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  Before entering Renehan Hall, she looked at the whiteboard erected outside:

  CRIME AND CONTEMPORAY IRELAND –

  NUI MAYNOOTH PRESENTS

  ‘THE TRUTH BEHIND CRIMINAL PROFILING’

  An illustrated talk by Dr KATE PEARSON

  – Criminal Psychologist

  2.00 p.m.–3.00 p.m.

  Sold Out

  Kate had prepared her notes the week before, but had revised them earlier that morning. It was important to strike the correct balance when presenting a talk to both students and members of the public, breaking it down over general profiling headings and actual case studies. It was usually best to choose one main case for deep analysis, and she had deliberately chosen a case that would underline the most frightening aspect of most criminal studies – the ordinariness of the offender.

  Walking to the top table from the back of the conference hall, Kate deliberately avoided eye contact with members of the audience. She always felt a degree of apprehension about talking in public, but, despite the butterflies in her stomach, past experience told her that once she was up there, she would be fine. Nonetheless, Niall King’s smiling, enthusiastic face felt something like a double-edged sword. As head of the Humanities Department, he had chosen all the speakers for the day with care, and she knew his expectations of her were high.

  ‘Hi, Niall.’

  ‘Ready to be fed to the lions, Kate?’

  ‘Thanks for putting me at my ease,’ she laughed.

  ‘Don’t worry, they’ve all had their lunch, so they should go easy on you.’

  ‘Can I upload my file here?’ Kate pointed to the laptop connected to the overhead screen.

  ‘I’ll load it for you – it’s being temperamental today.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘Whenever you’re ready, Kate, I’ll do the intro.’

  Kate handed Niall her memory stick, and removed her notes from her briefcase. She took her seat, still avoiding eye contact with the audience, and waited for Niall to begin his introduction.

  ‘Well, everyone, we are in for a treat this afternoon. I’m delighted to introduce Dr Kate Pearson, a lady whom I admire greatly. As some of you might be aware, along with my keen interest in studying criminology, like many of you here, I’m a firm believer in examining and questioning the social, economic and cultural aspects of Ireland today. It was through this interest that I met Kate, who is currently working with the Counselling and Young Offenders Reintegration Programme at Ocean House. However, it is not her work with probation services that she will speak about today, but rather her extensive experience of criminal profiling from her time in the UK. Kate holds a first-class honours degree in Psychology from Trinity College, a Master’s in Criminology from University College London and a Doctorate in Forensic Psychology from the University of Nottingham. She has vast experience in the area of criminal profiling, having worked with Professor Henry Bloom, one of the leading psychologists in the UK. Since her return to Ireland, she has also given some help to An Garda Síochána. Ladies and gentlemen, please give a warm welcome to Dr Kate Pearson.’

  As Niall stood back, Kate took her position at the podium, looking directly at the audience.

  ‘First, I would like to thank Niall for organising this event and to thank you all for coming here today to listen to my talk on the truth behind profiling. Let’s begin by exposing some of the myths behind criminal profiling. Many people think of profiling as conforming to what they have seen on television, showing an entire crime solved within an hour-long programme. Sadly, the reality is very far from this, not just in the length of time it takes to apply profiling correctly but also regarding some of the methods used by profilers. The first question we must ask, therefore, is: what exactly is criminal profiling?’

  Turning away from the audience, Kate looked up at the screen and read the definition written there.

  ‘“Criminal Profiling is the process of identifying personality traits, behavioural tendencies, possible biographical maps, or even geographical locations of an offender based on characteristics and evidence found at the crime scene, whether that crime scene is a primary or secondary one.” I will explain the difference between primary and secondary crime scenes later in our discussion. For now, crime scene characteristics are a good place to start.’

  As the dark clouds started to shift and the long windows of Renehan Hall admitted thin streams of afternoon sunlight, Kate could tell she already had most of the audience’s undivided attention.

