lawman story

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.

Small Acts of Kindness: A Legacy of Compassion

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

3–4 minutes
Francis
Pope Francis

Today, the world said goodbye to Pope Francis. I was reminded of the man who called for compassion among the masses. He urged us to find understanding and acceptance in whatever ways we can. He believed that small steps lead to greater paths. Simple, quiet acts of goodness build a better world.

Altruism was instilled in me from an early age. Through my personal experiences, I’ve come to understand its true meaning. I instinctively understood the Pope’s message and often wished more people worldwide would embrace it as profoundly as I had.

For me, kindness has always been second nature, a lesson I learned from my father. I knew from childhood that even the smallest gestures mattered. It is holding a door open for someone. It is offering a word of acknowledgment or helping a stranger in need. My father, a man of few words but profound actions, taught me this.

Each Sunday morning, the sun rose. He and I would then load our truck with fresh produce from our farm. This was done before the first car appeared on Main Street. We would quietly deliver baskets of food to low-income families across town. It was a ritual performed with no expectation of thanks, no wish for recognition. My father made it clear: this was our shared mission, something sacred, something we did simply because it was right. The smiles on the faces of those families showed the impact of our small acts of kindness. The relief in their eyes was a testament to the difference we made.

Altruism can take on many faces—kindness, decency, a willingness to see others’ needs. Years ago, we visited Las Vegas with my better half and two fellow law enforcement officers. We stopped for a quick meal at a small pizza shop. I noticed an older man lying beneath a tree across the parking lot as we ate. He looked frail and vulnerable—homeless, clearly unwell.

Throughout the meal, I couldn’t shake the image of him. When we finished, I gathered our untouched slices into a to-go box. I told the others I would offer it to him. It didn’t feel right to leave that food behind, not when someone nearby desperately needs it.

As I approached, I saw fear and uncertainty in his eyes. But when I gently asked how he was doing and whether he had eaten, his expression softened. I handed him the pizza and a bottle of water. His hands trembled as he accepted them, tears welling in his eyes.

We spoke briefly. He told me it had been days since he last ate. He had been surviving on whatever water he found. He hadn’t asked for anything—but his gratitude was overwhelming.

Then, quietly, we went our separate ways.
That moment has stayed with me, just as those early Sunday mornings with my father have stayed with me. Compassion doesn’t have to be loud. Kindness doesn’t always wait to be invited. Sometimes, it’s simply about noticing—and acting.

I never saw that man again. I like to believe that the small act of kindness I showed him helped him feel seen and valued. It made him feel stronger for the journey ahead. It’s a testament to the power of small acts of kindness. It gives me hope for a more compassionate world.

As Pope Francis often reminded us, the world doesn’t change through grand gestures alone. It changes one small act of love at a time. And so, in his memory, I urge you, the reader. Please continue noticing. Keep caring and acting—quietly, humbly, and with open hearts. Each of us has the power to make a difference.

The Heartfelt Impact of Loss in Law Enforcement

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

3–4 minutes

JOHN BLAZEK

My grandfather had a host of brothers. Their father, Ulrich Groff Jr., had been married twice—the second time after his first wife died. Among my grandfather’s many brothers was one named Frank. In the family, he was known as Grand Uncle Frank or Great Uncle Frank, depending on who was telling. Frank lived a colorful, hard-worn life. He was the one who taught me how to ride a bike and always had a funny story to tell. He was raised on a farm. He worked odd jobs in his youth. Eventually, he found a steady calling with the Chicago Police Department.

Frank’s career on the force was mostly uneventful, at least by police standards. He would occasionally talk about the small-time crooks. He mentioned the drunks and the desperate people. He and his partner had to haul these people off to jail. But there was one story he told with a quiet solemnity—one that never left him. It was a time when being a police officer was a tough job, especially in a city like Chicago. The streets were rough, and the criminals should not be taken lightly.

Frank Groff

It was the night his partner died.

According to Frank, it had been a typical shift. He and his partner had picked up a couple of rowdy men, causing trouble. One of them shoved Frank’s partner during the scuffle. The man was quickly subdued and locked up. As far as Frank knew, it was nothing out of the ordinary. They had handled far worse and walked away without a scratch.

But the next morning, a knock at Frank’s door brought grim news. Fellow officers informed him that his partner, John Blazek, had passed away during the night.

John had hit his head during the scuffle—no one thought much of it at the time, including John himself. Like many men of his era, he brushed it off, finished his shift, and went home. Officer Blazek called a fellow officer to give him a ride. He didn’t feel quite right. Still, no one suspected anything serious. He went to bed and never woke up. The suddenness of his passing left everyone in shock and disbelief.

The official record read:

John Blazek

Patrolman John Blazek died after suffering a head injury. He fell or was pushed to the floor inside the 22nd District’s cell room. This incident occurred at 943 West Maxwell Street the prior night. He did not realize he had suffered a skull fracture. He attempted to go home at the end of his shift at 8:00 am. Blazek did not walk home and called another officer to pick him up. Once he got home, his condition worsened. He passed away the next day from the head injury.

Patrolman Blazek was a U.S. Army veteran of World War I who had served with the Chicago Police Department for 26 years. His sudden and unexpected death left a void in the community. His wife and two sons survive him.

Frank never quite recovered from that night. Though he stayed on the force, something in him changed. He stopped talking about the job as much. When he did, it was with a heavier voice. He had arrested many criminals and survived several street scuffles. Yet, the quiet death of his partner haunted him the most. They didn’t see it coming. He retired a few years later, and we see that the incident had taken a toll on him. He spent his days quietly, often lost in thought.

Years later, after Frank’s retirement, we found a worn copy of the police report. It was on John Blazek’s death and among his things. It was folded carefully into the pages of his Bible. Eventually, Frank passed on. On the back, in his handwriting, were the words:

“We don’t always know the moment something changes us. But we carry it. Always.”

Lloyd Bickerstaff: The Steady Voice of Elk City Police

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

3–4 minutes

The Quiet Backbone

Lt. Lloyd J. ‘Bick’ Bickerstaff E.C.P.D.

I keep a photo in a drawer in my desk. It is tucked beneath an old leather-bound notebook and a yellowing map of Beckham County. It’s a photo of Lloyd Joe “Bick” Bickerstaff. The image was taken about a month before his promotion to Captain with the Elk City, Oklahoma Police Department.

In the picture, Bick sits in his unit, his uniform crisp in the late autumn light. The shadows are long. The wind has just started to turn cold. That unmistakable Oklahoma sky behind him stretches flat and wide. It is quiet, open, and full of secrets. He wears a half-smile that says, 

“I’ve seen things, but I’ll carry them quietly.”

Bick and his brother were born in Sentinel, Oklahoma. I only heard his brother’s name once in passing. Sentinel is a patch of land barely big enough to hold the stories it carries. They began their careers as State Troopers with the Oklahoma Highway Patrol. The two brothers wore matching uniforms and chased something bigger than themselves.

But by the time I knew Bick, he rarely mentioned his siblings. I assumed time had done what it often does to families. Maybe there was a falling out—just distance. I never asked, and he never offered.

I knew he had a wife who baked cinnamon rolls on Sundays. He also had two children. One child was off in Sayre, chasing classes at a junior college. The other was a veterinarian who had graduated from Oklahoma State University. His life beyond the badge was quiet but rich. He even operated a small answering service—its operators worked right from his living room. You knew that life grounded him.

Nevertheless, Bick was more than just a veteran officer inside the department. He was the compass.

When rookies came in shaken from their first domestic call, Bick was the one who handed them a cup of bad coffee and said,

“It gets better if you let it.”

He never lectured. He just listened. And when he spoke, it was always worth hearing.

I remember the weeks leading up to his promotion. The department was shifting—a new Chief was being promoted, and a Major was moving up from Captain. Everyone felt the tremors of change. But Bick? He was steady and unmoved. I asked if he was nervous about entering a bigger role during such a turbulent time.

He just smiled that same quiet smile.

“Storms pass,” 

He said.

“Someone’s gotta keep the porch light on.”

He did more than that.

He held the whole house together.

Years passed. And then, like storms do, time took Bick from us. When the news came, I expected many familiar faces at the service. Officers from every corner of the state would be paying their respects. But they didn’t come. Time had moved on, and so had they. Somehow, the news of Bickerstaff’s passing hadn’t brought them back.

Elk City Police Chief Bill Putman did what mattered. He escorted Bick’s casket from Elk City to the Old Soldiers Cemetery in Oklahoma City. That quiet, deliberate ride said more than any ceremony. It was loyalty. It was respect. It was love.

I was there, too, standing back in the shadows as the service ended. I didn’t speak. Didn’t approach the family. I just paused long enough to leave a final tribute at the edge of his resting place. It was a farewell from someone who had seen firsthand what quiet strength looks like.

Maybe Bickerstaff would’ve preferred it this way. No fanfare. There is no parade of names—just those who mattered most.

I like to think I was one of them.

Bick was never the loudest voice in the room. He didn’t need to be.

But when he spoke, the room listened.

And when he left, the silence he left behind was deafening.

The echo he once carried over the radio has gone quiet. And somewhere out in Western Oklahoma, no one will ever hear that calm, steady voice call out again—

“Attention, all stations and units; stand by for a broadcast.”

From Cotton Fields to Sheriff: The Story of Jess Bowling

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

4–5 minutes

Sheriff Jess “Pooch” Bowling, Jr.: From Cotton Fields to County Leader

Jess ‘Pooch’ Bowling

Jess Bowling, Jr. was born in Binger, Oklahoma, on August 23, 1924. At just 11 years old, he left behind half his family. He also left the dusty plains of Oklahoma. He sought a new beginning in California. With his father and brother, young Jess traveled west in a weathered 1929 Buick. They finally settled in the small agricultural town of Dos Palos. His mother, two sisters, and another brother stayed behind in Oklahoma—a family split by circumstance but not by love.

Life in California was anything but easy. Jess Jr. rose with the sun. He toiled in the cotton fields until it set. He contributed what he could to help his family survive. It was hard work—grueling and endless—but there was resilience in the struggle. Sheriff later joked, “We did live in the biggest tent in Dos Palos!”

His father, Jess Sr., quickly became a cornerstone of the growing town. He opened a grocery store, invested in rental properties, and became active in local politics. His leadership and business savvy earned him a seat on the city council and, eventually, the title of Mayor.

Jess Jr. worked in the family store while attending school. He graduated from Dos Palos High School with a reputation for dependability and quiet strength. Not long after, fate stepped in when he met Darlene, a young woman from Iowa visiting relatives. The two married in 1945 and raised three children—Sharlynn, Shirley, and Michael.

The Badge and the Beat

Simulated Photo

Jess Bowling’s journey into law enforcement began in 1953 when he joined the Dos Palos Police Department. His first assignment? Tackling the town’s parking problem. Officer Bowling issued dozens of citations, doing so with a steady hand and a sense of duty. He even issued one to his father, the Mayor. Years later, he found that very ticket among his father’s possessions, a keepsake of humor and integrity.

Although that first stint in law enforcement was brief, it planted a seed. After returning to the family store, Bowling joined the Atwater Police Department in 1956. In 1958, he made the move that would define his career: joining the Merced County Sheriff’s Department.

Simulated Photo

In 1963, Bowling became the department’s first-ever canine handler, partnered with a large, loyal German Shepherd named Jim. Together, they helped pioneer a new era of policing.

By 1974, Jess Bowling had risen to the rank of Lieutenant when tragedy struck—the sudden passing of Sheriff Earl McKeown. In the aftermath, Bowling was appointed interim Sheriff. The people had already decided by the time the special election rolled around in May 1975. Bowling’s steady leadership and quiet competence earned him the Sheriff’s badge in his own right.

Reformer, Leader, Trailblazer

Sheriff Bowling led the department through six transformative years. He spearheaded major innovations that professionalized law enforcement in Merced County. Under his administration:

  • The Corrections Division was established, moving jail staffing from deputies to trained corrections officers.
  • Dispatch services were assigned to civilian professionals, freeing up sworn deputies for fieldwork.
  • He launched the county’s first-ever 24-hour patrol, marking the end of the “resident deputy” model.
  • He hired Merced’s first female deputy, breaking gender barriers in local law enforcement.
  • The department acquired its first handheld radios, enabling Bowling to reintroduce the classic “walking beat cop” in areas like Winton.

