The Nothing Man Read online

  I met with Dr Weir primarily to try to get an answer to one of my most burning questions: why did the Nothing Man stop? How had he been able to? Or was it more likely he hadn’t stopped at all but instead had moved or changed his methods or died? After her lecture, I was beginning to suspect that the answer wouldn’t be the one I was expecting – and I was right. When I finally asked my question after more than an hour in her company, Dr Weir shrugged her shoulders, held up her hands and said, ‘The boring truth is that he probably just stopped.’

  She told me about a symposium the FBI held back in August 2005, which brought together more than a hundred experts in the field of serial killings. Catching serial killers presents a special kind of challenge for law enforcement but, again, probably not for the reasons you might think. Serial killings are exceptionally rare, accounting for less than one per cent of all homicides in any given year, but because of the public’s endless fascination with them, they draw the most publicity. A hugely disproportionate amount of it, which thrusts investigations into the spotlight from the get-go, which in turn amps up the pressure on police to make progress, fast.

  But because serial killings are so rare, there’s relatively little scientific data available about them. The general public get their serial killer info from Hollywood movies, Netflix and the Crime section of their local bookshop, and that’s okay, because the general public are only looking for entertainment. The problem is that, consciously or unconsciously, rank-and-file police officers get their serial killer info from the same place – and that’s not okay because they’re looking for the actual perpetrators. This FBI Serial Killing Symposium was an attempt to correct some of the most pervasive myths and misconceptions surrounding serial killers and equip law enforcement with the actual facts.

  Serial Murder: Multi-Disciplinary Perspectives for Investigators, the 2008 report on the symposium, lists the most common misconceptions about serial killers:

  – Serial killers are all dysfunctional loners

  – Serial killers are all white males

  – All serial killers travel and operate interstate

  – All serial killers are insane or are evil geniuses

  – Serial killers cannot stop killing

  In fact, serial killers are often married with families, have jobs and are involved in their community. The racial diversification of serial killers tends to match that of the population in which they operate. The vast majority commit their crimes in a defined geographic area or ‘comfort zone’. These offenders may suffer from debilitating mental conditions or personality disorders, but they are not insane, and as a group they display the same range of intelligence as the general population. Serial killers often stop killing long before capture due to changes in their lives that reduce triggering conditions such as stress – a new, better marriage, for example – or because they find a substitute in another activity. Dennis Rader, for example, also known as BTK (Bind, Torture, Kill), murdered ten people between 1974 and 1991 but wasn’t captured until 2005. He was a married father of two, had served in the military, had a job in local government and was a leader at his church.

  Another possibility, Dr Weir said, is that serial killers stop because they simply ‘age out’. Unlike other sexually motivated crimes such as paedophilia, it is exceptionally rare for a sexual homicide to be committed by someone over the age of fifty. Perhaps when these killers reach their half-century, they find testosterone levels have depleted to such an extent that their drive to kill just fades away, if not dissipates entirely.

  ‘When we talk about serial killers stopping,’ Dr Weir told me, ‘the key thing to remember is that we are almost never talking about compulsive acts. Some of what Hollywood tells us about these offenders is actually correct. They do plan and prepare. They wait until they have the opportunity and then they make a choice to commit the act. They’re not walking about gripped by some overwhelming compulsion to kill, like some kind of crazed, blood-thirsty animal. They’re not out of control. They don’t have to do it, they want to. There’s a big difference between drive and compulsion. So as they get older, and tired and slower, it’s entirely plausible that they just stop wanting to kill people. In the same way I once used to want to party all night but now that I’m five minutes from fifty, I’m desperate to be in bed by ten. It’s not sexy, it’s not Hollywood and it’s not very dramatic – but it’s almost certainly the truth.’

  I asked Dr Weir what she thought the Nothing Man might be like, based on what she knew of his crimes.

  ‘God,’ she said, ‘don’t even get me started on so-called’ – she made air quotes with her fingers – ‘profiling. But I will say this: he’ll be boring. Boring and ordinary and unremarkable. He may have friends, but not many who really like him. His marriage won’t be great. He won’t be really good at anything and he’ll probably have some mind-numbing, unfulfilling job. As in, he won’t be curing cancer. Essentially, except for the fact that he’s raped and murdered people, he won’t be much of anything at all. The Nothing Man is an exceptionally apt name for a serial killer, Eve. When you find him, you’ll probably be shocked at just how much of nothing he really is.’

  When we think back on our lives, we tend to shape our memories into neat, linear narratives with beginnings, middles and ends. As Joan Didion wrote, we tell ourselves stories in order to live. That’s what I’m supposed to be doing here: telling my story so that I can live, so that I can have more of a life in the future than I have had in the past. Starting at the beginning, tying everything up neatly at the end.

  But when you are trying to find a killer and a publisher is waiting for you to deliver the manuscript of your book and you haven’t found him (yet), you have no choice but to put ‘THE END’ in an arbitrary place of your choosing. I’m going to put it here. But this isn’t the end. Our search goes on. I’m typing these words at my desk while four feet away, a very tired Ed rubs his eyes and squints at the screen of his laptop. It’s almost midnight but I know neither of us will be quitting anytime soon.

