Tag Archives: Sadness

Jun11

Postmortem: What survives the John Wayne Gacy Murders by Courtney Lund O’Neil

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Postmortem.

What survives the John Wayne Gacy Murders by Courtney Lund O’Neil

Many thanks to Kensington Publishing and Penguin Random House for the ARC copy of this book for my unbiased review.

When the mother of the author of this book, Kim Byers, was in her teens she worked at a local drugstore in her hometown in Illinois. One of the young men who also worked in the store was a friend of hers who she sometimes hung out with when they weren’t at work. His name was Rob Piest.

One fateful night in December 1978, while they were at work, Kim was cold as she was working near the door and each time a customer came in, the chill wind made her shiver. Rob was kind enough to lend her his jacket.

When there was a lull in shoppers, Kim took the opportunity to put in the roll of film she took recently to be developed. She tucked the stub into the pocket of the borrowed jacket.

At some point in the evening, a contractor, a Mr. Gacy, who was measuring for a renovation to the store had a conversation with Rob about working for him for higher pay.

Rob wasn’t old enough to drive so his mother usually picked him up when his shift was over.

Rob got his jacket back from Kim and told her he was going out the back door to talk further with the contractor.

When he didn’t return, both Kim and his mother, who had arrived to take Rob home, became worried.

Unfortunately, Rob was never seen alive again. Kim’s receipt in his jacket pocket would lead to the end of John Wayne Gacy’s reign of terror and the discovery of the numerous young men buried under his house. Sadly, it was too late for Rob.

This meticulously researched book focuses on the aftermath of that night in December and all the ripples through time in a number of families due to the actions of the monster that was John Wayne Gacy.

This book is important as it doesn’t glorify Gacy and shows the reader the very real effect such encounters have in the lives of the survivors as well as the families they eventually create for themselves. The Postmortem of the title refers to the aftermath of violence on everyone touched by it.

The author is in a very unique position as she sees first-hand how her mother’s entire life has been affected by her friendship with Rob and her unintentional role in helping to bring down a serial killer.

Kim was a brave young woman to come forward and to testify in Gacy’s trial, but it affected her and her belief in personal safety, which also affected her children. She made a good life for herself, but she has definitely held on to some of the trauma of the days, weeks, and months after the incidents occurred.

This book is well worth a read as it deals with psychological trauma and how that can actually be passed on to the next generation without meaning to be.

I learned a lot about generational trauma in this book as the oldest daughter of Kim, Courtney Lund O’Neil, the author of this book shared her insights as well as information on her mother’s experiences in bringing down a serial killer. 

BLURB:

On a December night in 1978, Courtney Lund O’Neil’s mother, teenaged Kim Byers, saw her friend Rob Piest alive for the last time. At the end of his shift at the pharmacy where they both worked, fifteen-year-old Rob went outside to speak to a contractor named John Wayne Gacy about a possible job.

That night Rob became Gacy’s final victim; his body was later found in the Des Plaines River. Kim’s testimony, along with a receipt belonging to her found in Gacy’s house, proving that Rob had been there, would be pivotal in convicting the serial killer who assaulted and killed over thirty young men and boys.

Though she grew up far from Des Plaines, Courtney has lived in the shadow of that nightmare, keenly aware of its impact on her mother. In search of deeper understanding and closure, Courtney and Kim travel back to Illinois. Postmortem transforms their personal journey into a powerful exploration of the ever-widening ripples generated by Gacy’s crimes. From the 1970s to the present day, his shadow extends beyond the victims’ families and friends—it encompasses the Des Plaines neighborhood forever marked by his horrific murders, generations of the victims’ families and friends, those who helped arrest and convict him, fandom communities, and many others.

Layered and thought-provoking, Postmortem is a complex story of loss and violence, grief and guilt, and the legacy that remains long after a killer is caught.

Dec21

My Grandfather, a Small Tribute to Mark the Anniversary of his Death

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Henry A. Richardson

January 3, 1897-December 21, 1968

My grandfather, my mother’s father, was a kind, gentle soul. He was a soldier in WWI and worked after the war helping build the Wilson Dam in Florence, Alabama as well as other projects that needed manual labor during that time period. He also did work for the WPA (Works progress Administration) during the depression. He was also a tenant farmer who worked the cotton fields. He was eventually the father of ten children. My mother was number 8. All the children worked those fields to help support the family. It was a rough life, but they were full of joy. The children all remained close as adults. We had a slew of cousins to play with for sure. The house was always filled with laughter. Loud, fun, crazy family members.

By the time I knew my grandfather, he was in his sixties. He was a quiet man who didn’t say much. They lived in an old house with no indoor plumbing. There was a well for water and four buckets sat at the back door at the kitchen. Three were for cooking and the fourth had a beat up old ladle we all drank from. It was the iciest, coldest, water ever. My grandmother had a red pump to pump water into the sink. She also had one of those clothes washers that basically ran around the room. It was fun to watch that thing. She hung all clothes to dry and sheets as well.

We didn’t spend the night with them often—we usually stayed with my dad’s parents who had a bigger house in town—but when we did, we either had to use a chamber pot or run to the outhouse past the chicken coop which was a fair distance. I think that may be where I got part of my active imagination as I ran through the night in my jammies past those chickens. I imagined all kinds of demons on my tail. And man, if you’ve never smelled the inside of an outhouse, count yourself lucky. You’ll never forget it. It is a visceral memory to me to this day.

Anyway, back to my grandfather. The year I was going to turn 8, we lived in Virginia. We traveled down for Christmas—a14 hour drive—and arrived at my dad’s parent’s house around 7 pm on the 21st of December.  My sister and I went to our room to put our suitcases down. My mother started screaming and crying so loudly, we were terrified.

We raced out to the den and found my mother hysterical.  My grandfather had to break the news to her that her father died in his sleep and her mother found him when she tried to wake him for breakfast.  He died 13 days before his 72nd birthday.

It was a terrible Christmas that year. I still remember my mother unwrapping the shirt we’d bought for him so she could take it back to the store. She helped my grandmother take back a lot of things that year. It was heartbreaking even for a little kid to see. I can’t listen to that song where the grandmother gets run over by a reindeer. Having lived a Christmas like I did that year, I can’t deal with that song.

There is a picture of me (wish I could find it as I write this) on my birthday that year sitting on the couch holding my new doll. It is a pitiful picture as I look so sad and alone.

He never said much—unless you thought you could turn the television channel because he was asleep.   He’d mumble, “I was watching that.” He didn’t get mad, but we never changed it when he said that. He always had a spittoon by his side and always wore a fedora. He also cooled his coffee by pouring it into his saucer once he’d added his cream and sugar. It made me laugh.

I could say a lot more about him and his life, but I’ll save some stories for another day. Suffice it to say, I miss him even after all this time, and for some reason, I’ve felt him close to me this year. I sense him, watching out for me, as I make my way through this tough year.