Solved Murders - True Crime Stories - Night Shift Confessions A Police Officer’s Harrowing Encounters and Life-Altering Choices PART1 #26

Episode Date: October 31, 2025

#horrorstories #reddithorrorstories #ScaryStories #creepypasta #horrortales #nightshift #policestories #truecrime #paranormalencounters #darktales  “Night Shift Confessions: A Police Officer’s Harrowing Encounters and Life-Altering Choices PART 1” dives into chilling and unforgettable experiences faced by a police officer during late-night shifts. From eerie encounters and disturbing cases to moments that test morality and courage, this story unveils the haunting reality of those who protect and serve in the most terrifying hours.  horrorstories, reddithorrorstories, scarystories, horrorstory, creepypasta, horrortales, nightshift, policeofficer, lawenforcement, truestories, chillingconfessions, darkencounters, hauntednights, thrillerstories, realhorrors, crimeandmystery, eerieexperiences, paranormalstories, nightwatch, fearfiles

I'm going to tell this story the way it happened, but before I dive in, I need to make one thing clear, I'm not putting my real name on this. I submitted it under a pseudonym because parts of this investigation are still ongoing. People who are really curious can look up the case, verify the events, connect the dots themselves, and probably figure out the players involved. But me? I need plausible deniability. I need that thin little barrier that says, hey, maybe this is. isn't him talking. Because I still wear the badge and sharing details about an incident this raw while the paperwork and the trials are still circling around, it could ruin me. I'm a police officer in Buffalo, New York. Night shift. 11 at night until 7 in the morning, the kind of hours that train your body to live in permanent twilight. I can't complain too much.

The job pays the bills, gives me good health insurance, and I've built a solid little family within the department. Hell, I even married one of my co-workers a few years back. For all its chaos, police work can be weirdly steady, routine broken up by bursts of adrenaline, like a roller coaster that crawls along 95% of the time, then drops without warning. And up until the summer of 2024, I was proud of the fact that I'd never had to fire my weapon on duty.

Sure, I'd done my share of takedowns, tackle drunk guys. cuffed more than a few people who thought they were stronger than they really were. But I never had to taste anyone. Never had to pull the trigger. In a way, I thought maybe I'd make it my whole career without that dark box ever being opened. I prayed for it, honestly. Because once you cross that line, once you pull the trigger on another human being, things never go back to the way they were.

That prayer didn't hold. It all unraveled on one muggy summer night, July 2024, just past midnight. The setup. It was about 12.30 a.m., and I was on patrol with my partner. We had an intersection staked out, nothing fancy, just standard overnight traffic enforcement. The streets were mostly empty, only the occasional car humming by. The air was thick enough to taste, one of those nights when they were. the sky feels heavy and every streetlight glows in a yellow haze. I remember thinking it was going

to be another boring shift, the kind where you just cycle through the same coffee brakes and radio chatter until the sun peaks over Lake Erie. But then we saw it, a car with tinted windows barreling straight through a red light like it owned the road. It wasn't just rolling through either. This guy was speeding, punching the gas, like he didn't even notice the light existed. That was enough to light us up. We flipped on the sirens, pulled him over, and I took point. My partner swung around to the passenger side while I approached the driver's door. I'll admit, I went and relaxed.

Traffic stops at night can get tense, but nine out of ten times it's nothing, speeding, expired tags, someone too drunk on confidence to care about traffic laws. I leaned down, tapped on the window. Hey, how's it going? How you doing tonight, sir? The driver rolled the window down slowly. He smiled, maybe a little too big, the kind of grin you plaster on when you're nervous but trying to look chill.

I'm doing well, officer, he said, voice friendly, almost too friendly. Inside the car, I noticed a kid, small, maybe six years old, sitting in the back. The darkness made it hard to see clearly, but once the window came down, I caught his little face in the glow of the streetlight. Little guy back there, huh? I asked. The driver laughed nervously. Yeah, yeah, that's my little cousin. Just riding with me tonight. It's his birthday, actually. The kid perked up then, like he'd been waiting for someone to notice him. It's my birthday, he said, tiny voice cutting through the tension.

He even held up a container of cupcakes like proof. That moment, it sticks with me. It was so normal, so human, in the middle of something that would become anything but... The license. All right, man, I said, keeping my tone casual. Can I see your license? That was when the story. he started to wobble. The driver shifted in his seat, patted his pockets, pulled out his phone

instead of a wallet. I, uh, don't have it on me. But I got a picture. Look, Georgia license. Names Devin Roberts. He flashed his phone at me, showing me a screenshot of a Georgia state driver's license. Mind if I run it on the computer? I asked. No problem, officer. Go ahead. You can write it down. So I jotted down the number, left my partner with him, and went back to my cruiser. I keyed the info into our system. Nothing. The computer wouldn't pull anything up. That's always a bad sign. Could have been a technical glitch, but more often than not, it means someone's feeding you a line. I went back.

