The Shrine of Jeffrey Dahmer

by Brian Masters

  Nobody put forward the proposition that Dahmer was a psychopath presumably because, even had it been accepted, it would not have changed the issues at stake under Wisconsin law (to which we shall come later). But the Royal Commission exclusion was invoked erroneously in support of a different contention, without the mistake or the original purpose being explained to the jury (the judge clearly did not understand such distinctions anyway).

  Nor was it suggested that Dahmer was antisocial or, to use the ungainly word which has replaced psychopath, a ‘sociopath’. Such a person is on the periphery of the society of which he should form a part, he obeys a personal code out of tune with that of the rest of the community, he has a low sense of guilt and a low frustration tolerance, and he exists only to gratify himself no matter what the cost to others. In other words, he has had his conscience ripped out. Such a definition might seem appropriate to Dahmer, who himself told the police that his offences were the result of a warped desire for self-gratification, and the District Attorney came close to applying it. Defence, however, would steer clear of this term, since, again, sociopathy was understood by professionals to be a personality disorder and not a mental illness; mental illness would allow an insanity defence, personality disorder would not.

  What, then, would constitute a proper insanity defence? Since biblical times society has been reluctant to regard a person as blameworthy if he could not tell right from wrong. The principle was finally given legislative muscle by the so-called McNaughten Rule of 1843, the most important milestone in the history of legal definitions of insanity. Daniel McNaughten had been acquitted of the murder of the Prime Minister’s secretary by reason of insanity (he suffered from the delusion that everyone from the Pope downwards was out to get him). The public was outraged,* and a fierce debate in Parliament ensued, as the result of which judges were asked by the House of Lords to define insanity once and for all. Lord Chief Justice Tindal obliged with the McNaughten Rule, according to which a criminal is not to be held responsible if, by reason of a disease of the mind, he either does not know the nature and quality of his acts, or does not know that they are wrong. Every ruling since then has been a variation on this theme, the twin-pronged aspect of the definition enduring, though its wording and emphasis have shifted. The McNaughten Rule remained on the Statute Book in England until 1957, and is still the only yardstick of insanity in sixteen of the American States.

  * Ye people of England! exult and be glad,

  For ye’re now at the will of the merciless mad.

  Why say ye but that three authorities reign -

  Crown, Commons, and Lords? – You omit the insane!

  They’re a privileg’d class, whom no statute controls,

  And their murderous charter exists in their souls!

  Do they wish to spill blood – they have only to play

  A few pranks – get asylum’d a month and a day -

  Then heigh! – to escape from the mad-doctor’s keys,

  And to pistol or stab whomsoever they please.

  Now, the dog has a human-like wit – in creation

  He resembles most nearly our own generation.

  Then if madness for murder escape with impunity,

  Why deny a poor dog the same noble immunity?

  So, if dog or man bite you, beware being nettled,

  For crime is no crime – when the mind is unsettled.

  (T. Campbell, ‘On a Late Acquittal’, The Times, 8 March, 1843)

  Jeffrey Dahmer would probably not have met the requirements for insanity under this definition, for he knew the nature and quality of what he was doing, and knew that it was wrong. But perhaps ‘knowing’ is an insufficient description of the cognitive process, and an emotional understanding should form part of it. In 1954, a new standard was adopted by some States, following an opinion by Judge David Bazelon in the District of Columbia. Known as the ‘Durham Rule’ (after a mentally-disturbed criminal called Monty Durham), it held that a man could know right from wrong but either be deficient in emotional appreciation that what he did was wrong or be unable to control his behaviour because his unlawful act was ‘the product of mental disease or mental defect’. On both counts, it is likely that Dahmer would qualify as an insane person; his emotions were certainly awry, and his crimes were just as surely the ‘product’ of mental defect, if such mental defect could be established (in the event, it was).

