Spotting a pub just a short distance ahead he began a leisurely walk towards it, wiping his hands lazily on his jeans. The few people who remained on the street ahead parted with his coming, as though he were Moses waving his staff. He knew they were wondering if they were next to die, but Obadiah was passed his desire for inflicting suffering. Now, he simply wanted closure.
Ahead on Main Street, he noticed The Laurels. A traditional Irish pub, Obadiah remembered it from his childhood. His father had known one of the O’Leary’s, drinking with him often before coming home to meter out his alcohol-fuelled rage on his wife. The red signage emblazoned with yellow lettering was enticing to Obadiah. Though he had never drank in there, having left Ireland before he was old enough to legally drink, the memories it sparked were so powerful he felt almost obliged to have a drink there.
As he made his way through the doors into the virtually deserted pub, the tiled floors and beamed ceilings spoke of rustic Irish heritage, an obvious nod to the old ways. Approaching the bar, he noticed the numerous alcoves and dimly lit corners, their offers of seductive seclusion inviting to the new customer.
But not Obadiah. He wanted to be in plain sight for when they arrived to take him.
The red-faced proprietor approached the bar in front of Obadiah. The smile on his face began to fade and was replaced by one of fear as his eyes registered the blood on his T-shirt and the knife he had placed casually on the bar.
“Barkeep, a pint of Guinness, please.” Obadiah’s tone was cordial and light.
The man continued to stare at Obadiah, uncertain of how to respond to his pleasant request.
His reply was preceded by a long pause. “…certainly.”
As his Guinness was being pulled, Obadiah glanced around the pub. The few customers it had contained were hurriedly leaving, the muted televisions on the walls now the only signs that the place was actually open for business. They needn’t have left on his account. His moment had passed and now he simply wanted to wait for the Gardaí in peace and have a quiet drink whilst he did so.
As the pint appeared in front of him, Obadiah admired the shamrock shaped into its head. He had always been intrigued as to how bar staff learnt to do them. Did they go to a class, or was it something they just picked up?
His first mouthful was like honey gliding down his throat, warm and soothing. He drank almost half the pint in one go before placing it back on the bar and closing his eyes, as if to savour the moment he knew was fleeting. He could hear the sirens in the distance and knew the building would soon be surrounded by armed and unarmed Gardaí officers, trying to make contact with him and to discuss his surrender peacefully.
He felt no fear. He had faced horrors in Absolom that no one in this place could ever comprehend or even understand. And through it all, he had mentally prepared himself for the day when his suffering would all be over and he could finally rest, knowing his job was done. He had made his peace with the world and accepted his afterlife would either be blackness or suffering. Either of which he had been fine with.
Yet, he had ended up here, his childhood home and site of his own personal nightmare. It held no fear for him now. But once it had, and it had all been because of what it stood for. His torment at the hands of his father. This had been his Hell. And someone had seen fit for him to return to it. Either for a sick joke whose punch line he wasn’t privy too or because someone had broken him out of Absolom and thought he would want to hide out here in this pathetic excuse for a reality check.
Whatever the reason, Obadiah had just proven he would never accept it. Someone had wasted his or her time. The Tally Man was no one’s puppet. The only rules he played by were his, and his alone.
Outside, he could hear Gardaí cars pulling up rapidly, the drivers shouting instructions and information to their colleagues. Obadiah knew there would be at least half a dozen officers armed with both Glock 22’s chambered for the .40 S&W cartridge with a standard magazine capacity of 15 rounds and Remington 870 P shotguns with standard 4 round tube magazines under the barrel.
He could see the proprietor on the phone, probably talking to one of the Gardaí outside, describing Obadiah’s appearance and position within the pub. He knew they would be fortifying their positions around the pub’s perimeter to ensure he didn’t escape. He had no intention of trying.
