The Last Victim_ A True-Life Journey Into the Mind of the Serial Killer - Jason Moss [80]
And besides, I remember thinking at the time, I’m younger, bigger, and stronger—and his hands are cuffed.
If indeed it came to a physical struggle between us, I was sure I could overpower him. Of course, that’s probably what each of his victims had thought. His genius was devising ways to trick people into compromising positions where their superior strength wouldn’t matter. Since he had had months to plan for this encounter, I was very foolish to take him so lightly.
“You do know how weak you are, Jason,” he continued. “Yes,” I said, hoping to appease him. “Can I see what’s in your secret folder now?”
I was trying to distract him as much as I could, change the subject somehow. Things were getting intense too quickly. And I believed my “mission” was to gain access to his personal notes, perhaps even get him to acknowledge and talk about his crimes. At the time, I had no idea that the most valuable things I’d learn would come from our own interactions.
“You know,” he said, “I could tell you to fuck off and you’d have no one! What the hell would you do without me?”
“Please don’t do that, John,” I pleaded, doing my best to appear frightened. Actually, I was feeling a little nauseous. The more he loomed closer, the more overpowering was his scent. In addition to the baby oil he used to slick down his hair, he’d drenched himself in some sort of sickly sweet cologne. To this day, when I walk through a department store and pass within range of the perfume section, my stomach turns if I catch a whiff of that fragrance.
It was more than his smell that turned me off, though. The whole time he talked, he played with his crotch, constantly rearranging himself in his pants. He’d obviously developed an erection as soon as he saw me, and he seemed to have one virtually the whole time we were together.
“You know, if I was a bad guy, I’d tell the cops what you do with your brother. They’d take him away.” He massaged his crotch as he said these words. “You’d go to jail. Do you want to go to jail?”
“Why do you say things like that?” I whined. “You wouldn’t do that to me. We’re friends, right?”
“I didn’t say I would do that. Just remember who I am.”
“I know who you are, John. You’re the guy who looks out for me. You give me everything,” I added, hoping that might stroke his ego.
But he was just getting started. His angry, intimidating interrogation went on for about two hours. Toward the end, so conditioned had I become to playing the whiny, groveling sycophant, I actually started doubting myself. I began to lose my bearings, forgetting what I was doing there and what I was after.
Then, suddenly, he snapped out of his aggressive posture and began joking around as if the previous two hours hadn’t happened.
“So, did you have a smooth flight?” he asked charmingly. “Sit next to anyone interesting?”
I thought I was going crazy. I wondered if I’d imagined the frightening emotional beating I’d just survived. His behavior was so erratic and unpredictable he had me at a loss as to how to proceed. All I could do was mumble inane replies.
“The plane was fine. No problem.”
“How about Ken? Did he take care of you? He can be so boring sometimes.”
We’d already been over this once, so I wondered why we were covering the same ground. I think he was just trying to re-create a semblance of normalcy after having just pushed me to the limit. He realized I was in a kind of shock.
It had now been several hours into my visit, and thus far I’d been drilled almost exclusively on how extremely weak and useless I was. Once we’d both agreed on that point, Gacy began chatting about recent movies he’d seen on TV. Then he talked baseball. Finally, I asserted myself.
“John, can I ask you a few things about the case?”
“Sure,” he replied indulgently. “You do for me and I’ll do for you.”
I wasn’t sure what he meant by that, but I let it go. I decided to begin my own interrogation