highway patrol

Cyclops in the Freezer: A Police Investigation Unfolds

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

4–6 minutes

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


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

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

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

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

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

“Calm down, boys,”

Sgt. Mavis said, shaking his head.

“You watch too many TV shows.”

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

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

“Uh, something about strange occurrences,”

Fife answered, regaining his composure.

“And screaming.”


Mavis raised an eyebrow.

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

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

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


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

Cain glanced around, feeling a chill prickle his skin.

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


The older woman chuckled softly.

“Oh, I suppose you mean the screaming?”

Fife shifted uneasily.

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

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

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

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

Cain frowned.

“Your late husband?”

“Yes, yes,”

She said, waving a frail hand.

“Come with me. I’ll show you.”

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

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

The older woman gave a thin smile.

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

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

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

Cain recoiled.

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

“Jesus H. Christ!”

He exclaimed, his voice trembling with disbelief.

Fife staggered back, radioing for backup.

The older woman let out a sigh.

“Oh dear. I’ll have to explain.”

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

“What the hell’s going on?”

Mavis demanded.

Fife pointed at the freezer, his face pale.

“There’s a goddamn cyclops in there.”

Hinkle blinked.

“A what?”

Cain barely found his voice.

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

Mavis exhaled sharply and turned to the older woman.

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

She folded her hands.

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

Cain felt his blood run cold.

“And what exactly did you have to do?”

She looked at him with a knowing smile.

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

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

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

And it wasn’t human.

“What was that?

Sgt. Davis yelled.

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

She said,

Sargent Davis asked 

“What is up with Barry?”

“He keeps falling out of his crib.”

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

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

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

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

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

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Groff Media 2024© Truth Endures IMDbPro

Presented by benandsteve.com By: Benjamin Groff II©

3–5 minutes

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Groff, over here!” 

Wheeler shouted, pointing toward the pickup.

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

“She shot him, Ben,” 

Wheeler said grimly. 

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

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

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

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

Wheeler explained. 

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

“He said we were both going to die!”

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

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

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

“He said we were both going to die!”

She whispered, her voice quaking. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Another senseless tragedy,” 

Wheeler said.

“Yeah,”

Groff replied, the day’s weight pressing down. 

“But at least she survived.”

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

The Third Night. “That’s The SOB!”

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Groff Media 2024© Truth Endures IMDbPro

Presented by benandsteve.com By: Benjamin Groff II©

3–5 minutes

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

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

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

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

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

“That’s the son of a bitch!”

I yelled, heart pounding.

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

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

Then it happened.

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

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

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

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

“Knock it off!” I barked.

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

The gravity of the situation hit like a gut punch.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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Presented by benandsteve.com By: Benjamin Groff II©

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

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

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

“Please help—we have an EMERGENCY!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

that Man Is Dead! a small victory in the shadow of a dark night

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A Story By: Benjamin Groff© Groff Media 2024© Groff Media

It was a windy afternoon, and the Kid decided to get some practice in at the shooting range before his night shift began at 8:00 PM. He had picked up a couple of bags of reloaded .38s for his .357 Magnum and figured he could get through them if he hurried. The range was just beyond the gates at the end of the city trailer park, where he and other police officers lived as a perk of working for the city.

As he drove down the lane towards the range, he noticed a small plane taking off to the north from the nearby municipal airport. He parked his car at the furthest shooting post, grabbed a paper target from the back seat, and stapled it to a board in the turnstile. Returning to the ten-yard line, he swapped out his duty loads for the reloads and closed the cylinder. Using the post for support, he lined up his shot but paused, holstering his gun instead.

He needed to practice reloading without looking, a crucial skill in a high-stress situation. He loaded his belt’s bullet loops, checked his watch, and started when the second hand hit twelve. Six shots, unload, reload, six more shots. But when he looked down, twenty seconds had passed, and he was off-target.

“Shit. Double shit!”

he yelled, frustration bubbling over.

Just then, two marked patrol units and the Chief’s car pulled up behind the range. The Kid knew that when others arrived, he had to stop shooting. Were they there to mock his poor shooting? No, they wanted to practice too. Who was going to run the tower? One of the officers asked, and the Chief responded, 

“I’ve got it covered!”

