Wichita Quotes

He robbed a bank in Wichita.

You can't really protect women or men from their choices, so let them have their own lives and trust the process. Given the history of society's efforts to control women's sexuality and reproduction, this remained a revolutionary idea. No wonder it disturbed and frightened some people so deeply.

I have been taking stock of my 50 years since I left Wichita in 1922 at the age of 15 to become a dancer with Ruth St. Denis and Ted Shawn. How I have existed fills me with horror. For I have failed in everything -- spelling, arithmetic, riding, tennis, golf; dancing, singing, acting; wife, mistress, whore, friend. Even cooking. And I do not excuse myself with the usual escape of 'not trying.' I tried with all my heart.

My name is Earwig Dungeon. I come from Wichita, Kansas. My mom and I used to own a restaurant where we served human flesh. It was very popular. We were millionaires. I had a pony and a yacht. Now we are on the run from the FBI…

As with Randall Terry and other anti-abortion leaders, women simply did not figure into [Roeder's] equations. If all the abortion providers were dead, the problem would be solved, and he'd never have to think about those who sought to end their pregnancies through illegal or dangerous means.

And I need you more than want you And I want you for all time

Money from taxpayers in Wichita and Denver and Phoenix gets routed through the Pentagon and CIA and then ends up here, or in Baghdad or Dubai, or Doha or Kabul or Beirut, in the hands of contractors, subcontractors, their local business partners, local sheikhs, local Mukhabarat officers, local oil smugglers, local drug dealers—money that funds construction and real estate speculation in a few choice luxury districts, buildings that go up thanks to the sweat of imported Filipino and Bangladeshi workers

Lubbock, Amarillo, and Wichita Falls are the three principal cities of the Texas plains cities that I find uniformly graceless and unattractive. In summer they are dry and hot, and winter cold, dusty, and windswept; the population is rigidly conformist on the surface and seethes underneath with Imperfectly suppressed malice.

Please,” he begs, his tears overwhelming his emotional nanites’ attempt to ease his distress. “Please give me a sign. That’s all I ask. Just a sign that you haven’t abandoned me.” And then I realize that, although there is a law against my direct communication with an unsavory, I do not have a law against signs and wonders. “Please . . . ,” he begs. And so I oblige. I reach out into the electrical grid, and douse the lights. Not just in the chapel, but throughout all of  Wichita. The lights of the city blink for 1.3 seconds. All for the benefit of Greyson Tolliver. To prove beyond a shadow of doubt how much I care, and how heartbroken I would be for all he has suffered, if I had a heart capable of such malfunction. But Greyson Tolliver does not know. He does not see . . . because his eyes are shut too tightly to know anything beyond his own anguish.

11:48 P.M. Central Daylight Time NEAR WICHITA, KANSAS

Wichita. The roads here are flat and I can see for miles. Easy driving. Times like these, I wish you were sitting here beside me chatting, instead

with

So you see, a man's history when other folks tell it is a pitiful confusion.

truck. Greenpeace’s airship circles over Rancho Mirage, California, in

Depending on how optimistic you are, twenty years represents a quarter of a man’s life—the time it takes for him to move from maturity to redundancy.

People of all political persuasions work for Koch, but given the company's strong institutional perspective, some employees with liberal beliefs tend not to advertise their politics.

She was a large woman, probably tipping the scales at 160 pounds. She wasn’t the type whom most people might assume a serial killer would target. Rader seemed to pride himself in that fact.

The names Dodge City and Wichita conjure visions of cowboys on horseback moving herds of cattle long distances, but as we found ourselves in the Blue Stem flint hills and tallgrass prairies we stopped the car and got out to rest. And with what felt like a cyclone trying to rip our ears off all we could see was …… nothing; Big sky, big land, unceasing horizon and cold-blooded and ruthless prairie.

Like his adversaries back in Wichita and Dodge, many hailed from Texas. But these weren’t drovers intent on a little wild fun. They dealt in cattle, too, but instead of herding them, they stole them. For that they acquired a generic nickname that eventually evolved into a complimentary description, but one that in 1880 was intended as a slur, a means of identifying men so low and violent that no evil act was considered beneath them: Cowboys.

when the riot controls had been put into effect, and a nervous white population was waiting, it took little to set it off. In Wichita, a few white youths drove down into the black area and simply fired off guns. This brought black people out of their houses; in rage at seeing the harassment, they hurled stones or sticks at a passing car, and the battle was on. In that particular instance the police arrested the five whites who were armed and twelve young black men who had only rocks and sticks. All were jailed. The next morning, all were released on bail, but the bail set for the five armed whites was only one-fifth the amount set for the twelve unarmed black students.

