Inside the Mind of BTK: The True Story Behind the Thirty-Year Hunt for the Notorious Wichita Serial Killer (47 page)

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Authors: John Douglas,Johnny Dodd

BOOK: Inside the Mind of BTK: The True Story Behind the Thirty-Year Hunt for the Notorious Wichita Serial Killer
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What really bothered him, though, was how he’d been caught. It just didn’t seem . . . fair, Rader told my source. Over that past year, he’d begun to feel that he and Landwehr had formed a professional bond. And why wouldn’t he? Ken played the role of the no-nonsense super-cop just as I had envisioned it two decades earlier. For the past eleven months, Landwehr had appeared on the color TV set in Rader’s family room and spoken directly to Dennis, stroking his oversized ego, slowly convincing him that theirs was a relationship built on trust and respect. The way Dennis saw it, they needed each other—Rader played the role of the bad guy, and Ken played the cop. They had a good thing going, a rapport.
 
“I need to ask you, how come you lied to me?” Rader said. “How come you lied to me?”
 
Landwehr listened to the question, but he told me that he couldn’t quite believe what he’d just heard. Could Rader really be that dense? Was he so hopelessly deluded as to imagine that the past three decades had been nothing more than a big game? He bit his lip to keep from laughing. But Rader was serious. He sat there across the table, staring at Landwehr, not blinking, patiently waiting for an answer to his question.
 
Finally, the tired homicide detective shook his head and muttered, “Because I was trying to catch you.”
 
 
Within minutes of the arrest, a half dozen Wichita police officers had descended on Rader’s local family, rounding up Paula, her parents, and two of his brothers and taking them down to FBI headquarters, a few blocks from city hall. They were briefed on what had just happened to Dennis and peppered with questions, such as whether they could remember Rader ever doing anything suspicious.
 
“You got the wrong man,” Paula Rader’s mother and father kept saying. “There’s no way Dennis would have done this.”
 
The arrest and charges were clearly a terrible, disorienting blow to Rader’s devoted wife.
 
Paula had arrived first, having been driven to the FBI office by police, who had resisted descending on the Rader home until after Dennis had been cuffed. She arrived at the building a few minutes after her husband was ushered inside, and spent the next four hours sitting there, listening to investigators paint a picture of a stranger they claimed was her husband. And all the while, she never appeared to stop believing in his innocence, insisting that what she really needed to be doing was hiring a lawyer for him.
 
But then she remembered something, “a coincidence” she’d called it.
 
“Dennis used to drive me to work in 1974,” she explained. “And we’d always go past the Otero house. That was the route he’d always take.
 
“But you’ve got the wrong man,” she told Lundin. “Dennis couldn’t have done this.”
 
Paula’s mother excused herself to use the restroom. Her father, a World War II vet, stared down at his thick arms, and Lundin said he could practically hear “the wheels turning round and round in his head.”
 
After a few moments he looked up at Lundin and said, “So . . . you got the goods on this guy.”
 
“Yeah,” Lundin replied. “No doubt about it. It’s him.”
 
After Rader’s in-laws left, Paula excused herself to get a breath of fresh air and clear her head. Lundin told me that he walked out into the hallway and saw her leaning against the wall, dazed looking, with a cell phone pressed up against her ear. She was talking to her daughter, Kerri, in Michigan, who had just been interviewed by several FBI agents.
 
“No, no, no,” she whispered. “Your daddy didn’t do this. There’s been some horrible mistake. You don’t need to worry.”
 
Lundin heard the same thing a few days later when he flew to a naval base in Connecticut to speak with Rader’s son, Brian, who was there attending submarine training school. Like everyone else close to Rader, he told Lundin there had to be some mistake.
 
“We walked through things with him, and he was shocked,” Lundin explained to me. “He seemed like a squared-away guy, solid. But he took it really super-hard. He told me, ‘We had the
Leave It to Beaver
life. Mom was always at home and Dad was doing everything—the Scouts, church, helping out at school. Every summer we’d go on summer vacations.’”
 
But just like Paula’s father, Brian grew quiet after a bit of time had passed.
 
“Then he looked at me and said, ‘It just doesn’t make any sense. . . . The only thing that ever gave me any cause of suspicion happened when I was a little kid and I was going through Dad’s stuff. I found this drawing. It was of a woman in this horrible position. She was all bound up in ropes. It scared me. I put it away and never looked in his stuff again.’”
 
 
At the same time that Rader’s family was being briefed on his secret life, he sat in a nearby interrogation room, relishing all the attention being heaped on him. He felt downright giddy with all those detectives rotating in and out of the room, asking him questions. Now that he’d confessed to being BTK, the next order of business involved getting him to walk police through each of his ten murders, step-by-step.
 
It felt as though they were talking shop, Rader later confessed to my source. The way he saw it, he was practically a cop himself. Of course, he knew what they were trying to do. But at the same time, it felt as though they were all soldiers, battle-worn vets who had once been sworn enemies but, now that the war was over, could come together to chew the fat.
 
Rader, I knew, was thrilled to be able finally to talk about everything he’d done—even if it meant the end of the line for him. He’d never been able to do that, to talk about that side of his life to anybody. And suddenly there he was, handcuffed in a room filled with cops, shooting the breeze with a group of guys who seemed to know everything about him, eager to ask questions about how he’d managed to pull everything off.
 
At the same time, though, a sense of weariness had begun to seep in. Rader told my source that despite all the hoopla and excitement surrounding his arrest, after a few hours he’d begun to feel the gentle stirrings of fatigue and depression. The high he’d initially experienced had started to tiptoe away—just as all his highs did. But he didn’t want to think about
that
right now. He wanted to sit there and talk about his crimes—he could do that forever. These guys were soaking up every word he uttered. But as more hours stretched on and on, the weariness became too pronounced to ignore.
 
