The Last Victim_ A True-Life Journey Into the Mind of the Serial Killer - Jason Moss [64]
Shortly after resuming my correspondence with Ramirez, I was again feeling that I’d gone beyond what I could handle. The cumulative months of receiving letters describing Manson’s insane views on the world, Dahmer’s attempts at seduction, Ramirez’s satanic visions of murder, and Gacy’s sadistic sexual fantasies pressed down on me like a coffin lid.
With increasing desperation, a part of me groped for the sunlight, afraid that the old Jason might be irrecoverable.
27
The Experiment
“So how is your weekend?” Gacy asked during one of our usual Sunday morning chats. These conversations had by now become almost routine.
“Fine,” I answered. “Didn’t do much. Had a report to do for school. Went out to eat with my family last night.” By this time I was almost relaxed when we talked. Usually, about ninety percent of our conversation was about ordinary stuff anyway.
“Yeah?” Then out of nowhere: “How’s Jarrod doing? Did he play baseball this weekend?”
The alarms started going off. “He’s fine, I guess,” I answered testily. “As a matter of fact, he’s at practice now.” Gacy always interpreted this sort of guarded response as jealousy on my part that he was directing so much attention my brother’s way. I didn’t bother to set him straight.
“So how is your weekend going?” I said.
“It’s fine. I tried to catch up on some letters I hadn’t finished. There are so many people writing me these days.”
Was he saying I should be grateful? I wondered. Was this a threat to cooperate or he’d cut me off? I thought about confronting him but decided it was best to just play along.
“Did you talk to Jarrod about anything?” Gacy asked in a tone that suggested he was winking on the other end of the line.
“No, I really haven’t seen him much lately.”
“Well,” he persisted, “have you talked to him about the experiment we discussed?”
Knowing that the only way to avoid this conversational direction was to hang up, I tried to be firm: “No, John, I haven’t.”
“Jason,” he prodded, “we’ve gone over this before. You need to slowly bring him into our way of thinking. You still haven’t sent me any photographs of him.”
“I know,” I apologized, “I’m trying to get some. I’ll see what I can do.”
“Don’t worry,” he joked, “he’s not going to replace you as my number one bitch. You know I like to be able to visualize who I am dealing with. I’m an artist, remember.”
So irritated was I with having to keep up this charade that I said nothing. Gacy, of course, didn’t slow down for a second.
“And if you don’t hurry with those pictures,” he said with a laugh, “I’m going to make you suck on my stick for a while.”
After that remark, I ended the phone call immediately. I tried everything I could to change the subject, yet he still wouldn’t drop the topic of my brother. It was apparent that if I wanted to maintain a relationship with Gacy, I’d have to make something up that would sound realistic enough to keep him happy.
A few days later I received a letter that contained a hypothetical scenario that was a thinly disguised blueprint for what he wanted me to act out with my brother. Every detail of this fantasy corresponded exactly to the layout of my house as I’d described it. As spooked as I was by how authentically he’d set the scene, I was actually grateful that, in a narrative sense, he provided me with enough of a start that I could follow his lead. Gacy’s imaginary scenario between Jarrod and me went like this:
Late in the evening around 11:00, everyone had gone to their own rooms since each had a T.V. But we would tell the other to meet when the coast was clear. Both only dressed in a bathrobe, sometimes not even underwear as the robe covers it all.