The Last Victim (23 page)

As I watched him walk to his own room, I considered whether I should dump him and try to arrange my own visits to the prison.
He seemed harmless enough, though, and I was grateful for the companionship. I felt very alone in this strange place.

The town of Chester, Illinois, was very small and quiet—like something out of an old movie. Coming from the hustle and bustle
of Las Vegas, I found its tranquillity and beauty appealing. All the houses looked as if they’d been built in the 1920s. The
bank, the movie theater, the stores—they all looked like antiques.

Apparently, the town’s most famous former citizen had been the creator of Popeye, the cartoon character. There were statues
honoring the guy all over the place, and once a year the town organized a Popeye celebration.

Chester was actually built around Menard Correctional Center, the town’s largest employer. Most of the guards and their families
lived there. Strangers were relatively rare.

“Whenever people come to town looking different,” the girl at the front desk of the motel explained, “we usually assume they’re
coming to visit an inmate. You’re probably here to see one of the big ones like Gacy.”

Ken and I ate breakfast at a little diner. It was so quaint I wanted to take out my camera and shoot pictures. There was a
group of older men sitting at a table, drinking coffee and talking. They kept looking at us, no doubt guessing at our relationship
and which prisoner we were going to see.

“Don’t worry,” Ken tried to reassure me. “They’re staring because you’re so young. For entertainment in the mornings they
all sit there and talk about the visitors. Just ignore them.”

During breakfast he told me what to expect going into Death Row for the first time. He said I should leave all of my jewelry
in the motel room because it wasn’t allowed, and that I should try not to wear anything with metal on it, including jeans
with zippers, because the metal would make the machine go off.

“This has been so stressful on the family,” he said, abruptly changing the subject. “Having a relative on Death Row isn’t
easy. It takes a toll on all of us.”

“Yeah, I can imagine it’s tough on you at times.”

“You don’t know the half of it, Jason. I mean, John isn’t exactly easy to get along with. He’s always asking me to do stuff
and he gets kinda moody at times.”

I felt sorry for the guy. He seemed to have devoted his whole life to taking care of Gacy, a man who had no respect for him
and showed little appreciation for his efforts.

We finished our breakfast under the careful scrutiny of the old men and then headed for the prison. Finally, I’d have some
answers to my questions, though not the ones I was prepared to ask.

F
rom a distance, the prison looked like a medieval castle. Built in 1878, Menard Correctional Center is the largest maximum
security facility in the state of Illinois. It houses mostly long-term prisoners serving sentences of twenty years or more.
But it also counts among its residents those inmates who’re considered especially violent and uncooperative.

As we approached the gates, I spied one very large red brick building that I later learned housed the general population.
The building looked quite old. Massive fences surrounded the entire facility, fanning outward in layers. About twenty fortified
guard towers added to the feeling of impregnability.

“There it is,” Ken said as he pointed to a building in the distance. “That’s where they keep the most dangerous ones.”

I strained my neck to catch a glimpse of Death Row over the barbed-wire fence. All I could see was the edge of a quite ordinary-looking
building, as old and worn as all the rest. The building that houses Death Row sits high on a hill overlooking the Mississippi
River as it winds its way through Illinois on its way to the Gulf of Mexico. Although the state doesn’t actually execute people
at this facility, it does keep them in storage here until they’re called elsewhere.

“Well, time for you to go,” Ken said in his usual cheerful voice. Bless his heart, though. He could tell how nervous I was.

“So you’ll be coming to get me when?” I asked. I wanted to make sure I had all the details clear in my head.

He took me through the plan for the fourth time. Everything would be taken care of. All I had to do now was walk through the
gate.

I approached the entrance slowly, shifting my gaze from left to right as if I were afraid someone was about to pounce. A guard
buzzed me through and then proceeded to X-ray me. He removed all my personal possessions and gave me a bunch of forms to sign.
In essence, the paperwork absolved the prison of responsibility for anything that might happen.

