The Psychopath Whisperer: The Science of Those Without Conscience by Kent A. Phd Kiehl Read Free Book Online Page A

run a scam on you.
    “What was the end game?” I asked. “What were you hoping to get out of me?”
    “Cigarettes, maybe some pot,” he said, shrugging, “stuff like that. You wouldn’t get in too much trouble if you got caught. We were just trying to enjoy life a little more, make time go a little faster.”
    Something told me that Grant and Gary would not stop at a cigarette or other contraband.
    “Well, I’ve got to get back to work,” I said. “I’m glad we got this cleared up, and I’ll keep it to myself,” I noted. I wasn’t going to say anything to anybody; I was embarrassed I had been played.
    “Okay. I’ll tell Gary that the game is over. Seriously, no hard feelings, eh? I still want to do the research.”
    “I’ll be in touch,” I said. “You are an excellent research subject,” I quipped as he stood up to leave my office.
    “Oh, and take this to Dorothy,” I said, handing him a bag of coffee. “If it doesn’t get to her, then I know who to come looking for.” He laughed as I led him back into the hallway to the housing pods.
    I sat down in my office chair and took a deep breath. I scribbled some notes on my pad,
Prison is never boring
, I wrote. The phrase became one of my favorite sayings to describe the environment in which I was going to spend the greater part of the next twenty years. Prison is never boring.
    After reviewing the files of a few other inmates, my interviews for the day awaited. I proceeded down to the housing units to schedulea few inmates for interviews, and I decided to have a cup of coffee with Dorothy.
    We chatted about the ins and outs of the RHC. I picked up details about when new inmates were coming in, the history of the therapists conducting treatment, the procedures to follow to keep the guards from getting angry with you. Essential information for someone rounding out his first week in prison.
    Gary appeared at the end of his tier, his familiar stone cold face gone. A small smile crept across his face. He nodded slightly, turned around, headed back down to his cell.
    “Back to work,” I told Dorothy.
    “Back to work,” she echoed.
    I headed down the sex offender tier for the first time. I passed by the cells until I read Gary’s name on the cell door.
    “Gary,” I said, peering into a dark cell. He had pictures of hockey and football players on his cell walls.
    “Figured I’d hear from you at some point” came the answer out of the darkness.
    Gary emerged from the recesses of his cell and came to the door.
    He was a big man. I couldn’t help but notice the muscles bulging out from under his white T-shirt. I was thankful that we did not end up in an altercation.
    “So you gonna do this research stuff or not?” I asked.
    Laughing, he replied, “Sure. That’s all you want to say to me?”
    “We can talk about stuff once you’ve signed all the consent forms and the confidentiality documents,” I said.
    “So I don’t have confidentiality yet,” he said in a nervous tone.
    “Nope, not unless you sign up for research,” I said, realizing that I might be manipulating a research subject into participating.
Oh, well
, I thought,
the ethics board would understand
.
    “Okay. Why not? Guys around here say you’re fun to talk to,” he replied.
    “Sign this form—it allows me to check out your files—then I’ll come get you after lunch today for your interview.”
    “No problem,” he said. “But it might take you longer than that if you are going to read
all
of my file.” He laughed and sat down on his bed.
    “Well, two p.m., I’ll come get you.”
    I walked out of the tier and straight down to the file room, requesting Gary’s file.
    Normally, the clerk would return with a folder or two, about two to four inches thick. The files contain police reports, institutional behavior reports, social worker histories, interviews with other mental health personnel, family and work histories, school records, and such. In this case, the clerk