Oliver Lacy was twenty-three years old. He lived in Milwaukee, having moved in with his girlfriend and infant son shortly before his death. He had been planning to marry her.
In high school, Mr. Lacy-or “Birdie”, as his family called him-was a champion athlete. He had been one of the top five runners in Illinois. He’d had his ups and downs, but had managed to buckle down and make something of himself.
On the twelveth of July, 1991, he was wandering around the Grand Avenue mall when he was approached by Jeffrey Dahmer, who invited him back to his flat. Oliver died at his hands later that night.
Allow me to repeat myself: He had an infant son.
Oliver Lacy was the first victim to be identified, since the investigating officers found the most identification for him, and so the investigation was filed in his name.
At his funeral, members of his family had to be helped out of the church, overcome with grief. Oliver had had such a bright future-a young family, the prospect of marriage, and he was such a good sprinter.
Dahmer didn’t care. This is a defining characteristic of serial killers-they feel no remorse whatsoever. They boast of a higher purpose, they dress up their atrocities as acts of rebellion against an unjust society, or, as in this case, they distance themselves from the human nature of murder and talk about each victim as if pouring a glass of water.
Jeff could’ve killed a newborn baby and shrugged it off. He was just that kind of guy.
Rest in peace, Mr. Lacy.