo in a drawer in my desk. It is tucked beneath an old leather-bound notebook and a yellowing map of Beckham County. It’s a photo of Lloyd Joe “Bick” Bickerstaff. The image was taken about a month before his promotion to Captain with the Elk City, Oklahoma Police Department.
In the picture, Bick sits in his unit, his uniform crisp in the late autumn light. The shadows are long. The wind has just started to turn cold. That unmistakable Oklahoma sky behind him stretches flat and wide. It is quiet, open, and full of secrets. He wears a half-smile that says,
“I’ve seen things, but I’ll carry them quietly.”
Bick and his brother were born in Sentinel, Oklahoma. I only heard his brother’s name once in passing. Sentinel is a patch of land barely big enough to hold the stories it carries. They began their careers as State Troopers with the Oklahoma Highway Patrol. The two brothers wore matching uniforms and chased something bigger than themselves.
But by the time I knew Bick, he rarely mentioned his siblings. I assumed time had done what it often does to families. Maybe there was a falling out—just distance. I never asked, and he never offered.
I knew he had a wife who baked cinnamon rolls on Sundays. He also had two children. One child was off in Sayre, chasing classes at a junior college. The other was a veterinarian who had graduated from Oklahoma State University. His life beyond the badge was quiet but rich. He even operated a small answering service—its operators worked right from his living room. You knew that life grounded him.
Nevertheless, Bick was more than just a veteran officer inside the department. He was the compass.
When rookies came in shaken from their first domestic call, Bick was the one who handed them a cup of bad coffee and said,
“It gets better if you let it.”
He never lectured. He just listened. And when he spoke, it was always worth hearing.
I remember the weeks leading up to his promotion. The department was shifting—a new Chief was being promoted, and a Major was moving up from Captain. Everyone felt the tremors of change. But Bick? He was steady and unmoved. I asked if he was nervous about entering a bigger role during such a turbulent time.
He just smiled that same quiet smile.
“Storms pass,”
He said.
“Someone’s gotta keep the porch light on.”
He did more than that.
He held the whole house together.
Years passed. And then, like storms do, time took Bick from us. When the news came, I expected many familiar faces at the service. Officers from every corner of the state would be paying their respects. But they didn’t come. Time had moved on, and so had they. Somehow, the news of Bickerstaff’s passing hadn’t brought them back.
Elk City Police Chief Bill Putman did what mattered. He escorted Bick’s casket from Elk City to the Old Soldiers Cemetery in Oklahoma City. That quiet, deliberate ride said more than any ceremony. It was loyalty. It was respect. It was love.
I was there, too, standing back in the shadows as the service ended. I didn’t speak. Didn’t approach the family. I just paused long enough to leave a final tribute at the edge of his resting place. It was a farewell from someone who had seen firsthand what quiet strength looks like.
Maybe Bickerstaff would’ve preferred it this way. No fanfare. There is no parade of names—just those who mattered most.
I like to think I was one of them.
Bick was never the loudest voice in the room. He didn’t need to be.
But when he spoke, the room listened.
And when he left, the silence he left behind was deafening.
The echo he once carried over the radio has gone quiet. And somewhere out in Western Oklahoma, no one will ever hear that calm, steady voice call out again—
“Attention, all stations and units; stand by for a broadcast.”
Sheriff Jess “Pooch” Bowling, Jr.: From Cotton Fields to County Leader
Jess ‘Pooch’ Bowling
Jess Bowling, Jr. was born in Binger, Oklahoma, on August 23, 1924. At just 11 years old, he left behind half his family. He also left the dusty plains of Oklahoma. He sought a new beginning in California. With his father and brother, young Jess traveled west in a weathered 1929 Buick. They finally settled in the small agricultural town of Dos Palos. His mother, two sisters, and another brother stayed behind in Oklahoma—a family split by circumstance but not by love.
Life in California was anything but easy. Jess Jr. rose with the sun. He toiled in the cotton fields until it set. He contributed what he could to help his family survive. It was hard work—grueling and endless—but there was resilience in the struggle. Sheriff later joked, “We did live in the biggest tent in Dos Palos!”
His father, Jess Sr., quickly became a cornerstone of the growing town. He opened a grocery store, invested in rental properties, and became active in local politics. His leadership and business savvy earned him a seat on the city council and, eventually, the title of Mayor.
Jess Jr. worked in the family store while attending school. He graduated from Dos Palos High School with a reputation for dependability and quiet strength. Not long after, fate stepped in when he met Darlene, a young woman from Iowa visiting relatives. The two married in 1945 and raised three children—Sharlynn, Shirley, and Michael.
The Badge and the Beat
Simulated Photo
Jess Bowling’s journey into law enforcement began in 1953 when he joined the Dos Palos Police Department. His first assignment? Tackling the town’s parking problem. Officer Bowling issued dozens of citations, doing so with a steady hand and a sense of duty. He even issued one to his father, the Mayor. Years later, he found that very ticket among his father’s possessions, a keepsake of humor and integrity.
Although that first stint in law enforcement was brief, it planted a seed. After returning to the family store, Bowling joined the Atwater Police Department in 1956. In 1958, he made the move that would define his career: joining the Merced County Sheriff’s Department.
Simulated Photo
In 1963, Bowling became the department’s first-ever canine handler, partnered with a large, loyal German Shepherd named Jim. Together, they helped pioneer a new era of policing.
By 1974, Jess Bowling had risen to the rank of Lieutenant when tragedy struck—the sudden passing of Sheriff Earl McKeown. In the aftermath, Bowling was appointed interim Sheriff. The people had already decided by the time the special election rolled around in May 1975. Bowling’s steady leadership and quiet competence earned him the Sheriff’s badge in his own right.
