Indiana Executes Benjamin Ritchie | For Killing A Police Officer, Final Hours & Legal Controversy

On May 20th, 2025, Benjamin Ritchie was executed by lethal injection at the Indiana State Prison in Michigan City, Indiana. He was 45 years old. He had been on death row for over two decades, convicted of shooting and killing a police officer during a foot chase in the year 2000. In this video, we’re going to cover everything about this case: what led to the crime, the trial, the controversy that followed him all the way to his final hours. And yes, we will tell you exactly what his last meal was and the final words he spoke before he died. Stay with us.

Early Life and Background

Before we get to the crime, you need to understand where Benjamin Ritchie came from. Benjamin Donnie Peoples was born on May 3rd, 1980, in Indiana. He never knew his biological father. His mother, Mary Martin, was reported to have abused alcohol and drugs, including during her pregnancy. She abandoned her son twice before he was even 3 years old. He was later taken in and raised under the name Ritchie.

By the time he was a young child, he was already showing signs of serious developmental problems. He was diagnosed with ADHD in elementary school. He was prescribed Ritalin but didn’t always take it. He repeated the first grade. He was hospitalized at age 10. Records from that period note diagnoses of conduct disorder and depression. By 9th grade, he had dropped out of school entirely. He never earned a GED.

In 1998, at just 18 years old, he was convicted of burglary. He served time. He was released. He was placed on probation. Two years later, everything fell apart.

The Crime

The night of September 29th, 2000, Benjamin Ritchie, then 20 years old, was with two accomplices. Together, they stole a white van from a local gas station in Beech Grove, Indiana, just outside of Indianapolis. Someone reported the theft. Police were notified. About 2 hours later, a Beech Grove officer named Matthew Hickey spotted the stolen van while he was responding to a separate traffic accident. He confirmed it over the radio. He gave chase. Two other officers joined the pursuit: Officer Robert Mercuri and Officer William Ronald Toney.

The chase didn’t last long. The van pulled into the yard of a residential home. The doors flew open. Ritchie and one accomplice jumped out and ran in opposite directions. His accomplice, a 20-year-old named Michael Greer, was caught almost immediately by Officer Hickey. Ritchie kept running, and Officer Toney ran after him.

What happened next took only seconds. Ritchie turned around. He fired four shots at Officer Toney. One of them struck Toney just above his bulletproof vest. Officer William Toney collapsed at the scene. He did not survive.

William “Bill” Toney was 31 years old. He had been with the Beech Grove Police Department for 2 years. Beech Grove was a small, tight-knit community of about 14,000 people. The department had roughly 30 officers. Bill Toney was the first officer in that department’s history to be killed by gunfire in the line of duty. He was married. He had two young daughters, and on the night he was shot and killed, he died just hours before his 32nd birthday.

Deputy Police Chief Tom Harrell, who worked alongside him, later said, “Every one of us involved, including Bill, had something stolen from them that they’ll never get back.” His wife, Dee Dee Horen, would carry that loss for the next 25 years through the trial, the appeals, the delays, and eventually to the execution itself. We’ll hear from her again later in this video.

The Trial and Sentencing

Ritchie was arrested and charged with the murder of Officer Toney, along with auto theft, carrying an unlicensed firearm, and resisting arrest. The trial took place in 2002. On August 10th, 2002, the jury found Benjamin Ritchie guilty on all charges.

During the penalty phase, his defense team argued that Ritchie suffered from mental disabilities caused either by a head injury or by his mother’s substance abuse during pregnancy. They argued his traumatic upbringing was not something he chose and that he deserved mercy. The prosecution pushed back. They told the jury that suffering and hardship doesn’t make someone a killer, that plenty of people endure difficult childhoods and never pick up a gun.

The jury deliberated for more than 3 hours. On August 14th, 2002, they returned a unanimous verdict: death.

On October 15th, 2002, Benjamin Ritchie, 22 years old, stood before Marion County Superior Court Judge Patricia Gifford and was formally sentenced to death. Before the sentence was read, Officer Toney’s widow, Dee Dee Horen, stood up and delivered her victim impact statement directly to the man who had killed her husband. She told him she knew he wasn’t sorry. She called him a coward. She said she hoped he would be miserable for every remaining day of his life until the moment of his execution.

And Benjamin Ritchie, he smiled. As the verdict was read, he smiled and reportedly laughed. That image stayed with Toney’s family for years. It became part of the story, something Ritchie himself would eventually reflect on with deep regret, but we’ll get to that.

The two legal aggravating factors that made Ritchie eligible for the death penalty were:

First, that he was already on probation at the time of the murder from his 1998 burglary conviction.
Second, that Officer Toney was acting in the lawful course of his duties when he was killed.

