The Last Victim (18 page)

As I sat on the floor of my room, reviewing the letters and thinking about whom to write to next, I tried to imagine sleeping
in my house, having a wife and family of my own. One night as I lie in bed, a man breaks into the house, shoots me in the
chest, and as my life slowly drifts away, he brutally rapes and beats my wife. I can hear the woman I love scream for me to
help. I watch as her hands reach out in anguish. As I gasp for breath, I watch him leave my wife, barely alive on the floor,
to enter the rooms of my son and daughter . . .

As the fantasy played itself out, it seemed so real that I actually made a point of standing up in my room and looking around
to reassure myself that none of this had happened. I’d been reading so much about Ramirez lately that it felt like he was
stalking me. I turned on more lights in the room to take away the shadows. I knew another night would pass without my getting
much sleep.

Ramirez struck me as very different from any other serial killer I’d yet studied. Rather than lure victims into his own domain,
he preferred to enter their worlds and destroy them. Further, he didn’t seem to care much about who his prey was.

I also found it interesting that he became sexually aroused during his killing. Police discovered semen not only inside some
of the women he raped but also on their torsos. Apparently, Ramirez became so excited as he slashed someone’s throat that
he’d actually have an orgasm.

There were also significant elements of rage in his behavior. He seemed to thrive on other people’s fear—the more, the better.
In addition, Satan worship seemed to dominate his thinking. I didn’t know much about that stuff, but I intended to bone up
on it so I could devise the best approach.

In writing to him, I thought I’d portray myself as the high priest of a satanic cult that was active in Las Vegas. That way,
he might see me as a colleague who shared his life’s work, similar to the impression I’d tried to create with Manson.

I began my research at the local New Age bookstore, where I found information on black magic, witchcraft, and satanism. For
a period of weeks, I devoted myself completely to studying the beliefs, behaviors, and language used by various cults. I learned
what various satanic symbols meant so I could include them in the letters I wrote to Ramirez.

Since the bookstore was on the opposite side of town, every time I made the journey it felt like I was traveling to another
world. Of course, the very act of crossing the Las Vegas Strip to get to the West Side puts you in the mood for entering other
dimensions. I couldn’t help but smile as I sat at the light on Flamingo and Las Vegas Boulevard and surveyed six different
casinos, each offering visitors another world—from ancient Rome to contemporary Sodom and Gomorrah. Significantly, each of
these resort themes seemed tame in comparison to the cult world I was exploring.

The New Age bookstore was very dark inside, kind of spooky actually. There was the scent of incense in the air. I could hear
the soothing sounds of harp music in the background, but also the louder melody of falling water. A waterfall had been specially
constructed to provide browsers with the atmosphere of a rain forest. Only in Las Vegas.

Every wall was covered with books, charms, talismans, strange religious symbols, viny plants, and spiritual pictures. On the
counter there was actually a black cat sleeping. All that was missing was ghostly wailing coming up through the floorboards.

The shopkeeper was an old man, muttering to himself as he replenished the inventory in glass display cases. There were charms,
pentagrams, strange potions, stones, crystals, even daggers. He was so intent on arranging the paraphernalia that he didn’t
seem to notice me. All I could see in the dim light was the top of his bald head where he’d artfully combed his few wispy
hairs, and numerous charms dangling from his neck.

I was examining advertisements for tarot card readings when I heard a raspy voice say, “If I can help you with anything, just
let me know.” He then continued unloading a box of small bottles.

“Do you have any books on black magic?” I asked.

Without answering, he carefully arranged the position of a bottle and then directed me to follow him to the opposite corner
of the store. Again without saying a word, he pointed to a huge selection of books on witchcraft, then started back toward
the vicinity of the waterfall.

“Excuse me, sir,” I said, stopping him in midshuffle. “Do any of these books talk about satanism or human sacrifices?”

