In law enforcement, you don't forget the men who never leave your side.
On the evening of June 2, 1978, Trooper Jim Froemsdorf and I were preparing to run radar in Perry County, Missouri. I was the traffic safety officer with the Perry County Sheriff's Department, and Jim was with the Missouri State Highway Patrol. Our primary mission was to enforce the 55-mph speed limit, not only on Interstate 55, but also on secondary roads throughout the county. It was a warm summer evening that began uneventfully, as many of our shifts often did.
At that time, there were certain areas of Perry County where the law hadn't been enforced in years. We came to discover that there were quite a few people in those areas who didn't want the law enforced. Our sheriff was a young man by the name of Gerald Pingel. Early in his career, Sheriff Pingel had mounted a campaign against underage drinking in the county. We had a high fatality rate among teenagers in traffic accidents, the majority of which were attributed to alcohol. Working with the Missouri State Highway Patrol, we began a very strict traffic enforcement program. That's how Trooper Froemsdorf and I began working together. Jim lived about a mile from me with his wife, Sarah, and their three little girls. My wife and I had two young sons, and the kids were all around the same age. Jim and I got to know each other very well while we were on duty, and our families quickly became friends.
We were preparing to work a section of the highway that June evening when I got a call from Sheriff Pingel advising us that they had gotten word about a big party taking place in a field in the northern part of the county near the Perry County–St. Genevieve County line. We needed to go out there, shut the party down, and make the necessary arrests. They had already done some preliminary surveillance and found that there were a couple of hundred people there and a few rock bands had already begun playing. It was the weekend of Perryville High School's graduation, and with two beer wagons set up inside the party, there was a lot of drinking being done by the largely underage crowd.
Sheriff Pingel, Jim, and I took off down Highway 61. It was dark as I wound my patrol car down the one-lane gravel road deep into the woods. The sounds of live music and raucous revelers got louder as I came upon the open field, where I found a sea of trucks, cars, tents, and a huge flatbed trailer that I assumed was for the band, whose amps were blaring loudly into the rowdy crowd. There were two young guys standing at the entrance charging admission. We immediately arrested the two gatekeepers and put them into the back of my patrol car.
As soon as the partygoers realized that we were there to shut them down, they turned their energy on us and started throwing rocks and beer cans. It became obvious that this crowd was not going to peacefully accept that their party was over. To make matters worse, the mass of people seemed to be growing by the minute. Sheriff Pingel advised me by radio to head back up to where the dirt road intersected with a county road and block the entrance to the field where we had just raided the party.
As I blocked off the road, I realized that the crowd had gathered into an angry mob around me. I radioed Sheriff Pingel, who was seventy-five yards due west of where I was, and requested that he send Jim down to help me with crowd control. It wasn't a few minutes before I saw Jim coming down the dark lane on foot. Because of the vehicular traffic and swarms of people jamming the gravel road, it was the quickest but also the most dangerous way to get to where I was, at the center of the crowd. I kept my eye on Jim, and as he approached me, a huge fence post hurtled through the air and crashed directly through the front windshield of my brand-new patrol car.
A guy in his mid-twenties sporting long hair, tattoos, and a leather biker's vest jumped up on the hood of my car. I would later learn that he was a member of the Outlaws motorcycle gang, which had a club in the Perryville area. I pulled my shotgun out of the car, jacked one up in the chamber, and took aim. He immediately jumped down and disappeared into the crowd. At that moment, I realized that I had just made a huge mistake. Jim and I were far outnumbered by the unruly mob. We had our service revolvers, but we both knew that we didn't stand a chance against a group of four hundred angry rioters.
The partiers continued to throw rocks, beer cans, and whatever else they could find. They also began to chant, "Kill the pigs! Kill the pigs!" There was no question that the situation was out of control, and we were in desperate need of assistance. My keys had been taken out of the ignition and thrown into the woods and the fence post was still lodged through the windshield of my patrol car, so Jim and I ran on foot to the one-lane dirt road to talk to Sheriff Pingel and radio for backup.
