police

WHEN THE LIGHTS DON’T WARN — THEY PULL

Benjamin1 Comment

A SPECIAL PUBLICATION FOR DECEMBER 13th, 2025

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

Groff Media ©2025 benandsteve.com Truth Endures

3–5 minutes

First responders are trained to notice patterns long before studies are commissioned or policies are rewritten. Sometimes danger announces itself not with a single catastrophic event, but with repetition—quiet, unsettling repetition. Over a single 24-hour period, I recorded eight separate headlines. Each headline involved police officers being struck by vehicles while working crashes or traffic stops. Eight. Different states. Different agencies. Same outcome. This situation raises a controversial and long overdue question. Are modern LED strobe lights unintentionally putting first responders in greater danger?

There was a time when emergency lights rotated. They swept. They moved with rhythm. The old beacons gave drivers something important—a visual break. A moment for the brain to process direction, distance, and motion. Today’s LED systems don’t rotate; they pulse. Rapidly. 

Aggressively. Relentlessly. High-intensity strobes which floods the visual field, especially at night. Instead of guiding a driver away from danger, it overwhelms the brain’s ability to react. The result, in theory, is not panic—but fixation. The eyes lock on. The vehicle drifts toward the brightest point. Not out of intent, but neurological confusion.

Some call it “target fixation,” a phenomenon well known to pilots, motorcyclists, and tactical drivers. Under stress, humans often steer toward what they’re staring at—even when that object shows danger. Combine that instinct with modern LED strobes. These strobes flash faster than the brain comfortably processes. The warning light becomes a lure. A hypnotic point of focus. A tragic beacon.

Eight Officers Were Struck In 24 Hours. Different States. Same Strobe Style Lighting.

Is it time to ask whether modern emergency strobes are warning drivers—or pulling them in?

Within just one day, these were the headlines recorded:

• 1 arrested for allegedly driving while intoxicated after rear-ending a police cruiser on I-465

• Las Vegas police officer injured after vehicle hit while investigating a separate crash

• Effingham County deputy hospitalized after being struck by a vehicle, authorities confirm

• Police cruiser struck by car, officer injured in Naugatuck

• State trooper vehicle damaged after being hit during a traffic stop

• Norman police officer critically injured after being struck by a car on State Highway 9

• Winston-Salem police officer injured after impaired driver crashed into three patrol cars

• Waterbury man injured Naugatuck officer in hit-and-run crash

Eight incidents. One recurring element: emergency lighting designed to protect, now contributing to harm.

This is not an indictment of technology, nor a dismissal of impaired or reckless driving. Accountability still matters. But safety demands that we ask difficult questions—even when the answers challenge long-standing assumptions. If the very lights meant to warn motorists are instead disorienting them, then tradition, training, and procurement policies deserve re-examination. 

Officers and firefighters shouldn’t have to stand in the road. They shouldn’t be wondering whether the light behind them is helping. They shouldn’t wonder if it’s painting a target on their back.

Sometimes progress requires us to look backward. Sometimes the old way worked better. And sometimes, the most dangerous thing on the roadside isn’t the driver who fails to slow down. Instead, it’s the light that never lets them look away.

This isn’t meant to be the final word — it’s meant to start a conversation.

If you’re a first responder, dispatcher, firefighter, EMT, tow operator, or a motorist, your experience matters. If you have ever felt disoriented by modern emergency lighting, your experience matters. 

Have you noticed drivers drifting toward scenes instead of away from them? Do today’s LED strobes feel different than the rotating lights of the past? Or do you believe visibility has improved safety overall?

Share your thoughts, experiences, or observations in the comments. Respectful discussion is encouraged. If patterns are being noticed on the roadside long before they’re studied in boardrooms, it’s worth listening. Lives depend on it.

© Benjamin H. Groff II — Truth Endures / benandsteve.com

About the Author:

Benjamin Groff is a former police officer and radio news anchor. He has hosted programs for CNN and ABC News affiliates in Oklahoma, Colorado, and Wyoming. His career in law enforcement began in 1980 and lasted more than two decades. This gave him first hand insight into the criminal mind and public safety. Moreover, it provided him with an understanding of the human stories that often go untold. His writing draws on these experiences, blending street-level truth with a journalist’s eye for the bigger picture.

The Secret Santa of Cordell, Oklahoma

Benjamin1 Comment

Groff Media 2024© Truth Endures IMDbPro

Presented by benandsteve.com By: Benjamin Groff II©

3–4 minutes

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Santa, will you be here forever?”

she asked.

Eby Don knelt, his voice gentle.

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

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

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

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

The Guardians of Christmas Eve

BenjaminLeave a comment

Groff Media 2024© Truth Endures IMDbPro

Presented by benandsteve.com By: Benjamin Groff II©

3–4 minutes

In the heart of the bustling city, the frigid December air carried the soft hum of holiday cheer. Festive lights adorned streetlamps, casting warm glows onto the snow-dusted streets. For the officers of the 8th Precinct, Christmas Eve was far from quiet. Calls came in relentlessly: domestic disputes, stranded travelers, and even a wayward reindeer reported near the city park. These dedicated officers were on duty, ready to serve and protect.

What the officers didn’t know was that they had three spectral protectors watching over them—The Guardians of Christmas Eve.

Each of these ghostly policemen had once served the city. They were bound by duty. A deep sense of loyalty held their spirits. They lingered to make sure that no harm would come to those who now walked the beat.

