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
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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.
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.
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.
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.
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 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?
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.
It was a typical summer night in western Oklahoma, and Officer Ben Groff enjoyed a rare night off. He planned to eat at a restaurant on the city’s west side. He drove there in his newly purchased 1985 Dodge Ram. Gaming gold and black under the streetlights, the pickup was his pride and joy. As he cruised along old Route 66, he rolled down the window to enjoy the cool evening breeze.
At an intersection, a red Jeep pulled up beside him. Its driver, a man about Groff’s age, turned down his radio and hollered over the traffic.
“I like your truck; that is slick, man!“
Groff grinned.
“Thanks! Your Jeep’s pretty nice too!”
The man motioned toward the Sonic drive-in up ahead.
“Pull over. Let’s talk!”
Curious and lacking close friends outside the police department, Groff agreed. They parked at Sonic, grabbed burgers, and swapped stories about their vehicles and work. The man introduced himself as Lenny and said he had a knack for making fast friends. Groff, still, couldn’t ignore the possibility that this chance meeting lead to more than small talk. Lenny’s interest in trucks worried Groff. His easy charm also raised Groff’s suspicion.
That night, over beers at Groff’s house, a tentative friendship began to form. But Groff had a strategy. He suspected Lenny was his way into a group linked to a string of thefts plaguing the city. The Chief of Police gave a cautious blessing. Groff embedded himself in this new circle of acquaintances. He balanced camaraderie with the thin line of professional detachment.
Walking the Tightrope
The deeper Groff immersed himself, the more skeptical his fellow officers became. Some resented his approach, accusing him of consorting with known criminals. Others were envious of how the community responded positively to Groff’s efforts. For Groff, the criticism was a necessary price. He knew abandoning the operation would make months of effort meaningless.
By late November 1985, Groff’s relentless work—juggling undercover meetings, regular patrol shifts, and state-mandated training—was starting to pay off. A critical breakthrough came unexpectedly when one of Lenny’s associates sold Groff a set of truck railings. The thrill of the chase was palpable as Groff made the buy and then cross-referenced recent police reports. Sure enough, a burglary at Bill’s Auto listed truck railings among the stolen items.
It was the break he’d been waiting for.
Closing the Net
The next day, Groff burst into the Chief’s office, his excitement barely contained.
“I’ve got them, Chief! One of them sold me stolen property. If I press him, I can flip him and take down the whole operation!”
The Chief, weary but intrigued, leaned ahead.
“Are you serious? You’re sure this will work?”
Groff nodded.
“I’m sure. But I need to move fast before they catch wind of it.”
“Not alone,”
the Chief said firmly.
“We’ll grab a detective. Let’s do this right.”
The weight of responsibility was heavy on Groff’s shoulders. He agreed but insisted on leading the first confrontation alone. He wanted to avoid spooking the suspect. The Chief and the detective parked discreetly down the street as Groff pulled into the suspect’s driveway.
Groff agreed but insisted on leading the first confrontation alone to avoid spooking the suspect. The Chief and the detective parked discreetly down the street as Groff pulled into the suspect’s driveway.
The suspect, Joey, took his time answering the door. His surprise was clear when he saw Groff in uniform.
“Joey,”
Groff began, his voice steely,
“I know everything—the railings, the bumpers, all of it. This is your one shot to come clean before this place gets torn apart. Don’t blow it.”
Joey’s defiance crumbled.
“How’d you find out?”
he stammered.
Groff played it cool.
“You sold me stolen property. It wasn’t hard to figure out.”
Joey hesitated, then blurted,
“There’s more—way more.”
The Haul
Inside Joey’s attic, Groff and the suspect found a treasure trove of stolen goods. They discovered jewelry, electronics, vehicle accessories, and a firearm. Over $40,000 in items were recovered from Joey’s residence alone. Joey’s confession led to six extra arrests, dismantling a theft ring that had operated for three years.
But the investigation didn’t end there. Interviews with the subjects hinted at more profound corruption, implicating former high-ranking officers in a grocery robbery scheme. Groff pressed for a deeper probe, but political resistance and departmental politics hampered his efforts.
