Killer Clown, John Wayne Gacy – Part 2 | USA
On the morning of the 22nd of December, 1978, investigators returned to the house on West Summerdale Avenue with a second search warrant. Less than twenty-four hours earlier, John Wayne Gacy had quietly admitted to his lawyer that Robert Piest was dead. Detectives didn't know that. They were still hoping to find some trace of the missing teenager.
Instead, they found something else.
The opening beneath the hallway floor measured little more than sixty centimetres high. One by one, detectives lowered themselves into the cramped crawl space, their flashlights cutting through the darkness. The earth beneath the house had been disturbed repeatedly over the years, but it wasn't until one investigator noticed what appeared to be a human arm protruding from the soil that the full significance of the search became apparent.
Within hours, archaeologists, forensic specialists and medical examiners had been called to the scene. Detectives quickly realised that the recovery would not take a day. All up, retrieving the remains of all his victims would take close to three weeks.
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By the time investigators returned to 8213 West Summerdale Avenue on the morning of the 22nd of December, the search for Robert Piest had changed beyond recognition. Ten days earlier, detectives had been trying to establish whether a missing fifteen-year-old had accepted a lift from a stranger after finishing work. Now they were preparing to execute a second search warrant at the home of the man who had become the centre of their investigation.
News of the renewed search spread quickly. Police vehicles lined the quiet suburban street as neighbours gathered behind barricades, watching detectives carry cameras, evidence boxes and excavation equipment into the modest brick ranch house. Few could have imagined that the property, so ordinary in appearance, would soon become one of the most closely examined crime scenes in American history.
Inside, investigators returned to the narrow crawl space beneath the house. Access was gained through a small opening concealed beneath a hatch in the hallway floor. Barely sixty centimetres high in places, the space forced investigators to crawl on their hands and knees through damp earth and supporting beams. The air was stale, heavy and carried an unpleasant odour that several detectives had noticed during earlier visits to the house. Gacy had dismissed it as dampness, sewage problems or perhaps a dead rodent beneath the floorboards. It was an explanation that had seemed plausible enough at the time.
Now they intended to determine its source. Armed with flashlights, investigators began examining the disturbed soil beneath the house. Almost immediately, they noticed that sections of the crawl space appeared inconsistent with the surrounding earth. Some areas looked as though they had been dug out and refilled. Others contained patches of loose soil that differed in colour and texture from the undisturbed clay around them.
One such area drew particular attention… As investigators carefully removed the upper layer of soil, fragments of decayed material began appearing beneath the surface. At first, it was impossible to say exactly what they were looking at. Then someone noticed what appeared to be human bone.
The Cook County Medical Examiner's Office was contacted, along with forensic specialists experienced in the recovery of human remains. Detectives understood immediately that this was no longer simply a search warrant. The house had become an active homicide scene.
What followed over the next several days bore little resemblance to a conventional police search.
Rather than digging indiscriminately, investigators approached the crawl space as though excavating an archaeological site. Each section of disturbed ground was photographed before being carefully exposed by hand. Soil was removed layer by layer, every discovery mapped, measured and recorded before anything was disturbed further. Narrow pathways were established beneath the house so investigators could move without contaminating potential evidence, while outside, forensic personnel erected temporary work areas to receive and catalogue recovered remains.
It quickly became apparent that the first grave was not an isolated burial. Only a short distance away, investigators located another. Then another…
As each burial site was uncovered, the same painstaking process began again. Photographs were taken. Measurements recorded. Human remains were carefully lifted from the confined space before being transferred to the Medical Examiner's Office, where forensic anthropologists and odontologists worked to establish the identities of the dead. The recovery continued throughout the Christmas period.
While most families across Chicago prepared for the holidays, detectives, crime scene technicians and forensic specialists spent long days beneath the house on West Summerdale Avenue. The work was physically exhausting. The confined crawl space allowed little room to manoeuvre, and investigators often lay on their stomachs for hours at a time while carefully exposing remains that had lain undisturbed for years.
Outside, media interest intensified with each passing day. Television crews established positions along the street, newspaper photographers documented every vehicle entering and leaving the property, and neighbours watched in disbelief as stretchers carrying evidence emerged from the house. Officially, investigators revealed very little, but it was becoming increasingly obvious that the search for Robert Piest had uncovered something far more significant than anyone had anticipated.
