The Last Victim_ A True-Life Journey Into the Mind of the Serial Killer - Jason Moss [6]
My parents and grandparents tell me that, as a kid, whenever I’d see a clown, I’d start crying in fear. Even today, there’s something about that painted-on happy face and exaggerated show of good cheer that I don’t trust. There’s something about the masks that clowns wear—I can’t help feeling that the intention is to deceive. Call me paranoid, but I find myself wondering: Who’s the real person hiding beneath that makeup?
The idea that a killer would dress himself up as a clown to entertain sick children by day, and then stalk the streets for prey at night, seemed inconceivable to me. Yet I could identify with people who led double lives. How many times had I exuded confidence when taking an exam, or engaging in a debate, when, in fact, I was less than sure of myself?
I decided to buy both books—the one about hunting humans, and the other about the killer clown—even though it would put a crimp in my student budget. At the time, I had no idea the true cost would ultimately be much higher.
2
True Crime
On the drive home from the kickboxing session, I glanced over at the passenger seat and saw my new purchases lying on top of my backpack. Clearly, I was enthralled by these types of books, and yet I felt very ambivalent about it, since true crime is also an interest of my mother’s. We fought a lot, my mother and I—usually about her wanting to control my life in some way. I tried to distance myself from her as much as I could, and it really bothered me that we now shared this interest.
My mother couldn’t get enough of “slasher” books. Ever since I was little, I’d seen her hunched over them, shaking her head at their grisly contents. As far back as I can remember, our kitchen table was stacked with books featuring lurid covers and even more graphic photo sections.
Usually, the books were obtained from the public library, a regular destination for my mother and me. I’d get lost in the long, endless aisles while she searched for titles that interested her. Eventually, we’d both end up in the back reading room, which had been designed for toddlers to comb through picture books. I have vivid memories of walls decorated with large pictures of rainbows and oversize happy-faced suns.
In the very back of the room, there was a table close to the wall. Even after I was older—but before I’d reached the age where going to the library with your mom was no longer considered cool—the two of us would sit at that table and talk about our selections.
On one particular day—I was thirteen at the time—she plunked her books on the table and exclaimed, “Jason, you won’t believe this one!” She pulled a volume from the middle of her pile and, with an I’ve-got-a-secret grin on her face, began leafing through the pages.
“What’s it about?” I asked apprehensively. I knew what was coming next.
“You’ll never believe it. Wait until you hear what this one guy did. It’s so disgusting.”
So why are you telling me about it? I wondered. Still, I knew better than to challenge her. The library was about to close, so only about half the lights were still on. The muted light lent the room a spooky atmosphere that made me feel even more on edge.
“Aw, Mom, let’s get outta here.”
“No, not yet,” she said. “I want to show you this.”
“Come on . . .” I said, rolling my eyes.
“This will just take a few minutes. There’s this guy who would take the skin off the women he’d kill and save it. He was trying to make a suit of real human flesh. He wanted to be a woman.”
Why couldn’t my mother read cookbooks or something? I tried to interrupt, but she was on a roll.
“He kept a whole box of women’s vaginas,” she said. “He made a belt of human nipples. He had lamp shades made of human flesh.”
Now, although it was certainly my life’s ambition to see a real-life vagina, to date I’d never had the pleasure of a viewing, and I had great difficulty imagining a whole box of them. And what on earth did someone do with a belt made