When Denver’s “Burglars in Blue” scandal exploded in 1961, it wasn’t just headlines and statistics, it was a betrayal felt in precinct houses, neighborhoods, and families across the city.

On a chilly winter night in 1997, residents of west Denver thought the flashing red-and-blue lights outside their homes meant safety was near. But for dozens of business owners, those lights were the cover for a crime spree unlike any the city had ever seen; one carried out not by masked intruders, but by the very officers sworn to protect them. They became known as the “Burglars in Blue.”

For years, a crew of Denver police officers used their badges, uniforms, and patrol cars to pull off a series of brazen burglaries. Wearing their duty belts and carrying service weapons, they walked into pawn shops, bars, restaurants, and warehouses—not to investigate, but to loot. They knew alarm codes, knew how long it would take for real patrol units to respond, and used their insider knowledge to stay one step ahead.

The scheme unraveled in the late ‘90s, but its roots stretched back further. Investigators would later determine that the ring had been active since at least 1995, maybe longer. In total, they were tied to dozens of burglaries across the Denver metro area. Estimates of stolen goods reached into the hundreds of thousands of dollars—everything from electronics and cash to liquor and guns.

A Pattern of Abuse

The burglars weren’t after random targets. They often hit small businesses late at night, places struggling to keep their doors open. In one instance, they raided a neighborhood tavern, hauling out boxes of top-shelf liquor. In another, they burglarized a pawn shop, stealing jewelry and firearms—items that later trickled back onto the streets.

For many victims, the betrayal cut deeper than the financial loss. “You think the cops are there to help you,” one shop owner later told reporters, “but all along, they were the ones robbing us.”

Cracks in the Badge

The ring might have gone undetected for much longer if not for whispers that began circulating inside the department. Other officers noticed strange behavior—certain patrolmen showing up with unexplained money, bragging about nights out, or flashing jewelry that didn’t match their modest salaries.

The ring’s undoing came in the most unexpected fashion. Patrolman Art Winstanley, just 24 years old, drove away with a heavy safe in the back of his cruiser—only to have it crash out onto the street. Police on the scene, baffled, arrested him. His subsequent confession pulled back the curtain on what soon became the biggest law-enforcement scandal in U.S. history at the time.

Within months, the fallout was extraordinary: more than 50 Denver officers were arrested, a staggering number that included senior personnel. 

The Takedown

In 1998, a grand jury handed down indictments. Officers once trusted to uphold the law now faced charges of burglary, theft, and conspiracy. The story dominated Denver headlines for weeks, with tabloids seizing on the “Burglars in Blue” moniker.

The trials revealed a disturbing culture within certain corners of the department, a sense that the badge could be used not just for power, but for personal gain. Jurors heard how stolen liquor was shared at parties, how guns were resold on the black market, and how officers laughed about “double-dipping” when they were paid for shifts on nights they were out stealing.

In the end, roughly 40 officers were convicted and sent to prison—many serving years behind bars, including Winstanley, who spent nearly a decade incarcerated. The scandal eroded public trust, reducing the force by about 7%. 

The scandal earned Denver a tarnished title: “Crooked-cop capital of the United States.” According to novelist Robert Justice, in what Denverers would soon call the “year of shame”, the officers not only stole from businesses but also preyed on the vulnerable: rolling drunks and the homeless for their Social Security and veterans benefits, and dishing out rough street justice with impunity.

For Denver’s citizens, the scandal was more than just a headline, it was a wound. In working-class neighborhoods where distrust of authority already ran high, the case confirmed long-held suspicions that some officers were corrupt. “If you can’t trust the police not to rob you,” one community activist asked at a town hall, “who can you trust?”

The department responded by tightening oversight. New integrity units were formed. Supervisors were required to conduct stricter audits of officers’ off-duty activities. And in the years that followed, Denver invested more heavily in community policing in an effort to repair the damage.