For detectives who had spent the previous ten days searching for one missing teenager, the scale of the discovery was almost impossible to comprehend. Each new grave raised the same troubling question. Who were these young men?
Some would later be identified quickly through dental records and missing person reports. Others would remain unknown for years, known only by the location in which they had been found beneath the house. Families across Illinois and neighbouring states watched the unfolding investigation with growing dread, wondering whether sons, brothers and friends who had disappeared months or even years earlier might somehow be connected to the quiet suburban address that now dominated the national news.
While investigators continued excavating beneath the house on West Summerdale Avenue, John Wayne Gacy sat in an interview room at the Cook County Sheriff's Office. He had been arrested the previous day on an outstanding charge of possessing marijuana, giving detectives the opportunity to keep him in custody while the search continued. Officially, the charge had nothing to do with Robert Piest's disappearance. In reality, it bought investigators something far more valuable than time.
Throughout the day, detectives moved between the crime scene and the interview room, comparing each new discovery with the man sitting before them. Gacy was no longer the composed contractor who had calmly dismissed investigators' questions during the previous week. He knew what lay beneath his house, and with every passing hour he understood that the excavation was bringing detectives closer to the truth.
Rather than confronting him with accusations, investigators allowed Gacy to speak freely. The conversations wandered from his childhood to his business, his marriage, his political ambitions and the pressures he believed had shaped his life. Detectives listened patiently, interrupting only to clarify details or gently steer him back towards Robert Piest. It was a technique that required patience. Experienced investigators understood that silence often achieved more than confrontation.
As the hours passed, Gacy's confidence began to ebb. He remarked more than once that his life was over and, according to those present, quietly described himself as "a dead man". It was the first indication that he understood the gravity of the discoveries being made beneath his home.
Then, almost imperceptibly, the conversation shifted. Without any dramatic declaration or emotional outburst, Gacy acknowledged that Robert Piest was dead. Gacy explained that the teenager had never left the house. According to his account, he had shown Robert his handcuff "trick," restrained him, and then strangled him with a length of rope, using the method he called his "rope trick." It was a story whose details would shift repeatedly over the months and years that followed, but investigators listening that day were less concerned with how Gacy said Robert died than with where his body could be found.
He told them the body had been kept in the house overnight before he drove it to a bridge over the Des Plaines River and dropped it into the water in the early hours of the following morning. Confusingly, Gacy also told detectives that day that he had killed a young man in self-defence years earlier and buried that victim under his garage floor, a separate case investigators would later confirm involved a former employee named John Butkovich, not Robert Piest. Untangling which account belonged to which victim would occupy investigators for days. What was becoming increasingly apparent, however, was that Gacy's recollection of individual victims was unreliable. Years of murder, concealment and deception had blurred together, leaving detectives with the difficult task of separating fact from fabrication.
As the interviews continued, investigators abandoned any expectation of obtaining a neat, chronological confession. Instead, they allowed Gacy to talk, carefully comparing every statement with information arriving from the crime scene. Sometimes his recollections matched what forensic teams were uncovering beneath the house. At other times, they did not. Detectives soon realised that the physical evidence would ultimately prove more reliable than the man describing it.
The conversation gradually shifted from Robert Piest to the other young men. At first, Gacy avoided numbers altogether. He referred vaguely to "boys" and "employees" who had come to the house over the years, offering little detail beyond suggesting that many of the deaths had followed arguments or sexual encounters that somehow escalated beyond his control. The explanations were inconsistent and often self-serving, portraying each killing as an isolated event rather than part of a sustained pattern of predatory behaviour.
According to detectives present during the interviews, there was a curious detachment to the way he described the killings, as though he were recounting episodes from someone else's life rather than his own.
Meanwhile, the excavation continued.
Each set of remains recovered from beneath the crawl space represented another unidentified victim, another family that had spent months or years wondering what had become of a missing son or brother. Outside the house, journalists crowded behind police barricades, broadcasting live reports as forensic vehicles arrived and departed throughout the day. Neighbours who had lived alongside Gacy for years watched in disbelief as investigators carried evidence from a property that, until only days earlier, had seemed no different from any other home on the street.
