Hesston police chief who killed active shooter speaks publicly

Police guard the front door of Excel Industries in Hesston, Kan., Thursday, Feb. 25, 2016, where a gunman killed three people and injured many more. (Fernando Salazar/The Wichita Eagle via AP)

? When Hesston police chief Doug Schroeder sat down at his desk to take an exam on workplace violence, he didn’t know he’d need that knowledge that day.

Nine miles away, Cedric Larry Ford was in his trailer taking a video on his phone. The 38-year-old was more than an hour into a 10-minute break from work at the commercial lawn mower manufacturer, Excel Industries, The Hutchinson News reports.

Ford wore a shoulder holster over his white T-shirt with a .40 caliber Glock 22 in the left holster; he held an AK-47 as he stared at the phone, rocking steadily while listening to rap music.

Officers later said the man was pumping himself up for what he was about to do.

For Schroeder, the exam pointed to a career of learning. He’s learned from first responders in the Columbine High School massacre, Boston Marathon bombings and the Virginia Tech shooting.

He still says he feels obligated to teach others what he’s learned; a master’s degree would extend his reach to the next generation of law enforcement.

But time always has been pressing for the husband, father of two children and head of a seven-officer department. He used slow times in the small, mostly Mennonite town of 3,800 people to stay up to date on the latest active shooter research — even take an exam.

Feb. 25, 2016, started out a slow day. Schroeder decided to take the test, with one ear tuned to the police radio, by habit.

4:55 p.m.

High on methamphetamine and with alcohol in his system, Ford sped north on Meridian Road in a 2006 Dodge Charger. He had the two firearms with him and roughly 107 rounds of ammunition — a little more than half the ammo being the high-caliber 7.62 rounds in two AK-47 magazines and the rest in two extended Glock 22 magazines.

North of the four-way stop at 12th and Meridian, 7 miles from the Hesston Police Department, Ford passed an older woman driving a Chrysler Pacifica. Ford slammed on the brakes and jumped out brandishing the dark, semi-automatic rifle with a wood-finished stock and handguard.

He fired one round that went through the front driver’s side window and out the rear passenger window. The woman reversed into a ditch, frightened but unharmed.

Ford drove north, then fired nine rounds from the rifle through his windshield toward the driver of an oncoming Toyota Rav4. The southbound SUV was driven by a grandfather with his two grandchildren in the vehicle.

Two rounds went through the Toyota’s windshield, one hitting the grandfather in the shoulder as he ducked for cover. The others ricocheted off the car.

4:57 p.m.

One of the children called 911 but didn’t tell dispatchers his grandfather had a nonfatal gunshot wound. It’s possible, with adrenaline rushing, they didn’t know. The boy identified the shooter as a white male with blonde hair. Ford was a black man with brown hair.

Ford continued north. He drove another 1 1/2 miles before attempting to stop again. This time, at the intersection of Meridian and Hesston roads, 5 1/2 miles from police headquarters, Ford blocked traffic heading south and hopped out of the car. He didn’t put the car in park. As Ford pointed the rifle at two men, demanding they get out of the Dodge Ram, he was knocked off balance by the rolling car.

He shot two rounds into the ground. The men ran. Ford got back on his feet and shot the driver in the back of his leg.

Ford jumped in the Dodge Ram, spun around and sped down Hesston Road toward town.

4:59 p.m.

A man called 911 and described another man pointing a rifle at a truck near Meridian Fleet Service, a mechanic shop near Hesston and Meridian roads. He told dispatch the assailant and his car were in the ditch.

Schroeder sent an officer after the first call to assist while he finished the exam. He thought this was an isolated incident.

5:02 p.m.

EMS arrived to treat the grandfather at 12th and Meridian. First responders still hadn’t pieced together that the three separate incidents were connected.

Ford pulled up near the northeast part of Excel Industries, around back, near the paint section where he worked. He aimed the rifle at coworkers and fired nine rounds. All missed.

The calls began to flood dispatch; more than half of what the 911 center usually received in 24 hours came in the next half hour.

Dispatchers had been guiding callers through pre-medical procedures on the wounded. Now, they had to start directing people to take cover — or even prepare to fight — while trying to identify who and where the shooter was. They had to direct police to the shooter.

