5. Krazy Horse

speaking through your return. No, I'm not gonna speak. I'm not gonna cooperate with the pup defenders oppose anymore. So that's that's the case. And on that one piece of ship, you're a piece of ship, bitch sharks that motherfucker, fucking your mama. I think my client is a little over. I haven't been accustomed to him. The murder case is dragging through pre trial hearings. Routa is a frequent miss out. I never know if he'll even show up, or which router will show up. He can seem calm and lucid.

Other times he's out of it. He appears to be smiling or laughing, but I can never tell it who or at what he stretches, pulls his cheek, yawns. It's like watching someone watch a sitcom. I can't see. Then, without warning, Hilly rupped his lawyer, a new one every several months. Is quote a little punk ass motherfucker, and Rotta wants to go proper represent himself. I've wondered a lot about his mental state and about his guilt. Could this person really have killed Tristan Bodet? What would have

been his motivation? I've been sending rout of letters in jail, googling every name I can find that connects to him, trying to find out as much as I can about this man who seems to have wanted so badly to disappear. And I keep coming back to the same questions. What kind of loaner camps out in the hills behind the Sheriff's station and why would a hermit wander into a campground with a gun? I'm Dana Goodyear and this is Lost Hills, episode five, Crazy Horse. All Right, we're ready

to do this. I'm just gonna go for it. I'm standing outside a large complex of attached houses in the middle of the sprawling San Fernando Valley. I'm not too far from Malibu, just on the other side of the mountains. But it's a different world, fast food places and low slung housing, the stucco jungle. It's six o'clock at night, ninety five degrees. I'm about to knock on the door to the unit where I think Lisa Rouda Cook lives. Lisa Rouda as in Anthony's sister. Hello, Hi, are you Jerry? No?

Hold on a second, okay, ye all, Actually I'm trying to find Lisa. Okay, one second, Thank you very much. I know that Lisa is married to a man named Jerry Cook, and they've lived at this address for quite some time. She has a good job at a bank, and I have a feeling that Anthony and Lisa are or were close. At one point, he carried around letters from Lisa in his backpack. I found that in some old court documents he filed petitioning to get the letters back.

That detail kills me. So here I am knocking on her door. Hi are you Jerry? Please? Okay? Can I just tell you who I am? No, I don't need to know. I've got Jerry Cook's number, so I try calling him from the car, just as a guy with a leaflower walks by. Oh, hi is this Jerry, Jerry, This is Dana Goodyear. I just was at your door. I'm really sorry to have disturbed you. I just I'm trying to explain what I'm doing. I've been course sponding

with Anthony. I've been talking to Oswald and I'm trying to learn more about him and his background and his childhood, and that's why I'm trying to reach out to you and Lisa. Jerry is pretty down on the idea, but if Anthony wants him to talk to me, he will. I'll just need to get written permission, he says from Anthony. That tells me something. Even if these people never show up in court or associate publicly with Routa in any way,

they're still supporting him. But I'm just saying, if Anthony tells me in writing, then I'll take a snapshot of that and texted to you at this number, and then we can talk. They still care what he thinks. Okay, thank you very much. And Jerry tells me they all think this is a frame job. Ozzie Anthony Rowda's dad shows up for almost every hearing. I check his face for signs of fatigue. The days when his cheeks are sallow, helled not a quick hillo and then hurry off to

work afterward. But when he's in a good mood, we talked for long stretches and I ask him about the Anthony Routa. He knows his kid, not the alleged Malibu killer. He tells me that Anthony was born at the Big Kaiser Hospital in Hollywood. He grew up on the East side of Los Angeles in Highland Park before it was gentrified. Anthony's the youngest of three kids. Ozzie remembers him as shy and neat and meticulously clean. He didn't even get

dirty playing baseball. He loved cats. These details are so undescriptive. I feel like I'm looking at the back of someone's minivan. Anthony, his parents and siblings are like those stick figure drawings. Is Ozzie withholding or does he just not know? It's almost like his youngest son barely registered for him, and none of it even begins to explain how Anthony finds himself in jail on murder charges. Ozzie says that he

and Anthony's mom divorced in the late eighties. Then she moved the kids to Florida when Anthony was ten or twelve. At that point, Ozzie lost track of him completely. When Anthony showed up in la again years later, Ozzie says he was different, friendless, joyless, sleepless, laughing weirdly all the time. His son, but not Hello, Dana. I'm writing in response

