The Last Victim (28 page)

“My dad’s in a bad mood,” I told him. “I gotta go home. I don’t have a choice or he’ll beat the shit out of me.”

“What do you mean, your father wants you home! Doesn’t he know you’re supposed to be with me?”

“I know,” I said. “He’s being ridiculous. But he wants me to come home.”

Silence on the other end of the line. I wondered if Gacy had hung up.

“Well,” he finally said in frustration, “do you want me to call him to convince him to let you stay?”

Yeah, right,
I thought. “No, that’ll only make him more upset.”

“I can’t believe this! I spent all this money to fly you out here—”

I reminded him that it wasn’t my fault, that I had no choice in the matter. I was surprised how easily he accepted my explanation.
I wondered if he sensed when I left that day that I wouldn’t be coming back.

We made plans for a return visit during my summer break. Fat chance of that. Gacy was scheduled to die in a few weeks.

O
kay. I’d made a big mistake. I see that fully now. I began realizing it as I was flying home, trying to fit together the pieces
of what had happened to me the previous two days.

It was a midnight flight. I took a window seat so I could stare into the darkness and avoid my fellow passengers. I didn’t
think I could muster any small talk right now. Besides, I needed to think. In the back of my mind, I wondered whether I knew,
the day I set out for Menard, what was going to happen. Had it been a deluded belief in my ability to “handle” people that
caused me to ignore the danger signs?

As I listened to the mingled sounds of droning engines and snoring passengers, I seethed. I was furious at Gacy for manipulating
me in such a way that I felt bruised, dirty, and vulnerable. I also flagellated myself for not having anticipated Gacy’s moves
and counteracting them more effectively.

Yes, I’d butted heads with a serial killer and lived to tell about it. I’d climbed into the wolf’s cage. But I certainly hadn’t
tamed him. I may have learned firsthand what it feels like to be so terrified you’re frozen in place, but I was going to pay
a price. My body may not have been buried beneath Gacy’s house, but part of my soul would rest in his trophy case. I was his
last victim.

As much as I was hurting, as confused as I felt, the worst part was being so alone. I knew there was nobody I could confide
in at home about what had
really
happened. I’d put up a brave front to my parents, minimize the danger I confronted. In fact, I’d tell them very little. And
some of what had gone down—well, it was too embarrassing to tell even Jarrod. Gacy’s reducing me to tears, for example.

Jarrod had always thought of me as his “cool as a cucumber” older brother—the guy who had everything wired. I needed him to
keep believing that. Sometimes it seemed like he was the only member of my fan club.

When I saw my father waiting for me as I exited the plane, I wanted to break into tears and run into his arms. I just wanted
him to hold me. But I knew that if I told him what had really happened, the long leash I’d grown accustomed to would be shortened
considerably. That would be the end of finding a receptive audience for my next “exciting idea.”

“Hi,” my father said with a big smile. “How did it go?”

I shrugged. “It was fine. Not what I expected, though.”

There it was. The opening. If my father wanted to pick up on that, if he’d decided to press, I probably would have told him.
I was that wrung out.

But he didn’t.

“So,” he said as we made our way past the slot machines to the baggage area, “how was the flight?”

“Fine, Dad.” I was both disappointed and relieved that things would remain private. It was clear to me he didn’t really want
to know what had happened. In a sense, he was asking for the sanitized version.

He abruptly changed the subject. “Your brother has been difficult to handle lately. Any idea what’s been going on with him?”

What
is
this? I wondered. Is he blaming me for Jarrod’s problems? I didn’t think so. But it made sense that the things I’d been doing
were affecting everyone in the household.

The drive home was very quiet and uncharacteristically awkward. I wondered if my father was mad at me but I was afraid to
ask. We both were very standoffish, reluctant to get into anything too heavy. Still, I’d missed him terribly and it felt great
to be home again. I was even looking forward to returning to school.