Despite these setbacks, Groff’s work earned him a reputation as a relentless investigator. He was willing to make personal sacrifices to serve justice. The satisfaction of justice served was palpable. Groff’s relentless pursuit of the truth led to the dismantling of a major theft ring. That summer night on Route 66 started a chain of events. It led to one of the most significant cases of his career.
Officer Ben Groff had just started his shift at the Elk City Police Department when the call came through dispatch:
“Units should be advised of a report of a stolen vehicle spotted heading north on Main Street. It collided with several vehicles in front of the theater and continued. The suspect is a white Dodge Charger. All units respond.”
Ben’s patrol car roared to life as he drove through Third and Madison Avenue to intercept the vehicle on Main Street. Ben hit the lights and siren, merging into the city’s bustling evening traffic. Main Street was alive with its usual commotion—families grabbing dinner, teens cruising, and trucks rumbling through on their way to the interstate. The Charger weaved recklessly through it all, its driver seemingly unfazed by the chaos.
Ben’s adrenaline surged as he radioed in.
“Unit 3 in pursuit. The suspect vehicle appears to be trying to head towards Washington Street through alleyways.”
As the stolen vehicle blew past a red light, narrowly missing a minivan, Ben deftly maneuvered around other cars, keeping his pursuit controlled but relentless. He’d chased suspects before, but this one felt different—the driver was audacious and desperate, taking wild risks that jeopardized everyone on the road. The danger was palpable, the stakes high, and the adrenaline was pumping.
When the Charger made a sharp turn onto a quieter side street, Ben followed, his tires screeching on the asphalt. For a moment, the streetlights flickered off the Charger’s rear window, and Ben caught a glimpse of the driver—a young woman, her face twisted with determination.
Finally, the suspect tried to cut through an alley too narrow for her car’s speed. The Charger clipped a dumpster and spun out, slamming into a utility pole. Smoke billowed from the crumpled hood.
Ben skidded to a stop, jumping out with his weapon drawn.
“Show me your hands! Out of the car, now!”
The woman hesitated before stepping out, her hands trembling but raised. She was strikingly familiar—Lisa Rhodes, the girlfriend of the auto magnate and social media influencer John DeLorean. The revelation sent a shockwave through the scene, a twist in the narrative that no one, not even Ben, saw coming.
“You’ve got to be kidding me,”
Ben muttered under his breath.
Lisa tried to talk her way – out of it, her voice honeyed but shaky.
“Officer, I didn’t steal this car. It’s one I borrowed. A man, let me borrow it—this is just a misunderstanding!”
Ben wasn’t buying it. As he cuffed her, he noticed her purse on the passenger seat. When he peeked inside, his suspicions were confirmed—a substantial stash of drugs, including pills and small baggies of powder.
Backup arrived moments later, securing the scene. Lila’s protests grew louder as the reality of her arrest sank in.
“You don’t know who you’re messing with! John will have his attorneys save me and get your badge for this!”
Ben smirked as he read her rights.
“Maybe he will, but not before I make sure you face the consequences of tonight’s little joyride.”
Ben’s determination was unwavering, and his commitment to upholding the law was resolute, making it clear that justice would prevail.
Back at the station, the news spread like wildfire. Lila Rhodes, the woman frequently seen on John DeLorean’s arm at high-profile events, was booked for possession and vehicle theft. Reporters swarmed the station, eager for a statement. As she promised, high-profile attorneys showed up the following day to post bail and escort her back to California.
Later, as Ben completed his report, his sergeant clapped him on the shoulder.
“Hell of a job tonight, Ben. You nabbed someone who thought she was untouchable.”
Ben nodded, exhausted but satisfied. In Elk City, justice didn’t care about status or connections—it only cared about the law. This matter would become evident as Ben brought in well-known individuals on burglary, auto theft, and other felony charges. That is a story coming soon.
NOTE: Some names, locations, and information are changed or edited to contain alternate identifications for privacy reasons.
