The Last Victim (16 page)

“He’s about average, I’d say. He’s pretty famous but he writes a lot of people.”

“What if I had several dozen letters?” I asked. “All of them are very explicit in describing his sexual tastes, his life in
prison, his feelings about his crimes.”

The man cocked his head to the side, looking at me seriously for the first time. “Are you yanking my chain or something?”

“No,” I said agreeably. “I was just wondering what the letters were worth. I’m not interested in selling them.”

I could see the owner’s expression change, greed now replacing skepticism. “C’mon,” he whined, “you’ll sell eventually. Everyone’s
got their price.”

It was sort of fun watching him wheedle. “I was just wondering who’s worth the most. I mean, which serial killer’s autograph
is the most valuable?”

He thought for just a moment before he replied. “That would be Jeffrey Dahmer, the cannibal guy who ate his victims.”

“Yeah?” I said. “What’s so special about him?”

The owner looked at me condescendingly. “Dahmer just doesn’t like to write people. His stuff is extremely rare. I think there’s
only one guy in the whole country who has any letters from him.”

“Is that right?” I said, my mind working. I was pretty sure whom I’d be contacting next.

As I walked out of the store my head was spinning with possibilities. First, I couldn’t believe how valuable my collection
of letters was—dealers like the one I’d just spoken to would pay me five thousand dollars for the Gacy material, and even
more for my letters from Manson. I hadn’t contacted these killers for the potential profit involved, and wouldn’t start now.
Still, to a penniless college student, these sums were pretty dazzling.

I tried to recall what I knew about Jeffrey Dahmer. Not much, really. I remembered that he not only captured, tortured, and
killed young boys but also
ate
them. I thought it interesting that he hadn’t written to anyone. Might it be that the grisliness of his crimes had put off
even those who tend to glom on to celebrity killers? Or perhaps he’d vowed not to communicate with the outside world, had
quite literally written it off.

It was time to do some research. I began by calling the Milwaukee Police Department and ordering a copy of Dahmer’s 230-page
confession. This would give me a starting point, a feel for the way he thought and talked.

When the thick package from Wisconsin arrived, I was so overwhelmed with schoolwork that I had no time to examine the contents
until the following day. I decided to find a quiet spot in the Student Union Building to sit and peruse the transcript for
a few minutes before class.

As I approached the entrance, I noticed the familiar sights that make campus life so interesting and fun. Kids throwing Frisbees
on the new-mown lawn. Skateboarders and rollerbladers gliding past, using pedestrians as their moving slalom course. Dedicated
students studying in pairs or alone under the shade of trees. I don’t think I’d have been incorrect to assume that at that
moment no one—other than me—was brooding about man-eating serial killers.

After finding a vacant table inside, I became so engrossed in the dialogue that had taken place between Jeffrey Dahmer and
a homicide detective that I lost all track of time and place. Despite the dry police verbiage, I was glued to the page. Automatically,
I kept translating the dry, clinical legalese into the conversation I imagined took place between this cannibal who was more
than willing to talk about his craft, and the experienced detective who acted like he’d heard it all before.

“So, Mr. Dahmer,” the detective asked politely, “how did you go about disposing of your victims?”

“Well,” Dahmer replied just as matter-of-factly, “I’d just drag the body into the bathtub.”

Dahmer hesitated for a moment, lost in thought, as if he was reliving the experience all over again.

“Go on,” the detective prodded gently. “Then what happened?”

Dahmer shrugged. “First, I’d strip off all the clothes on the body. Then, I took off my clothes too so they wouldn’t get dirty.
I’d get in the tub too.”

The detective nodded his head, indicating that he was listening intently.

“I’d use a sharp knife,” Dahmer continued, “a very sharp knife. For something like this, it has to be very sharp.”

Again the detective nodded, as if he understood perfectly the problems of cutting up bodies with something less than suitable
instruments.

“I’d start at the top of the chest and cut all the way down. Then I’d spread it open and remove all the—”

“Wait a minute,” the detective interrupted. “Slow down. What do you mean you’d spread—”

“You know, I’d peel the skin and muscle back. That way I could scoop out all the stuff inside.”