Finishing his Guinness, Obadiah stood and smoothed out imaginary creases in his t-shirt. Picking up the knife from the bar, he stared at the proprietor and winked before walking towards the window. He knew they wouldn’t have had chance to set up snipers yet, so he felt safe enough. He could see the armed Gardaí in their positions, weapons pointed towards the floor in a safety position. They had the visors down on their helmets, their Kevlar vests black and bulky.
The street was deserted, but for the Gardaí, their cordon visible a few hundred yards in both directions. Obadiah’s mind remained unfettered, the scenario playing out before him inconsequential. The sound of traffic had changed from a nearby hum to a distant drone, the restrictions in place to prevent pedestrians getting caught in any cross fire ensured that sounds close to him were now amplified. The sound of the proprietor coughing, the radios on the Gardaí vests broadcasting muffled voices laced with urgency, the electrical buzz of the televisions in the background behind him, all echoed around him as though eager to see the outcome of this unavoidable showdown.
Obadiah appreciated the symmetry. The circumstance had been much the same when he had been apprehended the first time around. Then, one lone Gardaí officer had put the pieces together regarding Obadiah’s actions and had managed to outsmart him, something Obadiah had been impressed by. Not many had ever risen to the task of challenging his intellect, no one except Kevin O’Hagan. Obadiah had ensured that good ol’ Kev had been left with a parting gift before being overwhelmed by officers, subsequently ending up in the high security prison where he had expected to die.
Today would be less dramatic. He had no intention of resisting apprehension. Even if he had wanted to be here and had been happy at his good fortune, he could never tow the line even if he tried. Being a killer was in his blood. It was all he knew. Normality was an alien concept to him.
As the Gardaí shifted positions outside, Obadiah decided that now was the time to make his final bow. Whatever his reason for having been brought here, they would just have to manage without him. Moving to the door, he heard a voice call outside for him to stand down and come out with his hands held high.
Opening the door, Obadiah was greeted with sparking sunlight reflecting off the parked Gardaí vehicles and the stifling smell of petrol fumes. Guns rose almost immediately as he stepped over the threshold of the pub, his hands by his side, the knife still brandished in his left.
Moving forward slightly, guns pointing, officers barked, “Down on the ground. Get down on the ground, now!”
Obadiah stepped forwards slightly, his expression relaxed. “Officers, please. If you know who I was, you would have already fired.”
One of the Gardaí moved towards Obadiah, his posture casual to imply trust. His arms extended, he held his hands out in front of him. “Sir, come on. Give me the knife. There is no need for any trouble. We can talk about this.”
Obadiah smiled at the officer and repositioned his grip on the knife, lunging forwards, the knife now above his head. A gunshot in front of him rang out, slamming into him like a concrete fist, driving him backwards towards the open pub doorway. Voices rang out to hold fire as Obadiah slumped down the door and onto the floor, his body twitching from the chest wound as he bled out.
And so the day fades away and I begin to wake…
As the light began to dim, he saw shadows begin to move ahead of him, approaching him with waving arms and timbre-like voices. He felt a great weight upon his chest, but felt no pain. He heard a rushing sound of the ocean as though he held a seashell to his ear. He realised the noise was his remaining blood supply rushing through his head.
As everything began t
o fade into incandescence, he smelt ozone and heard the sounds of seagulls calling out for food overhead. The dark shapes before him began to morph into angelic figures, fluttering in a breeze that had suddenly risen. Wind chimes sounded their lonely collisions as he felt the ground beneath him soften and plume around him, moulding to his body as though he were sinking into a cushioned hole. Succumbing to the gentle reverie, Obadiah Stark closed his eyes and settled into his never-ending sleep.
* * *
He stirred slightly as the breeze gently caressed his face, encouraging him to rise from his slumber. As he opened his eyes, Obadiah saw a white expanse above him, finished with a light fitting in its centre.
He bolted up in bed, feverishly glancing around him. The beige walls and fluttering curtains projected their mocking familiarity. The smell of cooking food permeated the air as he dove out of the bed, racing over to the picture frame on the bedside cabinet. His breathing was rapid, his mind frantic as he tried to understand what had just occurred. A female voice from somewhere beneath him distracted his concentration.
