The Lost Dogs

by Jim Gorant

  At last the job was done. There in two holes lay eight dead dogs, four in each. Many of them were tangled together and overlapping, but there had been very little decomposition, so they appeared as if they had died only moments earlier. Some still wore collars. One had her legs curled up under her body, her eyes closed and her chin resting on the ground. She looked so peaceful that if he didn’t know better Knorr would have sworn she was sleeping.

  They still had no place to take the bodies and really no means of removing them, so they decided on a new plan. They removed one tooth from each dog. These would serve as physical evidence and also potentially provide a DNA link to the bodies if needed. Afterward, they returned the bodies to the ground as nearly as possible to the way they had found them. Then they covered them with dirt and patted the ground flat.

  It was after 7:00 P.M. and Knorr still had a three-and-a-half-hour drive ahead of him. He peeled off his sweat-soaked shirt and threw it into the trunk of his car, then pulled on a fresh one he had brought along. It wasn’t enough. When he arrived home his dog, BJ, freaked out. She barked madly and ran away from him, from the smell of death that clung to his clothes and body. She would not come near him until he had showered and changed.

  This did not bother Knorr as much as one other thing. It ate at his mind for the long drive home and all through the night. Everything had been exactly as Brownie had described, except for one detail. He had told them about one dog that died in a way even more horrific than the rest. That body was not among the others. There was no sign of the little red dog.

  “What is foreign to me is the federal government getting into a dogfighting case. I know it has been done, but what is driving this? Is it this boy’s celebrity? Would they have done this if it wasn’t Michael Vick?” Gerald Poindexter asked.

  The media had arrived within a half hour of the search’s beginning, and reporters had kept a vigil ever since. Some stood along the fence, peeking into the yard. Others parked their cars at the Ferguson Grove church and waited. Many of them called Poindexter, and he didn’t disappoint.

  Poindexter told reporters he was “absolutely floored” by the latest developments. “Apparently these people want it. They want it, and I don’t believe they want it because of the serious criminal consequences involved. . . . They want it because Michael Vick may be involved.”

  “If they’ve made a judgment that we’re not acting prudently and with dispatch based on what we have, they’re not acting very wisely.”

  “There’s a larger thing here, and it has nothing to do with any breach of protocol. There’s something awful going on here. I don’t know if it’s racial. I don’t know what it is.”

  Poindexter’s outburst, combined with the news that the feds had opened their own case, caused quite a stir. News outlets and opinion mongers from the sports world to the cable chat fests to the afternoon talk shows chimed in. Animal rights groups redoubled their efforts, appearing seemingly everywhere, staging protests, and ratcheting up the pressure even further. As always, Gill, Knorr, and anyone involved in the federal investigation remained silent.

  Inside, though, Knorr churned. He paid little attention to Poindexter; he had a long career of evenhanded work to support him. What he had dreamed of—what he had asked his wife to pray for—was a dogfighting case, a chance to help animals, not a chance to persecute any particular subset of people. But what the media storm made clear was that this case was unlike so many of the others he’d handled before.

  On one level it was simply another chance to catch bad guys, but it was becoming obvious that it would also mean more than that. Because of Vick’s celebrity, everyone was watching. If the case succeeded, it would shine a big bright light on dogfighting and encourage the investigation and prosecution of more dogfighters around the country. If it failed, it would devastate the animal rescue and welfare communities, scuttling cases, drying up funding and producing dire consequences for thousands of animals.

  On top of that, he’d been having trouble with Brownie. The independent mindedness that made him a good witness also made him hard to protect. He got bored by himself in Virginia Beach and would regularly turn up around Surry, hanging out with his old buddies. Knorr would take him back and ask the manager of the latest sleazebag hotel to keep an eye on him—to call Knorr if he disappeared or if anyone came to see him. Knorr even gave Brownie a cell phone, but Brownie would sometimes go days without answering it. Other times he would call Knorr incessantly, and at any time of the day or night, asking for money.

