The Last Victim (22 page)

And he had all the time in the world to plan exactly what he wanted to do to me.

“F
ederal Bureau of Investigation,” the receptionist said in a voice that sounded like someone’s grandmother.

“Hello,” I said. “I was wondering if you had anyone in your office who deals with serial killers?”

“Excuse me?”

“I’m a student at the university and I’m going to visit John Wayne Gacy during my spring break. I was wondering if you had
an agent who maybe dealt with these types of people.”

In a hesitant voice, she said, “Please hold one moment,” and then I got the dreaded elevator-music treatment.

“This is Special Agent Reddy.”

“Um,” I stumbled, a bit flustered now that I finally had a real FBI agent on the line. “Are you the person I should talk to
about serial killers?”

“Excuse me,” he said a bit patronizingly, “but what exactly are you looking for?”

“Well . . .” I figured I had about one minute to establish my credibility or he’d hang up. “I’ve been studying and researching
John Wayne Gacy, the guy who buried all the boys under his house?”

“Yes,” he said, obviously bored. “I’m familiar with who he is.”

This wasn’t going well. I took a deep breath and just dived into the story. “You see, I’ve corresponded with him over the
last couple of months and he’s asked me to come and visit him. He thinks I’m this really stupid kid, and he tells me a lot
of stuff. About his crimes and things. He promised me if I came to visit him, he’d tell me a lot more, things he’s never told
anyone. I’m not sure what—”

“Okay, hold on a second,” he interrupted. “Let’s slow down a little. I need your name and address, your date of birth and
Social Security number.”

I meekly gave him the information. I knew what he was doing. He was looking me up in the computer, probably checking to see
if I was a known troublemaker.

When he got back on the phone, he seemed a little nicer. He asked me to tell him the story again, more slowly this time. He
asked a lot of detailed questions about how I’d managed to strike up a relationship with Gacy and what I was after. Once I
gained his trust, we had a good conversation. He even told me about his younger daughter, who also went to the university.

“I want you to call Special Agent Welcher in the Chicago field office. I’ll call her first to let her know who you are and
that you’ll be contacting her. She’s the agent who deals with Gacy out there, and she’s probably the best person to help out
with this. I’d urge you to make contact with her before you visit the prison.”

After waiting half a day for Reddy to give Welcher a heads-up, I called the Chicago field office and spoke to her. She was
most cooperative and friendly, eager to hear my tale.

She asked me all the questions I’d grown used to: why I’d contacted Gacy and other serial killers, what I was going to do
with the information, and whether my parents approved of what I was doing. Apparently, I answered correctly because she gave
me the lowdown on what to expect.

“Jason,” she concluded, “I’d like to debrief you after your visit and find out what you learned. Would you please call me
from your hotel room or when you return home? If you need anything at all, or if something happens, feel free to call the
office and we’ll assist you.”

“Thanks,” I replied, genuinely grateful she’d taken me seriously.

“I really don’t think he’s going to give you much. I’ve been talking to him for years. He loves to play mind games. He’ll
try to control the conversation the whole time you talk with him.”

“Yeah,” I agreed. “I sure know that.”

“Well, obviously if he wants to tell you about any of the murders, or others we’re not yet aware of, I’d like to know about
it. He talks and corresponds with a lot of pedophiles, some of whom we’re actively doing investigations on. Any names or lists
of these people would be helpful as well.”

“Okay, I’ll try.”

“One more thing,” she said. “He keeps a folder containing information on all his victims. See if you can get a look inside.
We think it might include details we don’t have.”

I assured her I’d do my best. She then wished me luck and told me to be careful. “He’s still a very dangerous man,” she warned.

I hung up the phone feeling validated. It finally seemed like the worthiness of what I was doing had been recognized. I realized,
of course, that these agents were humoring me to a certain extent. After all, the chances of my learning anything of value
were remote. Still, officials of the country’s top law enforcement organization had heard me out—and had even been encouraging.
For that I was grateful.