Inspector Miles Hanley

Miles Hanley was a tall and imposing figure. He had been the precinct’s first chief when the station was founded in the late 1800s. Known for his wisdom, he fiercely protected his officers. He carried his ghostly silver pocket watch. He used it to guide the others through the city. On this night, Hanley floated above a lone patrol car. It was parked at the edge of a dark alley. His translucent form shimmered in the moonlight.

“Johnson’s heading into a bad spot,”

Hanley muttered, watching the young officer approach a shadowy figure rummaging through garbage bins. With a flick of his watch, he whispered through the veil of time, nudging Johnson’s instincts. The officer hesitated, then called for backup—averting a potential ambush. Hanley grinned.

“Still got it.”

Officer Rosie McKinney

Rosie, affectionately called “Mama Mac” by her peers, had patrolled the city during the 1940s. She had an uncanny knack for reading people, even in death. Tonight, she hovered near a busy intersection where Officer Emily Torres was directing traffic midst a chaotic pile-up.

“Stay sharp, Emily,”

Rosie murmured, spotting a distracted driver barreling toward the scene. With a wave of her ethereal baton, she sent a gust of icy wind straight into the driver’s face. The man slammed on his brakes just in time, his car skidding to a halt inches from the officer. Rosie chuckled, tipping her ghostly hat. “That’s one less hospital visit tonight.”

Detective Lou Vargas

Lou had been a beloved detective in the 1970s, known for his quick wit and unshakable resolve. He now roamed the precinct’s cold case archives, whispering clues to frustrated officers. But tonight, Lou focused on Officer Brandon Lee. Officer Lee had just been called to investigate a suspicious package left near a crowded shopping district.

As Brandon approached the package, Lou materialized briefly behind him, a shadowy whisper in the winter night. “Check the wires, kid. Look left before you kneel.” Obeying the faint warning in his gut, Brandon discovered the package was harmless—a forgotten Christmas gift. Still, he felt the hairs on his neck stand like someone had been there with him.

A Christmas Morning Promise

As dawn broke over the city, the officers returned to the precinct, exhausted but safe. Unseen by human eyes, Miles, Rosie, and Lou gathered on the station’s rooftop, gazing at the snow-covered streets below.

“We did good,”

Lou said, leaning on his ghostly cane.

“Not a single officer lost,” Rosie added softly.

Miles held up his pocket watch, the spectral clock hands freezing as the sun rose. “Until next year,” he said, and the three faded into the morning mist.

Below, Officer Torres rubbed her arms against the chill. “Did you feel that?” she asked Officer Lee.

“Yeah,” he replied, staring at the horizon. “Like someone was watching over us.”

And so they were.

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

Benjamin2 Comments

By Benjamin GroffMedia© | benandsteve.com | ©2025

3–5 minutes

Going Into Service

Police work operated on instinct, humor, and gritty common sense before body cameras. Every arrest didn’t turn into a viral upload back then. This approach belonged to another era. Officers learned from veterans who passed down unwritten rules — some practical, some questionable, and some downright hilarious. These stories aren’t a manual. They’re memories from a world that helped shape the officers we later became.

Don’s Lessons for Rookie Officers

Don was a seasoned officer whose wisdom mixed patience with a dry, knowing humor. He often told rookies about the prisoners who would scream for an entire transport ride. These are the same kind you see in fifteen-minute viral videos today.

He’d tell the infamous alum-powder story with a wink.

“Keep a plastic bag of it in your shirt pocket.

If you get a screamer, take a pinch and flick it – they will shut up!”

This always left rookies unsure whether he was pulling their leg. Or, was he sharing some relic from an era with fewer rules and more noise? His message was never about techniques. It was about the mindset: don’t let chaos set the tone. And always keep your humor intact.

The “Dog!” Brake Test

Another bit of old-school folklore involved the rowdy back-seat prisoner who wouldn’t stop cussing or kicking. Officers had a classic trick:

Get the patrol car up to about forty-five miles an hour.

Slam on the brakes.

Yell,

“Dog!”

The prisoner would slam into the cage divider and go silent. This silence would last until the second dog ran across the road. By the time they arrived at the jail, the only thing left in them was concern for the imaginary dogs.

It wasn’t policy. It wasn’t pretty. It was one of those stories officers shared over coffee. They shook their heads at “the way things used to be.”

The Gilligan’s Island Sobriety Test

DUI stops had their own brand of comedy. When you already knew the drunk driver was going to jail, the roadside field tests became… creative.

The “Gilligan’s Island Test” was a favorite:

Place your left hand over your head. Hold your right ear with your right hand. Balance on one foot. Sing the theme to Gilligan’s Island.

Most never made it past “a three-hour tour.”

It broke the tension. And after a long, cold night, sometimes everyone needed that.

Jurisdiction and the Art of Paperwork Avoidance

Jurisdiction lines used to shift like sand depending on who wanted — or didn’t want — the call. If the incident required endless paperwork, officers suddenly cared very deeply about city-limit boundaries, council-meeting notes, and outdated maps.

Veterans avoided calls they weren’t dispatched to, knowing the penalty: days off lost to court subpoenas. Midnight-shift officers often clocked out at dawn. They then sat in a courtroom until midafternoon. They did this while waiting for cases where they never said a word.

It was exhausting, but it was part of the rhythm of old-school policing.

A Time Before Cameras — And a Time With More Witnesses

These stories sound wild today, but much of policing back then was driven by common sense and community trust. People knew officers, and officers knew their people.

Citizens were often the first to speak up if an officer crossed a line. This happened long before social media or body cams existed. Even without technology, accountability came from individuals who believed in keeping standards high.

Most officers didn’t stop someone without a genuine reason. Those who abused that privilege rarely lasted. It was an unwritten rule — understood, enforced, and expected.