  More and more, Debbie Knorr would awake to find Jim lying next to her, staring at the ceiling. Over the previous few weeks he’d not quite been himself. He was a little more irritable, a little quieter. He’d put on weight. “What is it?” she said.

  The search had been a success. They had more evidence than ever, and Brownie’s credibility was stronger than ever. Still, he wanted the smoking gun, the slam dunk, home run, no-doubt-about-it missing link. “If this thing doesn’t work out,” he said, “we’re going to let a lot of people down.”

  Before she drifted back to sleep, Deb whispered, “I’ll say a prayer.”

  12

  ABOUT A WEEK AFTER Jim Knorr’s team had dug up and documented the eight dead dogs at 1915 Moonlight Road, Mike Gill received a call from a woman named Melinda Merck. A forensic veterinarian for the ASPCA, Merck was the person who could examine crime scenes and recovered evidence and determine critical details about what had happened. She was, basically, CSI for animals, a field she had to a large degree invented.

  When she was about nine years old, someone found a beagle that had been hit by a car on the side of the road in the small Ohio town where she lived. Most of the neighborhood gathered around, but no one knew whose dog it was or what to do to help it. So they left it.

  Merck was shocked that none of the adults would do anything for the dog. She didn’t know what to do either, but she would not abandon the creature. Instead, she sat by its side, comforting it and keeping the flies off its face until it died. The experience fed what was already a deep love for animals, and she vowed that from then on she would always help. If there was need, and there was something that could be done, she would do it.

  After graduating from Michigan State’s veterinary school in 1988, she opened the Cat Clinic of Roswell in Roswell, Georgia. Her private practice was doing well, but she rescued almost as many animals as she treated. She has eight cats and two dogs, but at one point she lived on a spacious farm with five dogs, twenty-seven cats, two horses, one goat, one cow, and one fawn.

  In her work Merck encountered many troubling cases: abuse, neglect, hoarding. In 2000, Georgia passed a law making animal cruelty a felony, and a collection of law enforcement officers, lawyers, veterinarians, and animal welfare enthusiasts set up a group to figure out how to pursue such cases. Merck joined and was asked to compile all the known information about animal forensics and give a presentation to the others. Merck set off to do the research only to find that none existed. She would have to create it herself.

  She attended workshops on crime scene investigation, human forensics, gunshot recognition, and bite mark analysis and began reading every book she could find on the topic. She also began sitting in with medical examiners at Fulton County Medical Center and the Georgia Bureau of Investigations, figuring that if she could learn the basics of human forensics, she might be able to apply some of those techniques to animals and maybe even develop a few new ones. It was a gruesome business. Every time there was a murder that involved some sort of physical trauma, Merck’s phone would ring. She would drag herself down to the morgue and stand sentinel while human bodies were poked, prodded, cut open, pulled apart, and examined.

  In the process, she realized the job was more than medical; there was a legal side. It was one thing to know what sort of evidence could be obtained and how to collect it, but it was just as important to know what prosecutors needed to build a case and how evidence could be challenged or compromised.
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  She developed and implemented intricate systems of documentation and security. She photographed and videotaped her subjects. When working a case she collected, labeled, and locked away samples of everything from fur to feces, because she never knew what she would need down the line. She built a database of resources, noting that the lab at the University of California at Berkeley excelled at DNA and blood testing while Michigan State could do bone marrow tests that could show if an animal had suffered starvation.

  Along the way, she caught the attention of Randy Lockwood, a dogfighting and animal cruelty expert for the Humane Society, and the two co-authored a book on animal forensics. Two years later Lockwood moved to the ASPCA and started using Merck as a consultant. The next year she was given a full-time job as the organization’s first forensic veterinarian.

  As part of her job, Merck worked on animal abuse and cruelty cases all over the country. On the day of the original raid at Vick’s house, Merck was on-site with the DEA and the USDA at a dogfighting bust in southern Mississippi. Late in the afternoon a flurry of buzzes and rings had almost everyone reaching for their BlackBerrys simultaneously. Together they read about the Vick bust.