Reformer, Leader, Trailblazer
Sheriff Bowling led the department through six transformative years. He spearheaded major innovations that professionalized law enforcement in Merced County. Under his administration:
The Corrections Division was established, moving jail staffing from deputies to trained corrections officers.
Dispatch services were assigned to civilian professionals, freeing up sworn deputies for fieldwork.
He launched the county’s first-ever 24-hour patrol, marking the end of the “resident deputy” model.
He hired Merced’s first female deputy, breaking gender barriers in local law enforcement.
The department acquired its first handheld radios, enabling Bowling to reintroduce the classic “walking beat cop” in areas like Winton.
These weren’t just administrative changes but foundational shifts that shaped the Sheriff’s Department into a modern, responsive force.
His achievements were not only admired—they were preserved. Jess “Pooch” Bowling’s remarkable career is documented in a collection. His family lovingly maintains it as a tribute to a life of service.
Legacy and Final Salute
I had the privilege of knowing the Bowling family. One of my sisters even married Jess’s nephew. Every time he returned to town, Sheriff Bowling brought a yearbook from the department he once led. He proudly pointed out the growth and accomplishments of his former team. The department’s scope, the number of divisions, and the professionalism he helped instill always struck me, as did his accomplishments.
1974 – The first female deputy was sworn in
1974 – First portable transceivers issued to deputies
1974 – The first 24-hour patrol begins
1977 – First Special Emergency Response Team (SERT) organized
1977 – Marshal’s Office established
1980 – Hostage negotiators were trained and included on the SERT team
Merced County Sheriff’s Office, California
But behind the badge was a man who never forgot where he came from. Before the titles and the accolades, Jess “Pooch” Bowling was a boy in a Buick. He was a cotton picker working under the sun. He was a young man doing what he could to help his family survive.
After a doctor advised him to retire due to a serious heart condition, Sheriff Bowling stepped down in 1980. He lived to celebrate his 80th birthday during Merced County’s 150th anniversary in 2005. This honor was fitting for a man who helped shape its modern history.
Jess “Pooch” Bowling passed away on April 18, 2007. He was laid to rest beside his beloved Darlene in Dos Palos Cemetery.
His story is one of grit, integrity, and service. It is a journey from the cotton fields to the highest badge in the county.
We had to invest a lot of time making each other laugh. Honestly, the truth behind what we dealt with every day was so damn depressing. I’m talking about my days in law enforcement. There were long shifts, chaos, and tragedies. We pulled practical jokes to stay sane.
We had an incredibly well-liked lieutenant. I admired him immensely. He was competent, dedicated, and a strong leader. Yet somehow, he always found himself in absurd situations. He was often under fire from the chief. I’ll admit, on more than one occasion, I have played a small role in those misadventures.
One day, we were in the breakroom. It never failed. Just as you were halfway through a cup of coffee, a call would come down. You’d have to bolt. Out of habit, everyone would set their half-filled cups on the vending machine on the way out. When we returned from a call, the lieutenant came in, frustrated. He began to reprimand everyone for making the breakroom look like a pigsty. This was ironic, given the usual state of his desk.
The Coffee Cup Case
He stomped to the vending machine and picked up the abandoned cups. The first few were empty, which he confirmed by holding them up to the light, right over his face. Then he grabbed one that still had coffee and did the same. It spilled directly onto his uniform. He stood there stunned, dripping. The rest of us just sat, silently watching like it was a movie scene.
I walked over, grabbed his tie, and wrung it out. A drip of coffee came out and landed on his boot. The whole shift erupted in laughter. The lieutenant stormed out, fired up his patrol car, and squealed the tires, leaving the station.
Unluckily for him, the chief had parked just down the street to watch the night shift in action. He saw the whole thing and chewed the lieutenant for over an hour.
Despite the pranks, the lieutenant and I had a solid bond. One time, he made a big announcement at shift change in front of everyone. He said he’d be riding with me to assess my patrolling skills. I just looked at him and said, “That’s fine, but you’re gonna have to sit over there and be quiet.” The room burst into laughter. He chuckled and said,
“Only you could get away with saying something like that.”
That was our partnership. He knew I’d undoubtedly have his back, no matter what. Off-duty, we were good friends. We went fishing together. We also vacationed with each other’s families. I had his back more than once when things got real in the field.
There were other moments, too. One traffic officer had a bad habit of leaving his patrol unit running and unlocked outside the station. It was just begging for a prank. One night, another officer and I gave in to temptation. My buddy hopped in the driver’s seat; I took the passenger side. He threw it into drive, and off we went—sirens blaring.
Inside, the officer was digging through his briefcase, organizing reports. When we took off, he jumped so high that he spilled the contents everywhere. Another officer watching couldn’t stop laughing long enough to explain that it was just us. The guy never left his car running again.
Someone had a bright idea once. They sprinkled paper punch-outs and glitter on the ceiling fan blades above the chief’s desk. The switch was right next to where he sat. We all gathered casually in the hallway outside his office the next day as he walked in and sat down. He flipped the fan on, and poof—a cloud of glitter and confetti rained down. He was not amused, but the image of him sitting there covered in sparkles was priceless.
It sounds like a waste of time to outsiders, but these pranks were how we coped. We had seen some of the worst humanity had to offer—child abuse cases, fatal car crashes, suicides. These moments of humor were survival mechanisms. It’s not unique to us; veterans, ER nurses, and paramedics do it. It’s often called gallows humor, and studies have shown it serves a psychological role. A 2022 article in Police1 explains the benefits of using dark humor in traumatic fields. It helps create emotional distance and encourages bonding. It also prevents burnout.
To the public, the jokes sound crude or inappropriate. But behind closed doors, it was how we held onto our sanity. This was true among those who carried the weight of human suffering daily. It was how we kept the darkness from winning.
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.
When I was young, I had the privilege of working alongside some genuinely seasoned police officers. These were men who had been in the profession for decades. They carried with them a wealth of stories and experience. One of the most unforgettable among them was my Captain, Loyd “Bick” Bickerstaff.
