John Wayne Gacy (14 page)

The Szycs waited through the month of February, but when no word came from their son, they moved his things back to their house to store. The Chicago police later contacted them and told them that their son had sold his car. There was some indication that the seller needed money to leave town. The police believed that the car was later used during the commission of a robbery; however, their son was not a suspect. The police believed that John had simply moved away. They did not close the file, but it was certainly placed on the back burner.

The appearance of Officers Adams and Kautz gave Mrs. Szyc new hope. These were the first members of any police department that had shown any interest at all in their son’s case, and she wanted to be as helpful as possible to the officers with this apparent new interest. She gave the officers all of her son’s personal papers, which included the documentation on John Szyc’s car. Before he disappeared, John Szyc drove a 1971 white Plymouth Satellite.

When Adams and Kautz returned to Des Plaines, someone noticed that another person involved in their investigation drove a white 1971 Plymouth Satellite: Michael Rossi had the very same car. A quick check of the registration on Mr. Szyc’s car and Mr. Rossi’s car revealed some very interesting information. The VINs (vehicle identification number) on the two autos were the same but for one number. Szyc’s car had VIN RH23G1G239297. Rossi’s car had VIN# RH23G1G739297. Everyone in the room looked at each other with astonishment. Rossi was driving John Szyc’s car!

Of course, this would have to be confirmed with the records in Springfield (the state capital), but that was for court; that was for the lawyers and judges and juries. Everyone in that room knew that it was the same car. Whether the different VINs were the result of
a change that was a mistake or it was done on purpose, it didn’t matter. No two VINs could be that close and both belong to a white 1971 Plymouth Satellite and both be involved in the same investigation. Same car, same investigation—the odds were infinitesimal. There was no question in the officers’ minds. Rossi was driving John Szyc’s car. Then someone said it: “Hey, didn’t Rossi say that he had bought that car from his boss, John Gacy?”

After the expenditure of $5,000 on a private investigator, the parents of Gregory Godzik were no closer to finding out the whereabouts of their son, who had been reported missing December 12, 1976, to the Chicago police two years ago, almost to the day that Rob Piest was last seen.

Gregory was last seen by his girlfriend at approximately 1:30 a.m. on that date. He left her saying he was thinking about going to a party in Niles, Illinois. His car was found in Niles, but no Gregory. Unfortunately, just like in the Szyc case and so many other missing person cases, there had been reported sightings of Mr. Godzik following the date of his disappearance. This convinced the Chicago police that Mr. Godzik was a runaway and not a missing person. A file still existed, but it had not been touched in nearly two years.

Prior to his disappearance, Gregory Godzik worked for a contracting firm, PDM Contractors. The Chicago police had interviewed the owner of the firm, one John W. Gacy, and were told that not only did Mr. Gacy not know where Gregory had gone, he had sent a few days’ pay that was owed to Gregory to his parents. Although Gregory Godzik had worked for Mr. Gacy for only a short time, he was a good worker, and Mr. Gacy was also concerned about his well-being and his whereabouts.

As clear as clear could be, that was how sure the members of the investigation team were that John Wayne Gacy had something to do with the death or disappearance of these many missing boys. There was absolutely no doubt in any mind in the Des Plaines
police headquarters. None. Yet, nothing that they had on him was concrete. Nothing that they had discovered tied Gacy to any of one of these boys in any way that was not circumstantial. They had to keep searching, and they had to do it fast. They were all quite sure that I would walk in at any moment with a TRO, and that would be the end of it all. The clock was ticking.

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S FAR AS
I knew, I was representing a man that was simply in the wrong place at the wrong time—a man with a past, granted, but a man who was trying to put that part of his life behind him, a man who was a likely suspect due to that past record, but someone that was being mistakenly, albeit reasonably, targeted by a police force that was looking for answers.