A neighbor who called said Excel employees “were running for their lives across her yard.” The employees told her, and she relayed to dispatch, that a gang was shooting people inside Excel.

Although one caller did identify the shooter, it took several minutes of confirming information from other callers, to verify information they could relay to officers.

“We need police to Excel Industries: a guy just popped out with an AK-47 and started shooting … I was in my car. I took off,” one man said as dispatch tried to ask if he saw the shooter.

The dispatcher never finished her sentence.

“Yes, I know who it is … Cedric Ford … He hopped out of a truck and left the door open and started popping. Bam. Bam. Bam. And then he ran inside.”

5:03 p.m.

“Active shooter.”

The call came over the radio from inside Excel.

Andy Wray, an Excel employee and Hesston Fire/EMS captain, had his emergency radio. He made the call before running out of the building.

Excel, located at 200 S. Ridge Road, is less than a mile from the police headquarters, where Schroeder, already finished with his exam, strapped on a ballistic vest. He loaded an AR-15 into his unmarked SUV and was on his way to the location south of town, once he heard the active shooter call.

His test had become real.

Schroeder looked out the front window as he drove and saw a crowd of people running over the railroad tracks that run diagonally in front of Excel. Schroeder turned down Randall Road and crossed over Ridge Road. He drove through a grassy area and into the parking lot north of the building. Schroeder saw vehicles scurrying from the parking lot and a couple of dozen people running from the building.

Schroeder reached the building 30 seconds after the active shooter call.

He saw the confusion on the faces of some, terror on others. He knew they’d seen something horrific. Schroeder asked them what they saw, but all he could make out was “black something, white shirt.”

The 6-foot, 205-pound police chief had no backup and no idea who or what he faced.

He had no radio communication when he entered the building.

But he knew from research that an active shooter can fire a shot as often as once every four seconds.

5:05 p.m.

Ford was, at most, three minutes ahead of Schroeder. Most of the 400-plus people working in the 315,000-square-foot facility had run out.

Some didn’t know why. They just ran with everyone else.

Ford, walking at times, jogging at others, shot at some but not all. He shattered the leg bones of someone who considered Ford a close friend with a 7.62 round. He told others about how people screamed “fire” as they ran out.

Pop. Pop. Pop.

He switched back and forth between the rifle and handgun while reloading. Ford went from the northeast part of the building to the southwest. Workers, some unable to discern the gunfire from loud machines, ran out in waves.

Ford dropped his first magazine of the Glock 22 with seven rounds in it and cleared another out of the chamber near the southwest end of the building. A group of people ran out of the building from that area. The possible malfunction may have saved lives.

Unoccupied machines buzzed as Schroeder stepped stealthily through the building.

It felt eerie, like a ghost town.

Bloody footprints covered a walkway separating machinery.

Schroeder tried to discern the direction, assuming the footprints pointed opposite of the shooter’s position.

He couldn’t tell.

His studies told him an active shooter is likely to target the administrative area, so Schroeder started moving toward the offices at the front of the building.

Schroeder startled one worker, unaware of what had happened.

“You need to leave,” the chief remembered telling the worker.

5:06 p.m.

Ford shot three times at law enforcement on Ridge Road from the parking lot in front of the building. One of the 7.62 rounds pierced the steel frame on a deputy car.

Schroeder heard the shots and moved toward the sound. He closed in on a secured door near the front lobby when a man sprang from the door.

Schroeder headed south down the hallway.

A man on the opposite end of the off-white hallway called for Schroeder; he knew a faster way. The police chief moved along the hall running parallel to the lobby, where Ford had already shot out one of the glass front doors.

Schroeder felt adrenaline pumping. He’s close, he thought. Schroeder knew he was near the front of the building. Ford couldn’t be far.

Time started to slow. Heart pumping, faster and faster. Schroeder had trained in high-stress scenarios. But until now, he could always shake those off as fake.

Schroeder pressed the rifle against his shoulder and pointed the barrel slightly down, scanning his surrounding.

The employee, who let him through the door, drew Schroeder’s attention one more time. He stood in front of a door that led right to the lobby.

Schroeder turned around again.

Two shots rang out. The glass on the door shattered and the other bullet went through the wooden door. They missed the man standing there. He took off. The other man disappeared as well.