Inside the Sheriff's Office, detectives reached a point where one question could no longer be avoided. If the crawl space was already full, where were the rest? Gacy explained that there had come a time when there was no more room beneath the house. From then on, he said, he had disposed of several victims elsewhere. Their bodies, he claimed, had been thrown from bridges into the Des Plaines River.
For investigators, the statement changed the investigation yet again.
Until that moment, the recovery effort had been confined to a single property. Now it expanded beyond West Summerdale Avenue, raising the possibility that victims remained undiscovered somewhere along the river system winding through metropolitan Chicago. Search teams would soon begin combing the waterways, hoping to locate those Gacy said he had discarded after the crawl space became overcrowded.
By Christmas Eve, The painstaking process of recovering victims from beneath the house was far from over, while equally challenging was the task of giving each of those young men back their names. The excavation had revealed the scale of the crimes.
What investigators still did not fully understand was how an outwardly successful businessman had managed to murder so many young men over such a long period without attracting sustained suspicion. The question was no longer whether John Wayne Gacy had committed the murders. It was how he had managed to do so for so many years without arousing greater suspicion.
To those who knew him, Gacy seemed an unlikely candidate.
He owned a successful construction company that employed dozens of young men throughout the Chicago area. PDM Contractors had built a solid reputation, taking on everything from home renovations to larger commercial projects, and Gacy himself projected the image of a hardworking businessman who had achieved the American dream through determination and long hours. He was active in local Democratic Party politics, serving as a precinct captain and organising community events, where he became acquainted with several influential politicians. Photographs from the time show him shaking hands with civic leaders, attending fundraising dinners and posing confidently beside public officials. Few people who met him in those settings had reason to question the persona he so carefully cultivated.
Outside work, Gacy was equally engaged in community life. He volunteered at neighbourhood functions and occasionally entertained children at charitable events, hospitals and local celebrations dressed as "Pogo the Clown". Contrary to popular belief, he did not earn a living as a clown, nor did he regularly perform at children's birthday parties. Pogo was simply one of several volunteer personas he adopted for community events, reflecting the civic-minded image he worked hard to project. In the years that followed, however, the clown costume would become inseparable from his crimes, earning him the enduring nickname "The Killer Clown"—a title that, while memorable, oversimplified the far more calculated deception that allowed him to hide in plain sight.
Neighbours remembered him as friendly and approachable. He was known to lend tools, offer advice on home repairs and chat comfortably across backyard fences. To many, he appeared outgoing, confident and successful. Looking back after his arrest, several neighbours recalled little more than the occasional unpleasant smell drifting from the property during warmer weather. Gacy had explained it away as sewage problems beneath the house, and most accepted the explanation without giving it further thought. There had been no obvious screams, no suspicious comings and goings that seemed extraordinary at the time, and certainly nothing to suggest that dozens of young men had entered the house over the preceding years, never to leave again.
Yet behind the carefully maintained façade was a far more complicated history, one that investigators soon discovered had not begun in suburban Chicago.
John Wayne Gacy was born on the 17th of March, 1942, in Chicago, Illinois, the second of three children born to John Stanley Gacy and Marion Elaine Robison. The family lived in a modest working-class neighbourhood, where appearances mattered and discipline was strict. Gacy later described his childhood as deeply unhappy, dominated by a father whose violent temper cast a long shadow over family life.
John Stanley Gacy was a machinist and World War I veteran who struggled with alcoholism. Friends and relatives later described him as domineering and unpredictable, prone to explosive outbursts directed at both his wife and children. John Jr. appeared to bear the brunt of that anger. Throughout his childhood he was frequently belittled, beaten and mocked by his father, who questioned his masculinity and dismissed him as weak. The criticism intensified whenever Gacy displayed interests his father considered insufficiently masculine or whenever ill health prevented him from participating in sport alongside other boys.
Those health problems were genuine. Around age eleven, Gacy was struck in the head by a swing at school, and for several years afterward he suffered periodic blackouts, eventually traced to a blood clot that required medical treatment. While other children played outside, he spent long periods indoors recovering, often feeling isolated from his peers. The extent to which this episode affected his later behaviour has remained the subject of considerable debate. Modern researchers generally agree that no single childhood event can explain the development of a serial killer. Instead, Gacy's upbringing forms part of a far more complex picture in which personality, environment and individual choice became intertwined over many years.