  The American Law Institute further adapted these perceptions in 1962 to establish a test for insanity which is now applied by the majority of States, including Wisconsin. According to this A.L.I. test (Section 4.01 of the Model Penal Code):

  A person is not responsible for criminal conduct if at the time of such conduct as a result of mental disease or defect he lacks substantial capacity either to appreciate the wrongfulness of his conduct or to conform his conduct to the requirements of law.

  This was the test which Dahmer would have to meet if he intended to plead insanity. His counsel would be required to prove first, that he suffered from mental disease or defect, and second, that the disease or defect reduced his emotional understanding and/or made it impossible for him to control his behaviour.

  The first half of the test is much derided by lawyers, especially since the Hinckley verdict which found the defendant insane when he attempted to assassinate President Reagan. The trouble is, more and more disorders of personality are being put forward as mental diseases in line with the growing sophistication of psychiatric insights. The renowned British jurist Lord Devlin is on record as disapproving of this – ‘the concept of illness expands continually at the expense of the concept of moral responsibility’, he wrote.14

  A mental disease is defined as ‘an abnormal condition of the mind which substantially affects mental or emotional processes’. Despite the fact that instructions to the jury continue to maintain that ‘you are not bound by medical labels, definitions, or conclusions as to what is or is not a mental disease’, it is not practically sensible to expect a jury to deliberate without guidance, and the Dahmer trial was therefore replete with labels, definitions and conclusions through which they had to sift. For this purpose, lawyers use the Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders, known in shorthand as D.S.M.-III and colloquially as a ‘cookbook’. The mental disease which was adduced as applicable in Dahmer’s case was identified by a word which nobody in the courtroom had ever encountered before.

  The second half of the test, as to whether Dahmer was able to control himself, would present the jury with an equally tangled task, for ‘experience confirms that there is still no accurate scientific basis for measuring one’s capacity for self-control or for calibrating the impairment of such capacity’.15 On matters like this, juries are bound to fall back on moral opinions rather than medical ones (not why he failed to control himself but should he have done), and in that area they are ultimately on their own. The psychiatric experts would do battle with one another over whether Dahmer was or was not in control of himself, but they were not much better equipped to reach conclusions on such gossamer distinctions than individual members of the public. The American Psychiatric Association admits the dilemma with a nice reflection: ‘The line between an irresistible impulse and an impulse not resisted is probably no sharper than that between twilight and dusk.’16

  Basically, then, prosecution and defence would broadly agree that there was something deeply wrong with Jeffrey Dahmer, that his disorder of personality was severe; the prosecution would claim that it did not, however, amount to a mental disease, and did not rob him of free will, whereas defence would insist that there was a disease, and that it transformed him into an automaton. Otherwise stated, Mr McCann would seek to prove that Dahmer chose not to resist the impulse (compulsion), and Mr Boyle that he could not.

  In their respective endeavours, they would call five psychiatrists, and the court two more. Psychiatrists who testify as to criminal responsibility, known as forensic psychiatrists, are a rare breed, forming only 3 per cent o
f the total number practising in the United States. They tread a tortuous path between legal and medical jargons, and the adversarial system in a court of law sometimes causes them to meander into foreign territory where they risk humiliation and obloquy. The wisest of them will not accept a brief from prosecution or defence which might oblige him to tailor his opinion to suit his employer, but those who make a living out of giving testimony might find they are poorer if they do not. (Of the eight experts who examined Jeffrey Dahmer, only one, Dr Kenneth Smail, declined to give evidence because he could not support the defence case for which his advice had been sought.) It is a pity this should be so, because forensic psychiatrists agree in their diagnoses 80 per cent of the time; it is only courtroom manners and (occasionally) commercial considerations which make them appear to be constantly at one another’s throats.

