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“Is that right?” I said, my mind working. I was pretty sure whom I’d be contacting next.

As I walked out of the store my head was spinning with possibilities. First, I couldn’t believe how valuable my collection of letters was—dealers like the one I’d just spoken to would pay me five thousand dollars for the Gacy material, and even more for my letters from Manson. I hadn’t contacted these killers for the potential profit involved, and wouldn’t start now. Still, to a penniless college student, these sums were pretty dazzling.

I tried to recall what I knew about Jeffrey Dahmer. Not much, really. I remembered that he not only captured, tortured, and killed young boys but also ate them. I thought it interesting that he hadn’t written to anyone. Might it be that the grisliness of his crimes had put off even those who tend to glom on to celebrity killers? Or perhaps he’d vowed not to communicate with the outside world, had quite literally written it off.

It was time to do some research. I began by calling the Milwaukee Police Department and ordering a copy of Dahmer’s 230-page confession. This would give me a starting point, a feel for the way he thought and talked.

When the thick package from Wisconsin arrived, I was so overwhelmed with schoolwork that I had no time to examine the contents until the following day. I decided to find a quiet spot in the Student Union Building to sit and peruse the transcript for a few minutes before class.

As I approached the entrance, I noticed the familiar sights that make campus life so interesting and fun. Kids throwing Frisbees on the new-mown lawn. Skateboarders and rollerbladers gliding past, using pedestrians as their moving slalom course. Dedicated students studying in pairs or alone under the shade of trees. I don’t think I’d have been incorrect to assume that at that moment no one—other than me—was brooding about man-eating serial killers.

After finding a vacant table inside, I became so engrossed in the dialogue that had taken place between Jeffrey Dahmer and a homicide detective that I lost all track of time and place. Despite the dry police verbiage, I was glued to the page. Automatically, I kept translating the dry, clinical legalese into the conversation I imagined took place between this cannibal who was more than willing to talk about his craft, and the experienced detective who acted like he’d heard it all before.

“So, Mr. Dahmer,” the detective asked politely, “how did you go about disposing of your victims?”

“Well,” Dahmer replied just as matter-of-factly, “I’d just drag the body into the bathtub.”

Dahmer hesitated for a moment, lost in thought, as if he was reliving the experience all over again.

“Go on,” the detective prodded gently. “Then what happened?”

Dahmer shrugged. “First, I’d strip off all the clothes on the body. Then, I took off my clothes too so they wouldn’t get dirty. I’d get in the tub too.”

The detective nodded his head, indicating that he was listening intently.

“I’d use a sharp knife,” Dahmer continued, “a very sharp knife. For something like this, it has to be very sharp.”

Again the detective nodded, as if he understood perfectly the problems of cutting up bodies with something less than suitable instruments.

“I’d start at the top of the chest and cut all the way down. Then I’d spread it open and remove all the—”

“Wait a minute,” the detective interrupted. “Slow down. What do you mean you’d spread—”

“You know, I’d peel the skin and muscle back. That way I could scoop out all the stuff inside.”

The detective nodded, drinking from his cold coffee to take the sour taste from his mouth. Dahmer just looked dreamy-eyed, sitting there talking about butchering a body as easily as preparing a chicken for the barbecue.

“I’d cut up all the organs and put them into plastic bags. Each piece would be about the size of my fist.” He held out his hand to show the detective what he meant.

I was hanging on to every word of this narration when someone called out to me. “Jason! Hey, Jason!”

“Hey, guy,” I responded groggily. It was like I’d been on