The Man Who Killed Boys (29 page)

Resentment in the community had been simmering. Residents of Des Plaines were rightfully proud of their police department and of the fine investigative work that had broken open a case that its much larger and presumably more sophisticated and better trained brother organization in Chicago had bungled, despite several encounters with the suspect. Lieutenant Kozenczak, in particular, had distinguished himself. But other members of the department had also exhibited the highest degree of proficiency in their police work, pursuing the case with relentless determination and detailed investigative methods.

Now, suddenly, it seemed to some residents of the suburb that after all their hard work, the investigators responsible for breaking the case were being crowded out by larger agencies anxious for the positive publicity.

When Judge Fitzgerald ruled against Gacy's appearance, partly because of the enormous security problems that would have been involved transporting him the twenty miles to Des Plaines, he also announced that the case was being moved to the Criminal Courts Building adjacent to the county jail. Tighter security could be provided for the suspect's court appearances there.

Amirante was also having problems relating to his decision to defend Gacy. First he began receiving abusive and threatening telephone calls at his home. Then he came under mild criticism in the media for representing Gacy while still a member of the Cook County Public Defender's Office. According to court-imposed guidelines, public defenders were allowed no outside work whatsoever. Amirante defended himself, explaining that he tried to contact his boss to quit his job the night he began representing Gacy. He said he couldn't get in touch with his office chief that night, however, and resigned the next morning. Spokesmen for the public defender's office indicated they were satisfied with Amirante's behavior in the affair.

Dr. Stein also found himself in the middle of a brouhaha when he ventured into sensitive areas during taping of a program scheduled for later airing on Chicago radio station WMAQ. Responding to a question about the murders, the medical examiner remarked that "... a sane person could have done this and could go to the (electric) chair." When excerpts of the interview were published, the comments brought an immediate outcry from Gacy's defense lawyers, and they filed for an injunction to block the broadcast. Motta complained that "sanity may be an integral part" of the trial.

The attorneys were especially incensed because the gag order had just been issued. Sheriff Elrod had met with Cook County Corrections Director Philip Hardiman and worked out guidelines for jail and hospital employees to protect Gacy from disclosures that could prejudice his case, and there was some indication that public interest was beginning to wane.

A circuit court judge rejected the injunction suit two days before the scheduled broadcast. The program was aired Sunday night after considerable free publicity.

Gacy's defense had experienced other unwelcome publicity. Just prior to Judge White's order limiting conversations with the press, the
Chicago Tribune
published a front-page picture of Gacy in the psychiatric ward of Cermak Hospital with his arms spread and strapped to the sides of the bed by leather restraints. A sheriff's deputy was subsequently accused of smuggling the photograph from the jail complex and was fired.

Newspapers reported that Gacy was secured to his bed, except for brief exercise periods under the watchful eyes of guards, after bungling a suicide attempt. Anonymous sources were quoted as saying he crawled under his bed and wrapped a towel around his throat in an effort to strangle himself. Hardiman claimed Gacy merely fell off his bed, and said the incident wasn't classed as a suicide attempt. He refused to confirm or deny the report that Gacy was not strapped into the restraints until after the reputed tumble.

Gacy's behavior and experiences while in custody contributed to the publicity glut that continued regardless of the judge's order. Newspapers first announced that Gacy had written two notes, one to his mother and another intended for a pair of Chicago newsmen,
Chicago Sun-Times
columnist Mike Royko and television commentator Walter Jacobson.

It was reported that he wrote to his mother that he had been sick for a long time, both physically and mentally, and that if he died he wanted to be buried next to his Uncle Ray. He also reputedly listed locations where he had picked up youths. Hardiman conceded that letters were written, but he refused to confirm any other information.

Even though he was housed in an isolation ward at Cermak Hospital where he was shut off from the regular jail population, Gacy acquired the distinction of becoming the first inmate to have a twenty-four-hour guard. Hardiman conceded that not even Richard Speck was watched so closely.

