The Last Victim_ A True-Life Journey Into the Mind of the Serial Killer - Jason Moss [28]
Gacy’s immediate reply included the following:
I will say one thing. Your letters sound like that you would be much older than your 18 years, soon to be 19. You come across very responsible in how you speak. I have a saying— don’t say it unless you intend on doing it and you come across as if you mean to do what you say, and that to me is being honest with yourself.
Even though I knew Gacy was playing with me, I was nevertheless flattered. Just as I’d selected him out of hundreds of Death Row predators to write to, he’d selected me to focus on out of hundreds of academics, voyeurs, and would-be disciples vying for his attention.
I’d earned the devil’s nod.
12
Secrets
At the time, my bedroom looked like most any other male teenager’s inner sanctum, decorated in a way that reminded an unwary interloper—my mother, for example— that the hormones were abundantly flowing. I had a poster on one of my walls of two beautiful women bent over on the beach. Its caption read: “California Beach Bums.” On the opposing wall was an assortment of other cheesecake shots that I’d cut out of Playboy.
There was actually a floor in my room, but the joke in our house was that nobody had seen it in years. Strewn around the room, covering every available inch, were dirty clothes, as well as clean clothes that I’d taken out and planned to wear sometime in the near future. Books were stacked everywhere, reflecting my diverse interests: school books, library books, and of course my growing collection of works about serial killers.
I was seated at my desk around midnight, furiously typing away at the computer, when a knock at the door cut through my concentration.
“Come in,” I grunted.
“Jason,” my father whispered, poking his head through the door, “it’s awfully late. Are you going to be able to get up for school tomorrow?”
“Yeah. I’m just working on another letter.” By this point my parents were resigned to my “project.” Even so, I downplayed the number of letters that were flying back and forth and continued intercepting the mail every afternoon.
“Well,” he replied, “I’m getting ready for bed. Make sure you turn off all the lights downstairs and don’t forget to let the dog out. He’s been having accidents all over the house lately. Mom’s probably going to take him to the vet tomorrow.”
“Okay, Dad,” I mumbled, only half listening as I continued typing.
My father stood in the doorway watching me for a minute. Almost against his will, he asked, “So how’s the letter writing going? Is he liking what you have to say?”
“I hope so,” I responded noncommittally. I didn’t know how much my father really wanted to know. I could tell he was really curious about what I was up to, but if I told him too much, it might lead to trouble with my mom. I decided to give him a general idea without too many specifics.
“I just try to imagine what he’d want to hear. That’s what I tell him.”
My father nodded. “Well, if anyone can do that, it’s you.”
I wasn’t quite sure if that was a compliment or not. I preferred to think that in his own way my father was telling me he was proud of what I was doing even if he didn’t understand it all.
“Thanks, Dad,” I said. “Good night. I’ll see you in the morning.”
Practically speaking, the real curse of responding to Gacy’s letters had become the amount of research and reflection it required. Sometimes I’d stay up until four in the morning, writing and rewriting each sentence. I had to cross-reference everything I told him because I knew he’d notice the slightest inconsistency in my story. After all, he had nothing to do all day except to try to suppress thoughts of his upcoming execution; I knew my letters would be a welcome distraction and that he’d study them intently.
Sometimes Gacy would try to turn the tables and trick me—or at least it felt that way. He’d say, remember three weeks ago when you said you were wearing a red shirt? How come you didn’t mention