John Wayne Gacy (12 page)

Officer: “Mr. Gacy signed a complaint against Michael?”

Cram: “Signed a complaint against Michael, and was going to have Ma charged with Dram Shop Act for serving, you know, for having that on and so forth, but after Michael … This went on for about two months, I guess, Michael didn’t work for him. Just before his court date, John called Michael up asked him if he would like his job back. John’s reason for this is no matter whether there is personal conflict or not. There should be no reason why I should penalize myself because of the job, because of my job, ’cause Mike knows the system; Mike knows the carpentry. So, Michael accepted a position with John at $10 an hour. His salary and so on and so forth would be recorded at his job.”

Officer: “Do you know anything about the investigation that we are working on? Do you know what it’s about?”

Cram: “Ah, yeah, I from what I think it’s about some guy from Les-on Drugs or something like that, isn’t it?”

Officer: “Okay, now, is there any reason for you to think that perhaps Mr. Gacy could be involved in this?”

Cram: “Well, like I say, John is a funny person, you know, I mean in my past history from associating with people that don’t put nothing past nobody.”

Officer: “Is there in your knowledge anything about Mr. Gacy that would cause you to believe that something similar to this might have happened before?”

Cram: “Well he is a bit of a bragger, so on and so forth and he lives in a fantasy world, I believe. Now how much is fact and
how much is fiction that’s left up to the individual to decide. But, he claims that he does work for syndicate and so on and so forth, you know. But, that’s neither here nor there. I don’t have actual proof of the individuals, you know, actual proof that I could come right out and stake my life on it.”

Officer: “Has he ever told you that he has been involved in something like this before?”

Cram: “Ah, yeah, he said he was, you know.”

Officer: “What does he say?”

Cram: “Well, he said he, well let’s see if I can get this right. He said he set people up before and he’s just a few things, just basically like that.”

Officer: “Did John have any statement to make to you about whether or not he was involved in this?”

Cram: “Ah, yeah, he said I did not have nothing to do, I swear to you that I had nothing to do with this one, with this guy.”

Officer: “Did he lead you to believe that perhaps he was involved with somebody else?”

Cram: “Ah, yeah, you could come to that assumption.”

Officer: “Can you talk about that a little more?”

Cram: “Well, just by the way, I don’t know. I imagine an innocent man would conduct, I mean he would get a little pissed off at the whole matter, rather than be shaken by it. Okay, I realize that it is a serious charge and everything, but why would he be upset as far as nervous and drawn out and, you know, go spend the night at his sister’s house and be afraid of his own shadow more or less. Like I said, it’s personal opinion.”

Officer: “Have you ever found anything suspicious around his home or property?”

Cram: “Well, okay, he’s had a couple of wallets in the garage, you know, with identification in it. The identification was
a driver’s license, library card, military I.D. from maybe the Army Reserve or something like that. That was a little while back, school I.D., college I.D. I believe it was from DeVry Tech, DeVry Tech, DeVry Tech. I believe that’s where it was from, DeVry Tech School I.D.”

Officer: “Do you recall any names on this identification?”

Cram: “I can’t think of the names, no.”

Officer: “Now, how many wallets did you find?”

Cram: “About three.”

Officer: “Where were they?”

Cram: “They were in the cabinet, garage and the storage. Where he keeps his, ah, nails and keeps his office supplies and just little junk, more or less.”

Officer: “How long ago did you see these wallets?”

Cram: “About six months after I was working with him.”

Officer: “Did you mention finding these wallets to Mr. Gacy?”

Cram: “Yeah, I asked him if I could use the I.D. He said I was underage, so on and so forth, and, ah, to go out with my older partners to do drinking. He said, no, you don’t want those.”

Officer: “Did he say why?”

Cram: “He said ’cause they were some people that were deceased.”

Officer: “Would you repeat that?”

Cram: “Deceased. No longer living.”

OK, David Cram … not a brain surgeon, and so on and so forth, ya know. But, David provides significant insight into the personality of John Gacy. Who was this guy? What was he like? What did his friends say about him? If it were not for Mr. Cram, a sizable piece of that puzzle would be missing.

