THE LOST SON OF SAM LETTERS

Clinton State Prison

There comes a point when you're working on a book that you have to decide you've covered every base, turned over every rock, and it's time to end your search and be happy that you've managed to cover at least eighty-five percent of the story. No reporter or book author can ever get the entire story. It's just not possible. With Every Move You Make, I had reached that point somewhere around the day Bill's wife called and told me her husband wanted to meet me. I had interviewed scores of people, some dozens of times. Near the end, I was starting to hear the same stories ad nauseam, which is the point when you know you've covered everything you're going to get.

Or so I thought.

As I opened the photo album, I couldn't have imagined the story could get any better. I mean, I already had, as I wrote in the author's note of the book, what I believed was the most "incredible true story, which, in my opinion, includes the most shocking and surprising ending in the history of true crime" at my disposal. The book had turned into a cat and mouse game between a serial killer and a cop, who had befriended, arrested and chased his prey for twelve-plus years. My goodness, Gary Evans had broken into Horton's home at times and wandered through it while Horton was not at home. He'd followed Horton. Horton had gotten Evans jobs. Evans had set up drug dealers for him. They were polar opposites, but appreciated the idea of interacting on a professional level. For ten years, Horton never knew Evans was a serial killer; he thought Evans was a burglar and wanted to help him. Catching Evans, realizing he was a serial killer, was the apex of the story. What Evans did after he was captured became the story of legend.

What more could I ask for in a crime story?

Inside the album were scores of letters between Son of Sam and Gary Evans. They had "done time" together at Clinton State Prison in Dannemora, New York, through which they had developed a close relationship.

"Are you kidding me?" I said out of excitement and fear. Excited for obvious reasons, fearful because I now had this new vein to my story that hadn't existed before that day. I would have to rewrite much of my book, which wouldn't be a problem under normal circumstances. But with a 500-page book already in my hard drive, it was a daunting task, nonetheless, to have to reshape and keep the book somewhat in the neighborhood of its original page-count, flow and narrative.

"Can I take these back to my office?"

To my surprise and delight, Bill said, "Of course. That's why you're here."