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“John, I’m being serious. I really think we’re going to have problems if you think I’m some freak writing you because I need sexual advice.”

What I found most disconcerting about this conversation was that it was like we were lovers who’d had an argument and were trying to make up. I was stuck in the role of the victim and was pretending to act hurt, while he was playing a part of his own, pretending he was sorry for his insensitivity. As exciting as all this was, I also couldn’t help but feel disgusted that I was acting like such a wimp.

From the literature I’d read, I knew Gacy was running true to form. It was his habit, I knew, with those who would eventually become his victims, to settle disputes by offering a gift or a pay raise, accompanied by an earnest expression of remorse and a promise he’d never do it again. Of course, within hours or days he’d break his word—sometimes in the most vile and lethal way possible.

“Jason, how’bout if I send you one of my paintings? I’ve got this one called Pennywise the Clown. It’s from Stephen King’s book It. It looks really nice. It’s one of the most requested pieces that I paint. One just like it sold in a New York art gallery for $10,000.”

“Yeah, that would be great,” I answered him much more calmly than I felt. Actually, I was screaming inside my head. I couldn’t believe it! I knew Gacy had taken up painting in prison, doing mostly ghoulish portraits of clowns and other subjects. While they weren’t great works of art, he did have a certain demented flair, and his signature at the bottom made them valuable.

After some more awkward conversation, I tried to end the call, but he was determined to keep me on the line as long as he could. “Hey, John,” I finally told him, “my mom’s calling me. I really have to go now.”

The truth of the matter was that I’d coped with about as much of him as I could stand. I needed some time to regain my composure, to catch my breath.

“All right, then, I’ve got a lot of shit to do, too.” Oh yeah? I wondered what he could possibly be talking about. He was locked up in a prison cell all day, wasn’t he?

He threw out one more line, just to keep me talking. “Did you ever see that interview where I was on Hard Copy?”

I admitted I had. It was about the paintings he’d done of Adolf Hitler. I wondered why he was bringing that up now. He knew I was Jewish. Still, I couldn’t deal with any more mind games. I needed time to digest what had already happened.

“Okay, I’ll be right there,” I screamed off into space, as if I was answering my mother. “John, I really have to go now. My mom is going to kill me if I don’t get downstairs.”

“Yeah. All right. I gotta go, too. Just keep them letters coming. I’ll talk to you again real soon.” Click.

I was shaking. I’d held it together. I actually managed to talk to John Wayne Gacy, pretending to be his friend. Maybe I was going to get away with this after all.

While I was mulling over whom I could possibly share this experience with without their thinking me a freak, the phone rang again. I calmly picked it up to discover it was another collect call request. My heart stopped. Why was he calling again? What did he want? I could only imagine the worst.

“How are ya?” he came on, like we hadn’t just gone through this ten minutes ago. My heart was pounding. With a barely disguised sense of dread, I said, “Fine. What’s up, John?”

“I was just calling you back because I didn’t think you’d believe it was me who called. I wanted to let you know it was really me.”

Again, I was speechless. I had no idea what he was up to or how to respond. I felt a big headache coming on.

He continued on, pretending the lengthy silence wasn’t really as awkward as it felt. “Well, I guess I’ll let you go now. Remember to keep the letters coming.”

There was another pause. Then: “Are you going to tell your family I called?”

“Well, maybe,” I said, stalling for time. I wasn’t sure what he wanted me to say. I figured it was best if he thought I wasn’t that close to my parents.

“Well, send them my regards. Talk to ya soon, buddy.