by Kerri Rawson
In September, I started substitute teaching in five districts. The farthest district was an hour away, so it was rough having to drive Darian to work and then out west to reach a classroom by nine at the latest. The pay was good, though, and I soon quit my job at Target, delighted to have evenings and weekends free to spend with Darian.
After being laid off from his avionics job in Wichita, my brother enlisted in the navy and commenced boot camp, located north of Chicago, in the fall. He invited us and my folks to his graduation ceremony in early November, after which he would be headed to the East Coast for submarine school and then out to sea for months at a time.
I was hopeful my folks could come to Chicago so we could spend a few days together, but Dad told us they couldn’t make it, saying he was too busy to get away. I was unsure what to think; that was extremely uncharacteristic of my dad. But with Chicago only four hours away for us, Darian and I were able to drive over for a long weekend. On an early Friday morning, we cheered as Brian marched in with his shipmates.
After his ceremony, he gave us a hug, happy to see us and to get off base to spend a couple of days sightseeing. On our walk to the Shedd Aquarium that afternoon, stinging wind blasted us, and Brian had to grab his white sailor’s cap so it wouldn’t blow into Lake Michigan. The next day, we enjoyed the sun as we wandered around the Brookfield Zoo. Brian told us he might be able to fly home for Christmas; Darian and I already had our plane tickets and said we hoped to see him.
DECEMBER 2004
Several inches of snow fell the night before we were supposed to fly home in December, and the world was still a blur of bluish-gray when we left in the predawn darkness for the airport. Darian was calm as he cautiously made his way down the one cleared lane of the highway, but I was gripping the passenger armrest with white knuckles.
We reached the airport in time but found out at our gate that our plane was delayed and we were going to miss our connection at O’Hare. Between the snow, the delay, and having only flown twice in my life, I was an anxious mess, but Darian handed me a hazelnut latte and said we’d get home. He was used to flying and patiently talked me through the next several hours of holiday travel despondency while I wrapped my hands around my drink, trying to warm my entire body.
When we arrived in O’Hare hours later, we had to wait in a long line to rebook a flight for the next day and to secure a hotel. We stood in another long line to pick up our checked bags, only to learn they had continued to their destination. I only packed the bare minimum in my carry-on and froze in my thin hoodie outside; my winter coat, gloves, and hat were on a plane to Kansas.
We headed back to the airport on Christmas Eve and found out we were going to have to make a connection through Saint Louis to reach Wichita.
So much for Christmas Eve service with my family at church.
While sitting at the gate in Saint Louis, Darian’s name was called to come to the desk—they wanted to bump him. I started crying, telling the attendant the story of the last two days.
“Oh, I didn’t realize you were traveling together.”
A man traveling alone overheard my tale of woe and offered to take the bump. I was so relieved, I could have hugged him; we were going to be home for Christmas just in time.
We crashed in my parents’ guest room, the one I painted lilac two years before, and opened gifts the next morning. I will never forget my dad’s face, aged overnight, his eyes oddly sad on Christmas morning, when he unwrapped a special frame for Brian’s naval photograph.
A few evenings later, Darian and I went with Dad back to the airport to pick up Brian. He was wearing his US Navy blues and carrying a green duffel bag, which my dad hefted onto his shoulder after embracing Brian in a big hug. While Brian was home, we went to a movie at the Warren Old Town theater, a place Dad considered extra nifty because you could order food right at your seat. After having hotdogs and fries, Dad and I passed back and forth the largest tub of buttered popcorn you could get.
It’s odd, the things one remembers, like looking to my left and watching my dad try to open a mustard packet with his teeth—just like I’d do.
But I can’t recall what movie we saw.
What I can tell you is this—it was the last movie I’d ever see with him.
A few days later, we were up early to pack before our flight back to Michigan. I had stepped out of our bedroom and run into Dad in the hallway. He was dressed for work in his brown compliance officer uniform.
