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“Aren’t you supposed to be in class now?” he asked.

“Oh, shit!”

I’d been so immersed in the transcript that I’d completely forgotten where I was. A whole hour had gone by just like that, and I was still less than halfway through.

“Screw it,” I thought, and maybe even said it aloud to my classmate. I was already late for class, so I figured I might as well finish what I’d started. Besides, I reasoned, this was a hell of a lot more interesting than some boring lecture.

I settled back into my seat, propped my feet up on the chair next to me, and returned to one of the most bizarre conversations I’d ever read.

“Okay,” the detective summarized. “So you were saying that it took about five bags for each body. Tell me, what were you feeling or thinking about during all this? I mean, you know—”

“Um. It’s all kind of exciting.” Dahmer thought for a moment, then continued, “But I was also scared. I didn’t want to get caught and this was the most dangerous time.”

“Yes,” the detective agreed, encouraging him to continue.

“I also felt this intense loss as I threw the bags into the garbage. At one time, these bags of body parts were a human being with a whole life in front of him. Now they were nothing but garbage. A complete waste.”

“So you did feel kind of bad about it afterwards?” the detective said, leading him to a place that felt familiar.

“Yeah. Sure I did.” Dahmer nodded to himself as much as to the detective. “It just didn’t seem like I could help myself. It’s all I could do.”

Wow! This was amazing stuff, I thought. Not only was Dahmer willing to admit to his crimes, but he talked freely about what drove him to kill. He struck me as very transparent, almost meek—not at all like Gacy or Manson, who could be so aggressive. If only I could get accustomed to the revolting details of Dahmer’s crimes, it seemed like this challenge would be far easier than I imagined.

22

Only the Lonely

I walked out of the Student Union that afternoon almost certain I could find some way to capture Dahmer’s interest. And over the next few weeks I read every book and article I could find on him. When that still didn’t seem enough, I watched every piece of news footage I could locate. I also read about other killers throughout history who’d operated in similar ways.

Dahmer’s childhood seemed especially intriguing. From all accounts, he’d grown up very alone, with no one to really share things with. Much of his behavior seemed calculated to achieve companionship without risk of hurt or rejection.

As I reviewed his history further, I learned that he’d been charged with the murder of fifteen males—all homosexual, all young, mostly minorities. When he was arrested, the remains of eleven victims were found in acid vats in his apartment, as well as in his refrigerator. So fond was he of keeping mementos of his victims that he would typically sever their heads, boil them in water, and save the skulls—either in a box or in a discreet place in his bedroom.

At the time of his arrest, there was a human head found in his refrigerator, as well as a human heart and a biceps, which he planned on eating later. It was his habit to eat a portion of each victim, particularly those he especially liked, because this allowed him to keep a part of them inside him.

His usual killing strategy was to lure a young man to his apartment for an evening of entertainment. While fixing his guest a drink, he’d add sleeping pills to knock him out. After the guest was unconscious, Dahmer would strangle him. Sometimes he had sex with his victims when they were alive, but he’d usually have oral and anal sex with the corpse.

As if this wasn’t sick enough, he sometimes kept the dead bodies around long enough to watch maggots crawling in and out of the rotting flesh. Even at that level of extreme decomposition, he’d still find the bodies appealing enough to have sex with them.

On a scale of revulsion, this was indisputably at the top of anyone’s list. Gacy, or even Manson,