The Last Victim by Jason Moss, Jeffrey Kottler Page A

me as “toy boy,” sometimes as an endearment, other times in a derogatory fashion.
     If I had any doubts that he was now thinking about me in a sexual way, his interest was confirmed when he asked for various
     photos of me posing in suggestive ways. Since there was a limit to what I’d do to keep him engaged, I merely sent him a few
     standard pictures.
    He also brought up my brother again. “You mention your brother with no name or photo,” he said. “I would think if your close
     then share that and give him a name. . . . Say hi to your brother tell him to stay with it [playing baseball], but enjoy life
     as well.”
    I was sitting on the porch one day, rereading these very words and reviewing other letters—much the way a miser savors his
     gold—when Jarrod arrived home from school. It was a perfect autumn day in the desert: cool, clear, bright sun. Jarrod had
     just gotten off the bus.
    “Hey,” I called out to him, “I want to talk to you about something.”
    “What did I do now?” he asked, only half joking. By my tone of voice, he thought he might be in trouble.
    “Gacy has been asking about you,” I said.
    “What do you mean he’s been asking about me?” he choked out.
    “I think he has some sort of interest in you.” For a moment, I wondered if I should have said anything. Jarrod looked sick.
    “It might be innocent,” I continued, “but I’m getting the impression he’s going to want to get to know you better in the future.”
    “Jason,” he begged, “please don’t get me involved in this stuff. That guy’s a freak. He
kills
people for a living!”
    “Don’t worry,” I reassured him. “I’ve been thinking. What if I had you copy a letter to Gacy in your own handwriting so I—”
    “No way. I’m not gonna—”
    “Jarrod! Listen to me! You don’t have to do anything except copy a letter I’m going to write. It needs to be in your handwriting.
     That’s all you have to do. Nothing else.”
    “No way,” he said, more firmly than I’d ever heard him.
    I knew, though, that I could win him over if he’d just get into the spirit of the game.
    “Listen to me,” I pleaded. “I just want to play with him a little. If he thinks it’s you writing, he’ll tell you things he
     wouldn’t tell me. It would give me two different sources of information I can cross-check.”
    Jarrod looked very skeptical but I could see he was listening.
    “Besides,” I said with a smile, “it’ll be fun to fool him together.”
    I vowed to be very careful with Jarrod because I didn’t want him to get hurt in any way. Such was my naiveté at the time that
     I figured I could control Gacy—send him like a rat through a maze in search of cheese. I thought of my brother as being like
     a silent partner, one with no real involvement or exposure.
    Looking back on it, I think I was also partly in denial. Already, just from having had limited contact with Gacy, my sleep
     had been disrupted, my schoolwork was suffering, and I was weighed down by secrets that left me feeling alone and isolated.
     By recruiting Jarrod, even in this limited role, I probably hoped to lessen the isolation.
    I showed my brother just a few of Gacy’s letters, ones that were free of the most blatant sexual references, especially anything
     related to homosexuality. It’s amazing how many people assumed—then and later—that I must be gay to be able to play this role
     so authentically; I didn’t want Jarrod to think that, too.
    Once my brother signed on, I worked out a plan whereby I’d write Gacy two sets of letters, one from me, the other from my
     brother. I’d compose Jarrod’s letters and then have him copy them in his own handwriting. Eventually, when the content of
     the letters flying back and forth became
really
weird, I told Jarrod to tell Gacy he was learning to type. That way, I could just do the letters myself on the computer and
     have Jarrod sign them without reading.
    Of course, I never allowed