The Last Victim (2 page)

I decided to be blunt. “Jason, nobody cares about Gacy anymore. The guy died, what, four years ago? There’s another one to
take his place, somebody new the public wants to know about.”

“Yeah,” he jumped in again, “but Gacy was special. There’s been nobody like him. And besides, this book wouldn’t just be about
Gacy. Remember, I also communicated with Charles Manson and Jeffrey Dahmer and Richard Ramirez, and—”

“I realize that, Jason,” I quickly interjected. “It’s just that books have been written about Gacy and these other guys before—”

“So?” he interrupted. “What are you saying? That I shouldn’t do this? That all this work I put into—”

“No, quite the contrary. What I’m saying is that the book shouldn’t be exclusively about these serial killers but also about
you
. People would want to know why an eighteen-year-old kid contacted Gacy and the others in the first place. They’d be curious
what would drive someone so young to want to study and control them. You have to admit, that’s not the usual hobby for someone
just out of high school.”

I laughed as I said this—until I noticed Jason’s pained expression. He was used to being seen as a bit different from others
his age.

“In order to understand your motives and what drives you,” I continued, “we’d have to start from the beginning.”

“I already did that in the thesis. I started with the first letter I wrote to Gacy.”

“No, I mean from the
very
beginning. People will want to know about your family and background. How you got into this sort of stuff. How you managed
to convince your parents to let you do this, how you hid other things from them. In some ways, this story is too incredible
to believe. We’d have to lay the foundation.”

Indeed, the first thing I did was corroborate everything I could related to Jason’s thesis. I conducted interviews with Jason’s
parents, separately and together, comparing their versions of the same events. I talked with his brother and friends. I spoke
with other faculty who knew Jason. I looked through the hundreds of letters he’d received from various killers, following
them sequentially. I listened to tapes of conversations he’d had with Gacy. At one point I even traveled with him on one of
his research excursions to Death Row.

Once I was able to confirm and document the
details
of Jason’s story, I investigated the
context
of what occurred. Slowly, a more complete picture of this young man began to take shape. He was obviously a precocious, talented
kid, mature beyond his years. His parents, both working-class and down-to-earth, had no idea what to do with a son who constantly
challenged and mystified them. Since they couldn’t seem to control their child’s behavior, and since he had never, ever gotten
in trouble or, in an academic setting, performed in less than exemplary fashion, they found it easy to give in to him. When
they did try to rein him in, he still found ways around them.

Although blessed with high intelligence and formidable verbal and athletic skills, Jason was vulnerable and insecure. He received
a number of paradoxical messages growing up: at the same time that he was insulated from graphic violence and forbidden to
see horror films, his mother was a true-crime aficionado who left lurid books lying around the house. He found his parents’
behavior volatile and unpredictable. He learned to be a chameleon as a way to protect himself, changing forms according to
others’ moods. He honed his talent for pleasing others to a fine art, reading perceptively what others most desire and then
presenting himself in ways designed to win trust.

A natural mimic and fearless risk taker, Jason studied psychology systematically, hoping to land a job someday as a famous
prosecutor or FBI agent. Nobody who knew him scoffed at what he might be capable of accomplishing: this was a kid who was
going places. Certainly, nobody had more determination and ambition. The one discordant note was that his very existence depended
so much on being seen as special and unique.

In the story that follows—written in Jason’s own words with my assistance—you’ll meet Jason as he first stumbles onto his
project’s central feature: that it might be possible for a teenager like himself to pull off what law enforcement and psychiatric
experts have tried, and largely failed, to do—learn the homicidal tactics and secret fantasies of men who’ve killed twenty,
thirty, even hundreds of times in the most grisly fashion imaginable. You’ll learn about the early childhood experiences that
propelled Jason toward his bizarre hobby. You’ll see the reasons for his exaggerated self-importance, understand why cockiness
occasionally creeps into his voice as he talks about his triumphs over these celebrity killers. Jason wanted so badly to be
recognized and validated. He wanted to feel powerful. And what better way to do so than to deceive and control the world’s
most famous human predators?

