The Last Victim (4 page)

“Why on earth would you want to write a killer?” my mother asked. “And why would he write back to some kid like you? You’re
not even allowed to do something like that.”

“Where’d you get
that
idea?” I challenged her. “I can write whomever I choose.”

My brother came to my defense. “Yeah, where do you get that from?”

“Look,” I said, “it’s no big deal. I know it’s sort of outrageous, but that’s why it’s so cool. Who else would do this? Besides,
these guys are all locked away in prison. What’s the harm?”

Jarrod started giggling. “What if they write you letters in blood?”

Then my dad got into the act as well. “What if they ask for a pint of your blood?” Now all three of them were laughing.

“Can’t you guys ever be serious?” I complained. “Just imagine a letter from Charles Manson coming to the house. That would
be so freaky.”

“There’ll be no letters from killers coming to
this
house!” declared my mother.

My dad jumped in. “Calm down, Sue. What’s the big deal? Let him write the letters. Nobody’s going to write him back.”

“Don’t tell
me
to calm down!” she huffed. “This is my house and Jason isn’t going to do whatever the hell he wants. It’ll be like all the
other stuff you let him do—we’ll end up suffering for it. There’ll be no letters coming to this house!”

I was about to take the argument to the next level when my father kicked me under the table. “Just relax, Sue,” he reassured
my mother. “Nobody’s going to write any letters. Let’s just enjoy the dinner.”

“Well, if I
were
to write a letter,” I added, now talking directly to my father, “you know I’d have to use our return address. I’ve been thinking
about this. If I used a post office box, someone like Gacy would know immediately that I have something to hide.”

“But you
do
have something to hide,” my mother pointed out—more calmly this time. “You’re just a young—”

“Mom, Dad, I know what I’m doing,” I interrupted. “I really do. You’ve got to trust me on this.”

“So why don’t you use someone else’s address?” my father countered, partly to appease my mother.

“Because if I use another address, he might check. Gacy, for example, had a lot of friends before he was captured. He used
to live here in Las Vegas. He could send one of them over just to make sure I am who I say I am.”

“That’s exactly my point,” said my mother. “I won’t have any friends of these killers coming to my house. I simply won’t tolerate
it!”

I knew it was senseless to continue the discussion any further. I could work on my dad later and then he’d convince my mother
to ease up. The killers probably wouldn’t write back anyway, so what was the difference?

Later that night, my thoughts returned to my embryonic project. After reviewing my list of potential serial killer “pen pals,”
I confirmed my initial intuition that John Wayne Gacy was the most intriguing. He seemed to be the embodiment of all evil,
the living example of everything I feared most. Unlike some of the others, he was totally invisible when he was operating.
There was no way you could tell what he was up to. He wasn’t a crazed lunatic like Manson or a loner like Dahmer; rather,
he projected the appearance of a normal guy whom most anyone would like.

I had to talk to someone about my plan, but it was clear my parents had already heard as much as they cared to. As an alternative,
I thought I might try bouncing a few ideas off of my girlfriend, Jennifer.

I’d met Jenn in high school, where I’d always see her in the hallway on my way to English class. She was so stunningly beautiful
that just a glance from her would make me speechless. She had long black glistening hair and these gorgeous big brown eyes
that contrasted with her smooth, soft skin. Finally, one day I worked up the nerve to introduce myself and we’d dated continuously
ever since.

Jennifer added balance to my life. I was critical and mistrustful of people; she always saw the best in them. I was ambitious
and future-oriented; she lived in the present, unconcerned with what would happen tomorrow. I tended to be serious; she was
a free spirit, always ready to laugh and play. Naturally, there was some tension between us, given our different personalities
and values, but we were both grateful for the ways we brought out the best in each other.

Jenn came from a strict Cuban family, devoutly Catholic. Religious paraphernalia could be found all over the walls of their
home. Though it didn’t occur to me at the time, because of their religious outlook, Jenn and her mother, Teresa, were probably
not the most receptive audience for my “exciting idea.”

