conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Give me a description for a book titled The Last Victim about Authors, Lawman-turned-author, Christopher with the genre: Biographies & Memoirs, True Crime.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: s Lawman-turned-author Christopher the author has been a law enforcement officer over 30 years, with more than half that time involved in criminal investigation. Now with a major security company, he maintains his law enforcement commission through the Summit County Sheriffs office. The highly decorated civil servant holds degrees in Organizational Management and Criminal Justice. The father of two grown children, the author has received countless training in all aspects of criminal investigation, including graduating in the 196th session of the FBI National Academy in Quantico, Virginia. He is a veteran of the United States Air Force. Police and Fire reporter/editor George Davis spent 42 years in the newspaper business before retiring from the Akron Beacon Journal. Six weeks after the events of September 11, 2001, he became the city of Cantons first and only Public Information Officer as liaison between city agencies and safety forces and regional news media. In 2009, the father of five children teamed with long-time friend the author to write this book, tracing major events of one of the most intriguing and disturbing crime sagas spanning three decades.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: a title for a book about Victim, Jeanie, Deception with the genre: Literature & Fiction, Genre Fiction
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: A title for this book could be 'The Last Victim'
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Give me the first four paragraphs for this book.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: The Last Victim
  It was autumn in the desert, but not like the kind of autumn you'd ordinarily envision for that time of year. It was still hot, blazing hot. The only refuge from the sun was inside the refrigerated buildings.
  With its stately palm trees and expanses of grass, the campus resembled one of the many resorts on the Las Vegas Strip. The difference was that, instead of neon and slot machines, there was a hotel college that taught would-be entrepreneurs how to operate casinos, as well as the usual academic buildings that catered mostly to local students and a few Southern California refugees. The most prominent structure by far was the Thomas and Mack Building, the basketball arena that played host to the Runnin' Rebels. This was a university, after all, known primarily for its basketball program.
  The best and the brightest of the students, a few hundred ambitious, sometimes compulsive scholars, enrolled in the honors program to get the best shot they could for entrance into medical school, law school, or the corporate fast track. The requirements included several exploratory seminars designed to expand students' education beyond their narrow areas of specialty.
  I had volunteered to teach one of these honors seminars, called "Things That Matter." I'd billed it as an opportunity for advanced students to explore a series of topics, including relationships, love, friendship, and, most vitally, the future. And on the first day of class, I encountered an ambitious group of young people: future lawyers, doctors, politicians, CEOs, and scientists.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Give me five more paragraphs.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: In spite of the elation I was feeling over the solid preparation that went into writing Dahmer, there was a spillover that was taking its toll on me emotionally. Though I didn't fully realize it at the time, obsessively reading about necrophilia and cannibalism was beyond the limits of what I could handle. It can't be very good for even a trained psychologist or detective to think about murder all the time, to empathize both with the perpetrators of the most horrible crimes ever committed and with their victims. Just imagine what such reflection can do to a first-year college student whose experience of the world has been confined to one metropolitan area.
  My obsession was isolating me further. More and more often, I began avoiding my friends. Jenn and I broke up for a while, not just because of my latest project but because of conflicts over diverging life goals. There was also continual tension at home, including fights between—and with—my parents, and even some distancing on Jarrod's part.
  To my deepening dismay, I was becoming like the monsters I was studying—not in their homicidal urges, but in their perceived separation from the rest of society. I only learned later—when I took developmental psychology classes—how normal these feelings are for someone of my age, but at the time I just accepted that I was weird. This belief was continuously reinforced by my parents and peers, who were constantly teasing me because of my strange interests.
  If I had stopped to think about it at the time (which I certainly didn't, or I would never have continued my morbid project), I would have realized that the people with whom I had the most intimate relationships were all imprisoned serial killers. Even worse than that, these supposed friendships were built on lies and deception.
  During this period in which I was maintaining correspondence with Gacy, Manson, and now Dahmer, I was losing the part of myself that was most familiar. My thoughts previously centered around doing well in school, preparing myself for a good career, learning things in my classes, going out with friends, and spending time with my girlfriend. Now I was constantly thinking about the various murderers I was studying. Even more disturbing, I was beginning to identify with them. I felt sorry for them. I shared their pain. I understood their motivations. I was even making excuses for them: they couldn't help the way they were. It wasn't their choice; they were made that way.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Give me the last five paragraphs.. Start with the sentence 'Where Jason erred most was in his own perceived invincibility'.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: Where Jason erred most was in his own perceived invincibility. Like any young person, and certainly like any amateur, he believed himself infallible. He made the one mistake that a police officer learns the first day on the job: don't underestimate anyone.Jason certainly possessed a seasoned cop's suspicious nature, but he lacked the experience. He got carried away with himself, lost his objectivity, turned the whole episode into a test of his virility. It was as if he was big-game hunting, after the most dangerous animal he could imagine; no matter what happened, he intended to win in the end. If he hadn't caught Gacy on tape confessing to blackmail, I'm convinced he would have found another way to feel like he'd captured his prize.
  Ultimately, Jason's adventure leaves us with a number of insights. For example, Jason discovered a whole world of deception operating within the network of Death Rows across the nation. Several of the killers confessed to massive fabrications during their debriefings by police and psychologists. In these sessions, they admitted to crimes they never committed. They used information they'd gained from other inmates to muddle investigations in progress and they learned to fudge their responses on supposedly sophisticated psychological instruments. Authorities forget that just as they themselves share data and consult with one another, so too do various killers.