Decades on Death Row

Ritchie was sent to Indiana State Prison, and that’s where he would spend the next 23 years. Death row is a strange limbo. You know your sentence. You don’t always know when, or if, it will ever actually be carried out. For Benjamin Ritchie, that uncertainty lasted for over two decades.

Indiana faced a significant problem. The state had run out of the drugs required to carry out lethal injections. Pharmaceutical companies had begun refusing to allow their products to be used in executions. Indiana’s last execution before this case had been in 2009. A 15-year pause followed.

During those years, Ritchie remained in his cell. In 2005, he was diagnosed with bipolar disorder. He was also featured in a documentary series on the Indiana State Prison filmed by British journalist Sir Trevor McDonald. And in 2024, it emerged that during his time on death row, Ritchie had developed a four-year relationship with a woman from Sweden who had reportedly fallen in love with him through correspondence. He was also, by most accounts from those who knew him during those years, a changed man. Whether that mattered legally or morally would become the central question of his final years.

Final Appeals and Controversy

In 2024, Indiana announced it had acquired Pentobarbital, the drug needed to resume executions. The state moved quickly. On September 27th, 2024, Indiana Attorney General Todd Rokita filed a motion with the Indiana Supreme Court to set an execution date for Benjamin Ritchie. At that point, Indiana’s death row held only eight people. Four of them, including Ritchie, had exhausted all of their standard appeals. He was next in line after fellow death row inmate Joseph Corcoran, who was executed on December 18th, 2024, ending the state’s 15-year pause on capital punishment.

Ritchie’s legal team moved fast. They filed a motion arguing that his trial lawyers were ineffective for failing to present evidence that he had Fetal Alcohol Spectrum Disorder (FASD). New medical experts said he likely suffered brain damage from prenatal exposure to alcohol and drugs, affecting his judgment and impulse control. A psychologist testified that his mental functioning at the time of the crime was closer to that of a child than an adult. The claim wasn’t that he was innocent, but that the jury never heard this critical information when deciding his sentence.

This is where the case gets complicated. On April 15th, 2025, the Indiana Supreme Court issued its ruling, divided. By a 4-1 vote, the court rejected Ritchie’s request for post-conviction relief and formally set his execution date: May 20th, 2025. But that single dissenting vote came from Chief Justice Loretta Rush. She publicly questioned whether Ritchie’s lawyers failed to present crucial FASD evidence and argued it should be reviewed before setting an execution date. Although the court wasn’t unanimous, that division fueled opposition. Advocates said his brain damage should make him ineligible for the death penalty, while others argued justice had already been delayed long enough. Hearings, petitions, and vigils followed, highlighting a deep divide, all centered on a man many believed had changed since the crime.

Clemency Hearings

On May 5th, 2025, Benjamin Ritchie appeared before a five-member panel of the Indiana Parole Board to make his case for clemency. He spoke quietly. He took responsibility. He told the board:

“I’ve ruined my life and other people’s lives. And I’m so sorry for that night. You can’t take back what you did.”

He also addressed the moment at sentencing that had haunted him. The moment he smiled and laughed in front of Dee Dee Horen. He said:

“I wish I could go back to the day in court because that man’s wife deserved to say everything she needed to say to me. And that punk kid should have just kept his mouth shut and let her say whatever she needed to say. That was her right. That was his family’s right.”

A second hearing was held on May 12th. This time, Toney’s family spoke. Dee Dee Horen, Bill Toney’s widow, addressed the board. She said:

“It’s time. We’re all tired. It is time for this chapter of my story, our story, to be closed. It’s time for us to remember Bill. To remember Bill’s life and not his death.”

On May 14th, 2025, the parole board voted unanimously to deny clemency. They cited over a dozen disciplinary violations during Ritchie’s time in prison, including threats of violence against others. Governor Mike Braun followed the board’s recommendation and declined to grant clemency. He offered no personal explanation.

Ritchie’s legal team then took the fight to federal court. They appealed to the 7th US Circuit Court of Appeals. They petitioned the US Supreme Court on the night of May 19th, 2025, hours before the scheduled execution. The US Supreme Court declined to intervene. Every door had closed.

The Final Hours

Ritchie’s attorneys spent several hours with him on Monday, May 19th. He had received visits from friends and family all weekend. People who loved him, people he had reconnected with during his years on death row. After his attorneys left around 6:00 p.m., he was allowed to make final phone calls.

Outside the prison, roughly two dozen protesters gathered in the parking lot: clergy members, anti-death penalty advocates, and ordinary citizens. A Catholic priest led a rosary. The Delaware bell, a bell that has been rung outside more than a dozen executions across the country, echoed into the night. On the other side of the gathering, supporters of Officer Toney held their own vigil. Two groups, one night, one outcome.

