What Motivated Dennis Nilsen In 'Killing For Company'?

Reading 'Killing for Company' was chilling, but it gave me deep insight into Dennis Nilsen's twisted psyche. His crimes weren't about rage or profit—they stemmed from an obsessive need for control and companionship. Loneliness gnawed at him; he killed to create 'perfect' companions who wouldn't leave. The book reveals how his military background and isolated upbringing warped his perception of relationships. He saw corpses as docile partners, preserving them grotesquely to maintain the illusion of connection. His flat became a macabre stage where he'd dress bodies and talk to them for weeks. What stands out is his chilling detachment—he rationalized murder as 'kindness' to lonely men like himself, blending pathology with poetic self-justification.

What gripped me about 'Killing for Company' was how Nilsen's motives blurred lines between pathology and poetry. He didn't just kill—he crafted narratives. Each victim became a character in his solipsistic drama about companionship. The book excerpts his diaries, where he describes strangulation as 'freeing' men from life's pain, revealing a Messiah complex twisted by narcissism.

His flat wasn't a crime scene—it was a stage. He'd prop bodies in chairs to watch TV together, then later dissect them methodically like dismantling failed relationships. This wasn't just insanity; it was a perverse performance art. The murders escalated when he realized corpses were better listeners than living people—they couldn't reject him.

Unlike serial killers who hide crimes, Nilsen kept trophies openly, as if daring the world to see his loneliness. The book implies his eventual confession was another bid for connection—finally, someone would pay attention. It's this tragic self-awareness that chills me most; he knew exactly how broken he was.

'Killing for Company' offers a masterclass in dissecting motive. Nilsen's actions were driven by a catastrophic collision of factors. His childhood in rural Scotland was emotionally barren, with a grandfather's death leaving him obsessed with mortality. The military later gave him structure but deepened his alienation—he learned to compartmentalize, which later helped him disassociate during murders.

His victims weren't random; they were marginalized men whose disappearances wouldn't trigger alarms. This wasn't just pragmatism—it mirrored his self-loathing. By killing those society ignored, he reinforced his own invisibility. The book details how he'd bathe and dress corpses, recreating intimate moments he never experienced alive. This wasn't sexual—it was theatrical, a desperate pantomime of connection.

The most unsettling aspect was his dual nature. By day, a civil servant; by night, a curator of corpses. He documented everything, craving recognition for his 'art.' Interviews show he viewed his trial as a final performance. The book suggests his confessions were less about remorse and more about cementing his legacy—a warped desire to be remembered as someone who 'understood' loneliness better than anyone.