Closing Reflection

Old-school policing wasn’t perfect — not by a long shot. But it existed in a different world with different expectations. Humor softened harder edges. Community relationships carried more weight. And the job, for better or worse, relied on improvisation.

Today’s policing is built on transparency and technology, and that’s a good evolution. But these stories stay important. They are reminders of the human side of the badge, the long nights, and the strange solutions. These stories also recall the characters who trained us and the moments that shaped us along the way.

One persistent problem is untruths. Misinformation continues to mislead the public. These actions make the police look unfavorable.

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

About the Author:

Benjamin Groff is a former police officer and radio news anchor. He has hosted programs for CNN and ABC News affiliates in Colorado and Wyoming. His career in law enforcement began in 1980 and lasted more than two decades. This gave him firsthand insight into the criminal mind and public safety. Moreover, it provided him with an understanding of the human stories that often go untold. His writing draws on these experiences, blending street-level truth with a journalist’s eye for the bigger picture.

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

Benjamin2 Comments
4–5 minutes

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Last Case in Philadelphia

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

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

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

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

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

By Benjamin GroffMedia© | benandsteve.com | ©2025 

About the Author:

Benjamin Groff is a former police officer and radio news anchor. He has hosted programs for CNN and ABC News affiliates in Colorado and Wyoming. His career in law enforcement began in 1980 and lasted more than two decades. This gave him firsthand insight into the criminal mind and public safety. Moreover, it provided him with an understanding of the human stories that often go untold. His writing draws on these experiences, blending street-level truth with a journalist’s eye for the bigger picture.

Henry’s Midnight Firestorm A Cloud Of Dust And Mistrust

BenjaminLeave a comment
2–3 minutes

Henry’s Midnight Firestorm

Henry had been laying low for months. He wasn’t exactly on the best terms with the brass at his small police department. He’d been on the midnight shift so long, most people in town barely remembered he worked there. To entertain himself, he left funny notes about the place signed “John Henry.” The detective division took six months to figure out who was behind the jokes. They learned the truth only by accident.

Henry confessed to one of the detectives during a neighborly beer session. The young detective was desperate for some action. He had gone a year without a single arrest. He thought maybe Henry can teach him a thing or two. Henry didn’t hold back: “For starters, I’m not sitting on my ass in the office for eight hours.” It stung. The detective had only one unit in his division. His wet-hen supervisor kept him glued to a desk. Henry, on the other hand, led the department in felony arrests for two years straight. His bluntness was legendary, especially among supervisors who loved to hate him.

But it was what happened at 3:00 a.m. one night that sealed Henry’s reputation. He pulled his black-and-white patrol unit up to the north entry door of the station. He wanted to check his oil. He also wanted to check his transmission fluid. Both were low. As he topped the transmission, some spilled onto the exhaust pipes and burst into flames. In seconds, the underside of the cruiser was lit up like a bonfire. Henry shouted, “Shit! Shit! Shit!” sprinted inside, grabbed the fire extinguisher, and went to work.

The flames went out. A massive cloud of extinguisher powder billowed everywhere—under the car, across the pavement, and straight into the police department itself. The breathalyzer, computers, and half the office equipment were dusted in a fine white film. To anyone walking in, it looked like a cocaine snowstorm had blown through the station.

Henry realized it would take 18 hours to clean, and he wasn’t about to spend his shift playing janitor. He called to a cat he saw over in a alley way. It came to him. He picked it up and threw it into the station. Then he rolled the extinguisher across the floor causing it to seem that it had knocked over. He dusted off his hands and thought: “Shit happens. Things happen. And I’ll be in the far south district when they find this mess.” shut and locked the door and headed south. And that is where he was at 0800. Day shift radioed saying they were 10-8. Henry replied, good I am Ten Dash Seven!

To this day, no one ever heard the story—until now. The Cat? No one ever mentioned it again!

By Benjamin GroffMedia© | benandsteve.com | 2025 

Your Claim To Sobriety Matters – Will You Be Able To Do It When You Are Asked To Step Up?

BenjaminLeave a comment

When Did Walking The Line Become A Thing?

3–4 minutes

Walking the White Line: From Hymns to Highway Patrols

If you’ve ever been told to “walk a straight white line,” the meaning depends a lot on where you’re standing. It also depends on who’s watching. In the Welsh valleys of How Green Was My Valley, the “white line” was a poetic path. It symbolized memory and loss. In American trucker slang, it’s the hypnotic blur of endless road miles. But to a police officer at 1 a.m. on the shoulder of a highway, that white line is all about one thing: sobriety.

A Path in Song and Story

In How Green Was My Valley, the final scene drifts to Alfred Newman’s Finale. It is woven with the Welsh hymn Pen Calfaria. Its the “white line” was a poetic path of memory and loss. “This shall never leave my memory”, feels like a pledge. This pledge is to never forget where you’ve walked. The “white line” here is a metaphorical road. It signifies a way home, a journey of life. It is the one path you try to stay true to.

Road Paint and Real Lines

Outside of metaphor, the first real white lines appeared on American roads in the early 20th century. Two names claim credit:

  • A leaking milk wagon inspired Edward Hines in 1911.
  • Dr. June McCarroll, who proposed painted center lines after a close call in 1917.

Whichever story you buy, the point is safety—keeping drivers in their lane and avoiding head-on collisions. And from there, the idea of “walking the line” naturally started meaning “stay where you’re supposed to.”

