THE HEROIN VIRUS

A Leominster man named Scott pulled a syringe, scissors and a small metal
dish out of a shaving kit hidden in the back of his utility van. He ripped
open a small packet and poured white powder -- heroin -- into the dish,
dissolving it in water.

"There it is," he whispered. He then pulled a rubber bungee cord off the
wall, twisted it around his right bicep, and tied it tightly.

Scott stretched out his arm, located a vein and plunged the needle into his
skin, releasing the drug into his bloodstream.

He sighed deeply. At first, he felt nothing, but then a bitter taste
entered his mouth -- a sign of quality heroin, he said.

"You can taste it like a bastard, right now the real bitter, so that's
good," he said during an interview inside his van on a hot August day.
"Right about now, it's starting to kick in, I'm getting a euphoric feeling.
Just light, easy ... a light-headedness. And then you feel a little bit
more relaxed ... and I'm high now, and now I'm dying for a cigarette."

Scott, 42, has used heroin on and off for 14 years, he told the Sentinel &
Enterprise.

"The van is a good thing to get high in," he said, locking the doors. "I
can't believe this ... this is what I do every day, just like you guys
brushing your teeth."

Scott, who agreed to speak to the Sentinel & Enterprise if his identity
wasn't revealed, sat with crossed legs on the floor of the van. He parked
on a side road off Townsend Street, where he purchased the heroin. The van
was hot and cluttered with tools, wires and golf magazines. Starting the
day with a fix Scott, who lives in a condominium complex in Leominster,
usually starts his morning with a heroin fix before 7 a.m., followed by a
cigarette and a cup of coffee. He picks up a $20 packet of heroin -- enough
for one hit -- after a quick phone call to his dealer on Townsend Street.

"After this, I'll go to work," Scott said, who works as a refrigeration
repairman and construction worker.

He also pawns off pieces of his work equipment when he's short on cash.
Scott sold an $80 multimeter and a $300 pressure gauge to the pawn shop at
872 Main St., in Fitchburg, for $20. He prefers to sell his belongings,
rather than stealing.

A sad existence "It's really kind of a sad existence, it really is," he
said. "I regret it. I got reeled right into a full-blown junkie, and I knew
nothing about it. I knew nothing about sick or having to get that rush
again." Scott is just one of the many heroin and cocaine addicts who call
North Central Massachusetts their home, often stealing, selling their
bodies or borrowing from friends to pay for their fix.

It is not uncommon to see them walking down Main Street in Fitchburg, and
one man died of an overdose in back of the Sentinel & Enterprise office in
2004. Scott said he has gone through 30 detox programs since 1990,
including a six-year run of sobriety.

He said he started using heroin after he broke up with a girlfriend,
although he had been struggling with alcoholism and bipolar disorder for
years. He had been sober for nearly a year before he started using heroin
again in July, saying his addictive personality proved to be too much for
his willpower. "I remember being sober and having those good days, those
peaceful mind days," he said. "That whole vision has been corrupted ...
with this stuff." Scott grew up in Ashby and attended North Middlesex
Regional High School, where he was "compulsive" at winning sports.

"Life to me is like a sport," Scott said. "Alcohol (helped) my insecurity,
doubt and fear."

Scott said his father was an alcoholic, and his uncle sold marijuana during
the 1970s. He started drinking alcohol at 15, on the weekends with friends.
"I grew up with the wrong information," he said.

Scott doesn't think his mother, who also lives in the area, knows he's
using again. Though he had done jail time in the past for driving while
intoxicated, Scott has had few encounters with police, he said.

Sinister longings But Scott expects to do time again for getting pulled
over with drug paraphernalia in his car.

Scott said using drugs can be more sinister than abusing alcohol. "The
alcoholic is like, 'poor me,' emotional and crying," Scott said. "The
addict is more on today, how to score today. They're tougher, shrewd; they
manipulate, cheat, lie. They are the best thieves."

Peter, a 42-year-old Brookline man, resorted to stealing from friends and
family after his paychecks couldn't cover his cocaine addiction. "I would
set money aside ... and then it took more money," he said. "It'd be half my
check instead of $50, then three-quarters of my check, and my bills
suffered." Peter is living in a sober house in Leominster, trying to get
his life back on track. He has struggled with heroin, cocaine and crack
addictions for nearly 15 years, but he has been clean for about six months.

