Dear Topeka Where in the Hell Is Everybody Who Is Supposed to Be Watching Out for Our City

From the Publisher | Steven D. Mills | On The Dial

Dear Topeka,

I have watched the headlines coming out of my hometown throughout 2026, and I have reached a point where I can no longer sit quietly and pretend that what I’m seeing doesn’t bother me. I’ve watched stories about shootings, assaults, young people losing their lives, controversial decisions at City Hall, and residents questioning the direction of the community they call home. Every time I return to Topeka, I recognize the streets, the buildings, and many of the faces, but something about the city feels different. I know communities change. I know the world isn’t what it was when I was growing up. But I also know that a hometown should never become a place where people feel they have to constantly look over their shoulders.

And what troubles me just as much as the headlines is another question.

Where in the hell is everybody who is supposed to be watching out for Topeka?

Where are the people asking the difficult questions?

Where are the community watchdogs?

Where are the neighborhood leaders?

Where are the broadcasters, newspaper editors, investigative reporters, civic organizations, churches, and public officials who should be standing together when a community starts questioning its safety?

I’m not suggesting these people have disappeared or that nobody is doing anything. Many are working hard, and their efforts deserve recognition.

But if the work is happening, the public needs to see it, understand it, and know how to participate.

Because from where I’m sitting, Topeka needs more than another press release.

It needs a serious conversation about its future.

Now, before somebody reminds me that crime existed when I was a kid, save yourself the trouble.

I know it did.

I grew up in Topeka. I attended school there. I made friends there. I got into my share of trouble, learned some valuable lessons, and encountered people who helped shape the man I am today.

Our city wasn’t perfect.

There were neighborhoods with problems, families facing difficult circumstances, and plenty of things that needed improvement.

But I remember something else.

I remember people watching out for one another.

I remember neighbors who knew whose children belonged to whom.

I remember adults who didn’t hesitate to intervene when young people were heading in the wrong direction.

And Lord knows, if you did something you weren’t supposed to do, there was a pretty good chance your parents would know about it before you got home.

We didn’t have Facebook.

We didn’t have neighborhood surveillance apps.

We didn’t have everybody carrying a high-definition video camera in their pocket.

But we had something that technology still hasn’t figured out how to replace.

People who cared enough to pay attention.

And I wonder whether we’ve lost some of that along the way.

Not everywhere.

Not with everybody.

But enough that we ought to be asking the question.

I cannot write this letter without talking about J’Lanette Harrison.

Seventeen years old.

A senior at Highland Park High School.

A young woman whose future should have been filled with graduation plans, college possibilities, friendships, celebrations, and the excitement of becoming an adult.

Instead, her family and community are grieving.

J’Lanette was pronounced dead at Stormont Vail Hospital on October 31, and the Shawnee County Sheriff’s Office is investigating the circumstances surrounding her death.

The publicly reported information has not established the cause or manner of death, and I refuse to contribute to rumors about what happened.

But I will say this.

A seventeen-year-old girl is gone, and the community deserves to know that her death is receiving the serious, thorough attention it warrants.

Her family deserves compassion.

Her friends deserve support.

Her school deserves an opportunity to grieve.

And the public deserves accurate information when investigators can responsibly provide it.

But where is the sustained attention?

Where are the follow-up questions?

Where are the reporters who will continue checking for developments after the first story has disappeared from the front page?

Where are the community voices reminding everyone that J’Lanette was somebody’s child, somebody’s friend, and somebody whose life mattered?

I’m not asking anyone to interfere with an investigation.

I’m asking us not to forget.

Because a community that remembers its children is a community that still has a chance to protect its future.

In August, eighteen-year-old Joshua A. Stockman died following a shooting in southeast Topeka.

Police acknowledged concerns about increased criminal activity in that area and announced targeted patrols.

Then came more troubling reports.

In October, a person was fatally shot near Southwest Sixth Avenue.

Days later, four people were injured during a series of attacks in central Topeka, including reported stabbings.

These incidents involved different people and circumstances. They should not be treated as though they were connected without evidence.

And I recognize that police have reported improvements in overall crime statistics.

But I’m also thinking about the people living near these incidents.

The parents.

The grandparents.

The business owners.

The children who hear sirens and wonder what happened.

The residents who are tired of seeing another emergency vehicle parked somewhere in their neighborhood.

What do we tell them?

That everything is fine because the numbers are improving?

No.

We tell them the truth.

We explain what the numbers show.

We acknowledge where problems remain.

And we invite them into the process of making their neighborhoods safer.

