The Last Victim (30 page)

Jarrod gave me a high five, then Jenn reached over and hugged me, whispering in my ear, “The monster is dead.”

After a few minutes of idle chatter, I politely excused myself and went up to my room to be alone. I looked through some of
the letters Gacy had sent me, especially those in which he’d been rather normal and almost considerate. I stared at his paintings,
haunting images that revealed so transparently how tortured he’d been. Then I put them all in the safe, and when I locked
the door, I hoped I was putting this chapter in my life behind me.

• • •

A few days later, Ken called to pass along a last message that Gacy had left for me. I shuddered, wondering if I really wanted
to hear it or not.

Before I could decide, he said, “On the last day of his life, the day he was executed, he asked about you, Jason. He wanted
to know if I’d kept in contact with you. He asked how you were doing. I told him I’d last talked to you about a week or so
before, and that you were doing all right and that you were just finishing up with school and your finals.

“Like I once told you,” he continued, “I think he genuinely cared about you, Jason. At least the only way he could. He certainly
ended up respecting you. He knew he’d met his match with you. He kept saying you really took him for a ride. He’d say it in
anger but I think he got a kick out of it, too.”

Tears started falling down my face as I heard those words. It sort of reminded me of those Westerns in which the two adversaries
grudgingly show respect for each other, just before they reach for their guns. For a long time, that had been the fantasy
I’d been living out—that I was a gunslinger wearing a white hat taking on the cold-blooded killer wearing the black hat.

I’d learned, though, that life isn’t a movie. Though it’s nice to believe in white-hatted heroes and black-hatted villains,
people are a lot more complex than that. Myself—I figured my Stetson had a few stains on it. And Gacy—well, you had to look
awfully hard to find a speck of white on his black fedora. But I liked to think that everybody had a little good in them somewhere.
Maybe, in Gacy’s case, it was there as a child—before abuse took his innocence away.

“Y
eah,
right.
”

“No way!”

“That really happened, Jason?”

I wasn’t surprised by their challenges. I was used to it by now. In fact, I was downright amused by their expressions—grins
of half-disbelief, half-amazement.

I was standing in front of a psychology class at the high school I’d graduated from, the school Jarrod now attended. I’d been
invited to tell my story, the one that had been splashed across the local papers and had now become the stuff of legend in
Las Vegas: “Boy takes on serial killers. Actually makes friends with them. Even visits them in prison.”

It had been two years since I’d escaped Gacy’s clutches, and a year since I’d ceased virtually all communication with serial
killers. Though my presence in this classroom today might have belied it, I was trying to move past that phase of my life.
I was now enjoying working with the victims of misfortune rather than the perpetrators of violence.

For a while, I’d been living with a burn victim as an aide. Not only did she have to contend with chronic pain from third-degree
burns that covered most of her body, but she’d also been diagnosed with the AIDS virus.

I was also a “Wish Grantor” for the local chapter of the Make-a-Wish Foundation. That involved spending time interviewing
terminally ill children to discover what they wanted as their most prized fantasy. For one child, I helped arrange a meeting
with the Air Force Thunderbirds; for others, it might be a dog to keep them company or a trip to Disneyland. Giving comfort
to dying children helped push away the dark clouds that sometimes settled over me.

I’d volunteered to be a Big Brother as well. I was assigned to mentor an eleven-year-old boy whose father had left him and
his family when he was just five. I felt privileged to be the friend, confidant, and teacher the boy so desperately needed.

All of these activities, besides being satisfying ways to make a difference, were an attempt on my part to learn more about
what victims felt. After all, I’d been a victim myself. If I was ever to become a prosecutor, or a forensic psychologist,
or a federal agent—my career ambitions fluctuated daily—I’d need to see things from the victim’s side.

I suppose, too, that a couple other motives entered into it. I’d always enjoyed being in control. It feels so powerful to
be able to grant a wish to a dying child, to mentor a fatherless boy, or to make a difference in the lives of those who need
help the most. Too, I probably felt safer around people who wouldn’t try to hurt me. As a result of seeing firsthand the evil
that people are capable of, I was still grappling with some trust issues.