Devon was on the phone now, supposedly talking to his sister, explaining the situation. He kept glancing at me, voice pitching high with nervous energy. Man, it's saying you don't have a license in either state, I told him flatly. He shook his head, swore up and down. No, no, I swear I got a Georgia license. Swear to God. They pull me over all the time. every district, it's fine. I don't know what's wrong. At this point, he was looking at a citation

for speeding, plus driving without a valid license. Maybe worse if he had warrants. But honestly, I thought that would be the end of it, paperwork, impound the car, maybe book him if things didn't line up. That would have been the easy outcome. The safe outcome. But that's not what happened. The escape attempt. All right, I said, keeping calm. What we're going to do is have you step out of the car, walk over toward me. We'll try to run your name a different way, see if it comes up. For a second, he nodded.

Okay, for sure. And then, everything blew apart. Bro, you're going to kill me, he muttered, almost like to himself. Before I could process that, he slammed his foot on the gas. The car lurched forward, tires screaming. The door was still cracked open. Instinct took over. I grabbed it, wedged one foot inside, and hung on as the car tore down the street.

It was chaos instantly. The kid was screaming in the back seat. The driver was yelling something I couldn't make out over the wind and the engine. My body was half in, half out, bouncing against the frame, every nerve screaming at me to let go. Stop the car. I shouted, you're going to kill me. But he didn't stop. If anything, he sped up. And in that split second, I knew, if I didn't act, I'd be dead. Drag down the road, crushed, maybe worse.

So I drew my weapon, steadied as best I could, and fired. One shot. Two, three, four, five. The cracks of the gunfire echoed off the buildings like thunder. The car swerved, and my grip finally gave out. I hit the asphalt hard, rolled, the world spinning around me. Pain ripped through my shoulder and hip, but adrenaline shoved it aside. The driver, Devon, stumbled out too, collapsing face down in the street, screaming in pain. But I didn't have time to deal with him. Because the car was still rolling, slow but steady, and that terrified little boy was still inside. The boy. I scrambled up, lungs burning, sprinting,

after the car. Come here, buddy. Come here. I yelled as I yanked the passenger door open. The kid's face was streaked with tears. But what he said floored me. My phone, he sobbed. Where's my phone?

Forget the phone, you're okay, I said, pulling him out, trying to keep my voice steady. You're safe. I got you. But he kept crying, kept begging. My phone, my phone. That's the part that broke me a little. A child caught in the middle of gunfire, and the thing he clung to was his little lifeline of normalcy.

His phone. I hugged him close, promised I'd get it for him. I don't even remember if I grabbed it then or later. I just remember holding him, telling him over and over, you're okay. You're okay The aftermath Backup swarmed and fast after my radio call. They got the boy to safety.

EMS checked me over. I ended up in the hospital with some minor injuries, bruises, road rash, nothing compared to what could have happened. When the car was searched, they found a handgun stashed under the driver's seat. And then the bigger picture saw. started to come into focus. The driver, Devin Roberts, wasn't just some random guy with a suspended license.

He was the half-brother of a 12-year-old boy named Jalen Griffin, who had gone missing four years earlier. Jalen's body had been found just that April in 2024. And Devin? He had just been indicted in June for firing shots after a vigil for Jalen. Nobody was heard in that incident, but he was. but he was facing felony charges. He had pled not guilty and was out under supervision, pending trial.

So yeah, that's who I pulled over that night. That's who tried to drag me down a street with a child in the backseat. And now, here I am. On administrative leave, waiting for the investigation to finish grinding its way through the system. My name, my badge, my entire life in limbo. The weight of it. After that night, everything changed.

I used to think I understood stress, long shifts, the occasional drunk, angry suspect, but nothing prepared me for that. Nothing. I remember lying in the hospital bed after my injuries were checked, staring at the ceiling, trying to process what had just happened. My body hurt, sure, but my mind. was spinning in a way it had never done before. I kept replaying it over and over.

The car, the screams of the kid, Devin's face twisted with fear and rage, my own hands shaking while I held my gun. Even now, months later, I can see it in my mind like a movie on repeat, every angle, every sound. And yet, through it all, there was that little boy, clinging to his phone like it was the only piece of his world that still made sense. I didn't know whether to feel guilty for firing my weapon or grateful that it ended the threat before something worse happened. I didn't know if I should cry, or if crying would make me weaker in the eyes of my peers, my family, my department.

