The Bloodhound Handler: Book One: Adventures of a Real-Life Pet Detective

By Landa Coldiron

Have you ever wondered about the stories behind missing pets? How they’re solved? How the pets go missing and who can find them when all hope seems gone? 

Meet Kalinda Dark, a real-life pet detective who solves lost pet cases using bloodhounds, search and rescue techniques, forensics, and state of the art technology.

In this book, she’ll share stories about some of her high-profile cases and how she gains media attention which poses its own problems. 

A stalker from Kalinda’s past, a celebrity that goes missing with a dog, and a SWAT team boyfriend play into this unique action-adventure story. 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Austin Macauley Publishers
• Release date: May 31, 2022
• ISBN: 9781649792747

Landa Coldiron

Landa Coldiron is a two-time award-winning Bloodhound Handler in Los Angeles. Her passion is reuniting lost pets, or providing closure to their owners, using her specially trained canines. Bloodhounds Ellie Mae and Glory, and Jack Russell Terrier, Apache, were indeed her real-life search dogs.

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About the Author

Landa Coldiron is a two-time award-winning Bloodhound Handler in Los Angeles. Her passion is reuniting lost pets, or providing closure to their owners, using her specially trained canines. Bloodhounds Ellie Mae and Glory, and Jack Russell Terrier, Apache, were indeed her real-life search dogs.

Dedication

This book is dedicated to my beloved bloodhounds, Ellie Mae and Glory, who knew the job well. And to Apache, my Jack Russell terrier, who found evidence too many times to count.

Copyright Information ©

Landa Coldiron 2022

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, write to the publisher.

Any person who commits any unauthorized act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

Ordering Information

Quantity sales: Special discounts are available on quantity purchases by corporations, associations, and others. For details, contact the publisher at the address below.

Publisher’s Cataloging-in-Publication data

Coldiron, Landa

The Bloodhound Handler: Book One

ISBN 9781649792730 (Paperback)

ISBN 9781649792747 (ePub e-book)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2021925311

www.austinmacauley.com/us

First Published 2022

Austin Macauley Publishers LLC

40 Wall Street, 33rd Floor, Suite 3302

New York, NY 10005

USA

[e-mail]

[phone]

Acknowledgment

I’d like to thank my mentors Bill Thatcher and Kat Albrecht for helping me to learn about scent and scenting dogs, for setting and running trails and for the countless ‘runaways’ it takes to start the training of the dogs.

Thank you to my friend and associate, Annalisa Berns, for the thousands of continuing hours of training (I know I drive you crazy) and for the hundreds of cases we have worked together. I am honoured to have you at my flank.

I’m grateful to Austin Macauley for believing in me and helping my dream come true.

Chapter One

Abby looked up from her iPad and smirked as I entered my office and tripped over remnants of a stuffed dog toy. She ruffled through lost pet flyers which lay in a state of half organized clutter. Several calls have already come in this morning, she said, picking up her notebook.

Hit me, I said, as I collected myself, plopped on to a swivel chair then tilted my head.

Abby inhaled. A German shepherd jumped out of a car on Pacific Coast Highway, a groomer lost a Maltese out of her facility, and a couple went camping with their cat in the Mojave Desert and—lo and behold—it ran away. She exhaled while flipping to the next page. Oh, and a celebrity went missing… She paused for effect. …with her dog.

It took a second for the information to sink in as my eyes flicked at the wall full of media pictures of me and the bloodhounds. Search and rescue books piled lopsided on a bookshelf, and a stack of additional lost pet flyers sat trapped under a Super girl paperweight. I run a busy pet detective agency in Los Angeles and thought I had heard it all. This was a first.

Who’s the celebrity? I asked, leaning forward.

Courtney Nash.

Courtney Nash…the country singer? I touched my hand to my throat. I had seen her hosting a special only last week. On the HDTV, her blonde hair cascaded down her back in wispy curls, skin glowing—her flawless bone structure the envy of any professional model.

Yes, confirmed Abby. The one and only. Her mother…ah… She perused her notes, Joan Nash, left a voice message a few minutes ago.

It was December in southern California, warm…and in the corner, a portable air conditioner blasted. Ellie Mae, my bloodhound, lay curled under the desk. Her tail wagged as fast as a nail gun.

