The Serial Killer Convention 3/4
Recap: A veteran pathologist extolled the virtues of Roy Meadows and his pseudoscientific law to a large audience of US law enforcement. I need to tell him that he is completely wrong.
My raised arm ached, and I was getting paranoid. It just wasn’t possible the esteemed pathologist on stage was intentionally ignoring me, but he was taking other people’s questions and time was running out.
“I’ll take one more.” For the second time that weekend a speaker at the serial killer convention was now looking directly at me. “You - at the back.”
My stomach twisted. I was sobering up from the free Cap ‘n’ Cokes.
“Yes, ummm…”
Clear eyes, full heart, can’t lose.
“…is the speaker aware that Roy Meadow has been discredited and there have been many mistrials in the UK based on his faulty evidence?”
I was dizzy. I had said it, and loud enough to reach the stage. The audience were… I’m not sure. Ready to get home just like I was, and confused by this eventful conclusion? I still to this day have no idea what they all thought, I knew absolutely fucking no one there.
But I could see the effect my words had on the man on the stage. He seemed to deflate. There was less of him. It did not feel good, but it felt right.
“Yes.” He paused, choosing his response carefully.
“What the gentleman is referring to is that in England Sir Roy Meadow has recently lost his medical licence and, erm, his theories have been brought into question.”
So, he was aware and chose to ignore the facts. Now, at least, the audience could make up their own collective minds about whether to trust everything they’d seen and heard at the serial killer convention.
I was reminded of this weird weekend in New England after recent news of the release of Kathleen Folbigg. In 2003 Meadow’s Law was used to convict Folbigg of the murder of her four infant children. It took two decades of campaigning and ninety medical professionals and scientists in Australia to finally secure her pardon. The damage of dressing opinion as the objective truth has taken years of her years to unpick.
This is the first story of many from my career that I want to write about. I’m not entirely sure why. It’s a humblebrag with a sprinkle of white male saviour channelling main character energy for sure, but please attempt to forgive me. I began writing this when I was unemployed, as I am once more while completing it. And being unemployed makes me feel, well, worthless.
So recalling the memory of a time when I spoke truth to power has given me some comfort. I was, in that huge room, doing part of a job I occasionally do if someone will only let me: informing the British public at 8.30pm on a rainy Tuesday.
My shortlist of potential hosts for this series was as strong as any casting assignment I’ve ever worked on. Rico eventually apologised for our very public encounter, but it didn’t get him back into contention. I ended up being spoiled for choice: it turns out, because forensic scientists and police often have to testify before a jury, they made for great TV presenters (Roy Meadow excepted). Lainey was on the list, and an undercover cop called Brian. He had a great opening line.
“I’ve worked for the CIA, the FBI and pretty much every other three-letter agency you can think of.” (Probably not the RAC or the DWP).
Unfortunately, their stars never got to shine. For complicated reasons above my rank, the TV series never got made. That’s not all that surprising. Predicting something that gets greenlit is like guessing the date of the next San Francisco earthquake or the chances of a white Christmas in July.
My cop-sized coffee mug proved to be the most lasting souvenir of that contract, its handle falling off just a few years ago.