Dan Shelley: Thank you for allowing me to serve journalists and the public
By Dan Shelley
RTDNA President and CEO
One night more than 40 years ago, when I was working my first professional job as an anchor/reporter at KTTS-AM/FM in my hometown of Springfield, Mo., I was getting ready to end my shift when the police scanner crackled.
A homicide had taken place near Ozark, a sleepy little suburb 10 miles south of town. Because the murder was just outside the city limits, the Christian County Sheriff’s Department — and its larger-than-life sheriff, Louard Elbert “Buff” Lamb — would be handling the case.
Buff was part showman, part throwback, and all sheriff. A former rodeo trick rider from Kentucky, he had traded broken bones for a badge and a reputation. Folklore even held that the 1973 movie Walking Tall was supposed to be based on him, until producers chose a Tennessee sheriff instead. Buff didn’t need an axe handle like Buford T. Pusser; he carried a long black metal Kel-Lite flashlight and used it to dispense what he called a “thumpin’ ” when he thought someone deserved it.
I called the sheriff’s department for directions to the crime scene and phoned my news director, who told me to let the morning crew handle it. “No way,” I thought. I jumped in my yellow 1978 Pontiac Sunbird — yes, that’s important — and headed toward Ozark.
Following the dispatcher’s directions, I turned onto a dark dirt road that narrowed into a logging trail. As I was turning around, the scanner in my car barked out the suspects’ vehicle description: a late-’70s light tan or yellow Pontiac Sunbird. Gulp!
I barely came around a bend before half a dozen flashlights erupted from the embankments. Deputies ran toward my car. I stopped. Though nearly blinded by a flashlight beam, I could clearly see a pistol pointed through the window at my head.
“Stop right there, you sonofabitch!”
It was Buff.
“Buff! It’s me! Dan Shelley with KTTS News!”
“Oh hell, boys. It’s just a news guy.” He holstered his gun and opened my door. “Come on. I guess you want to know what happened.”
As we walked toward the house, he stopped abruptly, sat down on the driveway and started picking cockleburs from his gray polyester slacks. Cursing under his breath, he complained, “Goddammit, you made me ruin my britches.” When he realized he had accidentally revealed his ankle-holstered second pistol, he glared at me: “Don’t you ever tell anyone where I keep my hidy-gun.” A promise I kept — until now.
Inside the home, he walked me through the crime scene, providing vivid descriptions. At one point, he stepped right into a blood trail. I asked whether we should wait for the crime lab. “Hell, I know who done it,” he said. “It’s just a matter of ketchin’ ‘em.”
A few minutes later, I found myself staring at the avocado green kitchen telephone the victim had used to call for help. The receiver hung low, suspended by its spiraled cord. Then, behind me, I heard chewing. There was Buff at the kitchen counter, eating a bowl of the victim’s Cheerios.
“Are you hungry right now, Buff?”
“Well, he was eatin’ this when the shootin’ started. I’d hate for it to go to waste.”
That night is one of dozens of memories from what I believe is the greatest job in the world, being a journalist. I’ve had other guns pointed at me, rocks thrown at me and threats yelled in my face. I’ve seen, heard and smelled things no human should. In the moment, you feed off the adrenaline. You bury the revulsion. You use gallows humor to mask fear. But years later, the trauma resurfaces. It’s why I tell journalists today to deal with it right away — don’t let it harden inside you.
Still, journalism also placed me at moments of history, great and small. It brought me into contact with presidents, foreign leaders, governors, senators and some of America’s most influential religious figures. And yes, it helped me realize the dream of a young kid from radio market 151: landing a job at CBS in New York City.
Between Springfield and New York, I spent 11 years in Milwaukee, where I embraced emerging digital tools and helped run NFL, MLB and NBA sports networks. I still root for the Packers, Brewers and Bucks. Afterward came executive digital roles at Urban One and iHeart Media, where I preached the gospel — sometimes to skeptical talent — that terrestrial broadcasting would not remain our primary medium forever. The future would be digital, on platforms not yet invented.
Through it all, the thread that connected every chapter of my career was RTDNA.
