One part of Gacy’s letter, in particular, caught my attention because of the subtle ways he was trying to get me to open up
to him, especially with regard to my sexual attitudes and behavior:
. . . One of the things you should know about me, is that I am open minded, outspoken, not very tactful, nonjudgmental, liberal,
BI [bi-sexual], and I say what I mean. The only thing I ask is don’t assume anything of me. If your not sure then ask. Nothing
offends me and nothing is personal. No subject is off limits as long as your willing to be just as open and honest with me.
I dislike phoney people. 80% of what is known about me in the media is fantasy. So don’t assume, just ask. If you want my
opinion on something or point of view thats what you will get as I am not into stroking you as you have your own hand for
that when you get the daily urge. Ha ha.
The letter continued on for a half dozen pages, during which he talked about my answers to his questionnaire and prodded me
for more details. He was especially interested in anything I had to say about my sexual experience and fantasies. He kept
reassuring me that he was a safe confidant and that I should tell him anything and everything I’d ever thought or felt.
Relax about who will see what you write as I don’t share my letters with anyone and even if you stand on your head to jack
off, I would say go for it as I am not into judging someone else. Same with being a male stripper. In fact maybe you could
explain that liberal side of you that you seem protective of. Hey, life is an adventure and as long as its consenting and
you feel good about it then go for it.
I felt the beginnings of confusion even as early as this second letter. If I didn’t know who this guy was, or what he did,
I would have found him, despite the sexual innuendo, interesting—even engaging. Since I was feeling somewhat alienated and
lonely, I almost welcomed his offer of friendship. I admit this only with the greatest reluctance; the more rational part
of me was well aware of what he was trying to do and realized he wasn’t the slightest bit interested in my welfare. Gacy’s
game was to find a little diversion in his otherwise restricted, boring life stuck in a cell twenty-three hours a day.
Studying the letter more thoroughly, I noticed the many references to masturbation. This would become a common theme in Gacy’s
letters as he jumped from one subject to the next, and then abruptly started talking about sex in the most provocative and
disgusting way he could. I found this pornographic streak especially difficult to take. Although I was certainly no prude,
I did have a fairly idealized view of sex, and it certainly didn’t include sadomasochistic or incestuous practices. I felt
secure in my own heterosexual inclinations, but the constant references to homosexuality were unsettling because in my role-playing
guise I’d be forced to grapple with them.
I assumed from his letter that my answers to his questionnaire intrigued him and that he wished to know more. He seemed to
be defending himself, letting me know that what I probably knew about him was just media sensationalism. The message was clear:
to learn the truth—Gacy’s truth—I’d need to ask him directly.
At this point I knew I had Gacy’s attention, but the question was, for how long? I had no idea how many others were competing
for his time and attention. To ensure that I remained his focus, I decided, in my next letter, to continue modeling myself
on his “ideal victim” by painting myself as both sexually active and submissive.
December 12, 1993
Dear John,
I will be honest with you. I AM a very liberal person. I wrote modestly because I was afraid that you would show my letters
to others. Since you said you would not do that, I will be more relaxed with you in writing. When I was discussing sex, I
stated that I was interested in trying a lot of different things. Although I haven’t tried much myself, I have an open mind
to try many different things. Right now there is an older woman who keeps forcing herself on me. She is one of my mother’s
friends, and last week she told me to go down on her. I felt uncomfortable, and just wanted to do as she said. I was afraid
to cause any trouble.
Well, I will not bore you with that problem. John, I know we just started corresponding, but I was wondering how you felt
about writing me. I think you are a great guy, and I am really taking a personal interest in the letters you write me. I hope
it is the same on your part. Is it?
Like I mentioned to you before, I really want us to become friends, and for you to say what is on your mind. I don’t always
want to ask you specific questions, I would rather you just volunteer information as the thoughts go through your head, good
or bad. . . . The only other things I would like to know about you are the ideas, thoughts, and emotions that enter your mind.
