Impostor

by L. J. Ross

  But he was not one of them.

  He was something apart; an island inhabited by one, with an occasional visitor permitted very rarely to share his solitary life.

  He did not belong.

  He would never belong.

  Gregory stepped away from the window and looked around the smart flat with its polished wooden floors and exposed brickwork, its glossy kitchen and plain white bedding. Everything was utilitarian, designed for a man who needed only a place to rest his head at night.

  To his surprise, he found tears on his face, and he scrubbed them away with an angry hand.

  Time to get back to work.

  CHAPTER 19

  Tuesday

  London, England

  The week passed quickly at Southmoor Hospital, as Gregory slipped back into his routine of patients and clinical meetings during the day whilst, at night, he worked on the ‘Ballyfinny Butcher’ profile, which is what the press had decided to christen the person who remained dangerous and at large in the small Irish town. There was always a tension between those who reported the news, and those who sought to repress it, or control it—including himself and the police. The problem was compounded by a need for news to have an element of ‘click-bait’ nowadays; a requirement that the headline be sensational enough to draw in the punters, who might go on to purchase a toaster through some affiliate link and ensure the journalists’ wages were paid at the end of the month.

  Gregory understood it and regretted it, in equal measure.

  In all the cases he’d seen, not one perpetrator of violent crime had complained about their being immortalised in the public consciousness—the opposite was true. Infamy gave some killers a reputation to live up to, driving them to top their own best efforts, again and again. It enraged others; shining a light on their private efforts, drawing them out when they would rather remain safely hidden in the shadows, quietly operating behind the scenes.

  And, for some, it served only to legitimise their cause and glorify an otherwise painfully ordinary persona.

  Gregory thought of all this, and more, as he rolled up his sleeves and began to chop red peppers for the frittata he planned to make for dinner.

  The intercom buzzed, right on time, and he checked the camera.

  “Come on up,” he said, wiping his hands on a tea towel.

  A minute or so later, Professor Bill Douglas puffed his way to the door. He was dressed in what Gregory thought of as one of his ‘tweed specials’, consisting of a heavily threaded jacket over brown chinos that looked as though they’d begun life in a thrift shop, topped off with a mustard-coloured scarf and flat cap.

  “Lift’s out of order,” he said, wheezing a bit.

  Douglas bestowed a manly hug before moving past Gregory to hook his hat and scarf on a peg in the tiny hallway.

  “Still haven’t put any pictures up, I see.”

  “You know I don’t like clutter.”

  “There’s uncluttered, and then there’s ‘Cell Block’.”

  Gregory grinned, then wandered back to the kitchen area where he began breaking eggs into a mixing bowl.

  With the familiarity of long friendship, Douglas rooted around the fridge for a bottle of his favourite beer, then settled himself on a barstool to watch.

  “You look tired,” he said. “You’ve not been sleeping, again.”

  “Thanks, Dad.”

  Douglas was undeterred.

  “Tell me about it.”

  Gregory began to beat the eggs with a whisk, thrashing the inoffensive gloop with unnecessary force.

  “The profiling case is playing on my mind,” he said. “I think I know the killer’s motivation, but I can’t be sure without another death. Even then, I don’t know how the profile will help the police.”

  Douglas heard the frustration in his young friend’s voice and was sorry for it.

  “Start at the top,” he suggested. “What’s the motivation?”

  “I think the killer coveted Claire Kelly, or what she represented. They wanted it for themselves, to keep, and the only way they could do that was by removing her from the world.”

  “And, de facto, from everybody else,” Douglas said.

  “Exactly.”

  “What did she represent?” Douglas wondered. “An attractive, unattainable young woman?”

  There had been many cases of inadequate, sexually repressed men seeking out women they admired from afar.

  “That was my first thought,” Gregory said. “But I lean more towards her role as a mother or caregiver. It fits the staging of her body.”

  Douglas made a low sound in his throat as he considered the ramifications.

