Inside the Mind of BTK

My Lifelong Hunt for BTK 75
For Wichita firefighter Wayne Davis, it had been shaping up to be
a typical morning. Like plenty of his coworkers, he supplemented his
income by working side jobs. On this particular chilly morning, he
was sent to pick up a truck that was supposedly parked on St. Francis
Street and drive it across town. But there was just one problem—
Wayne couldn’t find the damn thing. So when he spotted a pay phone
outside a market on the corner of St. Francis and Central Streets, he
decided to pull over and call the guy who’d hired him. He hopped out
of his car, shoved his hand in his pocket, and quickly realized he had
no change.
Just my luck, he shrugged, as he hurried inside the market to break
a dollar bill. A man was using the pay phone, speaking quietly into the
receiver, but Davis barely noticed him.
In those few moments that Davis was inside the store, a brief,
chilling exchange took place between the caller and two police dispatchers.
“You will find a homicide at 843 South Pershing,” the man
told the dispatcher. “Nancy Fox.”
“I’m sorry, sir,” she replied. “I can’t understand you. What is the
address?”
At that point, another dispatcher, who had been monitoring the
call, interrupted: “I believe 843 South Pershing.”
“That is correct,” the man said. Then the phone line went quiet.
By the time Davis made it back to the parking lot, the caller had
vanished, and the receiver dangled in midair. Davis grabbed it, placed
the phone against his ear, and, when he didn’t hear a dial tone, said,
“Hello?”
The voice on the other end of the line inquired if he was the same
person who she’d just been speaking to. “No,” he replied. “Some other
guy was using the phone.”
“Wayne, is that you?” the dispatcher asked, recognizing his voice
because emergency calls were often routed through the fire department
and the two regularly spoke to one another.
“Yeah, it’s me,” he said. “What’s going on?”
A moment later, Wichita homicide captain Al Thimmesch jumped
on the line. The two men and their wives were longtime square dance
buddies. “Wayne,” Thimmesch asked, “did you get a look at the guy on
the phone?”
“Not really,” he said. “What’s all the fuss about?” Thimmesch
quickly filled him in on the details. When it became apparent that
Davis could recall precious little about the caller’s appearance,