He had done what he had done back in Waterloo, but he was taking all appropriate steps to turn his life around, and now this incredible snag had arisen. From my perspective, I was representing a successful, hardworking businessman, a tireless political soldier and precinct captain, a volunteer that did the hard, behind-the-scenes work on behalf of ethnic causes, giant elaborate parades, his local Democratic Party, and little sick kids. He was a clown, for crying out loud. How bad of a guy could he be? OK, he did have a funny way about him. He was a bit of a braggart and a blowhard, but that didn’t make him a kidnapper or a stalker or whatever the Des Plaines coppers and Sullivan thought he was.

My job did not rely, however, on what I thought about John Gacy or what Terry Sullivan or Herb Volberding or any of the guys over in Des Plaines thought about him. My job was to defend his
interests, and that was what I intended to do. After my son’s illness, it was my only focus.

I began by cracking books. Lawyers turn to the law at times like these, and this was where you could find me—with my nose buried in law books concerning the issues of police harassment, temporary restraining orders, illegal search and seizure, and like topics. I split my time between the hospital and the law library. I had absolutely no clue as to what I had actually signed up for. It was the calm before the storm. Christmas was fast approaching, and I had two little kids. Little did I know what was about to happen to my life and the lives of everyone around me. As snow floated softly to the ground outside my lonely office window in quaint, affluent little Park Ridge, Illinois, where lights burned late into the night, a storm was brewing—events were unfolding that would focus the attention of all of Chicago, all of Illinois, all of the nation, and eventually all of the world on that sleepy, quiet town and the surrounding northwest suburban area of our fair metropolis.

As I worked the case, Gacy was in constant contact. He was calling both at my office and at my home. I guess he felt I should know every little thing that happened. He said he was making friends with the team of police officers that were assigned on his tail. At first, I thought he was kidding. He wasn’t. He and the members of the surveillance team were now having drinks regularly. They had been out to dinner on a couple of occasions. Gacy had them over to his house. Usually, Gacy paid the bill; however, on at least one occasion, the officers sprung for dinner and quite often picked up the tab for the many, many rounds at the many, many bars that Gacy frequented. Gacy was a night owl, and he dragged the members of
the Delta Unit from bar to bar until the wee hours of the morning. It didn’t matter what ridiculous time of the night or early morning it was, Gacy knew of a bar that was open. He would enter each watering hole like a conquering hero, working the crowd like an old-school politician, introducing the members of the Delta Unit as his bodyguards. More often than not, Gacy and his “bodyguards” would arrive at Gacy’s home after a night out on the town just before sunrise on the following morning.

I was also still finalizing the decor and tenor of my new office. Of course, I wanted my first office to be perfect. I brought in pictures and knickknacks from home, together with boxes of law books that I had collected over the years. I was just settling into my office. It was becoming my home away from home.

I was spending as much time as possible at the hospital where my son, although showing signs of improvement, was still not out of the woods. He was running a high fever, and it was evident that he was going to have a protracted stay at the Resurrection Hospital. I was getting very little sleep during this time, because I was spending most nights with my son. Occasionally, because he knew he could find me there, Gacy would stop at the hospital to check in rather than call. He actually seemed concerned about my son’s well-being and on one occasion brought a little stuffed animal and gave it to Sammy.

When Leroy Stevens returned from his hunting trip on Monday, John Gacy went to see him at his Jefferson Park office. I spoke to him by phone, and it became evident to both Mr. Gacy and me that Stevens was not interested in becoming immersed in what was shaping up to be a complicated and time-consuming criminal defense case. He had represented Gacy primarily on corporate matters, and he was content to have things remain that way.

However, it was decided that he would file the civil case for harassment, including the matter of a petition for a temporary restraining order against the Des Plaines Police Department. Although I had already tendered my resignation from the public defender’s office, I was still owed back pay for vacation time that I had not taken. We determined that we did not want any question to arise as to my status, which might serve as a defense to the lawsuit. I had a complaint drafted and a petition for TRO, and Stevens agreed to file it as the attorney of record.