I
’d never traveled much and this was to be one of the first out-of-town trips I’d make alone. My destination aside, I was pretty
nervous at the thought of flying someplace all by myself.

I was scheduled to leave on a red-eye flight to St. Louis, arriving very early in the morning. Gacy’s lawyer was going to
meet me at the airport and then drive me the ninety miles to the prison. The plan was for me to spend three days in the local
town, visiting Gacy each day for several hours. It was a lot of time with him, but I figured I’d need several visits to get
the information I was looking for. Despite our three-month correspondence and all the phone conversations, I knew it would
take a while to win his trust.

I spent the final day at home organizing myself for the trip. It was one of those early spring days when the desert winds
were blowing. Dust and sand were everywhere. You couldn’t even breathe the abrasive air without sneezing, so I was forced
to stay in most of the afternoon and endure my mother’s fussing.

“Don’t forget your toothbrush,” she nagged. “And it’ll probably be cold in Illinois, so bring your red sweater.”

“Sure, Mom,” I said, exasperated. We’d been through this three times.

“Do you have enough money?”

“Yes, I have plenty.”

“I’ll have Dad give you some more anyway. Do you need your flashlight?”

“My
flashlight
?” I groaned. “Give me a break. I’m not going on a camp-out. I’m staying at a motel. Gacy set up everything.”

She ignored me. I could tell she was really worried. “Do you have some books to read? Don’t forget to bring gum for the flight.”

Finally, to escape her nagging, and to vent my own nervous energy, I braved the winds and went shopping with my brother.

Walking through the mall, he and I joked about my destination. That I was embarking on this trip during spring break seemed
particularly incongruous. Jarrod couldn’t get over my chutzpah. “I think it’s funny watching Mom and Dad try to stop you from
doing all the crazy shit you do,” he said. “I love to watch their faces when you ask permission for things. It just cracks
me up when you tell them you want to talk to them about something.”

I just smiled. It felt good to have my brother on my side. He seemed to understand how I thought, and he didn’t judge me the
way others did. Talking to him about my plans seemed like a perfect way to spend the afternoon.

Finally, though, the long day drew to a close. Everyone in the house was irritable and nervous, and I went upstairs one more
time to make sure I had everything I might need to prepare myself for Gacy. This included a notebook that contained all the
details of the stories I’d told him. I’d carefully logged the exact outfits I was wearing when I was supposedly prostituting
myself on the streets, as well as the exact times, places, and scenarios of the encounters I told him I’d had with Jarrod.

I also decided to bring a notepad so I could “debrief” myself each day upon returning from the prison. I planned to take detailed
notes on everything that had occurred, so I could re-create it all for the honors thesis I was already planning for my senior
year.

In addition to the notes, pad, three days’ worth of clothes, and a camera, I also brought along a book called
The Psychopathic Mind.
I was hoping to get some last-minute insights on how to handle myself during the visit.

Walking out the front door of my house that evening, I saw the worried look on my mother’s face and felt a tinge of sadness.
I realized how much stress I put on my family, and how apprehensive they were concerning this latest stunt. I was feeling
pretty nervous myself, but there was no way I was going to show it.

A second chance like this wouldn’t come along.

I
t was still dark outside at five o’clock in the morning when my flight arrived in St. Louis. I could smell dampness in the
air. Smiling, I thought about how in elementary school we’d all run outside when it would rain because it was such a contrast
to the monotonous dry heat of the Mojave Desert. It seemed amazing that there were places like St. Louis where the air was
thick and humid.

At the gate I waited nervously for my ride. I saw several men standing around, looking like they were meeting people, so I
tried to make eye contact. Gacy’s attorney had a picture of me but I had no idea what he looked like.

It was about ten minutes—but it seemed much longer— before a man in a ski jacket and running shoes approached, his hair disheveled
like he’d just woken up. I was very confused because Gacy had said his lawyer was tall and thin and would be wearing a suit.
This guy was short and over-weight.

“Are you Jason?” he said with a shy smile.

