The Last Victim (17 page)

To my deepening dismay, I was becoming like the monsters I was studying—not in their homicidal urges, but in their perceived
separation from the rest of society. I only learned later—when I took developmental psychology classes—how normal these feelings
are for someone of my age, but at the time I just accepted that I was weird. This belief was continuously reinforced by my
parents and peers, who were constantly teasing me because of my strange interests.

If I had stopped to think about it at the time (which I certainly didn’t, or I would never have continued my morbid project),
I would have realized that the people with whom I had the most intimate relationships were all imprisoned serial killers.
Even worse than that, these supposed friendships were built on lies and deception.

From everything I later read in my developmental psychology textbooks, my primary job at this stage was to develop close affiliations
with people my age. This was becoming increasingly difficult as I retreated deeper and deeper into myself, unwilling to trust
anyone with what I was doing. In a way, my reticence was a good thing—or I wouldn’t have had any friends at all!

During this period in which I was maintaining correspondence with Gacy, Manson, and now Dahmer, I was losing the part of myself
that was most familiar. My thoughts previously centered around doing well in school, preparing myself for a good career, learning
things in my classes, going out with friends, and spending time with my girlfriend. Now I was constantly thinking about the
various murderers I was studying. Even more disturbing, I was beginning to identify with them. I felt sorry for them. I shared
their pain. I understood their motivations. I was even making excuses for them: they couldn’t help the way they were. It wasn’t
their choice; they were made that way.

I began to see darkness in everyone I came in contact with, and pitied every naive potential victim I’d see as well. I lost
all of my faith in God. I began to see the world as a place consisting of the weak and the strong. The hunters and the hunted.

For several months, I read almost nothing else except story after story, article after article, about death. Looking back,
I see now that I should have forced myself to take a break. Even some FBI investigators have to rotate their job duties every
once in a while to prevent severe psychological damage. Clearly, I was walking a mental tightrope.

Of course if a teacher, therapist, or even a concerned adult had been monitoring what I was doing, they might have helped
me gain some perspective on what was happening to me. The only person in my life who was really acting like much of a mentor,
though, was John Wayne Gacy.

No wonder I was in trouble.

A
fter I sent the letter off to Dahmer, I waited impatiently for a reply. I’d been spoiled by Gacy’s and Manson’s timely responses,
so I became more and more anxious as the days flew by without any answer. I second-guessed myself continuously. Had I made
the right decision to hold back a photograph of me? I wanted Dahmer to write back and ask for something. Perhaps I hadn’t
given him enough to pique his curiosity. Maybe I should have tried a different strategy altogether.

Weeks passed without a reply. In frustration, I redoubled my attention toward Gacy and Manson. I also made plans to contact
other serial killers like Richard “the Night Stalker” Ramirez and Henry Lee Lucas. I even began questioning everything I’d
done so far. Maybe I’d just been extremely fortunate up to this point. Maybe I was just some weirdo kid who’d lucked onto
a couple psycho pen pals.

I tried to console myself as best I could. The autograph dealer
did
say that nobody ever got letters from Dahmer, so it was probably unrealistic to think I could pull this off. At least Dahmer’s
reluctance to reply had made my mother happy.

“You see, Jason,” she rubbed it in one day, “you can’t get letters from all of these guys. Why don’t you just let it go and
concentrate on school?”

I wished she hadn’t looked so pleased by my failure; that only encouraged me to prove she was wrong. “Aw, Mom, please don’t
start with me.”

As it turned out, my mother had rejoiced too soon. At the end of January, just when I’d given up on Dahmer altogether, there
was a letter from him in the mail. I was so happy that I couldn’t keep from screaming right in front of my own mailbox. My
very first thought was to run in immediately and show my mother she’d been wrong.

“Mom, look at this baby!” I yelled as I ran into the kitchen, where she was preparing dinner. I could see her eyes roll. “Dahmer
finally did write me back. God, I can’t believe I ever doubted myself.”