  For legal reasons, I cannot include everything we discovered about the Nothing Man in the course of our research into this book but know this: there are still several leads that Ed and I are chasing. These threads are small and delicate, filaments really. We’re not sure where they will take us but we’re both hopeful that it will be closer to the truth. One lead in particular is looking very promising.

  Books must be finished long before they get stacked on a shelf and, perhaps, by the time this one is finally in print, the Nothing Man’s name will already be known. Perhaps you, dear reader, even know what he looks like. Maybe you’ve already seen his face on the news. Did you get to watch as he was led out of this world and into some dingy, dark cell with his wrists and ankles bound? Was I there? Did I get to watch too? I hope so. It’s the hope that sustains me. It’s what has kept me going all these long months and the painful, lonely years that led up to them. The ending – the real ending – feels tantalisingly close, closer than it ever did before.

  But just in case we haven’t found him yet, I must ask of you a favour: help us make this ending the beginning. We have presented as much as we can of what we know about the Nothing Man. This includes almost everything from the original investigation and the fruits of our research over the past couple of years. This, as my editor promised, is an era of armchair sleuths and amateur detectives. I know because I have occasionally lurked in the forums and Facebook groups where they gather. So now, I hand the baton over to you. Please, help us find him.

  Someone must know who the Nothing Man is. Perhaps you recognised the sketch back then, or now, or you’ve long held suspicions about where the person you live with went on the nights of the crimes. Maybe you just have a feeling. Please, think of us, the victims’ families. Think of your own. Please pick up the phone and call the Gardaí. They have a confidential tip-line which can be reached on 1800-666-111. There is never a wrong time to do the right thing.

  People ask me how I am now.
By now they mean, post ‘The Girl Who’, post coming out as a survivor of the Nothing Man, post abandoning all attempts to have a normal life and instead dedicating my time and resources to finding the man who took my family from me. It’s difficult to answer because I feel sure that how things are now is not how they will be for much longer. I’m hopeful that when this book comes out, if not before, we will capture this faceless killer, and he will be charged with his crimes and locked away. That might give me a chance at something resembling closure.

  Until then, I can only continue to do what I’ve done all this time, which is to do my best to stay afloat. Keep moving forward. I don’t stop to take stock. I fear doing that. My feelings constantly move and shift and tumble, like the contents of the drum of a washing machine in motion. It’s hard to pin them down and separate one pain from the other but I know that one day, that drum will finally still. So, ask me again later. Ask me when we get him. I’m convinced we won’t have long to wait.

  Finally, we may not have his name yet, but we do know these: Alice O’Sullivan. Christine Kiernan. Linda O’Neill. Marie Meara. Martin Connolly.

  My father, Ross, and my mother, Deirdre.

  My little sister, Anna.

  Remember them, please.

  Jim was so engulfed in rage that he was only dimly aware of his actions. He heard the thunk of something hitting the wall of the living room and the smashing of glass that followed it, but it sounded like it was coming from far away. He didn’t realise he’d gone outside until he felt the sharp shock of night-time cold. He didn’t know why he was going into the shed until he was lifting the old Goblin hoover out of the tool cabinet, ripping off its cover and pulling out the bag inside.

  It had a little bulge to it and felt heavy. He felt for the slit he’d made in its back. Pushed his hand in and touched soft cloth and then, through it, the reassuring hardness of something steel.

  Jim sank to the floor, knelt next to the hoover.

  He took out the items one by one and laid them gently on the stone floor of the shed in a neat row.

  Mask.

  Gloves.

  Gun.

  The knife he’d discarded long ago, off the back of a passenger ferry that Noreen, Katie and him had taken to France on their first – and last – foreign holiday.

  But no matter. He’d do Eve Black with his bare hands and enjoy every single second of it.

  That fucking bitch. He should’ve killed her when he had the chance.

  By the time the sun came up again, he would have.

  He wouldn’t need the rope; she wasn’t going to live that long. His old head torch had been thrown out more than a decade ago, but he had a newer one in the tool cabinet somewhere. Jim started rooting—

  It’s there.

  He stopped.

  His name … It’s there.

  Eve had said his name was in the book.

  But he’d read to the end and hadn’t come across any mention of Jim Doyle or, come to think of it, Eve visiting Togher Garda Station.

  He went back out into the night and crossed the garden to the patio door. The book was splayed open, spine-up, on the floor behind the TV. The dust jacket had ripped.

  There was glass and spilt whiskey all over the place but cleaning it up could wait. One problem at a time.

  Jim picked up The Nothing Man and flipped to the end to check if he’d missed something.

  But all that came after the last chapter were the acknowledgements.