Jason’s personal motives aside, I believe that this story is unique in the annals of true-crime literature. By peering over
Jason’s shoulder, we’re able to catch a glimpse at “the point of transaction,” the exact moment when a serial killer makes
contact with his victim and begins to reel him in. We’re able to witness, through Jason’s senses, exactly what it looks and
sounds like, what it
feels
like, to be manipulated, controlled, and dominated by a serial killer.

Yet this narrative is not just one precocious kid’s tale of a bizarre dance with the devil—or, rather, several devils. In
a broader sense, it’s a portrait of the choreographed interactions between killers and victims everywhere. It describes, in
excruciating detail, exactly how someone, even a person who is unusually vigilant, cautious, and intentional, can be drawn
into the web of a killer who essentially makes a living stalking others.

Looked at one way, this is an adventure story in which a David attempts to take on a whole herd of Goliaths. Yet it is also
an immensely disturbing narrative, sexually explicit, perverse, and filled with brutality; it requires a strong stomach.

One can’t help but ask what would lead a person, especially someone so young, to enter this world willingly. Why would a first-year
college student spend his time researching ways to ingratiate himself with murderers? Why would he risk using himself as bait?

The truth is that many of us are fascinated with murder, killing, and violence. The whole genre of true-crime books testifies
to that, as does the popularity of films and novels in which graphic murder plays a central role. Jason’s actions are thus
emblematic of a culture in which violence is entertainment and murderers have become celebrities. Every new killer on the
scene attracts his own share of groupies, fans, or spectators who can’t get enough details about the grisly crimes. Web pages
are devoted exclusively to following the exploits of famous killers, analyzing the grisly details of their crimes. Ironically,
the biggest challenge Jason faced when he embarked on this project was how to capture the interest of someone like Charles
Manson or John Wayne Gacy, given that they enjoyed the attention of thousands of fans who wrote weekly, sending them gifts
and vying for their attention.

Before committing to this project I first had to wrestle with certain ethical issues. As a therapist, and trainer of other
therapists, among the most important values to me are authenticity and honesty, being completely open and straight with people.
But here is a story in which a person resorts to deceit and manipulation to learn information that can’t be gained any other
way. While I was impressed by all the things Jason learned, his modus operandi seemed fraught with moral conundrums.

In the end I believed this was an important story to tell, not only because of what it uncovers about homicidal relationships,
but also what it reveals about our culture that so glorifies violence and turns killers into celebrities. If Jason’s experiences
tell us anything, it is that pretending affinity with perpetrators of evil will, over time, wreak dire consequences on the
psyche.

When Jason embarked on his quest, he was too young to realize what a professional might have told him: that, having stepped
into the devil’s lair, it’s sometimes impossible to leave the nightmares behind. In a very real sense, Jason Moss was—for
John Wayne Gacy, Richard Ramirez, Henry Lee Lucas, Jeffrey Dahmer, and Charles Manson—their last victim.

T
here’s a little strip mall in an older, residential area in Las Vegas, far from the chaos of the other, more famous Strip.
From the university, it’s a straight shot down Flamingo Road, a major artery of the city named after Bugsy Siegel’s original
resort.

Typical of such malls, the row of shops contains an insurance agency, a hobby shop, an army recruiting office, a tuxedo rental
outlet, a beauty shop, a used bookstore, and the obligatory Chinese restaurant with a $4.75 lunch special. There’s also a
kickboxing studio, which is why on this particular day in August 1993 I happened to be there.

I was early for my appointment with my karate instructor and I needed a place to escape the heat. Assessing my options, the
bookstore seemed especially inviting—cool and quiet inside, and with plenty to occupy my attention. I was already feeling
a bit stressed from my first week as a university student, so I welcomed a few minutes to literally chill out.

