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We all loved each other and, most of the time, supported one another, but I seemed to end up in the middle of any disagreement. My father was really a nice guy, kind and always supportive, but he deferred to my mom a lot, letting her make most of the decisions. Whether by choice or circumstance, she became the disciplinarian—the one who made sure my brother and I did our schoolwork and took care of our chores. She also threw up roadblocks whenever I wanted to do something that deviated from the straight and narrow.

I’m a fighter myself, unwilling to give in without a battle, so we were constantly going at each other while my brother and father stood on the sidelines. It’s legend in our family, and maybe it’s true, that my mom and I continually get in each other’s way because we’re so alike. That theory seemed borne out this particular afternoon when she found me reading at the kitchen counter.

“Jason,” she said in exasperation, walking into the house with an armload of grocery bags, “I’m not carrying in all these bags by myself. Didn’t you hear me?”

“Sorry, Mom,” I meant to say contritely, but it came out sarcastic. “I was doing something important. Do you expect me to drop everything and come running every time you come home?”

“Yes. And make sure to put the milk in the fridge.”

While I was busy unloading the car, my mother discovered what I’d been up to. “Hey, you’ve got some great books here. When can I read them?”

“You can’t,” I told her, reaching up to put a can on the shelf. “I’m reading them now. Besides, you shouldn’t read this kind of stuff. You can’t handle it.” To punctuate the last remark, I slammed the cupboard door.

“You’re the one who can’t handle blood,” she teased. “I hope you don’t pass out while you’re reading.” My mother loved to make fun of me because I had a weak stomach for any sort of blood or gore. Some of the favorite stories in my family were of me fainting.

Ignoring her, I went back to my book about the Killer Clown, John Wayne Gacy.

“Isn’t that one about the guy who tortured and killed all those boys and then buried them under his house?” my mom asked, noticing the cover.

“Yeah,” I answered, hoping she’d go away.

“Then you’d better leave it alone. You’ve always been afraid of clowns.”

Leave it to my mother to get in the last word. Even she couldn’t get to me that day, though.

I was fascinated by Gacy’s story—it was such a strange tale. Here was this guy making $300,000 a year, in 1970 yet. He’s got this successful business. He’s head of the Jaycees and volunteers his time to help sick kids. The book even had a picture of him standing next to Rosalyn Carter, wife of the president. Incredible!

Meanwhile, he’s torturing his victims for hours, even days, at a time.

I read about one unlucky guy, about my age, who was picked up at a bus station while he was waiting for his scheduled departure. Gacy brought the guy home and then raped him repeatedly before he began torturing him, playing Russian roulette with a loaded pistol and then submerging his face in a bathtub full of water to the point where he passed out. Then he violated the kid again with various objects around the house, all the while screaming at him that he was going to die.

The more I read, the queasier I started to feel, and yet I couldn’t put the book down. Gacy’s victims were the same age I was. They even resembled me physically. I couldn’t help but wonder what I would have done if he’d tried to capture me. I may have been a weight lifter and kickboxer, but it was clear that each of these strong, athletic guys Gacy preyed upon was somehow tricked into submission. I thought to myself, I’d just love to see Gacy try that stuff on me. Well, maybe not.

It was at that moment that the vague idea that had tugged at the edge of my consciousness in the bookstore began to clarify itself. I wondered what would happen if I wrote Gacy a letter. I read that he was still on Death Row waiting for his scheduled execution. I figured he was probably pretty bored and in need of diversion.

For me, the question wasn’t why I’d write someone