The Last Victim (27 page)

To keep me occupied during his legal powwow, Gacy had arranged for me to spend time with his buddy. This was actually a favor
he was doing for Kokoralies, since the guy almost never had any visitors, nor did he have contact with anyone on the outside.

Kokoralies stood before me with a sly grin on his face, which I misread as that of another predator about to share the spoils
of the alpha male. I later deduced that he was just so lonely he was simply glad for the company, even if I did “belong” to
another inmate.

One of the reasons I actually appreciated talking to this guy—other than the two-for-one aspect of bagging interviews with
two serial killers—was that I could shed my artificially passive role for a while. It was starting to itch so bad, I felt
like I might break out into hives.

Best of all, though, it gave me a chance to get away from Gacy, the sight of whom now made me furious.

At first, Kokoralies looked intimidating, very much the prototype of the muscular, imposing, psychopathic killer. Despite
his short stature, he was extremely well built. He was wearing a tank top to show off his rippling muscles and tattoo of a
heart with the name of some ex-girlfriend.

I’d been forewarned there might be a chance I could meet Kokoralies while I was at the prison, so I’d done my homework. Besides
the things Gacy had told me about him in various phone conversations, I learned that “Koko” (as Gacy called him) was a different
sort of creature than the Clown Killer. While Gacy was a charismatic leader, a predator who preferred to hunt alone, Koko
was more like a wolf pack member. He was certainly every bit as brutal and dangerous as Gacy, but only when he had someone
else to tell him what to do; he was a natural follower.

Koko had been convicted of eight murders in which the victims, all women, had been raped, beaten, tortured, then strangled
and mutilated, their breasts cut off as trophies. Borrowing a page from Jeffrey Dahmer’s book, the killers even ate parts
of the decomposing bodies as part of satanic rituals.

In concert with three other men, Koko trolled the streets of Chicago in much the same way Gacy had just a few years earlier.
Actually, there was a link between Koko’s gang and Gacy, since the leader of the gang, Robin Gecht, was a onetime Gacy employee.

Gecht was once heard to remark that Gacy’s only mistake was to hide the bodies under his house. Gecht said it was stupid,
that
he
preferred to hide bodies in isolated forested areas. Given the gang’s skill at dumping bodies, it could never be determined
exactly how many young women Gecht, Koko, and their two partners killed during their two-year rampage. Some of the killers
admitted to twelve murders, while one claimed the body count went as high as eighteen.

After they were caught, Koko was sentenced to be executed and was placed in a cell on Death Row near Gacy. It was difficult
to determine whether their friendship developed because of their close proximity or, more eerily, because Andrew was actually
a “second generation” killer who’d worked for one of Gacy’s disciples. Whatever the basis of their relationship was, I was
relieved to realize, after only a few minutes talking with Koko, that he was far more manageable than Gacy. In fact, he struck
me as not terribly bright.

“How are ya doin’?” he said to me with an open smile. “I’m Andrew.”

“Nice to meet you,” I said, smiling back. If I’d concocted a “Koko plan of attack” before coming to the prison, it was all
a blur now. I decided to just wing it.

As soon as we sat down, he began bombarding me with questions. “John tells me you go to school. What’s it like? Do you live
there? Who do you live with?”

He fired the questions so quickly, all I could do was just nod my head. At first, I naively thought he actually cared about
what I was doing with my life, so I answered each of his queries carefully, telling him about the university and the classes
I was taking. I was puzzled that he seemed to show little interest in the answers I was giving, but I was content to stall
for time while he revealed himself.

I knew there was something he wanted from me, but I couldn’t figure out what it was. I replayed the questions he asked me
again, looking for clues. And soon I realized that, just like Gacy, Koko had a very distorted view of reality. For instance,
his vision of college life was that it was one big orgy—students had sex with each other all the time, in every room on campus.
Since I’m certain he’d never read a book in his life, except maybe a few pornographic novels, it was easy to see how he might
have gotten that impression.