These weren’t just administrative changes but foundational shifts that shaped the Sheriff’s Department into a modern, responsive force.

His achievements were not only admired—they were preserved. Jess “Pooch” Bowling’s remarkable career is documented in a collection. His family lovingly maintains it as a tribute to a life of service.

Legacy and Final Salute

I had the privilege of knowing the Bowling family. One of my sisters even married Jess’s nephew. Every time he returned to town, Sheriff Bowling brought a yearbook from the department he once led. He proudly pointed out the growth and accomplishments of his former team. The department’s scope, the number of divisions, and the professionalism he helped instill always struck me, as did his accomplishments.

1974 – The first female deputy was sworn in

1974 – First portable transceivers issued to deputies

1974 – The first 24-hour patrol begins

1977 – First Special Emergency Response Team (SERT) organized

1977 – Marshal’s Office established

1980 – Hostage negotiators were trained and included on the SERT team

Merced County Sheriff’s Office, California

But behind the badge was a man who never forgot where he came from. Before the titles and the accolades, Jess “Pooch” Bowling was a boy in a Buick. He was a cotton picker working under the sun. He was a young man doing what he could to help his family survive.

After a doctor advised him to retire due to a serious heart condition, Sheriff Bowling stepped down in 1980. He lived to celebrate his 80th birthday during Merced County’s 150th anniversary in 2005. This honor was fitting for a man who helped shape its modern history.

Jess “Pooch” Bowling passed away on April 18, 2007. He was laid to rest beside his beloved Darlene in Dos Palos Cemetery.

His story is one of grit, integrity, and service. It is a journey from the cotton fields to the highest badge in the county.

Reflecting on the Oklahoma City Bombing: 30 Years Later

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

2–4 minutes

Thirty Years Ago Today

Thirty years ago, today, I was standing in a Federal Building when my pager went off. The screen lit up with all 9s—a code used to signal an emergency assignment. I needed to contact headquarters right away.

I had just stepped out of a federal courtroom in Denver, Colorado. Moments earlier, I had been inside, preparing to testify in a significant case involving a syndicated burglary operation. I’d been working undercover, embedded deep within their ranks. The courtroom was tense, but a recess had been called, and a few of us decided to grab coffee downstairs.

As we stepped into the elevator, my pager buzzed. I glanced around—no one else’s device had gone off. A sinking feeling set in, but I said nothing. When we reached the first floor, I peeled away from the group and went to a pay phone. I called my office.

My supervisor’s voice was grim on the other end of the line. A bombing had just occurred in downtown Oklahoma City. It was devastating—an entire city block destroyed, surrounding buildings heavily damaged. The scope of it was hard to fathom.

My first words were my gut instinct.
If they’re still alive, the person who did this is already on the road, on one of the Interstates. They’re putting as much distance as possible between themselves and the blast. They’ll go until they feel safe, then hunker down and watch.

Shortly after that call, my pager buzzed again—this time from the Federal Prosecutor’s Office. They informed me that all federal court proceedings were being canceled nationwide. I wouldn’t be needed back in court that day.

With nothing more to do, I contacted relatives in Oklahoma to ensure their safety. Then, like so many others, I returned to my room. I sat glued to the television and watched the horror unfold in real time.

The next day, I waited to hear if I’d stay in Denver. I wondered whether I would be reassigned. Another page came in from my office. A state trooper had made a traffic stop north of Oklahoma City. The individual taken into custody matched a profile. My instincts had been right.

In the weeks that followed, the nation learned his name. I choose not to say it now. Some people deserve to be remembered. He is not one of them.

Now, on this Saturday, April 19th, 2025, it’s been thirty years. Half of the people living in Oklahoma City today were either not born or didn’t live there in 1995. The memory of that day is fading, becoming a chapter in history instead of a scar felt daily.

Many survivors have since passed. Families of the victims have grown older, some have gone entirely. Some of those in the building that day were too young to remember it now. The face of that tragedy has changed, but its weight remains.

The Oklahoma City Bombing was the first of two national tragedies I learned about while standing in an elevator. The second came years later, on a crisp September morning—9/11. I remember thinking about stairs a lot after that. Elevators started to feel cursed.

But I never gave in to fear. I always got back in and waited for the doors to close. I figured if I didn’t, they would win.

And I wasn’t about to let that happen.

The Last Ride: A Father’s Legacy of Protection

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

3–4 minutes

Dad’s Last Ride

Dad (JD Groff) on his horse, My Mollies Reed

My Dad was a man of fierce independence and deep protective instincts. He and my mom practiced defensive maneuvers as the days of aging grew—he had a plan. She would drop to the ground, and he would shoot over her, neutralizing any imagined threat. This was his way of ensuring our safety, a comforting thought for all of us. Of course, during practice, the gun was always unloaded. But as they grew older, my sisters became worried. Dad was on medication. It sometimes clouded his thinking. They feared he might one day forget to remove the bullets.

Years before, he had suffered a devastating injury. While inspecting a swimming pool facility, a large chlorine container malfunctioned, releasing a gas blast into a control room. He inhaled the toxic cloud, severely damaging his lungs. From that day onward, his breathing was labored, his movements slow and painful. The injury gradually robbed him of his strength until, eventually, he became bedridden.

As his physical strength faded, his concern for my mother’s safety grew stronger. He was terrified that they were vulnerable to burglars or intruders. And so, he devised a plan—an extension of the old drills. My mom would guide them to a specific location if someone ever forced their way into the house. He saw this spot clearly. She would drop to the floor just like in the old days, and he would be ready to fire.

That’s when my sisters turned to me. I’m a law enforcement officer, and they hoped I could safely remove the firearm from his possession. But that was easier said than done. When I spoke to him, he saw what I was thinking. Even in his weakened state, he firmly grasped his beliefs and authority. His determination was palpable. He made it clear that this was his home and responsibility. It was his plan to protect his wife.

But he also took the time to explain how seriously he took the safety of it all. His explanation wasn’t reckless or confused; it was thoughtful. He was rational and transparent in his thinking. In the end, I agreed. He was doing what he believed was best for them.

Still, I wanted to do something more—something that would help ease everyone’s minds. That day, I installed a motion detection system in the house. It covered the living and dining rooms, alerting them if anyone approached. Every door was now an alarm. It gave them peace of mind and ended the dramatic drop-and-shoot rehearsals.

Dad & Buck

Eventually, Dad was unable to get out of bed. He was confined to a hospital-style bed in a small office near their bedroom. His gun was out of reach, and it tore at him. One day, he felt sorrow and frustration. He asked for it not to defend the home. He wanted it to end his pain.

Two weeks later, my mother called an ambulance to rush my Dad to the hospital. They sedated Dad as fluid built up in his lungs, and he passed away there. Quietly, heavily, and—if I’m honest—less on his terms than he would have wanted.

I often think of the day he asked for the gun and couldn’t reach it. Part of me believes it would’ve been a more dignified end. He had spent his life in control. He always defended his family and lived by principle. But the law is clear, and so is the burden of those left behind. As much as it hurt, I nor anyone could hand it to him.

The Real Badge 714: Jack Webb’s Impact on Police Representation

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

1–2 minutes

Earning the Badge: How Jack Webb Won the Respect of the L.A.P.D.

Gaining the gratitude of the Los Angeles Police Department is no small accomplishment, especially for a television creator. Yet, after nearly two decades of portraying law enforcement with integrity and realism, Jack Webb did just that.

Best known as the mind behind groundbreaking crime dramas Dragnet and Adam-12. Webb distinguished himself from other producers and directors. He excelled in an industry often criticized for sensationalism. 

Rather than relying on over-the-top drama to capture ratings, he took a different approach: authenticity. Webb regularly consulted real-life officers, ensuring his shows reflected the true spirit and procedures of police work.

That commitment to realism earned him more than high ratings—it won him the deep admiration of the L.A.P.D. itself.

In 1968, the department honored Webb with a unique and heartfelt gesture. They presented him with the original Badge 714, famously worn by Sgt. Joe Friday in Dragnet. It was a symbolic gift that carried the full weight of the department’s appreciation.

“This is only a small token of our appreciation to you, Jack, and for all the things you have done for our department dating back to when Dragnet first went on the radio in 1949,” 

Said then-L.A.P.D. Chief Thomas Reddin during the presentation. 

“This badge has never been issued to anyone else; the entire force feels it belongs to you.”

The moment left Webb deeply moved.

“For one of the very few times in my life,” he said, “I’m at a loss for words. I can’t express my feelings.”

According to The Cumberland News, the L.A.P.D. viewed the gift as more than just a gesture of thanks. It was also a tribute to Webb’s enduring impact on the public image of police officers. This image is not defined by glamour or exaggeration. Instead, it is characterized by honesty and respect.

Reruns of the Dragnet Show can still be watched on television channels like MeTV.

Gallows Humor: Essential for First Responders’ Survival

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

3–5 minutes
Image – Police-1

We had to invest a lot of time making each other laugh. Honestly, the truth behind what we dealt with every day was so damn depressing. I’m talking about my days in law enforcement. There were long shifts, chaos, and tragedies. We pulled practical jokes to stay sane.

We had an incredibly well-liked lieutenant. I admired him immensely. He was competent, dedicated, and a strong leader. Yet somehow, he always found himself in absurd situations. He was often under fire from the chief. I’ll admit, on more than one occasion, I have played a small role in those misadventures.

One day, we were in the breakroom. It never failed. Just as you were halfway through a cup of coffee, a call would come down. You’d have to bolt. Out of habit, everyone would set their half-filled cups on the vending machine on the way out. When we returned from a call, the lieutenant came in, frustrated. He began to reprimand everyone for making the breakroom look like a pigsty. This was ironic, given the usual state of his desk.

The Coffee Cup Incident
The Coffee Cup Case

He stomped to the vending machine and picked up the abandoned cups. The first few were empty, which he confirmed by holding them up to the light, right over his face. Then he grabbed one that still had coffee and did the same. It spilled directly onto his uniform. He stood there stunned, dripping. The rest of us just sat, silently watching like it was a movie scene.

I walked over, grabbed his tie, and wrung it out. A drip of coffee came out and landed on his boot. The whole shift erupted in laughter. The lieutenant stormed out, fired up his patrol car, and squealed the tires, leaving the station.

Unluckily for him, the chief had parked just down the street to watch the night shift in action. He saw the whole thing and chewed the lieutenant for over an hour.

Despite the pranks, the lieutenant and I had a solid bond. One time, he made a big announcement at shift change in front of everyone. He said he’d be riding with me to assess my patrolling skills. I just looked at him and said, “That’s fine, but you’re gonna have to sit over there and be quiet.” The room burst into laughter. He chuckled and said,

“Only you could get away with saying something like that.”

That was our partnership. He knew I’d undoubtedly have his back, no matter what. Off-duty, we were good friends. We went fishing together. We also vacationed with each other’s families. I had his back more than once when things got real in the field.

There were other moments, too. One traffic officer had a bad habit of leaving his patrol unit running and unlocked outside the station. It was just begging for a prank. One night, another officer and I gave in to temptation. My buddy hopped in the driver’s seat; I took the passenger side. He threw it into drive, and off we went—sirens blaring.

Inside, the officer was digging through his briefcase, organizing reports. When we took off, he jumped so high that he spilled the contents everywhere. Another officer watching couldn’t stop laughing long enough to explain that it was just us. The guy never left his car running again.

Someone had a bright idea once. They sprinkled paper punch-outs and glitter on the ceiling fan blades above the chief’s desk. The switch was right next to where he sat. We all gathered casually in the hallway outside his office the next day as he walked in and sat down. He flipped the fan on, and poof—a cloud of glitter and confetti rained down. He was not amused, but the image of him sitting there covered in sparkles was priceless.

It sounds like a waste of time to outsiders, but these pranks were how we coped. We had seen some of the worst humanity had to offer—child abuse cases, fatal car crashes, suicides. These moments of humor were survival mechanisms. It’s not unique to us; veterans, ER nurses, and paramedics do it. It’s often called gallows humor, and studies have shown it serves a psychological role. A 2022 article in Police1 explains the benefits of using dark humor in traumatic fields. It helps create emotional distance and encourages bonding. It also prevents burnout.

To the public, the jokes sound crude or inappropriate. But behind closed doors, it was how we held onto our sanity. This was true among those who carried the weight of human suffering daily. It was how we kept the darkness from winning.