How to get more "The euphoric feeling (of drug highs), the only thing you
can think is how to get more," he said. "I started selling all my material
goods, coin collections, cars. I stole from my family, all my morals and
church-going feelings didn't matter. I was lying, stealing, borrowing money
from friends, I stopped working." Peter, who agreed to speak to the
Sentinel & Enterprise if his name wasn't revealed, said things got worse
after his father died and left him with an inheritance and the family
house, which his sister forced him to turn over to her. "She said, 'I can't
believe the monster drugs turned you into,' and asked me to leave home,"
Peter said. "I cringe, scream at what I've done. It's hard to forgive myself."

Peter grew up in a privileged family in Brookline under a strict Greek
Orthodox upbringing.

His mother died when he was 11, which he said turned his father into a
problem drinker.

Peter said he was "a very shy kid" and started smoking marijuana in high
school. "With no mom, it was easy to hide my stash," he said. "She would
have nailed me on it." Peter started working full time at a factory after
dropping out of college, when a friend introduced him to cocaine.

"Cocaine broke through my shyness, but it also made me alone and a loner,"
Peter said.

Peter lived in a number of homeless shelters after his sister forced him to
leave the family home. But he said his family supported his efforts to get
sober. "I had family support, they'd come for visits," he said. But he
couldn't stay sober for long.

Peter recalled one instance where he moved into a new apartment after
finishing a detox program.

"Within a week I relapsed. I sold my new car," he said. "I was totally back
involved, like I never let go."

Peter then went through a two-year period of moving around, staying with
friends or going to shelters.

Eventually he found a shelter in Fitchburg, where he started to attend
meetings for Alcoholics Anonymous and Narcotics Anonymous. Peter then moved
in with a woman he was dating, but he ended up stealing from her to buy
heroin -- a crime that landed him with two years probation. Random drug
tests kept Peter sober for three years, until he relapsed again in October
2003 with cocaine.

Peter said his family has stayed in contact with him, in spite of years of
drug abuse.

Ashamed to go home "I'm talking with them; I don't know why they are so
forgiving," Peter said. "My family (are) good, beautiful people. I am
ashamed to go home ... although I am welcomed there anytime. Without my
family, I'd be dead. They suffer just as much as I do."

Peter said he's ashamed about his drug addiction. "I don't like myself
right now, and you can write this down. Using makes you a maggot. You do
horrible things to good people. The guilt gets heavier and heavier." Peter
said he's learning to be content, while he's trying to stay sober and get
treatment for depression.

"I'm trying to find God again," he said. The power of money Danny, 29, of
Fitchburg, used to be the type of person who preyed on people like Peter
and Scott.

Selling drugs used to give Danny everything he wanted. "You could taste it,
the money," he said. "What you thought was good enough then was not enough
now. A new car wasn't good enough ... rims would make it better. Girls that
wanted drugs didn't care what you looked like. I had nice clothes, chains."

Danny made anywhere from $500 to $5,000 a week selling cocaine, heroin,
Ecstasy and dozens of other drugs.

"I could get whatever you wanted," he told the Sentinel & Enterprise in
August, just a month after he was released from a drug-related prison
sentence. "I started smoking weed when I was 17, 18," said Danny, who
didn't complete high school while growing up in Worcester. "I started
selling $10 dime bags (of marijuana). I was just selling to stay high, not
for rent or for income." Danny said he quickly became addicted to
marijuana, while working as a pizza-delivery man.

His girlfriend gave birth to his son at the same time, who is now 10. "I
was constantly high off weed. ... I smoked like a chimney," he said.
"Problems? No problems anymore ... Nothing fazed or bothered me. I was a
functioning addict."

Danny lost a technician's job after failing a random drug test. He started
selling more cocaine to make ends meet.

"I'd have a bookbag full of bricks (of marijuana), all different sizes," he
said. "People were in and out, supply and demand."

Danny said he sold to all types of people, from college students to couples
in their 70s.

"People had multiple dealers, so I'd give them deals to advertise," he
said. "Then I'd have two cell phones going at once, it was mad stress .
meeting people in different places."

Danny said he didn't like the type of people he sold heroin and crack to.
Desperation "I didn't like it because eventually they would rob you because
they are desperate," he said. "Sometimes I'd give them some, because it
hurts them (to go through withdrawal). Girls would be crying, and I'd say
next time don't call me again." Danny's fast life came crashing down after
an acquaintance helped police arrest him in a sting operation.

