The rapid rise of killings by police in rural America

Mint

3 days ago

Gina Via thought she saw an elk as she drove through the high desert of southern New Mexico one night last summer. As she drew closer, she realized it was a person walking dangerously close to the road. She decided to call 911.
Jacob Diaz-Austin, one of a few sheriff's deputies patrolling Otero County's 6,627 square miles, took the dispatcher's call for a welfare check on a possibly intoxicated pedestrian. He switched on his lights, cranked up the volume to the club hit 'In da Getto," and sped to the scene, topping 120 miles an hour, according to audio and video recordings obtained by The Wall Street Journal.
The deputy slowed, stopped, and focused his spotlight on Elijah Hadley, a 17-year-old walking along the median near his home on the Mescalero Apache reservation. Fearful after getting beaten up the day before, Hadley carried a BB gun.
Within minutes, Diaz-Austin fired approximately 22 shots at Hadley. He shot four times just after Hadley dropped the BB gun.
A few minutes later, Diaz-Austin shot Hadley about 18 more times as he lay on the ground. Diaz-Austin now faces a first-degree murder charge. He has pleaded not guilty.
Last year, 1,260 people were killed by law enforcement—the highest level since data-crunching organizations began keeping track a decade ago. A major factor driving the upward trend is surprising: Sheriff's departments that generally patrol more rural slices of America are killing more civilians.
Sheriff's departments, which generally have jurisdiction over counties, were involved in about a third of the police killings in 2024, despite making up just a quarter of law-enforcement nationwide, according to the nonprofit Mapping Police Violence. Killings by sheriffs rose 43% from 2013, while that number rose 3% for police departments, which patrol cities and towns.
The numbers speak to a widening gap between urban and rural law enforcement since the 2020 killing of George Floyd by a Minneapolis police officer sent floods of protesters into the streets of American cities. Big-city departments faced pressure to dial back aggressive practices and adopt changes to reduce shootings by officers.
Sheriffs—most elected in partisan races, unlike police chiefs—have long espoused a tough law-and-order approach that is supported by their constituents. Particularly as violence spiked nationwide during the pandemic, sheriff's departments were quick to unleash forceful tactics to tamp down unrest.
'Sheriffs will typically be more proactive, which entails my deputies being more inclined to use violence to overcome violence," said Chad Bianco, the Republican sheriff of Riverside County in Southern California.
When protests broke out last month over Trump's immigration crackdown, some sheriffs issued tough public warnings to demonstrators.
'If you throw a brick, a firebomb, or point a gun at one of our deputies, we will be notifying your family where to collect your remains," said Brevard County, Fla.'s Republican Sheriff Wayne Ivey. 'We will kill you, graveyard dead."
The White House endorses this muscular stance. In late April, sheriffs surrounded President Trump as he signed an executive order titled 'Strengthening and Unleashing America's Law Enforcement to Pursue Criminals and Protect Innocent Citizens." The order encourages law enforcement to 'aggressively police communities against all crimes" and calls for strengthening legal protections for officers.
Sheriff's deputies often patrol alone, with backup miles away. That is why Glenn Hamilton, the former sheriff of Sierra County, N.M., (population 11,000) describes rural policing as 'one riot, one ranger."
But the changing nature of policing rural America is testing these solitary, do-it-all deputies. Economic decline, coupled with drug and mental-health crises, force them to contend with problems historically associated with big cities.
About 14% of killings by sheriffs last year arose from mental-health crisis calls, such as armed suicidal men turning guns on deputies. Some 28% involved violent crimes such as robberies, shootings and stabbings. Nearly three-quarters of those killed carried guns, knives or other weapons.
Deputies confront this new reality with less preparation than their big-city counterparts. Rural sheriff's departments often lack the time, money or interest to offer advanced courses—such as in de-escalating mental-health crises—that have helped some city police reduce shootings.
'Big-city departments were ahead of the sheriffs" on de-escalation training, said Volusia County, Fla., Sheriff Mike Chitwood, who instituted the training after being elected in 2016. 'It was hard to convince my organization that had the mentality of shoot first and ask questions later."
Sheriff's departments require an average of 38 annual in-service training hours, versus the 46 required by city police, according to the most recent federal data. They are also less likely to have officers specializing in mental health and crisis intervention.