As he did at Anamosa, Gacy appeared to adjust easily to his new circumstances as a prisoner. His guards addressed him as "Inmate Gacy," and he referred to them in turn as "Guard" or "Officer." He was quiet and seemed to be satisfied with his treatment except for once when his room was searched for weapons. He complained that he was being singled out for the shakedown, but quieted down when it was explained that the searches were routine for all prisoners.

Shortly after his arrival at the county jail complex, he began collecting articles about himself from newspapers and magazines, which he filed in a folder. When he wasn't clipping stories he was often playing Scrabble, chess, checkers, and other board games or watching television with two other prisoners who shared the isolation ward with him. They sometimes ate together. Both inmates, whom he befriended, were accused of murdering small boys.

Edward Wierzbicki, a part-time handyman, was being held for the murder of five-year-old Patrick Chavez. The child's naked body was found on June 6, 1978 stuffed into a garbage can behind Wierzbicki's home. Wierzbicki, who was earlier tried for the murder of his grandmother and acquitted, had a record as a child molester and was charged with Patrick's slaying.

Gacy's other prison friendship was with Allen Washington, who was being held for the murder of a three-year-old stepson. Washington had previously served a prison term for killing his twenty-three-month-old daughter when she began crying as he was feeding her. He was accused of beating the little boy to death after the child wet his pants, and dumping the body in a field, then dousing it with gasoline and igniting it.

Gacy was quartered in the hospital section of the jail after complaining of heart problems, but authorities admitted that he was kept there more for his own safety from other inmates than for treatment of illness. Gacy could be in danger from other inmates among the general population of the jail, who might see opportunities to build reputations as tough guys by murdering the celebrity prisoner. But he could also be in serious danger from other inmates who simply hated child molesters. Prisoners traditionally look down on other inmates accused of or convicted of sex crimes, and especially despise those who have sexually abused children.

The hatred for child molesters was never more dramatically displayed than during the Kingston Penitentiary riot in Ontario, Canada in 1971. A gang of inmates waving clubs stormed into a cellblock where sexual offenders were kept and dragged thirteen of the shrieking men outside during the bloody uprising.

The terrified prisoners were tied to chairs in the center of a circular dome, and while hundreds of other inmates screamed their hatred from the tiers above them, the sex offenders were slashed with knives and beaten to bloody pulps with karate chops, clubs, and iron bars. Two child molesters died.

Brutal treatment of sex offenders by other prisoners, especially if children have been the victims, can be an expression of status. It gives a convict, who might be serving a prison term for car theft or murder, an opportunity to look down on someone considered worse than himself.

Both Albert H. DeSalvo and Juan Corona were stabbed in prison. DeSalvo, better known as the "Boston Strangler," after confessing to a murder orgy that cost the lives of thirteen women and triggered near hysteria in the Boston area in the 1960s, was slain in his infirmary cell at Walpole State Prison. He was stabbed sixteen times, six times in the heart.
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Corona was stabbed thirty-two times at the California Medical Facility, the prison hospital at Vacaville. He survived the attack but lost his left eye. It was no accident that Gacy shared isolation with two other prisoners charged with crimes against children.

The old jail complex is notorious for its inadequacies and is the target of regular media exposés of its poor conditions. Vicious street gangs like the Black P Stone Nation, the Disciples, and Latin Kings are dominant forces inside the walls and it has been charged that they smuggle contraband, run extortion schemes, and brutalize and rape other prisoners almost at will. Guards have been quoted as saying privately there are almost fifty serious assaults daily among the 3,600 prisoners over such things as food, selection of television shows, and sex.

One year thirty-nine inmates escaped from the troubled institution, and in 1977 a U.S. Justice Department Study by top environmental health experts criticized the jail as "unfit for further human habitation." The same year the Cook County Corrections Director was tried on charges of beating prisoners, and fired even though he was found not guilty.