After completing my training, I got assigned to a two-person unit for part of my shift. Unfortunately, this arrangement led to the exposure of my partner’s extramarital affair with a young woman who worked at a nightclub on the city’s east side. His behavior was hard to ignore. Night after night, he would leave the patrol unit to spend hours inside the club, leaving me alone to monitor radio calls. Each absence grew longer and my frustration deeper.
The city grappled with a surge in burglaries targeting vehicles, garages, homes, and businesses. As crime reports piled up, the department needed to be closer to solving the problem. Sitting in the patrol car logging incidents while my partner dallied at the bar weighed heavily on me. Worse, my delayed response times to calls had begun to draw attention, placing me in a difficult position.
Addressing the issue felt like navigating a minefield. On one hand, I had a duty to uphold the integrity of our patrol duties. On the other, reporting my concerns to a sergeant or lieutenant risked exposing my partner’s personal life, which I preferred to avoid. Going over their heads to the Captain or Major felt equally precarious. However, during my travels to pistol shooting competitions, I established a good rapport with the Chief of Police. I decided to take a chance.
One afternoon, I invited the Chief for coffee to discuss an upcoming qualification event. Once seated, I confessed my more profound concerns. I told him about my partner’s absences, the nightclub, and the woman I suspected was involved. I explained why I had yet to go through the chain of command and emphasized that my primary concern was the integrity of our patrol duties. To my relief, the Chief not only understood but also reassured me that I had made the right choice. His promise to handle the situation discreetly was a weight off my shoulders.
A week later, the schedule was released, and to my disappointment, I again got paired with the same partner. The pattern continued, with him vanishing into the nightclub and leaving me to manage radio calls alone. Frustration mounted, but I stayed focused on my responsibilities. At the following briefing, Lieutenant Wheeler announced a significant change: I would get assigned to a solo unit. My former partner, now in a solo unit, would no longer work with me. Other patrol officers, except the K9 unit, were paired up. The decision felt like a small but meaningful vindication, a recognition of my commitment to upholding the integrity of our patrol duties.
Working solo was a challenge. Within my first three days, I responded to two fatal calls—more than many officers encounter in a month. However, I was not alone. I appreciated the support of my fellow officers, who often checked in during traffic stops or guided me through the intricacies of field reporting. Their support was a testament to the camaraderie in law enforcement and the importance of teamwork.
One night, around 1:00 AM, I intercepted a burglary alarm call at a sporting goods store. I was close to the location and informed dispatch I would respond. Oddly, my former partner claimed the call, though he was across town. Dispatch redirected him to return to headquarters instead. I only thought of it once I reached the station later.
The pieces fell into place. The Chief observed my partner’s behavior, noting how long his patrol unit lingered at the nightclub each night. The Chief orchestrated a fake alarm call to confirm his suspicions and monitored my partner’s response time. This thorough investigation led to the end of my partner’s career; he resigned the following day.
The aftermath was messy. My former partner left town with the barmaid and her four children, abandoning his wife of many years. She was devastated and began calling the department, requesting me by name to visit her. I got met with her anguish and accusations each time: “Why didn’t you tell me?” At just 21 years old, I struggled to understand why she held me responsible for policing her husband’s fidelity.
While I tried to console her, the experience left a deep impression. It wasn’t just a lesson about personal integrity and the far-reaching consequences of a lack of it. From then on, I made it a point to know my partners better, ensuring they had solid personal ethics or no attachments that could spill into their professional lives.
This early chapter of my career shaped my approach to law enforcement. It reminded me that while we wear a badge to uphold the law, we also carry the weight of trust—not just from the public but from those who depend on us, on and off duty. The importance of personal integrity in law enforcement cannot be overstated. It is not just about following the rules, but about the impact of our actions on the lives of others.
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.