  At that time, Merck called Gerald Poindexter, introduced herself, and offered her services. Poindexter seemed interested in what she had to say, but it was an odd conversation, highlighted by his asking if she “thought Vick was guilty.”

  Within days she received a call from an animal control officer who had been brought in to help with the case, and that officer put her in touch with Bill Brinkman. The calls with Brinkman had a mysterious quality of their own. Sometimes the calls did not come directly from him or she’d get a call saying Brinkman was going to call or that he was going to call and ask her about a number of things they’d already discussed. She got the sense that Brinkman was either jumping through a lot of hoops or going around them or both. Still, it became clear to her that Brinkman was trustworthy and committed. He was about the case and the dogs and little else.

  It was the middle of June before Brinkman put her in touch with Mike Gill. She once again explained what she could do if the investigators were able to recover the bodies of the dead dogs. There were no guarantees, especially since the bodies had been dug up once already, but she could usually determine how the animals were killed, how long they’d been in the ground, and some aspects of how they had been treated.

  Gill liked what he heard. When it came to the events of April 23, when the eight or so Bad Newz dogs were killed, all they had was Brownie’s testimony and the buried bodies. Those two pieces of evidence strengthened each other, but anything that would further establish the time and cause of death would be a huge help. He told Merck he’d be back in touch, then called Jim Knorr. “How would you like to go back to Vick’s house and dig up the dogs again?”

  There was silence.

  Gill explained that this time it would be different. This time they would take the dogs and ship them back to Merck’s lab for a full analysis. It was the type of information that could solidify Brownie beyond question and build an insurmountable stockpile of evidence.

  Knorr immediately set to planning. The case was picking up steam, and the U.S. attorney’s office was abuzz with activity. Knorr and Brinkman were regular visitors as they prepped for the next search. Merck was in on two or three conference calls per week. Every person had a role and how it would be carried out was specifically defined. Time-lines were created, maps were drawn, supply lists filled out. Everything was planned down to the slightest detail. Then the details were parsed to root out any flaws. Contingencies were drawn up.

  The long days often ended at the Capital Ale House, a dark-wood paneled pub directly across the street from the district attorney’s office that’s known for two things: its long bar with a trough of ice running down the middle so patrons can keep their beer cold while they chat, and its beer menu—forty-six selections on tap plus more than 250 bottled varieties and two cask-conditioned ales.

  In the office and at the bar Brinkman, Knorr, Gill, and a few of their colleagues talked through the possibilities. Despite the variety of beer available, Brinkman never ordered anything but Miller Lite, which Knorr noticed was always served in a mug. This, he suspected, was because the proprietors were embarrassed to have someone drinking low-cal domestic at their bar.

  Even as the team plotted another return to 1915 Moonlight Road, they continued to make progress on other fronts. They’d gone out in search of Tony Taylor, Vick’s former neighborhood associate who had been the driving force behind Bad Newz Kennels. Despite his central roll in the operation, Taylor had been kicked out of the group in 2004.

  Taylor and Phillips often butted heads and Phillips would complain to Vick about the situation. Things got worse when Taylor proposed that he and Peace powerwash the house at 1915 Moonlight Road. He asked Vick for $14,000 to do the job. Vick suspected that Taylor intended to pay someone else much less and then split the leftover between himself and Peace.

  Shortly afterward, Taylor, Peace, and Phillips were in a nightclub with a mutual acquaintance. Taylor had let this friend wear a gold chain valued at $10,000 to $15,000 that belonged to Vick. At the end of the night Phillips tried to recover the chain, but the acquaintance resisted and the chain broke. Taylor and Phillips got into an argument about the incident that almost turned physical.