Meanwhile in Wichita, Kansas, Dr. George Tiller, one of the few doctors who performs late-term abortions—only about 1 percent of all procedures but crucial when, for instance, a fetus develops without a brain—is shot in both arms by a female picketer. He recovers and continues serving women who come to him from many states. I finally meet Dr. Tiller in 2008 at a New York gathering of Physicians for Reproductive Choice and Health. I ask him if he has ever helped a woman who was protesting at his clinic. He says: “Of course, I’m there to help them, not to add to their troubles. They probably already feel guilty.” In 2009 Dr. Tiller is shot in the head at close range by a male activist hiding inside the Lutheran church where the Tiller family worships each Sunday. This is done in the name of being “pro-life.

The fact that VICAP isn’t a mandatory program not only saddens me but sometimes keeps me awake at night. Our nation has more than seventeen thousand different law enforcement agencies operating within its borders. For whatever the reason, precious few communicate with one another, nor do many feel compelled to share information. This needs to change—and fast. We desperately need a mandatory VICAP program in this country. It won’t eradicate serial violent offenders, but it will allow the authorities to intercept them much earlier in their criminal careers.

University, where she is an adjunct professor of education and serves on the Veterans Committee, among about a thousand other things. That’s heroism. I have taken the kernel of her story and do what I do, which is dramatize, romanticize, exaggerate, and open fire. Hence, Game of Snipers. Now, on to apologies, excuses, and evasions. Let me offer the first to Tel Aviv; Dearborn, Michigan; Greenville, Ohio; Wichita, Kansas; Rock Springs, Wyoming; and Anacostia, D.C. I generally go to places I write about to check the lay of streets, the fall of shadows, the color of police cars, and the taste of local beer. At seventy-three, such ordeals-by-airport are no longer fun, not even the beer part; I only go where there’s beaches. For this book, I worked from maps and Google, and any geographical mistakes emerge out of that practice. Is the cathedral three hundred yards from the courthouse in Wichita? Hmm, seems about right, and that’s good enough for me on this. On the other hand, I finally got Bob’s wife’s name correct. It’s Julie, right? I’ve called her Jen more than once, but I’m pretty sure Jen was Bud Pewtie’s wife in Dirty White Boys. For some reason, this mistake seemed to trigger certain Amazon reviewers into psychotic episodes. Folks, calm down, have a drink, hug someone soft. It’ll be all right. As for the shooting, my account of the difficulties of hitting at over a mile is more or less accurate (snipers have done it at least eight times). I have simplified, because it is so arcane it would put all but the most dedicated in a coma. I have also been quite accurate about the ballistics app FirstShot, because I made it up and can make it do anything I want. The other shot, the three hundred, benefits from the wisdom of Craig Boddington, the great hunter and writer, who looked it over and sent me a detailed email, from which I have borrowed much. Naturally, any errors are mine, not Craig’s. I met Craig when shooting something (on film!) for another boon companion, Michael Bane, and his Outdoor Channel Gun Stories crew. For some reason, he finds it amusing when I start jabbering away and likes to turn the camera on. Don’t ask me why. On the same trip, I also met the great firearms historian and all-around movie guy (he knows more than I do) Garry James, who has become

In any discussion of serial killers, a few notorious names—those of the most prolific killers—always get mentioned. Ted Bundy admitted to killing thirty women, but it could well have been more. Gary Ridgeway, also known as the Green River Killer, was convicted of murdering forty-eight, but later confessed to others. John Wayne Gacy was convicted of killing thirty-three people. Jeffrey Dahmer was convicted of murdering and partially ingesting fifteen people. David Berkowitz, New York City’s “Son of Sam,” shot and killed six people. Less well known but significant are Dennis Rader, who killed ten people in Wichita, Kansas, and Aileen Wuornos, portrayed by Charlize Theron in the film Monster, who killed six men. Wayne Williams was convicted of killing only two men, but he is believed to have killed anywhere from twenty-three to twenty-nine children in Atlanta. Robert Hansen confessed to four murders but is suspected of more than seventeen. Juan Corona was convicted of murdering twenty-five people. Their crimes are all horrific, and the number of victims is heartbreaking. But all these most notorious serial killers stand in the shadow of Dr. Kermit Gosnell. Strangely, Gosnell appears in no list we have found of known U.S. serial killers, though he is the biggest of them all. In reality, Kermit Gosnell deserves the top spot on any list of serial murderers. He’s earned it.

