Benjamin Ritchie Executed Tuesday Morning of May 20th 2025 + Appeal and His Final Hours Before….
My crime is shooting a police officer and killing him. And uh it started off, you know, pretty harmless as a a theft crime. Me and my friends would ride around and car jack people and take their rims from their cars from them. And my buddy’s car was already full. So I decided, let’s get a van or a truck and we fill it up with some rims and take it back and we can go sell everything.
I got in a high-speed chase and wrecked into a house and jumped out and took off running. I was trying to get away, you know, but the cop was young and he was on my ass. How were you apprehended? How were you caught? Well, I actually got away. Uh, I made it back actually a few blocks away to some family’s house and a girl I was seeing and got away and uh, I didn’t know I killed him until I got back to the house and seen it on the news and that just destroyed me.
I knew I hit him in the backyard, but I didn’t know I he was he was dead, right? I fell asleep. The next thing I know, I wake up and here my buddy says they’re outside. I wake up and it was like in the movies you see a whole bunch of red dots from their guns going in and out the windows.
And I was like, “Yeah, it’s bad, man.” I told him, “Go ahead and go out, leave the house.” And I didn’t know what I was going to do. I didn’t have no gun. I couldn’t fight no more. So, I just gave up. On 20th of May, 2025, Benjamin Donnie Richie will be executed. Why? Because he’s a cop killer. But have you ever wondered why some people get the death penalty and others don’t? Some said, and I quote, “So, because he killed a cop, he gets a death sentence.
” However, when someone murders a child or does despicable things to them, they get 50 to 60 years and possible parole. Not standing up for him at all, he did wrong. But the system sucks on how they portray which murder is worse. Another person said this, “Don’t let him live. That’s a slap to the family’s face and an example of how disgraceful our justice system is.
I’ve seen so many brutal cases of men killing women, cops, other men, etc., and get the death penalty just to have it overturned and get life instead. And it’s that like that even happens. I’d be more understanding if it was an accident. But to take a life in cold blood, you no longer deserve yours. It’s simple.
Does a cop’s life matter more than others? It’s a question that cuts deeper than crime. It touches politics, race, media attention, and even the last name of the victim. In Benjamin Richie’s case, the system moved fast. Too fast, some would argue. Others say it wasn’t fast enough. He’s been sitting on death row for nearly two decades, accused of one of the deadliest sins in America, killing a police officer.
But what really happened that night? Was it cold-blooded murder or a shootout gone wrong? Let’s go back to the beginning and unravel the case that sealed Benjamin Richie’s fate. Welcome to our channel. If you’re into true crime stories that dig beneath the surface, hit that subscribe button. Now, let’s begin.
On August 13th, 2001 in Houston, Texas, officer Charles R. Clark responded to a suspicious man, Benjamin Donnie Richie, trying to enter a vehicle. When ordered to stop, Richie fled, leading to a chase. During the pursuit, gunfire erupted and Officer Clark was fatally shot. Richie escaped, prompting a city-wide manhunt. Why did Benjamin Richie pull the trigger? Who was he before that night? And why did the state decide he had to die? Welcome to our channel.
If you’re into deep, emotional, true crime stories that go beyond the headlines, make sure to subscribe. Let’s unpack the case that led to one man’s final countdown. Let’s rewind the clock back to where it all began. Before the headlines labeled him a cop killer, before the death sentence, Benjamin Donnie Richie was just a boy born into chaos. May 30th, 1980.
That’s the day Benjamin came into the world. But from the start, life offered him no soft landing. He never knew the man who fathered him. His mother, Marian Martin, was deep in addiction, alcohol, drugs, using even while pregnant. She worked as a stripper, drifting in and out of Benjamin’s life, abandoning him twice before he was even 3 years old.
At first, Benjamin carried a different last name, Peoples, that came from Donald Peoples, the man married to his mother. But when Donald learned Benjamin wasn’t his biological son, he left too, taking Benjamin’s two older half-bros and walking away. Another door closed. Another scar left behind. Eventually, Benjamin was adopted by Vera and Oscar Richie, giving him the name the world now knows, but the damage had already been done.
