By Walter Gilmour, Leland E. Hale

The awful precise tale of serial kidnapper, rapist, and killer Robert Hansen’s reign of terror in Anchorage, Alaska.

As oil growth funds poured into Anchorage, town fast grew to become a first-rate vacation spot for the seedier components of society: prostitutes, pimps, con males, and criminals of all breeds seeking to profit. besides the fact that, anything even worse lurked of their midst.
 
To all who knew him, Robert Hansen used to be a customary hardworking businessman, husband, and father. yet hidden underneath the veneer of gentle respectability was once a monster whose wicked appetites couldn't be sated. From 1971 to 1983, Hansen was once a human predator, stalking girls at the edges of Anchorage society—women whose disappearances may reason scant outcry, yet whose grotesque fates may surprise the kingdom. After his arrest, Hansen confessed to seventeen brutal murders, although experts suspect there have been greater than thirty victims.
 
Alaska kingdom Trooper Walter Gilmour and author Leland E. Hale inform the tale of Hansen’s twisted depredations—from the darkish urges that drove his insanity to the ladies who died at his hand and at last to the professionals who captured and convicted the killer who got here to be referred to as the “Butcher Baker.”
 

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Extra resources for Butcher, Baker: The True Account of an Alaskan Serial Killer

Example text

Haugsven recite the sad litany of frustrations he’d encountered while investigating the Morrow homicide, including the lack of promising suspects. Flothe didn’t look like your usual cop. Tall, slender, almost gawky, he was mild-mannered but intense, soft-spoken but intelligent. He looked like a schoolteacher with his glasses, mousey brown hair and rumpled suits, and in fact had almost become a teacher. Certainly nothing in Glenn Flothe’s background had prepared him to become a state trooper. At twenty-one, he was poised to become a teacher when, on a whim, he enrolled in some Police Science classes at Anchorage Community College.

The way Gilmour derisively said “Hansen” told Flothe volumes. In fact, the sergeant was slightly taken aback. Sure, he had a strong feeling that Hansen was up to more than kidnapping and rape, bad as that was, but it was nothing more than a hunch. With Gilmour, apparently, hunches were out the window at high speed. When he said it was Hansen, he meant it. Gilmour’s face had taken on a determined seriousness that Flothe had often seen while working for the man. The sergeant could almost hear the snap, crackle and pop of the veteran investigator’s brain at work.

The baker fondled the shiny silver tow chain before winding it around her neck four times. It was an unsettling ritual, because he clearly enjoyed it. “If you cooperate, I won’t hurt you,” he said, tightening the chain around her neck. And then he was standing nose to nose with her, stealing her breath, violating her sight. His face was a lunar landscape of acne scars and what looked to her like facial warts. He was ugly, she decided, with horn-rimmed glasses and slick hair that gave him the look of a gawky adolescent who’d grown old but not up.

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