Making a Psychopath

Making a Psychopath Plot Summary

Introduction

Have you ever wondered what drives someone to commit unspeakable acts of violence? Or perhaps you've found yourself captivated by characters like Hannibal Lecter or Villanelle from Killing Eve, simultaneously repulsed and fascinated by their cold calculation and emotional detachment. The truth about psychopaths is both more complex and more human than fiction would have us believe. These individuals aren't simply born evil or created through trauma alone—they exist at a unique intersection of genetic predisposition, neurological differences, and environmental factors. Throughout my years working in high-security prisons and forensic mental health facilities, I've sat across from men and women diagnosed with psychopathy, sharing meals, playing chess, and engaging in therapy sessions. What I've learned is that psychopaths aren't a single, uniform type. There is no one-size-fits-all definition, despite what popular culture suggests. By exploring the diverse presentations of psychopathy through real cases, we can better understand not only what makes these individuals dangerous, but also how our systems fail them—and ultimately, whether redemption is possible for those society has labeled as irredeemable.

Chapter 1: The Masks of Psychopathy: Understanding Multiple Faces

The high-security prison corridor echoed with my footsteps as I made my way to my first research meeting. Armed with my freshly printed PhD and a research grant to study the Dangerous and Severe Personality Disorder Programme, I was about to enter a world few academics truly understand. The DSPD Programme was Britain's ambitious attempt to treat those previously considered untreatable—individuals with severe antisocial personality disorder and psychopathy. My first shock came when I learned that psychopathy isn't a single, uniform condition. The Psychopathy Checklist-Revised (PCL-R), the gold standard assessment used worldwide, consists of 20 items scored from 0-2. With a threshold of 30 points needed for a clinical diagnosis, there are over 15,000 different combinations of traits that could make someone a psychopath. This explained the tremendous diversity I observed among the patients and prisoners I encountered. Further complicating matters was the discovery that psychopathy manifests differently between genders. While an estimated 3 in 1,000 men might qualify as psychopaths, only about 6 in 100,000 women meet the criteria—making female psychopaths exceedingly rare. When they do appear, they often present differently than male counterparts. Rather than physical violence, female psychopathy frequently centers on manipulation of relationships and emotional harm. Brain imaging research revealed another dimension to this complexity. Psychopaths typically show reduced activity in two key regions: the prefrontal cortex, which governs decision-making and understanding consequences; and the amygdala, which processes emotions like fear and empathy. Yet even people with these neurological features can lead normal lives. Take neuroscientist James Fallon, who discovered his own brain scan matched the profile of a psychopath while conducting research. Despite having the neurological markers and even a family history of violence, Fallon leads a successful life as a respected scientist. What made the difference? Environment appears crucial. I never met a criminal psychopath who came from a stable, loving home. The intersection of genetic predisposition with traumatic or dysfunctional upbringing creates the perfect storm for developing dangerous psychopathic traits. This understanding is vital because it shifts our perspective from viewing psychopaths as inherently "evil" to seeing them as products of a tragic combination of biological vulnerability and environmental failure. This complexity presents both challenges and opportunities. If we continue viewing psychopathy as a one-dimensional label, we'll miss the nuanced approaches needed for effective intervention. By recognizing the diversity of presentations—from the violent enforcer to the emotional manipulator—we can develop more targeted treatments and perhaps even preventative measures for those at risk.