Being a cop teaches you to compartmental eyes, to shove the messy emotions deep down where they can't touch you, but that night carved a hole through all that. Even the hospital staff seemed a little on edge. I could tell they'd read about it in the police scanner or heard from the other officers who came in after the incident. They were polite, clinical, professional, but you could see it in their eyes. The, holy shit, look. I caught that from a nurse when she handed me the paperwork. She didn't say a word, just smiled tightly, like she knew my life had changed in a single moment. And she was right.

Administrative Leave Being put on administrative leave was surreal. One day, you're running night patrols, joking with the guys about coffee and donut runs, and the next, you're stuck in your apartment with nothing but your thoughts. You're not allowed to talk to anyone officially involved, you can't access department systems, and every time your phone buzzes, you flinch, thinking it might be an update about the case, a call from internal affairs, or worse, media coverage leaking online. And the media did not wait.

Within hours, this thing was already blowing up on local news channels, social media, forums, you name it. Buffalo cop shoots fleeing driver in child rescue was the headline on one of the papers. They showed a blurry frame from dash cam footage that had been released, enough to give the public the gist without fully exposing identities. I hated it. I hated that people were making judgments about something. they hadn't seen firsthand, hadn't lived through. I hated that every time I scrolled,

my stomach twisted, because people were debating my actions, questioning my decision-making. And yeah, maybe that's part of the job. But when the dust finally settles, nobody talks about the kid, the fear, the seconds where your life and someone else's is hanging by a threat. They just talk about cops shooting guns. Conversations with colleagues Some of my colleagues were supportive, others, less so. I had friends who said, you did what you had to do. You saved a kid. End of story.

That helped. Really. But even those friends could only give so much comfort. Other officers were quieter, distant, like they were afraid that getting too close would implicate them somehow, or maybe they were just afraid of the kind of nightmare I'd been through. One of the veteran sergeants called me personally. He told me I had handled it as well as anyone could have. We all know you're good at your job, he said.

But this, this was something else. Don't beat yourself up over it. I appreciated that. I did. But I still spent nights lying awake, staring at the ceiling, going over the scenario again and again. Could I have done something differently? Could I have stopped the car without firing? Could I have reacted sooner?

Later? Was it luck that I survived? Was it luck the kid survived? Internal investigation. The Internal Affairs investigation dragged on. It's not like the movies, where someone bursts into your house with a badge and a subpoena. No, it's paperwork, interviews, recordings, reviews of every dash cam and angle, witness statement, hospital report. They dissect every word, every action, every decision.

You start to feel like your life is being judged under a microscope, like every breath you take is now part of evidence. They also looked into Devin Roberts' background. I already knew some of it, but what came out officially was staggering. He was connected to the disappearance of Jalen Griffin, his half-brother, who had been missing for four years and found dead just a few months prior. Devin had a history of reckless behavior, minor charges, and escalating incidents with firearms. And on the night I pulled him over, he was carrying a loaded handgun, willing to use it to escape, not caring who got hurt along the way. It's almost surreal to think about.

The same guy who smiled nervously at me moments before nearly dragged me down the street, and the same guy involved in the death of his younger half-brother. It's the kind of story that belongs in a crime documentary, not a night shift traffic stop in Buffalo. Psychological toll. And then there's the mental toll. That's the part nobody talks about, and maybe it's the hardest. I can't turn off my brain. Every time I hear a car speed past my apartment at night, I flinch.

Every time I see a kid in a kid and I'm. in the back of a car, I can't help but scan the interior like I used to scan suspects on patrol. Dreams? Forget it. I see him, the little boy, screaming, clinging to that phone, terrified out of his mind. I see Devon, panicked and violent, and me, half hanging out of a moving car, firing shots to survive. My partner? He's coping in his own way. Some nights he jokes about it. trying to normalize the abnormal. I can't. I replay it constantly. I know he feels guilty too. He stayed with Devon while I ran checks. He watched the whole thing unfold, but he's less haunted.

Maybe because he didn't hold that gun in his hands. Community reaction The community was split. Some hailed it as heroism, a cop saving a kid in imminent danger. Others criticized, claiming excessive force, debating the moral and legal implications of shooting a fleeing suspect. Social media took it further, conjecturing motives, background, potential charges. People who had no stake in my life, no understanding of what it's like to have seconds to make decisions that could cost your life, or someone else's, were weighing in. I kept my mouth shut. My wife called me daily, tried to reassure me.

me that I did the right thing, that I saved a child's life. But how do you reconcile that with the fact that another human being is hurt because of your actions? Even when you know they posed a genuine threat, the question still gnaws at you. Legal fallout. After the shooting, Devin Roberts was arrested on the spot. The handgun under his seat, the attempted escape, and the fact that a child had been endangered made the charges severe. He was charged with multiple felonies, endangering a child, reckless endangerment, illegal possession of a firearm, and resisting arrest. The system was slow, as always, but the wheels began turning quickly enough to make it feel real. Court dates, filings, legal motions, it became a background hum in my life. My involvement was

scrutinized over and over, with every detail of my actions to section. The district attorney reviewed the incident, my decision to fire, the trajectory of the car, the potential threat to the child, and the threat to my own life. They interviewed witnesses, neighbors, and colleagues. Dash cam footage was examined frame by frame. In their eyes, I was both a defendant and a witness. In my eyes, I was just trying to survive and protect a kid. Devin pled not guilty, maintaining a story.