As I began strolling the aisles, I noticed I was one of the store’s few customers. Even so, I was invisible to the bored cashier,
who was alternately thumbing through a book and taking inventory of others lying on the counter. In fact, there were books
everywhere,
some still resting in boxes, others neatly organized on the shelves. It was as if the owner couldn’t quite figure out how
to make inflow and outflow mesh.

Because true crime had been an interest of mine since my early teens, I soon found myself in the store’s crime section, staring
at titles that somehow seemed familiar:
Killer Cults, FBI Killer, Evil Harvest, Brother in Blood.
I couldn’t help noticing that, more often than not, “blood” was the common denominator:
Blood Echoes, Blood Games, Blood Lust, Blood Sister, Blood Warning.
Whoever came up with these titles seemed to have a thing for blood.

Like many people, I was secretly—and a bit guiltily— fascinated by such material. It can be exciting to peek through your
fingers at something forbidden and terrible. Just ask the millions of rubberneckers who slow down at accident scenes, hoping
to catch a glimpse of a body.

Among the hundreds of books that screamed with promises of blood and pain, one in particular caught my interest:
Hunting Humans.
A big, thick encyclopedic volume, it presented profiles of some of the world’s most famous serial killers. As I stood in
the narrow aisle turning pages, I began reflecting on how well camouflaged these predators are, prior to being caught. They
look like anyone else, live apparently normal lives, often appear charming, sociable, and productive. But at the same time,
they stalk and kill people, sometimes torturing and mutilating them.

I wondered what it must be like to look in the mirror and realize
you
are the bogeyman.
How are these people able to live with themselves?

I was jolted out of my reverie by the sound of voices coming from across the aisle. “Do you have a store credit?” I could
hear the cashier ask someone. I didn’t catch the answer because, in my mind, an idea was beginning to form. It was something
on the edge of my consciousness—something I couldn’t grab on to.

The title of another book captured my attention:
The Killer Clown.
Now,
that’s
interesting, I thought, reaching for it. I’d always been afraid of clowns.

As a child my most frequent nightmare took place at my grandparents’ house. In the dream I was supposed to be taking a bath,
but a strange sound drew me out of the tub to investigate. I started walking toward the stairs when I heard a scream, followed
by a liquidy cackle. Looking down the stairs, I saw my grandmother sprawled out on the floor, blood slowly dripping from her
mouth. Somewhere close, I heard an eerie laughter.

I turned in the direction of the voice and was startled to see a clown sitting on the stairwell’s balcony, laughing at me.
I particularly remember the big red smile on his face. At that point, I’d always wake up.

My parents and grandparents tell me that, as a kid, whenever I’d see a clown, I’d start crying in fear. Even today, there’s
something about that painted-on happy face and exaggerated show of good cheer that I don’t trust. There’s something about
the masks that clowns wear—I can’t help feeling that the intention is to
deceive.
Call me paranoid, but I find myself wondering: Who’s the
real
person hiding beneath that makeup?

The idea that a killer would dress himself up as a clown to entertain sick children by day, and then stalk the streets for
prey at night, seemed inconceivable to me. Yet I
could
identify with people who led double lives. How many times had I exuded confidence when taking an exam, or engaging in a debate,
when, in fact, I was less than sure of myself?

I decided to buy both books—the one about hunting humans, and the other about the killer clown—even though it would put a
crimp in my student budget. At the time, I had no idea the true cost would ultimately be much higher.

O
n the drive home from the kickboxing session, I glanced over at the passenger seat and saw my new purchases lying on top of
my backpack. Clearly, I was enthralled by these types of books, and yet I felt very ambivalent about it, since true crime
is also an interest of my mother’s. We fought a lot, my mother and I—usually about her wanting to control my life in some
way. I tried to distance myself from her as much as I could, and it really bothered me that we now shared this interest.