Furious residents called Opa-locka police to no avail. Two residents denounced the Yahwehs on TV.

Ten hours later, they were shot dead.

Metro-Dade detective Rex Remley arrested Yahweh follower Robert Rozier, who gave his name as Neariah Israel, his age as 404. When the cops asked him questions, he responded: "Praise Yahweh!"

Both prosecutors and the defense subpoenaed more than 100 sect members. Hardly any showed up. A few said they could not remember their given names, birthdays or how many children they had.

One sect member answered each question by giving his name, "Yoel." He said his biological parent was Yahweh.

"Are you talking about the God Yahweh or Yahweh Ben Yahweh, " lawyer Jeffrey Weinkle said, trying to clarify.

"Yahweh."

The conversation got no further.

There were other witness problems. Sect members routinely abandoned their "slave names" and adopted the last name of Israel. Faced with a long list of witnesses -- all named Israel -- prosecutors were stumped.

Assistant state attorneys Don Horn and Michael Band learned about Yahweh Ben Yahweh's Lamb's Book of Life. It matched Yahweh names to birth names. Prosecutors asked the sect leader about it. He said it was traveling on the road "with five sisters, " all named Israel.

One man, however, provided names -- and first-hand information. Rozier. He confessed to four murders -- the Opa- locka slayings, a random "white devil" stabbing, and a retaliation killing. He sliced off ears.

Originally, police had suspected a deranged Vietnam vet in the "ear cases."

Rozier made a deal with the state and the feds. For his cooperation, he got 22 years. The plea agreement took a long time.

"When I have almost every law enforcement agency of the United States and local governments asking me to continue the case, I continue it, " Dade Circuit Judge Ellen Morphonios explained.

Rozier said he flipped, in part, because he was angry at himself and angry at "authorities" who didn't do anything and let the sect "ruin as many lives as they have."

Investigators debated how to proceed.

Eventually, in early 1988, the Dade State Attorney's Office and the U.S. Attorney's Office worked out an arrangement. Federal prosecutors would take over the investigation. The state attorney's office would help out -- if needed.

The case dragged, sitting for awhile in the narcotics section of the U.S. Attorney's Office. Some courtroom prosecutors called the case "an albatross" and "a dog, " saying that if it was any good, the state would have filed murder charges.

Even defectors wondered what was taking so long. After giving statement, a few rejoined the sect.

The Opa-locka tenants won a victory, but it wasn't in a criminal court. U.S. District Judge James Kehoe, presiding in a civil case, ruled that the Temple of Love Inc. had "engaged in a pattern of criminal activity."

Two feds, FBI agent Herb Cousins and assistant U.S. Attorney Dave DeMaio, sat as observers in the back of the courtroom, frustrated, taking notes.

An important new witness started talking in autumn 1989. He told how he helped get rid of the murdered body of a one-time karate champion from New Orleans.

Some FBI agents wanted to indict, but federal prosecutors hedged, afraid of "rushing head-long into charges of racial and religious persecution."

A new prosecution team took over last January. Dade assistant state attorney Trudy Novicki, prosecutor of the notorious Miami River Cops, teamed up with Assistant U.S. Attorney Richard Scruggs, a respected and influential prosecutor.

IRS agents were assigned to the case. Detective Remley got a desk in the U.S. Attorney's Office. The FBI devoted more resources as federal prosecutors began serving more subpoenaes.

In July, The Miami Herald published a list of 14 murders, mostly unprosecuted, and set out the facts of the public execution of the karate champ in the Temple of Love -- unreported for seven years.

At 4:45 a.m. Nov. 7, FBI agent Cousins made a call from the lobby of the Monteleone Hotel in New Orleans.

Hulon Mitchell answered. Surrender peacefully, the agent told him. They knew each other from all those years of investigation.

"Yes, Mr. Cousins. Whatever you say."

Eric Burke, the man who started it all, will not be a witness. He died in Atlanta, a victim of an unrelated shooting.

The knives police found on his staircase are now gone, too. Nine years was just too long to keep evidence around from just another attempted break-in in Liberty City.