The Last Victim_ A True-Life Journey Into the Mind of the Serial Killer - Jason Moss [41]
Such was the intensity of the spotlight that shone on Gacy that he forgot at times that it was his crimes that had made him famous. Rather, he convinced himself that it was the force of his personality or his intellect that had won him all this attention. Even though he was about to die for his actions, I don’t think he ever had a single regret. He absolutely loved the attention he was getting, the hundreds of requests for interviews, and all the fan mail.
Eventually, I would learn that, even though he was stuck in prison, he still managed to live like a celebrity. He had a private cell, a television set, money to spend from the sale of his paintings, and guards eating out of his hands, willing to do almost anything for him. He’d even alleged that he met with the warden a few times each month to extract various privileges. Such was his regal status.
After wading through pages thick with braggadocio, it was almost a relief to see Gacy return to his favorite subject: kinky sex. Almost a relief.
One of Gacy’s obsessions was a form of masturbation called “head-over-head.” It consisted of lying on the ground and leaning one’s butt against a wall in such a way that the hips (or as Gacy would prefer, the head of one’s penis) were higher than one’s head. Once in this position, the masturbator would then proceed to stroke himself, and when an orgasm was achieved, the semen would discharge all over his face.
He spoke about this technique a lot, although he claimed that because of his weight and age, he could no longer practice it. He was insistent, though, that I give it a try—obviously because it was one of his favorite fantasies of what he wanted to do to me. Since he couldn’t be physically present, he wanted me to act out both roles. I also realized that, in a way, he was training me. Since I’d admitted to him that I hadn’t yet had a homosexual encounter, he was preparing me, little by little, to move in that direction.
After I confirmed—in the face of relentless hounding— that I’d at last given his special recipe a try (I’d done no such thing), Gacy soon let up on the subject and assumed I was “head-over-heading” on a regular basis. Every now and again he’d ask about my most recent “self-loving” encounter, and I’d make up a new story, logging it in a journal with the date so I wouldn’t forget what I’d said.
After he and I began speaking on the phone, the letters took a different turn. They now became supplements to our conversations, which would often last for an hour or more every Saturday and Sunday morning and sometimes even occur midweek.
Partly, my willingness to spend that much time talking to Gacy was attributable to the boredom I experienced as a college student living at home. Partly, it was a testament to his ability to adroitly shift gears from luridly entertaining to supportive, depending on my mood.
• • •
Gacy always sculpted his letters in such a way that they’d be specific and unique to each person, yet disguise his own wrongdoing. This became even more true once the phone relationship commenced.
At first, I didn’t understand why he’d care what anyone thought. After all, he’d already been convicted of murder and was waiting for his execution. He’d exhausted all of his appeals. What else did he have to lose? As it turned out, though, he actually believed that someone—a judge, a Supreme Court justice, the governor of Illinois, even the president—would eventually commute his sentence. He’d vowed to be very careful, since he believed his behavior would be subjected to close scrutiny.
One of his tactics was to use code words—to disguise people’s names, incidents that had occurred, or things he wanted me to do. Though he told me he was using the words to protect my privacy, they were there to cover his tracks if anything went wrong.
“Look, Buddy,