My mother put down the knife she was using to chop vegetables. She gave me that stern look, the one that said she really means
what she’s about to say. Now it was my turn to roll my eyes.

“Jason,” she declared, “you’ve taken this too far. This has
got
to stop.”

At bottom, I realized this argument wasn’t really about Dahmer’s letter, or even about my serial killer project. Ever since
I could remember, my mother and I played out this little war in which she’d tell me I couldn’t do something and then I’d set
out to prove her wrong. We were both pretty stubborn, so things would usually end in a truce that allowed us both to save
face. This time, though, I was going to rub it in all I could.

“See, Mom,” I bored in, “I
told
you I could do this. Why can’t you ever feel proud of the things I do?”

“But I
am
proud of you, honey. It’s just—”

That’s about as far as the conversation got before I made a hasty retreat, or rather a strategic withdrawal. I knew where
this was headed and I didn’t want to go there. I was in too good a mood right then to fight with her.

I ran up to my room, locked the door, and ripped open the envelope to find a two-page letter written by a man who seemed very
gracious, even scrupulously polite. Dahmer thanked me for writing, wished me a happy new year, and then apologized profusely
for taking so long to respond. “I’m a much better talker than writer,” he said, “so I don’t always keep up with the mail as
I should.”

He then went on to mention that he was indeed interested in having me arrange for some magazine subscriptions. He named several
titles that I later learned were explicit gay publications. Apparently, prisoners weren’t allowed to order their own magazines
or newspapers; they had to be sent as gifts.

Finally, he asked that I send him a photo of myself, anything other than a Polaroid for some reason. Then he signed off by
saying he hoped to hear from me again real soon.

That this letter meant the world to me was an indication of how far gone I was. Everything I’d predicted Dahmer would do came
true. He’d even asked for a photo. Now I agonized over whether to send him some subscriptions or make him wait longer.

In my response to him, I included the safest photo I could find. I wasn’t all that comfortable thinking about Dahmer gazing
at my picture for hours. Would he be selecting the piece of me he wanted to eat?

I spent the better part of that evening locked in my room, thinking about how to construct my response to him. When I heard
my parents come upstairs, I snuck into the kitchen to load up on food for what I knew would be another sleepless night.

In the brief reply I wrote to Dahmer, I said that although I was a struggling college student I’d ordered the magazines he
requested. I deliberately kept my letter brief so that my photo would have more impact. I believed it was the visual image
of another potential victim that would most appeal to him.

This time, I didn’t have to wait long to hear back. He must have written me immediately after he read my letter. His response
was again extremely polite, although accompanying the gracious words was a provocative photo of a naked man with a full erection.
It obviously set the tone for the content of the words to come and represented a rather obvious attempt to seduce me.

He had much to say about the photo I’d sent him:

It looks like you have a great “swimmer’s” build, although it’s a bit hard to tell because you’re bent over in the picture.
You certainly do have a handsome face. I’m glad you didn’t send a “polaroid,” because they don’t allow us to keep them. They’re
afraid someone will lick the chemicals off the bottom strip or something.

He went on to give me detailed instructions regarding the additional photos he wanted me to send:

I’d like to see full body shots of you lying on the bed, hands behind your head, with your chest fully inflated. I’d enjoy
photos of you reaching high for the ceiling. To me, there’s nothing more erotic than a handsome young man with a rock hard
body and a slim tapering waist.

I couldn’t decide if I should feel flattered or utterly repulsed that he found me attractive. I suppose a little of both.
I
was
pleased that he’d decided to trust me. He confided that the reason he didn’t normally respond to letters is that people always
wanted something from him, usually his autograph. Apparently, he’d been disappointed previously in regard to things others
had promised that they hadn’t delivered.

The letter ended with another apology for his photo requests: “Sorry, I don’t mean to sound demanding, it’s just that you’ve
caught my interest; which is not always an easy thing to do!”