Captain Bickerstaff was the first person I met when I interviewed for the job. He pulled for me to get hired, though I never quite knew why. Maybe he saw himself in me. He was around sixty when we met. At the time, I didn’t know much about his background. I quickly learned through stories from others that he was a legend in Oklahoma law enforcement.
Officers came from various places. If they stopped by our agency, they either knew Bickerstaff or had heard of him. He had that reputation. And if he happened to be off-duty during their visit, they left visibly disappointed.
I remember one particular day when I was on desk duty. A reporter from Time-Life came in. He said he was working on a piece about Route 66. He asked if he could interview Captain Bickerstaff. I told him to wait while I went to get the Captain.
Now, Bick wasn’t the type to jump at the chance to talk to the press—unless he had something to say. But when I mentioned a Time-Life reporter was here to see him, he promptly came out into the booking lobby and, in classic Bick fashion, boomed:
“I bet you want to ask me about that son of a bitch I wrote a ticket to back in the 1950s!”
At that moment, I thought, Well, this will be a PR nightmare. But to my surprise, he and the reporter hit it off. They wandered around the station talking and laughing. They even went outside. The photographer snapped pictures of Bick behind the wheel of a patrol car.
Maybe this won’t turn out so bad after all, I thought.
Still, I couldn’t help but wonder. What kind of ticket did someone get back in the ’50s? It still had reporters chasing the story.
When Bick returned, he shook the reporter’s hand, sent him off, and then strolled back to where I was working.
“I can tell your brain’s buzzing,” he said with a grin. “You want to know what that was all about?”
I nodded.
“Yeah, I’d say so. Stuff like this doesn’t happen every day.”
And so he told me.
In the 1950s, Bick was a trooper with the Oklahoma Highway Patrol. In those early days, he patrolled on a motorcycle. One night, near Elk City, Oklahoma, a flashy car with California plates sped by him on Old 66. It was doing over 75 miles per hour or more.
He took off after it and got the car pulled over. It was late, and as he walked up to the driver’s window, the man inside said:
“Surely, you’re not going to write me a ticket. Don’t you know who I am?”
To which Bick famously replied:
“I don’t care if you’re Liberace—you’re driving like a bat out of hell. Yes, I’m writing you a ticket!”
And as it turned out, it was a Liberace. Liberace’s Brother George!
Bick wrote the ticket anyway. George Liberace followed Bick to the courthouse, paid it on the spot, and went on his way.
A few weeks later, Bick’s supervisor got a call from one of Liberace’s agents. They wanted to fly Bick to Hollywood to be on The Liberace Show. They thought it would be significant: the highway patrolman who dared to ticket a star. Bick said he couldn’t say no. The department thought it was good publicity, and it was.
Years later, people still talk about it. Unknowingly, I worked with the man who once wrote Liberace’s brother a speeding ticket. Bick told me –––
“Liberace brought me out on stage. He announced that I was the highway patrolman who wrote his Brother George a speeding ticket!”
When I began my career in law enforcement, I experienced many “firsts.” One of the earliest was being assigned to a beat. I patrolled the alleys and streets of downtown, checking businesses and parks at night. The darkness was deep and constant. If fear crept in, the silence can feel almost haunting at times.
But I never let the shadows spook me. Not the sudden dash of a stray cat nor the wind rattling loose tin from an awning overhead. For a long time, I found nothing out of the ordinary. That is, until one night.
It happened in the park, beneath a pavilion by the river’s edge. I noticed someone lying across a picnic table. At nearly 2 a.m., the park was supposed to be empty. I stayed alert as I approached. I was constantly aware that people didn’t always travel alone. I didn’t want to be caught off guard.
As I approached, I spotted a can of spray paint beside her. A streak of glossy red paint coated her nose and mouth, dripping down her chin. She was a woman, and visibly pregnant, nearly full-term by the look of her.
I tried to wake her, but she didn’t respond. Her pulse was faint. Luckily, I had just been issued a portable radio—until recently, we’d relied on call boxes for communication. The radio gave me direct access to headquarters.
I keyed the mic and said,
“I need an ambulance under the pavilion at the river’s edge entrance. I have an unconscious female subject who appears to have been huffing paint. She’s approximately nine months pregnant.”
Headquarters confirmed and dispatched an ambulance promptly. Once it arrived, I assisted the paramedics. The woman was transported to a local hospital and then transferred to a larger facility for specialized care.
While searching the area, I found someone nearby who had passed out by the riverbank. I managed to rouse him. He was a man, around 32 years old, clearly intoxicated and unsteady. I placed him under arrest for public intoxication.
As I helped him up to the road, he turned to me and asked quietly,
“Is she going to be okay? I told her not to do that–– but she wouldn’t listen. That’s my baby, you know? I hope she’s alright.”
“Yes,”
I said.
I said,
“I hope the baby is okay, too. I’ve arranged a ride and a safe place for you to sleep tonight.”
The transport unit pulled up. As he climbed in, he paused, looked at me, and said,
“I’m glad you found us. It has saved both of us. Thank you!”
I nodded and replied,
“You’re welcome, try to get some sleep.”
It was one of the few times someone going to jail thanked me for stepping into their life. There would be other moments like this, but not many involving an unborn child.
I later learned the mother’s actions had not affected the baby. She had been admitted for addiction treatment, and hopefully, she stayed through the delivery and beyond. I never saw her again. I often think of that night. I think of how close things came to ending differently. Sometimes, just showing up can change everything.
It was evening, and heavy traffic moved steadily along the narrow two-lane highway connecting small towns in the region. The road served as a lifeline, carrying motorists and buses through these quiet Oklahoma communities.
