The Last Victim (24 page)

As I opened my mouth to say something, he turned and began walking away. After looking back furtively at the locked door,
I fell into step behind him.

The visiting area consisted of one large room, sealed off from the guards by steel bars. A small walkway led from there to
several smaller rooms designed for privacy. Some rooms were furnished with a table and chairs; others were so tiny there was
space for only two chairs. One larger room was designed for an inmate to speak through a partition to visitors on the other
side.

I wondered why Gacy and I weren’t meeting in the partitioned room as I’d been told to expect. There was even a video camera
there to monitor everything. Before I could ask, Gacy gestured toward me impatiently.

“Come on, Jason,” he prodded, “this way.” Then he led me to the end of the hall, farthest away from the corridor where the
guards were supposedly stationed.

He seemed to have arranged the room according to his exact specifications. The space was tiny, even claustrophobic, and he’d
placed two chairs side by side so it would be impossible for me to put myself beyond his grasp.

The only other furnishings in the room were a radiator and a piece of wood that looked like it could function as a desktop
if we both balanced it on our knees. Gacy’s “log-book”—the one the FBI agent had wanted me to gain access to—lay on the floor.
Actually, it wasn’t a book per se, but a massive red file folder labeled “Top Secret Case Files.” I’d shortly learn what its
contents included: autopsy results for each victim, a copy of all of Gacy’s appeals to the Supreme Court, and full documentation
supporting Gacy’s theory that he’d been framed for the thirty-three murders.

As I took the seat Gacy offered me, I noticed that directly across from our room was a small janitorial room that smelled
of cleaning supplies. I could see a mop in there, some rusty chains, a bucket, and a chair. The chair was the only item that
looked as if it hadn’t been there for a hundred years. In fact, it appeared to have been deliberately placed there. As I finished
getting my bearings, the other thing I couldn’t help but notice was that we were seated out of the range of the video camera
that was supposed to monitor our conversation.

“How did the guards treat you?” Gacy asked as he took the seat next to me. “Were they okay?”

“Yeah, they were fine,” I answered.

“I saw out the window,” Gacy said, “it looks like it might be a nice day out today. Probably not as nice as Vegas, though,
huh?”

I tried to muster some enthusiasm for this conversation about the weather but I was still trying to figure out why the security
camera wasn’t pointed our way. It looked like it might have been deliberately readjusted.

This whole scene was incredible! Whereas I’d expected security to be incredibly tight for my visit, I was now confronted with
the reality that I’d be completely on my own. There was no glass partition separating us. There were no guards standing around
monitoring the conversation. For some reason, they’d immediately run off, as if they were giving Gacy privacy to do whatever
he liked. In fact, as it would become clear, that’s
exactly
what they were doing.

Over the many years Gacy had spent in the guards’ company, he’d convinced them he was a model prisoner. Further, as a man
of financial means, he was in a position to do them favors. Throughout the time I was in Menard, I noticed how close Gacy
seemed to be with the guards. He had nicknames for them. He exchanged jokes with them. At one point, he didn’t like what they’d
brought him for lunch, so he just sent it back and asked for something else. Incredibly, the guards scurried off to fetch
his requested meal, as if they were waiters at a four-star restaurant.

Somehow Gacy had arranged for us to be completely alone during our talk. I assume he told the guards he had a “piece of ass”
coming to take care of him. Would they mind terribly if they made themselves scarce for a few hours? He’d make it worth their
while. Since he’d never caused them any trouble in the previous dozen years of his residence, they had no reason to mistrust
him. Besides, the poor guy was scheduled to die in a few weeks. What was the harm of letting him have a last fling?

Gacy seemed thoroughly pleased with the way things were turning out. Not only were we out of view, and the guards out of range,
but there was nobody else in the waiting area. The reality was that I was alone in a locked, un-monitored room with a psychopath
who’d raped, tortured, and strangled many boys just like me.