Shortly after midnight on May 20th, 2025, Benjamin Ritchie was brought into the execution chamber at Indiana State Prison. He was 45 years old.

For his final meal, Benjamin Ritchie chose the “Tour of Italy” from Olive Garden. It’s one of the chain’s signature dishes, a combination plate featuring chicken parmigiana, lasagna classico, and fettuccine alfredo. A simple choice, familiar, comforting—the kind of meal you might order on a Friday night with your family. He ate it alone in a cell hours before his death.

The Execution

The lethal injection process began shortly after 12:01 a.m. Ritchie was administered a single drug, Pentobarbital. The source of the drug was not disclosed. Indiana had paid $900,000 to acquire its supply of execution drugs, but officials refused to release details on the quantity or origin.

Under Indiana law, Ritchie was permitted five personal witnesses. His attorney, Steve Schutte, was among them. No media were present. Indiana is one of only two states in the country that bars journalists from witnessing executions (the other is Wyoming). The Associated Press and four other news organizations had filed a federal lawsuit just weeks earlier, arguing that banning the press violated the First Amendment. A judge denied that request days before the execution took place.

So, what the public knows about those final minutes comes exclusively from Ritchie’s own witnesses. And what they described was disturbing. Steve Schutte told reporters that shortly after the drugs began to flow, Ritchie suddenly and violently lifted his head and shoulders off the gurney. He twitched for approximately 3 seconds. Then he slowly relaxed back down. Two other witnesses in the room gave similar accounts. “He violently sat up, raised his shoulders, and twitched violently for about 3 seconds,” Schutte said. “He didn’t collapse back down. It looked like he just kind of relaxed back down and had no movement for another couple of minutes, and then they closed the curtains.”

Dr. Jonathan Groner, an emeritus clinical professor of surgery at Ohio State University who has studied executions extensively, was clear: that’s not what is supposed to happen when Pentobarbital is administered. He raised concerns about the unknown age and storage conditions of the drug and about whether the intravenous lines were properly placed. “If the drug gets under the skin instead of in the vein, it can definitely burn,” Groner said. He called for a thorough autopsy. Indiana does not require an autopsy after an execution, and one has not been publicly confirmed.

The Indiana Department of Correction disputed all of it. An IDOC spokesperson said the attorney’s account is not an accurate description of the circumstances and that Ritchie’s execution was completed according to protocol. No independent witness was present to resolve the contradiction.

Benjamin Ritchie was pronounced dead at 12:46 a.m. on May 20th, 2025.

Before the process began, Benjamin Ritchie was asked if he had any final words. He did. He said:

“I love my family, my friends, and all the support I’ve gotten. I hope they all find peace.”

That was it. No denial, no anger, no final proclamation—just love, and a hope for peace.

The Aftermath

When it was over, the reactions came quickly. Indiana Attorney General Todd Rokita said the execution honored Officer Toney’s sacrifice to the community. Beech Grove Police Chief Michael Maurer said, “While there is no peace in the execution, there is comfort in the realization that society has kept its promise to the men and women of law enforcement.”

Deputy State Public Defender Mark Koselke, one of Ritchie’s attorneys, responded with grief: “Tonight was the result of prioritizing finality over fairness. Indiana executed a man with profound brain damage and developmental disabilities.” Defense attorney Steve Schutte, who had just watched his client die, said simply, “This is a foolish, senseless, agonizing waste of time and money. He was no longer the same person who committed that crime.”

And far away from the politics and the press statements, somewhere there were two daughters who grew up without a father. And somewhere there were people who had loved Benjamin Ritchie, now mourning his death.

Conclusion

This case sits at the intersection of some of the hardest questions in criminal justice. What do we do with people who commit terrible acts, but whose brains from before they were even born may have been working against them? Does transformation matter? Does remorse matter? Does it change what justice requires?

Officer William Toney was 31 years old. He had two daughters. He died hours before his birthday doing his job in a quiet suburban neighborhood. Benjamin Ritchie spent 25 years on death row. Long enough to become, by many accounts, a genuinely different person. Long enough to understand the weight of what he had done.

A young officer who never came home. A man executed before sunrise on a Tuesday morning in May. And a system doing what systems do, moving toward a conclusion, regardless of the complexity in between.

Here’s the question I’ll leave you with. When a person changes profoundly over 25 years on death row, when even their defense team, their judges, and the medical community say they are not the same person who committed the crime, does that transformation have any place in how we decide who lives and who dies? Leave your thoughts in the comments below. We’ll see you in the next video.