NEW APPROACHES URGED AS METH SCOURGE PERSISTS

Kenny Morrison, an average Iowan with the gut instincts of a salesman,
personifies how the United States is losing its war against
methamphetamine - a fight with vexing similarities to the nation's
failed Prohibition of alcohol.

As an 11-year-old in Fort Madison, Morrison made his first $50 selling
night crawlers to fishermen on the banks of the Mississippi River. He
bought an old johnboat, caught catfish before school and sold them to
help support his family.

By 26, Morrison had customers all over southeast Iowa. This time, they
craved his homemade methamphetamine. He cooked the drug in a
Burlington warehouse that fronted as a wood pallet business. Money
poured in. This time, his family was neglected.

"A lot of people here have turned to the drug," said Morrison, now a
30-year-old ex-convict. "And once you get stuck - oh, my Lord, it's
hard to quit."

Meth comes at Iowa from so many directions, law officers, treatment
workers and addicts disagree on its primary source. Criminal
operations run by Mexican gangs oversee massive meth laboratories in
Southern California's desert and smuggle the powerful stimulant across
the country, with Iowa as a prime market. Dealers and addicts make
meth across Iowa from readily available ingredients.

As it did 80 years ago during Prohibition, the government has spent
millions and set up task forces to fight the modern-day bootleggers
and moonshiners.

But a four-month examination by The Des Moines Register found that
this decade long assault of money and manpower has affected supply and
demand of meth no more than Prohibition shut down alcohol.
Methamphetamine, in fact, has embedded itself more deeply in the
hardest-hit states while making inroads on the East Coast and in
foreign countries.

"The meth scourge has had a tight grip on our state for more than a
decade," U.S. Sen. Tom Harkin said. "Millions in state and federal
money have been poured into the problem, yet its presence here in Iowa
and the Midwest seems as strong as ever."

The war must go on, though. Although most people can safely use
alcohol, the same is not true for meth. Its addictive powers grip
users with tenacity unmatched even by cocaine and heroin.

Kenny Morrison also illustrates the kind of small victory that can be
won in the larger fight. He is recovering from his addiction, working
and supporting his family.

Interviews with Morrison and dozens of others - meth "cooks," users,
treatment workers, lawmakers, federal agents and local police dealing
with the toxic leftovers - found several areas ripe for better
enforcement, cooperation and refinement. Among them:

* Authorities believe they can cut meth supplies by cracking down on
pseudoephedrine - a component of cold medicine that is the active
ingredient in meth - but U.S. policymakers and drug companies have
resisted tightening sales of the compound.

* Iowa and other states would benefit from tighter restrictions of
other legal ingredients used to make meth. Farmers and farm
cooperatives, for example, lack money and incentives to lock up tanks
holding anhydrous ammonia, a fertilizer used in making the drug.

The ease in making meth is a key to understanding why the drug has not
waned in popularity, as others have.

"If people in America could make cocaine as easily as they can make
meth, we'd have a much bigger cocaine problem," said Michael Edens, a
central Iowa counselor who used meth for several years.

Limiting the availability of ingredients is important because
treatment workers and users say most meth in Iowa is now made locally.
While law officers believe most is imported, they say they spend
inordinate amounts of time cleaning up the environmental mess left by
small-time labs.

* Public investment in drug treatment has failed to keep pace with
arrests and other indicators of a deepening crisis - even though
once-dismal treatment success rates are improving.

* Spending on prevention programs - $5 million a year in Iowa - has
dropped since 1995.

* "If you can keep people away from meth, that's the absolute best way,"
said Stephan Arndt, a University of Iowa professor who serves on the
Iowa Drug Policy Advisory Council. "Then you don't have to pay for the
black helicopters for DEA to swoop down, and you don't have to pay for
treatment."

* Efforts to fight meth lack coordination. "It's almost impossible to
keep track of who is doing what and why," Arndt said.

At First, It Was Just for the Money

Like a lot of meth dealers, Kenny Morrison made himself a promise
before entering the meth business: "I was doing it to pay the bills."

Morrison's family moved to California when he was 12. His uncle and
cousins there introduced him to drugs, but he left them behind when he
returned to Iowa as a 17-year-old.

He began dating his future wife, Candace, in his 20s. He got a job
that paid well. The couple rented a house in her hometown of Fairfield
and set a wedding date.

Unemployment changed Morrison's fate. After quitting to avoid a
layoff, he began spending time with cousins in Burlington. He used
meth for the first time since returning to Iowa.

That fall, he and Candace were married. The couple moved to
Burlington, where Kenny started a wood pallet business. When it
struggled, he spent more time with his cousins - more time using meth.

