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The Psychology Behind Trust and Child Exploitation

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The Psychology of Trust, Exploitation, and Child Predators in Positions of Authority

By Benjamin Groff II
Groff Media © Truth Endures

Few crimes produce stronger emotional reactions than crimes against children.

Cracked City Police badge with number 1342 on a dirty rough surface

The public response is immediate and understandable. Anger. Revulsion. Confusion. A collective demand to know how any adult could sexually exploit a child. Yet despite the outrage, many conversations stop before reaching the deeper and more uncomfortable questions.

What psychologically drives a person toward underage victims?

Why do some offenders deliberately place themselves in positions of authority and trust?

And why do cases involving police officers, clergy, teachers, coaches, youth leaders, and other authority figures command such intense public attention?

These are difficult questions. But they are questions worth examining carefully and honestly if society truly wants to understand how these crimes occur and how they can be prevented.

Understanding Pedophilia Versus Child Sexual Abuse

One of the first and most important distinctions is understanding that not every individual who sexually abuses a child is clinically classified as a pedophile.

The term “pedophilia” is often used broadly in public discussion, but clinically speaking, pedophilic disorder refers to persistent sexual attraction toward prepubescent children. Mental health professionals recognize it as a psychiatric condition involving recurring fantasies, urges, or behaviors focused on children.

However, many offenders who commit crimes against minors are not exclusively attracted to children.

Some offenders are driven by:

  • power and domination,
  • opportunity and access,
  • emotional immaturity,
  • compulsive sexual behavior,
  • antisocial personality traits,
  • narcissism,
  • sadism,
  • or the ability to exploit vulnerable individuals with little resistance.

Criminologists often refer to some of these offenders as “situational offenders.” In other words, their crimes may stem more from opportunity, access, and control than from exclusive attraction to children themselves.

That distinction matters because understanding motive is critical to prevention.

A predator motivated by opportunity may seek environments with weak supervision or vulnerable victims. A predator motivated by compulsive attraction may develop elaborate grooming behaviors and hidden patterns over many years.

Both are dangerous. But they are not always psychologically identical.

The Role of Authority, Access, and Trust

When stories emerge involving police officers, clergy, teachers, coaches, or youth leaders, public reaction becomes even more intense.

Part of that reaction stems from betrayal.

Society grants authority figures unusual levels of trust. Parents trust teachers with their children. Communities trust officers to protect them. Churches trust clergy with spiritual guidance. Youth programs trust coaches and mentors to shape young lives.

Predators understand this.

Research into offender behavior has repeatedly shown that some predators intentionally seek environments where:

  • children are present,
  • trust is automatic,
  • questioning authority is discouraged,
  • and institutional reputation may suppress complaints or disbelief.

Predators often do not hide from society.

They embed themselves inside it.

This is one reason grooming behavior is so psychologically effective. Grooming is not merely manipulation of a child. It frequently involves manipulation of parents, coworkers, institutions, churches, and entire communities.

The offender cultivates an image of respectability and dependability. Many become known as “good people,” “helpful,” “professional,” or “dedicated.” That public image becomes part of the camouflage.

Communities are often stunned after an arrest because the accused individual “never seemed like that type.”

But predators rarely advertise themselves as monsters.

Most understand exactly how normal they need to appear.

Why Police Cases Draw Extraordinary Attention

When a police officer is accused of crimes involving children, public attention intensifies immediately.

That does not necessarily mean police officers offend at higher rates than the general population. Existing national evidence does not conclusively establish that law enforcement officers commit child sex crimes at disproportionately higher levels overall.

However, police cases attract extraordinary media coverage because policing carries unique public responsibilities.

Police officers:

  • enforce laws,
  • investigate crimes,
  • interact with vulnerable people,
  • understand investigative systems,
  • and carry the authority of the state itself.

When an officer violates those expectations, the betrayal feels magnified.

The same phenomenon occurs in scandals involving clergy, teachers, coaches, corrections officers, or youth leaders. The issue is not merely the crime itself. It is the collapse of trust surrounding the position.

Media organizations also prioritize such stories because they involve:

  • public accountability,
  • abuse of authority,
  • institutional credibility,
  • and perceived hypocrisy.

As a result, cases involving officers often receive significantly more visibility than similar cases involving private citizens.

This heightened visibility can create the impression that certain professions are uniquely linked to offending behavior when, in reality, the profession itself may simply place the offender under far brighter scrutiny.

Compartmentalization: The Double Life

Perhaps one of the most disturbing psychological aspects of these crimes is the ability many offenders have to compartmentalize their lives.

Some maintain:

  • careers,
  • marriages,
  • friendships,
  • church involvement,
  • community respect,
  • and public service roles
    while simultaneously hiding predatory behavior.

This psychological splitting is often compared to:

  • addiction psychology,
  • narcissistic compartmentalization,
  • cognitive dissonance,
  • or dual-identity behavior.

The public often expects predators to appear obviously disturbed or socially isolated. Yet many offenders are socially functional, organized, and outwardly respected.

That disconnect is precisely what makes these crimes so difficult for communities to process.

People struggle to reconcile the trusted public figure with the hidden private behavior.

In many cases, the offender himself psychologically separates the two identities, convincing himself he remains a “good person” despite criminal actions.

That internal justification process is frequently found in offender interviews and criminal psychology studies.

Institutional Fear and Silence

Another difficult reality is that institutions themselves sometimes become vulnerable to denial.

Organizations fear:

  • lawsuits,
  • scandal,
  • public embarrassment,
  • loss of trust,
  • political consequences,
  • or financial fallout.

This can lead to:

  • ignored warning signs,
  • minimized complaints,
  • transferred offenders,
  • or pressure placed on victims to remain silent.

Historically, many major scandals involving abuse were not created by one offender alone, but by systems that failed to act decisively when concerns first surfaced.

This is why transparency, reporting systems, independent investigations, and accountability matter so deeply in professions involving vulnerable populations.

The Uncomfortable Truth

The hardest truth for many people to accept is that predators are often not strangers lurking in dark alleys.

Many are trusted members of communities.

They may wear uniforms.
They may stand behind pulpits.
They may coach Little League teams.
They may teach classrooms.
They may work in law enforcement.
They may sit beside families in church pews every Sunday.

That reality does not mean entire professions are corrupt.

It means trust itself can become a weapon in the hands of the wrong person.

And perhaps that is why these crimes disturb society so deeply.

Because they force people to confront a painful realization:
sometimes the people communities trust the most are the very people least suspected of betrayal.

Understanding that reality is uncomfortable.

Ignoring it is dangerous.

The Weight of Accusation

There is another side to these investigations that society rarely discusses openly.

Antique brass balance scales on wooden surface with shadow on cracked textured wall

The emotional horror surrounding crimes against children is so intense that accusation alone can sometimes become enough to destroy a person long before evidence is ever examined.

One former officer described an incident that illustrates how quickly perception can overtake truth.

Late one evening, a teenage boy reportedly stopped by the officer’s private residence and asked him to write a fake citation so he could use it as identification to appear older and gain entrance into a nightclub.

The officer refused and told the youth to leave.

According to the account, the teenager became angry and shouted back:

“You’re gay. I’m telling everybody.”

The officer dismissed the comment, closed the door, and thought nothing more about the exchange.

The following evening, however, when he reported for duty, he was immediately summoned into the Major’s office.

The teenager had filed allegations claiming the officer had made sexual advances toward him the night before.

The officer was suspended pending investigation.

Within hours, rumors had already begun spreading throughout the community.

The most difficult part for the officer was not simply the investigation itself. It was the realization that in allegations involving minors and sexual misconduct, innocence often struggles to compete against suspicion.

He had no witnesses.
No recording devices.
No defense except his own word.

The encounter had taken place in the privacy of his own home.

Yet public opinion had already begun forming long before any investigation reached conclusions.

This reality creates an uncomfortable but necessary truth society must confront carefully.

Protecting children must always remain a priority. Allegations involving minors deserve immediate and serious investigation.

At the same time, accusations alone cannot become automatic proof of guilt.

History has shown both realities can exist simultaneously:
real predators do hide within trusted institutions,
and false accusations, misunderstandings, retaliation, or exaggerated claims can also occur.

The challenge for investigators, communities, and institutions is maintaining enough emotional discipline to pursue truth instead of simply reacting to fear.

That balance is difficult.

But without it, justice itself can become compromised from both directions.

Running on Coffee and Commitment – How First Responders Survive Fatigue

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When the walls begin to close in. No backup. No one else to call. Because you are the help.

Part II – Learning To Talk

Fatigue in emergency services doesn’t arrive all at once.

It builds slowly—call after call, hour after hour. Sometime in the middle of the night, the body begins to remind you just how long you’ve been awake.

And that’s usually when the next call comes in.


By Benjamin GroffMedia© | benandsteve.com | ©2026

Photo by Jonathan Cooper on Pexels.com

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.

Because that’s what the job requires.

