The Last Victim_ A True-Life Journey Into the Mind of the Serial Killer - Jason Moss [99]
It had been two years since I’d escaped Gacy’s clutches, and a year since I’d ceased virtually all communication with serial killers. Though my presence in this classroom today might have belied it, I was trying to move past that phase of my life. I was now enjoying working with the victims of misfortune rather than the perpetrators of violence.
For a while, I’d been living with a burn victim as an aide. Not only did she have to contend with chronic pain from third-degree burns that covered most of her body, but she’d also been diagnosed with the AIDS virus.
I was also a “Wish Grantor” for the local chapter of the Make-a-Wish Foundation. That involved spending time interviewing terminally ill children to discover what they wanted as their most prized fantasy. For one child, I helped arrange a meeting with the Air Force Thunderbirds; for others, it might be a dog to keep them company or a trip to Disneyland. Giving comfort to dying children helped push away the dark clouds that sometimes settled over me.
I’d volunteered to be a Big Brother as well. I was assigned to mentor an eleven-year-old boy whose father had left him and his family when he was just five. I felt privileged to be the friend, confidant, and teacher the boy so desperately needed.
All of these activities, besides being satisfying ways to make a difference, were an attempt on my part to learn more about what victims felt. After all, I’d been a victim myself. If I was ever to become a prosecutor, or a forensic psychologist, or a federal agent—my career ambitions fluctuated daily—I’d need to see things from the victim’s side.
I suppose, too, that a couple other motives entered into it. I’d always enjoyed being in control. It feels so powerful to be able to grant a wish to a dying child, to mentor a fatherless boy, or to make a difference in the lives of those who need help the most. Too, I probably felt safer around people who wouldn’t try to hurt me. As a result of seeing firsthand the evil that people are capable of, I was still grappling with some trust issues.
I’m not sure why I’d consented to speak to this group of high schoolers at a time when I was trying to leave the past behind. I guess, partly, it was a favor to my old teacher; and, partly, a way to help Jarrod with his audacity-loving peer group. He’d get some mileage out of my talk when they convened for their next bullshit session.
As much as I appreciated the attention of the twenty-eight students, a part of me was wishing I could get through my remarks as soon as possible and get back to my real life—the one in which I was now known as president of UNLV’s Psychology Honors Society and chief justice of the student council. The days of staying closeted in my room, playing the recluse, were past.
“So, Jason,” one eager, not unattractive girl asked me, “what made you do such a crazy thing [visit the prison] in the first place? I mean, did you really think you’d be safe?”
I’d been asked the same questions so many times over the last two years, there was a tendency to go on autopilot. I tried to think of new ways of explaining myself, new images that would make it all clear.
“It’s complicated really,” I stumbled. “It’s more like—”
“Did you see anyone electrocuted while you were there?” a boy interrupted. I could see eyes roll, as if off-the-wall questions were this kid’s stock-in-trade. He looked barely awake. Throughout the first half hour of my talk, he’d been resting his head on his arms, either drugged out or exhausted from lack of sleep. Before I could even reply, his head dropped back into his arms.
Miss Lawrence jumped in to redirect the discussion back to the subject she was hoping we’d explore more. “Jason,” she asked, “what did you learn from all of this? I mean, you’ve been through so much. You did things that most people wouldn’t even dream of. I know I wouldn’t.”
The class laughed at that—but