Crime statistics matter. But so does the confidence of the people who have to live with the consequences of crime.

Now I’m going to talk about my own industry.

Radio.

Television.

Newspapers.

Digital newsrooms.

The people who have microphones, cameras, printing presses, websites, and the ability to reach thousands of people in a matter of seconds.

Where are we?

And before anybody gets defensive, I know there are dedicated journalists in Topeka doing meaningful work.

The public knows about many of these incidents precisely because local reporters covered them.

I respect that.

But reporting an incident and following a problem until the community understands what’s being done about it are two different things.

What happens after the initial police statement?

Who follows up thirty days later?

Who asks whether an announced neighborhood safety initiative actually produced results?

Who examines the city’s spending decisions and explains what they mean for residents?

Who attends the meetings that aren’t particularly exciting but contain decisions that will affect families for years?

And who is making sure that people living in struggling neighborhoods have an opportunity to be heard?

The media cannot prevent every crime. But it can help prevent important questions from disappearing.

When I was coming up in broadcasting, local radio personalities were more than voices introducing records.

We were part of the communities we served.

We talked about what mattered.

We showed up.

We helped people.

And sometimes we asked questions that made powerful people uncomfortable.

That’s part of the responsibility that comes with having a microphone.

I want to see more of that.

Not sensationalism.

Not reporters turning tragedy into entertainment.

Not irresponsible speculation or accusations.

I want consistent, fearless, factual journalism that holds institutions accountable while giving the public the information it needs.

And I want On The Dial to be part of that conversation.

Because I don’t believe community responsibility ends at the edge of a radio station’s playlist.

And while we’re asking where the media is, let’s talk about the rest of us.

What happened to neighbors looking out for neighbors?

What happened to community meetings where people actually showed up?

What happened to mentoring young people before they became involved in situations that could change their lives forever?

What happened to knowing the elderly woman down the street well enough to notice when something wasn’t right?

I’m not talking about people taking the law into their own hands.

I’m not encouraging vigilantism, profiling, or confronting people simply because they look unfamiliar.

I’m talking about responsible community involvement.

Neighborhood watch programs.

Safe ways to report suspicious activity.

Partnerships between residents and law enforcement.

Churches opening their doors to young people.

Businesses investing in their neighborhoods.

Parents supporting other parents.

And adults taking responsibility for helping children understand that their lives have value.

We cannot expect police officers to be everywhere, teachers to raise everybody’s children, and city officials to solve problems that require the participation of an entire community.

Public safety is a shared responsibility.

But it also requires leadership willing to bring people together.

Mayor Spencer Duncan, Interim City Manager Michael Webb, Police Chief Chris Vallejo, and members of the Topeka City Council have responsibilities that extend beyond responding to the latest crisis.

And I want to acknowledge that the city has taken steps to address public safety.

Police leadership reported earlier this year that overall crime was approximately ten percent below the five-year average.

That’s progress worth examining and building upon.

The city has also continued funding police and other public safety operations while confronting significant budget pressures.

But residents have every right to ask whether those efforts are reaching the places that need them most.

The city approved its 2027 operating budget after approximately $10 million in reductions.

There have been questions about the future of school resource officers and the city’s arrangement with Topeka Public Schools.

Residents have raised concerns about homelessness, public spaces, and development proposals.

And the debate surrounding data centers has demonstrated how quickly trust can deteriorate when people believe their concerns aren’t being adequately addressed.

These are not all crime issues.

But they are leadership issues.

They affect how people view their government.

And they influence whether residents believe their voices matter.

So here’s what I want to know.

What is the city’s specific strategy for reducing violence in neighborhoods experiencing repeated incidents?

What is being done to strengthen relationships between law enforcement and residents?

How are young people being connected with mentoring, recreation, counseling, and positive opportunities?

What is the long-term plan for school safety?

How will budget reductions affect services?

And when residents raise concerns about major developments, how does City Hall demonstrate that those concerns have genuinely been considered?

I don’t expect every answer to be easy.

I don’t expect every problem to disappear overnight.

But I do expect transparency.

A community should not have to beg for information about decisions being made in its name and with its money.

Now I’m going to make some of my fellow pastors uncomfortable.

Where are we?

And I include myself in that question.

We can fill sanctuaries on Sunday.

We can preach about loving our neighbors.

We can organize anniversaries, banquets, special programs, and celebrations.

But what happens when the service is over?

Are we checking on families who have lost children?

Are we mentoring teenagers who don’t have strong support systems?

Are we partnering with schools?

Are we helping families who are struggling?

Are we creating places where young people feel safe, valued, and heard?

