Banshee 
By Martin Ross 
rossprag@fgi.net 
  
Type: Casefile; St. Patrick's Day theme 
Rating: PG-13 
Synopsis: Mulder recalls his college days, and a case 
that screamed to be solved. 
Spoilers: Fire 
Disclaimer: The X-Files is the property of 10-13 
Productions, Chris Carter, and Fox. 


Special Agent Dana Scully stared in horror at the 
pile of pink, pungently aromatic flesh before her. It 
was half-covered in leaves, and she gasped as she 
nudged them aside and exposed the tissues. 
"Mulder," she breathed. "This is deadly. Look at the 
fat deposits." 
Her partner nodded cheerfully, mouth crammed with 
corn beef and cabbage. "Try ih wif da gree' beer. I's 
Atkins-frien'ly." 
Scully turned to the tall stein of emerald-colored 
brew next to her steaming plate. "When you told me 
you were taking me out for a special St. Patrick's 
Day dinner, I foolishly assumed you were taking me to 
O'Mara's Publick House for the peppercorn sirloin and 
maybe some black-and-tan pudding. Not a slab of 
sodium, cholesterol, and gristle buried in soggy, 
overcooked cabbage." 
Mulder swallowed. "It's all you can eat, you know. 
Did I tell you that?" 
Scully scanned the array of cardboard shamrocks and 
leprechauns stapled to the booths of Flynn's Capitol 
Mall Pub. "I mean, Mulder, is this what our cultural 
awareness has come to? Look at me ­ a redheaded, 
Irish-American cop. But no one in my family ever 
traveled to Ireland, I don't know a single word of 
Gaelic, and my priest's name is Wozjehewski. We're 
not a melting pot ­ we're like a bad cheesy 
casserole." 
  
"C'mon, Scully, what's wrong once a year with our 
getting in touch with the Irish inside us?" 
  
"The Irish inside us." 
"You know what I mean ­ the joyous, gregariously 
poetic, romantic part of ourselves we button up 
during our humdrum, workaday lives. Besides, on a 
purely personal level, the Celtic culture is a 
virtual smorgasbord of preternatural petit-fours. 
Leprechauns, faeries, wraiths… Perhaps no 
technologically advanced western nation is so steeped 
in its belief in the unknown." 
  
"And thereby, I assume, hangs a tale?" 
  
"Ah, sure, and you must have psychic abilities. . ." 
  
** 
"Well, if it isn't the pride of Oxford Yard," Nowicki 
murmured, appearing as always in the corner of my 
eye. "Things'll kill you, son." 
"Special Agent Nowicki," I nodded, collecting my 
coneful of fish and chips and turning away from the 
stall. Special Agent Kenny Nowicki was pale and 
flabby, and I doubted he followed any of his frequent 
avuncular health tips. "Actually, I plan to secret 
this into my aberrant psych prof's meat pie while 
he's not looking, so I can take the course over." 
"Want to be careful, Fox ­ Prof. Winton speaks very 
highly of your skills in profiling." 
"Ah," I said. "Have to go to the chemist's and get 
some digitalis for the dear old chap." 
This was back in the mid-'80s ­ disco was thankfully 
dead but Reaganism was alive and kicking. I was in my 
final year at Oxford, a Yank among the dons in self- 
exile from trickle-down sociology, the ghost and the 
demons that had dogged my adolescence, and my father, 
who'd seemed as relieved to ship me off as I had been 
to flee. 
  