Obadiah covered the ground to the door in two large steps, flinging it open as he hurtled towards the stairway that he seemed to have only walked down yesterday. Reaching the bottom, he saw a small girl covered in flour and a raven-haired woman in a black dressing gown. His breath caught in his throat.
“Morning, Obi. Ellie was just coming to get you.”
Dr. John Franklin, BS.c. HONS, PH.D. M.A., M.CLIN, PSYCH. A.F.PS.S.I.
Case Number: 01020541/27
Subject: Stark, Obadiah James (a.k.a. The Tally Man) cont.
Theme classification:
Just as the serial killer can be categorised under three particular types, so can these types be further broken down into distinct themes in order to better search for patterns of behaviour. According to Holmes and Holmes5. (1998), four themes (one divided into two distinct groups) exist which classify a serial killer as one of the following:
Visionary: Suffering from a break with reality, the visionary serial killer murders because he has seen visions or heard voices from demons, angels, the devil or God telling him to kill a particular individual or particular types of people.
Mission: The mission killer is focused on the act of murder itself. He is compelled to murder in order to rid the world of a group of people he has judged to be unworthy or undesirable.
Hedonistic: This type of sexual killer is subdivided into the following two groups:
Lust: The lust killer kills for sexual gratification; sex is the focal point of the murder, even after he has killed the victim.
Thrill: The thrill killer murders for the pleasure and excitement of killing. Once the victim is dead, this murderer loses interest.
Power/Control: This killer derives pleasure and gratification from having control over the victim, and consider themselves a ‘master’ at what they do.
During my time with Obadiah Stark, this author came to the conclusion that he fits firmly into the power/control classification of serial killer; killing for the derivation of pleasure and control. Obadiah displays neither incoherent nor delusionary behaviour, instead coming across as an articulate and highly intelligent individual with a typically sociopathic personality, lacking internal control, guilt or conscience but with a need to control and dominate others. The subject knew the difference between right and wrong, he just chose to ignore it.
Theme selection criteria:
Obadiah Stark’s motives centre on his need for dominance and control over the victim. Post-mortem reports from a majority of his victims indicated injuries consistent with torture. Tease cuts, contusions and ablations were also present on many of the victims’ bodies. There were also signs of gagging and restraints, demonstrative of the need for Obadiah to exert power and control. No signs of sexual assault, or evidence that body parts were taken away were noted. Furthermore, with no link ever established between any of his victims, it appears that their selection was purely arbitrary.
Classification subtext:
Twenty-seven deaths are attributed to Obadiah Stark - eighteen of those committed whilst in the United States over a period of six years. Evidence indicates that the subject ceased killing for a period of six months during 1993 for reasons no one can ascertain. During this time period, it is believed the subject left the United States and relocated to his home country of Ireland where he recommenced his murders, committing a further nine over ten years and making him the most prolific serial killer in Ireland’s history and indeed the world.
Interestingly, Obadiah Stark was not labelled ‘The Tally Man’ until 1993, when Sara Morgan, a twenty-four year old woman who survived her attack, described the tattoo on his back. The media subsequently acquired the description and thus the tabloids had their selling point.
Excerpt taken from interview with Obadiah Stark (dated 17th April 2010):
“You call me a sociopath. That is simply a word for someone who evinces certain personality traits. But given that one in every twenty-five people is a sociopath, perhaps “sociopathy” is a normal personality variant which serves mankind well in your struggle to survive and procreate across the countless millennia.
Make no mistake about it. You need the sociopath. We are useful and the world knows it. For example, in a combat unit, who would be the sniper? Who could sit in a tree waiting all day to kill a perfect stranger in cold blood? The sociopath, of course. What about James Bond? Literature loves him, but is he not a sociopath with his licence to kill? What about the surgeon who can cut into human flesh without feeling anything—no hesitation, nerves, or fear?