to your letters. I would have written you earlier, but the jail staff has been sending back stamps, envelopes, etc. In June twenty nineteen, I got my first letter from Anthony Rawda. He's careful, always playing close with information about his time in Malibu, but he's generous with itineraries accounts of a vagabond life. It's kind of a Kerouac hobotale. In his telling about twenty years ago, I decided to leave my life due to threats on me and my

family's life. Rata's letters are being read by an actor. They've been lately edited for clarity. I packed a backpack with no money, and I traveled on foot and car rides from Florida to Niagara Falls. After that, he's been drifting around for two decades, spending time with homeless and transient communities up and down the West Coast. Malibu and the nearby San Fernando Valley were a home base. The

terrain he kept returning to. I did this three times and got tired and decided to stop traveling and settle in Los Angeles. I did not want to work and could not adjust to a stable life, so I decided to be homeless. I spent many days and nights on beaches, mountains, etc. I have hike parts of the Pacific Crest Trail, traveled to Texas and Arizona. I've been in various parts of the Santa Monica Mountains. In his first letter, he also starts to tell me about his history with law enforcement.

It goes back years. He has a special hatred for the Lost Hills cops. I have a history of being assaulted by sheriff's deputies inside jail and by the Lost Hills Department. I've tried to sue the sheriffs. I have written internal affairs in the past, including the ACLU and Amnesty International, but no one helped or even investigated. I wrote the county ombuntsmen many times. They usually investigated, but

the officers protect each other with lies. They're lying now, over the course of nine months, I get a total of five letters. It's a bumpy correspondence. He accuses me of ignoring letters I never received, and letters of mine come back unopened. From the erratic rhythm, it seems like the Sheriff's department is interfering with the mail. He says they're messing with him in other ways, too outraged, for instance,

that they put him in with the general population. His name and face have been all over the news as an attempted murderer of two little girls. As far as treatment, they refused me a phone call at arrest and tried to question me after I asked for an attorney. They put me in general population after arrest, even though my face was on television. Deputies try to question me about my case. They sent back mail with stamps and envelopes. They have refused me visits. They sometimes try to smut

my name among the inmates. I don't want the wrong image to be conveyed to people that I am a monster benefiting from the hardship of the victims of the case. He writes that he's being stonewalled and railroaded, maybe even by his own lawyers. I have been wronged by the system and other people. I am not a violent person, and I would never want to be known as someone who would hurt innocent people or children. I try to draw him out on other subjects. Tell me about your art,

I say. He often includes a sketch with his letters. I've been writing and sketching since i was eleven or twelve years old, and have been complimented over them since then. I've been interested in rap hip hop since my teens, and it was always a dream to make an album. He cites his creative inspirations Elvis, the Three Stooges, Tupac, Edgar, Allan Poe, and now me. He sends me a poem. It's called lies. It's all about lies, lies surrounding him,

pain killing him, living a lie for his enemies. One pair of line sticks out quote when I opened my hands and see blood instead of sweat and dirt. That gets me thinking. It's not to be taken literal, he writes. He tells me he wanted to be a DJ. That didn't work out. Then he submitted a headshot to Central Casting in Burbank. He says, he cast in something, but the role was canceled. That's as close as I came to success. I met Will Chamberlain as a kid, and

also Richard Pryor in Canada. I did a little looking into the television industry there. Once I tried to get to the set of Dark Angel just to see Jessica Elba, but I don't think it was the right time. I didn't see anyone the weird stuff I'd do. He signed up for Social Security and got a driver's license. He rented a car and drove up to Big Bear and camped. He says he reads a lot of anarchist books, Illuminati conspiracies, handbooks for outdoor survival, manuals on how to disappear. He

once made himself a fake press pass. I could make birth certificate state ID, which led to the city News ID to convince someone I was who I was and maybe go to shows and concerts free. His life was lonely by design, especially in Malado. I've seen a lot of places. The Santa Monica Mountains are beautiful and I have a lot of pictures. The fog in the morning off Mulholland is very thick. At night. I would take

pictures with my phone of the colorful flowers. Baby lizards used to crawl on me when I was sitting in the sun. He did a lot of weird stuff on his own, tripping out in nature. I did do some meditation, but not a lot. Once I think I had a vision, but I don't know. There were no drugs involved. I was trying astral projection at the time. It was not breathing exercises, but a total relaxation of the body. To me,

