Seven Days of Heroin: What an epidemic looks like

Every day across Ohio, the epidemic keeps claiming new victims. Heroin users, their families, their children, their neighbors, those who try to help them, even those who have no empathy for their pain suffer from the effects of the drug on our communities.

Jails and hospitals, courts and social services agencies are inundated with heroin cases. Every driver and passenger and pedestrian, everyone who encounters someone with an infectious disease transmitted by a used heroin syringe, everyone who pays taxes, is a heroin epidemic victim.

And, while unofficial Ohio Department of Health statistics show that heroin overdose deaths remained about steady this past year, the epidemic is getting worse. Fentanyl, a far more potent opioid, caused twice the overdose deaths in the state last year than the year before. It's often mixed with heroin or substituted for it.

It has surfaced in a nationwide heroin crisis that has hit Ohio particularly hard.

We sent out a team of reporters to capture glimpses of the ongoing struggle. From July 10-16, reporters, photographers and videographers went into their communities to show what a heroin epidemic looks like.

Here's what we found.

Monday

10:22 a.m.

Tim Reagan’s radio crackles to life as he pulls his late-model sedan onto I-275.

“I’ve got him,” says one voice.

“He drove right past me,” says another.

Reagan is the agent in charge of the Drug Enforcement Agency in Cincinnati. He’s on the road today with about 50 other agents and police officers.

They’re all on the tail of a man suspected of hauling two to three kilos of heroin to a potential buyer in Columbus. Each kilo, which is more than two pounds, is worth up to $300,000 on the street.

Heroin is big business, but not for the Mexican immigrant Reagan is tailing today. He’s just a suspected courier who might make $500 or so. The real money flows to the gangs that control distribution and to the drug cartels back in Mexico.

When they finally pull him over, police rip up the floor boards and dig through the driver’s backpack. They check the bumpers and the trunk and look for secret compartments in the doors.

Nothing.

Reagan is frustrated. There have to be drugs in that car, he thinks.

The agents don’t have time to dwell on what went wrong. About 7,000 kilograms of heroin are seized in the United States every year, three times as much as a decade ago. They will be hunting someone new tomorrow.

3:50 p.m.

Amber Hutton, 35, is in court on a probation violation. Two years ago, Muskingum County Common Pleas Judge Kelly Cottrill sentenced her to three years of probation for possession of heroin and cocaine.

The probation officer, Melanie Richert, tells the judge that Hutton had completed her community service. She’d gone to the required meetings. She was on track to be released from probation early.

But after almost two years of sobriety, Hutton relapsed. She was arrested in South Carolina.

She has 52 days left on her jail sentence. Richert and Hutton’s defense attorney say Hutton could just serve it and be done with court, with supervision, with treatment, with all of it, if she wants.

She doesn’t.

Hutton wants the treatment. She has a fiancé now. She has family support.

“I have a life worth living,” Hutton says. “I didn’t before.”

Tuesday

1:10 p.m.

Kacie Rolfes walks into the conference room at the psychiatric hospital and takes a seat across the table from a 7-year-old girl.

The girl is wearing pink shorts and a bright blue T-shirt that reads, “I’m a Dream Believer.”

“Do you know why you’re in this situation?” Rolfes asks.

“Because my mom and dad did drugs,” the girl says.

Rolfes is a Hamilton County social worker. She made the five-hour drive today to the Belmont Pines psychiatric hospital in Youngstown to check on the girl, who suffers from post-traumatic stress disorder and other psychiatric problems.

The girl hasn’t been home since she found her mother slumped over the toilet last year, high on heroin and barely conscious. Her father died of an overdose earlier this year.

Children’s services placed her with a foster family, but that ended when she tried to drown her foster sister in a YMCA swimming pool. After that, the girl’s doctors sent her here for more intensive treatment.

“Do you need me to do anything for you?” Rolfes asks.

The girl says she’d like Rolfes to bring some things from home.

“I want the picture of me, my brother, sister and mom with my dad,” she says. “A necklace, too. It has a cross on it. My dad gave it to me before he died.”

Rolfes promises to do her best to find the photo and the necklace.

When they finish the meeting, the girl leans on the table, looking tired and bored, ready to move on to whatever comes next. Rolfes pats her back softly.

“Take care of yourself, kiddo.”

5:30 p.m.

Kimberly Flynn Knapp speaks out at the Bellville Village Council meeting just two months after she found her daughter, Kristin, dead on a bathroom floor, a needle in the sink.

Kristin died from an overdose of heroin mixed with fentanyl, the powerful synthetic opiate responsible for a staggering upsurge in Ohio’s overdose death toll.