Three years later, I was a regular at every pub 
around Oxford town, frequently tucked into a corner 
discussing serial killers or the latest item in the 
Fortean Times with my mentor, Dr. Byrnes, my equally 
twisted and scholarly mates, or the girl I'd been 
seeing. 
("Phoebe." Scully stated it matter-of-factly, laying 
it out on the table with the fatty corn beef and the 
wilted cabbage.) 
Phoebe Green, budding criminologist, determined 
someday to become the Terror of Scotland Yard. 
Nowicki, some kind of Bureau recruiter who'd surfaced 
a month earlier on campus, was equally as determined 
to put me in a black suit and J. Edgar Hoover decoder 
ring. 
"Some piece of work, that thesis you did for Winton 
last term on the Lecter case," Nowicki continued, 
trailing me without stepping up his pace. "You could 
probably snag an assistant directorship within five 
years, you quit screwing around and came aboard." 
I turned, smiling. "Agent Nowicki, I'd love to talk 
wiretaps and illegal searches over a couple 
Guinnesses, but my girlfriend and I are blowing town 
for the weekend, and I have to pack." 
"Where to?" Nowicki asked lightly. 
"Pip, pip, Agent Nowicki," I murmured, stepping it 
up. He didn't follow me ­ he never did. 
** 
"My, you already have your own agent-cum-major domo 
attached to you," Phoebe noted as our train trundled 
toward the Dublin Ferry landing. 
"I think I shall name him Jeeves." 
"Ugly Americanism at its worst. Quite seriously, 
though, Fox, what are your intentions? Is there a 
going market for freelance behavioral 
scientist/occultists in the States? Or do you intend 
to make a career of chasing flying saucers?" 
I'd made the mistake one amorously candid night of 
baring my soul, including the raw and aching part 
where Samantha had been ripped away. The evening had 
ended with a pint or so too many and a sacrilegious 
episode at the grave of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. 
"Just evasive future coppers," I responded lightly. 
Phoebe sighed heavily, shook her head in resignation, 
and turned to the green blur of Northern England 
outside her window. 
"Come on," I finally murmured, reaching for her hand. 
She refused it at first, then sighed and squeezed my 
fingers. 
"Me, evasive," she mused. "You're very likely the 
most unfathomable mystery I'll never solve." 
** 
"Pop, this is Fox and Phoebe," Ryan called out as he 
shut the sounds of rush-hour Dublin outside. 
Garren O'Mara was a large, simultaneously soft and 
hard man. Ryan had told me his dad had nearly made 
the pro soccer circuit as a young man, before a blown 
knee had sentenced him to life in a foundry. 
Ryan's childhood home was a sorely neglected monument 
to his late mother. Dried flowers ­ flora left to 
die, not the artfully arranged flowers you might find 
in a foofy boutique ­ languished in dusty glass vases 
in long-forgotten corners. 
"Fox," O'Mara grunted, a smirk momentarily contorting 
his bleak, monolithic face. He gave Phoebe the once- 
over, turned, and ambled back to a filthy, ramshackle 
chartreuse armchair. In seconds, Ryan's father was 
burbling and occasionally chortling over the antics 
of a gaudily dressed comedian and his scantily clad 
nurse. 
"Well," Ryan grinned, as if his father had performed 
an oft-repeated trick. "William," he shouted. "Get on 
out here!" 
I heard a pot clang in the kitchen down the dark hall 
beyond the living room, and a dissipated, broken- 
nosed version of Ryan lurched into the room. He 
ignored me and inspected Phoebe from head to toe, a 
look of frank envy momentarily souring a reckless and 
hung-over grin. 
"And you'd be Ryan's chums from the school," William 
said, wiping wet hands on his jeans. "Supper's just 
about on ­ just beef and potatoes, I'm sure nothing 
fancy like the fare they feed you at the college." 
"Stow it," Ryan sighed. 
"Yeah, guess I better watch myself in this company, 
eh?" He tossed his father's smirk at me, nodded, and 
lurched back to the kitchen. 
"Ah, home," I breathed. 
"Sorry," Ryan smiled sheepishly. "Pop's been pretty 
much into his telly since Mum died, and William, 
well, he's got a hollow leg and a chip the size of 
County Kilkenny on his shoulders. Always got to drink 
harder and fight harder than any of the other 
blokes." 
"If only he could cook harder than any of the other 
blokes," I commented to Phoebe later, as we washed 
the dishes. The boiled beef had held more water than 
the Titanic, and the potatoes were soft and 
flavorless. Garren O'Mara was now drowning out Benny 
Hill in the living room. William had disappeared for 
the pubs before the food reviews could come in. 
"Used to cook up a storm with Mum, when he was a 
lad," Ryan recalled. "They were great, good friends ­ 
he'd help her out in the garden and in the kitchen -- 
until the old man decided he was turning into a nancy 
and devoted himself to making William into the 
gallant young man you now see." 
I glanced out the kitchen window. Beyond a yard of 
anemic brown grass was a bare patch of clods and 
long-dead vegetation. "I take it your father doesn't 
have the same green thumb." 
Ryan darkened. "It was a sore point for him, Mum and 
her flowers. That was how she coped with him, I think 
­ the gardening, making these beautiful dry flower 
arrangements. He was constantly grousing about the 
flowers and garlands about the house. Said they gave 
him hay fever." 
I wondered if perhaps Mrs. O'Mara had had more than 
one way of coping with her brutish husband. "When did 
your mom die, Ryan?" 
"Three years ago," Ryan murmured, leaning on the 
kitchen table. "In fact, that's part of why I asked 
you to come for the school holiday." 
"I was curious," I grinned. "Considering we haven't 
exchanged more than about five sentences over the 
last two years." 
Ryan shrugged his athletic shoulders and glanced at a 
cheap plastic clock mounted by the pantry. "Phoebe 
told me you were into, ah, rather queer crimes ­ 
supernatural stuff and the like. Well, I wondered if 
you might, well, give me an opinion on a sort of 
unexplained phenomenon." He glanced again at the 
clock. "It ought to be starting any minute--" 
Ryan was interrupted by what I first assumed to be a 
siren keening low in the distance. Phoebe nearly 
dropped a plate as the sound grew into a human, but 
somehow inhuman, female wailing. Somewhere in the 
anguished sobs and lamentations were words I couldn't 
quite make out. 
The wailing continued for at least 10 minutes, and 
then trailed off into a low moan and silence. I was 
unable to determine from where the cries emanated ­ 
it was as if they came from nowhere and everywhere at 
once. Phoebe and I stood in shocked silence. 
I looked to Ryan, heart pounding with mild fear ­ and 
exhilaration. "What," I breathed, "was that?" 
"Been happening every night, round about 7:30, for 
the last three years," he explained. "I think it's my 
Mum." His head jerked toward the living room. "I 
think he killed her, and she wants us to know it." 
** 
"The banshee is a centuries-old Irish legend," I told 
Phoebe later in the upstairs hallway. "A disembodied 
female voice, sometimes anguished and plaintive, 
sometimes vengeful and menacing. According to the 
literature, the banshee is supposed to be a woman who 
has been torn from her family prematurely. There are 
two types: The spirit whose love for those left keeps 
her earthbound, guarding and protecting them; and the 
banshee seeking to torment the one who took her life 
from her." 
Phoebe, at the threshold to her room, smiled 
tolerantly in a style I later became accustomed to. 
"And which kind do you believe this particular 
banshee to be? Anguished or angry?" 
"Given the dynamics of this happy home, I'd be 
inclined to believe a bit of both." 
The front of her terry robe was gapping, and I was 
becoming eager to end this chat. But she shook her 
head sadly. "Fox, how do you expect ever to gain any 
credibility in forensics or law enforcement with this 
paranormal rubbish? You sound like one of the London 
tabs. I shudder to think of your first interview with 
the FBI." 
"You sure it's disdainful shuddering?" I suggested, 
leaning into the heat of her. "I know a cure for 
banshee jitters." 
Phoebe pecked me on the lips. "Night, Love." I 
retreated just in time to avoid a faceful of 
splinters. 
  
