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Richard Grundy III

This article is the second in a three-part series. It contains graphic descriptions of violence. The reporting is based on interviews, social media and Internet postings, public records and hundreds of pages of court documents. None of the killings described in this article resulted in murder convictions.

A mother and two young children sat down a little before 7 p.m. for a quiet dinner in the kitchen of their small home near the corner of 31st Street and Boulevard Place.

It was a mild, calm winter night.

But that was about to change.

As the family ate dinner on Jan. 29, 2015, Detective Christopher Heffner of the Marion County Sheriff’s Office and two other undercover officers from a multi-agency task force were hunkered down in an unmarked vehicle near their house. The little family was not their target. Far from it.

The undercover team, part of a group focused on firearms-related violent crime and trafficking, was monitoring activity at a duplex a few doors to the west.


Part 3::How the bloodshed continued after Richard Grundy III got out of jail

A team of undercover police officers watched this duplex on W. 31st Street for suspected drug activity in 2015 when gunfire broke out.

Investigators had identified the double in the 300 block of W. 31st Street as a trap house, slang for a place where drugs are sold and stored. They had been watching it for a while. In addition to undercover officers on the street, a camera mounted on a utility pole monitored the house.

The reason for all the attention: Richard B. Grundy III had been staying there, according to court documents, following a tiff with his wife over what she would later claim were his infidelities.

Authorities suspected Grundy and his associates were tied to a string of killings — as many as 10 over four years. That included one just a week earlier involving a man they believed had stolen drugs from a Grundy associate.

Shortly after 7 p.m., as the mother and her children ate, a Dodge truck pulled up in front of the nearby duplex. Grundy and another man climbed into the truck, which then eased north through the dark alley and drove away.

Several minutes later — and about three miles to the east, in the 2500 block of Ralston Avenue near Douglas Park Golf Course — the pickup driver made an abrupt turn without signaling.

An Indianapolis Metropolitan Police officer in a marked cruiser attempted to stop the truck at 7:30 p.m. But the driver sped off. It would result in a wild chase, headed back to the trap house and toward the undercover team and the innocent family's home.

What followed is but one of many ways that drug gangs terrorize Indianapolis neighborhoods. The events that took place during the next few minutes also set in motion a wide-ranging drug and murder conspiracy prosecution that would ultimately stumble, falling short of its goals.

The first story in this series detailed a long string of killings police linked to Richard Grundy III and his drug operation. Today's chapter examines how the investigation fell apart — leaving two men prosecutors charged as cold-blooded killers on the street.

As the truck raced along the narrow streets, the pursuing officers saw Grundy make a phone call.

During the chase, a man leaving the drug house was talking on the phone to Grundy, according to police and phone records. Moments after the chase began, several other men fled the duplex. Some positioned themselves at the corner of 31st and Boulevard, near the unsuspecting family's house.

Police believe the men were deployed to destroy evidence tossed from the pickup, and possibly to lure officers into an ambush.

Inside the nearby home, the mom was cleaning up around the kitchen. Her 12-year-old son was picking up things in the hallway, and her 5-year-old daughter wandered off to the living room and settled into a spot on the sofa.

The Dodge truck sped toward them on 30th Street, two police cars following, lights flashing, sirens blaring. Officers reported seeing items tossed from the truck’s windows. Grundy allegedly pitched out a plastic bag near an alley west of Capitol Avenue. Police later found a bag there containing three grams of crack cocaine.

At 7:33 p.m. the westbound Dodge, closely followed by the police cars, careened through the intersection of 31st and Boulevard.

The mother and her son heard the sirens. The sound wasn’t unusual in the neighborhood. But now the tumult was just outside her house. She hustled to the front door. As she cracked it open, the shooting started.

There was a blast, and the tinkle of broken glass. The woman flinched. As the sirens wailed, a bullet whizzed through her living room window. It tore into the wall above the sofa where her 5-year-old daughter sat.

