The Stranger Beside Me

by Ann Rule

One who suffers from a personality disorder knows the difference between right and wrong—but it doesn’t matter because he is special and he deserves to have and do what he wants.

As I write these recollections of women who survived, I hope my readers are taking careful note of why they did. They screamed. They fought. They slammed doors in a stranger’s face. They ran. They doubted glib stories. They spotted flaws in those stories. They were lucky enough to have someone step up and protect them.

“I asked him if there was any effective treatment for people like Bundy. “He paused for a moment and said, ‘Only a sledgehammer between the eyes.’”

If, as many people believe today, Ted Bundy took lives, he also saved lives. I know he did, because I was there when he did it.

Lynda … Donna … Susan … Kathy … Brenda … Georgeann. All gone as completely as if a seam in the backdrop of life itself had opened, drawn them in, and closed without leaving so much as a mended tear in the tapestry.

Not even a television script could make it believable that a crime writer could sign a contract to write a book about a killer, and then have the suspect turn out to be her close friend.

What had he meant? Was he being sarcastic? Did he mean thirty-seven murders? Or, no, it couldn’t be … did he mean a hundred or more murders?

And his last admonition to me, “don’t talk to strangers,” was, under the circumstances, dark humor.