Unraveling Family Ties: A Crime Scene Journey

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4–6 minutes

“The Andersons”

Tim Roff Meets The Andersons
Tim Roff The Andersons Assignment

It was supposed to be a quick assignment.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Tim squinted at it.

“Charming.”

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

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

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

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

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

Of course, she was.

The woman stepped outside and pointed behind the shack.

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

Tim nodded, trying to chart the path mentally. 

“Appreciate it,”

He said. 

“Wish I’d worn jeans.”

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

“You lost?”

The old man called out.

Tim waved.

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

The woman laughed. 

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

Tim scratched his neck, thinking out loud ––

“Bees? Terrific.”

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

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” 

He muttered.

“They have a driveway.”

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

“Howdy!”

They chimed in unison.

“Howdy,”

Tim replied, a little breathless.

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

The couple exchanged a look.

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

The old man said.

Tim sighed. 

“Grand-Uncle?”

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

Tim, peeking through his sunglasses, looks up –

“Watching him?”

The great-grandfather nodded. 

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

Tim blinked. 

“I—what?“

“Yeah,”

The old man said. 

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

The woman nodded solemnly. 

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

“And y’all still own guns?”

Tim asked.

“Well, of course,”

The old man said. 

“But we’re real careful now.”

Tim rubbed the back of his neck. 

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

The old man sat up a little straighter. 

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

“I think so,”

Tim said. 

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

“City folks,”

The old man muttered, shaking his head.

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

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

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

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

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

The Legend of Bick Bickerstaff: Ticketing Liberace in Oklahoma

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3–4 minutes

The Man Who Wrote Liberace a Speeding Ticket

Lloyd Joe “BICK” Bickerstaff

When I was young, I had the privilege of working alongside some genuinely seasoned police officers. These were men who had been in the profession for decades. They carried with them a wealth of stories and experience. One of the most unforgettable among them was my Captain, Loyd “Bick” Bickerstaff.

Captain Bickerstaff was the first person I met when I interviewed for the job. He pulled for me to get hired, though I never quite knew why. Maybe he saw himself in me. He was around sixty when we met. At the time, I didn’t know much about his background. I quickly learned through stories from others that he was a legend in Oklahoma law enforcement.

Officers came from various places. If they stopped by our agency, they either knew Bickerstaff or had heard of him. He had that reputation. And if he happened to be off-duty during their visit, they left visibly disappointed.

I remember one particular day when I was on desk duty. A reporter from Time-Life came in. He said he was working on a piece about Route 66. He asked if he could interview Captain Bickerstaff. I told him to wait while I went to get the Captain.

Now, Bick wasn’t the type to jump at the chance to talk to the press—unless he had something to say. But when I mentioned a Time-Life reporter was here to see him, he promptly came out into the booking lobby and, in classic Bick fashion, boomed:

“I bet you want to ask me about that son of a bitch I wrote a ticket to back in the 1950s!”

At that moment, I thought, Well, this will be a PR nightmare. But to my surprise, he and the reporter hit it off. They wandered around the station talking and laughing. They even went outside. The photographer snapped pictures of Bick behind the wheel of a patrol car.

Maybe this won’t turn out so bad after all, I thought.

Still, I couldn’t help but wonder. What kind of ticket did someone get back in the ’50s? It still had reporters chasing the story.

When Bick returned, he shook the reporter’s hand, sent him off, and then strolled back to where I was working.

“I can tell your brain’s buzzing,” he said with a grin. “You want to know what that was all about?”

I nodded.

“Yeah, I’d say so. Stuff like this doesn’t happen every day.”

And so he told me.

In the 1950s, Bick was a trooper with the Oklahoma Highway Patrol. In those early days, he patrolled on a motorcycle. One night, near Elk City, Oklahoma, a flashy car with California plates sped by him on Old 66. It was doing over 75 miles per hour or more.

He took off after it and got the car pulled over. It was late, and as he walked up to the driver’s window, the man inside said:

“Surely, you’re not going to write me a ticket. Don’t you know who I am?”

To which Bick famously replied:

“I don’t care if you’re Liberace—you’re driving like a bat out of hell. Yes, I’m writing you a ticket!”

And as it turned out, it was a Liberace. Liberace’s Brother George!

Bick wrote the ticket anyway. George Liberace followed Bick to the courthouse, paid it on the spot, and went on his way.

A few weeks later, Bick’s supervisor got a call from one of Liberace’s agents. They wanted to fly Bick to Hollywood to be on The Liberace Show. They thought it would be significant: the highway patrolman who dared to ticket a star. Bick said he couldn’t say no. The department thought it was good publicity, and it was.

Years later, people still talk about it. Unknowingly, I worked with the man who once wrote Liberace’s brother a speeding ticket. Bick told me –––


“Liberace brought me out on stage. He announced that I was the highway patrolman who wrote his Brother George a speeding ticket!”

Confronting Darkness: Stories from the Beat

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

2–3 minutes

In The Dark Of Night

When I began my career in law enforcement, I experienced many “firsts.” One of the earliest was being assigned to a beat. I patrolled the alleys and streets of downtown, checking businesses and parks at night. The darkness was deep and constant. If fear crept in, the silence can feel almost haunting at times.

But I never let the shadows spook me. Not the sudden dash of a stray cat nor the wind rattling loose tin from an awning overhead. For a long time, I found nothing out of the ordinary. That is, until one night.

It happened in the park, beneath a pavilion by the river’s edge. I noticed someone lying across a picnic table. At nearly 2 a.m., the park was supposed to be empty. I stayed alert as I approached. I was constantly aware that people didn’t always travel alone. I didn’t want to be caught off guard.

As I approached, I spotted a can of spray paint beside her. A streak of glossy red paint coated her nose and mouth, dripping down her chin. She was a woman, and visibly pregnant, nearly full-term by the look of her.


I tried to wake her, but she didn’t respond. Her pulse was faint. Luckily, I had just been issued a portable radio—until recently, we’d relied on call boxes for communication. The radio gave me direct access to headquarters.

I keyed the mic and said,

“I need an ambulance under the pavilion at the river’s edge entrance. I have an unconscious female subject who appears to have been huffing paint. She’s approximately nine months pregnant.”

Headquarters confirmed and dispatched an ambulance promptly. Once it arrived, I assisted the paramedics. The woman was transported to a local hospital and then transferred to a larger facility for specialized care.


While searching the area, I found someone nearby who had passed out by the riverbank. I managed to rouse him. He was a man, around 32 years old, clearly intoxicated and unsteady. I placed him under arrest for public intoxication.

As I helped him up to the road, he turned to me and asked quietly,

“Is she going to be okay? I told her not to do that–– but she wouldn’t listen. That’s my baby, you know? I hope she’s alright.”

“Yes,”

I said.

I said,

“I hope the baby is okay, too. I’ve arranged a ride and a safe place for you to sleep tonight.”

The transport unit pulled up. As he climbed in, he paused, looked at me, and said,

“I’m glad you found us. It has saved both of us. Thank you!”

I nodded and replied,

“You’re welcome, try to get some sleep.”

It was one of the few times someone going to jail thanked me for stepping into their life. There would be other moments like this, but not many involving an unborn child.

I later learned the mother’s actions had not affected the baby. She had been admitted for addiction treatment, and hopefully, she stayed through the delivery and beyond. I never saw her again. I often think of that night. I think of how close things came to ending differently. Sometimes, just showing up can change everything.

Witnessing Tragedy: Lessons from a Highway Accident

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3–4 minutes

A Winter Night on the Highway

It was evening, and heavy traffic moved steadily along the narrow two-lane highway connecting small towns in the region. The road served as a lifeline, carrying motorists and buses through these quiet Oklahoma communities.

Law enforcement has fascinated me for as long as I can remember. My dad worked night shifts, patrolling the eastern region near the oil fields. In the summers, he served as a ranger at a nearby campsite. Winters drew him to different assignments, often more demanding and remote.

One of the state vehicles always remained parked at the ranger’s residence—our home—while my dad took the other on duty. That night felt like any other.

My bedroom was tucked into the back corner of the house. Even during winter, I often left the window cracked to let in the crisp night air. From there, I heard the distant hum of traffic about a mile to the south. 

As I lay on my bed studying for a test the next day, a sound split the quiet—a crash. Loud. Tires screeched. Then came the unmistakable bang of an impact.

It wasn’t the first time I’d heard it. A stretch of highway nearby had a reputation for accidents. Without hesitation, I grabbed my flashlight, told my mom there’d been a wreck, and jumped into the ranger truck. I had just earned my driver’s license, and the weight of responsibility was fresh on my shoulders.

Once on the road, I grabbed the radio and called it into the local police.

“It sounds bad—there have to be at least two vehicles involved.”

The Chief of Police from the nearest town confirmed he was en route. I pushed down the gas pedal and sped toward the highway. I noticed no cars coming eastbound as I turned onto it—an ominous sign. About two miles west, I saw the wreck.

A Greyhound bus had collided with a pickup truck. Both vehicles were mangled, partially in the ditch and partially blocking the road. The bus’s windshield was gone, and passengers were scattered everywhere—some dazed, others crying out.

The bus driver was lying in a yard 100 feet away. He was still strapped into his seat. The seat had been ejected from the bus. A man lay next to him. Both were dead. The bus had come to rest on the pickup truck, crushing its cab. 

Flames licked at the wreckage. There was no chance anyone inside the pickup had survived.

Before officers arrived, I radioed again:

“Get every ambulance in the county out here. This is bad.”

A bread truck delivery driver had just finished his route and stumbled upon the crash. Without hesitation, he unloaded his remaining bread onto the roadside. He began helping by filling his truck with victims to shuttle them to the hospital.

There had been thirty-two people on board. Survivors said a passenger had been drinking and became increasingly aggressive. The driver warned him to settle down, but the man charged ahead and grappled with the driver. That man now lay dead beside him in the yard.

The response was massive—five police agencies, three fire departments, and four ambulance services. That same night, a basketball tournament had drawn spectators to a nearby town. Many who had been on their way became unexpected witnesses to a horrific scene.

Inside the crushed pickup were two passengers—the aunt and uncle of a local fire chief. The tragedy hit close to home.

Years later, as a police officer, I would respond to countless serious accidents. But none would ever match that cold winter night’s scale. None equaled its raw emotion. It was the first crash I saw with my own eyes.

Sgt. Steve Mahan: A Line of Duty Sacrifice

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4–6 minutes

The Sgt. Steve Mahan Story – Elk City, Oklahoma

Sgt. Steven L Mahan

Steve Mahan was a laid-back guy — the sleepy type. He rarely overreacted, and getting him excited about anything was hard. One day, Sgt. Mahan responded to a bomb threat at a local school. When he found the suspicious device, he calmly picked it up. He put it in the trunk of his patrol car. Then he drove it back to the police station.

He carried it inside without much fuss and placed it on the booking counter.

I had never seen the top brass lose it all at the same time. The Chief, the Major, and the Captain were all upset at once. They cussed and yelled in perfect unison, ordering Mahan to promptly take the device back outside. Then they called the fire department, which, ironically, was located right next door.

The fire department’s first response? 

“Have him bring it over.”

The Chief shut that idea down on the spot.

If I remember right, Mahan took it to the shooting range. The three top brass joined him there with rifles in hand. They tried to get it to explode.

It turned out to be a dummy.

Thankfully, it was because I was working on the other side of that booking counter the whole time.

Sgt. Steven Mahan was killed in the line of duty on January 5, 1983. That night, his girlfriend was working at the police department. Another female dispatcher was also there. He drove upon an armed robbery in progress at a local hotel. Unbeknownst to him, he was moving into an ambush.

After handing over the cash, the hotel clerk ducked behind the counter and observed the unfolding scene. She promptly called the police, reporting that an officer had been shot in the head. She couldn’t recognize the unit number but noted the word “Supervisor” on the vehicle’s front panel.

Upon realizing it was him, Sgt. Mahan’s girlfriend became understandably distraught. The other dispatcher maintained composure under extreme pressure. She coordinated response units. She relayed critical information from the hotel clerk to surrounding agencies. The suspects were taken into custody within the hour thanks to swift action and coordination.

Sgt. Mahan had been overpowered and shot in the head with a .25 caliber pistol, then fatally shot again in the back of the head with his service weapon. The officers rushed him to the local hospital in the back of a patrol unit. Dense fog made air transport impossible. An ambulance was then dispatched for the nearly three-hour drive to the nearest trauma center. It traveled through whiteout conditions with visibility near zero.

