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DEVASTATING UPDATE! The search for Dezi Freeman’s body remains underway after authorities confirmed he is believed to have died in the forest.n

Posted on  by Hồng Nhung

In the rugged, mist-shrouded peaks of Victoria’s Mount Buffalo National Park, a five-month manhunt that gripped Australia has reached a haunting impasse. Desmond “Dezi” Freeman, the 56-year-old self-proclaimed sovereign citizen accused of gunning down two Victorian police officers in a hail of bullets last August, remains a ghost in the wilderness. Despite a massive renewed search operation that concluded just days ago, no body, no weapon, and no definitive proof of life—or death—has emerged. Yet Victoria Police insist they “strongly believe” Freeman perished soon after the killings, likely by his own hand in the dense bushland he fled into.

The saga began on the morning of August 26, 2025, in the quiet rural town of Porepunkah, nestled in Victoria’s northeast high country. Police arrived at a property on the outskirts to execute a search warrant tied to historical allegations of sexual abuse against Freeman. What unfolded was one of the deadliest attacks on Australian law enforcement in recent memory.

Detective Leading Senior Constable Neal Thompson, a 35-year-old veteran with a reputation for calm professionalism, and Senior Constable Vadim De Waart-Hottart, 31, an officer known for his dedication to community safety, were fatally shot within minutes of approaching the residence. A third officer was gravely wounded but survived after heroic efforts from colleagues and medical teams. Eyewitness accounts and forensic evidence painted a picture of chaos: rapid gunfire from inside the property, officers returning fire, and then silence as Freeman bolted into the surrounding bush.

Freeman, described by authorities as a conspiracy theorist aligned with the sovereign citizen movement—a fringe ideology that rejects government authority and often leads to confrontations with law enforcement—had long been on police radar. Neighbors and former acquaintances recalled a reclusive man who ranted about “corporate fiction” governments, refused to pay rates or register vehicles, and stockpiled supplies in anticipation of societal collapse. His property, a modest rural block near the Buckland River, was fortified with makeshift barriers, and he had a history of minor run-ins with authorities over unpaid fines and unregistered firearms.

Within hours of the shootings, a massive manhunt was launched. Hundreds of officers from Victoria Police, supported by specialist units, helicopters, drones, sniffer dogs, and even thermal imaging equipment, scoured the treacherous terrain of Mount Buffalo National Park. The area—known for its sheer granite cliffs, thick eucalyptus forests, icy creeks, and unpredictable weather—posed extreme challenges. Temperatures in late winter dipped below freezing at night, and heavy rain turned tracks into mudslides. Survival without shelter, food, or medical aid seemed improbable for a man in his mid-50s.

Key to the investigation was a single, chilling detail: a witness reported hearing a lone gunshot from the bushland approximately two hours after the initial exchange of fire. Acoustic analysis and ballistic testing later corroborated the timing and location, placing it near where Freeman was last seen fleeing westward across the Buckland River around 10:45 a.m. that fateful day. No further sightings, no credible tips, no electronic pings—nothing. As weeks turned to months, the narrative shifted from “armed and dangerous fugitive” to “presumed deceased.”

By early February 2026, with no proof of life emerging after 169 days on the run, Victoria Police announced a targeted, intelligence-driven operation. On February 2, more than 100 officers and volunteers, including cadaver dogs borrowed from New South Wales, descended on a specific sector of Mount Buffalo National Park. The five-day search focused on caves, old mine shafts, riverbeds, and dense undergrowth—places where a body could easily be concealed by nature’s relentless reclaiming.

Detective Inspector Adam Tilley, leading the effort, was blunt in media briefings: “We strongly believe that if Mr. Freeman is still in this area, he is deceased as a result of self-harm or misadventure.” He outlined three scenarios investigators had long considered: death in the bush from suicide or accident; being harbored by sympathizers (a fear amplified by sovereign citizen networks); or improbable survival off-grid. The first, bolstered by the reported gunshot, appeared most likely. Former homicide detectives interviewed on national television echoed this, calling long-term survival “highly unlikely” given the harsh environment and Freeman’s age and lack of specialized bushcraft skills.

The search concluded on February 6 without breakthrough. No backpack under a tree, no shredded clothing caught on branches, no skeletal remains partially devoured by wildlife—no dramatic discovery to close the chapter. Police vowed the case would remain their “number-one priority,” with ongoing analysis of intelligence and the possibility of future targeted operations. A $1 million reward for information leading to Freeman or his remains still stands, though optimism has waned.

The human cost lingers heaviest. Families of the fallen officers—Thompson and De Waart-Hottart—grieve not only their loss but the agonizing uncertainty. Memorial services in Melbourne and regional communities drew thousands, with tributes highlighting the officers’ bravery and commitment. Colleagues described Thompson as a mentor figure, always ready with advice or a steady hand in crisis; De Waart-Hottart as a rising star with a infectious laugh and unwavering loyalty. The injured officer, after months of recovery, has spoken publicly about the trauma but chosen to focus on healing rather than speculation.

Broader questions swirl around the incident. How did a known sovereign citizen acquire firearms allegedly used in the attack? Were warning signs missed in prior interactions? The sovereign citizen movement, while small in Australia, has grown more vocal in recent years, fueled by online echo chambers spreading distrust of institutions. Experts warn that such ideologies can escalate into violence when adherents feel cornered, as appeared to happen here.

Public reaction has been polarized. Online forums and social media brim with theories: some hail Freeman as a “martyr” against overreach, others decry him as a cold-blooded killer who robbed families of loved ones. Many express frustration at the lack of closure, with comments like “If he’s dead, where’s the body?” and “The bush swallowed him whole—nature’s justice.” Sensational clickbait posts claiming backpacks, bloody notes, or shocking scenes have circulated on platforms like Facebook and YouTube, but none hold up to scrutiny from credible sources.

As of February 11, 2026, the Mount Buffalo wilderness holds its secrets tight. The cliffs echo with wind, not gunshots; the rivers rush on indifferently. For the families, the police, and a nation still processing the shock of losing two officers in the line of duty, the search continues—not just for remains, but for answers, accountability, and a measure of peace.

In the end, Dezi Freeman’s story may never fully resolve in the public eye. Whether he lies undiscovered beneath the leaf litter or met a different fate, the tragedy of Porepunkah serves as a stark reminder: in Australia’s vast outback, some endings are written not by courts or headlines, but by the unforgiving land itself.