LAUGHTER IS THE BEST MEDICINE THEY SAY…

When the Tones Drop at 3 A.M.: The Hidden Fatigue Crisis in EMS

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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.

By Benjamin GroffMedia© | benandsteve.com | ©2026

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.

Volunteers portraying astronauts are transported by NASA is licensed under CC-CC0 1.0

The Science Behind Sleep Deprivation

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.

Photo by Mikhail Nilov on Pexels.com

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.

The Cost of Ignoring Fatigue

Photo by cottonbro studio on Pexels.com

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.

https://www.jems.com

They’re Going In Through the Front

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Thoughts, fears, and snacks in the days before neck surgery

By Benjamin GroffMedia© | benandsteve.com | ©2026

On July 24, I had back surgery—and for once in my life, something involving surgeons and sharp objects worked exactly as advertised. The surgery was an absolute success. It relieved pain I had carried with me for years, pain that had eventually relegated me to a chair or a bed like a piece of well-worn furniture. Since then, I’ve been more active, more mobile, and reminded of what it feels like to move without negotiating with my spine first.

The issues I’m dealing with now are the natural result of a life lived in full living color—action-packed, unscripted, and with me doing all my own stunts. Sadly, I didn’t think to record any of them. Back when I was chasing crooks down alleys, sliding across car hoods, and arresting bad guys, there were no body cams strapped to our chests and no doorbell cameras documenting every questionable decision. In hindsight, that may be a blessing. People behaved differently then. The folks we pulled over or chased didn’t try out legal theories they learned on YouTube. If someone even hinted at going the “sovereign citizen” route, they’d likely find themselves exiting the vehicle through the driver’s window and reconsidering their life choices on the pavement. Judges were less impressed by nonsense back then, too. Jail cells and fines were far more common than viral videos.

Sometimes I wonder if all the bumps, bruises, and hard knocks were worth it. Then I remember a frightened grandmother who was grateful we showed up and took the bad guy away—and I know it was.

But I’m getting sidetracked. Apparently, even when facing surgery, I can still drift into police stories.

So, back to the main event.

On March 5, I’ll be going in for cervical disc replacement—C3, C4, and C5—each swapped out for shiny artificial parts, with the added bonus of the surgeon filing down a few rough bone spurs while he’s in there. The procedure requires entering through the front of the neck. Which to me translates to “the throat.” A place I use regularly for swallowing, breathing, and moving blood around—activities I’d like to continue uninterrupted.

Naturally, I have concerns. One poorly timed sneeze. A joke told in the operating room. A momentary slip of the knife. Any of those could turn a routine procedure into a very different blog post.

Oddly enough, what concerns me most is how fast my insurance company approved the surgery. Six days. Six. Anyone who’s ever dealt with insurance knows that’s suspiciously efficient. Normally, approvals involve paperwork, appeals, second opinions, and possibly a séance. So now I’m left wondering: do they know something I don’t? Is this a cost-saving measure? A quiet attempt to write me off while I’m still in beta?

Which is unfortunate, because I’m still working on a book—and I haven’t even finished the first section. I’ve got way too much left to say.

My anxiety is manageable, but my paranoia is stretching its legs. Even my dog has noticed. He’s been sticking close, watching me like these might be my final days…or possibly because I’m giving him more snacks than Steve. It’s hard to say.

Whatever the case, I’m choosing to approach this with humor. It’s what got me through a police career. “Sick humor,” they call it—and yes, I’m going to need every bit of it between now and March 5.

March 5 should be a perfectly good day. Except history keeps raising an eyebrow.

The Boston Massacre happened on March 5, 1770. Patsy Cline—one of my favorite country artists—along with Cowboy Copas and Hawkshaw Hawkins, died in a plane crash on March 5, 1963. BOAC Flight 911 crashed into Mount Fuji on March 5, 1966, killing 124 people.

Still, I’m choosing optimism.

I’m determined that this March 5 will be remembered for something else entirely—a day when the pain that has severe pain in my right arm finally loosens its grip. A day when modern medicine does exactly what it promises. A day when the feeling of numbness, electrical pulses, pain, and partial paralysis ends.

Unless, of course, I crash into Mount Fuji.

But I don’t think my insurance covers that.

By Benjamin GroffMedia© | benandsteve.com | ©2026

For A Police Officer, There Is Never A Good Dog Call

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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.

Groff Media 2024© Truth Endures IMDbPro

Presented by benandsteve.com By: Benjamin Groff II©

4–5 minutes

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.

There is never a good dog call!

The Assignment ~ The Last Three Days ~ A Mission To Keep You Alive For 2025!

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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.

Groff Media 2024© Truth Endures IMDbPro

Presented by benandsteve.com By: Benjamin Groff II©

3–5 minutes

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!

WHEN THE LIGHTS DON’T WARN — THEY PULL

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A SPECIAL PUBLICATION FOR DECEMBER 13th, 2025

Are modern LED emergency strobes increasing the risk to first responders on America’s roadways?

Groff Media ©2025 benandsteve.com Truth Endures

3–5 minutes

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 H. Groff II — Truth Endures / benandsteve.com

About the Author:

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.

The Secret Santa of Cordell, Oklahoma

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Groff Media 2024© Truth Endures IMDbPro

Presented by benandsteve.com By: Benjamin Groff II©

3–4 minutes

In the small, snow-covered town of Cordell, Oklahoma, Police Chief Eby Don Walters had a secret. Every December, the frost painted the windows and the smell of pine and cinnamon filled the air. During this time, he would don a plush red suit and strap on a padded belly. He transformed into the town’s beloved Santa Claus.

Decades ago, a young Eby Don joined the force. The town’s Santa fell ill just days before the annual Christmas Eve festival. Eby Don, with his deep, booming laugh, twinkling eyes, and short, round build, stepped in. The kids adored him, and the tradition was born, bringing enduring joy to the community.

The children of Cordell adored Santa. They poured their hearts into their whispered wishes. They handed him carefully drawn pictures. They giggled when he joked about knowing if they’d been naughty or nice. Eby Don never broke character. He stayed in character even when his nieces and nephews sat on his lap. Their eyes were wide with wonder.

As the years passed, the children grew up, never suspecting that Santa was their own Chief Walters. Many returned with their kids, eager to introduce them to the magical figure from their childhoods. Eby Don played along. He listened with a warm smile as grown adults recounted their cherished memories of Santa. He waited for the moment when they would discover the truth. Their surprise and delight added to the magic of Christmas.

One Christmas Eve, nearing his sixties, Eby Don felt the weight of the years. The suit fit slightly tighter, and his knees creaked as he crouched to hug the smallest children. Yet, he couldn’t bear the thought of passing the torch. This was his gift to the town, his way of keeping its spirit alive. The Santa suit took a physical toll on him. Despite this, Eby Don continued to wear it. He knew the joy it brought to the children and the community.

That night, a little girl named Emma tugged at his sleeve, her big blue eyes searching his face.

“Santa, will you be here forever?”

she asked.

Eby Don knelt, his voice gentle.

“Santa’s spirit is always here, sweetheart, as long as people keep believing in the magic of Christmas.”

He knew that the belief in Santa was not just about a man in a red suit. It was about the spirit of giving, love, and hope that Christmas symbolizes. It was this belief that kept the Secret Santa tradition alive in Cordell.

The festival ended with the usual fanfare: carols, laughter, and the lighting of the town tree. Eby Don slipped to the small changing room behind the stage, trading his Santa suit for his police uniform. He stepped out into the cold night. The snow fell softly around him. He overheard a group of parents. Some of them were his former ‘kids’. They were talking about how lucky Cordell was to have a Santa who never missed a year. It was a warm and nostalgic end to the festive evening.

Eby Don smiled to himself. They would never know how much those words meant to him. He returned to his patrol car. His heart was as full as the sack of presents he had left under the tree. Chief Eby Don Walters cherished the greatest gift. It was knowing he had brought a little magic into the lives of everyone in Cordell. It was knowing he had brought a little magic into the lives of everyone in Cordell. They never knew the man behind the beard.

The Guardians of Christmas Eve

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Groff Media 2024© Truth Endures IMDbPro

Presented by benandsteve.com By: Benjamin Groff II©

3–4 minutes

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.”

And so they were.

Old-School Policing: Stories From the Days Before Body Cameras

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By Benjamin GroffMedia© | benandsteve.com | ©2025

3–5 minutes

Going Into Service

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.

Groff Media ©2025 benandsteve.com Truth Endures By: Benjamin Groff

About the Author:

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.

From the Plains to the Pavement: Agent Bill Johns’ Journey from the Wild West to Philadelphia’s Dark Alleys

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4–5 minutes

Bill Johns: The Bureau’s Man in the 1940s

It was the 1940s, and the Bureau had just transferred Bill Johns to the Philadelphia office. He arrived with a reputation built out west. The cases there were more challenging. The distances were longer, and the suspects were meaner. Officially, he was sent to cover Oklahoma, Texas, and New Mexico. Unofficially, he’d become “the best investigating chicken thief agent in the West.” His fellow agents gave him this nickname with a wink.