My introduction to RTDNA came in 1985, thanks again to Christian County, Mo. By then, I’d been promoted to news director at KTTS, and I was annoyed that competing newsrooms were listening to our two-way radio traffic and stealing our scoops. So, during a controversy involving the new sheriff, Buff’s cocky young chief deputy Dwight McNiel, I staged a “test transmission” on our news department’s two-way, stating, hypothetically, that the Missouri attorney general had filed suit to oust McNiel from office. It never aired publicly. But as I drove back to Springfield, I saw the news vehicles of every other station racing toward Ozark.
They were not amused. Neither was McNiel. Soon after, I learned someone had introduced a resolution at that year’s RTDNA convention to censure me. It failed, thankfully, but it lit a fire in me. I joined the association, served on the board, became board chair in 2005–06, chaired the Foundation and later served as its treasurer.
During that period, then-RTDNA President Barbara Cochran helped convince Chief Justice William Rehnquist to allow the public release of audio from the Supreme Court arguments that decided the 2000 presidential election. Yes, you can thank RTDNA that Supreme Court hearings are livestreamed today. My one disappointment as president is that I couldn’t persuade federal courts to allow live audio and video. Believe me, I tried.
As board chair, I had the privilege of meeting George Clooney and the cast of Good Night, and Good Luck, the story of Edward R. Murrow’s on-air take-down of the communist-hunting Sen. Joseph McCarthy. The film — and later the Broadway show — is bookended by Murrow’s famous “wires and lights in a box” speech at our 1958 convention. I helped lead a delegation of board members to meet President George W. Bush at the White House. And I traveled to the Philippines at the State Department’s request to speak about journalism ethics at a time when some reporters were being bribed to spread political smears — and sometimes killed for it by opponents.
Later, I traveled to Russia and India to warn journalists about the rise of disinformation and misinformation. Dozens of times I spoke with reporters from around the world at RTDNA headquarters in Washington and at the U.S. Mission to the United Nations in New York. These experiences deepened my belief in journalism’s essential role in sustaining democracy — especially during periods of seismic change, from the analog era to digital transformation and now into the age of AI.
Now, as I retire after serving as RTDNA President and CEO since 2017, I find myself reflecting on a 45-year journey. What began in a small-town newsroom led to leadership roles at major media companies and, ultimately, the privilege of serving an organization dedicated to protecting journalistic freedom and promoting excellence.
At the start of my career, we worked with typewriters, film, reel-to-reel tapes, cassettes and clacking AP and UPI terminals that left us with ink-stained fingers. Today’s journalists manage websites, social platforms, podcasts and streaming content — often simultaneously, and with smaller staffs.
But through all this change, one thing has remained constant: our commitment to truth.
In an era of cries about “fake news” and “enemies of the people,” RTDNA members stand as beacons of fact-based reporting and ethical standards. The strength of this organization has always been its people: investigative reporters holding power accountable, news directors fighting for resources to cover their communities, digital innovators reimagining storytelling and educators preparing the next generation. Their dedication has inspired me throughout my tenure.
To every RTDNA member, thank you for your commitment to truth, fairness and the public’s right — and need — to know. Your work matters profoundly.
To the RTDNA staff and board members I’ve worked alongside, your passion and integrity have strengthened this organization in ways that will endure.
To the countless sources and subjects I’ve been privileged to cover throughout my career, thank you for trusting me with your stories.
And to the members of the public who depend on quality journalism — and who sometimes express their criticism in “colorful” ways — thank you. In a functioning democracy, the relationship between journalists and citizens is sacred.
While I'm moving away from this role, my belief in journalism's essential function remains undiminished. It has been the honor of my career to serve this profession and, especially, you, through my service at RTDNA.
I’ll close with another story about Buff Lamb, relayed to me by a neighboring county sheriff who once served as a U.S. marshal and saw it firsthand.
In the 1970s, Buff was sued in federal court by a young man who claimed Buff had struck him repeatedly in the head with a flashlight, causing serious injuries. Under oath, the plaintiff’s attorney pressed him:
“Sheriff, did you or did you not strike my client repeatedly about the head with your four-cell Kel-Lite?”
“No sir, I did not.”
The questioning went on, the lawyer incredulous — eyewitnesses and medical records had backed up the claim. Finally, once more:
“Sheriff, did you or did you not strike my client repeatedly about the head with your four-cell Kel-Lite?”
“Sir, I have a five-cell Kel-Lite.”
Even to a craggy, colorful country sheriff who sometimes bent the arc of justice toward his own sense of it, the precise truth mattered.
You know what? It always does.