About twenty years ago, I stumbled upon a piece of my family’s past when I found my mom’s name in a book about a notorious true crime story. I was browsing through the book collection in my parents’ room when my attention was caught by an unusual title: “Killer Clown.”
I couldn’t quite place why it stopped me. The title seemed odd and a bit jarring. Was it a frightening thriller like a Stephen King novel? Curious, I picked up the book and started reading the first chapter. The opening sentence hit me like a bolt: “Kim Byers couldn’t decide what to do with the photo receipt.”
This wasn’t fiction. It was a true crime story. And Kim Byers? That was my mom. I kept reading as sunlight began casting shadows on the bedroom floor.
Back on December 11, 1978, my mom, then 17, was working with her friend Rob Piest, who was 15, at Nisson Pharmacy in Des Plaines, Illinois. That day, a contractor doing remodeling work in the store offered Rob a job. As the shift ended, Rob left with the man to sign some job-related paperwork at his house. He was never seen again.
It had been a slow day, allowing my mom time to develop a roll of film for herself. The receipt she received ended up in the pocket of a blue parka she had borrowed from Rob. When Rob left with the contractor, the jacket—and receipt—went with him through the snowy streets to the contractor’s house. Later, when the search for Rob began, that receipt provided crucial proof that he had indeed been at Nisson Pharmacy on December 11.
The contractor tried to deceive the police, claiming he’d never spoken to Rob at the store and suggesting my mother was lying about Rob leaving with him. But the receipt exposed his lies, anchoring the truth in something tangible.
Growing up, I knew my mom had a friend who disappeared. I was warned to avoid sketchy vans and strangers offering rides. Only later did I grasp that these warnings stemmed from a much darker reality: my mom had stared a real-life monster in the face.
She even testified during the 1980 trial of John Wayne Gacy, identifying him as the man who offered Rob that ill-fated job. Gacy entombed 29 bodies in and around his home and disposed of Rob and three others in a river, earning a conviction for the murder of 33 young men and boys. My mother was a key prosecution witness.
Over the years, I realized how lopsided the narrative around this case had been, with Gacy often mythologized alongside infamous serial killers like Dahmer and Bundy. These figures are mind-bogglingly spotlighted as the story’s most compelling aspects. Yet my mom’s journey taught me what was truly important: the lives cut short and the families, friends, and communities left to grapple with the aftermath should be prioritized over the killer in the tales we tell about true crime.
The story of Gacy has repeatedly been told in various forms—podcasts, TV, films—with audiences consuming his life story, attempting to decipher his lethal nature. This pattern can numb us to the cruelty of such crimes.
As I became a mother and matured, my mom opened up more about her experiences. I heard her account of facing a horrifying figure and dealing with the heartache of losing a friend. Her perspective reshaped how I approached writing about that period, focusing not on retelling Gacy’s actions but on shedding light on the broader impact of his violence.
Though Gacy’s brain was studied posthumously by a forensic psychiatrist in search of answers, nothing notable was found. His notoriety is much more than the man himself.
Today’s interest in true crime skews heavily female. A recent 2023 survey revealed that women are almost twice as likely as men to listen to true crime podcasts. There’s an appetite for new narratives and fresh voices that honor those affected, as seen in works like “The Third Rainbow Girl” and Netflix’s series “Into the Fire.”
Delving into personal and wider cultural connections to crime is crucial. If we let ourselves become desensitized or find solace in violent tales, we risk losing our empathy for the victims and those who carry on with the shadows of their loss.
When I revisited “Killer Clown,” the initial shock had given way to a profound sense of empathy and sorrow for those who lived through that dark December of 1978 in Des Plaines. I pondered the parents’ reactions when they learned their sons weren’t coming home and the friends and lovers those lost boys left behind.
So, next time you hear about John Wayne Gacy, remember he wasn’t just a serial killer of 33 young men. One of them was Rob Piest, who my mom cared deeply about.
Courtney Lund O’Neil is the author of “Postmortem: What Survives the John Wayne Gacy Murders.” To learn more, visit www.courtneylundoneil.com.