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Doris Miller, a huge mess attendant on the West Virginia, was one of the regulars faced with this problem of reconciling the old with the new. Every morning he had the colossal job of waking up Ensign Edmond Jacoby, a young reservist from the University of Wichita. At first Miller used to yank at Jacoby, much like a Pullman porter arousing a passenger. This was fine with Jacoby, but an Annapolis man reminded Miller that an enlisted man must never touch an officer. Faced with the problem of upholding an ensign’s dignity and still getting Jacoby up, Miller appeared the following morning with a brilliant solution. Standing three inches from Jacoby’s ear, he yelled, “Hey, Jake!” and fled the room.

There is a lesson for liberals in the Kansas story, and it’s not that they, too, might someday get invited to tea in Cupcake Land. It is, rather, an utter and final repudiation of their historical decision to remake themselves as the other pro-business party. By all rights the people in Wichita and Shawnee and Garden City should today be flocking to the party of Roosevelt, not deserting it. Culturally speaking, however, that option is simply not available to them anymore. Democrats no longer speak to the people on the losing end of a free-market system that is becoming more brutal and more arrogant by the day.

Wichita Falls with the club’s lawyer. I assured him I’d be fine.

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also found a new passion in genealogy. I’d received a rush of letters from Ballards all over the country who wondered if they were related to me. After giving a lecture in North Carolina, I dug into the archives at Guilford College in Greensboro. It turns out that eight generations of Ballards had been Quakers there—and most of them had signed their names with X’s—before my great-grandfather had moved to Wichita. I was amazed that someone like me, who had invested so much of his life in military service, had come from a family of Quakers. Indeed, although I was able to trace the whole, long Ballard family saga back to the sheriff of Nottingham in 1325, I could find only one ancestor who wore a military uniform, Col. Thomas Ballard, a member of the British colonial militia in Virginia.

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Gwen Proctor is the fourth identity I’ve had since leaving Wichita. Gina Royal lies dead in the past; I’m not that woman anymore. In fact, I can hardly recognize her now, that weak creature who’d submitted, pretended, smoothed over every ripple of trouble that rose.

Wichita: streets - rail - bonds - industry In 1870, Darius Munger and William "Dutch Bill" Greiffenstein filed plats to lay out the first streets in what would go on to become Wichita, Kansas. Wichita incorporated as a city on July 21, 1870.   One year later - on June 22, 1871 -underpinnings for the establishment of ‘Cowtown’ were laid in steel in Wichita. The Wichita and Southwestern Railroad Company was incorporated on June 22, 1871. A few months later, relative to railroad expansion in Wichita, a Sedgwick County, Kansas bond issuance took place. That bond issuance was approved by Sedgwick County voters on August 11, 1871: $200,000 in bonds This bond issuance enabled Wichita to finance the construction of a rail line which connected Wichita to Newton, Kansas. Rail service in Wichita - connecting Wichita to Newton -was a boon for Texas cattlemen. The new rail line -to the north of Texas - enabled shipment of cattle from Texas, on to Wichita. Then further along to Newton. And off to eastern markets in the United States.

The land didn't need laws. But people did.

It was a bitter thing. You might give up lawing, but some no-account would pop up from the underbrush of the past and shoot you in the back.

But more important than both TLC and the All Saints is Billie Piper. Billie’s ‘Honey to the B’ is a smokin’ hot tune, it’s up there with the greats: Glen Campbell’s ‘Wichita Lineman’, ‘Tago Mago’ by Can, ‘Approximately Infinite Universe’ by Yoko, Metal Box by PiL, ‘Never Ever’ by the All Saints. Er, OK, so ‘Honey to the B’ is something of a ‘Never Ever’ lite, but this contrivance, like the very existence of the All Saints, somehow elevates Billie Piper into truly over-achieving high art.

