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To be honest, I felt a kind of friendship. Remember, I wasn’t corresponding with a man who talked about killing, or even sex all the time. Sometimes he’d ask about school, or we’d talk baseball and other sports.

Even when I asked him directly about the murders, he was convincing and logical in proclaiming his innocence. There were times when I’d actually believe what he was saying. He’d say, “Jason, so many other people had keys to my house. They were always coming and going. They were using drugs. I was working so many hours, I was never home. It was like my house was a recreation center for kids. I had a pool table and everything. Besides, do you really think I’m so stupid that I’d actually bury the bodies underneath my own house?”

He had a point.

Remember, too, that logic had always been my own favorite weapon—the tool I used to convince anyone of almost anything. Because I relied so much on logic myself, I was unusually susceptible to others’ rational arguments. And I’ve got to tell you: Gacy was a master. Each time I’d poke a hole in his story, he’d find some way to explain it away. I was actually starting to feel more and more sympathetic to his cause—that is, until he changed the rules of our relationship.

13

Outside the Boundaries

In spite of all my efforts to choreograph the interactions between us, Gacy apparently had his own ideas about where we were headed. Judging by the content of his latest letter, he was prepared to play outside the boundaries I’d constructed.

“You mention you have a brother, 14,” are the words that riveted my attention. “Is he into sports like you and do you get along with him?”

This might seem like the most ordinary of questions, but in hindsight, Gacy was planting seeds in the hope of acting out some very sick fantasies. I learned later through my correspondence with Gacy that he claimed to have had a youthful sexual relationship with his sister.

Since even in the best of circumstances I was overprotective of my brother, the red flags shot up soon after Gacy’s first mention of Jarrod.

All the time my brother and I were growing up, both my parents worked long hours in retail and gaming jobs, so the responsibility often fell on me to be in charge. As much as I was plagued by my own fears, I was always even more concerned that something bad would happen to Jarrod.

I remembered the year before this whole serial killer project of mine started, Jarrod had gotten himself in a jam. He was a thirteen-year-old junior high schooler, while I was a senior in high school. Some gang members started bothering Jarrod, harassing him and following him around. One day they even put a dog chain around his neck and started choking him. A teacher arrived just in time to break things up.

When I heard what happened, I went berserk. My first impulse was to take care of the problem myself, find the kids and teach them a lesson. I was a big weight lifter and kickboxer at the time, so I had few doubts I could put the fear of God into them. But I didn’t think that would be a long-term solution.

I presented Jarrod with my plan.

“Look, this whole situation could get totally out of hand. We don’t want to deal with some gang war where someone will end up getting shot.”

Jarrod listened intently. He was in over his head and anxious for a way out.

“If I kick this guy’s ass,” I explained, “then he’ll just get someone bigger to kick both of our asses. I don’t want this going back and forth forever.”

“So what should we do?” he asked. I liked the sound of that “we”—this was our problem together and we’d solve it as a team.

“I’m going to take you to his house right now. Then you’re going to fight him.”

“Are you kidding?” he screamed. “He’ll kill me.”

“No he won’t,” I reassured him. “I’ll make certain that doesn’t happen. It’ll be a fair fight.”

Jarrod looked sick. Before he could think too much about it, I said, “Come on. Let’s go.”

“Right now?” he asked, taken completely off guard.

“Yes, Jarrod, right now. If you fight him at his