Chapter 2: Paul the Hitman: Manipulation and Institutional Control

I first encountered Paul in a high-security prison meeting room, slouched in his chair with a mirthless expression that barely concealed his contempt for everyone around him. Unlike the anxious prisoners attending this treatment orientation group—many with life sentences, desperately hoping for a chance at release—Paul seemed perfectly at home. When a female psychologist asked about the group's expectations, Paul's response was blunt: "Get the fuck out of this place." When he noticed me observing, he immediately challenged: "And who the fuck is this?" Paul was what prison staff would call a "natural"—someone who adapted to prison life with disturbing ease. Outside, he had been a feared enforcer for a drug network, torturing those who owed money and eventually murdering a rival dealer with a sub-machine gun. In prison, he maintained his power through a sophisticated network of information and favors. At first, he seemed to take me under his wing, inviting me to various prison activities and sharing prison gossip. I was fascinated by his apparent willingness to help my research. One day, Paul asked me to print him some guitar tablature for Radiohead songs. Eager to maintain our rapport, I prepared the sheets meticulously but hesitated at the prison entrance, uncertain whether the staples I'd used were permitted. I decided to bring them another day after removing the staples. Shortly after, I left for a few weeks and returned with a new position as Lead Researcher. What I found upon my return was shocking. In my absence, a major scandal had erupted. Louise, a respected prison officer who had always been strict about rules, had been discovered having a sexual relationship with Paul. It had started innocuously—she brought him a magazine, then a CD, then cigarettes—each small transgression leading to the next until she was smuggling cannabis and meeting him for sex in the laundry room. Paul had used their relationship to consolidate his control over other prisoners, threatening them with violence while simultaneously using Louise to enforce prison rules against his enemies. Louise lost her job and faced criminal charges, while Paul was simply transferred to another prison. When I heard the full story, I felt a cold wave of shame and relief wash over me. I had nearly fallen into the first step of Paul's manipulation myself, eager to please him by bringing in those guitar tabs. Only luck or perhaps intuition had prevented me from starting down the same path as Louise. What makes Paul's case so instructive is how it reveals the mechanism of psychopathic manipulation. Paul wasn't an intellectual genius like fictional Hannibal Lecter, but he possessed an intuitive understanding of human vulnerability. He identified pressure points—my eagerness to please as a researcher, Louise's commitment to rules—and exploited them methodically. Psychopaths like Paul don't necessarily have superior intelligence; rather, they lack the emotional constraints that prevent most people from using others so ruthlessly. This case demonstrates why isolation from peers is the greatest risk factor for professionals working with psychopaths. When separated from the support and perspective of colleagues, even experienced staff can be gradually compromised through what psychoanalysts call "perversion"—the psychopath's ability to create a system within a system that contradicts established norms. The lesson is clear: no matter how experienced or principled you believe yourself to be, psychopathic manipulation works by incrementally shifting boundaries until the unthinkable becomes possible.

Chapter 3: Tony the Conman: Charm, Deception and Inner Emptiness

"Hello, I'm Tony," said the well-dressed man in a charcoal suit reading a newspaper in the hospital dayroom. My first day on a secure psychiatric ward, and I was certain I was meeting a consultant psychiatrist. I approached respectfully, only to be startled when a nurse appeared and said, "Come on, Tony, you know you're not supposed to be wearing that suit after ward round. Anyway, it's bang-up time now, so off you fuck." Tony sighed dramatically and headed toward the patients' rooms. I had just been thoroughly taken in by a patient with an extensive history of conning others. Unlike most psychopaths I'd encountered, Tony hadn't come from obvious deprivation. His father, however, was an archetypal conman who'd eventually abandoned the family when Tony was eight. His mother then invested all her hopes and affection in her son, refusing to discipline him no matter how obnoxious his behavior. This created what psychoanalysts call "narcissistic enmeshment"—Tony became his mother's emotional substitute for her lost husband, leaving him unable to develop healthy boundaries or empathy. On the ward, Tony presented himself with an air of superiority. He dressed impeccably despite the mockery of other patients, responded to insults with indifference, and maintained an unsettling charm that quickly wore thin. He had a remarkable vocabulary but used it mainly to manipulate conversations to serve his agenda. When I mentioned social anthropology in passing, he immediately seized upon it: "Yes, I was thinking about how superior that way of thinking is to the way psychologists think around here." He constantly made claims that were obviously false—like having written a 13-volume history of English kings—yet challenging these lies seemed pointless as he would simply amend them to counter any evidence. Tony's index offense revealed the dark emptiness beneath his charming facade. He had established fraudulent businesses and a credit union, living as a pretend South African businessman from a diamond mining family. One night, he picked up a male sex worker, offered extra money for what he described as "light BDSM," then subjected the man to brutal, sadistic abuse. Afterward, he left a cheque from his credit union on the floor—which bounced not because it was fraudulent but because Tony hadn't bothered to fund the account. The victim reported him to police, who quickly arrested Tony based on his distinctive clothing and appearance. What makes Tony's case particularly disturbing is how his superficial charm concealed a profound void of genuine emotion. Despite his intellectual abilities, he showed no authentic connection to others, viewing them merely as props in his personal drama. His speech was filled with hollow phrases designed to maintain the illusion of engagement: "You're the only person here who ever listens to me," he would say, a line I later discovered he'd used with at least three other staff members. Tony represents what some might call a "cellophane psychopath"—all primary psychopathy without the obvious antisocial behavior of more violent offenders. His personality was like a tissue-thin, reflective mask that could be changed or discarded depending on the situation. Getting to know "the true Tony" felt impossible, as though a cellophane wrapping insulated him, making him slippery to the touch. This type of psychopath may actually be more dangerous in many ways than the obviously violent offender. Their ability to blend in, to mimic normal human interaction while lacking any genuine emotional depth, allows them to cause tremendous harm while maintaining a facade of respectability. The lesson from Tony's case is that charm and intelligence in the absence of empathy create a particularly insidious form of psychopathy—one that can flourish undetected in professional and social settings until it's too late.

