Solved Murders - True Crime Stories - Night Shift Confessions A Police Officer’s Harrowing Encounters and Life-Altering Choices PART3 #28

Episode Date: October 31, 2025

#horrorstories #reddithorrorstories #ScaryStories #creepypasta #horrortales #nightshiftstories #truecrimeencounters #darkpolicetales #fearfultales #uncannycases  “Night Shift Confessions: A Police Officer’s Harrowing Encounters and Life-Altering Choices PART 3” delves deeper into the chilling aftermath of working long, haunted nights on duty. This part explores unsettling crimes, eerie calls that defy explanation, and the emotional weight carried by those sworn to protect. Each encounter pulls the officer further into a world where fear and duty collide.  horrorstories, reddithorrorstories, scarystories, horrorstory, creepypasta, horrortales, nightshiftconfessions, policecases, chillingencounters, crimeandmystery, fearstories, paranormalshift, darkexperiences, lawenforcementlife, hauntingnights, truecrimefiles, sinistercases, eeriecalls, midnightwatch, shadowedtruths

A heavy badge, my story of Melissa Ramirez, and the knights that still haunt me. I don't think people really understand what wearing a badge means until you're the one out there, standing in the dark, making choices that split your life into before and after. From the outside, everyone has an opinion, we're heroes, we're villains, we're pigs, we're angels. But the truth? The truth is Messiae. The truth is that most of us are just ordinary. people, trying to do a job that throws us into extraordinary, impossible situations. I've seen too much, and I've done things that will stick with me forever. I can't sugarcoat it.

Two moments, in particular, come back to me more than any others, two moments where I had to make choices I'll never forget, choices that cost lives. One was a woman named Melissa Tompkins, and the other was a man named Richard Ramirez, no, not that Richard Ramirez, the infamous one, but someone whose name still carries weight for me. Both of their faces visit me in dreams. Both of them scream questions in my head I'll never fully answer. And both of them remind me that this badge doesn't come off, not really. Even when I hang up the uniform at night, the weight of it stays.

The hotel parking lot, Melissa. Let me start with Melissa. That night, everything spun out of control so fast it felt like the world was on fast forward and I was stuck moving in slow motion. We'd struggled, her and me, in that hotel parking lot. She'd taken my baton, smashed me across the skull, wrapped a cord around my neck. I still remember the burn of it on my skin. When we separated for just a heartbeat, I went for my firearm.

My hands weren't steady. My chest was heaving. I shouted warnings, my voice cracking between command and desperation. Get out. Stop. Get out. But she kept coming. By the time backup arrived, it was already too late. I'd fired.

I remember my knees giving out once other officers showed up. I just collapsed right there in the parking lot, my gun hanging useless in my hands. I didn't want to shoot her. God knows I didn't. But in that moment, with her coming at me like a storm, I felt like I had no choice left. Emergency responders rushed her to a medical center,

but Melissa didn't make it. She died from her injuries not long after. Her name, I learned, was Melissa Tompkins. She was 40 years old. Homeless. severely mentally ill, addicted to narcotics, and she had five children. Five kids left behind. That part gutted me. You can tell yourself a thousand times that you didn't have a choice, that it was either her life or yours, but when you hear about the children, about the lives

that are now motherless, it carves something sharp into your soul. There was an investigation, of course. They always investigate when an officer fires their weapon. Internal affairs, statements, interviews, body cam reviews. Every second of that night picked apart. Eventually, they cleared me, said I did what I had to do. I was sent back to full duty. But just because you're cleared on paper doesn't mean you're cleared in your head.

Even now, years later, I can see her face. Sometimes I wonder who Melissa was before addiction and illness swallowed her. Was she funny? Did she love to sing in the car? Did she bake birthday cakes for her kids? Those five kids will never see their mom again, and part of me, no matter what anyone says, will always feel like that's on me. The weight of the job

I've been in this line of work most of my life now, serving mostly in Montana. People love to tell you what they think about cops these days. You hear it all, pig, bastard, racist, murderer. I've had strangers spit at me. I've had people look at me like I was less than human. You can't let it all sink in. You can't survive this job without thick skin. A buddy of mine once told me, the only opinions you got to worry about our internal affairs.

Everybody else is just noise. He wasn't wrong. Still, the noise adds up sometimes. Funny thing is, being a cop wasn't even my dream. Hell, it wasn't even on the list. I didn't grow up saying, one day I'm going to wear the badge. It wasn't passion, it was necessity. A matter of needing a job, not wanting one.

