The Last Victim_ A True-Life Journey Into the Mind of the Serial Killer - Jason Moss [93]
42
Juggling Killers
“So how was Gacy?” my mother asked the next morning. She seemed genuinely concerned about me.
“He was fine,” I said nonchalantly, as if we were discussing a relative I’d just visited. “We just talked about his case and what it was like to live in prison.”
She nodded, encouraging me to go on. For a change, she seemed interested in what I had to say.
“Nothing else, really,” I said, shrugging. “I did get to talk to some other people in the prison.”
“That must have been interesting.”
“Oh, it was. I learned a lot of stuff. I’ll tell you this, though. I never want to go to prison. I don’t think I could handle it.”
“Well, I’m glad everything turned out the way you wanted. Your father and I were very worried about you.”
“Yeah, I know.” If they had any idea what had really occurred, they’d freak out. “I told you I’d be safe.”
She could tell I wasn’t revealing everything that had happened. Thankfully, though, instead of prying, she came over and gave me a hug.
“Glad to have you back, Jason.”
“Me too, Ma.”
I ran upstairs and found Jarrod waiting in my room. He expected a more complete story of what had occurred, so I gave him an edited version, glossing over the more graphic details.
“Hey, I almost forgot,” my brother said as he headed out. “You got some mail while you were gone.”
I’d asked him to cover for me while I was away and collect any letters that arrived from the other killers I’d been writing. My parents knew I was occasionally corresponding with a few inmates, but they had no idea of the extent of my involvement, or how often my pen pals checked in.
I’d been away only three days but there were letters from both Charles Manson and Richard Ramirez waiting. I couldn’t even begin to concentrate on them. I was still reeling from all that had happened in Illinois. I just wanted to take a shower for about a week, to wash away the embarrassment that was still clinging to me.
I decided not to open the letters yet. I wanted to clear my mind and focus on more pleasant things. I was looking forward to spending time with Jenn, getting together with some of my friends, just hanging out with my family.
In spite of my resolve to chill out, though, Gacy redoubled his assault on my life. He called me that very night.
“So, buddy,” he said cheerfully, “how was the trip back?”
“Fine,” I answered. It was hard to hide my fury. In fact, I was kicking myself for having answered the phone.
“Your family okay?” he prodded further when the silence went on for endless seconds.
“Yeah, no problems. Everything’s cool.”
“Well, then, I’d better let you get back to things. Just wanted to see how you’re doing. Make sure you got back okay.”
The conversation ended awkwardly. I hoped that maybe he’d gotten the message to fade away. That wasn’t to be, though.
I was still trying to determine what I wanted to do about Ramirez and Manson, whether I wanted to keep those relationships going, when two letters arrived from Gacy the next day. Then another letter the following day.
In each of them, he expressed his disappointment and anger that I’d left a day early. He said he was hoping that I’d consider moving to Chester, Illinois, so I could be near him and visit him every day. He said he was sure Ken could find a house there for me to stay at.
I couldn’t believe how deluded he was. He seemed oblivious to the revulsion I’d shown at the prison. He’d superimposed this fantasy on me, and when he thought of me, he couldn’t keep the two separate. Though it was possible I might learn additional things about him—and thus, about serial killers in general—by continuing a desultory relationship with him, I’d lost the stomach for it. I just wanted him to go away.
As more letters from him arrived, I left them unopened and unanswered. I hooked up an answering machine with caller ID so I could avoid his calls. I hoped he’d finally get the message.
Meanwhile, I decided to break