Bind, Torture, Kill: The Inside Story of BTK, the Serial Killer Next Door (8 page)

BTK remembered the screaming too�and that it did not bother him.

10

Autumn 1977

A Turning Point

By 1977, Wichitans no longer felt safe, even from their neighbors. To their regret, they were becoming more accustomed to violent crime. The older generation blamed the sex-drugs-rock-and-roll culture of the ’60s. The younger generation countered that Wichita was still so backwater conservative that the ’60s would not arrive until after the ’70s ended.

A few months after Shirley Vian was killed, Kenny Landwehr saw violent crime firsthand. He was twenty-two, still studying history at WSU. Five years out of high school, he had not yet obtained a college degree. His mother, Irene, later said that Kenny was such a curious kid that he took more college courses than he needed, while putting off taking the science prerequisites that would get him the diploma.

He worked at Beuttel’s, a clothing store at Twenty-first and Broadway in north Wichita that sold bib overalls to farmers, cassocks to priests, and hip stuff to their black customers: shoes with stacked heels, long fur coats, and “walking suits” with wide lapels and bell-bottom trousers.

Landwehr liked owner Herman Beuttel, who handed out cigars to employees. Landwehr soon switched to cigarettes because they were easier to smoke on a break.

Going out for lunch one day, Landwehr stepped aside to let two men enter the store. Something about their expressions caught his attention. They looked…nervous. Landwehr turned a corner and saw a Cadillac and a third man behind it, leaning against a wall. He looked nervous too.

Getaway car,
Landwehr thought.
Shoplifters. We’re being set up
. He turned around, walked back into the store, and found himself staring down the barrel of a handgun. The men had pulled nylon stockings over their faces, but they were the same two he had met at the door, and they were not shoplifters. One of them forced him to the cash register.

“Get down on the floor.”

Landwehr obeyed. The robbers hog-tied him under the register with electrical cord. They tied up two other clerks. One robber reached under the register and found Beuttel’s. 45 caliber semiautomatic pistol. He stood over Landwehr and worked the pistol slide,
sha-shink
, jacking a cartridge into the chamber. Landwehr thought he was going to be executed.

But they did not shoot him. They searched for money. As customers came in, the men bound them with neckties. The robbery lasted only minutes, but to Landwehr it seemed to last for ages.

After they left, a badly shaken Landwehr told police that one of the robbers had called the other one “Butch.” From that name and Landwehr’s description, the detectives concluded that he was Butch Lee Jordan, a small-time thug.

The police went to Jordan’s home, but when they did not find him there, they failed to search elsewhere. That was a mistake. Jordan robbed a liquor store a few days later and shot Police Officer Hayden Henderson in the arm.

When Landwehr heard about that, it made him angry and disappointed; angry at Jordan for shooting the cop, disappointed with the cops for failing to pursue Jordan more vigorously.

The disappointment led Landwehr to make one of the crucial decisions of his life.

Landwehr’s family had to scrimp and save. His older brother, David, had been a high achiever, the salutatorian of his class at Bishop Carroll Catholic High School. Kenny had been a high achiever too, winning medals in debate, earning good grades, going out for basketball and drama.

His mother said later that even as a kid two things stood out about Kenny: he was one of the smarter people she knew, and he was an incorrigible smart aleck. She hoped his brains would lead to a career that would bring him security.

Landwehr reconsidered the FBI after the Beuttel’s robbery. The FBI recruited people who studied accounting and assigned agents to chase white-collar criminals.

Landwehr had been hog-tied and held at gunpoint by thugs who had walked in off the street.

He wanted to bring justice to people like himself.

For young Wichitans in 1977, the Mall in southeast Wichita was the place to be. The Mall was like an old-town marketplace, where people gathered to buy, sell, and gossip. It was air-conditioned in summer, heated in winter.

In December a young woman took a part-time job at Helzberg Jewelers in the Mall. She was a twenty-five-year-old Wichita native who seemed to make friends easily. She had a keen wit and a blunt-spoken manner. Her name was Nancy Fox. She already worked full-time as a secretary for The Law Company, an architectural firm. She had taken the job at Helzberg’s to earn extra money to buy Christmas presents for her relatives.

Nancy already had presents for her two-year-old nephew. She doted on Thomas; she had dressed up in a bunny costume to surprise him at Easter. That December she had also put a ring on layaway for her older sister, Beverly Plapp. The sisters were eleven months apart, and after growing up competing with each other and sharing a bedroom, they were becoming friends. They had three younger brothers.

Nancy Fox was stalked by Rader, who considered her his perfect project.

Nancy had played flute in junior high and sang in the choir of Parkview Baptist Church on the city’s south side. She drove a powder blue Opel, and paid attention to her clothing, makeup, nails, and hair�she wore her blond hair frosted, and she liked to wear scarves around her neck. She was a bit of a neat freak. When she got into a spat with her boyfriend, she would vent her irritation by cleaning.

She and her girlfriends socialized at a few Wichita nightclubs. Scene Seventies, at Pawnee and Seneca, was a favorite hangout on Friday and Saturday nights; Nancy dated the door manager there. On Sundays she’d drive her Opel over to her mother’s house and walk into a kitchen smelling of fried chicken. It was Nancy’s favorite food.

Nancy did not mind living alone. She told her mother nothing would happen to her.

11

December 8, 1977

Nancy Fox

Rader had cruised Nancy Fox’s neighborhood and saw that it was lower middle class, with cheap places to live, which attracted single women living alone. Once he figured that out, he trolled the neighborhood frequently. Be prepared, as the Boy Scouts say.