The Kid muttered to himself, annoyed. This evening was supposed to be his time. Now, everyone would see how bad his eyesight had gotten. The officers set up new targets and returned to the ten-yard line.

The Chief’s voice cracked through the speaker: 

“We’re shooting six, reloading six, shooting six, reloading six, shooting six, and reloading six. Then, leave your cylinder open. Ready on the Right, Ready on The Left, Ready on The Firing Line—fire!”

The range erupted in gunfire, reminiscent of Melvin Purvis taking down Pretty Boy Floyd in the cornfield. The Kid managed to get through his first loop, fire again, reload, and leave his cylinder open just as the others finished. They moved forward to check their targets.

“Now, gentlemen,” 

The Chief announced, 

“we will shoot from the hip, reload, and holster.”

“Ready on the left, ready on the right, ready on the firing line. Fire!”

Six shots rang out almost in unison, like something out of Gunsmoke. The officers reloaded and holstered their weapons.

Then the Chief called out, 

“Lanes four and five, you’re marked for looking while loading your ammo.”

The officers on lanes four and five protested, 

“Chief, you’re killing us!”

The Chief looking at the officers ––

“No, officers,”

the Chief replied with a sly grin, 

“I’m keeping you alive.”

As the banter continued, a call came over the car radio, 

“Headquarters to all available units. Unit 203 requests backup at SIR-DIXIE QUICK-STOP on a 10-48. Three subjects in a vehicle.”

A 10-48 indicated a National Crime Information Center Want or Warrant on the vehicle or its occupants. The practice ended abruptly as everyone rushed to their cars, eager to respond.

Knowing the city’s streets like the back of his hand, the Kid took a shortcut through alleys and arrived at the Quick Stop within minutes. By the time the other officers arrived, the Kid and the officer on the scene had all three suspects handcuffed and in the patrol unit.

It turned out the first suspect, identified as Ed, was wanted in Texas for nearly beating a State Trooper to death and tying him to a barbed-wire fence. The second suspect, Poncho, had a Tucumcari, New Mexico, address and was wanted for questioning in a murder. The third, known only as Thistle, was simply drunk and likely would have been killed by the other two had he not been arrested. All three got booked on public intoxication charges, with more serious charges pending confirmation from the respective states.

The Kid had been on desk duty after surgery a month earlier, so despite his initial involvement, he got relegated to working the radio and tending to the jail for the rest of the night. The shift was uneventful, with only the usual disturbance and prowler calls.

The Kid had a routine of checking the jail cells at irregular intervals—never on the hour, always keeping the prisoners guessing. At 2:15 AM, he made an unscheduled check. He opened the drunk tank window and saw the three occupants spaced apart: Poncho on the south wall, Ed against the west cell bars, and Thistle on the north side. Above Ed, a shirt was tied to the bars, seemingly his.

The Kid’s first thought was that the shirt might be bait to lure him in. But as he examined the scene, it appeared all three men were sleeping. He returned to the radio office and called his Lieutenant, explaining the situation. They got back to the cell together, and the Lieutenant instructed the Kid to untie the shirt. As the Kid began to do so, the Lieutenant bumped him and whispered,

“That man is dead. Put the shirt back.”

The Kid complied, leaving the shirt as he had found it. They moved the two living prisoners to separate cells and locked the tank holding Ed. The Kid, the only one with the key, went downstairs to call detectives, the Chief, and an ambulance.

The fire department, located across the hallway, had already been roused by the commotion. The assistant fire chief speculated that the incident might have been a failed sexual exploitation attempt that ended in death. When the ambulance arrived, the task of bringing a dead body down the stairs was both problematic and unsettling.

Within twenty-four hours, the Oklahoma Bureau of Investigation (OSBI) arrived, and obscene, harassing, and threatening phone calls began pouring into the station. After a thorough investigation by the OSBI, local sheriff’s department, and media scrutiny, the exact cause of Ed’s death remained a mystery.

Some speculated that one of the other prisoners had helped Ed end his life, while others thought he might have done it himself, with the knot slipping loose. In the end, the Kid learned a hard lesson: sometimes, even a villain meets a dead end.

But there was a silver lining. In the aftermath, the Kid finally mastered the skill he had been struggling with—reloading his revolver from his loops without looking—a small victory in the shadow of a dark night.