Making my situation even more frightening were Gacy’s mutterings. “This is perfect!” he’d say, or “I can’t
believe
this!” I said a silent thank-you for the cuffs he was wearing, albeit loosely. Without them, he’d surely be rubbing his hands
together like some mad scientist about to throw the switch on a fiendish experiment.

The more nervous I felt, the more Gacy seemed at ease. We chatted for a while about the most ordinary things, which I thought
was just bizarre. Here I was, an eighteen-year-old kid, talking with a convicted murderer about hotels being built in Las
Vegas, the most recent sporting events, and what the drive was like from the airport. He seemed especially interested in how
I’d gotten along with Ken, and the comfort level of the motel I was staying at. I knew he was fishing for details about whether
Ken and I had become “best buddies.”

After an hour or so, I’d forgotten that I was with John Wayne Gacy, the famed Clown Killer. Against my will, I began to trust
this man sitting across from me, even appreciate his charm and wit.

Calming me further was the structure Gacy imposed on our interactions. In a bid to impress me, he showed me a couple of letters
sent him by different news outlets, including
Inside Edition,
asking him for interviews. The unstated message was:
Look how privileged you are to have “quality time” with me.
In fact, he’d set aside three days for us to be together, although I had no idea what we’d do with all those hours.

After showing me the letters, he got up out of his chair and looked around the corner, presumably to see where the guard was.
When he did this, I acted like I hadn’t noticed. I just continued to stare at the words on the page, wondering what the hell
was going to happen next. I didn’t know whether to lead or follow, but figured that since the role I was playing was that
of a passive, potential victim, I’d act as helpless as I could.

Believe me, it wasn’t difficult.

A
s I continued to dawdle over Gacy’s fan letters, pretending to study them intently, I couldn’t help noticing that he was staring
at me. Eerily, he wasn’t watching my reactions to what I was reading. Rather, he was looking at me the way a predator sizes
up his soon-to-be prey, as if to decide which part to rip into first.

Over the last few months, he’d been trying systematically to break me down, weaken me, bring me under his complete control.
I sensed that was exactly what was going on now, a hunch that was confirmed when he glanced around the corner one more time
and then proceeded to lash into me about how weak and helpless I seemed. I was startled as much by the abrupt shift in his
tone—from friendly to angry—as I was by his words.

He sat up straight in his chair, chest fully inflated, and stared intently into my face for the first time. Looking into his
eyes, I experienced the most intense, powerful feeling of emptiness I’d ever felt. There was no warmth, no humanness there.
Rather, it was as if I was staring at something feral. It occurred to me at that moment that Gacy’s mask had finally come
down. Now I was seeing the part of him that he reserved only for those who’d never live to describe it.

“You’re here with
me
now, Jason. I brought you here. You’ll do whatever I say. You know that, right? Are we clear about that?”

I couldn’t stop myself from nodding. “Sure, John,” I said, gazing at the floor in a subservient manner. How much of my behavior
was an act and how much genuine was hard to tell. Yet, my instincts told me to continue to behave submissively. I’d worked
too hard to get to this point.

And besides, I remember thinking at the time, I’m younger, bigger, and stronger—and his hands are cuffed.

If indeed it came to a physical struggle between us, I was sure I could overpower him. Of course, that’s probably what each
of his victims had thought. His genius was devising ways to trick people into compromising positions where their superior
strength wouldn’t matter. Since he had had months to plan for this encounter, I was very foolish to take him so lightly.

“You
do
know how weak you are, Jason,” he continued. “Yes,” I said, hoping to appease him. “Can I see what’s in your secret folder
now?”

I was trying to distract him as much as I could, change the subject somehow. Things were getting intense too quickly. And
I believed my “mission” was to gain access to his personal notes, perhaps even get him to acknowledge and talk about his crimes.
At the time, I had no idea that the most valuable things I’d learn would come from our own interactions.

“You know,” he said, “I could tell you to fuck off and you’d have no one! What the hell would you do without me?”

