The Last Victim Read Online Free PDF Page A

to my defense. “Yeah, where do you get that from?”
    “Look,” I said, “it’s no big deal. I know it’s sort of outrageous, but that’s why it’s so cool. Who else would do this? Besides,
     these guys are all locked away in prison. What’s the harm?”
    Jarrod started giggling. “What if they write you letters in blood?”
    Then my dad got into the act as well. “What if they ask for a pint of your blood?” Now all three of them were laughing.
    “Can’t you guys ever be serious?” I complained. “Just imagine a letter from Charles Manson coming to the house. That would
     be so freaky.”
    “There’ll be no letters from killers coming to
this
house!” declared my mother.
    My dad jumped in. “Calm down, Sue. What’s the big deal? Let him write the letters. Nobody’s going to write him back.”
    “Don’t tell
me
to calm down!” she huffed. “This is my house and Jason isn’t going to do whatever the hell he wants. It’ll be like all the
     other stuff you let him do—we’ll end up suffering for it. There’ll be no letters coming to this house!”
    I was about to take the argument to the next level when my father kicked me under the table. “Just relax, Sue,” he reassured
     my mother. “Nobody’s going to write any letters. Let’s just enjoy the dinner.”
    “Well, if I
were
to write a letter,” I added, now talking directly to my father, “you know I’d have to use our return address. I’ve been thinking
     about this. If I used a post office box, someone like Gacy would know immediately that I have something to hide.”
    “But you
do
have something to hide,” my mother pointed out—more calmly this time. “You’re just a young—”
    “Mom, Dad, I know what I’m doing,” I interrupted. “I really do. You’ve got to trust me on this.”
    “So why don’t you use someone else’s address?” my father countered, partly to appease my mother.
    “Because if I use another address, he might check. Gacy, for example, had a lot of friends before he was captured. He used
     to live here in Las Vegas. He could send one of them over just to make sure I am who I say I am.”
    “That’s exactly my point,” said my mother. “I won’t have any friends of these killers coming to my house. I simply won’t tolerate
     it!”
    I knew it was senseless to continue the discussion any further. I could work on my dad later and then he’d convince my mother
     to ease up. The killers probably wouldn’t write back anyway, so what was the difference?
    Later that night, my thoughts returned to my embryonic project. After reviewing my list of potential serial killer “pen pals,”
     I confirmed my initial intuition that John Wayne Gacy was the most intriguing. He seemed to be the embodiment of all evil,
     the living example of everything I feared most. Unlike some of the others, he was totally invisible when he was operating.
     There was no way you could tell what he was up to. He wasn’t a crazed lunatic like Manson or a loner like Dahmer; rather,
     he projected the appearance of a normal guy whom most anyone would like.
    I had to talk to someone about my plan, but it was clear my parents had already heard as much as they cared to. As an alternative,
     I thought I might try bouncing a few ideas off of my girlfriend, Jennifer.
    I’d met Jenn in high school, where I’d always see her in the hallway on my way to English class. She was so stunningly beautiful
     that just a glance from her would make me speechless. She had long black glistening hair and these gorgeous big brown eyes
     that contrasted with her smooth, soft skin. Finally, one day I worked up the nerve to introduce myself and we’d dated continuously
     ever since.
    Jennifer added balance to my life. I was critical and mistrustful of people; she always saw the best in them. I was ambitious
     and future-oriented; she lived in the present, unconcerned with what would happen tomorrow. I tended to be serious; she was
     a free spirit,