Why benandsteve.com will always be a place where stories, neighbors, and simple conversation matter more than bells and whistles.
There was a time when nearly every town had a little Mom and Pop general store. It wasn’t the biggest building in town. It didn’t have flashing lights, endless aisles, or a parking lot the size of a football field. But it had something far more important.
Are too many changes, causing you a blur?
It had people.
You stopped in because you needed a loaf of bread, a box of nails, a spool of thread, or maybe just a cold bottle of pop on a hot afternoon. Before long you found yourself visiting with a neighbor, catching up on local happenings, or hearing a story you hadn’t expected to hear. You came for one thing and often left with something entirely different.
That’s the way I have always wanted benandsteve.com to be.
It isn’t meant to be the biggest website on the internet. It isn’t trying to become a corporate media empire with every new bell, whistle, gadget, and artificial intelligence feature someone insists I must install before tomorrow. Every few days another message appears telling me I need this plug-in, that application, another update, another subscription, or one more feature that promises to make everything “better.”
Sometimes I wonder if the people designing these things have forgotten that simple still works.
I’m not trying to build a shining city on a hill. I’m simply trying to keep the lights on in my little general store.
When you stop by, I hope you’ll find a good story, a bit of history, a few headlines worth knowing, perhaps an obituary honoring someone who deserved to be remembered, or news about the men and women who serve in law enforcement, fire, EMS, and emergency services. Maybe you’ll discover something you didn’t expect. Maybe you’ll leave with a smile, a memory, or a thought worth carrying into the rest of your day.
The internet doesn’t always have to be loud. It doesn’t always have to flash, blink, autoplay, notify, or demand your attention every five seconds. Sometimes it’s enough to simply open the front door, hear it creak a little, and know the owner is behind the counter ready to say, “Good to see you. What’s new?”
That is what I hope benandsteve.com continues to be.
What you see is what you get.
No gimmicks. No smoke and mirrors. Just stories, memories, history, humor, and the occasional opinion from someone who still believes that neighbors matter, truth matters, and a simple conversation is worth preserving.
So pull up a chair. Look around. Read a story or two. And before you head back down the road, don’t forget to wave at the folks coming in behind you.
If you lived in Oklahoma, Colorado, Kansas, and Arizona, or you have ever worked in law enforcement and journalism, and or spent countless hours on the road—there is a very human story you have told your family. It is centered around the time you have spent on America’s highways, roads and streets.
The Roads That Built America
This is not a story about concrete. It is a story about:
The families who moved west.
The truckers who kept shelves stocked.
The police officers who worked accidents at 3 a.m.
The soldiers who came home.
The diners, motels, and gas stations that became landmarks.
And the millions of ordinary Americans who chased jobs, love, and dreams on ribbons of pavement stretching to the horizon.
The Plan: A network of roads would be built unlike anything the world had ever seen—highways stretching from coast to coast, linking farms to cities, deserts to mountains, and ordinary people to extraordinary possibilities.
The Roads That Built America
On June 29, 1956, America made a promise to itself.
It wasn’t spoken from a church pulpit.
It wasn’t etched into a monument.
It was signed into law.
A network of roads would be built unlike anything the world had ever seen—highways stretching from coast to coast, linking farms to cities, deserts to mountains, and ordinary people to extraordinary possibilities.
Seventy years later, those roads are so common we barely notice them.
But think for a moment about what they have witnessed.
Young soldiers returning home.
Loyd “Bick” Bickerstaff a former Oklahoma Highway Patrolman and Elk City Police Captain. Arrested the worst of the worst, the famous and hometown folks “driving like hell” on Route 66. Living to tell his stories to Life Magazine in 1983. He said then, “I had the front seat to best show on earth!” Click on image for “Bick’s Story!”
Families piling into station wagons for summer vacations.
Truck drivers hauling everything from oranges to automobiles.
Teenagers leaving their hometowns for the first time.
Police officers racing toward emergencies.
And people like me.
I have traveled these roads in uniform and out of it.
I have driven them in sunshine and storms.
I’ve seen tragedy beside them and joy because of them.
The interstate is more than concrete.
It is memory.
It is movement.
It is America in motion.
Somewhere tonight, a grandfather is telling his grandchildren about the days before air conditioning in cars.
Somewhere, a truck driver is crossing the desert under a blanket of stars.
Somewhere, a young couple is heading west, hoping for a better life.
The roads connect all of us.
Ike’s Highways – Click for more information.
They have for seventy years.
And long after we’re gone, they’ll continue carrying the hopes of people we will never meet.
That may be the greatest achievement of all.
Not that America built the highways.
But that the highways helped build America.
There is time to put an old myth to rest.
There is an old story that has been passed from one generation to the next.
Many Americans grew up hearing that when the Interstate Highway System was built, portions of the roads had to be constructed in straight one- or two-mile stretches so military aircraft could land in an emergency. Others remember hearing it as “one mile out of every five.”
It is a fascinating story.
And like many stories, there is a grain of truth hidden inside.
From Coast to Coast and Border to Border. Click on image.
The Interstate system was officially named the National System of Interstate and Defense Highways for a reason. President Eisenhower had seen firsthand the importance of transportation during World War II. The military wanted a road network that could rapidly move troops, equipment, and supplies across the country.
But there was never a federal requirement that highways include straight stretches for aircraft landings.
Still, the idea refuses to disappear.
Perhaps because it speaks to something larger.
America built these roads not just for vacations and commerce, but for resilience. They were conceived during the Cold War, when the nation was thinking about defense, mobility, and what might happen in a national emergency.
And while fighter jets may never have been intended to touch down on every highway, millions of Americans have landed on these roads at important moments in their lives.
Soldiers coming home.
Families moving west.
Truckers delivering the necessities of everyday life.
Young people leaving their hometowns to begin something new.
Somewhere tonight, headlights are cutting through the darkness on a road built seventy years ago… carrying someone toward a story they’ll tell for the rest of their life.
The highways became runways of another kind.
Places where ordinary people took off into the future.
When Dogs Go Armed: A Story You Never Expected to Read
There are headlines you expect to see in modern America. Political fights. Storm warnings. Celebrity scandals. Another debate about guns. But every once in a while, a story comes along that makes you stop, stare at the screen, and wonder if someone accidentally filed a script from a comedy movie into the news wire.
Dog Shoots Person Outside Store.
Today was one of those days.
In what may be one of the strangest stories to come out of the American heartland in a long time, a dog in Scottsbluffreportedly managed to discharge a shotgun and injure a woman outside a convenience store.
Yes. You read that correctly.
According to reports carried by KNOP News and Gray News, police say officers were called to a convenience store after an initial report that someone had been shot with a BB gun. While officers were en route, dispatchers learned the incident actually involved a shotgun.
When police arrived, they discovered a truck with a camper attached. The passenger-side door panel showed damage consistent with a shotgun blast. Investigators say the owner had stopped at the convenience store while a passenger stood outside near the front passenger door. Inside the truck, a dog moved across the back seat, somehow triggering a shotgun that had a live shell chambered.
When the dog fired the shot, a woman sitting at a nearby traffic light reportedly had her arm resting outside her vehicle window. One pellet from the blast struck her in the upper right arm.
~~~~~
At that exact moment, a woman sitting at a nearby traffic light reportedly had her arm resting outside her vehicle window. One pellet from the blast struck her in the upper right arm. Thankfully, authorities said the injury was not believed to be life-threatening, and she was transported to a hospital by a family member.
Now let us all pause for a moment and absorb the fact that somewhere in the middle of America — about as close to the center of the nation as you can throw a dart, give or take a little left turn — a dog managed to become part of a shooting investigation.
Only in America could a sentence like that exist.
For years, the public conversation around firearms has focused on criminals, mental health, violence, politics, and public safety. But apparently nobody stopped to ask the important question:
“What happens if the Labrador gets involved?”
The irony writes itself. We have spent decades hearing about “good guys with guns” and “bad guys with guns,” and now the country may have entered a new and deeply confusing era:
Dogs with guns.
Of course, beneath the humor is a serious reminder. Firearms left loaded and unsecured inside vehicles can become dangerous under the strangest circumstances imaginable. In this case, it was not an armed criminal, an act of rage, or even recklessness in the traditional sense. It was a dog moving across a seat.
That alone should be enough to make every gun owner stop and think.
Suspected of accidentally shooting cat lady…
Still, somewhere out there tonight, a golden retriever is probably being looked at with just a little more suspicion than usual.
And one can only imagine the next question modern America may eventually have to answer:
Will it someday take a good dog with a gun to stop a bad dog with a gun?
Then again, maybe this entire incident was cosmic payback. Maybe she was a lifelong cat lady. Maybe she had once yelled at a barking dog somewhere back in 1987. The universe keeps records on these things. Apparently, so do Labradors.
It is hoped you will never become the victim of a crime. No person leaves home expecting their vehicle to be burglarized, their property stolen, or their sense of security shattered in a matter of moments. Yet every day, across cities, towns, suburbs, and rural communities, ordinary people suddenly find themselves dealing with the emotional shock and confusion that follows criminal victimization.
One of the most important things a person can remember is this: your safety comes first.
Property can be replaced. Lives cannot.
Law enforcement officers have long stressed that victims often unintentionally place themselves in additional danger after discovering a crime has occurred. Some rush into burglarized homes. Others attempt to confront suspects. Some unknowingly destroy evidence while trying to clean up the scene or assess damage.
Those first few minutes matter.
Why Summer Months Often Bring More Victimization
Historically, criminal justice researchers and law enforcement agencies have observed increases in certain types of crime during warmer months. The reason is not simply heat or weather itself. It is human activity.
During summer, society becomes more socially active.
People travel more. Families vacation. Teenagers stay out later. Festivals, concerts, sporting events, and gatherings increase. Parks, lakes, malls, restaurants, and entertainment districts become crowded. Homes sit empty while families travel. Vehicles are left unattended for longer periods.
Unfortunately, criminals notice opportunity.
The more interaction and movement that occurs within a community, the greater the chance for:
vehicle burglaries,
thefts,
assaults,
robberies,
fraud,
vandalism,
road rage incidents,
and alcohol-related confrontations.
This does not mean people should fear enjoying life. It simply means awareness becomes more important during periods of increased activity.
Criminals often look for distractions, vulnerabilities, and easy opportunities. A locked car, a well-lit home, alert neighbors, and cautious behavior can sometimes be enough to make a criminal move on to an easier target.
What To Do If You Discover A Crime
If you discover you have become the victim of a crime, remember these important steps:
1. Put Your Safety First
If you believe a suspect could still be nearby, leave the area immediately if possible. Do not attempt to confront or chase someone unless absolutely necessary to protect life.
Many offenders are unpredictable, desperate, or under the influence of drugs or alcohol.
2. Do Not Touch Anything
Avoid touching doors, windows, drawers, vehicles, or objects the suspect may have handled. Fingerprints, DNA, shoe impressions, and other evidence can easily be destroyed.
Even straightening up the scene before police arrive can unintentionally damage evidence investigators need.
3. Do Not Enter A Burglarized Home, Building, Or Vehicle
If you notice an open door, broken window, damaged lock, or signs of forced entry, do not go inside.
The suspect may still be there.
Move to a safe location and contact law enforcement immediately.
4. Call 911 Or The Non-Emergency Number
Call 911 if:
the crime is in progress,
someone may be injured,
the suspect could still be nearby,
or immediate danger exists.
Use the non-emergency number if the crime already occurred and there is no active threat.
Try to provide:
your location,
what happened,
suspect descriptions,
vehicle descriptions,
direction of travel,
and whether weapons were involved.
5. Stay Nearby — But At A Safe Distance
Remain where officers can locate you, but avoid standing directly inside or near the scene.
If possible, position yourself where you can observe entrances or exits without placing yourself at risk.
6. Allow Officers To Secure The Scene
When officers arrive, avoid rushing toward them. Police responding to a crime scene do not immediately know who is involved or whether danger still exists.
Allow officers to approach and follow their instructions carefully.
7. Do Not Re-Enter Until Police Say It Is Safe
Even if you want to check for damage or missing items, wait until officers clear the scene.
Investigators may still be searching for suspects or processing evidence.
8. Write Down What You Remember
Memory fades quickly after stressful events.
As soon as possible, write down:
suspect descriptions,
clothing,
tattoos,
vehicle information,
statements made,
times,
sounds,
or anything unusual you noticed.
Small details often become major breaks in investigations.
9. Preserve Digital Evidence
Do not delete:
security camera footage,
doorbell camera recordings,
text messages,
threatening social media posts,
or cellphone video.
Inform investigators those items exist.
10. Understand Your Rights As A Victim
Some victims hesitate to cooperate because they fear retaliation or becoming publicly involved.
