John Wayne Gacy (15 page)

In spite of extensive circumstantial evidence linking their prime suspect to the disappearance not only of Rob Piest but also of other young boys that had each been in some way connected to Gacy, they still had nothing concrete, nothing that they could point to linking Mr. Gacy to any of those missing boys. As it stood, there were a few kids that had a vague connection to Mr. Gacy in years previous who may or may not be missing. Each of the missing teens could in fact simply have run away from home.

One thing that was definitely true: No judge would allow the members of a police force to doggedly pursue a suspect in the manner in which they were pursuing Gacy on such flimsy evidence. The placement of a team of investigators on the tail of a citizen of the United States—the constant following of that person in a way that was beginning to affect his business activities and his reputation in the community—was the very definition of police
harassment. This would not be allowed absent clear and convincing evidence that this level of surveillance was absolutely warranted. They needed evidence to warrant the continuation of such activities—hard, conclusive evidence. And what evidence had the investigation actually produced?

Other than an indication that Rob Piest was “going to ask that contactor guy for a job,” or words to that effect, had anyone seen Rob Piest talking to John Gacy? Had anyone seen them together? Was there any evidence whatsoever that Gacy had ever met or spoken to Rob Piest, let alone left the pharmacy with him on the night of December 11? Clearly, there was not. No actual evidence unearthed to date tied John Gacy to Rob Piest in any way.

The 1971 Plymouth Satellite that now belonged to Mike Rossi had been legally transferred through the Secretary of State’s office from John Szyc to joint ownership between a John Grey and Michael Rossi. On a later date, the transfer from joint ownership to sole ownership in the name of Michael Rossi had been completed, presumably upon full payment for the vehicle, a very common transfer. Not only was the transfer a legal and seemingly proper one, it also had the obvious discrepancy of different VINs. The single digit that separated the two numbers may just as well have been the Grand Canyon. At present, there was no concrete proof that it was even the same vehicle.

Sullivan and the members of his team knew exactly what had happened. It was clear to them. John Wayne Gacy had killed John Szyc, stolen his car, and fudged a legal transfer by transposing a single digit of the VIN. He also used the name “John Grey” rather than “John Gacy” in making the transfer to cover his tracks. Who could question any of that?

But wait a second, hadn’t there been sightings of John Szyc reported on dates following the date that he had first been reported missing? Weren’t there reports in the Chicago Police Department file that indicated that John Szyc had sold his car because he needed
money to leave town? Wasn’t it true that the automobile in question, the 1971 Plymouth Satellite bearing the same VIN as the one owned by John Szyc, had been reported as having been involved in a robbery after the date that Mr. Szyc was reported missing?

When a transfer of title is made at the office of the Secretary of State, the documents are routinely filled out in pen and ink, sometimes even smudgy pencil. Isn’t it possible that the handwritten, perhaps scribbled, name “John Gacy” could have been mistaken by an overworked and underpaid clerk in the Secretary of State’s office to read “John Grey?” Maybe the
a
and the
c
looked like an
r
and an
e
and “Gacy” became “Grey” in the eyes of that poor harried clerk. It’s a simple-enough mistake, isn’t it? Couldn’t that also explain the transposition of a single digit on the VIN as well? In fact, isn’t that a more likely explanation of these discrepancies? Do we as a people automatically assume foul play every time a mistake is made on a form at the Department of Motor Vehicles? One would certainly hope not.

And what of Gregory Godzik? What about Charles Mazzara? Well, what about them? Gregory Godzik clearly had once worked for Mr. Gacy. But what did that have to do with the price of tea in China? The parents of Mr. Godzik believed their son was missing … maybe worse. So what? Take a stroll down Hollywood Boulevard, take a walk down Duval Street in Key West, check out the Haight-Ashbury district in San Francisco, go to any strip in any town where teenage runaways gather; and you will see the faces of hundreds of young men and women with whom parents have had no contact. The parents of each and every one of those kids have probably reported them missing and they pine for their child’s return. Such is the heart-wrenching nature of the problem of runaway teens. The mere fact that Gregory Godzik’s parents did not know where Gregory was and Gregory had once worked for John Gacy meant exactly nothing in the general scheme of things. It was not proof of anything at all.