Chapter 4: Jason the Liar: Truth as a Moving Target

I was cleaning up after Sunday lunch when a BBC news report caught my attention: "A British man has been found guilty in Italy of murder and attempted murder following a three-week crime spree in early 2013." The name—Jason Marshall—sounded familiar. With a jolt, I realized this was the same man who had absconded from a hospital where I had previously worked, a patient who had been classified as "low risk." Marshall's story is particularly instructive because, unlike with Paul or Tony whom I knew personally, his case was publicly documented, allowing us to follow the paper trail and examine how psychopathic traits manifest over time. Born in 1989 in a deprived area of East London, Marshall's parents were heroin addicts who were imprisoned when he was ten. In his teens, he began impersonating authority figures—police officers, air cadets, park attendants, even nurses. Unlike typical fraudsters, he rarely gained material benefit from these impersonations; he seemed to simply enjoy the power these roles conferred. In 2006, Marshall was arrested after attempting to check tickets on the London Underground while accompanied by a "sniffer dog"—which was actually a Yorkshire terrier. He was convicted of impersonating a police officer and served time in prison before being transferred to a medium-security psychiatric hospital. After two years of treatment, he was granted unescorted leave but failed to return. He was captured and sent back to prison to complete his sentence, then released to the community. What followed was horrifying. In January 2013, computer repairman Peter Fasoli was found dead in his burned-out London apartment. Initially ruled an accident, the truth emerged only when Fasoli's nephew discovered video footage on his uncle's damaged laptop. The recording showed Marshall entering the flat posing as an undercover police officer, calling himself "Gabriel." After chatting and demanding coffee and classical music, Marshall "arrested" Fasoli, tied him up, tortured him, killed him, robbed him, and set fire to the apartment to destroy evidence. Marshall then fled to Italy using his victim's money, where he continued his spree. He attacked Umberto Gismondi, who survived after neighbors heard screams, and murdered Vincenzo Iale, torturing him to obtain his PIN number before strangling him with electrical cord. At his Italian trial, Marshall claimed to be "the Archangel Gabriel, messenger of God" and blamed a non-existent male prostitute named "Michael" for the crimes. Later, at his UK trial for Fasoli's murder, he contradicted his earlier testimony, claiming he had been too intoxicated to remember the attack. What makes Marshall's case so disturbing is his pathological lying—not just to others but seemingly to himself. His lies weren't merely convenient deceptions but elaborate alternate realities that shifted whenever challenged. Research suggests this ability to lie fluently may be linked to the psychopath's underactive amygdala, which fails to generate the emotional response to dishonesty that most people experience. For Marshall, creating false identities—from ticket inspector to MI5 agent to biblical figure—wasn't just a means to an end but seemingly central to his sense of self. Marshall exploited the fundamental trust that allows society to function: that people in uniform will use their power fairly, that someone intimate with us won't abuse that vulnerability. His case demonstrates how psychopathic lying differs from ordinary deception. It's not just about avoiding consequences but about creating a malleable reality where truth has no fixed meaning. This is what makes psychopaths so difficult to treat or rehabilitate—how can you build trust with someone who sees truth merely as a tool to be manipulated? The most chilling aspect of Marshall's case isn't the brutality of his crimes but his absolute refusal to be accountable for his actions. His contempt for the truth reflects a fundamental alienation from the social contract that binds the rest of us together. It reminds us that while most lies are told to avoid consequences, psychopathic lies reveal a more profound disconnect—one where other people's reality simply doesn't matter.