If you are afraid, tell officers or investigators immediately.
Victims in many states may qualify for:
victim advocacy services,
protective orders,
confidentiality protections,
counseling resources,
and notification services during court proceedings.
11. Cooperation Matters
In many cases, especially assaults, thefts, harassment, or domestic incidents, victim cooperation plays a critical role in whether charges move forward.
If victims decide not to prosecute or participate, investigators may have limited ability to continue the case unless strong independent evidence exists.
That decision is personal, but victims should understand their rights and options before making it.
Awareness Is One Of The Best Protections
No community is completely immune from crime. Rural towns, suburbs, and large cities alike all experience moments where ordinary people suddenly become victims.
But awareness, caution, and preparation remain powerful tools.
Lock vehicles. Secure homes. Stay alert in crowded areas. Watch out for neighbors. Report suspicious activity. Trust your instincts when something feels wrong.
Most importantly, never place property above personal safety.
Few crimes produce stronger emotional reactions than crimes against children.
The public response is immediate and understandable. Anger. Revulsion. Confusion. A collective demand to know how any adult could sexually exploit a child. Yet despite the outrage, many conversations stop before reaching the deeper and more uncomfortable questions.
What psychologically drives a person toward underage victims?
Why do some offenders deliberately place themselves in positions of authority and trust?
And why do cases involving police officers, clergy, teachers, coaches, youth leaders, and other authority figures command such intense public attention?
These are difficult questions. But they are questions worth examining carefully and honestly if society truly wants to understand how these crimes occur and how they can be prevented.
Understanding Pedophilia Versus Child Sexual Abuse
One of the first and most important distinctions is understanding that not every individual who sexually abuses a child is clinically classified as a pedophile.
The term “pedophilia” is often used broadly in public discussion, but clinically speaking, pedophilic disorder refers to persistent sexual attraction toward prepubescent children. Mental health professionals recognize it as a psychiatric condition involving recurring fantasies, urges, or behaviors focused on children.
However, many offenders who commit crimes against minors are not exclusively attracted to children.
Some offenders are driven by:
power and domination,
opportunity and access,
emotional immaturity,
compulsive sexual behavior,
antisocial personality traits,
narcissism,
sadism,
or the ability to exploit vulnerable individuals with little resistance.
Criminologists often refer to some of these offenders as “situational offenders.” In other words, their crimes may stem more from opportunity, access, and control than from exclusive attraction to children themselves.
That distinction matters because understanding motive is critical to prevention.
A predator motivated by opportunity may seek environments with weak supervision or vulnerable victims. A predator motivated by compulsive attraction may develop elaborate grooming behaviors and hidden patterns over many years.
Both are dangerous. But they are not always psychologically identical.
The Role of Authority, Access, and Trust
When stories emerge involving police officers, clergy, teachers, coaches, or youth leaders, public reaction becomes even more intense.
Part of that reaction stems from betrayal.
Society grants authority figures unusual levels of trust. Parents trust teachers with their children. Communities trust officers to protect them. Churches trust clergy with spiritual guidance. Youth programs trust coaches and mentors to shape young lives.
Predators understand this.
Research into offender behavior has repeatedly shown that some predators intentionally seek environments where:
children are present,
trust is automatic,
questioning authority is discouraged,
and institutional reputation may suppress complaints or disbelief.
Predators often do not hide from society.
They embed themselves inside it.
This is one reason grooming behavior is so psychologically effective. Grooming is not merely manipulation of a child. It frequently involves manipulation of parents, coworkers, institutions, churches, and entire communities.
The offender cultivates an image of respectability and dependability. Many become known as “good people,” “helpful,” “professional,” or “dedicated.” That public image becomes part of the camouflage.
Communities are often stunned after an arrest because the accused individual “never seemed like that type.”
But predators rarely advertise themselves as monsters.
Most understand exactly how normal they need to appear.
Why Police Cases Draw Extraordinary Attention
When a police officer is accused of crimes involving children, public attention intensifies immediately.
That does not necessarily mean police officers offend at higher rates than the general population. Existing national evidence does not conclusively establish that law enforcement officers commit child sex crimes at disproportionately higher levels overall.
However, police cases attract extraordinary media coverage because policing carries unique public responsibilities.
Police officers:
enforce laws,
investigate crimes,
interact with vulnerable people,
understand investigative systems,
and carry the authority of the state itself.
When an officer violates those expectations, the betrayal feels magnified.
The same phenomenon occurs in scandals involving clergy, teachers, coaches, corrections officers, or youth leaders. The issue is not merely the crime itself. It is the collapse of trust surrounding the position.
Media organizations also prioritize such stories because they involve:
public accountability,
abuse of authority,
institutional credibility,
and perceived hypocrisy.
As a result, cases involving officers often receive significantly more visibility than similar cases involving private citizens.
This heightened visibility can create the impression that certain professions are uniquely linked to offending behavior when, in reality, the profession itself may simply place the offender under far brighter scrutiny.
Compartmentalization: The Double Life
Perhaps one of the most disturbing psychological aspects of these crimes is the ability many offenders have to compartmentalize their lives.
Some maintain:
careers,
marriages,
friendships,
church involvement,
community respect,
and public service roles while simultaneously hiding predatory behavior.
This psychological splitting is often compared to:
addiction psychology,
narcissistic compartmentalization,
cognitive dissonance,
or dual-identity behavior.
The public often expects predators to appear obviously disturbed or socially isolated. Yet many offenders are socially functional, organized, and outwardly respected.
That disconnect is precisely what makes these crimes so difficult for communities to process.
People struggle to reconcile the trusted public figure with the hidden private behavior.
In many cases, the offender himself psychologically separates the two identities, convincing himself he remains a “good person” despite criminal actions.
That internal justification process is frequently found in offender interviews and criminal psychology studies.
Institutional Fear and Silence
Another difficult reality is that institutions themselves sometimes become vulnerable to denial.
Organizations fear:
lawsuits,
scandal,
public embarrassment,
loss of trust,
political consequences,
or financial fallout.
This can lead to:
ignored warning signs,
minimized complaints,
transferred offenders,
or pressure placed on victims to remain silent.
Historically, many major scandals involving abuse were not created by one offender alone, but by systems that failed to act decisively when concerns first surfaced.
This is why transparency, reporting systems, independent investigations, and accountability matter so deeply in professions involving vulnerable populations.
The Uncomfortable Truth
The hardest truth for many people to accept is that predators are often not strangers lurking in dark alleys.
Many are trusted members of communities.
They may wear uniforms. They may stand behind pulpits. They may coach Little League teams. They may teach classrooms. They may work in law enforcement. They may sit beside families in church pews every Sunday.
That reality does not mean entire professions are corrupt.
It means trust itself can become a weapon in the hands of the wrong person.
And perhaps that is why these crimes disturb society so deeply.
Because they force people to confront a painful realization: sometimes the people communities trust the most are the very people least suspected of betrayal.
Understanding that reality is uncomfortable.
Ignoring it is dangerous.
The Weight of Accusation
There is another side to these investigations that society rarely discusses openly.
The emotional horror surrounding crimes against children is so intense that accusation alone can sometimes become enough to destroy a person long before evidence is ever examined.
One former officer described an incident that illustrates how quickly perception can overtake truth.
Late one evening, a teenage boy reportedly stopped by the officer’s private residence and asked him to write a fake citation so he could use it as identification to appear older and gain entrance into a nightclub.
The officer refused and told the youth to leave.
According to the account, the teenager became angry and shouted back:
“You’re gay. I’m telling everybody.”
The officer dismissed the comment, closed the door, and thought nothing more about the exchange.
The following evening, however, when he reported for duty, he was immediately summoned into the Major’s office.
The teenager had filed allegations claiming the officer had made sexual advances toward him the night before.
The officer was suspended pending investigation.
Within hours, rumors had already begun spreading throughout the community.
The most difficult part for the officer was not simply the investigation itself. It was the realization that in allegations involving minors and sexual misconduct, innocence often struggles to compete against suspicion.
He had no witnesses. No recording devices. No defense except his own word.
The encounter had taken place in the privacy of his own home.
Yet public opinion had already begun forming long before any investigation reached conclusions.
This reality creates an uncomfortable but necessary truth society must confront carefully.
Protecting children must always remain a priority. Allegations involving minors deserve immediate and serious investigation.
At the same time, accusations alone cannot become automatic proof of guilt.
History has shown both realities can exist simultaneously: real predators do hide within trusted institutions, and false accusations, misunderstandings, retaliation, or exaggerated claims can also occur.
The challenge for investigators, communities, and institutions is maintaining enough emotional discipline to pursue truth instead of simply reacting to fear.
That balance is difficult.
But without it, justice itself can become compromised from both directions.
In emergency services there is a moment most people never see.
It usually happens sometime after midnight, when the world is quiet and the station lights are dim. The calls have slowed down just enough that someone finally drifts off in the Bunkroom.
Then the tones drop.
Within seconds the calm disappears. Boots hit the floor, radios crackle to life, and another emergency begins.
For many first responders, that moment repeats itself again and again over the course of a shift. Sleep comes in fragments—ten minutes here, twenty minutes there—if it comes at all.
Yet the work still has to be done.
Patients still need treatment. Ambulances still need to move quickly and safely through traffic. Decisions still have to be made in seconds.
So how do first responders manage when sleep is scarce?
The answer, in many cases, is a combination of training, teamwork, and habits built over years of long nights.
Coffee: The Unofficial Fuel of Emergency Services
Walk into almost any firehouse, EMS station, or dispatch center. You will find a coffee pot that never truly turns off.
Caffeine has become the unofficial fuel of emergency work. It sharpens focus, pushes back fatigue, and gives providers the extra edge they need when exhaustion begins to creep in.
But caffeine is a temporary solution, not a cure. It can help providers stay alert for short periods, but it cannot replace the restorative effects of real sleep.
Still, for many crews working through the night, that cup of coffee becomes a small but necessary ally.
The Power of the Partner Check
Another important defense against fatigue is something emergency services have relied on for decades—watching out for each other.
In EMS and law enforcement alike, partners often double-check each other’s work when exhaustion sets in.
One medic confirms a medication dose while the other prepares it. A partner reviews a treatment decision before it is carried out. A tired driver is reminded to pull over or slow down when fatigue becomes obvious.
These small moments of teamwork are often invisible to the public. Still, they are an important safety net inside the profession.
Experience and Muscle Memory
Years of training also play a role in helping providers function when they are tired.
Many of the most critical skills in emergency medicine are practiced repeatedly until they become almost automatic. Starting an IV, assessing a patient’s airway, or reading a cardiac monitor are actions that experienced providers perform almost instinctively.
That muscle memory helps bridge the gap when fatigue clouds thinking.
But even the most experienced provider is still human. Fatigue eventually catches up with everyone.
Humor in the Middle of the Night
One of the most common coping tools in emergency services may surprise outsiders: humor.
First responders have a long tradition of gallows humor. It’s a way of releasing tension, staying connected with coworkers, and pushing through difficult moments.
A quiet station at three in the morning may suddenly erupt in laughter. It might be over a joke, a story from a previous call, or something completely ridiculous.
That humor isn’t about disrespect. It’s about survival.
Sometimes laughter is the only thing that keeps a tired crew moving through the night.
The Quiet Drive Back to the Station
After the sirens fade, the patient is delivered to the hospital. There is often a quiet drive back to the station.
For many providers, that ride is the moment when exhaustion becomes most noticeable.
The adrenaline of the call is gone. The road stretches ahead. The body begins to remember how tired it really is.
Those moments are why conversations about fatigue are becoming more important within emergency services.
First responders have always found ways to push through exhaustion. However, the goal should never be simply to endure it.
The goal should be to manage it.
A Profession Built on Dedication
The reality is that fatigue has always been part of emergency services.
Long shifts and unpredictable calls are part of the job. The responsibility of protecting the public adds to it. This means the job will never fit neatly into a normal sleep schedule.
But despite those challenges, first responders continue to answer the call.
They rely on training, teamwork, and professionalism to carry them through the long nights.
And when the tones drop again—whether it’s midnight, three in the morning, or just before sunrise—they get up and go.
An International Discussion For Police,Fire, EMT’s, Dispatch and You!
WHEN EMERGENCIES ARRISE AND THOSE RESPONDING ARE TOO TIRED TO BE THERE
For paramedics, EMTs, and first responders, sleep often becomes the one thing emergency medicine never seems to deliver. The science is clear—fatigue affects judgment, safety, and patient care. Yet the process still runs on sleepless shifts.