Law and Order: The Walk-and-Turn

The “walk the white line” sobriety test isn’t ancient Irish pub lore or a circus stunt. It’s a product of late 1970s American law enforcement. The U.S. National Highway Traffic Safety Administration (NHTSA) funded research to standardize roadside sobriety tests. Out of those studies came the now-famous “Walk and Turn” test:

  • Nine heel-to-toe steps along a straight line.
  • Turn in a prescribed way.
  • Nine steps back.

It’s part of the Standardized Field Sobriety Tests (SFSTs), along with the horizontal gaze test and the one-leg stand. The idea is to challenge both balance and divided attention—two abilities alcohol loves to mess with.

Officers used informal techniques before the SFSTs. They asked suspects to touch their nose. Suspects were also asked to recite the alphabet or, yes, walk a straight line. These early “white line” walks have been inspired by the painted road markings. They also have been inspired by circus balance acts. Alternatively, the practical idea of watching someone try to move in a perfectly straight path have been the inspiration.

Beyond the Pavement

Hymns about life’s journey include the image of a narrow path you must follow. Truckers experience “white line fever.” Country music promises fidelity with songs like Johnny Cash’s“I Walk the Line.” This imagery runs deep in human storytelling. The white line is painted down the middle of a highway, showing control and direction. It can also be imagined across the green hills of Wales. It shows the consequences of straying.

The modern police test feel clinical—clipboards, flashlights, and a yellow legal pad. Nevertheless, the symbolism is the same. Can you keep your feet steady? Is your head clear, and can you stay on the line?

Sometimes, the answer to “where did it come from?” is that it came from everywhere. It came from roads, songs, and courtrooms. It also originated from the human habit of evaluating a person’s worth. This is done by observing how well they adhere to the path.

Walk and Turn Test Being Administered!

The Anatomy of a Shooter – Part Five: What We Can Actually Do About It

Benjamin2 Comments

“Monsters aren’t born overnight. They’re made—in silence, in shadows, in places we refuse to look.”

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

3–5 minutes

Part Five: What We Can Actually Do About It

Let’s get one thing straight:
Mass shootings aren’t random.
They’re predictable.
Not in the “we know when and where” way. It is predictable in the “we’ve seen this play before” way. And we’ve seen it enough to know how it ends.

So the question becomes:
What do we do now—actually do?

If all we’ve got are thoughts, prayers, and hashtags, then outrage will burn out in a news cycle. We’re just spectators in someone else’s tragedy.

Enough With the Helplessness

It’s easy to feel like there’s nothing we can do.
But that’s a lie we’ve been sold to stay comfortable.
The truth is, we can’t stop every shooting—but we can reduce them.
We can spot the signs earlier.
We can intervene before someone crosses that line.
And yes, we can have uncomfortable conversations about guns, mental health, and social breakdown without turning it into political theater.

But first, we have to stop pretending we’re powerless.

Photo by MART PRODUCTION on Pexels.com

Real Things That Actually Help

Here’s a short, imperfect list. Not theory—practice.

🔹 1. Speak up—even when it’s awkward.

That kid, coworker, or neighbor who’s spiraling? Say something. Not on Facebook. Not behind their back. To someone who can act. Don’t wait until it’s too late.

🔹 2. Take threats seriously.

If someone is joking about violence, don’t assume they’re kidding. Shooters often telegraph their intentions—sometimes with neon signs.

🔹 3. Support red flag laws that work.

Yes, they’re controversial. But when implemented carefully, they’ve saved lives by allowing courts to temporarily remove firearms from people in crisis.

🔹 4. Don’t give platforms to the shooters.

No names. No manifestos. No fame. Let them fade into anonymity—don’t let them become anti-heroes.

🔹 5. Build better reporting systems.

We need clear, safe ways to report dangerous behavior—at schools, jobs, online—and a system that doesn’t bury it in bureaucracy.

🔹 6. Reinvest in human connection.

Isolation is gasoline for this fire. People with strong relationships, support systems, and a sense of belonging are less to fall into these dark holes. Community isn’t a luxury—it’s a safeguard.

Not Just a Policy Problem—A Culture Problem

Legislation matters. But culture matters, too.

We live in a society that celebrates violence, glorifies vengeance, and teaches boys that emotions are weakness.
We scroll past pain and reward provocation.
We share stories of destruction more than recovery.
We confuse attention with validation.

We can change laws. But until we change us, the cycle will continue.

Final Thought: The Story Isn’t Over—Unless We Let It Be

Photo by Mikhail Nilov
on Pexels.com

This five-part series wasn’t meant to explain every angle of mass shootings.
It was meant to start a conversation. To take you out of the numbness and into the uncomfortable places where change begins.

We don’t need heroes.
We need people who are willing to pay attention, speak up, and give a damn.

Because we’re not just analyzing shooters here.

We’re deciding what kind of society we want to live in.

Closing Note to My Readers

Thank you for walking with me through this five-part series.
I know it hasn’t been easy to read—hell, it wasn’t easy to write. But maybe that’s the point.

This isn’t just about shooters.
It’s about all of us.
What we tolerate. What we ignore. What we pretend not to see until it’s too late.

My hope is that these words spark more than discomfort.
Maybe they spark reflection. Maybe action. Maybe one conversation that changes something.

We want a world where mass shootings stop becoming headlines. To achieve this, we can’t just sit back and consume the story.

We have to be part of rewriting it.

—Benjamin Groff

About the Author:

Benjamin Groff is a former police officer and radio news anchor. He has hosted programs for CNN and ABC News affiliates in Colorado and Wyoming. His career in law enforcement began in 1980 and lasted more than two decades. This gave him firsthand insight into the criminal mind and public safety. Moreover, it provided him with an understanding of the human stories that often go untold. His writing draws on these experiences, blending street-level truth with a journalist’s eye for the bigger picture.