  ‘Let’s look at how we would pull together the various factors from a crime scene.’ Kate flicked onto the next slide. ‘The three key things we must look at are the important behavioural aspects of the crime, what inferences or probabilities we can deduce about the perpetrator based on these and, finally, what other crimes the offender is likely to have committed.’

  Kate was glad she had chosen the Dunmore case to discuss. It displayed all the aspects of what is typically described as a disorganised crime scene, where often an offender has committed a crime spontaneously. One of the important factors that Kate wanted to stress about spontaneous crimes was that although they can happen from a spur of the moment decision, they do not necessarily occur out of the blue.

  ‘Okay, now I’d like to move to discuss one case in particular, where we can see the work of the profiler on the ground. The case I’ve chosen is the Dunmore case, in which I was personally involved. I worked with members of An Garda Síochána to piece together a profile of the attacker who committed his crime in a frenzied manner.

  ‘The attack on Noelle Dunmore was sexually motivated, but the motivational needs of her assailant had built up over a period of time. The severity of the attack, including the level of violent force used, was in itself a reflection of the need, anger and compulsion of her attacker. Many of the characteristics of the particular crime scene – the violence, the choice of a public park as the location for the attack and the risks her assailant had been prepared to take both in his choice of location and in leaving his victim at the scene – helped me to form a number of conclusions about him.

  ‘In cases of angry, sexual and violent assaults, the psychological condition of an attacker is frequently at the point where they have the ability to depersonalise their victim, seeing him or her solely as a means of fulfilling their own needs and fantasy, often without any of the guilt. Noelle’s attacker left her for dead. Thankfully, she survived, but as she had been blindfolded, she could not provide any description of the offender. However, certain aspects of his behaviour, including his incorrect assumption that he had killed his victim, indicated someone who was not just impetuous, but someone who did not have the maturity or intelligence to take his intentions to their conclusion. Even without making the mistake of thinking his victim was dead, he knew Noelle would be found. This told me that his needs and heightened desires were such that fulfilling them was far more important to him than the risk of being caught.’

  There was a perfect silence among her audience as Kate delineated the key points of the case. It was almost like they were all holding their breaths, waiting for the revelation that was coming.

  ‘I was working on the case with Detective Inspector O’Connor. As most of you no doubt know, profilers are not welcome in every police station’ – there was a ripple of muted laughter at this, and Kate knew she must have a garda or two in the audience – ‘but O’Connor and his team were willing to bring me in on this case. It paid off. I was able to tell them that the attacker was immature, probably a young male between eighteen and twenty-five, and that he was someone whose anger had built up over time, possibly as a result of seeking relationships, but because of inadequate social or communication skills, had failed. This profile helped narrow the list of suspects. The investigation team had plenty of forensics from the crime scene, but had been unable to find a match against known offenders, or anyone else who would have been considered high risk. As I had told them the possible age of the perpetrator and the extre
mities of psychosis he displayed, further questioning within the local community very quickly led to the arrest of nineteen-year-old Jonathan Kinsella. He had been interviewed by police during their house-to-house enquiries, but his shy and backward behaviour, living at home with his parents, with no previous record, meant he had been overlooked. Kinsella was subsequently convicted of the assault and attempted murder of Noelle Dunmore and sentenced to fifteen years.’

  Kate smiled at her audience. ‘I’m almost ready to finish up. I hope that you found today’s discussion helpful in eradicating some of the scepticism around criminal profiling, and the assistance it can bring to bear on criminal cases. It’s very easy to be sidetracked by assumptions and presumptions – the aim of profiling is to work with the available details, however small those might be. It is a far more pragmatic science than its detractors give it credit for and, of course, it’s a fascinating area of criminal work. So, to conclude, let us put the base elements of good profiling in a nutshell, if we can.’

  Kate clicked up her final slide of the afternoon, which covered methods of operation and key signatures left at a crime scene.

  ‘The one thing we should always keep in mind when examining any case is that despite obvious indicators of a particular form of operation, or signature, perpetrators very often do similar things for very different reasons. So along with finding the signals, we must also be mindful not to be led in the wrong direction.’