As I prepared for work, the memory of Officer Steve Mahan lingered heavily in my thoughts. He had been shot and killed on January 5th, 1983—a day etched in tragedy. That morning, a dense, unrelenting fog blanketed the world as if nature itself mourned the impending loss. I recalled how the rescue helicopter, grounded by the impenetrable fog, couldn’t transport him to a larger hospital equipped to treat his severe head trauma. Desperate, the doctors had no choice but to send him by ambulance over 100 miles away.
The ambulance crawled through the soupy mist, often unable to exceed 30 miles per hour. Time was slipping away, and the slow, arduous journey became a race against death. Despite their best efforts, he passed en route, his life extinguished before the fog could lift.
That day haunted me. As I pulled on my uniform, I reminded myself that tonight, I would be assigned to the very unit he had been using on the night he was executed. A weight settled on my shoulders—not fear but a solemn understanding of the risks we all faced. Yet, I felt a measure of reassurance knowing that Lt. Wheeler would be by my side, his steady guidance serving as both a compass and a shield against the uncertainty of the streets.
On my first day of patrol, the challenges of the job revealed themselves immediately, with a fatality marking my inaugural call. It was a sobering introduction to the weight of my duty. My Lieutenant, a seasoned mentor, shared his wisdom throughout the shift as we navigated the Oklahoma Statutes, Title 21. He precisely explained how every crime must meet specific legal criteria before being classified as such and emphasized the foundational principle that every suspect is presumed innocent until proven guilty. That early understanding of the law, I realized, was not just knowledge—it was a tool for justice and fairness, critical to our line of work.
The second day began differently. I was well-rested but curious about what this shift could bring. What could top the tragic death of the older woman the day before? The night unfolded quietly at first. My Lieutenant and I were patrolling the city’s southern section, with him now shifting the conversation to Title 47 of the Oklahoma Statutes, covering traffic laws and their nuances.
Then, without warning, the calm was shattered. The Lieutenant slammed our unit’s transmission into park and leapt out, his movements fluid and precise. Before I could react, he bolted to my side of the vehicle and tackled a man gripping his wife by the hair on the sidewalk. It had all happened instantly—I hadn’t even registered the altercation out of the corner of my eye. When I opened my door, Lieutenant Wheeler was already cuffing the suspect with practiced efficiency.
I stood momentarily frozen, feeling like I had failed to pull my weight. The Lieutenant’s decisive action was a masterclass in vigilance, and I resolved to sharpen my instincts.
After ensuring the woman was safe and gathering her statement, we booked the man into jail on charges of public intoxication, disorderly conduct, and assault and battery. The routine of patrol resumed, but the night had already taken on a different tone. During this lull, Lieutenant Wheeler imparted what I’ve come to regard as the most crucial lesson of my career.
“When you fight for your life, anything is fair,”
He said with a gravity that lingered in the air.
“Out there, there are no rules.”
He also stressed the importance of situational awareness and knowing the city like the back of my hand. While my previous experience in communications had given me a solid understanding of the city from a dispatcher’s perspective, patrolling the streets was entirely different.
He taught me to read the moving pieces of the urban puzzle—to develop a comprehensive view that encompassed the road ahead and the vast expanses on either side. Under his guidance, my observational skills sharpened, leading to accomplishments such as preventing a potential robbery and aiding in a successful arrest, which I could later be proud of.
It felt like I’d absorbed a semester’s criminal justice training in just two nights. But nothing could have prepared me for what was to come on the third night. Neither of us could have anticipated the events that would unfold, including a high-speed escort and a tense high profile traffic stop and truthfully, neither of us would have chosen to.
What happened next would change everything. Yet, in the end, it would pass unnoticed by the world—a fleeting moment in the grand scheme of our duty. This moment, however, was a stark reminder of the unpredictable nature of our work and the need for constant vigilance and resilience. That is the story which unfolded for day three.
Time seemed to drag, yet it flew by in anticipation of the Chief’s order transferring me from Communications to Patrol. For years, I had taken complaints from the desk, booked prisoners, and processed bail. The routine had become second nature. The prospect of patrolling the streets promised a sense of freedom and a refreshing change of pace.