“To me, it wasn’t a matter of if. It was a matter of when,” Knapp says.

Knapp is determined to do something to prevent others from dying. She clutches a legal pad stuffed with loose papers: ideas to share with the 20-plus people at the meeting.

She mentions this one: put signs in the yards of drug houses identifying them.

She’s just not sure it’s safe.

Wednesday

6:30 p.m.

Ashley Darfus is nervous.

She's the focus of attention for the nearly 100 people at Ale House 1890 in Lancaster. Darfus is the founder of Hustle HOPE: Heroin Outreach, Prevention and Education.

She's also in recovery from heroin addiction.

Her dad, Brian Darfus, tells those gathered that his daughter earned the nickname “Crash” early on, because she’d always been tough. Quickly, tears well in his eyes.

Then, wiping away her own, Ashley comes to the stage and hugs her dad.

She takes the mic and tells the crowd she was incarcerated three times before she turned 21 and has 10 drug-related charges in Franklin County. She has been in 12 treatment programs, 10 of which she finished. She was hospitalized after two overdoses. For the rest, she regained consciousness alone.

“I chose drugs over my family. I abandoned my child for four years,” Ashley says.

“My dad was mourning a child that was still living.”

Ashley says she ended up homeless on the south end of Columbus. She began prostituting and was raped multiple times. Her hair was falling out, teeth decaying. She felt as if she were dying.

“I was," she says.

Her father found her on a corner one day.

" 'You’re going to die out here,' " she recalls him saying. Her response? “You think I’m scared of death? I’m scared of living like this.”

Ashley decided to use once more before treatment. She overdosed, she says, “with a needle in my arm in the OSU bathroom.”

She got treatment. She got better.

She’s back in college. She helps those addicted. She knows how to administer naloxone for others.

The room is quiet during Ashley's testimonial.

As she finishes, the crowd rises and cheers.

8:35 p.m.

Newark medics and police enter the Speedway on West Main Street. A man who overdosed is on the restroom floor, his head under the sink, feet in front of the toilet.

The overdose antidote naloxone, sprayed into his nostrils, isn’t working. The medics get out a drill. It whirs like a dental drill, pushing a tiny hole into a shin bone. The medics administer one dose of naloxone, then another.

The man rouses. He tries to stand.

“Lay down, buddy. You overdosed,” a medic says. “We just brought you back to life.”

The man denies the overdose.

He identifies himself as Jon, and the medics take him to a hospital.

But before Jonathan Moore can be treated further, he hops off the gurney and bolts out the hospital doors, the stent still embedded in his leg.

Thursday

1:30 p.m.

Inside the Marion Correctional Institution in a white-walled room, 15 men sit in a circle. This is Narcotics Anonymous. Many of the inmates here are addicted to heroin.

Their main question today, written on a leaf of paper they will pass from one to the other: How will they stay off drugs when they get out?

A man with glasses and close-cropped hair begins. His story is familiar: After a prescription painkiller addiction, he says, he turned to heroin.

He shakes his head, looks down at his hands.

“I hope I never use again. I know I won’t never get high on heroin," he says. "But pills?" He says he hopes that his family's support will help him steer clear.

The inmates are worried about what awaits them when they leave prison. What will happen when someone gives them a dealer’s number? What excuses will they make up to stay away from an old friend?

One man says he'd been using and selling heroin for 21 years and has watched the epidemic grow.

“Sometimes I feel responsible," he says, "and it hurts."

Friday

3:18 p.m.

Bree Schreck’s eyes widen when she walks into the home where a 12-year-old girl, who has been removed from her mother, waits.

The girl has dyed her hair from blonde to bright red, and today she’s braided part of it around her head, like a crown. With her hairstyle and clothes – gray Capri leggings, red socks, bracelets dangling from a wrist – she is the picture of pre-teen.

“Let me see!” Schreck says, moving forward to touch the girl’s hair.

The child has been living with her aunt, outside Chillicothe, since May. She was removed from her mom, who struggles with heroin addiction. Schreck is a caseworker with the South Central Ohio Child Protective Services and she's checking in.

The child's bedroom is small and clean, with a large dresser and a TV in addition to a single bed. Butterfly stickers adorn the ceiling and a small lava lamp adds to the décor.

Eventually, Schreck brings up the last time the girl saw her mother, in court.

“How was that?” Schreck asks.

“She didn’t look good. She looked bad,” says the girl, who’s perched on the edge of her bed, mostly looking at the floor.