** 
"And you would be Mr. Fox Mulder?" 
I looked up to see an impressive paunch with a nearly 
bald block of a head and a cauliflower nose floating 
above it. A short white scar framed the left side of 
his graying brush mustache. 
"Yes, sir," I responded, determined to stay on his 
best side. 
"Detective Inspector Dobbyns," the Dublin policeman 
murmured, stepping around me to the battered chair 
behind his battered desk. "They keep you gathering 
dust very long here?" 
"No, sir ­ everybody was very accommodating." In 
fact, I'd been cooling my heels for 20 minutes with 
only amused stares and curious glares to keep me 
company. 
"The squad prides itself on impeccable service. Now, 
Mr. Mulder, I understand you would be here inquiring 
as to a homicide case we investigated three years 
ago. Are you a relation to the late lamented, or has 
guilt or spontaneous remembrance of a pertinent fact 
brought you here today?" 
"I'm a friend of the victim's son ­ we attend Oxford 
together. I'm studying criminal psychology, and Ryan 
asked me to see if--" 
"Danny!" D.I. Dobbyns barked suddenly to a tall cop 
next to a file cabinet. "Do we have any locked room 
murders at hand presently? Untraceable poisonings?" 
The tall cop shook his head, glancing at me. 
Dobbyns turned back to me. "Tis a shame. To have an 
Oxford-trained American criminologist named Fox at my 
disposable and no unfathomable riddles or nefarious 
schemes for him to sniff at." 
I smiled as I rose. "May the road rise up to meet 
you, sir." 
"Ah, sit down, Mr. Mulder," the D.I. chuckled, 
indicating the guest chair. "The wife's taken me off 
my whiskey and sweets, so I have to find some sport. 
Besides, Marty says you're inquiring as to the O'Mara 
case. That one always bothered me a bit." 
"Why?" 
Dobbyns studied me carefully. "You're a friend of the 
family, is that right?" 
"Just Ryan. Just the victim's son." 
  
