John Wayne Gacy (3 page)

“Plus, you will find that working for PDM is fun. We work hard, don’t get me wrong. But when work is done, we play hard too. You do like to party, don’t you?”

“Sure … I guess.”

“Do you have a girlfriend?”

“I date. I guess. I go out with girls that are a few years older than me, usually.” Rob blushed, but he was also a little proud. “I do all right.” They both laughed. It was unnecessary to say more.

“Well, I’m very liberal minded when it comes to all that. The guys that work for me often use my house as a place to party. I have a well-stocked party house—no parents allowed.” Again, the big toothy grin.

“Well, I’m looking forward to it. I really need the money. I want to buy this car that I have my eye on. It’s a Jeep, actually. So I will work really hard, Mr. Gacy, err … ah, John. I promise. You won’t regret this.”

“You seemed hungry, eager to work, to do a good job. At least that is what I saw back at the pharmacy. You never even took a break. Everybody else seemed to be using my visit as a chance to slack off, but you just kept working. I like that.”

“Well, I need money right now. I would do almost anything for money.”

This statement elicited a new, kind of creepy, version of the same smile. Gacy chuckled low. “That’s what I like to hear. You’re going to do fine, just fine.”

When the truck careened into Gacy’s driveway at his Summerdale address, splashing and sliding, Rob was glad to be in one piece. It had been quite a ride. However, John was right. They had arrived in just over twenty minutes. John pulled the truck past the circular drive in front of the house and along the side. The house was completely set off from the neighbor’s house by a huge hedgerow along the side of the driveway. It had to be at least eight feet high and was a bit of an eyesore.
I guess this guy really likes his privacy
, Rob thought. He also saw the brand-new Olds 98 parked in front. The car had spotlights on both sides of the windshield and a CB antenna sticking into the air. The passenger-side spotlight was red. This supported some of the stories that John
had told to Rob on the drive there. He must really be an important guy. His car was like a cop car, or even a mayor’s car. It looked important.

Gacy ushered Rob into his house through the back door, which opened into a large recreation room, obviously an addition to the original structure. The room had a large black recliner opposite the TV, a pool table, a well-stocked bar with barstools in front next to a refrigerator, and then a corridor that led to the rest of the house. A little yapping dog was making a bit of a racket and jumping up and down, so John let him out into the backyard.

“Check it out. Make yourself at home,” Gacy said as he pointed the way to the rest of the house.” He took off his black leather jacket and dropped his car keys on a table. “You will probably be spending a lot of time here.”

In the front of the house, a newly constructed temporary wall divided the original living room. The smaller living room left by this division was full of plants and pictures of clowns, very little furniture. As Rob looked around, he saw more clown portraits and clown knickknacks. John’s office was also in the front of the house, as well as a couple of bedrooms. Rob didn’t venture that way but returned to the rec room.

“What’s with all the clowns?” Rob asked casually.

“I’m a clown.”

Rob laughed.

“No, really, no joke. I am a registered clown. I’m Pogo. I entertain kids in hospitals and seniors at old folks’ homes. I do tricks for the kids, tell jokes for the old fogies. I march in parades. It’s a hobby. I’ll show you some of my tricks. Hey, you want a beer or something?” John was bending down, head into the refrigerator. “I’m having one,” he said over his shoulder.

“Thank you, Mr. Gacy … ah … John. I’m not saying I would never have one, but I have to think about my mom’s birthday, remember?”

“Oh, lighten up, Rob, this is your interview. Don’t disappoint your future boss during your first job interview. That’s not a good idea, is it? We can be at your parents’ house in twenty minutes. Sit down. Have one beer. Let’s talk.” John was now standing in front of the refrigerator, holding two beers, still sporting that same creepy smile.

Rob was torn. On the one hand, he could picture his very close-knit family at home. By now, almost a half hour after he should have been pulling into the driveway in his mother’s car, they were all beginning to wonder where the heck he was—his mother worried, his father starting to get a little pissed, his brother and his sister perplexed, the birthday cake waiting. He had never done anything like this in the past.

