• Choose a category
• All
• Classic-Fiction

I managed to keep the conversation on Ken during most of the trip. I was trying to find out who exactly he was and what his relationship was to Gacy. From what I could determine, he was Gacy’s “guy Friday”—someone who worked as a gofer running errands for the attorneys. Occasionally, he said, he even handled some of the legal chores himself. He visited Gacy on a regular basis, bringing him supplies, books and magazines, and messages.

It struck me as quite a strange relationship. Gacy later told me he didn’t trust Ken much; he was just using him for his money and time. As for Ken’s devotion, the family tie seemed to be the least of it. Mostly, Ken enjoyed hanging around with someone he considered a celebrity.

“Everyone wants a piece of me,” Gacy later told me. “And Ken is no different. He just likes to be around me so he can tell people he’s my friend.”

I think it was Ken’s docility and passivity that really earned Gacy’s disapproval. I, on the other hand, appreciated those qualities in him. As you can imagine, I was quite apprehensive regarding what Gacy might really have in store for me. It was obvious, though, that Ken wouldn’t be a threat. In fact, I quite liked him. That is, until we started to check into the motel.

“That will be one room, please,” he said. “Two beds.”

“No, Ken!” I objected a little too loudly. “We need to get two rooms.”

“Jason,” he said, almost whining, “John said for us to get one room. He was definite about that.” Then as an afterthought, he said, “It’s just to save money, if you know what I mean.”

Yes, I knew exactly what he meant—or thought I did. My theory was that Gacy believed I was so poor, I wouldn’t have any choice but to stay in whatever accommodations he’d arranged. He’d set things up so that Ken and I would be sleeping in the same room, knowing I couldn’t object. Gacy had told his relative about my supposed sexual proclivities and what a handsome fellow I was. It seemed reasonable to conclude that Gacy’s plan was to make a “gift” of me, and get back detailed reports that would enable him to experience vicariously what was beyond his grasp.

“I’m sorry, Ken,” I said, acting as if I really was disappointed, “but one of my parents’ conditions for my going on this trip was that I stay in my own room. They said they’d pay for it.”

Well, the first statement was true anyway. As for the latter, I’d be the one paying.

Ken seemed quite dismayed. “You know,” he pressed, “it sure would be a lot easier if we used the same room. That’s the way John wanted it.” Then he shrugged, as if to say: Well, if you want to disappoint him . . .

“Look, Ken, it’s no big deal. But my parents would feel better if we did it this way.” With that, I turned. “See you in a little while for breakfast.”

As I watched him walk to his own room, I considered whether I should dump him and try to arrange my own visits to the prison. He seemed harmless enough, though, and I was grateful for the companionship. I felt very alone in this strange place.

The town of Chester, Illinois, was very small and quiet—like something out of an old movie. Coming from the hustle and bustle of Las Vegas, I found its tranquillity and beauty appealing. All the houses looked as if they’d been built in the 1920s. The bank, the movie theater, the stores—they all looked like antiques.

Apparently, the town’s most famous former citizen had been the creator of Popeye, the cartoon character. There were statues honoring the guy all over the place, and once a year the town organized a Popeye celebration.

Chester was actually built around Menard Correctional Center, the town’s largest employer. Most of the guards and their families lived there. Strangers were relatively rare.

“Whenever people come to town looking different,” the girl at the front desk of the motel explained, “we usually assume they’re coming to visit an inmate. You’re probably here to see one of the big ones like Gacy.”

Ken and I ate breakfast at a little diner. It was so quaint I wanted to take out my camera