But Bill Johns had investigated far more than stolen hens. His most significant case had been in Osage County, Oklahoma: three Indian women, each murdered after marrying into money. For nearly three years, Johns chased a trail of false alibis, hidden bank accounts, and hired killers. He and another agent narrowly escaped ambushes five different times. By constantly dropping low and drawing faster than the men who wanted them dead.

Johns wasn’t flashy, but he had something rare—an intuition that couldn’t be taught. He would size up a suspect the way a rancher sizes up a horse. He knew when someone was lying about a bloodstain on a shirt. He knew this the same way he knew when a horse trader was covering up a limp. He followed the tiny clues that led from stolen goods to the back rooms where the real deals happened. He also traced a murder weapon to the man who’d hidden it.

What the Bureau didn’t understand—and still doesn’t—is that this ability isn’t in a handbook. It isn’t taught at the Academy. It’s a gift, as fragile as it is powerful. Use it or lose it. And only a few men like Johns ever had it.

In Philadelphia, this instinct would serve him just as well. He found himself involved with city syndicates. He encountered labor racketeering and noticed spies slipping through the docks at night. The same gut feeling had kept him alive in Osage County. Now it helped him spot the double-talkers in the bars. It also identified the men who lingered just a second too long at a back door.

Johns became known for something unusual—he rarely needed his gun. He’d walk into a situation, lean against a doorway, and just talk. By the time he left, the suspect had revealed more than he intended. John had already secured the evidence. He was no saint. He wasn’t perfect either. Nonetheless, he was a quiet professional in an era when crime was changing. The country was changing too.

The Last Case in Philadelphia

It was a rainy October night in 1947 when Johns’ instincts jolted him awake. An informant had whispered about a shipment coming into the Delaware River docks. This shipment was not whiskey or smuggled textiles. It was microfilm from Europe that would compromise national security. By dawn, he was leaning against a warehouse door. He pulled his collar up against the mist. He watched the shadows move across the slick cobblestones.

Later, back at the Bureau’s office, his supervisor shook his head. “How’d you know?” Johns simply shrugged. He never talked about instinct. He never mentioned gifts. He didn’t say how he’d been listening to his gut since his days chasing killers in Osage County. But he knew this: it wasn’t about being the fastest shot or the toughest agent. It was about reading people, seeing the truth they were trying to hide, and moving before they did.

When the men finally appeared, Johns didn’t draw his gun. Instead, he stepped into the light. Placing his hands in his overcoat pockets. He spoke in the calm, level tone that had unnerved more suspects than handcuffs ever would. One man slipped, trying to hide a satchel, and Johns pounced on him. In seconds, the microfilm was in his hand. The men, rattled and unsure how he’d seen through their plan, dropped their smokes and bolted.

That was Bill Johns’ legacy — an unassuming agent who became legendary not for force, but for foresight. His name rarely made headlines. Still, his quiet successes became the stories younger agents told each other. They shared these stories when they needed courage. Stories that remind you some people are born to find the truth, no matter where it hides.

Even today, his old case files are dusty, brittle, and overlooked. They still read like short stories of the American frontier meeting the modern city. Behind each one is the same simple truth. There’s no substitute for knowing people. No training can replace genuine instinct.

By Benjamin GroffMedia© | benandsteve.com | ©2025 

About the Author:

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.

The Silence About Straight Shooters

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2–3 minutes

Double Standards – Plain Prejudices!

When a massacre occurs, we rush to ask why. We sift through social media posts, interviews, and histories, desperate for something that explains the unexplainable. But what’s telling is not just the reasons we find—it’s the reasons we don’t look for.

The overwhelming majority of mass shooters in the United States are heterosexual men. That’s not speculation; it’s data. Yet how often do you see headlines dissecting a killer’s heterosexuality as the cause of their violence? How often do pundits rush online? They demand to see if the shooter once posted about a girlfriend or wore a wedding ring. They use that as “proof” that straight men are dangerous by design. The answer is simple: never.

And yet, when a shooter identifies as LGBTQ+, or is even rumored to, it suddenly becomes fair game for speculation. Sexuality or gender identity—factors with no proven connection to violence—are treated as the smoking gun. It’s as if identity itself becomes a scapegoat, a convenient villain for people already inclined to mistrust it.

This double standard reveals a lot about our cultural biases. Straight people are allowed complexity. They can be troubled, mentally ill, politically radicalized, or angry at the world. They can also be a hundred other things. But LGBTQ+ people are flattened into caricatures, their entire identities blamed for tragedies they commit. Violence is driven by opportunity, ideology, and access to weapons. It is also driven by often untreated pain—not by who someone loves or how they define themselves.

Maybe the question isn’t why people commit atrocities. Instead, we should ask why we frame some people’s motives through the lens of prejudice. Meanwhile, we let others keep their humanity. Until we answer that honestly, we’ll keep mistaking bigotry for truth—and keep missing the real reasons behind the violence.

About the Author:

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.

By Benjamin GroffMedia© | benandsteve.com | 2025 

The Idiocy Of Name Calling – Woof Whistles And Such!

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1–2 minutes

The Great Name-Calling Open

The morning was sunny on the golf course. A group of doctors noticed a team of nurses playing a round a few holes over. One of the doctors cupped his hands and hollered across the fairway:

“Hey! When you walked by the gate, the watchdog said WOOF! WOOF!”

The nurses froze, glaring back. One of them raised her club like a microphone and shouted,

“Oh yeah? When you all walked by the pond, the ducks went QUACK! QUACK!”

The golf course grew quiet. A couple of retirees nearby peeked out of their carts to see what the commotion was. The trash talk had officially begun.

Just then, a police officer—off duty but still in uniform for reasons only he knew—wandered up and added his grievance.

“That’s nothing! I went into a restaurant today and a bunch of teenagers started going OINK! OINK! OINK! at me!”

Back in the day, the slur was meant to show resentment toward police officers by labeling them as pigs. Still, many officers suggested it represented [Pride Integrity and Guts]!

The doctors and nurses nodded sympathetically, but before long they were all laughing. It seemed no profession was safe from ridicule.

“Well,” said one of the nurses, grinning. “If we’re going to keep score, I went to a rock concert last week. The singer stopped mid-song, pointed straight at the crowd, and called us every name in the book. I felt like I’d paid extra for the insults.”

By now, the golfers had abandoned their shots. The officer had parked his cart. The conversation had spiraled into a full-blown “who got called what” competition. Farmers chimed in about “moo” jokes. Teachers griped about “boring” chants. A barber also complained about being called “clip-clop” at the horse races.

The sun dipped lower, balls went unhit, and nobody remembered the score of the game. One thing was certain: the Great Name-Calling Open had been played on that course. Every profession—dog, duck, pig, or otherwise—walked away laughing.

By Benjamin GroffMedia© | benandsteve.com | 2025 

Henry’s Midnight Firestorm A Cloud Of Dust And Mistrust

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2–3 minutes

Henry’s Midnight Firestorm

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!

By Benjamin GroffMedia© | benandsteve.com | 2025 

The Sonoran Desert’s Buck Milford – Chapter 10: Cooler Heads (and Sandwiches) Prevail

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Reclaiming Ajo, Arizona!

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 END~

The Sonoran Desert’s Buck Milford – Chapter 9: Showdown at Sunset

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

2–3 minutes

Catching Heat In Ajo, Arizona

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 Sonoran Desert’s Buck Milford – Chapter 8: Misting Stations and Mistrust

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

2–3 minutes

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.

The Sonoran Desert’s Buck Milford – Chapter 7: Buck Joins the Bug Peace Talks

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

2–3 minutes

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!

The Sonoran Desert’s Buck Milford – Chapter 6: The Mayor Declares War

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

1–2 minutes

ONE STEP TOO FAR – TAKING OVER OF A TACO STAND

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?

The Sonoran Desert’s Buck Milford – Chapter 5: Heatstroke and Hallucinations

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

2–4 minutes

Other Strange Sightings In The Desert

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 Sonoran Desert’s Buck Milford – Chapter 4: Yodels and Yellows

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

2–4 minutes

Buck Plays a Tune!

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 labeled AMBASSADOR 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?

The Sonoran Desert’s Buck Milford – Chapter 3: The Great Desert Bacon Fire

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

2–3 minutes

The Ring of Fire

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 hummed Ring of Fire.

The Sonoran Desert’s Buck Milford – Chapter 2: Carl and the UFO Porta-Potty

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

2–3 minutes

Buck’s Response To Mile Marker 88

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.

The Sonoran Desert’s Buck Milford- Chapter 1 -Hotter Than Hades – A Hot Day Fighting Beatle Crickets In Arizona

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Arizona State Trooper Buck Milford From Ajo Dispatched To One Of The Hottest Calls Of The Summer

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

3–4 minutes

A Hot Day Fighting Beagle Crickets In Arizona

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!

