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Inside the Mind of BTK

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88 INSIDE THE MIND OF <strong>BTK</strong><br />

Fantasy spring forth, mounts, to storm fury, <strong>the</strong>n winter clam at<br />

<strong>the</strong> end.<br />

Oh, Anna Why Didn’t You Appear<br />

Alone, now in ano<strong>the</strong>r time span I lay with sweet enrapture garments<br />

across most private thought<br />

Bed <strong>of</strong> Spring moist grass, clean before <strong>the</strong> sun, enslaved with control,<br />

warm wind scenting <strong>the</strong> air, sun light sparkle tears in eyes<br />

so deep and clear.<br />

Alone again I trod in pass memory <strong>of</strong> mirrors, and ponder why<br />

for number eight was not.<br />

Oh, Anna Why Didn’t You Appear<br />

Although <strong>the</strong> UNSUB possessed <strong>the</strong> poetic sensibility <strong>of</strong> a lovedrunk<br />

college freshman, his communiqués reinforced my belief that<br />

he possessed an eye for detail. I couldn’t shake <strong>the</strong> idea that he’d<br />

snapped photographs <strong>of</strong> his victims, crime scenes, and—in Anna<br />

Williams’s case—his intended crime scene. Ei<strong>the</strong>r that or he had a<br />

photographic memory, which seemed unlikely.<br />

His sketches, moreover, weren’t half bad—detailed and reasonably<br />

well drawn. They weren’t Michelangelo, but he drew a helluva lot<br />

better than I did. Although his subject matter was a bit limited, I<br />

sensed that he’d honed his ability to draw gagged, scantily clad women<br />

bound up in rope by staring at <strong>the</strong> pages <strong>of</strong> pulp detective magazines<br />

sold up through <strong>the</strong> mid-1970s in almost every mom-and-pop convenience<br />

store around <strong>the</strong> nation.<br />

We in <strong>the</strong> criminal pr<strong>of</strong>iling business referred to <strong>the</strong> violent<br />

<strong>of</strong>fenders who read <strong>the</strong>se magazines as “collectors.” These glossy publications,<br />

which usually bore a cover photo <strong>of</strong> a hog-tied, frightened<br />

woman with a gun or knife pressed against her breast or temple,<br />

served as virtual textbooks for budding killers. Criminologists like<br />

myself had long suspected that killers studied <strong>the</strong> exploits <strong>of</strong> those<br />

savages who’d come before <strong>the</strong>m, soaking up every detail <strong>of</strong> true or<br />

fictional crimes wherever <strong>the</strong>y could find it—magazines, books,<br />

movies, and TV. Long before any <strong>of</strong> <strong>the</strong>se animals ever claimed <strong>the</strong>ir<br />

first victim, <strong>the</strong>y’d spent a lifetime nurturing <strong>the</strong> dark dreams festering<br />

inside <strong>the</strong>ir heads by devouring publications with names like<br />

Master Detective, Official Police Detective, Front Page Detective, and<br />

Startling Detective.<br />

Do <strong>the</strong> words and images contained in <strong>the</strong> pages <strong>of</strong> <strong>the</strong>se magazines<br />

create violent criminals? Certainly not. But clearly <strong>the</strong>y fuel <strong>the</strong>ir

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