When he started cooking batches of meth, it was just enough for
himself and a friend. Two weeks later, they were selling enough to
cover their expenses. Another few weeks passed, and Morrison was
making as much as he could sell.

Many nights, Morrison sold from inside an Illinois strip club. The
owner, also a user, knew.

"I basically had free run of his bar, and his strippers were selling
it for me," Morrison said. "I'd just put it right on the bar with the
scales and weigh the dope."

Through it all, he hid his drug use from his wife.

"He'd leave for nine days at a time and not call me, not show up,"
Candace Morrison said. "My first impression was I married somebody I
didn't know."

Kenny Morrison forgot Candace, who waited at home, pregnant with their
first child. He missed the prenatal appointments. He forgot about
paying bills and finding a job.

He could think only about meth.

Less Attention, but More Trouble

Unlike other drugs, such as cocaine, whose use has waned, meth is
claiming steadily more victims.

Last year, it sent 800 Iowans to prison, eight times more than in
1995. It drove about 5,300 into treatment, up 43 percent from five
years earlier.

Iowa police and sheriff's departments found amphetamines - almost
always meth - on someone 1,729 times last year, an increase of 60
percent from seven years earlier.

Federal drug experts have identified Iowa - with Missouri and Arkansas
- - as one of the nation's five primary markets for meth. The others are
metropolitan areas in the West.

Nearly two in 10 Iowa adults said in a Des Moines Register Iowa Poll
last summer that they were directly affected by meth use or knew
someone who was. Meth plagues those who have never touched the stuff,
including the estimated 500 children exposed to it last year and
thousands of people robbed by addicts searching for a way to pay for
the drug.

"It's sort of alarming because it means that whatever we are doing for
interdiction and prevention needs to get better or we need to redirect
our efforts," said Arndt, the U of I professor on the Drug Policy
Advisory Council.

Even with evidence of an increasing problem, the epidemic has had a
low profile in recent years. Politicians are focused on other things.
Police, in reporting crimes from murder to burglary, are less likely
than a decade ago to mention the role of meth. Media coverage is less
prominent.

"I actually run into people who say, "Oh, it looks like we've got the
meth problem under control," " said Dale Woolery, associate director
of the Governor's Office of Drug Control Policy. "It's out of sight,
out of mind."

Now, Labs Are All Over the Map

The number of Iowans smoking, snorting, ingesting or injecting meth
began to climb in the early 1990s, partly because cocaine addicts
found a cheaper substance with a better high, said Rick LaMere, a
federal Drug Enforcement Administration agent in Cedar Rapids. Cocaine
only 50 percent pure was selling for about $1,200 an ounce vs. $800
for pure meth.

Drug organizations from Mexico and the southwestern United States were
largely responsible for the drug's initial influx, drug agents say. By
the mid-to late 1990s, a growing number of addicts were looking for a
cheaper way to get meth and began setting up labs.

Iowa proved an ideal setting.

In empty farmhouses or remote pastures, users could make the drug
without worrying that the distinctive odor might be detected.
Anhydrous ammonia was easily stolen from tanks sitting outside farm
businesses or in fields. Pseudoephedrine, another key ingredient, was
extracted from the cold and allergy medicine sold in any drug or
convenience store.

In 2002, authorities seized or cleaned up 1,009 meth labs, a 52
percent increase from two years earlier.

"It's just everywhere now," said Jim Hoeft, a substance-abuse
counselor at Horizons Family Centered Recovery Program in Waterloo.
"You could almost take your finger, put it on a map and drive there,
and it would be there."

Users 'don't think like the rest of us'

Who Is Using Meth?

An increasing number of women, mostly white people and those between
30 and 50. A few kids, too.

"Initially, it was trending upward in age, but then we were having a
discussion about it looking like it's moving back down to
adolescents," said Arthur Schut, president of the Mid-Eastern Council
on Chemical Abuse in Iowa City.

According to the 2002 Iowa Youth Survey, 95 percent of 11th-graders
had never tried meth. Two percent said they had used the drug in the
month prior to the survey.

One hallmark of regular meth users - or "tweakers" - is their extreme
paranoia. The drug also leaves them with all kinds of nervous energy.
It's not unusual for a user to go days without sleeping or eating.
That, plus the drug's effect on the brain, makes a regular user
difficult to reason with.

"You can deal with a cocaine person, but it's very difficult to deal
with a meth person," said LaMere, the DEA agent. "They don't think
like the rest of us."

A self-described tweaker, Tim Benson, 21, of Waverly, constantly
thought people were spying on him.

