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I could see the other students staring at me. They seemed surprised as much by my early start on the term paper as by my choice of subject. One of the guys turned to me and asked, “So who are you going to write to?”

I shrugged off the question. I knew where this conversation would lead. And I’d taken enough hits already from my family and friends.

“Jason, come on! What’s the real reason you want to talk to these killers?” my buddies would tease. Or they’d call out to me across campus: “Hey, Jason, get any letters from Manson lately?”

Then they’d giggle and I’d laugh back, all the while stifling my irritation. But how could I blame them? I never took the time to really explain the why of it all. Maybe because I was afraid to confront it.

When I was totally honest with myself, I realized that part of the reason I was reaching out to these killers was that I admired them. Not for their crimes certainly—their behavior was beyond reprehensible—but for their nerve and follow-through. Not only did they dare to spit in the face of the rules that govern all people everywhere, but they did it repeatedly, as if taunting those who would try to control them.

At a time in my life when I was naturally experiencing some tension between what was expected of me—the “right path”—and a building urge to make my mark in a unique way, it was easier for these killers’ actions to evoke in me a kind of awe.

Only later, after it was all over, would I realize the truth: that the perversion I read about—and ultimately witnessed—was weakness masquerading as strength.

I’d always known that there is a close link between criminals and those who catch them. I’d heard interviews in which police officers confided that they could have easily gone the other way if they’d gotten different breaks. And of course, there’s the phenomenon in which serial killers often find ways to get close to the police and pretend to be officers themselves. I suspected that criminals and law enforcement officials have something in common—a taste for living on the edge. And if I was to ever become someone who could bring these killers to justice, I needed to better understand my own dark side.

Unfortunately, the journey I was beginning turned out to be very time-consuming. As important as it was for me to do well my first semester, I spent the next month reading everything I could get my hands on about my first subject, John Wayne Gacy. I read not only the few books written about him but also hundreds of articles. I watched video of interviews he’d given. I read the transcripts of his trial. Finally, I studied the profile of Gacy’s victims, including their physical characteristics, their interests and personalities, their ages, and sexual preferences.

Putting everything I could find together, I concluded that Gacy was a man who thrived on power and control. He was a sexual sadist who reveled in the pain of others. He was absolutely brutal and merciless with his victims and yet could be incredibly charming when he chose. He was an expert manipulator, choosing victims who were emotionally weak, sexually confused, and vulnerable. Most of all, he seemed to underestimate his victims, and I felt certain I could use that to my advantage.

When I viewed videotapes of Gacy, I noticed that he seemed confident and cocky. He always had an answer for everything, including what the two dozen bodies were doing beneath his home.

“It beats me,” he’d say, shrugging. “Someone else must have put them there. If I’m guilty of anything, it’s operating a funeral home without a license.” Then he’d flash a smug smile.

That overconfidence could be used against him, I figured. Gacy looked down on young boys, especially “gay boys.” Given that’s what I’d be posing as, I thought I could hold my own.

I recalled several other times in my life when adults had underestimated me. I remembered one day, soon after I’d received my driver’s license, when I was driving down a road at moderate speed and a guy pulled right in front of me and made a U-turn. I put on the brakes but still couldn’t avoid the