During my first month in Patrol, I was paired with Lieutenant Wheeler to acclimate to the policies and procedures specific to the division. Although I was already well-versed in most aspects of law enforcement, having spent significant time in the field, I understood the necessity of these transitional steps.
On October 25th, I reported for duty as usual, albeit in a different capacity. Lieutenant Wheeler adopted a methodical approach to the training, ensuring it was as instructive as possible. I kept an open mind, ready to absorb whatever new insights might come my way.
The shift started without delay. As we pulled out of the department gates, our first call came in from dispatch:
“Unit 5, respond to 305 East 1st Street. Signal 30 reported. Ambulance en route.”
Signal 30—a fatality. It was unusual for such a code to be broadcast if paramedics had not yet arrived. The ambiguity piqued our curiosity as we headed to the scene.
The address led us to an older neighborhood in the city’s central section. Upon arrival, we entered a modest single-family home and were met by a home healthcare worker. She explained, visibly shaken, that she had been sitting at the kitchen table with the 94-year-old female resident when the woman began choking on a prune. Despite her efforts to dislodge the obstruction, the victim had succumbed before she could call 911. The paramedics, now on-site, confirmed the death.
I radioed headquarters to notify the medical examiner (ME), who lived nearby and arrived within five minutes to officially pronounce the woman deceased.
Amid the formalities, the victim’s son, a doctor, arrived at the scene. Breaking the news to him was a somber task. I informed him that his mother had choked on a prune during dinner and that, despite all efforts, she had passed away. He asked to see her, and I assured him he could once the ME completed his assessment. The son was visibly displeased with the presence of the ME, which I understood; the clinical nature of such evaluations can be distressing, particularly for grieving family members.
Meanwhile, Lieutenant Wheeler assigned me an unexpected task. Puffing on his pipe, he directed me to document the incident as though it were a homicide investigation.
“For practice,” he said, “for when we have the real thing.”
So, I meticulously diagrammed the house, including the kitchen and living room, and wrote a detailed report as instructed. It was a somber start to my Patrol assignment—a reminder that, in this line of work, even the routine can take on unexpected gravity.
In a gleaming, state-of-the-art facility, I yearned for the old station. The building at 303 West Fifth Street had something the new place lacked—character. It bore the marks of its long history, each crack and stain a testament to its battles and stories. By contrast, the new facility felt overly polished, almost ostentatious. Yet, I couldn’t deny its benefits. It offered the community better services and restored a sense of dignity lost after years of wear, neglect, and the relentless battering of Oklahoma’s weather.
The new station brought more than aesthetics; it symbolized the department’s renewed professionalism. After years of enduring lousy press and negative public perception, the facility served as a much-needed fresh start. The change was palpable. Officers began taking pride in their appearance—shining their brass, maintaining their units meticulously, and improving their health. Fast food runs gave way to salads and healthier choices. Quarterly fitness tests became mandatory, along with regular firearm qualifications.
Meanwhile, I was immersed in building the station’s new crime information center, logging details that painted a clearer picture of the city’s criminal landscape. Patterns emerged from seemingly unrelated incidents. Though not enough to secure warrants, the connections hinted at the methods and motives behind a string of burglaries. It was like assembling a jigsaw puzzle, piece by piece.
My role included ride-a-longs with patrol officers to understand their work firsthand. Having served both in dispatch and on patrol in previous departments, I could see both sides. During these rides, I shared my theories about the crimes, but my ideas were often met with skepticism. The officers humored me, though politely dismissive, and I couldn’t help but feel a pang of frustration. There had to be another way to make them see what I was uncovering.
Amid this, my focus shifted when the Chief of Police gave me unexpected news: I was to start competing in pistol-shooting matches across western Oklahoma. The announcement caught me off guard. As a Communications Officer, I only carried a sidearm if assigned to special events like parades or rodeos. Nonetheless, I attended the matches, often pitted against seasoned professionals. My performance, however, left much to be desired. It wasn’t until years later that I discovered the real issue—I was nearsighted. Once I got glasses, both my shooting and driving skills improved significantly.