I arrived at the station about an hour after the shooting. I was designated as the point of contact for media outlets. They were calling nonstop. I remained in contact with the ambulance, his girlfriend, and a fellow officer riding alongside Sgt. Mahan. The driver reported struggling to reach even 35 mph on the fog-covered interstate.

Steven L. Mahan
Killed In The Line Of Duty – Elk City, Oklahoma

Roughly thirty miles from the trauma hospital, I heard the ambulance driver radio for local police assistance. They needed help to reach the nearest hospital. The ambulance had to exit the highway. I knew what that meant. I called the Chief’s office. I delivered the news. We had just lost our first officer in the line of duty.

  • Official Summary –

Bobby Lynn Ross was convicted of the 1983 murder of Elk City Police Sgt. Steve Mahan, who was 30 years old at the time. Two co-defendants were also convicted of second-degree murder in connection with the case.

On January 5, 1983, Sgt. Mahan was conducting a routine check when he drove up to the Los Quartos Inn in Elk City, Oklahoma. Unbeknownst to him, an armed robbery was already in progress. Mahan interrupted the robbery, during which Bobby Lynn Ross had already threatened to kill the motel clerk.

Ross disarmed Sgt. Mahan and ordered him to lie on the ground. Although the officer complied, Ross shot him multiple times at close range with a .25-caliber pistol—then took Mahan’s service weapon and shot him again.

Ross was convicted of first-degree murder and robbery with firearms on October 21, 1983.

During a failed clemency hearing before the Oklahoma Pardon and Parole Board on November 19, Ross asked for forgiveness. He addressed Mahan’s family. He claimed he had changed. Sgt. Mahan’s daughter, who was only 18 months old when her father was killed, submitted a heartfelt letter to the board:

“I missed out on all the opportunities that most children had. My father was stolen from me before I even had a chance to know him. My father was doing his job, not out trying to disrupt people’s lives. All I ask for is justice to be served.”

That night, Elk City police detective Jim LaFarlette sped through the darkness. His dying colleague was in the back of a patrol car. A family lost a son. A child lost her father. A community lost a hero.

“We all under the badge were deprived of a brother,”

LaFarlette said of the murder of Elk City police Sgt. Steven Mahan on Jan. 5, 1983. Ross was put to death by lethal injection on December 9th, 1999. Ross had lived 11 years longer than Mahan was allowed.

It was the day of Bobby Lynn Ross’s execution. I called Elk City Police Chief Bill Putman to confirm that the execution was moving ahead. He assured me that it was. He informed me that he and Officer Jim LaFarlette would attend to witness it themselves. Indeed, they did.

Midnight Mission: A Cop’s Fight Against Child Abuse

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

4–6 minutes

New Year’s Eve 1986: Officer Tim Roff’s Midnight Mission

A True Story

New Year’s Eve 1986: Officer Tim Roff’s Midnight Mission

Officer Roff New Year's Eve Call

It was New Year’s Eve, 1986. Officer Tim Roff had just received a dispatch call. It sent him to the farthest point in the southern district of his patrol area. The report was grim, suspecting abuse of a newborn child.

In Oklahoma during the 1980s, police officers had significant authority in child abuse cases. If they believed a child was in danger, they would promptly remove the child from a home. They did this without a court order. No approval from higher authorities was needed.

As Officer Roff pulled up to 22735 SE 30th, Lot #14, he found himself in a trailer park. The location led him to a white single-wide mobile home with yellow trim. The porch light was on, illuminating a screaming woman on the front steps.

As he exited his patrol car, a backup unit from the traffic division arrived. Officer Wynn Peters stepped out and surveyed the scene.

Roff turned to him and said, 

“Take care of the screaming lady. I need to check on the child.”

“Got it,” 

Peters responded, moving toward the woman, who was now slurring her words. It didn’t take long to find she was intoxicated.

Inside the trailer, Roff found the baby. The infant, barely a few months old, lay bundled in a thin sheet—no diaper, no proper clothing. His tiny body bore the unmistakable signs of abuse: cigarette burns and raised welts from a cord.

Roff’s calm professionalism evaporated in an instant, replaced by controlled fury. Gently, he lifted the baby, cradling him close. The child whimpered, and Roff whispered, 

“You’re safe now.”

As he carried the infant outside, the mother, now identified, spat out her excuse. 

“I couldn’t get the little bastard to hush. It got to me! His father won’t come around because of it. I had to do something to shut it up!”

Roff’s jaw tightened. He turned to her.

 “Well, you got your wish. The baby is quiet. And you? You’re going to jail.”

Before the woman reacted, Officer Peters had her in cuffs and secured in the back of his patrol car.

Roff gently placed the baby in his cruiser’s car seat and radioed dispatch. He needed someone to hold the baby since he didn’t have a child seat in his unit.

“I need Child Services at my location ASAP. I have an infant who needs immediate placement before transport to the county shelter.”

After locking the trailer and securing the scene, Roff returned to the patrol cars. He informed the suspect that detectives would issue a search warrant before she was even out of jail. The charges? Felony child abuse. Her chance of bonding out before seeing a judge? Slim.

As Roff spoke, a man approached from the shadows. 

“I was sent by Child Protective Services to hold the baby.” 

He said.

Roff sized him up quickly, then gestured toward his patrol car. 

“Get in the front seat.” 

As the CPS worker did, Roff handed him the baby, who was still wrapped in the sheet. 

“Hold him close and buckle up.”

Now, it was time to move.

Roff flipped on his headlights and pulled out onto the darkened road. The county seat was twenty-five miles away, and the streets were dangerous on New Year’s Eve. Drunks, criminals, and gang activity all made for unpredictable hazards.

When it happened, they had nearly reached their destination—just five miles from the shelter.

Gunfire.

Bullets cracked through the night air. The unmistakable pop-pop-pop of semi-automatic fire echoed as Roff’s black-and-white patrol unit came under attack.

“DOWN! GET DOWN!” 

He barked, shoving the CPS worker onto the floorboard.

More shots rang out, shattering the tension of the night. Roff slammed his emergency lights on, flipped the siren, and grabbed his radio.

“Unit 852 to Headquarters—I’m under fire near NE 23rd and Blackwell! I have a baby and a Child Services worker in the vehicle. I can’t stop! Send units!”

Every muscle in his body tensed as he navigated the streets. He weaved through traffic and pushed the car to its limits. The next five miles felt like an eternity, but Roff never let up. The patrol car screamed through the city at full speed, sirens blaring.

Then, finally, the shelter’s lights appeared ahead.

As Roff pulled in, he exhaled sharply and keyed his radio. 

“We’re safe. We made it.”

Moments later, Headquarters responded. 

“Copy that, 852. Three suspects are in custody. They were shooting at vehicles in your last known area.”

Roff stepped out, his pulse still hammering. He unwrapped the baby, handing it over to the shelter staff.

The CPS worker stood frozen.

Roff raised an eyebrow. 

“You need a ride back to your car?”

The man swallowed hard. 

“If it’s all the same to you, Officer, I think I’ll catch a ride from someone here. Or maybe –– get a taxi.”

Roff nodded, the ghost of a smirk touching his lips. 

“Good call.”

And with that, he turned and walked back to his cruiser. Another night. Another battle. But at least, on this night, one child would see a safer tomorrow.

This is a true story! Names and locations have been changed to protect the privacy of those concerned.

Three Impacts of a Collision Explained

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Presented by benandsteve.com By: Benjamin Groff II©s

2–3 minutes

Understanding the Three Impacts in a Collision

Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com

We often think there is just one impact when imagining an accident. Be this is a fall, a bicycle crash, or a car collision. Yet, physics and medical studies, based on rigorous research and analysis, show that every crash has three distinct impacts. Each one contributes to potential injury.

Let’s use a crash as an example, though the same principles apply to other accidents.

Impact #1: Vehicle Collision

This is the first crash. The moving vehicle collides with another object. Whether it is a wall or a stationary object. The force of this impact determines the severity of the accident.

Impact #2: Body Impact

Even after the vehicle stops or slows down, the occupants continue moving ahead due to inertia. This often causes a secondary impact. The person collides with the car’s interior, like the dashboard, windshield, airbag, or seatbelt. It’s important to note that seatbelts and airbags play a crucial role. They reduce injuries and make us feel safer on the road.

Impact #3: Internal Organ Impact

The most overlooked but critical impact happens within the body itself. Even after a person stops moving, their internal organs shift and collide with bones and other structures. This can lead to serious injuries like concussions, internal bleeding, and organ damage.

Delayed Symptoms and the Body’s 

Response Of The Body instantly after an accident, many people don’t feel the extent of their injuries. Adrenaline and shock mask the pain. The body naturally responds by triggering inflammation and swelling to protect damaged areas. Yet, once this response subsides—sometimes hours or even days later—the true severity of injuries becomes obvious.

The Delay Between Sight and Sound in a Crash

If you witness an accident from a distance, you notice another phenomenon. There is a delay between what you see and hear.

Because light travels faster than sound (186,000 miles per second vs. 1,125 feet per second), you will see a crash before you hear it. This creates a lag, where the sequence of events seems different from what happened.

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For example, if a plane crashes and explodes, a witness will report hearing multiple booms and assume three separate explosions. In reality, they are hearing the first impact, secondary collisions, and final resting impact—all of which happened quickly. The delay in sound reaching the observer can create confusion, especially during traumatic or high-stress situations.

Key Takeaways

  • Accidents involve three distinct impacts: vehicle collision, body impact, and internal organ impact.
  • Injuries are not always instantly clear, as the body’s natural mechanisms can mask symptoms.
  • Witnesses misinterpret the sequence of events because of the delay between light and sound. Hence, investigators must analyze physical evidence carefully.

Understanding these factors can help individuals recognize the risks involved in crashes. They can then make informed decisions about safety and medical attention.

Understanding Loss: A Decade of Reflections

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GROFF MEDIA 2024© TRUTH ENDURES IMDBPRO

Presented by benandsteve.com By: Benjamin Groff II©s

6–9 minutes
Reflections
Reflections On Every Ten Years

It started when I was around ten years old—I began seeing life in ten-year intervals. Every decade, I would take stock of where I was. I would think about where I am going. I would consider who was still with me and who was no longer there. Sometimes, life separates us through distance, sometimes through death.

In my first ten years, I had already experienced both. Friends I met in school came and went, their families moving away before we had time to build anything lasting. Loss was something my grandparents had gently prepared me for, though it didn’t soften the blow when it happened.

One of the first deaths I remember was a neighbor of theirs, a man named Tom. I often visited his house with my grandfather, sitting and listening as they talked. When he passed, I already knew before anyone told me. That morning, the hearse pulled up to his house after passing my grandparents’ place. I also knew my grandfather had spent the night with him, sitting in quiet vigil. Tom’s funeral was the first I ever attended.

Then there was Maynord, a clumsy old farmer with an Okie drawl and a stride to match. He was my dad’s friend, but I saw him as my best friend. His death hit me harder than I ever expected. One moment, he was there. He was laughing and rambling on as he always did. The next moment—gone—a heart attack took him suddenly and finally. I was only eight. I carried that weight for years, incapable of understanding how life takes people without warning.

By the time I turned ten, I thought I had braced myself for loss. I believed that nothing would catch me off guard again. But life has a way of proving us wrong.

At eleven, I came home from school one afternoon. I found my mother already there. This was unusual enough to make my stomach tighten. She called me outside. We stood together on the ledge in front of our house. She then broke the news. My grandmother had died suddenly that day. No warning. No time to prepare. Just gone.

I didn’t cry right away. Instead, my mind turned inward, searching for meaning in something so senseless. Was this some punishment? Had I done something wrong? Was God teaching me a lesson? And if so—what was it? It took years for me to understand that life doesn’t work that way. It happens and keeps happening, regardless of what we think or how ready we believe we are.

Over the next decade, I watched more family members slip away—some suddenly, others with the slow certainty of time. Friends moved and lives shifted. By the time I reached twenty, I had seen the past ten years as a lesson in endurance. I had learned what to hold onto and what to let go of.

But life doesn’t follow our plans. It unfolds in its way, teaching us not through intention but experience. And the next ten years would drive that lesson home in ways I never expected.