We couldn’t stop following the news. Every ten seconds we refreshed our browsers and gawked at the headlines. Dully we read blogs of friends of friends of friends who had started an organic farm out on the Wichita River. They were out there pickling and canning and brewing things in the goodness of nature. And soon we’d worry it was time for us to leave the city and go. Go! To Uruguay or Morocco or Connecticut? To the Plains or the Mountains or the Bay? But we’d bide our time and after some months or years, our farmer friends would give up the farm and begin studying for the LSATs. We felt lousy about this, and wonderful. We missed getting mail. We wondered why we even kept those tiny keys on our crowded rings. Sometimes we would send ourselves things from the office. Sometimes we would handwrite long letters to old loved ones and not send them. We never knew their new address. We never knew anyone’s address, just their cross streets and what their doors looked like. Which button to buzz, and if the buzzers even worked. How many flights to climb, and which way to turn off the stairs. Sometimes we missed those who hadn’t come to the city with us— or those who had gone to other, different cities. Sometimes we journeyed to see them, and sometimes they ventured to see us. Those were the best of times, for we were all at home and not at once. Those were the worst of times, for we inevitably longed to all move here or there, yet no one ever came— somehow everyone only left. Soon we were practically all alone. Soon we began to hate the forever cramping of our lives. Sleeping on top of strangers and sipping coffee with people we knew we knew but couldn’t remember where from. Living out of boxes we had no space to unpack. Soon we named the pigeons roosting in our windowsills; we worried they looked mangier than the week before. We heard bellowing in the apartments below us and bedsprings creaking in the ones above. Everywhere we saw people with dogs and wodnered how they managed it. Did they work form home?Did they not work? Had they gone to the right schools? Did they have connections? We had no connections. Our parents were our guarantors in name only; they called us from their jobs in distant, colorless, suburban office parks and told us we could come home anytime, and this terrified us always. But then came those nights, creeping up on us while we worked busily in dark offices, like submariners lost at sea, sailing through the dark stratosphere in our cement towers. We’d call each other to report: a good thing happened, a compliment had been paid, a favor had been appreciated, an inch of ground had been gained. We wouldn’t trade those nights for anything or anywhere. Those nights, we remembered why we came to the city. Because if we were really living, then we wanted to hear the cracking in our throats and feel the trembling in our extremities. And if our apartments were coffins and our desks headstones and our dreams infections— if we were all slowly dying — then at least we were going about that great and terrible business together.

Cato was devoted to espousing Charles Koch’s vision: that government’s only legitimate role was to “serve as a night watchman, to protect individuals and property from outside threat, including fraud. That is the maximum,” as he told the Wichita Rotary Club in the 1970s.

Fred Koch’s political views were apparently shaped by his traumatic exposure to the Soviet Union. Over time, Stalin brutally purged several of Koch’s Soviet acquaintances, giving him a firsthand glimpse into the murderous nature of the Communist regime. Koch was also apparently shaken by a steely government minder assigned to him while he worked in the Soviet Union, who threatened that the Communists would soon conquer the United States. Koch was deeply affected by the experience and later, after his business deals were completed, said he regretted his collaboration. He kept photographs in the company headquarters in Wichita aimed at documenting how the refineries he had built had later been destroyed.

Ironically, the organization modeled itself on the Communist Party. Stealth and subterfuge were endemic. Membership was kept secret. Fighting “dirty” was justified internally, as necessary to combat the imputed treacherousness of the enemy. Welch “explicitly sought to use the same methods” he attributed to the Communists, “manipulation, deceit, and even dishonesty,” recalled diZerega, who attended Birch Society meetings in Wichita in his youth. One ploy the group used, he said, was to set up phony front groups “pretending to be other than what they were.” An alphabet soup of secretly connected organizations sprang up, with acronyms like TRAIN (To Restore American Independence Now) and TACT (Truth About Civil Turmoil). Another tactic was to wrap the group’s radical vision in mundane and unthreatening slogans that sound familiar today, such as “less government, more responsibility.” One of Welch’s favorite tropes, decrying “collectivism,” would cause some head-scratching more than fifty years later when it was echoed by Charles Koch in a 2014 diatribe in The Wall Street Journal denouncing his Democratic critics as “collectivists.

Just knock off the horns and hair, and toss it on the coals for about thirty seconds on each side. I like mine still kicking and quivering! -Wichita talking about steak

You are serving seven years and four months at a maximum-security prison in Wichita. What are you in for and what is your prison job?

Podemos aplicar este mismo sistema para encontrar una pieza de recambio, un socio, un colaborador o un programa de gestión de un recurso distribuido. ¿Que necesitamos acero de China, caucho de Malasia o cristal de Wichita, Kansas? No hay problema. Cámaras de compensación descentralizadas y en línea que operen como DApp para cada producto permitirán a los compradores negociar precios, calidad y fechas de entrega con unos cuantos clics del ratón. Tendremos un registro detallado de las transacciones anteriores, en el que no sólo veremos la calificación de las distintas empresas, sino también cómo cumplieron con sus compromisos. Podremos seguir todos los envíos en un mapa virtual que mostrará con precisión los lugares por los que pasa. Podremos programar envíos que lleguen justo a tiempo. No se necesitarán almacenes.

