How Place Gives Life to Writing

The wind whipped into Nisson Pharmacy in Des Plaines, Illinois, bringing with it an eerie chill. Kim Byers, seventeen, worked the cashier in the pharmacy. She rang customers up as they came in for their purchases of over-the-counter medicine and small Christmas gifts. Her friend and co-worker, Robert Piest, fifteen, stocked goods in the aisles of shelves. It was December 11, 1978, in the quaint town of Des Plaines, a northwest suburb of Chicago.

During the shift, Kim asked Rob if she could borrow his blue parka. Every time a customer entered through the double glass doors, Kim’s body shuddered and was prickled by the outside temperature wafting in. Her shoulders slumped, relaxed, after she slid her arms into Rob’s parka. A sense of safety warmed her. No longer affected by the elements, Kim developed a roll of film from the Homecoming dance at the register during a slow moment. She wrote her name and phone number on the envelope. When she was finished, she went to toss her receipt in the little trash container on the checkout counter, but then felt an urge. Stop.

A feeling she couldn’t quite pinpoint directed her to slide the receipt into the parka pocket. Her finger slid over the crisp ridge of her tear. Kim didn’t know why, but she hoped maybe Rob would see her receipt later and ask to see her photographs. The two both enjoyed photography and often discussed the elements of exposure, framing, and finding a balance of light and dark. But she also had this feeling she couldn’t explain. A feeling that said don’t let this piece of paper go.

Later in the shift at the pharmacy, a man came in. Maybe you have heard of his name before. John Wayne Gacy. He was there to remodel some of the shelving in Nisson Pharmacy for the owners. He ran his own company, PDM Contractors. He was large, much heavier than both Kim and Rob. But without putting much thought into his appearance, he looked like an average person. Someone here to complete their job. Perhaps that is why Rob trusted him when he brought up the idea about hiring him for summer work. Gacy was often hiring boys and young men to conduct various jobs for him. The contractor left the store midway through Kim and Rob’s shift – but then came back close to 9 pm, when Rob’s shift would be over.

At around 9 pm that night, Rob’s shift was coming to an end. He needed to go take the trash out and asked Kim for his parka back. She slid the jacket off and handed it to him. He slid on arm in, and then the other. He smiled at her.

Soon after, the contractor was back. He had forgotten his appointment book. He noticed Rob again and sought him out to speak with him. He asked Rob how much he made at Nisson Pharmacy and offered to pay him double. It seemed too good to be true.

Rob’s mother came to pick up her youngest son from the pharmacy just as was about to speak with the contractor. She greeted Rob as she walked into the store. He welcomed her with a sincere hello, but he had a tinge of anxiety in his voice. He seemed to be in a rush back outside. He told both Kim and his mom he was going to speak some more to the contractor about possible summer work and to sign new hire paperwork.

Rob said, “I’ll be right back.”

But he would never come back.

That night, Gacy would never allow the boy to see his family, friends, or return to his old life again. Gacy convinced Rob to take a ride to his house but there was no new hire paperwork to sign. Rob would take his last breath in Gacy’s home on W. Summerdale Avenue. Gacy murdered Rob Piest under his own roof. Back at the pharmacy, both Kim and Rob’s mother awaited his return. And worried, deeply, when he did not come back.

Rob Piest would be the final victim of John Wayne Gacy, who murdered 33 young men and boys. He buried many of his victims under his house and dumped the rest in the Des Plaines River. Rob was brought to the river, as Gacy had run out of room under his house, in his crawl space. My mom, as one of the last ones seen with Rob alive, became the prime witness.

As police investigated Gacy’s property, Gacy continued to deny ever speaking with Rob, let alone bringing him to his house. However, the film receipt my mom put in Rob’s parka would be found on the property, which proved Rob had been there. Without the receipt, who knows how many more Gacy would have killed.

