The Lost Dogs (10 page)

They weren’t made for this. Over centuries their bodies and minds and dispositions had been honed for activity, and their muscles longed for something to do. They had energy and power. They wanted to run and play. They needed things to occupy their minds. Things to chase, to watch, to chew on and figure out.

Some paced to work off their energy, back and forth or round and round in little circles until they became dizzy and unsure of themselves. Some jumped, over and over, straight up in the air, delighting in the thrust it took to lift their bodies clear off the ground and in the momentary sensation of floating above the earth. They barked, too: at the other dogs, at the spinning fans above them, at nothing.

Life in the clearing was bad, but this was bad too. A different bad. Their days now crept along with a dreary sameness. Long hours spent waiting for something, for a few moments of activity that never led to anything. Those came when the man arrived, an event that occurred twice a day and was announced by the sound of tires on gravel.

When he came in he fed and watered the dogs. When they were done eating he’d go down the row and clean the cages one by one. To do this he’d open the gate, clip a leash to the dog’s collar, then lead it to the far wall and tie it to a hook while he hosed out the cage. For some dogs this seemed to be a painful experience, and they would cower in the back of their pen so that the man had to coax them out and then half drag them across the room. As they waited on the leash, these dogs slumped over with their heads facing the wall or they lay flat on the ground.

For others it was an exciting and happy opportunity. They barked and paced and jumped up on the gate as they awaited their turn. When they were finally let out they bounded up on the man, jumped in the air, tried to run, so that the man had to pull and settle them.

A few of the dogs simply stood tall at the gate when their turn came, head up, tail wagging. The moments tethered to the wall were a high point for them—a full belly, the thrill of interaction, a different view of the room, and most of all the sensation of space around them. It wasn’t much space, but it was an expanse, compared to the cramped confines of the pen. The feeling carried them even after they were led back to the pen and the gate was latched closed. Sometimes it even lasted for more than a few minutes.

Fifty miles southeast of Surry, the city of Chesapeake’s animal shelter held ten of the Bad Newz dogs. One of them, a small black-and-white dog, slept at the back of his kennel. He was younger and smaller than many of the others and not at all sure of himself. He stood out because of his coloring: His body was black with a few white waves that swooshed up from his light belly, while his head was almost all white, except for his right eye and a span under his nose that were both black. They made him look as if he had a black eye and a greasepaint mustache.

The kennels, more than one hundred of them constructed on two levels, were made of cinder blocks with a chain-link gate. This broke up the noise and meant he could get some seclusion and peace from the dogs on either side of him. But there was also a small opening in the back wall covered by a plastic flap. If the dog walked through, he entered a ten-foot-long run that was all chain link. He could move back and forth freely. This meant that he had a place to relieve himself that was away from where he ate and slept and that he could choose to see other dogs or not. He could jump and trot. He had some space, some options.

He also had some comforts. In the front section of the run there were either blankets or torn-up newspaper on the floor, which made it soft and warm. He liked to sit there, on the blankets, in the relative quiet of the cinder block-covered section. He liked to sleep.

The stalls that did not contain animals—smaller ones on top, larger on the bottom—were filled with supplies, clean blankets, detergents, miscellaneous gear. The long squeegees that they used to clean out the pens leaned against the wall and he liked to stare at them.

There was a lot of activity. A washer and dryer at the end of the row seemed to run almost constantly, cleaning all those blankets. The sound of voices carried in from all around as people came and went. He liked that. It was like white noise that helped drown out other distractions, a soothing soundtrack to his dreams.

There were people, too, who came to see him. They brought toys and handed out treats. Sometimes they took him for walks outside the small gray building, even though he wasn’t always eager to leave his kennel. Some days when the people came for him, he sat panting rapidly. They had to reach in and slide him out or lure him with food. He loved to eat. When they brought his food, the silver bowls topped off with kibble and water, he jumped up to dig in.

Truth was, he didn’t mind the small confines of the pen. He was a dog, and like all dogs he was hardwired to live in dens, small dugouts, or caves, spending long parts of the day lolling or sleeping. Of course, dogs also spend much of that time socializing with their pack, something that was impossible to do here. And they are driven to venture out, to forage for food, patrol their territory, explore the world around them. They’re energetic and ambitious creatures. They need exercise and stimulation or they start to lose it. They get “kennel crazy.” It’s an affliction that’s epidemic in shelters. Pit bulls, intelligent and given to activity, are particularly prone to it. Dogs that get it are usually euthanized.

The dogs around the little black-and-white guy spent the day pacing and barking and running, trying to achieve some semblance of the stimulation they craved, but the black-and-white dog didn’t do much of that at all. Mostly he slept. Those other dogs seemed to be waiting for something to happen, but he was not waiting for anything. He was just waiting.

He rolled up onto his back and let his legs stick up into the air. He closed his eyes.

ON THE MORNING OF
May 30, Brinkman, Knorr, and Gill met in the parking lot of the Federal Correctional Institution in Petersburg, Virginia, a minimum-security facility that held about one thousand men and offered such amenities as art and music rooms and a full basketball court, including bleachers and an electronic scoreboard.

