The Last Victim_ A True-Life Journey Into the Mind of the Serial Killer - Jason Moss [54]
My obsession was isolating me further. More and more often, I began avoiding my friends. Jenn and I broke up for a while, not just because of my latest project but because of conflicts over diverging life goals. There was also continual tension at home, including fights between—and with—my parents, and even some distancing on Jarrod’s part.
To my deepening dismay, I was becoming like the monsters I was studying—not in their homicidal urges, but in their perceived separation from the rest of society. I only learned later—when I took developmental psychology classes—how normal these feelings are for someone of my age, but at the time I just accepted that I was weird. This belief was continuously reinforced by my parents and peers, who were constantly teasing me because of my strange interests.
If I had stopped to think about it at the time (which I certainly didn’t, or I would never have continued my morbid project), I would have realized that the people with whom I had the most intimate relationships were all imprisoned serial killers. Even worse than that, these supposed friendships were built on lies and deception.
From everything I later read in my developmental psychology textbooks, my primary job at this stage was to develop close affiliations with people my age. This was becoming increasingly difficult as I retreated deeper and deeper into myself, unwilling to trust anyone with what I was doing. In a way, my reticence was a good thing—or I wouldn’t have had any friends at all!
During this period in which I was maintaining correspondence with Gacy, Manson, and now Dahmer, I was losing the part of myself that was most familiar. My thoughts previously centered around doing well in school, preparing myself for a good career, learning things in my classes, going out with friends, and spending time with my girlfriend. Now I was constantly thinking about the various murderers I was studying. Even more disturbing, I was beginning to identify with them. I felt sorry for them. I shared their pain. I understood their motivations. I was even making excuses for them: they couldn’t help the way they were. It wasn’t their choice; they were made that way.
I began to see darkness in everyone I came in contact with, and pitied every naive potential victim I’d see as well. I lost all of my faith in God. I began to see the world as a place consisting of the weak and the strong. The hunters and the hunted.
For several months, I read almost nothing else except story after story, article after article, about death. Looking back, I see now that I should have forced myself to take a break. Even some FBI investigators have to rotate their job duties every once in a while to prevent severe psychological damage. Clearly, I was walking a mental tightrope.
Of course if a teacher, therapist, or even a concerned adult had been monitoring what I was doing, they might have helped me gain some perspective on what was happening to me. The only person in my life who was really acting like much of a mentor, though, was John Wayne Gacy.
No wonder I was in trouble.
23
Doubts
After I sent the letter off to Dahmer, I waited impatiently for a reply. I’d been spoiled by Gacy’s and Manson’s timely responses, so I became more and more anxious as the days flew by without any answer. I second-guessed myself continuously. Had I made the right decision to hold back a photograph of me? I wanted Dahmer to write back and ask for something. Perhaps I hadn’t given him enough to pique his curiosity. Maybe I should have tried a different strategy altogether.
Weeks passed without a reply. In frustration, I redoubled my attention toward Gacy and Manson. I also made plans to contact other serial killers