Page 2 of Imprisoned

I rub my temples, fighting off a headache. Four sessions, and I’ve made zero progress. Maybe I should’ve chosen a nice private practice instead, dealing with garden-variety anxiety and relationship issues.

A knock at my door breaks the silence, and a woman in her fifties enters, her silver-streaked hair pulled into a neat bun. Her white coat and confident stride mark her as someone in charge.

“Dr. Matthews? I’m Dr. Eleanor Pierce, Head of Medical Services.” She extends her hand. Her grip is firm. “I wanted to check how your first morning went.”

“It’s been...” I search for the right word. Challenging? Overwhelming? “Educational.”

“That’s one way to put it.” She perches on the edge of my desk, scanning my scattered files. “I read your dissertation on rehabilitation approaches for violent offenders. Impressive work. That’s why I pushed for your hiring.”

My cheeks warm at the praise. “Thank you, but theory feels very different from practice.”

“It always does.” She picks up one of my files—Smith’s—and flips through it. “These men have been through the system for years. They’re resistant to treatment and hostile to change, but sometimes a fresh perspective is what they need.”

“If they’ll let me help them.”

“That’s the challenge, isn’t it?” Dr. Pierce sets down the file. “Building trust takes time. Just remember to maintain distance. Some of these men are master manipulators. They’ll try to get under your skin.”

I think of Axel Morrison’s file, those piercing eyes, and force myself to nod. “Of course.”

“Let me treat you to lunch,” she says. “The cafeteria is not exactly five-star dining but beats eating alone.”

Relief washes over me. After a morning of unproductive sessions, the thought of friendly conversation is exactly what I need. “That would be wonderful, thank you.”

We walk down the corridor to the cafeteria.

I follow Dr. Pierce through the staff-only line, picking up a sad-looking sandwich and an apple. The cafeteria is small, just a few tables separated from the main prison dining hall by thick walls and heavy doors. A few guards chat in one corner while a nurse eats her salad alone.

“The food takes some getting used to,” Dr. Pierce unwraps her sandwich. “Though I suppose it’s better than what the inmates get.”

I take a hesitant bite. The bread is stale, the lettuce days old. “I might start packing my own lunch.”

“Next time, I’ll treat you to something from the deli across the way.” She pulls out a small bottle of hot sauce from her coat pocket. “Here, this helps.”

The sauce adds some life to the bland sandwich. As we eat, Dr. Pierce tells me about the facility’s various programs and protocols. The conversation flowed easier than I had expected, her maternal energy putting me at ease.

“So,” she shifts in her seat across from me, “what areas of psychiatric treatment interest you most? Any particular focus you’d like to develop here?”

I pick at the crust of my sandwich, hesitating. “Actually...” The words stick in my throat. “I’m fascinated by psychopathy—the neuroscience behind it, the patterns of behavior, the potential for rehabilitation—” I stop myself, worried I sound too eager.

Dr. Pierce’s fork pauses halfway to her mouth. “That’s a challenging specialty. Most practitioners prefer to focus on more treatable conditions.”

“I know it’s controversial, but I believe even severe personality disorders deserve thorough study and treatment attempts.” My cheeks flush. “During my residency, I worked with several antisocial personality disorder cases. The complexity of their minds and how they view the world is terrifying and fascinating.”

“Fascinating can be dangerous in our line of work.” Dr. Pierce studies me over her coffee cup. “We need to maintain clinical distance, remember? These aren’t research subjects—they’re potentially violent and manipulative offenders.”

“Of course,” I say quickly. “I just meant from an academic perspective.”

Dr. Pierce’s expression softens. “You’re right—it is an intriguing subject academically. The way their minds work, how they process emotions and moral decisions differently...” She takes another bite of her food. “I did my own research on psychopathy during my postdoc. Published a few papers on treatment resistance in high-functioning psychopaths.”

“Really?” I lean forward, my sandwich forgotten. “I’d love to read them.”

“I’ll send you the links.” She dabs her mouth with a napkin. “Just remember, theory and practice are very different. These individuals can be incredibly charming, brilliant even. That’s what makes them so dangerous.”

“Did you ever work directly with any diagnosed psychopaths?”

“A few.” Her eyes cloud over for a moment. “One in particular... brilliant man, could quote philosophy and discuss art like a scholar. He had everyone convinced he was reformed.” She pauses. “Two weeks after his release, he killed three people.”

I swallow hard, thinking of Axel Morrison’s file. “What happened?”

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