Inside the Mind of BTK

Q
6
The next morning, I awoke at 5:15 and got dressed for
work. Pam was breathing softly, her head buried in her pillow. I
watched her in the mirror while knotting my tie, thinking about how
her stillness resembled that of a corpse. My job was devouring me, the
violence was eating a dark hole inside me, and there seemed little I
could do to escape it.
A few days before, I had taken my two daughters—Erika, eight,
and Lauren, four—to a wooded park near our house, but found
myself constantly peering off into the brush, looking for the body of
a murder victim that I tried to convince myself had been dumped
there, then covered over by leaves. Two weeks before that, while making
love to Pam, a flashback had washed over me, and I suddenly
found myself staring into the dying face that belonged to a woman
whose torture slaying I was trying to help solve.
On my way out of the bedroom, I bent down and brushed my lips
across Pam’s forehead, then walked downstairs and crept into my little
girls’ room and stood there, listening to the faint sound of their
breathing, held spellbound by the way their tiny faces quivered as they
slept.
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