In isolation with his fellow prisoners accused of child murder, Gacy was spared the brutality of living among the general jail population and found renewed interest in religion. He turned to the comfort of his faith, a not uncommon occurrence among men and women in prison. Inmates have time in jail to ponder such things as their own spirituality and they are regularly exposed to clergymen anxious to save souls. A social worker gave Gacy a Bible and a deacon gave him a second one. Not long after that, Gacy told the Catholic chaplain that he was praying, saying the rosary and reading his Bibles every day. He especially liked the Book of Psalms.

In early April he was rushed semiconscious and under heavy armed guard from his jail cell to nearby Cook County Hospital for emergency treatment. He had vomited and complained of stomach and chest pains, all symptoms of heart attack, before being taken to the hospital's intensive care unit shortly before midnight.

He had low blood sugar and had been fasting for Lent. Since February 28, he had refused all food and liquid except orange juice, coffee, and water, losing almost twenty pounds in the process. The medical staff treated him with intravenous doses of glucose, and his physician explained that the fast may have contributed to some of the symptoms of heart attack. After extensive testing, there were no conclusive evidence his illness was related to a heart ailment. (Subsequent trips to the hospital in June and July occurred and it was disclosed that he suffers from a chronic heart condition, angina pectoris.)

The same night in April when Gacy became ill, the Chicago area was raked by a killer windstorm that generated gusts up to sixty miles an hour and caused at least two deaths while inflicting damage throughout the state estimated at $10 million.

Three days later a crane operator spotted a body above the locks at the Dresden Dam in the Illinois River south of Joliet, and notified the lockmaster, Dan Callahan. That night a team from the Cook County Medical Examiner's Office, using dental charts and X-rays, identified the remains of Robert Piest. It had been almost four months since his disappearance. Callahan speculated that the heavy winds had dislodged the body.

An autopsy was performed at the Fishbein Institute and it was determined that death had been caused by suffocation. Paper towels had been jammed down the boy's throat. A few days later nearly four hundred relatives, friends, and newsmen gathered in Rosemont, squinting against the bright sun and talking softly against the intermittent roaring of jet aircraft from nearby Chicago O'Hare. Some filed inside Our Lady of Hope Church for Robert's funeral Mass. In the church, the Reverend Francis Buck expressed his sympathy to the family. "Their sense of loss will remain for some time," the minister reminded the mourners, "but they will know his life and death were not in vain." He suggested that the youth gave his life "to end these senseless killings."

In another move designated to give meaning to the short life of their son and brother, and to the lives of other victims of the mass slayings, the family announced establishment of the Robert J. Piest Foundation to "recognize and support those individuals and organizations or activities committed to helping reduce crime against children." The Piests said family members would work with a board drawing from the professions of psychology, religion, journalism, medicine, law enforcement, and child welfare to select recipients of cash awards. Several donations had already been received in their son's name and others were promised.

The Piests also filed an $85-million damage suit against John Wayne Gacy, Jr. and others, including the Chicago Police Department, the Illinois Department of Corrections, and the Iowa Board of Parole. Negligence was charged on the part of the law enforcement and corrections agencies.

Marko Butkovich had filed suit earlier against Gacy and PDM Contractors, Inc., for $6 million, which he expected the murder suspect to earn through "publication and other reproduction of his narratives of his acts." Gacy is accused in the lawsuit of causing John Butkovich's death.

Rignall, represented by the same attorney as the Butkoviches, was also talking of filing a multimillion-dollar suit, possibly against both Gacy and the Chicago Police Department, arising from the abuse he said he suffered at the suspect's hands.

While funeral arrangements were being made for Robert Piest, police were announcing that the identity of another victim had been established. Randall Reffett was officially listed among the dead after authorities learned he had once been X-rayed at a Chicago hospital for a stab wound. The X-ray showed his jaw and some of his teeth. A microfilm of the X-ray was enlarged and compared with the teeth of unidentified skeletons taken from under the house, to match them with Reffett's.