Badges, Bears, and Eagles

by Steven T. Callan

  Though no vehicles were present, Szody decided to check out the stream. At the water’s edge he noticed an impression in the sand where someone had recently parked. Next to the impression and ten feet from the water’s edge was a cardboard box.

  “Unbelievable,” muttered Szody. “Somebody changed his oil here.” Inside the box were a used oil filter, four empty quart size oil cans, a plastic bucket filled with used oil and two empty beer cans.

  To say that Warden Szody was outraged would be a gross understatement. He had seen this same scenario so many times before and could envision the ultimate outcome—The first time it rains, the bucket will overflow and the box will decompose. All the oil and trash will be washed into the stream. Warden Szody diligently began searching the area for any clue as to who might have done this. He walked back and forth through the high grass until he spotted a small piece of white paper lying about ten feet from the cardboard box.

  I have always believed in Karma. Don’t get me wrong; not everyone who commits a crime against nature gets the punishment he deserves. Every day, people pollute the air, poison our waters, destroy wetlands, harpoon whales, remove mountain tops and pass environmentally damaging legislation without the slightest consequence. Occasionally, however, Mother Nature gets in the last punch.

  This was one of those instances.

  The tiny piece of paper that Warden Szody found was a receipt—a receipt for the purchase of four quarts of oil, an oil filter and a twelve pack of cheap beer. “I got ya!” Szody said, pumping his fist into the air. The receipt was dated the previous day and had been issued by a convenience store in Cottonwood. Cottonwood is a small town on Interstate 5, located about thirty miles west of the scene of the crime. Now confident that he would make the case, Warden Szody meticulously photographed the entire scene, secured the bucket full of oil so it wouldn’t spill and loaded the evidence into his truck.

  It was mid-afternoon when Warden Szody reached Cottonwood. He drove to the convenience store and questioned a clerk behind the counter.

  “Were you working here yesterday?” he asked.

  “Yes I was,” replied the clerk.

  “Do you remember this transaction?” asked Szody, handing the receipt to the clerk.

  “Yeah, I remember that,” replied the clerk. “The guy was driving a little orange pickup.”

  “By any chance do you know this guy’s name?”

  “Not his last name, but I think his first name is Wes.”

  “Do you know where Wes lives?”

  “Not quite sure … I think he lives on a dirt road, out past Gas Point Road.”

  Warden Szody appreciated the information that the clerk had given him, but got the impression that he was holding back a little.

  I bet old Wes buys a lot of beer in that store, thought Szody, as he drove away. He’s probably one of its best customers.

  Like a bloodhound on a scent trail, Szody spent the next two hours driving up and down several dirt roads that intersected with Gas Point Road. He had no luck finding the little orange truck, so he resolved to try again the next day.

  That night, Dave had difficulty sleeping. He cherished the beautiful trout streams that flowed through his patrol district and took a dim view of anyone who threatened to harm them. This investigation would not end until he had located and prosecuted the person responsible for that careless and irresponsible act.

  The next day began much like the previous day had ended—with Szody driving up and down every dirt road that intersected with Gas Point. Luck was on his side. Warden Szody spotted the orange truck in only forty-five minutes. The old, beat-up Isuzu was parked in front of a single-wide mobile home. Before pulling into the long, unpaved driveway, Szody grabbed his binoculars and focused on the suspect vehicle’s license plate. He ran the plate through dispatch and learned that the tiny truck was registered to a Wesley Charles McPherson, at that same Cottonwood address.

  No Cottonwood area contact would be complete without running the gauntlet of a pack of barking dogs. They were all there to greet him as he pulled up in front of the residence—two black and white border collies and some kind of white, mixed-breed pit bull. A little apprehensive about the yapping dogs at his feet, Szody knocked at the front door. Lying next to the porch were several empty beer cans, all the same cheap brand that Szody had found in the cardboard box left beside the stream. His knock set off another barrage of barking inside the house.