it worked. I've never had a similar experience again. Sometimes he was scared, like in the summer of twenty eighteen. I heard a lot of gunshots around the time of the Boudette killing. I thought I got shot at one night, but not sure if it was intentional. I just heard the bullets fly by. That's interesting he's claiming he was nearly a victim of the Canyon shooter. Is this guy messing with me? Or is this some kind of clue into his psyche. They closed down the park. I heard

the sheriff's cruiser sirens a lot during the summer. It felt like I was being followed when I was hiking because I've seen the same automobiles more than once, so I don't know the family had a reward for information, yet no one had information leading to my arrest. Well that's all for now. I hope I've given you some confidence in me and something to build on. I don't know about confidence, but there is definitely a lot to build on. In his letters, a timeline emerges, and with

it the beginnings of a narrative. A little flash on the stick figures bones. He dropped out of school in Tampa in twelfth grade and then spent a couple of months in the army. The army turned into a bad experience. I joined to get away from personal matters, but when I got there for basic training, I could not leave my personal behind me and I could not adjust mentally. I did complete basic training with good grades and returned back to Tampa Bay to worse problems. So he hit

the road. He didn't really work. The only thing he says he did was some kind of private eye work called skip tracing, essentially looking for people who don't want to be found. I am beginning to think he was his own hardest case. He left only the faintest impression on the world. That is, until Tristan Boudette was killed. I didn't meet a lot of people in the mountains where I was arrested, and definitely not in my spot.

The po boxes he lists as addresses on court documents, they don't exist, or there's no record that router rented them. The library where he says he spent time. When I go there, the librarians just look concerned and shake their heads. Where I got arrested, there was no tent. I have not used tents in years one, so I can travel anytime lightly too, so I can learn to survive outdoors with as little as possible. As stated, I do not know everything that was there, as I traveled and hiked

when I wanted. I was in that area less than a year. The McDonald's, the grocery store, the other places with dumpsters he might have picked through. No one's seen him, No one except the owner of the sandwich shop, who swears Ratto was hanging around last week. Only he's been in jail for a year. In my letters, I plead with him to come up with just one name. A cousin, a teacher, a childhood friend. He does not comply. My family has nothing to do with the crimes I'm charged with.

And know nothing of the things I'd do. But he does give me permission to talk to his sister Lisa and her husband Jerry, if you do not floyd them. I don't mind you talking to them if they want to talk to you. But when I tell Jerry that, he declines the interview. Anyway. I find a page on Facebook devoted to the high school in Tampa that Rawdah attended for a while in the nineties. Someone remembers him. It's a guy who says he was friends with Rautah

in eighth, ninth, and tenth grade. I think I'm finally going to get it, that one story that crystallizes who Anthony Rawda is and makes sense of everything. So I'm all excited, and I ask Tony Tucker, the friend, if he has any strong memories of Rauta. To be completely honest, I mean, I really don't. Hey was normal. Our group of friends were very much kind of the sports kids. We didn't mind getting dirty, so we were always there early in the morning playing basketball before the bell rang.

And did he party know, have a girlfriend, a nickname, a hard time in school? Not really, no, no more than anyone else. But he didn't. I mean seemed like a normal every day kid to me. Tony lost track of him, and he doesn't even really know why Pooh Woosh gone. One day after a hearing, Ozzy comes back to the office with me and I walk him through some documents that have recently been unsealed. He promises me that next time he'll do the recorded interview, but that

court date comes and he ghosts me. A few days later, I opened my last letter from Anthony Rowda. I have returned from court and I wish to reply to your letter out of courtesy. I no longer trust talking to you or other media. I cannot condone or forgive you or anyone who personally tries to help law enforcement build a case against me or harass me. The letter is short, just two pages, a bitter, self pitying rant. I'm no help to him, actually probably the opposite, So he's not

going to help me. God, he's the best judge and my only friend, the only one I have to answer to. Anthony Rawda is done telling me about himself. Another way into the mind of Anthony Rowda is through his music. Rowda has cut an EP and two full length albums. You can find them on Spotify, Apple Music, Amazon Music search up his pen names crazy Horse and crazy Horse to one that's Crazy with a K. This is a song called kill a Pig from his album The Great