Life Without Stunt Doubles: Embracing Real Struggles

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

2–3 minutes

There Are No Stand-Ins in Real Life

Benjamin Groff II

There’s a movie out there—The Fall Guy—that reminds us of a truth we often forget. In Hollywood, when the action gets dangerous, they call in a stunt double. Someone else takes the fall, gets bruised, and gets burned. Then, they step aside so the star can walk away without a scratch.

But out here, in the real world, there are no stand-ins.

I was raised on a farm. My stand-in never showed up when I fell off the back of a truck hauling hay. They didn’t when I landed wrong jumping a ditch with a bale slung over my shoulder. No one else was there to take my place when a horse threw me. A cow with more attitude than brains also decided I was in her way. Every bruise, every scar, every ache in my knees—those were earned the hard way, by me.

When I became a police officer, the stakes only got higher. I was the one in the scuffle, the one trying to wrestle control out of chaos. I went through a windshield once during a pursuit. Another time, I got clipped by a car while waving traffic around a wreck on a rainy night. I never saw it coming—but I sure felt it. I still do.

There were fires, chemical spills, panicked families crying out for help. I didn’t hand off the breathing problems that came after pulling someone out of a smoky building. There was no double standing in my boots, breathing what I breathed, lifting what I lifted, hurting where I hurt.

The human body doesn’t forget. It keeps the ledger. Muscles remember the weight. Bones remember the falls. Your mind moves on. But, your back doesn’t let you forget the day you lifted more than you should’ve. It also reminds you of the time you hit the ground harder than expected.

There’s no editing room where the rough scenes get cut, no second take when a decision goes sideways. Every moment counts. Every choice echoes. That’s real life.

It’s not glamorous. You don’t get stunt bonuses. There is no applause when you get up off the ground with dust in your mouth. You have a limp in your step. But it’s yours. Every fall, every break, every bruise—it’s part of the story. And no one else gets to claim it.

The movies make heroes out of actors. But out here, the real stories are written in blood, sweat, and healing bones. No stand-ins. Just you.

The Town Called Serenity – Chapter Ten: Stand Still, and the Dust Will Bury You

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

3–5 minutes

Chapter Ten: Stand Still, and the Dust Will Bury You

By dawn, the desert wind carried more than heat. It took silence—the kind that comes before thunder.

  • Chester Finch stood on the steps of the half-burned church at the edge of Serenity’s main street. His badge was pinned high and proud. His ribs ached. His coat was torn. But his eyes were sharp, and the ledger in his hands could end a dynasty. 
  • The Marshal had pulled his moped from hiding and had it juiced up for duty. The Vespa GTS (300cc) moped shone as slick as the day it was new. It had US Marshal emblems on it and had been stowed inside the jail’s secret compartment. A hiding place that Chester designed the night he arrived in town. 

Chester looked out over the gathering.

Wren was there, her arm in a sling, a rifle strapped across her back.

Petal stood beside her, bruised but alive, clutching a satchel full of Cain’s secrets.

Julep Jake leaned against the doorframe, sharpening his miniature whittled guillotine. 

“A town’s only worth the blood it takes to keep it,” 

He said. 

“Reckon we’re due.”

Even Buck Harlan was the old stagecoach driver who hadn’t spoken more than ten words in a decade. He stood with a shotgun across his knees.

And behind him came the others—storekeepers, grooms, forgotten women, broken men.

Cain had ruled them. Gallow had hunted them.

But now –– now they remembered their names.

Chester raised his voice.

“I’m no savior. I’m no sheriff. I’m just the last man they sent when no one else would come.”

He held up the badge.

“But I say this badge still means something. Not because it’s brass. Not because the government gave it to me. But because I’m willin’ to bleed for it.”

He threw the ledgers down onto the church steps.

“These are Cain’s sins. Every payment, every name, every blackmail note, every fix. And when this town turns that over to the federal office, I just wired—they’re gonna come. Not with a whisper. With subpoenas and dogs.”

A beat of silence.

Then a single voice called out:

“And Gallow?”

Chester turned. 

“He’ll come. Tonight, maybe. It could be sooner. He’ll bring fire.”

He looked to Wren.

“But fire don’t mean nothin’ if you’ve got water and grit.”

Wren nodded once. 

“We stand.”

The townsfolk murmured.

Then they shouted.

Then they began to build.

Barricades. Traps. Makeshift outposts from overturned wagons and scrap wood. Petal turned the saloon into a war room. Julep Jake strung piano wire across alleys. Even the bell tower rang for the first time in years, warning off the vultures.

The Last Hour

Cain, watching from The Assembly, saw the town rise against him and knew he’d lost the crown.

He poured a final drink, set it aside, and vanished through a trapdoor in the fireplace, bound for nowhere.

The Arrival

Gallow came at sunset, just as expected.

He walked straight down the main street—unarmed, unhurried—like he owned time.

But this time, time fought back.

The first tripwire knocked him off balance. A spotlight lit him up. A warning shot clipped his boot.

He crouched, ready to vanish into shadow—until he saw Chester.

Standing in the street. Moped beside him. Rifle in hand.

“You’re outgunned,” 

Gallow called.

“Nope,” 

Chester said. 

“I’m out-cowed.”

The townsfolk emerged—on roofs, behind crates, on balconies.

Gallow took a step. Then another.

Chester held firm.

And Wren, from the bell tower, raised her rifle.

The shot rang out.

Gallow stumbled. Not dead. Just marked.

He turned—bleeding, seething—and ran.

He vanished into the dust from which he’d come.

And the town never saw him again.

Epilogue: A New Kind of Quiet

Serenity changed.

The ledgers made it to Washington. Petal was deputized. Wren chose to stay and built the first real school the town had seen in thirty years. Julep Jake finally finished his guillotine and gave it to a museum in Tulsa.

As for Chester Finch?

He stayed, too.

He never left Serenity.

Not because he had to.

But sometimes, the worst places can create the most profound kind of peace.

Even if you get there on a moped.

The Town Called Serenity

A hero did not save it.

It was saved by the last man willing to stay when everyone else ran.

So the moped was hidden away in the jail’s secret spot—one no one else even knew existed. Good thing Chester made it out alive, or that Vespa would’ve turned into a time capsule! More importantly, this story is a great reminder: the bad guys never truly win.

THE TOWN OF SERENITY – Chapter Nine: A Predator in the Garden

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

3–4 minutes

Chapter Nine: A Predator in the Garden

Braddock Cain sat alone in The Assembly, a chessboard in front of him, half-played.

It was something he did when the whiskey wore off, and the world got too quiet. He played both sides of the board. He always made sure black lost.

Tonight, black wasn’t losing.

He moved a knight, sat back, and scowled.

The vault trap should have buried Finch and the girl. He’d received no word from Poke, which was unusual. Too unusual.

A low, sharp knock came at the door—three short raps. 

Then silence.

His eyes narrowed.

“Enter,”

He growled.

The door creaked open, and the man who stepped inside wasn’t Poke. Wasn’t anyone from Serenity? His clothes were clean, military-cut. His boots were dustless. He didn’t wear a hat—but his shadow felt longer than the room allowed.

“Mr. Cain,”

The stranger said. 

“I presume.”

Cain stood, hand already on the grip of his pistol.

“You don’t walk into this room without an invitation.”

“I didn’t walk,” 

The man replied. 

“I arrived.”

He stepped ahead and set a file down on Cain’s table. The name ASHWOOD was stamped in red across the top.

Cain didn’t move to open it.

“You’re Gallow,”

He said flatly.

“That’s what they used to call me,”

The man replied. 

“In certain circles. Not the ones you buy into.”

Cain sat back slowly. 

“What do you want?”

Gallow smiled faintly.

“Let’s call it… clarity. You’ve grown fat on rot, Cain. But rot attracts insects. I’m here to burn the carcass clean.”

Cain let out a cold laugh. 

“You think you can walk into my town and—”

Gallow was suddenly in front of him.

Cain hadn’t even seen the movement.

A knife gleamed under Cain’s chin.

“I don’t think,”

Gallow whispered. 

“I replace. You’ve become a liability to men far above either of us. The vault was never your property. The tapes, the ledgers, the names—you were supposed to manage them, not flaunt them.”

Cain’s eyes narrowed. 

“You’re not just here for Finch.”

“I’m not here for Finch at all,”

Gallow said softly.

“He’s just a broken piece. You’re the engine.”

He pulled the knife away and tucked it back into his sleeve.

“I won’t kill you tonight. That would be –– premature. But I will leave you with a choice.”

Gallow tapped the Ashwood file.

“Burn this. Leave town. Or wait for me to come back.”

Then he was gone.

Cain sat still for a long time, listening to the echo of Gallow’s departure. When his hand finally moved, it wasn’t for his gun.

It was for the bottle.

Elsewhere in Serenity

Poke’s body was found behind the saloon—face down, no bullet wound, no blood.