In school, Richie struggled to stay afloat. He repeated the first grade, dropped out by 9th. Behavioral problems followed him like a shadow. Teachers saw the signs. So did one local minister who tried to help, offering counseling during those fragile years in the third and fourth grade. But the pain ran deep.
By age 10, he was admitted to Community North Hospital for treatment. Doctors diagnosed him with bipolar disorder and cognitive impairments, likely rooted in the trauma of his early childhood and his mother’s substance abuse. Then came the first real step into the criminal justice system. August 1998, Richie was convicted of burglary. By 2000, he was out on probation, still young, still volatile.
No one knew it then, but the clock had already started ticking. To understand how Benjamin Richie ended up on death row, we need to go back not just to a single moment, but to the life that led him there and the night that sealed his fate forever. It all came to a head on September 29th, 2000 in Beach Grove, Indiana, a quiet suburb just outside Indianapolis.
Richie was only 20 years old and already sliding down a dangerous path. That day, he and two accompllices were cruising through town with bad intentions. They spotted an opportunity. A white van left unattended at a local gas station. Within minutes, it was gone, stolen. The theft was quickly reported and police were alerted.
About 2 hours later, officer Matthew Matt Hickeyi, on his way to respond to a traffic accident, noticed the stolen vehicle. He radioed it in, got confirmation, and turned around to follow it. He wasn’t alone for long. Two other officers, Robert Mercury and William Ronald Tony, soon joined in the pursuit. The chase was on.
At this point, only Richie and one of his friends were inside the van. The third man, Michael Moody, had been dropped off earlier. What happened next was fast and chaotic. The van suddenly veered off the road and pulled into the yard of a small residential home. Richie and his remaining accomplice, 20-year-old Michael Greer, jumped out and ran in opposite directions.
Officer Hickey, managed to grab Greer and place him under arrest. But Richie, he kept running. Officer William Tony sprinted after him on foot. It was the last chase he would ever make. As the two weaved through the neighborhood, Richie suddenly stopped, pulled a handgun, and opened fire for shots rang out. One bullet found its way above officer Tony’s bulletproof vest, piercing his upper chest. He collapsed.
It was a fatal wound. Officer William Tony, just 31 years old, was pronounced dead shortly after. He was a husband, a father of two young daughters. A former Marine, he had only been on the force for 2 years. Back at the scene, everything changed. This wasn’t just a vehicle theft anymore. It was the murder of a police officer.
The stakes skyrocketed. The next day, Benjamin Richie was tracked down and arrested at the home of his friend Michael Moody, the same man who had helped steal the van. Officers moved in quickly, taking Richie into custody without incident. For prosecutors, this case was simple. A convicted felon on probation, a stolen van, a deadly chase, a fallen officer.
The death penalty was on the table from day one. But behind that violent moment was a boy raised in dysfunction. A childhood filled with abandonment, abuse, mental illness, and missed chances. Benjamin Donnie Richie had been given up by his mother, cast aside by his stepfather, and thrown into a world where survival often meant doing the unthinkable.
The next chapter in Richie’s life began with a murder charge. The state of Indiana made its intentions clear. This wasn’t just about punishment. It was about making an example. In November 2000, Marian County prosecutor Scott Newman announced the state would seek the death. The case was already drawing media attention.
A young police officer gunned down. A troubled man with a violent past. Reporters wanted answers. But before long, the court slammed the door shut. A gag order was issued. No police, no lawyers, no interviews. The court wanted to avoid a trial by media. Still, one interview slipped through. Before the order was in place, Benjamin spoke with a reporter.
In it, he claimed he didn’t mean to kill officer Tony, that it was an accident during a panic-filled chase. A friend backed up his story, but prosecutors weren’t buying it. To them, this wasn’t a heat of the moment mistake. This was murder. Meanwhile, the two men who were with Richie during the van theft, Michael Greer and Michael Moody, were also facing charges.