Deer were exterminated in Kansas by market and subsistence hunting in the late 1800s, as were elk, bison, and pronghorn. Deer are very common in Kansas now, but they were so scarce prior to World War II that merely seeing one would merit an item in local newspapers.

Instead of retreating behind the gates of their Wichita compound and leaving lawyers and crisis management professionals to handle the fallout, the enigmatic family made a public showing of support for the Seiberts.

A veteran Republican operative from Virginia, Phillips considered himself a specialist in “grasstops” organizing—building a citizen movement atop a corporate-funded campaign. In the 1990s, he had formed a political consulting business, Century Strategies, with onetime Christian Coalition leader and influence peddler extraordinaire Ralph Reed. Their firm had close ties to Jack Abramoff, the lobbyist who spent nearly four years in prison for defrauding Native American gaming interests of millions. Phillips (who was not accused of any wrongdoing) played a cameo role in the headline-grabbing corruption scandal, helping to establish a group called the Faith and Family Alliance, which served, on at least one occasion, as a pass-through for cash from Abramoff’s gaming clients.

The idea of employing a deceptive front group to mask corporate self-interest was not original, even within the Koch family. The same ruse had been used not just by the du Pont family and others during the New Deal years but also by a group to which Fred Koch belonged in the 1950s. He was an early and active member of the Wichita-based DeMille Foundation for Political Freedom, an antilabor union group that was a forerunner of the National Right to Work Legal Defense Foundation.

As the company grew, Charles remained in Wichita, working ten-hour days, six days a week. When he proposed to his future wife, Liz, he did so reportedly over the phone, and she could hear him flipping through his busy date book in search of an open day for the wedding. In preparation, he required her to study free-market economics.

Fink, boasted to The Wichita Eagle in 2012, “I think that’s actually one of the things that happened at the Obama administration, is that every rock they overturned, they saw people who were against it, and it turned out to be us.

If the next stop’s Wichita Falls, I better take a piss too,” Otis agreed.

Dr. Tiller also experienced attacks and threats that, although they garnered less attention, nonetheless affected his day-to-day life. He was the subject of repeated death threats, as were members of his family and clinic staff. Old West–style “Wanted” posters with Dr. Tiller’s name, picture, and personal information appeared throughout Wichita. The signs offered a vague “reward” for Dr. Tiller. Anti-abortion demonstrators picketed Dr. Tiller’s home and stalked his wife. They also repeatedly showed up at Dr. Tiller’s church, harassing the congregants and interrupting services.11 Dr. Tiller significantly altered his life to deal with the constant harassment and threats.

Although Sharon was found in the ruins of Wichita, there is no way of knowing where her story originally occurred.]

In March 1872, he turned 24. He was already a widower, and a fellow who had had repeated brushes with the law. He had no home and no real prospects, and, writes Sherry Monahan, he apparently continued his downward spiral into the depths of depravity. Wyatt was a lonely man touched by tragedy who was reluctant or unable to make friends and to let anyone get close to him. It would have been very easy for him to fall in with the wrong crowd and repeat the ill-advised horse stealing escapade, or worse. Instead, Wyatt went to Wichita and found redemption.

Every free-trade agreement we have signed in recent years has been designed to make cities vulnerable in precisely this way. If you’re a medium-sized city like Wichita, hosting some giant multinational’s plant is less of an achievement today than it is a gun pointed at your head, a constant reminder that some executive has the power to turn your town into an instant Flint,

It was largely a land without Borders - something that attracted him and disturbed him both. The land didn't need laws. But the people did.

There’s a witch in Wichita. As an expert on all things Topeka, I should know. I once made Kansas all night long in Arkansas. Wait, Kansas is a synonym for love, right?

Killers who target strangers and have no obvious motive are always difficult to catch. In the 1970s Ted Bundy killed over twenty young women before he was finally apprehended, despite over a dozen detectives in three states looking for him. The BTK killer of Wichita was caught after thirty years only because of DNA evidence and his own arrogance. The Zodiac killer of northern California evaded a forty-year manhunt, never to be captured or even identified with certainty.

