The Last Victim (14 page)

“Call Jarrod into your room right now,” Gacy said, hoping to close the sale.

“Okay, hold on a second.” After leaving him hanging for a minute, I acted disappointed because, unfortunately, “Jarrod had
baseball practice early in the morning and he still isn’t home yet.”

“Oh well. Just make sure and try this afternoon or tonight when he gets home.”

Yeah,
right.

A few days later, Gacy mailed me a letter in which he elaborated on how I should go about seducing my brother:

Regarding J [the code he assigned to Jarrod] and experiencing that, well the best way is to get into conversation and find
out how open his thinking is. At that age anyone is horny and its better then getting off by hand. But its not much the doing
as the feeling you will get from the other that you never knew you had.

I would think the best way is show by example meaning your going to be the one catching and then they get the feeling that
if its good enough for you they don’t feel embarrassed. But you have a perfect partner since you share the other things and
he looks to you as his mentor. The other sensations will be letting him think he is controlling you while your doing the leading.
The sensation also of taking not only oral but letting ride the back door. I have known some who got off in a wild way just
having someone do them. But you have to feel out his thinking and if he is willing to experiment. If that is a green light
the next move is being aggressor to show him that you were serious, or he will think it was just a joke. That age it will
be a sweet load of adventure and way of trying new things and will draw you closer in a way.

He went on to describe in detail how I should sneak into Jarrod’s room at night and how I should handle any resistance I might
encounter. He supplied some rationalizations I could use to justify this seduction—chief among them, that we were only masturbating
together, giving each other pleasure. The part that fascinated me the most, though, was that, unwittingly, he was actually
training me in the techniques he used to seduce and control his victims.

In Gacy’s intense tutoring sessions on how I could seduce my brother, he made it clear that these same strategies had been
tested previously on very young boys. He gave me a rundown of every scenario that could possibly occur. He went into detail
on how to respond to my brother—or anyone—who might get apprehensive about engaging in sexual acts. He described strategies
for how to reassure no matter what the response. He had an answer for all occasions.

In his very next letter, he attempted to normalize this type of sexual relationship by maintaining that he had had a sexual
relationship with his sister when they were children. To the best of my knowledge, this was the first time he’d actually claimed
to sibling incest. While the following scenario could have been a fantasy, or at least an embellishment, I’m convinced that
something emotional lay at the heart of it—maybe merely an unrequited sexual love for a person he couldn’t possess.

She and I were in separate rooms, but it never stopped us from having some pleasure. But while she was unsure about it, I
had to be the aggressor making the late night trips. I would already be down to just my bikini briefs, and would slip into
her room and just slide in.

Just as soon as she knew I was there I would tell her to be quiet. As I move my hand over her nipples, until they were hard,
then I would move down rubbing her until she was getting wet and slipped my hand inside making her become aroused. Once that
was done I would slip down and let my tongue do the work, until she got off at least once. I did this a couple of times without
any return favor, just to show her it was safe. Later I would get her going and then move into a 69, and then it took off
by itself after a couple times.

The amount of personal information that was now flowing from Gacy was immense. So far, our correspondence and phone conversations
had yielded enough intriguing detail that I couldn’t help daydreaming about what might be gleaned from other serial killers.

If I could get to Gacy, what about Charles Manson, Richard Ramirez, Henry Lee Lucas, David Berkowitz, and Elmer Wayne Henley,
Jr.? Or even Jeffrey Dahmer?

I was flying so high I believed anything was possible.

A
lthough I was swollen with overconfidence, I did feel a certain amount of anxiety reaching out to serial killers who struck
me as even
more
diabolical than Gacy, if only because their behavior was more inscrutable. There was something about Gacy that seemed
predictable.
His neuroses were categorizable, his method of selecting victims fairly clear. But what about a madman like Charles Manson?
There’s no way anyone could make much sense of what
he
might do next. Perhaps because of the challenge inherent in that, I selected him as the next killer to contact.

My research revealed that Charles Manson was the leader of a drug-crazed gang of male and female hippies who were known as
“the family.” They were convicted of nine murders, all without apparent motive. Included in their killing spree was Hollywood
film star Sharon Tate, who, while pregnant, was slowly tortured and stabbed dozens of times. Also murdered were four friends
and a servant. One particularly chilling aspect of this crime was the way the killers scribbled the words “helter skelter”
on the wall in the victims’ blood.

Manson and seven members of his gang were sentenced to death in 1972. These sentences were commuted to life imprisonment a
year later when the California Supreme Court voted to abolish the death penalty. Since his conviction, Manson has been a permanent
resident of the California prison system, making news every time he comes up for parole.

Even with Manson locked away, his reign of terror continued for some time afterward. Several members of his “family” were
ordered executed after his conviction. His own defense attorney was found murdered after the guilty verdict came in. Most
notably, Lynette “Squeaky” Fromme, one of Manson’s followers, attempted to assassinate President Gerald Ford, but her pistol
misfired.

Manson fascinated me for a number of reasons. First, he represented the ultimate in what people fear the most: a violent,
angry, unpredictable man who’ll not only kill on the slightest whim but can convince others to kill for him as well. Also
part of the profile: a certain randomness or irrationality to victim selection. Anyone can be a target, though in Manson’s
case it helped if he perceived you to be an annoyance or part of “the establishment.”

When I watched Manson on television, he came across as a crazy extremist. He seemed incoherent at times—often, he just didn’t
make much sense. I couldn’t help wondering how much of this was real and how much an act. There was a part of him that seemed
very calm, very calculating. And at one point in his life, he’d been persuasive enough to get a group of young people to do
anything he asked. On balance, there seemed more there than met the eye.