"Ah, what the hell. Never could prove it, but I 
always had a bad feeling about the husband ­ felt 
like maybe his bein' off with his mates at the soccer 
match while his wife was dying at home was a mite 
convenient for him. The poison was administered in 
Mrs. O'Mara's afternoon tea ­ we found residue of the 
substance in her cup." 
  
"What substance?" 
  
"Ah, yes ­ you are the forensic whiz kid, aren't you? 
Glycoside, lad ­ a heart drug if you got a bum 
ticker, deadly poison if you don't -- and a 
reasonably high concentration of it. Mrs. O'Mara 
tended to prefer her tea loose ­ used one of those 
thingies—" 
  
"An infuser?" 
  
"Yes, that. She was down to the last dregs of her 
supply that day ­ kept it in one of those crockery- 
type affairs -- and we suspicioned someone had 
slipped the poison into the jar. How well do you know 
Mr. O'Mara?" 
"I've met him," I said, dryly. "I won't leap from my 
chair to defend his honor." 
"Indeed. Well, as I'm sure is true in the States, the 
loving spouse is not infrequently the focus in many 
homicide investigations. And a more tantalizing focal 
point one could not wish for. Many's the time the 
boys'd drop in on the O'Maras to maintain the 
neighborhood peace, and Mrs. O'Mara was no stranger 
to the local dispensary. But, as an erudite Oxford 
criminalist such as yourself might guess, all of our 
attempts to remove the problem from, well, the 
'situation,' were fruitless. And we didn't let this 
out, but the late lamented showed signs of brutality 
-- two broken fingers, according to the police 
surgeon, broken after death." 
"So you liked Garren for the murder. Or you would 
have liked him for it." 
Dobbyns' mustache shifted. "I will confess, I would 
have liked to have clapped the irons on old Garren. 
He was all that the world hates in an Irishman ­ 
drunk, foul temper, and as mean as an old boar off 
his feed. Unfortunately, that's no longer enough for 
Her Majesty's Bench. While I could picture Garren 
O'Mara bludgeoning his dear wife or knocking her down 
the front stairs, poisoning did not quite suit the 
man. Not to mention that we could find no evidence of 
him purchasing or otherwise securing the glycoside." 
"Any other suspects? The sons?" 
"Your friend Ryan was completely in the clear ­ he'd 
been on holiday with his chums for the previous week 
in the south. The other boy, ah…" 
  
"William?" 
"Yes, that. Well, young William appeared to have a 
bit of what you might call a furtive nature about 
him. Sensitive lad." 
"Sensitive?" I gasped. 
"You don't think all that bluff and swagger of young 
William's isn't just a performance for his sorry old 
man? I'm sure you've spied that limp of his, and at 
the time his poor mother was killed, he was nursing a 
knot on his neck near the size of a hedge apple. And 
all of the neighbors swore the boyo was devoted to 
his mother, which I'm certain endeared him to old 
Garren. There was some talk of him being involved 
with a woman ­ an older woman. A neighbor lady told 
us as how she'd seen him and what appeared to be some 
older woman roaming the house whilst his folks were 
out." 
"An older woman?" 
"The neighbor lady described her as 'dowdy,' dressed 
like a middle-aged woman. One of the fellows came up 
with the rather weak theory some strumpet had got her 
hooks into young William and talked him into doing 
something dire to get his mother out of the picture. 
But we couldn't find any sign of such a relationship, 
and what would this older woman have gotten out of 
William or his dear mother? You've seen their 
palace." 
"So the case just went unsolved." 
"Until you walked into our hallowed halls, praise the 
Lord above. Now, how might you convince me to blow 
the cobwebs off this woefully neglected casefile?" 
I took a breath. "I assume you've heard of banshees…" 
** 
"And that, I assume, is when you found yourself on 
the street, wondering why the good inspector couldn't 
simply open himself to the possibilities." 
Mulder frowned bleakly at Scully. "Hey, I was young." 
Scully sputtered. "Oh, yeah ­ things have really 
changed." 
The band was warming up now ­ three reedy young men 
with wispy facial hair plucked out test notes while a 
fetching but strongly built redhead caressed the 
mouthpiece of her lute. Mulder eyed the lute player 
with interest. 
"Yes, things have really changed," Scully repeated, 
more darkly. 
** 
I nearly dislocated my shoulder yanking on the 
O'Mara's doorknob. Ryan had told me to just come back 
in when I finished sightseeing, that he'd leave the 
door unlocked. I rapped on the weathered frame, and 
in a second, Ryan's ruddy face appeared beyond the 
yellowed lace curtain. 
"Thought you were gonna do the town," he breathed, 
with what I perceived to be a slightly plaintive 
tone. That's when I noted Ryan's cheeks were ruddier 
than usual, and he seemed winded. 
I smiled. "Got hungry, and I left my money in my 
jeans." 
  