Schroeder backpedaled. He was alone in the off-white hallway. Milliseconds felt like minutes. He eyed the distance to the door. About 10 feet.

The chief thought Ford might shoot through the drywall to flush him out. He remembered thinking: should he advance or wait for the shot? The barrel remained in a low-ready position, the rifle shouldered.

Ford decided for him. Schroeder saw the slight movement as the battered door to his right began to move. Ford pulled the door open.

The barrel of the AK-47 slowly crept into sight. Ford had it in his left hand.

Schroeder raised the barrel. He looked down scope as Ford stepped into the hallway. Schroeder noticed the white T-shirt through the narrow slit.

Bang.

The police chief fired first.

Ford fired the Glock 22 in between Schroeder’s shots. The first shot hit a door straight in front of him. Ford squared his shoulders toward Schroeder and let off one more shot.

Bang.

It hit the opposite wall, a few feet from Schroeder.

Ford was on his way down from the shots fired by Schroeder.

Bang. Bang. Bang. Bang. Bang.

Five rounds from the police chief hit Ford four times.

Ford was down.

5:09 p.m.

“Shooter is down,” Schroeder called out. He’d started to pick up radio chatter as he entered the hallway. No response.

“Terry!”

Schroeder yelled to Terry Leinbach, the friend he saw earlier in an office connected to the hallway, to see if he was still there.

Leinbach said yes, and Schroeder advised him to call 911 and tell them the shooter is down near the lobby.

Even after that call, Schroeder kept his rifle pointed at Ford until other officers arrived to confirm.

Ford was dead.

The Kansas Bureau of Investigation estimated Ford fired 89 rounds. The AK-47 was empty when he encountered Schroeder. After his last two shots from the Glock 22, Ford still had one in the chamber and nine rounds left in the extended magazine.

Four people, including the shooter, died and 14 others were injured.

“Three fatalities,” Schroeder said abruptly. “One guy chose his way.”

Schroeder called his wife, Vanessa, to tell her he loved her. He also said he was sorry she married a cop.

The next few days would be a frenzy of news interviews and questions. Parts of the story, however, he would hold back publicly for years.

Schroeder earned an “A” in the workplace violence class at Fort Hays State University. Kristina Thielen, the adjunct professor, also was a volunteer with Halstead Fire/EMS and responded to Excel.

Schroeder finished his master’s that summer in professional studies — similar to criminal justice. He graduated with a 4.0 GPA.

He began teaching criminal justice at Central Christian College of Kansas, Sterling College and Hutchinson Community College.

Now, Schroeder said he feels an obligation to teach what went right and, more importantly, what went wrong. On April 26, he’ll speak at the Wichita Crime Commission.

He hasn’t shared the story with students yet. He’s waited for a two-year statute of limitation to expire, freeing him from the threat of lawsuits.

He only plans to share aspects of the event that could save lives.

Schroeder still had reservations about being interviewed.

He said he thinks about the Excel shooting every day. At times, it’s “draining” on him.

National honor

On Feb. 20, Schroeder was awarded the Medal of Valor — the highest national award for valor a public safety officer can receive.

“Chief Schroeder saved a lot of lives,” President Donald Trump said before putting the medal around Schroeder’s neck during a ceremony at the White House. “Thank God you were there, chief.”

Schroeder’s Medal of Valor has since been in a plastic container in the basement at home; his wife plans to frame it one day.

Instead of displaying the national honor, the police chief fills his office with tokens he hopes better define his life and career: family photos sit on both sides of his desk, and a cross hangs on the back wall. A picture frame shows degrees he garnered during his 21 years in law enforcement.

Schroeder, 42, thought about getting his Ph.D.

But time is limited, and with children approaching college age, he’d rather focus on other investments.

About this story

For the first time, Hesston police chief Doug Schroeder shared his story publicly about what happened the day of the Excel shooting on Feb. 25, 2016. This story is based on his recollections of that day.

Cedric Ford’s narrative is based on interviews with Kansas Bureau of Investigation assistant special agent in charge Robert Jacobs, who was the senior special agent at the time of the Excel shooting. Jacobs oversaw hundreds of witness interviews and reviewed surveillance video as well as Ford’s electronics.

The News also reviewed autopsy reports and interviewed first responders and Excel employees.