I have always been convinced that serial killers and men who committed random acts of murder—once identified by the police and announced to the public via television news bulletins—are out to get me. I know it's irrational, but it's real.
The first time I remember being scared was in 1978, when it was discovered that John Wayne Gacy, Jr. was luring young men to his home, drugging them, molesting them, and then killing them. Gacy had as many as 27 bodies buried in his crawl space. He was known as the "Killer Clown" because he would dress up as a clown for parties in his neighborhood. I remember the day the police caught him. I was eight years old, and my parents never really had a barometer on things we were allowed to watch on TV. I think, because it happened so close to home, that many people were glued to their televisions that day, and many days thereafter. Image after image of Gacy's house, Gacy's mug shot, the snow on the ground surrounding his home, I watched them all. I heard the stories that the news reporters would tell. The revealed how Gacy would hire some of his victims to work with him. How he would gain their confidence, and then rape and murder them. I think the thing that scared me the most was that all of the victims were boys. I was a boy, I concluded, maybe he would escape from jail and come directly to our house to find me. I was convinced that was going to happen.
Then there was the time, in March of 1981, when I came home "sick" from school. I was faking it, of course, so my mom had to leave the currency exchange for a little while to retrieve me. My dad would be home in a couple of hours, so my mom told me to stay in my room and rest. I was a relatively obedient kid, so I put on my stereo and listened to music. Shortly after I began to chill out, the music was interrupted. A news report announced that a man by the name of John Hinckley, Jr. had opened fire on President Ronald Regan. The newsman kept getting more and more information as the broadcast went on. Hinckley fired a .22 caliber revolver at Regan, hitting his limo and then ricocheting off of it and hitting him in the chest. Hinckley's bullets also made contact with Press Secretary, James Brady, a secret service agent, and a police officer. They said that Hinckely was immediately detained and did not resist being caught. They also said that he was obsessed with actress Jodi Foster, and this was his way of getting her attention. He got mine. I was an 11 year old boy, immediately afraid for my life. Even though I knew the incident occurred in Washington, DC, hundreds of miles away from me, I knew I was Hinckley's next victim. He had a list of people he wanted to kill, and I was next on the list.
My obsession with serial killers did not end with Gacy. When I was in college, Jeffrey Dahmer occupied a lot of my thoughts, once I knew he existed. I was a little older, yes, but I still believed he would find a way to get me too. Just like he did the many young boys he lured to his apartment, drugged, killed, and ate. Dahmer killed 17 people during his 13 years as a serial killer. Much like Gacy, Dahmer was a repressed homosexual, who found sexual pleasure and satisfaction in killing the men he liked. Dahmer would kill his victims, and have sex with their dead bodies, before giving in to his cannibalistic tendencies. Milwaukee was not that far away, I told myself when I began to worry I would be next. He could easily get away from his imprisonment, find me in my apartment in Rogers Park, drug me, rape me, kill me, rape me again, and then eat me too. I watched the Dahmer trial on Court TV nearly every waking moment. I'd skip class sometimes just to watch. I never really stopped worrying about Dahmer until he was beaten to death in prison.
The last time I remember worrying about a serial killer was about 12 years ago. Andrew Cunanan was less of a serial killer, and more of a man who went on a killing spree. Cunanan was HIV positive and became increasingly bitter with the world after his diagnosis. It was believed that he got the disease from living part of his life as a male prostitute. Cunanan, like Hinckley in his attempt at a high profile person, killed a major celebrity--Gianni Versace. One of his other victims was Lee Miglin, a Chicago based real estate mogul. Once again, the proximity thing came into play. I was 27 years old, married, living in Round Lake Beach, IL (closer to Wisconsin than Chicago), and I was convinced that Cunanan would find me. I remember telling Cyndi about my fear. I think if she wasn't already a couple of years into our relationship, and bound by a sacrament, she would have packed her bags and looked for a more sane mate. Instead, she sympathized with me; understanding that people have fears, irrational or otherwise. She'd check the doors with me before we went to bed, and made sure I was okay. It was the most comforting feeling I ever got out of my fear. Unconditional love.
I'm still not a big fan of hearing about serial killers and murderers. I get that queasy feeling in my stomach whenever I read a news article, hear a radio announcement, or see something on TV.
I don't know if I will ever stop being afraid.
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