  Cronly Lodge

  HIS FLIGHT FROM FLORENCE LANDED BACK IN DUBLIN airport at 4.15 p.m., so it was late evening by the time he got back to Cronly Lodge. Instead of going up directly to see the old witch, he chose to walk the beach instead. The spring and summer crowds had not yet begun to arrive for their annual land grab of the sunny southeast but, at this hour, either way, the strand was deserted.

  He walked slowly on the sand, near the water’s edge, not wanting to rush his next move. Mrs Flood, their housekeeper, had been given the thankless task of minding his mother while he was away. She had left moments earlier, when he had called to confirm he was near at hand. Everything was at long last firmly crystallised in his mind. He knew what he needed to do. Once the bishop had filled in the missing pieces, all other plans had changed. It was strange how that one part of the jigsaw had escaped him for so long. The truth was, he had not thought even his vile mother could sink so low. The only reason he was now delaying the inevitable was his desire to hear it all from the bitch herself.

  Leaving the beach, he walked up to the house and let himself in. He locked the door behind him, then drew the curtains downstairs before making his way up the old staircase. When he reached the landing, her roars told him she knew he was there well before he opened her bedroom door.

  ‘Is that you, you selfish little shit? Back to mind your ailing mother? Not before time. The prodigal son returns, let’s all thank the heavens.’

  Part of him didn’t even want to look at her, wanted to just shut her up once and for all – but he knew that it was at testing times that a person’s true character proved itself.

  ‘I see you haven’t lost any of your charm while I was away, Mother.’

  ‘No thanks to you. Off on your little holiday while I’m cooped up in this hellhole like some bloody prisoner. Is that stupid cow gone?’

  ‘Mrs Flood?’

  ‘Of course Mrs Flood, how many stupid cows are there? Nobody gives a shit about me, not you, not anyone – least of all that awful bloody woman. Give me my pills. The cow hates me, you know. Hates me, hates me, hates me. Are you listening? I’m telling you, they’re all the same, bastards, fucking bastards the lot of them. Do you hear me?’

  ‘I hear you.’

  ‘They’re all swine, worse than swine, and you’re no better. Give me my pills.’

  ‘Not just yet.’

  ‘I haven’t had any. I don’t care what the old bat said. I remember more than she does, you know.’

  ‘I don’t doubt it.’

  ‘Where did you sneak off to anyway while I was dying in my bed? Give me the pills, will you? Come on, there’s a good boy.’

  ‘I was meeting old friends.’

  ‘Lucky you. Friends? What friends? Some cheap tart was it? Is that cow still here?’

  ‘Mrs Flood left an hour ago. It’s just you and me now, Mother.’

  ‘Good, good, that’s good. We were always good together, you and I, blood is thicker than water, a cut above the rest of them, we always were.

  ‘I met an old friend of yours. Bishop Antonio.’

  ‘I don’t know any Bishop Antonio. Why won’t you give me my pills?’

  ‘You don’t need them. Not yet. We don’t want to blur the mind too soon, do we?’

  ‘I’m tired, why are you talking about that damned man?’

  ‘You brought him up.’

  ‘No I didn’t … I don’t remember.’

  ‘Two weeks ago, before I left.’

  ‘Two weeks is a lifetime when you’re dying. Give me the pills, will you? Don’t be cruel.’ Her eyes were pleading, narrowing into slits. ‘Oh, but I forgot, you like being cruel, don’t you? Makes you feel big, doesn’t it, picking on an old, defenceless woman? You’re no better than the rest of them, taking advantage. Some loving son you are.’

  ‘He was asking for you, Antonio, wanting to know how my mother, the old hag, was getting along.’

  ‘There’s a place in hell for people like him, and you.’

  He watched, disgusted, as a line of spittle settled on her top lip. ‘Fancy visiting it?’

  He crossed the room to her swiftly and she gasped at the sudden pain. ‘Stop pulling my hair. It hurts. Get away!’