Chapter 5: Angela the Remorseless: When Female Psychopathy Breaks the Mold

"Why did you guys want to kill me?" Angela Simpson retorted when a television reporter asked why her victim deserved to die. "Phoenix wanted to kill me. What's the difference? Everybody has a reason to kill. My reason might not be good to you, but your reason wasn't any good to me." The stunned reporter stammered as Simpson stared him down, refusing to show remorse or contrition for her horrific crime. In August 2009, Simpson lured Terry Neely, a 46-year-old wheelchair user, to her apartment with the promise of drugs and sex. She had learned that Neely had been a police informant while in prison—something that particularly angered her. Once inside, Simpson tied Neely to a chair in front of a mirror and subjected him to two days of torture. She beat him unconscious with a tire iron, stabbed him over 50 times, extracted his teeth with pliers, and drove a nail into his skull. Finally, she strangled him with a TV cable, dismembered his body, and enlisted an accomplice to help her dispose of the remains in a garbage can outside a local church, which they then set on fire. What makes Simpson's case so fascinating is how dramatically it contradicts our cultural expectations of female psychopathy. Unlike the stereotypical "femme fatale" who manipulates through sexuality and relationship control, Simpson presented almost identically to male psychopaths: callous, unemotional, and directly violent rather than indirectly manipulative. Her interviews reveal striking similarities to Ted Bundy's notorious prison confessions—maintaining intense eye contact, showing disinterest in emotional engagement, and offering simplistic justifications for horrific acts. Born in 1975 in Phoenix, Arizona, Simpson had a chaotic childhood marked by physical and sexual abuse. She was repeatedly placed in foster care and hospitalized for psychiatric issues from age ten. By adulthood, she had four children (who were placed with their grandmother), a serious drug addiction, and supported herself through sex work. What triggered her transition from victimized to victimizer isn't clear, but in June 2009, she began targeting sex offenders, breaking into one man's home, tying him up, and robbing him before murdering Neely two months later. When asked about being a female perpetrator of such violence, Simpson's response was telling: "That's unfortunate," she said of women rarely committing such crimes, then smirked, "Oh yeah, equal opportunities, definitely." This sardonic comment reveals Simpson's awareness of gender expectations and her deliberate defiance of them. Unlike fictional female psychopaths who typically wield sexuality as their weapon, Simpson embraced direct brutality. Simpson's case challenges our gendered understanding of psychopathy in fundamental ways. While research suggests female psychopaths might be more deceitful and less antisocial than males, Simpson exhibited nearly identical traits to male psychopaths: callousness, lack of remorse, criminal versatility, and poor behavioral controls. She wasn't primarily manipulative but directly predatory, using sexuality only instrumentally to lure victims rather than as her primary means of control. What Simpson demonstrates is that our tendency to separate psychopaths into gendered categories may be misguided. The core traits of psychopathy—callous unemotionality, lack of empathy, and absence of remorse—appear remarkably similar across genders when they manifest in their most extreme forms. This has significant implications for how we identify and treat female psychopathy, suggesting that focusing too narrowly on relational aggression might cause us to miss the more directly dangerous presentations. Perhaps most disturbingly, Simpson shows how psychopathy intersects with distorted moral reasoning. By casting herself as an avenging figure eliminating "snitches," she created a framework that justified her actions to herself. This highlights how psychopaths often develop rigid, self-serving moral codes that enable their violence while maintaining their self-image as justified or even righteous. Understanding this mechanism is crucial for those working with psychopathic offenders, as addressing these distorted belief systems may be as important as addressing the emotional deficits themselves.

Chapter 6: Eddie the Redeemed: Can Psychopaths Really Change?