“Two forms of identification, please,” the guard said, eyeballing me as if I’d just committed murder myself.

I handed him my driver’s license and Social Security card. “Why do you guys need all this information?” I asked, genuinely
curious. “Do you get a lot of visitors here?”

The man just sat silently behind the counter, writing down all the information that appeared on my IDs.
Not one for small talk,
I concluded.

“Have you been to the prison before?” he finally asked in a bored voice.

“No, this is my first time,” I said brightly. I added, “I’m doing a project for school.” I wanted him to know that I wasn’t
related to any of the inmates.

He looked down from his perch. “There are a few things that I need to tell you before you go inside.”

I nodded and remained at attention.

“In the unlikely event hostages are taken inside the prison, we won’t negotiate for your release. If something happens in
there, if there’s a riot or an escape attempt, we won’t give an inmate as much as a pack of cigarettes for your release. If
we did, then the prisoners would do it all the time, thinking they could get privileges, or even their freedom.”

I couldn’t believe he was telling me this. Even if it was true, why did he have to tell me in such a cold way? “So you’re
saying that if someone takes me hostage, you’d let them
kill
me before you did anything to save me?”

“Yeah, exactly,” the guard said with a smirk.

At another checkpoint, a guard directed me to place all my belongings except for a watch and twenty-five dollars in a locker.

As I was cleared to enter, I heard another guard say on a walkie-talkie, “Get Gacy, he’s got a visitor.” At those words, my
heart started racing. I looked back one last time, then entered a room furnished with vending machines.

This area looked like an elementary school cafeteria, but not nearly as nice. Blinding white cinder blocks rose up on four
sides. Above, a seepage stain smeared the ceiling with yellow. The air smelled of old coffee and burned-out cigarettes.

I’d been passed along to another guard who escorted me inside. Leon was a small guy and really ugly. In addition to his slight
build and acne-pitted, unshaven face, he displayed a short scar on his right cheek.

“Mind if I ask you some questions?” I asked. “I’m doing a project on the prison system for school.”

“Sure, what do you want to know?”

“Do you feel safe here working with all these convicts? I mean, aren’t you worried you might get attacked?”

“Not really. If you treat them right, they’ll treat you good, too. If you treat them like shit, then you gotta expect trouble
back.”

“Like what?” I asked. “Can you give me an example of what happened to a guard who got attacked?”

He hesitated a second, perhaps considering how much of a raconteur he wanted to be. “Well, there’s this guard who we call
Leaky. We call him that
now
because he was dragged into a cell and stabbed eighteen times in the chest and stomach with a pencil.”

“No
shit
?” I said. I wish I’d kept my mouth shut. I was just trying to keep the guy talking so I didn’t have to think about where
I was going.

“Yeah, he just got on this power kick. But he’s a different man now.”

“You mean he’s still alive?”

“Oh yeah,” Leon said with relish, enjoying the effect this story was having on me. “He still works here.”

“Don’t you think that’s just a little crazy—to be still working here? I mean, is it worth dying for your job?”

“Nah,” Leon said. “I would’ve left. I’m gonna be out of here anyway. I’m taking the test soon to become a regular police officer.
Leaky has nowhere else to go. He’s got a family, and I guess he’s kind of trapped. He sure is a lot more laid-back now.”

Leon pointed to the vending machines and explained that I’d need to load up on food for the day. Although even the thought
of food made me sick, I put in some money and got a microwavable hamburger.

“Are you sure that’s all you want? It can be a long day, and you might get hungry later.”

“I don’t have much of an appetite.”

“Okay, then,” he said. “Now stay close behind me.”

He and I walked into an empty, windowless chamber. Once inside this steel cage, all conversation stopped. In fact, nobody
I came in contact with during this long walk said a single word to me.

As we made our way through the winding corridors, I could hear the constant clattering of prisoners yelling and talking to
one another. Some hallways echoed with the blast of radios; others were completely silent. Even more noticeable than the noise
was the musty smell. The whole place reeked of mildew and sweat.