7

W
HEN THE
D
ELTA
Unit first began their twenty-four-hour surveillance of Mr. Gacy, he would lose them pretty much at will. The team was trying to remain inconspicuous. This didn’t work well at all. They would be parked in some inconspicuous place, hidden down the street from his house, and Gacy would hurry out of the front door; jump into his car and tear off, fishtailing on the wet ice as he went; and disappear into traffic on Cumberland Avenue, before the guys could get their car out of park.

The members of the team decided that they couldn’t care less if Gacy spotted them or if he knew that he was being followed. Their job was to keep Gacy in sight, not to play private detective. This not only solved the problem, it gave rise to one of the most unusual surveillance scenarios in the history of modern police work. Before long, Gacy was having drinks with the members of his surveillance team … while they were surveilling him.

Friday, December 15, was one of the days that Gacy had completely eluded the surveillance team. Gacy could have been on the moon for all they knew. They had actually alerted the authorities at O’Hare Field in an effort to thwart any attempt by Gacy to leave the country. The team was determined to make this time the last time that they allowed this to happen. They had been embarrassed once
too often. They each took an unmarked squad car and set out to find Mr. Gacy. At about one o’clock that afternoon, Wally Lang recognized Gacy’s rental car parked outside of my office while my client was inside speaking with me during those six long hours and he, Lang, immediately alerted the others. They all converged on 222 S. Prospect.

The city of Park Ridge is approximately five miles due north of Gacy’s neighborhood in unincorporated Cook County. At 5:30 p.m., when John left my office, the guys from Delta Unit were out in full force. Three cars were waiting for him to leave?one with Wally Lang inside, one with Bob Schultz, and one driven by Ron Robinson. Gacy and I agreed that I would follow him to, or, in the event that we got separated, meet him at Uncle Gordon’s, the home of Gordon Nebel, one of Gacy’s closest friends and business associates.

We were about to get separated.

Mr. Nebel lived on Lawrence Avenue in the suburb of Norridge, very close to Gacy’s house and not far from where I lived with my wife and kids. Therefore, it would stand to reason that Mr. Gacy would travel south on Cumberland Avenue to get to Uncle Gordon’s. It was the easiest and most direct route.

I was about to discover that my new client was sometimes a bit unpredictable and that he had absolutely no aversion to “fucking with the cops.” When Gacy saw that three unmarked squads were glued to his rear bumper, he slammed on his brakes in the middle of Friday-evening rush-hour traffic and, with tires screeching, pulled a U-turn and tore off northbound, bouncing over a curb in the process and waving the middle-finger salute at his tails as he roared by them in the other direction.

Not to be outdone, Ron Robinson immediately cranked his steering wheel hard to the left, thereby blocking the considerable amount of traffic approaching in the northbound lanes of Cumberland Avenue and pissing off a slew of unsuspecting homebound commuters. Tires screeched, horns blared, tempers flared. No more Mr. Nice Guy on the part of Robinson or the other Deltas. This
maneuver allowed Lang and Schultz to clumsily turn around and tear off northbound in pursuit of Gacy. Robinson quickly followed and now the whole caravan was northbound, speeding crazily in the wrong direction.

Welcome to the private practice of criminal law, Sam.

G
ACY DRAGGED HIS
ragtag tail around the northwest suburbs of Chicago for a while, driving as though he was begging to get pulled over. The Deltas simply hugged his rear, clearly making the statement that Gacy was under surveillance and that, if there was any doubt left, it was in no way any kind of a secret anymore. There had previously been such standoffs between Gacy and his tails, but this was a line in the sand being drawn by the Delta Unit. No longer would Gacy be able to shoot off on errant frolics of his own. Wherever he went, they would also be. It actually became a game that both sides played with relish.

I took my sweet time. I wasn’t going to be lulled into some kind of road race with this crew. When I arrived at the home of Gordon Nebel, I saw at least two unmarked squads, and I was pretty sure that a woman who was hanging around was also watching Gacy. (I was wrong about that one.) Gacy was inside Nebel’s apartment. I walked up to Shultz, who was sitting in his car smoking a cigarette.

“Hi,” I said. “I’m Sam, Sam Amirante.”

“I know who you are, Sam. You left the PD’s office, eh?”

“Yeah, and I am going to be representing Mr. Gacy. He knows that he is being followed.”