The old man looked at me sternly. “I am a witch. We practice white magic here. I don’t know much about black magic, and I
recommend you stay away from it yourself.” With that pronouncement, he turned away, shaking his head. I was fascinated by
the way the sound of his retreating footsteps was swallowed by the water sounds.

I selected several books that seemed relevant to my task, including one called
The Satanic Bible.
As I paid for them at the counter, staring at the twitching tail of the cat as it slept, I could see the man’s look of disapproval.
I half wondered whether he’d try to cast some sort of spell on me to frustrate my intentions. Thinking on it, I decided it
was probably a good thing that at least some of these people had ethical standards.

Since material on satanism and human sacrifice that can be construed as “how to” is usually illegal—and rightfully so!—I was
skeptical that these books would yield much that would be helpful in approaching Ramirez. As it turned out, though, I learned
a lot about the basic philosophy of satanism. I also familiarized myself with many symbols and charms that are used by satanic
followers to communicate with one another.

I even went so far as to rent a video called
Faces of Death.
The film shows actual footage of a man being sacrificed in a ritual conducted by a group of satanists in Texas. These people
recorded their gruesome acts and were eventually arrested for their crime.

Watching that film was a
big
mistake. As soon as the first scene came on the screen, I began to feel nauseous. I’d naively thought that because I’d seen
so many horror films, watching the real thing would be no big deal. I was wrong.

About halfway through the tape I started to feel even more queasy, so I went into the bathroom to throw some cold water on
my face.

“Jason! Jason! Are you okay?” It was my brother shaking me.

“Um.” That was all I could get out. Somehow I’d passed out on the floor.

“Jason, what happened?”

“I don’t know,” I said, genuinely confused. “I had a headache.” I stopped to sip some water. “I went to get some aspirin.
I don’t remember anything after that.”

“Jeez,” my brother said. “I thought you were dead or something. You looked so still lying on the floor.”

I could tell he was really worried about me. “I’m okay now,” I reassured him, not at all certain that was the case. “Just
help me up.” This was
so
embarrassing, just like the time in elementary school I’d fainted in the middle of dissecting the frog.

I
realize it’s odd that I have this fascination with serial killers yet suffer from such a weak stomach. People sometimes ask
me—at least the honest ones do—whether I might be a potential killer myself. I hear that a lot. While I freely acknowledge
that what these predators do arouses my curiosity, let me be clear on this: there’s no way I could participate in such violence
against others. I suppose that’s why I delve into the area vicariously. Like most people, I’m intrigued by what I don’t understand.

When I studied the crimes of people like Ramirez from a distance, the thrill was similar to watching a good film; there was
the shudder of watching something horrible unfold but also the comfort of pretending it was all made up. What Ramirez and
the others did was “out there somewhere.” It wasn’t real. Mostly, it was just something I encountered in black and white in
the pages of a true-crime book—or later, in the matter-of-fact correspondence of various Death Row inmates. But when I saw
actual footage of what these people really did, how they butchered their victims . . . well, I nearly called off my project
right then and there.

Eventually, though, the images faded and my intense curiosity returned.

In composing my first letter to Ramirez, I tried to get him to see the two of us as comrades—“men of Satan”—who shared the
same interests and goals. I realized how frustrating it must be for Ramirez and other killers to be locked away, waiting for
their executions, unable to act out their violent urges and brutal fantasies. I figured they yearned for what I appeared to
be, someone who not only validated their lives but also offered a means to continue their depravity.

My thoroughly over-the-top letter to the Night Stalker read as follows:

Dear Richard,

How are ya? My name is Jason and I’m a huge fan of yours. I worship the Dark Lord too, and I shed and drink the blood of a
sheep every night in the Dark One’s name. I’m the grand priest of a cult here in Vegas, and all of my 57 members worship you
almost as much as we do the Dark Lord. How are they treating you in prison? You should be free to shed the innocent blood
of the lamb with us.