  Acknowledgements

  It would not have been possible for me to write this book without Ed Healy, Jonathan Eglin, Bernadette O’Brien and the entire team at Iveagh Press. For being so giving of their time and assistance, thank you to Maggie Barry, Gerard Byrne, Brendan Byrne, Joan Connor, Aisling Feeney, Peter Fine, Elaine Grady, Graham Harris, Patricia Kearns, Jean Long, Johnnie Murphy, Denis Philips, Kevin Prendergast, Geraldine Roche, Kevin Taylor, David Walsh and Dr Nell Weir. Thanks also to Melisa Broadbent, Rae Broughton, Andy Carter, Kevin G. Conroy, Kent Corlain, Anne Marie Gleeson, Cathy Hanson, Iain Harris, Holger Hasse, Catherine Ryan Howard, Sheelagh Kelly, Christ McDonald, Henrietta McKervey, Henry Molnar, Renee Nash, Marie O’Halloran, Johanna Pérez Vásquez, Sara Pickering, Frances Quinn, Sasha Reeds, Laura J. Roach, J. H. Siess, Sandie Smith, Nikki Telling, Oliver Troy, Heather Webb, Judith Whelan, Valerie Whitford and Crystal Williams. I am especially thankful for the generosity of An Garda Síochána. To Tommy O’Sullivan, Nancy Kerr, Breffany and Elizabeth Kieran, and Linda O’Neill: I can’t thank you enough.

  His name wasn’t there.

  Jim flipped to the back, where there was an index. He ran a finger down the columns of tiny text, checking for every possibility. He looked under D, for his last name. J, for his first. G, where he found Gardaí and An Gardaí Síochána, members of.

  His name wasn’t there.

  He tried to recall exactly what Eve had said. I’ll tell her that her husband helped with the book. To keep an eye out for his name. It’s there.

  Why would she say that if it wasn’t true?

  Jim flipped back through the book, intending to go to the beginning of the bit where Eve commenced her research, and move forward while scanning each page quickly just to double-check he hadn’t missed his name. But he went too far, all the way back to the start, opening it at its title page.

  The Nothing Man.

  His other name.

  The one he hadn’t chosen.

  The one no one knew was his.

  No one except for Eve Black. She’d found out somehow. She hadn’t put it in the book and she hadn’t, apparently, reported him to the Gardaí, but she wanted him to know that she knew it.

  Why? Was she trying to communicate something to him? Was she letting him know that actually she did remember everything from that night, that she did—

  ‘Have you finished it?’

  Noreen was standing by the door, holding a copy of The Nothing Man in her hand.

  Another one.

  Jim stared her, confused.

  ‘I bought it,’ she said. ‘Tonight. I got Katie’s copy signed and then I bought another one on the way out.’ She lifted the book, looked at the cover. ‘I haven’t read it all, but I’ve read as much as I can. I had to skip the … The descriptions.’

  ‘What are you doing up, Nor?’ Jim took a step forward in an attempt to hide the broken glass from her view. ‘I thought you weren’t feeling well.’

  ‘I’m not.’

  ‘Then why—’

  ‘Katie is going to read this, Jim. Katie will—’ Whatever was supposed to come after that got swallowed by a sob.

  Tears started to roll down Noreen’s cheeks.

  ‘I’ll talk to her,’ Jim said. ‘Tell her it’s unsuitable. She’ll listen to—’

  Noreen screamed.

  The sound was high-pitched, raw and primal. And excruciatingly loud.

  For a moment Jim could only blink at her, stunned that such a noise had come out of her mouth. He’d never heard her make anything like it before.

  Then he wondered if she was having some kind of mental breakdown.

  ‘Noreen—’ he started.

  But now she was screaming and coming towards him, at him, and then the book in her hand was in the air, coming down—

  She was attacking him with the book.

  Hitting him with it. Repeatedly. Hard. On the chest and against the sides of his chest and his forearms once he’d lifted them up to try to fend off the blows. While continually screaming and sobbing.

  No, not screaming.

  Not just screaming.

  After enough repetitions, Jim could make out the words.

  ‘How? Why? How could you do this to us? To Katie? To me?’

  Jim got hold of the book and threw it across the room.

  Then he did the same to Noreen.

  Silence. Finally. He closed his eyes.

  He opened them again when she started whimpering.

  Noreen was slumped on the floor against the opp
osite wall, gingerly touching a hand to the back of her head. When she pulled it away, there was a little bright red on her fingertips.

  ‘Noreen,’ Jim said evenly, ‘I don’t know what’s got into you, but you need to get a hold of yourself. It’s four in the morning. The neighbours will hear.’

  ‘I won’t let you do this.’ Her breathing was laboured but otherwise she sounded eerily calm. ‘I won’t let you ruin Katie’s life. I won’t let her find out what her father is.’

  ‘What the hell are you on about?’

  He had no idea.

  Because Noreen couldn’t know. It wasn’t possible.

  ‘I was pregnant with Katie.’ She winced as she slowly pulled herself up on to her knees. ‘I woke up in the middle of the night, in pain … I thought something was wrong. I rang the station to tell you, but they said you were off-duty. And when you came home you were … You were different somehow. Excited about something, I thought. Or especially pleased with yourself. And you weren’t wearing your uniform. But you told me you had been at work.’ Noreen smiled weakly. ‘I thought you were just having an affair.’

  Jim didn’t know where she was going with this, but he didn’t like it.

  ‘Have you been drinking, Nor? Is that what this is?’