I slept most of that day while my parents worked and my brother attended school. I actually barricaded myself in my room,
trying to put enough of myself back together to face the world. I brooded about this whole serial killer project I’d embarked
on. Despite everything, I still found these individuals fascinating. But Gacy—there was no way I could deal with
him
anymore.

Poor Koko. Now, there was someone I might write. With the bond I’d already established, I figured I could get him to really
open up.

Wait a minute! In thinking about him, I realized that what I was engaged in was a form of “self-esteem damage control.” It
fit a pattern I’d repeated my entire life: experience a setback in one area; make up for it by pushing forward in another
area. That way, you avoid failure.

It hadn’t occurred to me yet that my visit to Gacy had been a success of a certain kind. In fact, by using myself to bait
the hook, I’d learned much more about how a predator like him functions than if I’d just sat across from him the whole time
and peppered him with questions.

I lay in bed staring at the ceiling, my hands rested on my stomach, fingers intertwined. On an impulse, I moved my right hand
to my heart to feel the blood pumping through my body. It felt so good to be alive. Before I drifted off to sleep, my last
thought was that I’d do something positive with what I’d learned.

“S
o how was Gacy?” my mother asked the next morning. She seemed genuinely concerned about me.

“He was fine,” I said nonchalantly, as if we were discussing a relative I’d just visited. “We just talked about his case and
what it was like to live in prison.”

She nodded, encouraging me to go on. For a change, she seemed interested in what I had to say.

“Nothing else, really,” I said, shrugging. “I
did
get to talk to some other people in the prison.”

“That must have been interesting.”

“Oh, it was. I learned a lot of stuff. I’ll tell you this, though. I never want to go to prison. I don’t think I could handle
it.”

“Well, I’m glad everything turned out the way you wanted. Your father and I were very worried about you.”

“Yeah, I know.” If they had any idea what had really occurred, they’d freak out. “I told you I’d be safe.”

She could tell I wasn’t revealing everything that had happened. Thankfully, though, instead of prying, she came over and gave
me a hug.

“Glad to have you back, Jason.”

“Me too, Ma.”

I ran upstairs and found Jarrod waiting in my room. He expected a more complete story of what had occurred, so I gave him
an edited version, glossing over the more graphic details.

“Hey, I almost forgot,” my brother said as he headed out. “You got some mail while you were gone.”

I’d asked him to cover for me while I was away and collect any letters that arrived from the other killers I’d been writing.
My parents knew I was occasionally corresponding with a few inmates, but they had no idea of the extent of my involvement,
or how often my pen pals checked in.

I’d been away only three days but there were letters from both Charles Manson and Richard Ramirez waiting. I couldn’t even
begin to concentrate on them. I was still reeling from all that had happened in Illinois. I just wanted to take a shower for
about a week, to wash away the embarrassment that was still clinging to me.

I decided not to open the letters yet. I wanted to clear my mind and focus on more pleasant things. I was looking forward
to spending time with Jenn, getting together with some of my friends, just hanging out with my family.

In spite of my resolve to chill out, though, Gacy redoubled his assault on my life. He called me that very night.

“So, buddy,” he said cheerfully, “how was the trip back?”

“Fine,” I answered. It was hard to hide my fury. In fact, I was kicking myself for having answered the phone.

“Your family okay?” he prodded further when the silence went on for endless seconds.

“Yeah, no problems. Everything’s cool.”

“Well, then, I’d better let you get back to things. Just wanted to see how you’re doing. Make sure you got back okay.”

The conversation ended awkwardly. I hoped that maybe he’d gotten the message to fade away. That wasn’t to be, though.

I was still trying to determine what I wanted to do about Ramirez and Manson, whether I wanted to keep those relationships
going, when two letters arrived from Gacy the next day. Then another letter the following day.

In each of them, he expressed his disappointment and anger that I’d left a day early. He said he was hoping that I’d consider
moving to Chester, Illinois, so I could be near him and visit him every day. He said he was sure Ken could find a house there
for me to stay at.