"I'd stay up for eight or nine days at a time. You just kind of get
lost after that, kind of lose your mind," Benson said from the Grundy
County Jail, where he was being held on drug charges.

Benson tried meth at age 15, thinking it would be just another drug.
"But it was different. You wanted more right away," he said. "This has
far more control over you."

Treatment programs have typically had poor results, with many users
returning to the drug. While success rates have begun to improve,
government spending on treatment has grown slightly in Iowa, from an
estimated $19.1 million in 2000 to $23.8 million last year.

It's not enough to meet the demand of addicts who don't have money to
pay for treatment after neglecting jobs and going broke.

"The thing lacking right now is adequate resources for treatment,
because drug treatment is really an important way to prevent related
crimes," said Doug Marek, a deputy Iowa attorney general.

Benson believes he and most other meth users need treatment more than
prison, where many spend their time sharing tips for making better
meth or suggestions on where to buy.

Once free, they return to the drug.

"If I could get hit in the head hard enough to have amnesia, I would
so that I wouldn't know about the drug," said Benson, who - after
being interviewed - ended up in prison in Fort Dodge for violating his
probation. "I really want to be clean."

While spending on treatment has grown modestly, spending on prevention
has been stagnant. Federal and state governments dedicated an
estimated $5.1 million to prevention last year in Iowa, slightly more
than the $5 million spent two years earlier and down from 1995.

Supporters of directing more taxpayer money toward prevention argue
that such a step could save money in the end. The trick is finding
programs that work.

Cooking, Using, Hallucinating, Begging

By fall 1999, Kenny Morrison had lost the warehouse. He and his
partners began traveling through the countryside, looking for any
pasture, barn or abandoned house where they could cook for six to
eight hours. They cooked alongside the Mississippi at times"so if
anyone showed up we could throw everything in the river."

As Morrison's reputation for quality meth grew, so did his income. But
he spent the money without giving any to his pregnant wife.

"In October of 1999 alone, I spent over $25,000 on the riverboat in
Burlington," Morrison said. "And my wife and Clay - who was just about
to be born - I didn't give them a damn thing. I think one time I gave
her $19 to buy diapers."

Clay was 8 days old that November when the meth dealer issued his wife
an ultimatum. By this time, she knew he was using but thought it was
only occasional.

"He said, "The only way you'll convince me to stay and that you won't
narc is if you try it," " Candace remembered. "I said, "No." The next
day, he left."

On a winter night early in 2000, Morrison was at his uncle's
Burlington house, sitting at the kitchen table making glass pipes for
smoking meth, when the drug task force pounded on the door.

He spent three days in jail in Fairfield, charged with delivering
meth, before being bailed out by his parents and Candace. As soon as
Morrison was out, he returned to Burlington and the meth.

Morrison was arrested in Lee County on drug charges within two months.
This time, Morrison's stay was longer - "46 days. I counted." The long
stay turned out to be a blessing. As the drug released its grip on his
brain, Morrison saw what had happened to his life. Candace finally
understood what had happened to her husband.

He had reached the point where he was using $500 worth of meth a day.
Fifty dollars' worth of meth might last others a week.

"It's awful when your husband calls you and says he's seeing dead
people and they're telling him to kill himself," Candace said. "He was
begging me for help."

Morrison knew he might lose his family.

He had the four months before he would report to prison to persuade
his wife to stick by him. He had to stay away from meth.

"You have to change your whole circle of friends. You change
everything," Morrison said. He checked into rehab, got a job and began
paying the bills. He stocked up on diapers for Clay.

Two weeks after Morrison went to prison, Candace found out she was
pregnant again. He vowed he would stay on track once he was out again.
He told her, "All I ask is that you give me the opportunity to show
you."

"A lot of things go through your mind," Candace said. "Is he going to
change or is it just talk?"

What to Look For, How to Respond

Buchanan County Sheriff's Deputy Jeff Coleman used to peer inside cars
for beer cans. Now he also checks for empty cold medicine packages or
coolers for anhydrous ammonia.

He and others in law enforcement must be familiar with the hazards of
meth labs, if not trained to dismantle them. They must be prepared for
the unreasonable paranoia or violence of users.

"It seems like on a daily basis . . . you deal with something related
to meth," Coleman said. "It's sad because it's just become the norm."

As the problem grows, the search for an answer continues.

"We've tried over the years to have a multifaceted approach using
prevention, education, changing chemical-control law, and law
enforcement efforts," U.S. Sen. Charles Grassley said. "They are
working, but there's still an explosion of the problem."

