John Wayne Gacy by Judge Sam Amirante Read Free Book Online Page B

painted on the doors, as one of his personal vehicles. Rossi also drove a white 1971 Plymouth Satellite, which he had purchased from John. It was in the PDM van, however, with tunes cranked up and cigarette smoke billowing from the slightly open driver’s window, that Rossi arrived at Gacy’s house at about 9:20 p.m. as planned.
    When he bounced into the circular drive in front of the house and the headlights of the van swept across the front yard, he noticedtwo men standing at the front door of the house. One of the men had his hands cupped on the sides of his face and was looking in the small diamond-shaped window in the otherwise-solid front-entrance door. He also saw two matching unmarked Ford sedans parked in front on the narrow city street lined on both sides with parked cars. The two cars stood out.
    Rossi, like everybody else on the planet, had often thought that if the police wanted some of their vehicles to be unmarked, to be “undercover,” they might want to throw a set of hubcaps on them or allow the manufacturer to put a piece of chrome here or there on the damn things. The two vehicles parked in front of Gacy’s house might just as well have had “police vehicle” painted in neon on the side doors. Rossi swallowed hard and wondered why two plainclothes policemen were standing on his boss’s front stoop. Not for any particular reason—he wasn’t doing anything wrong, not just then anyway—but Rossi just didn’t like cops.
    A lone old-fashioned decorative streetlight burning on the front lawn of the house cast long shadows across the small yard as Rossi opened the creaking door of the van, exited the vehicle with a jump, crunched through the snow that blanketed the cold ground, and approached the two men. Christmas lights blazed on houses and in yards up and down the block. Gacy had yet to decorate. His house was noticeably dark.
    “If you are looking for John, he won’t hear you. He is probably watching TV in the back room.” Puffs of condensing breath accompanied his words like tiny clouds due to the crisp, wet December air.
    “Are you friends with Mr. Gacy?” Lieutenant Kozenczak asked.
    “Who’s asking?”
    “My name is Lieutenant Kozenczak. This is Officer Pickell from the Des Plaines Police.” Kozenczak showed a badge.
    “I work with John, and we’re friends.”
    “What is your name, sir?”
    “Michael Rossi.”
    Just then, Detective Sommerschield appeared. He and Olsen had been checking out the rear of the house. The detective signaled that Gacy was in the rear of the house. He had seen him through a window in the back.
    “Mr. Rossi, I am going to ask you to wait here with these officers.” Kozenczak pointed to Olsen and Sommerschield. “Keep him here,” he said to them. “Jim, come with me.”
    “Is John in trouble?” Rossi asked.
    “We just want to ask him some questions.”
    “Do you guys have a warrant?” Rossi sounded a bit like a brat, like he had watched way too many cop shows. This brought light chuckles from the officers. Then he was ignored.
    What Mr. Rossi didn’t know or didn’t understand when he asked the question was this: The police can walk up to any person’s door anytime they want to, without a warrant, without probable cause, without an apparent reason of any kind, just like a Jehovah’s Witness or a door-to-door roof repair salesman can. They simply knock on the door and proceed to ask questions as they investigate a case, and they can ask for the citizen’s cooperation in their investigation. Often they are doing this to exclude or eliminate a person from their investigation. Sometimes they are hoping that a suspect will in some way slip up or give himself or herself away. However, when the police do act without a warrant, when they are at the early stages of their investigation, the cooperation by the citizen is voluntary. Therefore, the citizen can refuse to cooperate.
    When the two officers identified themselves, Mr. Gacy flashed his patented