Law enforcement has fascinated me for as long as I can remember. My dad worked night shifts, patrolling the eastern region near the oil fields. In the summers, he served as a ranger at a nearby campsite. Winters drew him to different assignments, often more demanding and remote.
One of the state vehicles always remained parked at the ranger’s residence—our home—while my dad took the other on duty. That night felt like any other.
My bedroom was tucked into the back corner of the house. Even during winter, I often left the window cracked to let in the crisp night air. From there, I heard the distant hum of traffic about a mile to the south.
As I lay on my bed studying for a test the next day, a sound split the quiet—a crash. Loud. Tires screeched. Then came the unmistakable bang of an impact.
It wasn’t the first time I’d heard it. A stretch of highway nearby had a reputation for accidents. Without hesitation, I grabbed my flashlight, told my mom there’d been a wreck, and jumped into the ranger truck. I had just earned my driver’s license, and the weight of responsibility was fresh on my shoulders.
Once on the road, I grabbed the radio and called it into the local police.
“It sounds bad—there have to be at least two vehicles involved.”
The Chief of Police from the nearest town confirmed he was en route. I pushed down the gas pedal and sped toward the highway. I noticed no cars coming eastbound as I turned onto it—an ominous sign. About two miles west, I saw the wreck.
A Greyhound bus had collided with a pickup truck. Both vehicles were mangled, partially in the ditch and partially blocking the road. The bus’s windshield was gone, and passengers were scattered everywhere—some dazed, others crying out.
The bus driver was lying in a yard 100 feet away. He was still strapped into his seat. The seat had been ejected from the bus. A man lay next to him. Both were dead. The bus had come to rest on the pickup truck, crushing its cab.
Flames licked at the wreckage. There was no chance anyone inside the pickup had survived.
Before officers arrived, I radioed again:
“Get every ambulance in the county out here. This is bad.”
A bread truck delivery driver had just finished his route and stumbled upon the crash. Without hesitation, he unloaded his remaining bread onto the roadside. He began helping by filling his truck with victims to shuttle them to the hospital.
There had been thirty-two people on board. Survivors said a passenger had been drinking and became increasingly aggressive. The driver warned him to settle down, but the man charged ahead and grappled with the driver. That man now lay dead beside him in the yard.
The response was massive—five police agencies, three fire departments, and four ambulance services. That same night, a basketball tournament had drawn spectators to a nearby town. Many who had been on their way became unexpected witnesses to a horrific scene.
Inside the crushed pickup were two passengers—the aunt and uncle of a local fire chief. The tragedy hit close to home.
Years later, as a police officer, I would respond to countless serious accidents. But none would ever match that cold winter night’s scale. None equaled its raw emotion. It was the first crash I saw with my own eyes.
Steve Mahan was a laid-back guy — the sleepy type. He rarely overreacted, and getting him excited about anything was hard. One day, Sgt. Mahan responded to a bomb threat at a local school. When he found the suspicious device, he calmly picked it up. He put it in the trunk of his patrol car. Then he drove it back to the police station.
He carried it inside without much fuss and placed it on the booking counter.
I had never seen the top brass lose it all at the same time. The Chief, the Major, and the Captain were all upset at once. They cussed and yelled in perfect unison, ordering Mahan to promptly take the device back outside. Then they called the fire department, which, ironically, was located right next door.
The fire department’s first response?
“Have him bring it over.”
The Chief shut that idea down on the spot.
If I remember right, Mahan took it to the shooting range. The three top brass joined him there with rifles in hand. They tried to get it to explode.
It turned out to be a dummy.
Thankfully, it was because I was working on the other side of that booking counter the whole time.
Sgt. Steven Mahan was killed in the line of duty on January 5, 1983. That night, his girlfriend was working at the police department. Another female dispatcher was also there. He drove upon an armed robbery in progress at a local hotel. Unbeknownst to him, he was moving into an ambush.
After handing over the cash, the hotel clerk ducked behind the counter and observed the unfolding scene. She promptly called the police, reporting that an officer had been shot in the head. She couldn’t recognize the unit number but noted the word “Supervisor” on the vehicle’s front panel.
Upon realizing it was him, Sgt. Mahan’s girlfriend became understandably distraught. The other dispatcher maintained composure under extreme pressure. She coordinated response units. She relayed critical information from the hotel clerk to surrounding agencies. The suspects were taken into custody within the hour thanks to swift action and coordination.
Sgt. Mahan had been overpowered and shot in the head with a .25 caliber pistol, then fatally shot again in the back of the head with his service weapon. The officers rushed him to the local hospital in the back of a patrol unit. Dense fog made air transport impossible. An ambulance was then dispatched for the nearly three-hour drive to the nearest trauma center. It traveled through whiteout conditions with visibility near zero.
I arrived at the station about an hour after the shooting. I was designated as the point of contact for media outlets. They were calling nonstop. I remained in contact with the ambulance, his girlfriend, and a fellow officer riding alongside Sgt. Mahan. The driver reported struggling to reach even 35 mph on the fog-covered interstate.
Killed In The Line Of Duty – Elk City, Oklahoma
Roughly thirty miles from the trauma hospital, I heard the ambulance driver radio for local police assistance. They needed help to reach the nearest hospital. The ambulance had to exit the highway. I knew what that meant. I called the Chief’s office. I delivered the news. We had just lost our first officer in the line of duty.
Official Summary –
Bobby Lynn Ross was convicted of the 1983 murder of Elk City Police Sgt. Steve Mahan, who was 30 years old at the time. Two co-defendants were also convicted of second-degree murder in connection with the case.
On January 5, 1983, Sgt. Mahan was conducting a routine check when he drove up to the Los Quartos Inn in Elk City, Oklahoma. Unbeknownst to him, an armed robbery was already in progress. Mahan interrupted the robbery, during which Bobby Lynn Ross had already threatened to kill the motel clerk.
