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Authors: Clifford L. Linedecker
Tags: Social Science, Criminology
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returned.
Footnotes
3 The full names of the children, who have been adopted by their stepfather, have not been used to protect them from embarrassment.
4 Waterloo Courier , December 24, 1978.
5 Ibid .
3 ...
A Model
Neighbor
The bright splash of freshly cut flowers catching and reflecting the warm rays of the midsummer sun contrasted with the pathetic, hunched figure at the grave. The heavy body was shaking with sobs, causing tears to well from the puffy eyes and slide slowly over fat ruddy cheeks as the head bowed and the thick neck shrank into sturdy shoulders.
To someone who knew John Wayne Gacy, Jr. it may have seemed strange. During his father's lifetime there were harsh words and hurt feelings. Now that the elder Gacy was in his grave, one among thousands at the Maryhill Cemetery in northwest suburban Niles, the old hurts were engraved into the relationship between father and son forever. There could be no more explanations, no apologies. The misunderstandings could not be changed. Yet, it appeared that in death Gacy's father was closer to him than in life.
Gacy was deeply grieved that he had not been able to attend his father's funeral. He was hurt that, as the last of the remaining males in the immediate family, he could not have been there to comfort his mother and sisters. It also distressed him that he could not pay his final respects to his father, whom he loved despite their misunderstandings.
Gacy visited the sprawling cemetery that covers about one tenth of the land area of the attractive Chicago suburb many times during the years after his father's death. Most often he stopped there when he was troubled, bringing fresh flowers to place on the grave.
He always visited the grave on Christmas. Holidays were important to Gacy, and Christmas was the most important of all. It meant good food, gifts, and the warmth of a family that was close and loving. Now the Christmas period marked the anniversary of his father's death. The big man cried at the grave.
But he didn't have time to live in the past. He was still a young man under thirty, and he was energetic and anxious to get on with the task of rebuilding his life.
After driving 250 miles from Waterloo to Chicago, he moved in with his sixty-one-year-old mother in the family home and obtained a job as chef at a restaurant in Chicago's Loop. Cooking was a profession that he understood and was comfortable with. Managing the Kentucky Fried Chicken outlets in Waterloo had provided valuable experience, and his work at the prison added to his skill. There were other men in prison with experience as cooks, and Gacy had watched, listened, and learned. He was especially proud of his salad bars.
Parole authorities in Iowa and Illinois were understanding and cooperative when Gacy applied for permission to move back to Chicago. Returning home seemed to offer the best opportunity for rehabilitation after his prison term. He had the support of a loving family, and his mother provided a home for him. Most importantly he had a job. Approval was routine.
Gacy applied himself to his new job with gusto. If no one was impressed when he bragged of once being married to the daughter of the man who founded the Kentucky Fried Chicken chain, he didn't seem to notice. He continued telling the story, or other tales, about his days as a U.S. Marine, and of the thousands of dollars he won and lost at the gambling tables in Las Vegas where he said he once worked as an ambulance driver.
Jobs for cooks and chefs are plentiful, and Gacy moved around, finally landing a position at an eating spot popular with members of Chicago's professional hockey team, the Blackhawks. Although he was not an avid sports fan, any job that offered an opportunity to rub shoulders with celebrities was attractive to him.
With his gift for talking and ingratiating himself with others, it wasn't difficult for him to obtain tickets to Blackhawk games from the players. When he passed them on to
Footnotes
3 The full names of the children, who have been adopted by their stepfather, have not been used to protect them from embarrassment.
4 Waterloo Courier , December 24, 1978.
5 Ibid .
3 ...
A Model
Neighbor
The bright splash of freshly cut flowers catching and reflecting the warm rays of the midsummer sun contrasted with the pathetic, hunched figure at the grave. The heavy body was shaking with sobs, causing tears to well from the puffy eyes and slide slowly over fat ruddy cheeks as the head bowed and the thick neck shrank into sturdy shoulders.
To someone who knew John Wayne Gacy, Jr. it may have seemed strange. During his father's lifetime there were harsh words and hurt feelings. Now that the elder Gacy was in his grave, one among thousands at the Maryhill Cemetery in northwest suburban Niles, the old hurts were engraved into the relationship between father and son forever. There could be no more explanations, no apologies. The misunderstandings could not be changed. Yet, it appeared that in death Gacy's father was closer to him than in life.
Gacy was deeply grieved that he had not been able to attend his father's funeral. He was hurt that, as the last of the remaining males in the immediate family, he could not have been there to comfort his mother and sisters. It also distressed him that he could not pay his final respects to his father, whom he loved despite their misunderstandings.
Gacy visited the sprawling cemetery that covers about one tenth of the land area of the attractive Chicago suburb many times during the years after his father's death. Most often he stopped there when he was troubled, bringing fresh flowers to place on the grave.
He always visited the grave on Christmas. Holidays were important to Gacy, and Christmas was the most important of all. It meant good food, gifts, and the warmth of a family that was close and loving. Now the Christmas period marked the anniversary of his father's death. The big man cried at the grave.
But he didn't have time to live in the past. He was still a young man under thirty, and he was energetic and anxious to get on with the task of rebuilding his life.
After driving 250 miles from Waterloo to Chicago, he moved in with his sixty-one-year-old mother in the family home and obtained a job as chef at a restaurant in Chicago's Loop. Cooking was a profession that he understood and was comfortable with. Managing the Kentucky Fried Chicken outlets in Waterloo had provided valuable experience, and his work at the prison added to his skill. There were other men in prison with experience as cooks, and Gacy had watched, listened, and learned. He was especially proud of his salad bars.
Parole authorities in Iowa and Illinois were understanding and cooperative when Gacy applied for permission to move back to Chicago. Returning home seemed to offer the best opportunity for rehabilitation after his prison term. He had the support of a loving family, and his mother provided a home for him. Most importantly he had a job. Approval was routine.
Gacy applied himself to his new job with gusto. If no one was impressed when he bragged of once being married to the daughter of the man who founded the Kentucky Fried Chicken chain, he didn't seem to notice. He continued telling the story, or other tales, about his days as a U.S. Marine, and of the thousands of dollars he won and lost at the gambling tables in Las Vegas where he said he once worked as an ambulance driver.
Jobs for cooks and chefs are plentiful, and Gacy moved around, finally landing a position at an eating spot popular with members of Chicago's professional hockey team, the Blackhawks. Although he was not an avid sports fan, any job that offered an opportunity to rub shoulders with celebrities was attractive to him.
With his gift for talking and ingratiating himself with others, it wasn't difficult for him to obtain tickets to Blackhawk games from the players. When he passed them on to
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