At first, Greer was charged with murder, too, but prosecutors cut a deal. He agreed to testify against Richie in exchange for a plea bargain. Greer was convicted of assisting a criminal, theft, and trespassing, and would face up to 8 years behind bars. His sentence would be handed down after Richie’s trial. Michael Moody, the third man involved, was hit with autotheft and carrying an unlicensed handgun.
He faced up to four years in prison. As Richie’s trial date approached, his defense team launched a major legal challenge. They filed a motion citing the US Supreme Court’s recent ruling in Ring versus Arizona 2002. That ruling changed everything. Only a jury, not a judge, could sentence someone to death. Richie’s lawyers argued that Indiana’s system was unconstitutional.
In Indiana, if a jury couldn’t agree on a sentence, a judge could impose the death penalty using what’s called judicial override. The defense claimed this violated Benjamin’s rights and asked the court to take the death penalty off the table entirely. It was a bold move. In response, Judge Patricia Gford made a critical ruling. She agreed judicial override was unconstitutional under the new president, but she did not remove the death penalty as an option.
Instead, she ruled that a jury could still sentence Richie to death and his right to a fair trial would remain intact. The stage was set. A high-profile capital murder trial was coming. The question was no longer just did he do it, but does he deserve to die for it? August 2002. The courtroom was tense.
After nearly two years of waiting, Benjamin Donnie Richie finally faced a jury. His trial began on August 5th, 2002 at the Maran County Superior Court. Jury selection had taken place just days earlier on July 31st. The judge had previously issued a gag order, but it expired as soon as the trial began, allowing the public and press to witness every detail unfold.
On the second day, a key witness took the stand, Richie’s accomplice, Greer. He testified that Richie was terrified of going back to prison. At the time of the murder, Richie was still on probation for a burglary conviction. A new arrest could mean eight more years behind bars, something he desperately wanted to avoid.
That fear, the prosecution argued, led him to pull the trigger and end the life of Officer William Tony. By August 10th, the jury reached a swift and decisive verdict. Guilty on all counts. Richie was convicted of murder, autotheft, carrying an unlicensed firearm, and resisting arrest. Officer Tony’s widow, sitting in the gallery, expressed relief.
She later told reporters that she hoped Richie would receive the death penalty. Anything less would not be justice. During the penalty phase, Richie’s defense team made one final plea. They argued that he suffered from mental impairments, possibly caused by a head injury or prenatal substance exposure.
His life, they said, had been marked by trauma and neglect, circumstances beyond his control. But the prosecution didn’t back down. They reminded the jury that many others had difficult upbringings without turning into killers. On August 14th, after just three hours of deliberation, the jury returned with their sentence, death. It was unanimous.
Richie reportedly laughed as the verdict was read aloud. For Tony’s widow, it was more than punishment. It was a tribute to her husband and to officers everywhere who risk their lives daily. Two months later, on October 15th, 2002, Judge Patricia Gford made it official. Richie, just 22 years old, was formally sentenced to death.
Before sentencing, Tony’s widow delivered a powerful victim impact statement, telling Richie to his face that she knew he wasn’t sorry. She called him a coward and hoped he’d suffer until the day of his execution. From that moment on, Benjamin Richie began his time on death row, housed at Indiana State Prison, a place reserved for the state’s most dangerous offenders.
By 2014, he was one of only 11 inmates awaiting execution in Indiana. By 2020, that number had dropped to just eight. But Richie remained silent, waiting. He has now spends two decades on Indiana State Penitentiary. April 2025. The clock is ticking. And for Benjamin Donnie Richie, it’s almost midnight. This is how it ends.
Not in a violent chase or courtroom outburst, but in silence, sealed motions, and lastm minute please. Nearly 25 years after the murder of officer William Tony, the state of Indiana moved to close the case for good. It all began again on September 27th, 2024 when Indiana Attorney General Todd Roita filed a motion with the Indiana Supreme Court asking for an official execution date for Richie.
It was only 2 weeks after another death row inmate, Joseph Corkran, a convicted mass murderer, was scheduled to die on December 18th, 2024. At that moment, Richie became the second man in Indiana cued for execution. It marked a serious shift. After more than a decade without carrying out a single death sentence, Indiana was quietly restarting the machinery of capital punishment.