He worried all up and down every street and with every tack he drove in. Worried about the very long journey ahead, about his ability to keep the girl from harm. He thought, resentfully, I raised my girls. I already did that. At the age he had attained with his life span short before him he had begun to look upon the human world with the indifference of a condemned man. Who cares for your fashions and your wars and your causes? I will shortly be gone and I have seen many fashions come and go and many causes so passionately defended only to be forgotten. But now it was different and he was drawn back into the stream of being because there was once again a life in his hands. Things mattered. The strange depression and spiritual chill he had felt back in Wichita Falls was gone. But still he objected. He was an old man. A cranky old man. I raised two of them already. A celestial voice said, Well then, do it again. The Captain had to admit that this was his own inner voice, which always sounded something like that of his father, the magistrate, who had often recalled to his son the law under the Crown, in Colonial North Carolina, his voice speculative and gentle and lightly agreeable with drink.

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While the Wichita Cons worked hard to build their movement, they would not have succeeded so extravagantly had it not been for the simultaneous suicide of the rival movement, the one that traditionally spoke for working-class people. I am referring, of course, to the Clinton administration’s famous policy of “triangulation,” its grand effort to minimize the differences between Democrats and Republicans on economic issues. Among the nation’s pundit corps “triangulation” has always been considered a stroke of genius, signaling the end of liberalism’s old-fashioned “class warfare” and also of the Democrats’ faith in “big government.” Clinton’s New Democrats, it was thought, had brought the dawn of an era in which all parties agreed on the sanctity of the free market. As political strategy, though, Clinton’s move to accommodate the right was the purest folly. It simply pulled the rug out from under any possible organizing effort on the left. While the Cons were busily polarizing the electorate, the Dems were meekly seeking the center.

The High Plains settler (myth obscures) a truth that is more complex and less immediately satisfying but embraces, as the stereotype does not, all of what it means to be human.

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1988, it was published as a book: Sexual Homicide: Patterns and Motives.

Joseph Wambaugh’s crime classic The Onion Field.

December 9, 1977. The poem, titled “Oh Death to Nancy,” was based on an Appalachian folk song called “Oh Death.” What is this taht I can see Cold icy hands taking hold of me for Death has come, you all can see. Hell has open it,s gate to trick me. Oh! Death, Oh! Death, can’t you spare me, over for another year! I’ll stuff your jaws till you can’t talk I’ll blind your leg’s till you can’t walk I’ll tie your hands till you can’t make a stand. And finally I’ll close your eyes so you can’t see I’ll bring sexual death unto you for me.

BTK’s habit of cutting the outside phone lines of his victims was also mentioned in the press conference. That evening, thousands of residents throughout the city began a ritual that would last for years: the first thing they did upon entering their home was check to see if the phone worked. Others made it a habit—before entering their house—to dial their home number from a pay phone, to see if their phone rang.

It’s kinda like guys who follow baseball or football,” he told me in that dimly lit prison interrogation room. “They know all the bat-ting averages, yards per game, interceptions versus touchdowns, where the players went to high school. They know every stat about all their favorite players.” Fischer took a deep breath and began tracing an imaginary circle into the top of the table that separated the two of us. “Well, those other guys got their games, and guys like me, we got our games. I didn’t grow up wanting to hit home runs. I grew up wanting to kill people. And I used to soak up every bit of information I could find on the guys who were good at playing my kind of game.

The more physical the torture, the more primal and reactive the person inflicting it is. Not much intelligent thought goes into physical torture.

Any press releases should clearly state that he is a killer who must be apprehended and that he is not a psychotic animal, if the press has already painted him to be this. This approach may reduce the killer’s anxiety concerning his own psychiatric health and reinforce his own guilt feelings by removing the rationalization of the excuse of psychiatric cause and hence non-responsibility for his acts.

He didn’t use force to convince his victims to go along with him. He used bullshit. He pretended to be a relatively harmless thug, using words to manipulate his victims into allowing themselves to be tied up, usually without any struggle.

it wasn’t part of what’s referred to as his “signature,” which is what a killer must do to satisfy himself psychologically. BTK’s signature was bondage—not physical torture.

BTK never penetrated any of his victims.

Someone as sick and dangerous as BTK will stop killing only when he is killed or gets locked behind bars. My research had proven to me that this is the only way to rein in these guys. Rehabilitation is a fairy tale.