The bust landed Danny in prison for nearly three years. "The money was
good, and the lifestyle was good," he said quietly, looking down at a
table. "But in the end, I lost a lot. It's not glamorous." Danny, a tall
and muscular Latino man, said prison changed his life forever. He was sober
for the first time in years, and he was no longer "numb." "People were very
depressed, you saw them drugged up. My problems started to get to me
because I had no alcohol or weed. I thought they were zombies, and I didn't
want meds," he said. "The hurt and the pain, I wanted to feel all of it."
Danny spent his time in prison trying to "stay under the radar" and avoid
fights. "I only fought twice; fights were like tests," he said. "You had to
stand up for yourself. My mom would visit, and she would cry. I'd hate it
because you can't cry in prison. You just have to swallow it and toughen
up." Danny said he participated in any rehabilitation program available,
attending substance abuse counseling and working odd jobs.

"Now I can live with myself, be alone, and feel good about myself," he
said. Danny said he's put his life of drug dealing and drug use behind him.
He has stayed in counseling since his release from prison in July. He also
attends Alcoholics Anonymous meetings.

"If I even drink beers, if I go there, it will fog up my head again and
I'll slip up," he said. "I know it will start all over again, and I don't
ever want to go back. I love life too much to spend it behind bars." Danny
has been adjusting to a new drug-free life, working as a delivery man. He
also said he's learning to compromise his former lifestyle for real-life
necessities, buying a new washing machine instead of a Lincoln Navigator.
Danny told the Sentinel & Enterprise in March he's trying to get his high
school diploma and possibly attend college to become a drug and alcohol
counselor. "If I could even help one person, that would be enough," he
said. Gunshots outside her door Polly Blodgett, a resident of Leyte Road in
Fitchburg, knows exactly when a drug confrontation is about to go down.

"If I hear on my scanner that police are coming to this area, I bring (my
daughter) in," said Blodgett, 32, who lives in the Green Acres public
housing development with her 11-year-old daughter, Marie.

It's not uncommon for Blodgett to hear "screaming and hollering" or even
gun shots right outside her front door.

"The scariest thing I've heard is gunshots. You can't go out in the front
yard or back yard without wondering who'll get shot next," Blodgett told
the Sentinel & Enterprise at her home in December. "You just hope you're
not in the crossfire."

Blodgett's two-level home is modest but tidy. A colorful Christmas tree
sparkled in the living room during a recent interview. By nightfall,
Blodgett pulled the curtains over her front window to keep outsiders from
looking in.

Blodgett moved to Green Acres in 2001. A car accident left her permanently
disabled and out of work.

"I couldn't work anymore, and I couldn't afford the rent," she said. "If I
had the money, I would move out. But unfortunately, it costs too much for a
regular apartment."

Blodgett said violent incidents, such as shootings, occur "in spurts"
around her neighborhood.

"It's good for a while, and then it gets worse," she said. "Right now, the
police are doing what they can as far as cleaning up the place, and the
Housing Authority can only do so much."

Blodgett said Fitchburg police and the Fitchburg Housing Authority are the
only entities available to help her.

Blodgett's neighbors have been hesitant to speak out against the violence,
although she founded the Green Acres Tenants Organization several months
ago. A handful of jamokes "The majority of people here are law abiding,
good people," she said. "There's just a handful of jamokes making it
difficult for the rest us." She said everyone is scared of retribution from
drug dealers. "Nobody wants to be involved, or get the backlash if they do
say anything. It's hard because you have people here who actually care, but
they are too scared to do anything," she said.

Blodgett said she has received "more threats than (she) can count," since
starting the tenants organization, including a death threat. "The cops say
it's helpful if we speak up, but who will protect us if they want to shoot
at us?" she said. "People have to live here. I'm already considered a rat
because I talk to police and the Housing Authority. But I don't rat anybody
out."

It is not uncommon for Blodgett to find strangers lingering in her back
yard and she hears random knocks on her door at 2 a.m.

"It's stressful, I have anxiety," she said. "When the scanner goes off, and
it's in our area, it makes it worse. Or when you see something and wonder
why the cops aren't there."

A tough education Educating her daughter about avoiding drug dealers and
not to pick up needles is tough, but necessary, Blodgett said.

