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I even went so far as to rent a video called Faces of Death. The film shows actual footage of a man being sacrificed in a ritual conducted by a group of satanists in Texas. These people recorded their gruesome acts and were eventually arrested for their crime.

Watching that film was a big mistake. As soon as the first scene came on the screen, I began to feel nauseous. I’d naively thought that because I’d seen so many horror films, watching the real thing would be no big deal. I was wrong.

About halfway through the tape I started to feel even more queasy, so I went into the bathroom to throw some cold water on my face.

“Jason! Jason! Are you okay?” It was my brother shaking me.

“Um.” That was all I could get out. Somehow I’d passed out on the floor.

“Jason, what happened?”

“I don’t know,” I said, genuinely confused. “I had a headache.” I stopped to sip some water. “I went to get some aspirin. I don’t remember anything after that.”

“Jeez,” my brother said. “I thought you were dead or something. You looked so still lying on the floor.”

I could tell he was really worried about me. “I’m okay now,” I reassured him, not at all certain that was the case. “Just help me up.” This was so embarrassing, just like the time in elementary school I’d fainted in the middle of dissecting the frog.

25

Weak Stomach

I realize it’s odd that I have this fascination with serial killers yet suffer from such a weak stomach. People sometimes ask me—at least the honest ones do—whether I might be a potential killer myself. I hear that a lot. While I freely acknowledge that what these predators do arouses my curiosity, let me be clear on this: there’s no way I could participate in such violence against others. I suppose that’s why I delve into the area vicariously. Like most people, I’m intrigued by what I don’t understand.

When I studied the crimes of people like Ramirez from a distance, the thrill was similar to watching a good film; there was the shudder of watching something horrible unfold but also the comfort of pretending it was all made up. What Ramirez and the others did was “out there somewhere.” It wasn’t real. Mostly, it was just something I encountered in black and white in the pages of a true-crime book—or later, in the matter-of-fact correspondence of various Death Row inmates. But when I saw actual footage of what these people really did, how they butchered their victims . . . well, I nearly called off my project right then and there.

Eventually, though, the images faded and my intense curiosity returned.

In composing my first letter to Ramirez, I tried to get him to see the two of us as comrades—“men of Satan”—who shared the same interests and goals. I realized how frustrating it must be for Ramirez and other killers to be locked away, waiting for their executions, unable to act out their violent urges and brutal fantasies. I figured they yearned for what I appeared to be, someone who not only validated their lives but also offered a means to continue their depravity.

My thoroughly over-the-top letter to the Night Stalker read as follows:

Dear Richard,

How are ya? My name is Jason and I’m a huge fan of yours. I worship the Dark Lord too, and I shed and drink the blood of a sheep every night in the Dark One’s name. I’m the grand priest of a cult here in Vegas, and all of my 57 members worship you almost as much as we do the Dark Lord. How are they treating you in prison? You should be free to shed the innocent blood of the lamb with us.

My people and I would really appreciate it if you could give us some words or teachings to help us all follow in the path you’ve set forth for us. I have many women here for you. I will send you some photos of some if you like. They love you, Richard. My girlfriend wants you to beat the fuck out of her. She wants you to show her what it is like to worship the Dark Lord. Please, if you need anything let me know. I will help you all I can. [I drew a pentagram here in red ink.]

Hail Satan, Hail Richard,