A view of U.S. Highway 70 from Our Lady of Guadalupe Catholic Church in Bent, N.M., near where a woman called 911 to report someone walking dangerously close to the road.
Lower salaries hinder sheriffs' ability to attract experienced and qualified candidates. Last year, Ohio's Ashtabula County Sheriff's Office sparked controversy by hiring the '$9 million cop," a local city police officer who left after being sued twice for shootings that led to large settlements, earning him the nickname in the local media.
Two years earlier, the officer had shot and killed a suicidal man from 482 feet away, using a sniper rifle while the man held a shotgun that officers on the scene believed to be unloaded. The officer later complained to state police interviewing him that 'everyone's been griping about de-escalation." He was cleared of wrongdoing.
In Hot Springs County, Wyo., where cows outnumber people, sheriff's deputies have long been called upon to clear cattle from the highway. But in recent years, they have also become front-line mental-health responders in the rural U.S., which faces acute shortages of mental-health workers, a significant increase in suicide rates and other problems.
In 2023, a man attacked and threatened to kill two deputies. Last September, Jared Gottula, 41, unemployed and suffering from untreated mental illness, stood outside waving a baseball bat.
A first officer ordered Gottula to drop it, but Gottula charged at the officer's SUV, according to video of the incident. The officer rammed Gottula, who didn't let go of the bat.
Hot Springs County Sheriff's Deputy Max Lee-Crain drew his gun and shouted: 'Get on the ground now! Don't make me shoot you!"
Gottula asked, 'Why are you here?"
When a Taser failed, Gottula advanced toward Lee-Crain, who fired until he ran out of bullets. Gottula's father rushed to his son's body, wailing, 'Is he dead?"
The fatal shooting jolted the quiet county of 4,600, known for thermal pools and fly-fishing. Sheriff Jerimie Kraushaar couldn't recall another officer-involved shooting in the department's history. A prosecutor ruled the shooting justified, noting Gottula 'simply would not stop the violence."
Now, the Wyoming Association of Sheriffs and Chiefs of Police is pushing for more officers to undergo 40 hours of mental-health crisis training. Even with de-escalation efforts, the scarcity of behavioral-health services in rural Wyoming makes prevention difficult, said Executive Director Allen Thompson. 'Where we struggle is preventing that from happening the next night and next."
Since the George Floyd protests, big-metro mayors have ordered their police to move away from what they call 'fear-based, warrior style" training.
But sheriffs didn't back away. There was no pressure to do so. While demonstrators marched in New York, Chicago and Los Angeles with calls to defund the police, rural residents held 'Back the Blue" rallies.
In New Mexico's Otero County, stretching from the White Sands Missile Range to nearly the Mexico border, hundreds turned out with signs like 'We Support our Brothers and Sisters in Blue." Sheriff David Black told a local reporter he appreciated the support because 'law enforcement has been getting beat up a little bit, getting a bad rap."
The exterior of the Otero County Sheriff's Office in Alamogordo, N.M.
Black, a taciturn cowboy-hatted lawman, was popular in the conservative county of 70,000—the birthplace of 'Cowboys for Trump." In recent years, he fought rising crime he blamed on drugs from Mexico and often complained about a shortage of deputies. Black didn't respond to requests for comment.
Black's deputies and sergeants regularly train with the Force Science Institute, an organization that fell out of favor with some city departments for promoting what critics call a 'shoot first" mentality. The group's training—which stresses how quickly suspects can pull a gun and fire—teaches officers to 'shoot first and often, and then provides them with the tools to justify those shootings after the tragic fact," the American Civil Liberties Union has said.
Von Kliem, chief consulting officer at Force Science Institute, said the group's training emphasizes that when officers do have time they should use it to work toward voluntary compliance—but recognizes that 'some situations require officers to act swiftly to prevent harm."
Otero County has paid for half a dozen sergeants and deputies to train with Force Science over the past two years, sending them to sessions as far as away as Seattle and Columbus, Ohio, according to documents obtained by the Journal. The sheriff didn't respond to questions about whether Deputy Diaz-Austin—who graduated from the academy in 2021—received this training. Diaz-Austin's lawyer didn't respond to requests for comment.
