The last hours of John Wayne Gacy’s freedom unraveled in a haze of alcohol, confession, and desperation, as the man who would become one of America’s most notorious serial killers spent the night of December 20th, 1978, locked inside his attorney’s office, surrounded by police who had no idea the full horror they were about to uncover.
Late that evening, a disheveled and visibly shaken Gacy rushed to the office of his lawyer, Sam Amiranti, knowing detectives were closing in. For eight days, officers had tracked his every move. Now, the prime suspect in the disappearance of 15-year-old Robert Piest was cornered.
Officers Michael Alrech and Dave Hackmeister waited outside the office, watching the building as minutes stretched into hours. The meeting was supposed to be brief. But at 2:00 a.
m. , with darkness pressing in, there was still no sign of activity from inside.
Concerned, Officer Alrech approached the office to knock on the window. Before he could, Amiranti opened the door and invited the officers inside. He offered them a drink and set up chairs in the hallway, positioning them where they could keep an eye on Gacy through the glass entrance.
Inside, Gacy was handed a bottle of whiskey. He downed two cups in quick succession, then began rambling incoherently. Attorney Sam Amiranti’s patience snapped.
He had heard enough of his client’s evasions.
Slamming a copy of the Daily Herald onto the desk, Amiranti jabbed a finger at the photo of Robbie Piest. “John, you said you needed to talk, so talk. And don’t give me any more of your tired bullshit.”
Gacy slumped, his bloodshot eyes betraying exhaustion. He stared at the newspaper, then tapped the picture. “This boy,” he said softly.
“This boy is dead. He’s dead. This isn’t the boy from the drugstore, but this boy is dead.
He’s in the river.”
The room fell silent. Amiranti leaned forward, face tense. “What the hell are you talking about, John?
This is Robbie Piest, the one from the drugstore. The kid everyone’s been looking for. Look at this.
Look at this, John. This kid is missing. They think you did it.
Stop lying to me.”
Now drunk, Gacy began to ramble. He called himself the judge, jury, and executioner of his victims. He confessed to at least 30 murders.
Most, he admitted, were buried beneath his house. Others were dumped in the Des Plaines River.
Shockingly, Gacy claimed he sometimes woke up to find young men strangled in handcuffs, as if the murders had happened without his involvement. He coldly referred to his victims as liars and prostitutes. He described their bodies as his property.
In the middle of
