Inside the Mind of BTK

62 INSIDE THE MIND OF BTK
The grass was damp with evening dew as I walked through the
cemetery looking for the grave, clutching my flashlight as though it
were a club. A full moon, bright as a medical examiner’s lamp, had just
crawled above the hickory and oak trees in the distance, helping illuminate
my way. Before climbing out of the car, I had grabbed the sheaf
of papers detailing BTK’s next victim—Shirley Vian, murdered in her
bedroom as her children, who had been locked away in a bathroom,
pleaded with the killer to leave their mother alone. I didn’t know what
the hell I intended to do with all those papers, but it seemed only natural
to bring them along for my nighttime stroll through the cemetery.
I started coming here months ago, thinking it might provide
answers to all the questions my brush with nonexistence had left me.
For someone who had surrounded himself with death for most of his
career, cemeteries felt like a natural extension of my office. Nevertheless,
something about the darkness on this particular night set me on
edge. I’d never been here at night. Nor had I ever told a soul about my
visits here. Why would I? No one would understand.
The last time I’d come here, I happened upon the grave of a little
girl whose brutal homicide I’d once investigated. Although it was sheer
coincidence that she’d been buried near my would-be plot, as I stood
above her tiny body I felt a flash of panic surge through me. For years,
I’d been advising cops to keep their eyes on cemeteries because my
research had shown that killers sometimes visit the grave of their victims
to get close to their “accomplishments.” In the case of this little
girl, police had a viable suspect, but they were never able to link the
two-time convicted felon directly to her homicide. And this caused a
tiny shiver to run up my spine.
What if the cops have her grave staked out at this very moment? I
had thought, peering over my shoulders to determine if I was being
observed. They’re probably looking at me right now, thinking they’ve
finally nabbed their killer.
But on this night, I cut a beeline straight to my plot and plopped
down in the damp grass. I stared at the white headstone that appeared
to glow in the darkness. The man who ended up here had served in
the U.S. Army in Vietnam. So had the men buried on either side of
him. Closing my eyes, I sucked the cool evening air up into my nostrils
and, before I knew it, caught myself praying, asking God to help
me. Balance your life, John, I thought. You’re falling back into your old
ways. You’re losing control again. If you’re not careful, you’re going to end
up here . . .