As a law enforcement officer, I would be called to homes where deaths had occurred. I had attended so many of these that the coroner trusted me. He allowed me to make the death declaration over the phone. Then, he signed the death certificate. I sat with family members until the body was removed from the home. I held grieving loved ones the best I was able. 

The hardest of these instances included the death of a 15-year-old disabled child. She depended on her parents for every facet of life. Feeding, being on a respirator, medications, cleaning, and moving about the home. They had been the life inside her, literally. She passed one morning as the mother was feeding her and couldn’t get the respirator back on quickly enough. The parents were wrecks when I arrived on the scene. It was the most emotional death scene I ever had to deal with. I called a police Chaplain to the scene because, quite frankly, it was beyond what I was equipped to handle. 

I discovered he was speechless and powerless to be of much use either. I sat with the parents and promised them it wasn’t their fault. That life goes when we don’t want it to. I couldn’t tell them about all my experiences, but I wanted them to know they were not alone. I left my calling card and asked them to call if they needed anything. I checked back in on them days later. It was no easier then. 

During my time as a police officer, I experienced the ultimate sacrifice twice. Two fellow officers were killed in the line of duty.

The first happened late one night during a robbery at a hotel on the city’s edge. The officer interrupted the thieves, but they overpowered him. One of the assailants shot him, and then—adding to the horror—they used his weapon to finish the job. The hotel clerk, hidden in an ideal location, saw their getaway and critically described the vehicle. Thanks to that information, the suspects were arrested soon after. The gunman was convicted and sentenced to death. He was executed in 2000.

I was on radio duty. An ambulance was transporting the officer. It tried to navigate through thick fog on its way to a larger hospital. When the driver suddenly exited the highway, I knew what that meant—the officer was gone. I promptly called the chief’s office. But by then, news outlets, always tuned into police transmissions, had already picked up on the situation. The department’s phone lines were jammed with calls. I took on the role of spokesperson. I did my best to clear the lines quickly. This was so they can be used for local needs. That was January 1983.

Less than two years later, in October 1984, I had been transferred to patrol. One night, we were responding to a vehicle accident outside our jurisdiction. My unit’s radio picked up an urgent transmission. A state trooper was down.

We were en route to the accident. Then, the assigned ambulance reported it was just a car in a ditch. We weren’t needed. But by then, we were already far outside the city, and no other units were nearby. I radioed the county sheriff’s office, advising them of our location and availability. They authorized us to continue north on State Highway 6.

As we traveled, more details about the suspect’s vehicle came through. Then, we spotted it. My partner and I intercepted the car and pulled it over. The driver’s license was expired, but we knew little else at the time. Only later did we learn a chilling detail. He had left his valid driver’s license with the trooper he had shot.

We were transferring the suspect to a deputy’s vehicle. Then, word came through that the ambulance transporting the trooper was lost. They were struggling to find the hospital. We raced to intercept them.

We arrived at the emergency room. A First Lieutenant with the highway patrol and I broke the safety keepers on the stretcher. We pulled the trooper out of the ambulance ourselves. The paramedics were in shock, frozen by the weight of what had happened. We pushed the stretcher down the corridor. As we rounded a corner into the ER, the trooper’s arm fell from the cot. It knocked pens and pencils everywhere. That’s when I knew.

He was gone.

Still, I refused to leave him. I stood at the head of the stretcher, unwilling to let him be alone. Finally, the doctors and nurses forced me away. I didn’t want to go.

Out in the hallway, my own Lieutenant stood waiting. 

“We’ve got reports to write,” 

He said. 

“While it’s fresh in your mind.”

I looked him straight in the eye. 

“This night will forever be fresh in my mind.”

Every ten years, I look back on the events of the earlier decade. I wonder what will be in store for the next ten years! My mother is pushing 95 years-of-age and I doubt she is in my next ten years. I am just hoping that I am in my next ten years.

Real-Life Drama: Officer Finds Missing Dialysis Patient

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Presented by benandsteve.com By: Benjamin Groff II©s

4–6 minutes

The Missing Man Case 1986

It had been a relatively slow night. There were the usual calls—nothing out of the ordinary. A lady reported a prowler near her home in the North Division. Tim was assigned there for the night due to staffing shortages. Usually, he worked in the South Division, but tonight, he was covering unfamiliar ground. He had made several traffic stops—broken taillights, expired tags, and speeding violations—but nothing major.

Tim was known for his relentless patrol work, stopping burglaries in progress, nabbing car thieves, and making felony arrests. He led his department in felony arrests. But just after midnight, he got a call from dispatch that promised to be something different.

“Unit 852, report of a missing man. Dialysis patient. Suicidal. See the reporting party at 515 North Main Street.”

515 North Main was in the oldest part of town. The houses date back to when the city was just a settlement. It wasn’t a known trouble location—not one of the repeat offenders officers constantly got sent to.

As Tim pulled up, he saw a porch light glowing. The house was a white A-frame with an overhang, modest but well-kept. Before he knocked, the door swung open. Inside, several people stood around, dressed as if they were about to go out for the evening.

Tim identified himself.

“Hello, I’m Officer Roff. I understand someone is missing?”

A woman stepped ahead. 

“I’m Kathy Gifford. Yes, my husband is missing. I don’t know how, but he’s gone!”

Tim raised an eyebrow.

“You don’t know how?”

Mrs. Gifford wrung her hands. 

“He’s skin and bones. He can barely walk. He’s on dialysis, and he probably doesn’t have long to live.” 

She took a deep breath. 

“He didn’t want me to go dancing with my friends tonight. He begged me to stay. He said it would be the last time I saw him if I walked out that door. But I thought he was just being dramatic.”

Tim had been a cop long enough to know that people sometimes exaggerated. He took her words with caution. 

“Did you search the house?”

Everyone nodded. 

“We did. He is not here.”

“What’s his name?”

“James Gifford, but he goes by Jimmy.”

Tim instructed everyone to stay put as he searched the house. He checked every room, corner, under sheets, and inside closets, calling out Jimmy’s name at every turn.

Ten minutes into the search, he entered the couple’s bedroom.

Mrs. Gifford sighed. 

“There’s no use looking in here. I’ve already searched everywhere.”

Tim wasn’t about to take her word for it.

“I have to be thorough before filing a missing persons report.”

He called out again. 

“Jimmy, this is Officer Roff with the Police Department. If you’re in here, tell me now! I’m about to search your room, and anything unlawful I find will result in criminal charges.”

Silence. Then, whispers from the people behind him.

Tim checked under the bed. Nothing was there. He turned to scan the room when Mrs. Gifford suddenly gasped.

“Oh my God, he has the gun!”

Tim spun around. 

“A gun? Don’t you think that’s something you should’ve mentioned earlier?”

His hand instinctively went to his sidearm, unsnapping the holster. He stepped to the closet door and pulled it open. It was dark inside. He clicked on his flashlight and swept the beam across the space. Nothing. Then, near the front of the closet, he saw a pile of laundry.

Beneath it, Jimmy lay motionless, staring straight up at the ceiling. A .25 Automatic rested on his bony chest.

Tim’s breath caught. 

“Jesus!” 

His outburst sent the people behind him scattering, running out of the house.

His training took over. Tim drew his weapon and leveled it at Jimmy.

 “Don’t move! Don’t reach for the gun!”

But Jimmy never flinched. He just looked up at Tim, his expression empty.

Tim quickly reached down, grabbed the pistol off Jimmy’s chest, and took a step back. 

“Get up. Get out of the closet.”

Jimmy slowly sat up, his frail body trembling.

Tim exhaled, his adrenaline still surging. 

“What the hell was this all about?”

Jimmy sighed. 

“I just wanted to scare her. Make her feel bad for leaving me. Make her think twice next time. That’s all.”

Tim shook his head. 

“You know, there are better ways to ask for attention.”

Jimmy just looked at him, defeated.

Tim crossed his arms. 

“Look, you have two choices. Either you voluntarily go to a mental health unit tonight, or you surrender this gun until Monday.”

Jimmy hesitated.

Tim pressed on. 

“You can come pick it up at the police department after you cool down. But I’m not walking out of here knowing I am back in two hours for a murder-suicide.”

After a long pause, Jimmy sighed. 

“Fine. Take the gun.”

Tim secured the weapon and turned back toward the doorway, where Mrs. Gifford and her friends had cautiously gathered again. He shook his head and muttered, 

“This is the Ruby Don’t Take Your Love to Town call to beat all others.”

One of the men raised an eyebrow. 

“What?”

Tim smirked. 

“You know, the song. The guy’s disabled, and his woman goes out dancing anyway. I never thought I’d see it play out in real life.”

The room fell silent.

Tim exhaled, holstered his weapon, and radioed in. 

“Unit 852, situation under control. Subject located. No further assistance needed.”

As he walked out, he couldn’t help but shake his head. 

“Damn country songs. They’re always right.”

Cyclops in the Freezer: A Police Investigation Unfolds

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GROFF MEDIA 2024© TRUTH ENDURES IMDBPRO

Presented by benandsteve.com By: Benjamin Groff II©s

4–6 minutes

Officer Christopher Cain and Officer William Fife had only been with the department briefly. Max Hinkle and Loyd Mavis’s senior officers often supported them on calls. They ensured the rookies didn’t get in over their heads.


That night, the fog was thicker than the young officers had ever seen. It clung to the streets like a dense blanket, reducing visibility to barely a few feet before their patrol unit. The radio crackled to life, and their dispatcher’s voice cut through the eerie stillness.

“Unit 17 and Unit 23 respond to 809 South Beaver Street. Caller reports strange occurrences and possible screaming.”

The call came in, and without hesitation, the officers prepared to face the unknown.

The mention of strange occurrences and possible screaming on Beaver Street sent a shiver down their spines. The street was lined with old, looming houses, most of which had seen better days. This location stood out as a towering two-story relic. It bore an uncanny resemblance to the Addams Family home from television.

The officers pulled up, the house’s silhouette barely visible through the fog. A black cat let out a piercing yowl as they exited the patrol car and bolted past them. Both officers jumped, reaching instinctively for their sidearms. Their senior partners, standing beside them, chuckled.

“Calm down, boys,”

Sgt. Mavis said, shaking his head.

“You watch too many TV shows.”

Still feeling their hearts pound, Cain and Fife took a deep breath. Mavis folded his arms.

“Did either of you catch what the call was about?”

“Uh, something about strange occurrences,”

Fife answered, regaining his composure.

“And screaming.”


Mavis raised an eyebrow.

“Screaming, huh? Alright, let’s do this by the book. You two take the front. Hinkle and I will check around back. Keep your radios on.”

Cain and Fife stepped onto the warped wooden porch and rapped the door. A moment later, the door creaked open, revealing a frail-looking older woman with white curls piled atop her head. She smiled sweetly, her blue eyes twinkling.

“Oh my, what a surprise! I didn’t expect officers at this hour,” she said in a thin, airy voice. “Please, do come in.”


The officers hesitated but, after protocol, stepped inside. The house smelled of mothballs and something faintly metallic. Antique lamps dimly lit the interior, their glow barely pushing back the shadows.

Cain glanced around, feeling a chill prickle his skin.

“Ma’am, we received a call about disturbing noises from this house. Have you heard anything unusual?”


The older woman chuckled softly.

“Oh, I suppose you mean the screaming?”

Fife shifted uneasily.

“Yes, ma’am. Can you tell us about that?”

Fife asked, his voice betraying his unease. The older woman chuckled softly, her response sending a chill down their spines.

The woman clasped her hands together, her expression turning solemn.

“Oh dear, I’m afraid it’s quite the story. You see, it’s my late husband. He doesn’t always know when to keep quiet.”

Cain frowned.

“Your late husband?”

“Yes, yes,”

She said, waving a frail hand.

“Come with me. I’ll show you.”

She turned and shuffled toward the kitchen. Cain and Fife exchanged a glance before trailing. As they entered the room, the smell of something foul hit them—a sickly, sweet, decaying odor. The woman pointed toward an old, industrial-sized freezer in the corner.
Fife hesitated.

“Ma’am, what exactly are we about to see?”

The older woman gave a thin smile.

“Oh, just an old guest who overstayed his welcome.”

Cain swallowed and slowly stepped ahead. He gripped the handle, feeling the frostbite at his fingertips, and lifted the lid.

A massive humanoid form lay frozen inside the ice and frost-covered meat. Its single, lidless eye remained open in an eternal stare.

