A Daughter’s Final Verdict on BTK – RedState

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A Daughter’s Final Verdict on BTK – RedState

In the shadows of the endless plains of Wichita, where the wind still carries the whispers of old fears, the crimes of Dennis Rader linger like a stain that no time can whiten. Growing up in Wichita in the 1970s, near the quiet streets of the Plainview neighborhood, I remember the fear that settled over our neighborhood like fog over the Arkansas River.





It wasn’t just the headlines: the Otero family massacred in their home or the women disappearing from church parking lots. It was the way parents checked the locks at dusk, how children like me were warned never to linger after dark, and the unspoken certainty that evil did not announce itself with horns and fangs. It was hiding in plain sight, in the man who coached Little League or mowed his lawn on Saturdays. Rader, the BTK killer, embodied that terror: 10 lives destroyed between 1974 and 1991, each a calculated cruelty that he later confessed to with chilling detachment.


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Now, nearly two decades after his capture, his daughter Kerri Rawson has delivered a verdict more damning than any courtroom. In a brutal prison confrontation last year, captured in the new Netflix documentary My Father, BTK killer Rawson, 46, and a mother herself faced the frail shell of the man who once pushed her on swings. What started as a tearful reunion, with Rader arriving and crying like a returned prodigal, turned into something uglier.





Pressed by unsolved cases and a newspaper article that alluded to unspeakable violations committed against her as a child, he flipped the script: denials, deflections, accusations that she was hungry for fame. “It was just a fantasy,” he asserted, as if words on a page could erase the rot beneath. Rawson’s response was not a scripted outburst but the fury of a lifetime unleashed.

She called him subhuman – a psychopath whose narcissism erased all traces of the father she once knew. And in that moment, she was right. Not in a hyperbolic sense, but precisely: Rader’s ability to compartmentalize, to play the role of church elder by day and executioner by night, reveals a void where conscience should be. He didn’t just kill strangers; he poisoned his own bloodline, leaving Rawson to sift through a childhood of picnics and riddles for signs of the abyss.

Her estrangement from him – and now from his mother and brother – speaks to the collateral damage of such monsters. Yet there is steel in his choice. By cutting ties, she reclaims her agency, transforming victimhood into advocacy for those burdened by the crimes of a loved one. The scars of Wichita in the 1970s taught us vigilance, but Rawson’s story reinforces a harder lesson: Some bonds require breaking, not repairing. Forgiveness has its saints – as evidenced by the Lafferty case, where a girl chose grace over resentment – ​​but Rader offers none worth the price.





His unyielding lies in this cell confirm it: humanity is not owed to those who lose it. For survivors like Rawson and families still haunted by BTK’s shadow, true victory lies in naming the evil and moving on. In my hometown, which once held its breath, it’s not just a shutdown. It’s courage.


Editor’s note: Schumer’s closure is here. Rather than putting the American people first, Chuck Schumer and radical Democrats forced a government shutdown on health care for illegal immigrants. They own that.

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