The state had only eight inmates left on death row. Four of them, including Corkran and Richie, had exhausted every appeal. Richie’s legal team pushed back hard. They argued that his original defense failed him from the start. That no one had fully investigated whether he suffered from fetal alcohol spectrum disorders or childhoodled exposure, conditions that might have explained his erratic behavior and potentially spared him from a death sentence.
But in the court of public opinion, sympathy was scarce. DD Hin, widow of officer William Tony, spoke plainly to reporters. I’ve waited 24 years for this. I don’t feel joy. I don’t feel happiness, but justice needs to be served. Her words cut deep. As of June 2024, Richie was the only person on Indiana’s death row convicted of killing a law enforcement officer.
Two more suspects were awaiting trial for similar crimes, and both were facing the death penalty, too. While Richie’s appeals were still crawling through the system, Indiana carried out Corkran’s execution on December 18th, 2024, ending the state’s 15-year moratorum on capital punishment.
That moratorium wasn’t political. It was pharmaceutical. For years, drug shortages and manufacturer refusals made lethal injections nearly impossible. But now Indiana had found a way to resume. Then came the final blow. On April 15th, 2025, after months of deliberation, the Indiana Supreme Court denied Richie’s postconviction relief request.
The ruling was divided but decisive. His execution was scheduled for just before dawn on May 20th, 2025. In the majority opinion, Justice Jeffrey G. Slaughter wrote that while Richie showed signs of cognitive impairment, it wouldn’t have swayed the original jury. Chief Justice Loretta Rush dissented. She believed there was enough evidence to revisit whether Richie had received ineffective legal representation and whether his impairments could have changed the course of justice.
But the countdown had started. Richie’s last chance, clemency. On April 28th, two hearings were scheduled, May 5th and May 12th. Richie filed a clemency petition on April 22nd asking the Indiana parole board for mercy. Under state law, the final decision rested with the governor after reviewing the board’s recommendation.
At the first hearing on May 5th, Richie addressed the board personally. He apologized for killing officer Tony and said he was no longer the same man. I want to make good use of a second chance, he said. He begged for life imprisonment instead of execution. But on May 12th, the Tony family had their turn. Friends, loved ones, and colleagues of the fallen officer stood before the board, urging them to follow through with the sentence imposed nearly 25 years earlier.
2 days later, on May 14th, the board denied clemency, and Governor Mike Brawn backed their decision. The state would not intervene. Now the date is set. The appeals are over. The clock keeps ticking. In the early hours of May 20th, 2025, Benjamin Donnie Richie is scheduled to be executed. Next, inside his final 24 hours, who he saw, what he ate, what he said, and how it all ended.
And that’s where Benjamin Richie’s story stands on the edge of finality. In 24 hours from now, Indiana will carry out its first execution of 2025. We’ll know what Richie chose for his last meal. We’ll hear who, if anyone, came to visit him one last time. And perhaps most haunting of all, we’ll hear his final words if he chooses to speak.
But until then, a question lingers. Did he deserve to die? Legally, he was sentenced to death for killing one man, Officer William Tony. Not a mass murderer, not a serial killer, one man. But that man wore a badge. And with that badge comes a powerful truth. Killing a police officer often carries more legal and emotional weight than killing a civilian.
The justice system treats the murder of a law enforcement officer as an attack not just on one person, but on the structure of public safety itself. That’s why so many states, including Indiana, pursue the death penalty in these cases, even when they don’t for others. It’s why Officer Tony’s widow said anything less than execution would dishonor her husband’s sacrifice.
But does that mean a cop’s life is worth more than yours? Than mine? Than anyone else’s? That’s the moral tension buried inside every capital case? Some say justice must reflect the value of the victim’s role in society. Others say justice should be blind to status, that the crime should matter more than the badge.
As we wait for Richie’s final hours to unfold, that debate only grows louder. Is this justice or is it vengeance? We’ll let you decide.
