The Last Victim (5 page)

He watched while I struggled with this. I was feeling very uncomfortable about the whole situation. Irrationally, I was sure
I was going to run into someone I knew, and the next morning the TV would be broadcasting that I’d engaged the services of
a male hooker.

Even more disturbing were the images that formed in my brain of what Rico did for a living. The very
idea
of two men having sex together stirred up some of my most conservative values, so much so that his taking money from almost
anyone for his services seemed secondary. Vaguely, I wondered if I was being too judgmental.

Finally, I got right to the point and asked Rico what most of his customers asked for.

“Most guys just want to be blown,” he said matter-offactly. “Others want to be the top man.”

“What’s that?” I asked, having a feeling I knew.

“That’s where they get to do me from behind. That costs the most. I get it all, though. Everything from guys paying to suck
my dick to them paying me to fuck them up the ass.”

I couldn’t believe I was hearing this stuff! But I was very careful to maintain a blank expression. I could tell he was trying
to shock me and I wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of knowing how uncomfortable I was feeling.

“So,” I continued, “how do you usually get propositioned?”

He then proceeded to educate me about the ins and outs, so to speak, of male prostitution. I learned the terms “hookers” and
“Johns” use to describe their roles, how they recognize one another, what they do and how they do it. To tell you the truth,
I was totally into this conversation. I couldn’t believe how easy it was to pay someone for a half hour of his time and have
him reveal the most bizarre, secret aspects of himself. I knew this was just what I needed to authenticate the character I
was in the process of developing.

There was one aspect of the solicitation game that especially interested me because that would be the part of Gacy’s world
I’d most need to know about. I wasn’t sure how to approach the subject diplomatically, so I just asked Rico straight out:
“Did anyone ever try to hurt you?”

He pulled out a cigarette and looked thoughtful. “You’d be surprised how often that happens. Guys try a lot, but you have
to be ready for it.” Although he was acting as if being in constant jeopardy was no big deal, I could tell it really bothered
him. After a pause, he continued. “One guy hit me over the head with a club as soon as I got into his car. He said he thought
I looked like some guy who robbed him, but I just got the hell out of there. Another time, a guy put a knife to my throat
while I was blowing him.”

“Were you scared?” I asked him, frightened myself just hearing the story.

“Fuck yeah! I was thinking about biting his dick completely off. Fuck that cocksucker!” He was angry all over again, just
thinking about the incident.

“So how did you get out of that situation?”

“I thought I’d just be able to bail out of there, but I was wrong. After I blew him, he fuckin’ pissed on me.”

Very naively, I asked him what he meant.

“He said, ‘If you fucking move, I’ll slice your throat.’ Then he made me open my mouth and he pissed inside. He did manage
to cut the side of my neck from the force of him holding the knife against it. Look at the scar.”

Rico then showed me the scar as he continued. “I was so mad at that motherfucker. I wanted to kill him. If I ever see him
again, I got a forty-five waiting to cap his ass.”

“So how did you escape the guy?” I asked, completely captivated by his story. Listening to this guy was far better than reading
about this world any day.

Rico seemed to have had enough of the conversation. We’d now run over the agreed-upon half hour anyway. He looked at me directly
and asked, “Does this talk turn you on? I’d fuck you if you want to experiment. A lot of guys will pay me, and still won’t
admit they’re fags.”

“No. I’m not gay,” I told him. “This really is just for school.”

Well, at least the first part was truthful. I didn’t feel too bad, though, because Rico had been fairly paid for his time.

For what I had in mind, it was important that I be able to speak convincingly in a way that Gacy would never question. I knew
I had to be careful in everything that I wrote because I figured he had nothing to do all day except carefully scrutinize
every word that arrived by letter.

So much for my strategy. I had more research to do, more interviews, more reading, more reflecting on how I would craft the
first letter to attract Gacy’s attention.

As I look back at all that unfolded during the next year, there’s no way I could have possibly predicted what would result
from this first step. It never occurred to me as I was creating a means to manipulate, control, and open up a collection of
the world’s most notorious serial killers that it would be I who was ultimately controlled and manipulated.

P
eople always ask me why I do things that, to any normal person, are “over the top.” Though self-analysis is only as good as
the analyzer, let me try to take a stab at explaining my motivation.

Fear is a big theme in my life. Always has been. And every time I confront someone or something that makes me uneasy, my second
impulse (after stifling the urge to run) is to study the source of my anxiety in an attempt to control it.

As regards this plan to gain the confidence of several serial killers, it felt like if I could fool someone like Gacy, if
I could manage him and others like him, then I’d be protected against harm. This was magical thinking, I know— even irrational.
But when this whole thing began, this was the only motive I could clearly articulate to myself even if it didn’t satisfy others.
“Tell me again, Jason,” I often heard from friends, “why are you wasting your time preparing to write letters to killers,
instead of coming with us to the party?”

What I realized is that the only answer people would accept was that I was working on a research project for school. In fact,
this turned out to be true.

For my political science class, we had to do a research paper on some facet of the discipline. We had a brief section on capital
punishment in the textbook, so I figured if I asked some actual killers how they felt about the subject, it might add some
legitimacy to what was otherwise a pretty harebrained scheme. I also figured that, given the unique quotes that would be layered
in, the paper couldn’t help earning a high grade.

After class one afternoon, I decided to run my idea past the professor to see what he thought. I could feel the presence of
two or three other students behind me, listening, as I described what I had in mind.

“Professor Gillman, I was thinking about doing my research paper on capital punishment and—”

“Well, that’s great,” he interrupted me. “But the paper is not due until four months from now.” He was dismissing me and already
moving on to the next student.

