Inside the Mind of BTK

Q
15
Ineeded a drink. By now it was the middle of the night;
Landwehr had yet to return. I was still scrolling through Rader’s writings,
and I was thirsty. I needed a shot of something. Vodka would be
nice. I wanted to feel something course through my body, to wake me
up from this numbing world of words penned by a psychopath.
Years before, I shared a bottle of vodka with a Russian police chief.
After polishing off nearly all of it, he recounted the story of a serial
killer he once tracked.
“There had been many killings, all decapitations,” he told me. “So
we found a suspect, brought him in, questioned him, and, when it
appeared we had found our killer, we walked him behind the police
station and placed a bullet into his brain. But when the killings continued,
we knew that perhaps we hadn’t considered all the facts in the
case. So we found another suspect, a good one. But still more killings
we had....Finally,after four suspects and four bullets, the killings, they
stopped.”
I felt sick to my stomach. “We don’t do things like that here,” I
informed the official. He shook his head in disgust, waving my comment
away as though it were a gnat.
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