In un articolo pubblicato su Slate Magazine, la scrittrice statunitense Jill McCabe Johnson ricorda quando, in una notte agli inizi degli anni ’80, andò a letto con Gary Ridgway, l’uomo che sarebbe poi diventato uno dei serial killer più prolifici degli Stati Uniti: il Green River Killer.
I met Gary at the White Shutters, once a country-western dance hall near the Seattle airport. He was slender with light brown hair and blue eyes. He said he was 29, but the drooped corners of his eyes and the slight sagginess beneath his chin made me wonder if he was older.
It was late 1980 or early 1981. I was 18.
I had no reason to suspect anything odd about Gary back then. I ran into him a few times over several weeks, and he seemed nice enough. He always asked me to dance and bought me
whatever I happened to be drinking that night, usually tonic water or pineapple juice. Sometimes he sat with my friends and me, but he scooted his chair back and didn’t talk to the others. I couldn’t tell if he just liked dancing or if he was genuinely attracted to me. His hands didn’t stray during slow dances, and he never tried to sneak a kiss.