They went to work like it was any other Thursday.
Clock in. Greet a coworker. Check the schedule. Think about dinner plans later.
Inside the Excel Industries plant in Hesston, the rhythm of machines hummed steadily. People focused on their shifts, unaware that within minutes, their workplace would turn into a battlefield.
By nightfall, three employees would never return home.
Their names now carry the weight of a community’s grief: Renee Benjamin, 30. Joshua “Josh” Higbee, 31. Brian Sadowsky, 44.
They were not headlines. They were people with families, routines, inside jokes, and plans for the weekend.
And they were killed at work.
The violence began with something that should have signaled protection.
At about 3:30 p.m., Cedric L. Ford, 38, was served with a Protection from Abuse order at the plant. It was paperwork — a legal boundary meant to prevent harm.
But ninety minutes later, that paper barrier meant nothing.
Ford left work, and by late afternoon, gunfire echoed across Harvey County. First, shots were fired from a vehicle in Newton. A man was hit in the shoulder. Minutes later, another victim was shot in the leg.
Then the gunman drove toward Excel Industries.
He shot someone in the parking lot.
Then he entered the building armed with an assault-style rifle and an automatic pistol.
Inside the plant, chaos erupted.
Workers who had been tightening bolts and operating machinery seconds earlier suddenly ran for cover. Some hid. Some froze. Some tried to help others.
The gunman did not target specific people. Authorities later said the shooting appeared random.
Random.
A word that offers no comfort.
Because randomness means anyone could have been next.
Renee Benjamin was one of them.
Thirty years old. A daughter. A friend. A coworker whose life ended in the middle of a shift.
Josh Higbee, 31, was another.
He had clocked in expecting a paycheck, not a gunman.
Brian Sadowsky, 44, was the third.
His family would later plan a candlelight vigil at the plant, standing under the same sky that darkened the day they lost him.
All three were killed inside the building where they worked.
Not on a battlefield. Not in a dangerous job zone.
Inside a workplace.
Hesston Police Chief Doug Schroeder was among the first responders. He entered the plant as shots rang out. According to Sheriff T. Walton, Ford was not going to stop shooting.
At 5:23 p.m., Schroeder exchanged fire with the gunman and killed him.
The threat ended.
But the damage had already been done.
Fourteen people were wounded. Six were treated at Newton Medical Center. One was transferred to Wesley Medical Center. One remained hospitalized in good condition.
Four people, including the gunman, were dead.
In the hours that followed, law enforcement response was described as “tremendous.”
Dozens of agents from the Kansas Bureau of Investigation, FBI, ATF, Kansas Highway Patrol, DEA, and local departments flooded the area.
Investigations began immediately.
Background checks revealed that Ford had a history of domestic violence, prior arrests for battery, DUI, obstruction, burglaries, fleeing from police, grand theft, and carrying a concealed weapon.
And here is where the outrage begins to rise.
How does someone with that history still obtain weapons?
How does a man served with a Protection from Abuse order return armed?
How does a workplace become a killing ground in less than two hours?
There were no specific targets. No manifesto. No explanation left behind.
Just devastation.
Counseling lines were set up. Donations were organized. Crisis hotlines were shared.
The Central Kansas Community Foundation created a fund for first responders and community services. Authorities warned residents to be cautious about GoFundMe accounts.
In the aftermath of tragedy, the machinery of response moves quickly.
But grief does not.
For the families of Renee, Josh, and Brian, there is no “ongoing investigation” that softens the blow.
There is only an empty chair at the table.
A closet that still smells like them.
A phone that will never light up with their name again.
Inside the plant, coworkers will forever remember the sound.
The confusion.
The disbelief.
One officer described walking into the building as “overwhelming.”
But for the workers who survived, it was something else.
It was betrayal.
Work is supposed to be ordinary.
Safe enough.
Predictable.
Instead, it became a crime scene.
And across the country, people asked the same question they have asked after so many mass shootings:
How many more?
How many protection orders served but not enforced with follow-up safeguards?
How many warning signs dismissed as someone else’s problem?
How many families forced to light candles instead of birthday cakes?
Renee Benjamin will not turn 31.
Josh Higbee will not reach 32.
Brian Sadowsky’s life stopped at 44.
Their names deserve more than statistics.
They deserve the fullness of who they were — not just how they died.
Yet the controversy lingers like smoke.
Was the system slow?
Were there red flags?
Could more have been done after the Protection from Abuse order was served?
These are not abstract policy questions. They are questions born from three coffins.
In Hesston, the vigil lights flickered against the February air.
Families stood shoulder to shoulder.
Some cried openly.
Some stared at the ground.
Some looked at the plant and wondered how they would ever walk back inside.
And still, the machines will hum again.
Shifts will resume.
Because life insists on moving forward.
But something permanent broke that day.
Trust.
Routine.
The illusion that violence is always somewhere else.
Renee Benjamin.
Josh Higbee.
Brian Sadowsky.
They were workers. Friends. Loved ones.
They did not choose to be symbols in a national debate.
They went to work.
And never came home.