On the other hand, here was this unusual man offering him the job of his dreams, a pathway to the car of his dreams. He sure as hell had never had an adult offer him a beer before. That he thought was a little strange. But what could it hurt? If having a beer with his future boss would solidify the job offer—close the deal, so to speak—why not? If spending fifteen or twenty minutes with this dufuss would get him this job, he felt he had to do it. His parents would not be mad at him once he explained that he had secured a great new $5-an-hour job. He had been to highschool parties before. It was not the first time he had accepted a beer from someone. He took the beer from John Wayne Gacy’s fat, stubby fingers. Tragically, it would be his last.

He took a sip and sat down on one of the barstools. He watched John sit in his recliner. Then he asked, “So you have some papers for me to fill out?”

John looked annoyed. “You are really all business, aren’t you? You have to learn how to relax, Rob.” John rose out of his recliner and stomped off toward his office in the front of the house, shaking his head. “I’ll get the papers,” he said, sounding exasperated, “but I want to get to know you a little bit before we make this final. I
don’t hire just anybody. My guys have to be a
good fit
for the way we work. I told you, we work hard. But we also play hard and …” His voice trailed off as he got farther into the front part of the house. Rob could not hear the rest of what John was saying, but he had heard enough. He had no intention of blowing his chances to get this job. He tried to relax. He tried to ignore the alarm bells that were already starting to clang in his head.

In his office, Gacy was smiling. He knew he had just set the hook. Any further attempts by this fish to get off the line would be futile.

When Gacy returned from his office, he was holding some items of paperwork that looked like official IRS forms and a job application, but he was also carrying something else that made the hairs on the back of Rob’s neck stand. He was holding a set of handcuffs.

“OK, we are going to fill these out,” Gacy said, raising the papers above his head, shaking them. “But first I have to show you something cool. Watch this.” John put the papers down on the bar. He twirled the handcuffs around on his index finger. He began to make moves like a showman. He was doing his clown act. He was smiling, not threatening. He overacted his big, sweeping moves like a magician. He began humming some kind of stupid show tune. He showed Rob the handcuffs. Abruptly, he yanked them taut, demonstrating that they were quite real, quite strong. Then he slapped them on his own wrists, first one then the other. Again, he showed them to Rob. Again, he yanked them taut. They clinked. Clearly, John was in handcuffs. He yanked them taut again, harder. He turned around, facing away from Rob; and in seconds, he turned back. When he did, he was twirling the handcuffs on his index finger.

Two things happened. The fear that had first gripped Rob when he saw the handcuffs drained away completely. He was fully disarmed. Plus, he was actually astonished. This was a real, professional, well-executed trick.

“How did you do that?” Rob asked, completely befuddled.

“That’s nothing,” John said. “Watch this.” He handed Rob the handcuffs. “You put them on me. Only this time”—John turned around, placing his hands behind his back—“you cuff my hands behind my back.”

Rob was actually intrigued. He was totally taken in. He slapped the cuffs on his new boss’s wrists. Then he inspected them, checking them for trick latches. There were none.

“OK, are you satisfied that I am clearly handcuffed, unable to escape?”

Gacy had a flair for the dramatic. Rob could hear the drumroll.

Gacy turned around, facing Rob. Then in seconds, he was standing there twirling the handcuffs on his index finger once again, with a big gawking smile on his face.

“What the fuck!” Rob exclaimed. “How the heck did you do that?”

“I’ll show you. It’s easy. Give me your right hand.”

Rob didn’t think. He simply slid off the barstool and raised his right hand and held it out in front of him.

Gacy took his right hand, slapped a cuff on it, spun Rob around, and handcuffed his left hand into the handcuffs behind his back.

The two of them had walked into that house less than fifteen minutes before this moment, and suddenly Robert Jerome Piest, age fifteen, was standing face-to-face with John Wayne Gacy, age thirty-six, with his hands locked in handcuffs behind his back, unable to free himself.

“OK, John, what’s the trick?” Rob was smiling, innocent, waiting to learn the trick that his boss was going to show him.

“The trick,” John Wayne Gacy sneered, “is not being dumb and stupid.” He was holding a shiny tiny silver key. “Everyone knows that the only sure way to free yourself from locked handcuffs is to have the key. Do you have the key, Rob? Or are you dumb and stupid?”