The Chief’s directive had a purpose. On October 1, 1984, I received official notice of my transfer from Communications to the Patrol Division, effective October 25. My new assignment under Lieutenant Wheeler marked the beginning of a new chapter.
In my final weeks in Communications, I worked tirelessly to ensure a seamless transition for my replacement. I completed data entries and left the crime database in pristine order. The move to patrol was a dramatic shift that would challenge me in ways I couldn’t yet imagine—but also shape my career in profound and unexpected ways.
Presented by benandsteve.com By: Benjamin Groff II
The days felt strange for those of us who worked nights. As the darkness stretched on, one night blending into the next, daylight seemed more a memory than reality. Law enforcement is more than just a job; it’s a close-knit community, a world. There’s a deep-rooted fellowship among officers and an unbreakable chain of command that’s everything. Yet, that structure was sometimes a challenge for me to accept.
In a large family—four older brothers, two older sisters, a strict father, and a devoted mother—order was part of life. In a rural setting, the school was the only place outside the home where I experienced a different structure. Dad was the highest authority in our household, followed by Mom, then the eldest sibling present, down to the youngest. Dad’s words held firm even in his absence; his authority was an invisible force that needed no reinforcement.
Adjusting to the chain of command in law enforcement took me time, especially after starting in small departments with more relaxed structures. But at Elk City Police Department, things were different. There was a formal hierarchy: chief, assistant chief, major, captain, lieutenant, sergeant, patrolman, and communications officer. Here, I quickly learned that approaching the chief directly with questions or concerns was a breach of protocol, often met with a firm reminder to follow the ranks.
Simple tasks became lessons in patience. Whether I needed a lightbulb replaced or advice on a report, the chain of command required me to go through several levels before reaching a solution; I would have to wait days to get a minor answer. Frustrated, I eventually bit my lip and followed the structure, even if I didn’t like it. My captain called me out over the most minor lapses, like failing to change a burnt lightbulb on time, and I’d swallow my frustration, understanding that order was paramount.
As the community passed a tax to fund a new police station, we began to outgrow the quirks of our aging headquarters at 303 West Fifth Street. The old building, despite its shortcomings, was more than just a structure. It was a part of us, a place where we shared stories, laughed, and supported each other. Built in the 1930s, it had weathered time and neglect. Prisoners on the second floor could flood toilets, causing wastewater to seep into the dispatch and booking area below. But it was our home, filled with memories and camaraderie.
The new station was completed in 1984. Moving was bittersweet, not just for the community, who’d grown used to stopping by the old station for a friendly chat, but for us, too. The new facility was a symbol of progress, outfitted with state-of-the-art security, bulletproof glass, and advanced communication systems. The dispatch had better lighting, new mirrors, and high-tech computers; the National Law Enforcement Telecommunications System and National Crime Information Center computers were side-by-side. Every call was recorded and could be retrieved at any moment.
The jail had electronically controlled gates, holding cells, a kitchen, and a secure emergency exit. Security cameras covered the entire facility, displaying activity on monitors in the booking area. There were dedicated offices for records, evidence, detectives, and the command staff. In every way, it was an upgrade.
On the day of the move, I was instructed by ‘Captain Bick’ to stay home and prepare for the night shift. Despite my eagerness to be part of the transition, I respected his orders. Later that evening, I found myself driving to the old station out of habit. As I parked and entered, I was struck by the emptiness of the dispatch office. This was where I had sent officers out, received urgent calls, and coordinated responses. Now, it was a mere shell of its former self. Assistant Fire Chief Bob, who was also present, chuckled, ‘You’re at the wrong place—no cops here anymore!’
I smiled, feeling a wave of nostalgia, and pointed to the old wall that separated our side from the fire department. ‘Did you know President Carter’s original ‘Beast’ limousine was parked right on the other side of that wall one night? All the fire trucks were cleared out, and our officers watched to ensure no one touched it.’
Bob laughed, “Yeah, I remember that night. I was here too.”
