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Although my assumption was that a visit to Gacy would be low-risk, I expected Manson to be wild, spontaneous— even terrifying. In video footage I’d watched of him, I’d seen him jumping on tables or throwing things at people. Although I suspected he behaved that way partly to enhance his mystique, there was no guarantee he wouldn’t behave the same way with me.

With all the research I was doing, and all the success I was encountering, my hopes increased that someday the FBI might want to hire me as a psychologist and serial killer profiler. What had begun as a whim—writing letters to the people I’d read about in my true-crime books—had evolved into a methodology for winning the trust of some of the most murderous human beings ever. And the risks involved were slight—or so I believed.

After striking pay dirt with Gacy and Manson, I couldn’t help wondering whom else I could get to.

21

Cannibal

“A thousand dollars for just one of Charles Manson’s signatures? You’ve got to be kidding!”

I was flabbergasted. I couldn’t believe that anyone would pay that kind of money for a mere envelope Manson had once addressed.

“Yeah,” the owner of the autograph store said, sneering. “So what’s it to you?”

I didn’t like this guy. He was a small man, but cocky for someone who looked so young and frail. He had a wispy mustache that made him seem even younger than his thirty-odd years. He’d started out with a small personal collection of autographs and somehow built it into a business. Now he owned stores all over the country.

I didn’t ordinarily frequent such establishments, especially in this upscale area of Vegas that catered largely to wealthy tourists who had extra time and money on their hands. While their husbands played blackjack or craps at the neighboring casinos, the wives could be seen roaming the high-priced boutiques with a frantic determination to spend their own share of the family income.

The small autograph store specialized in celebrity artifacts. In the window was a guitar once played by Jimi Hendrix, a baseball bat signed by Joe DiMaggio, and an assortment of documents bearing the signatures of famous politicians, athletes, and movie stars. I’d heard that the collection included some serial killer autographs as well, which is why I’d made a point of stopping by.

“Excuse me, sir,” I’d begun with as much restraint as I could muster, “but I was just wondering what the market is like for letters and stuff from famous killers.”

The owner sighed. But it was a slow day. And I was his only customer. “It all depends on what you’ve got.”

I nodded. I was the eager student, attentive and polite.

“You see,” he explained, “you’ve got your basic killers. They’re not worth much because there’s so much of their stuff around.” Almost in spite of himself, he seemed to warm to the subject.

“What about Gacy?” I interrupted.

“He’s about average, I’d say. He’s pretty famous but he writes a lot of people.”

“What if I had several dozen letters?” I asked. “All of them are very explicit in describing his sexual tastes, his life in prison, his feelings about his crimes.”

The man cocked his head to the side, looking at me seriously for the first time. “Are you yanking my chain or something?”

“No,” I said agreeably. “I was just wondering what the letters were worth. I’m not interested in selling them.”

I could see the owner’s expression change, greed now replacing skepticism. “C’mon,” he whined, “you’ll sell eventually. Everyone’s got their price.”

It was sort of fun watching him wheedle. “I was just wondering who’s worth the most. I mean, which serial killer’s autograph is the most valuable?”

He thought for just a moment before he replied. “That would be Jeffrey Dahmer, the cannibal guy who ate his victims.”

“Yeah?” I said. “What’s so special about him?”

The owner looked at me condescendingly. “Dahmer just doesn’t like to write people. His stuff is extremely rare. I think there’s only one guy in the whole country who has any letters from