When the Tones Drop at 3 A.M.: Fatigue and the Reality of EMS Life
For EMS providers, fatigue isn’t just an inconvenience or a badge of honor. It’s a real operational risk that affects patient care, provider safety, and the long-term health of the workforce. Research over the past several decades has repeatedly shown that lack of sleep slows reaction time. It interferes with judgment. It also increases the likelihood of mistakes and accidents.
You understand something the general public rarely sees if you’ve ever been jolted awake in a station Bunkroom. This happens when the shrill sound of dispatch tones rings at 2:47 in the morning. In emergency medical services, sleep often feels like something promised but rarely delivered.
Anyone who has worked long shifts in emergency services knows exactly what that looks like in the real world. The medic drives back from a call, fighting heavy eyelids. The paramedic double-checks medication calculations at four in the morning because the numbers won’t quite settle in the brain. The crew member stares at a cardiac screen, trying to push through mental fog.
Before we talk about solutions, it helps to understand how EMS developed this culture of chronic sleep deprivation. It’s also important to know why meaningful rest can be so difficult to find on the job.
Sleep isn’t a luxury. It’s a biological need that allows the brain and body to recover and operate properly. Most adults need somewhere between seven and nine hours of restorative sleep within a 24-hour period.
For EMS providers, reaching even half that amount during a shift can feel like a victory.
Research shows that the effects of sleep deprivation can be dramatic:
• After approximately 17 hours awake, a person’s cognitive performance declines significantly. It begins to resemble someone with a blood alcohol concentration around 0.05%. • After 24 hours without sleep, impairment can resemble a 0.10% BAC, well above the legal driving limit in most states. • Fatigue affects reaction speed, memory, and the ability to make complex decisions—all critical skills in emergency medicine.
Studies examining EMS providers have also revealed troubling patterns. Many report experiencing severe fatigue regularly. A significant number acknowledge that they have fallen asleep behind the wheel after finishing a shift.
For providers in the field, these statistics aren’t abstract numbers. They show up in everyday moments:
• struggling to concentrate on a pediatric medication calculation • catching yourself drifting at a stoplight on the way back to the station • taking longer than usual to interpret patient data during a call
The long-term consequences of chronic sleep deprivation can also be severe. Poor sleep has been linked with higher risks of heart disease, diabetes, obesity, depression, and anxiety. Over time, fatigue contributes to burnout and drives experienced providers away from the profession.
Ironically, other industries that rely on safety-critical decision making—like aviation and commercial trucking—strictly regulate work hours and rest periods. EMS, nonetheless, often operates under schedules that allow providers to stay on duty for 24 hours or longer.
How EMS Ended Up With 24-Hour Shifts
Many EMS scheduling practices trace their roots to the fire service.
When modern EMS systems began developing in the 1960s and 1970s, many ambulance operations were integrated into fire departments. Firefighters traditionally worked 24 hours on duty. They followed this with 48 hours off. This schedule was manageable when fire calls were relatively infrequent.
EMS adopted this structure, even though medical call volumes soon far exceeded those of fire responses.
There were several reasons the schedule remained popular:
Staffing efficiency Long shifts need fewer personnel to keep coverage.
Fewer commutes Working a 24-hour shift means fewer trips to and from work during the week. This is something many providers appreciate, especially those in rural areas.
Overtime opportunities Long shifts make it easier to pick up extra work. This increases income for providers. It also reduces hiring pressure on agencies.
Tradition Like many aspects of emergency services culture, once a system becomes established it tends to stay that way.
Other Scheduling Models
Although the 24-hour shift remains common in many departments, other models are used as well.
12-hour shifts Common in high-volume urban EMS systems. They reduce extreme fatigue but need more staff and more frequent shift changes.
Kelly schedules A modified version of the 24/48 rotation that periodically adds an extra day off for recovery.
48/96 rotations Two days on duty followed by four days off. Some providers enjoy the extended time off, but fatigue can become severe if call volume is high.
Peak-hour staffing Extra crews are scheduled during the busiest times of day to reduce workload during overnight hours.
Each system has advantages and disadvantages. The challenge for agencies is balancing staffing levels, budgets, and provider well-being.
The Reality of Multiple Jobs
Another factor contributing to fatigue is the financial reality of EMS work.
Many providers hold second—or even third—jobs to make ends meet. A medic often finishes a 24-hour shift at one service. Then, they report to another agency for extra hours.
In some cases, providers stay awake and working for 48 hours or longer. While overtime can be financially appealing, the physical and mental toll can be enormous.
Why Sleep Is So Difficult in EMS
Even when schedules theoretically allow for rest, real-world conditions often make sleep difficult.
Unpredictable call volume One shift is quiet, while the next produces a constant stream of calls.
Station environments Bunkrooms are noisy, crowded, or poorly designed for restorative sleep.
Cultural expectations In some departments, daytime naps are still discouraged despite overnight calls.
Stigma surrounding fatigue Many providers hesitate to admit exhaustion for fear of appearing weak.
The result is a workforce that often operates on minimal rest while still being expected to deliver high-level medical care.
What Agencies Are Trying
Across the United States and internationally, EMS organizations have begun experimenting with strategies to tackle fatigue.
Fatigue management programs Training and policies designed to recognize fatigue as a safety hazard.
Improved sleep spaces Some agencies are redesigning stations to create quieter, darker rest areas for crews.
Adjusted shift schedules Shorter shifts or hybrid scheduling models may reduce extreme fatigue.
Data-driven staffing Deploying extra units during peak call hours can reduce workload during overnight periods.
None of these solutions is perfect. Budget constraints, staffing shortages, and operational demands make large changes difficult for many agencies.
Still, awareness of the issue is growing.
Personal Responsibility Matters Too
While system design plays a major role, providers also have some responsibility for managing fatigue.
That means prioritizing sleep on off-days, maintaining healthy routines, and recognizing when exhaustion affect performance.
Emergency services professionals often pride themselves on toughness, but fatigue is not a personal weakness—it’s a biological reality. Recognizing its effects is part of professional responsibility.
When fatigue becomes normalized within a profession, the consequences ripple outward.
Operational efficiency declines. Morale suffers. Experienced providers leave the field.
Most importantly, fatigue can affect the quality of care patients get.
Communities depend on EMS professionals to respond quickly and make critical decisions under pressure. Those responsibilities need clear thinking and alertness—something difficult to keep without adequate rest.
Moving Forward
Fatigue will always be part of emergency services to some degree. The unpredictable nature of the job makes perfect schedules impossible.
But acknowledging the problem is an important first step.
Agencies can explore smarter scheduling, better rest environments, and policies that recognize fatigue as a safety issue. Providers can take steps to manage their own sleep habits and recovery time.
The tones will still drop in the middle of the night. That’s part of the job.
The profession can continue working toward systems. These systems protect both the providers who answer those calls. They also protect the communities they serve.
Tomorrow Part II – Running on Coffee and Commitment: How First Responders Survive Fatigue
References
Williamson AM, Feyer AM. Moderate sleep deprivation produces impairments in cognitive and motor performance equivalent to legally prescribed levels of alcohol intoxication. Occup Environ Med. 2000 Oct;57(10):649-55. doi: 10.1136/oem.57.10.649. PMID: 10984335; PMCID: PMC1739867.
Billings JM. Firefighter sleep: a pilot study of the agreement between actigraphy and self-reported sleep measures. J Clin Sleep Med. 2022 Jan 1;18(1):109-117. doi: 10.5664/jcsm.9566. PMID: 34314350; PMCID: PMC8807900.
Patterson PD, Martin SE, Brassil BN, Hsiao WH, Weaver MD, Okerman TS, Seitz SN, Patterson CG, Robinson K. The Emergency Medical Services Sleep Health Study: A cluster-randomized trial. Sleep Health. 2023 Feb;9(1):64-76. doi: 10.1016/j.sleh.2022.09.013. Epub 2022 Nov 10. PMID: 36372657.
Cox M, Cramm H. Laying the foundation: exploring the family impact of public safety personnel sleep health. FACETS. 2025;10:1-14. doi: 10.1139/facets-2025-0081
Holland-Winkler AM, Greene DR, Oberther TJ. The Cyclical Battle of Insomnia and Mental Health Impairment in Firefighters: A Narrative Review. J Clin Med. 2024 Apr 9;13(8):2169. doi: 10.3390/jcm13082169. PMID: 38673442; PMCID: PMC11050272.
Marvin G, Schram B, Orr R, Canetti EFD. Occupation-Induced Fatigue and Impacts on Emergency First Responders: A Systematic Review. Int J Environ Res Public Health. 2023 Nov 12;20(22):7055. doi: 10.3390/ijerph20227055. PMID: 37998287; PMCID: PMC10671419.
Huang G, Lee TY, Banda KJ, Pien LC, Jen HJ, Chen R, Liu D, Hsiao SS, Chou KR. Prevalence of sleep disorders among first responders for medical emergencies: A meta-analysis. J Glob Health. 2022 Oct 20;12:04092. doi: 10.7189/jogh.12.04092. PMID: 36269052; PMCID: PMC9585923.
Billings JM, Jahnke SA. Effects of a 24/48 to 48/96 Shift Schedule Change on Firefighter Sleep and Health: Short-Term Improvements and Six-Month Stability. Int J Environ Res Public Health. 2025 Nov 5;22(11):1678. doi: 10.3390/ijerph22111678. PMID: 41302624; PMCID: PMC12652382.
Be sure to follow up on emergency news and information at JEMS.
On July 24, I had back surgery—and for once in my life, something involving surgeons and sharp objects worked exactly as advertised. The surgery was an absolute success. It relieved pain I had carried with me for years, pain that had eventually relegated me to a chair or a bed like a piece of well-worn furniture. Since then, I’ve been more active, more mobile, and reminded of what it feels like to move without negotiating with my spine first.
The issues I’m dealing with now are the natural result of a life lived in full living color—action-packed, unscripted, and with me doing all my own stunts. Sadly, I didn’t think to record any of them. Back when I was chasing crooks down alleys, sliding across car hoods, and arresting bad guys, there were no body cams strapped to our chests and no doorbell cameras documenting every questionable decision. In hindsight, that may be a blessing. People behaved differently then. The folks we pulled over or chased didn’t try out legal theories they learned on YouTube. If someone even hinted at going the “sovereign citizen” route, they’d likely find themselves exiting the vehicle through the driver’s window and reconsidering their life choices on the pavement. Judges were less impressed by nonsense back then, too. Jail cells and fines were far more common than viral videos.
Sometimes I wonder if all the bumps, bruises, and hard knocks were worth it. Then I remember a frightened grandmother who was grateful we showed up and took the bad guy away—and I know it was.
But I’m getting sidetracked. Apparently, even when facing surgery, I can still drift into police stories.
So, back to the main event.
On March 5, I’ll be going in for cervical disc replacement—C3, C4, and C5—each swapped out for shiny artificial parts, with the added bonus of the surgeon filing down a few rough bone spurs while he’s in there. The procedure requires entering through the front of the neck. Which to me translates to “the throat.” A place I use regularly for swallowing, breathing, and moving blood around—activities I’d like to continue uninterrupted.
Naturally, I have concerns. One poorly timed sneeze. A joke told in the operating room. A momentary slip of the knife. Any of those could turn a routine procedure into a very different blog post.
Oddly enough, what concerns me most is how fast my insurance company approved the surgery. Six days. Six. Anyone who’s ever dealt with insurance knows that’s suspiciously efficient. Normally, approvals involve paperwork, appeals, second opinions, and possibly a séance. So now I’m left wondering: do they know something I don’t? Is this a cost-saving measure? A quiet attempt to write me off while I’m still in beta?
Which is unfortunate, because I’m still working on a book—and I haven’t even finished the first section. I’ve got way too much left to say.
My anxiety is manageable, but my paranoia is stretching its legs. Even my dog has noticed. He’s been sticking close, watching me like these might be my final days…or possibly because I’m giving him more snacks than Steve. It’s hard to say.
Whatever the case, I’m choosing to approach this with humor. It’s what got me through a police career. “Sick humor,” they call it—and yes, I’m going to need every bit of it between now and March 5.
March 5 should be a perfectly good day. Except history keeps raising an eyebrow.
The Boston Massacre happened on March 5, 1770. Patsy Cline—one of my favorite country artists—along with Cowboy Copas and Hawkshaw Hawkins, died in a plane crash on March 5, 1963. BOAC Flight 911 crashed into Mount Fuji on March 5, 1966, killing 124 people.
Still, I’m choosing optimism.
I’m determined that this March 5 will be remembered for something else entirely—a day when the pain that has severe pain in my right arm finally loosens its grip. A day when modern medicine does exactly what it promises. A day when the feeling of numbness, electrical pulses, pain, and partial paralysis ends.
