Notorious B.T.K: Professional Masturbator

Dennis Rader is a thirsty boi.  It’s October of 1974 and his dumb letter makes its way to the Witchita Eagle-Beacon claiming responsibility for the Otero murders.  Understandably, the city FREAKS out because four members of a family were murdered in cold blood and the cops were shrugging their shoulders.

Three years pass before the next B.T.K. murder.  Rader is in a neighborhood in Sedgwick County in March of 1977.  He had his next victim lined up in what he later told Judge Waller was “Project Green,” a stupid name that probably gave him a boner.  Something changes his mind last-minute, and instead, he finds a little boy on the street and asks the boy to ID a few photos as part of his ruse.  He then watches to see what house the little boy disappears into and ultimately decides that this house will be his next target.

It’s Shirley Vian, mother of three.  Rader locks the three kids in the bathroom, later describing the event to Judge Waller:

“We put some toys and blankets and odds and ends in there for the kids to make them as comfortable as we could. Tied one of the bathroom doors shut so they couldn’t open it then we shoved, she went back and helped me shove the bed against the other bathroom door. Then I proceeded to tie her up. She got sick, threw up. I got her a glass of water, comforted her a little, then I went ahead and tied her up and put a bag over her head and strangled her.”

(I mean, what?  Was the court supposed to say “wow that’s super nice of you!  Doin’ all that before you strangled her!”  Whatadouche).

That little boy Rader spoke to about the photos earlier, locked in the bathroom, and murdered his mother is Steve Relford.  Relford spoke to CNN about that day, describing what he remembers as “my mother laying face down with a plastic bag over her head, a rope tied around her neck, all the fingers in her hand broken, her hands taped behind her back. That’s what I remember.”  Relford also appears in the Investigation Discovery documentary and makes me what to drop everything and give him a hug.  I imagine that this man’s life would’ve gone much differently if Rader hadn’t fucked it all up.


In December of 1977, Rader kills again–Nancy Fox, a single lady living her best life, working two jobs and getting it done.  Rader, desperate for the attention like a little boy tugging at his mom’s shirt, calls emergency dispatch and reports the crime.  Cops now have his voice on record, but unfortunately, they couldn’t match it.

That wasn’t enough for Rader, though, because in January, he sends a poem mimicking a nursery rhyme to The Witchita-Eagle Beacon detailing the murder of Vian and was probably super obnoxious to read.  In February, he sent another letter to good ole KAKE-TV, bragging about Vian, Fox, and an unnamed victim.  “How many people do I have to kill before I get a name in the paper or some national attention?” He wrote, probably stomping his foot as he did.

How’s this for national attention? When Rader wasn’t murdering, he was spending hours strapping himself up for these delightful selfies

Police Chief Richard LaMunyon gets on the horn and announces that a serial killer is at large.  With a lack of leads, Witchita Police basically do one of these:  \_(ツ)_/ except, you know, not as happy.

In 1979, Rader, AKA the sneakiest bitch in town, graduates from Witchita State University with an irony-soaked degree in Administration of Justice.  He’s been working for ADT security (1974-88) and at this point, he has two kids (his daughter was born in 1978 and son was born in 1975).  Like a psychopath, he’s also been squirreling away trophies from the scenes underneath the floorboards of the family home.  How fun!

In 1979, Rader also finds himself waiting anxiously in the home of Anna Williams that April, a nice, 63-year-old lady who was having a great time with her friends and didn’t come home, and that really boiled Rader’s blood.  He even sends her a letter telling her how goshdarn MAD he wasHe was going to kill her and she stood him up…the audacity!

In August of that same year, police turn to the public’s help.  They release the 1977 recording of Rader’s voice, and on the first day of doing so, they receive 110 tips.  It isn’t until 1984 that a task force forms aptly called “The Ghostbusters”.  On the team was Lt. Ken Landwehr, ultimate badass and one of six detectives who would spend the next three years on Rader’s trail.  It was Lt. Landwehr who would play a pivotal role in finally catching the elusive B.T.K.

In April of 1985, Rader gets particularly gross and cocky–yes, he gets worse.  He murders his neighbor Marine Hedge, but in an act of escalation, takes her body to Christ Luthern Church where he was president of church council, takes several photographs as God cries, and then disposes of the body in a ditch.  Over the next few days, cops would recover Hedge’s car, her purse, and finally, her body.  Later, in the ID documentary, Rader’s daughter, Kerri Rawson recounts how she remembered her father’s absence that particular night in April as she was awake because of a storm.

In September of 1986, Rader strangles 28-year-old Vicki Wegerle, but she didn’t go down without a fight–and also nabbing some much-needed DNA.  At the time, her death remains a cold case, and it wouldn’t be until much later that the task force would be able to put this DNA to use.

Dolores Davis

In February of 1991, Dolores “Dee” Davis’ body was found beneath a bridge with a tasteless plastic lady-mask that for whatever reason, Rader wore in his stupid bondage selfies.