I’m not suggesting churches are absent from this work. Many are serving faithfully, often without recognition.

But there is always room for more.

Because ministry cannot stop at the church doors.

And community leadership cannot stop at a Sunday morning sermon.

If we’re going to preach about being the light, somebody ought to be able to see that light outside the sanctuary.

One of the worst things leadership can do is dismiss concerns because the numbers don’t tell the same story as someone’s personal experience.

If a resident says they don’t feel safe walking through their neighborhood, listen.

If a business owner says conditions around their property are becoming difficult, listen.

If a parent says they’re worried about their child getting home from school, listen.

And if the evidence shows that a particular fear doesn’t reflect an increase in crime, explain that respectfully.

Don’t ridicule people.

Don’t dismiss them.

Don’t assume they’re politically motivated.

And don’t turn every difficult question into a personal attack.

At the same time, residents have a responsibility to separate legitimate concerns from rumors and social media speculation.

We cannot build a safer community on misinformation.

We need facts.

We need cooperation.

And we need a willingness to acknowledge both progress and problems.

I don’t expect Topeka to look exactly the way it did when I was a child.

Some of those old buildings are gone.

Businesses have changed.

Neighborhoods have evolved.

People have moved away.

New generations have arrived.

That’s life.

And I don’t want to pretend that the past was perfect simply because I remember it fondly.

But there are things from my childhood I believe are worth recovering.

Community pride.

Personal responsibility.

Neighbors who knew one another.

Adults who looked after children.

Churches that understood their responsibility to the neighborhood.

Local broadcasters who treated their communities as more than advertising markets.

And city leaders who understood that earning public trust requires more than winning an election.

I want to return to Topeka and see a city that is growing without forgetting the people who helped build it.

I want children to feel safe.

I want families to believe their concerns will be heard.

I want police officers to have the resources and community partnerships they need.

I want journalists to keep asking questions.

And I want people who love Topeka to stop waiting for somebody else to start the conversation.

I am inviting Topeka residents, community organizations, neighborhood leaders, broadcasters, law enforcement officials, pastors, educators, business owners, and elected officials to participate in a serious conversation about our hometown.

Not a shouting match.

Not another social media argument where everybody gets angry and nobody accomplishes anything.

A real conversation.

What is happening in your neighborhood?

What is the city doing well?

What concerns are being overlooked?

What should our local media be investigating?

Where do we need more neighborhood involvement?

And what can we actually do together to make Topeka stronger?

I want the facts.

I want the experiences.

I want the ideas.

And I want the people responsible for making decisions to participate rather than retreat behind carefully prepared statements.

Because I’m not interested in criticizing simply for the pleasure of criticizing.

I’m interested in results.

I know some people will read this and tell me I don’t live there anymore, so I should mind my own business.

That’s fine.

They’re entitled to their opinion.

But I will always be a son of Topeka.

The city helped raise me.

Its schools educated me.

Its people influenced me.

Its friendships have stayed with me.

And its memories will always be part of my life.

I have traveled this country and lived in several different places, but nothing changes where I came from.

And if loving my hometown means occasionally becoming one of its loudest critics, I can live with that.

But I intend to be a fair critic.

When the city gets something right, I’ll say so.

When the police make progress, I’ll recognize it.

When journalists do important work, I’ll applaud them.

When community organizations make a difference, I’ll help tell their stories.

And when something needs attention, I’ll ask questions.

Because accountability should never be confused with hostility.

The greatest danger to a hometown isn’t that somebody loves it enough to criticize it. It’s that too many people stop caring enough to ask questions.

So, Topeka, where are the people keeping watch?

Where are the voices?

Where are the neighbors?

Where are the leaders?

Where are the churches?

Where are the broadcasters?

And where are the rest of us?

Maybe the answer is that we’re still here.

Maybe we’ve just become too busy, too divided, too distracted, or too accustomed to hearing bad news to recognize how much our involvement matters.

Well, I’m not interested in getting accustomed to it.

Not when young lives are being lost.

Not when families are hurting.

Not when people have legitimate questions about their government.

And not when the city that helped make me who I am needs its people to care.

I don’t need Topeka to become the city it was forty years ago. I need it to become a city where the next generation can build forty years of memories worth remembering.

That is the Topeka I want.

That’s the Topeka I believe is possible.

And that’s the Topeka worth fighting for.

I love you, Topeka.

Always have.

Always will.

But starting today, I’m asking questions.

And I hope I’m not the only one.

Steven D. Mills
Publisher, On The Dial
A Proud Son of Topeka, Kansas

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