White Liar. Get Ready to get get ready, get set, get going. Let's go kill a fucking cop. Liars, sadus, pedophiles, motherfuckers. He's going to get them with his nine millimeter. People up, millimeter, put the heater straight, typic dome to see him. If they don't yet see that, mother fucking eyes from out of the head, now they dead behind in the floor of blood. To kill a cop must beat the greatest feeling in the world. I want to enjoy it over and over again. Year. To kill a cop must be

the greatest feeling in the world. I want to enjoy it over and over again. On his album Covers, Routa draws a long haired warrior with high cheekbones emaciated, almost skeletal. I'm guessing it's Roudah's idea of a Native American. He wears a headband that says crazy horse with a K. The original Crazy Horse with a C was an Oglala Lakota warrior. He painted his cheek with a lightning bolt and wore a hawk feather in his hair. People say that whenever someone asked to take his picture, crazy Horse

would respond, would you imprison my shadow? Also this is the song fall Guy from Rouda's first album Sometimes They Come Back, which he made in twenty thirteen Satellites. As best I can make out, the lyrics are paranoia, conspiracy, theory, cia Manchurian candidacy, my anxiety, something something on database, satellite in space, something something they want to make me the fall guy, lise or assholes. Then later look at my middle finger. I'm the fall guy middle finger up in

the sky the same. In one of his letters, Rada says he taught himself to use recording software and wrote both albums on a laptop. Each one took him about a month. I used hotels and sometimes the library, Calabasas and any mall with Wi Fi and electrical outlets. The themes of both albums center around police and harassment, drinking and getting fucked up, and violence, a fair amount of violence, avenging himself on cops, women and undefined others out to

get him. He almost seems to be psyching himself up for a confrontation. His music hits on all the gangs to rap cliches. But there's something else in there too, a worldview, maybe even a cosmology. This is the opening track from his album The Great White Liar. He'll be others in slaveries, a freedom, a freeze, put the eight that grows in the unrooted in justice. He's saying, I'm rooted in justice. I murdered the serpent. He grew wings like a phoenix. I shot him from the sky, pulled

out his spine, his true, fake mind. So he found it a nation built on lies. It's a glimpse into a chaotic mind, the mind of a paranoid, self righteous, pissed off mystic. I've been trying to find rowda trace his ghostly presence in the world. Didn't anyone know him, hadn't anyone seen him? Thinking about the case, it occurs to me that there are some people around Malibu who do think they saw him on security cameras while he

was allegedly committing armed burglaries. Which is how I find myself with Jim Corcus and Mike McNutt, who worked for the local water district. I'll give you my theory. That's Jim. We're driving over to the Tapia Water Reclamation facility. It's right next to Tapia Park, not far from where Jimmy

Rogers was shot. So I think he'd been living off the coolers in the campsite for all these years, and once he shot Tristan, they closed the park and his basically his lunchbox was empty at that point because he had no source of food, and that's when he got desperate to look around. It's here that in the fall of twenty eighteen, a man in black was caught on camera in the middle of the night. What would you

normally be looking at on these camerasbcat and pumas. We'll say that we did have we did have a We do have another patrol in the area. We call it the Puma Patrol, or a P fifty four. So we had a Mountain Lion and that was like hanging out and checking things out, tagged and everything like that. So but P. Fifty four is off on those evenings that he was here. So they tell me that strange things

had been happening around the plant. There had been other times where employees were noticing that some of their food is missing, and so a lot of the employees is saying, Oh, it's just somebody eating my lunch or whatever. Right, the first break in, he was pretty good. How he got in. It was undetected, really, and so he got in and he was like stealing chicken sandwiches and everything he took was protein based. One of the other things that I was told that he was taking a stuff that he

didn't need to cook. I know for sure. One of his favorites was Jimmy Dean's breakfast sausage sandwiches. They reviewed the footage from the security camera and that's when they saw the man. He looked for battle. Yeah. So he had like almost like black camo attire on and tactical gear. Right, his boots, you know, his pants were bloused. In his boots, he had high you know, boots at half you know, halfway up his calf. This is Brett Dingman, a manager

at the plant. Everything was black. He had a backpack, he had a what you called balajava a mask. You know. He just looked like almost like military. Jim scrolls through his phone and finds the video. It shows a man with a headlamp stealthily making his way to the door of the plant. It's a creepy video. A few seconds

that loop over and over, and it's totally captivating. If this is Rauta on the tape, it's the closest I'll ever get to seeing him in his element, Rauta alone in the night, surrounded by woods, scavenging, hunting, surviving, Rauda in the wild. Jim slows the video down so I can clearly see something sticking out from behind the man. So it was it was around slung around his waist here with the barrel pointing backwards, okay, And you can see that it had a clip in it, which it

