At first glance, it looked like trash.

But the chemical fumes lingering in the air led Greg Ferency to believe it was much more.

"It took us a while to realize what we had," the Vigo County Drug Task Force detective said of the first methamphetamine lab of its kind in the county, discovered on a warm May day nearly four years ago in southern Vigo County.

And when police did figure out what they'd come across: "We thought we had something special."

But what seemed so peculiar to Ferency that day soon would become frighteningly commonplace, as crime scenes often are littered with empty cans of starting fluid, packages of cold medicine and dismantled camera batteries.

By the end of 1999, police had busted 26 meth labs in Vigo County and 129 more across the state. The number nearly quadrupled the next year and hasn't slowed since.

Ferency and fellow narcotics officers have busted labs in the hills and hollers of the Wabash Valley.

Labs have been found in basements, in closets, in bedrooms, in cars, in vans, in motel rooms, in duffle bags -- once even in a dog house in West Terre Haute and a booth at the Parke County Covered Bridge Festival.

"It's epidemic. It's the most challenging thing that we face," in law enforcement, said Indiana State Police Trooper Mike Eslinger, a member of the Terre Haute post's clandestine lab team. The four-member team is charged with busting and cleaning up labs across a five-county area.

For police shutting down the labs, the challenges range from hazardous chemicals to edgy addicts, who imagine police hiding in the bushes long before officers ever arrive.

The impact of meth also extends beyond a single lab bust. The drug -- which has been linked to crimes ranging from forgery to murder -- is overburdening the criminal justice system.

The following is a peek inside the system, from beginning to end

Risky business

Inside the sparsely decorated cabin on the banks of the Wabash, two men watch "Friends," oblivious to the police gathering outside.

Within seconds, officers burst in, forcing the men to the floor, where they're placed in handcuffs.

As detectives search the home, they discover a stolen handgun under the couch. Also found: Methamphetamine, as well as a lab.

Meth addicts, police say, never are too far from a loaded weapon. Their paranoia -- an effect of the drug -- drives them to install surveillance cameras and bug detectors and once police arrive, to hide in crawl spaces and attics.

"You don't know what frame of mind they're in," said State Police Trooper Tom Hannon.

Users who binge for days going on little to no sleep often struggle or flee when officers pursue.

"They have feelings of invincibility," Trooper Eslinger said.

A couple of years ago, Eslinger and Hannon looked like every other trooper with a badge, gun and uniform.

Now, with meth as their target, their crime-fighting tools also include respirators, rubber-coated gloves, fire- and chemical-resistant suits and a sharp box to store used hypodermic needles.

Their work requires certification.

The hours are long.

In the Terre Haute district alone, four State Police troopers assigned to the clandestine lab team accumulated 660 hours of overtime from January 2002 through late November. Statewide, State Police averaged between $13,000 and $15,000 in overtime per month for meth lab busts in 2002.

"It's wearing us out. We don't sleep much," Eslinger said.

Used to be, he might patrol along county roads to look for labs. "We just don't have time to do that anymore," Eslinger said.

The Fallout

Several times a week, a couple of the men and women dressed in orange -- not unlike the two arrested while watching "Friends" -- twitch and wiggle as they're marched in front of the judge.

Chained to other inmates, they fiddle with their hands and shake their feet as they sit in the oak chairs lining the century-old courtroom.

Meth arraignments are a bit different than the rest.

"It's easy to tell" who is on a meth charge, said Vigo County Public Defender Dan Weber. "It takes about two weeks before they make any sense at all."

More and more disheveled and disoriented defendants have appeared in Vigo County courts. Felony meth charges increased seven-fold to 227 in 2001 from 32 in 1998, according to the Vigo County Prosecutor's Office. In Sullivan County, the prosecutor's office caseload has doubled in recent years.

But the impact extends beyond strictly drug cases. Methamphetamine has been linked to shoplifting, forgeries, burglaries, thefts, robberies and murders.

In recent years:

A Clay County man on home detention slips out of his monitoring bracelet, allegedly killing a transient a day later in Vigo County over missing methamphetamine. He has been charged with murder and is awaiting trial.

A known meth addict suspected of fatally shooting a neighbor leads police on a two-county chase, dying in a shoot-out with authorities.

A man is convicted of murder in the shooting death of a Seelyville resident. The suspect had admitted to confronting the victim over poor-quality methamphetamine.

A 3-year-old Dresser boy's caregiver is convicted of beating the child to death. According to the prosecution, the caregiver was high on methamphetamine and had gone without sleep for seven to 10 days when the killing occurred.

"This is the root of a lot of evils for us right now," said Hannon of the State Police.

Behind bars

At the county jail, the men and women dressed in orange await their cases, sometimes crammed into spaces built for half as many inmates. When they're not sleeping on a blue mattress on the floor, they squabble, sometimes getting into full-fledged fights.

Overcrowding is a reality at nearly every Wabash Valley jail. Most officials blame meth.

For a time, it appeared overcrowding might be a thing of the past in Vigo County. When a jail addition more than doubled the county jail's capacity, former Sheriff Bill Harris estimated it would be 2007 before overcrowding would be an issue again.

But within two months of the facility opening in February 2002, Harris was shipping inmates to other counties, as the average daily population rose above 268. The numbers haven't dwindled, with the average daily population at 254 for 2002.

Former Sullivan County Sheriff Ed Martindale said 22 people were incarcerated when his term as sheriff began in 1995. Seven years later, as he prepared to retire, the number fluctuated between 65 and 96 in a jail built to house 44. On average, about half were facing meth-related charges, said Sullivan County Prosecutor Bob Springer.

"It's astronomical what it's costing the county," Springer said of methamphetamine.

The real world

Convicted users filter into Tish Tackett's office with sores on their arms, others with a lingering odor of ether on their clothes.

It's hard not to notice, says the Vigo County probation officer, who's vigilant for signs that her clients are using or making meth again.

For addicts who've shed the orange jail outfits or the tan jumpsuit of prison, the lure of the drug often outweighs the risk of returning to custody.

On one day, the man sitting in Tackett's fourth-floor office in the courthouse appears to have burns on his hands. Tackett is suspicious.

"What have you been doing?" she inquires.

"Working on cars," is the reply.

"What happened to your hands?" she asks.

"I got burnt."

A urine test will reveal if the client is telling the truth.

Neither jail nor prison is a deterrent, Tackett explains. "It's really scary. The addiction is horrible. It changes them. They don't care. It's sad. It's so sad," she says, shaking her head.

She knows there's no quick fix. Until addicts choose to get well, it won't happen.

"I just wish we had a solution to it. I don't know what their future's going to hold."