The criminal mind has intrigued me since the day I met my first psychopath. It was many years ago and the story of that meeting is the most popular page on my website.
I share with you, here, that story of the man who sparked my desire to write psychological crime thrillers:
I met a man with empty eyes...
Copyright © 2009 Eileen Schuh, all rights reserved
It wasn’t that his eyes were dull. Oh, no! Theysparkled. That
shine, however, was not emanating from his soul, but was merely
reflecting the world he was seeing.
I was a young girl, eighteen, straight off the farm. He was tall.
Good looking with his dark wavy hair and tanned smooth face. Broad
shoulders strained at his T-shirt. His IQ was slightly above 140. He was
a genius. He was a psychopath. A sociopath.
He was a dangerous man.
I knew all this because I’d read his case file. I was meeting with
him so I could get the little box beside “forensic patient” on “First
Year Psychiatric Nursing Required Learning Experiences” record checked
off. It was only my second month of hands-on training, so there were
pages of little boxes left to go. Other than the ones beside ‘attending
an autopsy’ and ‘making a bed’, ‘forensic patient’ is the only one I
remember.
The ‘forensic patient’ was obviously enthralled by my presence. Life
on the locked ward of a Psychiatric Hospital offers few thrills to those
incarcerated there. I could tell by the way his empty eyes rested on
the space between my white nyloned knees and the hem of my uniform, that
I’d made his day. He didn’t rest his eyes there long, however. Just a
quick glance, and then he was cocking his head, raising an eyebrow, and
staring deeply into my eyes. A gentle smile lifted his lips and a dimple
appeared on his chin.
I knew instantly, that like Dr. Hannibal Lecter when he met Jodi
Foster in the movie “Silence of the Lambs”, this man was reading my
soul. After 5 seconds of gazing into my eyes, he likely knew more about
me than his entire thick file revealed about him.
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FATAL ERROR
Psychological Thriller
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He knew I found him attractive. He knew I was naive. He sensed I was
lonely and way out of my element in a place with barred windows, tiled
floors, and dusty yellow brick walls. He likely even correctly guessed
that I was a virgin.
I surprised us both by not blushing. I’d been warned. All of us
female nursing students had been warned about the seductive lure of the
psychopath. Despite the admonitions, not a year went by that a young
nurse didn’t land in a heap of trouble over an illicit tryst with a
‘forensic patient’. I’d made up my mind early on, that I was too clever
and wily to be that token young woman for my class.
I stared back at him, directly into his empty eyes. He was very much
the textbook psychopath: male, brilliant, healthy, and handsome. He
blinked and shifted uncomfortably.
The diagnosis on his chart was ‘psychopath’, although the preferred
term coming into vogue was ‘sociopath’. ‘Psychopath’ suggests something
is wrong with the ‘psyche’ or ‘mind’. Typically, there is very little
wrong with a psychopath’s mind. They don’t suffer from hallucinations,
delusions, or depression. In fact, they seldom ‘suffered’ from anything.
They were generally very pleased with themselves.
 |
Artistic rendition courtesy
Dave Brosha Photograph |
Society, however, was generally not at all pleased with them. There
was something dreadfully wrong with a psychopath right from birth. It
wasn’t ‘wrong’ like something in their brain was miss-wired, misfiring,
or damaged. But rather ‘wrong’, like something was missing from their
basic human nature. Like a conscience. Like a soul.
Researchers discovered psychopaths often stand in front of mirrors
and appear to be studying, or perhaps practicing, facial expression and
body language. The researchers thought this behaviour suggested it was
emotions that the psychopath lacked. Perhaps, they hypothesized, despite
the fact that psychopaths were masters at reading other people’s
emotions, they had to feign their own.
However, that suggestion was quickly dismissed. It isn’t emotions
that psychopaths are missing. In fact, it is usually emotions that land
them in trouble. Fits of rage, insane jealousy, love gone wrong. No,
they obviously possess very intense emotions. However, those emotions
don’t seem integrated with their being.
Unlike the rest of us, whose emotional nature is deeply tied to past
life experiences, it appears the psychopath can choose whatever emotion
suits the moment, with little regard for either the past or the future.