This elicited a long chuckle from Schultz. “Yeah, I would say that he does,” he said through intermittent laughter.

I had to chuckle too.

I handed him one of my freshly printed business cards and asked that I be called if any kind of an arrest was made. He said he would see to it.

W
HEN I ARRIVED
home that night, I took stock. I had my first client, and he seemed to be a doozy. He certainly had his problems, but, as it turned out, I had problems of my own. My oldest son, Sammy, was sick, not just a-case-of-the-sniffles sick—he was go-to-the-hospital sick. He had a high fever, and he was lethargic; and as new parents, my wife and I were beside ourselves with worry. I thought that the PD’s office was a pressure cooker. I was learning that private practice had its very own brand of stress. You cannot call in sick when you alone are the entire staff.

My wife, Mary, and I took our Sammy to the nearby Resurrection Hospital and we took our newborn, Jimmy, to my mother’s. Thank God for her. Thus began a parent’s worst nightmare—the waiting. We set up a schedule whereby my wife would spend each day sitting with our son and I would spend the nights. I would catch a nap in a chair next to my son when I could.

As I sat in an uncomfortable hospital chair during the wee hours of the morning on that first night of what would prove to be many long nights to come next to my infant son, I thought about the craziness of the day. I had nagging questions: How could my client be guilty of this? He was a well-liked, gregarious ham of a guy who certainly didn’t hide in the shadows. He was a successful businessman. He had won awards and accolades from his peers everywhere he lived, everywhere he went.

He was no angel, that was true. He sure as hell couldn’t drive worth a shit. He was a menace behind the wheel. Plus, he did have a past. Sodomy, for chrissakes. That nagged at me. However, Gacy’s past could just as easily be the explanation for why the police and the prosecutors had made this honest mistake.

If I were investigating this case, I would be drawn in the direction of this suspect, no question. He was there at the drugstore, and he had done time for this creepy fucking crime—I would be all over him. But when would he have had time to be involved in some kind of elaborate abduction of this teenager? He was at Northwest
Hospital with his relatives. If John was involved, where was this kid? The cops had been over his entire house with a fine-tooth comb, hadn’t they? They followed him wherever he went. They knew his every move.

When all was said and done, it didn’t matter, really. A defense attorney doesn’t have that luxury. If we waited for that client that was pure as the driven snow, we would be very lonely people. Police officers do make mistakes, but they don’t make that many mistakes. Ninety-five percent of the people that walk into a lawyer’s office did exactly that with which they are charged. That’s no secret. There are no Perry Masons; lawyers sometimes represent guilty people. When your uncle Charlie got that DUI last year, he was actually drunk as a skunk when he got it. When your sweet angel, Suzie—the apple of your eye, your one and only daughter, the one that looks just like your dear departed mother—was charged with possession of marijuana the other day, she was high as a fucking kite when it happened. Sorry. People make mistakes.

People can do terrible things without being terrible people.

My job is not to judge. My job is to make the State prove their case beyond a reasonable doubt. That is our system, the absolute greatest system on earth, a system that is the envy of the civilized world. Let other countries lop off the fingers of suspected thieves without a fair trial. Let other countries stone alleged adulteresses to death in the street. Let other countries make their defendants prove their own innocence against the overwhelming power and presence of the State. I’ll stick with this country. And I would gladly die in defense of that system of justice. Hundreds of thousands of good men have. I was a marine, and once a marine, always a marine. I had taken that oath. We, as a nation, don’t do everything right. Our history is fraught with blunders. But we got that part right, the part about innocent until proven guilty—on that we were right as rain, right as right can be. Sometimes people don’t fully understand that. That’s OK. I understand it, and that was all that mattered then.

I loved my father. He was my hero, simple as that. He didn’t have an Ivy League education or a big fancy job in one of the towers of industry. He just worked hard every day, loved his wife, took care of his kid, put one foot in front of the other day after day. But maybe my old man did make one tiny mistake. He didn’t make many, but maybe he did make just this one. He wanted me to be a doctor because he didn’t like lawyers, but maybe it wasn’t so bad to be a lawyer. I didn’t think so anyway. I was proud. I was an intricate cog in that very system that I would defend with my life. And … I had my very first client.