I couldn’t believe how deluded he was. He seemed oblivious to the revulsion I’d shown at the prison. He’d superimposed this
fantasy on me, and when he thought of me, he couldn’t keep the two separate. Though it was possible I might learn additional
things about him—and thus, about serial killers in general—by continuing a desultory relationship with him, I’d lost the stomach
for it. I just wanted him to go away.

As more letters from him arrived, I left them unopened and unanswered. I hooked up an answering machine with caller ID so
I could avoid his calls. I hoped he’d finally get the message.

Meanwhile, I decided to break off things with Ramirez and Manson as well, at least for a while. That left only two other killer
pen pals—Henry Lee Lucas and Elmer Wayne Henley. I’d written them before I left for Illinois.

Lucas was particularly interesting. Years before, he’d been arrested for illegal possession of a firearm, and while in custody
confessed to over three hundred murders. Beginning at age fourteen, when he raped and killed a girl his own age, and extending
until he was twenty-three, when he killed his own mother, he took lives indiscriminately. He was imprisoned for murdering
his mom, but was subsequently paroled. Free again, he killed many others, most of them anonymous hitchhikers.

I knew that Lucas, like Gacy, fancied himself an artist, so I approached him by posing as an art dealer who might be interested
in selling his work. Though he wrote me several times, most of his letters centered around his desperate need for money. I
never seemed to get beyond business with him, so eventually I let the relationship wither away.

Elmer Wayne Henley was only seventeen when he joined a gang of serial killers who abducted twenty-seven young boys, raped
them repeatedly, tortured them, and then killed them. Some of the victims were as young as nine years old. I read that they’d
even preyed on two brothers, which I found especially disturbing.

Given Henley’s youth and naiveté, I thought a direct approach might work. Certainly, if it succeeded, it would be easier on
me than trying to play several different characters at once. I just told him about myself, and said I wanted to be his friend.
I sent along a photo and an open invitation to respond. I almost forgot about him because nearly two months elapsed before
I received a return letter.

He was most apologetic, even pitifully so, for not having written earlier. He talked about wanting to write me on a regular
basis, but there was something about the intimacy he imagined with me that frightened him.

“[I have] a tendency to withdraw,” he wrote. “For a good proportion of my time I was in contact only with my family and no
others.”

He explained that he’d taught himself to do time in prison by isolating himself as much as possible. “I’m good at that,” he
said. There was something about my letter to him, though, that he couldn’t ignore—something that drew him out of his shell.

I was skeptical that he’d follow through on his promise to write on a regular basis. After I wrote him again and received
a very superficial response, I abandoned the relationship.

• • •

Since Gacy continued to make efforts to contact me, I decided that rather than confront him directly and suffer whatever wrath
he might be capable of, I would ease gently out of the relationship. After the prison visit, I no longer underestimated him.
I’d concluded he was capable of reaching out from prison and, while maybe not physically harming me, certainly making trouble.

So in a letter I wrote to him, I dropped hints that my father’s behavior was increasingly violent and erratic. I said my dad
was enraged by all the collect calls I’d accepted, hundreds of dollars each month. I told Gacy that my father had spent the
reimbursement checks on booze, so when it came time to pay the bills, there was no money left. What I was trying to do was
send the message that, very shortly, access to me was going to be denied.

Since Gacy might very likely drag out the heavy artillery to get me to fix the situation, no matter what remedy was called
for, or, alternatively, fire off a few smear salvos out of sheer vengeance, I decided it was time to confess all to my parents.
As much as I dreaded owning up to my bad judgment, I needed to protect myself in case Gacy deployed his weapons, as illusory
as some of them were.

“Well,” I began hesitantly, addressing my family in the living room. “Uh . . .” When I stammered like this, they knew I was
going to hit them with something big, either one of my crazy ideas or a mea culpa of impressive magnitude.

Dad nodded his head in encouragement. Mom shook her head, as if to say,
Oh God, what now!