The Anatomy of a Shooter – Part Three: The Myth of the Lone Wolf

BenjaminLeave a comment

“Monsters aren’t born overnight. They’re made—in silence, in shadows, in places we refuse to look.”

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

2–4 minutes

Part Three: The Myth of the Lone Wolf

Every time the news breaks, we hear it:
“He acted alone.”
And just like that, the story is framed.
One man. One moment. One monster. Case closed.

But here’s the problem:
It’s not true.
Or at least, it’s not the whole truth.

The Comfortable Lie

Calling someone a “lone wolf” is tidy. It makes the rest of us feel better.
It tells the public:

  • This was a fluke.
  • It couldn’t have been predicted.
  • There’s nothing we could’ve done.

And maybe, if we say it enough, we’ll believe it.

But in reality? Shooters rarely emerge from a vacuum.
They come from families. Communities. Schools. Workplaces. Chatrooms.
They leave trails of clues—behavioral, verbal, digital, emotional.

And more often than not, somebody saw something.

He Was Always Quiet… Until He Wasn’t

We’ve all heard it:

  • “He kept to himself.”
  • “He was a little odd, but polite.”
  • “He never really fit in.”

The thing is, these aren’t descriptions of a mystery. They’re descriptions of a pattern.

Withdrawn doesn’t mean harmless.
Quiet doesn’t mean invisible.

But we’ve trained ourselves to look away.
To shrug off disturbing comments.
To ignore that one guy at work who’s always simmering just below the surface.
Because to speak up feels awkward. And what if we’re wrong?

Well—what if we’re right?

Behind the Shooter Is a System That Failed

Lone wolf? No.
It’s more like a failure of the pack.

The system failed.

  • The family that didn’t ask questions.
  • The school that let him fall through the cracks.
  • The workplace that ignored his meltdown.
  • The internet forums that radicalized him.
  • The society that let him buy a weapon without blinking.

A shooter might pull the trigger alone, yes.
But the road there was crowded.

When “Alone” Is a Strategy

Photo by Danik Prihodko on Pexels.com

Let’s not forget—some shooters want to be seen as lone wolves.
It fits the fantasy: the avenger, the martyr, the misunderstood genius.
They want us to think no one could’ve stopped them.

Because if we believe that, then we stop looking for answers.
And they get to become a headline instead of a warning.

So What Should We Say Instead?

We should say:
“He was one part of a larger failure.”
“This wasn’t random—it was ignored.”
“This wasn’t a mystery—it was a message we didn’t read in time.”

Coming Up in the Series:

Part Four: Red Flags and Shrugged Shoulders
He gave off signs. He said things. He posted warnings. But no one did anything. Why? Because we’re experts at convincing ourselves it’s not our problem—until it is. That is next!

About the Author:

Benjamin Groff is a former police officer and radio news anchor. He has hosted programs for CNN and ABC News affiliates in Colorado and Wyoming. He writes for organizations from his home in Arizona. His career in law enforcement began in 1980 and lasted more than two decades. This gave him firsthand insight into the criminal mind and public safety. Moreover, it provided him with an understanding of the human stories that often go untold. His writing draws on these experiences, blending street-level truth with a journalist’s eye for the bigger picture.

The Anatomy of a Shooter – Part Two: The Internet Never Forgets (or Forgives)

BenjaminLeave a comment

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

2–4 minutes

Part Two: The Internet Never Forgets (or Forgives)

The shooter didn’t get here alone.
Not really.

Sure, maybe they sat alone in a bedroom. A basement. A breakroom.
But they weren’t isolated from influence—just the opposite.
They were plugged into a digital bloodstream that fed them exactly what they wanted, and everything they didn’t need.

Welcome to the echo chamber. Population: too many.

Where the Internet Becomes an Incubator

A lonely, angry person finds a tribe. This occurs somewhere between YouTube rabbit holes, toxic forums, and Reddit threads that should’ve been shut down years ago.

Not a real one. Not the kind that helps you move or calls when you’re sick.
But one that says, 

“You’re right to be angry.”
“They are the problem.”
“You don’t need help—you need revenge.”

That validation is addictive.

And the internet is the perfect dealer:

  • Algorithms push increasingly extreme content.
  • “Communities” form around hate, resentment, and fear.
  • Every post, every comment, every manifesto builds a narrative: You are justified.

From Scrolling to Staging

It starts with watching. Then posting. Then commenting.
Then, maybe, fantasizing.
And eventually, planning.

A shooter doesn’t always invent the blueprint.
They download it—literally. From forums that dissect earlier mass shootings like game film. From chat groups where people joke about body counts and praise past killers like fallen heroes.

Some shooters even leave behind digital footprints—manifestos, livestreams, final posts—as if they’re signing off from a sick performance art.

And let’s not pretend it’s rare.
We’ve seen it again and again.
And again.

The Illusion of Community, the Reality of Collapse

Here’s the twisted irony:
Most of these online “connections” are built on mutual isolation.
It’s a virtual group hug from people who hate everything.

They don’t help each other grow—they help each other decay.

Not everyone in these spaces will act violently. Nevertheless, they create an environment where the leap from “I hate them” to “I’ll show them” feels smaller.
More rational.
More inevitable.

We Let the Fire Burn and Call It Free Speech

Let’s be honest:

We’ve been slow—very slow—to acknowledge how much harm can be done behind a keyboard.
We slap “content warning” stickers on hate, shrug off threats as trolling, and hide behind terms like “edgy humor.”