Cain recoiled.

Cain recoiled in shock, his mind struggling to process what he saw.

“Jesus H. Christ!”

He exclaimed, his voice trembling with disbelief.

Fife staggered back, radioing for backup.

The older woman let out a sigh.

“Oh dear. I’ll have to explain.”

Mavis and Hinkle burst through the back door, weapons drawn.

“What the hell’s going on?”

Mavis demanded.

Fife pointed at the freezer, his face pale.

“There’s a goddamn cyclops in there.”

Hinkle blinked.

“A what?”

Cain barely found his voice.

“A real, honest-to-God cyclops. Dead. Frozen solid.”

Mavis exhaled sharply and turned to the older woman.

“Ma’am, you’d better start talking. Now.”

She folded her hands.

“Oh, it’s time someone knew. Freezer Boy wasn’t from around here, you see. He came looking for refuge long ago. Poor thing couldn’t adapt. He started getting ––– hungry. My husband and I did what we had to.”

Cain felt his blood run cold.

“And what exactly did you have to do?”

She looked at him with a knowing smile.

“We fed him. Until we couldn’t anymore.”

The room fell into silence. The fog outside thickened, swirling like ghosts against the windows.

And somewhere, deep within the house, another scream echoed.

And it wasn’t human.

“What was that?

Sgt. Davis yelled.

“Who? Who was that, Sergeant? Barry, That was Barry.”

She said,

Sargent Davis asked 

“What is up with Barry?”

“He keeps falling out of his crib.”

As the five people went up to the room to look at Barry, the little old lady warned them –

“you were startled at what you saw in the freezer. I don’t know how you will react when you see Barry!”

The Officers asked the old lady whatever became of her late husband. She explained that he died of natural causes. Barry and Freezer Boy fought over who got to eat him. That is how Freezer Boy ended up frozen.

“Poor Freezer Boy never saw it coming, but those two saved me thousands in funeral expenses!”

The Mayor Who Helped Kill Women

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GROFF MEDIA 2024© TRUTH ENDURES IMDBPRO

Presented by benandsteve.com By: Benjamin Groff II©s

6–8 minutes

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Jethro took a deep breath and turned to Jilly. 

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

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

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

The card read:

Timothy Awning – Mayor

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

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

“Jilly!” 

He called.

She reentered the room, her face pale. 

“What is it?”

Jethro held up the card. 

“We need to talk to the Mayor. Now.”

——

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Jilly folded her arms. 

“Your business card was found at the scene.”

Awning scoffed. 

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

Jethro leaned in.

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

Awning’s grip on the tumbler tightened. 

“I told you what happened.”

Jethro’s voice dropped. 

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

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

“Where were you tonight, Mayor?”

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

“At home. Alone.”

Jethro exchanged a glance with Jilly. They had him.

——

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

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

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

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

The Power of Storytelling: My Journey Through Words

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GROFF MEDIA 2024© TRUTH ENDURES IMDBPRO

Presented by benandsteve.com By: Benjamin Groff II©

3–5 minutes

A Journey Through Words: For Everyone Who Has Liked My Stories Over Time!

Each day, I search the depths of memory for details that can shape a story. Sometimes, I draw inspiration from current events or pressing concerns that resonate with my readers. Usually, the stories I share come from personal experiences; they are events I lived through firsthand or about those close to me. Or, I was involved enough with a concern to know the details intimately.  

As a child, I had a speech defect. It kept me from speaking up in crowds, around strangers, or in public settings. What seemed like a limitation at the time was a gift—it taught me to listen. I became an observer, absorbing conversations, secrets, and moments others have overlooked. I often teased my older relatives that I held onto some of the family’s best-kept secrets. Over time, those secrets became stories—carefully crafted to preserve history while protecting the people behind them. It also helped me to learn how to be invisible, in a sense. When you stay still and always stay quiet, people overlook the kid in the corner. Conversations happen, and they let their guard down. That was a gift of sorts I brought in my adult life.

There’s a line I often use when people ask what I’ve done in life. I tell them, half-jokingly:  

“I’ve done damn near everything.”

And it’s true.  

I started working on our farm at eight, feeding horses, cleaning barns, and doing chores. Later, I rode fences, helped my dad with his duties as a ranger, and ran errands. As a teenager, I worked at the camp he oversaw, mowing lawns and clearing brush. Once I got my driver’s license, I started hauling hay and peanuts with three friends. It was some of the most challenging work I’ve ever done.  

I became a police officer and served in that role until retirement, after which I transitioned into radio broadcasting. I anchored newscasts for a five-state radio network before moving to a larger market as a news director. Eventually, I returned to law enforcement, working for the Department of Corrections, where I tracked down escaped prisoners. Tracking sometimes required undercover jobs—working at bakeries, hardware stores, magazine suppliers, or grocery stores—blending into communities to locate fugitives. I blend into the scenes, always becoming invisible, just as I did when I was younger. I was always successful, though I often found it hard to leave the undercover roles behind.  The people I had met always became colleagues.

After the September 11th attacks, my spouse’s employer offered a transfer from Kansas to Phoenix, Arizona. The decision was easy. I left law enforcement behind. I found work with Ford-Volvo of North America. I became a vehicle test driver at the Arizona Proving Grounds. I assisted the Ford assembly group in the winter. In the summer, I tested the endurance of Volvo cars and SUVs in the Arizona heat.  

In 2008, medical issues forced me to stop driving. That’s when I turned to writing—first with news articles and then by building news sites for small communities. The site you’re reading now was born from that transition. I created this space when I realized traditional employment was no longer a choice.  

When I started using WordPress, it differed from the platforms I had worked with. I learned through trial and error, studying the work of others, adapting, and refining my skills. Over time, I explored your sites. I saw your creativity, dedication, and unique voices. I better understood how to navigate and thrive in this space.  

I’ve always believed that you get back what you put into something. That’s why I make it a point to read the work of others—it broadens my perspective beyond my world. And for that, I’m grateful.  

To all our followers, subscribers, and readers—thank you. Yesterday, I received a message from WordPress announcing that our site has reached **500 likes!** That’s an incredible milestone, especially since I don’t commercially promote these stories or actively drive traffic to them. This achievement is entirely because of your support, shares, and encouragement.  

I truly appreciate every one of you for being part of this journey. It seems trivial to some. But, for someone who overcame a speech defect, getting 500 likes is a big deal. Thank you, indeed!

The Last to Fall

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Groff Media 2024© Truth Endures IMDbPro

Presented by benandsteve.com By: Benjamin Groff II©

3–5 minutes

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

Now, only one of them remained.

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

“I was just lucky.”

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

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

The Legends

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

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

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

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

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

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

A Legacy Remembered

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

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

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

she began, her voice trembling.

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

Emily paused, holding the badge close to her chest.

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

As the crowd listened, she added,

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

The Eternal Flame

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

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

Uncovering Crime: The Relentless Pursuit of Justice

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

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

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

Groff grinned.

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

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

“Pull over. Let’s talk!”

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

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

Walking the Tightrope


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

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

It was the break he’d been waiting for.

Closing the Net


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

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

The Chief, weary but intrigued, leaned ahead.

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

Groff nodded.

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

“Not alone,”

the Chief said firmly.

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

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

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

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

“Joey,”

Groff began, his voice steely,

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

Joey’s defiance crumbled.

“How’d you find out?”

he stammered.

Groff played it cool.

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

Joey hesitated, then blurted,

“There’s more—way more.”

The Haul


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

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

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

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

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3–5 minutes

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’d love ya for it!”

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

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

“I plomise!”

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

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

Well, a lot, as it turned out.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Chester,”

I said, trying to process the scene.

“What are you doing?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

Standing Watch At A Western Oklahoma Oil Well Blowout.

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3–5 minutes

The midnight wind howled across the open plains of Elk City, Oklahoma. It carried with it the acrid stench of crude oil. Officer Ben Groff sensed the urgency of the situation. He adjusted his hat and squinted into the orange glow from the ruptured well. The blowout had sent a geyser of oil and gas roaring skyward earlier that evening. Now it loomed like a ticking time bomb. Nearby tanks, filled with thousands of gallons of oil, were dangerously close to the chaotic inferno.

Ben’s radio crackled to life.

“Unit 3, you still holding up out there?“

Came Chief Smith’s voice, heavy with concern.

“Yeah, Chief,”

Ben replied, his tone steady but cautious.

“Still no sign of the fire spreading, but the pressure’s climbing. The oil company’s crew says it will be hours before they can cap this.”

“Good. Keep everyone clear. If those tanks go –– Well, you know.”

The Chief replied.

Ben glanced over his shoulder toward the blockade he’d set up a quarter-mile away. Emergency lights from firetrucks and patrol cars painted the dark sky red and blue. Despite the late hour, onlookers had gathered, their curiosity undeterred by the danger.

“Roger that,”

he said.

He turned back to the scene. Flames licked the blackened steel of the wellhead, dancing with reckless abandon. He felt the heat even from his position, a hundred yards away. His job was simple, yet it was a constant reminder of the imminent danger. He had to make sure no one came close enough to worsen things. Simple, but nerve-wracking.

Suddenly, a sharp sound pierced the night—a metallic creak followed by the unmistakable hiss of escaping gas. Ben’s heart raced as he angled his unit’s spotlight, sweeping it toward the tanks. One of the smaller storage units had started to swell, its walls bulging under the pressure.

“Unit 3 to Unit 1 – Chief, we’ve got a problem,”

Ben said on his radio.

“We see it,”

Smith replied.

“Fire team’s moving in to cool it down. Stay put, Groff.”

Stay put. The phrase echoed in Ben’s mind. It was his job, but standing watch over a potential explosion felt like waiting for lightning to strike. He tightened his grip on his duty belt and exhaled a long, steady breath.

Out of the corner of his eye, a sudden movement caught Ben’s attention. A shadow darted near the edge of the well site, and in that split second, Ben’s heart skipped a beat. The potential danger was now tangible.

“Hey!”

Ben shouted, drawing his sidearm.

“Who’s there?”

The figure froze, then turned toward him—a teenager, wide-eyed and terrified.

“My dad works out here!”

The boy yelled.

“I think he’s still at the tanks!”

Ben’s stomach sank. He knew most of the local oilfield workers and their families. If the boy was right, someone’s life was on the line.

“Stay back! You want to get blow’d up?”

Ben ordered, with his Okie drawl, sprinting toward the tanks. The boy tried to follow, but Ben’s stern glare stopped him.

Reaching the tanks, Ben shouted over the roar of the fire.

“Anybody here? Call out!”

A faint cough answered him. Ben scanned the area with his flashlight and spotted a man slumped near the base of one of the tanks. The man’s face smeared with soot.

“Hang on!”

Ben yelled, holstering his weapon and grabbing the man under the arms. The heat was nearly unbearable as he dragged the worker away, his boots slipping in the slick oil-coated ground.

Behind him, a loud bang split the air—a pressure-release valve venting gas. The flames flared brighter, hungrily reaching toward the tanks.

Ben hauled the man to safety, where fire crews took over, administering oxygen and checking for injuries. The teenager rushed ahead, tears streaming down his face as he embraced his father.

Ben stepped back, his breath coming in ragged gasps. He looked toward the wellhead, where firefighters were now dousing the tanks with foam. The danger wasn’t over; the worst had been averted thanks to the fire department. The relief was palpable, not just for Ben, but for the boy and his family.

“Good work, Guys,”

Smith’s voice crackled over the radio.

Ben waited to reply. He stood there, sweat mixing with the grime on his face. Watching the flames fight their losing battle against the relentless efforts of the fire crew. His role in the emergency response was crucial, and he acted bravely and quickly.

Another night in Elk City. Another close call.

Thanksgiving At The Police Department

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3–4 minutes

Thanksgiving at the Elk City Police Department was a paradox of warmth and chaos. While dispatchers decorated their consoles with paper turkeys and the smell of leftover pie filled the air, the holiday calls kept coming. It was supposed to be a day of gratitude and family, but for the officers on duty, it was one of their busiest days of the year.

Officer Jim Layfette, a ten-year veteran of the force, leaned back in his chair and sipped lukewarm coffee.

“Thanksgiving,”

he muttered to his rookie partner, Dan Thomas.

“The one day everyone thinks they can play Jerry Springer.”