The mother screamed for her children, and they fled to the back of the house. Running for cover, she heard a wall mirror shatter. Huddled in a bathroom, the terrified family waited.

The gunfire ended as abruptly as it started. 

Surveying the damage a few minutes later, the shaken woman saw that at least three bullets had pierced the exterior wall facing Boulevard. One continued through an inside wall and lodged in a kitchen cabinet. 

It was a close call. And not just for the mother and her traumatized kids.

'The surveillance was detected'

Police work is far from an exact science. Things go wrong, and prosecutors are often confronted with tough decisions. Frequently, they do not end up charging people with the most severe crimes they suspect them of committing, but must settle for lesser charges to disrupt gangs.

The undercover officers conducting surveillance of the trap house where Grundy was staying were pinned in their vehicle when the shooting erupted just feet away from them.

They ducked down for protection. No one was hit. Police said they saw one of the men who fled the duplex standing between two nearby houses. They later found a handgun there. It's unclear who pulled the trigger, or who the target was.

Four minutes after the shooting, IMPD officers finally stopped the truck in the 2100 block of North Capitol.

Later that night, police obtained a search warrant for the duplex. Inside, they found five more guns and about 200 rounds of ammunition. They also found video surveillance equipment. Documents on a coffee table bore Grundy’s name.

Police found five guns, about 200 rounds of ammunition and $107,000 in cash in this duplex, left, after a police chase resulted in gunfire that stuck a neighboring home.

No drugs were discovered in the house, other than traces of cocaine on a set of digital scales. But in a black duffel bag with a 3M logo officers found more than $107,000 in cash.

Authorities had been pursuing Grundy for years, and he was now booked into the Marion County Jail on charges including dealing cocaine and carrying a handgun without a license. He also was charged with conspiracy to commit murder in connection with the gunfire. 

After Grundy's initial court appearance, his then-attorney David Hennessy correctly predicted the case "was going to unravel like a cheap sweater." And it did. All the charges were eventually dropped.

Grundy's arrest also appeared to be a setback for the federal investigation.

Not only was a neighborhood terrorized, the attempted traffic stop and pursuit were not tied to the undercover team's surveillance, Marion County Prosecutor Terry Curry told IndyStar. “There was not a plan that night to take down individuals that night.”

Curry said the incident blew the cover of the task force officers monitoring Grundy. “In some way,” he said, “the surveillance was detected.”

It’s not clear why, but sometime later, the U.S. Attorney’s office, which had been involved in the investigation, declined to prosecute even though it had all the hallmarks of a federal case, including interstate drug deals and financial transactions. A spokesman declined to comment on the reason, as did Curry.

Grundy’s former attorney, Keirian Brown, said he believes it was due to a fundamental lack of evidence. Whatever the reason, Marion County officials decided to go forward on their own.

In an interview in September, Curry said he knew it would be difficult to prove a murder conspiracy based on mostly circumstantial evidence. But he felt compelled to push forward to get dangerous criminals off the street — a goal he said was accomplished.

The hope was that officers would be able to peel off someone close to the Grundy crew to testify against him and others.

Grundy described those efforts in a September interview outside court: “They was arresting people. ... they locked them up hoping that somebody would just say, 'Ah I'm not going to, you know, do the rest of my life, I'm just going to tell them what they wanted.' They just wanted somebody to say something.”

And that would prove to be a tall order.

For six months after Grundy was arrested, police and prosecutors still had not found anyone willing to testify against him. That changed when a prosecutor received a hand-written letter.

Chapter one:How one notorious criminal career says so much about Indianapolis’ brutal violence


'All information is true'

Circumstantial evidence can be persuasive, but it's hard to win murder convictions without witnesses. Police and prosecutors say an inability to persuade witnesses to testify is one of the biggest reasons they make arrests and win convictions in fewer than half of the city's criminal homicides.

The letter, dated July 28, 2015, came from an inmate at the Westville Correctional Facility.

“I have never did anything like this before, I truly believe in what they call the street code …,” the neatly printed letter began. “I know families hurt because my family is still grieving our loss. I know I will take a lot of heat for this but it is the right thing to do.”