Let’s hear it. I grabbed my own notebook and pen while Abby cued up the message. A southern voice came over the speaker. This is Joan Nash. Ah read an online article regarding the search dawgs and am anxious to speak with y’all about mah daughter, Courtney Nash. She disappeared with her Yorkshire terrier a few days ago. Joan recited a number.

We’ll call her first, said Abby, and dialed before I could stop her. She turned the phone toward my mouth. I narrowed my eyes. When a woman answered identifying herself as Joan Nash, I said, Hello, this is Kalinda Dark the bloodhound handler. You’re on speaker with my associate, Abby Burns. How may I be of help?

The woman on the other end of the line cleared her throat. Thanks for returning mah call. Ah don’t know if y’all heard about mah daughter Courtney, but she’s been missing five days, and I wanna try every route available. Can the bloodhounds help?

I forced a quick smile at Abby and said, I’m sorry to hear about your daughter, but my search dogs are specifically used to track pets. I can’t switch over to lost people.

Oh.

I allowed the silence to hang.

Joan broke the quiet. But y’all could use them to find a trail on Diamond, her terrier. Ah declare Courtney would never go anywhere without him. They’re attached at the hip.

I glanced at Abby who widened her eyes and smiled showing all her teeth. She wrote with a black magic marker on a piece of paper, then turned to face me.

Take the Case

Frantically, I shook my head and mouthed the word, Media. Abby knew I found the press to be overbearing and intrusive. In the four years since I’d been a pet detective, I’ve had enough press—good and bad—to last my entire life. To prove my point, I said to Joan, What about media?

Well…

Glory, my second bloodhound, stuck her huge head in through the office door. White drool formed on her flews and dripped onto the carpet. Apache, my Jack Russell, darted to Glory, play nipped her ear then ran to my side for a treat. The clock on the wall announced 9:44 a.m.

Joan audibly exhaled. Media. What a pain in mah side.

I took a dog bone from my desk drawer and threw it to Apache who caught it mid-air.

Joan continued. Private security can keep them away from the house. Umm, Courtney’s attorney, Mike Mendelson—is here. He’s fixin’ to file something like an injunction.

An injunction? I rolled my eyes at the ceiling.

Her voice pleaded. Please will y’all try?

I squinted at Abby and wrinkled my nose. There’s no guarantee the bloodhounds are going to walk up and find Diamond. The search dogs are one tool in an investigation. Plus, I’ve never been involved in a police-based case. What would they think? Is it even allowed?

A man’s voice boomed through the phone. Hello, this is Mike Mendelson. A private citizen can indeed hire help in a missing person case.

Abby held up her thumb in agreement.

I understand about the search dawgs, and never mind the cops, said Joan. Haven’t come up with one lead.

Have you considered hiring a private investigator? I asked.

No.

Abby’s a PI, I said, as I made a side note—jotting down the attorney’s name.

Sounded like Joan muffled the phone to converse with the attorney. A few seconds later, her voice came back crystal clear. Reckon both of you are hired.

We haven’t talked about fees, I said.

Money’s no object, Joan said.

Of course not, I thought.

As far as the press, we can keep you on the down low.

Well, maybe the media won’t be too bad.

When I quoted the price, Joan quickly agreed. I sighed, gave up, accepted the case, then briefly discussed what to expect from using the search dogs. I use the hounds for a direction of travel to see if we can pick up any clues along the way. Using the dogs can lead to evidence, eyewitnesses and perhaps target an initial search area.

Sounds dah-namic, said Joan with a muffled laugh.

And payment is due in cash when we arrive, I added. Do you have any questions?

Hold on, Mrs. Nash said.

I waited, sure she wanted to discuss the news with her attorney about a cash payment.

Mike says we’ll have money in hand. No other questions.

Alright. Did I need anything else? Oh, we’ll need grounds access to where Courtney and Diamond were last seen.

No problem. The party took place at her residence in the Marina. Ah have keys and can meet y’all there. She gave me the address and added, What time?

Dawn, I replied. Scent is lowest on the ground and much easier for the dogs to follow. Also, less interference from dog walkers and traffic.

Perfect, said Joan. See y’all then. We disconnected.

Maybe media will be sleeping at dawn, I said and gazed at Abby.

The corner of her mouth turned up as she pushed strands of hair out from her face. She grabbed her iPad.