Before leaving, he added a stack of note cards to his right breast pocket, a dark-brown winter coat with a badge, a dark-brown hat, and an intimidating utility belt. The belt had a collapsible stick baton, mace, a Leatherman multitool, a knife, and Lord knows what else.
He was freshly shaven and smelled of Old Spice, and I embraced him in a long bear hug. He was warm, solid—comforting—and I didn’t want to let go. “I’m not sure when we will get home again,” I said.
“Yeah. We’re going to try to come up to see you guys again soon, all right?”
“All right, love you. See ya in a while.”
“Yeah, love you too. See ya in a while.”
Just a girl telling her dad goodbye. I had no reason to think that was the last time I’d ever see him.
THURSDAY, FEBRUARY 24, 2005
“Yeah, love you too. Talk to you soon.”
After the phone call with my folks, I pulled a chocolate Bundt cake out of the oven and set to work on the powdered sugar icing while it cooled. Darian and I ate a slice before going to bed, not knowing that by the same time tomorrow, our lives would be completely upended.
The last phone call.
When you lose someone, there are always lasts. The last hug, the last Christmas, the last vacation. The last chocolate milkshake, the last fishing trip, the last time you hiked side by side next to the person you loved.
As soon as you learn there is a last, you do your best to seal those memories tight.
Even in my case, in which the man I lost was still very much alive. Even in my case, where every memory I have of the man I love will be tainted with pitch black for years to come.
PART IV
When All Else Has Fallen Away
So do not fear, for I am with you; do not be dismayed, for I am your God. I will strengthen you and help you; I will uphold you with my righteous right hand.
—ISAIAH 41:10
BREAKING NEWS: WE INTERRUPT A REGULARLY SCHEDULED LIFE
12:15 P.M.
FEBRUARY 25, 2005
WICHITA
The suspected BTK killer, Dennis Lynn Rader, age fifty-nine, was pulled over and arrested while driving home from work in his white city truck at 12:15 p.m. today.
Rader, who has been on the lam for thirty-one years, was en route to have lunch with his wife of thirty-three years, Paula, age fifty-six. They had met for lunch every weekday for the past fourteen years at their three-bedroom ranch in the small suburban community of Park City.
Rader was arrested around the corner from his house, right near the crosswalk his kids used for years on their way to the nearby elementary school. Rader and his daughter, Kerri, age twenty-six, took long walks with their spaniels—Patches and, later, Dudley—around the school and nearby neighborhoods throughout her younger years.
With several guns pointed at him, including a shotgun and a submachine gun, Rader was detained without incident, handcuffed facedown on the pavement, right above the large drainage pipes his daughter liked to play in as a kid.
One of the first things Rader said after being arrested was, “Hey, would you please call my wife? She was expecting me for lunch. I assume you know where I live.”1
CHAPTER 22
Offer the FBI Your DNA—It’s Just Easier That Way
1:30 P.M.
FEBRUARY 25, 2005
DETROIT
Your dad is BTK.”
I was spinning in the middle of our living room, trying to make the short distance to our dark-eggplant couch, trying to come back to life�
�trying to breathe. Trying to steady myself against the weight of the incomprehensible words the FBI agent had uttered.
Your dad is BTK.
Love never fails.
A moment ago, my hand had brushed against the brightly colored stained-glass picture hanging in our kitchen.
My left thumb twisted my wedding band with its inscription.
Love neve fails.
Darian—I needed Darian.
I grabbed on to the tall arm of the couch and turned toward the worried-looking man holding his yellow legal pad and pencil to his side. He was standing right near the worn cuss-word spot in the carpet. I was tempted to point out the faded words to him.
“Can I call my husband at work? He needs to come home.”
“Yes. You can call him, but you can’t tell him why I am here.”
I sat down and called Darian’s cell phone, shaking, my body blazing white-hot, my voice almost maniacal, with the oddest feeling of being on edge yet relieved the man in the car, in my home, with the badge, wasn’t here to hurt me.