Arndt, the U of I professor who directs the Iowa Consortium for
Substance Abuse, believes the many programs around the state should be
evaluated more systematically. Otherwise, it's difficult to tell what
works and what doesn't.

"You might have somebody at a school in Centerville, say, who attends
a conference and is really energized and offers to do that program. So
that becomes the program for Centerville," said Arndt, but others in
the state don't know what's working.

Turning Away Is Not the Answer

Last fall, Morrison was released from prison after more than two
years.

He had missed a year and a half of his younger son's life.

But his two boys are getting to know their dad again, he's gaining his
wife's confidence and he's been clean for 3 1/2 years.

Morrison spoke softly, outside his family's new home in eastern Iowa,
describing what he lost with his boys and his wife. Regret softened
his voice - not an attempt to keep his sons, playing nearby, from hearing.

He wants them - and others - to know.

"I cannot imagine how devastating it would be if one of my boys went
through it," Morrison said, watching 3-year-old Clay practice casting
with a toy fishing pole and 2-year-old Clint trying to ride his older
brother's bicycle.

He avoids any setting that might tempt him to return to the drug. At
one construction job, Morrison told a supervisor that he had done time
on meth charges. "He asked if I was going to get back into it because
we could do a lot of business there," Morrison said.

Instead of grabbing a beer with the guys after work, he goes fishing
with his boys or his father-in-law. Or he goes home to Candace.

He worries that too many Iowans are reluctant to talk about the
problem.

"Iowa portrays itself as this homegrown atmosphere, with small-town
farmers helping in the community and slow-paced living. And they don't
want their image marred by this meth epidemic," Morrison said. "They
say to me, "Oh, it's good you got off it. We're glad you got your life
straightened out." Then it's never mentioned again.

"The more people who are willing to talk about it, the more people you
have to help fight the problem."

Making Ingredients Harder to Get

Pressure is building in Iowa for greater regulation of the sale of
items containing pseudoephedrine, a legal component of cold and
allergy medicines used in meth manufacturing. Ephedrine, from which
pseudoephedrine is derived, was widely used until tighter regulations
were imposed.

"We'd like to do the same with pseudoephedrine, but we're running into
roadblocks with retailers," said Jerry Nelson of the state's Division
of Narcotics Enforcement. "If we could do that, it might cut our
number of meth labs in half."

Meth makers buy a few packets of medicine containing pseudoephedrine
at one store, then move on to another. Some stores have their own
policies to deter the use of their products in making meth.

State Rep. Clel Baudler, a Greenfield Republican, wants to require
shoppers to show identification for pseudoephedrine purchases and
limit them, as Missouri now does, to a maximum of two packages at a
time, or 6 grams. Large purchases are tracked now but still are permitted.

The Iowa Pharmacy Association favors removing products containing
pseudoephedrine from public access, said Jerry Karbeling, senior vice
president of the association. Like cigarettes, the medicine would
typically be set behind counters. The association also supports
limiting the sale of pseudoephedrine products to stores with a
pharmacist on staff. That would prevent most convenience stores from
selling everything from Tylenol Cold to Sudafed to Robitussin.

"Some middle ground needs to be achieved because, in a town of 1,000,
we want to make sure there's access to the medication" for use as a
decongestant, Karbeling said. "But we don't want people going in and
buying 10 boxes either."

The state has tossed around the idea of paying stores that report
unusually large purchases of pseudoephedrine products.

"For profit motive, there may be some who don't care if someone comes
in and buys 100 boxes of pseudoephedrine," said Marvin Van Haaften,
the state's Office of Drug Control Policy director.

Fear, Resentment in Drug's Wake

There are plenty of reminders of Morrison's meth use.

The 30-year-old's face is prematurely haggard. The short hair beneath
his baseball cap is still brown, but his joints ache. His teeth are a
mess because of the corrosive nature of the drug. This spring he had
10 teeth rebuilt, and another six need work.

His memory isn't what it used to be. A few years ago, he could glance
at his tape measure during carpentry work and instantly read it down
to 1/16th of an inch. "Now, I have to stop and physically count the
lines," he said. "I can't get my brain to do it."

Candace still carries some resentment about the years she was left
alone to raise their children and pay their bills.

"It's sometimes hard to let go of the past and of what he's done,
because he didn't just do it to me. It was the kids, too," she said.
"But at least they are still young, and we can make up for it. The
fears, though, are going to be there for quite some time."

Kenny Morrison has fears, too.

There are times - after more than three years - when he can taste the
drug. It's suddenly in his mouth, the memory of it.

He fights the small part of him that pushes: Just one more time?