My people and I would really appreciate it if you could give us some words or teachings to help us all follow in the path
you’ve set forth for us. I have many women here for you. I will send you some photos of some if you like. They love you,
Richard. My girlfriend wants you to beat the fuck out of her. She wants you to show her what it is like to worship the Dark
Lord. Please, if you need anything let me know. I will help you all I can. [I drew a pentagram here in red ink.]

Hail Satan, Hail Richard,

Your loyal follower,

Jason Moss

In his response, Ramirez wrote a simple letter asking me how I was doing, what Nevada was like, how old I was, and whether
I had any family. He also asked me to send some photos of some of the women in my group, as well as some “hardcore Asian bondage
magazines.”

It would take a bit of work to satisfy his requests. I had one friend, though, who I thought might be of some help.

“Nando,” I said to him, “you’ve got all these friends who’re models. You got any pictures of them?”

“Why?” he said, smiling. “You want to beat off or something?”

“Yeah, right,” I said, laying the testosterone on thick. “Like I can’t get the real thing whenever I want.”

“Sure, chico,” he answered suspiciously, “so why you want pictures of my friends?”

I couldn’t exactly tell him that the Night Stalker was fresh out of snapshots to masturbate over, so I told him I had a pen
pal in Europe who was a virgin. I explained that he especially liked Latin women, so I thought he’d get a thrill out of seeing
some of our local beauties. It was a weak story, I know, but Nando was a good friend who owed me a favor.

Once I gathered together the photos and magazines, I sent the package off to Ramirez and crossed my fingers. I didn’t have
to wait long.

In his next letter to me, Ramirez enclosed an outline of his hand. If I put my own hand inside his, each one of his fingers
extended at least an inch longer than my own. It was huge—truly, the hand of a monster. To think that these five digits were
responsible for countless rapes and murders chilled me.

Equally disturbing was his choice of stationery. Along the bottom was a row of skeletons holding hands. Written on the sides
of the drawing were the words “Hands of Doom and Gloom” and “Evil Hands are Happy Hands.”

It was apparent from what Ramirez had to say that he felt absolutely no remorse for what he’d done; he was actually
proud
of his terror spree.

“Death,” he said, “is more than a word or action that takes place. There’s no word for it. It’s a feeling. One of immense,
intense and delicious nature. Everyone cries. But death is good.”

I was probably right in guessing that Ramirez would see me as a tool for evil, because he invited me to see him at the earliest
opportunity. He warned me, though, that there was a wait to get in the prison and I could expect a fair amount of hassle.

While I was considering how I’d fit all these prison visits into my school schedule, Ramirez brought up the subject again:
“I’ll probably be in SF [San Francisco] jail sometime next year. Maybe you can come there then. Do I have your phone number?
Have you ever sent it?”

At this point I’d been talking to Gacy more and more frequently and it was taking its toll on me. There was no way I could
handle two of these guys at the same time. As it was, I felt surrounded by murderers. And while in the past I’d always assumed
this project of mine would be relatively safe, when it came to my mental outlook, I couldn’t have been more wrong.

I started having a recurring dream that Ramirez and I were both walking through my neighborhood, just talking and hanging
out. I remember thinking that I should be afraid of him, yet I felt relaxed in his presence, like he was a longtime friend.
In the dream it was sunny outside. All of a sudden, a young girl crossed our path on a bike. The next thing I knew, the whole
sky turned very dark, then a blood red.

Ramirez smiled at me. “Let’s go, Jason,” he said calmly. I stood there, motionless, unable to move. I could only watch what
Ramirez did next. He pulled the girl off the bike and held her down on the ground by her throat.

“Jason,” he yelled at me. “Jason! Get the hell over here. Help me kill this bitch.”

He began violently choking her with his gigantic hands, a maniacal grin on his face. “This should be fun for you!” he goaded.
“Don’t tell me you’re all talk. You said you’ve done this before. Kill her!”

He looked directly into my eyes, waiting patiently for me to join him in his killing frenzy. When I hesitated, he began to
squeeze the little girl harder. She squirmed and screamed, digging her nails into his arms. She looked toward me for help
but I just stood there watching.