“She didn’t look like my mom.”

3:30 p.m.

The former drug dealer. who takes part in the Drug Addiction Treatment Alliance Program in Port Clinton, has figured out how to enjoy small moments.

“You’re going to go home tonight and you’re going to say, ‘Hi, babe.’ Your wife’s going to be there. You’re going to sit in your chair. You’ve got a refrigerator full of food. You don’t have to wait for a door to click to go in and out. If you want to go outside, you can go outside,” he says.

Before he was in the Ottawa County Common Pleas Court drug court, his only job was selling drugs.

Now he is employed, has a driver’s license, a car and a relationship. He spends meaningful time with his kids.

Judge Bruce Winters, who heads the court program, says the man wasn’t a shoo-in, but ultimately, the judge decided to give him a chance.

It was the right choice, the judge says.

The man had spent most of his adult life in and out of jail or prison. He says he's been addicted to drugs for 20 years. He's made a turnaround.

“Now," he says, "I’m free.”

6:15 p.m.

Five Fight for Recovery members walk into Clyde Health and Fitness to work out.

Sally Wetzel, 38, wears a black T-shirt that reads “Choke Your Local Heroin Dealer” in white lettering, emblazoned with one white stick figure choking the other from behind. Beside her, Richie Webber has on a “Fight for Recovery” T-shirt featuring a fist on its front.

Nicholas Camp, John Allen and Cory Wetzel drift over to do some bench presses as Webber works with Sally Wetzel.

Webber is a former high school track star who got addicted to prescription pills, then heroin. He overdosed one night, turned blue, stopped breathing. His mother revived him in their home.

The former drug users work out for about an hour, some trading addiction stories, then head for a recovery meeting at Main Street Café.

It’s Allen’s first. He recounts a litany of thefts, from stores, cars, Wal-Mart.

He confesses he'd been in jail or prison most of his adult life. He says his mother turned him on to heroin at 14.

Tonight is the first time he’s ever spoken publicly about his addiction.

“I’m nervous as shit right now,” Allen says. “I lost my whole adult life in prison because of this shit.”

8:50 p.m.

The 24-year-old woman is wearing a green jump suit with silver buttons that barely cover her pregnant belly when she walks into the booking area of the Richland County jail.

She’s starting to experience withdrawal symptoms which are dangerous to her baby, so corrections officers are going to send her to the hospital.

One of the officers locks a chain to her ankle and another to her hands, across her belly.

“Try not to put it on too tight,” the woman says.

She sits to answer some medical questions, rocking back and forth. She taps her fingers on the chain. Tink, tink, tink.

“How often do you use heroin during the pregnancy?” the medic asks.

“Every day,” she says.

Saturday

2 p.m.

Becky Neal stands with protesters, holding a sign bearing the image of the Tin Man from the Wizard of Oz.

“Have a heart! Carry Narcan! Save Lives,” it says.

She’s protesting against Butler County Sheriff Rick Jones, who won’t let his deputies carry Narcan. Jones says people addicted to heroin aren’t entitled to get the life-saving drug for free. Two doses of Narcan cost about $75.

Across the street from Neal, counter-protesters gather to support Jones. They carry very different signs.

“Police are Not Doctors.”

“Heroin Addicts Can Buy Their Own Narcan.”

As TV cameras swarm, one of Jones’ supporters sums up the attitude of his crowd. “This is a war,” he says. “There are casualties.”

Saturday

2:15 p.m.

Beth Murray is leading a prayer walk for those with addiction, carrying a sign that reads, “Unity in the Community.”

About 50 have joined her rally for addiction awareness in Loudonville’s Central Park on this warm, sunny day.

It’s a day on which, once again, tears will slip down Murray’s cheek. Her daughter, 27, is addicted to heroin, after becoming addicted to painkillers prescribed after the birth of one of her children.

Murray lives in fear for her daughter’s life. She has custody of her grandchildren, ages 8 and 2.

Today, she hopes to relax a little. Her daughter is locked in jail, a positive: There, Murray says, her daughter is safe.

Some at the rally are in recovery, like Nicole Walmsley, who takes the mic.

Murray turns her attention to the stage to listen.

Walmsley says she was addicted first to prescription painkillers, then shifted to heroin.

"You know, DARE never came into the schools and said, ‘You know, there’s going to be a man in a white coat with degrees and he’s going to prescribe you something and you could get addicted,' " Walmsley says. “No. DARE taught me not to smoke weed, to say ‘no’ and not to drink and drive.

"Guess who never drank and drove?" Walmsley says to the crowd. "This girl. I did become a heroin addict."