And what of the tragic story of Charles Mazzara? It was true that Charles once worked for John Wayne Gacy. It was also true that, sadly, Charles had been found dead of an apparent drowning in the Des Plaines River some seventy miles from the city of Chicago. Now the sixty-four-thousand-dollar question: What did those two facts have to do with each other? The answer is obvious. Absent actual, concrete proof to the contrary, absolutely nothing. Gacy ran a construction company, a non-union shop. Construction is a seasonal profession. Employees come and employees go. That is the nature of the business. That is the nature of the trades. Pick any construction company and track the lives of every person that worked there over a period of years, and you will find that some of those former employees are now deceased. Unfortunate as it may be, some of those deaths will have been tragic—all young deaths are tragic, aren’t they? The fact that a former employee of John Gacy was now dead, however tragic, meant absolutely nothing in a courtroom. In a courtroom there has to be proof.

Lastly, there was the frightening story told by Jeffrey Rignall, which actually resulted in charges being filed against Mr. Gacy. That’s some cold, hard evidence, right? Let’s see, Jeffrey, an admitted homosexual, had voluntarily hopped into an automobile with a total stranger, in an area of town frequented by male prostitutes; and then as a result of this folly, he experiences a horrific, traumatic experience, most of which he tells the police that he doesn’t remember. He takes matters into his own hands, rents a car, and scours the neighborhood for a car that he thinks he remembers from that night. Weeks later, he finds such a car and reports the plate number to the police. Months later, a man is arrested for battery. Jeffrey, now a Florida resident, cannot always be in court to testify against the perpetrator due to the distance. The case was on the verge of dismissal for want of prosecution.

There are a lot of things that make being a police officer or a prosecutor a tough job. Occasionally, you get shot at. Occasionally,
you might have to shoot someone else. Tough things, those, no doubt. But how tough would it be to absolutely know in your soul that some prick is a danger to others, a danger to kids, is probably out there murdering people, and not be able to prove it? Not an enviable position to be in, huh?

As Terry Sullivan reviewed his present situation, he knew that if no new evidence were to come to light, but quick, I was likely to win my motion, and the intense, hands-on investigation of Mr. John Wayne Gacy would be over. Search warrants would be much harder to get approved, surveillance would be curtailed or ended, the investigation could be seriously stalled, and Mr. Gacy would then be free to either take steps to cover his tracks or, worse, skedaddle from Chicago for all time.

Then late Tuesday night, the break that the prosecution needed materialized.

Kim Byers was a swimmer. She was on the swim team at Maine North Highschool, and on Tuesday night, December 19, she was participating in a big swim meet. Following the meet, a couple members of the investigation team finally caught up with her. She was a busy girl, a very busy girl.

A full-time student, an employee at Nisson Pharmacy, and a member of the swim team, she was a typical teen, always running from place to place. This was the first night that there was time to talk with the policemen regarding Rob since that first night. They had some more questions for her.

It seemed that on the night of December 11, Kim Byers was working the cash register when John Wayne Gacy walked in for his appointment with Phil and Larry Torf. The police had asked her many questions before regarding the disappearance of Rob Piest, but tonight they were concentrating on just one single piece of evidence, a receipt for photographs. They showed it to Kim.

Yes, that was hers, she admitted. That night, that Monday night, she had turned in some film for developing. She filled out the form
with her name and address and ripped off the receipt. She was wearing Rob’s coat that evening while she worked the cash register because it was freezing cold up front by the doors. They did not have revolving doors, just a set of double doors; and therefore, she would get a huge blast of frigid air every time a customer came in or went out. Rob let her wear his blue nylon parka. He was so nice.

