Bind, Torture, Kill: The Inside Story of BTK, the Serial Killer Next Door (26 page)

Some homicide detectives�Robert Chisholm, Heather Bachman, Rick Craig, and Tom Fatkin�were kept off the task force to work Wichita’s other murders. Still, Bachman and Chisholm did that while also reading every BTK tip turned in, and Craig and Fatkin helped run down leads.

Landwehr’s task force also enlisted the help of fifty detectives and other officers in the first month, from the undercover, gang, and sex crimes units and from the KBI, FBI, and the Sedgwick County Sheriff’s Office.

The task force quietly set up a command post at the city-county Law Enforcement Training Center on the edge of town, miles from city hall.

Otis told Landwehr what Laviana had said about wanting an exclusive when the police confirmed it was from BTK

That could be tricky,
Landwehr thought.
The more we reveal publicly, the less effective we will be, and the more likely that some other dumbass out there might send copycat materials to throw us off.

He did not want to reveal details of the letter. He did not want Laviana to reveal what BTK’s signature looked like or that there were stenciled letters and numbers on the sheet. Keeping that information out of the newspaper was vital, but he couldn’t tell Laviana what to do. And he knew Laviana’s editors must be on tenterhooks, waiting to hear if they had received a big scoop�or just a sick joke�in the mail. The
Eagle
had not plastered the letter like wallpaper all over the front page. Maybe that meant he could get Laviana to agree to hold back some information�the more the better. Landwehr thought that if he tried to shut out the newspaper, the
Eagle
might reveal everything.

He had to give Laviana something.

As the police spokeswoman, Johnson often worked with Landwehr on the media briefings whenever there was a homicide. She considered him a friend; he had the habit of sensing when she was having a tough day and saying a kind word. She knew he did the same for others.

Now Landwehr wanted her help; they would need to write a series of news releases designed to get BTK communicating. In addition, she’d handle all media inquiries.

She had three big worries, she told Landwehr.

One was that once word got out about BTK, the national media circus would come to town: all the tabloid newspapers and cheesy cable shows, all the networks.

The second problem was bigger.

If the police department refused to answer questions about the biggest murder mystery in Wichita history, it would upset reporters, and they would make her life hell. And Landwehr and the FBI now wanted her to refuse to answer questions.

The third problem might stop the whole thing: Chief Williams might not like the plan.

Wichita had one major newspaper, three major television stations (not counting PBS and smaller affiliates), and several radio outlets. The cops tolerated local reporters. They did not like some of them, but they kept their opinions to themselves. Sometimes, as with the Carr brothers case, the national media would show up, and the cops liked them even less than they liked the locals. Still, Williams prided himself on being open. If reporters asked a question, Williams said he wanted it answered unless the answer would interfere with an investigation. Landwehr and Morton were proposing that the department stage media events at which Landwehr would say tantalizing things and then refuse to take questions. That ran counter to the chief’s ideas about openness.

At first, Johnson was right. The chief was skeptical, and so were members of his staff. The deputy chiefs pointed out that keeping people in the dark might feed the public anxiety that was sure to follow the story the
Eagle
was about to publish.

The discussion went on for a long time; at times it looked as if the deputy chiefs would veto the idea.

Johnson finally begged the commanders to do what Landwehr wanted. “Look, guys. If we don’t do this, we’re screwed. We called the FBI. If we then ignore their advice, they might get pissed off too. And what are we supposed to do if we
don’t
do this? What other idea is there? What am I supposed to say to the media about what we’re doing?”

In the end, the chief approved the plan; the benefits outweighed the problems, he decided.

He needed to make one more decision now.

Who would do the news conferences? What face would they show to BTK?

It was a dangerous assignment. Williams knew what it was like to be in danger�as a patrol officer, he’d been shot three times. He had risked his life many times. Now he would ask someone else to take that risk.

Williams said he wanted Landwehr to do it.

The job needed to be done right, he said. Landwehr’s twelve years of experience with homicide briefings had schooled him in what to say�and what
not
to say. Moreover, people in Wichita were accustomed to seeing Landwehr talk about homicides. It would reassure them to hear Landwehr deliver these messages.

But was this the wise decision?

Dotson had warned Landwehr not to do this while running the task force. Dotson had helped develop a manual for the National Institute of Justice on how to run high-profile police task forces. He’d spent time consulting with some of the most experienced hunters of serial killers in the nation, including the cops who had pursued the Green River killer in Washington. They had warned Dotson about how they had worn themselves out trying to do too much at once.

But Chief Williams and his command staff now took care to make sure that didn’t happen. Landwehr would run the task force and be the face communicating with BTK. But Johnson would write all the scripted news releases, and other police commanders would relieve Landwehr of many administrative duties. Landwehr’s friend Lt. John Speer would run the regular homicide investigations.

The plan looked manageable.

But when Landwehr told Cindy he’d be talking to BTK, she became upset, as Landwehr had known she would.

“Why you?” she asked. “Are they just going to make you stand out there alone?”

“No,” he said.

Laviana had given the cops their two days and had heard nothing from them. Now he wanted the story. He called Landwehr on Wednesday morning.

“Come on over,” Landwehr said.

Laviana reached the fourth floor of city hall minutes later. He found Landwehr and Johnson sitting in the conference room adjoining the chief’s office. Landwehr, as usual, was wearing a white shirt and a dark suit. Laviana looked at Landwehr’s face, long and tanned, with deep creases running vertically down the cheeks. What Laviana saw now gave him a moment’s pause.

