A Serial Killer’s Daughter Read online

  © 2019 by Kerri Rawson

  All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, scanning, or other—except for brief quotations in critical reviews or articles, without the prior written permission of the publisher.

  Published in Nashville, Tennessee, by Nelson Books, an imprint of Thomas Nelson. Nelson Books and Thomas Nelson are registered trademarks of HarperCollins Christian Publishing, Inc.

  Published in association with the Doug Grad Literary Agency, Inc., 156 Prospect Park West, #3L, Brooklyn, NY 11215, www.dgliterary.com.

  All photos are from the Rader family’s personal collection.

  Thomas Nelson titles may be purchased in bulk for educational, business, fund-raising, or sales promotional use. For information, please email [email protected].

  All Scripture quotations, unless otherwise indicated, are taken from the Holy Bible, New International Version®, NIV®. Copyright © 1973, 1978, 1984, 2011 by Biblica, Inc.™ Used by permission of Zondervan. All rights reserved worldwide. www.zondervan.com. The “NIV” and “New International Version” are trademarks registered in the United States Patent and Trademark Office by Biblica, Inc.™

  Scripture quotations marked ESV are taken from the ESV® Bible (The Holy Bible, English Standard Version®), copyright © 2001 by Crossway, a publishing ministry of Good News Publishers. Used by permission. All rights reserved.

  Scripture quotations marked NASB are taken from the New American Standard Bible®, Copyright © 1960, 1962, 1963, 1968, 1971, 1972, 1973, 1975, 1977, 1995 by The Lockman Foundation. Used by permission, www.lockman.org.

  Scripture quotations marked NLT are taken from the Holy Bible, New Living Translation. © 1996, 2004, 2007, 2013, 2015 by Tyndale House Foundation. Used by permission of Tyndale House Publishers, Inc., Carol Stream, IL 60188. All rights reserved.

  Scripture quotations marked PHILLIPS are taken from J. B. Phillips: THE NEW TESTAMENT IN MODERN ENGLISH, Revised Edition. © J. B. Phillips 1958, 1960, 1972. Used by permission of Macmillan Publishing Co., Inc.

  In rare instances, a name was changed to protect the privacy of the person described. Events and conversations have been constructed from the author’s memory. Dennis Rader gave permission to use the contents of the letters from Dennis Rader to Kerri Rawson.

  Epub Edition December 2018 9781400201761

  ISBN 978-1-4002-0176-1 (eBook)

  ISBN 978-1-4002-0175-4 (HC)

  ISBN 978-1-4041-0855-4 (IE)

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2018957741

  Printed in the United States of America

  19 20 21 22 23 LSC 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  Information about External Hyperlinks in this ebook

  Please note that endnotes in this ebook may contain hyperlinks to external websites as part of bibliographic citations. These hyperlinks have not been activated by the publisher, who cannot verify the accuracy of these links beyond the date of publication.

  To Darian, for loving me without fail.

  And to Emilie and Ian: when you’re old enough,

  I will hand you this story—to tell you my story.

  No, you’re not old enough yet, so stop asking. And

  yes, Mom is finally done with her book.

  Contents

  Author Note

  Prologue: Stubbornness Might Be Enough

  Part I: Hold On to Your Foundations 1. What Doesn’t Kill You

  2. Believe in Good Beginnings

  3. Hope for Happily Ever After

  4. Weave Among the Pines Like a Tomboy

  5. Go Comet Hunting in the Winter

  6. Have Adventures, Because Life Is Fragile

  7. Allow Yourself to Grieve

  8. Attempt to Outrun What Haunts You

  9. . . . Makes You Stronger

  Part II: Make Your Way Through the Wilderness 10. Know and Respect Your Limitations . . . Yeah, Right

