The Last Victim_ A True-Life Journey Into the Mind of the Serial Killer - Jason Moss [58]
In writing to him, I thought I’d portray myself as the high priest of a satanic cult that was active in Las Vegas. That way, he might see me as a colleague who shared his life’s work, similar to the impression I’d tried to create with Manson.
I began my research at the local New Age bookstore, where I found information on black magic, witchcraft, and satanism. For a period of weeks, I devoted myself completely to studying the beliefs, behaviors, and language used by various cults. I learned what various satanic symbols meant so I could include them in the letters I wrote to Ramirez.
Since the bookstore was on the opposite side of town, every time I made the journey it felt like I was traveling to another world. Of course, the very act of crossing the Las Vegas Strip to get to the West Side puts you in the mood for entering other dimensions. I couldn’t help but smile as I sat at the light on Flamingo and Las Vegas Boulevard and surveyed six different casinos, each offering visitors another world—from ancient Rome to contemporary Sodom and Gomorrah. Significantly, each of these resort themes seemed tame in comparison to the cult world I was exploring.
The New Age bookstore was very dark inside, kind of spooky actually. There was the scent of incense in the air. I could hear the soothing sounds of harp music in the background, but also the louder melody of falling water. A waterfall had been specially constructed to provide browsers with the atmosphere of a rain forest. Only in Las Vegas.
Every wall was covered with books, charms, talismans, strange religious symbols, viny plants, and spiritual pictures. On the counter there was actually a black cat sleeping. All that was missing was ghostly wailing coming up through the floorboards.
The shopkeeper was an old man, muttering to himself as he replenished the inventory in glass display cases. There were charms, pentagrams, strange potions, stones, crystals, even daggers. He was so intent on arranging the paraphernalia that he didn’t seem to notice me. All I could see in the dim light was the top of his bald head where he’d artfully combed his few wispy hairs, and numerous charms dangling from his neck.
I was examining advertisements for tarot card readings when I heard a raspy voice say, “If I can help you with anything, just let me know.” He then continued unloading a box of small bottles.
“Do you have any books on black magic?” I asked.
Without answering, he carefully arranged the position of a bottle and then directed me to follow him to the opposite corner of the store. Again without saying a word, he pointed to a huge selection of books on witchcraft, then started back toward the vicinity of the waterfall.
“Excuse me, sir,” I said, stopping him in midshuffle. “Do any of these books talk about satanism or human sacrifices?”
The old man looked at me sternly. “I am a witch. We practice white magic here. I don’t know much about black magic, and I recommend you stay away from it yourself.” With that pronouncement, he turned away, shaking his head. I was fascinated by the way the sound of his retreating footsteps was swallowed by the water sounds.
I selected several books that seemed relevant to my task, including one called The Satanic Bible. As I paid for them at the counter, staring at the twitching tail of the cat as it slept, I could see the man’s look of disapproval. I half wondered whether he’d try to cast some sort of spell on me to frustrate my intentions. Thinking on it, I decided it was probably a good thing that at least some of these people had ethical standards.
Since material on satanism and human sacrifice that can be construed as “how to” is usually illegal—and rightfully so!—I was skeptical that these books would yield much that would be helpful in approaching Ramirez. As it turned out, though, I learned a lot about the basic philosophy of satanism. I also familiarized myself with many symbols and