A normal mother loves her children intensely. Day after day, night
after night, yesterday, today, and tomorrow. That intense love
continually governs a mother’s behaviour and affects her choices. The
psychopathic mother loves her children intensely--until she decides to
kill them because her new lover doesn’t like kids.
My forensic patient’s discomfort lasted only a split second. He settled back in his chair. “How old are you?” he asked.
Warning bells went off in my head. I wasn’t supposed to let a
forensic patient steer the conversation to a personal level. It was up
to me to keep our meeting professional. I knew that he knew I’d been
taught that. He’d spent hours in counselling sessions, knew all the
ropes, all the buzz words, all the standard responses. His was a trick
question.
From the length of hesitation before I answered, from the tone of my
voice, from the flick of my eyes, from the movement of my hands--from my
response to his simple question, he was going to learn reams about me.
And, what he learned, he was going to use against me to get what he
wanted.
I’d been taught the answer I should give was, “We are here to talk
about you, not me.” He’d probably heard that response a million times.
He was expecting those words from me, a young naive female. He likely
had his next move already planned.
I needed to outwit him. Do the unexpected. Let him know that I knew
where he was coming from and was unafraid. “How old am I?” I echoed. I
crossed my legs and my uniform rode higher up my thighs. “Old enough to
know better.”
My words seemed to please him as much as the new length of leg I’d
exposed. I believe he actually chuckled. He was thinking how lucky he
was that not only did he have a beautiful nubile woman engaging him in
conversation, but he had someone with whom he could match wits--and he
never lost such matches.
Although I wished my answer had not been so pleasing to him, I was
grateful that at least the conversation had moved to an intellectual
level. I figured losing to him at mind games was a much more desirable
outcome than losing to him at games of the heart.
I let him stare into my eyes. I had nothing to hide--no secrets, no
misgivings, no fears. At least that is what I was telling him. He kept
studying my face, well aware that I was challenging him to find my
silent lambs. I stared back into his eyes, not that I could see anything
there other than the reflected squares of light from the window behind
me. He finally gave up looking for lambs.
As there is no known cure for psychopathy, no effective treatment, no
souls available for transplant, there was no need for me to attempt to
counsel him. Just as society’s only recourse when dealing with dangerous
psychopaths is to keep itself safe by locking them up, my sole intent
was to shield myself from becoming this murderer, philanderer’s,
fraudster’s, soulless being’s, next victim. It was the only victory
available--aside from getting a check mark in that little square box.
I was determined to ensure both victories would be mine.
I uncrossed my legs and opened my notebook on my lap. I clicked my
pen and peered across at him over the top of my glasses. “Is there
anything you’d like to talk about?” I asked.
This time he did not chuckle. There was no smile, no dimple. He
pulled his lips into a straight line and bared his teeth. Before I had
time to gasp, the magazines on the end table were flying across the
room.
“Bitch!” he hissed, as he stormed from the room.
A burly aide poked his head in the door. A giant ring of keys jangled
from his belt. “Are you okay?” he shouted, looking quickly from me to
the forensic patient marching down the hall.
I closed my notebook. Took off my glasses and folded them. I stood.
The aide’s name was Jim and there was worry in his blue eyes. He
wasn’t all that tall, but he was taller than I was. I liked his blond
curls. Not only were his shoulders stretching the seams of his
short-sleeved white coat, but his biceps were straining against the
cuffs. There was no ring on his finger.
“I’m fine,” I said demurely.“Thank you...Jim.”
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If the psychopathic mind intrigues you, check out my psychological crime thrillers:
THE TRAZ on Amazon.com
THE TRAZ in the UK
FATAL ERROR on Amazon.com
FATAL ERROR in the UK
And here are the Amazon links to my SciFi psychological mystery:
Schrodinger's Cat
Schrodinger's Cat in the UK
All my books available in eBook and paperbacks and THE TRAZ
also comes in a School Edition with a Discussion Guide. They are also
available on other fine online bookstores. You can ask your neighbourhood
bookstores and libraries to bring them in for you if they're not on the
shelves.
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