"I'm honest with her," she said. "It's hard for her, but it makes her
safer." Blodgett has found BB gun pellets shot through the window of her
basement -- what she believes is a warning for telling people to get out of
her yard. "My daughter says it best, 'Mom, cut that out or we're going to
get shot at,'" Blodgett said. "But I don't lay down for anybody ... and I
don't like to see people get walked over, even if it's a danger to me and
my daughter." Wanting to leave Highland Avenue resident Catherine Aldrich
experienced a scare last summer when a 50-person melee broke out in front
of her house. "We were watching a movie, and I heard a sound come up, I
thought it was the surround sound," Aldrich told the Sentinel & Enterprise
at her home in January. "I went to the window, and I heard yelling. People
were pushing and shoving, and then there was a gunshot. Then everyone
scattered." Aldrich said Fitchburg police officers arrived to the scene in
seconds. "It was surreal, I never expected to see that in my own
neighborhood," she said. Aldrich said her 7-year-old twins slept through
the incident, and she never wants them to know it happened.

"Right after it happened, I wanted to move," she said. "Why make my kids
live here? But now I'm not scared. It was a very isolated problem." Aldrich
said if she sees a gathering on her street, she calls 911 immediately.

When Aldrich moved to Fitchburg two years ago from North Andover, she
expected some noise around her Colonial home because it is located near
Fitchburg State College.

"We knew we were moving into a college neighborhood, and we expected to
deal with occasional parties," she said. "But the kids always agreed to
turn music down." She said she didn't realize the grasp drugs had on the
city. "I knew it was going to be a city, but I was so naive about it. I
never heard anything about Fitchburg. I wasn't aware how much crime there
is around here, and it's such a small city," she said. "It still cracks me
up there are so many problems here."

But Aldrich said some "bad apple" tenants moved in across the street last
year, and the neighborhood has had problems ever since. "It started with
loud music, and then people were hanging out and shouting," she said. "Some
people have lived here forever, it used to be a good neighborhood."

Still, Aldrich feels safe walking down her street and has no plans to move
out now. "Nothing has happened since (the melee), so we will see what
happens this summer," she said. "If there are more problems, I won't
hesitate to call the landlord." Up in smoke Leominster resident Fran
Martineau said his neighborhood around Third and Water streets -- part of
the French Hill area -- used to have trouble with drugs and noise, but the
problems literally went up in smoke. "There was a tenement house, and it
burnt down," said Martineau. "Five or six years ago, there were drugs and
theft. ... It was stressful, a lot of people were going to pack up and move
on."

Martineau had to stop hanging his laundry out on his clothes line at one
point. "Someone stole my clothes, underwear and a sweat shirt," he said.
"I'd find beer bottles, chicken bones in my back yard, they were throwing
rocks. I had to encircle my yard with a fence. It was bad, real bad."
Violence hit a peak in French Hill after a drive-by shooting occurred five
years ago. Martineau said loud music and swearing at night forced him and
his wife to stay inside during many summers.

"You couldn't sit out and enjoy yourself," he said. "We had to the shut the
windows, put on the AC and stay in the house."

It was that type of environment that prompted John Sbrogna, 44, formerly of
Spruce Street, to move out of his old neighborhood to North Main Street.
"The neighborhood was really changing," Sbrogna said. "My wife used to walk
our dogs frequently in the neighborhood, but she had to change her route
because people were openly drinking in the streets ... it became
uncomfortable for her." For Sbrogna, it was the small changes that became
too much. "I was never concerned my car would get stolen, but it was the
interference in everyday life," he said.

Yvette Cooks had more immediate safety concerns when she first moved to
Daniels Street -- part of the Cleghorn area in Fitchburg -- nine years ago.
"Things were really bad before I moved: There were shootings, drug
transactions and rapes," said Cooks, 48. "When I first got here, I didn't
do a whole lot, I kept to myself and stayed in my building."

Cooks grew up in Boston's Roxbury neighborhood and learned at a young age
to be mindful of her surroundings.

"You have to be on your toes ... even though I'm trying to do good, there
are bad people out there," she said. "Someone will snatch your purse or
beat you up for a dollar."

But Cooks found getting involved with her neighbors helped turn things
around. "I decided to become more active and help out to see if we couldn't
put a lid on what was going on out there," she said.

Cooks said neighbors formed a Crime Watch group and teamed up with police
and the Twin Cities Community Development Committee.

"Nothing was going to change until the citizens did something about it .
call the police, take notes and get involved," she said. "People were
afraid, but when we came together collectively, the fear went away." Coming
tomorrow: Fighting the war against drugs.