“Hello?”
“The FBI is here. It’s okay. I’m safe.”
“Where? What are you talking about?”
“The man? He’s an FBI agent.”
“What man?”
“The one in the car by the dumpster. He’s in our home now. He’s an FBI agent. You need to come home.”
“I’m on my way already. What is going on? Why is he there?” Darian’s voice was heightening with concern and confusion.
“I can’t tell you on the phone. Can you come home?”
“I’m close. Be there shortly.”
I hung up and looked at the agent again. “Can I call my grandma and granddad? They live near us—near my folks. I’m really worried about my mom, my family.”
“You can call them, but you can’t tell them about your dad.”
I was already dialing. “Grandma, it’s Kerri. Something has happened at Mom and Dad’s. Mom is safe, she is with the police, but Dad has been arrested.”
“Hold on, Kerri. I’m going to walk to the corner and I will call you back. Hold on.”
When she called me back, she told me there was a swarm of police and other unmarked cars down the street at my house. Grandma was scared and worried. Soon, she and Granddad would be brought in for questioning too.
The agent sat down next to me, and that made me feel a bit better. I ran my hand through my hair and nervously redid my scrunchie, looking down at my mint-green PJs. “Uh, can I get dressed?”
“Yes. But the phone has to stay here.”
I left my silver flip phone and somehow made it off the couch and down the hall to our bedroom. I tossed my pajamas to the floor (I’d never wear them again) and threw on a purple K-State T-shirt and jeans. I didn’t even close the door when I changed.
As I came back out to the living room still in my bare feet, I heard keys rattling in the front door lock. The FBI agent looked at me, looked at the door, and stood up.
“It’s okay. It’s my husband, Darian.”
Darian came in quickly and headed straight to the agent, his shoulders forward like a hockey defenseman, putting himself between me and the stranger. “What’s going on? Who are you? Why are you here?”
The agent told him.
Darian was skeptical. “Can I see your badge?”
The agent showed it to him, and Darian excused himself to the bathroom, where he proceeded to call the Detroit FBI office, thinking someone must be playing a terrible joke on us.
They told him it was a real agent in our house.
Darian came back out and sat down by me, pressing his leg next to mine, taking my hand. I pressed up next to him. His body was tense, his shoulders down. I could tell from his eyes he was shocked and confused, scared like me.
The agent shifted his feet and cleared his throat. “I’ve been sent here by my office to notify you that your father has been arrested and to ask you some questions. I’m not used to this type of fieldwork. I’m more like an investigative accountant—white-collar crimes. I can see you’re having a hard time. I’m a bit thrown myself.”
I knew this guy wasn’t like the FBI agents you see in the movies.
“I don’t understand.” I was stammering. “You think Dad—he’s . . . he’s . . . this . . . this guy the police have been looking for? The one from the seventies?”
“Yes, we have reason to believe so.”
I stared off into nowhere for some seconds, then shook my head.
“That’s not possible. In December, back in Wichita? The wrong guy was arrested. Maybe there is some kind of confusion again. Maybe Dad was trying to solve the crimes? Got himself tangled up in something somehow? You know, communicating with the police, maybe?” I was searching the agent’s face, hopeful for something, anything, to make sense.
“I talked to Dad on the phone last night. He hasn’t ever done anything wrong. He’s a good guy.” Rapidly I ran through my dad’s credentials: military service, jobs, church president, Boy Scout leader, dutiful son. Darian spoke up when he could.
The agent said, “You could be describing me.”
“Yes. He’s a normal, regular guy. That’s what I’m trying to say. That’s him.” I pointed to a photo of my dad and mom together hanging on the wall. They were dressed up and smiling; it had been taken for the church directory.
The agent looked at the picture, a bit puzzled, and down at his pad. “Your dad store things in your house? Containers?”
“He collects stamps. Those take up some space.”
The agent scribbled on his notepad.
