By late that afternoon, Fox’s body was wheeled out on a gurney and driven to St. Francis Hospital, four miles way. An autopsy determined that she died from strangulation. Yet the coroner found that despite partially undressing his victim and binding her, the killer had not raped or penetrated her.
As a battery of tests were being run on Fox’s body, detectives were busy interviewing her friends, family, and coworkers, enabling them to reconstruct her final hours.
They learned that shortly after 9:00 P.M., Nancy Fox left her job at Helzberg’s Jewelry Store at the Wichita Mall, where she worked as an assistant manager. On her way home, she grabbed a burger at a drive-thru fast-food joint, then continued back to the duplex where she lived alone in a quiet, relatively crime-free lower-middle-class neighborhood. Detectives postulated that once inside, Fox had had a smoke, downed a glass of water, then undressed for bed, neatly folding her tan skirt over a wooden chair. It was at this point, police believed, that the killer, who had been hiding in Fox’s bedroom closet, appeared and forced her onto the bed.
Although I had no way of proving it, I speculated that the killer masturbated into Fox’s nightgown only after his victim had died. His inability to rape or penetrate any of his victims told me that he was so fearful of women that a woman’s lifeless but partially naked body would represent the ultimate sexual turn-on.
Once dead, she became the perfect object, nonthreatening, no longer human, nothing more than a flesh-covered mannequin—all the things he dreamed about. Which was why the man responsible for Fox’s death went to such lengths to pose the body of his victim, much the way a painter or sculptor might pose a model. Everything about her positioning on the bed, the tilt of her head, the way her panties were pulled down to her knees, her various bindings and gags fashioned from panty hose, revealed to me that the killer wasn’t posing his victim merely as a way to shock police who arrived at the scene.
Just as he did with the body of Shirley Vian, the UNSUB posed Fox because he had to. The images he created at his crime scenes were similar to a cache of food. He needed to pose Fox in order to take mental “snapshots” of her body, then use that memory to get him through those long, lean periods when killing wouldn’t be an option.
Harvey Glatman, billed as the nation’s first modern serial killer, went to similar lengths when displaying the bodies of his victims. A hardcore bondage freak, he documented his many kills in diaries and with countless photographs he snapped and later developed in his darkroom. But Glatman wasn’t content merely to take pictures of his victims’ bodies after murdering them. He used his camera to chronicle his killings, capturing the look of terror on the faces of his victims before garroting them with a piece of rope. More than anything else, Glatman got off on preserving in a photograph that empty, glazed look of primal fear and hopelessness in the eyes of those he killed.
I often wondered what sort of a role model this sick man had been for BTK—they were both consumed by bondage, and, because of his detailed crime scene descriptions, I believed BTK was also photographing his victims.
As a child, Glatman possessed an insatiable obsession with bondage and ropes. In his early teens, he’d spent hours masturbating in the attic, hanging himself from the rafters in an effort to heighten his orgasms. A family doctor told his concerned parents to ignore their son’s strange hobby because he’d one day outgrow it.
By the time Glatman turned sixteen, he used a cap gun to force a girl to undress. He was quickly arrested and, upon being released on bail, traveled to New York. Not long afterward, he was arrested for robbery and sent to jail for five years. After his release in 1951, Glatman moved to Los Angeles and opened a TV repair shop. To the outside world, he lived a fairly quiet life and did his best to keep away from women.
Then, one sweltering afternoon in July 1957, the dam broke, and Glatman’s self-imposed exile from the opposite sex ended. An avid amateur shutterbug, he convinced a nineteen-year-old model he met while on a TV repair job to pose for him, telling her he made extra cash shooting pictures for detective magazines. She showed up at his house a few days later, eager to pocket the $50 he promised her for the photo shoot. Within minutes of her arrival, he raped her at gunpoint, then drove her out to a remote expanse of desert outside Los Angeles. He stripped the hysterical woman to her underwear and, before strangling her, shot pictures of her pleading for her life. Over the next year, he killed two other women using his photography ruse in order to win them over.
