It was autumn in the desert, but not like the kind of autumn you'd ordinarily envision for that time of year. It was still hot, blazing hot. The only refuge from the sun was inside the refrigerated buildings.

With its stately palm trees and expanses of grass, the campus resembled one of the many resorts on the Las Vegas Strip. The difference was that, instead of neon and slot machines, there was a hotel college that taught would-be entrepreneurs how to operate casinos, as well as the usual academic buildings that catered mostly to local students and a few Southern California refugees. The most prominent structure by far was the Thomas and Mack Building, the basketball arena that played host to the Runnin' Rebels. This was a university, after all, known primarily for its basketball program.

The best and the brightest of the students, a few hundred ambitious, sometimes compulsive scholars, enrolled in the honors program to get the best shot they could for entrance into medical school, law school, or the corporate fast track. The requirements included several exploratory seminars designed to expand students' education beyond their narrow areas of specialty.

I had volunteered to teach one of these honors seminars, called "Things That Matter." I'd billed it as an opportunity for advanced students to explore a series of topics, including relationships, love, friendship, and, most vitally, the future. And on the first day of class, I encountered an ambitious group of young people: future lawyers, doctors, politicians, CEOs, and scientists.

One student caught my attention immediately because of the way he was dressed. While his peers, aged twenty to twenty-five, wore the uniforms of their generation -- jeans, T-shirts, sandals, shorts, even a skateboard or two -- this particular student looked as if he'd lost his way en route to a job interview. Beyond his crisp white shirt, striped tie, and polished loafers, I noted a resemblance to one of the Baldwin brothers, William maybe or Alec. He displayed the chiseled good looks that immediately attract the attention of the opposite sex. His eyes were serious, intent, and I noticed he was watching me carefully.

As the semester progressed, this young man stood out for a number of other reasons. He was predictably bright and precocious, even by the standards of an honors program. Yet he was also exceedingly confident and poised. In the jargon of my profession, "he appeared older than his stated age." This was not just because of the way he looked but the way he acted.

"Dr. Kottler," he said one day, addressing me formally even though I preferred the use of my first name, "what exactly is the reason for requiring that our papers describe interviews the way you suggest?"

"Excuse me?" I wasn't sure what he was driving at.

"I mean, if your intent is to get us to reflect on what we learned during this field study, wouldn't it make sense for us to use direct quotes rather than just descriptions of what people said?"

I heard a few classmates snicker. Was he challenging me? "Your point is well taken," I said finally. "I'm looking for a balance between what you observed and the sense you make of those experiences."

As he nodded, I saw looks of admiration from his classmates. Everyone else had been so timid about speaking up, but Jason just jumped in, treating me as a colleague.

My first impression was that he might be a difficult student. Indeed, his eager-to-please attitude toward me-- and combative, competitive tone with peers -- did create a certain degree of turbulence. Yet in spite of these challenges, I found Jason to be unusually smart, inquisitive, ambitious, and outspoken -- and not afraid to advance opinions that might be unusual or unpopular. His style, though provocative and at times trying, actually proved a catalyst for drawing out other students who were quite timid.

The semester-long seminar progressed nicely, perhaps one of my favorites in terms of depth and breadth of issues explored. The only thing that bothered me was the extent to which this group of students was concerned -- make that obsessed -- with achievement. So many of their questions revolved around how various actions would affect their final grades.

In a class of hard chargers, Jason stood out as especially intense. He found reasons to approach me after many classes, wanting very specific directions about future assignments. While at first I was annoyed by these overtures, which seemed transparently driven toward getting an A, I soon recognized that Jason was reaching out for help.

It became our pattern to escort one another to our next classes. During these strolls across campus, Jason confided in me about his plans for the future, conflicts with his family, and the relationship with his girlfriend. In everything he talked about, and everything he did, he struck me as incredibly driven. I urged him to lighten up a bit, to stop trying so hard to do everything perfectly. Perhaps I recognized more than a little of myself in him. I too was an avid approval seeker who found it difficult to slow down.

I noticed that in spite of all that Jason had accomplished thus far in life, as an athlete, a scholar, and personality on campus, he didn't seem to be having much fun. Actually, he seemed haunted.

He was a straight-A student, chief justice of the student government, president of the psychology honors society, and a leader in community civic organizations. As we walked around campus, students, faculty, even administrators whom I barely knew by sight seemed familiar with him.

At times he would press me for advice about personal matters, and each time I'd deftly put the focus back on him, as a counseling professor can easily do. I'll admit to feeling flattered he was willing to trust me: I could tell it was difficult for him to open up.

As the semester wound down, Jason and I got together for our last meeting. He thanked me for a stimulating class, then caught me by surprise by abruptly changing the subject. Shyly, he invited me to attend his honors thesis presentation.

I reluctantly agreed. These presentations, which were usually about some obscure area of research I could barely follow, could be quite boring. In fact, I couldn't help grimacing as I reflected on the last one I'd attended. Dealing with political corruption in East Africa, it might have been interesting if there hadn't been so much sparring among the faculty committee members, each of whom was eager to demonstrate his expertise.