I stared off into nowhere again, then looked back at the agent. “What dates are we talking about? The crimes?”
“The years ’74, ’77, ’86.”
“Brian was born in ’75.”
He looked down at his notes. “Yes.”
“And ’86? What month?”
“September.”
“We went to California, Disneyland, the month before—in August? Before third grade.”
“Oh. Do you remember anything from September ’86?”
“In ’86? Third grade? I was eight. Dad worked at ADT, drove a white truck with a red ladder. The smaller one, not the big box van like he used to. Installed alarm systems in people’s homes. Someone was murdered in ’86, in Wichita?”
“Yes.”
“That’s not possible, I mean, Dad couldn’t have . . . Dad’s not . . . You guys got it wrong.” I was off looking into space again.
Our neighbor was murdered down the street. Strangled. It was never solved.
Terror seized me. I closed my eyes tight, putting my head down.
Something is very wrong. BTK strangled women—and it was likely very true.
Tears stung my eyes. I turned to Darian, my face wide with fear, my mouth open. I hadn’t cried yet because I was too shocked. But now the tears began and wouldn’t stop for a long time.
I turned toward the agent, dropping my eyes and wiping my face on my sleeve. I then wrapped my arms tightly around my chest and said quietly, “Our neighbor, Mrs. Hedge? She was murdered down our street. Lived between us and my grandparents. Her body was found out in the country, strangled. It was never solved, I don’t think. Mom and Dad used to talk about a man who had taken her to dinner; she was a widow. But I don’t think he was ever charged. I don’t remember. I was young.”
“When was this?” The agent’s eyes stayed calm, his voice steady. He wasn’t writing on his notepad anymore.
“Uh, ’84? It was the end of first grade—I broke my arm at church around then. Before? After? I’m not sure.” I counted on my fingers, thinking of years and school. “Oh, ’85. Early May, I think. I was six—I turned seven in June.”
I took a sharp breath.
“I lost my front tooth down at the river—Riverfest, we were at the bathtub races. I tripped walking back to the car with Mom and lost my tooth in a red snow cone. Then the next day, I broke my arm, bad. Was in the hospital for days
after. Got pins and everything.” I held up my scarred right elbow to the agent, like I always did when telling that story to someone.
Dad wasn’t home that night.
My stomach sheared again. I squeezed my eyes shut tight, then slowly opened them and searched the agent’s face. “Dad wasn’t home the night she went missing. He was on a campout with my brother. Brian was nine, close to ten. Scouts, maybe?”
“How do you know your dad wasn’t home?”
“It stormed that night. I was scared. Thunder rattles our home—sometimes the house shakes. I crawled into bed with Mom. I wouldn’t have if Dad was home. Slept on his side of the bed. Did that sometimes when he was gone. I only remember that night because our neighbor lady went missing. Mom and Grandma Eileen were scared. My arm wasn’t broken yet. I must have broken it after she went missing.”
“You knew this Mrs. Hedge?”
“A little, yeah. Mom and I would talk to her when we walked past her house going to my grandparents’ house. She’d be out in the yard. I remember her leaning on a rake, waving hello once. She was nice.” I paused to think. “I was sad when I heard she had been killed. Scared too. Didn’t want to walk by her house anymore. Would cross the street so I didn’t have to be so close to it. Mom would have to coax me past.”
More thinking. “A cop came by. I was bouncing on my pogo stick in my driveway. So . . . no broken arm yet. Asked my mom some questions, after she went missing. He was talking to all the neighbors.”
“She went missing, you think, in early May 1985, and later that month you broke your arm?”
“Yeah.”
“Do you remember anything else?”
“Dad didn’t. I mean . . .” I stopped talking and was off looking into nowhere again.
“I need to make some phone calls,” the agent said as he stood up.
We offered him our spare room we had turned into storage space and a small corner office for me.
When the agent came back he said, “Would it be okay to take a DNA swab from you? We need to match it to some samples we have.”
