Inside the Mind of BTK

302 INSIDE THE MIND OF BTK
All this blather about God, the hereafter, and forgiveness made me
want to laugh, but I didn’t dare. Religion was part of his façade he had
used to fool those around him. Most people were shocked when the
news broke that Rader was president of his church congregation, but
I wasn’t. When I learned about his longtime ties with Park City’s
Christ Lutheran Church, I wanted to shout: “Of course he was!”
Our landmark ten-year study on serial killers revealed as much.
We learned that if these guys could choose a profession, it would be
minister, police officer, or counselor.
Why? Because of the perks, of course. The single most obvious
one being that all these professions involve some type of power and
control over others. It’s not surprising that in prison many violent
offenders gravitate toward religion—not merely to be a member of a
group, but rather to lead the group. Charles “Tex” Watson of the
Charles Manson family and David Berkowitz (aka Son of Sam) are
now jailhouse preachers.
But now I could sense that Rader had begun to loosen up, allowing
himself to get comfortable with the idea of speaking to someone
such as myself who represented the law enforcement community.
According to Casarona, he still harbored resentment toward the cops,
telling her he was upset with the way they allowed him to figuratively
hang himself during his marathon interrogation session.
“I know about you,” he said, chuckling. “I know about what you
think of me.”
“Do you?” I asked.
“Somebody sent me the newsletter from your Web site, the one
you wrote last winter,” he said. “You don’t like guys like me. You think
that all of us make choices, so we have to take responsibility for our
actions. You said I deserved the death penalty.”
He paused for a moment, chewed on his lip, then continued. “I
believe in capital punishment too, you know. And I suppose I deserve
the death penalty. But since I never killed anyone after 1994, I’m not
eligible for it.”
“Is that what kept you from killing after Dolores Davis’s murder?”
I asked, not completely convinced that he hadn’t taken another life
after Kansas reinstituted capital punishment in 1994.
“No,” he said.