Editor’s Note: The names of individuals, locations, and biker gangs involved in this have been omitted or changed.
I roll with everything I need to blend in. Or at least I try to. In this case, I was in the Appalachian region of southern Ohio tracking a target. I popped the trunk of my car, reached in and pulled out a Bauer hockey bag stinking of jungle rot from old skates and gloves, only there was no hockey equipment in this bag. I pulled out camouflage mossy-oak hunting gear. Camo pants, shirt, jacket. Head to toe.
I suited up, silenced the Nextel, threw my cameras into a backpack, and climbed into the woods carrying a tripod. I began to slowly trek into the wilderness. Low to the ground. Quietly. Inch by inch. No sound. My heart was racing, but my breathing was controlled. I mission-creeped well over a mile into the woods before I could hear the faint sounds of men talking and music playing.
I found my perch and waited, searching for my target, until finally he came into view, surrounded by dangerous men. I was invisible. All was well for an hour. Then someone opened a car door. A dog jumped out and began running around the clearing. My heart rate spiked. The dog smelled me and kept coming closer. Armed men started looking in my direction. How did I get here?
I’m not some tough guy with steely-eyed intensity and grass for balls, I’m just a regular Michigan suburbanite who happens to have a job that makes the hair on the back of my neck stand up from time to time. At no time in my life did I feel more fear than when I conducted surveillance on a member of a biker gang.
Metro Detroiters are somewhat familiar with motorcycle gangs. There are several that operate within Detroit, including a few “outlaw” gangs with clubhouses in the city’s east and west sides. These gangs mostly operate on the fringes. My only knowledge of them was from films and television shows. But in the fall of 2007 that changed.
The case: An employee of a major parts supplier to the Big Three was allegedly injured on the job, filed a high-exposure claim asking for a large settlement, and litigation ensued. I know little of the details behind this saga other than the company leadership disliked him, didn’t want him back at work, and didn’t want to settle.
The employee was a white male in his mid-40s, and, according to our informant, was believed to be involved in a Detroit Biker gang. It was an outlaw group with a long history of illegal activity, including drug trafficking, dealing, and theft rings at the state and federal level. I wasn’t certain about the credibility of the information I had. The target had no criminal record and didn’t fit the stereotype of a person in a biker gang. He was clean cut, with short hair, and only a couple tattoos mostly observed under a T-shirt.
Direct surveillance began at his residence, and he was obviously coached up by his attorneys. He kept a low profile for over a week, rarely exiting his home, except to get his mail. I was dying of boredom. Eventually, after days of nothing, I was called off. The attorneys had enough of the sunk cost of surveillance. I told the employer, “This guy doesn’t do shit.”
About a month later, the game changed. I was sent back out and told activity was imminent. The employer, by way of an informant, suspected the target was going to attend a biker-gang event. I had no way of knowing if this was true. This time, I was partnered with another investigator named “Shooter” and a second backup pair of investigators was on standby in case the target went live and a vehicle rotation was needed. In layman’s terms, this is a surveillance procedure in which every time a target makes a turn while driving, he or she sees a different vehicle in his rearview mirror, nullifying any possible suspicion they are being followed.
All was quiet. A dry fall morning in Metro Detroit. The garage door opened and out he came, riding an orange Electra Glide Harley and wearing his motorcycle-club vest. He was moving fast. The game began: Mobile surveillance with immediate vehicle rotations at every turn. Systematic and perfect. He was riding too fast to be aware of his surroundings, making it even easier for us to stay with him. In communication with each other, we began speculating on his destination. He began driving south on I-75, and as he screamed past Monroe, it became clear that he was leaving the state. In Temperance, the target joined up with several other bikers from the club and they continued on.
The chase continued for over three hours, deep into Ohio. The target slowed to a nice cruising speed upon crossing the state line—Michigan readers know why—and he continued past Columbus before heading southeast, into the rural Appalachian region of southern Ohio. He left the freeway in the middle of nowhere. Creeping concern entered my mind. I didn’t know this area, was unfamiliar with local culture, and the setting was very low income and dystopic. Here, I could be “disappeared” and never heard from again.
Then it got even hairier. Droves of bikers were driving around the area. It was a meet-up at a biker gang clubhouse deep in the woods. A secret location to be sure, completely unseen from probably even the people who’ve lived in the area their whole lives.
We watched from a distance as the bikers headed down a narrow dirt path, off a dirt road no less, and disappeared into the woods. So far into the woods that the sounds of their bikes faded into the distance. The area was a dead zone, and no satellite mapping imagery was available. Nextel service was spotty at best.
We were stuck. We clearly couldn’t infiltrate this meetup. Most investigators would have packed it in and started heading back.
As I sat in the woods, watching a unleashed retriever mix creeping towards me, nose to the ground, I realized I should have left. “Oh f***” was my actual thought. This was bad. Real bad. The dog was sniffing around the edge of the clearing, coming closer and closer. What was I going to do? I was about 100 feet away from the clearing and stunk like a hockey player after a 22-game playoff run. This dog was either going to see me or smell me. I realized if this dog got too close, I was going to have to run for it. The bikers were middle-aged, out of shape, likely drunk and high, and would never be able to keep up with me. But the dog could catch me, and I’m not the type that could kill a dog, even in a situation like this.
The dog finally came too close. I got up and started running. I could hear the bikers begin to yell, but that was drowned out by the barking of the dog on my ass. Adrenaline was pounding through my heart and veins. After 100 feet or so, the dog broke off. I could hear motorcycles firing up. As I ran through the forest, getting whipped in the face by tree branches and bushes, my hand kept hitting the call button of my Nextel. No response. No service.
After a few minutes, I heard the voice of Shooter chirping in: “Where are you? What’s your location?” I didn’t know. I had lost my bearings.
I made it to a clearing and a paved road. I kept to the woods, following the road to the nearest intersection where street signs were posted. I told Shooter my position. Bikers were periodically rolling past on the road, so I laid down in the flat on my stomach along the tree line and waited. Shooter was coming. He was giving his location every 30 seconds. He was close. I stayed still. Bikers crisscrossed the intersection.
“I’m here. I’m a hundred feet out. From the east. No bikers nearby at the moment,” he chirped. He pulled up and opened the door. I dove into the vehicle. He punched it. As we drove away, we passed a group of bikers traveling in the opposite direction. They turned and followed. Shooter, an ex-cop, told me just to be cool, and he drove at the posted speed limit without any urgency. “Be cool,” he kept saying. Be cool.
After several miles, the bikers pulled off and we continued on. I sat slouched to my right in the passenger seat, looking out the rear-side-view mirror behind us. We were silent for several minutes. Only the sound of the car. Miles of rural Ohio passing us by. My hands were trembling.
We reached the freeway. I turned to look at Shooter. “Holy shit, dude.”
J.Z. Delorean is a writer for Michigan Enjoyer and has been a Metro Detroit-based professional investigator for 22 years. Follow him on X @Stainless31.