Sharks, lions, tigers, alligators….all have senses designed to locate the weakest amongst their habitat and seek them out…removing the wheat from the chaff if you will.
Severe weather patterns kill thousands with water or wind …the earth’s way of keeping the human population down to a manageable level. When that happens, God works in mysterious ways.
Wars rage in Afghanistan, men kill countless hundreds of other men and who weeps for the collateral damage?
You love the man who kills complete strangers because he gets paid to do it, but you hate the man who does it for free. Like a shark, I’m just thinning the herd, you pack of fucking hypocrites.”
Offender profile:
Obadiah Stark is cognitively intact, possessing an above average intelligence (IQ estimated at 120-130). His vocabulary, sentence complexity, capacity for conditional thinking, memory, perceptual complexity and capacity to view matters from multiple perspectives all support this assessment.
The aforementioned qualities contribute to the aspects of his character that supply him with his sociopathic behaviour. Coupled with his propensity for impulse control and good organisational and planning skills, such attributes make him more dangerous than the average sociopath.
A review of Obadiah’s previous crimes indicated that his primary source of pleasure and personal security come from his desire for the power and control torture and murder bring with them. Using the DSM – IV (Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders, Fourth edition) 6. and Hare Psychopathy checklist 7. (a psycho-diagnostic tool incorporating a clinical rating scale to assess factors of an individual’s personality such as superficial charm, grandiosity, need for stimulation, pathological lying, manipulating, lack of remorse, callousness, poor behavioral controls, impulsivity, irresponsibility and failure to accept responsibility for one’s own actions), this author attempted to understand how the autistic spectrum can be applied to the psychopathology of Obadiah Stark. Paradoxically, though the subject meets some of the criteria for autism (namely impaired social interaction skills and a repetitive and stereotyped pattern of behaviour), he doesn’t score highly enough on the Hare PCL to be clinically labelled a sociopath.
This is atypical of the subject. Despite Obadiah’s narcissistic lifestyle and attitudes, he is culturally sophisticated. This dichotomy makes him more sinister, dangerous and less subject to his immediate en
vironment, and hence less predictable.
A loner with an ever-present potential for explosive violence, Obadiah Stark will readily impose his will onto others, with violence his primary problem-solving device (see additional information in Section One). My sessions with the subject identified someone extremely defensive in his manner of thought and quick to take offence, whilst at the same time careful and calculating with his responses. Such traits signify that the subject is too ridged and controlling to have socially pleasurable interests and activities, preferring to use his crimes as the pleasurable activities that additionally meet his needs for power and control. Fundamentally, Obadiah Stark is a mass of contradictory behavioural structures and emotional responses.
Taken alongside the previous section’s discussion on Obadiah’s psychopathology, this information supports the illustration of an individual with extreme egocentricity and a ruthless disregard for the rights and feelings of other human beings.
References
5 Holmes, R.M. & Holmes, S.T. (1998) Serial Murder (second edition). Thousand Oaks, California: Sage
6 America Psychiatric Association (2000) Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders (fourth edition). Washington D.C. American Psychiatric Association
7 Hare, R.D (1991) The Hare Psychopathy Checklist. Multi-Health Systems, Niagara Falls Blvd, North Tonawanda, New York
‘The man’s fuckin’ Satan. When he was dead, they should have shoved a stake through his heart, buried him, and then dug him up a week later to stab him again, just to be sure.’
Richard Keld, father of Obadiah Stark’s second victim in Ireland.
Chapter Five
September 16th
11:56
Blennerville (Cathair Uí Mhóráin)
Tralee, County Kerry
A small village and suburb of Tralee, Blennerville was formerly Tralee’s port due to its connection to the town center by a ship canal. It was also the main entrance point of emigrants during the Great Famine (1845 – 1852) and home port of the famous emigrant barque, ‘Jeanie Johnston’.
Hellbound: The Tally Man Page 7