  Jason's account also warns of the extent to which some incarcerated serial killers are still quite active orchestrating mayhem and murder. Each enjoys a devout cult following. Take, for example, Charles Manson, a killer who commands dozens of Web pages and was not the least disappointed his parole was recently denied, since he is so busy anyway with computer communications. Manson, of course, is notorious for his ability to get people on the outside to do his bidding, even to attempt assassination of the president. Others, like Richard Ramirez, have whole networks devoted to furthering their Satanic goals. Since the events described in this story were completed, Ramirez continues to press Jason to serve as a lieutenant in his organization.
  It is disturbing to discover as well how many famous killers are kings of their prison domain, sitting at the head of a royal court of petitioners, each begging for their time. The coin of the realm is souvenirs. The killers sell their childlike artwork for hundreds of dollars, garnering even more for signed letters. If all you want is access, you still have to pay a fee—pornographic magazine subscriptions, contributions to defense funds, perhaps a little favor or two.
  As long as incarcerated killers receive notoriety for their predatory acts, they'll continue to draw lost souls into their kingdoms. For as has been pointed out, people want to get close to things they fear. Fans send "serial killer superstars" not only money but adulation. Women send naked pictures and offers of matrimony. Journalists wait in line for the privilege of conducting an interview. Book and film accounts of killers' lives attract huge audiences. Just like Jason, people want to reach into the darkness without fully understanding the consequences.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Give me the first four paragraphs for this book.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: The Last Victim
  But in the random way the world sometimes works, the seventeen-year-old did drink several big tumblers full of Goofy Grape generously mixed with vodka, courtesy of her new best friend Holly Palmer. As a result, she just happened to be in the utilitarian bathroom off the Palmers' basement rec room, hugging the porcelain throne when the first scream penetrated her consciousness.
  Even muffled by floors and walls and who knew what else, it was loud and shrill and urgent enough to penetrate the haze of misery she was lost in.
  Okay, her voice was weak. Probably Holly hadn't heard her. Probably the scream was nothing, Holly's little brothers fighting or something. Seeing that it was around two a.m., though, shouldn't the eleven- and thirteen-year-olds have been asleep? Charlie had no idea: she knew nothing about tweenie boys. God, she should have followed her instinct and just said no to the booze. But as the new girl in Hampton High School's senior class, Charlie hadn't felt like she was in a position to refuse. From the first day of school, when they'd found out they were sharing a locker, sweet, popular Holly had taken Charlie under her wing, introduced her around. For that, Charlie was grateful. The veteran of seven high schools in just over three years, Charlie knew from bitter experience that there were a lot more mean girls out there than nice ones.
  They'd driven to the shore, plopped down in the sand, and shared the concoction Garrett had mixed for them while they talked and watched the waves.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Give me five more paragraphs.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: Fire shot through her body as he explored her mouth with a voracious hunger that was greedy and domineering and completely enthralling all at the same time.
  She kissed him back as if she would die if she didn't. Her senses went into instant meltdown. The hot spiral of arousal that had been building inside her for what seemed like days spun into a blazing whirlwind that threatened to consume her in the flames. As they kissed, lightning struck and thunder rolled, and Charlie felt herself being swept away by a blistering storm of passion that was like nothing she had ever experienced.
  His mouth was fierce on hers. His tongue staked bold possession. She kissed him back with abandon. She loved the taste of him, the heat of his mouth, the feel of his body against hers.
  By the time she pulled her mouth from his, she was shaking. Her knees had gone weak and the hot rhythmic throbbing deep inside her body was too urgent to ignore.
  His eyes opened, narrowed, and he looked down at her with a frown that couldn't quite mask the hungry glint in his eyes.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Give me the last four paragraphs.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: In an instant Charlie saw that the woman was young, with long, dark hair, pale skin—and a scarlet river of blood running down the side of her face.
  Her eyes locked with Charlie's. They begged. Charlie knew that look—it was mortal fear. She recognized it instantly because she had experienced it more than once herself. She knew what it felt like, processed it viscerally, and her pulse leaped and her gut clenched in response. Thrusting her own pain aside, reacting automatically to this new emergency, to this fellow creature in such obvious distress, she dashed her knuckles across her burning eyes one more time and flew to open the door.
  Charlie's heart jumped. Her pulse leaped into overdrive. Already slamming the door as the girl's nerve-jangling screech reached its apex, Charlie shot a jittery glance at the shivering figure crouched on her floor.
  Relief at his reappearance was tempered by a stabbing fear that it might be very brief. In all likelihood, this was just another flicker.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Delete the last sentence.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: In an instant Charlie saw that the woman was young, with long, dark hair, pale skin—and a scarlet river of blood running down the side of her face.
  Her eyes locked with Charlie's. They begged. Charlie knew that look—it was mortal fear. She recognized it instantly because she had experienced it more than once herself. She knew what it felt like, processed it viscerally, and her pulse leaped and her gut clenched in response. Thrusting her own pain aside, reacting automatically to this new emergency, to this fellow creature in such obvious distress, she dashed her knuckles across her burning eyes one more time and flew to open the door.
  Charlie's heart jumped. Her pulse leaped into overdrive. Already slamming the door as the girl's nerve-jangling screech reached its apex, Charlie shot a jittery glance at the shivering figure crouched on her floor.
  Relief at his reappearance was tempered by a stabbing fear that it might be very brief.