• • •

“You’re going to write who?” they both asked, incredulous.

I explained a little about what I’d been up to, the books I’d bought, how I’d gotten the idea to try to persuade a number
of serial killers to correspond with me by pretending to be someone they’d find appealing. Then I explained how I settled
on Gacy as my first target.

“Dios mío!”
Teresa blurted out. “Who in their right mind would do such a thing as try to make friends with a killer?”

She then turned to Jenn and began talking rapidly in Spanish. All I could make out were the words “
Tu novio está loco.”

Before I could say anything, Teresa was in my face again: “Don’t let my husband find out or he’ll throw you right out of this
house.”

I was Jenn’s first boyfriend, and although her parents tried to accept me, they found me a bit weird, even for an Anglo. They
didn’t like the idea that I was a fan of horror movies, or that I’d once written a paper on witchcraft. Jenn was on the defensive
most of the time, and I loved her for sticking up for me.

“Enough, Mama!” Jenn put in. “Daddy isn’t going to throw Jason out.” She then turned to me. “But seriously, how come you never
mentioned this idea to me before?” She seemed to be more upset that I might have been hiding something from her, rather than
by what I was proposing to do.

“I’ve just been thinking about it for a few days. You know how much I’m into this stuff,” I said, shrugging. It was a point
of tension in our relationship that I liked going to horror movies and she didn’t.

Jenn cringed. It was obvious I’d embarrassed her in front of her mother. She was almost pleading when she said, “Why can’t
I have a normal boyfriend?”

Teresa nodded her head and crossed herself. “Do your parents know about this? Your parents would never go for this. Chica,
look, he’s smiling!
Es una broma.
Why do you play around for?”

“I’m not joking. Someone needs to study and find out about these people. I—”

“What makes you think you can talk to these people?” Teresa interrupted. “You’re asking for trouble.”

I decided to shut up before things
really
got heated. This discussion hadn’t gone the way I’d expected it to.

As Teresa fled upstairs muttering to herself, I looked at Jenn, hoping for support.

“Jason,” she said, sighing, “you’re not normal. Sometimes the things you say to me, the ideas you have—they’re just so . .
. I don’t know . . . strange. Someday I’m going to be on a talk show titled ‘My Boyfriend Writes to Serial Killers.’”

She said that with a smile, so I figured we’d be okay.

I
t was pretty clear to me at this point that I couldn’t talk frankly to anyone about what I was doing. When I looked at myself
through the eyes of my family or friends, I really
did
seem strange. Wherever I was going, I was going alone.

Rather than fear the prospect of single-handedly taking on someone like Gacy, though, I felt a measure of pride that I was
willing to attempt something nobody else would. Naively, I believed I could outthink and outmanipulate Gacy and the other
predators I intended to write. In my fantasies, they became
my
victims as I accessed all the valuable things they were keeping from law enforcement and mental health experts.

Though at the time I lacked the self-awareness to see it, I was definitely suffering from delusions of grandeur.

As I thought more about it, I decided the best way to attract Gacy’s attention, given the killer’s homosexuality, was to pretend
to be sexually confused and highly impressionable. I would concoct some stories about my childhood that mirrored his own childhood—for
example, I’d claim that I’d been sexually abused when I was younger and that my father had bullied me.

One obvious problem was that I understood so little about the world Gacy inhabited. I was going to pretend to be gay, or at
least leaning in that direction, and I didn’t know the first thing about what that meant.

I’ve always been curious about things that are beyond my own experience—especially if they’re the least bit forbidden. I remember
one time Jenn and I passed a cemetery—a very unusual-looking one—and on a whim, I pretended to be shopping for a plot so as
to get a tour of the place. I’ve followed this same pattern again and again, whenever I’ve seen something that appeals to
me, or scares me.

