The Last Victim_ A True-Life Journey Into the Mind of the Serial Killer - Jason Moss [100]
I found myself hesitating, thinking desperately of how to reply.
“Yo, Jay-son,” a wiseass in the front row called out, seeing I was struggling with my answer.
The problem was I couldn’t tell these kids what I’d really learned. The actual story would be too upsetting. And, frankly, I didn’t have the courage. These kids—the ones not wisecracking or sleeping, at least—saw me as some kind of hero. I couldn’t tell them about my regrets, about the damage I’d done to my family, about the ways I’d hurt my brother, about the misery I’d known. I couldn’t describe the clashes with my mother, or how much conflict had been involved in getting my parents to go along with my plans. I couldn’t tell them how sorry I was about the pain I’d caused.
“Well,” I said finally, trying to come up with a lesson the kids could take away, “I learned that when you do some tough things, when you put yourself out there, it opens doors for you in the future.”
“Like what?” the guy in the front row challenged.
“Like . . . getting to work for the United States Secret Service.”
“No way!”
“Way,” I replied, starting to like this boy now. Whereas the other kids seemed compliant and passive, this guy really seemed inquisitive. I recognized a part of me in him.
“Actually, I did an internship with the Secret Service office here in Las Vegas. I even got to meet the president and his wife when they were in town for a campaign stop.”
I could hear snickering from the back of the room. Now I knew what teachers went through; they missed all the best stuff. I was curious to know what the kids were whispering about.
“You,” I pointed to one of the girls in the back of the room who’d been talking. “Did you have a question you want to ask?”
She just giggled and whispered something to her friend again. Then she looked up and smiled.
I stood in front of the room, rocking back and forth on my feet, deciding where to go next. I looked up at the clock and saw we still had a few minutes left. I took a deep breath and decided to say out loud what I’d been thinking.
“Look, I know this story sounds interesting and all. But it wasn’t really like that. I mean, I’m not the same anymore, the same person I used to be. After writing and talking to guys like Manson and Ramirez and Gacy, knowing the ways they really think, I can’t get it out of my head that there are still so many others like them around.”
Most of the kids now showed that kind of engrossed look you see when you’re telling a ghost story. They were a little on edge but they couldn’t wait for me to continue.
“I’m pretty mistrustful of people I come into contact with. I question everyone’s motives. I wonder what they really want from me, and how they’re going to manipulate me to get it.”
I paused for a moment and scanned the room to see if they were following. I noticed the guy in front was definitely relating to what I was saying.
“I still have nightmares that Gacy and other killers are out there trying to hunt and kill me. Sometimes, when I’m alone in my car or in my room, when I’m drifting off to sleep, I feel the touch of Ramirez’s huge hand or I hear the rhythm of Manson’s poetry. Often I see the inside of Gacy’s cell—remember what it smelled like. I wish I could get these things out of my head, but I can’t.”
“How else are you different, Jason?” Miss Lawrence asked. Bless her heart. She was trying to get me to focus on a more positive part of the experience.
I glanced at the clock again, hoping to be saved by the bell. Alas, still a few interminable minutes left.
“Well, for one thing, now I’m more focused on school. When I was here at Green Valley High School, I was a good student. Better than good. The only B I ever got in my life was that first semester at UNLV when all these events were taking place. Ever since then, I’ve buckled down even more. The things I want to do in life are going to take everything