At one point, he shook his head and muttered, “A little thirty-nine-cent piece of plastic floppy was my demise . . . That’s what cooked my goose.”
 
Roughly twelve hours into his interrogation, Rader looked across the table at his inquisitors and said, “Could one of you guys do me a favor? Just shoot me in the head. Put me out of my misery. I know you would be in big trouble for that. But just shoot me like a mad dog. Just shoot me and be done with it. Sneak up behind me and shoot me. BOOM! I won’t know what hit me.”
 
The detectives seated across from him would have been happy to oblige, but they didn’t. A bullet to the back of the head would be far too easy an out for Rader.
 
 
Landwehr let Rader keep blabbing off and on for thirty-two hours. Then he had him booked in the Sedgwick County Jail and placed him under suicide watch. When Rader awoke in jail the next morning, he told my source, he’d never felt so low in all his life.
 
“My heart goes out to him,” Landwehr grumbled.
 
“Yeah,” I replied. “Really chokes me up.”
 
The two of us sat there in silence for a few moments, then I said, “You know what really eats at me is that I’ve still got so many unanswered questions about this guy, so many things I can’t figure out. I gotta get in to see him. I need to sit down with him and pick his brain.”
 
Landwehr shook his head, looking almost bored. “Getting into that prison is gonna be tough, even for you,” he said, giving me one of those why-bother sighs. “I’m gonna be honest with you. I don’t need to know why Dennis Rader killed all those people. I don’t need to know where his mind was or how it got that way. That’s not my forte. He killed them, he planned it, and my job was to nail him for ten murders. After I did that, I was done with him.”
 
Part of me wished I too could be done with Dennis Rader. But for some reason, I felt as though I was only just beginning.
 
ACT THREE
 
Meeting BTK: AN Exclusive Interview
 
21
 
On May 28, eight months after my last trip to Wichita to research the events leading up to Rader’s arrest, I hopped another flight out to that city on the plains and booked a hotel room downtown by the old train station, at the same place I stayed last time—a newly renovated century-old former warehouse for a company that manufactured scythes, axes, and butcher knives. The side-walks and the buildings in that part of the city had a tired, ancient smell. Everything there appeared to be constructed from bricks made from day-old dried blood. Just thinking about that color brought back memories of the thousands of grisly crime scene photos I’d spent my career wading through while attempting to reconstruct events I now wanted to forget.
 
It was late May, but even at midnight the air felt hot and damp, the kind of syrupy heat that made me wish I could shake my compulsion to wear button-down shirts. But old habits die hard.
 
I’d returned to Wichita to interview Dennis Rader, now known to the staff of the El Dorado Correctional Facility as Inmate no. 0083707. Getting permission to see him hadn’t been easy. In fact, it had been damn near impossible. Most people think that all I have to do is show up at the front gate of a prison and the warden will meet and escort me to the cell of whatever inmate I want to speak with. Truth is, there are countless bureaucratic hoops I’m forced to jump through before I can talk with an inmate—particularly
this
inmate.
 
Back in the days when I was in the FBI, things were different. All I needed to do was walk in, flash my credentials, and ask to speak with an inmate. Not anymore. I lost that luxury when I retired from the agency in 1995. But even if I still had my credentials and the warden’s support, Rader wouldn’t have to speak with me, and I couldn’t force him to.
 
Six months ago, I’d learned that a woman named Kris Casarona had formed a special relationship with Rader in prison. They had a signed contract between them that gave her power as his official gatekeeper over who could see or interview him. She evidently had plans to write a book about him.
 
I began communicating with Kris Casarona, calling her, writing her, talking to her at great length, trying to convince her to approve my interview with Rader. I needed her blessing before he’d agree to speak with me. Since his arrest, he’d been contacted by hundreds of journalists, TV producers, behavioral scientists, authors, and screen-writers, all of them requesting—and, in many cases, begging—for an interview. So far, the only people to have gained access to Rader at his new home in the El Dorado Correctional Facility were the Wichita police, members of his state-appointed defense team, and, of course, Casarona herself.
 
So far we had never met in person, but on this evening when I got back to Wichita, Casarona came over to the hotel, and we sat together in the hotel lobby. Casarona turned out to be a frazzled-looking thirty-nine-year-old woman in a floral-print dress. I sipped Chardonnay as she drank a Jack Daniel’s and cola. Several, to be exact. But that was partially because the past week had been so hellish. It seemed as though every time she picked up the telephone, her lawyer was on the other end of the line, giving her more bad news.
 
Hardly surprising. For the past thirteen months, Casarona had become increasingly involved in the world of Dennis Rader. Shortly after his arrest, she succeeded in befriending him, convincing him that she was on his side, that she understood. At the time, he was still incarcerated in the Sedgwick County Jail. The relationship, however, had taken a terrible toll on her, turning her life upside down, sinking her deep into debt, leading to her vilification by many in this part of Kansas. Nobody said that dancing with the devil was easy.
 
Casarona drained what was left in her glass. Her eyes looked nervous, as though she was already regretting what was going to happen the next morning when, thanks to her help, I would be allowed to speak with Rader.
 
“Tell me about the dream,” I said, trying to get her to think about something else.
 
She crinkled up the skin around her nose, which gave her a look that conveyed both bewilderment and amusement. Several weeks earlier, she’d briefly alluded to the dream, and now seemed like the perfect time to have her tell me about it.
 
“So you wanna know how all this has affected me, right?” she asked.

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