The Last Victim_ A True-Life Journey Into the Mind of the Serial Killer - Jason Moss [9]
The more I read about serial killers, the more convinced I became that the so-called experts—the police and forensic psychologists—weren’t exploring all possible avenues of inquiry. Surely, what was needed was more than having captured killers fill out questionnaires and submit to interviews. I wondered what kind of effort had been made to debrief the victims —those who’d lived to tell the tale.
In a burst of inspiration, I considered what I might learn if I approached someone like Gacy in the guise of one of his victims.
Of course, most kids my age—or adults, for that matter—would never even think about taking on a project like this. But I’d done some pretty crazy things in the past, and, to tell you the truth, I needed to divert myself with something that wasn’t school-related. After going to college for a week, I could tell that, in many ways, it was going to be an extension of high school. I was living at home, and I desperately wanted some excitement in my life. Further, I hoped for a job in law enforcement someday, maybe even one with the FBI. For that dream to happen, I knew I’d have to distinguish myself in some way.
If gaining the trust of a serial killer didn’t get the Bureau’s attention, what would?
4
The Plan
At dinner a few nights later I decided to float my idea. My father and mother were talking about work, as usual. My dad works as a salesperson in a department store, my mom as a cashier in one of the local casinos. Both are usually tired at the end of the day after dealing with demanding people. Still, they make the effort to schedule a family meal each night.
My younger brother, Jarrod, was eyeballing me while our parents yakked. I smiled and made a funny face to entertain him. I was waiting for a break in the conversation.
“Hey, wait until you hear my latest idea,” I finally said, interrupting my parents’ chatter.
“Mom, can I have some more spaghetti?” my brother asked.
“Jarrod, I’m talking,” I said, giving him a look. After a moment of silence and an intake of breath, I began: “I’m going to write a letter to John Wayne Gacy, maybe even to Jeffrey Dahmer or Charles Manson.”
My brother choked on the bread. My parents just sat there, saying nothing.
“Did you guys hear what I said? I’ve been reading about these serial killers. Several of them are still alive. They’re on Death Row, waiting to be executed.”
I could see my mother roll her eyes. She got up from the table to get more pasta and sauce. My brother and I could really put away the food.
“Dad, did you hear me?” I looked directly at him. “Don’t you think that would be cool? What if they wrote back? That would be awesome. Don’t you think?”
“Sure, I guess,” he answered noncommittally, and buried himself in the pasta.
“Why on earth would you want to write a killer?” my mother asked. “And why would he write back to some kid like you? You’re not even allowed to do something like that.”
“Where’d you get that idea?” I challenged her. “I can write whomever I choose.”
My brother came to my defense. “Yeah, where do you get that from?”
“Look,” I said, “it’s no big deal. I know it’s sort of outrageous, but that’s why it’s so cool. Who else would do this? Besides, these guys are all locked away in prison. What’s the harm?”
Jarrod started giggling. “What if they write you letters in blood?”
Then my dad got into the act as well. “What if they ask for a pint of your blood?” Now all three of them were laughing.
“Can’t you guys ever be serious?” I complained. “Just imagine a letter from Charles Manson coming to the house. That would be so freaky.”
“There’ll be no letters from killers coming to this house!” declared my mother.
My dad jumped in. “Calm down, Sue. What’s the big deal? Let him