The only prisons I’d ever seen before were in movies, and they didn’t look like this. Despite Menard’s worn facade, I’d entered
this building expecting a clean and modern interior—but this was more like a dungeon. The stairwells were dimly lit and spooky.
The walls and floors were dirty. And the air! It felt old and stale, like it had been recirculating for fifty years, retaining
all the dust and dampness. I kept stifling the urge to sneeze.

Leon left me in another waiting room, until he could go around to the other side and open the gate to Death Row. If I felt
self-conscious before, now I felt utterly transparent. Down the corridor, handheld mirrors poked through cell bars and tilted
to capture an image of me.

After what seemed like an eternity, Leon finally let me through the gate, where I was asked to sign in one more time. As I
gripped the pen, I noticed my hand was shaking.

As I entered the long corridor, I was nearly sick with apprehension. My heart was thumping so hard in my chest I couldn’t
catch my breath. I steadied myself, trying to keep my balance. In less than a minute I was going to meet John Wayne Gacy,
and suddenly the irony dawned on me. Despite exchanging hundreds of letters with him, despite speaking with him on the phone
several times a week, I realized I didn’t really know him. Until a person visited this place and saw what Gacy had been forced
to put up with every day for fifteen years, they couldn’t really know who he was—or what he might be capable of.

I was about to find out.

I gathered myself together, took a shallow breath, the best I could manage at the time, and forced myself to look straight
ahead toward the barred door and the person who was waiting beyond it.

Gacy stood quietly and patiently as I approached. I noticed with alarm that his only restraint was a pair of loose handcuffs,
fitted on him by a guard who stood by. When I drew even with the door, the guard opened it for me, and I stepped inside. He
then stepped through to where I’d been, locked the door, and began to walk away.

“Ah, excuse me,” I said, close to panic. Surely he wasn’t just going to leave me here alone! “Excuse me! Guard!”

The guard turned around to look at me through the bars. I could make out a thin smile.

“I was just wondering where you were going,” I said. This was
nothing
like I’d been led to expect.

He just looked at me, shook his head, and continued to walk away.

“Guard,” I yelled to his back, “where will you be if I need you?”

Maybe he didn’t hear me, I thought as I watched him round the corner. I couldn’t believe I was being left alone with a man
who’d killed thirty-three boys my age!

Just as I thought about calling out one more time, I noticed Gacy watching me with an amused smile. God, this was humiliating.

I was utterly speechless. I couldn’t have yelled for help even if I’d wanted to. My heart was now hammering so hard my chest
ached. I could feel little droplets of sweat running down my back.

At that moment, as terrified as I felt, incredibly, I also experienced a certain thrill. I’d done it! I’d come face-to-face
with a genuine monster! Believing this meeting was the end product of
my
careful planning, not Gacy’s, I told myself I was still in control. Some of my confidence came back.

I can do this,
I thought.
I can do this.

I
was utterly alone in the visiting area, except for Gacy standing motionless in front of me, eerily still. Looking at the
guy, you’d hardly think he was capable of such brutal violence. He appeared to be a short, fat, aging, jolly fellow— sort
of like the slightly weird uncle you tolerate because he means well. He stood about five feet, eight inches tall and was extremely
overweight. His face was chubby, with skin so pale and soft it appeared translucent. His hair was carefully combed and styled
with some sort of thick oil. He seemed ordinary in every sense—a harmless man who wouldn’t hurt a fly.

Without saying a word, he extended his handcuffed wrists to shake my hand.
God, I’m about to touch him!
As repulsed as I was, I also felt exhilarated. I put out my sweaty hand to greet his.

Rather than look directly at my face, he smiled as he held my hand and looked down at my crotch. That small gesture was enough
for me to consider pulling away my hand and running for my life.

“Nice to see you,” he said as he continued holding on to my hand. I could feel his index finger gently caress the inside of
my wrist.