  Their involvement would be necessary in the second of the two projected trials which Wisconsin law demanded. The purpose of the first trial would be to determine whether or not the defendant did that of which he was accused; this would be solely an examination of fact, the actus reus (state of affairs caused by conduct of the defendant). If a verdict of not guilty was returned, that would be the end of the matter and the defendant would walk free. In the event of a guilty verdict, he would then face his second trial to determine mens rea (state of mind of the defendant at the time of the offences). In this trial, the traditional roles of prosecution and defence would be reversed, in that the burden would fall upon the defence to prove Jeffrey Dahmer was insane, while there would be no corresponding burden upon the prosecution to establish his sanity.

  Dahmer pleaded guilty to the facts and waived his right to a first trial. He would not deny that he had done what he had done. Indeed, he did not want to contest anything at all, and would have preferred sentence to be passed without the necessity to delve into his state of mind. Once his long confession to the police was complete, he sank into a fatalistic torpor. His first request to Detective Murphy was to be supplied with a Bible, which was granted, and he was convinced that Old Testament notions of retribution were justified in his case. He knew he deserved the death penalty (which does not obtain in Wisconsin), because ‘it executed justice quickly’. What of the morality of adding one more (judicially sanctioned) murder to the seventeen he had already perpetrated? ‘If it wasn’t moral it wouldn’t be in the Bible as far as I’m concerned,’ he said, ‘but that’s for the theologians and the philosophers to debate.’

  He was, however, persuaded that he had the right to have his sanity tested in court, even if he did not have the desire, and that the due process of law and fairness would best be served by his agreeing to stand trial on the issue. Still, he was reluctant to participate. ‘I’m not going to get up on the bench and say anything, that’s for sure, no way. As far as I’m concerned, there is no defence. I see no hope. It’s just completely hopeless from my standpoint. I’m not going to sit up in front of all those people and try to answer questions.’ Dahmer’s sense of humiliation and shame was intense at this stage, and his fear of exposure deep. If he could have had his way, they would have held the trial without him.

  His one duty, as he saw it, was to identify the people who had died under his trust, and the greatest anxiety was detectable in his voice during the two weeks which elapsed before the final victim was named. He had another concern, too. He wanted to write to his grandmother, by now in a nursing home, to tell her how much he loved her and how much he regretted the sorrow he had caused. He could not, because he was not permitted a pen lest he use it as a weapon with which to harm himself.

  There was a real degree of unburdening in the long sessions he had with all the psychiatrists, although Dahmer is not the most articulate of confessors. His habitual reticence fought with his desire to get it ‘all out on the table’. ‘It’s a relief not to have any secrets any more,’ he said. There remained the nervousness which anticipated his first meeting with his father since the arrest, when he would have to face the heavy silent rebuke of a God-fearing, disappointed and shaken man. The interview went off without incident, however, and Lionel Dahmer was much admired for the steadfast support he gave his son in the midst of shrieking expressions of public horror.

  Once the identifications were complete, Dahmer felt that life had well and truly come to an end, that his past was irretrievably lost, blown away, and himself with it. ‘It’s just like a big chunk of me has been ripped out and I’m not quite whole,’ he said. ‘I don’t think I’m over-dramatising it, and I’m certainly deserving of it, but the way I feel now, it’s like you’re talking to someone who is terminally ill and facing death. Death would be preferable to what I’m facing. I just feel like imploding upon myself, you know? I just want to go somewhere and disappear.’

  The long days in a prison cell offered ample time for reflection, which he tried hard to avoid. ‘When you’ve done the type of things I’ve done,’ he said, ‘it’s easier not to reflect on yourself. When I start thinking about how it’s affecting the families of the people, and my family and everything, it doesn’t do me any good. It just gets me very upset.’ But the mind cannot stop itself working, and thoughts cannot be turned away at will. Dahmer, battered by enforced introspection, quickly fell into dejection. A panic attack would be heralded by shallow breathing, sweating, tightening up, and then would spiral downwards to the pit of despair, parodying (or fulfilling, perhaps) his imaginary descents into Infinity Land as a child. He admitted that the nothingness of infinity would be soothing, ‘nice’, and it sounded like the plea of a child for a warm blanket. What occurred instead was a ‘deep, clawing depression’ and a nothingness which was not soothing but menacing. It was ‘the sense of total, final hopelessness. That’s quite a sensation. I imagine it’s a bit what hell is like.’

