He switched agencies and spent his career with the DEA, including twelve years in charge of north Florida.
For months now we’ve been trying with no success to obtain DEA records from the 1980s. But, like the FBI and ATF, the DEA is tenacious about protecting its archives. One of Vicki’s FOIA requests came back with a letter in which every word was redacted except for the “a’s” and “the’s.”
This is indeed a lucky day. Duckworth says, “I know a lot about the drug business back then. Some things I can talk about, some I cannot.”
I say, “I’m curious about why you came here. We’ve been trying to get DEA files and notes for the past seven months, with no luck.”
“You won’t get much because DEA always hides behind the excuse that its investigations are active and ongoing. It doesn’t matter how old or inactive a case might be, the DEA’s procedure is to give you nothing. And they’ll go to court to protect their information. That’s the way we operated.”
“How much can you tell us?” I ask.
“Well, I can talk about the murder of Keith Russo because that case was closed over twenty years ago and because it wasn’t a DEA matter. I knew Keith, knew him well because we flipped him. He was one of our informants and that’s what got him killed.”
Vicki, Mazy, and I look at each other as this settles in. The only person on the planet who can confirm that Keith Russo was an informant is sitting in one of our old mismatched chairs and calmly sipping coffee.
“Who killed him?” I ask tentatively.
“Don’t know, but it wasn’t Quincy Miller. It was a hit from the cartel.”
“Which cartel?”
He pauses and takes a sip of coffee. “You ask me why I came here. I heard about your efforts to exonerate Miller and I applaud what you’re doing. They got the wrong guy because they wanted the wrong guy. I have a lot of background I can share without divulging confidential stuff. Primarily, though, I just wanted to get out of the house. My wife is shopping today around the corner and we’ll meet for a nice lunch later.”
I say, “We’re all ears and we have all day.”
“Okay, first a bit of history. By the mid 1970s, when the DEA was created, cocaine was raging across the country and coming in by the ton in ships, planes, trucks, you name it. The demand was insatiable, profits were enormous, and the growers and traffickers could barely keep up. They built huge organizations throughout Central and South America and stashed their money in Caribbean banks. Florida, with eight hundred miles of beaches and dozens of ports, became the preferred point of entry. Miami became the playground for the traffickers. South Florida was controlled by a Colombian cartel, one that is still in business. I was not involved down there. My section was from Orlando north, and by 1980 the Saltillo Cartel out of Mexico ran most of the cocaine. Saltillo is still around but it got merged with a bigger outfit. Most of its leaders got butchered in a drug war. These gangs are always up and down and the casualties are breathtaking. The savagery is unbelievable. I won’t bore you.”
“Please don’t,” Vicki says.
I have another quick visual of Tyler and the crocodile feast, and say, “We have a fair amount of background on Sheriff Pfitzner and what went on in Ruiz County.”
He smiles and shakes his head, as if reminded of an old friend. “And we never caught that guy. He was the only sheriff that we knew of in north Florida who was in bed with the cartel. We had him in our sights when Russo got hit. Things changed after that. Some of our crucial informants got lockjaw.”
“How’d you flip Russo?” I ask.
“Keith was an interesting guy. Very ambitious. Tired of the small town. Wanted to make a lot of money. Damned good lawyer. He had some drug clients in the Tampa–St. Pete area and sort of made a name for himself. An informant told us that he was taking big fees in cash, reporting some or none, even moving money offshore. We watched his tax returns for a couple of years and it was obvious he was spending a lot more than he was making on Main Street in Seabrook. So we met with him and threatened him with an indictment for evasion. He knew he was guilty and didn’t want to lose