Just two coins were placed over his eyes.

Wren and Chester stood over him in silence.

“Gallow’s here,” 

Wren said. 

“And he’s not working for Cain. He’s cleaning the house.”

Chester looked toward the west horizon, where dust clouds rolled in from the direction of the rail line.

He pulled the badge from his coat and stared at it.

“Time to decide,” 

He muttered. 

“Do I play Marshal—or outlaw?”

Well now, Gallow is certainly making his presence known! And Cain clearly has a big decision to make—but will he actually leave town? If so, he better start packing snacks for the road. But if he’s thinking about staying, he’ll want to give Jonathan Lawson a call. He should secure himself a Colonial Penn Life Insurance policy. It’s unfortunate Poke didn’t think ahead. Maybe those two coins over his eyes are enough to cover a plot in the nearest potter’s field.

As for Marshal Chester Finch, he’s defied the odds and made it to Chapter Ten. And it looks like this final chapter will finally answer the big mystery: the moped. Where has it been? Who hid it? Why wasn’t it tampered with? What was it originally bought for? And when did Chester decide it would be his official Marshal’s ride?

All of this—and more—will be revealed in Chapter Ten. ~ WE Hope ~

The Town Called Serenity – Chapter Eight – The Devil Knows The Way Out

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

3–4 minutes

Chapter Eight: The Devil Knows the Way Out

The blast had sealed the main vault door and collapsed part of the tunnel behind them. Smoke choked the air. Brick and metal groaned under stress. Chester blinked through blood and dust, pulling Wren up from the rubble.

“You alright?”

He asked, coughing.

“Been worse,” 

Wren muttered, cradling her left arm. 

“Dislocated, not broken. I’ll pop it back.”

Chester pulled out a penlight and scanned the room. 

“No exit. That was the only way in.”

Wren smiled through the pain. 

“You thought it was.”

She limped to the far wall. A section of decorative tiling was there—old, Spanish-style. It jutted out from the stone like it didn’t belong. She knocked three times in a rhythm that echoed deeper than it should have.

A hollow click responded.

“Cain didn’t build the vault himself. He took it from a man who did. The original owner had escape routes.”

She traced a tile shaped like a broken star and twisted it counterclockwise. With a faint hiss, the tile wall slid inward, revealing a narrow stone chute, half-collapsed and riddled with centipedes.

Chester stared into the black.

“I don’t suppose you brought rope,”

He said.

“Nope.”

“Alright then,”

He grunted, and they vanished into the dark.

In the Streets Above

Petal stood at her shop counter grinding roots when the front door exploded inward.

She ducked instinctively, drawing her old revolver, but it was too late.

Two men in black tactical gear moved in fast, grabbed her arms, and yanked her across the counter. The third figure entered last—calm, silent.

Mr. Gallow.

He picked up a vial from the shelf, sniffed it, and set it down.

“I’ve read your name,”

He said, voice flat. 

“You’re a known associate of Wren. Harboring her. Aiding a rogue federal.”

Petal spat blood and smiled. 

“You got a badge?”

“No. I have jurisdiction.”

He signaled.

The men dragged her out.

They disappeared down the street. Julep Jake watched from his cell window. He was whittling a miniature guillotine from an old broom handle. 

“And now the harvest begins,”

He muttered.

The Long Climb

Chester and Wren emerged two hours later through a rusted maintenance grate behind the abandoned Serenity Theater. They were scratched, covered in brick dust, and exhausted—but alive.

Wren wiped grime from her face. 

“He set us up. Knew we were coming.”

Chester nodded grimly. 

“Means we rattled him.”

She held up the two ledgers she’d saved—one in each hand.

“He loses if these go public.”

Chester took them, tucking them into his coat. 

“Then let’s make sure they do.”

Suddenly—gunfire cracked in the distance. Three pops.

Wren froze. 

“That was near Petal’s.”

Chester’s face hardened. 

“We’re not the only ones he’s playing.”

They moved quickly down the alleys. Even as they ran, Wren stopped cold. She saw the mark scorched onto the alley wall: a circle with a horizontal line through it.

She grabbed Chester’s arm. 

“That’s not Cain’s symbol.”

“What is it?”

Wren’s voice dropped to a whisper. 

“It’s Gallow’s.”

Chester turned, scanning the rooftops.

“Then we’re out of time.”

What exactly did the symbol mean? Chester had the answer—or at least a regulation book with the answer—tucked away in the saddlebags on his moped. The problem? He didn’t bring it with him. And it’s too far to walk back now. Truth is, he hasn’t laid eyes on that moped since he rolled into town. So, is it hidden so well that he forgot where it is? Or is he protecting a strategic location he’s not ready to reveal? With only two chapters left, the Marshal better get moving!

The Town Called Serenity – Chapter Seven – The Hollow Vault

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

2–3 minutes

Chapter Seven: The Hollow Vault

Two nights later, Chester and Wren moved through the back alleys of Serenity like smoke.

The plan was simple: infiltrate the vault below The Assembly using the abandoned mine shaft Wren had mapped out. Inside, Cain kept more than just gold and guns—he kept records. Blackmail. Ledgers. Evidence.

Evidence that could break him!

Wren led them to a rusted grate hidden behind the collapsed ruins of an old hardware store. Beneath it: a shaft covered in rotted boards and bad intentions.

“Down there?” 

Chester asked.

“Unless you’d rather try the front door.”

They climbed down slowly, their boots sinking into decades of dust and discarded bones. Lantern light flickered over graffiti scratched into the stone. Old names. Gang signs. Some symbols are older than either of them recognized.

They crawled through two hundred yards of tight rock. They ducked under fallen beams and crossed a flooded tunnel chest-deep in cold water. Finally, they came to a narrow corridor with smooth brick walls.

“This was built after the mine closed,” 

Chester said.

“Cain built it,” 

Wren confirmed. 

“To smuggle in shipments during the lockdown years. It goes straight to his vault room.”

Chester’s hand rested on his revolver. 

“We go in quiet. No guns unless we’re cornered.”

They reached the door—an iron-bound, reinforced, and sealed structure with an old code lock. Wren pulled a tiny folded paper from her coat.

“Petal gave me this,” 

She said.

“It’s the combination. She wrote it down after Cain got drunk and showed off.”

Chester raised an eyebrow. 

“I’m beginning to like that woman.”

Wren punched in the numbers. The lock hissed. The door creaked open.

Inside, the vault glimmered like a serpent’s nest: stacks of cash, boxes of documents, safes within safes.

But the prize wasn’t money.

It was the black books.

Wren went for the ledgers. Chester opened a crate and pulled out a collection of old film reels labeled with names—judges, mayors, even a U.S. senator.

“This is it,”

He whispered.

“This is Cain’s Kingdom in a box!“

“This is Cain’s kingdom in a box.”

But then, from behind them—a faint click.

Wren froze. 

“Did you hear—”

Chester tackled her just as the explosion hit.

The vault door slammed shut.

Dust and debris rained down. A trap. It had been rigged.

From above, in a hidden observation room, Braddock Cain watched through a spyglass.

He turned to Poke and said, 

“Let them cook. They wanted into my house. Now they can die in it.”

But neither he—nor Chester—knew that Wren had already mapped another way out.

And worse, Mr. Gallow had just entered Serenity.

Cain’s Kingdom In A Box? Sounds like evidence that sews up this case! But, now Mr. Gallow is in town, and this brings a whole new suggestion for more trouble. Or a solution. It is too early to tell. Maybe Mr Gallow came for the moped. What if the Marshal’s service issued the moped to Chester, and they want it back?

The Town Called Serenity – Chapter Six – Ashwood

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

1–2 minutes

Chapter Six: Ashwood

The file on Chester Finch wasn’t stored in any digital archive. It was handwritten, double-sealed, and stored in a fireproof vault in Washington, D.C., under a codename known only to four men who still remembered it.

Operation Ashwood.

Eight years ago, Chester was part of a black-bag unit inside the U.S. Marshal Service—officially unrecognized, unofficially unstoppable. The team was created to root out systemic corruption in rural American towns with privatized law enforcement and cartel-backed leadership. The mission was simple: infiltrate, destabilize, expose.

Ashwood’s first three targets were textbook. The fourth—Gulch County, Texas—was different.

Chester had made the call. He exposed the sheriff, three council members, and a judge and brought them down with a clean sweep.

But the blowback was lethal.

Three of Chester’s team were ambushed at the exit. A safe house was burned down—with a whistleblower’s daughter inside. The press got hold of fragments, but the whole truth? That was buried in a sealed report and heavily redacted.

Chester took the blame. Not officially. But quietly. They let him keep the badge—under the condition that he’d never be given another high-profile operation again.

Until now.

Serenity was never meant to be his assignment. Someone had slipped his name into the dispatch. Someone with a more extended memory than the agency admitted to.

And now Gallow, the last surviving Ashwood “fixer,” was on the trail.