When I first found out about this story, I became immersed in the layers. From a young girl to my adulthood, I carried with me a deep desire to understand how this murder case affected my mother—from a young seventeen year old girl, to now, a mother a grandmother. And in turn, I began to hold a looking glass at my own life and see how these murders affected me. When I became a mother, I began to deeply mourn all the boys’ lives that were cut too short. I couldn’t imagine the pain the parents felt when they learned their sons were victims to a serial killer.

For most of my life, this was a story that existed in my head, in books, on podcasts, and film and television. But once I arrived at Oklahoma State University, I felt called to untangle this story that had lived in my head for decades and put it on the page.

I had never been to Oklahoma before applying to the Ph.D. program here in English. But it was the only Ph.D. program I would apply to. I can still remember when I applied: I was a sleep-deprived new mom with a hunger to continue my education and continue my writing. I connected with my soon-to-be advisor, Professor Sarah Beth Childers, over email and instantly knew this school, this education could be a fantastic fit.

My husband, 1-year-old son, our cat, and I made our way east from California to Oklahoma in August of 2018. Once arriving, I fell in love with all things Stillwater and OSU. The orange that canvassed campus in the fall. The pomping for Homecoming. Climbing the steps in Morrill Hall to my classes. Spending weekends in the library to read, research, and write. Taking study snacks with my son to purchase some Rice Krispies Treats from the first-floor vending machines at Edmon Low. There was so much space, both in the land and in my mind, to write all the stories I had wanted. Life here was a slower pace than California. And this was something I relished, as I let me mind wonder and fingers tap my keyboard.

During my first semester in the Ph.D. program, I submitted an essay to our Creative Nonfiction workshop in Professor Childers’ class. It was a piece of literary journalism, chronicling my time back in Des Plaines, Illinois with my mom and how we revisited Nisson Pharmacy and the old lot that once belonged to Gacy. I pictured her at seventeen, Rob, fifteen. The final moments of his life. Was he scared? Did he know what Gacy would do? Did he imagine his mom, waiting eagerly for him? Emotionally, the weight felt enormous to be in Des Plaines. Being in the physical space of these crimes made them more real. Being there with my mother helped me better understand her, and also the importance of telling new stories around famous murder cases. The world had known about Gacy, also recognized as the Killer Clown. But no one knew what it meant for my mom to give up her youth early, to face a monster in the courtroom in downtown Chicago, to fear the worst happening to her own children because she had seen it happen to her friend. There was so much to mine, so I wrote. And wrote some more.

In that workshop, during my first month at OSU, I received positive and enthusiastic feedback about the essay I produced about the time my mom and I visited Des Plaines. I gained the confidence to submit the essay to literary journals. The Columbia Journal picked up the essay. It would be my first publication in a literary journal. A couple years later, the essay would be named a notable essay in Best American Essays.

In 2025, seven years after I first arrived in Stillwater, Oklahoma, I’ll be publishing my debut book called Postmortem: What Survives the John Wayne Gacy Murders. It’ll be a different kind of true crime book. One that centers victims and survivors. One that confronts the dangerous legacy Gacy left behind long after his demise. And my hope is that the book will have readers consider other true crime cases, and how we can think less about the murderers and more about the people who died and the ones who keep living long after a killer is caught.

I sometimes wonder if this book would have been able to happen without my time at Oklahoma State University. Perhaps, eventually, yes. But there was something so special about my time at Oklahoma State University. This place helped me confidently and calmly be able to write about Des Plaines and the horrors that happened in that small suburban town.

Although these days I am back home in California, I can still see Stillwater so clearly and the warmth it so generously provided me as I wrote. I can see the fireflies flashing and dancing at dusk in my front yard near the golf course. I can see my son’s hands catching them in mason jars and his smile lighting up at the small accomplishment. I can taste the piping hot pizza at The Hideaway that I shared with my husband and son on Friday nights. I can feel the drops of warm stormy rain on my face on late summer days. Stillwater is a place I was able to hone my voice and find my identity as mother and writer.

I’ll never forget you.

This resource is no cost at https://open.library.okstate.edu/goodthingstoread/