  “On the child’s bed, with a teddy and a storybook?” he recalled. “Yes, I see what you mean. You think whoever killed her coveted her role as a mother?”

  “Not the role, as such,” Gregory said. “I’m not sure whoever killed her harbours feelings of inadequacy about their own motherhood; in fact, statistically, her killer is more likely to be male. It would have taken some strength to do the heavy lifting, too.”

  “If not the role itself, then what?”

  “I think they wanted her, and everything she embodied, for themselves; as a replacement or proxy for something they lacked, or still lack.”

  Douglas took a long, thoughtful swig of his beer.

  “Do you think it’s a one-off killing, or do we have a Keppler situation on our hands?”

  He referred to the infamous American serial killer, Ed Keppler, who killed several women as proxies for his own mother, who he worked up to killing before ultimately handing himself in to the police.

  “I honestly don’t know,” Gregory admitted. “There’s some suggestion that the victim had an extra-marital affair, which complicates things. The police are beginning to lean towards the ex-lover, who doesn’t have an alibi for her murder. If they’re right, and I’m wrong, he might have killed Claire as a one-off, for more straightforward reasons—but it doesn’t fit with the staging of her body. A jealous ex-lover doesn’t kill in that way, after a delay, unless something precipitated the attack.”

  He paused.

  “Claire Kelly was pregnant,” he added.

  “Might’ve been the lover’s baby,” Douglas said, reading his thoughts easily. “But that’s pure conjecture. You have to focus on the facts.”

  “I agree, which is why I’ve suggested that the Garda—neither of whom have a satisfactory alibi themselves—turn their attention to building a list of suspects from the local area, focusing on those whose movements are not accounted for.”

  “Do you believe the police are involved?” Douglas asked.

  Gregory thought of how they’d sought to repress material facts relating to Tom Reilly, apparently on compassionate grounds, and could not rule out the possibility of more serious collusion.

  “The two detectives handling the investigation are brothers—not by birth, as it turns out, since one of them was adopted. Both suffered childhood trauma, and their mother is the town mayor. She told me on Sunday night that she suspects one or both of them were responsible for killing a family pet, when they were children. It’s textbook.”

  “Strong, authoritarian mother figure, you mean? Aggression towards animals leading to escalation in later life, perhaps?”

  Gregory poured the egg mixture into a pie dish and set a timer on the oven door before answering.

  “Maggie Byrne is a nice woman,” he said, reaching for a glass of wine he’d poured earlier. “But she could be perceived as authoritarian from an internal, family-dynamic perspective. Neither of her sons would dare to argue with her, I think. That’s the kind of subtle repression that can drive people over the edge.”

  Douglas blew out a gusty breath and rolled the beer bottle between his hands as he thought back over all the cases they’d worked on, in the past.

  “And, beneath all this, let me hazard a guess and say you’re nervous about putting forth a profile based on so few evidential facts.”


  Gregory gave a brief nod.

  “Alex, what happened the last time wasn’t your fault or mine,” his friend said. “There was a public witch hunt, and the police needed a couple of fall guys to explain why an innocent man was sent to prison. We were available and fitted the bill.”

  He paused, then shrugged philosophically.

  “Do we really begrudge it? The police do a good job, most of the time, and not all of them have the training to deal with the trauma of what their job entails. They’re told to get results, then they’re hung out to dry when things go wrong.”

  “I know,” Gregory nodded. “But it’s taught me caution.”

  “Maybe too much caution?”

  Gregory swallowed a mouthful of wine and was annoyed to find another image of Emma Byrne popping into his mind’s eye.

  He frowned.

  “There’s a woman,” he said, deciding he may as well off-load the lot. Douglas was one of the few friends he allowed into his life, but he was also his professional supervisor and mentor. “She’s the wife of one of the police officers, and the mayor’s daughter-in-law.”

  “You sure can pick ‘em,” Douglas joked, and wriggled his preposterous eyebrows. “What’s her name?”