I’m not sure why I’d consented to speak to this group of high schoolers at a time when I was trying to leave the past behind.
I guess, partly, it was a favor to my old teacher; and, partly, a way to help Jarrod with his audacity-loving peer group.
He’d get some mileage out of my talk when they convened for their next bullshit session.

As much as I appreciated the attention of the twenty-eight students, a part of me was wishing I could get through my remarks
as soon as possible and get back to my real life—the one in which I was now known as president of UNLV’s Psychology Honors
Society and chief justice of the student council. The days of staying closeted in my room, playing the recluse, were past.

“So, Jason,” one eager, not unattractive girl asked me, “what made you do such a crazy thing [visit the prison] in the first
place? I mean, did you really think you’d be safe?”

I’d been asked the same questions so many times over the last two years, there was a tendency to go on autopilot. I tried
to think of new ways of explaining myself, new images that would make it all clear.

“It’s complicated really,” I stumbled. “It’s more like—”

“Did you see anyone electrocuted while you were there?” a boy interrupted. I could see eyes roll, as if off-the-wall questions
were this kid’s stock-in-trade. He looked barely awake. Throughout the first half hour of my talk, he’d been resting his head
on his arms, either drugged out or exhausted from lack of sleep. Before I could even reply, his head dropped back into his
arms.

Miss Lawrence jumped in to redirect the discussion back to the subject she was hoping we’d explore more. “Jason,” she asked,
“what did you learn from all of this? I mean, you’ve been through so much. You did things that most people wouldn’t even dream
of. I know I wouldn’t.”

The class laughed at that—but not because they thought it was true. Miss Lawrence had a reputation for being a fearless risk-taker
herself. I think they were laughing because they knew she’d love to try something equally audacious.

I found myself hesitating, thinking desperately of how to reply.

“Yo, Jay-
son
,” a wiseass in the front row called out, seeing I was struggling with my answer.

The problem was I couldn’t tell these kids what I’d
really
learned. The actual story would be too upsetting. And, frankly, I didn’t have the courage. These kids—the ones not wisecracking
or sleeping, at least—saw me as some kind of hero. I couldn’t tell them about my regrets, about the damage I’d done to my
family, about the ways I’d hurt my brother, about the misery I’d known. I couldn’t describe the clashes with my mother, or
how much conflict had been involved in getting my parents to go along with my plans. I couldn’t tell them how sorry I was
about the pain I’d caused.

“Well,” I said finally, trying to come up with a lesson the kids could take away, “I learned that when you do some tough things,
when you put yourself out there, it opens doors for you in the future.”

“Like what?” the guy in the front row challenged.

“Like . . . getting to work for the United States Secret Service.”

“No way!”

“Way,” I replied, starting to like this boy now. Whereas the other kids seemed compliant and passive, this guy really seemed
inquisitive. I recognized a part of me in him.

“Actually, I did an internship with the Secret Service office here in Las Vegas. I even got to meet the president and his
wife when they were in town for a campaign stop.”

I could hear snickering from the back of the room. Now I knew what teachers went through; they missed all the best stuff.
I was curious to know what the kids were whispering about.

“You,” I pointed to one of the girls in the back of the room who’d been talking. “Did you have a question you want to ask?”

She just giggled and whispered something to her friend again. Then she looked up and smiled.

I stood in front of the room, rocking back and forth on my feet, deciding where to go next. I looked up at the clock and saw
we still had a few minutes left. I took a deep breath and decided to say out loud what I’d been thinking.

“Look, I know this story sounds interesting and all. But it wasn’t really like that. I mean, I’m not the same anymore, the
same person I used to be. After writing and talking to guys like Manson and Ramirez and Gacy, knowing the ways they really
think, I can’t get it out of my head that there are still so many others like them around.”

