The Last Victim_ A True-Life Journey Into the Mind of the Serial Killer - Jason Moss [55]
I tried to console myself as best I could. The autograph dealer did say that nobody ever got letters from Dahmer, so it was probably unrealistic to think I could pull this off. At least Dahmer’s reluctance to reply had made my mother happy.
“You see, Jason,” she rubbed it in one day, “you can’t get letters from all of these guys. Why don’t you just let it go and concentrate on school?”
I wished she hadn’t looked so pleased by my failure; that only encouraged me to prove she was wrong. “Aw, Mom, please don’t start with me.”
As it turned out, my mother had rejoiced too soon. At the end of January, just when I’d given up on Dahmer altogether, there was a letter from him in the mail. I was so happy that I couldn’t keep from screaming right in front of my own mailbox. My very first thought was to run in immediately and show my mother she’d been wrong.
“Mom, look at this baby!” I yelled as I ran into the kitchen, where she was preparing dinner. I could see her eyes roll. “Dahmer finally did write me back. God, I can’t believe I ever doubted myself.”
My mother put down the knife she was using to chop vegetables. She gave me that stern look, the one that said she really means what she’s about to say. Now it was my turn to roll my eyes.
“Jason,” she declared, “you’ve taken this too far. This has got to stop.”
At bottom, I realized this argument wasn’t really about Dahmer’s letter, or even about my serial killer project. Ever since I could remember, my mother and I played out this little war in which she’d tell me I couldn’t do something and then I’d set out to prove her wrong. We were both pretty stubborn, so things would usually end in a truce that allowed us both to save face. This time, though, I was going to rub it in all I could.
“See, Mom,” I bored in, “I told you I could do this. Why can’t you ever feel proud of the things I do?”
“But I am proud of you, honey. It’s just—”
That’s about as far as the conversation got before I made a hasty retreat, or rather a strategic withdrawal. I knew where this was headed and I didn’t want to go there. I was in too good a mood right then to fight with her.
I ran up to my room, locked the door, and ripped open the envelope to find a two-page letter written by a man who seemed very gracious, even scrupulously polite. Dahmer thanked me for writing, wished me a happy new year, and then apologized profusely for taking so long to respond. “I’m a much better talker than writer,” he said, “so I don’t always keep up with the mail as I should.”
He then went on to mention that he was indeed interested in having me arrange for some magazine subscriptions. He named several titles that I later learned were explicit gay publications. Apparently, prisoners weren’t allowed to order their own magazines or newspapers; they had to be sent as gifts.
Finally, he asked that I send him a photo of myself, anything other than a Polaroid for some reason. Then he signed off by saying he hoped to hear from me again real soon.
That this letter meant the world to me was an indication of how far gone I was. Everything I’d predicted Dahmer would do came true. He’d even asked for a photo. Now I agonized over whether to send him some subscriptions or make him wait longer.
In my response to him, I included the safest photo I could find. I wasn’t all that comfortable thinking about Dahmer gazing at my picture for hours. Would he be selecting the piece of me he wanted to eat?
I spent the better part of that evening locked in my room, thinking about how to construct my response to him. When I heard my parents come upstairs, I snuck into the kitchen to load up on food for what I knew would be another sleepless night.
In the brief reply I wrote to Dahmer, I said that although I was a struggling college student I’d ordered the magazines he requested. I deliberately