She had put the receipt in the pocket of Rob’s coat. She remembered this for certain. Why? Because she was an employee, she really didn’t need it. When the film came back from developing, she could simply search for her own pictures herself, a little perk of being an employee. She didn’t need the receipt like a customer would. But she had put the receipt in Rob’s pocket on purpose. She thought Rob was cute. She wanted him to find it. It would give them a reason to talk, you see. It would give them a reason to talk … maybe about the pictures. She remembered putting that receipt in the pocket of Rob’s coat because she did it on purpose. It was a conscious decision. She wanted Rob to find it.

There was only one way that Kim Byers’s receipt for photographs had wound up in John Wayne Gacy’s kitchen garbage bag. Rob Piest was in that house. Rob Piest had been in John Wayne Gacy’s house! At last! An actual connection—this was a piece of physical evidence, this was the long-sought-after link between young Rob Piest and Mr. Gacy. It was as good as a fingerprint.

12

F
IVE DAYS BEFORE
Christmas Day 1978, five days following the day that John Wayne Gacy first officially retained me as his lawyer, two days before the scheduled date for the hearing on our pending petition for a temporary restraining order, December 20, Wednesday, was an interesting day in my life, a very interesting day.

I was at the hospital almost all night and had barely had a wink of sleep. That morning, I had a court date for a damned speeding ticket—my own damned speeding ticket—downtown at 321 N. LaSalle Street, Chicago’s traffic court.

I headed down to the city to do what Abraham Lincoln had warned against—to represent myself in court. I believe the age-old adage about how a man that represents himself has a fool for a client has been attributed to him. Whoever said it, I was about to do it.

The calls from Mr. Gacy started first thing in the morning and continued throughout the day. Every time I called my office to check for messages, there was a new message. Finally, I could avoid it no longer. I called John Gacy.

Don’t get me wrong, I was happy to be representing him, my one and only client; but he had been calling me five to ten times a day, each and every day. I had a very sick son, a law practice to get up and running, other clients to attract, my own stupid traffic ticket
to deal with, a wife that was justifiably concerned about her infant son, a mother that was watching our other son, plus, there was never anything new that Gacy had to say. He was starting to sound a little like a broken record. Nevertheless, I called him from my office.

“John, how are you today?” As I spoke, I was staring at a picture of Rob Piest that was in yesterday’s
Daily Herald
, which someone had left on my desk. The story was front page above the fold.

“I have to come in to see you … today. I want to talk to both you and Stevens.” Gacy sounded urgent. I wondered what new bit of sage advice he had to offer or what new pressing question he had to ask.

“John, unless there is something new that you have to tell us, I don’t see the necessity of you coming in here today. You know how sick Sammy is. You know that I need to be at the hospital. You were here at the office last Friday for six hours. We talked about everything at that time. I do not
believe that there have been dramatic changes since that day that warrant another meeting. It’s Christmas, John. Are you done with your shopping? Don’t you have Christmas shopping to do? I know I do.”

“Give me a break, Sam. These cops are breathing down my goddamn neck. This is not a normal Christmas for me. I have to see you guys. It can be late this evening. That way, you guys can do whatever you have to do first. But it has to be tonight.”

Welcome to the private practice of law. Your time is truly not your own.

“OK, John,” I said with some obvious signs of exasperation—exasperation that Gacy completely ignored, I might add. “Come in tonight at ten thirty. I’ll call Stevens and ask him to be here.”

I called Stevens, and he agreed, after much consternation, to meet me at my office at 10:30 p.m.

_________________

T
HE APPOINTED TIME
of 10:30 p.m. came and went. No Gacy. Stevens and I stared at each other, fuming. I’m Italian. I’m passionate. I believe that I was fuming on a level that far exceeded Mr. Stevens’s. I had just about had it with our mutual client.

I showed Stevens the article in the
Daily Herald
. It read:

Son missing, parents ‘fearing worst’

The second son of a close-knit family, Robert Piest was not about to miss his mother’s birthday December 11. He just wasn’t that kind of kid.

“He was very considerate of our feelings,” his mother, Elizabeth, said. So when he failed to return to work where his mother was waiting to pick him up that day, his family started to worry. Later that evening, they called Des Plaines police.

That was a week ago. Robert Piest still hasn’t come home. His parents are prepared for the worst. Des Plaines police think the youth is dead.