This Story From The Classics. Posted Originally in 2024 it is Reposted this year as part of the best of the best stories benandsteve.com are sharing at years end.
I have driven thousands of miles in my police patrol unit. I have also answered nearly as many calls. I can attest that there are no ‘Good Dog Calls’ a police officer can be assigned to on duty.
Getting sent to a call involving a dog always includes extra concerns that should be more welcome. Dogs can be unfriendly, mean, unruly, and generally not trustworthy.
Case in point: I have responded to dog calls where the dog got reported missing. It was just across the street and refused to return to its owner. It came to my patrol unit and refused to get out. It insisted on staying, growling when we tried to pick it up and carry it back to its home. I can only guess why it didn’t want to go home.
I have been to dog calls where the dog has bitten a neighbor and had to get put in confinement. The owner objected to the dog’s removal, and a brigade of officers confiscated the dog. The animal control officer was not on duty. So the dog went into the police cruiser and made a hairy mess. It took weeks to get all the fuzz out. No pun intended. Then a day later, and while patrolling through the neighborhood, you see the dog getting walked by the owner’s child. Only to discover they have broken it out of doggy jail. You also have to file more serious charges against the dog owner. Something that you wish didn’t have to happen. The dog is confused over the whole back and forth. The Canine would have been home sooner had the owners only cooperated with the city.
Then, the next step is the crisis intervention, which is your own. It is early in the morning. And dispatch sends you to a home where a pit bull has a family trapped in their home. It will not allow them to get to their cars to leave to go to work or school. You arrive and see this dog running between the front and back doors, preventing the homeowners from exiting the house. You call your backup unit to bring the animal control unit since they are not on duty (as usual).
The backup officer arrives in the Animal Control Unit—the beauty of every small-town police department. You get the dog loop poles when they arrive and devise a plan. The homeowners will call the dog to the backdoor. This will allow an officer to enter the house through the front door. Then your backup partner will go in the house and go to the back door and call the dog. When he rushes to the back door he will use one of the loop poles. Slipping a loop over the dog’s head. As he does, I will come up from behind and slip a loop over the head. And we will have a two loop pole control of the dog. Then together we will be able to control the animal to get it into the animal control vehicle. As we carry out the plan, the dog fights with all it has. Trying feverishly to bite and attack us. We get it to the truck, lift it in, and slide it into a carrier. Loosening the pole loops, we leave them intact so we can use them when we get out to the shelter. So to place the animal in a pen. We close the gate and say farewell to the family that had got trapped inside their home. Waving to us, they are grateful for our service. The dog is fighting like crazy inside the truck. It sounds like we have the Tasmanian Devil inside.
We drove six miles to the shelter, and our anxiety peaked. We were ready to take on this beast we had struggled with earlier. It is now eerily quiet. We cracked open the gate and took hold of the poles. We tightened the slack in the loops. To make sure the dog had tension around its neck so we can control it. We flipped open the gate, and ––––– NOTHING. The dog was dead. DEAD! IT WAS LIMP.
We are dumbfounded at what the hell happened. We had put it in the back of the truck and drove six miles. An investigation indicated that the dog continued fighting even inside the truck’s cage. And either had a heart attack or choked itself while fighting within the closure. We had no choice but to take the dog to the shelter. Had we left it at large we would have had to fight the dog. And even got put in a position to shoot the animal due to its violence. We intended to try and avoid that scenario, but sadly, it ended the dog’s life anyway.
This Story From The Classics. Posted Originally in 2024 it is Reposted this year as part of the best of the best stories benandsteve.com are sharing at years end.
The last three days of the year often get overlooked. During this time, services go unnoticed around the average town or city. This well can be the case where you live.Police, Fire, Ambulance, and 911 Operators all do an incredible job. They work tirelessly in the build up to the New Year Eve Celebration and all the socializing involved. All the socializing is not celebratory, and the people they deal with are not all friendly.
As the year drew close, the city was abuzz with anticipation for the New Year’s celebrations. But for the fire, police, and ambulance services, the last three days of the year were anything but quiet. These dedicated men and women often worked long shifts. They sacrificed their own celebrations. They were on the front lines, ensuring the community’s safety and well-being.
Day One: December 29th
The fire department received a call about a house fire in the early morning hours. Flames engulfed the old wooden structure, and the firefighters worked tirelessly to control the blaze. They managed to rescue a family trapped inside, their faces covered in soot but grateful to be alive. Investigators later determined that a faulty space heater caused the fire. This serves as a stark reminder of the dangers of winter.
Meanwhile, the police were called to a domestic disturbance in a quiet suburban neighborhood. A heated argument escalated. Officers arrived with their professional demeanor and calm approach. They managed to defuse the situation. This ensured that both parties were safe and had a chance to cool down.
The ambulance service was dispatched to a car accident on the icy roads. A young driver had lost control of his vehicle and skidded into a tree. Paramedics worked quickly to stabilize him and transport him to the hospital. Despite the crash’s seriousness, the driver was expected to fully recover.
Day Two: December 30th
The fire department responded to a call about a gas leak in an apartment building. Residents were evacuated as firefighters located the source of the leak and shut it off. Their quick response and decisive action prevented a potential explosion. This reassured the residents. They were allowed to return to their homes once it was deemed safe.
The police were called to a robbery at a local convenience store. The suspect had fled the scene, but officers gathered evidence and track him down. The thief was apprehended and taken into custody, and the stolen goods were returned to the relieved store owner.
The ambulance service received a call about an elderly woman who had fallen in her home. Paramedics arrived to find her in pain and incapable of moving. They carefully lifted her onto a stretcher. They transported her to the hospital. At the hospital, she was treated for a broken hip. Her family was grateful for the swift and compassionate care she received.
Day Three: December 31st
On New Year’s Eve, the fire department was on high alert as fireworks lit up the night sky. They responded to several small fires caused by stray sparks, but thankfully, none resulted in severe damage. Firefighters patrolled the city, ensuring that everyone enjoyed the celebrations safely despite the potential dangers they faced.
The police were busy with calls about noise complaints and public intoxication. Officers maintained a visible presence in the city center, where crowds had gathered to watch the fireworks show. They worked to keep the peace and make sure everyone rang in the new year without incident.
The ambulance service was called to help a young woman who had collapsed at a New Year’s party. Paramedics quickly assessed her condition and determined that she had consumed too much alcohol. They provided her with the necessary care and transported her to the hospital for further observation.
When the clock struck midnight, the city erupted in cheers and celebrations. The fire, police, and ambulance services continued their vigilant watch, ready to respond to emergencies. For them, the end of the year was just another day. They served and protected their community. This often came at the cost of their own family celebrations.
Remember this New Year’s Eve and throughout the Holiday Season, Do Not Drink And Drive. Party Responsibly. Stay Alive For 2025!
First responders are trained to notice patterns long before studies are commissioned or policies are rewritten. Sometimes danger announces itself not with a single catastrophic event, but with repetition—quiet, unsettling repetition. Over a single 24-hour period, I recorded eight separate headlines. Each headline involved police officers being struck by vehicles while working crashes or traffic stops. Eight. Different states. Different agencies. Same outcome. This situation raises a controversial and long overdue question. Are modern LED strobe lights unintentionally putting first responders in greater danger?
There was a time when emergency lights rotated. They swept. They moved with rhythm. The old beacons gave drivers something important—a visual break. A moment for the brain to process direction, distance, and motion. Today’s LED systems don’t rotate; they pulse. Rapidly.
Aggressively. Relentlessly. High-intensity strobes which floods the visual field, especially at night. Instead of guiding a driver away from danger, it overwhelms the brain’s ability to react. The result, in theory, is not panic—but fixation. The eyes lock on. The vehicle drifts toward the brightest point. Not out of intent, but neurological confusion.
Some call it “target fixation,” a phenomenon well known to pilots, motorcyclists, and tactical drivers. Under stress, humans often steer toward what they’re staring at—even when that object shows danger. Combine that instinct with modern LED strobes. These strobes flash faster than the brain comfortably processes. The warning light becomes a lure. A hypnotic point of focus. A tragic beacon.
Eight Officers Were Struck In 24 Hours. Different States. Same Strobe Style Lighting.
Is it time to ask whether modern emergency strobes are warning drivers—or pulling them in?
Within just one day, these were the headlines recorded:
• 1 arrested for allegedly driving while intoxicated after rear-ending a police cruiser on I-465
• Las Vegas police officer injured after vehicle hit while investigating a separate crash
• Effingham County deputy hospitalized after being struck by a vehicle, authorities confirm
• Police cruiser struck by car, officer injured in Naugatuck
• State trooper vehicle damaged after being hit during a traffic stop
• Norman police officer critically injured after being struck by a car on State Highway 9
• Winston-Salem police officer injured after impaired driver crashed into three patrol cars
• Waterbury man injured Naugatuck officer in hit-and-run crash
Eight incidents. One recurring element: emergency lighting designed to protect, now contributing to harm.
This is not an indictment of technology, nor a dismissal of impaired or reckless driving. Accountability still matters. But safety demands that we ask difficult questions—even when the answers challenge long-standing assumptions. If the very lights meant to warn motorists are instead disorienting them, then tradition, training, and procurement policies deserve re-examination.
Officers and firefighters shouldn’t have to stand in the road. They shouldn’t be wondering whether the light behind them is helping. They shouldn’t wonder if it’s painting a target on their back.
Sometimes progress requires us to look backward. Sometimes the old way worked better. And sometimes, the most dangerous thing on the roadside isn’t the driver who fails to slow down. Instead, it’s the light that never lets them look away.
This isn’t meant to be the final word — it’s meant to start a conversation.
If you’re a first responder, dispatcher, firefighter, EMT, tow operator, or a motorist, your experience matters. If you have ever felt disoriented by modern emergency lighting, your experience matters.
Have you noticed drivers drifting toward scenes instead of away from them? Do today’s LED strobes feel different than the rotating lights of the past? Or do you believe visibility has improved safety overall?
Share your thoughts, experiences, or observations in the comments. Respectful discussion is encouraged. If patterns are being noticed on the roadside long before they’re studied in boardrooms, it’s worth listening. Lives depend on it.
Benjamin Groff is a former police officer and radio news anchor. He has hosted programs for CNN and ABC News affiliates in Oklahoma, Colorado, and Wyoming. His career in law enforcement began in 1980 and lasted more than two decades. This gave him first hand insight into the criminal mind and public safety. Moreover, it provided him with an understanding of the human stories that often go untold. His writing draws on these experiences, blending street-level truth with a journalist’s eye for the bigger picture.
In the 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.
In the heart of the bustling city, the frigid December air carried the soft hum of holiday cheer. Festive lights adorned streetlamps, casting warm glows onto the snow-dusted streets. For the officers of the 8th Precinct, Christmas Eve was far from quiet. Calls came in relentlessly: domestic disputes, stranded travelers, and even a wayward reindeer reported near the city park. These dedicated officers were on duty, ready to serve and protect.
What the officers didn’t know was that they had three spectral protectors watching over them—The Guardians of Christmas Eve.
Each of these ghostly policemen had once served the city. They were bound by duty. A deep sense of loyalty held their spirits. They lingered to make sure that no harm would come to those who now walked the beat.
Inspector Miles Hanley
Miles Hanley was a tall and imposing figure. He had been the precinct’s first chief when the station was founded in the late 1800s. Known for his wisdom, he fiercely protected his officers. He carried his ghostly silver pocket watch. He used it to guide the others through the city. On this night, Hanley floated above a lone patrol car. It was parked at the edge of a dark alley. His translucent form shimmered in the moonlight.
“Johnson’s heading into a bad spot,”
Hanley muttered, watching the young officer approach a shadowy figure rummaging through garbage bins. With a flick of his watch, he whispered through the veil of time, nudging Johnson’s instincts. The officer hesitated, then called for backup—averting a potential ambush. Hanley grinned.
“Still got it.”
Officer Rosie McKinney
Rosie, affectionately called “Mama Mac” by her peers, had patrolled the city during the 1940s. She had an uncanny knack for reading people, even in death. Tonight, she hovered near a busy intersection where Officer Emily Torres was directing traffic midst a chaotic pile-up.
“Stay sharp, Emily,”
Rosie murmured, spotting a distracted driver barreling toward the scene. With a wave of her ethereal baton, she sent a gust of icy wind straight into the driver’s face. The man slammed on his brakes just in time, his car skidding to a halt inches from the officer. Rosie chuckled, tipping her ghostly hat. “That’s one less hospital visit tonight.”
Detective Lou Vargas
Lou had been a beloved detective in the 1970s, known for his quick wit and unshakable resolve. He now roamed the precinct’s cold case archives, whispering clues to frustrated officers. But tonight, Lou focused on Officer Brandon Lee. Officer Lee had just been called to investigate a suspicious package left near a crowded shopping district.
