After we had exchanged courtesies, I accepted his invitation to be a guest at his motel for a few days.
“We’ll put you in one of the rooms that doesn’t provide me with viewing privileges,” he said, with a lighthearted grin.
He removed from his pocket a folded piece of stationery and handed it to me.
He wore a tan jacket and an open-collared dress shirt that seemed a size small for his heavily muscled neck.
He had neatly trimmed dark hair, and, behind horn-rimmed glasses, he projected a friendly expression befitting an innkeeper.
“Welcome to Denver,” he said, waving in his left hand the note I had mailed him.
“My name is Gerald Foos.” My first impression was that this amiable stranger resembled many of the men I had flown with from Phoenix. In his mid-forties, Foos was hazel-eyed, around six feet tall, and slightly overweight.
To escape this tedium, he said, he began to undertake what he called “voyeuristic excursions” around Aurora after dark.
Often on foot, although sometimes in a car, he would cruise through neighborhoods and spy on people who were casual about lowering their window shades. “Even before our marriage I told her that this gave me a feeling of power,” he said. “Donna and most nurses are very open-minded,” he said.
I had known him for barely half an hour, and he was unburdening himself to me about his masturbatory fixations and the origins of his voyeurism. He told me that he was a virgin through high school.
As a journalist, I do not recall meeting anyone who required less of me than he did. It was only after joining the Navy, serving in the Mediterranean and the Far East, and training as an underwater demolition specialist that he enlarged his knowledge of sex under the guidance of bar girls.
He said, “And so, being very curious about sex even as an early adolescent—with all those farm animals around, how could you avoid thinking of sex?
—I looked beyond my home to learn what I could about people’s private lives.” He did not have to look far, he said, steering the car toward the suburb of Aurora, where his motel was situated.
When he was a child, his mother’s married sister, Katheryn, lived in the farmhouse next door.