Glatman wasn’t caught until one of his would-be victims, whom he’d already shot through the thigh, grabbed his pistol while he drove her on a one-way ride out to the desert. When taken into custody, Glatman gleefully provided officers with detailed accounts of each of his killings. He was executed by cyanide gas in San Quentin’s death chamber in 1959.
BTK could very well feel a kinship with a sick killer like Glatman. After all, he seemed to possess a fantasy life every bit as intense and consuming as Harvey’s. Yet Glatman’s main problem was his inability to harness this invisible world inside his head. If he had been able to do so, that world might have provided sustenance for him during those stretches when he should have been lying low. Which was, it appeared, what Nancy Fox’s killer had been doing for the nine months since his murder of Shirley Vian—he’d managed to restrain himself. And it was also what he did for the next two months after Fox’s death. He retreated back into the shadows and no doubt did his best to resume his day-to-day life.
The brazenness of Nancy Fox’s killer both sickened and intrigued the community—at least for a week or two. To murder an innocent young woman was terrible enough. But to actually pick up a phone and notify police about the killing seemed unfathomable. What in God’s name would he have to gain by doing that, most people thought, other than to flaunt his handiwork?
At this point, the crime still hadn’t been connected with any of the UNSUB’s previous killings. Police focused much of their efforts on three of Nancy’s former boyfriends, but this quickly led nowhere. To nearly everyone but her grieving family and friends, her death began to feel like nothing more than a terribly random, isolated act of violence.
And this, I believe, must have irked the UNSUB. The rush brought on from Nancy’s killing would have faded in a matter of weeks. True, the murder would have provided him with plenty of sick memories, but something told me that Fox’s murder just wasn’t receiving the kind of attention BTK had hoped and yearned for.
Media interest in the killing quickly waned, especially because police didn’t have any real suspects other than the mysterious man who phoned in to report the murder. A recording of his voice was played over and over on local radio and TV stations, but no one could identify the man behind the voice. FBI voice analysts were unable to uncover anything of value from the seven-second audio clip, such as whether or not the caller had attempted to mask his voice.
The only thing police knew about the caller came from information fireman Wayne Davis provided. The man was six feet tall, blonde-haired, dressed in a gray industrial uniform and wearing a hat with earflaps. Davis also reported that the man might have driven a late-model van with some sort of writing on its side. After undergoing four sessions with a hypnotherapist, that was all Davis could retrieve from his subconscious. The general consensus among detectives was that he was “blocking” due to a very primal emotion—fear.
“It wasn’t that he didn’t want to help,” said one officer working on the case. “I think he was just scared.”
On the last day of January, BTK’s desire to stir things up appeared to get the better of him. He penned a pithy Valentine’s poem to his latest victim, then sent it to the local newspaper. It wouldn’t be discovered for nearly two weeks. By this point, police still hadn’t made the connection between Shirley Vian’s murder and Fox’s. Nor had they established any links with either of those homicides and the killing of Kathy Bright and the Otero family. But that was about to change when BTK decided the time had come to stick the knife in and twi
st it just a bit. And in one terrifying moment, the murders of the Oteros, Vian, and Fox would be irrevocably linked, although several more years would pass before the identity of Bright’s killer would be understood.
All hell broke loose in Wichita on the morning of February 10, 1978, when BTK surfaced again, setting in motion a chain of events that finally garnered for him the type of attention he craved.
A receptionist at the offices of the local ABC affiliate, KAKE TV-10, opened an envelope that morning and discovered four pages of photocopied material that included a letter and a poem (both filled with punctuation and spelling errors) and a drawing of a woman bound, gagged, and lying face down on a bed. This communiqué was the killer’s most prolific public confession to date and a chilling taunt. It also provided me with a revealing glimpse into his brain.
