A teenager fatally shot by a deputy on a roadway in New Mexico during the previous summer represents part of an escalating pattern of such incidents.

While driving across the plains of southern New Mexico one evening last summer, Gina Via initially mistook a figure for an elk. Approaching nearer, she recognized it as someone dangerously close to the highway and decided to contact emergency services.

Jacob Diaz-Austin, among the limited number of deputies covering Otero County’s expansive 6,627 square miles, responded to the dispatch for a check on a potentially inebriated pedestrian. He activated his siren lights, played the dance track “In da Getto” at high volume, and raced to the location, exceeding 120 mph, based on recordings of sound and visuals obtained by The Wall Street Journal.

The deputy decelerated, stopped, and directed his beam at Elijah Hadley, a 17-year-old walking beside the divider close to his residence on the Mescalero Apache land. Having been assaulted the prior day and feeling afraid, Hadley was holding a BB pistol.

In a short time, Diaz-Austin discharged approximately 22 rounds toward Hadley. He fired four shots right after Hadley let go of the BB gun. Diaz-Austin is currently charged with first-degree murder and has entered a not-guilty plea.

In the past year, law enforcement caused the deaths of 1,260 individuals—the peak figure since tracking began by data-analysis groups 10 years earlier. Sheriff’s offices, responsible for county areas, accounted for approximately one-third of police-related deaths in 2024, even though they represent only a quarter of the nation’s law enforcement, according to the nonprofit Mapping Police Violence. Fatalities linked to sheriff’s offices increased by 43% since 2013, compared to a 3% rise for municipal police departments.

These figures highlight an expanding divide in practices between city and countryside policing following the 2020 death of George Floyd, which prompted widespread urban demonstrations. Large urban police forces encountered demands to curb forceful methods and implement reforms to reduce the number of officer-involved shootings.

Sheriffs—largely chosen through political elections, in contrast to appointed police leaders—have traditionally promoted a strict emphasis on maintaining order, backed by their voters. Especially amid the pandemic-related surge in national violence, sheriff’s units rapidly employed aggressive measures to suppress disturbances.

“Sheriffs tend to operate more assertively, meaning my deputies are more ready to counter violence with violence,” stated Chad Bianco, the sheriff of Riverside County in Southern California.

Amid recent demonstrations against Trump’s immigration policies in recent months, certain sheriffs delivered stern messages to participants.

“If you hurl a brick, a firebomb, or aim a firearm at one of our deputies, we’ll inform your relatives where to retrieve your body,” declared Brevard County, Florida, Sheriff Wayne Ivey. “We will end your life, completely.”

‘One Riot, One Ranger’

Deputies in sheriff’s offices frequently work solo, with assistance many miles away. This is why Glenn Hamilton, ex-sheriff of Sierra County, New Mexico (with 11,000 residents), likens rural enforcement to “one riot, one ranger.”

However, evolving demands in overseeing America’s rural areas are challenging these independent, versatile deputies. Declining economies, together with crises in substance abuse and psychological well-being, require them to handle issues once more typical of urban centers.

Roughly 14% of sheriff-involved fatalities last year stemmed from responses to mental-health emergencies, like armed individuals in suicidal states directing weapons at deputies. About 28% related to serious offenses such as thefts, gunfire, and knife attacks. Almost three-fourths of those killed possessed firearms, blades, or similar armaments.

Deputies face these shifts with reduced readiness compared to urban colleagues. Rural sheriff’s units commonly do not have the resources, funds, or motivation to provide specialized instruction—like techniques for de-escalating mental-health situations—that have aided some city forces in decreasing shootings.

“Urban departments were further along than sheriffs” in de-escalation education, noted Volusia County, Florida, Sheriff Mike Chitwood, who introduced such programs after his 2016 election. “It was challenging to persuade my team, which held a shoot-first, inquire-later mindset.”

On average, sheriff’s offices mandate 38 hours of ongoing training yearly, versus 46 for city police, according to the latest government statistics. They also tend to lack personnel focused on mental health and intervention in crises.

Lower pay impedes sheriffs’ efforts to recruit skilled and competent applicants. In Ohio’s Ashtabula County last year, the sheriff’s office drew attention by employing the officer dubbed the “$9 million cop,” a former local city policeman who departed after facing two lawsuits over shootings that resulted in substantial payouts, leading to the nickname in regional media coverage.

