The Last Victim
THE LAST VICTIM
. Copyright © 1999 by Jason Moss and Jeffrey Kottler, Ph.D. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in
any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission
in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review.
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ISBN 978-0-7595-2830-7
A hardcover edition of this book was published in 1999 by Warner Books.
First eBook Edition: April 2001
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Contents
Prologue by Jeffrey Kottler, Ph.D.
Afterword by Jeffrey Kottler, Ph.D
by Jeffrey Kottler,
Ph.D.
I
t was autumn in the desert, but not like the kind of autumn you’d ordinarily envision for that time of year. It was still
hot, blazing hot. The only refuge from the sun was inside the refrigerated buildings.
With its stately palm trees and expanses of grass, the campus resembled one of the many resorts on the Las Vegas Strip. The
difference was that, instead of neon and slot machines, there was a hotel college that taught would-be entrepreneurs how to
operate casinos, as well as the usual academic buildings that catered mostly to local students and a few Southern California
refugees. The most prominent structure by far was the Thomas and Mack Building, the basketball arena that played host to the
Runnin’ Rebels. This was a university, after all, known primarily for its basketball program.
The best and the brightest of the students, a few hundred ambitious, sometimes compulsive scholars, enrolled in the honors
program to get the best shot they could for entrance into medical school, law school, or the corporate fast track. The requirements
included several exploratory seminars designed to expand students’ education beyond their narrow areas of specialty.
I had volunteered to teach one of these honors seminars, called “Things That Matter.” I’d billed it as an opportunity for
advanced students to explore a series of topics, including relationships, love, friendship, and, most vitally, the future.
And on the first day of class, I encountered an ambitious group of young people: future lawyers, doctors, politicians, CEOs,
and scientists.
One student caught my attention immediately because of the way he was dressed. While his peers, aged twenty to twenty-five,
wore the uniforms of their generation—jeans, T-shirts, sandals, shorts, even a skateboard or two—this particular student looked
as if he’d lost his way en route to a job interview. Beyond his crisp white shirt, striped tie, and polished loafers, I noted
a resemblance to one of the Baldwin brothers, William maybe or Alec. He displayed the chiseled good looks that immediately
attract the attention of the opposite sex. His eyes were serious, intent, and I noticed he was watching me carefully.
As the semester progressed, this young man stood out for a number of other reasons. He was predictably bright and precocious,
even by the standards of an honors program. Yet he was also exceedingly confident and poised. In the jargon of my profession,
“he appeared older than his stated age.” This was not just because of the way he looked but the way he acted.
“Dr. Kottler,” he said one day, addressing me formally even though I preferred the use of my first name, “what exactly is
the reason for requiring that our papers describe interviews the way you suggest?”
“Excuse me?” I wasn’t sure what he was driving at.
“I mean, if your intent is to get us to reflect on what we learned during this field study, wouldn’t it make sense for us
to use direct quotes rather than just descriptions of what people said?”
I heard a few classmates snicker. Was he challenging me? “Your point is well taken,” I said finally. “I’m looking for a balance
between what you observed and the sense you make of those experiences.”
As he nodded, I saw looks of admiration from his classmates. Everyone else had been so timid about speaking up, but Jason
just jumped in, treating me as a colleague.
My first impression was that he might be a difficult student. Indeed, his eager-to-please attitude toward me—and combative,
competitive tone with peers—did create a certain degree of turbulence. Yet in spite of these challenges, I found Jason to
be unusually smart, inquisitive, ambitious, and outspoken—and not afraid to advance opinions that might be unusual or unpopular.
His style, though provocative and at times trying, actually proved a catalyst for drawing out other students who were quite
timid.
The semester-long seminar progressed nicely, perhaps one of my favorites in terms of depth and breadth of issues explored.
The only thing that bothered me was the extent to which this group of students was concerned—make that
obsessed
—with achievement. So many of their questions revolved around how various actions would affect their final grades.
In a class of hard chargers, Jason stood out as especially intense. He found reasons to approach me after many classes, wanting
very specific directions about future assignments. While at first I was annoyed by these overtures, which seemed transparently
driven toward getting an A, I soon recognized that Jason was reaching out for help.
It became our pattern to escort one another to our next classes. During these strolls across campus, Jason confided in me
about his plans for the future, conflicts with his family, and the relationship with his girlfriend. In everything he talked
about, and everything he did, he struck me as incredibly driven. I urged him to lighten up a bit, to stop trying so hard to
do everything perfectly. Perhaps I recognized more than a little of myself in him. I too was an avid approval seeker who found
it difficult to slow down.