As Brandon approached the package, Lou materialized briefly behind him, a shadowy whisper in the winter night. “Check the wires, kid. Look left before you kneel.” Obeying the faint warning in his gut, Brandon discovered the package was harmless—a forgotten Christmas gift. Still, he felt the hairs on his neck stand like someone had been there with him.
A Christmas Morning Promise
As dawn broke over the city, the officers returned to the precinct, exhausted but safe. Unseen by human eyes, Miles, Rosie, and Lou gathered on the station’s rooftop, gazing at the snow-covered streets below.
“We did good,”
Lou said, leaning on his ghostly cane.
“Not a single officer lost,” Rosie added softly.
Miles held up his pocket watch, the spectral clock hands freezing as the sun rose. “Until next year,” he said, and the three faded into the morning mist.
Below, Officer Torres rubbed her arms against the chill. “Did you feel that?” she asked Officer Lee.
“Yeah,” he replied, staring at the horizon. “Like someone was watching over us.”
Police work operated on instinct, humor, and gritty common sense before body cameras. Every arrest didn’t turn into a viral upload back then. This approach belonged to another era. Officers learned from veterans who passed down unwritten rules — some practical, some questionable, and some downright hilarious. These stories aren’t a manual. They’re memories from a world that helped shape the officers we later became.
Don’s Lessons for Rookie Officers
Don was a seasoned officer whose wisdom mixed patience with a dry, knowing humor. He often told rookies about the prisoners who would scream for an entire transport ride. These are the same kind you see in fifteen-minute viral videos today.
He’d tell the infamous alum-powder story with a wink.
“Keep a plastic bag of it in your shirt pocket.
If you get a screamer, take a pinch and flick it – they will shut up!”
This always left rookies unsure whether he was pulling their leg. Or, was he sharing some relic from an era with fewer rules and more noise? His message was never about techniques. It was about the mindset: don’t let chaos set the tone. And always keep your humor intact.
The “Dog!” Brake Test
Another bit of old-school folklore involved the rowdy back-seat prisoner who wouldn’t stop cussing or kicking. Officers had a classic trick:
Get the patrol car up to about forty-five miles an hour.
Slam on the brakes.
Yell,
“Dog!”
The prisoner would slam into the cage divider and go silent. This silence would last until the second dog ran across the road. By the time they arrived at the jail, the only thing left in them was concern for the imaginary dogs.
It wasn’t policy. It wasn’t pretty. It was one of those stories officers shared over coffee. They shook their heads at “the way things used to be.”
The Gilligan’s Island Sobriety Test
DUI stops had their own brand of comedy. When you already knew the drunk driver was going to jail, the roadside field tests became… creative.
The “Gilligan’s Island Test” was a favorite:
Place your left hand over your head. Hold your right ear with your right hand. Balance on one foot. Sing the theme to Gilligan’s Island.
Most never made it past “a three-hour tour.”
It broke the tension. And after a long, cold night, sometimes everyone needed that.
Jurisdiction and the Art of Paperwork Avoidance
Jurisdiction lines used to shift like sand depending on who wanted — or didn’t want — the call. If the incident required endless paperwork, officers suddenly cared very deeply about city-limit boundaries, council-meeting notes, and outdated maps.
Veterans avoided calls they weren’t dispatched to, knowing the penalty: days off lost to court subpoenas. Midnight-shift officers often clocked out at dawn. They then sat in a courtroom until midafternoon. They did this while waiting for cases where they never said a word.
It was exhausting, but it was part of the rhythm of old-school policing.
A Time Before Cameras — And a Time With More Witnesses
These stories sound wild today, but much of policing back then was driven by common sense and community trust. People knew officers, and officers knew their people.
Citizens were often the first to speak up if an officer crossed a line. This happened long before social media or body cams existed. Even without technology, accountability came from individuals who believed in keeping standards high.
Most officers didn’t stop someone without a genuine reason. Those who abused that privilege rarely lasted. It was an unwritten rule — understood, enforced, and expected.
Closing Reflection
Old-school policing wasn’t perfect — not by a long shot. But it existed in a different world with different expectations. Humor softened harder edges. Community relationships carried more weight. And the job, for better or worse, relied on improvisation.
Today’s policing is built on transparency and technology, and that’s a good evolution. But these stories stay important. They are reminders of the human side of the badge, the long nights, and the strange solutions. These stories also recall the characters who trained us and the moments that shaped us along the way.
One persistent problem is untruths. Misinformation continues to mislead the public. These actions make the police look unfavorable.
Benjamin Groff is a former police officer and radio news anchor. He has hosted programs for CNN and ABC News affiliates in Colorado and Wyoming. His career in law enforcement began in 1980 and lasted more than two decades. This gave him firsthand insight into the criminal mind and public safety. Moreover, it provided him with an understanding of the human stories that often go untold. His writing draws on these experiences, blending street-level truth with a journalist’s eye for the bigger picture.
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.
Benjamin Groff is a former police officer and radio news anchor. He has hosted programs for CNN and ABC News affiliates in Colorado and Wyoming. His career in law enforcement began in 1980 and lasted more than two decades. This gave him firsthand insight into the criminal mind and public safety. Moreover, it provided him with an understanding of the human stories that often go untold. His writing draws on these experiences, blending street-level truth with a journalist’s eye for the bigger picture.
Henry had been laying low for months. He wasn’t exactly on the best terms with the brass at his small police department. He’d been on the midnight shift so long, most people in town barely remembered he worked there. To entertain himself, he left funny notes about the place signed “John Henry.” The detective division took six months to figure out who was behind the jokes. They learned the truth only by accident.
Henry confessed to one of the detectives during a neighborly beer session. The young detective was desperate for some action. He had gone a year without a single arrest. He thought maybe Henry can teach him a thing or two. Henry didn’t hold back: “For starters, I’m not sitting on my ass in the office for eight hours.” It stung. The detective had only one unit in his division. His wet-hen supervisor kept him glued to a desk. Henry, on the other hand, led the department in felony arrests for two years straight. His bluntness was legendary, especially among supervisors who loved to hate him.
But it was what happened at 3:00 a.m. one night that sealed Henry’s reputation. He pulled his black-and-white patrol unit up to the north entry door of the station. He wanted to check his oil. He also wanted to check his transmission fluid. Both were low. As he topped the transmission, some spilled onto the exhaust pipes and burst into flames. In seconds, the underside of the cruiser was lit up like a bonfire. Henry shouted, “Shit! Shit! Shit!” sprinted inside, grabbed the fire extinguisher, and went to work.
The flames went out. A massive cloud of extinguisher powder billowed everywhere—under the car, across the pavement, and straight into the police department itself. The breathalyzer, computers, and half the office equipment were dusted in a fine white film. To anyone walking in, it looked like a cocaine snowstorm had blown through the station.
Henry realized it would take 18 hours to clean, and he wasn’t about to spend his shift playing janitor. He called to a cat he saw over in a alley way. It came to him. He picked it up and threw it into the station. Then he rolled the extinguisher across the floor causing it to seem that it had knocked over. He dusted off his hands and thought: “Shit happens. Things happen. And I’ll be in the far south district when they find this mess.” shut and locked the door and headed south. And that is where he was at 0800. Day shift radioed saying they were 10-8. Henry replied, good I am Ten Dash Seven!
To this day, no one ever heard the story—until now. The Cat? No one ever mentioned it again!
Walking the White Line: From Hymns to Highway Patrols
If you’ve ever been told to “walk a straight white line,” the meaning depends a lot on where you’re standing. It also depends on who’s watching. In the Welsh valleys of How Green Was My Valley, the “white line” was a poetic path. It symbolized memory and loss. In American trucker slang, it’s the hypnotic blur of endless road miles. But to a police officer at 1 a.m. on the shoulder of a highway, that white line is all about one thing: sobriety.
A Path in Song and Story
In How Green Was My Valley, the final scene drifts to Alfred Newman’s Finale. It is woven with the Welsh hymn Pen Calfaria. Its the “white line” was a poetic path of memory and loss. “This shall never leave my memory”, feels like a pledge. This pledge is to never forget where you’ve walked. The “white line” here is a metaphorical road. It signifies a way home, a journey of life. It is the one path you try to stay true to.
Road Paint and Real Lines
Outside of metaphor, the first real white lines appeared on American roads in the early 20th century. Two names claim credit:
A leaking milk wagon inspired Edward Hines in 1911.
Dr. June McCarroll, who proposed painted center lines after a close call in 1917.
Whichever story you buy, the point is safety—keeping drivers in their lane and avoiding head-on collisions. And from there, the idea of “walking the line” naturally started meaning “stay where you’re supposed to.”
Law and Order: The Walk-and-Turn
The “walk the white line” sobriety test isn’t ancient Irish pub lore or a circus stunt. It’s a product of late 1970s American law enforcement. The U.S. National Highway Traffic Safety Administration (NHTSA) funded research to standardize roadside sobriety tests. Out of those studies came the now-famous “Walk and Turn” test:
Nine heel-to-toe steps along a straight line.
Turn in a prescribed way.
Nine steps back.
It’s part of the Standardized Field Sobriety Tests (SFSTs), along with the horizontal gaze test and the one-leg stand. The idea is to challenge both balance and divided attention—two abilities alcohol loves to mess with.
Officers used informal techniques before the SFSTs. They asked suspects to touch their nose. Suspects were also asked to recite the alphabet or, yes, walk a straight line. These early “white line” walks have been inspired by the painted road markings. They also have been inspired by circus balance acts. Alternatively, the practical idea of watching someone try to move in a perfectly straight path have been the inspiration.
Beyond the Pavement
Hymns about life’s journey include the image of a narrow path you must follow. Truckers experience “white line fever.” Country music promises fidelity with songs like Johnny Cash’s“I Walk the Line.” This imagery runs deep in human storytelling. The white line is painted down the middle of a highway, showing control and direction. It can also be imagined across the green hills of Wales. It shows the consequences of straying.
The modern police test feel clinical—clipboards, flashlights, and a yellow legal pad. Nevertheless, the symbolism is the same. Can you keep your feet steady? Is your head clear, and can you stay on the line?
Sometimes, the answer to “where did it come from?” is that it came from everywhere. It came from roads, songs, and courtrooms. It also originated from the human habit of evaluating a person’s worth. This is done by observing how well they adhere to the path.
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.
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
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.
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.
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.
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.”
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 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 Mexican beagle crickets arrived five days ago. Already, the Arizona Department of Wildlife had received over 300 complaints. Not about damage, mind you—but about the music.
“They’re too dang punctual,”
one retiree griped.
“They hum like my mother-in-law when she’s judging me,”
wrote another.
One anonymous caller just yelled. “MAKE IT STOP!” for forty-two seconds before hanging up.
Buck Milford was used to desert weirdness. He’d once ticketed a man for driving a dune buggy made entirely of rattlesnake skins. But nothing prepared him for Carl Sandlins latest idea: The Great Cricket Peace Yodel.
“I’ve been listenin’ to ‘em closely,”
Carl explained, pacing in front of his yurt-slash-taco-stand.
“And I think they respond to pitch. What we got here is a musical species. They ain’t hostile—they just need harmony!”
Carl wore what he called his “diplomatic vest.” It was a sequined denim jacket with fringe. He also equipped himself with an old harmonica, a rusted washboard, and a five-gallon pickle bucket labeledAMBASSADOR DRUM.
Buck just stared at him.
“You sure you haven’t been drinking your aloe again, Carl?”
But Carl was undeterred. That night at 2:00 a.m., he set up two lawn chairs. Fifteen minutes before the crickets’ usual humming ritual, he arranged a battery-powered spotlight. He also prepared a megaphone duct-taped to a broomstick.
“Alright, fellas,”
he said into the megaphone.
“Let’s talk tunes!”
Buck sat in the cruiser, sipping lukewarm coffee, radio off. “This is going to end with him either arrested, abducted, or somehow elected,” he muttered.
At exactly 2:15 a.m., right on schedule, the desert came alive with humming.
But this time… Carl joined in.
He yodeled.
He drummed.
He played a harmonica solo that sounded like a walrus stepping on bubble wrap.
And for thirty glorious seconds… the crickets paused.
Then, they hummed louder than ever.
They didn’t just hum The Andy Griffith Show this time. They mashed it up with Achy Breaky Heart. It sounded suspiciously like a 1996 Taco Bell jingle.
Carl dropped his bucket.
“They answered me, Buck! I think we’re collaborating!”
Buck opened his door.
“Carl, I think they’re angry.”