  “It doesn’t matter,” Gregory said, irritably. “The point is, I’m worried about her. She’s a mother, in a town where another young mother has recently been killed. If I’m right about the killer coveting women like her, she could be in very real danger.”

  “You’re focusing your concern on this woman because you’re attracted to her,” Douglas said, cutting to the chase. “Is there any reason to believe she would be targeted more than any other mother in the town, if that’s the killer’s motivation?”

  Gregory knew he was right, and said as much.

  “I feel sorry for her,” he realised. “Her husband isn’t a bad man, but he’s got his own problems and their marriage is failing.”

  “And, then, you come along,” Douglas said. “A handsome stranger, with healing hands.”

  Gregory couldn’t prevent the laugh that bubbled in his throat, but then his smile faded.

  “Do you ever resent the professional duty that comes with the job?” he asked. “The knowledge that, no matter how tempted you are, you’re precluded from ever acting on your impulses? In a normal world, when men and women meet, they make their own decisions without having to abide by a rule book.”

  Douglas heard the yearning in his friend’s voice, the pain of longing, and wished there was a cure for loneliness.

  “Of course, I’ve felt that way,” he said quietly. “I practised for many years, and there were times my restraint was tested. When that happened, or when I was concerned there may be a breach in the doctor-patient relationship, I relinquished the patient and passed them on to one of my colleagues.”

  “This woman isn’t a patient,” Gregory muttered.

  “Isn’t she?” Douglas countered. “Aren’t they all patients, when you’re profiling? The whole town is in need, so the whole town deserves your duty of care.”

  Gregory nodded slowly, and the oven timer began to let out a loud beep.

  “Time’s up,” Douglas smiled, and raised the beer to his lips.

  CHAPTER 20

  Thursday

  Southmoor Hospital

  A couple of days later, Gregory was still ruminating on the discussion he’d held with Bill Douglas, when the door opened to admit his final patient of the day. Cathy Jones entered the room with a confident stride, dressed to the nines in her smartest clothes and having taken the time to paint every inch of her face.

  His heart sank.

  He had grown adept at recognising her mercurial moods, and one look was enough to tell him which version of ‘Cathy’ he would be treated to that day.

  “Good afternoon, Doctor,” she said, sliding down onto the sofa in a slow, languorous movement. “I’ve missed you, this week.”

  “Hello, Cathy,” he said, in a clipped tone. “How have you been?”

  “Lonely,” she said, pouting a bit.

  He referred to the printed schedule in her file.

  “I see here that you’ve done a lot of group work, this week,” he reminded her. “Art and music… gardening, too. It sounds like you’ve had plenty of company.”

  She snorted.

  “They’re all mad,” she said, without sarcasm. “If I spend too much time with them, it’ll start to rub off. I’d rather be alone than have to listen to some of their ravings. Loneliness really depends on whose company you have, or don’t have—wouldn’t you agree?”

  The muscles in his jaw clenched so hard, he heard a crack.

  “Today, I thought we could talk about what happened after your daughter Emily was born,” he said, pleasantly. “You’ve told me before that it was a difficult time for you.”

  “I don’t feel like talking about that, today. I want to talk about you,” she said, leaning forward to toy with one of the tissues from the box on the coffee table. “You know, I’ve always loved green eyes, just like yours. Do you have a girlfriend, Alex?”

  He folded his hands and looked at her for a long moment, battling a strong sense of revulsion. It was as though Cathy was a child or a teenager, trapped inside the body of an ageing woman. How could it be that she had mothered three children, and killed two of them? She looked at him now with such wide-eyed innocence, a lesser man might have doubted what his eyes and his ears told him.

  “I’ve warned you before, Cathy. Our relationship is a professional one, and nothing more. I’m here to help you to understand yourself better, and help you to heal. My personal life is entirely outside the bounds of that relationship, and I’d appreciate it if you didn’t ask me again.”

  Her mouth turned sulky and hard.

  “You’re a fag,” she spat.

