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Your loyal follower,

Jason Moss

In his response, Ramirez wrote a simple letter asking me how I was doing, what Nevada was like, how old I was, and whether I had any family. He also asked me to send some photos of some of the women in my group, as well as some “hardcore Asian bondage magazines.”

It would take a bit of work to satisfy his requests. I had one friend, though, who I thought might be of some help.

“Nando,” I said to him, “you’ve got all these friends who’re models. You got any pictures of them?”

“Why?” he said, smiling. “You want to beat off or something?”

“Yeah, right,” I said, laying the testosterone on thick. “Like I can’t get the real thing whenever I want.”

“Sure, chico,” he answered suspiciously, “so why you want pictures of my friends?”

I couldn’t exactly tell him that the Night Stalker was fresh out of snapshots to masturbate over, so I told him I had a pen pal in Europe who was a virgin. I explained that he especially liked Latin women, so I thought he’d get a thrill out of seeing some of our local beauties. It was a weak story, I know, but Nando was a good friend who owed me a favor.

Once I gathered together the photos and magazines, I sent the package off to Ramirez and crossed my fingers. I didn’t have to wait long.

In his next letter to me, Ramirez enclosed an outline of his hand. If I put my own hand inside his, each one of his fingers extended at least an inch longer than my own. It was huge—truly, the hand of a monster. To think that these five digits were responsible for countless rapes and murders chilled me.

Equally disturbing was his choice of stationery. Along the bottom was a row of skeletons holding hands. Written on the sides of the drawing were the words “Hands of Doom and Gloom” and “Evil Hands are Happy Hands.”

It was apparent from what Ramirez had to say that he felt absolutely no remorse for what he’d done; he was actually proud of his terror spree.

“Death,” he said, “is more than a word or action that takes place. There’s no word for it. It’s a feeling. One of immense, intense and delicious nature. Everyone cries. But death is good.”

I was probably right in guessing that Ramirez would see me as a tool for evil, because he invited me to see him at the earliest opportunity. He warned me, though, that there was a wait to get in the prison and I could expect a fair amount of hassle.

While I was considering how I’d fit all these prison visits into my school schedule, Ramirez brought up the subject again: “I’ll probably be in SF [San Francisco] jail sometime next year. Maybe you can come there then. Do I have your phone number? Have you ever sent it?”

At this point I’d been talking to Gacy more and more frequently and it was taking its toll on me. There was no way I could handle two of these guys at the same time. As it was, I felt surrounded by murderers. And while in the past I’d always assumed this project of mine would be relatively safe, when it came to my mental outlook, I couldn’t have been more wrong.

I started having a recurring dream that Ramirez and I were both walking through my neighborhood, just talking and hanging out. I remember thinking that I should be afraid of him, yet I felt relaxed in his presence, like he was a longtime friend. In the dream it was sunny outside. All of a sudden, a young girl crossed our path on a bike. The next thing I knew, the whole sky turned very dark, then a blood red.

Ramirez smiled at me. “Let’s go, Jason,” he said calmly. I stood there, motionless, unable to move. I could only watch what Ramirez did next. He pulled the girl off the bike and held her down on the ground by her throat.

“Jason,” he yelled at me. “Jason! Get the hell over here. Help me kill this bitch.”

He began violently choking her with his gigantic hands, a maniacal grin on his face. “This should be fun for you!” he goaded. “Don’t tell me you’re all talk. You said you’ve done this before. Kill her!”

He looked directly into my eyes, waiting patiently for me to join him in his killing frenzy. When I hesitated, he began to squeeze the little girl harder.