Suddenly, thousands of beagle crickets surged toward the yurt, drawn to the sounds of tin, harmonica, and misguided ambition. They swarmed Carl’s taco stand, leapt onto the megaphone, and—somehow—turned on his margarita blender.
It spun wildly. Salsa flew.
The crickets began line-dancing.
Buck had seen a lot, but beagle crickets doing synchronized grapevines under a disco light powered by solar lawn gnomes? That was new.
The next morning, the bugs had gone quiet. Carl stood in the rubble of his salsa bar. He was shirtless and proud.
“We made contact,”
he said, eyes shining.
“They danced, Buck. They danced!”
Buck surveyed the scene: overturned lawn chairs, chewed speaker wire, a cricket still stuck in a jar of queso.
“Well, Carl,”
he said,
“either they liked your music—or they mistook you for a piñata.”
Carl smiled.
“Doesn’t matter. Tonight, I’m bringin’ in the banjo!”
SO! CARL. He is bringing in the Banjo! Will it be on his knee? And will someone named Ole Susanna show up in Chapter Five if Carl swings that Banjo too wildly? That is a story for tomorrow. So be sure to check back and see if the Mexican Beagle Crickets have segued into classical jazz. Also, will the Highway Patrol get Buck a larger fly swatter?
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!
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.
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!
The Day the Radios Fell Silent: A Personal Account of May 26, 1978
It was a warm May morning in 1978. I was 15 years old, working the phones at my dad’s office at Camp Red Rock in western Oklahoma. For several days, law enforcement radio traffic had been intense—more active than usual, more urgent. Something serious was happening.
An All-Points Bulletin had been issued statewide: two inmates had escaped from the Oklahoma State Prison in McAlester. They were described as extremely dangerous men, capable of committing horrific crimes. The Oklahoma Highway Patrol (OHP) and local authorities launched a massive manhunt, focusing on the southeastern region of the state. While there were scattered reports from other areas, the belief was that the fugitives remained nearby and on foot.
Trooper Houston F. “Pappy” Summers, Motor Vehicle Inspection (MVI) Division in Enid.
Still, troubling reports emerged—houses broken into, firearms stolen, and even a car gone missing. An army of troopers scoured the countryside. The fugitives had to move carefully, methodically, to avoid detection. The search had only been underway for days, but it felt like weeks.
May 26, 1978, arrived. It would become one of the darkest days in the history of the Oklahoma Highway Patrol.
Although I was hundreds of miles away from the action, the search was broadcast live to my ears. The ranger office where I worked was equipped with radios that picked up all law enforcement frequencies. I heard it all: the calls, the coordination, the chaos.
Trooper Billy G. Young, Woodward MVI detachment.
That morning, a somber message came over the radio from Highway Patrol District Headquarters:
“Attention all stations and units: All nets are 10-63 until further notice.”
In plain terms, this meant that the radio network was reserved exclusively for emergency traffic related to the escapees. No unnecessary chatter. But maintaining a “10-63 net” requires constant reinforcement. Officers rotate shifts. New dispatchers come on duty. Without reminders, the rule starts to fade, and soon enough, radio traffic returns to normal. That’s exactly what happened.
As the air unit tried to communicate with ground teams, their messages were drowned out by unrelated conversations. Then, something chilling unfolded.
Lieutenant Pat Grimes, Internal Affairs.
I listened in real time. The air unit tried to warn a team of troopers. They had approached a area. The escapees were hiding—just beyond the trees, lying in wait. The troopers, thinking it was a routine check, got out of their car casually. Suddenly, gunfire erupted. It was an ambush.
One of the troopers managed to retreat to his vehicle and tried to call for backup. The air unit, having seen everything from above, struggled to get through. The radio frequencies were jammed with idle chatter. It was a communications nightmare that have cost lives.
I sat there, helpless, listening to the air unit reporting the tragedy to headquarters. The dispatcher pleaded for all units to clear the net so emergency aid is dispatched. I was stunned—devastated. This moment became a lasting lesson in why radio discipline can be a matter of life and death.
Later that day, I was shocked again—two more troopers had been shot in the same area. And then, I heard the message that signaled the manhunt was over:
“Be advised, the search for the escapees is over. All units and stations can return to regular assignments.”
That phrase said it all. The escapees were no longer a threat. They hadn’t been captured—they were dead. Had they been taken alive, the dispatch would have named the unit responsible for their arrest.
The Fallen
Three troopers lost their lives that day:
Trooper Houston F. “Pappy” Summers, 62, a 32-year veteran stationed with the Motor Vehicle Inspection (MVI) Division in Enid.
Trooper Billy G. Young, 50, with 25 years of service, attached to the Woodward MVI detachment.
Lieutenant Pat Grimes, 36, from Internal Affairs, nearing his 12th year with the Patrol.
Summers and Young died in a gunfight on a rural road near Kenefic. This occurred after the escapees stole a farmer’s truck and weapons. The troopers, unaware of what they were driving into, were ambushed.
Later that day, in the small town of Caddo, Lt. Grimes and his partner, Lt. Hoyt Hughes, were searching a residential area when they, too, came under fire. Grimes was fatally shot. Hughes was wounded but managed to exit the vehicle and return fire at close range, killing one of the fugitives.
Just moments later, Lt. Mike Williams of the Durant detachment arrived. He fatally shot the second escapee. This action brought an end to a 34-day reign of terror that had stretched across six states.
The two escapees caused the deaths of eight people. This number includes the three troopers. They also injured at least three others during their violent run from justice.
Final Thoughts
What I heard that day shaped me. During my time in the police academy, I learned something important. My account of the events closely aligned with what was eventually confirmed. The tragedy of May 26, 1978, became a case study. It highlighted the importance of radio discipline. The event also emphasized operational coordination and situational awareness.
But for me, it was more than that. It was personal. I was there—listening. And I will never forget the sound of silence that followed.
The 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 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.
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.
The mid-shift clocked out at 0200 hours. Officer Tim Roff was left alone on the graveyard shift. He was the only officer covering the North and South Districts. Every radio call felt heavier. Every silence stretched longer. He hoped the mutual aid agreement with neighboring jurisdictions would hold if things spiraled beyond his reach. But for now, it was just him, his determination a steady flame in the darkness.
Alone.
Roff approached every call with a practiced urgency. He arrived fast, assessed fast, and moved on fast. Each moment was calculated to cover as much ground as one man can.
At 0330 hours, the dispatch’s voice crackled over the radio, sharp and urgent:
“Tim, we’ve got a report. The male suspect drove an older blue Chevy Monte Carlo, heading to 230 North Madison Street. Planning to kidnap a child from the grandmother watching them tonight.”
A chill settled in Roff’s chest. Alone or not, this couldn’t wait. Dispatch gave him a phone number for more intel.
On Patrol
He stopped briefly at the north division substation and called the number. The story spilled out: Robert Sams, 38 years old, white male, born February 20th, was not alone—he was bringing others. He didn’t have custody of the children, but he was coming to take them anyway. He was planning to run, wanting to force the mother’s hand.
Roff parked his cruiser near the house and waited. Time slowed. Every passing headlight made his pulse jump. Then—there it was. Like clockwork, the Monte Carlo crept down NW 23rd and turned onto Madison. Roff pulled in behind. He hit the emergency lights and followed as the car swung into the driveway. The tension in the air was palpable.
Before Roff even opened his door, the driver bolted for the house.
“Damn it,”
Roff muttered, keying the mic.
“Need backup.”
But the nearest unit was a reserve officer, miles away, filling in from another city—not tonight.
Roff watched the front door swallow the man and grimaced.
“What is this?” he muttered bitterly. “National Take-the-Night-Off Day for cops—and no one told me.”
When backup finally arrived, Roff pointed to the car’s occupants.
“Watch them—don’t let anyone leave.”
Then he approached the front door and knocked.
A woman opened it, anxious, shifting on her feet.
“He ran out the back,”
she said.
Roff’s instincts flared. He circled to the rear, scanning the rain-soaked earth outside the back door. Not a single footprint. Untouched. She’d lied.
He jogged back around. His heart pounded harder now—not from the chase. It was from the relentless math of being outnumbered and alone. The fear was a heavy burden on his shoulders.
He called to the backup officer, loud enough for the woman to hear:
“If anyone comes out the back—shoot!”
He knew it wouldn’t happen, but fear was leverage.
Facing the woman again, he leveled his voice.
“I know you’re lying. If you don’t come clean, I’ll take you in for harboring a fugitive.”
It wasn’t airtight, but it was enough.
Her shoulders sagged.
“He’s in the garage,”
she admitted.
“Under the table.”
She led him through the house. At the garage door, Roff drew his sidearm. Alone again, with no cover. His stomach clenched.
“Come out,”
he commanded,
“or I’ll shoot.”
A shaky voice from under the table:
“Don’t shoot! I’m coming out!”
Roff cuffed Sam and walked him to the cruiser. He identified the other passengers and radioed dispatch for warrant checks. One by one, the answers came: felony warrant. Felony warrant. Felony warrant. Every single one.
Four prisoners. One patrol car. A 25-mile drive to the county jail. And no one else to cover his city.
Roff radioed neighboring agencies asking them to cover calls if any came in. Then he called the sheriff’s office for the official notification ––
“County, be advised I am 10-15 four times to your location. If there are any calls for my area, ask area units to cover calls per the mutual aid compact.”
He locked them in, buckled them tight, and checked the restraints twice. Just as he closed the last door, a car pulled behind him. A woman stepped out, flashing her ID—the child’s mother.
“It’s over,” Roff told her. “We stopped it.”
She followed him inside and retrieved her child. Relief flooded her face as she hugged her baby, her tears a testament to the fear she had endured. She left, her steps lighter, her burden lifted.
Roff radioed the sheriff’s office,
As Roff pulled onto the highway toward the jail, the prisoners chatted pleasantly in the back seat. Their casual demeanor was unsettling, given the gravity of their crimes. But Roff’s nerves stayed taut. His eyes flicked to the mirror every few seconds. He was alone with four felons and had 25 miles of dark road ahead.
At the jail, the booking officer whistled when he saw them.
“You win tonight’s prize, Roff. Biggest catch I’ve seen from one guy in a long time. Hell it will probably hold as a record for a month or two.”
Roff just nodded, the weight of the night still pressing against his chest. The adrenaline was fading, leaving a hollow feeling. He was alone again, with the echoes of the night’s events reverberating in his mind.
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.
My grandfather had a host of brothers. Their father, Ulrich Groff Jr., had been married twice—the second time after his first wife died. Among my grandfather’s many brothers was one named Frank. In the family, he was known as Grand Uncle Frank or Great Uncle Frank, depending on who was telling. Frank lived a colorful, hard-worn life. He was the one who taught me how to ride a bike and always had a funny story to tell. He was raised on a farm. He worked odd jobs in his youth. Eventually, he found a steady calling with the Chicago Police Department.
Frank’s career on the force was mostly uneventful, at least by police standards. He would occasionally talk about the small-time crooks. He mentioned the drunks and the desperate people. He and his partner had to haul these people off to jail. But there was one story he told with a quiet solemnity—one that never left him. It was a time when being a police officer was a tough job, especially in a city like Chicago. The streets were rough, and the criminals should not be taken lightly.
Frank Groff
It was the night his partner died.
According to Frank, it had been a typical shift. He and his partner had picked up a couple of rowdy men, causing trouble. One of them shoved Frank’s partner during the scuffle. The man was quickly subdued and locked up. As far as Frank knew, it was nothing out of the ordinary. They had handled far worse and walked away without a scratch.
But the next morning, a knock at Frank’s door brought grim news. Fellow officers informed him that his partner, John Blazek, had passed away during the night.
John had hit his head during the scuffle—no one thought much of it at the time, including John himself. Like many men of his era, he brushed it off, finished his shift, and went home. Officer Blazek called a fellow officer to give him a ride. He didn’t feel quite right. Still, no one suspected anything serious. He went to bed and never woke up. The suddenness of his passing left everyone in shock and disbelief.
The official record read:
John Blazek
Patrolman John Blazek died after suffering a head injury. He fell or was pushed to the floor inside the 22nd District’s cell room. This incident occurred at 943 West Maxwell Street the prior night. He did not realize he had suffered a skull fracture. He attempted to go home at the end of his shift at 8:00 am. Blazek did not walk home and called another officer to pick him up. Once he got home, his condition worsened. He passed away the next day from the head injury.
Patrolman Blazek was a U.S. Army veteran of World War I who had served with the Chicago Police Department for 26 years. His sudden and unexpected death left a void in the community. His wife and two sons survive him.