Their first call came just before 2 p.m., a disturbance at a modest home on Fourth Street. Two brothers were at each other’s throats over who was more entitled to the last slice of pumpkin pie. When Layfette and Thomnas arrived, the brothers were outside, yelling loud enough to drown out the TV playing the Cowboys game.

“Seriously?”

Thomas asked as they broke up the fight.

“Welcome to the holiday shift,”

Layfette replied. The brothers were separated and sent home with stern warnings and a firm reminder that family arguments weren’t worth a trip to jail.

“Unit 4, you’ve got a 10-16 on Elm Street. Argument over stuffing. Use caution—reporting party says it’s ‘too moist.'”

As the day wore on, the calls became more bizarre. At a small rental house on the edge of town, a woman had locked her husband out because he had insulted her mother’s green bean casserole. He stood in the front yard, arms crossed and shivering in a light jacket, refusing to apologize. Thomas handed him a blanket from the patrol car while Layfette gave him a brief lecture on tact.

“Is it that bad?”

The husband asked.

Layfette smirked.

“I’ve had worse. Just say sorry and move on.”

By evening, the call volume skyrocketed. In one house, a drunken uncle had tried to carve the turkey with a chainsaw. In another, two cousins had turned a friendly card game into a shouting match that ended with one flipping the table. When Layfette thought the shift couldn’t get weirder, the radio crackled with another call.

The dispatcher, Chris, kept things lively with dry humor.

“Unit 4, you’ve got a 10-16 on Elm Street. Argument over stuffing. Use caution—reporting party says it’s ‘too moist.'”

Layfette couldn’t suppress a laugh at the Elm Street house when the elderly matriarch opened the door.

“I didn’t call you,”

she said with a sigh.

“It was my daughter. She’s too sensitive. But if you could take the turkey with you.”

“No, ma’am, thanks for the offer,” 

Layfette replied.

Officers gathered at the station to share a potluck meal and stories of their day. Amidst the oddball arguments and creative resolutions, a sense of camaraderie and shared experience began to emerge. Thomas, who had started the shift apprehensive about the chaos, was beginning to see the humor in it all, feeling a part of the team.

“It’s like therapy,” 

Layfette told him as they sat in the patrol car during a lull.

“Families blow off steam, and we get to play referee. It beats the usual stuff.”

By the end of their shift, Layfette and Thomas had responded to a dozen calls. No one had been seriously hurt, and most of the disputes ended with hugs and laughter. This sense of accomplishment and the fact that they had kept the peace on a chaotic day filled them with a deep sense of fulfillment and pride.

As they handed off their patrol car to the next shift, Layfette gave Thomas a pat on the shoulder.

“Congratulations, rookie. You survived your first Thanksgiving shift.”

He grinned.

“And I thought holidays were supposed to be relaxing.”

“Not here,” 

Layfette said with a chuckle.

“Welcome to the Elk City PD.”

They left the station to find the night unusually quiet, as though the town had finally run out of steam. It was a well-spent Thanksgiving for the officers—keeping the peace one turkey-fueled feud at a time.

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

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Presented by benandsteve.com By: Benjamin Groff II©

3–5 minutes

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Groff, over here!” 

Wheeler shouted, pointing toward the pickup.

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

“She shot him, Ben,” 

Wheeler said grimly. 

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

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

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

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

Wheeler explained. 

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

“He said we were both going to die!”

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

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

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

“He said we were both going to die!”

She whispered, her voice quaking. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Another senseless tragedy,” 

Wheeler said.

“Yeah,”

Groff replied, the day’s weight pressing down. 

“But at least she survived.”

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

A Last Breath in Elk City –– An Emergency Calls Impact

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2–4 minutes

Officer Ben Groff was sipping his coffee when the dispatcher’s voice crackled over the radio:

“911 call, unresponsive male found in a backyard by his wife. Ambulance and fire en route. Address is 482 Prairie Drive.” ––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––

Ben’s heart sank. Unresponsive calls rarely ended well, but there was no time for speculation. He flipped on his patrol car’s lights, the urgency of the situation palpable, and sped through Elk City’s quiet streets.

Pulling up to the modest brick house, upon arrival, Ben was met by the frantic figure of a woman waving her arms. Her cries cut through the crisp evening air.

“Help him! Please, he’s not breathing!” 

She screamed, her voice thick with terror and desperation, cutting through the crisp evening air.

Ben rushed through the backyard gate to find a man sprawled on the grass. His skin had a bluish tinge, his lips ashen. A can of tobacco lay spilled nearby, and the faint, acrid scent of chewing tobacco lingered in the air. Without hesitation, Ben dropped to his knees and began chest compressions.

“Stay with me, buddy!” 

He muttered, counting each press. He tilted the man’s head back and prepared for rescue breaths. As his lips met the man’s, the bitter taste of tobacco hit him like a punch. He pushed past the revulsion, determined to do everything he could.

Minutes felt like hours as he alternated compressions and breaths. The wife, clutching her robe, sobbed uncontrollably nearby.

The wail of the Elk City Fire Department’s engine announced the arrival of help. Firefighters and paramedics streamed into the backyard, their calm precision contrasting with the chaos. The wife’s sobs turned into hopeful gasps as they quickly took over, attaching monitors and preparing to transport the man.

Ben stood back, his chest heaving, sweat mixing with the cool night air. The lead paramedic gave him a somber shake of the head. “We’ll do what we can on the way.”

The wife collapsed to her knees.

“He can’t be gone! He just can’t!” 

She cried, clutching at Ben’s uniform. He knelt beside her, steadying her trembling shoulders.

“Ma’am, listen to me,”

He said gently.

“Let’s get you to the hospital. I’ll take you.”

Ben helped her into his patrol car and jumped into the driver’s seat. With lights and sirens blazing, he circled Elk City’s streets, his mind racing. This kind of call never left you—the taste of desperation as real as the tobacco on his tongue, the weight of every life lost or saved resting heavily on your shoulders.

As they reached the hospital, Ben parked and helped the woman inside. She stumbled into the emergency room, her cries echoing in the sterile space. He stayed close, quietly offering whatever comfort he could, the uncertainty of the man’s fate hanging heavy in the air.

“Thank you for trying,” 

The medical team wheeled the man into the ER, leaving Ben and the man’s wife in a stark, quiet waiting room. She gripped his arm as though it were a lifeline.

She whispered between sobs.

Ben nodded, feeling the weight of her words. In a job where victories were rare, and heartbreak was plenty, sometimes all you could do was try. And for this woman, in her darkest hour, his effort mattered. Officer Groff remained with the lady until her family arrived to hear the news and begin to support her grieving. The heartbreaking call was not the first for Groff and would not be the last!

Justice Served: Stolen Vehicle Chase in Elk City

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3–4 minutes

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

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

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

Ben’s adrenaline surged as he radioed in.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You’ve got to be kidding me,”

Ben muttered under his breath.

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

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

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

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

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

Ben smirked as he read her rights.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“The Cattle Crossing”

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2–3 minutes

The radio crackled with urgency.

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

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

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

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

“Unit 3 in pursuit,”

Ben confirmed, activating his siren.

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

“Suspect heading into open ranch country,” 

The dispatcher warned. 

“Roadwork ahead near Hammon. Proceed with caution.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Ben chuckled as he secured the suspect.

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

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

Navigating Ethics in Law Enforcement

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4–5 minutes

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


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

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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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

The Third Night. “That’s The SOB!”

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3–5 minutes

On my third night in the patrol division, a sense of foreboding hung over me. I couldn’t explain it. Maybe it was the intensity of the past two nights or the instincts honed over years in other divisions. Something felt off. I kept this unease to myself—I didn’t want Lt. Wheeler thinking I was jittery about the job. I wasn’t. It was just that sixth sense I’d learned to trust, the one that sometimes whispered when trouble was brewing.

At 2000 hours, we rolled out of headquarters, heading west along Old Route 66, now Third Street in our city. Before we made it far, dispatch radioed in: the Oklahoma Highway Patrol needed us to respond to a Signal 82—an injury accident—since their units were tied up. The details were scarce, but we learned an Elk City ambulance was already en route.

We reached the outskirts about three miles from town when the ambulance reported on-scene: a single-car slide-off with no injuries needing investigation. Routine stuff. Then, the airwaves exploded with an alert: Officer Down. The call came from ten miles further west. A semi-truck pulling a lowboy trailer was reported fleeing the scene.

Adrenaline surged. I radioed the sheriff’s department, letting them know our position and offering to assist. They authorized us to operate in their jurisdiction—a necessary formality. We sped west, scanning every shadow and turn.

Minutes later, a semi barreled out of Berlin Road, ignoring the stop sign as it merged onto Highway 6. I didn’t need to think twice.

“That’s the son of a bitch!”

I yelled, heart pounding.

Lt. Wheeler swung our Ford Crown Victoria into a hard U-turn, tires screaming. The truck’s hydraulic hoses flapped loose, whipping in the wind, as though the trailer had been hastily unhooked. Wheeler hit the lights and siren. The truck swerved to the shoulder but didn’t stop. I grabbed the shotgun as Wheeler directed the spotlight, illuminating the truck’s cab and surrounding darkness. I slipped into the bar ditch, invisible in the shadows, covering Wheeler as he approached.

The driver finally exited and handed over an expired license. Something felt off—more than just the expired ID. Radio chatter hinted at potential damage to the truck’s undercarriage, but we still didn’t know what had happened to the downed officer. Wheeler told the driver to stay put while he inspected the vehicle.

Then it happened.

The driver propped his foot on our patrol unit’s bumper and reached toward his pants leg. My instincts screamed.

“Hands on the hood! Feet on the ground!”

I ordered, the shotgun steady at his head. He froze, and Wheeler shot me a look—half surprise, half reproach—but patted the man down and cuffed him.

By now, a Beckham County deputy arrived. As the suspect squirmed in our back seat, I kept a close watch, retrieving his details for the report. His movements grew erratic, twisting and jerking. I yanked the door open.

“Knock it off!” I barked.

It felt like hours had passed, though it had been only minutes. Finally, the chilling news crackled over the radio: Trooper Guy David Nalley had been shot in the back of the head during a traffic stop. The suspect’s valid driver’s license had been found in Nalley’s hand.

The gravity of the situation hit like a gut punch.

As we transferred the suspect to the deputy’s vehicle, he managed to slip a gun from his boot, kicking it beneath the seat—a grim reminder of the Supreme Court ruling restricting how far we could search without probable cause. Had we known his connection to Nalley, we could have searched him thoroughly.

Soon after, an ambulance carrying Nalley approached, and we provided an emergency escort to the hospital twenty miles away. Inside the ER, chaos reigned. I found myself at the head of Nalley’s stretcher, squeezing an airway bag while nurses and doctors scrambled to save him. Despite their frantic efforts, I knew it was too late.

Outside, the air was heavy with sorrow. Trooper Nalley was gone—a devoted husband, a proud family man, and a true giant in every sense. He was the kind of man you thought of when hearing Jimmy Dean’s “Big John.”

The suspect’s story ended in tragedy too. During a mental evaluation, he took hostages with a gun smuggled in by his wife. He was killed during the standoff. His name isn’t worth remembering.

But Nalley’s is. He served with honor and left a legacy of kindness and courage. That night, I realized something: no amount of training or preparation can truly prepare you for moments like these.

When You Fight For your Life Any Thing Is Fair! Lt Wheeler’s Advice Of A Lifetime

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3–5 minutes
Officer Steve Mahan
Shot and Killed Jan 5. 1983

As I prepared for work, the memory of Officer Steve Mahan lingered heavily in my thoughts. He had been shot and killed on January 5th, 1983—a day etched in tragedy. That morning, a dense, unrelenting fog blanketed the world as if nature itself mourned the impending loss. I recalled how the rescue helicopter, grounded by the impenetrable fog, couldn’t transport him to a larger hospital equipped to treat his severe head trauma. Desperate, the doctors had no choice but to send him by ambulance over 100 miles away.


The ambulance crawled through the soupy mist, often unable to exceed 30 miles per hour. Time was slipping away, and the slow, arduous journey became a race against death. Despite their best efforts, he passed en route, his life extinguished before the fog could lift.


That day haunted me. As I pulled on my uniform, I reminded myself that tonight, I would be assigned to the very unit he had been using on the night he was executed. A weight settled on my shoulders—not fear but a solemn understanding of the risks we all faced. Yet, I felt a measure of reassurance knowing that Lt. Wheeler would be by my side, his steady guidance serving as both a compass and a shield against the uncertainty of the streets.