Ryan nodded wordlessly, and jerked his head toward 
the kitchen. As he turned, I could see the back of 
his sweatshirt was tucked half in and half out of his 
jeans. It took a second longer to realize the shirt 
was on backwards. I quickly scanned the living room 
and parlor for Phoebe. 
  
Garren O'Mara was sitting up at the kitchen table, 
his broad back to us. I could smell cold meat and 
mustard. 
  
"Mr. O'Mar—" I began, heading for the chair opposite 
him, then stopped dead. 
  
Ryan was raiding the fridge. "Hey, Pop, why don't you 
go easy on Will. Some day, he may just decide to give 
you a good thump on the--" 
  
"Ryan," I advised quietly. He turned, and all blood 
fled his cheeks. 
  
"Dear Lord," he whispered, staring wide-eyed into his 
deceased father's equally wide eyes. Garren O'Mara's 
jowly face was locked in a look of terror, his 
fingers locked into a fear-mangled sandwich. Mustard 
had oozed between his digits. 
  
Ryan collapsed into a chair, his jaw slack. "It 
must've been the row he had with William when he came 
in from the pub. Don't know what it was about, but 
there was an awful commotion, and I could hear 
William stomp up the stairs. I suppose it was one 
tantrum two many for 'im." 
  
As I examined O'Mara for any sign of foul play, I 
unconsciously recorded Ryan's strangely secondhand 
report of the domestic disturbance and the fact that 
Phoebe still hadn't shown herself. 
  
"Or maybe one too many manifestations," I mumbled. 
  
"Oh, come on," Ryan snorted, irritably. "So now, you 
think he was murdered by some kind of wraith or 
spirit? Mum?" 
  
"Look at his face, Ryan. That's pure horror. Maybe 
this time, she actually materialized." 
  
"God's sake, Fox!" 
  
"What are you boys --?" Phoebe halted in the kitchen 
doorway. Her sleek hair, I noted, was neatly brushed. 
Too neatly, as if she'd just had to. . . "My God. Is 
he. . .?" 
  
"That he is," Ryan said quietly. 
  
Phoebe rushed into the kitchen and threw her arms 
around Ryan's neck. "I'm so sorry." She caught my 
eye, and the look on Phoebe's face made me glance 
away, something sharp but shapeless forming in my 
gut… 
** 
The wake for Garren O'Mara was held two days later at 
the O'Mara residence. It was attended largely by 
solicitous neighbors, friends of Eileen O'Mara who 
periodically cast neutral eyes toward the photo of 
Garren on the long-unused hearth, and Garren's 
coworkers ­ a morose lot drawn primarily to the table 
of donated food. The parish priest dropped by for a 
few moments, stumbled over an anecdote or two about 
Garren's infrequent episodes of humor and humanity, 
and hastily left us with the distinct impression the 
dear departed would not be chatting up his deceased 
wife any time soon. 
  
The police had come to call after Ryan summoned an 
ambulance for his father. D.I. Dobbyns was not among 
them. 
Neither had Eileen O'Mara made an appearance since 
the passing of her surviving husband. 
  
