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Your faithful friend,

Jason Moss

In this letter, I attempted something I’d never tried before—using a fictitious person as an excuse for writing someone a letter. Since most of the people writing to Manson would want something—an interview, a souvenir, or his time—I knew he’d be more likely to respond if he didn’t think that I wanted something from him but rather that I was in a position to help him.

I portrayed myself as a poor, angry man—yet also a leader who’d do whatever it took to make things “right” again in society. I wanted him to think I was a good investment of his time, worth spending energy “grooming.” Whereas Gacy responded to weakness, Manson, I figured, would be drawn to some degree of strength, especially if it was clear that I’d remain within his control.

On many television interviews I’d heard him state that he wasn’t into games, so by stating “I am not into fuckin’ around,” I hoped that he’d identify with my directness. I didn’t worry much about him taking the bait; after all, I already had Gacy to talk to, and I was forming plans to reach out to other killers as well. I knew it was unrealistic to think I could get everyone to write back.

Just a few days later, though, I received a postcard from Manson in which he presented a test of my intentions. Writing in broken, schoolboy English, he stated that he’d give me something if I’d give him what he wanted. Initially, this was subscriptions to magazines. He admitted he’d never heard of “that person in NY,” but it didn’t surprise him that much, since he received so much mail. “I learn not to write letters,” Manson explained, “because people play and use you for things beyond your wild dreams. They say all they will do and lie—you will see as you get old.”

A postcard was the last thing I expected to receive from Manson. My address wasn’t even legible on the card and at first I wondered how it could possibly have been delivered. Then it occurred to me that Cynthia, our mail lady, must have been so used to routing me letters from Gacy’s prison she figured it had to be for me.

The next day I was able to confirm my suspicion. I was walking out to the mailbox just as Cynthia had finished inserting the last of the letters when I noticed she had a big grin on her face.

“What’s so funny?” I asked her a little nervously. She was probably beginning to think I was some kind of weirdo.

“Nothing,” she answered a bit hesitantly. I could tell this was awkward for her.

“Go on,” I said.

“It’s just that . . . I don’t know, Jason. Sometimes, when I’m driving on my route and I approach your stop, I can’t believe what you’re doing. Your mail is just so unusual. You’re always getting letters from prisons and stuff. I couldn’t help but look at the envelopes. You don’t mind, do you?”

I couldn’t believe this was happening. The mail lady was actually monitoring my letters. Actually, I was flattered. Cynthia is a nice person.

“So,” she asked me, “what the heck does this Gacy guy tell you?”

“Nothin’ much,” I replied. “I usually ask him things about the prison system and capital punishment.”

“God, just yesterday, some of the guys at work were asking what type of person you were.”

“Really?” I answered. Now they’re talking about me at the post office!

“Yeah. I told them you’re this really sweet, brilliant future psychologist who just likes to study these people. The whole station talks about you.”

“They do?” I said, more than a little embarrassed. “A lot of people think what I’m doing is kind of weird. That’s why I pretty much just keep things to myself.”

“I understand,” she said. “You know, when you got that letter from Manson yesterday, I dropped it on the ground in disbelief. It was so scary to touch something that you know he touched. It was so eerie.”

“Hey,” I said, “thanks for getting it to me. I know how awful his handwriting is.”

“No problem. The guys were going to label it undeliverable, but when they said it was on my route, I knew it must be for you.”

After that day, I never had