It was on the last day of 2001 that I discovered I knew a man who knew John Wayne Gacy (or maybe it was on the first day of 2002, depending on how you quantify time). Near the conclusion of a rather dull New Year’s Eve party, I found myself chatting with a dude named Eric Nuzum, who works as the programming director for the National Public Radio station in Kent, Ohio. I was mostly arguing with his clever Asian girlfriend about the value of Bjork (she seemed to think Bjork was the cat’s pajamas), but the conversation somehow touched tangentially on the fact that Nuzum has one of John Wayne Gacy’s paintings hanging in his living room. I was immediately curious about this, but I found that Nuzum was reticent to talk about the subject (beyond casually admitting that he did, in fact, have one of Gacy’s paintings and that he did, in fact, carry on a friendship with the sociopath for roughly three years while the ex-clown sat on death row). I managed to pry a few more details about this relationship from him at the party, but I could tell he wasn’t exactly stoked about being hammered with questions about Gacy in the context of a New Year’s Eve fiesta. However, I asked him if I could interview him at length about Gacy at a later date, and he said, “Oh, probably.” When I e-mailed him about that possibility a month later, he was clearly more enthusiastic about having such a conversation. And by the time I finally showed up at his house, he seemed downright excited to be talking about John Wayne Gacy, at times behaving like I was a psychiatrist and he was a patient reminiscing about formative experiences from his childhood. It almost felt like the old Bob Newhart Show.
What happened, I think, was that my journalistic interest in Nuzum’s relationship with Gacy—as opposed to my prurient interest in Gacy himself—sort of jarred Eric into realizing that there was something noteworthy about having made small talk with someone who was about as nocuous as any twentieth-century American. This is especially true when one considers that Nuzum was not some kind of obsessive death groupie; his involvement with Gacy stemmed from involvement with an anticensorship group called Refuse and Resist (Nuzum is something of a First Amendment fanatic, having written a book titled Parental Advisory: Music Censorship in America). It seems Nuzum had discovered that Gacy was the only inmate in the entire Illinois penal system who wasn’t allowed to sell his paintings commercially, and—being the spunky twenty-four-year-old idealist that he was—Nuzum decided to remedy this injustice. His first step was contacting Gacy by mail (he had to make sure Gacy wanted to be liberated), and things just kind of took off from there.
Like most incarcerated humans, Gacy loved mail; unlike most incarcerated humans, Gacy was picky about his friends. When anyone wrote to him, he returned a typed, two-page survey that asked fifty-two questions about artistic affinities, political ideologies, and personal values. Nuzum still has that form. The most ironic section of the questionnaire asks the applicant to describe what kind of advice he or she would offer to children; one assumes Gacy’s honest advisement would have been, “Don’t struggle while I sodomize you.” But the bottom line is that Nuzum responded to the fifty-two questions and slowly found himself a new pen pal. After a year of writing, Gacy began calling him on the telephone (collect, of course).
“He had HBO in his cell, so we talked about what was on HBO a lot,” Nuzum recalls. “He liked classic movies, but he really seemed more interested in mainstream crap like Footloose. His tastes weren’t very sophisticated. But sometimes I suspect that he liked big, bang-up Hollywood movies like Patriot Games because he knew they were culturally popular with people on the outside, and that made him feel more normal.”
While Nuzum was telling me about Gacy’s appreciation for the early work of Kevin Bacon, I found my eyes drifting over to the rudimentary portrait of Elvis Presley on his wall. This was the painting he had mentioned at the party. The image was of a relatively young Elvis, sadly staring at the ground against a sky-blue background. In the lower right corner, I could see the signature of “J.W. Gacy.” It’s not a stellar painting; I doubt Nuzum would hang it in his living room if it didn’t come from someone who snuffed the life out of thirty-three Chicagoans and stuffed them into the crawl space beneath his home.
Now, I realize there are people who would find Nuzum’s decorating decision pretty fucked-up. They wouldn’t hang one of Gacy’s paintings in their house if he had twice the talent of Picasso, and some might even suggest that Nuzum inadvertently perpetuates the gothic glamour of mass murder; by hanging a mediocre painting in this living room, it proves that (a) Gacy is a celebrity, and (b) killing people warrants celebrity stature. I don’t think it’s a coincidence that America is the most celebrity-driven culture on earth and the homeland for more serial killers than virtually every other country combined. Serial killing is glam killing (or at least it seems that way after a culprit gets caught).
But here’s where things get complex: Nuzum is barely interested in Gacy’s murders. It’s really the one aspect of history’s most sinister clown[64] he doesn’t enjoy discussing. However, I don’t think it’s because he’s in any sort of denial; Nuzum is certain that Gacy did terrible, terrible things. It’s just that Eric happens to be one of those hyperkinetic NPR liberals who spends his free time rescuing kittens from the pound. The deeper reality, I suspect, is that he feels sorry for John Wayne Gacy, and that—somehow—he was part of a society that makes people like Gacy exist.
“I guess I always had this image of a brilliant, maniacal genius who constructed these complicated plans to satisfy his sexual urges and kill, kill, kill,” Nuzum tells with his fingers interlocked behind his head and his pupils fixed on the ceiling. “But the fact of the matter is that he really wasn’t that smart. There’s such a vast difference between trying to understand this kind of crime and trying to understand anything else. With someone like O. J. Simpson, you could argue that he killed two people and he knew exactly what he was doing. With someone like Timothy McVeigh, one assumes he was able to rationalize the 168 people he killed as causalities of war. But this is different. You know, Gacy always insisted to me that he never killed animals when he was younger, which is usually common with serial killers. For him, it was all sexually based. That was his motivation for everything. But what does that mean? I still don’t understand it.”
It sort of dawned on me that—the more I talked to Nuzum about this—the further our conversation devolved from the original “What does it mean to know a serial killer” question, which indicated to me that I probably wasn’t going to find the answer from him. All I really learned was that I am less compassionate than just about everyone I know. If I had known John Wayne Gacy, I suspect I would have been fascinated by his impending execution; I would have constantly asked him about his thoughts on death and his expectations for the afterlife, and how the experience of living changes once your life suddenly has an exact expiration date. To me, his lethal injection would have been the summit of our rapport. But Nuzum didn’t see it like that at all.
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3. In fact, Eric gets kind of annoyed when people dwell on the fact that Gacy sometimes dressed as “Pogo the Clown” and performed at children’s birthday parties. “I think the clown stuff is really overdone,” he says. “He was just doing that as part of a civic group—it was really just an outreach of his political involvement.” Weirdly, this is true: Gacy was a political junkie who was once photographed with then–First Lady Rosalynn Carter. You’d think the GOP could do something with this.