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together with the gurgling of transferring fluids and the release of air from the lungs would have made the average pro linebacker pass right out. Gacy simply considered this whole matter one big necessary pain in the ass, like he considered most physical chores. Grunting and sputtering like a sumo wrestler, he trudged to the hall where the trapdoor to the attic was. He balanced his load, then reached for the tiny rope loop on the trapdoor. The door was enhanced by a spring mechanism, and it opened easily. A telescoping ladder unfolded and came to rest on the floor in front of him.
    Gacy was strong, but he was flabby and noticing his age. Beads of perspiration exploded off his face and neck and dripped to the carpet. He took each step of the ladder as though he was workingwith free weights, but soon he had Rob’s remains stored just to the right of the trapdoor in the attic. “That is good enough,” he groaned, letting out a huge breath and wiping sweat from his brow with his forearm. He raised the ladder and the trapdoor, and it closed. Nothing looked out of place. John dragged his sweaty, naked fleshy and overweight white body back down the hall toward the bathroom, picking his underwear out of his butt crack and bitching and moaning about what a pain in the ass that was. “Why the fuck did I make a stupid appointment at seven fucking o’clock in the motherfucking morning at my own goddamn house? Jeez!”
    John remembered that it was his duty to call his mother and tell her about the death of Uncle Harold. He had volunteered to be the one to notify her the night before. He was worried, however, about how long his mother would keep him on the goddamn telephone. He had shit to do. He decided that she would just have to understand that he had business to attend to and would have to cut the phone call short.
    When Richard Raphael arrived at John Gacy’s house with another business associate and friend, Gordon Nebel, at 7:00 a.m. sharp, Gacy had shit, showered and shaved, let the dog out, called his mom, made coffee, and put out a coffee cake. He greeted them with his standard-issue ear-to-ear smile. There was absolutely no hint that anything was amiss. The fact that John had failed to make the appointment the night before was quickly forgotten, especially when his guests heard about poor Uncle Harold.
    The Chicago Bears had lost Coach Jack Pardee to the Washington Redskins at the end of the 1977 season, and the new coach, Neil Armstrong, was leading the team to a dismal, losing season in 1978. This became the topic of discussion between the men for the first part of the meeting. “Fuckin’ Bears,” they all agreed. The one bright spot: the Bears had beaten the hated Green Bay Packers, 14–0, on Sunday and were looking forward to a grudge match against Pardee’s Redskins next weekend.
    Soon the conversation turned to business; however, just as the men began to get to the crux of the intended issues for discussion, a shopping center job, the phone rang. John considered letting the answering machine get it but thought better of that. He went ahead and answered the telephone while Raphael and Nebel continued to discuss the job. As it turned out, the phone call would prove to be somewhat important, at least to John.
    “Mr. Gacy, my name is Officer Adams from the Des Plaines Police Department. We are investigating the disappearance of a teenage boy that worked at Nisson Pharmacy. We understand that you were at the pharmacy last night, and we are wondering if you could help us out.”
    The blood drained from Gacy’s face, and his heart jumped into his mouth; but outwardly he appeared quite calm. “How can I help you?” John asked tentatively. “What could I possibly do?”
    “Well, the parents of the boy are very concerned, as you might imagine. They are here at the station with me right now, and we were wondering if you could shed any light on this matter. The boy’s name is Robert Piest. There is some indication