I can’t count how many conversations Gary and I had before he asked me if I’d ever gone camping. When I told him that I – a loyal city girl – hadn’t, like anyone passionate about something, he tried to sell me on the idea.
“If you’re raised around camping, going in the woods, you [learn to] pick blackberries. It’s easier than buying [them],” he tried to sway me. “But if you’ve never been around there, you’ve never [had] the independence of it.” He seemed genuinely saddened by my lack of outdoor experience.
“And you grew up doing that?” I asked, attempting to piece together who he was before our daily calls.
The conversation lasted over an hour. He asked more questions about my life: had I ever chopped firewood, or swam in a lake? Did I even know how to swim? Whenever he let me get a word in – he tended to dominate our conversations – I asked about his former life in Washington, of which he recounted fond memories of sleeping under a sky of stars that stretched as far as the eye could see. Offering a type of freedom he’d never experience again.
To an eavesdropper, it might have sounded like we were in a long-distance relationship. In reality, I was several months in to my correspondence with Gary Ridgway, otherwise known as the ‘Green River Killer’. A man convicted of killing 49 young women (although he is suspected to have killed many more), over the span of around nineteen years, starting from 1982. I was trying to piece together details of several murders he could’ve committed that remained unsolved.
Targeting sex workers and runaways, Ridgway would pick unsuspecting women and teenagers up for dates that ended with him strangling them to death. Afterwards, he dumped their bodies in various “clusters” around Washington state. It took almost two decades and huge DNA technology advancements for Ridgway to be caught, after he was positively linked to four murders. To avoid the death penalty, he confessed to all of the murders and led detectives to the remains of other women. However, plenty of families were still left without justice.
When Gary and I began speaking, he was nearly 20 years into serving a life sentence. But this was not my first true crime endeavour. In 2012, I found myself interviewing spree killer, Maksim Gelman, on Rikers Island, New York City’s largest jail that is notorious for extreme violence. In February 2011, Gelman had killed four people and injured five others in a stabbing-frenzy that lasted 28-hours across New York City.
When news of this story broke, I couldn’t stop thinking about it. Why would someone stab four people – including a twenty-year-old girl – in broad daylight, in a quiet Brooklyn neighbourhood? I’d just finished a creative writing degree and as I obsessively rambled about Gelman’s case to a fellow writing friend, he planted a seed: ‘Have you considered interviewing the suspect and getting his story?’
I’d long been inspired by Truman Capote’s bestseller, In Cold Blood, which explores the real-life murders of the Clutter family at the hands of drifters, Perry Smith and Dick Hitchcock, shining a light on the psychology behind the killings. After wondering if I’d ever be able to write something of that nature, and whether interviewing this murderer could provide fresh insight into his actions and the justice system, I decided to take on the challenge.
That first interview remains as poignant as any other “first.” K-9 dogs sniffed me for drugs and officers searched all of my belongings – even my shoes. When one ordered me to remove my cardigan, since it could be used to strangle me, I began to doubt my decision. Envisioning my own funeral, I walked down the corridor to the visiting area, as if I really was walking to my death.
In a private room, I met the un-cuffed spree killer Gelman, with only a small table dividing us. I hoped officers would be watching from the other side of the glass, ready to come to my aid if necessary, but I couldn’t be sure.
Remembering advice I’d read from other journalists, I tried to act unafraid and matched Gelman’s body language, stretching my legs and crossing my arms. Quietly, I listened to him describe four gruesome murders. The fear I felt was similar to the type you experience when watching a horror film – only I couldn’t turn away. Although I was afraid that the man in front of me had the potential to become unhinged at any second, like on the day of his killing spree, curiosity forced me to remain seated and listening.
After an hour, an officer alerted us that the visit was over. I shook Gelman’s hand, the same one he used to drive a knife into his victims, and watched as the officer locked cuffs around his wrists. Adrenaline surged through me as if I’d just survived a dangerous feat, like jumping from a plane.
From then on, I felt compelled to hear more stories from people who were incarcerated for murder, with the why and how constantly driving me forward. I wanted my journalism to be of service, to potentially shine a light on cases I felt had unexplained details remaining. In 2020, I began writing for The Crime Report, an online news source covering criminal justice issues, and also founded, Beyond the Crime, a website where I share my firsthand interviews with men incarcerated for murder. Since then, my work has also been included in multiple true crime podcasts and documentaries.
