I remember back in the old days when they used to enforce the vice laws.

Every now and then, at the bar I worked, we would hear a heart-curdling scream from the toilet. The door would bang open and a young man (or sometimes a not so young man) would come tearing out clutching his crotch and groaning. He'd make for the front door, and usually we'd never see him again.

One night I got to talking with a police detective. I asked him if he knew anything the scream and run business. He grinned and said, Yes, he did. He took a long drag on his cigar, tapped it in the ashtray, and proceeded to tell me a story that went something like this.
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In a similar vein, I drive back and forth on I-64 during the week, and the reststops are a lot nicer than the reststops on I-95. Still, they are always eerily quiet, and the bathrooms are ripe for some questionable behavior.

Blessed are the murderous.