The police surgeon cleared the air of any homicidal 
suspicions a day later, when the post-mortem revealed 
that a life of red meat, cheese, potatoes, and fried 
pub food had laid waste to Garren O'Mara's arterial 
network. I made no mention of my own theories on the 
case ­ Ryan preferred to believe his father had 
stared horror-stricken into the face of his own 
mortality, rather than that of his dead bride ­ and 
Ryan busily attended to his father's arrangements 
while William nestled into a cocoon of silence and 
Phoebe and I avoided conversation and contact where 
possible. 
  
"You'd be the young American fellow?" I looked 
around, and then down, at the diminutive old woman 
whose face was as finely webbed as the lace shawl 
about her shoulders. 
  
"Yes, ma'am," I smiled, transferring my whiskey glass 
to my left hand and grasping her thin fingers 
delicately. "Fox Mulder. I'm a friend of Ryan's." 
"I'm Maureen Cragan ­ I live a door to the south. Tis 
a shame, for the boys, I mean, even if he was an 
awful creature." 
  
"Mr. O'Mara?" 
  
"I suppose it must sound awful ­ I'll have to say a 
dozen Hail Marys tonight." I then noticed her 
worrying a rosary in her arthritically clawed left 
hand. "I knew Eileen and her people when she was but 
a child, and what she ever saw in that brutish ogre 
is anyone's guess." Mrs. Cragan waggled a finger at 
me, rattling her rosary. I leaned over, and could 
smell fermented barley on her breath. "I still 
believe he did 'er in." 
"What makes you think so?" 
"There was a lot odd went on in this house. The old 
bastard would just whale something awful on those two 
young boys, on the least little provocation. She was 
the peacemaker, Eileen was, always getting between 
Garren's belt and the children, and sometimes losing. 
But always cheerful on the outside, she was ­ always 
had a kind word to say, brought me over one of her 
beautiful garlands whenever I had a birthday or one 
of my sisters or brothers passed on. I don't think 
she had any idea William was carrying on with that 
brazen woman under her own roof until the day she 
died." 
I steered her toward the couch. "I'd heard you'd seen 
them together. You sure they were having a romantic 
relationship." 
  
"Well, I never saw them locked in the throes of 
passion, if that's what you mean. But she looked as 
if she was old enough to be Eileen. I suspect that's 
what they were going on about so the day she passed 
on. I was having my afternoon tea and crocheting when 
I heard an awful row going up next door. I'm not a 
prying sort, but I caught a peek at the two of them 
through the side window. They were yelling and crying 
to beat the band, the both of them, then he stormed 
out. I went about my business, and after a while, she 
came out to tend to her flowers and shrubs." 
  
I perked. "That seems strange. I mean, that Mrs. 
O'Mara would have a violent argument with her son, 
then just start gardening." 
"That was like her ­ surrounded by heartache and 
misery, retreating to her little patch of beauty out 
back of the house. Garren hated that ­ that she had a 
refuge from him. I noticed the day after she died ­ 
when her body was barely cold ­ that the miserable 
old beast had ripped everything out, every flower and 
stick." 
  
I eyed the beads between her gnarled fingers as a 
notion took hold. It was a disturbing notion, but it 
made sense. 
  
"I don't want to seem forward, Mrs. Cragan…" I began. 
"I wonder if you could answer a kind of strange 
question for me, and then do me a great favor." 
  
A second later, I caught sight of both Ryan and 
Phoebe staring curiously as I escorted Mrs. Cragan 
through the front door. 
** 
I found William on the rear stoop, sucking 
thoughtfully on a Player. As I lowered myself onto 
the step beside him, he looked up, startled. 
"Want one?" he stammered, proffering the pack. I 
shook my head. "Had to get away for a few, you know? 
Pop's mates are as bad as those old biddies from the 
block. Telling me what a fine man my old man was, 
like the old bastard had a friend down at that plant 
of his. They just come for the liquor and the eats." 
"Must've been pretty rough after both your mother and 
your brother left you alone here, huh?" I asked. 
William looked straight ahead, blowing a plume of 
smoke. "The old man just kept getting meaner and 
drunker every night, so I'd stay out with my chums 
'til all hours. 'Cept however late I'd get home, he'd 
still be up drinking. And the more she screamed at 
him, the more he'd drink, mostly 'til he'd pass out 
in that chair of his. Guess Ryan still thinks the old 
man killed her, eh?" 
"I know he didn't directly. So do you, don't you?" 
William froze, then pitched his cigarette into the 
scrubby grass and jumped up. "Now you're saying I 
killed my own Mum? I ought to smash your face." 
"No one killed your mother, William," I said calmly 
but firmly. "You know that. You came home after your 
argument with her the day she died, didn't you? But 
the poison had already done its work. 
  
