Inside the Mind of BTK

142 INSIDE THE MIND OF BTK
reading through his journals and speaking with childhood friends, I
have never been able to find any evidence of abuse—either sexual or
physical—in the family. During his interrogation, Rader steadfastly
denied that he’d ever been molested or beaten as a boy. Whatever the
answer may be, he came across as a skittish youth, one who became a
quick study in the fine art of maintaining a low profile. He rarely did
the normal outlandish things kids do that cause others to pay attention
to them.
But, of course, Rader didn’t need to. He had other outlets for all
that crazy, pent-up energy percolating inside his teenage body. By then
he’d become quite adept at conducting a secret life. He would creep
out to one of the dilapidated old barns located a mile or so from his
house. Sometimes he’d go there to tie himself up. Other times, he’d
take a bit of rope from his collection and go hunting for a stray cat or
the occasional dog, which he’d carry with him to the barn.
Once inside, he’d loop a stretch of rope around the animal’s legs,
then cinch it tight and knot it off. If he didn’t do that, if he didn’t control
the animal from the get-go, the damn thing would do its best to
bolt. Even a four-legged critter with a brain the size of a walnut had
enough sense to know that Rader was up to no good.
After a while, he began tie his victim to whatever post or beam
looked sturdy enough to hold it. He found that to be the best way. It
couldn’t move. He’d wrap it up like a mummy in rope, thrilled to
observe the wild look that would come over the animal—its eyes wide
open in watchful terror, waiting to see what he’d do next. It was just like
what he imagined would happen to a person. Eventually, he’d encircle
its neck with baling wire and slowly twist it tight—not enough to tear
into its flesh, but enough to cut off the blood supply to its brain. He’d
sit there in the dirt and watch the animal squirm, tightening the wire
ever so slightly, loosening it up and then twisting it taut all over again.
I had a fairly good idea of what happened next. Other serial killers
I have interviewed over the years have described to me the ritual they’d
go through when killing an animal. Rader would be no different, I told
myself. Because his crimes had a sexual component to them and were
directed against women, he struck me as the type who would kill cats,
as opposed to dogs. But if he really concentrated, he could transform
the animal into something else. He’d stare into its eyes and watch as
it changed itself into a human girl.
Then he’d whisper to it, telling it all the terrible things he was
going to do to it. And as the animal’s brain slowly died from lack of