Charlie the Cheetah

This case began on a day when you could hear fall coming for miles. Calling wild geese filled the air, oak leaves danced to the ground, and hunters of all types were headed to the field.

A Wisconsin Conservation Officer came to my office in Madison, WI, and reported that he'd received an anonymous tip that might involve a federal crime. The tipster claimed that he'd seen the raw, hide of a cheetah that had been smuggled into the U.S. inside a cheese box. The man who had the cheetah was Tom Riddle (not his real name) who lived near Rhinelander, deep in the heart of Wisconsin's north woods country.

At this time in 1991, cheetahs were on the Endangered Species list and were fully protected from being hunted or smuggled.

My initial research revealed that Riddle had recently built a wildlife museum on a 35-acre section of land he owned outside of Rhinelander. I also learned that Riddle was the former owner of a cheese processing plant which he'd sold to the Kraft (cheese) Company.

At least now I knew where the cheese box came from. Yeah! By the way, commercial cheese boxes are round with waxed interiors. They are the perfect size to conceal a medium-sized big game animal hide.

The challenge was to find the cheetah and determine who had shot it. The fact that the cheetah was in the U.S. was proof enough that it had been smuggled. All wildlife has to be declared upon entry into the U.S. Even so, I did a computer search for any cheetahs declared at any port of entry in the U.S. As expected I didn't find anything. Who would declare illegal wildlife?

I called one of my informants, Roy, and told him we were going to visit a wildlife museum in northern Wisconsin. Our cover story was simple enough. We were friends who liked wildlife and loved to hunt. We already had several identification cards issued to us in our fake names and a vehicle registered to a fake company, so we were good to go.

One day we drove more than four hours north of Madison to Riddle's musem. When we arrived, I was surprised as to how austere it was. The building was basically a metal structure built on a huge concrete slab. But inside, it was a different story. Most of the displays resembled fantastic works of art. One notable exhibit was of a fully mounted mountain lion leaping in the air (from cover) attacking the neck of a fully-mounted mule deer. The deer's head was riveted in agony to show its reaction to the attack.

The anatomic details of both animals were perfect — right down to the muscles contracting as they would in real life. Although the display was static, you could feel the energy of an attack that would determine the survival of the fittest.

The museum was full of similar wildlife masterpieces. Elephants, monkeys, zebras, all four subspecies of North American wild sheep, elk, deer, moose and much more. Riddle had apparently established the museum as a way for big-game hunters to display their trophies and at the same time gain some tax advantages. I also thought there was a fair chance that the cheetah in question might be on display, but it wasn't.

Frustrated as to what step to take next, Roy and I browsed a rack of brochures. One of them contained information on how to purchase a pheasant hunt on Mr. Riddle's ranch. I immediately considered doing this as a way to meet Riddle. At that very moment, Riddle walked by.

I approached Riddle and asked him about his (canned) pheasant hunts. The pheasants were not wild and had been raised in captivity. By hunting these, Roy and I could shoot as many birds as we wanted, as long as we paid for them.

I "begged" Roy to sign us up. Playing reluctant, he filled out the forms and we forked over a down-payment. We told Riddle we'd be back in ten days.

* * *

The day of our hunt was cloudy, cold and blustery. As Roy and I drove into Riddle's hunting compound, we observed shooting towers built high so hunters could shoot (farm-raised) elk that would be released into the large, fenced corral.

I didn't like what I saw. Although completely legal, the set-up wasn't for true hunters who took on the challenges of tracking and stalking elk in rough mountain country. What I saw reminded me of a carnival shooting gallery.

As I watched a dozen elk grazing inside fenced pasture land, I wondered which one would be next.

Driving past the elk hunting compound we saw a rusty Chevy pickup truck parked on the edge of a field of tall prairie grass. The back of the truck was packed with cages containing ring-necked pheasants. We stopped and met our guide Craig, and our retriever, a black lab named Duke. Craig asked if we were ready and I said, "You bet!"

I had hoped that the hunt would lead us to spending time with Riddle. I wanted to build some rapport with him. But it appeared that Riddle wasn't around and my plan seemed like a bust.

Craig told Roy and me to wait as he prepared the field. He drove his truck into the field and one by one "planted" the pheasants randomly throughout. I couldn't believe my eyes. These birds had apparently never been outside of a cage. Good old Duke was supposed to flush them up so we could take our shots.

After the birds were "planted" Roy and I began our drive into the field on foot. Duke quickly proved to be worthless. Even when he stumbled upon a pheasant, he wasn't able flush it out of the grass.

Frustrated with Duke, Craig picked up one of the birds and as he threw it into the air he yelled at me to shoot it. Immediately after the tossing the bird, he hit the ground. I was supposed to shoot the bird and not shoot Craig!

I shot the pheasant but felt terrible about it. This was no hunt. This was the slaughter of caged birds that couldn't even fly!

Duke found me another bird that was quivering in the grass. I didn't have the heart to ground-shoot a bird that couldn't escape, and stomped away. I voiced my anger at Craig saying that this "hunt" was ridiculous and I wasn't having any part of it. Roy said he'd stay in the field for another 20 minutes and see what he could come up with.