Ross disarmed Sgt. Mahan and ordered him to lie on the ground. Although the officer complied, Ross shot him multiple times at close range with a .25-caliber pistol—then took Mahan’s service weapon and shot him again.
Ross was convicted of first-degree murder and robbery with firearms on October 21, 1983.
During a failed clemency hearing before the Oklahoma Pardon and Parole Board on November 19, Ross asked for forgiveness. He addressed Mahan’s family. He claimed he had changed. Sgt. Mahan’s daughter, who was only 18 months old when her father was killed, submitted a heartfelt letter to the board:
“I missed out on all the opportunities that most children had. My father was stolen from me before I even had a chance to know him. My father was doing his job, not out trying to disrupt people’s lives. All I ask for is justice to be served.”
That night, Elk City police detective Jim LaFarlette sped through the darkness. His dying colleague was in the back of a patrol car. A family lost a son. A child lost her father. A community lost a hero.
“We all under the badge were deprived of a brother,”
LaFarlette said of the murder of Elk City police Sgt. Steven Mahan on Jan. 5, 1983. Ross was put to death by lethal injection on December 9th, 1999. Ross had lived 11 years longer than Mahan was allowed.
It was the day of Bobby Lynn Ross’s execution. I called Elk City Police Chief Bill Putman to confirm that the execution was moving ahead. He assured me that it was. He informed me that he and Officer Jim LaFarlette would attend to witness it themselves. Indeed, they did.
New Year’s Eve 1986: Officer Tim Roff’s Midnight Mission
A True Story
New Year’s Eve 1986: Officer Tim Roff’s Midnight Mission
It was New Year’s Eve, 1986. Officer Tim Roff had just received a dispatch call. It sent him to the farthest point in the southern district of his patrol area. The report was grim, suspecting abuse of a newborn child.
In Oklahoma during the 1980s, police officers had significant authority in child abuse cases. If they believed a child was in danger, they would promptly remove the child from a home. They did this without a court order. No approval from higher authorities was needed.
As Officer Roff pulled up to 22735 SE 30th, Lot #14, he found himself in a trailer park. The location led him to a white single-wide mobile home with yellow trim. The porch light was on, illuminating a screaming woman on the front steps.
As he exited his patrol car, a backup unit from the traffic division arrived. Officer Wynn Peters stepped out and surveyed the scene.
Roff turned to him and said,
“Take care of the screaming lady. I need to check on the child.”
“Got it,”
Peters responded, moving toward the woman, who was now slurring her words. It didn’t take long to find she was intoxicated.
Inside the trailer, Roff found the baby. The infant, barely a few months old, lay bundled in a thin sheet—no diaper, no proper clothing. His tiny body bore the unmistakable signs of abuse: cigarette burns and raised welts from a cord.
Roff’s calm professionalism evaporated in an instant, replaced by controlled fury. Gently, he lifted the baby, cradling him close. The child whimpered, and Roff whispered,
“You’re safe now.”
As he carried the infant outside, the mother, now identified, spat out her excuse.
“I couldn’t get the little bastard to hush. It got to me! His father won’t come around because of it. I had to do something to shut it up!”
Roff’s jaw tightened. He turned to her.
“Well, you got your wish. The baby is quiet. And you? You’re going to jail.”
Before the woman reacted, Officer Peters had her in cuffs and secured in the back of his patrol car.
Roff gently placed the baby in his cruiser’s car seat and radioed dispatch. He needed someone to hold the baby since he didn’t have a child seat in his unit.
“I need Child Services at my location ASAP. I have an infant who needs immediate placement before transport to the county shelter.”
After locking the trailer and securing the scene, Roff returned to the patrol cars. He informed the suspect that detectives would issue a search warrant before she was even out of jail. The charges? Felony child abuse. Her chance of bonding out before seeing a judge? Slim.
As Roff spoke, a man approached from the shadows.
“I was sent by Child Protective Services to hold the baby.”
He said.
Roff sized him up quickly, then gestured toward his patrol car.
“Get in the front seat.”
As the CPS worker did, Roff handed him the baby, who was still wrapped in the sheet.
“Hold him close and buckle up.”
Now, it was time to move.
Roff flipped on his headlights and pulled out onto the darkened road. The county seat was twenty-five miles away, and the streets were dangerous on New Year’s Eve. Drunks, criminals, and gang activity all made for unpredictable hazards.
When it happened, they had nearly reached their destination—just five miles from the shelter.
Gunfire.
Bullets cracked through the night air. The unmistakable pop-pop-pop of semi-automatic fire echoed as Roff’s black-and-white patrol unit came under attack.
“DOWN! GET DOWN!”
He barked, shoving the CPS worker onto the floorboard.
More shots rang out, shattering the tension of the night. Roff slammed his emergency lights on, flipped the siren, and grabbed his radio.
“Unit 852 to Headquarters—I’m under fire near NE 23rd and Blackwell! I have a baby and a Child Services worker in the vehicle. I can’t stop! Send units!”
Every muscle in his body tensed as he navigated the streets. He weaved through traffic and pushed the car to its limits. The next five miles felt like an eternity, but Roff never let up. The patrol car screamed through the city at full speed, sirens blaring.
Then, finally, the shelter’s lights appeared ahead.
As Roff pulled in, he exhaled sharply and keyed his radio.
“We’re safe. We made it.”
Moments later, Headquarters responded.
“Copy that, 852. Three suspects are in custody. They were shooting at vehicles in your last known area.”
Roff stepped out, his pulse still hammering. He unwrapped the baby, handing it over to the shelter staff.
The CPS worker stood frozen.
Roff raised an eyebrow.
“You need a ride back to your car?”
The man swallowed hard.
“If it’s all the same to you, Officer, I think I’ll catch a ride from someone here. Or maybe –– get a taxi.”
Roff nodded, the ghost of a smirk touching his lips.