I don’t even want to TOUCH this thing because I’ve seen where it’s been

Her son, Jeff Davis, wins best insult trophy:

“For the last 5,236 days, I have wondered what it would be like to confront the walking cesspool that took my mother’s precious life,” Davis said in his statement.  “I spent months working on that victim impact statement,” Davis recalled. “I stared at him the whole time. He didn’t have the guts to look at me.”

Correct, Jeff.  Rader is a walking cesspool and I hope you framed that victim impact statement.

From the discovery of Dolores Davis in 1991 until 2004, the city of Witchita doesn’t hear from the B.T.K., that is until The Witchita Eagle-Beacon unknowingly prods their pesky neighborhood serial killer out of hiding with an article on the 30th anniversary of the Otero murders.

If you have to put this much work in your boners then I think you might be doing something wrong
















a sneak peek

When I found out my brother was dead, I was relieved.

I was always covering for him in some way. I guess I still am.



There was a thin layer of snow on the ground, but not enough to cover the decaying leaves. Gunner’s sharp bark snapped me out of sleep—six on the dot. The damn dog was never late in announcing his need to go outside. I threw on yesterday’s flannel shirt draped on the corner chair. The sun would rise in an hour, but for now, the blackness blanketed the world.

Gunner was barking urgently from the foyer. “Whose here, boy?” I rubbed his ink-black head and opened the front door. A car’s headlights stared back at me from the driveway. “Stay,” I commanded, and stepped into chilled air, closing the door behind me.


“Shannon?” I called into the darkness. My breath was like smoke in the air.

The figure ran in front of the headlights. Shannon’s small frame was swimming in an oversized sweatshirt and baggy pajama pants. “Oh, Noah,” she choked, nearly bowling me over as she ran into my chest.

“What the hell is going on?” I grabbed her by the shoulders and squared her in front me. Her eyes were red and swollen with dark smudges hanging like black half-moons beneath them. “It’s Eli,” I stated, reading her face.

Shannon burst into tears and crumpled before me. “Let’s get inside.” I dragged her trembling body into the house and sat her on the couch. “I don’t have tissues so this will have to do,” I said, handing her a wad of fast food napkins. I sat down on the stool across from her, studying Shannon’s fraught expression as she blew her nose. “What’d he do this time?” I sighed.

Shannon’s frowned. “He’s dead,” she spat, her voice nearing disgust.

“Oh,” I said automatically. For a few moments, I waited until some form of emotion passed through me, a stomach flip, a wave of nausea, a burst of anger. I felt nothing.

“Noah,” Shannon straightened herself. “No one knows. I went over to his cabin and found him—” she sputtered.

I put up my hand to stop her.

“I didn’t take care of anything. I couldn’t…Oh God, Noah, it was such a mess.”

“Shannon, I’ll handle it,” I repeated. I stood up, grabbed a heavy coat, and began lacing my boots up.

“Thank you,” she said softly.

“Lock up when you leave,” I said without looking back as I opened the door to the emerging dawn.

Bind, Tortue, Kill? More Like Basic Ass Bitch, Amiright?

Excuse me, do you have a moment to talk about notorious serial killer Dennis Lynn Rader?  No, really, his middle name is Lynn.

Dennis Rader just wanted to be a special boy

Generally speaking, serial killers have a commonality of a miserable, abusive childhood where this cycle of abuse is later enacted on their chosen victims.  Animal cruelty (and sometimes a traumatic head injury) is also prevalent.

Rader was guilty of hanging stray animals like an asshole, but otherwise, he had a normal, boring childhood.  Born in 1945 in Pittsburg, Kansas, he was the oldest of four brothers.  Dr. Katherine Ramsland summarized Rader’s childhood in Oxygen’s “Snapped: Notorious” based on extensive interviews with him: “…Rader’s father worked long hours.  He didn’t see him a lot.  He said his mother liked to read or watch TV, so she didn’t pay a lot of attention to the kids.  And she did let the grandparents take over some of the child-rearing.”

Rader later expounded in a different interview, “I got along real well with Dad, but Mom wasn’t always so happy.  I’ve always loved her.  I still love her greatly.  But I did have a little — a little bit of a grudge against Momma.”


Rader wanted to Special his whole life, but unfortunately, he was bone-shatteringly dull.  On January, 15th, 1974, before 4Chan was around for lonely, basic-ass-bitches to vent on, Rader decided he was going to make himself interesting by destroying an entire family.

Rader may be basic, but he brutally murdered four members of the Otero family.  Joseph and Julie were young parents, actually, just 38 and 33 respectively.  They only lived in Witchita for six months with their children–Joseph Sr. was a Puerto Rican immigrant who proudly served the U.S. Airforce for two decades.  Charlie Otero, 15 at the time, was the unlucky soul who discovered the scene when he arrived home from school and noticed the house was a mess.  (Since then, Charlie was done numerous interviews about this day & it’s highly encouraged that you check them out).