Meanwhile, more lives are lost.

Photo by Bulat Khamitov on Pexels.com

This isn’t about censoring opinions. It’s about recognizing when opinions become weapons.

A shooter adopts a belief before they pick up a gun. They believe that their anger matters more than your life.

And someone, somewhere, probably upvoted that.

Up Next in the Series:

Part Three: The Myth of the Lone Wolf
They always say, “He acted alone.” But did he? Or was he just the only one who pulled the trigger?

About the Author:
Benjamin Groff is a former police officer and radio news anchor. He has hosted programs for CNN and ABC News affiliates in Colorado and Wyoming. His career in law enforcement began in 1980 and lasted more than two decades. This gave him firsthand insight into the criminal mind and public safety. Moreover, it provided him with an understanding of the human stories that often go untold. His writing draws on these experiences, blending street-level truth with a journalist’s eye for the bigger picture.

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

BenjaminLeave a comment

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

2–3 minutes

The Mexican Beagle Crickets Hum “Play Misty For Me?

As news of the impromptu peace talks spread, another mystery began simmering like the endless desert heat. The highway crew’s newly installed solar-powered misting stations were intended to cool workers. They were also meant for eager beagle crickets. Nonetheless, they were causing far more problems than anticipated.

While Buck was patrolling near a row of these glistening stations, he noticed something amiss. Where the mist should have provided relief, it instead made the crickets multiply. A bizarre swarm of shiny, water-dappled insects was now marching in almost perfect formation.

Investigating further, Buck discovered that the misting stations weren’t a product of innovative engineering at all. They were part of a shady government contract mixed with local corruption. Additionally, there was a janitor who seemed to know every secret corridor in the county. The janitor was a quiet, stooped fellow known as Marty. He confessed that he had been “tinkering” with the control systems. He did this in exchange for a steady supply of his favorite snack: spicy cactus crisps.

“This here mist is subsidizing a bug bonanza!”

Buck grumbled as he took notes in a dog-eared notebook, the pages fluttering in the arid wind.

Suspicions mounted. Someone is using the misting stations to create a perfect breeding ground for the cricket phenomenon. This move would be designed to turn Ajo into a quirky tourist trap. It also would be a covert experiment in behavioral acoustics. Trust, it seemed, was as scarce as shade in the desert.

Before Buck confronts Marty with a ticket, the misting systems churned out another puff of fog. It sent confused retirees and cricket mediators scattering in every direction. Buck still intended to give Marty a stern talking-to.

Those misting machines didn’t cool things down—they cranked the chaos up a notch! Now, Mexican Beagle Crickets are swarming Ajo and its neighboring towns faster than you can shake a jalapeno-laced stick. Somewhere in the background, the ghostly voice of Karl Malden echoes. It is from a dusty 1978 American Express commercial. “What will you do? What will you do?” That, dear reader, is the burning question for Chapter Nine… and trust us, the heat is just getting started.

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

BenjaminLeave a comment

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

2–4 minutes

Buck Plays a Tune!

The Mexican beagle crickets arrived five days ago. Already, the Arizona Department of Wildlife had received over 300 complaints. Not about damage, mind you—but about the music.

“They’re too dang punctual,”

one retiree griped.


“They hum like my mother-in-law when she’s judging me,”

wrote another.


One anonymous caller just yelled. “MAKE IT STOP!” for forty-two seconds before hanging up.

Buck Milford was used to desert weirdness. He’d once ticketed a man for driving a dune buggy made entirely of rattlesnake skins. But nothing prepared him for Carl Sandlins latest idea: The Great Cricket Peace Yodel.

“I’ve been listenin’ to ‘em closely,”

Carl explained, pacing in front of his yurt-slash-taco-stand.

“And I think they respond to pitch. What we got here is a musical species. They ain’t hostile—they just need harmony!”

Carl wore what he called his “diplomatic vest.” It was a sequined denim jacket with fringe. He also equipped himself with an old harmonica, a rusted washboard, and a five-gallon pickle bucket labeled AMBASSADOR DRUM.

Buck just stared at him.

“You sure you haven’t been drinking your aloe again, Carl?”

But Carl was undeterred. That night at 2:00 a.m., he set up two lawn chairs. Fifteen minutes before the crickets’ usual humming ritual, he arranged a battery-powered spotlight. He also prepared a megaphone duct-taped to a broomstick.

“Alright, fellas,”

he said into the megaphone.

“Let’s talk tunes!”

Buck sat in the cruiser, sipping lukewarm coffee, radio off. “This is going to end with him either arrested, abducted, or somehow elected,” he muttered.

At exactly 2:15 a.m., right on schedule, the desert came alive with humming.

But this time… Carl joined in.

He yodeled.

He drummed.

He played a harmonica solo that sounded like a walrus stepping on bubble wrap.

And for thirty glorious seconds… the crickets paused.

Then, they hummed louder than ever.

They didn’t just hum The Andy Griffith Show this time. They mashed it up with Achy Breaky Heart. It sounded suspiciously like a 1996 Taco Bell jingle.

Carl dropped his bucket.

“They answered me, Buck! I think we’re collaborating!”

Buck opened his door.

“Carl, I think they’re angry.”

Suddenly, thousands of beagle crickets surged toward the yurt, drawn to the sounds of tin, harmonica, and misguided ambition. They swarmed Carl’s taco stand, leapt onto the megaphone, and—somehow—turned on his margarita blender.

It spun wildly. Salsa flew.

The crickets began line-dancing.

Buck had seen a lot, but beagle crickets doing synchronized grapevines under a disco light powered by solar lawn gnomes? That was new.

