Phoenix News & Information

I’ve covered enough murders to fill up a good-sized cemetery. At most of them, I played the role of professional observer.
But once upon a time, many years ago, in a dusty little town called Blythe California, for several very tense moments, cops held me for questioning as a suspect in a brutal and cold-blooded killing.
It all happened at a little roadside motel, just off Interstate-10 as it crosses the Arizona-California border.
I was working on an undercover t.v. story on the secretive world of American cockfighting.
It was back in the early ’90’s and there was a big-time cockfighting arena just over the state line from Blythe, in a really tiny Arizona dot-on-the-map known as Erhenberg.
At the time, Arizona was one of only four or five states in which cockfighting was still legal.
Legal or not, however, given the brutal and ugly nature of the so-called “sport,” it’s supporters and practitioners did everything they could to keep their activities and their gatherings out of the spot light. We were there to change that.
My camera crew and I had been staying at a little roadside motel in Blythe for several nights as we shot video for the story, each day traveling back and forth over the bridge spanning the Colorado River from California to Arizona to attend what turned out to be a huge cockfighting tournament at the very out-of-the way arena on the dusty outskirts of Ehrenberg.
Of course we weren’t there just as spectators. We were there with cameras hidden in cowboy hats and sweat shirts. We wanted to show what cockfighting was really like. What we found was a bloody orgy of cruelty and violence. From early in the morning until very late at night, the booze, the bets and the blood flowed. Inside a warehouse-sized building, packed with hundreds of bleacher-style seats, there were three very busy cockfighting pits. The center pit was like the Super Bowl, a huge dirt stage where birds, fitted with long razor-sharp blades protruding from their legs, thrashed and slashed themselves to death.
At first the birds would rush at each other, colliding in an explosion of fury and feathers. With each pass, the knives and daggers tied to their legs would tear and stab. It usually didn’t take long before one or both of the birds began to stumble. Owners would then grab their animals, prop them up, blow hot air on the backs of their necks and then shove them back into battle. Eventually, with blood often gushing out in spurts and the animals unable to stand, the large crowd around the center stage would begin to boo and shout. The action was no longer thrilling enough. At that point the sliced up animals would be carried to one of the two smaller pits where these fights to the death could go on for another fifteen or twenty minutes.
Ultimately a winner was declared and usually that animal ended up strapped down to a tiny gurney having its guts sown back into its quivering body by a so-called “bird doctor.”
And for the loser, defeat usually meant having its neck wrung and being tossed into a garbage can. We shot an incredible story–dozens and dozens of cockfights–small children with their faces pushed up against the enclosure watching the animals rip themselves to pieces–thousands of dollars exchanging hands in bets–concession stands serving up booze from morning to night–men so drunk they could hardly stand up–and in the wee hours of the morning strippers brought in to entertain the lecherous diehard who were still in the audience.
After the story ran on the old t.v. show “A Current Affair” I was presented a thing called a “Genesis Award” for reporting on issues involving animals and many years later, when I moved from California to Arizona to take a reporting job in Phoenix, an official with Arizona Humane Society told me the story had actually had a significant impact in pushing Arizona lawmakers to finally outlaw cockfighting.
I’m proud of all that, but it’s certainly not what I first think of when I think back on that trip. For as graphic and disturbing and bloody as the whole cockfighting spectacle was, it was nothing compared to what was going on in the room right next to mine at that roadside motel in Blythe California. A young man was murdered in that motel room.
I first saw him early one morning. I was standing in the parking lot of the motel smoking a cigarette and waiting for my cameraman and sound man to join me so we could load in the car and head across the state line to start shooting the story in Ehrenberg.
All the rooms of the motel opened on to parking lot and as I was standing there having my first smoke of the day I couldn’t help but notice that the door of the room next to mine was open and that rather handsome, skinny, long-haired young man was standing there in the doorway. He was wearing only gym trunks and looked like he had just got out of bed. He also had a phone pressed to his ear and was obviously deeply engrossed in conversation as he stood there looking out into the parking lot. When I noticed him, he was already looking at me. It was a tad awkward.
I was only about ten feet away when I first became aware that he was standing there in his short, talking on the telephone. And I remember feeling as though I was invading his space. So I nodded at him as politely as I could and took a step or two back away from the doors of our two rooms that were literally side-by-side But the kid didn’t seem offended in any way–quite the contrary. I remember him, still talking on the phone, nodding back at me with a friendly look on his handsome young face–nothing weird, just being a good guy. I don’t know why, and you may not believe me when I say this, but I also remember feeling a slight sense of foreboding race through my body as our eyes met and we exchange what was really nothing more than a very quick and casual morning greeting.
Suddenly my camera guy and sound guy came out of their rooms and we loaded up our van, drove out of the parking lot and headed out for a long day of watching the cockfights.
It wasn’t the only time I saw the young man in the room next to mine. But it was the only time I saw him alive. ….more to come….mw

Arizona, Mike Watkiss