The writer was Endrice Lacy, the brother of Michael Lacy. “Mikey” had been killed four years earlier after a brawl outside the Phoenix Apartments. Grundy’s cousin, Adrian Bullock, had been charged in that killing, but his trial ended in a hung jury after two witnesses were shot — including one Grundy called out on Facebook. Prosecutors subsequently dismissed the case, which means it could be refiled if new evidence is found.

Endrice Lacy wrote a letter from prison offering to help with the prosecution of accused murderers Richard Grundy III and John Means. They were both charged in the murder of Kendrid Mintze, but prosecutors were unable to convict either man.

Now the dead man’s brother, who was sitting in prison on a felony conviction for disarming a police officer, was seeking a deal from prosecutors. He wanted to testify against Grundy.

Lacy offered to tell what he knew about the killings of Kendrid Mintze and several others, including two men shot outside a Citgo station in January 2014.

“I can tell you details, where it happen, when it happen, how it happen, and why it happen,” he wrote. “Whatever I have to do to help you get a conviction I will. I can garantte a break in your case an all information is true an accurate. I'm a star witness to these crimes …”

Lacy’s letter ended with a list of names and a question: “Do these names sound fimilar.” The list included Lil Johnnie, A.D. and Ricky, the nicknames of accused hitman John Means, Adrian Bullock and Grundy.

In exchange for his testimony, Lacy said he wanted to serve the rest of his sentence at home with his family.

Curry said prosecutors found Lacy’s story convincing because it jibed with what other sources had told detectives. Lacy said he had been at a recording studio on East 34th Street in 2013. Grundy was there partying with a group of friends, including Means.

But their buzz quickly soured when one of Grundy’s cousins arrived with Mintze, a rapper who went by KenKen. Grundy allegedly lashed out at his cousin.

“You got to get that n---- out of here, he’s got to go,” Grundy said, according to Lacy.

Lacy said Mintze had stolen drugs from Grundy. Now, Grundy wanted him dead. And he allegedly offered his cousin, Victor Wells-Tinnin, and Means $2,500 to do the job.

The story Lacy told was that Wells-Tinnin got cold feet. He was friends with Mintze. He couldn’t pull the trigger.

So, instead of shooting KenKen, Wells-Tinnin distracted him by dropping something on the ground. When Mintze bent over to pick it up, Means stuck the barrel of his gun to Mintze’s head and fired the fatal shot, according to Lacy.

Lacy told investigators he knew that because he was with Grundy when Means and Wells-Tinnin returned to the studio. Lacy said Grundy handed Wells-Tinnin $2,500 in cash.

“I’m the one who shot the n----,” Means allegedly complained. “I did all the work.”

John Means

After hearing Means’ side of the story, Lacy said, Grundy decided Means was right to complain. He ordered Wells-Tinnin to give Means $500.

It had been two years since Mintze was killed. Lacy's information allowed prosecutors to charge Means and Grundy in Mintze's death. Wells-Tinnin was not charged in the murder.

By that time, police were also trying to connect Grundy and Means to four other slayings that occurred in January and February of 2014.

Two days after Lacy wrote his letter, Detective Heffner interviewed a witness in another investigation. During their conversation, the woman offered an unexpected bonus. She knew about several murders. And they involved the Grundy crew.

But the woman, who told Heffner her name was Porche Harris, said she was afraid. She needed protection.

Heffner connected her to officials from the Department of Justice and on August 4, 2015, they set her up to relocate to Atlanta. She would collect about $1,000 a month to support her move.

Prosecutors felt they finally had the witnesses they needed to charge Grundy in the Jan. 28, 2014, murders of Tyrece Dorsey and William Davis at a Citgo station. Her information also prompted prosecutors to charge Grundy in the fatal shootings four days later of Carlos "Lil Scoot" Jefferson and Julius "Juju" Douglas on Hovey Street.