The aroma of freshly brewed espresso fills Eddie's comfortable North London home as two small dogs play at our feet. This domestic scene seems impossibly distant from Eddie's past—a man who once took another person's life and spent sixteen years in prison for crimes including manslaughter and rape. Yet here he sits, telling his story with remarkable candor and self-reflection, a living challenge to the conventional wisdom that psychopaths cannot change. Eddie grew up near London's Docklands in the 1960s, an area in economic decline. His biological father died when he was young, and when Eddie was ten, his mother left his stepfather for another man who proved to be abusive. "He was like a sergeant major," Eddie recalls, "constantly shouting and giving disciplinary beatings." Once, Eddie witnessed this man dragging his mother into a bedroom by her hair. He grabbed a knife intending to intervene, but found them having sex—something he later realized was likely rape. This left him with conflicted feelings of guilt for not acting and anger at his mother for seemingly allowing the abuse. This chaotic upbringing led to increasingly destructive behavior. By fifteen, Eddie was stealing cars and goods from the docks. His first prison sentence came after attacking a teacher who had identified him as a troublemaker. Upon release, instead of returning home with his mother, he went straight to an older woman who provided him with sex, drugs, and a temporary escape from his fractured family life. "I was terrible to her," Eddie admits. "I'd slap and punch and kick her, it was horrendous." The pattern continued through his twenties—drugs, theft, unstable relationships, and escalating violence. The turning point came during an argument with his childhood friend Jimmy. After throwing a garden gnome through Jimmy's window, Eddie was chased down the street. In the ensuing confrontation, Eddie tripped while holding a knife, and Jimmy fell onto the blade, which penetrated his heart. Eddie was convicted of manslaughter and sentenced to five years. In prison, Eddie developed psychotic symptoms, likely exacerbated by cannabis use. He scratched his head until he pulled out hair, believing he was infested with spiders. Despite his deteriorating mental state, he was offered no effective treatment, only medication. After release, the cycle of drugs, violence, and crime continued. At thirty, following his mother's death, Eddie raped a female prison officer who was a friend of his former girlfriend—an act he now speaks of with profound shame. What changed? At thirty-seven, after serving nine years for rape, Eddie found himself walking through London feeling "murderous." Noticing people recoiling from him on the street, he had a moment of clarity about what he had become. He voluntarily sought help at a local mental health clinic and was referred to a forensic psychotherapist. "Dr. C. explained to me that a psychopath is someone who does things off the social norm," Eddie reflects. "I would say a psychopath is someone who's a raving lunatic, who goes around stabbing people or hurting people, and I have done that, but someone who has no feelings about it." After a near-fatal car accident and one final prison sentence for common assault, Eddie was transferred to a secure hospital with a therapeutic community approach. Unlike previous institutions, this environment forced him to confront his behavior patterns. "I would walk around the unit and hear all these people shouting and moaning, kicking off, and I thought: that's exactly how I was," he recalls. "I think I came to see that I was in pain, all the time, and Dr. C. and the others showed me empathy, compassion, but also were straight up with me." Today, Eddie has been in a stable relationship for nine years and leads what he describes as a normal, happy life. "I don't know if you can develop empathy, but I believe I have," he says. "I mean, there have been times when I just didn't give a fuck; I had no empathy for anyone." Eddie's transformation suggests that what appears as psychopathy may sometimes be an adaptive defense mechanism—a protective shell developed in response to trauma. With the right therapeutic approach that combines compassion with accountability, even those who have committed terrible acts can develop the capacity for empathy and genuine connection. The key seems to be creating an environment where facing painful truths becomes safer than maintaining destructive patterns, allowing the person beneath the psychopathic traits to emerge and heal. Eddie's story offers a powerful counterpoint to the deterministic view of psychopathy. While not all psychopaths will follow his path to redemption, his case demonstrates that writing off anyone as irredeemable may be both clinically inaccurate and morally questionable. It reminds us that behind every diagnosis is a human being with a unique history, capable of change when offered genuine help instead of mere condemnation.

Summary

At its core, psychopathy is not about inherent evil but about a profound disconnect—a void where empathy, remorse, and emotional resonance should exist. This void stems from a complex interplay of genetic predisposition, neurological differences, and traumatic or disrupted development. Yet as Eddie's transformation demonstrates, even the deepest emotional absences can sometimes be bridged with the right approach and genuine human connection. If you encounter someone with psychopathic traits, maintain strong boundaries and seek support from others rather than trying to handle the situation alone. For professionals working with psychopaths, recognize that conventional approaches often fail because they assume emotional capacities that may not exist—focus instead on creating structured environments that provide clear consequences while modeling prosocial behavior. Most importantly, we must reject the simplistic notion that psychopaths are a uniform, untreatable category. By understanding the diverse presentations and pathways to psychopathy, we open the possibility for more effective interventions and, in some cases, genuine rehabilitation for those society has deemed beyond redemption.

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Mark Freestone

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