Rob looked at John. He couldn’t believe it. It was as if he was looking at a different person. Gone was the goofy, creepy, familiar ear-to-ear smile. It had been replaced by a grave, stern, dead stare. But it wasn’t just that minor change that had caused the transformation, everybody stops smiling from time to time. It wasn’t that. Gacy’s eyes had gone lifeless. They had lost life’s twinkle. There seemed to be nothing behind them. No personality. No person. Rob thought he detected a brief flutter in the eyelid. The transformation struck a level of fear into Rob’s heart that wasn’t fear. It was terror.

Rob felt his mouth dry up and his heart start to pump. A single tear welled up and streaked his cheek. The moment lasted a lifetime.

Then like in a terrible B horror film, the telephone shrieked. Gacy looked toward the front of the house. When he looked back at Rob, he was John again, just like that.

“I’ll let the machine get it.” John was so offhanded as he said this Rob couldn’t believe his ears. It was as though nothing had happened. Rob actually began to question whether anything
had
happened. Maybe it was all in his head, this silly fear. Gacy walked a few steps toward the corridor that led to the front of the house, leaving Rob standing there in handcuffs. He raised a finger and listened. He was listening to the answering machine. Rob couldn’t make out what was being said or who was talking.

“That was your boss, your other boss, Phil Torf. Your parents must have called him. We have to get you home. They must be looking for you already.” John Gacy was holding that small silver key between his fingertips. “Let’s get those cuffs off of you.”

Rob thought he was losing his mind. Had he simply imagined the whole terrifying interaction that had just occurred between them? Did he just scare himself half to death, or was there something unearthly sinister about this guy? As John was about to remove the handcuffs from Rob’s wrists, Rob recognized that John was talking and that he had not heard a word. He was too busy reliving his terror, questioning it.

“So the trick is to learn how to palm the key so perfectly that no one ever even suspects you have it.” Rob heard the tail end of Gacy’s lecture. John was showing him how to hide the key between his fingers in such a way that he could still show his audience both of his palms. It was a pretty good trick. It had sure as hell fooled him. But what about those feelings, that fear—was it real?

Again, the phone rang.

Gacy again walked to the corridor so he could hear the answering machine. Rob stood there, still in handcuffs.

“Is your father’s name Harold?” John asked when he returned to the rec room.

“Yes, that’s my dad. What did he say?”

“The machine answered. I just heard him on the tape. He knows you’re here, though. So you don’t have to be in such a rush. He didn’t sound pissed.”

“Well, he wouldn’t sound pissed when he’s talking to you … or leaving a message. But that doesn’t mean they are not worried or angry that I am missing my mom’s birthday.” Rob was concerned. “We should probably start heading towards home.”

“Before we do, before I remove those cuffs, I want to ask you a question. You told me that you would do almost anything for money, right?”

“Yeah, John, I’m a hard worker, a very hard worker. I’ll do anything you ask. You cannot work me too hard.”

“Yeah, yeah, we already talked about that. I know that you are a hard worker. But I was thinking about something else. Remember that I told you about how I was very liberal minded about sex? Well, I am. Now, don’t get me wrong, I’m no fruit picker. I ain’t a fag or anything like that, but a long time ago, this guy and I were out trying to pick up girls, and he said something interesting to me. He said that I had maybe a fifty-fifty shot at getting laid that night—or of even picking up a broad at all, for that matter—but he had a one hundred percent chance. I thought he was full of shit, of course.
But he said it was true because if he struck out trying to pick up a girl, he just went out and picked up a guy. He said that it feels just as good to get a blow job from a guy as it does to get one from a girl. All you do is close your eyes.”

As Gacy rambled on with his story, which Rob found repulsive, Rob felt the fear growing inside him again.
When something seems too good to be true, it usually is
, he thought.
This guy was some kind of weirdo.
Rob realized he was in some stranger’s house—an old, weird man’s house, locked in handcuffs. He began to feel that he was going to cry. He didn’t want to. He wanted to be strong. He felt that he had to hold it together.

Gacy was continuing his story. “So I tried it. I let him do it to me, and believe it or not, he was right. A blowjob is a blowjob. No shit. Now, I say it again, I am no fruit picker. I ain’t gay. You can’t be gay if you are thinking about girls when you are doing it, right?”