Frank never quite recovered from that night. Though he stayed on the force, something in him changed. He stopped talking about the job as much. When he did, it was with a heavier voice. He had arrested many criminals and survived several street scuffles. Yet, the quiet death of his partner haunted him the most. They didn’t see it coming. He retired a few years later, and we see that the incident had taken a toll on him. He spent his days quietly, often lost in thought.
Years later, after Frank’s retirement, we found a worn copy of the police report. It was on John Blazek’s death and among his things. It was folded carefully into the pages of his Bible. Eventually, Frank passed on. On the back, in his handwriting, were the words:
“We don’t always know the moment something changes us. But we carry it. Always.”
I keep a photo in a drawer in my desk. It is tucked beneath an old leather-bound notebook and a yellowing map of Beckham County. It’s a photo of Lloyd Joe “Bick” Bickerstaff. The image was taken about a month before his promotion to Captain with the Elk City, Oklahoma Police Department.
In the picture, Bick sits in his unit, his uniform crisp in the late autumn light. The shadows are long. The wind has just started to turn cold. That unmistakable Oklahoma sky behind him stretches flat and wide. It is quiet, open, and full of secrets. He wears a half-smile that says,
“I’ve seen things, but I’ll carry them quietly.”
Bick and his brother were born in Sentinel, Oklahoma. I only heard his brother’s name once in passing. Sentinel is a patch of land barely big enough to hold the stories it carries. They began their careers as State Troopers with the Oklahoma Highway Patrol. The two brothers wore matching uniforms and chased something bigger than themselves.
But by the time I knew Bick, he rarely mentioned his siblings. I assumed time had done what it often does to families. Maybe there was a falling out—just distance. I never asked, and he never offered.
I knew he had a wife who baked cinnamon rolls on Sundays. He also had two children. One child was off in Sayre, chasing classes at a junior college. The other was a veterinarian who had graduated from Oklahoma State University. His life beyond the badge was quiet but rich. He even operated a small answering service—its operators worked right from his living room. You knew that life grounded him.
Nevertheless, Bick was more than just a veteran officer inside the department. He was the compass.
When rookies came in shaken from their first domestic call, Bick was the one who handed them a cup of bad coffee and said,
“It gets better if you let it.”
He never lectured. He just listened. And when he spoke, it was always worth hearing.
I remember the weeks leading up to his promotion. The department was shifting—a new Chief was being promoted, and a Major was moving up from Captain. Everyone felt the tremors of change. But Bick? He was steady and unmoved. I asked if he was nervous about entering a bigger role during such a turbulent time.
He just smiled that same quiet smile.
“Storms pass,”
He said.
“Someone’s gotta keep the porch light on.”
He did more than that.
He held the whole house together.
Years passed. And then, like storms do, time took Bick from us. When the news came, I expected many familiar faces at the service. Officers from every corner of the state would be paying their respects. But they didn’t come. Time had moved on, and so had they. Somehow, the news of Bickerstaff’s passing hadn’t brought them back.
Elk City Police Chief Bill Putman did what mattered. He escorted Bick’s casket from Elk City to the Old Soldiers Cemetery in Oklahoma City. That quiet, deliberate ride said more than any ceremony. It was loyalty. It was respect. It was love.
I was there, too, standing back in the shadows as the service ended. I didn’t speak. Didn’t approach the family. I just paused long enough to leave a final tribute at the edge of his resting place. It was a farewell from someone who had seen firsthand what quiet strength looks like.
Maybe Bickerstaff would’ve preferred it this way. No fanfare. There is no parade of names—just those who mattered most.
I like to think I was one of them.
Bick was never the loudest voice in the room. He didn’t need to be.
But when he spoke, the room listened.
And when he left, the silence he left behind was deafening.
The echo he once carried over the radio has gone quiet. And somewhere out in Western Oklahoma, no one will ever hear that calm, steady voice call out again—
“Attention, all stations and units; stand by for a broadcast.”
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.
We had to invest a lot of time making each other laugh. Honestly, the truth behind what we dealt with every day was so damn depressing. I’m talking about my days in law enforcement. There were long shifts, chaos, and tragedies. We pulled practical jokes to stay sane.
We had an incredibly well-liked lieutenant. I admired him immensely. He was competent, dedicated, and a strong leader. Yet somehow, he always found himself in absurd situations. He was often under fire from the chief. I’ll admit, on more than one occasion, I have played a small role in those misadventures.
One day, we were in the breakroom. It never failed. Just as you were halfway through a cup of coffee, a call would come down. You’d have to bolt. Out of habit, everyone would set their half-filled cups on the vending machine on the way out. When we returned from a call, the lieutenant came in, frustrated. He began to reprimand everyone for making the breakroom look like a pigsty. This was ironic, given the usual state of his desk.
The Coffee Cup Case
He stomped to the vending machine and picked up the abandoned cups. The first few were empty, which he confirmed by holding them up to the light, right over his face. Then he grabbed one that still had coffee and did the same. It spilled directly onto his uniform. He stood there stunned, dripping. The rest of us just sat, silently watching like it was a movie scene.
I walked over, grabbed his tie, and wrung it out. A drip of coffee came out and landed on his boot. The whole shift erupted in laughter. The lieutenant stormed out, fired up his patrol car, and squealed the tires, leaving the station.
Unluckily for him, the chief had parked just down the street to watch the night shift in action. He saw the whole thing and chewed the lieutenant for over an hour.
Despite the pranks, the lieutenant and I had a solid bond. One time, he made a big announcement at shift change in front of everyone. He said he’d be riding with me to assess my patrolling skills. I just looked at him and said, “That’s fine, but you’re gonna have to sit over there and be quiet.” The room burst into laughter. He chuckled and said,
“Only you could get away with saying something like that.”
That was our partnership. He knew I’d undoubtedly have his back, no matter what. Off-duty, we were good friends. We went fishing together. We also vacationed with each other’s families. I had his back more than once when things got real in the field.
There were other moments, too. One traffic officer had a bad habit of leaving his patrol unit running and unlocked outside the station. It was just begging for a prank. One night, another officer and I gave in to temptation. My buddy hopped in the driver’s seat; I took the passenger side. He threw it into drive, and off we went—sirens blaring.
Inside, the officer was digging through his briefcase, organizing reports. When we took off, he jumped so high that he spilled the contents everywhere. Another officer watching couldn’t stop laughing long enough to explain that it was just us. The guy never left his car running again.
Someone had a bright idea once. They sprinkled paper punch-outs and glitter on the ceiling fan blades above the chief’s desk. The switch was right next to where he sat. We all gathered casually in the hallway outside his office the next day as he walked in and sat down. He flipped the fan on, and poof—a cloud of glitter and confetti rained down. He was not amused, but the image of him sitting there covered in sparkles was priceless.
It sounds like a waste of time to outsiders, but these pranks were how we coped. We had seen some of the worst humanity had to offer—child abuse cases, fatal car crashes, suicides. These moments of humor were survival mechanisms. It’s not unique to us; veterans, ER nurses, and paramedics do it. It’s often called gallows humor, and studies have shown it serves a psychological role. A 2022 article in Police1 explains the benefits of using dark humor in traumatic fields. It helps create emotional distance and encourages bonding. It also prevents burnout.
To the public, the jokes sound crude or inappropriate. But behind closed doors, it was how we held onto our sanity. This was true among those who carried the weight of human suffering daily. It was how we kept the darkness from winning.
Officer Tim Roff was headed to a remote corner of the county to interview a key witness. This witness was a young girl named Cissy, the only eyewitness to a serious crime.
Nothing about it sounded very difficult. It was a straightforward drive, with a few questions, and Tim wanted to return for lunch.
He fueled his cruiser and pulled out of Delk View, heading west on the highway. The farther he drove, the thinner the traffic got. Eventually, it was just him and the radio. A long ribbon of blacktop stretched toward the horizon.
Forty miles later, he turned off at a row of faded, leaning mailboxes. They looked like they’d been abandoned decades ago.
A dirt road led up a shallow ridge, ending at a rusted metal gate with a handmade sign nailed to it:
“IF U R HEar TO C the Anderson Folks, U-will walk up here.”
Tim squinted at it.
“Charming.”
He parked the cruiser on the shoulder and climbed the gate, boots crunching dry gravel as he started the walk. It was unusually quiet—no dogs barking, livestock, or even a bird in the trees. That struck him as odd for a farm.
The shack was sagging. It stood at the end of the trail, leaning slightly. It looked like it had given up on fighting gravity. Tim knocked. After a few moments, the door creaked open, revealing a woman standing in shadow.
“Ma’am,” Tim said, flashing his badge. “Officer Roff, Delk View PD. I’m here to speak with Cissy.”
The woman gave him a long, assessing look before replying,
“I’m her mother. But Cissy ain’t here. She’s up at my great-grandparents’ place.”
Of course, she was.
The woman stepped outside and pointed behind the shack.
“You’ll wanna follow the trail goin’ north. Not northeast, not northwest—north. Climb the hill. When you hit the first house, keep going. That ain’t it. Go around back and find the east trail. That’ll get you to Great-Grand Pap’s.”
Tim nodded, trying to chart the path mentally.
“Appreciate it,”
He said.
“Wish I’d worn jeans.”
The trail was steep and rocky, winding uphill through thickets and trees. After nearly an hour of hiking, sweat soaking through Tim’s dress shirt, he reached a cabin. An elderly couple sat out front on mismatched chairs, sipping something cold.
“You lost?”
The old man called out.
Tim waved.
“Looking for Great-Grand Pap’s place. Cissy’s supposed to be there.”
The woman laughed.
“You’re close. Just head east from here. And watch out for bees—they’ve been feisty.”
Tim scratched his neck, thinking out loud ––
“Bees? Terrific.”
Tim trudged on and eventually reached a much nicer house between two ridgelines. Two cars were parked out back.
“You’ve got to be kidding me,”
He muttered.
“They have a driveway.”
A white-haired man and woman sat on the stoop, smiling like they’d been expecting him.
“Howdy!”
They chimed in unison.
“Howdy,”
Tim replied, a little breathless.
“I’m Officer Roff. I need to speak with Cissy.”
The couple exchanged a look.
“She’s over at Grand-Uncle Maxwell’s place.”
The old man said.
Tim sighed.
“Grand-Uncle?”
“Yup. Her grandfather’s brother. She’s watchin’ him today while his wife’s out shoppin’.”
Tim, peeking through his sunglasses, looks up –
“Watching him?”
The great-grandfather nodded.
“Ain’t much to it. Maxwell’s tied to a tree out front. Forty-foot chain. Keeps him from wanderin’ off.”
Tim blinked.
“I—what?“
“Yeah,”
The old man said.
“See, Maxwell was showin’ his boy how to clean a rifle last year—told him you never clean a loaded gun. The boy asked why. So Maxwell loaded it up, held the barrel to his head like he was cleanin’ it. And said, ‘Because if you pull the trigger, this could hap—’ And bam. Shot himself right through the nose and out the top of his skull.”
The woman nodded solemnly.
“He ain’t been the same since. I can’t trust him to stay put. We lost three family members to gun cleanin’ accidents.”
“And y’all still own guns?”
Tim asked.
“Well, of course,”
The old man said.
“But we’re real careful now.”
Tim rubbed the back of his neck.
“So… why is he her Grand-Uncle and not a Great-Uncle?”
The old man sat up a little straighter.
“Well, see, Cissy’s mama’s brothers are her uncles. Her mama’s parents are her grandparents. You followin’? But Maxwell’s her grandfather’s brother—so he’s a grand-uncle—different branch. You followin’? My brothers are Great uncles, just like I am a Great Grandpa.You followin’?“
“I think so,”
Tim said.
“But I’m pretty sure Ancestry.com would call him a great-uncle.”
“City folks,”
The old man muttered, shaking his head.
Eventually, they led Tim to Cissy. She was a wide-eyed girl with a thick accent. Her vocabulary included terms Tim had never heard. She explained what she saw, pointing to where it happened, who was there, and what she heard. Tim took meticulous notes. He jotted down not just the events but also the phrases she used. Some of these need translating in court.
He chuckled softly in the cruiser as he rewound his way to civilization. He thought about the chains and the bees. The hand-drawn family tree in his mind intrigued him. He pondered the odd logic of backwoods kinship.
And he couldn’t help but remember what the old man had told him as he left:
“Cousins are once or twice removed, then after that, well… you can marry ’em.”
Tim hoped the DA had a good sense of humor—and a good translator.
When I was young, I had the privilege of working alongside some genuinely seasoned police officers. These were men who had been in the profession for decades. They carried with them a wealth of stories and experience. One of the most unforgettable among them was my Captain, Loyd “Bick” Bickerstaff.