  This ought to be fun, thought Szody. Odds are this guy is going to have an attitude or he wouldn’t have done what he did in the first place.

  The door opened slightly and the bald head of a middle-aged, unshaven man appeared in the opening. A waft of cigarette smoke met Szody’s nostrils, blown by the noisy swamp cooler inside.

  “I’m Warden Szody, with the Department of Fish and Game. May I speak with you?”

  “What? Max, shut the hell up. Just a minute while I get my cigarettes.”

  The door closed briefly. When it reopened, the man stepped out on the porch wearing nothing but a pair of boxer shorts and a dirty white T-shirt. He quickly closed the door behind him as Max continued to bark inside.

  “Are you Wesley McPherson?”

  “Yeah, waddaya want?”

  “Were you up near Forward Mill Road the day before yesterday?”

  “Why?”

  There’s my answer, thought Szody. Otherwise, he would have said no. After three or four minutes of playing cat and mouse, McPherson admitted that he had been in the area and did change the oil in his truck.

  “What did you do with the oil cans and the waste oil?” asked Szody.

  “I took it all with me,” replied McPherson.

  McPherson was obviously lying, but Szody knew he would eventually pin him into a corner that he couldn’t get out of.

  “Are you sure about that?” asked Szody.

  “Positive,” replied McPherson.

  “What did you do with it after that?”

  McPherson had to think of a good answer for that question. It took him a minute or two. “I think I threw it all in a dumpster, downtown.”

  “How about you showing me where you changed your oil?”

  The suspect was hesitant, but after a few more minutes of verbal sparring, he agreed to show Szody where he had changed his oil. Warden Szody followed McPherson out to Manton and up the mountain to the exact location where the discarded box of material was found. Szody pulled the Fish and Game truck in behind the orange Isuzu and walked over to where McPherson was standing.

  “See, I told you I took everything with me,” said McPherson, sounding smug.

  “Well, Mr. McPherson, I appreciate you showing me where you changed your oil, but I have something to tell you. The box isn’t here because I picked it up yesterday. I will be filing a report with the district attorney and sometime soon, you will receive a notice to appear in court.”

  Wesley McPherson stood next to the beautiful little trout stream with a perplexed look on his face. He wanted to stand there and argue with Warden Szody, but the experienced wildlife protection officer had proven his case and was already walking back to his patrol truck.

  A few months later, McPherson was fined $2,500 in Shasta County Superior Court, for litter and placing oil products where they could pass into the waters of the state.

  Chalk up one small victory for Mother Nature.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Bears and Bad Guys

  I

  For several years during the mid-nineties, California Fish and Game officers working in and around Shasta County kept hearing rumors about illegal bear hunting activities. The lucrative black market for bear parts had turned the local sport of bear hunting into the dirty business of killing California black bears for their gallbladders.

  The practice of killing bears for their gallbladders has been going on for thousands of years. Ever since the early days of recorded Chinese history, there has been a belief that bear bile contained medicinal powers and could be u
sed to treat certain ailments. Present-day laboratory tests have proved that the principal ingredients in bear bile can be duplicated synthetically, but that fact has not put an end to the quest to obtain the real thing. The inhumane business of killing bears for their gallbladders has spread from China to Korea and other Asian countries, contributing to the depletion of Asian bear populations in the wild. As Asian species have declined, other species throughout the world have become targets—among them the California black bear.

  The “sport” of hunting wildlife with hound dogs has a long tradition in America. It spread from England during colonial times, when some rich dandy arrived in the colonies with the first pack of hounds. Many of today’s hound strains are said to have originated from those dogs. Setting the hounds on bears, raccoons, fox and other wildlife was particularly popular in the South. Generation after generation has chased hounds through the woods.