On my first day of patrol, the challenges of the job revealed themselves immediately, with a fatality marking my inaugural call. It was a sobering introduction to the weight of my duty. My Lieutenant, a seasoned mentor, shared his wisdom throughout the shift as we navigated the Oklahoma Statutes, Title 21. He precisely explained how every crime must meet specific legal criteria before being classified as such and emphasized the foundational principle that every suspect is presumed innocent until proven guilty. That early understanding of the law, I realized, was not just knowledge—it was a tool for justice and fairness, critical to our line of work.

The second day began differently. I was well-rested but curious about what this shift could bring. What could top the tragic death of the older woman the day before? The night unfolded quietly at first. My Lieutenant and I were patrolling the city’s southern section, with him now shifting the conversation to Title 47 of the Oklahoma Statutes, covering traffic laws and their nuances.

Then, without warning, the calm was shattered. The Lieutenant slammed our unit’s transmission into park and leapt out, his movements fluid and precise. Before I could react, he bolted to my side of the vehicle and tackled a man gripping his wife by the hair on the sidewalk. It had all happened instantly—I hadn’t even registered the altercation out of the corner of my eye. When I opened my door, Lieutenant Wheeler was already cuffing the suspect with practiced efficiency.

I stood momentarily frozen, feeling like I had failed to pull my weight. The Lieutenant’s decisive action was a masterclass in vigilance, and I resolved to sharpen my instincts.

After ensuring the woman was safe and gathering her statement, we booked the man into jail on charges of public intoxication, disorderly conduct, and assault and battery. The routine of patrol resumed, but the night had already taken on a different tone. During this lull, Lieutenant Wheeler imparted what I’ve come to regard as the most crucial lesson of my career.

“When you fight for your life, anything is fair,”

He said with a gravity that lingered in the air.

“Out there, there are no rules.”

He also stressed the importance of situational awareness and knowing the city like the back of my hand. While my previous experience in communications had given me a solid understanding of the city from a dispatcher’s perspective, patrolling the streets was entirely different.

He taught me to read the moving pieces of the urban puzzle—to develop a comprehensive view that encompassed the road ahead and the vast expanses on either side. Under his guidance, my observational skills sharpened, leading to accomplishments such as preventing a potential robbery and aiding in a successful arrest, which I could later be proud of.

It felt like I’d absorbed a semester’s criminal justice training in just two nights. But nothing could have prepared me for what was to come on the third night. Neither of us could have anticipated the events that would unfold, including a high-speed escort and a tense high profile traffic stop and truthfully, neither of us would have chosen to.

What happened next would change everything. Yet, in the end, it would pass unnoticed by the world—a fleeting moment in the grand scheme of our duty. This moment, however, was a stark reminder of the unpredictable nature of our work and the need for constant vigilance and resilience. That is the story which unfolded for day three.

She Choked On A Prune – My First Call!

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Time seemed to drag, yet it flew by in anticipation of the Chief’s order transferring me from Communications to Patrol. For years, I had taken complaints from the desk, booked prisoners, and processed bail. The routine had become second nature. The prospect of patrolling the streets promised a sense of freedom and a refreshing change of pace.

During my first month in Patrol, I was paired with Lieutenant Wheeler to acclimate to the policies and procedures specific to the division. Although I was already well-versed in most aspects of law enforcement, having spent significant time in the field, I understood the necessity of these transitional steps.

On October 25th, I reported for duty as usual, albeit in a different capacity. Lieutenant Wheeler adopted a methodical approach to the training, ensuring it was as instructive as possible. I kept an open mind, ready to absorb whatever new insights might come my way.

The shift started without delay. As we pulled out of the department gates, our first call came in from dispatch:

“Unit 5, respond to 305 East 1st Street. Signal 30 reported. Ambulance en route.”

Signal 30—a fatality. It was unusual for such a code to be broadcast if paramedics had not yet arrived. The ambiguity piqued our curiosity as we headed to the scene.

The address led us to an older neighborhood in the city’s central section. Upon arrival, we entered a modest single-family home and were met by a home healthcare worker. She explained, visibly shaken, that she had been sitting at the kitchen table with the 94-year-old female resident when the woman began choking on a prune. Despite her efforts to dislodge the obstruction, the victim had succumbed before she could call 911. The paramedics, now on-site, confirmed the death.

I radioed headquarters to notify the medical examiner (ME), who lived nearby and arrived within five minutes to officially pronounce the woman deceased.

Amid the formalities, the victim’s son, a doctor, arrived at the scene. Breaking the news to him was a somber task. I informed him that his mother had choked on a prune during dinner and that, despite all efforts, she had passed away. He asked to see her, and I assured him he could once the ME completed his assessment. The son was visibly displeased with the presence of the ME, which I understood; the clinical nature of such evaluations can be distressing, particularly for grieving family members.

Meanwhile, Lieutenant Wheeler assigned me an unexpected task. Puffing on his pipe, he directed me to document the incident as though it were a homicide investigation.

“For practice,” he said, “for when we have the real thing.”

So, I meticulously diagrammed the house, including the kitchen and living room, and wrote a detailed report as instructed. It was a somber start to my Patrol assignment—a reminder that, in this line of work, even the routine can take on unexpected gravity.

Rebuilding Trust: The Impact of a New Police Facility

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In a gleaming, state-of-the-art facility, I yearned for the old station. The building at 303 West Fifth Street had something the new place lacked—character. It bore the marks of its long history, each crack and stain a testament to its battles and stories. By contrast, the new facility felt overly polished, almost ostentatious. Yet, I couldn’t deny its benefits. It offered the community better services and restored a sense of dignity lost after years of wear, neglect, and the relentless battering of Oklahoma’s weather.

The new station brought more than aesthetics; it symbolized the department’s renewed professionalism. After years of enduring lousy press and negative public perception, the facility served as a much-needed fresh start. The change was palpable. Officers began taking pride in their appearance—shining their brass, maintaining their units meticulously, and improving their health. Fast food runs gave way to salads and healthier choices. Quarterly fitness tests became mandatory, along with regular firearm qualifications.

Meanwhile, I was immersed in building the station’s new crime information center, logging details that painted a clearer picture of the city’s criminal landscape. Patterns emerged from seemingly unrelated incidents. Though not enough to secure warrants, the connections hinted at the methods and motives behind a string of burglaries. It was like assembling a jigsaw puzzle, piece by piece.

My role included ride-a-longs with patrol officers to understand their work firsthand. Having served both in dispatch and on patrol in previous departments, I could see both sides. During these rides, I shared my theories about the crimes, but my ideas were often met with skepticism. The officers humored me, though politely dismissive, and I couldn’t help but feel a pang of frustration. There had to be another way to make them see what I was uncovering.

Amid this, my focus shifted when the Chief of Police gave me unexpected news: I was to start competing in pistol-shooting matches across western Oklahoma. The announcement caught me off guard. As a Communications Officer, I only carried a sidearm if assigned to special events like parades or rodeos. Nonetheless, I attended the matches, often pitted against seasoned professionals. My performance, however, left much to be desired. It wasn’t until years later that I discovered the real issue—I was nearsighted. Once I got glasses, both my shooting and driving skills improved significantly.

The Chief’s directive had a purpose. On October 1, 1984, I received official notice of my transfer from Communications to the Patrol Division, effective October 25. My new assignment under Lieutenant Wheeler marked the beginning of a new chapter.

In my final weeks in Communications, I worked tirelessly to ensure a seamless transition for my replacement. I completed data entries and left the crime database in pristine order. The move to patrol was a dramatic shift that would challenge me in ways I couldn’t yet imagine—but also shape my career in profound and unexpected ways.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You have got to be kidding me,”

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

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

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

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

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

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

be advised—a signal-82 subject is trapped in a burning vehicle –– The Call I Remember

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Presented by benandsteve.com By: Benjamin Groff II©

In law enforcement, some memories haunt you, especially the ones from the most harrowing nights on the job. I was an emergency dispatcher for a police department in southwest Oklahoma, responsible for dispatching fire, police, and ambulance services across five communities. Nights could get overwhelming, but one Saturday evening stands out.

Calls had been constant. Officers were busy responding to domestic disturbances, prowler sightings, burglaries, and other emergencies. In the 1980s, our department monitored Channel 9 on a citizen’s band radio, the go-to emergency frequency.

After 1:00 AM, a call cut through the static:

“Please help—we have an EMERGENCY!”

The voice was frantic. I picked up the station radio and replied, “This is Carnegie Police Department. Go ahead with your emergency traffic.”

The caller explained that a car had veered off the highway east of town, hit a ditch, and burst into flames. The driver was trapped inside. There was no time to lose. I quickly alerted the local police unit, activated the volunteer fire and ambulance lines, and relayed the details.

“Carnegie, Unit 2, be advised—a signal-82 subject is trapped in a burning vehicle near Carlin Lawrence Airport, east of Carnegie on Highway 9.”

The unit acknowledged and responded immediately. Meanwhile, I could hear the fire chief coordinating firefighters over the phone, and the ambulance confirmed they were en route.

Since the crash was outside city limits, I switched to the state’s point-to-point frequency to contact the Oklahoma Highway Patrol.

“Carnegie Police Department to Lawton OHP—rush traffic.”

The “rush traffic” designation signaled an urgent, life-or-death call. The OHP dispatcher responded immediately, and I relayed the details. Within seconds, they were alerting highway patrol units. Nearby sheriff’s deputies also began converging on the scene.

From the initial call, the first responders arrived in just over two minutes. The fire department reached the scene in under seven minutes, and the ambulance arrived by minute eight. The Highway Patrol, coming from the county seat 25 miles away, arrived about 30 minutes later.

Tragically, there was a home nearby, less than half a block from where the car crashed. The residents had slept through the commotion, unaware of the horror unfolding so close. Later, we discovered that the vehicle was registered to someone living in that house— their son. Breaking the news was a gut-wrenching moment for all of us.

The medical examiner arrived around 4:00 AM. Once the flames had subsided, investigators could finally assess the scene. The examiner determined that the driver had died on impact; the fire had not been the cause. If the driver had died from the flames, he would have shown signs of struggling for breath, but there were none. After sending the body for a complete analysis and identification through dental records, investigators believed that he’d likely fallen asleep at the wheel on his way home from a party. There was no indication of intoxication.

The smell of a burning body lingers. For days, sometimes weeks, it haunts those who encounter it. It’s one of the harshest experiences for civilians to witness, let alone the emergency responders who encounter it repeatedly. Nothing truly prepares you for a night like that, even for the most seasoned law enforcement and fire personnel.

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

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Presented by benandsteve.com By: Benjamin Groff II©

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

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

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

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

Deputy Hamilton drove a
Ford Ranchero

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

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

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

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

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

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

Former Chief Deputy A.G. Charles Brandt Dead At Age 82

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Announcement A Service Of BenandSteve.com By Benjamin© GROFF MEDIA 2024© Truth Endures.

Charles Brandt, a former Delaware chief deputy attorney general and author of I Heard You Paint Houses, the book that inspired the acclaimed 2019 film The Irishman, passed away on Tuesday at the age of 82.

Brandt, who lived between Lewes, Delaware, and Sun Valley, Idaho, passed at Delaware Hospice at St. Francis in Wilmington. His daughter, Jenny Rose Brandt, a registered nurse and his primary caregiver, shared that he died due to complications from multiple chronic health conditions.

I Heard You Paint Houses, Brandt’s work of narrative nonfiction published in 2005, explores the life of Frank “Big Frank” Sheeran, a towering World War II veteran and former president of Teamsters Local 326 in Wilmington who also worked as a Mafia hitman. Brandt spent five years interviewing Sheeran, who, in those conversations, confessed to the killing of labor leader Jimmy Hoffa. Hoffa disappeared in 1975, and his body has never been found. Sheeran’s chilling accounts, shared in detail with Brandt, suggested he felt freed to speak as those he once feared were no longer alive.

The movie went to the big screen in The Irishman, directed by Martin Scorsese and featuring Robert De Niro and Al Pacino. The epic film, which runs over three hours and garnered 10 Academy Award nominations, brought widespread attention to Brandt’s extraordinary insights into Sheeran’s life and his ties to organized crime.

Charles Brandt leaves behind a legacy in law, literature, and film, his work casting light on some of America’s most notorious mysteries.