Two years earlier, that officer had fatally shot a suicidal individual from 482 feet using a long-range rifle, while the man gripped a shotgun that on-scene officers thought was empty. The officer subsequently expressed frustration to state investigators that “everyone’s been griping about de-escalation.” He was exonerated.

‘Nothing Was Working’

In Wyoming’s Hot Springs County, where livestock exceed human inhabitants, deputies have traditionally managed tasks like removing cattle from roads. But lately, they serve as primary responders for mental health emergencies in rural America, amid severe deficits in psychological care providers, rising suicide numbers, and related issues.

In 2023, an individual assaulted and menaced two deputies with death. Last September, Jared Gottula, 41, jobless and dealing with unmanaged mental illness, positioned himself outdoors swinging a baseball bat.

An initial officer commanded Gottula to relinquish it, but footage of the incident showed that he rushed the officer’s vehicle. The officer struck Gottula with the SUV, yet he retained the bat.

Hot Springs County Sheriff’s Deputy Max Lee-Crain unholstered his firearm and yelled: “Get on the ground now! Don’t make me shoot you!” Gottula inquired, “Why are you here?”

After a stun device proved ineffective, Gottula moved toward Lee-Crain, who shot until his magazine was empty. Gottula’s father hurried to his son’s body, crying, “Is he dead?”

The deadly encounter stunned the serene county of 4,600, famed for hot springs and angling. Sheriff Jerimie Kraushaar could not remember a prior officer-involved shooting in the agency’s records. A prosecutor deemed it justified, observing that Gottula “simply would not stop the violence.”

Currently, the Wyoming Association of Sheriffs and Chiefs of Police advocates for new officers to complete 40 hours of mental-health crisis instruction. Despite de-escalation attempts, the lack of behavioral-health resources in rural Wyoming complicates avoidance, according to Executive Director Allen Thompson. “Where we struggle is preventing that from happening the next night and next.”

Police Training

Following the George Floyd demonstrations, major-city leaders directed their forces to shift from what they term “fear-based, warrior style” instruction.

Sheriffs, however, did not retreat. There was no impetus for change. As crowds protested in New York, Chicago, and Los Angeles demanding police funding cuts, rural communities organized “Back the Blue” gatherings.

In New Mexico’s Otero County, spanning from White Sands Missile Range to near the Mexican border, hundreds appeared with placards like “We Support our Brothers and Sisters in Blue.” Sheriff David Black informed a local journalist he valued the backing since “law enforcement has been getting beat up a little bit, getting a bad rap.”

Deputies and supervisors under Black routinely train with the Force Science Institute, a group that lost support from some urban departments for advancing what detractors label a “shoot first” approach. The organization’s sessions—which highlight rapid suspect actions in drawing and firing weapons—instruct officers to “shoot first and often, and then provides them with the tools to justify those shootings after the tragic fact,” according to the American Civil Liberties Union.

Von Kliem, the institute’s chief consulting officer, stated that their training stresses using available time for achieving willing adherence—but acknowledges that “some situations require officers to act swiftly to prevent harm.”

Over the last two years, Otero County funded training for half a dozen supervisors and deputies with Force Science, dispatching them to locations like Seattle and Columbus, Ohio. The sheriff did not address inquiries on whether Deputy Diaz-Austin, an academy graduate from 2021, underwent this. Diaz-Austin’s attorney did not respond to comments.

New Mexico civil-rights lawyer Shannon Kennedy, who examined the training during a suit against a neighboring department, thinks the Hadley shooting displayed typical traits.

“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 remarked. “That’s why you see what happened in Otero County.”

Kliem contested the depiction. “Far from encouraging aggressive behavior, our instruction emphasizes professional judgment, tactical patience, and effective communication skills,” he said.

‘Chill Vibe’

Elijah Hadley spent his childhood exploring the hilly Mescalero Apache territory. He acquired deer hunting and processing skills from his uncle and assisted in preparing the large trench for the tribe’s yearly mescal feast.