I find the newspaper not wirting about the poem on Vain unamusing. A little paragraph would have enough. Iknow it not the media fault. The Police Cheif he keep things quiet, and doesn’t let the public know there a psycho running around lose strangling mostly women, there 7 in the ground; who will be next?
How many do I have to Kill before I get a name in the paper or some national attention. Do the cop think that all those deaths are not related? Golly -gee, yes the M.O. is different in each, but look a pattern is developing. The victims are tie up-most have been women-phone cut- bring some bondage mater sadist tendencies-no struggle, outside the death spot-no wintness except the Vain’s Kids. They were very lucky; a phone call save them. I was go-ng to tape the boys and put plastics bag over there head like I did Joseph, and Shirley. And then hang the girl. God-oh God what a beautiful sexual relief that would been. Josephine,when I hung her really turn me on; her pleading for mercy then the rope took whole, she helpless; staring at me with wide terror fill eyes the rope getting tighter-tighter. You don’t understand these things because your not under-the influence of factor x). The same thing that made Son of Sam, Jack the Ripper, Havery Glatman, Boston Strangler, Dr. H.H. Holmes Panty Hose Strangler OF Florida, Hillside Strangler, Ted of the West Coast and many more infamous character kill. Which seem s senseless, but we cannot help it. There is no help, no cure, except death or being caught and put away. It a terrible nightmarebut, you see I don’t lose any sleep over it. After a thing like Fox I ccome home and go about life like anyone else. And I will be like that until the urge hit me again. It not continuous and I don;t have a lot of time. It take time to set a kill, one mistake and it all over. Since I about blew it on the phone-handwriting is out-letter guide is to long and typewriter can be traced too,.My short poem of death and maybe a drawing;later on real picture and maybe a tape of the sound will come your way. How will you know me. Before a murder or murders you will receive a copy of the initials B.T.K., you keep that copy the original will show up some day on guess who?
May you not be the unluck one!
P.S. How about some name for me, its time: 7 down and many more to go. I like the following How about you?
“THE B.T.K. STRANGLER”, “WICHITA STRANGLER”, “POETIC STRANGLER”, “THE BOND AGE STRANGLER“ OR “PSYCHO” THE WICHITA HANGMAN THE WICHITA EXECUTIONER, “THE GAROTE PHATHOM”, “THE ASPHIXIATER”.
#5 You guess motive and victim.
#6 You found one Shirley Vain lying belly down on a unmade bed in northeast bedroom-hand tied behind back with black tape and cord. Feet & ankles with black tape &legs. Ankles tied to west head of the bed with small off white cord, wrap around legs, hands, arm, finally the neck, many times. A off white pla stic bag over her head loop on with a pink nitie was barefooted. She was sick use a glass of water and smoke I or Two cigarette-house a total mess- kids took some toys with them to the bathroom-bedagainst east bathroom door. Chose at random with some pre-planning. Motive Factor X.
#7 One Nancy Fox-lying belly down on made bed in southwest bedroom-hands tied behind back with red panty hose-feet together with yellow nitie-semi-nude with pink sweather and bra small neckless-glasses on west dresser-panties below butt-many different than the hosery. She had a smoke and wbnt to the bathroom before the final act-very neat housekeeper& dresser-rifled pursein kitchen-empty paper bag—white coat in living-room- heat up to about 90 degrees, Christsmas tree lights on- nities and hose around the room- hose bag of orange color it and hosery on bed-driver licence gone-seminal stain on or in blue women wear. Chose at random with little pre-planning, Motive Factor “X”
#8 Next victim maybe: You will find her hanging with a wire noose-Hands behind back with black tape or cord -feet with tape or cord-gaged-then cord around the body to the neck -hooded maybe- possible seminal stain in anus-or on body. Will be chosen at random. Some pre-planning-Motive Factor “X”.