It was hard to let go of stories like that—stories that had lifted people’s spirits and given them a break from their own troubles. With a sigh, I left the old building, heading to the new station, marveling at the thought of a facility so high-tech that even the door lock had a security code… which someone had promptly taped over because officers kept forgetting it.
After settling in, I was tasked with a significant assignment: entering city burglary data into the new computer system. I approached this task with the same dedication I gave every task, and it quickly provided me with valuable insights into the patterns of theft in the city. Over the next two years, this groundwork would prove instrumental in helping us dismantle a significant theft ring. But that’s a story for another time—this one is about the journey to a new place and the adjustments, big and small, that shaped us along the way.
It had been a long year. On January 5th, 1983, we lost an officer in the line of duty. That spring, three officers were arrested for stealing from a business they’d responded to on an alarm call. By summer, automobile burglaries and thefts were on the rise. The suspects were careful, leaving no evidence. Their modus operandi was smooth and untraceable—no one ever heard, saw, or interrupted these thieves. Most stolen items ranged in value from around $200, making each theft a felony under Oklahoma law.
The city was facing yet another wave of crime. Typically, it had about 10,000 residents, but the recent oil boom brought an influx, swelling the population to around 25,000. The sudden increase in population put a strain on the city’s resources, leading to a rise in crime. Jobs attracted people from all over, but housing needed to catch up. Tent cities sprang up in the southern sector, and parks filled with tents when vacant lots overflowed. Expecting thousands of oil jobs, many newcomers broke and scraped by.
Among the job seekers were newly released inmates from Cook County Detention in Chicago. Judges offered a stark choice: a one-way bus ticket to Elk City, Oklahoma, or a lengthy jail sentence. Most took the bus ticket. Upon arrival, they had to call the detention center from Elk City’s bus depot to check-in. Ducks in the city park began disappearing as desperate people scavenged for food. In response, the city council enacted a law prohibiting the molestation of ducks, with fines and jail time for violations. Signs reading “DO NOT MOLEST THE DUCKS” popped up, adding a hint of levity to an otherwise grim situation.
But ducks were far from the town’s biggest problem. It wasn’t the bars, the transient hotels renting beds by the shift, or even the “ladies of the night.” The real threat seemed to be the string of broad daylight robberies plaguing the community’s three leading grocery stores, and each hit at least once. One robbery even happened just a block from the police station, with the suspects abandoning their getaway vehicle behind the station in a post office lot.
The police department’s image was suffering. Officers worked 12-hour shifts, often doubling up due to the flood of calls, sometimes stacked five to ten deep. I reported at 5 p.m. for a 6 p.m. start to my 12-hour shift one day, noticing a huddle of high-ranking officers and county deputies outside an office. Figuring I’d get briefed later, I didn’t poke around—I had enough court subpoenas already without getting involved in another incident. And this was one situation I was glad to avoid.
“You have got to be kidding me,”
When my Captain came over, he told me they’d just brought in an officer for raping his daughter. This shocking revelation not only shamed the individual officer’s reputation but cast a shadow on the entire department; as police officers failed, the public’s trust in law enforcement was further eroded.
“You have got to be kidding me,” was all I could say.
This scandal was nearly the final blow for our department, already reeling from the recent departure of a chief struggling with personal issues. Within hours, newspapers and television stations caught wind of the arrest, and the phone lines lit up. Callers unleashed waves of abuse, condemning every officer affiliated with the department. The calls went on for days, creating a hostile environment for all officers and making their jobs even more difficult.
The officers arrested earlier in the year were convicted, further damaging the department’s reputation.
Amid this turmoil, my law enforcement career truly began. Although I had worked in various positions and departments, it was in this community that I found my calling. This city is where I started my adult life and career earnestly. I remained loyal to this place, forming memories with people in the booking area, the jail, and the streets. A shift in the workforce followed, which opened doors for me—an unexpected opportunity in a turbulent time. Could it get any worse? The heat was about to get turned up. In coming stories!
(You’ve been reading the back story for the big news over the next forty years involving several lives and lifetimes.)
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.
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