  His eyes flashed a dangerous warning, while he kept himself under rigid control.

  “Watch your language,” he said. “And modify your attitude.”

  “Alright, it’s because you think I’m old enough to be your mother, isn’t it?” she taunted him. “What’s the matter, sweetheart? Can’t handle an older woman? Worried that I might know more than you do, is that it?”

  She leaned back on the sofa, cackling to herself.

  “I’ve had most of the male nurses in this place,” she said. “One of them told me he loves me.”

  Some of the pity must have shown on his face, for she suddenly erupted in anger.

  “Don’t you look at me like that!” she screamed. “I know what you’re thinking! You think I’m lying, just like you think I’m lying about the children! I’m telling the truth!”

  Her face contorted, and he braced himself for an attack, unsure whether she would lash out or cry.

  It wouldn’t be the first time.

  When she crumpled into floods of inconsolable tears, he closed his notebook and called for Pete, the security liaison nurse, who was stationed at his post just outside.

  He entered within seconds.

  “Everything okay, Alex?”

  “Fine, Pete. We’re done here, for today. Could you escort Mrs Jones back to her room, please? I hope you come to the next session with more willingness to participate, Cathy.”

  As she was led away, she hurled obscenities at his back, spitting and snarling like an alley cat. In the silence that followed her departure, Gregory thought of the nightmare he’d had earlier that week, where she’d made an appearance as an Angel of Death.

  It’s what the press had named her, before her trial at the Old Bailey.

  With every session, he hoped to unlock that part of her mind that held the elusive answer as to why she’d done it; why she’d spooned salt into her baby’s bottles, why she’d malnourished and mistreated her children until another one became so ill that he died, and another barely survived.

  But, as with so many who suffered from factitious disorders, he feared Cathy would never tell him the answer to those important questions. There woul
d be no rehabilitation for the woman so long as she cosseted herself in deep denial, unable to admit to her crimes and unwilling even to try.

  He wondered whether the same would be true of the person who had killed Claire Kelly. Would they ever learn what impetus had led them to kill?

  Perhaps, after all, Maggie Byrne was right.

  What difference did it make to know the reasons, when the result was the same: a woman was dead and wasn’t coming back—just as Cathy Jones’ children were long gone, their lives lost in the sands of time along with so many others.

  CHAPTER 21

  Despite his doubts, Gregory stationed himself at his desk and read over the working profile he’d put together for the Ballyfinny case. It was a lengthy document, so he’d created a summary which covered the main points:

  PSYCHOLOGICAL PROFILE

  OFFENDER: A.K.A. “Ballyfinny Butcher”

  Victim(s): Claire Ann Kelly (29) and unborn child (2.5 mth gestation)

  Ballyfinny, Co. Mayo, Ireland.

  Police liaison(s): Inspector Niall Byrne (Divisional Head, Co. Mayo Garda, Castlebar); Sergeant Connor Byrne (Head of Garda Station, Ballyfinny).

  In compiling this profile, I have considered all available information made available to me from the crime scene (including location, staging, time of day and year) and have analysed any available forensic data drawn from the physical evidence, which has been scant. I have read and considered all available witness statements, as well as secondary statements that were taken by the police more recently and the autopsy report prepared by the pathologist. Additionally, I have considered the type and manner of assault prior to death, geophysical factors, logistical means and personality traits of the victim that may have been relevant to her relative ‘risk’. If further evidence comes to light following the submission of this profile, it will be updated accordingly.

  This profile contains a list of personality and behavioural characteristics of the offender, as well as a suggested sequence of events leading to the victim’s murder. This has been compiled by reference to established research into criminal behaviour and personality types, as well as qualitative analysis of patterns revealed in other like crimes. The profile should be used by the Garda to help narrow their list of potential suspects. Please note that it does not conclusively generate or eliminate suspects. The Garda should focus their attention on suspects who fit the profile, in the first instance, but never close their minds to the possibility of an outlier.