He seemed younger than I expected for someone who was an expert on appellate law. Actually, he didn’t look like a lawyer at
all but, rather, like a relative of Gacy’s. He bore a striking similarity to John, with the same jowly face and body shape.
They even had the same balding pattern. In a flash I put two and two together, sizing this guy up as not Gacy’s lawyer but
a relative Gacy had sometimes referred to who apparently functioned as a kind of all-purpose assistant.

“Yeah,” I answered. “And you’re Ken?”

Ken extended his hand, which I shook tentatively. He seemed confused as well because I was much bigger than he expected, not
at all what he imagined a meek eighteen-year-old kid would look like.

He was a chain-smoker and he seemed nervous. I wondered why: I was the one who should be anxious—especially since Gacy had
lied about sending his attorney. Still, he seemed friendly enough, eager to please and accommodate me any way he could. I
was relieved by his cooperation because I was going to be dependent on him for transportation during the next several days.
I was too young to rent a car, so the only way I could get to and from the prison was with him as an escort.

We walked out to the parking lot where he had a rental car waiting that Gacy had paid for. The sky was just beginning to lighten
to a dark gray. Once again, I noted the smell of rain in the air. I kept taking deep breaths so I could remember what it felt
like.

During the hour drive into the town where I’d be staying, I watched the scenery flash by. It was so different from anything
I’d ever seen. Everything was so green and lush. We passed farms and little stores and grazing land. There were cows everywhere.
I’d never seen so many cows in my life! Then it started to drizzle.

I managed to keep the conversation on Ken during most of the trip. I was trying to find out who exactly he was and what his
relationship was to Gacy. From what I could determine, he was Gacy’s “guy Friday”—someone who worked as a gofer running errands
for the attorneys. Occasionally, he said, he even handled some of the legal chores himself. He visited Gacy on a regular basis,
bringing him supplies, books and magazines, and messages.

It struck me as quite a strange relationship. Gacy later told me he didn’t trust Ken much; he was just using him for his money
and time. As for Ken’s devotion, the family tie seemed to be the least of it. Mostly, Ken enjoyed hanging around with someone
he considered a celebrity.

“Everyone wants a piece of me,” Gacy later told me. “And Ken is no different. He just likes to be around me so he can tell
people he’s my friend.”

I think it was Ken’s docility and passivity that really earned Gacy’s disapproval. I, on the other hand,
appreciated
those qualities in him. As you can imagine, I was quite apprehensive regarding what Gacy might really have in store for me.
It was obvious, though, that Ken wouldn’t be a threat. In fact, I quite liked him. That is, until we started to check into
the motel.

“That will be one room, please,” he said. “Two beds.”

“No, Ken!” I objected a little too loudly. “We need to get
two
rooms.”

“Jason,” he said, almost whining, “John said for us to get one room. He was definite about that.” Then as an afterthought,
he said, “It’s just to save money, if you know what I mean.”

Yes, I knew
exactly
what he meant—or thought I did. My theory was that Gacy believed I was so poor, I wouldn’t have any choice but to stay in
whatever accommodations he’d arranged. He’d set things up so that Ken and I would be sleeping in the same room, knowing I
couldn’t object. Gacy had told his relative about my supposed sexual proclivities and what a handsome fellow I was. It seemed
reasonable to conclude that Gacy’s plan was to make a “gift” of me, and get back detailed reports that would enable him to
experience vicariously what was beyond his grasp.

“I’m sorry, Ken,” I said, acting as if I really was disappointed, “but one of my parents’ conditions for my going on this
trip was that I stay in my own room. They said they’d pay for it.”

Well, the first statement was true anyway. As for the latter,
I’d
be the one paying.

Ken seemed quite dismayed. “You know,” he pressed, “it sure would be a lot easier if we used the same room. That’s the way
John wanted it.” Then he shrugged, as if to say:
Well, if you want to disappoint him . . .

“Look, Ken, it’s no big deal. But my parents would feel better if we did it this way.” With that, I turned. “See you in a
little while for breakfast.”