You know I don’t like big media cases, I said to Abby as I swept Glory’s drool off the floor.

Maybe it isn’t too bad, Abby said. She typed like electricity going through wire then sucked on the inside of her cheek and grimaced.

What? I asked.

Turning her iPad to me, she pointed to glaring headlines: No Leads in the Whereabouts of Country Superstar Courtney Nash.

I closed my eyes and raised my brows.

Not to change the subject, said Abby. But in a missing person case, if the police don’t develop immediate leads, the case tends to quiet down. The police tell the family they are diligently looking for the missing person, but they have other worries. She typed and read from the internet: Two thousand three hundred people go missing each day in the United States.

Wow, I had no idea.

Of course, Abby continued, if the missing person is a celebrity, the good ole’ media will no doubt latch on to the story and follow it with more zeal.

No doubt, I said, plucking at dog hair on my clothes. What’s the scoop on Courtney’s attorney, Mike Mendelson?

A few minutes later Abby summarized. Says on his site, he represents A-list celebrities. He’s certainly no stranger to the limelight.

I peered at the screen. Various pictures of a man with slicked back grey hair, wearing a flawless tailor-made suit and half-moon glasses stood smiling next to a well-known actor, a famous pop star and a senator. A wall sized aquarium took up the background. Must be a good lawyer if the A-listers hire him, I said under my breath, and expensive.

We had our next case.

***

To reach this point of the story, however, the past needs to be addressed.

Chapter Two

Four Years Earlier

Reluctantly, I woke and blinked open my eyes to the California morning sun shining through my bedroom window. Dust particles swirled in the unwelcome light. A fly buzzed by. My mind drifted—thoughts like a strange ocean.

…God. I’ve gained twelve pounds. Managing apartment buildings sucks. Am I really driving a 30-year-old car? I can’t believe I had to relocate and move in with my cat-crazy mother… so depressed…what am I going to do with my life? I pray my ex can’t find me…

Kalinda, come see this! my mom shouted from the other room, hurry.

Coming, I stumbled out of bed, stubbed my big toe, hobbled into the breakfast nook and tried not to swear. What’s wrong?

Quiet. Glued to the flat screen TV, with her many felines enfolded around her feet like an Egyptian priestess holding court, Mom turned up the volume. Listen.

With scrutiny, I watched an interview with an apparent search dog handler. It didn’t appear she was using her search dog to find a lost person, though, and I focused more on what she said as her golden retriever panted by her side.

…in a crawl space behind this building.

The camera view shifted to a woman holding a cat the color of rich ginger with long white whiskers. Its tail switched as it observed the surroundings with intelligent feline eyes.

As the handler continued speaking, she peered from below her sun visor at the camera. Indoor only cats, when they escape outside, will usually look for the first hiding place available and remain hidden for several days. My dog can be used to target some of these hiding areas.

Fascinating, I thought. She used her dog to find lost pets.

I’d given up all hope, said the owner, a seventyish woman with thinning grey hair and bright red lipstick. Tears streamed down her wrinkled checks. My Cuddles was missing for ten days.

The short segment had changed my life.

Chapter Three

After watching the interview, the proverbial light bulb had gone off in my head. Working with a search dog was something I could do. It would have meaning—maybe I could even save lives and, hopefully, paid a salary.

Google? I asked, Are there Search and Rescue groups in southern California? A link to an organization in my area—the California Rescue Dog Association (CARDA)—appeared on my iPhone screen. I clicked and read CARDA looked to recruit new team members.

Going right for the gold, I phoned the number listed on the site.

This is Bill, said a man with a baritone voice reverberating through the phone line.

Hi, my name’s Kalinda. I’m interested in joining the search team.

Great. Have you ever worked Search and Rescue and do you have a dog?

No, and no. Now wondering if I’d even be a candidate.

Not to worry. He seemed to read my thoughts.

Bill instructed me to show up on Saturday at Lake Balboa in Van Nuys. The team stages at various areas around the park. Arrive around seven thirty in the morning. He gave me the location’s address.

The park is a few minutes from where I live, I replied. I couldn’t believe my luck.

Dress comfortable and bring water, Bill continued.

I told him I’d be there.