They had known each other for twelve years, had encountered each other on the job hundreds of times, and had needled each other good-naturedly every time. Landwehr had always been articulate, helpful, and funny�sometimes hilariously profane. But Landwehr’s face showed there would be no joking today.

Was it really BTK?

There was a lot hanging in the balance with what the two men would say to each other now. If it was BTK, Landwehr might demand that Laviana keep a lid on the story.

If so, Laviana would refuse. People had a right to know if a serial killer had resurfaced in their midst.

Maybe Landwehr would ask him to suppress only
part
of the message. If so, Laviana was prepared to deal. The newspaper had a responsibility to readers, but it would not hinder a homicide investigation.

Laviana was glad that he had photocopied that message, just as Ken Stephens had told him to do twenty years before. He could see another copy of the message now, lying on the table between Landwehr’s hands.

He started to ask a question, but Landwehr interrupted.

“Before we start, can I ask
you
a question?” Landwehr said.

“Sure.”

“Did you make a copy?”

“Yes.”

“Can I have it?”

“No.”

That settles it,
Laviana thought.
Wow. It’s BTK!

Landwehr leaned forward and slid the copy across the table so that Laviana could see the three photographs of Vicki Wegerle, her driver’s license, the strange stenciling, and the signature symbol in the corner.

“I want this,” Landwehr said, pointing to the symbol.

“I want this,” he said, pointing to the stenciling.

“And I want this,” he said, pointing to the driver’s license.

In cop shorthand, he was asking that Laviana not write anything about those details. Laviana and his editors had anticipated this.

“I can give you this,” Laviana said, pointing to the signature.

“I can give you this.” He pointed to the stenciling.

“But I can’t give you this.” He pointed to the license.

Landwehr did not look offended. Laviana had just told him that he would agree to two of his requests and not publish anything about the signature and the stenciling.

But he would reveal that BTK had resurfaced. He would reveal that BTK now claimed to be the killer of Vicki Wegerle. And he would reveal that BTK had sent the newspaper a message with photocopies of Vicki’s driver’s license and pictures of her bound body.

Landwehr sat back, waiting.

Laviana realized with a thrill that Landwehr had decided to answer questions on the record.

“Is the letter from BTK?” Laviana asked.

“I’m one hundred percent sure it’s BTK,” Landwehr said.

“Is the woman in the picture Vicki Wegerle?”

“There’s no doubt that that’s Vicki Wegerle’s picture.”

“Is there a Bill Thomas Killman?”

“There has never been a Bill Thomas Killman.”

“Why would he resurface now?”

Landwehr shrugged. He did not know.

“How do you know it’s BTK?”

“No comment.”

The
Eagle
first broke the news March 24 on its website, Kansas.com, just hours after Landwehr talked to Laviana. The editors also shared the story with KWCH-TV, one of the local TV stations, to promote the next morning’s paper. Rival KAKE-TV also broadcast a short story that night based on an anonymous police source.

Eagle
editors topped the printed story with one of the most unsettling headlines Wichitans had ever seen. The headline stack ran four inches deep.

Laviana’s lead paragraph was straightforward and blunt:

A serial killer who terrorized Wichita during the 1970s by committing a series of seven murders has claimed responsibility for an eighth slaying and is probably now living in Wichita, police said Wednesday.

The story did what Landwehr had expected. It frightened people. The tip line phones rang and rang.

Landwehr tried to calm fears, appearing on live television that morning to talk in the dry tone he always used in public: “We’re encouraging citizens to practice normal safety steps�keep their doors locked, keep their lights on.”

BTK’s return is front-page news.

He began to talk directly to BTK, though he didn’t tell any reporter what he was really doing. Landwehr, Johnson, and Morton had worked out how to do it. Morton had e-mailed suggestions ranging from keeping the overall tone positive to telling BTK how to reach Landwehr by e-mail, telephone, and post office box.

Landwehr talked reassuringly in a room packed with reporters and photographers. The 340-word statement confirmed that Vicki Wegerle was a BTK victim and subtly encouraged BTK to keep talking: “This is the most challenging case I have ever worked on, and the individual would be very interesting to talk with.”

Then came the next part of the strategy: make BTK too cautious to kill. Landwehr encouraged people to contact the department with tips. He said that the case was the department’s top priority, and that the sheriff’s office, KBI, and FBI were helping.

“I wouldn’t ever want to comment on any other cases around the nation, but it is without a doubt the most unusual case we’ve ever had in Wichita.”

All over Wichita, gun stores did brisk business. People who had feared BTK when they were kids now feared him again, and they walked into their houses as though walking into an ambush.

Reporters from across the country began to pack their bags and look up Wichita, Kansas, on a map.

37

March–April 2004

The Swab-a-thon

In the first twenty-four hours after the
Eagle
’s story appeared, police received more than three hundred tips. In the next twenty-four hours, they collected seven hundred more. Landwehr had fifty cops, most of them detectives, assigned to him in the first days. Besides working tips, police located tens of thousands of pages of documents from the previous thirty years and coordinated investigators with a big chart.

The KBI’s cold case unit immediately began to scan tens of thousands of pages of old notes, photographs, and documents from the BTK file cabinet and the thirty-seven boxes of investigative files accumulated since 1974. The KBI and the FBI turned everything into a huge searchable database. The work would take eight months.