Detectives would later divulge the case details and they are gross.  Chair imprints on the carpet led detectives to believe he watched Joseph II, age 9, die.  Josephine, age 11, was found hanging from a pipe in the basement.  She was not violated, but there was semen discovered next to her body.  Rader took Joseph Otero Sr.’s watch and radio, his first trophies and the beginning of his modus operandi.

We’ve reached a point worth examining.  Most murders who are classified as “serial killers” typically have an escalation before they attempt to pull something like this off.  Rader went in balls-deep.  It wasn’t perfect and he definitely didn’t think that Joseph Sr. was going to be there, just Julie and the two kids.  In his other sprees, B.T.K. would shelter off the kids and commit his crimes against the woman in the house, whether this was his intention at the Otero household, we can’t say.

Rader would later tell Judge Gregory Waller that he planned “to some degree” as it was his sexual fantasy.   He said, “After I got in the house I lost control of it but in the back of my mind I had some idea of what I was going to do.   I basically panicked that first day, so.”

It’s also worth noting that Rader didn’t bother with a mask, so his intent to kill, whether he realized it or not at the time, was certainly there.

Serial killers tend to stick with a victim type, usually to fulfill a fantasy (Ted Bundy is often brought up here as he targeted young white women; there’s Gary Ridgeway, the Green River Killer, who murdered sex workers; and America’s favorite clown, John Wayne Gacy, whose victims were young boys).  At a glance, it seems like Rader was all over the board, but as we slog our way through this devastating case, you’ll see that he was just taking the easy way out by choosing victims who were older and easier to handle.

In April, Rader couldn’t help himself.  He struck again, waiting like a creepo in 21-year-old Kathryn Bright’s apartment, stabbing and strangling her when she came home.  Her brother, Kevin narrowly avoided being a B.T.K. victim–he was shot twice by Rader.  Kevin was able to provide the police with a description, which was better than what they had (they had nothing, to be exact).  Kevin described Rader as “an average-sized guy, bushy mustache, ‘psychotic’ eyes.”  Yep, sounds right.


Outside of being a murderer, Dennis was working for ADT Security Services.  He and his wife, Paula, had been married for 3 years.  It was October 1974, and Rader wanted credit for his work, so he left a letter in an engineering book at the library.  The letter was poorly written, stating, “It’s hard to control myself.  You probably call me ‘psychotic with sexual perversion hang-up.”  He took credit for killing the Oteros and then like a douchebag, gave himself the nickname of B.T.K.

Unfortunately, the name stuck.

“The code words for me will be bind them, torture them, kill them, B.T.K.” insists Dennis Lynn Rader like a whiny 8-year-old.


This has been part one of B.T.K.

walk with me. part one.

a preview of my ebook. available now.


Part One.


He moved as if every bone ached. As if the sinews screamed like a machine pleading for oil on its dry joints, fiery from friction. He was a tall man, with a long, willowy torso that swayed unsteadily as he walked. A top-heavy flower bending to a breeze.

He always dressed in a plaid button-down, neatly pressed, paired with slacks creased down the middle, and a windbreaker, beige like his skin. I’d watch him from my window, as he’d pass, taking each step with certain heaviness, back stiff, footfalls deliberate. He was slow. His long body bobbed beneath the streetlights, casting tall shadows in the night.

With him, always, was the pale girl.

Her moon-face was curtained by hair as pale as her translucent skin; a shade of blonde whose color looked so drained by the sun it was ghost-white. She was small and breakable, but perhaps that could be attributed to her doll dresses, an A-line flare with Peter Pan collars, and a black bow mid-waist to tie her all together. Her twig arms stuck out from the capped shoulders of delicate chiffon dresses swinging by her side.

I could almost see the blue veins beneath her paper skin as I watched her toe gently beside her ambling walking partner. Her pair of shiny penny loafers clicked against sidewalk—a curious tap dancer.

My mother relished in the odd couple. “Look, there they are again,” she’d squeal from the kitchen, slinging a drying rag over her shoulder as she slithered to the front window.

“But do you know them?” I pressed. I always asked, but her answer never changed.

The fascination was contagious. I’d have sleepovers with the purpose to gawk at them as they walked by. Vicious, bored teenagers. The Stiff Man and The Pale Girl. There we were, four teenagers in sleeping bags on the floor of my dark room, and me, narrating lies about the man and the Pale Girl, weaving ghost stories from real people’s lives.

They were aliens perishing in their stolen human forms. Look at how he walks, grimacing with each step! See her onion skin and baby doll clothes? Now look, her eyes—they’re piercing, far too wise for a child. She can’t be human.

I’d flicker the flashlight on and off for dramatic effect and we’d splinter with laughter, rolling into each other with shrieks that pierced through my sleeping house.