I hurriedly continued. “I know, but I usually like to get an early start.” I had his attention again. “What I want to know
is if it would be all right if I focused the paper on capital punishment from the prisoners’ viewpoint?”

“What do you mean?” he asked.

“I was going to write some condemned killers and find out as much as I could about how they felt on the issue. I thought that
would be a unique angle, and would make for an interesting paper. Don’t you think?”

He didn’t seem impressed. In fact, he looked annoyed, although I had no idea why. “I think there’s enough research out there
on capital punishment without you doing all this unnecessary poking.”

Poking,
I remember thinking. Is that all I’d be doing?

I could see the other students staring at me. They seemed surprised as much by my early start on the term paper as by my choice
of subject. One of the guys turned to me and asked, “So who are you going to write to?”

I shrugged off the question. I knew where this conversation would lead. And I’d taken enough hits already from my family and
friends.

“Jason, come on! What’s the
real
reason you want to talk to these killers?” my buddies would tease. Or they’d call out to me across campus: “Hey, Jason, get
any letters from Manson lately?”

Then they’d giggle and I’d laugh back, all the while stifling my irritation. But how could I blame them? I never took the
time to really explain the
why
of it all. Maybe because I was afraid to confront it.

When I was totally honest with myself, I realized that part of the reason I was reaching out to these killers was that I
admired
them. Not for their crimes certainly—their behavior was beyond reprehensible—but for their nerve and follow-through. Not
only did they dare to spit in the face of the rules that govern all people everywhere, but they did it
repeatedly,
as if taunting those who would try to control them.

At a time in my life when I was naturally experiencing some tension between what was expected of me—the “right path”—and a
building urge to make my mark in a unique way, it was easier for these killers’ actions to evoke in me a kind of awe.

Only later, after it was all over, would I realize the truth: that the perversion I read about—and ultimately witnessed—was
weakness masquerading as strength.

I’d always known that there is a close link between criminals and those who catch them. I’d heard interviews in which police
officers confided that they could have easily gone the other way if they’d gotten different breaks. And of course, there’s
the phenomenon in which serial killers often find ways to get close to the police and pretend to be officers themselves. I
suspected that criminals and law enforcement officials have something in common—a taste for living on the edge. And if I was
to ever become someone who could bring these killers to justice, I needed to better understand my own dark side.

Unfortunately, the journey I was beginning turned out to be very time-consuming. As important as it was for me to do well
my first semester, I spent the next month reading everything I could get my hands on about my first subject, John Wayne Gacy.
I read not only the few books written about him but also hundreds of articles. I watched video of interviews he’d given. I
read the transcripts of his trial. Finally, I studied the profile of Gacy’s victims, including their physical characteristics,
their interests and personalities, their ages, and sexual preferences.

Putting everything I could find together, I concluded that Gacy was a man who thrived on power and control. He was a sexual
sadist who reveled in the pain of others. He was absolutely brutal and merciless with his victims and yet could be incredibly
charming when he chose. He was an expert manipulator, choosing victims who were emotionally weak, sexually confused, and vulnerable.
Most of all, he seemed to underestimate his victims, and I felt certain I could use that to my advantage.

When I viewed videotapes of Gacy, I noticed that he seemed confident and cocky. He always had an answer for everything, including
what the two dozen bodies were doing beneath his home.

“It beats me,” he’d say, shrugging. “Someone else must have put them there. If I’m guilty of anything, it’s operating a funeral
home without a license.” Then he’d flash a smug smile.

That overconfidence could be used against him, I figured. Gacy looked down on young boys, especially “gay boys.” Given that’s
what I’d be posing as, I thought I could hold my own.

I recalled several other times in my life when adults had underestimated me. I remembered one day, soon after I’d received
my driver’s license, when I was driving down a road at moderate speed and a guy pulled right in front of me and made a U-turn.
I put on the brakes but still couldn’t avoid the inevitable collision.

The driver of the other vehicle immediately jumped out.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” he yelled.

“Sorry, sir,” I replied. “The road was slippery. I couldn’t stop.”

“The hell you couldn’t. Shit. Look at my fuckin’ truck!”

At that point, I didn’t say a word. I just kept my head down, stared at my feet, and waited for the cops to arrive. I knew
absolutely nothing would be solved by talking to this angry guy who was obviously going to paint a false picture of what happened.

“Fuckin’ kids on the roads,” he screamed into the night. “God damn it!” Then he looked at me. “You’re insured, ain’t ya? You’re
going to pay for this, ya know? You better have goddamn insurance!”

I remained quiet, just nodding my head when it seemed appropriate. I wanted this guy to know as little as possible about me.

The police finally arrived at the scene. One officer approached us while the other surveyed the damage to both our vehicles.

“Okay, guys, what happened here?” the officer asked, shifting his eyes around to take in the scene.

“Look,” the other driver said as he pointed at his truck, “this kid smacked right into me when I was trying to make a U-turn.
He came from nowhere, going way over the speed limit. Didn’t even see me. He must be drunk or something. He might even be
retarded; he doesn’t even talk.”

As I listened to this story I couldn’t help smiling to myself. Mr. U-Turn was digging himself in deeper and deeper.

The officer eyeballed me. “Well, son, is that what happened?”

“Not exactly, Officer,” I replied calmly. Then in a confident, methodical way, I proceeded to explain my version of what occurred.
“Actually, for me to have been speeding, the damage to both of our vehicles would have been a lot more severe. As you can
see, the damage is minimal.”

The driver looked stunned. I didn’t seem at all like the passive, stupid kid he’d been screaming at a few minutes earlier.

“From the skid marks evident here,” I continued, pointing to the road, “you can see that, in fact, I
did
see the vehicle way ahead of time and made an effort to stop.” I continued on in defense-attorney style for another minute.