(Boring or exciting, it does not matter to me, I am truly fascinated and interested in the things you think about.) It does
not matter if your letters become 20 pages long, I am interested, and it is very important to me. (As long as you feel comfortable
with it of course.)
Your friend,
Jason Moss
In retrospect, I was naive to think that Gacy would confide in me by letter secrets he’d never told anyone before, or that
he might even confess his crimes. But it did seem to me that if I could just get him comfortable with airing his thoughts,
he’d reveal things indirectly.
Gacy’s immediate reply included the following:
I will say one thing. Your letters sound like that you would be much older than your 18 years, soon to be 19. You come across
very responsible in how you speak. I have a saying— don’t say it unless you intend on doing it and you come across as if you
mean to do what you say, and that to me is being honest with yourself.
Even though I knew Gacy was playing with me, I was nevertheless flattered. Just as I’d selected
him
out of hundreds of Death Row predators to write to, he’d selected
me
to focus on out of hundreds of academics, voyeurs, and would-be disciples vying for his attention.
I’d earned the devil’s nod.
A
t the time, my bedroom looked like most any other male teenager’s inner sanctum, decorated in a way that reminded an unwary
interloper—my mother, for example— that the hormones were abundantly flowing. I had a poster on one of my walls of two beautiful
women bent over on the beach. Its caption read: “California Beach Bums.” On the opposing wall was an assortment of other cheesecake
shots that I’d cut out of
Playboy.
There was actually a
floor
in my room, but the joke in our house was that nobody had seen it in years. Strewn around the room, covering every available
inch, were dirty clothes, as well as clean clothes that I’d taken out and planned to wear sometime in the near future. Books
were stacked everywhere, reflecting my diverse interests: school books, library books, and of course my growing collection
of works about serial killers.
I was seated at my desk around midnight, furiously typing away at the computer, when a knock at the door cut through my concentration.
“Come in,” I grunted.
“Jason,” my father whispered, poking his head through the door, “it’s awfully late. Are you going to be able to get up for
school tomorrow?”
“Yeah. I’m just working on another letter.” By this point my parents were resigned to my “project.” Even so, I downplayed
the number of letters that were flying back and forth and continued intercepting the mail every afternoon.
“Well,” he replied, “I’m getting ready for bed. Make sure you turn off all the lights downstairs and don’t forget to let the
dog out. He’s been having accidents all over the house lately. Mom’s probably going to take him to the vet tomorrow.”
“Okay, Dad,” I mumbled, only half listening as I continued typing.
My father stood in the doorway watching me for a minute. Almost against his will, he asked, “So how’s the letter writing going?
Is he liking what you have to say?”
“I hope so,” I responded noncommittally. I didn’t know how much my father really wanted to know. I could tell he was really
curious about what I was up to, but if I told him too much, it might lead to trouble with my mom. I decided to give him a
general idea without too many specifics.
“I just try to imagine what he’d want to hear. That’s what I tell him.”
My father nodded. “Well, if anyone can do that, it’s you.”
I wasn’t quite sure if that was a compliment or not. I preferred to think that in his own way my father was telling me he
was proud of what I was doing even if he didn’t understand it all.
“Thanks, Dad,” I said. “Good night. I’ll see you in the morning.”
Practically speaking, the real curse of responding to Gacy’s letters had become the amount of research and reflection it required.
Sometimes I’d stay up until four in the morning, writing and rewriting each sentence. I had to cross-reference everything
I told him because I knew he’d notice the slightest inconsistency in my story. After all, he had nothing to do all day except
to try to suppress thoughts of his upcoming execution; I knew my letters would be a welcome distraction and that he’d study
them intently.
Sometimes Gacy would try to turn the tables and trick
me
—or at least it felt that way. He’d say, remember three weeks ago when you said you were wearing a red shirt? How come you
didn’t mention that shirt again? I knew then that Gacy had his own index system, that he remembered everything I ever told
him.
