“It’s a lot more fun to live in the ’60s than to be in your ’60s.” — Ron Moore
Ron Moore died a week ago today, an old-school lawman who left a legacy of good humor and touched the lives of a host of folks.
For years I stopped by the sheriff’s office each morning as part of my news beat. Ron was always willing to give me the inside scoop, often in more detail than I expected, trusting me to keep sensitive information under wraps until the time was right for its publication.
A raid on a drug dealer’s place on the east edge of Allen County is an example of such a relationship.
Ron had kept me informed of the weeks-long investigation by local offices and the KBI.
One afternoon, a heavily armed KBI entry team, and others, including Ron and I, descended on the place. Repeated pleas for surrender went unanswered.
Finally, Ron took charge. “What the heck,” he said, and barged into the house.
Within seconds, he walked out with the suspect.
“Weren’t you afraid he’d shoot you?” I asked later. “No,” Ron replied. “He might be guilty of selling drugs, but he isn’t stupid. He knew if he shot me, he’d probably die,” in a fusillade of bullets.
Another time I was prepping for deer hunting.
“Have a rifle?” Ron asked. “Not really,” I said. “I’ll probably borrow one.”
He pulled an old 30.06 pump from a corner and handed it to me. “You can have it. I stopped a car awhile back and this was beside the road.” The motorist in question, a felon, swore it wasn’t his, and Ron brought it back to his office.
The rifle worked just fine.
One wintry evening he and a KHP trooper were working an accident on icy pavement at the base of a hill south of Humboldt.
Ron was directing traffic when a large pickup came driving up. Wearing his cowboy hat and puffing on a cigar, Ron dropped to the ground when it became obvious the truck couldn’t stop. When the driver got it stopped, Ron was flat on his back with both hands clutching the front bumper.