was a nine millimeter. Everybody at the plant knew about the murder in the campground and the news of the other shootings was spreading. He started going, what's going on. There's some nut with a gun out there, and we thought about that. But right about you, soon after those reports came out, it's when the break in happened here. And at first like, oh, something broke in. Then we thought, whoall, he's dressed a full stranger breaking in and you see the rifle, Oh, this might be the guy, And that

was right then that's the one that clicked. It clicked for law enforcement too. Shortly after this footage was taken. The Sheriff's department searched the hills and eventually found Routa at his camp. That narrative shootings to murder, to break ins, to capture. It follows a certain kind of logic. But is it just me? Or is there something contradictory about the idea of a person stealing food in the middle

of the night and also shooting people at random. It's a crime of survival versus totally gratuitous violence, calculated opportunism right up against outright depravity. Anthony Rowda's music is really visceral. Take kill a pig. It talks about wanting to creep up on him with a nine millimeter put the heater straight to the dome, see the CoP's eyes pop out of his head, and watch him die in a pool of blood. It's strong stuff. You can't condemn someone on

their lyrics. But I've got to wonder what was going on with Rowda and the cops. So I turned to the court documents, old cases with hundreds and hundreds of pages of handwritten filings by Anthony Rowda. He seems to prefer to represent himself. There are also many, many pages of case narratives, evidence logs, statements from law enforcement, witness testimony,

a lot to wade through. I learned that Rowdah's trouble with the law started in his teens, back when he was in Florida, but his problems really begin in the early two thousands, when he started hanging out in and around Malibu. First, it was pretty small time, unambitious. Two thousand and three, he breaks into a high school ten miles from Alubuqreek State Park, just outside Lost Hill's jurisdiction. He sets a fire. The break in is a felony, and he gets one hundred and eighty days in jail,

three years probation and counseling. He's ordered to pay three thousand dollars in restitution to the Coca Cola company, which sounds to me like he busted a vending machine. That reminds me of the burglaries he's charged with now. That vending machine he allegedly smashed open with a rock. The next case is a bigger deal. This time Rod is arrested during a warrant sweep at a sleazy motel in

North Hollywood. In his motel room, the arresting officer's notice a fuse like for explosives sticking out of his black backpack. The bomb squad searches Ozzie's house and the house in the valley where Anthony's sister Lisa and her husban when Jerry live. They find a bunch of contraband. Routa apparently has ordered three shipments of gunpowder. One of the shipments is four pounds. They also confiscate two old fashioned guns, a forty four black powder revolver and a four to

fifty one double barrel derringer handgun. I have to dig into this a little more black powdered guns. It seems like an odd choice for a guy with gangs to wrap aspirations. I call up Greg Block, a firearms trainer, an expert witness who testifies in court about guns all the time. So these are guns that were used during the Civil War and the Revolution where we didn't have

cartridge firing guns. They're muzzle loaders, which means you pour gunpowder directly into the guns mouth, hence the four plus pounds of it. They're basically what John Wilkes Booth used to assassinate President Lincoln. They're often referred to as antique guns. But really they're replicas of obsolete technology. Well, you know, they make toy guns, they make prop guns, and then they have replicas which are exact copies of the original firearms.

Those are a couple hundred dollars. I want to know who the audience is for weapons like these. Maybe it'll give me some insight into Rauta. Well, people that feel that they were born in the wrong century. I mean they will dress up in period costumes and they'll have competitions and matches and shoot this. Other people that like the Old West or the seventeen hundreds. Because these replicas are so inexpensive, they'll buy him and we call them

wall hangers. They'll hang them on the wall above the fireplace. They look kind of cool. That doesn't sound like Routa to me. He wasn't decorating his fishing cabin or re enacting shootouts at the OK Corral. But Gregg tells me there's another category of antique gun buyer, people who buy them because they're easier to get than other guns. That sounds like Routa, a convicted felon, someone who couldn't pass

a background check. You can order them on the internet and they can ship them to your house because they're antique firearms. The black Petter guns, the explosives, and the fuse land route. In prison, he parols out and in twenty twelve, he gets arrested by a Lost Hills deputy in the parking lot of an upscale suburban mall. It's a DUI, which doesn't sound like that big a deal, but in the trunk of the car there's a box of ammunition, the kind that fits an R fifteen. I