“Good call.”
And with that, he turned and walked back to his cruiser. Another night. Another battle. But at least, on this night, one child would see a safer tomorrow.
This is a true story!Names and locations have been changed to protect the privacy of those concerned.
We often think there is just one impact when imagining an accident. Be this is a fall, a bicycle crash, or a car collision. Yet, physics and medical studies, based on rigorous research and analysis, show that every crash has three distinct impacts. Each one contributes to potential injury.
Let’s use a crash as an example, though the same principles apply to other accidents.
Impact #1: Vehicle Collision
This is the first crash. The moving vehicle collides with another object. Whether it is a wall or a stationary object. The force of this impact determines the severity of the accident.
Impact #2: Body Impact
Even after the vehicle stops or slows down, the occupants continue moving ahead due to inertia. This often causes a secondary impact. The person collides with the car’s interior, like the dashboard, windshield, airbag, or seatbelt. It’s important to note that seatbelts and airbags play a crucial role. They reduce injuries and make us feel safer on the road.
Impact #3: Internal Organ Impact
The most overlooked but critical impact happens within the body itself. Even after a person stops moving, their internal organs shift and collide with bones and other structures. This can lead to serious injuries like concussions, internal bleeding, and organ damage.
Delayed Symptoms and the Body’s
Response Of The Body instantly after an accident, many people don’t feel the extent of their injuries. Adrenaline and shock mask the pain. The body naturally responds by triggering inflammation and swelling to protect damaged areas. Yet, once this response subsides—sometimes hours or even days later—the true severity of injuries becomes obvious.
The Delay Between Sight and Sound in a Crash
If you witness an accident from a distance, you notice another phenomenon. There is a delay between what you see and hear.
Because light travels faster than sound (186,000 miles per second vs. 1,125 feet per second), you will see a crash before you hear it. This creates a lag, where the sequence of events seems different from what happened.
For example, if a plane crashes and explodes, a witness will report hearing multiple booms and assume three separate explosions. In reality, they are hearing the first impact, secondary collisions, and final resting impact—all of which happened quickly. The delay in sound reaching the observer can create confusion, especially during traumatic or high-stress situations.
Key Takeaways
Accidents involve three distinct impacts: vehicle collision, body impact, and internal organ impact.
Injuries are not always instantly clear, as the body’s natural mechanisms can mask symptoms.
Witnesses misinterpret the sequence of events because of the delay between light and sound. Hence, investigators must analyze physical evidence carefully.
Understanding these factors can help individuals recognize the risks involved in crashes. They can then make informed decisions about safety and medical attention.
It started when I was around ten years old—I began seeing life in ten-year intervals. Every decade, I would take stock of where I was. I would think about where I am going. I would consider who was still with me and who was no longer there. Sometimes, life separates us through distance, sometimes through death.
In my first ten years, I had already experienced both. Friends I met in school came and went, their families moving away before we had time to build anything lasting. Loss was something my grandparents had gently prepared me for, though it didn’t soften the blow when it happened.
One of the first deaths I remember was a neighbor of theirs, a man named Tom. I often visited his house with my grandfather, sitting and listening as they talked. When he passed, I already knew before anyone told me. That morning, the hearse pulled up to his house after passing my grandparents’ place. I also knew my grandfather had spent the night with him, sitting in quiet vigil. Tom’s funeral was the first I ever attended.
Then there was Maynord, a clumsy old farmer with an Okie drawl and a stride to match. He was my dad’s friend, but I saw him as my best friend. His death hit me harder than I ever expected. One moment, he was there. He was laughing and rambling on as he always did. The next moment—gone—a heart attack took him suddenly and finally. I was only eight. I carried that weight for years, incapable of understanding how life takes people without warning.
By the time I turned ten, I thought I had braced myself for loss. I believed that nothing would catch me off guard again. But life has a way of proving us wrong.
At eleven, I came home from school one afternoon. I found my mother already there. This was unusual enough to make my stomach tighten. She called me outside. We stood together on the ledge in front of our house. She then broke the news. My grandmother had died suddenly that day. No warning. No time to prepare. Just gone.
I didn’t cry right away. Instead, my mind turned inward, searching for meaning in something so senseless. Was this some punishment? Had I done something wrong? Was God teaching me a lesson? And if so—what was it? It took years for me to understand that life doesn’t work that way. It happens and keeps happening, regardless of what we think or how ready we believe we are.
Over the next decade, I watched more family members slip away—some suddenly, others with the slow certainty of time. Friends moved and lives shifted. By the time I reached twenty, I had seen the past ten years as a lesson in endurance. I had learned what to hold onto and what to let go of.
But life doesn’t follow our plans. It unfolds in its way, teaching us not through intention but experience. And the next ten years would drive that lesson home in ways I never expected.
As a law enforcement officer, I would be called to homes where deaths had occurred. I had attended so many of these that the coroner trusted me. He allowed me to make the death declaration over the phone. Then, he signed the death certificate. I sat with family members until the body was removed from the home. I held grieving loved ones the best I was able.
The hardest of these instances included the death of a 15-year-old disabled child. She depended on her parents for every facet of life. Feeding, being on a respirator, medications, cleaning, and moving about the home. They had been the life inside her, literally. She passed one morning as the mother was feeding her and couldn’t get the respirator back on quickly enough. The parents were wrecks when I arrived on the scene. It was the most emotional death scene I ever had to deal with. I called a police Chaplain to the scene because, quite frankly, it was beyond what I was equipped to handle.
I discovered he was speechless and powerless to be of much use either. I sat with the parents and promised them it wasn’t their fault. That life goes when we don’t want it to. I couldn’t tell them about all my experiences, but I wanted them to know they were not alone. I left my calling card and asked them to call if they needed anything. I checked back in on them days later. It was no easier then.