  ‘It’s supposed to hurt. Antonio was very generous with his information, Mother, filled me in on a lot of missing gaps.’

  ‘He was always a mouth, the slimy bastard. Stop at my hair, stop this instant! You can’t make me say anything. I’m not afraid of the likes of you.’

  ‘Can’t I? How’s this?’ Grabbing her dried-out grey ponytail, he pulled her head so far back, the bones in her neck creaked in response. ‘Here, look in the mirror, Mother, see how ugly you are.’ He took up her hand mirror with the ivory handle from the side table and turned it towards her.

  ‘He told me a little story, Mother. It was all about you. You like being the centre of the story, don’t you? You always did. You’re not looking, Mother, open your eyes. Not a pretty picture, is it? They say a mirror cannot lie, but you can. Can’t you? You lie better than anyone.’

  Letting go of her hair, he walked over to the window and yanked up the bottom sash so he could breathe in the evening air. The outside seemed as humid as her bedroom, a heavy veil of smothering. He watched shadows engulf the garden, thinking he could hear the leaves of the elderberry trees swaying. His indignation rose as she continued to chide.

  Out of nowhere, she began to laugh, loudly and hysterically. ‘Got you all riled up, son, has it? All excited about your young tramp? Or maybe you liked Antonio more? He always said there was something not right about you, silly sneaky little boy. You are a sneak, aren’t you? Like a snake crawling around in the dark, slither, slither, slither, snake, snake, snake.’

  ‘Shut your mouth or I’ll shut it for you.’

  ‘Not with your back to me you won’t. Go on you idiot, keep looking out that window – dreamer – loser. All that money for your education, and for what? Do you think you would have had any of it, if it hadn’t been for me?’

  He pulled the window down, clicked the latch over and closed both curtains. Turning, he waited in the dark, listening to her chiding him, the room becoming clammier with the passing of time. She never stopped, it was relentless. It had always been relentless, for as long as he could remember. He walked over to her bed once more and stood over her, smelling the sweat from her body, her hair wet with moisture, her breath foul. Inside him, a savage mixture of old memories and hate churned.

  ‘Why don’t you tell me your side of the story, Mother? I am sure it will be ve
ry insightful.’

  ‘Tell you what, you little shit?’

  ‘Come on, you know you want to. Let’s hear it from the whore’s mouth.’

  She stared at him, eyes wide open, her hands balled up into useless fists. ‘You’re mad.’

  ‘I guess that makes two of us.’

  ‘I want my pills. Give me my pills.’

  ‘Not in the storytelling mood, are we?’ He had left the bedroom door open so he could hear the sound of the Napoleon clock from downstairs. It swooned up the stairwell, the way low sounds can move in near silence. Tick tock, tick tock.

  Her arms were already badly bruised from injections and blood tests, a few more marks from tying up her hands would go unseen. He knew now that she might never tell him, just as he knew everything the old bishop had said was true. He had wasted enough time – a lifetime – trying to get her to explain things. No more.

  She screeched like a wounded animal before he pressed the pillow down hard, but he held firm. Beneath his hands her frail body resisted, thrashed and writhed with a strength he hadn’t expected. He viewed it all clinically, objectively, like he wasn’t even involved. He was glad she put up a good fight, though. The kill, in the end, was all the better for it.

  Six Months Later …

  Ellie

  I KNOCK ON THE DOOR. WELL, ISN’T THAT WHAT YOU’RE supposed to do with doors? That, and open and shut them. I hear a man inside the room cough, the sound muffled by the wooden divide. Maybe if I stand here long enough, I can disappear, sink into the ground or evaporate into the air. I wouldn’t mind that. I am wearing some other person’s clothes, an unbecoming grey blouse and faded jeans. By now, I am used to these things. Everything I have belonged to someone else at one time or another, everything, that is, except the bits that matter. Sadly, the bits that matter are all mine. My short, brown hair is washed and tucked, childlike, behind my ears. I wear neither make-up nor jewellery. There is no need for such things here. I have no need for such things.