Sunday

Just before noon

Nearly every seat is full at Zion Baptist Church, just outside Chillicothe’s west side. The church is home to Another Chance Ministries, which helps men adjust to society after addiction or incarceration.

More than a century ago, Zion Baptist was created for the black community. The church-goers now are more diverse, a change that began when the church opened its new building in 2005 but is also reflective of Another Chance Ministries.

Race doesn’t dictate who's touched by addiction, but the heroin epidemic has hit hardest among white men and women and spread into rural areas, including around Chillicothe.

Today, cheers erupt for Timothy Foreman, 37, and John Pitts, 61. The men are graduating a program of sobriety, treatment, community service, jobs and more.

They speak of their love for their church and the program that helped them regain normal lives.

The Rev. Troy Gray, pastor of Zion Baptist, delivers a message:

“The church is a hospital, and there’s no perfect people,” he says.

“And if you think you’re perfect, think again," Gray says. "Because you’re not.”

8:56 p.m.

The young man wobbles back and forth, struggling to stand, as the deputy at the Hamilton County Justice Center instructs him to take off his shoes.

He manages to get them off, barely, and sits in a plastic chair. A dirty bandage tinged with blood hangs from his arm. His head bobs up and down, and he’s slurring his words so much the nurse can barely understand him.

“It’s going to be all right,” she tells him. “It’s going to be all right, baby.”

His name is Dan Stieritz. He’s 24, and he’s the last person sent to the jail this week on charges related to using opiates. The nurse, Tammy Hopkins, is trying to ask him questions before he’s booked into the jail.

“Did you use heroin?”

He doesn’t answer. His head bobs. His eyes flutter.

“Dan? Dan?”

“I heard you,” he says.

Hopkins cleans the wound on the man’s arm and wraps it in white gauze and a new bandage. When she’s finished, Dan looks at his arm and then at the nurse who patched him up.

“Thank you,” he says.

Midnight

It's almost midnight on the last day of another week, and the heroin epidemic has done its damage. The Southwest Ohio region alone has suffered the following casualties:

18: Deaths known or suspected as the result of overdoses.

180: Overdoses reported to hospitals in the region. This figure underestimates the actual number of overdoses because it only includes those requiring hospital treatment.

210: Inmates in the Hamilton County Justice Center, the region's largest jail, who admitted to using heroin or other opioids. Jail officials have estimated that as many as half of all inmates, about 870 this week, have an opioid problem.

$95,550: Cost to taxpayers to house those 210 inmates for one week. If the inmate total is closer to the estimated 870, the cost would be $395,850.

15: Babies born with health problems because their mothers used heroin or other opioids.

34: Investigations opened into the well-being of a child whose parent or guardian was known or suspected of using heroin or other opioids.

102 hours, 42 minutes: Time it took first responders to tend to overdose patients. This figure is considered low by dispatch supervisors because many overdose runs are not initially called in as such.

(These statistics were gathered for Hamilton, Butler, Clermont and Warren counties in Ohio, and Boone, Kenton and Campbell counties in Kentucky. Sources include: coroner's offices in every county, dispatch centers in every county, the Ohio Department of Job and Family Services, Hamilton County's Department of Pretrial and Community Intervention Services, the Hamilton County Sheriff's Office, Hamilton County Job and Family Services, and The Health Collaborative on behalf of all regional hospitals.)

Ohio overdose death statistics for 2016, compared with 2015:

Heroin deaths: 1,444, up from 1,424

Fentanyl (and other synthetic opiates often mixed with heroin): 2,357, up from 1,155

Unintentional overdose deaths overall: 4,050, up from 3,050

Source: Ohio Department of Health

This story was written by Terry DeMio and Dan Horn.

Reported and photographed by Kim Armstrong, Jessie Balmert, Matthew Berry, Carrie Blackmore Smith, Bethany Bruner, Daniel Carson, Mark Caudill, Carrie Cochran, Shae Combs, Chris Crook, Mark Curnutte, Terry DeMio, Maria Devito, Phil Didion, Dan Horn, Jona Ison, Chad Klimack, Lara Korte, Courtney McNaull, Emily Mills, Jason Molyet, Sydney Murray, Mike Nyerges, James Pilcher, Jessica Phelps, Shelly Schultz, Brian Smith, Kathryn Snyder, Jon Stinchcomb, Trista Thurston, Meg Vogel, Sarah Volpenhein and Lou Whitmire.

Edited by Amy Wilson, Chrissie Thompson, Amanda Rossmann and Cara Owsley.