Friends portrayed Hadley as possessing a “chill vibe that was contagious,” per a letter from the family’s lawyer. His school principal described him as polite, always using “yes ma’am.”

He shone in artistic pursuits, earning third place in a 2023 state contest. His welding instructor permitted him to decorate the school’s workshop walls. As he was approaching his final year of high school, he considered enlisting in the armed forces like his sibling or pursuing tattoo artistry.

“We all felt like he had a good chance of making a good life for himself through his art,” his friends expressed in a letter.

On that highway evening, Hadley protected his eyes from the deputy’s light with one hand while concealing the other beneath his clothing. Diaz-Austin insisted on viewing the hand. Dashboard camera recordings showed Hadley removing his hand holding what seemed like a pistol, then dangling it inverted by finger and thumb prior to discarding it. Diaz-Austin commenced firing.

“It’s just a BB gun!” Hadley shouted while writhing on the ground. “It’s just a BB gun!”

Panicked and gasping, the deputy hurried to his vehicle’s passenger area for a medical kit but refrained from using it. Rather, he positioned near his car, yelling at Hadley to remain immobile. Three minutes later, the injured, convulsing youth turned over.

“Don’t go to that gun!” Diaz-Austin called. He shot multiple times at the wounded teen until his gun was empty. He reloaded and continued firing, about 18 shots total, until Hadley stopped moving.

A week later, in a state police interview, Diaz-Austin claimed he feared Hadley intended to fire at him.

“I was in fear,” Diaz-Austin stated. “He was just staring at me and had this really sinister smile on his face.”

Diaz-Austin informed state police he thought Hadley was reaching for the weapon—and that Hadley momentarily possessed it. However, body camera footage does not support either contention.

‘Not My Brother’

Hadley’s loved ones and acquaintances were overcome with grief. Sheriff Black withheld video immediately after the shooting—unlike many current police practices—and did not provide explanations beyond a brief, unclear statement indicating an “interaction resulted in an officer-involved shooting.”

When regional TV broadcast the footage, fury ignited. “Not my brother. He didn’t f—ing deserve this!” Hadley’s sister posted online. “Shot 4 times on the ground for more than three minutes…. more than 15 times after that!!” A small group started demonstrating regularly at the sheriff’s facility.

Although Black issued no official statement, his department called the shooting appropriate by September. Diaz-Austin resumed duties, overseeing Otero County.

Yet, an autonomous prosecutorial unit on the matter dissented, filing first-degree murder charges against Diaz-Austin in January. “This was an absolute tragedy,” commented Sam Bregman, Bernalillo County’s District Attorney.

The incident has created a deep divide locally. At Diaz-Austin’s Otero County court sessions, fellow deputies present, talk and joke with him, according to Christopher Dodd, lawyer for Hadley’s relatives, who filed a federal claim against the deputy and county.

“We wonder if we could be next?” they noted in a letter. “We wonder if we can ever trust police officers again?”

Conclusion

The tragic killing of Elijah Hadley is not an isolated incident but a symptom of a systemic crisis in rural law enforcement. As sheriff’s departments across the country face mounting pressures—from mental health crises to dwindling resources—their reliance on aggressive tactics and inadequate training has led to a troubling surge in police violence. While urban departments have faced public scrutiny and reform efforts in the wake of George Floyd’s death, rural sheriffs, insulated by political support and a culture of impunity, have doubled down on militarized policing with deadly consequences.

Hadley’s death underscores the urgent need for change: stricter oversight, mandatory de-escalation training, and accountability for officers who misuse lethal force. But beyond policy shifts, there must be a reckoning with the entrenched mentality that equates policing with unchecked power. The fact that Diaz-Austin was initially cleared and even welcomed back by his colleagues—despite video evidence contradicting his claims—reveals a justice system that too often protects officers at the expense of the communities they serve.

If rural America is to reverse this deadly trend, it must confront the harsh reality that “one riot, one ranger” is not a badge of honor but a dangerous relic of a bygone era. The stakes are clear: without meaningful reform, more lives like Elijah Hadley’s will be lost, and trust in law enforcement will continue to erode. The question now is whether sheriffs and their supporters will heed the call—or if more families will be left grieving or wondering if they could be next.  

Source: The Wall Street Journal

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