The Rozar Park Mystery

by Mark Hall

timber swamp full of all the nasty stuff in low-lying incredibly humid, snakey places. We set up a temporary staging area about a quarter mile below the dog fighting area which was mostly a cabin surrounded by low-hanging, moss-filled oak trees.

  But it was a cabin with a kennel for what appeared to be about twenty dogs. There were dogs in and around the enclosed area, many of them chained to large logging chains to build their muscles around the neck and shoulders. There was also a smaller pen for rabbits that were used for chasing and building dog’s speed at best and sending them into a mean frenzy at worst. Apart from the main area was a pile of black dirt from the hole that had been dug by the backhoe that was still parked nearby. This hole appeared to be about eight feet square and as best I could tell it was probably a good six feet deep or more. I hated to think what was down in that pit.

  There was a fighting pit in the middle of the compound. Around it were a series of smaller pens and stakes for chaining the dogs and a pattern of poles with lights strung on them for the nighttime fights. A dirt driveway led up and out of the woods. Chris and I crept back to the staging area and waited for night. We had spent the past three days planning this setup with the Georgia Bureau of Investigation and the Houston County Sheriff’s office. Officers from those two groups sat around the staging area with us and all told, there were about twenty of us. Also in this group were eight members of the Department of Agriculture who were going to take care of the dogs, and Viv. I got him to come along because I thought it would make his year and sold it to the boss because he was a vet. Besides, I figured only he would know what a bush dog was in case that dog was here and hopefully with his new owner. Viv looked wide-eyed and nervous as a cat but he kept himself together well. No one spoke and there was very little movement.

  A vibration and a crackle came over our ear pieces. “Trucks” was the only word that came over the radio and that meant that the bait had worked.

  It is amazing how nearly thirty heavily-armed men and women and one scared-to-death veterinarian can move silently through the leaves and twigs of a swamp but there we were. Chris tagged up with me because he was technically in law enforcement, after all. Viv was told to follow after the last of the main group had passed.

  After the signal that the last of the vehicles had left the highway and made its way toward the dogfighting compound, we started making our way up the hill out of the swamp. At about two hundred yards below the cabin, the group spread out to cut off the swamp from anyone trying get out. At the same time, there were a couple dozen law enforcement trucks making their way through the culvert after taking care of the lookout and sweeper on the four-wheeler. The plan was for our group to enter the area first and if anyone tried driving out or running out, they’d meet up with the group coming in from the highway. Everyone on our team spread out around the lower three-quarters of the compound at about twenty yard increments.

  We settled in and let the group gather around the dogfighting area for several fights. The bait dogs were being cruelly used to rile up the fighting dogs. Loud talking was going on among different groups and while no guns were apparent, we all knew there was more than one in the pockets and boots of this crowd. A light wind was in our face which helped a great deal considering the number of dogs ahead of us. Clouds hung between us and the moon which kept it fairly dark. There were probably fifteen or so trucks behind the cabin and thirty or more men around the dog fighting arena.

  We sat tight where we were for the next ten minutes; I was barely breathing and barely able to hear anything for my heart pounding in my ears. Fifteen years in law enforcement and still uptight and nervous! I noticed how much the night reminded me of a bad night in Baxley several years ago.

  Chris was rock solid, his eyes focused on movement to and from the group around the arena. I was still trying to pick up on who he was from wherever it was he had been. He had some kind of insight when it came to detection and police work but I wasn’t sure if it had been as extensive as a career. He did not appear to be smooth in terms of his movements tonight. He was tentative while others out here were assertive in their positioning. It seemed that he might have known how to proceed but wasn’t completely sure. Had he been a detective in some northern city and this swamp was very different for him? Was he just a mystery writer with a very good imagination? Did he write one story too many and that’s what led to the feds bringing him to Warner Robins to hide in witness protection?

