Inside the Mind of BTK

Q
Afew hours later I awoke, showered, and pulled on
a pair of trousers, a sport coat over my tan plaid shirt, and loafers. On
the way out of my room, I glanced at my reflection in the mirror.
“Jesus,” I laughed. “You look just like a prison shrink.” Even
though Rader knew my background, I’d discovered years ago that
wearing casual clothes helped grease the skids during these prison
interviews.
Incarcerated felons, it seems, can smell a cop two hundred feet
away. Dressing down gave me the appearance of being either a social
worker or a member of the prison’s psych staff, two categories that
tended to put inmates at ease.
I grabbed my briefcase and headed down to the hotel lobby for a
cup of coffee, then took a seat at a rickety table.
Tucked away in my briefcase was a folder containing five pieces of
yellow paper yanked from a legal pad. The pages were a gift from
Casarona, handed to me the previous night. Rader had mailed them
to her a few days earlier. Turned out that when he learned I was writing
a book about him and that Kris had given him her blessing to
speak with me, Rader decided to contribute an essay of sorts.
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