At the main-gate guardhouse at Stateville, the morning after Gacy’s execution, I’m in line with 12 other people waiting to visit inmates when a guard enters the waiting area pushing a two-wheel cart half filled with Gacy’s personal possessions. Two other guards are in the room.

Sergeant says, “Whose butt did you kiss to get morgue duty?”

Male officer: “Shiiiit.”

Female officer: “When Speck died no one wanted his shit–did somebody burn it?”

Male officer: “They sold it.”

Sergeant: “Yeah.”

Female officer: “Nobody wants Gacy’s stuff. What are you gonna do with it?”

Male officer: “Auction it off.”

Female officer: “I got his signature. Some lawyer offered me $200 for it.”

Male officer: “His autograph. Hold on to it. It’ll be worth $50,000.”

The male officer returns to the cart, pulls a book off the top of the pile, and opens it to find two photographs stashed inside. One is of Gacy dressed in clown clothing with his arm around a woman.

Sergeant looks at it. “That’s your ex-wife.”

Male officer: “Shiiiit, that’s your ex-wife.”

Man in line: “How much you want for that picture?”

Sergeant: “Damn.”