The prisoner they were visiting was in on a narcotics conviction—crack distribution—but had also been a dogfighter. Law enforcement was beginning to realize this was a common connection: Bust a dogfight and they were bound to find people guilty of other crimes, not just drug users and gun toters but drug dealers and illegal-weapons traffickers. Studies had also shown that animal cruelty is linked to other types of domestic battery, including spousal and child abuse, and it desensitizes witnesses to violence.

None of that came up during the sit-down, but the prisoner did tell them he’d met Vick with Purnell Peace in the early days of Bad Newz Kennels and had sold them three pit bulls for a total of $2,900. Later he participated in a fight at 1915 Moonlight Road, putting one of his own dogs against one of Vick’s. There was a $3,000 wager on the line, which his dog won. When it was over Vick told Peace to kill the Bad Newz dog, and the latter shot it with a .22 caliber handgun.

The interview was a step in the right direction, but as the three men talked outside afterward, Gill stressed that time was of the essence. Knorr and Brinkman pressed on. They climbed into their cars and immediately made the long drive down to the Federal Correctional Institution at Bennettsville, South Carolina. By the time they arrived at the sprawling 670-acre campus about seventy miles northwest of Myrtle Beach, it was too late to go in and talk to the inmates, so they put up for the night in a nearby motel.

First thing in the morning they made their way over to Bennettsville. A medium-security site, the atmosphere and people inside this place were notably different. There was an air of hostility and violence. The two inmates they met with—also in for crack distribution—were confessed dogfighters and both described fights in the sheds at Moonlight Road. At least one of them told of meeting a Bad Newz representative along the side of the road and of following him to the site. They remembered the white house and the black sheds. They remembered black Escalades and BMWs. The bets ranged as high as $13,000 and the Bad Newz dogs lost every time. According to one of the men, Peace killed at least one dog afterward by wetting it down and electrocuting it.

They weren’t perfect witnesses; they were convicted felons, for one, and therefore not totally trustworthy, and they were also receiving a reduction in their sentence for agreeing to talk, which gave them a reason to say what the officers wanted to hear. Still, the case wasn’t being built around them. They were just one small link in a growing chain of evidence that was attached to one seemingly inevitable reality: Michael Vick was a dogfighter. He paid for it, he bet on it, he participated in the training, fighting, and killing of dogs with his own two hands.

The next week passed Jim Knorr in a blur. He spent the first few days on the phone arranging his search team. He wrote up reports of the prison interviews. He brought Brownie up to Richmond for a sit-down with Mike Gill. Finally, on June 6 he spent the entire day writing the affidavit for the warrant. He e-mailed it to Gill late that night and the two made arrangements to meet at Gill’s office at 6:30 A.M. to finalize the document.

Knorr rose at 4:30 A.M. on June 7, a clear, bright morning that promised to get hot and sticky. In Richmond, he and Gill went over the wording of the affidavit, making a few changes until they were satisfied that it was perfect. At 11:00 A.M. they walked it down the street to the district court, where U.S. Magistrate Judge Dennis Dohnal signed the warrant. By 1:00 P.M. Knorr was back in the parking lot of the Hog Island boat launch. He was once again strapping into his bulletproof vest and gearing up to execute a search of 1915 Moonlight Road. This time it would be different.

With him now were four other USDA agents and a contingent of Virginia State Police, including a SWAT team and an evidence recovery team. They were going after the bodies. Once again they had no plan for what they would do with the remains once they unearthed them, but right now, with the clock ticking, the whole world watching, and the pressure mounting, it seemed more important to confirm that they existed.

By this time, Knorr had come to dislike Gerald Poindexter. About the third time they’d met, Poindexter went off on one of his diatribes and Knorr snapped back. Since then, Poindexter had been more deferential, but not much. Knorr was not looking forward to the upcoming conversation, but at about 1:45 P.M., he pulled out his cell phone and dialed Poindexter’s number. When the commonwealth attorney answered, Knorr said, “I wanted to let you know I’m about to serve a federal warrant on 1915 Moonlight Road.”

According to Knorr, Poindexter responded with a stream of rhetoric filled with righteous indignation and a heavy dose of
motherfuckers
. The rest of the conversation, as Knorr recalls:

“What are you searching for?” Poindexter asked.

“The same things that were in the state warrant you forbid Deputy Brinkman from executing,” Knorr said.

“Who are the recovery experts?”

“VSP Evidence Response Team.”

“Is Brinkman part of the team?”

“No,” said Knorr, “I couldn’t get Bill on his cell phone this morning.”

“If you had, would you have wanted him to be there?”

Knorr responded
yes
. “Who authorized you?” Poindexter asked.

“The U.S. attorney’s office for the Eastern District of Virginia.”

“Who’s in charge of that office?”

“U.S. Attorney Chuck Rosenberg.”

“Is Mr. Rosenberg a football fan?” Poindexter asked.

“I don’t know.”

“It’s disrespectful,” Poindexter protested. “You don’t have the right to come into my county and execute a search without even letting me or the sheriff know.”

“The USDA and U.S. attorney’s office don’t notify people before they conduct a search,” Knorr answered. “And as long as your county is in the United States, I absolutely do have the right.”