On Tuesday, December 19, Gacy went to Steven’s office, and the two of them left together and went to the Jefferson Park Chicago Transit Authority station with the intention of taking the train downtown to the Chicago Loop. In Chicago, the CTA operates an elaborate electric train system as well as the bus routes throughout the city. Much of the train system is on tracks that are elevated, and therefore, the entire system is affectionately referred to as the “L.”

Before they left, Leroy Stevens bought lunch for everyone at Gale Street Inn, one of Chicago’s most famous rib joints; then after lunch, Gacy dutifully informed the present members of the Delta Unit—Robinson and Schultz—of their destination and gave them time to park their car in a legal spot, considering that they would all be downtown for quite a while. The relationship that existed between Gacy and his police tail was an unusual one, to say the least. Believe it or not, the entire motley crew—including Gacy, Stevens, Robinson, and Schultz—rode together on the train to the Daley Center, which was the city’s main civic center filled with courtrooms, and most of the main offices of the city and the county, named in memory of the great Chicago mayor Richard J. Daley. Any important office that wasn’t in that building was across the street at city hall.

Stevens stayed on the train when they reached the stop for the Daley Center, claiming that he had Christmas shopping to do while Gacy and crew disembarked and went into the Daley Center, where Gacy had permits to apply for and other business to transact. In reality, Stevens took the train a couple of extra stops to the Jackson St. Station. That is where one would exit if one has a case to file in the federal district court. Stevens had such a case to file. The case:
John W. Gacy v. the City of Des Plaines et al.
The case included among its pleadings a request for a temporary restraining order against the police force of said city. It was filed and scheduled for emergency hearing on the following Friday, December 22, 1978.

The following day, I forwarded a copy of the file stamped Complaint at Law, the petition for TRO, together with the information
and notice regarding court dates to all opposing parties as required by law, and I made sure that Terry Sullivan received a copy, as promised.

When Gacy told me the story about how he, Robinson, Schultz, Stevens, and Stevens’s secretary all had a pleasant lunch, including drinks, at the Gale Street Inn—all of it paid for by Stevens—and then rode the train downtown together, I had to laugh. This was such an unusual occurrence that I would have been surprised to hear that it had ever happened during any serious investigation of a suspect in all of history. This was a testament to the unusually gregarious nature of this man whom I represented. I could see how he had been given all the various awards and accolades that he had. He was truly a Man of the Year type of guy.

He would speak to the clerks and cashiers behind counters and at desks like they were old friends. He shook the hands of middle-level politicians with smiles and jokes all around. During his visit, a man who seemed to be a good friend approached Gacy, and handshakes and backslapping were exchanged. Robinson and Schultz could not help but be impressed. The friend was Illinois attorney general Bill Scott. Gacy was clearly in his element among politicians and public servants. Frankly, that was because he was one of them. Gacy was a “pitch in and help out” kind of guy, and everybody knew that about him.

The more I looked into this matter, the more this became evident. I couldn’t help but be further convinced that the targeting of my client had to be a mistake. After all, John Gacy could have simply disappeared at any time. If he was as guilty of these charges as the members of the prosecution seemed to think he was, wouldn’t he have just run away, disappeared forever? Wouldn’t anybody? He certainly had ample opportunity to do so. Instead of running away, Gacy was facilitating the surveillance. He would tell the Deltas where he was going in advance, just in case they somehow got separated. He bought drinks, bought dinner, and invited them into his
home. He just did not act like a guilty person. His overall demeanor was that of someone without a care in the world.

There is a song, which won the old-time blues and jazz singer Dinah Washington a Grammy in 1959. It’s a great song. Everybody’s heard it. It’s called “What a Diff’rence a Day Makes.” No song could have been more apropos for me than that one on that Wednesday night. “Twenty-four little hours,” the song goes on. If someone had a crystal ball and they told me what was going to happen to me in twenty-four hours, I wouldn’t have believed them.

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T THE DES
Plaines police station, there was serious concern about the fact that a court date for a hearing on a TRO had been set and was looming, staring the investigation straight in the face. The team needed a break in this case before Friday, or it was likely that the investigation of this man, Gacy, would be greatly hampered, if not completely shut down.