Captain Bickerstaff was the first person I met when I interviewed for the job. He pulled for me to get hired, though I never quite knew why. Maybe he saw himself in me. He was around sixty when we met. At the time, I didn’t know much about his background. I quickly learned through stories from others that he was a legend in Oklahoma law enforcement.
Officers came from various places. If they stopped by our agency, they either knew Bickerstaff or had heard of him. He had that reputation. And if he happened to be off-duty during their visit, they left visibly disappointed.
I remember one particular day when I was on desk duty. A reporter from Time-Life came in. He said he was working on a piece about Route 66. He asked if he could interview Captain Bickerstaff. I told him to wait while I went to get the Captain.
Now, Bick wasn’t the type to jump at the chance to talk to the press—unless he had something to say. But when I mentioned a Time-Life reporter was here to see him, he promptly came out into the booking lobby and, in classic Bick fashion, boomed:
“I bet you want to ask me about that son of a bitch I wrote a ticket to back in the 1950s!”
At that moment, I thought, Well, this will be a PR nightmare. But to my surprise, he and the reporter hit it off. They wandered around the station talking and laughing. They even went outside. The photographer snapped pictures of Bick behind the wheel of a patrol car.
Maybe this won’t turn out so bad after all, I thought.
Still, I couldn’t help but wonder. What kind of ticket did someone get back in the ’50s? It still had reporters chasing the story.
When Bick returned, he shook the reporter’s hand, sent him off, and then strolled back to where I was working.
“I can tell your brain’s buzzing,” he said with a grin. “You want to know what that was all about?”
I nodded.
“Yeah, I’d say so. Stuff like this doesn’t happen every day.”
And so he told me.
In the 1950s, Bick was a trooper with the Oklahoma Highway Patrol. In those early days, he patrolled on a motorcycle. One night, near Elk City, Oklahoma, a flashy car with California plates sped by him on Old 66. It was doing over 75 miles per hour or more.
He took off after it and got the car pulled over. It was late, and as he walked up to the driver’s window, the man inside said:
“Surely, you’re not going to write me a ticket. Don’t you know who I am?”
To which Bick famously replied:
“I don’t care if you’re Liberace—you’re driving like a bat out of hell. Yes, I’m writing you a ticket!”
And as it turned out, it was a Liberace. Liberace’s Brother George!
Bick wrote the ticket anyway. George Liberace followed Bick to the courthouse, paid it on the spot, and went on his way.
A few weeks later, Bick’s supervisor got a call from one of Liberace’s agents. They wanted to fly Bick to Hollywood to be on The Liberace Show. They thought it would be significant: the highway patrolman who dared to ticket a star. Bick said he couldn’t say no. The department thought it was good publicity, and it was.
Years later, people still talk about it. Unknowingly, I worked with the man who once wrote Liberace’s brother a speeding ticket. Bick told me –––
“Liberace brought me out on stage. He announced that I was the highway patrolman who wrote his Brother George a speeding ticket!”
When I began my career in law enforcement, I experienced many “firsts.” One of the earliest was being assigned to a beat. I patrolled the alleys and streets of downtown, checking businesses and parks at night. The darkness was deep and constant. If fear crept in, the silence can feel almost haunting at times.
But I never let the shadows spook me. Not the sudden dash of a stray cat nor the wind rattling loose tin from an awning overhead. For a long time, I found nothing out of the ordinary. That is, until one night.
It happened in the park, beneath a pavilion by the river’s edge. I noticed someone lying across a picnic table. At nearly 2 a.m., the park was supposed to be empty. I stayed alert as I approached. I was constantly aware that people didn’t always travel alone. I didn’t want to be caught off guard.
As I approached, I spotted a can of spray paint beside her. A streak of glossy red paint coated her nose and mouth, dripping down her chin. She was a woman, and visibly pregnant, nearly full-term by the look of her.
I tried to wake her, but she didn’t respond. Her pulse was faint. Luckily, I had just been issued a portable radio—until recently, we’d relied on call boxes for communication. The radio gave me direct access to headquarters.
I keyed the mic and said,
“I need an ambulance under the pavilion at the river’s edge entrance. I have an unconscious female subject who appears to have been huffing paint. She’s approximately nine months pregnant.”
Headquarters confirmed and dispatched an ambulance promptly. Once it arrived, I assisted the paramedics. The woman was transported to a local hospital and then transferred to a larger facility for specialized care.
While searching the area, I found someone nearby who had passed out by the riverbank. I managed to rouse him. He was a man, around 32 years old, clearly intoxicated and unsteady. I placed him under arrest for public intoxication.
As I helped him up to the road, he turned to me and asked quietly,
“Is she going to be okay? I told her not to do that–– but she wouldn’t listen. That’s my baby, you know? I hope she’s alright.”
“Yes,”
I said.
I said,
“I hope the baby is okay, too. I’ve arranged a ride and a safe place for you to sleep tonight.”
The transport unit pulled up. As he climbed in, he paused, looked at me, and said,
“I’m glad you found us. It has saved both of us. Thank you!”
I nodded and replied,
“You’re welcome, try to get some sleep.”
It was one of the few times someone going to jail thanked me for stepping into their life. There would be other moments like this, but not many involving an unborn child.
I later learned the mother’s actions had not affected the baby. She had been admitted for addiction treatment, and hopefully, she stayed through the delivery and beyond. I never saw her again. I often think of that night. I think of how close things came to ending differently. Sometimes, just showing up can change everything.
It was evening, and heavy traffic moved steadily along the narrow two-lane highway connecting small towns in the region. The road served as a lifeline, carrying motorists and buses through these quiet Oklahoma communities.
Law enforcement has fascinated me for as long as I can remember. My dad worked night shifts, patrolling the eastern region near the oil fields. In the summers, he served as a ranger at a nearby campsite. Winters drew him to different assignments, often more demanding and remote.
One of the state vehicles always remained parked at the ranger’s residence—our home—while my dad took the other on duty. That night felt like any other.
My bedroom was tucked into the back corner of the house. Even during winter, I often left the window cracked to let in the crisp night air. From there, I heard the distant hum of traffic about a mile to the south.
As I lay on my bed studying for a test the next day, a sound split the quiet—a crash. Loud. Tires screeched. Then came the unmistakable bang of an impact.
It wasn’t the first time I’d heard it. A stretch of highway nearby had a reputation for accidents. Without hesitation, I grabbed my flashlight, told my mom there’d been a wreck, and jumped into the ranger truck. I had just earned my driver’s license, and the weight of responsibility was fresh on my shoulders.
Once on the road, I grabbed the radio and called it into the local police.
“It sounds bad—there have to be at least two vehicles involved.”
The Chief of Police from the nearest town confirmed he was en route. I pushed down the gas pedal and sped toward the highway. I noticed no cars coming eastbound as I turned onto it—an ominous sign. About two miles west, I saw the wreck.
A Greyhound bus had collided with a pickup truck. Both vehicles were mangled, partially in the ditch and partially blocking the road. The bus’s windshield was gone, and passengers were scattered everywhere—some dazed, others crying out.
The bus driver was lying in a yard 100 feet away. He was still strapped into his seat. The seat had been ejected from the bus. A man lay next to him. Both were dead. The bus had come to rest on the pickup truck, crushing its cab.
Flames licked at the wreckage. There was no chance anyone inside the pickup had survived.
Before officers arrived, I radioed again:
“Get every ambulance in the county out here. This is bad.”
A bread truck delivery driver had just finished his route and stumbled upon the crash. Without hesitation, he unloaded his remaining bread onto the roadside. He began helping by filling his truck with victims to shuttle them to the hospital.
There had been thirty-two people on board. Survivors said a passenger had been drinking and became increasingly aggressive. The driver warned him to settle down, but the man charged ahead and grappled with the driver. That man now lay dead beside him in the yard.
The response was massive—five police agencies, three fire departments, and four ambulance services. That same night, a basketball tournament had drawn spectators to a nearby town. Many who had been on their way became unexpected witnesses to a horrific scene.
Inside the crushed pickup were two passengers—the aunt and uncle of a local fire chief. The tragedy hit close to home.
Years later, as a police officer, I would respond to countless serious accidents. But none would ever match that cold winter night’s scale. None equaled its raw emotion. It was the first crash I saw with my own eyes.
Steve Mahan was a laid-back guy — the sleepy type. He rarely overreacted, and getting him excited about anything was hard. One day, Sgt. Mahan responded to a bomb threat at a local school. When he found the suspicious device, he calmly picked it up. He put it in the trunk of his patrol car. Then he drove it back to the police station.
He carried it inside without much fuss and placed it on the booking counter.
I had never seen the top brass lose it all at the same time. The Chief, the Major, and the Captain were all upset at once. They cussed and yelled in perfect unison, ordering Mahan to promptly take the device back outside. Then they called the fire department, which, ironically, was located right next door.
The fire department’s first response?
“Have him bring it over.”
The Chief shut that idea down on the spot.
If I remember right, Mahan took it to the shooting range. The three top brass joined him there with rifles in hand. They tried to get it to explode.
It turned out to be a dummy.
Thankfully, it was because I was working on the other side of that booking counter the whole time.
Sgt. Steven Mahan was killed in the line of duty on January 5, 1983. That night, his girlfriend was working at the police department. Another female dispatcher was also there. He drove upon an armed robbery in progress at a local hotel. Unbeknownst to him, he was moving into an ambush.
After handing over the cash, the hotel clerk ducked behind the counter and observed the unfolding scene. She promptly called the police, reporting that an officer had been shot in the head. She couldn’t recognize the unit number but noted the word “Supervisor” on the vehicle’s front panel.
Upon realizing it was him, Sgt. Mahan’s girlfriend became understandably distraught. The other dispatcher maintained composure under extreme pressure. She coordinated response units. She relayed critical information from the hotel clerk to surrounding agencies. The suspects were taken into custody within the hour thanks to swift action and coordination.
Sgt. Mahan had been overpowered and shot in the head with a .25 caliber pistol, then fatally shot again in the back of the head with his service weapon. The officers rushed him to the local hospital in the back of a patrol unit. Dense fog made air transport impossible. An ambulance was then dispatched for the nearly three-hour drive to the nearest trauma center. It traveled through whiteout conditions with visibility near zero.
I arrived at the station about an hour after the shooting. I was designated as the point of contact for media outlets. They were calling nonstop. I remained in contact with the ambulance, his girlfriend, and a fellow officer riding alongside Sgt. Mahan. The driver reported struggling to reach even 35 mph on the fog-covered interstate.
Killed In The Line Of Duty – Elk City, Oklahoma
Roughly thirty miles from the trauma hospital, I heard the ambulance driver radio for local police assistance. They needed help to reach the nearest hospital. The ambulance had to exit the highway. I knew what that meant. I called the Chief’s office. I delivered the news. We had just lost our first officer in the line of duty.
Official Summary –
Bobby Lynn Ross was convicted of the 1983 murder of Elk City Police Sgt. Steve Mahan, who was 30 years old at the time. Two co-defendants were also convicted of second-degree murder in connection with the case.
On January 5, 1983, Sgt. Mahan was conducting a routine check when he drove up to the Los Quartos Inn in Elk City, Oklahoma. Unbeknownst to him, an armed robbery was already in progress. Mahan interrupted the robbery, during which Bobby Lynn Ross had already threatened to kill the motel clerk.
Ross disarmed Sgt. Mahan and ordered him to lie on the ground. Although the officer complied, Ross shot him multiple times at close range with a .25-caliber pistol—then took Mahan’s service weapon and shot him again.
Ross was convicted of first-degree murder and robbery with firearms on October 21, 1983.
During a failed clemency hearing before the Oklahoma Pardon and Parole Board on November 19, Ross asked for forgiveness. He addressed Mahan’s family. He claimed he had changed. Sgt. Mahan’s daughter, who was only 18 months old when her father was killed, submitted a heartfelt letter to the board:
“I missed out on all the opportunities that most children had. My father was stolen from me before I even had a chance to know him. My father was doing his job, not out trying to disrupt people’s lives. All I ask for is justice to be served.”
That night, Elk City police detective Jim LaFarlette sped through the darkness. His dying colleague was in the back of a patrol car. A family lost a son. A child lost her father. A community lost a hero.
“We all under the badge were deprived of a brother,”
LaFarlette said of the murder of Elk City police Sgt. Steven Mahan on Jan. 5, 1983. Ross was put to death by lethal injection on December 9th, 1999. Ross had lived 11 years longer than Mahan was allowed.
It was the day of Bobby Lynn Ross’s execution. I called Elk City Police Chief Bill Putman to confirm that the execution was moving ahead. He assured me that it was. He informed me that he and Officer Jim LaFarlette would attend to witness it themselves. Indeed, they did.