***

On the first day of CARDA training I met Bill Thatch, the SAR team leader. Sixtyish, with kind eyes and dark skin, he wore a long-sleeve polo shirt with the logo K9 Handler embroidered above his left breast pocket. He sat in his van next to a large bloodhound in a crate, rubbing his slightly veined hands over beard stubble. Other vans with similar crates and car magnets with the words SEARCH DOGS were parked in the lot.

Although early, off in the distance I noticed people riding bikes and joggers running along woodland paths. An old man with a slightly hunched back flew a remote-controlled drone.

Bill bounded over and took my hand in his two. Glad you made the training.

Me, too, I’m looking forward to it. Where’s everyone else?

The team leader glanced at his watch. They’re already working the area dogs near the lake, Bill explained. You can watch how they train and then come with me while I work my dog.

Great. I shifted my focus to his dog. Who’s this?

Rosie.

I loved her at first sight and asked about the breed.

They’re the oldest race of scenting hounds, he started, the bloodhounds are naturals at sniffing out a scent trail, but it can take months to train them. He opened the crate door and lifted Rosie’s head in my direction. See the long ears and loose folds of skin around her face?

Yes. The hound looked comical—like Goofy at Disneyland come to life.

When her head’s on the ground, the folds of skin cover her eyes—more brain power can then be concentrated on identifying and processing smells. The loose skin beneath her chin is called a dewlap which helps to trap scent, while her long and thick upper lips are called flews. It’s said the hounds have about 200 million scent receptors—more than any other breed. Let’s walk.

Our footfalls in rhythm, Bill and I stepped on to a dusty path which eventually wound into woods where trees with green branches needled upward. A chorus of birds sang. A lake, mirror-like and motionless lay before us, and an early morning fragrance drifted. Teams of dogs and their handlers staged along oak trees lining the water.

These are the area search dogs. Bill swept his hand toward the group.

I met Sheri and her cattle dog, America—Carol and her blue heeler, Flash—and two other canine teams.

What are area search dogs? I asked, hoping I didn’t sound too inept.

Bill explained. Area dogs are deployed off-leash in wooded areas and desolate regions. They work out ahead of the handler and cover great distances. When the area dogs locate the lost person, they come back to their handler, alert, and lead the handler to the missing person. Area dogs don’t need an individual’s scent because they’re trained to locate any person in the woods.

So Rosie’s not an area dog? I wanted to know.

No, she’s a trailing dog.

What’s the difference?

A trailing dog is used on-leash to establish a direction of travel, locate evidence, target a search area and find the person we’re looking for. The trailing dogs on the team will need an individual’s scent.

I turned and watched the blue heeler following a command.

Find, said Carol to Flash. The black and white dog stood motionless for one second, cocked his head sideways and shot straight into the woods with Carol following.

Bill explained. We already have a person hiding in the woods about a half mile out.

I parted my lips and asked Bill. What’s the first step in training the dogs?

Runaways, Bill said promptly. The beginning step of area dog and trailing dog training. He called to one of the handlers. Sheri, can you bring America here so we can demonstrate a runaway for Kalinda? Sheri hurried over with America by her side and took him by the collar when they arrived. From her fanny pack, she pulled out a small container of baby powder, turned it upside down near the ground and pressed.

What’re you doing? I asked, my eyebrow raised.

In the beginning, we always work the dogs into the wind. Watch.

Surprisingly, Bill scuttled forward with his hands over his head and yelled in an excited voice, Puppy, puppy, puppy! At about a hundred feet, he ducked behind a straggly bush.

America snapped to attention and glanced at Sheri. She extended her arm. Find. The cattle dog focused and charged at the bush. Within seconds America rushed back to Sheri’s side. Show Me, said Sheri, and followed America while I watched in awe as America led her handler to Bill. Sheri threw a ball to her dog as a reward, and then they motioned me over. Now let’s get Rosie and do some runaways. It’s a similar game, but the trailing dogs are on leash and lead straight to the ‘victim,’ they don’t do a re-find. His fingers arced in an air quote. Thanks Sheri, see you at the debrief.

Back at Bill’s van, Rosie lumbered out, with drool hanging from her flews. He handed me a piece of gauze. Swipe your neck. That’ll be your scent for Rosie to smell. I rubbed the gauze on my neck and returned it to Bill who put it in a zip lock baggie.

Can I get a picture with her before we start? I asked.