Meanwhile I marched back to our car where I found a Lincoln Town Car parked. Riddle was standing next to the car observing the hunt with his binoculars. Even though I wanted to warm up to him, I acted the same as any hunter who had just been ripped-off. I pitched a holy fit over the lousy hunt that Roy and I had paid dearly for. I was still at it when Roy and Craig showed up.

The hunt was clearly over and to make amends Riddle invited Roy and me to his house for coffee. He pointed to the south and said his house was one quarter mile in that direction. This was the best invitation I'd ever had.

At Riddle's ranch-style home I looked for anything that might reveal where his cheetah was located. A picture of it would have been nice. As we sat sipping coffee and were getting deep into hunting stories, I examined Riddle's surroundings. Everything was neat and very clean. Curtains and a matching table cloth with coordinated place mats made the kitchen look like one out of Better Homes and Gardens. It was a woman's kitchen—without the woman.

Riddle had told us that he was single so the feminine touch didn't come from a wife. Maybe his mother was the decorator. Even if that turned out to be true, I still felt at odds with the place.

Riddle pulled out his hunting brag book and began showing it to Roy. While Roy "drooled" over the huge trophy animals Riddle had taken down over the years, I excused myself to go to the bathroom. Inside the bathroom I didn't find any make-up, conditioning shampoo or anything that suggested that a woman lived in the house. But once again, the detailed feminine arrangement of things suggested otherwise.

When I returned to the living room I noticed a curved stairway that led to a furnished basement room. I asked Riddle if I could take a look. "Go ahead," he said. His permission amounted to a legal consent search for me, a federal agent.

In the basement room I found an entertainment center consisting of lounge chairs, a small bar, and a television. Over the couch was a mounted cheetah resting on a long piece of drift wood. Even though I was very glad to make the find, I cringed at the poor taxidermy job.

"Hey Ted," I called up the stairs. "What's this over the couch?"

"Oh, that's ‘Charlie the Cheetah,'" he replied, his voice ringing with humor. "Go ahead and pet him if you want."

Like most agents, I always carried a small camera with me. I took a portrait photograph of Charlie and went back upstairs and told Roy we had to leave. What I didn't say was that we had to find a federal magistrate to get a warrant for Riddle's home so we could search for and seize evidence of a federal wildlife crime.

* * *

Two days later three other US Fish and Wildlife special agents and a local deputy sheriff gathered at the home of Ted Riddle. Roy and I stayed in Madison to avoid a negative confrontation with Riddle.

The officers had a federal search warrant for the mounted cheetah in the photograph I'd taken. The warrant also allowed for the search of pictures and/or documents that could support the allegations that the cheetah had been illegally hunted and subsequently smuggled into the U.S.

Riddle wasn't home, so the agents entered the home through a basement window. The agents quickly seized the cheetah and searched for documents.

Later, the agents and I examined the collected evidence at my office. The evidence included a hand-written diary that detailed nearly every aspect of the cheetah hunt. The script contained exaggerated scrolls and the writing was almost prosaic. For example: "As the mighty cheetah leapt over the boulders, Ted held his hunting rifle steady. When I heard the ‘crack' of his gun and saw its recoil, I knew the hunt was over."

According to the diary, Riddle was the shooter and the journalist was Riddle's male partner Kyle, who had traveled to Namibia, Africa with him. I realized Kyle was the "woman" I'd been looking for.

Agents also seized pictures of Riddle with the freshly killed cheetah and tribesmen who were apparently Riddles hunting guides. Passports documented that Riddle and Kyle had traveled to Africa and other documents showed when the cheese box was shipped. Agents had even found the cheese box in a closet in Riddle's home.

The evidence that finally nailed the case came in the form of two stickers from a small hardware store in Rhinelander. The stickers were on the brackets that had been drilled into the driftwood so it could be hung on a wall.

The next day, another agent and I visited the hardware store and talked to the owner. He said he remembered selling the brackets to Riddle's taxidermist. He provided the name of the taxidermist and we immediately headed to his shop.

During a short interview, the taxidermist confessed to mounting the cheetah and gave us a statement reiterating that Riddle had told him that the cheetah was illegal. The taxidermist said that he only worked on the animal at night and did a "quick and dirty" job on it. Having illegal wildlife in his shop made him very nervous.

In the end, Riddle pleaded guilty in a U.S. District Court for the "taking" of an endangered species, for smuggling wildlife in violation of federal wildlife laws and for possession of illegally taken wildlife that was transported in foreign commerce. The taxidermist pleaded guilty for possession of an illegally killed and smuggled endangered species.

Riddle and the taxidermist paid their fines and went on with their lives. But the case reminded me how interesting life became whenever I was on the trail of a wildlife violator. Although the initial clues were few, there were enough to start the hunt for the killer of a rare animal who had no voice of his own.

PS: Thanks to the full protection of cheetahs under the Endangered Species Act of 1973, they have since been down-listed to "Threatened." Their population is coming back and is testimony to the fact that every case won for wildlife counts.