During my time as a police officer, I experienced the ultimate sacrifice twice. Two fellow officers were killed in the line of duty.
The first happened late one night during a robbery at a hotel on the city’s edge. The officer interrupted the thieves, but they overpowered him. One of the assailants shot him, and then—adding to the horror—they used his weapon to finish the job. The hotel clerk, hidden in an ideal location, saw their getaway and critically described the vehicle. Thanks to that information, the suspects were arrested soon after. The gunman was convicted and sentenced to death. He was executed in 2000.
I was on radio duty. An ambulance was transporting the officer. It tried to navigate through thick fog on its way to a larger hospital. When the driver suddenly exited the highway, I knew what that meant—the officer was gone. I promptly called the chief’s office. But by then, news outlets, always tuned into police transmissions, had already picked up on the situation. The department’s phone lines were jammed with calls. I took on the role of spokesperson. I did my best to clear the lines quickly. This was so they can be used for local needs. That was January 1983.
Less than two years later, in October 1984, I had been transferred to patrol. One night, we were responding to a vehicle accident outside our jurisdiction. My unit’s radio picked up an urgent transmission. A state trooper was down.
We were en route to the accident. Then, the assigned ambulance reported it was just a car in a ditch. We weren’t needed. But by then, we were already far outside the city, and no other units were nearby. I radioed the county sheriff’s office, advising them of our location and availability. They authorized us to continue north on State Highway 6.
As we traveled, more details about the suspect’s vehicle came through. Then, we spotted it. My partner and I intercepted the car and pulled it over. The driver’s license was expired, but we knew little else at the time. Only later did we learn a chilling detail. He had left his valid driver’s license with the trooper he had shot.
We were transferring the suspect to a deputy’s vehicle. Then, word came through that the ambulance transporting the trooper was lost. They were struggling to find the hospital. We raced to intercept them.
We arrived at the emergency room. A First Lieutenant with the highway patrol and I broke the safety keepers on the stretcher. We pulled the trooper out of the ambulance ourselves. The paramedics were in shock, frozen by the weight of what had happened. We pushed the stretcher down the corridor. As we rounded a corner into the ER, the trooper’s arm fell from the cot. It knocked pens and pencils everywhere. That’s when I knew.
He was gone.
Still, I refused to leave him. I stood at the head of the stretcher, unwilling to let him be alone. Finally, the doctors and nurses forced me away. I didn’t want to go.
Out in the hallway, my own Lieutenant stood waiting.
“We’ve got reports to write,”
He said.
“While it’s fresh in your mind.”
I looked him straight in the eye.
“This night will forever be fresh in my mind.”
Every ten years, I look back on the events of the earlier decade. I wonder what will be in store for the next ten years! My mother is pushing 95 years-of-age and I doubt she is in my next ten years. I am just hoping that I am in my next ten years.
It had been a relatively slow night. There were the usual calls—nothing out of the ordinary. A lady reported a prowler near her home in the North Division. Tim was assigned there for the night due to staffing shortages. Usually, he worked in the South Division, but tonight, he was covering unfamiliar ground. He had made several traffic stops—broken taillights, expired tags, and speeding violations—but nothing major.
Tim was known for his relentless patrol work, stopping burglaries in progress, nabbing car thieves, and making felony arrests. He led his department in felony arrests. But just after midnight, he got a call from dispatch that promised to be something different.
“Unit 852, report of a missing man. Dialysis patient. Suicidal. See the reporting party at 515 North Main Street.”
515 North Main was in the oldest part of town. The houses date back to when the city was just a settlement. It wasn’t a known trouble location—not one of the repeat offenders officers constantly got sent to.
As Tim pulled up, he saw a porch light glowing. The house was a white A-frame with an overhang, modest but well-kept. Before he knocked, the door swung open. Inside, several people stood around, dressed as if they were about to go out for the evening.
Tim identified himself.
“Hello, I’m Officer Roff. I understand someone is missing?”
A woman stepped ahead.
“I’m Kathy Gifford. Yes, my husband is missing. I don’t know how, but he’s gone!”
Tim raised an eyebrow.
“You don’t know how?”
Mrs. Gifford wrung her hands.
“He’s skin and bones. He can barely walk. He’s on dialysis, and he probably doesn’t have long to live.”
She took a deep breath.
“He didn’t want me to go dancing with my friends tonight. He begged me to stay. He said it would be the last time I saw him if I walked out that door. But I thought he was just being dramatic.”
Tim had been a cop long enough to know that people sometimes exaggerated. He took her words with caution.
“Did you search the house?”
Everyone nodded.
“We did. He is not here.”
“What’s his name?”
“James Gifford, but he goes by Jimmy.”
Tim instructed everyone to stay put as he searched the house. He checked every room, corner, under sheets, and inside closets, calling out Jimmy’s name at every turn.
Ten minutes into the search, he entered the couple’s bedroom.
Mrs. Gifford sighed.
“There’s no use looking in here. I’ve already searched everywhere.”
Tim wasn’t about to take her word for it.
“I have to be thorough before filing a missing persons report.”
He called out again.
“Jimmy, this is Officer Roff with the Police Department. If you’re in here, tell me now! I’m about to search your room, and anything unlawful I find will result in criminal charges.”
Silence. Then, whispers from the people behind him.
Tim checked under the bed. Nothing was there. He turned to scan the room when Mrs. Gifford suddenly gasped.
“Oh my God, he has the gun!”
Tim spun around.
“A gun? Don’t you think that’s something you should’ve mentioned earlier?”
His hand instinctively went to his sidearm, unsnapping the holster. He stepped to the closet door and pulled it open. It was dark inside. He clicked on his flashlight and swept the beam across the space. Nothing. Then, near the front of the closet, he saw a pile of laundry.
Beneath it, Jimmy lay motionless, staring straight up at the ceiling. A .25 Automatic rested on his bony chest.