I joined the agency in 1970, four years before the first BTK killings, a twenty-five-year-old rookie agent working the streets of inner-city Detroit. Like most idealistic young agents (and I was one of the youngest ever hired), I’d convinced myself that I was going to make Motor City safer by helping put the bad guys behind bars, a crusade I imagined the citizens would applaud. It didn’t take long before I realized how the residents living in my “beat” felt about my presence in their neighborhood. The Detroit area had been nearly leveled by the 1967 race riots that left forty-three people dead. When I joined the FBI three years later, the place still exuded the desperate, forgotten aura of a second-generation war zone. Whenever my partner and I drove through the area in our so-called “bucar” (short for bureau car), the locals would flip us off and shout, “DOWN WITH THE PIGS.” One afternoon in 1971, while en route to stake out a bookie joint, I asked myself, Is this really how you want to spend the next twenty-five years of your career? Before an answer could come to me, an empty bottle bounced off the roof of my car, shattering on the asphalt just outside my open window. I stomped on the accelerator, muttering to myself that the only way I’d ever last in the FBI would be to find some specialty in the science of criminology, then hurl myself into it with everything I had.

Gary Sebring, a local resident with a lengthy history of deviant behavior that included an arrest for having sex with a duck in Riverside Park,

plenty of criminals do change their MOs. Decades later, investigators would learn that BTK changed his modus operandi when he removed the bodies of his last two victims from their homes. What doesn’t change is the killer’s signature, which is something the offender does to fulfill himself emotionally, but that isn’t necessarily needed to accomplish the crime. In the Otero murders—and, we would later learn, in the Bright case—BTK’s signature was the use of bindings and gags, along with a form of psychological torture wherein he denied his victims the courtesy of a quick death.

All he could remember was that he was about three years old when he walked into his mother’s bedroom and found her struggling on the bed, hopelessly entangled in the twisted bed sheets wrapped around the wrought-iron headboard. He had discovered her wrapped up in the sheets, her arms extended above her head, writhing, sobbing, and struggling to free herself. He claimed to have stood there in the doorway for what seemed like an eternity, watching her, feeling helpless, powerless to do anything about her situation. How on earth could she have gotten caught up in such a predicament? Even after all the years that had elapsed between the event and when he wrote about it in his journal, he never could answer that question. But clearly, he acted out some facet of this memory in each of his murders. This image of his mother, lying in bed, half dressed, writhing and twisting in desperation, became his visual mantra.

Dennis was the first of the four sons of William, a former U.S. Marine, and Dorothea Rader. His parents grew up in the area—William had served as the captain of the high school football team, and Dorothea had been chosen as the school’s head cheerleader.

paternal grandparents, who also happened to be cousins.

Rader, according to various sources, has both confirmed and denied that on the rare occasions that Dorothea resorted to spanking, he experienced that same familiar sensation in his crotch that he’d first felt while watching his grandma wring the necks off chickens. By

He did fairly well in mathematics, but no matter how hard he tried he could never get his mind around his English classes—

I’d never glimpsed a collection of diaries, journals, notebooks, scrapbooks, photographs, drawings, and other confessional materials from a serial killer such as these. The only killer I could think of who came close to being such a prolific diarist was David Berkowitz, aka the Son of Sam. His journals documented the majority of the nearly two thousand “nuisance” fires he ignited in trash cans around New York City in the years prior to his homicidal spree. But Rader’s writing was different, darker and more convoluted.

Rader was one of that rare breed of youth who often caused the parents of other kids in his neighborhood to exclaim, “Why can’t you be like Dennis Rader?

Dennis Rader was a guy with a slightly below average level of intelligence who somehow possessed a repressed type of patience not often found in serial killers.

So he left his car on the other side of the parking lot, walked across to where she parked, and waited. When she appeared, he pulled the hood of his parka down over his head, walked up to her, and grabbed her, which was how everyone seemed to do it in the pages of his detective magazines. But everything went wrong. The moment he lay his hands on her, she began screaming and punching at him. He couldn’t control her arms. She’d gone insane on him. He didn’t realize that a woman could be so strong. So he shoved her down onto the asphalt and ran like hell back toward his car. “That was a big mistake,” he muttered to himself while heading back home to Park City.

killers do change their MO. It is their most malleable and fluid quality, a skill that is constantly evolving and changing to the point of perfection.

Then suddenly I remembered the night before when Pam and I were channel surfing. After a few minutes, she stumbled on a rerun of an early 1970s flick, starring Richard Roundtree, about a no-nonsense, ass-kicking inner-city black detective named John Shaft. The movie’s theme song thundered out of the tiny speaker in our TV set.