That's when my patrol car blew up. Someone had poked holes in the fuel tank and let the gasoline run out into a fuse line. When the fuse was lit, the rear half of the car exploded as if a bomb had gone off. There was a lot of yelling and screaming, people running in all directions. By the time I took the radio mike and advised Perry County we had a riot in progress and needed the fire department and surrounding agencies for assistance, my patrol car was fully engulfed in flames.
The fire department arrived after about fifteen minutes to put out the fire, but officers from the surrounding agencies weren't familiar with the area and were having trouble locating us so far back in the woods. It was the longest forty-five minutes of my life from the first time the call for assistance was made before officers from the surrounding police departments, sheriff's departments, and the Missouri State Highway Patrol started to arrive. During that time Trooper Froemsdorf, Sheriff Pingel, and I made every attempt to control the rowdy crowd. Once the backup officers arrived, the crowd finally dispersed, only to converge again on the city of Per ryville, where the local elected police chief opened the city park up for them to finish their party. I could not believe the chief would make such a decision after the absolute pure hell we had just survived.
Sheriff Pingel, Jim, and I headed back to the sheriff's office in Perryville. We booked the handful of rioters we had arrested and started the investigation to find the people who had torched my car. The next day we received a tip that the two men responsible for the fire were Outlaw bikers, one of whom was the same guy who had jumped on the hood of my car. I'd had the two gatekeepers we'd arrested upon our arrival handcuffed in the back of the car, and learned that the bikers told them to either get out or burn up with the patrol car.
That following Monday, warrants were issued for the two men. I arrested one at a local rock quarry where he worked, but his friend had gone on the run. It took about two weeks, but Jim and I tracked him down and found him hiding in the closet of a mobile home along U.S. Highway 61 approximately three miles north from where my patrol car was burned. Both men were convicted and each received a seven-year prison sentence.
I'm still amazed that we made it out that night without any injuries. I can think of a dozen other situations where I called on Jim for backup and he was always there for me.
Jim was killed in the line of duty on March 2, 1985. He had stopped a car on the interstate and discovered that the driver, a man named Jerome Mallett, had a suspended license and was in violation of his parole for a previous armed robbery conviction. Jim had him handcuffed, but Mallett had a trick thumb and was able to escape from the cuffs. A struggle ensued inside the car, until Mallett got Jim's sidearm out of the holster and fatally shot him three times. Jim was thirty-five-years old. Jerome Mallett was found guilty by a jury and was sentenced to death. He was executed on July 11, 2001, for the death of Trooper Froemsdorf.
I took Jim's death very hard. I'm still not over it. I will never be over it. Jim was a cherished husband and father, a true brother, and an outstanding law enforcement officer. Those are shoes that can never be filled.
Even twenty years after his death, I can't help but shake the feeling that Jim is still by my side. In 2002, my son graduated from the Missouri Police Corps after twenty-six-weeks of training. Sarah Froemsdorf and one of her daughters were also in the crowd of family and friends showing their support for Missouri's newest police officers. They were there to celebrate another young man from the graduating class; a young man that Jim, whose life was taken when his daughters were still small children, never had the opportunity to meet–his future son-in-law.
To this day I wear an armband in Jim's memory, and his picture still hangs in my home. A section of the highway near where Jim lost his life is dedicated in his name. Jim Froemsdorf was a proud member of the Missouri State Highway Patrol, and I'm very honored to say that I was very proud to work with him and call him myfriend. You just never forget a warrior like him. Especially in law enforcement. You don't forget the men who never leave your side in the line of duty.
This story is dedicated to the men and women of law enforcement who have paid the ultimate sacrifice and given their lives in order to protect and serve the American people.
Jerry D. Wolsey's service includes Sikeston PD, Missouri, two years; Chaffee PD, Missouri, two years; Perry County Sheriff's Department, Missouri, one year four months; Scott County Sheriff's Department, Benton, Missouri, fifteen years active duty; Scott County Sheriff's Reserve Unit, four years; Wolsey Investigative Service, thirteen years.