They had finally broken through the code of silence and wall of fear that had kept witnesses mum.

Two months later, as the homicide count in Indianapolis climbed toward a new record, Curry and officials from IMPD and the Sheriff’s Office staged a news conference to proclaim an end to the bloody reign of what they saw as the ruthless Grundy drug gang. Prosecutors said Grundy and his associates were importing thousands of pounds of marijuana — with a street value in the millions of dollars — and committing murders to protect their profits.

Grundy and Means were accused of conspiring to kill five people in three incidents from late 2013 to early 2014. Nine other people associated with Grundy also were in jail on various drug and gun charges, including Grundy's father and his wife. 

As Curry announced the long list of charges in the alleged drug and murder conspiracy on Oct. 23, 2015, he touted the arrests as part of a sweeping investigation led by a federal task force.

Curry didn’t reveal at the time that the feds had dropped out of the case.

Same name, different photo

In a system where reasonable doubt is grounds for acquittal, excellent training and exacting police work are essential. And when the police get the facts wrong, cases can fall apart.

Federal officials paid more than $6,000 to house the woman police and prosecutors knew as Porche Harris in Atlanta. Yet in early 2016, she failed to appear for a deposition. Detectives couldn’t reach her. It was a bad sign.

The woman called a deputy prosecutor the next day using a new phone number. She claimed her old number had been shut off. She missed three more appointments with investigators and prosecutors.

Worried about losing a key witness, the prosecutor asked Marion Superior Court Judge Grant Hawkins to issue a body-attachment order. The move allowed investigators to essentially arrest Harris and bring her to court.

Detectives found Harris on March 30, 2016. She wasn’t in Atlanta. She was living at a house on Hawthorne Avenue in Indianapolis.

Keynae Berry

Before they took her into custody, Harris asked Heffner to let her get some clothes. He accompanied her to a bedroom. There, on a TV stand, the detective saw a driver's license. The name said Porche Harris. But it had a picture of a different woman.

Next to the driver's license was a pre-paid debit card. The name on it was Keynae Berry.

“Who are you?” Heffner demanded.

He repeated the question. Each time, the woman gave the same answer.

“I’m Porche.”

That incident set investigators scrambling to verify the Georgia addresses the woman had given them. They were fake. So was their star witness. Keynae Berry was now a liability. Berry had lied about who she was, and misdirected witness protection money.

What's more, her own criminal history was not likely to persuade a jury of her trustworthiness. Berry was out on bond on charges of auto theft and identity deception when she first met with Heffner and posed as Porche Harris.

And just two weeks before Heffner took her into custody at the house on Hawthorne Avenue, Berry — using her real name — had pleaded guilty in the theft and identity deception case. She received a one-year suspended sentence.

Prosecutors withdrew her as a witness.

Five days later, Berry was charged with nine felonies, including identity deception, counterfeiting and theft. She pleaded guilty to identity deception and counterfeiting, and was sentenced to 30 months in a community corrections program. Berry also was ordered to repay $6,098 to the Justice Department.

It was a major blow to the prosecution’s case — and it wouldn’t be the last.

“One of the ironies is, we think, in large part she was telling us the truth about what she knew. She was not telling us the truth about who she was," Curry said in the September interview.

"And whether someone should have taken further steps to confirm her identity, then, yeah, in hindsight someone should have done that. And whether it's us or the investigative agency, that would have been helpful. But on the other hand, once we knew the truth we immediately did the right thing.”

Without Berry's testimony, however, prosecutors were forced to drop four murder charges against Grundy.

The prosecution still had a chance to put away Grundy for the murder of Mintze.

Then, in May 2016, a handwritten letter landed on Marion Superior Judge Mark Stoner’s desk. It came from the Marion County Jail.

“This is Richard Grundy III,” the letter began, “and I am in your court room under cause #49G06-1510-MR-037676 ...”

In the letter dated May 15, 2016, Grundy explained he was charged with murder after Endrice Lacy wrote the prosecutor. Lacy claimed to have seen Grundy order the death of Kendrid Mintze. But there was a major problem. He couldn’t have done so.