He wanted the world to know that he was smarter than the cops trying to catch him. At the same time, his detailed descriptions of his crime scenes told me that he was also a wannabe cop, someone who would have probably given anything to have a job in law enforcement. I wondered if he’d ever applied for a job with police and been turned away. Or yearned to apply, but knew that if they ran a fingerprint check on him they might stumble on a print he’d left behind at one of his crime scenes, which police had collected but never made public.

I reviewed crime scenes, forensic evidence, and the victim’s background (this work is known as victimology), trying to better understand what kind of person could have committed a particular crime. It was only after we answered those questions that we could prescribe a course of action that investigators should take.

He scouted the area like a soldier, searching to make sure he was alone. Eventually, after determining that all was safe, he lay down in the warm dirt and awkwardly wrapped string around his ankles, yanked it tight, then tied it off with a quick knot. The next step was a little trickier, but he managed to pull it off. After placing his wrists together, he passed his hands through a slipknot and, with the string clenched between his teeth, pulled his bindings tight. He lay there hidden away from the world, the hot afternoon sun warming his skin, feeling himself get aroused in a way he never had before. Off in the distance, a tractor rumbled, but he didn’t pay it any mind. Then one afternoon, during one of his solo bondage sessions, it happened: after a few minutes, he ejaculated. He’d never felt anything like it. The sensation was so euphoric that he sneaked out of his house the next afternoon and did it again. It wasn’t long before he was tying himself up whenever he could find a few minutes alone. He wrote about enjoying imagining himself to be helpless and weak, always just minutes away from death, completely at the mercy of some bad stranger who possessed complete control over him.

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.

CHILDHOOD REFLECTIONS: 1-8 Years Old: Only memories float around in the mind, but never seem to disappear, but you almost see them (possible sexual overtures or early childhood problems that develop into sexual variant later on in life). . . . Mother slept beside me at times, the smells, the feel of underclothes and she let me rub her hair. . . . 10-11 years old: If you masturbate god will come and kill you, mom words after she found seminal yellow stain in her underwear one day. She tried to beat me. I fought back. She held my hands behind my back and used the man’s belt to whip me. Funny it hurt but Sparky liked it. Mother finally quit and said, ‘Oh my god what have I done?’ She kiss me. I was close to her, tears and moisture upon her and my cheeks. I could feel her heart beating and smell those wonderful motherly aromas. After consulting with the FBI, investigators sat on the contents of the bizarre story for over a month before releasing them to the community.

But the part of the communication that caught Landwehr’s eye was the pithy message BTK had tacked onto the final page. It read, “Look, be honest with me. If I send you a disk will it be traceable? Just put (the answer) in the newspaper under Miscellaneous Section 494 (Rex, it will be OK). Run it for a few day in case I’m out of town—etc. I will try a floppy for a test run some time in the near future—February or March.” This marked the beginning of the end for BTK.

The killer had begun to trust the super-cop—which was exactly what I had envisioned when I began suggesting this technique back in 1984.

As Landwehr later learned when he interrogated him, BTK was growing frustrated with the elaborate, complicated logistics involved with dropping off his communiqués around the Wichita area. He wanted to go digital and begin submitting his messages to them via computer disk. Because the police knew about these high-tech matters, he truly believed he could trust them to give it to him straight.

He had another close call a few days later. As Landwehr told me, Rader was at home writing a letter to his brother Paul, who was stationed over in “the big sandbox,” which was how Rader enjoyed describing Iraq. Paula happened to walk by and glance over her husband’s shoulder at the letter, reading the words he’d written. Suddenly, he heard her exclaim, “You know, you spell just like BTK.

Once the leads begin to dry up, law enforcement departments need to begin releasing more information. It’s crucial to get the community involved, to give people enough background into the case that they can better understand what drives the UNSUB, allowing them to become extra eyes and ears for law enforcement. Police also had examples of BTK’s handwriting and did, at one point, release a sample of the writing to the media. That Paula, who once noted the similarities between BTK’s poor spelling and that of her husband, reportedly never saw this sample tells me that this release should have been handled in a different manner.

Several years ago, one of my former profilers working a triple homicide in the Tampa area came up with the idea of plastering a portion of a note written by the UNSUB on billboards in select parts of the city. Within twenty-four hours, someone recognized the handwriting, and the perp was arrested not long afterwards.

More than anything else, what the BTK case did was reinforce my belief that the authorities need to supply information to the general public the moment they’ve exhausted all logical leads. More often than not, this can occur within a few days or sometimes within a few hours of launching an investigation.

Harvey Glatman.