Once I picked up on what he wanted to hear, I fed him some tall tales. I told him how whenever a guy on campus saw an attractive
woman, he’d just walk up and announce in the bluntest terms possible what he wanted to do with her. I led him to believe that
this technique worked every time.

Koko’s eyes were gleaming. He was actually salivating. Imagine that: thousands of girls walking around, strutting their stuff,
inviting guys like him to have his way with them. I tried not to think about what Koko’s way might involve, or I’d surely
lose my concentration.

He seemed spellbound by my fanciful tales of debauchery on campus. He was captivated to the point that his grunts became cues,
urging me to tell him more. He timidly asked if I wouldn’t mind sending him some photographs of the girls on campus, and then
proceeded to write down his address.

Jeez, this guy was so simple. It had taken me exactly thirty minutes to build up trust to the point where it seemed he’d tell
me most anything. Quite a contrast with Gacy! As I had many times in the past, I marveled at how diverse people are—even serial
killers.

When Koko confided how lonely he was, I actually felt sorry for him. He had no friends in the world except for Gacy. His family
never contacted him. He rarely had visitors—none in the previous few months.

“So,” I asked, “how do you deal with being locked up in a room for twenty-three hours a day? That must be hard.”

He nodded and looked forlorn. “You just gotta have a PMA.”

I couldn’t help smiling. Gacy had apparently passed on his belief that it is important to cultivate a positive mental attitude—PMA.
It was obvious that Koko, a natural follower, had latched on to Gacy, a natural leader. Although their sexual orientations
were as different as night and day, it made sense that, even in a prison setting, they’d act out their instinctive roles.

Whereas with Gacy I’d learned to be careful and diplomatic, with Koko I was very direct—almost recklessly so: “What hurts
you the most about being in here, Andy? Do you dream about the women you hurt?” I looked directly into his eyes as I asked
these questions, keeping my voice stern and confident.

It was like a dim light went on inside his head. Here he’d been told to expect a passive, worthless, weak kid, a boy toy Gacy
had reeled in, but the person he was talking to seemed very assertive.
What gives?
is, I’m sure, what he was thinking. What he actually said was:

“You’re nothing like John said you were!”

“You’re right, I’m not!” I said with more force than I intended. I was probably declaring this as much to myself as I was
to him.

Koko didn’t answer me at first when I asked him to tell me about the women he’d killed. He looked rather taken aback and intimidated—by
an
eighteen-year-old,
if you can believe it. But that fit with his “follower” profile.

I continued to press him to talk about the horrific things he’d done. He looked sheepish, like a little boy who’d been caught
with his hand in the cookie jar. Finally, he replied that his lawyers told him never to talk about the cases as long as he
had pending appeals.

I looked him directly in the eyes and didn’t say a word. I didn’t have to. He sported a rather large grin on his face and
said, “A guy’s gotta have his fun, right?”

It seemed like he wanted to confide in me. Given enough time, I figured I could get him to tell me anything. I made a mental
note to begin a correspondence with him when I got back home.

It was almost pitiful the way he reached out to me, suggesting we could be friends. Koko had mutilated eight women—at least!—and
suddenly I began feeling guilty for leading him on. He mentioned to me that one of the first things he’d do after his case
was reversed on appeal—he had to hope for
something
—was look me up so we could share a few beers. He wanted to know if I’d introduce him to my family.

That question really caught me off balance. The underlying question—the question beneath the question, as it were—seemed to
be: did I really care about him, or was I just talking to him to entertain myself?

I wondered at the time, and have wondered many times since, what a friend of Andrew Kokoralies was expected to do. Would he
want me to be his new gang leader? Would we patrol college campuses together, asking coeds to have sex with us, and if they
didn’t respond favorably, rape and kill them? The thought of his walking the streets again was frightening.

I was about to answer the family question when Ken poked his head through the doorway. “John is ready for you now,” he said.

It was time to crawl back into
his
cage.

