posted on Aug, 8 2009 @ 06:36 PM
This is the record of I, Dr. Sara Isaacs, Criminal Psychologist. The date is January 14th, the year 2011. The time is 7:45 pm. I have just completed
my first and hopefully last session with recently captured serial killer, Hank Lee Morgan. I don’t mind reporting that this was the most
troublesome session that I have ever held. I had seen and heard the news stories, I had read his file and seen the crime scene photos, I admit that I
was a little excited that I had been chosen to evaluate him. I was not prepared for the man that I encountered once entering the small room. I
wasn’t prepared for any of this.
The first thought that entered my mind upon meeting this man was how handsome he was. He wasn’t what you would think a serial killer looked like. I
don’t know what that means, but that is what I was thinking. He was tall, broad across the shoulders, dark hair and he had the most piercing blue
eyes that I had ever seen. I was caught off guard by his deep voice as he answered the guard who had just asked him if he wanted a soda or some water.
In that moment I thought to myself that I could now understand how it was that he lured the eight women that he had murdered. If not for the fact that
this was a prison and he was wearing a jumpsuit and the shackles, I might have forgotten that he was a crazed psychopath.
I decided that in this first session, rather than focus on his crimes, I would go with the old tried and true cliche’ and ask about his childhood.
Before I could open my mouth to speak a word, he said to me, “ I suppose you want to know what kind of upbringing I had.” I immediately replied
yes, that if he found the subject comfortable then I would love to listen. He stared at me for a what seemed like an eternity before he said ok.
“You asked for it lady, I hope you got a strong stomach.”
I assured him that I was a professional, and had heard many stories of troubled childhoods. “I’d wager you ain’t never heard no sh** like this
ma’am. . . . “Please, my name is Sara,” I said. “If its all the same to you, I don’t care what your name is, no offense ma’am. Now you
wanna hear my story or are you gonna interrupt me again.” I apologized with the promise that I would in no way butt in again, to which he curtly
nodded. So began his story. . . .
“ I was born in small town in rural Missouri. Not much there really, hell the nearest hospital was 40 miles away. We could boast of 1 caution light
in town, a small café, a gas station and one mechanics shop. My parents were both on disability. If there was a way to milk the system, you can bet
they had it figured out. Let me just say this, I was the only child they had that lived to tell about it. There are babies buried all over that place.
They drew checks on everyone of them. . . . I was the only male child that my mother bore. All the ones they killed were girls. I had to bury them.
On the back of the property, there stood 3, what we call burning barrels, you know, people put trash in them to burn.” I nodded that I understood,
careful not to break the promise that I had made not to “butt in”. “ The first one, I was sitting in the window of my room, I had heard my
mothers screams of pain, I had heard the baby cry, briefly. I watched as my father carried the now still infant out to the barrel and toss it in like
it was garbage. He didn’t set a fire on it, because he hadn’t yet taken the trash out. I waited for several hours and then volunteered to take the
trash out. He said fine, just be sure you burn it. I gathered the trash and went out to the barrel. She was in there. Her neck was busted. I hurriedly
lifted her tiny body from the can and tucked her under my jacket, threw the trash in the can and lit it. I then hid her in the shed until after dark.
When I was sure they were asleep, I snuck out and got her, laid her in a shoe box and buried her. I pulled this routine off seven other times. I was
all of eleven years old ma’am. . . . Now don’t go feeling sorry for me yet, that ain’t even the worst of it.”
My mind was still trying to comprehend the horrible story that he had just told me, when he slammed his fists down on the table, causing me to jump
and bringing the guard in from outside of the door. I raised my hand that it was okay. He stood at the door for a moment and observed the prisoner
before he decided to take my word for it and step back outside and close the door.
“ Those were my sisters. My little baby sisters. You know, he made me kill the last two myself. I was crying, I didn’t want to do it. I begged
him. . . . them, not to make me do it. I was just a boy”, he said, tears now streaming down his face. “ I couldn’t break their necks like he
did. He made me throw them down the basement stairs onto the cold concrete floor below. They were bleeding...their was blood...and...and.....” he
was sobbing uncontrollably now, and it was all I could do to fight the nurturing instinct in me and not run and wrap my arms around him and comfort
the little boy that was crying inside of him. “It wasn’t your fault Hank”, you were just a... “Shut your mouth whore, you said you wouldn’t
open your mouth until I was done, so sit over there and shut up, you’re all alike, you yapping women, yap yap yap yap yap ” I was stunned, but
again, I nodded blankly that I understood and dared not speak again The last thing I wanted to do was make him angrier than he already was.
He shouted for the guard, once again causing me to jump, the guard instantly re-entered the room. “I want a cigarette please and I will also take
that soda now, Mt Dew if you got one.” He stepped back outside the door and got on his radio. Within minutes he was back with the inmates requests.
I sat quietly as he dragged on his cigarette, the burning paper crackling the only sound in the room outside of our breathing...well mine anyway...
he took the last drag off the cigarette and blew smoke rings as he stomped the butt out under his shoe. He slowly lifted the soda to his mouth and
took a long drink, paused and finished the can in the second swallow. Placing the empty can down on the table, he leaned back in his chair and stared
at me. . . . This was getting uncomfortable, and after a few minutes, I decided to say so. He sensed that I was about to speak and raised a finger to
his lips and shushed me.
“ Shhhhhh, you don’t need to say nothing. There ain’t nothing you can say. Your crazier than I am I seen them tears swelling up in your eyes
while I was telling you all about my childhood.” Having said that, he threw his head back and laughed boisterously. “You believed all that
bullsh** didn’t you? What a dumb ass you are. I’d bet your picture is in the dictionary next to the word gullible I made every bit of that story
up. . . . yep, created it all in my head sitting right here. Pretty good wasn’t it? Had you going. You see S A R A...what you college educated brain
pickers fail to understand is, some folks is just mean. I had good parents. I went to church, I got hugs, I got told I love you son, I had birthday
parties, slumber parties, my daddy played ball with me, built me a tree house....but now that ain’t the kind of crap people like you want to hear is
it? You want tales of bruises and broken bones, no love, loneliness, despair...
Its easier for your type to believe that I kill because I was somehow mistreated in my youth. Sorry to disappoint you darlin’ but that ain’t my
story. I do what I do because I WANT to. Because I like it. Now does that mean that I am crazier than you might have classified me if the other story
had been true? Hell, you can’t tell me that you have never thought “ Aww I could just kill him”... huh...well.....that’s what I thought... the
only difference between you and me is I did it. Ain’t no worse than thinking it...you’re just a hypocrite I have to balls to do what comes to my
mind and I am crazy... whatever makes you sleep better at night doc ”
I called for the guard to come in. I’d had enough. In all of my years of psychology, I had never encountered anyone quite like this man. I
wasn’t even sure how to classify him. Pure evil fit, but then again that wasn’t a technical term. As I rose to leave, he called out after me. “
Don’t worry Sara, I will try to come up with something a bit juicier for our next session. Maybe I can make you happy with some made up tales about
child abuse, beatings and what not...hey.....Sara.....you listening to me.....sleep tight tonight....you hear me.....watch out for the boogeyman ”
I could hear his laughter reverberating off of the block walls...chills ran down my spine... this man was crazy...scary crazy... and I would have to
meet with him again. . . . thank God it was behind these walls and not in the way that his victims had met him...little did I know that I too would be
a victim...just a victim of a different sort.