As the day for the event approached, I felt a little better about going. I didn't really have the time, but it was a constructive ritual and I felt honored that Jason thought enough of me to extend an invitation. Usually there are only a handful of people in attendance -- three faculty members on the student's committee and perhaps a friend or a parent.

I was shocked, therefore, when I walked into the room -- make that the auditorium -- and found seventy or eighty people. Somehow, word had gotten out that something unusual was going to happen. I had no idea that the next few hours would hold me spellbound, propelling me through emotions that ranged from indignation to admiration.

Jason stood before the audience in his new suit, anxiously pacing as he waited for the signal to begin. I could hear the crowd buzzing with anticipation, although I couldn't quite make out what they were saying. "Can you believe it!" "Jason . . . gotta be a little . . . I sure wouldn't . . ." "So I was-- " "Shsssh! He's starting!"

"In this presentation," Jason began nervously, "I will be talking about accessing the minds of various serial killers from the perspective of their victims." You could hear a collective gasp from the audience. Then complete silence, as if we were all holding our breath to see what would come next.

"Although much is known about the patterns of their behavior," Jason continued, "even the nature of their childhoods, their motives and fantasies, we really know very little about how they manage to overpower people, manipulate and degrade them, get them to do things they wouldn't otherwise consider."

He then went on to relate how, while only a freshman in college, he'd figured out a way to lure a half dozen of the most notorious serial killers into communication with him, eventually forging full-blown relationships with several. In each case, he researched meticulously what would interest them the most and then cast himself in the role of disciple, admirer, businessman, surrogate, or potential victim. In a few instances, he actually interviewed the killers in prison, winning their trust and uncovering their secrets. Perhaps even more remarkable, in one case he was able to experience, firsthand, what it's like to be stalked, seduced, manipulated, and eventually trapped by a deranged murderer who'd killed more than thirty times previously.

If Jason's overview wasn't chilling enough, it was downright eerie to hear recordings of the killers' voices and see samples of their perverted writing.

As I watched and listened to what Jason had done, I was flooded with questions. While everyone else in the room seemed captivated by the tales of perversion and mayhem committed by killers Jason had contacted, I was curious about what would motivate an eighteen-year-old to undertake a project like this, one that would not only jeopardize his sanity but his physical safety. Little did I realize at the time that I'd be the one entrusted with the task of helping Jason tell his story.

When I met with him a few days later he wanted to know if I'd be interested in collaborating with him on a book analyzing the motives and behavior of his most ardent correspondent, John Wayne Gacy. In Illinois during the 1970s, Gacy kidnapped, tortured, raped, and killed at least thirty-three young boys and buried many of them in his basement.

"Jason," I addressed him solemnly, "I'm really flattered that you'd ask for my help with this."

He looked away from me, preparing himself for what he anticipated would be rejection.

"I really am intrigued with what you've done," I reassured him. "It's just . . ."

"You don't understand," he interrupted. "Nobody really understands. . . ."

I put my hand on his shoulder to stop what I could see was the beginning of an argument. It's not a good idea to get Jason started unless you're prepared for a very long discussion, and I had other students waiting.

"You misunderstand me," I told him. "Please, just listen. Let me finish."

He nodded his head, but I could see his impatience. By now he'd grown used to people not "getting" his peculiar area of fascination.

I decided to be blunt. "Jason, nobody cares about Gacy anymore. The guy died, what, four years ago? There's another one to take his place, somebody new the public wants to know about."

"Yeah," he jumped in again, "but Gacy was special. There's been nobody like him. And besides, this book wouldn't just be about Gacy. Remember, I also communicated with Charles Manson and Jeffrey Dahmer and Richard Ramirez, and-- "

"I realize that, Jason," I quickly interjected. "It's just that books have been written about Gacy and these other guys before-- "

"So?" he interrupted. "What are you saying? That I shouldn't do this? That all this work I put into-- "

"No, quite the contrary. What I'm saying is that the book shouldn't be exclusively about these serial killers but also about you. People would want to know why an eighteen-year-old kid contacted Gacy and the others in the first place. They'd be curious what would drive someone so young to want to study and control them. You have to admit, that's not the usual hobby for someone just out of high school."

I laughed as I said this -- until I noticed Jason's pained expression. He was used to being seen as a bit different from others his age.

"In order to understand your motives and what drives you," I continued, "we'd have to start from the beginning."

"I already did that in the thesis. I started with the first letter I wrote to Gacy."

"No, I mean from the very beginning. People will want to know about your family and background. How you got into this sort of stuff. How you managed to convince your parents to let you do this, how you hid other things from them. In some ways, this story is too incredible to believe. We'd have to lay the foundation."

Indeed, the first thing I did was corroborate everything I could related to Jason's thesis. I conducted interviews with Jason's parents, separately and together, comparing their versions of the same events. I talked with his brother and friends. I spoke with other faculty who knew Jason. I looked through the hundreds of letters he'd received from various killers, following them sequentially. I listened to tapes of conversations he'd had with Gacy. At one point I even traveled with him on one of his research excursions to Death Row.