"See, there were three really weird things about your 
mother's death. One was the broken fingers -- fingers 
broken after her death, as if something were removed 
from them. You accidentally broke them prying the 
rosary out of her hand.  As a good Catholic woman, 
she knew what she was doing was a mortal sin, and was 
praying for forgiveness when you found her. You 
didn't want anyone, especially your dad, to know she 
had committed suicide." 
  
William glared down at me for a long second, and a 
tear rolled down his stubbled cheek. 
  
"Then there was the question of why after a violent 
and tearful argument with her son, your mother went 
out to her garden. I think the answer to that puzzle 
ties in with our third mystery: Why your father would 
have torn out your mother's garden after her murder. 
It's a totally illogical act. Unless someone was 
getting rid of some evidence." I pointed toward a 
bare spot in the corner of the yard. "What was back 
there, William? 
  
"I'm guessing an oleander shrub. Oleander nemeris is 
one of the most toxic plants on earth ­ one leaf is 
enough to kill you. And there were a number of 
oleander leaves in the garland she gave Mrs. Cragan 
for her last birthday. 
  
"Your mother took an oleander leaf, maybe two, from 
the shrub out here and ground it into her tea. When 
you were young, she'd probably told you and your 
brother to be careful around some of the plants back 
here. You're smarter than you want anyone around you 
to know -- when you realized she'd poisoned herself, 
again to protect her, you tore out anything the 
police might be able to trace to her death. If anyone 
spotted you, they'd probably chalk it up to angry 
grief." 
  
William was now sobbing silently, hands over his 
face. 
  
"William," I said. "William, look at me. You need 
help. This is too much to carry alone. And I don't 
just mean the knowledge of your mother's suicide or 
what blame you believe you have to shoulder in it." 
"And what do you mean?" 
I looked up. Ryan was standing over me, his square 
jaw tight, his arms crossed over his chest. 
  
"What do you mean, Fox?" he asked. 
  
I rose and turned to Ryan. "I mean that your brother 
needs help. He's been sitting on a secret for years. 
He's confused, and he's in pain." 
Ryan's eyes didn't leave mine. "That true, William?" 
  
Eyes raw, his brother nodded. 
  
"You go on ahead in, William. Everyone's leaving, and 
we'll talk shortly." 
William sniffed and headed past us. I patted his arm 
and he made a weak gesture in return. 
  
"All right, Fox," Ryan said as the door closed. "You 
want to tell me why you're playing psychiatrist with 
my family? You have a complaint with me, why don't 
you talk to me? It's about Phoebe, right?" 
I shook my head. "Whatever, Ryan. You'd better talk 
to your brother. He's a mess." 
  
"And what's wrong with him?" 
  
I headed past Ryan. "I think you should talk to him 
yourself." 
An iron hand locked on my forearm. "What's wrong with 
my brother?" 
  
I explained it as concisely as I could. 
  
Ryan nodded. 
  