  Just north of Redding, California, lies Shasta Dam. This massive cement structure at the north end of the Great Central Valley was constructed between 1938 and 1945. People were unemployed at the time and came from all over the country to work on this seven-year project. Many came from Southern States and settled down in Northern California to raise families and establish communities like Central Valley and Project City. With them, they brought a culture that centered on hunting wildlife with dogs—hound dogs, that is—Walker Coonhounds, Redbones, English Coonhounds and Blueticks. Nothing made a transplanted Southerner feel more like he was back home than chasing a pack of floppy-eared, howling mutts through the Northern California woods.

  Word got back to friends and families that the weather was good out here and the bear hunting was even better. More Southerners arrived and for the next twenty-five years they were happy to run their dogs and hunt bears for the “sport” of it. Some became licensed guides and profited modestly by guiding other hunters during the two or three-month California bear season. That all changed sometime in the 1970s when word got out about a lucrative market for bear parts. Bear gallbladders were being sold in Korea, China and other Asian countries for thousands of dollars. With very large Korean and Chinese populations living in California, a market was also growing here in the United States.

  Instead of discarding all the entrails as they had done in the past, unscrupulous houndsmen began carefully removing the gallbladders and tying them off with string to prevent any of the valuable bile from escaping. They collected these organs in plastic baggies and secretly sold them to a middleman (usually another houndsman) or directly to a black marketeer. Word eventually spread that California’s black bears were being chased down and killed simply for their gallbladders. With big money at stake, it didn’t seem to matter if the season was open or closed.

  II

  Captain Jack Weaver was in charge of Redding area Fish and Game wardens during the late seventies. Reports were coming into the Fish and Game office about bears being killed illegally for their parts. Although gallbladders were the primary target, paws and claws were also prized.

  Local houndsmen had discovered an easier way to find bears than driving mountain roads all day in search of a fresh scent trail. They collected leftover food and garbage from butcher shops, restaurants and markets. Barrels of this stuff would be transported into the woods and piled in secluded areas. There were even reports of deer being shot and thrown on the pile. The combined stench of garbage and rotting animal flesh would attract hungry bears from miles away. Hunters could kill bears at the bait pile or run their dogs off of the scent trails that bears had left behind. This practice was quite illegal but finding the bait piles and catching these cagey woodsmen in the act was difficult, if not impossible to do. Not to be deterred, Weaver brought in an undercover warden from Southern California.

  Although the local hound community was reluctant to trust an outsider, this particular undercover officer seemed to infiltrate their ranks fairly easily. A Caucasian of average height and weight, he could do a convincing good ol’ boy impersonation. In a surprisingly short time, Weaver’s man managed to convince the local houndsmen that he was one of them. For three months, he hunted with them, ate with them and played the role of a Northern California houndsman to the hilt.

  By the time the detail came to an end, the undercover warden had documented several violations, the majority of which involved hunting off of bait piles. These cases were difficult to prove in court: defendants claimed they didn’t know the bait piles were there. Most of the charges were eventually dismissed due to sketchy evidence and various technicalities. It was a good effort but the local hound community became warier than ever of outsiders. Fifteen years would go by before another attempt was made to crack this carefully-guarded secret.

  III

  In November of 1995, Fish and Game Warden Dave Szody and I opened an investigation into a number of bear-related violation reports in and around Shasta County. We followed up on any leads, regardless of how small or ambiguous they might be. Between us, Szody and I had over forty years of experience catching and prosecuting wildlife violators. None of those violators, however, were as secretive, crafty and hard to catch as outlaw houndsmen. Arrogance and disrespect for game regulations permeated the local hound community.

  Although the sale or possession for sale of bear parts was now a California felony, there was big money to be made and violations were reportedly rampant. A rumor was floating around about a Korean businessman who periodically came up from Los Angeles to buy gallbladders from the local houndsmen. It was not much to start with, but it was all we had.

  During the course of a routine investigation, Warden Szody and I came across a man named Dan Searcy. Searcy had grown up in Central Valley (currently Shasta Lake City), lived there all of his life and had a pretty good handle on everything that went on there. With absolutely no prompting from us, Searcy expressed his concern about all of the wildlife violations taking place.