The badge was my last option when doors kept slamming shut. There have been plenty of times over the years when I thought about quitting. Plenty of nights I stared at the ceiling, wondering if it was worth it. But one night in April 2014 almost broke me completely. The Red Sedan It was late, maybe around midnight, when I saw it, a red sedan. red sedan swerving across the road like a drunk snake. At one point, it nearly sideswiped another cruiser.

That was all I needed to light it up. Drunk drivers. They make my blood boil. You spend enough years on this job, you see what those bastards leave behind, twisted metal, bodies broken, families shattered. And all because someone couldn't put down the damn bottle before grabbing their keys. So yeah, I don't have much patience for them. The sedan finally pulled over outside a house.

My headlights lit it up and I counted four people inside. Four against one. Not the best odds. Another cruiser had stopped nearby, but those officers weren't from my department and technically they were out of their jurisdiction. So it was on me. I approached cautiously, hand hovering near my sidearm, flying. flashlight beam cutting through the dark.

Hands up. All four of you, hands where I can see them. Three of them complied right away. But the guy in the front passenger seat, he kept fidgeting, moving his hands like he was trying to stash something. I didn't like it. My gut screamed danger. I yanked the door open, shining my light straight in his face. What are you doing?

Why the hell are you moving around so much? You're making me nervous, man. That's when his face clicked in my memory. Who are you? I demanded. My name's Richard, he muttered. And that's when it hit me, Richard Ramirez. Not the night stalker, but another Richard Ramirez, a local one. The sergeant had briefed us earlier that shift,

Ramirez was wanted in connection with a drug-related robbery and a shooting in Billings, Montana, just the night before. Adrenaline shot through me. This wasn't just some drunk driver. This was a wanted man. I kept shouting for everyone to keep their damn hands visible while I radioed for backup. But Ramirez wasn't listening. He kept reaching toward his pocket.

Put your hands up right now, or I swear to go. God I'll shoot. I yelled, pistol drawn, every nerve in my body buzzing. He didn't stop. He didn't freeze. He kept going for that pocket. And then instinct took over. The shot. The sound of the gunshot still echoes in my skull sometimes, even when the world is quiet. One sharp crack, one decision made in less than a second, one life ending because I couldn't take the risk of waiting to see what he had in his pocket. Ramirez crumpled, convulsing in pain. I screamed for the others to get out of the car, get on the ground, hands behind their backs.

My voice was hoarse, breaking, but I had to maintain control. The other officers on the scene rushed in to help detain the rest. Backup arrived minutes later, but by then, the damage was done. When we searched Ramirez, the only thing in his pocket was drugs. No gun. No knife. Just drugs. I broke down later, crying in the dark like a kid.

I'd taken another life. You can put on a tough face, act like it's just part of the job, but when you're alone? Alone, you can't hide from the truth. I may be a hard ass, but I'm still human. And that night, humanity came crashing down on me. The fallout. Ramirez's family didn't see it as me doing my job. They filed a civil suit, claiming I'd used excessive force.

They wanted me punished. They wanted justice. The judge cleared me, said I wasn't in the wrong. There's no way of knowing if someone's reaching for a deadly weapon, he ruled. And it's true. How the hell am I supposed to know in that split second? I gave a direct order, and Ramirez disobeyed it. That's the reality. But even when the law cleared me, the world didn't. Online, the hate poured in. Death threats, vile messages, strangers telling me they hoped I rotted in hell. For months, I carried that weight every time I logged on.

My department had my back, thank God. My brothers and sisters in blue stood by me. They reminded me I'd done what I had to do. Eventually, the noise quieted down. Eventually, I moved forward. But sometimes, late at night, I still hear my own voice echoing. Hands up. Put your damn hands up or I'll shoot.

And sometimes, I still see his hand disappearing into that pocket, my finger tightening on the trigger, the flash of the muzzle lighting up his face. Living with it. Here's the thing no one tells you, even when you're cleared, even when everyone says you were justified, you still carry it. You still wonder if there was another way. You still see their faces.

Melissa. Richard Two very different people, two very different people, two very different. nights, but both of them live inside me now. Sometimes it feels like I'm haunted by them. I've learned that fear never really leaves you either. People think cops don't get scared, but that's bullshit. There's always a reason to be afraid. Always a reason to keep your hand close to your holster. Because out there, on the street, one second can be the difference between life and death.

And sometimes, you're the one who has to decide who lives and who dies. It's a choice no human should ever have to make, but wearing the badge means making it. And living with it. The end.