Inside the Mind of BTK: The True Story Behind the Thirty-Year Hunt for the Notorious Wichita Serial Killer Read Online Free PDF Page B
Author: John Douglas
for talking to us.
“I’ll speak to the warden,” I said, trying to head off his question. “I can’t make any promises. But if you agree to talk to us, I’ll tell him how helpful you’ve been.”
He nodded slightly, looking past us at the cinder-block wall behind our backs. I didn’t have much time. He seemed about thirty seconds away from shouting out to the guards to get back in here and take him back to his cell.
“Why me?” he asked. “I ain’t no artist.”
“What in the hell are you talking about?” I laughed. “You’re famous. You’re huge. You had all of New York City scared shitless. In a hundred years, no one will remember my name. But everybody will still know who the Son of Sam was.” Berkowitz listened, but he didn’t seem all that impressed with the bullshit I was spoon-feeding him.
Like all the killers I’d interviewed, he longed to have his ego stroked—the problem was, I wasn’t particularly stroking him the way he liked. I was losing him. He turned to see if the guards had returned yet, but of course they hadn’t. So he spun back around and fixed his gaze on me.
We stared at each other in silence for a few moments. The fluorescent lights overhead cast a green tint on Berkowitz’s pale, pudgy skin. A year earlier, another inmate had slit his throat with a razor. The scar, which snaked a jagged path across his neck, had required sixty stitches to close. It glowed an unhealthy shade of pink.
“You know, David, there’s a serial killer out in Kansas, a guy responsible for the deaths of at least six people, who idolizes you,” I told him. “He’s mentioned you in the letters he writes to the police. He fancies himself just like you. He even wants a name like you.”
Berkowitz’s eyes were suddenly ablaze with curiosity. His look of boredom had been replaced with a smirk.
“Is he shitting me?” he asked, glancing over at my partner.
“It’s the truth,” replied Ressler, quietly.
“He calls himself BTK,” I explained.
“BTK?” Berkowitz said. “What’s that for?”
“Bind, torture, and kill. That’s what he does to his victims.”
Berkowitz nodded. “And this BTK, he’s still out there?” he asked. “You guys haven’t caught him yet?”
“No,” I said. “But we will.”
Berkowitz laughed, and I slowly walked him through BTK’s various murders, describing how he’d kill and then disappear for years at a stretch. He listened, spellbound, unable to fathom how someone so bloodthirsty could exhibit such restraint. I could tell by the way his eyes locked onto me that he was soaking up every word I told him. How can this guy control his appetite like that? he appeared to be thinking. To a killer like Berkowitz, whose reign of terror lasted a mere thirteen months, this serial killer in Wichita was a criminal with enviable endurance—a virtual marathoner of mayhem.
After a few minutes spent listening to BTK’s exploits, the man we’d come to interrogate turned to putty in our hands. Over the next five hours, he walked us through every dark, twisted corner of his sad life, sharing details he’d never told anyone, confiding that he’d made up all the crap about demons in order to be able to cop an insanity plea if he ever got caught. By the time Ressler and I emerged from the interrogation room, our heads were spinning. And we owed it all to some deranged killer in Wichita.
The clock on my bookshelf read two-thirty. Upstairs, my wife slept like a baby. My two little girls were tucked away in their beds. The house was so quiet that even down here in my study I could make out the soft rhythm of my wife’s breathing. It reminded me of surf breaking on the beach where I used to hang out as kid, growing up on Long Island.
I was jealous of her peace. And as I sat there listening to the make-believe waves, I felt another pang of jealousy rise up inside me. How, I wondered just
“I’ll speak to the warden,” I said, trying to head off his question. “I can’t make any promises. But if you agree to talk to us, I’ll tell him how helpful you’ve been.”
He nodded slightly, looking past us at the cinder-block wall behind our backs. I didn’t have much time. He seemed about thirty seconds away from shouting out to the guards to get back in here and take him back to his cell.
“Why me?” he asked. “I ain’t no artist.”
“What in the hell are you talking about?” I laughed. “You’re famous. You’re huge. You had all of New York City scared shitless. In a hundred years, no one will remember my name. But everybody will still know who the Son of Sam was.” Berkowitz listened, but he didn’t seem all that impressed with the bullshit I was spoon-feeding him.
Like all the killers I’d interviewed, he longed to have his ego stroked—the problem was, I wasn’t particularly stroking him the way he liked. I was losing him. He turned to see if the guards had returned yet, but of course they hadn’t. So he spun back around and fixed his gaze on me.
We stared at each other in silence for a few moments. The fluorescent lights overhead cast a green tint on Berkowitz’s pale, pudgy skin. A year earlier, another inmate had slit his throat with a razor. The scar, which snaked a jagged path across his neck, had required sixty stitches to close. It glowed an unhealthy shade of pink.
“You know, David, there’s a serial killer out in Kansas, a guy responsible for the deaths of at least six people, who idolizes you,” I told him. “He’s mentioned you in the letters he writes to the police. He fancies himself just like you. He even wants a name like you.”
Berkowitz’s eyes were suddenly ablaze with curiosity. His look of boredom had been replaced with a smirk.
“Is he shitting me?” he asked, glancing over at my partner.
“It’s the truth,” replied Ressler, quietly.
“He calls himself BTK,” I explained.
“BTK?” Berkowitz said. “What’s that for?”
“Bind, torture, and kill. That’s what he does to his victims.”
Berkowitz nodded. “And this BTK, he’s still out there?” he asked. “You guys haven’t caught him yet?”
“No,” I said. “But we will.”
Berkowitz laughed, and I slowly walked him through BTK’s various murders, describing how he’d kill and then disappear for years at a stretch. He listened, spellbound, unable to fathom how someone so bloodthirsty could exhibit such restraint. I could tell by the way his eyes locked onto me that he was soaking up every word I told him. How can this guy control his appetite like that? he appeared to be thinking. To a killer like Berkowitz, whose reign of terror lasted a mere thirteen months, this serial killer in Wichita was a criminal with enviable endurance—a virtual marathoner of mayhem.
After a few minutes spent listening to BTK’s exploits, the man we’d come to interrogate turned to putty in our hands. Over the next five hours, he walked us through every dark, twisted corner of his sad life, sharing details he’d never told anyone, confiding that he’d made up all the crap about demons in order to be able to cop an insanity plea if he ever got caught. By the time Ressler and I emerged from the interrogation room, our heads were spinning. And we owed it all to some deranged killer in Wichita.
The clock on my bookshelf read two-thirty. Upstairs, my wife slept like a baby. My two little girls were tucked away in their beds. The house was so quiet that even down here in my study I could make out the soft rhythm of my wife’s breathing. It reminded me of surf breaking on the beach where I used to hang out as kid, growing up on Long Island.
I was jealous of her peace. And as I sat there listening to the make-believe waves, I felt another pang of jealousy rise up inside me. How, I wondered just
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