  Indeed, it is. Jean-Paul Sartre in Huis-Clos depicted hell as the permanent and inexorable contemplation of oneself as fixed, defined, finished, known, utterly bereft of the freedom to change or evolve. Dahmer could only look forward to becoming the inactive object he had forced others to be, without their (questionable) advantage of actually being dead. ‘A life of nothingness,’ was how he put it; ‘years and years of bland desperation.’

  He thought of suicide, often. ‘If I could just stop that little throbbing muscle in my chest,’ he said one day. ‘Give me a cyanide pill,’ on another. ‘Better be with the dead,’ said Macbeth, ‘Whom we, to gain our peace, have sent to peace, Than on the torture of the mind to lie In restless ecstasy.’17 He knew he would not have the courage to take his own life, but it would be quite proper ‘if I was killed in prison. That would almost be a blessing right now.’ It was not that he did not know how to commit suicide if he wanted to. ‘All you have to do is make a good slit, right where that large artery goes through your leg there, where it joins the hip, and you bleed to death within a couple of minutes, before they could get anyone to you.’ There were other prisoners stabbing themselves in the arm and stomach with pencils, which was why Dahmer was not allowed any writing materials on remand. Pencils would be useless, he said, ‘all that would do is create pain and I have enough of that already’. He did not think that suicide was necessarily wrong, especially when set beside his crimes. ‘I can’t do much more wrong than I’ve already done, can I?’

  Aware that Dahmer’s (improbable) suicide would be a procedural embarrassment, guards kept watch on him twenty-four hours a day. There were three looking at him as he urinated (and laughing as well), and the light in his cell was kept permanently switched on. Flashlights were regularly trained on his face when he tried to sleep. One day he sharpened his toothbrush in protest against what he thought unreasonable treatment, and he had in consequence to sleep on the concrete floor in his underwear. He was subjected to frequent taunts and death threats, but as the weeks went by, and guards gradually recognised him as a tainted human instead of a museum specimen, small signs of geniality occasionally emerged. A guard who had to desert his post for fifteen minutes in the middle o
f the night said to him, ‘Now don’t do anything stupid, Jeff.’ It was a tiny moment of connection.

  Prison routine encouraged depression. Breakfast of one small square of oatmeal and a piece of bread was served at five in the morning. One cup of coffee was permitted per day, and three showers per week. Between meals there was ‘nothing to do but watch the ants crawl around on the floor’. The cell was small, allowing three steps from wall to wall, and the bed bugs were plentiful. ‘You feel them overnight jumping on your eyelids and nose.’ Above all, there was the boredom. One inmate started screaming and yelling during the night. ‘They had to chain him up and he just really went nuts for a couple of hours. I can see why now. It does get to you – the boredom.’ Being notorious was an added difficulty for somebody as private as Dahmer. He had to get used to hearing his name whispered and people staring when they passed him. ‘It would be nice just to sit down anonymously with someone and not be known and strike up a conversation about the weather or something; not to have to talk about this.’

  Before the trial he started to have fitful dreams. They never concerned the incidents with which he was charged, nor the men whom he had butchered, which surprised him. They were pleasant homosexual dreams accompanied by feelings of warmth and calm, with no violence or stress. Even these he distrusted, however, and declared his intention to free himself from them. First, the Bible forbade homosexual behaviour, and he hoped he would in time be able to banish homosexual thought. Second, it was the homosexuality in him which led to his becoming a murderer. Had he not encouraged it, none of this might have happened. Nor would he encourage it now that it was too late to make any difference. It was possible, at least, that in the depths of his being his orientation was not homosexual at all, but that it had been diverted onto that path by his extreme social awkwardness as a child. Dahmer’s rejection of his homosexual dreams may have reflected a subconscious wish to rediscover his earliest self.