“Please don’t do that, John,” I pleaded, doing my best to appear frightened. Actually, I was feeling a little nauseous. The
more he loomed closer, the more overpowering was his scent. In addition to the baby oil he used to slick down his hair, he’d
drenched himself in some sort of sickly sweet cologne. To this day, when I walk through a department store and pass within
range of the perfume section, my stomach turns if I catch a whiff of that fragrance.

It was more than his smell that turned me off, though. The whole time he talked, he played with his crotch, constantly rearranging
himself in his pants. He’d obviously developed an erection as soon as he saw me, and he seemed to have one virtually the whole
time we were together.

“You know, if I was a bad guy, I’d tell the cops what you do with your brother. They’d take him away.” He massaged his crotch
as he said these words. “You’d go to jail. Do you want to go to jail?”

“Why do you say things like that?” I whined. “You wouldn’t do that to me. We’re friends, right?”

“I didn’t say I
would
do that. Just remember who I am.”

“I
know
who you are, John. You’re the guy who looks out for me. You give me everything,” I added, hoping that might stroke his ego.

But he was just getting started. His angry, intimidating interrogation went on for about two hours. Toward the end, so conditioned
had I become to playing the whiny, groveling sycophant, I actually started doubting myself. I began to lose my bearings, forgetting
what I was doing there and what I was after.

Then, suddenly, he snapped out of his aggressive posture and began joking around as if the previous two hours hadn’t happened.

“So, did you have a smooth flight?” he asked charmingly. “Sit next to anyone interesting?”

I thought I was going crazy. I wondered if I’d imagined the frightening emotional beating I’d just survived. His behavior
was so erratic and unpredictable he had me at a loss as to how to proceed. All I could do was mumble inane replies.

“The plane was fine. No problem.”

“How about Ken? Did he take care of you? He can be so boring sometimes.”

We’d already been over this once, so I wondered why we were covering the same ground. I think he was just trying to re-create
a semblance of normalcy after having just pushed me to the limit. He realized I was in a kind of shock.

It had now been several hours into my visit, and thus far I’d been drilled almost exclusively on how extremely weak and useless
I was. Once we’d both agreed on that point, Gacy began chatting about recent movies he’d seen on TV. Then he talked baseball.
Finally, I asserted myself.

“John, can I ask you a few things about the case?”

“Sure,” he replied indulgently. “You do for me and I’ll do for you.”

I wasn’t sure what he meant by that, but I let it go. I decided to begin my own interrogation by asking him about his first
victim, the only one he ever admitted killing. He claimed he’d picked up the boy at the bus station, brought him back to his
house, had sex with him, and fell asleep.

The way he told it, he awoke in the morning to find the boy standing over his bed with a knife. After a struggle, the boy
was stabbed in the stomach and killed. Soon after, Gacy walked into the kitchen to discover that the boy had made breakfast
for him, and had apparently walked into his room with the knife in hand to call him to the breakfast table.

“See,” Gacy said, displaying his scarred arm.

I nodded. “Do you mind if I ask you some questions about that night?”

“What do you want to know?”

Just as I was about to reply, I heard the gate at the end of the hall open up, followed by the sound of the guard walking
down the hall.

“Food’s here!” Gacy announced.

We were going to have
lunch
together? I don’t know why this surprised me. I guess it just seemed incongruous that we’d be doing something so
ordinary.
It was almost as if we were ensconced at the Hilton and room service had arrived.

The guard brought in two trays, each laden with something approximating roast beef—plus some applesauce, a glass of milk,
an apple, and some bread. The roast beef was a greenish color and extremely tough. It also had a horrible smell. I thought
briefly about the cold hamburger I’d bought from the dispensary earlier, but even the thought of that made me ill.

Our conversation ceased as Gacy began to stuff his face with the food. I couldn’t do anything but watch.

“Go on, Jason, eat!” said Gacy, the perfect host. “This is one of the best meals we get. I ordered it special for you.”

I smiled gratefully and began playing with the apple-sauce.

“So,” he continued, “you wanted to know about the Greyhound bus boy.” He took a big chunk of leathery meat, dunked it in some
gravy, then stuffed it into his mouth.