Speck shut his big dirty mouth and looked at me as though he couldn’t believe what he’d just heard me say. He took the bait almost as soon as I tossed it at him.
“I didn’t fuck all eight of them,” he said, alarmed that I didn’t have my facts straight. “Who the hell fucks eight women in one sitting?”
By the time I finally walked out of that holding cell, Speck had blabbed for nearly seven hours, walking me through all the wretched days of his life, providing me with an intimate look into the evolution of this twisted killer.
Something told me that I wouldn’t enjoy the same luxury with Dennis Rader. I was fairly certain that he’d pretend to weep over the memory of his victims. And odds were that he’d also be respectful and polite because he believed the two of us shared some sort of professional camaraderie. But the bottom line was this: if he grew miffed or upset at any moment during the interview—which often happened during these sessions—he could pull the plug, and I’d be unable to do anything to stop him. All he’d need to do would be to shout for a guard, who would walk over and flick a switch on the video camera. And that would be it. Game over.
Welcome to the brave new world of criminology, I mumbled to myself, then felt the soft tug of sleep pull me away.
22
A few hours later I awoke, showered, and pulled on a pair of trousers, a sport coat over my tan plaid shirt, and loafers. On the way out of my room, I glanced at my reflection in the mirror.
“Jesus,” I laughed. “You look just like a prison shrink.” Even though Rader knew my background, I’d discovered years ago that wearing casual clothes helped grease the skids during these prison interviews.
Incarcerated felons, it seems, can smell a cop two hundred feet away. Dressing down gave me the appearance of being either a social worker or a member of the prison’s psych staff, two categories that tended to put inmates at ease.
I grabbed my briefcase and headed down to the hotel lobby for a cup of coffee, then took a seat at a rickety table.
Tucked away in my briefcase was a folder containing five pieces of yellow paper yanked from a legal pad. The pages were a gift from Casarona, handed to me the previous night. Rader had mailed them to her a few days earlier. Turned out that when he learned I was writing a book about him and that Kris had given him her blessing to speak with me, Rader decided to contribute an essay of sorts.
As Landwehr had told me during my last visit to Wichita, Rader was a fan of my books. Predictably, his favorite was Obsession, no doubt because the first chapter was a thinly veiled account of the BTK case.
According to Casarona, Rader was impressed at what I seemed to know about him long before police apprehended him. Over the years, he had gone back to that chapter again and again. He had told Kris that reading what I’d written gave him a sense of perspective about himself he’d never had, allowing him to better understand the forces that writhed and squirmed within him, compelling him to kill. Not that this insight did him a lick of good. But because he could never turn to a psychiatrist or a psychologist for help, what I’d written in Obsession felt as close to a therapy session as he’d ever had. The words on the pages of that chapter forced him to ask questions about himself. Of course, he never figured out any answers. But, as I’ve said before, for someone as shallow and empty as Rader, just asking the questions was good enough.
I spread Rader’s “essay” out across the table. I’d never had a serial killer send me a piece of writing quite like this before. Neither had any of my colleagues.
At first glance, the pages looked to be nothing more than scribbled notes culled from that first chapter of Obsession.
Rader’s words were printed in black ink in the same tiny, hopeless chicken scratch employed in his journals. I’m no handwriting specialist, but his contained, tight lettering reminded me of just how controlled and withdrawn Rader was. His scrawl looked hollow, flat in a way I’d never seen before when reading the handwritten words of a killer. It was almost as though Rader had been attempting to write something else, but this came out instead, and it made me feel as though I were peering into his brain.
He intended this document to be a type of chart. Across the top of the first page he’d written the words OBSESSION (CASE STUDIES). Down the middle of the page, he’d printed out a list of qualities and attributes that I’d discussed in the book as ones he shared with other serial killers, all of which he must have felt were relevant to him. On the left side of the yellow paper, he referenced the page number and paragraphs where these traits had been described in Obsession. The words appeared on the page in quick bursts, jumping from one disturbing topic to the next, never remaining in one place for very long.