I surmised that the best way to get Manson to look my way was to show that I respected him—that I was, in a sense, a “colleague”
interested in furthering his mission. I would present myself as his ideal follower in the same way I presented myself to Gacy
as his ideal victim. I assumed Manson still wanted people on the outside continuing his “work.”

In my first letter to the famous cult leader, I constructed a carefully worded request to join his family:

Dear Charles,

I decided to write you this letter because I was told that we have very similar philosophies on life and society by a mutual
friend, John Solders, who lives in NY. He told me that you were a very powerful man, and that together we could solve a common
goal, fixing all the fucking problems with society.

Ya know, I am now starting to understand why the white man is starting to fall. There is a big powerful hole in society which
needs to be filled. The scum are out there, and there is nothing we can do about it; at least there is nothing that I can
do about it. You are the one with a plan. You have the vision that could save us all. I would really appreciate you teaching
me the way to save the man. I want to save the children and the women, and I want to save you.

You have done so much for the cause, and I can continue where you left off. Let me know if you need anything, because I am
here for you. Please help me get started in seeing the vision as you saw it so many years before. I don’t got much money or
a car, but I got my bitch and we will do what you need. I am not into fuckin’ around. We can help each other. You can write
me at: Jason Moss, 1234 My Place, Henderson, NV 89014. I look forward to hearing from you soon. By the way, John says “hi.”

Your faithful friend,

Jason Moss

In this letter, I attempted something I’d never tried before—using a fictitious person as an excuse for writing someone a
letter. Since most of the people writing to Manson would want something—an interview, a souvenir, or his time—I knew he’d
be more likely to respond if he didn’t think that I wanted something from him but rather that I was in a position to help
him.

I portrayed myself as a poor, angry man—yet also a leader who’d do whatever it took to make things “right” again in society.
I wanted him to think I was a good investment of his time, worth spending energy “grooming.” Whereas Gacy responded to weakness,
Manson, I figured, would be drawn to some degree of strength, especially if it was clear that I’d remain within his control.

On many television interviews I’d heard him state that he wasn’t into games, so by stating “I am not into fuckin’ around,”
I hoped that he’d identify with my directness. I didn’t worry much about him taking the bait; after all, I already had Gacy
to talk to, and I was forming plans to reach out to other killers as well. I knew it was unrealistic to think I could get
everyone to write back.

Just a few days later, though, I received a postcard from Manson in which he presented a test of my intentions. Writing in
broken, schoolboy English, he stated that he’d give
me
something if I’d give him what
he
wanted. Initially, this was subscriptions to magazines. He admitted he’d never heard of “that person in NY,” but it didn’t
surprise him that much, since he received so much mail. “I learn not to write letters,” Manson explained, “because people
play and use you for things beyond your wild dreams. They say all they will do and lie—you will see as you get old.”

A postcard was the last thing I expected to receive from Manson. My address wasn’t even legible on the card and at first I
wondered how it could possibly have been delivered. Then it occurred to me that Cynthia, our mail lady, must have been so
used to routing me letters from Gacy’s prison she figured it had to be for me.

The next day I was able to confirm my suspicion. I was walking out to the mailbox just as Cynthia had finished inserting the
last of the letters when I noticed she had a big grin on her face.

“What’s so funny?” I asked her a little nervously. She was probably beginning to think I was some kind of weirdo.

“Nothing,” she answered a bit hesitantly. I could tell this was awkward for her.

“Go on,” I said.

“It’s just that . . . I don’t know, Jason. Sometimes, when I’m driving on my route and I approach your stop, I can’t believe
what you’re doing. Your mail is just so unusual. You’re always getting letters from prisons and stuff. I couldn’t help but
look at the envelopes. You don’t mind, do you?”

I couldn’t believe this was happening. The mail lady was actually monitoring my letters. Actually, I was flattered. Cynthia
is a nice person.

“So,” she asked me, “what the heck does this Gacy guy tell you?”

“Nothin’ much,” I replied. “I usually ask him things about the prison system and capital punishment.”

“God, just yesterday, some of the guys at work were asking what type of person you were.”

“Really?” I answered.
Now they’re talking about me at the post office!

“Yeah. I told them you’re this really sweet, brilliant future psychologist who just likes to study these people. The whole
station talks about you.”

“They do?” I said, more than a little embarrassed. “A lot of people think what I’m doing is kind of weird. That’s why I pretty
much just keep things to myself.”

“I understand,” she said. “You know, when you got that letter from Manson yesterday, I dropped it on the ground in disbelief.
It was so scary to touch something that you know
he
touched. It was so eerie.”

“Hey,” I said, “thanks for getting it to me. I know how awful his handwriting is.”

“No problem. The guys were going to label it undeliverable, but when they said it was on my route, I knew it must be for you.”

After that day, I never had a problem getting Manson’s letters no matter how unintelligible the address was.

With Gacy, it might have just been blind luck. But now that Manson had written back, I was pretty impressed with myself. I
developed what would turn out to be a false confidence regarding my ability to “play” these people—fed, no doubt, by the illiterate
way in which they expressed themselves.

Manson’s writing, for example, looked like the product of an eight-year-old, and a very demented one at that. Further, he
just assumed that others knew what he was talking about when he left stuff out of the middle of his sentences.

In his postcard, he reminded me that he was not into playing games either. I confronted a dilemma: if I refused his request
for magazine subscriptions, he might interpret the refusal as a lack of commitment; if, however, I showed immediate subservience,
he might write me off as just another fan whom he could dominate. I wanted him to know that I was someone to be reckoned with.

As a compromise, I wrote him back and told him I didn’t have much money so I couldn’t afford to send him anything. I did say,
though, that I hoped my financial situation would improve and that I’d send him a subscription in a month or two.