Once I was able to confirm and document the details of Jason's story, I investigated the context of what occurred. Slowly, a more complete picture of this young man began to take shape. He was obviously a precocious, talented kid, mature beyond his years. His parents, both working-class and down-to-earth, had no idea what to do with a son who constantly challenged and mystified them. Since they couldn't seem to control their child's behavior, and since he had never, ever gotten in trouble or, in an academic setting, performed in less than exemplary fashion, they found it easy to give in to him. When they did try to rein him in, he still found ways around them.

Although blessed with high intelligence and formidable verbal and athletic skills, Jason was vulnerable and insecure. He received a number of paradoxical messages growing up: at the same time that he was insulated from graphic violence and forbidden to see horror films, his mother was a true-crime aficionado who left lurid books lying around the house. He found his parents' behavior volatile and unpredictable. He learned to be a chameleon as a way to protect himself, changing forms according to others' moods. He honed his talent for pleasing others to a fine art, reading perceptively what others most desire and then presenting himself in ways designed to win trust.

A natural mimic and fearless risk taker, Jason studied psychology systematically, hoping to land a job someday as a famous prosecutor or FBI agent. Nobody who knew him scoffed at what he might be capable of accomplishing: this was a kid who was going places. Certainly, nobody had more determination and ambition. The one discordant note was that his very existence depended so much on being seen as special and unique.

In the story that follows -- written in Jason's own words with my assistance -- you'll meet Jason as he first stumbles onto his project's central feature: that it might be possible for a teenager like himself to pull off what law enforcement and psychiatric experts have tried, and largely failed, to do-- learn the homicidal tactics and secret fantasies of men who've killed twenty, thirty, even hundreds of times in the most grisly fashion imaginable. You'll learn about the early childhood experiences that propelled Jason toward his bizarre hobby. You'll see the reasons for his exaggerated self-importance, understand why cockiness occasionally creeps into his voice as he talks about his triumphs over these celebrity killers. Jason wanted so badly to be recognized and validated. He wanted to feel powerful. And what better way to do so than to deceive and control the world's most famous human predators?

Jason's personal motives aside, I believe that this story is unique in the annals of true-crime literature. By peering over Jason's shoulder, we're able to catch a glimpse at "the point of transaction," the exact moment when a serial killer makes contact with his victim and begins to reel him in. We're able to witness, through Jason's senses, exactly what it looks and sounds like, what it feels like, to be manipulated, controlled, and dominated by a serial killer.

Yet this narrative is not just one precocious kid's tale of a bizarre dance with the devil-- or, rather, several devils. In a broader sense, it's a portrait of the choreographed interactions between killers and victims everywhere. It describes, in excruciating detail, exactly how someone, even a person who is unusually vigilant, cautious, and intentional, can be drawn into the web of a killer who essentially makes a living stalking others.

Looked at one way, this is an adventure story in which a David attempts to take on a whole herd of Goliaths. Yet it is also an immensely disturbing narrative, sexually explicit, perverse, and filled with brutality; it requires a strong stomach.

One can't help but ask what would lead a person, especially someone so young, to enter this world willingly. Why would a first-year college student spend his time researching ways to ingratiate himself with murderers? Why would he risk using himself as bait?

The truth is that many of us are fascinated with murder, killing, and violence. The whole genre of true-crime books testifies to that, as does the popularity of films and novels in which graphic murder plays a central role. Jason's actions are thus emblematic of a culture in which violence is entertainment and murderers have become celebrities. Every new killer on the scene attracts his own share of groupies, fans, or spectators who can't get enough details about the grisly crimes. Web pages are devoted exclusively to following the exploits of famous killers, analyzing the grisly details of their crimes. Ironically, the biggest challenge Jason faced when he embarked on this project was how to capture the interest of someone like Charles Manson or John Wayne Gacy, given that they enjoyed the attention of thousands of fans who wrote weekly, sending them gifts and vying for their attention.

Before committing to this project I first had to wrestle with certain ethical issues. As a therapist, and trainer of other therapists, among the most important values to me are authenticity and honesty, being completely open and straight with people. But here is a story in which a person resorts to deceit and manipulation to learn information that can't be gained any other way. While I was impressed by all the things Jason learned, his modus operandi seemed fraught with moral conundrums.

In the end I believed this was an important story to tell, not only because of what it uncovers about homicidal relationships, but also what it reveals about our culture that so glorifies violence and turns killers into celebrities. If Jason's experiences tell us anything, it is that pretending affinity with perpetrators of evil will, over time, wreak dire consequences on the psyche.

When Jason embarked on his quest, he was too young to realize what a professional might have told him: that, having stepped into the devil's lair, it's sometimes impossible to leave the nightmares behind. In a very real sense, Jason Moss was -- for John Wayne Gacy, Richard Ramirez, Henry Lee Lucas, Jeffrey Dahmer, and Charles Manson -- their last victim.