The next morning, the bugs had gone quiet. Carl stood in the rubble of his salsa bar. He was shirtless and proud.

“We made contact,”

he said, eyes shining.

“They danced, Buck. They danced!”

Buck surveyed the scene: overturned lawn chairs, chewed speaker wire, a cricket still stuck in a jar of queso.

“Well, Carl,”

he said,

“either they liked your music—or they mistook you for a piñata.”

Carl smiled.

“Doesn’t matter. Tonight, I’m bringin’ in the banjo!”

SO! CARL. He is bringing in the Banjo! Will it be on his knee? And will someone named Ole Susanna show up in Chapter Five if Carl swings that Banjo too wildly? That is a story for tomorrow. So be sure to check back and see if the Mexican Beagle Crickets have segued into classical jazz. Also, will the Highway Patrol get Buck a larger fly swatter?

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

Benjamin2 Comments

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

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

3–4 minutes

A Hot Day Fighting Beagle Crickets In Arizona

It had been a hot day in the Arizona Desert. The sun had sizzled the sands in the Sonoran Desert for the last month. High temperatures reached over 115 degrees for each day during the past seven days. The weather forecast warned of night temperatures reaching 120°F or higher in the days ahead. Arizona State Trooper Wayne Milford had his 1968 Chevrolet Impala Patrol car parked outside Ajo. He had filled the fuel tank with fuel. An ice chest was filled with water. This was in case motorists or hikers needed rescue in the barren desert regions. Buck was known for his mishaps.

Trooper Milford was widely appreciated for his sense of humor. He would show community members safety tips during public meetings when he had spare time. He also attended public events during his off-duty time. He was respected by those even that received traffic tickets from and who had been arrested by the state trooper. Because he was known as a fair individual.

That summer was challenging. The extreme heat and the invasion of the Mexican beagle cricket placed the whole state under stress. Trooper Milford became essential because there would be more surprises than one could shake a stick at. And Buck had ton’s of sticks!

The Mexican beagle cricket wasn’t actually from Mexico. It didn’t bark like a beagle. Yet, it did hum the theme song to The Andy Griffith Show at exactly 2:15 a.m., every night, in unison. No one knew why. Some said it was a mating call. Others blamed radiation. Buck didn’t care. He kept a fly swatter in the glove box and an old harmonica to confuse them.

On this particular Thursday, Buck had just finished explaining the dangers of cooking bacon on your car hood. This activity was a popular desert pastime. He was speaking to a group of overheated tourists from Connecticut when his police radio crackled.

“Unit 12, we’ve got a report of a suspicious object at mile marker 88. The caller says it might be a UFO or possibly a very shiny porta-potty. Please respond.”

Buck took a sip from his melted water bottle, sighed, and muttered, 

“Well, that’s probably just Carl again.” 

Carl Sandlin is a local conspiracy theorist and professional yodeler. He had been filing UFO reports ever since a silver taco truck passed him on I-10 doing 95.

Still, the procedure was the procedure. Buck fired up the Impala. He turned on the siren, which sounded more like a kazoo than a siren thanks to a duct-tape repair. Then, he rumbled down the dusty road.

When he reached mile marker 88, he saw Carl. Carl was shirtless and shoeless. He was holding up what appeared to be a fishing net wrapped in aluminum foil.

“There it is, Buck!”

Carl shouted, pointing to a shimmering metal shape in the distance. 

“That thing’s been hovering over my taco stand for an hour. My queso is boiling itself!”

Buck squinted. The heatwaves shimmered, giving everything a wobbly, dreamlike quality.

“Carl… that’s a new solar-powered PortaCooler. The highway crew just installed it yesterday. It’s got a misting feature and Wi-Fi.”

Carl blinked. 

“You mean I can update my blog from out here now?”

“Yes, Carl.”

“Well, dang.”

Just then, a convoy of beagle crickets marched across the road in front of them, humming their nightly tune.

Buck and Carl watched in silence. 

Carl finally said,

“You reckon they take requests?”

Well! You Reckon? They Take Request? We’ll have to wait until tomorrow. We need to find out if Buck will have to drive across the Grand Canyon State. He might be swatting at those Mexican Beagle Crickets. Or will the state hook a sprayer up to his unit? Check back tomorrow for another very exciting story, from the Valley of The Sun, where this story is being written!

Life Without Stunt Doubles: Embracing Real Struggles

Benjamin2 Comments

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

2–3 minutes

There Are No Stand-Ins in Real Life

Benjamin Groff II

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Benjamin1 Comment

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

1–2 minutes

Summary:

The Town Called Serenity

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

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

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

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

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

When Radios Fell Silent: The 1978 Trooper Tragedy

BenjaminLeave a comment

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

4–6 minutes

The Day the Radios Fell Silent: A Personal Account of May 26, 1978

It was a warm May morning in 1978. I was 15 years old, working the phones at my dad’s office at Camp Red Rock in western Oklahoma. For several days, law enforcement radio traffic had been intense—more active than usual, more urgent. Something serious was happening.

An All-Points Bulletin had been issued statewide: two inmates had escaped from the Oklahoma State Prison in McAlester. They were described as extremely dangerous men, capable of committing horrific crimes. The Oklahoma Highway Patrol (OHP) and local authorities launched a massive manhunt, focusing on the southeastern region of the state. While there were scattered reports from other areas, the belief was that the fugitives remained nearby and on foot.

Trooper Houston F. “Pappy” Summers,
Motor Vehicle Inspection (MVI) Division in Enid.

