An excerpt from Michelle McNamara's letter to the golden state killer.<p>The race was yours to win. You were the observer in power, never observed. An initial setback came on September 10, 1984, in a lab at the University of Leicester, when the geneticist Alec Jeffreys developed the first DNA profile. Another came in 1989, when Tim Berners-Lee wrote a proposal for the World Wide Web. People who weren’t even aware of you or your crimes began devising algorithms that could help find you. In 1998, Larry Page and Sergey Brin incorporated their company, Google. Boxes holding your police reports were hauled out, scanned, digitized, and shared. The world hummed with connectivity and speed. Smartphones. Optical-text-recognition technology. Customizable interactive maps. Familial DNA.<p>I’ve seen photos of the waffle-stomper boot impressions you left in the dirt beneath a teen-age girl’s bedroom on July 17, 1976, in Carmichael, a crude relic from a time when voyeurs had no choice but to physically plant themselves in front of windows. You excelled at the stealth sidle. But your heyday prowess has no value anymore. Your skill set has been phased out. The tables have been turned. Virtual windows are opening all around you. You, the master watcher, are an aging, lumbering target in their crosshairs.<p>A ski mask won’t help you now.<p><a href="https://www.newyorker.com/books/page-turner/letter-to-the-golden-state-killer" rel="nofollow">https://www.newyorker.com/books/page-turner/letter-to-the-go...</a>