By the spring of 1980, investigators had completed one of the largest homicide investigations in Illinois history. The excavation of Gacy's property, the recovery of victims from the Des Plaines River and months of painstaking forensic work had enabled authorities to identify most of the young men who had disappeared over the previous decade. Their names were slowly returned to them through dental records, medical histories and, in some cases, the tireless persistence of families who had never stopped searching.
On the 6th of February 1980, John Wayne Gacy went on trial in the Circuit Court of Cook County. Prosecutors charged him with the murders of thirty-three young men and boys, making it one of the largest multiple murder prosecutions the United States had ever seen.
The trial lasted little more than five weeks, yet it brought together years of investigation, hundreds of witnesses and thousands of exhibits. For prosecutors, the central issue was straightforward. Gacy had confessed to numerous murders, investigators had recovered the victims from beneath his home and forensic evidence linked him directly to the crimes. The defence, however, pursued a very different strategy.
Gacy's lawyers did not dispute that the killings had occurred. Instead, they argued that their client was legally insane. Under Illinois law at the time, a defendant could not be held criminally responsible if, because of a mental disease or defect, he lacked the capacity to appreciate the criminality of his actions or conform his behaviour to the law. The defence called several psychiatrists who testified that Gacy suffered from severe personality disorders and displayed characteristics consistent with multiple personalities, suggesting that an alternate persona had committed the murders while the outwardly respectable businessman remained psychologically detached.
The prosecution countered with its own psychiatric experts, who reached a very different conclusion. They acknowledged that Gacy displayed traits associated with narcissistic and antisocial personality disorders but maintained that he was fully aware of his actions. The elaborate precautions he took to lure victims, conceal their bodies and mislead investigators demonstrated planning, calculation and an understanding that what he was doing was wrong. Personality disorders, they argued, did not meet the legal threshold for insanity.
Throughout the proceedings, jurors heard harrowing testimony from forensic specialists, investigators and the families of victims whose lives had been irrevocably altered by Gacy's crimes. The physical evidence was overwhelming. Dental experts painstakingly explained how many of the unidentified remains had finally been matched to missing persons reports, bringing answers to families who had spent years living with uncertainty. Detectives described the painstaking excavation beneath the crawl space, while prosecutors presented photographs, maps and forensic evidence documenting one of the most extensive crime scene recoveries in American history.
After deliberating for less than two hours, the jury rejected the insanity defence.
On the 12th of March 1980, John Wayne Gacy was found guilty on all thirty-three counts of murder. The following day, the jury recommended that Gacy receive the death penalty for each eligible count, and Judge Louis B. Garippo formally imposed the sentence. Gacy showed little visible emotion as the verdicts were read. Addressing the court, he continued to portray himself as the victim of circumstance, insisting that history would judge him differently and maintaining that the legal process had become little more than a public spectacle.
For the families seated throughout the courtroom, however, the verdict marked the end of a long and agonising chapter. Some had spent years searching for sons who had simply vanished without explanation. Others had endured months of uncertainty while forensic experts worked to identify remains recovered from beneath the house on West Summerdale Avenue. Although the convictions could never restore what had been taken from them, they finally provided certainty where there had been only unanswered questions.
As deputies escorted Gacy from the courtroom, the legal battle was far from over. Over the next fourteen years, his lawyers would file numerous appeals, challenging both his convictions and the death sentence. Every appeal ultimately failed.
In the early hours of the 10th of May 1994, after spending fourteen years on death row at the Menard Correctional Center, John Wayne Gacy was executed by lethal injection at the Stateville Correctional Center in Crest Hill, Illinois. His reported final words reflected the defiance he had displayed throughout much of his imprisonment.
"Kiss my ass."
With that, one of America's most notorious serial killers was dead.
The convictions brought justice, but they could not bring closure to every family. Although investigators succeeded in identifying most of the young men recovered from Gacy's property, several remained unknown for decades, and some have only been identified through modern DNA technology. Others are still waiting to be named. Somewhere, families may still be wondering what became of a son, a brother or a friend who left home one day and simply never returned. More than four decades after John Wayne Gacy's arrest, the final chapter of this case has yet to be written.

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