  “You wouldn’t believe all of the stuff I hear about,” said Searcy. “They’re killing bears just for their gallbladders. I used to join in,” Searcy admitted, “but I feel bad about it now.”

  Szody and I were trying to gauge if Searcy was just trying to impress us or if he really knew something. With the mention of gallbladders, we began to pay close attention. “I’ve seen bear cubs killed and their remains fed to the dogs,” continued Searcy. “They bait the bears in with piles of garbage; then they kill ’em.”

  I asked Searcy if he could provide any names. The first name out of this man’s mouth was Buck Millsap. According to our new informant, Millsap had been buying and selling bear gallbladders for years. Szody and I recognized the name: Millsap had been the subject of an undercover bear investigation back in the late seventies. His name popped up whenever bear violations were mentioned.

  I asked how Searcy knew that Millsap bought and sold gallbladders. “Because I’ve seen him do it,” replied Searcy. “One year I sold him seventeen myself. He paid me fifty dollars apiece.”

  Searcy said he had become disgusted with it all some time ago and sold his dogs. I asked how well he knew Buck Millsap. “I’ve known him for years,” replied Searcy. “I heard some Korean guy is supposed to come up around Thanksgiving to meet with him.”

  Warden Szody and I were pretty good at recognizing the difference between a load of bull and the truth. We both had the feeling that Searcy was sincere. I asked if Searcy would be willing to introduce an undercover officer to Buck Millsap. After carefully considering the proposition, he replied, “Sure I would.”

  Szody and I drove back to Redding discussing our new informant and the possibility of bringing in an undercover officer. “Now what do we do?” Szody asked. “We can’t use anybody from around here; the houndoggers will recognize him.”

  “The guy would have to fit the part,” I said, “someone who looks and talks like a real houndsman.” One man came to mind. This Fish and Game warden worked far enough out of the area that no one would recognize him. He was a big, six-foot-four-inch cowboy who t
alked like he just got off the bus from San Antonio.

  “Big Al McDermott!” blurted Szody.

  “I was just thinking the same thing.”

  That night I telephoned Al McDermott and asked if he would be willing to come down periodically and play the role of Dan Searcy’s visiting uncle from Montana. Without hesitation, Al said he would be glad to do it.

  The next morning, Warden Szody and I found ourselves sitting in front of the regional patrol chief’s desk. I explained the situation and made our case for bringing in an undercover warden from outside the area. “Warden Al McDermott is our first choice,” I said.

  The chief was skeptical. He didn’t believe the new informant was trustworthy and he was particularly leery of using Al McDermott as the undercover operative. The chief and McDermott had a history. Years earlier the chief had been McDermott’s lieutenant. Although the chief reluctantly approved our undercover investigation, Szody and I couldn’t help thinking that he believed McDermott was bound to fail and make a fool of himself.

  Dan Searcy didn’t disappoint. He got in touch with some of his houndsmen acquaintances and arranged to join them, along with his Uncle Jack, on a hunting trip. Al McDermott would play the role of Searcy’s Uncle Jack Russell, a ranch manager from Montana who was in town looking for cattle to buy. We provided McDermott with ID, business cards, a phone number and a Montana license plate for his unmarked truck.

  On December 9, 1995, at 4:30 a.m., Dan Searcy and Warden Al McDermott—aka Jack Russell—joined a group of local houndsmen on a bear hunt in the mountains of western Shasta County. They met at a mini-mart on the outskirts of Redding. Buck Millsap was already there when Searcy and McDermott arrived. He was driving a three-quarter-ton pickup with a dog box in the bed. Soon after Searcy and McDermott arrived, several more pickups started pulling into the parking lot. Searcy identified two of the other hunters as Stan Harder and Larry Cogle. Harder and Cogle were two tobacco-chewing rednecks out of central casting. Similar in height and coloring and almost as jowly as their dogs, they could have passed for middle-aged brothers. Each man drove his own pickup. Harder’s pickup contained a dog box, filled with hounds belonging to Buck Millsap.