I noticed that in spite of all that Jason had accomplished thus far in life, as an athlete, a scholar, and personality on
campus, he didn’t seem to be having much fun. Actually, he seemed haunted.
He was a straight-A student, chief justice of the student government, president of the psychology honors society, and a leader
in community civic organizations. As we walked around campus, students, faculty, even administrators whom I barely knew by
sight seemed familiar with him.
At times he would press me for advice about personal matters, and each time I’d deftly put the focus back on him, as a counseling
professor can easily do. I’ll admit to feeling flattered he was willing to trust me: I could tell it was difficult for him
to open up.
As the semester wound down, Jason and I got together for our last meeting. He thanked me for a stimulating class, then caught
me by surprise by abruptly changing the subject. Shyly, he invited me to attend his honors thesis presentation.
I reluctantly agreed. These presentations, which were usually about some obscure area of research I could barely follow, could
be quite boring. In fact, I couldn’t help grimacing as I reflected on the last one I’d attended. Dealing with political corruption
in East Africa, it might have been interesting if there hadn’t been so much sparring among the faculty committee members,
each of whom was eager to demonstrate his expertise.
As the day for the event approached, I felt a little better about going. I didn’t really have the time, but it was a constructive
ritual and I felt honored that Jason thought enough of me to extend an invitation. Usually there are only a handful of people
in attendance—three faculty members on the student’s committee and perhaps a friend or a parent.
I was shocked, therefore, when I walked into the room— make that
the auditorium
—and found seventy or eighty people. Somehow, word had gotten out that something unusual was going to happen. I had no idea
that the next few hours would hold me spellbound, propelling me through emotions that ranged from indignation to admiration.
Jason stood before the audience in his new suit, anxiously pacing as he waited for the signal to begin. I could hear the crowd
buzzing with anticipation, although I couldn’t quite make out what they were saying. “Can you believe it!” “Jason . . . gotta
be a little . . . I sure wouldn’t . . .” “So I was—” “Shsssh! He’s starting!”
“In this presentation,” Jason began nervously, “I will be talking about accessing the minds of various serial killers from
the perspective of their victims.” You could hear a collective gasp from the audience. Then complete silence, as if we were
all holding our breath to see what would come next.
“Although much is known about the patterns of their behavior,” Jason continued, “even the nature of their childhoods, their
motives and fantasies, we really know very little about how they manage to overpower people, manipulate and degrade them,
get them to do things they wouldn’t otherwise consider.”
He then went on to relate how, while only a freshman in college, he’d figured out a way to lure a half dozen of the most notorious
serial killers into communication with him, eventually forging full-blown relationships with several. In each case, he researched
meticulously what would interest them the most and then cast himself in the role of disciple, admirer, businessman, surrogate,
or potential victim. In a few instances, he actually interviewed the killers in prison, winning their trust and uncovering
their secrets. Perhaps even more remarkable, in one case he was able to experience, firsthand, what it’s like to be stalked,
seduced, manipulated, and eventually trapped by a deranged murderer who’d killed more than thirty times previously.
If Jason’s overview wasn’t chilling enough, it was downright eerie to hear recordings of the killers’ voices and see samples
of their perverted writing.
As I watched and listened to what Jason had done, I was flooded with questions. While everyone else in the room seemed captivated
by the tales of perversion and mayhem committed by killers Jason had contacted, I was curious about what would motivate an
eighteen-year-old to undertake a project like this, one that would not only jeopardize his sanity but his physical safety.
Little did I realize at the time that I’d be the one entrusted with the task of helping Jason tell his story.
When I met with him a few days later he wanted to know if I’d be interested in collaborating with him on a book analyzing
the motives and behavior of his most ardent correspondent, John Wayne Gacy. In Illinois during the 1970s, Gacy kidnapped,
tortured, raped, and killed at least thirty-three young boys and buried many of them in his basement.
“Jason,” I addressed him solemnly, “I’m really flattered that you’d ask for my help with this.”
He looked away from me, preparing himself for what he anticipated would be rejection.
“I really
am
intrigued with what you’ve done,” I reassured him. “It’s just . . .”
“I really
am
intrigued with what you’ve done,” I reassured him. “It’s just . . .”
“You don’t understand,” he interrupted. “Nobody really understands. . . .”
I put my hand on his shoulder to stop what I could see was the beginning of an argument. It’s not a good idea to get Jason
started unless you’re prepared for a very long discussion, and I had other students waiting.
“You misunderstand me,” I told him. “Please, just listen. Let me finish.”
He nodded his head, but I could see his impatience. By now he’d grown used to people not “getting” his peculiar area of fascination.