Enclosed with the letter was a poem and a pencil sketch that closely resembled the scene officers saw when they entered Nancy Fox’s sweltering apartment on the morning of December 9, 1977. The poem, titled “Oh Death to Nancy,” was based on an Appalachian folk song called “Oh Death.”
What is this taht I can see
Cold icy hands taking hold of me
for Death has come, you all can see.
Hell has open it,s gate to trick me.
Oh! Death, Oh! Death, can’t you spare me, over for another year!
I’ll stuff your jaws till you can’t talk
I’ll blind your leg’s till you can’t walk
I’ll tie your hands till you can’t make a stand.
And finally I’ll close your eyes so you can’t see
I’ll bring sexual death unto you for me.
When KAKE news producer Ron Lowen delivered the packet to police chief Richard LaMunyon, it proved to be the final straw that forced the top police department official in town to do the very thing he dreaded most—go public with the news that a serial killer was stalking the streets of Wichita and that police, despite their best efforts, had been so far powerless to stop him.
For someone in LaMunyon’s position, having to stand up in front of the community that entrusted him to protect it and admit that a predatory sexual killer was on the loose is tantamount to screaming “Fire!” in a packed theater. The reaction, he knew, would be predictable and swift—panic, widespread fear, perhaps a touch of civil chaos, followed by anger, finger pointing, and a flood of useless tips inundating police. But despite this inevitable reaction, clearly the genie could no longer be kept in the bottle. He’d grown too bold and lethal.
By midafternoon on Friday, February 10, a few hours after the Fox letter was dropped on his desk, LaMunyon put out the word that a press conference would be held that evening at city hall. What he was about to tell the city’s media made headlines around the nation.
By the time reporters began filing into the building, a tense buzz hung in the air. Something big and ugly was afoot. The sun had set, snow was piled in the gutters of downtown, and the air held a cold sting to it, reminiscent of that winter day four years before when four bodies were discovered inside the Otero home.
“The purpose of this news conference is to advise the public of an extremely serious matter involving a series of murders which have occurred in our city,” he said slowly, pausing every few words to allow the gravity of his message to sink in.
“As you know, in January 1974, four members of the Otero family were murdered. In March of 1977, Shirley Vian was killed. And in December 1977, Nancy Fox was also murdered. Earlier today KAKE-TV received and immediately brought me a letter wherein the author took credit for the Otero, the Fox, and the Vian murders. In addition, whoever wrote this letter has taken credit for a seventh victim. . . . We are convinced without a doubt that the person who claims to have killed the Oteros, Miss Fox, and Miss Vian is in fact the same person. I want to restate that there is no question in our minds but that the person who wrote the letter killed these people. This person has consistently identified himself with the initials BTK and wishes to be known as the BTK Strangler. Because we are sure this man is responsible for seven murders, we wish to enlist the assistance of each
citizen of this community.
“Our police department has already begun special efforts, which are as follows: (1) Additional uniformed officers are already on the street. (2) A special detective task force involving the major case squad has been established. (3) A special phone number for citizens to call has been established—269-4177. This phone will be staffed twenty-four hours a day. (4) We have solicited the assistance of the district attorney, the sheriff, and of professionals in the field of human behavior and would welcome assistance from any person regardless of their expertise. . . . I know it is difficult to ask people to remain calm, but we are asking exactly this. When a person of this type is at large in our community, it requires special precautions and special awareness by everyone.”
The one thing that struck me about LaMunyon’s press conference was how honest he was with the residents of Wichita. Hearing him admit that his investigators had no solid leads in the case made my head spin for one simple reason: it let the killer off the hook far too easily. And that was the last thing the authorities should have done. In my opinion, their best course of action was to keep the heat turned up on the UNSUB, to force him to continue looking over his shoulder, asking himself when police were going to come crashing through his back door.
Inside the Mind of BTK: The True Story Behind the Thirty-Year Hunt for the Notorious Wichita Serial Killer Page 11