Kendrid Mintze was killed Oct. 21, 2013.

“The murder happened on Oct. 21, 2013,” Grundy wrote, “and we have learned Mr. Lacy has been in jail since Oct. 11, 2013.”

Lacy could not have been in the recording studio when he claimed to have seen Grundy order the hit. And he couldn’t have seen the killers collect a bounty, as he had claimed.

Grundy questioned Detective Heffner’s motives — and his honesty.

In the letter to Stoner, Grundy pointed to a transcript of the initial police interview with Lacy. In it, Lacy told the detective the murder occurred in April or May. But Heffner wrote in the probable cause affidavit used to charge Grundy that Lacy had said the incident was in October.

“I have been in jail a total of 16 months and have faced 3 prosecution by the same det., 2 have been dismissed and this is my last case in which its the same summary,” Grundy told the judge. “Det. Heffner is more focused on imprison me than acutally investigating these crimes.”

Was it an innocent mistake — or worse? Grundy's letter suggested the latter.

And that wasn't the only time in the months-long case that Heffner's motives were questioned. The issue would come up again when Grundy's former lawyer filed a motion this year to disqualify yet another witness.

In the Jan. 11 motion, Brown stated Heffner "fabricated testimony in the probable cause affidavit" used to establish a basis for the murder conspiracy charges. The motion said Heffner attributed statements to the witness that did not appear in the witness' statement to police. It also said Heffner withheld other evidence potentially favorable to Grundy's defense.

IndyStar sought a comment from Heffner through the sheriff's office. A spokeswoman said there would be no comment.

The prosecutor's office did not file a written response to Brown's motion. Curry, however, vehemently denied Brown's fabrication allegations in an interview with IndyStar, saying: “We don’t make things up.”

Still, with Lacy’s testimony discounted, the final murder charge against Grundy was dismissed in 2016, and cases involving several of his associates also continued to unravel.

There were problems with a search warrant for the duplex on E. 31st Street. David Hennessy, who was Grundy's attorney at the time, persuaded the judge to throw out evidence, including the five guns and the $107,000 in cash seized from the home.

By dismissing the murder charges, rather than pushing ahead with weak evidence and no witnesses, Curry preserved the right to refile the cases if new evidence becomes available.

After the last of the murder charges Grundy faced was dismissed, he was released on $100,000 bond. His homecoming was chronicled in a video by a rapper friend, Eric “Lil E” Butler, who also had been charged in the 2015 drug and murder conspiracy case. 

Eric Butler

The video for Lil E’s song, Thay Can’t Hold A Real N---- Down, opens with a snippet of Fox 59’s coverage of the news conference where Curry announced charges against the Grundy crew. It then flickers through scenes in a home and on the streets of the city. The rapper's defiant. Butler's lyrics refer to how he and Grundy beat the serious charges.

Midway through the song, the video cuts to a Fox 59 segment. The reporters talk about charges being dropped, including all of those against Butler.

The rapper then pulls up in front of the Marion County Jail. Grundy walks out the door, smiling.

Lil E gets out of his car. The friends clasp hands on the sidewalk, then embrace.

The video ends with Grundy walking into his home and hugging his children.

But the bloodshed was not over.

COMING NEXT: Lil Mack Taylor, a rapper and longtime friend of Grundy, tells police he's a "dead man."

Former IndyStar reporter Madeline Buckley contributed to this story.



The Grundy crew: Where are they now

Richard B. Grundy III

Age: 28

Nickname: Ricky Rich, White Boy



Adrian Bullock

Age: 27

Nickname: AD


Status: Serving three-year prison sentence on marijuana charge

John H. Means IV

Age: 25   

Nickname: Lil Johnny



Eric D. Butler

Age: 27

Nickname: Lil E


Status: Free on bond.

Amanda Chowning Grundy

Age: 29


Status: On probation

Richard B. Grundy Jr.

Age: 63


Status: On probation


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