of innocence and claiming that he hadn't intended to harm anyone. It didn't matter. The evidence was overwhelming, the car, the gun, his behavior during the traffic stop, and prior history of escalating violence. The case slowly shifted from a nightmarish blur into something more concrete, a legal narrative that could be told in court. Personal Fallout The most unexpected challenge wasn't the legal scrutiny, it was how this event seeped into every corner of my life. Nightmares came often, vivid and relentless. I'd wake up in a sweat, sometimes convinced I could hear the child screaming in the back seat or the tires squealing under the weight of the asphalt. My wife, bless her, tried to support me, but even she could

only listen so many times before the word started to lose their meaning. At work, I wasn't the same. The guys noticed. Some avoided me, unsure how to interact. with someone who had lived through something so intense. Others, older veterans, tried to check in, but they didn't really know what to say either. I became quieter, more withdrawn, and whenever a car came barreling through an intersection, I'd tense, a reflex I couldn't control. Even normal life was different. I couldn't go out without thinking about the risk of random danger, every stranger potentially

a threat, every kid a reminder of that night. The adrenaline that had once fueled me now made ordinary things exhausting. Grocery stores felt overwhelming, parking lots tense, late night drives a minefield of memory triggers. Reflection I often reflect on that night. I think about luck, timing, instinct. If I had hesitated for even a second, the kid could have been hurt, or worse. If I had been a second slower with my weapon,

I might not have survived. If I had made a wrong call, if any element had deviated, the story would be dramatically different. There's also a part of me that wonders about Devin, about the system that allowed him access to a firearm while under supervision, about the family trauma that shaped him. I don't condone his actions, I never will, but I try, sometimes, to understand the chain of events that led a human being to make such reckless, dangerous decisions. It doesn't excuse anything, but it's part of grappling with what happened. The kid

I check in with the boy, too. Not often, but enough to see him smile, enough to see him gradually reclaim the normalcy that night stole from him. He's smart, resilient, a survivor in every sense of the word. When I see him with his parents, or hear his voice laughing on the phone, I'm reminded why I did what I did. And why, in that moment, there was no choice but action. I don't glorify it, though.

I carry guilt every day for pulling the trigger. Even when I know it saved a life, even when the evidence backs me up, the memory is still mine to bear alone. That's the shadow that comes with being a police officer. It's not the badge, the gun, or the handcuffs, it's the decisions made in seconds that can never be taken back. Career impact. I'm back on duty now, but nothing is the same. Training, protocols, even camaraderie feel different. I see the world in terms of threats and consequences more acutely than ever before. Every traffic stop now carries weight, every interaction carries a

hint of that night. I can't undo what happened, but I can honor the experience by being more vigilant, more cautious, more aware. I've spoken at department meetings about the incident, focusing on safety, proper procedure, and mental preparedness. I don't share everything, the trauma is mine, but I emphasize the lessons, the unpredictability of human behavior, the fragility of life,

and the responsibility that comes with authority. Lingering trauma months later, I still feel the ghost of that night. My shoulder twinges when I sleep wrong. My ears still ring faintly from the gunshots. Every siren, every sudden acceleration of a vehicle, makes my chest tighten. It's a part of me now, inseparable from who I am as a cop and as a human being. Even writing this, recounting every detail, makes my hands shake.

But I do it because someone has to understand the reality of situations like this. It's not about heroism or blame, it's about survival, split-second decisions, and the emotional toll of living through chaos. Final thoughts So, yeah, that's the story. The night that shattered my sense of safety and forever changed the way I see my job, my community, and myself. I've learned lessons I never wanted to learn, seen things no one should see, and carried burdens that will never fully disappear. But I also saved a life that night. A small, terrified child,

who clung to his phone as if it could shield him from the storm around him. I'll never forget him. I've returned to my normal life, but the memory lives in me, quiet but persistent. Every traffic stop, every night patrol, every decision is now filtered through the lens of that single night in July 24. It's a reminder of how fast life can spiral, how thin the line is between routine and disaster, and how sometimes, all you can do is act, hope, and survive. And that's the truth. That's exactly how it happened. I didn't embellish. I didn't sugarcoat. I only survived, and so did a child, and somehow, that's enough to keep me moving forward. But I carry the weight every day, To be continued.