  11. Miscalculations of the Ego Can Be Deadly

  12. The Milky Way Makes an Excellent Nightlight

  13. Find a Stream in the Wasteland

  14. If It’s Good Enough for Tadpoles, It’s Good Enough for You

  15. Coming Back from the Abyss Doesn’t Have to Be So Dramatic

  Part III: Love Will Never Fail You 16. Find a Hope and a Future

  17. Fall in Love at Least Once in Your Life

  18. Make a Place of Your Own

  19. Head Down the Wedding Aisle, Even If You Have to Hobble

  20. Some Carpet Cleaners Can Leave Unexpected Results

  21. Don’t Say Goodbye—Say “See Ya in a While”

  Part IV: When All Else Has Fallen Away 22. Offer the FBI Your DNA—It’s Just Easier That Way

  23. All Reality Can Sometimes Be Lost

  24. Don’t Google for an Alibi

  25. Media Circuses Belong in Big Tops, Not Apartments

  Part V: Seek Refuge 26. Respite Can Be Found Thousands of Feet in the Air

  27. There Is Safety in Numbers

  28. Maybe Love Is Enough

  29. Leave the Crime Solving to the Experts

  30. Light Will Overcome the Darkness

  Part VI: Stand on Your Rock 31. Long Distance Can Offer Sanity

  32. At Some Point You Have to Face Your Fears Head-On

  33. Most Folks Are Good and Intend You No Harm

  34. Fight for Those You Love

  35. Refuse to Let the Bad Stuff Win

  36. Try to Hold On to the Good Times

  37. Truth and Justice Can Hurt

  38. 175 Years Is a Long Time

  Part VII: Binding Up a Broken Heart 39. Keep Faith in the Good

  40. A Desert Is a Great Place to Hide

  41. PTSD Blows Chunks

  42. Therapy Might Just Save Your Life

  43. Laugh or Cry to Survive

  44. Grit Your Teeth and Keep Going

  45. Put Your Armor On

  46. Try to Forgive

  Epilogue: On the Good Days

  Acknowledgments

  Notes

  About the Author

  Photos

  Author Note

  My family and I owe a great debt of gratitude to the following organizations and the people who serve and work for the better good. There are hundreds of people who aided and assisted us over the past four decades, including the Wichita Police Department, the Federal Bureau of Investigation, the Kansas Bureau of Investigation, the Sedgwick County Sheriff and the Sedgwick County Detention Facility, the Park City Police Department, the El Dorado Correctional Facility, the Sedgwick County District Attorney’s Office and the Sedgwick County Public Defender Office, the city and community of Wichita, the Wichita Eagle, and Christ Lutheran Church.

  Any and all mistakes in the text are mine.

  PROLOGUE

  Stubbornness Might Be Enough

  On February 25, 2005, my father, Dennis Lynn Rader, was arrested for murder. In the weeks that followed, I learned he was the serial killer known as BTK (Bind, Torture, Kill), who had terrorized my hometown of Wichita, Kansas, for three decades. As he confessed on national television to the brutal killings of eight adults and two children, I struggled to comprehend the fact that the first twenty-six years of my life had been a lie. My father was not the man I’d known him to be.

  Since his arrest, I’ve fought hard to come to terms with the truth about my dad. I’ve wrestled with shame, guilt, anger, and hatred. I’ve accepted the fact that I am a crime victim, dating back to the days my mom carried me in her womb.

  I no longer fight the past nor try to hide it. It just i
s. It happened and it’s terrible. Terrible to dream about, terrible to think about, terrible to talk about. Incalculable loss, trauma, emotional abuse, depression, anxiety, posttraumatic stress—these things leave scars.

  I’ve struggled with forgiveness, fought for understanding, tried to put the ruptured pieces of my life and my family’s life back together. It’s an ongoing battle. But hope, truth, and love—the things that are good and right in this world—continue to fight through the darkness and overcome the nightmares. I am a survivor who has found resilience and resistance in faith, courage, and my sure stubbornness to never give up.

  —KERRI RAWSON

  PART I

  Hold On to Your Foundations

  Therefore we will not fear, though the earth give way and the mountains fall into the heart of the sea.

  —PSALM 46:2

  CHAPTER 1

  What Doesn’t Kill You . . .