Now, remember this is only a pause between Chapters Five and Seven. This moment is to clarify what was happening. It serves to show what brought Chester Finch to these parts. When Chapter Seven opens, it will seem like only a few days have passed. That will be just enough time for Finch to remember his past, whether he likes it or not. Still, there is no word where he has left the moped. Surely, it would have been used as a bargaining chip with him by now.

The Town Called Serenity – Chapter Five – The Clock In The Dust

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

3–5 minutes

Chapter Five: The Clock in the Dust

The bell above Petal’s shop rang twice—slow and deliberate.

That was the signal.

Wren waited until the third cloud passed over the moon before sliding off the schoolhouse roof. She moved like a whisper down the alleyway, avoiding the creaky boards and broken glass with practiced ease. She paused behind the horse trough near the sheriff’s office and whistled once—two notes, flat and low.

Chester was sitting inside the dim jailhouse with his boots propped up on a barrel. His bruised rib was bandaged with a strip of curtain. He heard the sound and stood up.

He opened the door.

Wren stepped into the lamplight. She was small and wiry, wrapped in an oversized coat that had seen better days. Her eyes were dark and deliberate, scanning the room, the exits, the Marshal.

“I watched you fight the Gentlemen,”

She said without greeting.

Chester gave her a nod, cautious but not cold. 

“You’re the girl from the roof.”

“I’m the girl from everywhere,”

She replied.

He gestured to a stool. 

“You hungry?”

She hesitated, then sat. 

“I want something else.”

“Alright.”

“I want Cain gone.”

Chester leaned back against the wall, arms crossed. 

“That makes two of us. But wantin’ it and surviving it are two different things.”

Wren pulled her notebook from her coat and opened it. She showed him a crude map—of underground tunnels, secret entrances, schedules.

“I’ve been tracking his movements for six months,”

She said. 

“He’s gotten sloppy. He trusts the wrong people. There’s a weak point—down in the old mines under the vault. He thinks no one remembers it exists.”

Chester raised an eyebrow. 

“And you want to hit him there?”

“I want to expose him first. Show Serenity what he is. Not just a tyrant. A liar. A coward. I can get you inside. You have to decide if you’re willing to break the rules you came here to enforce.”

He looked at her for a long moment. 

“You ever worked with a marshal before?”

“No,” 

Wren replied. 

“You ever work with a kid who knows where all the bodies are buried?”

Chester smiled. 

“Can’t say that I have.”

She closed the notebook. 

“Then we’re even.”

They shook hands—hers small and cold, his calloused and warm. In that moment, something changed. Not in Serenity. Not yet.

But it had started.

Meanwhile –––

Five miles west of Serenity, in a ravine that didn’t show on most maps, a boxcar shuddered to a halt. It stopped on rusted rails.

A figure stepped out—tall, dressed in black, face hidden beneath a wide-brimmed hat. Beside him, four others disembarked—mercenaries, by the look of them. Not local. Not from this state. Not from this country, maybe.

They called him Mr. Gallow.

No one knew if that was his real name. He didn’t speak often, but when he did, people obeyed—or disappeared.

Gallow held up a leather-bound dossier stamped with the faded seal of the Bureau of Internal Affairs. Inside was a photo of Chester Finch, clipped to a thick file marked:

“CLASSIFIED – OPERATION ASHWOOD.”

He flipped the page and revealed a second file—one that bore the name Braddock Cain.

And then a third.

Subject: WREN (Alias Unknown).

Status: Missing / Witness Protection Violation.

Gallow smiled faintly.

He turned to his team and said only two words.

“Kill quietly.”

They vanished into the desert night like wolves on the scent.

Back in Serenity

Petal watched the train lights fade on the horizon, her face tense.

She reached behind the counter, pulled out a dusty revolver, and said to herself, 

“They’re all waking up now.”

And somewhere, far below, in the tunnels beneath Serenity, a clock that had long stopped ticking began to turn again.

So, Chester’s past is coming back to haunt him. What exactly are contained in the files OPERATION ASHWOOD Files? And, how much of it did Chester do or not do? He now cares less about the moped. If the contents of the file sees light of day, what would it mean for our Marshal? The man trying to cleanup this dirty town? And the tunnels, are another thing? Just a quick way to get about town or something more sinister?

The Town Called Serenity – Chapter Four – Pieces on the Board

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

3–5 minutes

Chapter Four: Pieces on the Board

Braddock Cain stood in front of a pool table inside The Assembly, lining up a shot with surgical calm. His eyes didn’t leave the cue ball even as Poke relayed the report.

“He bloodied Silas’s nose, bruised Dutch’s ribs, broke Miles’ fiddle, and made Jonas fall on his ass,” 

Poke said, leaning against a cracked marble column. 

“Didn’t even draw his gun.”

Cain took the shot. The cue ball clicked sharply and sank the eight-ball in the corner pocket.

He stood slowly, placed the cue stick back on the rack, and poured himself a drink.

“And the town?”

“They watched,” 

Poke replied. 

“They didn’t help, but they didn’t laugh either. Some of ’em even looked –– curious.”

Cain stirred his drink with one finger. 

“That’s the worst part.”

Poke blinked. 

“Sir?”

Cain turned toward the window. 

“Fear keeps Serenity in check. When people get curious, they start to hope. And hope’s just a prettier way of saying ‘trouble.'”

He walked back to his velvet chair, every step echoing in the hollow room.

“I want to know everything about Marshal Finch. Where he came from. What he’s running from. Who sent him? And,”

He added, narrowing his eyes, 

“who he’s willing to die for.”

Poke nodded and disappeared.

Cain sipped his drink and muttered to the empty room,

“Let’s see what kind of man rides into Hell on a scooter.”

Across the Rooftops

Wren sat cross-legged on the corrugated roof of what had once been Serenity’s schoolhouse. The sun was setting in a blood-orange smear across the sky. She held a spyglass in one hand and a half-sharpened pencil in the other. A leather-bound journal rested in her lap.

Inside were names. Maps. Notes.

She turned to a fresh page and wrote:

Chester Finch – Marshal – Took a hit, didn’t fall. I watched the Gentlemen leave bruised. He won’t last a month. He might last longer.

Beside her sat a worn revolver wrapped in canvas, untouched. Wren didn’t shoot unless necessary. 

Observation was safer.

She reached into her coat and pulled out a folded piece of paper. It was a newspaper clipping, old and faded:

“LOCAL DEPUTY DIES IN FIRE — WIDOW, CHILD UNACCOUNTED FOR”

She stared at it for a long moment before tucking it away again.

Wren wasn’t born in Serenity. She was left here. Left during the chaos, after the fire, after the men in black suits came and went. Cain had taken her in—not out of kindness but calculation. He saw her silence, her memory, her talent for hiding in plain sight.

He never asked questions. Neither did she.

Until now.

She looked back toward the jailhouse, where Chester Finch was lighting a lantern in the window. He moved stiffly, but there was something in the way he held himself. Like a man who wasn’t afraid to die—but was trying real hard not to.

She flipped back through her notebook. She found a sketch she’d drawn weeks ago. It was a map of Serenity. The map had dotted lines marking the tunnels under the old mines. It showed the abandoned telegraph station and the hidden entrance to Cain’s private vault room.

Wren circled Chester’s name, then drew a faint arrow pointing to the vault.

It was almost time.

Elsewhere in Serenity ––

  • Petal wiped the dust from her apothecary shelves. She stared at a cracked photo of her brother. He was killed by Cain’s men for refusing to cook meth in the back room. She kept smiling, but her smile was starting to slip.
  • Julep Jake, now back in his cell by choice, was building something with matchsticks and chewing gum. “Civic infrastructure,” he explained to no one.
  • Silas Crane dipped his bleeding knuckle into holy water and laughed softly. “He’s gonna make me preach,” he whispered. “And I do love a sermon.”

Back in The Assembly, Cain sat alone in the dim light, polishing a gold coin between his fingers. One side bore the symbol of the old U.S. Marshal’s badge. The other side? Blank.

“Flip it,”

He whispered. 

“Heads, he burns. Tails, he breaks.”

He flipped the coin into the air and caught it.

But he didn’t look.

Not yet.

Yet another episode to our story concludes. And, still no word on whether the moped is safe. After all, nowhere in this story is it mentioned whether Chester Finch parked it in a loading zone. It also doesn’t say if he used a 1-hour only parking space when he got to town. So far it hasn’t been used to his advantage in any of the dealings he has had. In Chapter Five, you will find out why. There is a secret method to getting about the town. It is about to unfold.

The Town Called Serenity – Welcome Committee

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

3–5 minutes

Chapter Three: Welcome Committee.

A town allergic to rules.

The Town Called Serenity

By noon the next day, the heat in Serenity had risen to an oppressive boil. The town smelled of dry rot, sweat, and gun oil. Somewhere in the distance, a fiddle played off-key. Somewhere closer, someone was being punched.