The detective nodded, drinking from his cold coffee to take the sour taste from his mouth. Dahmer just looked dreamy-eyed,
sitting there talking about butchering a body as easily as preparing a chicken for the barbecue.

“I’d cut up all the organs and put them into plastic bags. Each piece would be about the size of my fist.” He held out his
hand to show the detective what he meant.

I was hanging on to every word of this narration when someone called out to me. “Jason! Hey, Jason!”

“Hey, guy,” I responded groggily. It was like I’d been on a different planet. I couldn’t remember his name but I recognized
him from one of my classes.

“Aren’t you supposed to be in class now?” he asked.

“Oh, shit!”

I’d been so immersed in the transcript that I’d completely forgotten where I was. A whole hour had gone by just like that,
and I was still less than halfway through.

“Screw it,” I thought, and maybe even said it aloud to my classmate. I was already late for class, so I figured I might as
well finish what I’d started. Besides, I reasoned, this was a hell of a lot more interesting than some boring lecture.

I settled back into my seat, propped my feet up on the chair next to me, and returned to one of the most bizarre conversations
I’d ever read.

“Okay,” the detective summarized. “So you were saying that it took about five bags for each body. Tell me, what were you feeling
or thinking about during all this? I mean, you know—”

“Um. It’s all kind of exciting.” Dahmer thought for a moment, then continued, “But I was also scared. I didn’t want to get
caught and this was the most dangerous time.”

“Yes,” the detective agreed, encouraging him to continue.

“I also felt this intense loss as I threw the bags into the garbage. At one time, these bags of body parts were a human being
with a whole life in front of him. Now they were nothing but garbage. A complete waste.”

“So you did feel kind of bad about it afterwards?” the detective said, leading him to a place that felt familiar.

“Yeah. Sure I did.” Dahmer nodded to himself as much as to the detective. “It just didn’t seem like I could help myself. It’s
all I could do.”

Wow! This was amazing stuff, I thought. Not only was Dahmer willing to admit to his crimes, but he talked freely about what
drove him to kill. He struck me as very transparent, almost meek—not at all like Gacy or Manson, who could be so aggressive.
If only I could get accustomed to the revolting details of Dahmer’s crimes, it seemed like this challenge would be far easier
than I imagined.

I
walked out of the Student Union that afternoon almost certain I could find some way to capture Dahmer’s interest. And over
the next few weeks I read every book and article I could find on him. When that still didn’t seem enough, I watched every
piece of news footage I could locate. I also read about other killers throughout history who’d operated in similar ways.

Dahmer’s childhood seemed especially intriguing. From all accounts, he’d grown up very alone, with no one to really share
things with. Much of his behavior seemed calculated to achieve companionship without risk of hurt or rejection.

As I reviewed his history further, I learned that he’d been charged with the murder of fifteen males—all homosexual, all young,
mostly minorities. When he was arrested, the remains of eleven victims were found in acid vats in his apartment, as well as
in his refrigerator. So fond was he of keeping mementos of his victims that he would typically sever their heads, boil them
in water, and save the skulls—either in a box or in a discreet place in his bedroom.

At the time of his arrest, there was a human head found in his refrigerator, as well as a human heart and a biceps, which
he planned on eating later. It was his habit to eat a portion of each victim, particularly those he especially liked, because
this allowed him to keep a part of them inside him.

His usual killing strategy was to lure a young man to his apartment for an evening of entertainment. While fixing his guest
a drink, he’d add sleeping pills to knock him out. After the guest was unconscious, Dahmer would strangle him. Sometimes he
had sex with his victims when they were alive, but he’d usually have oral and anal sex with the corpse.

As if this wasn’t sick enough, he sometimes kept the dead bodies around long enough to watch maggots crawling in and out of
the rotting flesh. Even at that level of extreme decomposition, he’d still find the bodies appealing enough to have sex with
them.