I anticipated that Dahmer would display mild intelligence and very average social abilities. I knew that the way he gained
control over his victims was by drugging them. This was not the act of someone who was very confident or sophisticated in
his interpersonal skills.

I hoped that as soon as I earned more of his trust, he’d be willing to really open up to me, as well as possibly let me visit
him. I could already see early signs that he was relating to me just as he did to his prospective victims. He’d typically
lure boys into his apartment by offering them money to pose for him. Once they were in his lair, he’d make sure they never
left.

At the end of Dahmer’s letter he wrote, “I’ll be happy to accommodate you in the future
if
you’ll accommodate me.”

Quite frankly, this made me nervous. Gacy and Manson hadn’t been as direct in their requests as Dahmer. I was concerned he
was getting too close, too fast. It reminded me of the saying “Be careful of what you wish for because you just might get
it.”

In spite of my ambivalence, I sent Dahmer another letter in which I enclosed a picture of me at the beach with my shirt off,
playing with some friends. I hoped that would hold him for a while, so I could get back to other aspects of my project—Gacy,
Manson, et al.—that needed attention. I also told him I had some major exams to prepare for, so I’d write him again in a couple
of weeks.

He responded immediately:

. . . your school work is important, and I completely understand your needing time for finals. Just don’t forget about me
when your school work is done, ha ha. I have many things to do to keep myself busy anyway. Let me know when you’re ready to
pursue a serious relationship. As long as you have the time without distraction, I would be more than open to it.

Of course, neither of us realized that Dahmer had a date with destiny—shortly after, he was murdered in prison by another
inmate. Ironically, while most of the country was celebrating his death—or at least saying “good riddance”— I was feeling
upset and disappointed. Here I had this great opportunity to explore Dahmer’s mind and learn things about the way he thought
and operated, and, in an instant, that opportunity was snuffed out.

“W
hat are you doing
now,
Jason?” my father said with exasperation. He was on his way to bed and noticed my light was still on. When he peered into
my room, it looked like a strong wind had blown papers all over the place. I was sitting on the floor in the middle of the
mess, putting the papers into an orderly sequence.

“Nothing much,” I said, hoping he’d go off to bed. I didn’t want to lose my concentration.

“Looks like homework or something,” he observed.

“Yeah,” I said noncommittally without looking up.

“Well, okay, I’m off to bed.”

“Night, Dad.”

Once I could hear his footsteps padding off, I sighed, both in relief and in disappointment. I really did want to tell him
what I was doing, but I also realized it could mean trouble. I was in no mood for another lecture.

What I’d been involved with when my father interrupted was trying to bring some organization to all the correspondence I’d
been receiving lately. Although, in re-creating what occurred, I’ve given the impression that my approaches to Gacy, Manson,
and Dahmer were sequential, there was actually a good deal of overlap. Even after I spread out all the letters on the floor
of my room, ordering them chronologically, I still felt unsure of the time-line. Truthfully, this two-month period in my life
from December to February of my freshman year had become very confusing.

About the same time I first wrote Dahmer, I also sent a letter to Richard Ramirez, called the Night Stalker because of his
modus operandi in terrorizing Southern California during 1984–85. During his rampage, Ramirez broke into homes indiscriminately,
raping women, torturing them, and leaving them for dead. By the time he’d been captured, he’d killed at least fourteen and
raped dozens more.

He was far more erratic than most serial killers, who follow some sort of a predictable pattern. In his case, nobody was safe,
since he’d randomly select a home, break in, and kill everyone inside. There was almost nothing people could do to prevent
themselves from becoming a victim, no matter what their ages. Sometimes Ramirez would snatch young children, rape them, then
leave their bodies in random locations throughout the state. In one case, he raped and killed a woman in her mid-eighties.
Many of the bodies were found with satanic symbols carved into their flesh. During his trial, Ramirez would smile and wave
to cameras, displaying on his hand a satanic pentagram he’d drawn.