L
unchtime again. Two more hours with Gacy before I’d be rid of him. As I reentered his cell, I was determined to maintain control,
to get through the next session. Whatever he had planned, I knew it would be drawn out as long as possible. The pleasure for
him was in
playing
with his victims, not in the actual killing. As long as he believed I was coming back, I was reasonably sure I’d be safe.
I couldn’t let him know that returning the next day for another bout of “Will he or won’t he?” was out of the question.

As we sat having a quiet lunch, the scene seemed almost tranquil compared to the earlier histrionics. I decided to take the
offensive.

“John, why did you do all that shit before? Why do you have to scare me like that?”

He ignored my question altogether, attempting to reestablish his dominance. “You know that fucking your brother is against
the law,” he said. “You could go to jail for that, and your brother could get sent to a home. Do you want to see your brother
again?”

Here we go again, I thought. This guy is
relentless.
When one kind of threat didn’t work, he just used another. I took a deep breath and for the last time slipped into my role.

“Please, John,” I begged with just the right touch of panic. “You wouldn’t do that to me, would you?” My mind was suddenly
racing with the possibilities. Although I’d meticulously documented all of my tall tales, I wondered if Gacy could create
problems for me. I could just see the tabloid headlines: “Honors Student Caught in Love Triangle with Younger Brother and
Serial Killer.”

I realized Gacy had been building a case against me all this time, gathering leverage he could use if he ever needed it. The
only problem, of course, is that he still had no idea that every scenario I’d spoon-fed him was fictitious. As much as I wanted
to throw this back in his face, I maintained my restraint.

“John,” I said softly, showing appropriate deference, “could we talk about what your life in prison is like? I mean, if you
want to and all.”

He explained in great detail his notion of positive mental attitude, the creed he’d shared with Koko. Essentially, his strategy
was to accept those things that he couldn’t do anything about and make the best of the present. Since he had no future, he
relied entirely on his fantasies. Actually, it was impressive how well he’d adapted to prison life.

“You know, you’re awfully lucky to have this time with me,” he reminded again. “There are thousands of people who’d like to
be in your place right now.”

“I realize that,” I said, playing the adoring fan. “I really appreciate all you’ve done for me.” Only a few more minutes and
I’d be done with all this groveling.

“Then why are you playing games with me?” he asked. “I have a fine cock. You’ve seen it. You’ve seen its mushroom head. You’ve
got to agree it’s beautiful.”

Since he was looking at me for affirmation, I had no choice but to nod my head.

“Do you know how many guys would love me to shove it up their ass? It’s the perfect size.”

I was comforted by his relaxed manner. It was as if we were talking sports or something. I don’t know if he was feeling sorry
for me, or was just more circumspect because there were now more people in the area, but he remained reasonably appropriate
throughout the rest of our time together. I suppose he was counting on the next day to follow through on his plan. There was
no way I was going to tell him there’d be no next day. In fact, at this point I was thinking his scheduled execution couldn’t
come too soon.

As the time arrived to say goodbye, he morphed into his charming, personable self, as much for the benefit of Ken and the
guards as for me. He seemed convinced that I lacked the power to break away from him. Just to make sure, though, he bestowed
on me a few more gifts—another of his paintings, a signed photo of himself for my brother, and a signed copy of his manuscript,
A Question of Doubt,
that was in limited circulation.

“Okay, guys, have a good one,” Gacy said as Ken and I walked through the gate.

“See you, John,” Ken and I both said in unison. I was so relieved to be leaving Gacy’s clutches, I felt giddy. My escape with
body—if not full dignity—intact seemed too good to be true. As I was being led out of the prison, I felt for a moment that
something was going to happen to me. Perhaps I’d be taken hostage, or Gacy would suddenly decide to attack me from behind
with a pen and jab it in my neck. Happily, my premonitions proved false.

I asked Ken to take me back to the motel so I could start packing as soon as possible. Going home was all I could think about.

Later that night, Gacy called to check up on me and that’s when I broke the news that I wasn’t coming back.