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“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