To my surprise, many of the most notorious serial killers in American history – Dennis Rader (the BTK Killer, the focus of a new Netflix documentary), Ted Kaczynski (The Unabomber), Keith Jesperson (The Happy Face Killer), David Carpenter (The Trailside Killer) and the most prolific of all, Gary Ridgway (The Green River Killer) – responded, eager to speak. The pandemic limited these conversations to calls and letters, but that didn’t stifle the process.
When I first began this work, I was often met with criticism along the lines of “you’re crazy.” Whenever I headed to a prison or answered the phone to a serial killer, friends and family expressed concern for my safety, convinced I would become harmed in some way.
However, docuseries like Netflix’s Dahmer have now normalised true crime, making it acceptable to discuss with nearly anyone. In fact, almost half of the population watch true crime shows before bedtime, with 15% even using them as a sleep aid, a new study has revealed. But without the safe distance that a Netflix documentary creates, these killers became real people – and a part of my everyday life.
How normal they all sounded unsettled me. Serial killers, especially, are excellent conversationalists, usually funny, intelligent, and analytical. The BTK Killer, Dennis Rader, would discuss books he was reading – when we were in touch it was To Kill a Mockingbird – plans for a memoir he hoped to write, and how he wished he was spending his old age “on a porch rocking chair” telling “war stories” to his grandchildren instead of in a drab prison cell. Ted Kaczynski would write long letters about the state of the world, presenting comical scenarios about society’s bleak future. Each time Keith Jesperson called me, he shared details of his childhood, his life as a truck driver, opinions on topics you’d discuss with a friend.
The more I thought about how good these men were at appearing normal, every man I met became a suspect. If these serial killers could fake normalcy and kindness from a prison cell, what about the men I passed in the supermarket, the airport, or the park?
With 90% of males responsible for general homicides, it seemed rational when I deleted my dating profiles and began declining dates with men I’d meet in social settings. Each night before bed, I checked the locks on every door and window multiple times and examined the inside of my wardrobe, to make sure I was really alone.
Before interviewing serial killers, I wouldn’t think twice about going to a bar or meeting a man online for an in-person drink, even letting him walk me to my car after. Now, I’d never let any man know what kind of car I drive. In fact, I wouldn’t even go on the date. Since I began this work, I’ve only gone on a handful of dates, and even then it was just with friends of friends.
The lack of remorse was chilling too: all of these men were responsible for ending the lives of scores of women. While some of them showed glimpses of regret, I felt these displays often came across as feigned, lacking authenticity.
Details that so many serial killers nonchalantly recounted to me of their own crimes often flood my mind; “[I targeted] women at the wrong place and wrong time,” Jesperson once said. Couldn’t I also be a woman in the wrong place at the wrong time?
As our communication developed, Ridgway in particular would remind me of this fact. He would express concern for my safety – and he wouldn’t just stop there. Instead, he’d describe all the ways I could be raped and killed, as if recalling details from a movie he’d watched on repeat, seemingly amused. Since I was trying to retrieve information about unsolved cases, I had no choice but to act unfazed.
It was only when I began writing my book about him, and I spent hours listening back to our calls, rereading his letters, and dissecting nearly 9,000 pages of his confession to police, that everything he was capable of started to weigh on me. I began to wonder why violence against women seems accepted everywhere and kept re-running what Ridgway proposed could happen to me, what any man could do.
So, I began discussing these concerns in weekly therapy sessions, which has granted me a space to process my feelings. I have no intention of quitting this line of work – these stories are far too important – but I’ve allowed myself to take breaks from conducting interviews. The stories that have been shared with me will be permanently ingrained in my mind, but I now choose not to listen to more of them if I don’t have to; out of work, I avoid watching or reading anything true crime-related for long periods of time.
I know not all men are serial killers, but currently, I still prefer my own company and I’m in no rush to date anyone. There’s also been an unexpected silver lining to emerge from my fears: I’ve become entirely self-reliant, independent and comfortable being alone. Before, I would cringe at the idea of travelling by myself or eating in a restaurant unaccompanied. Now, I prefer these solo adventures.
As a result, I trust my own decisions a lot more, and most importantly, I enjoy what only solitude can provide. To me that means time alone with my thoughts, to make sense of these experiences and write about them. Something that has given me more purpose than anything ever has before.
