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I tried to be objective as I went through every line I created. How would he interpret this? What would it trigger? Is this what my fictitious character would think or feel or say? I made sure that every letter that went out was a masterpiece of subtlety, yet be a lever that opened Gacy up just a little bit more. It was ridiculously time-consuming.

While previously I’d always been a perfect student, for the first time I was about to get Bs in my first-semester classes. I became so preoccupied, so obsessed with my serial killer project, that I let everything else slip in my life— not only school but romantic relationships, friendships, and athletic pursuits. It occurred to me that I might be the one who was hooked, not Gacy.

One night I was sitting on the couch in the living room staring at the blank television screen, a biology book open on my lap, when I heard footsteps.

“Doing your homework, honey?” my mother asked softly.

“Yeah, I got a test tomorrow. I just can’t get into studying.”

She walked over to me. “Come here, Jason, let me feel your head.”

“Mom, I’m fine.”

“Are you coming down with something? You look like you’re losing weight. How does your throat feel?”

I wanted to tell my mother what was going on, but I knew the trouble that would bring. Tender moments between us were rare. As irritated as I felt about her bothering me, I was also enjoying her concern.

“Mom, I’m just under a lot of stress right now. I have a test coming up. And a ton of homework building up.”

“You’re going to make yourself sick,” she warned. “Those migraines will come back.”

“Trust me, Mom, I’m fine. After this week everything will be more relaxed.”

• • •

Sometime after, I decided it was time to show my parents some of Gacy’s letters, a few that I picked because they made him seem pretty normal. Since my mother was a student of crime stories herself, I knew her curiosity would work to my advantage.

“Hey, Mom, check out this letter Gacy sent me. He’s talking about what it’s like in prison on Death Row.”

At first, she seemed fascinated by the letters. Soon, though, the novelty wore off because the ones I selected for her to view were the most boring ones I could find.

“That’s very interesting, Jason, but where are the rest of the letters? You know, the ones you lock away in your safe?”

Oops. I guess they knew more about what I was up to than I thought. The safe was a sore point between us. I’d been very concerned that my mother would start going through my stuff and discover what I was doing, so I purchased a large steel safe in which I could lock away my private things. It was handy for hiding not only my letters but also my collection of Penthouse and Playboy magazines.

“Mom,” I tried to explain, although I could tell she wasn’t believing me, “they all say the same things. We’re like . . . well, we’re just friends. I’m not going to show you all the letters because some of them are private to me.”

After that, my parents stepped up their campaign to get me focused on something else. They nagged me constantly. They even teased me and called me gay. They’d ask at dinner, “Jason, are you still writing to your boyfriend in prison?” Then they’d laugh.

There was really little they could do, though. When I’m determined to do something, nothing can stop me. Still, I knew they were worried and they did their best to bring me back under control. The one thing I felt bad about is that I could hear my parents arguing all the time, Dad usually taking my side, telling Mom to leave me alone.

One of the consequences of having to be so secretive in my actions is that I became even more committed to following through on what I was doing. You can’t imagine how inconvenient it was to leave school in the middle of the day to get the mail! The more time and energy I devoted to all this, the greater importance the letters began to have in my life. Each was like a trophy given to me by Gacy. It was like he was validating me, affirming