Manipulation, domination, control . . . . Locate and identify—profile victim. . . . Knows how to get inside victim’s head. . . . Manipulation, domination, control of that victim. . . . He can and does the same to law enforcement. . . . Background of virtually all of them [serial killers] came from abusive or otherwise severely dysfunctional background, but that doesn’t excuse what they do. . . . Compelled to commit violent predatory crime. . . . Sexual predators and child molesters do enjoy their crimes. . . . Signature aspect—better than MO. MO is what an offender has to do to accomplish a crime. The signature, on the other hand, [is what the] offender has to do to fulfill himself emotionally. It’s not needed to successfully accomplish the crime. But it is the reason he undertakes the particular crime in the first place. . . . Predator in the night and always on the hunt for victim of opportunity. . . . Voyeurism, which would be consistent with hunting, getting ready for next assault. . . . Geographic comfort. . . . The sadistic killer anticipates his crime. In fact, he has perfected his MO over his criminal career. Fantasy evolves and he gains more experience. . . . Bring weapon. . . . Torture kit, whip, manacles, etc. . . . Place to take his victim, not disturbed. Obscure cabin in woods outfitted w/ sound proof. . . . Uses ruse. . . . May take photographs or record the scenes . . . . Take souvenirs—jewelry, underwear. . . . Most often ends in murder. . . . Killing the victim may be the integral part of the sadistic fantasy scenario. . . . Sadistic type—white, above-normal intelligence, may be college educated with good middle class job. He will have a dominant personality and collect bondage and sadomasochist bondage. He may collect related items, such as knives, guns, read military, law enforcement or survivalist literature. He may have a large attack-type dog. . . . Because of his intelligence and planning, he will be difficult to apprehend.
On each of the next four pages, he created another type of chart, comparing himself with other serial killers, the ones with whom he yearned to share equal billing. This was another example of Rader’s bloated ego at work. His murders made him somebody, although he seemed to have forgotten that they started out as a secret, something he wanted no one to know about. But the moment he realized how much attention his crimes were receiving from the media, he reveled in the notoriety.
Suddenly he wanted the world to know that the BTK Strangler was badder than bad and utterly unstoppable. The same thing happened to David Berkowitz, Ted Kaczynski, and the Zodiac Killer. (This last case ranks as one of the nation’s major unsolved serial murder cases.) The rush created by seeing and hearing his name in the media gave Rader a far better buzz than the one he received from actually killing another human being.
Across the top of the pages, he’d listed the names Ted Bundy, Son of Sam, Ed Kemper, Steven Pennel (Delaware’s first serial killer, a case I was called in to work due to my expertise in the field of torture), the fictional killer Buffalo Bill from the movie Silence of the Lambs, and Gary Heidnik, a serial killer from Philadelphia who kept women in his cellar in a pit filled with water, and electrocuted them. Rader also included a column for BTK.
Extending down the left side of the page, he’d listed a smorgasbord of biographical and psychological traits, then answered yes or no beside each killer’s name, depending on whether or not they possessed that specific quality. I found it interesting that beside the en
try for “overbearing mother,” he scrawled “½.” I assumed that this meant she was only half overbearing and made a note to ask him about this if I got the chance during our interview.
Next to the entries for “Arrogance,” “Self Centered,” and “Inside voices,” he wrote “No.”
Yet when he pondered the question of whether or not he was “Intelligent,” he decided that the answer was yes.
In fact, he concluded that each of the serial killers on his chart—with the exception of Berkowitz and the fictional Buffalo Bill (both of whom he wasn’t sure about)—also possessed what he considered to be intelligence.
In a note above the final page of his chart, he wrote: “KEY: Predator don’t care what happens to victims as long as he gets what he wants.”
These words were perhaps the most honest Rader had ever written, cutting straight to the heart of who he was and what he stood for. I couldn’t imagine a better epitaph for this heartless killer.
It was just after 8 A.M. when I climbed into my rental car to begin the drive to El Dorado, steering north on I-135 past Park City, past the off-ramp that Rader took to get to his house.
It was green and lush this time of year in Kansas. In two short months, most of these fields would be baked golden brown by the fierce Kansas sun. It was Sunday morning. Every cemetery I drove past had American flags fluttering in the warm morning breeze.
Since Rader’s transfer to this state facility following his sentencing in August 2005, the only family member to visit him was his youngest brother, Paul, the same one Dennis used to defend in grade school when the other kids would torment him because of his size. Paul brought their mother with him, but she was so hopelessly lost in the fog of Alzheimer’s that she couldn’t grasp what her oldest son had done and why he’d been locked away in prison. From what my source told me, the two brothers cried when they saw each other, and the bulk of the visit revolved around Paul telling Dennis what his relatives had been doing since his arrest.
Neither his wife, Paula, her parents, nor any of his children had visited Rader. Kerri sent him a few letters at first, but hadn’t written in over a year. Paula has never communicated with her now former husband since he’s been at El Dorado, but Dennis told my source that he dreams about the day she finally does. In one of the only letters she penned to him right after his arrest, she told him that she’d have to forgive him one day in order for God to forgive her for her sins. So Rader tells himself he has that going for him. His son, Brian, writes occasionally, telling him about his life in the Navy and filling him in on family matters. In one letter, Brian commented, “You’re not right in the head and people don’t understand that.”
The drive to the prison from Wichita takes roughly forty minutes, but it felt longer to me.
I didn’t know what I expected to take away from this interview. Truth is, I’d had a fairly good understanding about what went on inside Rader’s head long before I reimmersed myself in this case. But after digging through his journals, talking to his friends, and interviewing the cops who had chased him, I found that Rader had begun to grow blurry again for me, becoming almost mysterious. The sensation was similar to that of driving into a fog bank. As you approach it, you can make out its shape and dimensions, but within seconds of entering it, you grow disoriented, confused.
