The Devil You Know: Encounters in Forensic Psychiatry

by Gwen Adshead

In the room with him I simply commented that it was interesting that he seemed to want to humiliate and punish a young woman, and I asked if it was possible this conflict with Amanda might have a link to his offense. At this, he dropped his head and twisted his hands together, looking defeated—a new posture for him. “Why do you always keep on about it?” His voice was so low I had to lean in closer to hear. I reminded him of where we were and that he had confessed to and been convicted of Julia’s murder. He shrugged, as if that didn’t matter. I went on. “But it seems this truth is difficult for you to look at, as if it’s easier for you to be hard on those who are trying to help you do that.” He lifted his head then, his voice angry and bitter. “They—you people—you really don’t care if I kill myself. No one cares.” I let that rest a moment, and then I saw that he was crying. Colleagues had told me he’d cried before in front of them, in a noisy and demonstrative way, but this was silent weeping, his shoulders shuddering, his cheeks wet. I made no attempt to stop him by offering words of comfort or tissues.