He first saw her one day when she walked into her duplex apartment, which was painted a cheerful pink. He saw that she was small and pretty and that she appeared to spend time on her hair and clothes. He appreciated neatness. He followed her to her job at the architectural company, to her night job at Helzberg’s, and to her home. At Helzberg’s he bought inexpensive jewelry, looked her over up close, followed her home again, then got her name by looking at the envelopes in her mailbox while she was at work.

She lived in southeast Wichita at 843 South Pershing, not far from the Mall. She had no man that he could see, and no dog. When he checked the north end of the duplex, he learned that it was vacant�there was no one next door to hear a scream.

He spied on her while he spied on other women. Trolling for women had become nearly a full-time job, in addition to his real-world full-time job, which was working for the security company. He often blended the jobs�he trolled for women, and then stalked them, while driving the ADT van.

He was a busy guy. Besides being an ADT crew chief, he was still going to WSU classes at night, and he had a wife and small child at home.

Still, he picked a date: December 8.

Rader had told his wife he would be at the WSU library that night, which was true; he had term papers due, research to complete. He knew exactly when Nancy would leave Helzberg’s. So he had gone to the library an hour or two before to work on a term paper. Just before 9:00
PM
, he left the library, changed into dark clothing, and drove his wife’s red 1966 Chevelle to Nancy’s neighborhood. He parked a few blocks from her duplex, took out his bag of tools, walked to her front door, and knocked. If she answered, his lie would be that he had come to the wrong apartment. But there was no answer.

He knocked next door, found that side of the duplex still vacant, and hurried to the back. He had not left the library as soon as he wanted, so he was running late. He cut Nancy’s phone line, then broke a window. He waited, crouching. He worried that when cars rolled through the curves on nearby Lincoln Street the headlights would shine on the duplex and expose him. He watched for lights, then crawled through the window.

What a neat, orderly girl Nancy Fox was: everything was tidy and polished. It was a tiny place, smaller than his, only 600 or 700 square feet. He found her Christmas tree lights on. Photographs of smiling people stood neatly arranged on shelves outside the bedroom. He liked everything he saw.
That Vian woman had been so sloppy.

He pulled a glass out of Nancy’s kitchen cupboard, drank some water, wiped down the glass and put it back. He listened to make sure the phone was dead. He still had the phone in his hand when the front door opened.

Get out of my house.

Nancy had just come in with her coat on, carrying her purse. She stepped to grab the telephone.

I’m going to call the police, she warned.

That won’t do you any good, he said. I cut the line.

He moved toward her, showed her his gun.

What are you in my house for?

She had spunk; he liked that. She did not even look nervous.

What are you going to do? she demanded. What’s going on here?

I’m a bad guy, he told her. I want sex. I have to tie you up to take pictures.

Get out of here.

No.

You need to get out of here right now.

No, he said sternly. This is going to happen.

You’re sick, she told him.

Yes, I’m sick, he said. But this is the way it’s going to be.

She glared at him. She took off her coat�a white parka�and folded it onto the couch. She was wearing a pink sweater.

I need a cigarette, she said.

She lit one, watching him.

He dumped her purse onto the kitchen table and took some trophies. He found her driver’s license. He talked to disarm her, telling the same story, with variations, that he had told the Oteros, the Brights, Shirley Vian: he had a sexual problem, but he wasn’t really a bad guy. She would be all right.

And now she faced him squarely, or so he would remember.

Let’s get this over with so I can call the police.

He agreed.

I need to go to the bathroom, she said.

He looked in the bathroom, made sure there wasn’t a sharp object she could turn into a weapon.

Okay, he said. Make sure you come out with most of your clothes off.

He blocked open the bathroom door with a piece of cloth, then sat on her bed to wait. He looked around in admiration; clothes, closet, jewelry kit�everything neat. When she came out of the bathroom, she was still wearing her pink sweater, her bra, and purple panties. She saw he was holding handcuffs.

What’s that about? she demanded.

This is part of my deal, he explained. It is what makes it happen for me.

Why are you wearing gloves?

I’m wanted in other states and don’t want to leave prints.

This is ridiculous! she said. This is bullshit!

She kept talking, but he barely listened. He pulled her hands behind her, fastened the cuffs on her wrists, and made her lie facedown on the bed. He got on top of her. He was half-undressed himself by then, hoping this would convey the lie that he intended to rape her. He pulled down her panties.

Has your boyfriend ever had sex with you in the butt?

He said it to deceive; he did not really want anal sex.

She did not answer; she was gagged now.

He took off his leather belt and looped it around her ankles; he found that he had an erection already. He suddenly pulled the belt off her ankles, slipped it around her throat�and yanked it tight, pressing down with one hand where the belt went through the buckle, and pulling the belt with his other hand. Nancy thrashed under him, found his scrotum with her handcuffed hands, and dug her fingers into him. It hurt, but he liked it.

As usual, it took time for his victim to pass out; when Nancy finally did, he loosened the belt to let her have some air.

In years to come, he would say that this was his perfect hit. There was no man or dog or child to interrupt, nobody tried to kill him, little children did not scream and threaten to come out of the bathroom to fight him.

When she regained consciousness, he bent down to her ear.

I’m wanted, he told her. I killed the four people in that family, the Oteros. And I killed Shirley Vian. I’m BTK. And you’re next.

She fought frantically underneath him as he yanked the belt tight again. This time he held it until she died.

He picked up a nightgown and masturbated into it.

12