track down the deputy. I ask if he remembers Routa. Oh, he remembers him. The guy threatened his life. Routa represents himself in court and is sentenced to sixteen months in county jail for the ammunition. He's supposed to complete an alcohol rehab program, but doesn't. When a judge leader asks him about that, he says, I'm going to go. I was making a date for my therapy. This is from a court transcript. I'm just going to go through counseling and try to get a residence and you know, try

to get my health better. That's really what I'm trying to do. I should have went to the classes, but they were a little rough for me. I can't stand being around people. I didn't tell you that last time because it's irrelevant. But basically, I'm going to try and do counseling and stay on SSI if they'll have me, try to get a residence and get my health back up. The incident that sends Routa back to prison in twenty

fourteen is a weird one. It takes place outside of high school, about a ten minute drive from Malibu Creek State Park. A jogger sees someone passed out in the bushes by the school. It's rout Up, dressed head to toe in black. Inside his backpack deputies fine gloves, a camouflage mask and a headlamp. There's a post it containing bank account information and routing numbers, also some forty four ball ammunition and wrapped in a bandana, a wood handled

black powder gun. What exactly was he up to? Was he planning burglaries, identity theft? Dressing up as a bad guy for Halloween. He spends another two years in prison, and when he gets out, he makes a vow to change his life. When I got released from prison in twenty sixteen, I made a promise to live without welfare SSI or handouts. This is from one of Router's letters to me. I wanted to do solely on my own knowledge of survival, to prove something to myself and maybe

right about it. He says. Avoiding people, a specially law enforcement, became his number one priority. In another letter, he wrote, I worried every time I left the wilderness, as the sheriffs would usually try to stop and question me and my being around such exclusive neighborhoods. I did not want

to get questioned as to my probation. When I was alone in the wilderness, I did not have a lot of contact with people, news, etc. I did not want any contact, and I do not enjoy any current television, movies, music, etc. The most important thing out there was to have shelter

and a two week weather forecast. In October twenty sixteen, Routa makes his last contact with his probation officer, and a couple weeks later, allegedly he shoots Jimmy Rogers as he sleeps in a hammock in Malibu Creek State Park. The charges route is facing now murder and attempted murder mark a break with everything I learned about his criminal past. He's been troublesome, antisocial, volatile, messed up, He went down some creepy roads, got into some obscure weapons. He was

potentially but not actually violent. Shooting Jimmy Rogers is the first time that I know of that Route has been accused of physically hurting a stranger out of the blue. The accusation is that he intended to kill Jimmy Rogers, and that after shooting him, he tried over and over to inflict deadly harm, and that in the case of Tristan Bodet, he succeeded. It doesn't really make sense, does it.

But reading back through Routah's court filings, I realize there's an incident he refers to repeatedly with a lot of bitterness. He's been trying to get someone to pay attention to this for years. It was a run in with some Lost Hills cops. Way back in two thousand and four, Lost Hills Sheriff deputies responded to a public disturbance call at Padre's restaurant at Agra Road and Cornell Road. This is what Rowda says in a filing he made about the incident. I was stopped on a dark street as

a suspect, though I am innocent. When I attempted to plead with the deputy, others arrived surrounding me, while one higher ranked deputy attempted to choke me till the arresting officer asked him to halt. This could be the thing that propels the whole bizarre machinery of Routah's criminal life takes it to the next level. This incident, Rowda says, caused him to get a gun for self protection against the Lost Hills cops. It might even explain how Rowda got to be where he is right now, facing by

far the most serious charges of his life. It's not a straight line by any stretch, from that alleged assault to where he is today, but I can see a connection. It's like a process got set in motion. Rouda in trouble. Rowdah uncooperative, imprisoned, hurt, deteriorating, and possibly wanting some kind of revenge. He isn't too good with authority, his dad told me, and his experiences in custody and in court,

it seems like they just drove the splinter deeper. Anthony Rowda didn't know Tristan Bodat or any of the near miss victims, but everyone knows who would respond to a murder in the park Are the Lost Hills cops? Somehow part of this could it, on some level be about them? If only I could get inside Lost Hills Station, I could figure all this out. Lost Hills is written and hosted by me Dana Goodyear. It's produced by Western Sound

and Pushkin Industries. For more information about my investigation, follow at Lost Hills Pod on social media. Up next episode six, Another Day in Paradise,