Inside the Mind of BTK: The True Story Behind the Thirty-Year Hunt for the Notorious Wichita Serial Killer by John Douglas, Johnny Dodd Page B
Authors: John Douglas, Johnny Dodd
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his cruiser up to the curb. The teary-eyed teen was desperately yanking on the arms of the ambulance crew who had arrived a few minutes before Bulla. Charlie pleaded with the paramedics to go inside, to see if they could revive his parents, but all they could do was apologize and explain that they had to wait for police to give them the OK.
Bulla made his way up the walkway, chatting with the ambulance crew for a few moments as Charlie sent his brother and sister off on a mission to fetch the two youngest members of the family. He believed they were on their way home from elementary school. Being the protective older brother he was, he didn’t want them arriving back at the house and having to look at the bloody, swollen bodies of their parents.
Bulla entered the house and made his way into the master bedroom, where he spotted the bodies of Joseph and Julie. He gently touched their skin with his fingertips, trying to gauge the temperature of their flesh. Their skin was cold, and their limbs were already stiff from rigor mortis. They’d been dead for many hours, he concluded.
Joseph lay on his back on the floor; his feet, clad in white socks, were bound tightly together by rope at the ankles. Strips of cord, each tied in complex knots, lay next to the bodies. Charlie told officers that he sliced the bindings off of his father after discovering him in the bedroom. Next to Joseph was a plastic bag that had been pulled off his head. Blood was smeared around his mouth and nose. His thick, strong hands were swollen to the size of baseball mitts.
Julie’s face was also grossly swollen, and dried blood was caked around her nose and mouth. Carmen June had used fingernail clippers to cut the gag out of her mother’s mouth, along with her many bindings. The white nylon cord that had been snipped away from her body had formed a thin necklace-like bruise around her neck. She was barefoot and dressed in her powder-blue housecoat. Her ankles were still bound by a single loop of white cord. Sitting on a nearby dresser was a framed photo of a pensive, smiling Julie in her wedding gown. Most of the drawers had been pulled open, and it appeared someone had rifled through the contents.
Additional officers arrived at the home, and before long they discovered the body of Joey, the youngest of the Otero siblings. The boy, who wore maroon corduroy pants and a shirt covered with dragons, lay on his side on the floor of his bedroom, beside the bunk bed he shared with his brother Danny. Next to his head was a Wichita phone book. His ankles were bound by cord. Another cord extended up behind his back and was knotted to his wrists. The cord that bound his hands behind his back was cinched so tight that the boy’s tiny wrists were bruised. Like those of his father, Joey’s hands were engorged with blood and lymph, and had swollen to several times their normal size.
The manner in which he was bound suggested that the UNSUB either tied the boy himself or instructed another family member in how to do it, perhaps trying to create the impression that if everyone would just cooperate with him, he’d take what he needed from the house and be on his way.
A few feet away from the bunk bed sat a wooden chair. The bottom rung of the chair had been broken. Splinters from the shattered piece of wood lay atop the carpet. I glanced at the crime scene photos and imagined the killer sitting there, watching the boy die, and somehow the rung had snapped. The sick image of this killer having the wherewithal to watch Joey suffocate underscored the staggering amount of control he maintained over the Otero family . . . and himself.
The fact that there was so little evidence of a struggle meant two things to me. The first thought was that more than one offender might be involved in the murders. But this possibility had a couple of major flaws. To begin with, I’d never heard of a crime scene where the two offenders had worked
Bulla made his way up the walkway, chatting with the ambulance crew for a few moments as Charlie sent his brother and sister off on a mission to fetch the two youngest members of the family. He believed they were on their way home from elementary school. Being the protective older brother he was, he didn’t want them arriving back at the house and having to look at the bloody, swollen bodies of their parents.
Bulla entered the house and made his way into the master bedroom, where he spotted the bodies of Joseph and Julie. He gently touched their skin with his fingertips, trying to gauge the temperature of their flesh. Their skin was cold, and their limbs were already stiff from rigor mortis. They’d been dead for many hours, he concluded.
Joseph lay on his back on the floor; his feet, clad in white socks, were bound tightly together by rope at the ankles. Strips of cord, each tied in complex knots, lay next to the bodies. Charlie told officers that he sliced the bindings off of his father after discovering him in the bedroom. Next to Joseph was a plastic bag that had been pulled off his head. Blood was smeared around his mouth and nose. His thick, strong hands were swollen to the size of baseball mitts.
Julie’s face was also grossly swollen, and dried blood was caked around her nose and mouth. Carmen June had used fingernail clippers to cut the gag out of her mother’s mouth, along with her many bindings. The white nylon cord that had been snipped away from her body had formed a thin necklace-like bruise around her neck. She was barefoot and dressed in her powder-blue housecoat. Her ankles were still bound by a single loop of white cord. Sitting on a nearby dresser was a framed photo of a pensive, smiling Julie in her wedding gown. Most of the drawers had been pulled open, and it appeared someone had rifled through the contents.
Additional officers arrived at the home, and before long they discovered the body of Joey, the youngest of the Otero siblings. The boy, who wore maroon corduroy pants and a shirt covered with dragons, lay on his side on the floor of his bedroom, beside the bunk bed he shared with his brother Danny. Next to his head was a Wichita phone book. His ankles were bound by cord. Another cord extended up behind his back and was knotted to his wrists. The cord that bound his hands behind his back was cinched so tight that the boy’s tiny wrists were bruised. Like those of his father, Joey’s hands were engorged with blood and lymph, and had swollen to several times their normal size.
The manner in which he was bound suggested that the UNSUB either tied the boy himself or instructed another family member in how to do it, perhaps trying to create the impression that if everyone would just cooperate with him, he’d take what he needed from the house and be on his way.
A few feet away from the bunk bed sat a wooden chair. The bottom rung of the chair had been broken. Splinters from the shattered piece of wood lay atop the carpet. I glanced at the crime scene photos and imagined the killer sitting there, watching the boy die, and somehow the rung had snapped. The sick image of this killer having the wherewithal to watch Joey suffocate underscored the staggering amount of control he maintained over the Otero family . . . and himself.
The fact that there was so little evidence of a struggle meant two things to me. The first thought was that more than one offender might be involved in the murders. But this possibility had a couple of major flaws. To begin with, I’d never heard of a crime scene where the two offenders had worked
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