  NOON

  FRIDAY, FEBRUARY 25, 2005

  DETROIT, MICHIGAN

  On the day the world dropped out on me, I woke up late. I had pulled my dark brown hair back in a loose scrunchie, and at noon, I was still in my mint-green fleece pajamas. They’d been a gift from my parents on Christmas morning two months earlier, when I was home in Kansas with my husband, Darian. This was our second winter living in Michigan, and I’d taken the day off from substitute teaching. I’d been staying home a lot because driving on snow and ice set me on edge.

  Friday, February 25, 2005, had begun as just another cold day, with snow on the ground and in the air. About 12:30 p.m., I glanced out our picture window to see how much snow had fallen the night before. Not that anyone could tell by late February—it was just a heap of white upon white.

  I noticed a maroon car, slightly rusted and beat up, parked next to the green dumpster behind our apartment building. A man sat behind the steering wheel and seemed to be glancing up at our window on the second floor.

  My internal alarms buzzed. Stranger danger.

  I wasn’t expecting Darian to be home until later for lunch, if at all.

  As it neared one o’clock, I looked again.

  The man was still there.

  All right, that does it. I’m calling Darian.

  “Hey, when are you coming home for lunch?” My voice was calm enough to fool him.

  “Not sure. Want me to bring you something? Taco Bell?”

  “Nah.” I paused. “I’m calling because a strange old beat-up car is parked by the dumpster. A man is sitting in the car, and I swear he’s looking into our window.” I was beginning to sound a little panicky, but Darian was unfazed.

  “Hmm, our window? Upstairs?”

  “Yeah, looking right in it.”

  “Um, that’s really not possible. But if he’s giving you the creeps or something, call the cops.”

  “Nah. Well, maybe. Yeah. If he doesn’t leave soon.”

  “Okay. I’ll be home in a while to eat if I can get away. Swamped here today.”

  We said goodbye, and I looked again, this time peering through the corner of the blinds, like my dad might do.

  My dad repeatedly taught us to be fearful of strangers, not to open doors to people we didn’t know, to be extremely cautious. When I was younger, he’d worked as a security alarm installer, and I’d always figured that’s where he picked up this bit of paranoia. Still, nothing wrong with being smart. Being safe. Better than sorry.

  I peeked again.

  The car was still there. The man was not.

  Clank, clank, clank.

  What happened to the intercom, a visitor buzzing to be let in? Someone must have propped the front door open again.

  Now my alarms were sounding full force. My heart was speeding up; my skin was growing hot.

  I was sure the man in the car was now on the other side of the door, which only had a simple lock on it, no deadbolt. The house I grew up in had deadbolts, which were always kept locked. No matter the time of day.

  I’ll pretend I’m not home.

  Clank, clank, clank.

  Okay. Be brave. It’s nothing.

  I propped my wire-rim glasses on my head and squinted through the peephole to see a man in his fifties wearing a dress shirt. Tie. Glasses.

  I twisted my glasses in my hands and placed them back on my face.

  “Hello? Can I help you?” I called from my side of the subpar door.

  “Yes. I’m with the FBI. I need to speak with you.”

  Me? The FBI?

  “What about?”

  “I need to speak to you. Can you let me in?”

  I’m still in my pajamas, in my bare feet.

  Dad always said, “Make them show you a badge. Make them prove to you who they are.” Not that anyone, ever, had approached my door with a badge, but I guess there was a first time for everything.

  I opened the door a bit, putting my foot next to it. If he was FBI, he might or might not push his way in. Hard to say, based on what I’d seen in movies.

  He didn’t look like FBI. He looked like someone who might do my taxes.

  “So, uh, can I see your ID?”

  “Yes.” He flipped opened his badge and let me study it for a bit, then asked more softly, “Can I come in? I need to talk to you.”

  Okay . . . but what the heck?

  “Sure. My husband will be home soon. He’s on his way. You know, for lunch?”

  That’s another trick Dad taught me long ago: tell the stranger in your house someone is on the way, even if it’s not true.