The whole world of homosexuality was, to me, foreign, but also, as a culture, fascinating. I’d had gay acquaintances in the
past and I admired the courage it took to deal with the stuff they had to face on a daily basis. Like most other kids my age,
I feared such a lifestyle, felt threatened by it—did one choose it, or did it choose you? And up to that point, I’d never
had the courage to ask any direct questions. Nevertheless, I knew that if I was serious about “getting over” on the likes
of John Gacy and Jeffrey Dahmer, I would have to know a lot more about the worlds they inhabited.

One idea I had was to talk to a male prostitute so I could at least learn the appropriate jargon and customs. As it happened,
I’d already road-tested this strategy on a female prostitute sometime before. It was a typical “Jason experience.” I happened
to be walking down the Strip with some friends when she approached us. Most suburban teenage boys would, of course, have muttered
a sheepish “No thanks” and skittered away. But with an audience of my peers to perform for, I did exactly the opposite. I
pretended to be an interested customer long enough to get her life story, and she even ended up buying us dinner.

I decided to start my research by asking the bartender in a local gay bar for some direction. I was prepared to feel uncomfortable,
and, in fact, the whole scene was a bit disorienting. As I stood at the bar talking to the bartender, I noticed some of the
patrons checking me out. I suppose it was flattering, but all I could feel was relief that I felt no inclination to respond
to their interest.

The bartender advised me to check out the personal ads in a particular newspaper. I looked through the possibilities available
and settled on one of them: “For all night companionship, call Rico. Experienced pleasure.”

I called Rico on the phone that very night, half persuaded that I’d pushed the envelope too far this time. I was afraid he
might get the wrong idea, that he’d think I wanted more than to talk.

“Hello,” he answered on the second ring.

“Hi, is this Rico?” I said, not at all acting in my role as the nervous patron. “I saw your ad.”

“So,” he replied in a seductive voice, “what can I do for you?”

“I was wondering if we could meet somewhere, so we could talk.”

“Good, because I don’t like to talk over the phone. Why don’t we meet at the bowling alley at Sam’s Town Casino?”

“That sounds fine. Let’s say, an hour.”

I still had time to back out of this meeting. What if someone I knew saw me there? What if the guy turned out to be dangerous
or something? It felt like if I backed down, I was giving in to my fear, and then I’d never be able to follow through on my
larger plan.

The bowling alley at the casino was extremely crowded. It was jam-packed with bowling lanes, snack bars, gambling machines,
and a video arcade. There was a thick smell of smoke and that indefinable, antiseptic aroma they put into the casino air system
to hide the scent of fear and defeat. The high noise level seemed to make the whole environment seem anonymous, which gave
me some comfort.

I saw Rico waiting at the appointed spot near the bowling lanes. He looked like a construction worker—about five-ten, 170
pounds, with short brown hair. He didn’t look at all like what I pictured a male prostitute to be. He looked . . . I don’t
know . . .
normal.

As I walked up to greet him, it occurred to me that this is just what Gacy would do, this is how he’d find someone to rape
and kill. I was thinking about what Gacy might feel as he approached a prospective victim when Rico began the conversation.

“So what can I do for you?” he asked with a smile, as if we were both already well aware of what that might be.

“I was wondering,” I started hesitantly, “I was wondering if I could pay you just to talk to me and give me some information
about what you do.”

The smile on Rico’s face immediately froze, then turned downward into something not nearly as inviting. I quickly hurried
on before he bolted altogether. “It’s not what you think. I’m a student from UNLV and I want to write a paper about your lifestyle.”

I could tell he was immediately suspicious. Maybe I was a cop? But I was too young to be a cop. More likely, he was guessing
I really
did
want his services but was uncomfortable accepting my homosexuality.

Straight off, he wanted to eliminate his first suspicion. “Are you a cop,” he asked, “or are you in any way related to someone
in law enforcement?”

“No way,” I reassured him. “I really just want to talk with you. Look,” I said, showing him my student ID card.

He thought for a moment, then nodded. “For twenty dollars, I’ll talk to you for a half hour. What do you want to know?”

“I really don’t know where to start,” I said as the two of us moved to a table. “I just need to know the basics about what
you do. I need to know about the language you use and the terms for describing your various services.”