And then he broke my nose. 
** 
"I took the train back to Oxford the next morning, 
alone," Mulder said. "Phoebe said Ryan needed 
consolation. I suggested he needed something else. 
And that was pretty much it. I saw the two of them 
together around campus a few times over the next 
month or so, and then I saw them not together. Phoebe 
and I eventually talked it out, and we agreed to be 
friends. Which, of course, means she agreed. We 
graduated, Phoebe went to Scotland Yard, Agent 
Nowicki offered me free dental and I joined the FBI. 
Another beer?" 
Scully nodded slowly, then frowned and shook her 
head. "Wait a minute. What happened to the banshee?" 
"There was no banshee," Mulder said. "Never was. 
That's my point. The subconscious often sometimes 
grabs onto superstition and cultural belief when the 
truth is too much for the conscious mind to grasp." 
"Are you trying to tell me William O'Mara 
manufactured the banshee?" 
"Not consciously. There are reams of case studies 
documenting poltergeist phenomena linked to 
psychokinetic activity. I think William's bottled-up 
emotions and impulses finally spilled out in the form 
of psychic energy." 
"Just what was this terrible secret he was keeping, 
anyway? What did it have to do with Eileen O'Mara's 
death?" Scully snapped her fingers. "The banshee was 
William's subconscious way of punishing his father 
for his role in his mother's death. Did he kill 
Garren?" 
Mulder shook his head. "You mean, scare him to death? 
No. I think Garren O'Mara died of a mixture of 
cholesterol, booze, and mental overload. I don't know 
why William decided that day to face his father ­ 
maybe it was Ryan's visit, the realization of the 
potential he was cheating himself out of ­ but in the 
words of Brother Jack, old Garren just couldn't 
handle the truth." 
"Which was?" Scully breathed, impatiently. 
"Let's profile William O'Mara, Scully. A sensitive 
boy, close to his mother, not too interested in 
sports or manly pursuits until his father beats the 
living snot out of him. Then he starts to 
overcompensate, becomes a swaggering drinker. 
According to his brother, a terrific cook who 
purposely botches a meal to perpetuate his manly 
image." 
Scully winced, fingered the cross about her neck. "No 
wonder it was such a tinderbox, William and his 
father boxed up in that cramped little house. A 
devout, Irish Catholic family; a blue-collar, 
testosterone-driven father. Of course, he'd try to 
deny his homosexuality." 
Mulder leaned back as the band launched into a 
melancholy ballad of love and glory. "If it had only 
been that. Eileen O'Mara was the backbone of their 
family ­ she had been for years. I don't think the 
news of William's homosexuality would have been 
enough to make her commit one of the gravest of 
mortal sins in Catholicism. 
"No, let's take this a step further. I began to 
suspect something was very out-of-whack about William 
the first time I met him. He virtually ignored me 
when we were introduced, but he practically gave 
Phoebe a complete physical exam. And there was a look 
on his face of pure, unadulterated envy. At the time, 
I thought he envied me for having this drop-dead 
gorgeous girlfriend." 
"A little horsey through the face. . ." Scully 
mumbled. 
"Focus, Scully. I was wrong: William's envy had 
nothing to do with what I had that he couldn't. It 
was what Phoebe had. I'm sure you've heard of 
dysphora. An extreme form of gender confusion, apart 
from homosexuality or transvestitism. William had a 
far less violent but no less emotionally wrenching 
form. 
"At the wake, I asked Mrs. Cragan if she'd ever seen 
William and this unknown lover of his ­ the dowdy 
woman who dressed like William's mother ­ together, 
at precisely the same time. The answer was no. I 
think the day she died, Eileen O'Mara walked in on 
her son and the 'other woman.' She'd been keeping the 
peace in her family for years, battling first to 
please her implacable husband, then to keep her sons 
safe from Garren. When she realized what kind of all- 
out war was about to break out between Garren and 
William, I think Eileen had reached the end of her 
endurance." 
A raucous burst of applause marked the end of the 
band's set. Scully's brow wrinkled as she absorbed 
her partner's comments, and she was startled when the 
tall redhead from the band materialized at their 
booth. 
"Fox," the woman exclaimed warmly. She locked Mulder 
in a firm embrace; he smiled sheepishly. The lute 
player beamed happily at Scully. 
"And this would be your partner, Dana." Scully's hand 
was encased by firm fingers. "She's quite a lovely 
little thing ­ I hope you don't mind me saying so, 
dear." 
"Not at all," Scully flushed. "And you are?" 
"Eileen," the musician sang. "Your friend and I are 
good chums from 'way back." 
"Everything going well, Eileen?" Mulder inquired. 
"Happier than. . ." She glanced mischievously about 
the pub and its faux-Gaelic décor. "Happier than 
Paddy's pig. Look, I got to touch up my blush a bit 
before the next set." 
"Live long and prosper, Eileen," Mulder winked. The 
woman kissed his cheek and moved on with the 
slightest of limps. 
The mug was almost to Scully's lips before her eyes 
widened. She lowered the glass and stared at Mulder. 
"Eileen?" 
Her partner smiled crookedly. "Ryan was pretty pissed 
off when I told him about his brother, but he 
realized William needed some counseling and made sure 
he got it. Luckily, socialized medicine, while often 
shoddy, allowed William to afford the psychotherapy 
and surgery he needed to exorcise his demons. 
"See, Scully, William's subconscious mind filtered 
his inner fears and torment through his own cultural 
context. The banshee that haunted the O'Mara clan 
wasn't Eileen, watching over her broken family or 
indicting her unpunished murderer. It was the woman 
inside William, literally screaming to get out." 
end