  “Okay, good. I need to talk to him too.”

  Standing with this guy in my apartment’s foyer, I decided he seemed all right. He wasn’t even carrying a gun, just a yellow legal pad and a pencil.

  So much for the movies.

  “What do you need to talk to me about? You’ve got the right person, right?”

  He glanced down at his notepad and then back up at me.

  “Yeah, think so. Are you Kerri Rawson? Maiden name Rader? Twenty-six years old?”

  I nodded.

  “Originally from Wichita, Kansas? Your father is Dennis Rader?”

  “Uh, yeah. That’s me.” My mind was scrambling. Why is this man here? What does he want?

  I turned to walk toward the kitchen, but the hallway was so narrow only one person could walk through at a time. I didn’t like him behind me, so I stopped and stepped back, allowing him to go in front. My mind tried to find some reason for this man’s visit and came up with nothing but sharp white noise. And fear.

  I focused instead on tiny details: the cornflower-blue dish towels with bright sunflowers hanging in my white-on-white kitchen, color brought from Kansas to Michigan eighteen months before when Dad had helped us move after the wedding. A chocolate Bundt cake with powdered sugar icing sat on the counter; I’d made it the night before.

  My keys and navy-blue purse were next to my cookbooks. A red spiral-bound Betty Crocker was propped up by a box of handwritten recipe cards, favorites from friends and family back home.

  The man from the FBI was now facing me, his back to the microwave.

  “Have you heard of BTK?”

  Wha—?

  The room brightened then narrowed, intensified.

  “Um, you mean that guy they are looking for in Wichita? In Kansas?”

  “Yes.”

  I hit the panic button. “Has something happened to my grandma? Has my grandma been murdered?”

  “Your grandma? No. She’s fine.”

  “Grandma is frail,” I said. “Keeps falling. My folks have to help a lot. She’s been to the hospital this week. BTK murders women.”

  “No. It’s your dad.”

  “What is my dad?”

  “He’s been arrested.”

  “My dad has been what?”

  “Arrested. Your dad is wanted as BTK. Wanted for murders in Kansas.”

  “My dad is wha—?”

  “BTK. Wanted. Arrested. Can we sit down? I need to ask you some questions.”

  “My
mom? Is my mom, Paula, okay? Has my mom been murdered? By my dad?”

  “No. She’s all right. Safe. She’s being picked up right now for questioning.”

  “Who? Who is picking her up?”

  “The police. They’re questioning her. She’s okay.”

  “My brother, Brian? Is my brother okay? He’s stationed at Groton, Connecticut, with the United States Navy.”

  “Yes. We are notifying him right now.”

  “Who is?”

  “The FBI.” The man lifted a page on his notepad. “I need to question you. It’s important. When did you say your husband will be home?”

  The room was spinning.

  I grabbed at the wall jutting out near the stove. My hand brushed against the smooth stained-glass picture hanging there—it was made of vivid purples, pinks, greens, an etched butterfly, and the words Love Never Fails.

  I’d heard: Your dad is BTK.

  I was shaking all over. “I think I’d better sit down. I’m not feeling well.”

  The room turned red. Dark splotches came into view.

  I was falling into a black hole, with no idea of how I was ever going to get out.

  CHAPTER 2

  Believe in Good Beginnings

  JUNE 1981

  WICHITA, KANSAS

  People who knew my parents before February 25, 2005, would have told you this: Dennis cherished Paula. My dad would tell you the same—still to this day. But he should have known it wasn’t going to be forever.

  Some of my earliest memories are of music filling the house, spun out from the turntable Dad shipped home from an overseas air force deployment years before. As the Carpenters harmonized on “We’ve Only Just Begun,” Dad would pull Mom close and she’d laugh, and they would spin together for a minute or two in the living room, lost, remembering the good times spun early around their song. As a toddler, I’d twirl and clap and wait my turn. When Dad and I danced to “(They Long to Be) Close to You” with my little feet on top of his white socks, I was certain my dad’s love for me knew no bounds.