Tim’s breath caught.
“Jesus!”
His outburst sent the people behind him scattering, running out of the house.
His training took over. Tim drew his weapon and leveled it at Jimmy.
“Don’t move! Don’t reach for the gun!”
But Jimmy never flinched. He just looked up at Tim, his expression empty.
Tim quickly reached down, grabbed the pistol off Jimmy’s chest, and took a step back.
“Get up. Get out of the closet.”
Jimmy slowly sat up, his frail body trembling.
Tim exhaled, his adrenaline still surging.
“What the hell was this all about?”
Jimmy sighed.
“I just wanted to scare her. Make her feel bad for leaving me. Make her think twice next time. That’s all.”
Tim shook his head.
“You know, there are better ways to ask for attention.”
Jimmy just looked at him, defeated.
Tim crossed his arms.
“Look, you have two choices. Either you voluntarily go to a mental health unit tonight, or you surrender this gun until Monday.”
Jimmy hesitated.
Tim pressed on.
“You can come pick it up at the police department after you cool down. But I’m not walking out of here knowing I am back in two hours for a murder-suicide.”
After a long pause, Jimmy sighed.
“Fine. Take the gun.”
Tim secured the weapon and turned back toward the doorway, where Mrs. Gifford and her friends had cautiously gathered again. He shook his head and muttered,
“This is the Ruby Don’t Take Your Love to Town call to beat all others.”
One of the men raised an eyebrow.
“What?”
Tim smirked.
“You know, the song. The guy’s disabled, and his woman goes out dancing anyway. I never thought I’d see it play out in real life.”
The room fell silent.
Tim exhaled, holstered his weapon, and radioed in.
“Unit 852, situation under control. Subject located. No further assistance needed.”
As he walked out, he couldn’t help but shake his head.
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 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.
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.
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.
The midnight wind howled across the open plains of Elk City, Oklahoma. It carried with it the acrid stench of crude oil. Officer Ben Groff sensed the urgency of the situation. He adjusted his hat and squinted into the orange glow from the ruptured well. The blowout had sent a geyser of oil and gas roaring skyward earlier that evening. Now it loomed like a ticking time bomb. Nearby tanks, filled with thousands of gallons of oil, were dangerously close to the chaotic inferno.
Ben’s radio crackled to life.
“Unit 3, you still holding up out there?“
Came Chief Smith’s voice, heavy with concern.
“Yeah, Chief,”
Ben replied, his tone steady but cautious.
“Still no sign of the fire spreading, but the pressure’s climbing. The oil company’s crew says it will be hours before they can cap this.”
“Good. Keep everyone clear. If those tanks go –– Well, you know.”
The Chief replied.
Ben glanced over his shoulder toward the blockade he’d set up a quarter-mile away. Emergency lights from firetrucks and patrol cars painted the dark sky red and blue. Despite the late hour, onlookers had gathered, their curiosity undeterred by the danger.
“Roger that,”
he said.
He turned back to the scene. Flames licked the blackened steel of the wellhead, dancing with reckless abandon. He felt the heat even from his position, a hundred yards away. His job was simple, yet it was a constant reminder of the imminent danger. He had to make sure no one came close enough to worsen things. Simple, but nerve-wracking.
Suddenly, a sharp sound pierced the night—a metallic creak followed by the unmistakable hiss of escaping gas. Ben’s heart raced as he angled his unit’s spotlight, sweeping it toward the tanks. One of the smaller storage units had started to swell, its walls bulging under the pressure.
“Unit 3 to Unit 1 – Chief, we’ve got a problem,”
Ben said on his radio.
“We see it,”
Smith replied.
“Fire team’s moving in to cool it down. Stay put, Groff.”
Stay put. The phrase echoed in Ben’s mind. It was his job, but standing watch over a potential explosion felt like waiting for lightning to strike. He tightened his grip on his duty belt and exhaled a long, steady breath.
Out of the corner of his eye, a sudden movement caught Ben’s attention. A shadow darted near the edge of the well site, and in that split second, Ben’s heart skipped a beat. The potential danger was now tangible.
“Hey!”
Ben shouted, drawing his sidearm.
“Who’s there?”
The figure froze, then turned toward him—a teenager, wide-eyed and terrified.
“My dad works out here!”
The boy yelled.
“I think he’s still at the tanks!”
Ben’s stomach sank. He knew most of the local oilfield workers and their families. If the boy was right, someone’s life was on the line.
“Stay back! You want to get blow’d up?”
Ben ordered, with his Okie drawl, sprinting toward the tanks. The boy tried to follow, but Ben’s stern glare stopped him.
Reaching the tanks, Ben shouted over the roar of the fire.
“Anybody here? Call out!”
A faint cough answered him. Ben scanned the area with his flashlight and spotted a man slumped near the base of one of the tanks. The man’s face smeared with soot.
“Hang on!”
Ben yelled, holstering his weapon and grabbing the man under the arms. The heat was nearly unbearable as he dragged the worker away, his boots slipping in the slick oil-coated ground.
Behind him, a loud bang split the air—a pressure-release valve venting gas. The flames flared brighter, hungrily reaching toward the tanks.
Ben hauled the man to safety, where fire crews took over, administering oxygen and checking for injuries. The teenager rushed ahead, tears streaming down his face as he embraced his father.
Ben stepped back, his breath coming in ragged gasps. He looked toward the wellhead, where firefighters were now dousing the tanks with foam. The danger wasn’t over; the worst had been averted thanks to the fire department. The relief was palpable, not just for Ben, but for the boy and his family.
“Good work, Guys,”
Smith’s voice crackled over the radio.
Ben waited to reply. He stood there, sweat mixing with the grime on his face. Watching the flames fight their losing battle against the relentless efforts of the fire crew. His role in the emergency response was crucial, and he acted bravely and quickly.