Still, troubling reports emerged—houses broken into, firearms stolen, and even a car gone missing. An army of troopers scoured the countryside. The fugitives had to move carefully, methodically, to avoid detection. The search had only been underway for days, but it felt like weeks.

May 26, 1978, arrived. It would become one of the darkest days in the history of the Oklahoma Highway Patrol.

Although I was hundreds of miles away from the action, the search was broadcast live to my ears. The ranger office where I worked was equipped with radios that picked up all law enforcement frequencies. I heard it all: the calls, the coordination, the chaos.

Trooper Billy G. Young, Woodward MVI detachment.

That morning, a somber message came over the radio from Highway Patrol District Headquarters:

“Attention all stations and units: All nets are 10-63 until further notice.”

In plain terms, this meant that the radio network was reserved exclusively for emergency traffic related to the escapees. No unnecessary chatter. But maintaining a “10-63 net” requires constant reinforcement. Officers rotate shifts. New dispatchers come on duty. Without reminders, the rule starts to fade, and soon enough, radio traffic returns to normal. That’s exactly what happened.

As the air unit tried to communicate with ground teams, their messages were drowned out by unrelated conversations. Then, something chilling unfolded.

Lieutenant Pat Grimes,
Internal Affairs.

I listened in real time. The air unit tried to warn a team of troopers. They had approached a area. The escapees were hiding—just beyond the trees, lying in wait. The troopers, thinking it was a routine check, got out of their car casually. Suddenly, gunfire erupted. It was an ambush.

One of the troopers managed to retreat to his vehicle and tried to call for backup. The air unit, having seen everything from above, struggled to get through. The radio frequencies were jammed with idle chatter. It was a communications nightmare that have cost lives.

I sat there, helpless, listening to the air unit reporting the tragedy to headquarters. The dispatcher pleaded for all units to clear the net so emergency aid is dispatched. I was stunned—devastated. This moment became a lasting lesson in why radio discipline can be a matter of life and death.

Later that day, I was shocked again—two more troopers had been shot in the same area. And then, I heard the message that signaled the manhunt was over:

“Be advised, the search for the escapees is over. All units and stations can return to regular assignments.”

That phrase said it all. The escapees were no longer a threat. They hadn’t been captured—they were dead. Had they been taken alive, the dispatch would have named the unit responsible for their arrest.

The Fallen

Three troopers lost their lives that day:

  • Trooper Houston F. “Pappy” Summers, 62, a 32-year veteran stationed with the Motor Vehicle Inspection (MVI) Division in Enid.
  • Trooper Billy G. Young, 50, with 25 years of service, attached to the Woodward MVI detachment.
  • Lieutenant Pat Grimes, 36, from Internal Affairs, nearing his 12th year with the Patrol.

Summers and Young died in a gunfight on a rural road near Kenefic. This occurred after the escapees stole a farmer’s truck and weapons. The troopers, unaware of what they were driving into, were ambushed.

Later that day, in the small town of Caddo, Lt. Grimes and his partner, Lt. Hoyt Hughes, were searching a residential area when they, too, came under fire. Grimes was fatally shot. Hughes was wounded but managed to exit the vehicle and return fire at close range, killing one of the fugitives.

Just moments later, Lt. Mike Williams of the Durant detachment arrived. He fatally shot the second escapee. This action brought an end to a 34-day reign of terror that had stretched across six states.

The two escapees caused the deaths of eight people. This number includes the three troopers. They also injured at least three others during their violent run from justice.

Final Thoughts

What I heard that day shaped me. During my time in the police academy, I learned something important. My account of the events closely aligned with what was eventually confirmed. The tragedy of May 26, 1978, became a case study. It highlighted the importance of radio discipline. The event also emphasized operational coordination and situational awareness.

But for me, it was more than that. It was personal. I was there—listening. And I will never forget the sound of silence that followed.

Lessons from the street: Shattered Expectations

BenjaminLeave a comment

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

3–4 minutes

“Shattered Expectations”

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

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

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

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

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

“Back in the car,”

Came the voice from the patrol unit.

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

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

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

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

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

He gave me a skeptical glance.

“Right…”

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

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

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

“You know,”

He said,

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

I laughed.

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

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

“Uh-huh,”

he said.

“Sure.”

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

“a decent head on my shoulders.”

Coming from him, that was a standing ovation.

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

The Last Post: A Security Nightmare at Ridgewood

BenjaminLeave a comment

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

3–4 minutes

“The Last Post”

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

That’s when the trouble started.

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

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

“Officer intoxicated w/ a gun!”

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

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

“Pow!“ 

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

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

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

“Sir,” 

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

“Let’s talk. Put the gun down, okay?”

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

“Well, I’ll be,” 

He slurred. 

“Company’s here.” 

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

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

“Mr. Terry,” 

She said, calm but firm. 

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

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

“They don’t trust me,” 

He muttered. 

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

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

“Guess all that’s old-fashioned now.”

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

“It’s not about trust,” 

He said. 

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

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

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

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

Inside, someone from IT muttered, 

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

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

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

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

Inside the Attic: Capturing a Dangerous Fugitive

BenjaminLeave a comment

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

2–3 minutes

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


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


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


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


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


Bruce, all 6’6″ of him, said firmly,

“We need to check everywhere.”


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


Bruce looked at me.

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


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

“I need a flashlight!”


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


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


I looked down at Bruce.

“I need a poker iron.”


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


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


“Stop it! Stop it! I give up!”

he hollered.


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

“How’d that happen?”


I shrugged.

“He fell on a poker iron.”


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

Kidnap Attempt Foiled: A Cop’s Gripping Night Shift

Benjamin1 Comment

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.