Most of the kids now showed that kind of engrossed look you see when you’re telling a ghost story. They were a little on edge
but they couldn’t wait for me to continue.

“I’m pretty mistrustful of people I come into contact with. I question everyone’s motives. I wonder what they really want
from me, and how they’re going to manipulate me to get it.”

I paused for a moment and scanned the room to see if they were following. I noticed the guy in front was definitely relating
to what I was saying.

“I still have nightmares that Gacy and other killers are out there trying to hunt and kill me. Sometimes, when I’m alone in
my car or in my room, when I’m drifting off to sleep, I feel the touch of Ramirez’s huge hand or I hear the rhythm of Manson’s
poetry. Often I see the inside of Gacy’s cell—remember what it smelled like. I wish I could get these things out of my head,
but I can’t.”

“How else are you different, Jason?” Miss Lawrence asked. Bless her heart. She was trying to get me to focus on a more positive
part of the experience.

I glanced at the clock again, hoping to be saved by the bell. Alas, still a few interminable minutes left.

“Well, for one thing, now I’m more focused on school. When I was here at Green Valley High School, I was a good student. Better
than good. The only B I ever got in my life was that first semester at UNLV when all these events were taking place. Ever
since then, I’ve buckled down even more. The things I want to do in life are going to take everything I have to get there.”

I could see Miss Lawrence beaming in the back of the room. This is the message every teacher loves to hear from an ex-student:
study hard, work hard, and the world will open up to you.

But that wasn’t where I was headed.

“Look, I wouldn’t wish the way I am on anyone.” I raised my voice louder, hoping to wake up the two guys with their heads
down in the back of the room. “I wish I didn’t know about all the dangers out there. I wish I didn’t know so much about how
killers and psychopaths think. I wish I could just enjoy being in college like my friends do. Party-hearty.”

There was a smattering of laughter around the room. When the two sleepers raised their heads, I figured I’d scored a major
breakthrough. Either that or they sensed the bell was about to ring.

Now I was racing against the clock, trying to get out everything I was thinking. I’m pretty sure Miss Lawrence understood
me. Maybe even a few of the kids, too.

I realized how much more I valued life. I remembered being in eleventh grade like these kids, thinking I was immortal. Death
was a word that had no meaning for me. That wasn’t true anymore. Now I knew death intimately.

The bell rang. Most of the kids scrambled out the door without a look in my direction. I couldn’t blame them really. The school
was so big it took every one of the ten minutes to get to their next class on time. But a few of the kids solemnly made their
way to the front of the room to shake my hand or thank me for coming. Miss Lawrence, too, was effusive in her gratitude: she
knew how much I’d revealed that day.

I walked out through the open courtyard, reminiscing about the four years of my life I’d spent in this school as a member
of its first graduating class. I passed the corridor where I used to see Jenn standing by her locker . . . the lunchroom where
I hung out with my friends . . . and the weight room where I thought I was supplying myself with as much strength as I needed
for the future. It was a time of innocence for me, a time before I faced monsters.

The hot, sauna winds of April blew sand in my face once I emerged from the school’s courtyard into the parking lot. Automatically,
I began to head toward where my reserved parking space had once been. Realizing my mistake, I smiled and turned back toward
the guest spaces in front.

It was time to head home. Mom was making our favorite dinner tonight, spaghetti with meat sauce. I vowed to make an extra
effort to be nice to her. I realized now what I’d put her through all these years, what I’d put everyone through. I probably
couldn’t change my inquisitive nature, but I intended to make it up to them somehow. If I could just learn from the pain I’d
gone through, if only others could learn as well, then maybe it all would have been worth it.

For now, though, most nights before I go to sleep, before I even turn out the light and climb into bed, I hesitate for a moment.
There’ve been too many nights during which I awaken suddenly, absolutely convinced Gacy, Dahmer, Manson, Lucas, or Ramirez
is standing in my room, watching me sleep. I can see their eyes glowing in the dark—hear their heavy, ragged breathing.