Of course, Bill said and handed her over to me. I gave him my iPhone then kneeled on the ground beside the giant dog and smiled up at Bill. (To this day, all these years later, I still have the picture of me and Rosie.)

Now, he instructed. Run forward into that patch of trees and call out in a high, excited voice to Rosie. When she gets to you, remain still, and I’ll give her a reward.

The morning sailed by as I helped with runaways. Since Rosie was at an intermediate stage of training, Bill and me set trails at greater distances and added turns. There was strength in his voice as he taught me. First rule of training the trailing dogs—always know where your trail layer walks.

Noted, I said looking him in the eye. What’s the second rule.

His lips twitched and he looked quickly to the right, considering. Know how to read your dog, Kalinda, know how to read your dog.

Chapter Four

CARDA met regularly, and for the next three months I committed to training a trailing dog. Although I was anxious to work with a dog of my own, Bill advised me to take my time, study with the group, and carefully consider options. In the meantime, he said I could work Rosie to hone my dog-handling skills.

Those first months were full of drills and meetings all over Southern California. I became well-versed on many subjects—scent, search probability theories and the actual training of the dogs. Many people came through the course—cops, Bloodhound Coalition members, retired FBI and private citizens.

It’s where I met Abby.

***

One evening at a CARDA lecture as I studied notes on scent, a female voice asked, Can I sit here?

Leaning back in my chair, I glanced up to a woman in her late twenties. Caramel hair fanned her shoulders, and an olive-skinned face—free of make-up—smiled with kindness. She stood with a notebook in her hand. Wearing form-fitting jeans, a white T-shirt, and stitch down boots, she lifted her lined brow and waited for an answer.

I smiled. Sure, no problem, have a seat.

We bounced conversation between each other like a kid’s rubber ball as we waited for the night’s lecture to begin.

My name’s Kalinda. Haven’t seen you here before.

Nice to meet you, we shook hands. I’m Abby Burns. This is my first time attending. I’m interested in the search team’s take on evidence detection.

Oh, are you with the police?

No, I’m a private investigator—I run my own business. Background checks, workplace investigations and surveillance, that sort of thing.

I nodded as she spoke. Interesting. Do you have a search dog?

No, do you?

Not yet. I’m working on it. Right now, I help my mom manage apartments in Van Nuys, but I come to all the CARDA trainings and meetings. I rubbed the back of my neck and fanned my face. Warm.

It is. Are the meetings always held here? asked Abby. Reminds me of a prison holding cell. Bare bulbs hung from the ceiling, cheap plastic chairs stacked haphazardly, while black and white photographs of various police officers and an old map of downtown LA in the forties lined the cement brick walls. CARDA members mulled around chatting and drinking coffee from a Brew master coffee maker.

Probably an old interview room, I replied and turned my head to inspect it. Every corner and line was sharp and straight with washed out concrete floors. We meet in different locations all over the city. Sometimes it’s in a moving mobile unit parked in a field, and occasionally at a CARDA member’s home. It varies—depends on whether we’re working the dogs or not.

Abby wrinkled her nose. Smells like stale beer, too. She barked a laugh.

The small room’s door clicked open and Bill walked to a chalkboard which had been erected. He usually started our talks with a question about scent. Take a seat everyone. He gestured to a nearby member. Hand these out please. Bill always presented hand-outs at the lectures covering topics such as canine standards and equipment, unit training and conducting a search effort. His eyes hit on me. Kalinda, explain coning plumes.

Well, I said slowly. Refers to air flow. It’s the movement of scent away from a subject in the shape of a cone.

He paused and winked. Correct.

***

Each week, Abby attended the meetings and our friendship bloomed. I liked her brutal honesty. We’d hook up for lunch and conversation would turn to get-rich-quick schemes and men. Then we’d laugh at ourselves about how we’d hide in the middle of a forest for an hour while the area dogs searched for us.

I’m able to study my notes in peace, joked Abby.

One time I think I was truly lost. I couldn’t contain a laugh.

Abby would often film me as I worked Rosie, and it helped immensely when I studied the playback. Zooming in on the picture, I could better see Rosie’s tells and indications—learning how to read her and what I did right—and wrong—regarding my dog-handling skills.

Bill would follow while I worked his hound. The SAR team leader gave me additional tips such as lead-line handling. "Keep the line taut and don’t jerk your