Chester Finch stepped out of the rickety sheriff’s office he had claimed, swatting at flies with his hat. His left eye was bruised from a scuffle the night before, and he had re-holstered his sidearm four times that morning alone—once while buying coffee, once while crossing the street, once during a handshake, and once because a six-year-old pointed a slingshot at him and said, 

“Bang.”

Serenity wasn’t just lawless—it was allergic to rules.

A woman named Petal ran the general store and apothecary. She greeted Chester with an arched brow, and a cigarette clung in the corner of her mouth.

“You’re still alive,”

She said, counting change. 

“Didn’t expect that.”

“Thanks for the confidence,” 

Chester replied, tipping his hat.

She shrugged. 

“Ain’t personal. We don’t usually see second sunrises on lawmen.”

Chester had started to respond when a shadow fell across the dusty street. Four men approached—spaced out like predators, walking with the purpose that made children vanish and shutters slam.

The Gentlemen had arrived.

The one in front was tall, clean-shaven, and wore a preacher’s collar over a duster that flared in the wind. A thick Bible was tucked under one arm. His name was Silas Crane, but most folks called him Reverend Knuckle. He smiled with too many teeth.

“Marshal,” 

He said. 

“We heard you were new in town. Thought we’d come to say hello proper-like.”

Behind him stood the other three:

  • Dutch, a former bare-knuckle boxer with hands like cinder blocks and a voice like gravel being chewed.
  • Miles, a one-eyed fiddler with a twitchy finger, never stopped humming.
  • And Jonas, the silent butcher-aproned brute who carried a wood-chopping ax like it was a handshake waiting to happen.

Chester stayed calm. He’d dealt with worse—once, a rogue bootleg militia in Nevada. Another time, a cult leader in Kentucky had a fondness for snakes and a penchant for blackmail. These four? They were just another test. Or so he hoped.

“I appreciate the hospitality,” 

Chester said, thumb resting on his belt. 

“But I’m here on business.”

Silas opened his Bible, then punched Chester square in the jaw. The Marshal hit the dirt hard.

“Chapter One,”

Silas said, closing the book. 

“Verse one: The meek get stomped.”

Dutch cracked his knuckles. 

“You wanna deliver the sermon, or should we take it from here?”

Chester wiped the blood from his lip and sat up. 

“You fellas always greet visitors with scripture and assault?”

“We greet threats,”

Silas replied, crouching. 

“You’re Cain’s business now. That means you’re ours.”

Behind them, the few townsfolk watching began to edge away, some disappearing entirely. Petal stayed, lighting a second cigarette from the first.

Chester stood up slowly. 

“You done?”

Silas raised an eyebrow.

Because that’s when the door behind them swung open, and out walked Julep Jake, shirtless, handcuffed, and barefoot.

“Marshal,” 

Jake yelled, grinning wildly, 

“you left the cell unlocked again! I declare myself free! By raccoon law!”

Everyone froze.

Even Jonas blinked.

Silas turned slightly. 

“What is—?”

And that’s when Chester moved. Fast.

He used the distraction to land a gut punch on Dutch. He spun around Silas. Then, he kicked Miles’ fiddle clean across the street. Jonas came at him like a wrecking ball, but Chester ducked and flipped a barrel in the way. The brute went tumbling.

It wasn’t a win. It was a delay.

But it was enough.

When the dust settled, Chester stood there, breathing hard, badge still gleaming. Around him, the Gentlemen nursed bruises and bruised pride.

“You tell Cain,”

Chester said, voice steady, 

“that if he wants me gone, he better send a storm. Because the breeze just isn’t cuttin’ it.”

Silas stared at him, blood on his lip. Then he smiled that too-wide smile again.

“This is gonna be fun,” 

He whispered.

They left him standing there, Jake still rambling behind him about his re-election campaign.

Later That Night ––

From a rooftop, a girl no older than fourteen watched the fight unfold. Her name was Wren. She didn’t talk much and didn’t smile either. But she watched everything. She scribbled something in a notebook.

The new Marshal wasn’t like the last dozen.

This one fought back.

Well now—what a predicament! After crossing paths with The Gentlemen, will the Marshal still be standing? Or will he end up being used to mop the floor by the end of Chapter Four? And as for his trusty moped… is it safe around this unruly bunch? Check here tomorrow for more and Chapter Four of this very exciting story!

The Town Called Serenity – Chapter Two ~ The Man In The Velvet Chair ~

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

3–4 minutes

Chapter Two: The Man in the Velvet Chair

Braddock Cain held court in what used to be Serenity’s town hall. It has been redubbed The Assembly. This tongue-in-cheek title amused him to no end. The building’s original seal featured a gavel and olive branch. It had been charred. A mural of a coiled snake wrapped around a set of broken scales replaced it.

Cain reclined in a velvet chair salvaged from an old theater. His legs were crossed and his boots polished. A glass of brandy swirled in his hand. He dressed like a gentleman, but everything about him screamed predator. His jaw bore a faded scar shaped like a question mark, and his eyes—green, sharp, reptilian—missed nothing.

He was listening to the daily reports from his lieutenants. These included moonshine shipments and bribe tallies. They discussed who’d been bought and who needed reminding. It was during this time that the news came in.

“Marshal rode in today,” 

Said a wiry man named Poke, who hadn’t blinked since 1989. 

“Little fella on a moped. Arrested Julep Jake, if you can believe it.”

Cain’s eyebrow lifted slightly.

“Didn’t shoot him?” 

He asked, his voice smooth as oiled leather.

“No, sir. I hauled him off. Jake’s in the old jailhouse right now. He’s hollerin’ about election fraud. He’s claimin’ he’s immune to state law because of a sacred raccoon spirit.”

Cain chuckled, swirling his drink.

Side Note:

Julep Jake was a Yale-educated botanist. He loved whiskey-fueled nonsense. He habitually wore a sash that read “Honorary Mayor 4 Life.” Despite all this, he had a breakdown during a lecture on invasive species. He ended up in Serenity after wandering the desert in a bathrobe. He decided, on divine instruction, that this was where civilization needed his governance. The raccoon spirit came later, after a bad batch of moonshine.

Cain leaned forward, elbows on his knees. 

“So. The law’s back in town.”

Poke nodded. 

“Says he’s here to clean up.”

Cain smiled faintly. 

“Then let’s give him something to mop up.”

He rose, slow and deliberate. Every movement was calculated with the same precision he used to carve out his little empire. Cain wasn’t just a criminal—he was a tactician. He knew that fear didn’t come from bloodshed alone. It came from control. Predictability. Making people believe that resistance was a form of suicide.

“Send word to the Gentlemen,”

Cain said.

The Gentlemen weren’t gentlemen at all. They were Cain’s enforcers—four men, each with a particular specialty. One was a former preacher who liked to break fingers while quoting scripture. Another was a silent giant who wore a butcher’s apron even on Sundays.

“Tell them I want to meet our new Marshal. Kindly, of course. Offer him a warm Serenity welcome.”

Poke nodded and vanished.

Cain turned to the shattered windows behind him, looking out over his kingdom. Dust swirled in the streets. Somewhere, a gunshot echoed, followed by laughter.

“I do enjoy it when they come in idealistic,”

Cain murmured, sipping his drink. 

“They bleed slower.”

The sun sets over Serenity. One question hangs heavy in the air: Will the town still be standing by morning? It’s the same question whispered every night by those who still dare to hope. But for Chester, the stakes are far more personal. His question is simpler—yet far more deadly: Will he live to see the sunrise? And if he does… will he finally come face to face with the elusive “Gentlemen”? Few ever have—and fewer still lived to speak of it.

Chapter Three reveals the fate of the town. It uncovers the future of Chester. The shadowy intentions of the Gentlemen are exposed, at least for one more day. A luxury not everyone in Serenity can count on.

Coming Friday The Ten Part Story Begins On The Town Called Serenity

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

1–2 minutes

Summary:

The Town Called Serenity

A town lies in the lawless fringes of the state. It is so dangerous and rotten that only the most desperate or the most damned ever call it home. Serenity—where outlaws drink with murderers, where honest men bleed before their second breath, and where fear rides in daylight.

Enter Chester Finch, a disgraced Deputy U.S. Marshal with a forgotten past and a laughable ride—a moped. But Serenity’s not a place that cares about appearances. It cares about power. And when Chester arrives, he’s not just up against crooked sheriffs, backroom executions, and townsfolk too scared to speak. He’s walking into the jaws of Braddock Cain—a kingpin with an empire built on blackmail and buried secrets.

Chester uncovers the layers of corruption. He discovers a larger threat: Gallow. Gallow is a ghost from his past with no badge, no mercy, and no leash. When Gallow comes to cleanse Serenity in fire, Chester must rally the few brave enough to fight. He must stand in the middle of a street where justice hasn’t walked in years.

This is a tale of grit, guilt, redemption—and standing tall when hell itself tells you to kneel.

Watch for the first Chapter in a series of 10! You can find them here beginning May 30th, 2025!

