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I’m a compulsive worrier and I agonized over the responses I eventually settled on. Maybe I shouldn’t have said something about my parents so quickly. I could think of a dozen other responses I wished I’d constructed differently. What if he doesn’t write back?

While the wait continued, I thought about the other killers I wanted to contact. As a preliminary step toward writing them, I tried to obtain addresses for some of the more famous Death Row inmates—a task that turned out to be far easier than I anticipated. Charles Manson, in particular, was fairly simple to track down, so I started reading a bit about him as a way to keep myself occupied.

Since I’d been unable to persuade my parents that becoming a serial killer’s pen pal was “cool,” I made it a point to leave school promptly every afternoon so I could intercept the mail. I figured I’d have a clear shot at it, given that my parents were always at work, and my brother was at school. After a few days I developed the habit of sitting in a rocking chair in my parents’ room, which faced the street, waiting for the mail truck to come.

Our mail lady, Cynthia, was utterly dependable, never varying more than a few minutes from her usual arrival time. This was especially important because I was cutting things very close. There were times my mother would come home from work only a few minutes after I’d sorted through the mail.

“Well, Jason,” Cynthia said one day after finding me standing by the mailbox, “this might just be your lucky day.” We had become fast friends and I’d confided to her the sort of thing I was looking for. She tilted her head in the direction of the top letter on the stack of our mail. Clearly typed at the top of the envelope was the return address: Menard Correctional Center.

All riiiiight!

I read through the letter, which was quite long, quickly the first time, just to get the main ideas Gacy was expressing. He seemed to be trying to make it clear that he was a very open and safe person. He wanted me to know that I could confide in him about anything, and he was obviously hoping I’d do so.

It was strange to read Gacy’s words—to think that this man, who’d taken the lives of so many young men just like me, was now turning his attention my way. I could feel a chill that reminded me of the first time I watched Friday the 13th all the way through. All the time you’re watching the movie, hearing that scary music, seeing the unsuspecting kid about to get decapitated, you want to scream out: “You idiot! Get the hell out of there! Can’t you sense that monster about to devour you?” I felt like I might be in a movie as well, and I wondered, if an audience were watching, whether they’d scream out for me to throw the damn letter down and run for my life.

One part of Gacy’s letter, in particular, caught my attention because of the subtle ways he was trying to get me to open up to him, especially with regard to my sexual attitudes and behavior:

. . . One of the things you should know about me, is that I am open minded, outspoken, not very tactful, nonjudgmental, liberal, BI [bi-sexual], and I say what I mean. The only thing I ask is don’t assume anything of me. If your not sure then ask. Nothing offends me and nothing is personal. No subject is off limits as long as your willing to be just as open and honest with me. I dislike phoney people. 80% of what is known about me in the media is fantasy. So don’t assume, just ask. If you want my opinion on something or point of view thats what you will get as I am not into stroking you as you have your own hand for that when you get the daily urge. Ha ha.

The letter continued on for a half dozen pages, during which he talked about my answers to his questionnaire and prodded me for more details. He was especially interested in anything I had to say about my sexual experience and fantasies. He kept reassuring me that he was a safe confidant and that I should tell him anything and everything I’d ever thought or felt.

Relax about who