I tried to be objective as I went through every line I created. How would he interpret this? What would it trigger? Is this
what my fictitious character would think or feel or say? I made sure that every letter that went out was a masterpiece of
subtlety, yet be a lever that opened Gacy up just a little bit more. It was ridiculously time-consuming.
While previously I’d always been a perfect student, for the first time I was about to get Bs in my first-semester classes.
I became so preoccupied, so obsessed with my serial killer project, that I let everything else slip in my life— not only school
but romantic relationships, friendships, and athletic pursuits. It occurred to me that
I
might be the one who was hooked, not Gacy.
One night I was sitting on the couch in the living room staring at the blank television screen, a biology book open on my
lap, when I heard footsteps.
“Doing your homework, honey?” my mother asked softly.
“Yeah, I got a test tomorrow. I just can’t get into studying.”
She walked over to me. “Come here, Jason, let me feel your head.”
“Mom, I’m fine.”
“Are you coming down with something? You look like you’re losing weight. How does your throat feel?”
I wanted to tell my mother what was going on, but I knew the trouble that would bring. Tender moments between us were rare.
As irritated as I felt about her bothering me, I was also enjoying her concern.
“Mom, I’m just under a lot of stress right now. I have a test coming up. And a ton of homework building up.”
“You’re going to make yourself sick,” she warned. “Those migraines will come back.”
“Trust me, Mom, I’m fine. After this week everything will be more relaxed.”
• • •
Sometime after, I decided it was time to show my parents some of Gacy’s letters, a few that I picked because they made him
seem pretty normal. Since my mother was a student of crime stories herself, I knew her curiosity would work to my advantage.
“Hey, Mom, check out this letter Gacy sent me. He’s talking about what it’s like in prison on Death Row.”
At first, she seemed fascinated by the letters. Soon, though, the novelty wore off because the ones I selected for her to
view were the most boring ones I could find.
“That’s very interesting, Jason, but where are the
rest
of the letters? You know, the ones you lock away in your safe?”
Oops.
I guess they knew more about what I was up to than I thought. The safe was a sore point between us. I’d been very concerned
that my mother would start going through my stuff and discover what I was doing, so I purchased a large steel safe in which
I could lock away my private things. It was handy for hiding not only my letters but also my collection of
Penthouse
and
Playboy
magazines.
“Mom,” I tried to explain, although I could tell she wasn’t believing me, “they all say the same things. We’re like . . .
well, we’re just friends. I’m not going to show you all the letters because some of them are private to me.”
After that, my parents stepped up their campaign to get me focused on something else. They nagged me constantly. They even
teased me and called me gay. They’d ask at dinner, “Jason, are you still writing to your boyfriend in prison?” Then they’d
laugh.
There was really little they could do, though. When I’m determined to do something, nothing can stop me. Still, I knew they
were worried and they did their best to bring me back under control. The one thing I felt bad about is that I could hear my
parents arguing all the time, Dad usually taking my side, telling Mom to leave me alone.
One of the consequences of having to be so secretive in my actions is that I became even more committed to following through
on what I was doing. You can’t imagine how inconvenient it was to leave school in the middle of the day to get the mail! The
more time and energy I devoted to all this, the greater importance the letters began to have in my life. Each was like a trophy
given to me by Gacy. It was like he was
validating
me, affirming me in a way that my parents rarely did. I actually felt grateful.
To be honest, I felt a kind of friendship. Remember, I wasn’t corresponding with a man who talked about killing, or even sex
all the time. Sometimes he’d ask about school, or we’d talk baseball and other sports.
Even when I asked him directly about the murders, he was convincing and logical in proclaiming his innocence. There were times
when I’d actually believe what he was saying. He’d say, “Jason, so many other people had keys to my house. They were always
coming and going. They were using drugs. I was working so many hours, I was never home. It was like my house was a recreation
center for kids. I had a pool table and everything. Besides, do you really think I’m so stupid that I’d actually bury the
bodies underneath my own house?”