18 Feb. 7th–Feb. 13th, 2019 phoenixnewtimes.com phoenix new Times | mUsIC | CAFe | FILm | CULtURe | nIght+DAy | FEATURE | neWs | oPInIon | FeeDBACK | Contents | had called a prosecutor in the U.S. Attor- ney’s Office in Phoenix to express con- cerns about her client’s safety, and the prosecutor had called Carr. Carr didn’t seem to know much about Byerly’s situation; he seemed puzzled that he’d been sent to the USP. He asked Byerly if he wanted to “check in” — to go into pro- tective custody. In another prison, that might make sense, but no check-in at Flor- ence was guaranteed a single cell because of the overcrowding problem. Knowing what happened to Estrella and Melendez in the SHU, which was where most check- ins ended up, Byerly quickly declined. Checking in would let everyone know he was a snitch and probably get him killed, he said. Carr had another offer. He’d noticed that Byerly was getting friendly with the Odinists. He could get him moved out of Florence in a year, he said, if Byerly was willing to provide useful information about prison gang operations. The proposition was just crazy enough to appeal to Byerly. He was already on the brink of exposure, but if he was careful, this could get him moved some place where he could do his time with his liver intact. Over the next few months, Byerly burrowed deeper into the Odinist camp. He celled in a nonsmoking unit made up mostly of separatists and taught Dirty White Boys how to box. He never met with Carr again, but every once in a while he would drop a note to the lieutenant in the secure box intended for outgoing legal mail, alerting the administration to a cache of weapons, a still, or a new method of smuggling drugs into the prison. The notes were signed Uncle Sam, and the tips dealt with common topics of conversation in the community, nothing that would identify him or even his unit as the exclu- sive source. He made several friends among the Odinist leadership. One high priest, in par- ticular, seemed impressed by his paper- work, his boxing skills, and his loyalty. He was pleased to learn that Spud once took a 15-year jolt rather than rat on his partner. The priest hated rats. He began to tell Spud a thing or two about rats, stories that made his flesh crawl. The priest’s name was Dustin Honken. Listening to him rant, Byerly realized that he had found his ticket out of Florence. “I KILLED MY RATS” I n the early 1990s, a plague of metham- phetamine spread across northern Iowa like corn smut. The stuff was 97 percent pure and highly addictive, and the man be- hind it was a nerdy-looking farm boy in his early 20s. Like many meth cooks, Dustin Honken started out with a modest lab in his garage. But he had an exceptional aptitude for chemistry, which he’d studied at commu- nity college, and developed a unique pro- cess that produced crystal meth as potent as anything the DEA had ever seen. He soon set up a more sophisticated lab in the Arizona desert and was shipping multi- pound quantities back to his Midwestern distribution network. Honken took care to isolate himself from the street dealers who peddled his meth. But in 1993, state investigators man- aged to work their way up the food chain and turn two of Honken’s top distributors, Greg Nicholson and Terry DeGeus. Honken was arrested after Nicholson wore a wire and recorded the kingpin bragging about his meth operation. The case went federal and looked like a slam dunk. But Honken was released pending trial, and then the key witnesses went missing. Nicholson vanished without a trace, along with his girlfriend, Lori Duncan, and her two daughters, 10-year-old Kandi and 6-year-old Amber. DeGeus dropped off the radar a few weeks later. Prosecutors strongly suspected foul play but could prove nothing. They were forced to dismiss the case. Although Honken was soon back in business, he continued to have a rat prob- lem. Drug agents developed a new infor- mant, who alerted them to Honken’s new lab. Busted again, Honken began to grum- ble to a business partner about narcs and snitches who needed to be killed. The part- ner was so alarmed that he, too, began to record Honken, a pre-emptive strike to protect himself. Rather than face those re- cordings at trial, in 1997 Honken took a plea that sent him to federal prison for 27 years, while still under investigation for the presumed murders of five people. By the time Byerly met him at Florence three years later, Honken had shed his Doogie Howser appearance. He had the close-cropped hair and bodybuilder look of a seasoned con. He made hooch for white gang members and was considered a valuable asset. Thrice burned, he was para- noid about rats, but he also couldn’t shut up about the subject, making ominous comments that were intended to impress other prisoners. “I killed my rats,” he said. Byerly knew better than to press for de- tails. Yet over time, he managed to insinu- ate himself into Honken’s inner circle, figuring that sooner or later the meth whiz would turn to his buddy Spud for advice. The opportunity came that fall, after Honken received bad news from Iowa. His girlfriend, Angela Johnson, had been ar- rested in connection with the disappear- ance of the witnesses. In jail, she’d been conned by a master snitch, who told her he’d help her pin the murders on someone else. All he needed to work his magic, he explained, was a map showing where the bodies were buried. Johnson drew the map. The snitch turned it over to the cops. Five skeletons, including those of two children, were found on the outskirts of Mason City. The seven-year-old mystery was breaking wide open. Honken was furious. More rats! The rats were everywhere! What would Byerly do, he asked, if he was in his shoes? Byerly needed to understand the situa- tion first. In bits and pieces, the story came out. Johnson had posed as a stranded mo- torist in order to gain entrance to Duncan’s house. Then Honken had slipped in and tied and gagged Duncan and Nicholson at gunpoint. The hostages were taken to a wooded area and executed, shot in the head — first Nicholson, then Duncan, then the children. Johnson had also lured De- Geus, her former boyfriend, to a field where he was beaten with a baseball bat and shot several times. Byerly had difficulty hiding his revul- sion. Five people dead, including two little girls, just so Honken could spare himself a short prison sentence? “You gotta do what you gotta do,” he said carefully, “but I would have found a way to do it without the kids there.” Honken was indignant. “Thousands of kids die every year, and nobody gives a fuck,” he said. Byerly wrote to his attorney and di- rected her to get in touch with the federal prosecutors in Iowa. He wanted to help put Honken on death row, and he wanted “an absolute ironclad written guaran- tee of witness protection” in return. Way from p 17 >> p 21 December 19, 1997: Police and FBI agents gathered evidence at this Wells Fargo bank in Tucson shortly after the robbery. U.S. District Court