  Later, Phillips again complained to Vick, his best friend since grammar school, and when Phillips and Peace suggested tossing Taylor from the crew, Vick gave the okay. The next day Taylor returned to the house to find a pick-up truck parked outside the gate at the end of the driveway. Almost all his stuff was piled in the truck, although many of his clothes had been torn and close to thirty pairs of Nike sneakers, gifts from Vick, were missing.

  When Taylor heard the police were looking for him, he tried to reach out to his former partners, but none would take his call. He feared he was being set up to take the fall. He called the authorities and agreed to meet with them. The Bad Newz group had done more than simply cut Taylor off from his dogs, his residence, and his source of income. They’d humiliated him, and now the investigators were trying to use any lingering ill will to their advantage.

  The police also had the force of logic on their side. There’s an old legal adage: The first to surrender gets the best deal. Taylor, who already had a criminal record, stood to gain quite a bit by cooperating. Brinkman, Knorr, and Gill had been sure to make all these points clear to Taylor and he had started to talk—about who was involved, how the operation worked, and about specific dogs and fights.

  How to use the information he provided was one of the topics that arose at the bar, but other questions floated up, too. What about the dogs themselves? Wouldn’t it be great if some of them could be saved? Thousands of letters, e-mails, and a seemingly unending barrage of phone calls had poured into the U.S. attorney’s office encouraging the team to do just that—save the dogs.

  Everyone wanted to help, but what could they do? Technically the dogs were still the property of the Commonwealth of Virginia, and lawyers didn’t see any legal way for the federal government to take possession. Even if they did assume control of the dogs, who would pay for them? The care and upkeep of fifty dogs is an expensive proposition. Jim Knorr thought there was a provision of the Animal Welfare Act that would be useful, and one of the attorneys promised to look into it, but no one was hopeful.

  Still, things were better than they had been. They were now in control of the case and moving forward on three fronts: getting what they could from Tony Taylor, forensic examination of the dead bodies, and seizing the dogs. In the purple-blue glow of the Capitol Ale House’s accent lights, a plan was beginning to coalesce.

  13

  THE BROWN DOG—SUSSEX 2602—COWERS in the back of her kennel. Things have gotten better at the shelter. Another man joins the first and that seems to settle things a bit. There is a familiarity to the days that gives at least some comfort.

  The morning routine
begins shortly after daylight comes. Fresh water appears in the bowls. Then the kennels are cleaned, but the procedure is different now. The dogs are taken to an empty stall while their space is hosed and brushed with disinfectant. When the brown dog goes back into her pen, the floor is cold and wet and doesn’t have her smell to it.

  Sometimes the men will put a dog on a leash and walk it around inside the building. The brown dog wants to walk but she can’t make herself. When the man with the leash opens her cage, she lies flat on the ground, shaking. After a while he stops trying. A few of the other dogs won’t walk either, but some of them love to do it. They sit wagging by the front of their pens when the men come. On occasion one of those dogs will get to go outside for a walk.

  Two of the dogs, the ones with scars who bark hard and loud, as if they are trying to blow down the walls with sound, have been moved to the other building. There they are put in larger pens, each with an indoor and an outdoor section. The men can close a gate between the two sections, which allows them to clean up and put in food without having to come face-to-face with those dogs.

  It is quiet at night, but the moment the men arrive in the morning, the barking starts. As long as they can hear or smell someone sitting in the office, the dogs bark and bark. They want more food, more water, more walks, more attention, any affection.

  They want something to break the monotony and boredom. It drives them to jumping and circling in their pens, to chewing at the metal fasteners on the chain link. They chew on the bowls and metal buckets, using time and the pent-up energy of their confinement to crush and flatten them.

  And they bark. They bark and the sloped tin ceiling barks back, amplifying their fury and despair and frustration and reflecting it right back down on them. The brown dog can not take much more. One of the men comes to try to walk her, and she becomes so frightened that she loses control and a stream of urine flows out of her, spreading across the floors and soaking into her fur as she lies there, paralyzed.