Wamego was an anachronism and so was its newspaper. Not only did the tiny town (pop. 4,372) embrace The Wizard of Oz; it invested in billboards up and down the Interstate advertising itself as the inspiration for the 1939 MGM film classic. There was an OZtoberFest each autumn and an Oz museum on the main drag1 featuring over 25,000 authentic Oz artifacts. A seven-foot Tin Man greeted visitors at the front entrance. Right next door was Toto’s Tacoz, Wamego’s premiere Mexican restaurant.
Wizardly reference was everywhere. Portell once published a photo of a pair of human-looking legs that extended from the cellar door of a two-story house at the edge of Wamego. Visible to motorists headed toward state Highway 24, the legs looked like those of the hook-nosed actress Margaret Hamilton. The clear implication was that this was Dorothy’s house after it landed on the Wicked Witch of the West.
Not much happened in Wamego. That’s why Portell’s ears perked up when he heard Police Chief Ken Seager’s voice crackle over his police scanner while he worked late at the paper on the eve of Election Day 2000.
“He asked all reserve officers to assemble in front of Wamego City Hospital,” Portell remembered. “I thought it was probably somebody who’d walked away from the nursing home.”
But as he drove up, he saw helicopters hovering.
“I recognized the police chief and a few local officers and the sheriff,” he said. “There were a bunch of fellows with dark blue jackets on with ‘DEA’ printed on the back. So I figured it was something a little more important than an assisted-living escapee.”
Portell tried to listen in, but understood nothing from the huddle of lawmen. An agent he later recognized as Karl Nichols finally asked who he was.
“I told him I published the Wamego Times and he used an expletive and said ‘Oh my God, the media!’ Then he walked away and left me standing there in the cold.”
The following morning, Portell visited Chief Seager first thing.
“He was upset with the DEA because they didn’t tell him that they were in town,” said Portell. “Then when they lost their suspect, they wanted the assistance of the local police. The chief grudgingly granted that request but he told me, ‘They’re not paying my salary, so what do you want to know?’
“So I asked him, ‘Who are you chasing?’ And he said, “Well, they busted an LSD lab and they lost one of their suspects.’ So that’s basically how I found out what was going on. But the DEA wouldn’t say anything.”
Operating under a general rule of, “What the public doesn’t know won’t hurt us,” the DEA adopted the omerta of its sister agency, the FBI. Nichols took the tactic a step further, threatening anyone who got in the way, including local officials and newspaper reporters.
Embarrassed by Portell’s detailed account of their bumbled sting and Leonard Pickard’s near escape, the DEA gave Portell little more than a scowl during the first couple of weeks. Portell had to quote Chief Seager that the bust was possibly the largest in history. It wasn’t until after publication of the weekly newspaper’s Nov. 30 edition that the threats began.
“When the DEA came in and began cleaning up the lab, of course no one was allowed in,” said Portell. “They asked our local fire department to have a fire truck on site just in case. Our fire chief, who’s a good friend of mine, had a video camera sitting on the dashboard of the fire truck and he called me up and said ‘Are you interested in some pictures of the LSD lab?’ And I said, ‘Certainly.’
“So he printed off a few frames and I put ‘em on the front page.” The photo display depicted a platoon of DEA agents in moon suits outside the missile silo, looking more like Star Wars troopers than drug police.
“The following Saturday an agent walked through the door and demanded to know where I got the pictures and I said ‘Well, I won’t tell you.’ And he yelled at me and finally he said, ‘Well, you must have paid attention in journalism school, didn’t you?’
“And I said, ‘Yes, I did.’”
The agent tried intimidating the fire chief next, threatening Christmas in jail if he didn’t turn over the video. The DEA argued that agents worked undercover and revealing their identities could endanger them. Without agreeing, the Wamego city attorney struck a deal.
“If we turned over the film, they wouldn’t arrest me or the fire chief,” said Portell. “So we got out of that one.”
When sound engineer Chris Malone read about the arrests, he flew to Kansas bent on getting either his money or his $150,000 stereo system back. After checking in at the Manhattan Hampton Inn, he and his business partner drove to Wamego, but were stopped by the locked gates of Todd Skinner’s silo.
“He was a great customer,” recalled Malone. “Bought a high-end CD player from us once for $30,000.”
At the birth of the Internet, Malone had shifted the focus of his Sacramento specialty sound business to the worldwide web. He reasoned that well-heeled stereo connoisseurs were far more likely to surf for top quality equipment than visit their local Best Buy. Todd Skinner turned out to be a prime example.
“Money was never an object,” said Malone. “All he wanted was the best.”
Usually Skinner settled right away and for cash, as he had when he invited Malone to wire Jerry Garcia’s San Souci for his Sting party. But lately, Todd had been buying more and more on credit. His most recent acquisition was also his most expensive. Once Malone installed the speakers deep below the Wamego horizon, Skinner stopped paying his bills.
News of the LSD bust set off alarms and sent Malone back to Kansas. For a week, he drove daily to the silo but the gates were always locked. He and his partner poked around Wamego, asking about Skinner. None of the locals were much help. The DEA kept everyone in the