New Mexico civil-rights attorney Shannon Kennedy, who looked into the instruction while involved in a lawsuit against a nearby agency, believes Eljah Hadley's shooting bore all the hallmarks.
'It's this high-octane poison which pumps officers to act as opposed to following traditional training, which is communication and cover and distance are your friends," Kennedy said. 'That's why you see what happened in Otero County."
Kliem disputed the characterization.
'Far from encouraging aggressive behavior, our instruction emphasizes professional judgment, tactical patience, and effective communication skills," he said.
Elijah Hadley grew up roaming the vast, mountainous Mescalero Apache reservation. He learned to hunt and skin deer from his uncle. He helped dig the giant pit for the tribe's annual mescal roast.
Elijah Hadley gathering elk antlers.
Hadley's friends described him as having a 'chill vibe that was contagious," according to a letter provided by the family's attorney. His principal said he was respectful, noting he always addressed her with 'yes ma'am."
He excelled at art, placing third in a statewide competition in 2023. His welding teacher let him paint the walls of the school's shop. Heading into his senior year, he talked about joining the military like his brother and also becoming a tattoo artist.
'We all felt like he had a good chance of making a good life for himself through his art," his friends said in a letter.
That night on the highway, Hadley shielded his eyes from the deputy's spotlight with one hand and kept the other under his shirt. Diaz-Austin demanded to see his hand. Dashcam video footage showed Hadley withdrawing his hand with what appeared to be a handgun, then holding it upside down between his finger and thumb before tossing it. Diaz-Austin started shooting.
'It's just a BB gun!" Hadley yelled as he convulsed on the ground. 'It's just a BB gun!"
Murals adorn the concrete barriers along U.S. Highway 70 in Mescalero, N.M.
Frantic and breathing hard, the deputy ran to the passenger side of the car and grabbed a first-aid kit but didn't use it. Instead, he stood near his car, screaming at Hadley to stay still. Three minutes later, the teen's bloodied, twitching body rolled over.
'Don't go to that gun!" Diaz-Austin shouted. He fired repeatedly at the prone teenager until his weapon emptied. He reloaded and kept shooting, approximately 18 times in all, until Hadley stopped moving.
A week later, during an interview with state police, Diaz-Austin said he thought Hadley was going to shoot him.
'I was in fear," Diaz-Austin said. 'He was just staring at me and had this really sinister smile on his face."
Elijah Hadley, in baseball cap, at a celebration for his brother, who enlisted in the Army in 2021.
The video doesn't show Hadley staring or smiling.
Diaz-Austin told state police he believed Hadley was reaching for the gun on the ground—and that the teenager actually had the gun at one point. The body camera video footage shows neither.
Anguish spread among Hadley's friends and family. Sheriff Black didn't immediately release video footage—something many police agencies do today—or offer any public explanation beyond a short, vague press release saying an 'interaction resulted in an officer-involved shooting."
When local television aired footage of the shooting, anger erupted.
'Not my brother. He didn't f—ing deserve this!" Hadley's sister wrote on Facebook. 'Shot 4 times on the ground for more than three minutes…. more than 15 times after that!!"
Elijah Hadley, who played for his high-school football team, with his mother, Eva.
A small group began protesting regularly at the sheriff's office. When they presented their concerns to the county commission in August, Sheriff Black skipped his regular appearance at the monthly meeting.
Though Black made no formal announcement, his office had declared the shooting justified by September. Diaz-Austin was back on the job, patrolling Otero County.
But an independent prosecutor's office assigned to the case disagreed, and charged Diaz-Austin with first degree murder this January. 'This was an absolute tragedy," said Sam Bregman, the Bernalillo County District Attorney.
The shooting has opened a deep fissure in the community. At Diaz-Austin's court hearings in Otero County, fellow deputies stationed in the courtroom in an official capacity laugh and joke with him, says Christopher Dodd, an attorney for Hadley's family, who recently filed a federal lawsuit against the deputy and the county. Outside the courtroom, Hadley's friends view the sheriff's office differently.
'We wonder if we could be next?" they wrote in a letter. 'We wonder if we can ever trust police officers again?"
The memorial site for Elijah Hadley in the median along U.S. Highway 70.
Write to Zusha Elinson at [e-mail]