When Radios Fell Silent: The 1978 Trooper Tragedy

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

4–6 minutes

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.

Lessons from the street: Shattered Expectations

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

3–4 minutes

“Shattered Expectations”

The night was calm in that tense, waiting way cops get used to. It was the quiet that makes your stomach coil. You know it won’t last. I was still new then, riding with my training officer. He was a crusty, seen-it-all type who barely spoke unless it was to point out something I’d done wrong. If I ever earned his approval, it’d be the same day pigs sprouted wings and took to the skies.

We cruised down a dark side street when I spotted a car weaving just enough to catch my attention. I hit the lights. It was a rust-bucket sedan packed with teenagers—maybe five of them, wide-eyed and frozen as I approached. My training officer stayed in the car. That was his style: throw the rookie in the water and see if he sank.

I had the driver step out. He was lanky, maybe seventeen. He wore his coat like a belt, tied around his waist. It seemed too warm for sleeves but too cool to ditch. As he stepped out, the hem of the coat caught on something. Then—clink clink clink—CRASH. Three or four bottles of beer tumbled from under the coat like traitors abandoning ship. They hit the pavement. The bottles shattered in an amber mess around our feet.

The kid froze. I froze. Then we both looked at the puddle between us. From where my training officer sat, it probably looked like I’d lost my temper and smashed the bottles myself. Great.

Before I processed the situation, the radio crackled with a priority call—armed robbery. We were the closest unit.

“Back in the car,”

Came the voice from the patrol unit.

I turned to the kids, who now looked ready to faint.

“Go to the police station. Wait there. I’ll meet you after this call.”

They didn’t argue. They didn’t run. I just nodded in frightened unison, which, in hindsight, has been the most surprising part of the whole thing.

We sped off. The call was a blur—adrenaline, sirens, controlled chaos. When it wrapped, I reminded my training officer about the teens.

“We need to swing by the station. The kids should be there.”

He gave me a skeptical glance.

“Right…”

But sure enough, there they were when we rolled up to the front of the station. All of them were sitting on the bench outside like they were waiting for a ride to Sunday school. Nobody had moved. Nobody had tried to hide or ditch the evidence.

I had them step inside one at a time. No citations. No handcuffs. It was just a firm talk I remembered getting when I was about their age. I laid it on thick—the “blood on the highway” speech, consequences, how lucky they were, all of it. They nodded solemnly. They got the message.

As we returned to the patrol car, my training officer gave me a sideways look.

“You know,”

He said,

“you didn’t have to bust the beer bottles like that. That was an asshole move.”

I laughed.

“That wasn’t me. The kid’s coat dragged them out. Total accident.”

He squinted at me like I was trying to sell him beachfront property in Kansas.

“Uh-huh,”

he said.

“Sure.”

I never did convince him. But a week later, during roll call, he told another officer I had

“a decent head on my shoulders.”

Coming from him, that was a standing ovation.

And me? I still smile every time I think of those kids. They sat quietly in front of the station, smelling like cheap beer and bad decisions. They were waiting for the rookie cop who didn’t quite screw it all up.

The Last Post: A Security Nightmare at Ridgewood

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

3–4 minutes

“The Last Post”

The night shift at Ridgewood Corporate Plaza was supposed to be quiet. Ten floors of empty offices, humming servers, and fluorescent lights dimmed for the janitors’ comfort. The tenants had gone home. The day’s buzz was replaced by the solemn hum of vending machines. There was also the distant thrum of traffic.

That’s when the trouble started.

At exactly 11:42 PM, a woman from the 8th floor called 911. Her voice trembled as she whispered into the phone from behind a copier machine:

“It’s the security guard. He’s –– drunk. He has a gun, and he’s playing with it.”

“Officer intoxicated w/ a gun!”

Officer Marquez and his partner were already in the area and responded within minutes. They pulled up to the building’s glassy facade. They saw the guard—an older man with a thick mustache and sun-lathered skin. His uniform hung loose on his wiry frame. He stood under the lobby lights like he was in a stage play.

He spun a revolver on his index finger like an old-time cowboy. His other hand clutched a bottle of whiskey that sloshed wildly with each twirl.

“Pow!“ 

He shouted, aiming at an invisible outlaw in the corner.

“You see that, Tex? That’s the ol’ Ridgewood Quickdraw!”

Inside, a cluster of overnight IT workers and janitors peeked nervously from the elevator bank. Some held phones. Others gripped cleaning poles like makeshift weapons.

“Sir,” 

Officer Marquez called out, stepping carefully from the squad car. 

“Let’s talk. Put the gun down, okay?”

The guard, whose name tag read “Terry,” stopped spinning the weapon. He looked over as if noticing the world around him.

“Well, I’ll be,” 

He slurred. 

“Company’s here.” 

He saluted with the barrel of the gun, then promptly dropped it. The weapon clattered to the floor. It spun in a circle like a coin. Finally, it came to a rest near a vending machine.

Marquez’s hand was already on his holster, but he didn’t draw. His partner approached slowly from the other side.

“Mr. Terry,” 

She said, calm but firm. 

“You’re scaring people. Can we take a seat over here and talk things through?”

Terry blinked at her, then at the people behind the glass, the ones he was supposed to protect.

“They don’t trust me,” 

He muttered. 

“Not anymore. It used to be a man with a badge, and a sidearm meant something.” 

He took another swig from the bottle, winced, and gave a soft, hollow chuckle. 

“Guess all that’s old-fashioned now.”

Marquez knelt beside the dropped gun and slid it back with his foot.

“It’s not about trust,” 

He said. 

“It’s about safety. Yours and theirs.”

Terry looked down at his trembling hands. The whiskey sloshed in the bottle, no longer steady. Finally, he let it drop, too, and it landed with a dull thunk.

He sat heavily on the bench by the entrance, slumping over like a man who hadn’t rested in decades. The officers approached, cuffed him gently, and led him out into the cool night.

As the police cruiser pulled away, the building behind him exhaled a collective sigh of relief.

Inside, someone from IT muttered, 

“I never want to see another cowboy movie again.”

But for years afterward, whenever a door creaked open late at night, or the lights flickered for no reason, the cleaning crew would joke:

“That’s just Terry, doing one last patrol.”

And everyone would pause. They were half amused and half uneasy. They remembered the night the security guard became the danger he was supposed to guard against.

Inside the Attic: Capturing a Dangerous Fugitive

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

2–3 minutes

Early in my law enforcement career, I rode with some of the best in the business. These included David “Booty” Ware, Bruce Poolaw, Junior Toehay, Don Gabbard, and Buttin Williams. All were Native American except for Gabbard, a character in his own right.


By the time I was 19, I had experienced more than most people do in a lifetime. I was just getting started.


One day, nearly every law enforcement officer in the county joined a search. They were looking for a man named Virgil Bass. He had a felony warrant and was considered dangerous. Virgil had vowed he wouldn’t go to jail without a fight. If anyone tried to arrest him, he’d either kill them or die trying.


We started early that morning, sweeping from one end of the county to another. By evening, we reached Virgil’s parents’ house on the county’s west side. We surrounded the place, each of us watching for any sign of an escape.


Bruce and I approached the door and stepped inside. His parents claimed they hadn’t seen him, but they kept glancing up at the ceiling.


Bruce, all 6’6″ of him, said firmly,

“We need to check everywhere.”


We made a show of slamming doors, stomping around, acting like we’d searched every corner. Then we got to the attic.


Bruce looked at me.

“You’re the only one who’ll fit up there. I’ll give you a boost.”


Before I knew it, my head was poking through the attic opening. It was pitch black. I called down,

“I need a flashlight!”


I was half-expecting a two-by-four to come crashing down on me—or worse. If Virgil was up there, he saw me silhouetted by the light from below.


Bruce handed me his flashlight. I pulled myself up until my arms were entirely inside the attic and swept the beam around. The attic was filled with fluffy pink insulation. One spot was different. A trail led from the opening to a lumpy insulation patch. About five feet away, the insulation looked disturbed.


I looked down at Bruce.

“I need a poker iron.”


I heard Bruce ask the family if they had one, and he handed it to me within seconds. I jabbed the iron into the lump, then thought better of it and started whacking the hell out of it.


Suddenly, there was yelling and cursing, and Virgil burst out of the insulation.


“Stop it! Stop it! I give up!”

he hollered.


I ordered him to follow me down, and once he was out, we cuffed him. We took him outside to Booty’s patrol car. Booty looked at the lump rising over Virgil’s eye. He asked,

“How’d that happen?”


I shrugged.

“He fell on a poker iron.”


The whole crew burst out laughing. After all, it’s easy to fall on a poker iron. This is especially true when hiding in an attic after threatening to die before going to jail.

Kidnap Attempt Foiled: A Cop’s Gripping Night Shift

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

4–6 minutes

It had been a strange, unsettling night.

Officer Tim Roff
Tim Roff

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.

Patrol Division Night Duty
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.