On a scale of revulsion, this was indisputably at the top of anyone’s list. Gacy, or even Manson, seemed downright civilized
by comparison. This was one reason that the idea of getting to Dahmer appealed to me—he just seemed so incomprehensible, so
alien.
I could understand why people might kill others, why they might rape, or even why they might torture victims to express rage.
But Dahmer—he was a new
species
of deviant.

Imagine coming home from work each day to a house littered with body parts from people you’ve murdered and mutilated. Given
his demonic behavior, it was particularly ironic that Dahmer looked so frail and ordinary. To anyone who contemplated this
man and his acts long enough, much of the terror he evoked was attributable to there being little about him that might warn
anyone what he was capable of.

The experts agreed that Dahmer’s most prominent traits were (1) a powerful sexual appetite and (2) a pathological fear of
being alone. In looking for an angle to attract Dahmer’s attention, I knew I had to operate quite differently than I had with
Gacy, for example. Dahmer was only interested in physical control; he displayed no interest in psychological games. Gacy needed
his victims alive when he played with them, but Dahmer didn’t. He was just trying to keep “the boys” with him at all times.
He had no interest in proving his power or superiority; he just didn’t want to be alone.

Ultimately, I decided that Dahmer should see me as a boy all alone in a world just as depraved as his. Pain, misery, sexual
confusion—I’d show him all these traits, hoping he’d recognize himself in my story. My goal was to get him to share some coping
advice drawn from his own experiences, or better yet, ways he tried to avoid the pain. My introductory letter to him reads
as follows:

Dear Jeff,

My name is Jason Moss, and I’m writing you this letter because it’s very late at night where I am, and I’m taking care of
my sick grandmother. She’s been throwing up all night and I’m afraid she’s going to die. If she dies, I’ll be all alone.

Both of my parents were killed in a car crash last year, and I now have to live with my grandmother. I feel very alone and
scared, and sometimes I just want to die. I feel like I live in a world all alone, far from everyone. I’ve heard about the
things they say you’ve done, and I understand how you feel not wanting to be alone, and all. I feel like I need a strong man
in my life, and sometimes I just think about holding one of my friends, giving him a hug, and never letting go. Maybe we can
be friends. Is there anything you need there in prison? Is there anything I can do for you like sending some magazines? My
address is: Jason Moss, 1234 My Place, Henderson, NV 89014. I’d really appreciate hearing from you. Knowing that there is
someone out there who cares might make living a little easier. Have a happy new year.

Your friend,

Jason Moss

I thought my story would sound very familiar to Dahmer. Just as he had felt when growing up, I appeared to be very alone,
depressed, and scared. I hoped that by making him think my parents were both killed in a car crash, he’d believe there was
a possibility I could empathize with his own loneliness.

Writing him my first letter, I couldn’t help feeling there was some truth to the things I told him. At times, I
did
feel like I was all alone in the world. Even though I had a family that was mostly supportive, a girlfriend I was fond of,
and a number of friends I’d known since junior high school, I still felt different and alienated sometimes. Of course, this
was because I
was
different. Neither my friends nor my family could relate to my ambition—or my capacity for tunnel vision. There were very
few people, including Jenn, who really understood me. Hence, it wasn’t that difficult to write even a fictitious letter like
this with some conviction.

In spite of the elation I was feeling over the solid preparation that went into writing Dahmer, there was a spillover that
was taking its toll on me emotionally. Though I didn’t fully realize it at the time, obsessively reading about necrophilia
and cannibalism was beyond the limits of what I could handle. It can’t be very good for even a trained psychologist or detective
to think about murder all the time, to empathize both with the perpetrators of the most horrible crimes ever committed and
with their victims. Just imagine what such reflection can do to a first-year college student whose experience of the world
has been confined to one metropolitan area.

My obsession was isolating me further. More and more often, I began avoiding my friends. Jenn and I broke up for a while,
not just because of my latest project but because of conflicts over diverging life goals. There was also continual tension
at home, including fights between—and with—my parents, and even some distancing on Jarrod’s part.