I still had unanswered questions.
Could I truthfully say I understood why he’d gone so long between killings?
Did I really know how he was able to compartmentalize his life with such absolute precision?
Why did he resurface at the age of fifty-nine, an age when most serial killers are incarcerated, dead, or smart enough to understand that serial killing isn’t a pastime for old men?
And last, what could we in law enforcement learn from Rader to help stop other serial killers earlier in their careers?
Meanwhile, I was lost. After what seemed like hours spent on the road, I told myself I must have taken a wrong turn somewhere along the way. When I spotted an old man in baggy overalls walking across the gravel parking lot of a diner, I pulled over.
“You happen to know where a prison is around here?” I asked, leaning out the window of my car.
The old man gave me the once over, trying to figure out if he knew me or if I looked to be from these parts. “What sort of business you got up there?” he asked.
“Somebody I’ve been wanting to talk to for a long time is waiting for me.”
“Well, ain’t that just something,” he grinned, then pointed back at the highway in the direction I was already going. “Keep going down the road a ways. You can’t miss it.”
I thanked him and continued on my way. A few minutes later as I crested a hill, the prison complex loomed enormous in the distance, squat, ringed with what appeared to be miles of glistening chain-link fence. A bone-white water tower resembling a mushroom cloud jutted up into the sky above the facility. The massive compound looked like something out of a sci-fi flick, the kind of place where one might expect to find an evil scientist holed up in a laboratory making poison.
I turned off the highway and followed the long, meandering road that led to the parking lot. A wind, warm and furious, blew across the prairie out of the south, bending the tiny saplings along the road. I pulled into a space and parked. From the window of my car, I stared at the dozens of crows and sparrows hunched over on the ground, leaning into the gusts, straining to keep from being blown away. A brass clip dangling from a rope on the massive aluminum flagpole by the guard tower clanged out a rhythm, strangely hypnotic, permeating everything.
I made my way toward a concrete walkway, trying not to stare at the stern-faced women sitting inside the dozen or so cars and trucks, preening themselves in their rearview mirrors. The doors of the prison were constructed from thick glass. Because of the wind, I had to tug on them with all my strength in order to coax them open.
Once I was inside, the first thing that caught my eye was a glass case filled with handicrafts made by the residents of El Dorado. On one of the shelves sat a collection of dream-catchers made from yarn and sticks, for sale. According to the lore, various Native American tribes used these as protection against bad dreams. You simply hang one up over your bed, and the nightmares get caught in the yarn before reaching your head.
I wondered if Rader’s daughter had ever resorted to using one of these. When I heard through some sources that she was a cop buff, I’d written her a letter, letting her know that I wanted to ask her some questions about her father. I never received a reply.
God knows she could use one of these, I told myself. Maybe I’ll pick one up for her on the way out and mail it to her.
I made my way over to a large counter where a young woman stood; I told her why I’d come, and she handed me several sheets of paper.
“You gotta fill these out,” she said.
I took a seat on a wooden bench and went to work on the forms. All around me, visitors were feeding dollar bills into machines mounted on the walls, transforming their cash into tokens that could later be used in the commissary. The room sounded like the slots section of Las Vegas casino.
A few moments after I returned the visitation forms to her, the clerk motioned me back to the counter and pointed at them. She had questions about what I’d written.
“What’s your relationship with the inmate?” she asked.
“Friend,” I told her, feeling ridiculous telling someone I was Dennis Rader’s friend.
“What’s your occupation?”
“Former FBI agent.”
She wrote the word “investigator” in the blank, read over the form, then excused herself, disappearing through a door into a back office with several people in it. A moment later, she returned.
“Seems to be a bit of problem,” she said.
Even though I half expected her to say this, I felt my heart begin to pound. Doing my best to look utterly unconcerned, I smiled. She trotted back into her office again, only to reappear thirty seconds later.
>
“Actually there are two problems,” she said.
I wasn’t interested in hearing what either of them might be. I wouldn’t be leaving El Dorado without talking to Rader. If he wanted to shut down the interview, so be it. But I’d waited too long, traveled too many miles, and jumped through too many hoops to get here. So I dropped the names of some heavies in the state’s law enforcement and Department of Corrections world who had either tried to get me in here themselves or were aware of my intentions to do so.
“Why don’t you give them a call,” I suggested, hoping she wouldn’t. “I have all their numbers. I think they’d be interested to hear about the runaround I’m getting here.”
She made several more trips in and out of her office.
“That way,” she said, pointing to a metal door in a corner of the room.
Inside the Mind of BTK: The True Story Behind the Thirty-Year Hunt for the Notorious Wichita Serial Killer Page 37