  All my questions would have to wait. The lead of our group was Cory Alexander, literally a Brahma bull of a man. When it came to these types of maneuvers, he was the best. He passed the signal down each line as we surrounded about three quarters of the cabin and dog fighting area. I pulled my pistol out and saw Chris pull the revolver that I kept in my truck. A few seconds later, Cory began moving very deliberately the thirty or so yards between us and the dogfight and the rest of the group followed.

  Eight

  I don’t know which was louder, the breathing in my chest or my heart in my ears as we inched up toward the men placing bets and yelling at dogs to fight harder. One of them turned and saw the line of men and women walking toward them, guns drawn. He yelled and before he could turn, Cory fired two shots in the air and yelled for everyone to get on the ground. Some fell like they were shot, some put their hands in the air, and a few ran. The dogs continued fighting and a couple ran off from the shots. The Department of Agriculture team and Viv attended to the dogs quickly. Those men trying to get out made it to the top of the hill ran right into the separate group closing in from that direction. It appeared that we had gotten everyone but it very well could have been that a couple or three or four made it out of there that night. No other shots were fired which was a miracle.

  Several minutes later, each of the dogfighters we had were separated into groups of ten and on their knees with their fingers interlocked behind their heads. One officer was giving directions in English and another in Spanish. Chris and I walked over to one of the groups. Dwayne was in this group so I wanted to make sure he wasn’t revealed as GBI. He had no need to drop his cover unless something went wrong and he had no choice.

  I was in front of the dogfighters facing them and Chris walked behind each of them and appeared to be looking at their feet. He stopped at one, looked up at me with a smile, then stepped forward and whispered “Presidente?” into the man’s ear. The man jerked his head up at Chris and then looked at me. Then it all went bad.

  Chris had put my revolver away at his waist between the small of his back and his pants then by getting close enough to whisper in the man’s ear, he had gotten in too close. In an instant, the guy had jumped up, grabbed the pistol from Chris, and backed away – even taking one shot in our direction before turning and running toward the backhoe. I drew my pistol out and shouted for everyone to get down as I started to chase after him.

  Just as all that happened, Chris recovered and took off after the dog fighter. They were closing in on the backhoe and the guy fired another shot wildly behind him without looking back. Chris caught up to the man and both fell over the mound of black dirt and I heard a loud splash and a scream from the pit.

  “Chris!” I yelled as I ran up to the mound of dirt and deep hole. I crossed the top of the mound and saw Chris on his back clear across the mouth of the hole on the other side. Down in the darkness of the pit, there was splashing and cursing as the dog fighter tried to climb out of the disgusting contents of that hole. I put my gun and my light on him and yelled for his hands, which he held up. Chris’ revolver was nowhere in sight.

  I don’t dare try to describe the sight or the smell that was around that terrible place. Moments later, a dog chain was thrown in for the man to grab and pull himself out. He staggered out then laid back on one of the mounds of dirt and slid down the other side until his feet met the level ground. No fewer than six guns were on him now and he realized that he was done.

  Chris spoke, “Voce fala Por
tugues?”

  The man nodded. “Sim”.

  “Voce tem um cao de bush?”

  The man looked terrified and caught. He tried to scramble up the mound of dirt but was persuaded back down.

  “Voce fala Ingles?” Chris asked.

  “Sim. And I ain’t saying anything”.

  “This is our guy, Mark, “Chris said, walking over to me, “my guess is that he is from south Brazil near Paraguay. He killed Tim Cooper over arguing about buying a bush dog. But there was a bigger plan to take over this entire racket and the way to do that and to save face with those others back there was to kill him fighting over a dog. This dog is red and orange colored and tied up behind a house over on Links View in Bonaire. Plus, he is left-handed and has on the shoes Tim Cooper was wearing”.

  There were six officers who heard what Chris said and every one of them turned their heads to see this guy make such a statement. Now I knew he must have been in law enforcement somewhere, sometime ago.

  “I don’t think y’all were speaking Spanish” I said as we walked.

  “Portuguese” Chris replied.

  We handcuffed the guy and took him up to the cabin and sat him down. I made sure to let him