Brain surgeon. Military hero. And my new fiancé
Sound too good to be true? That’s because it’s a scam – as journalist Claudia Connell reveals in this hilarious account of how she turned the tables on the fraudsters extorting fortunes from women around the world
My fiancé David wants us to set up home in England. I’d rather we live in his Californian mansion. David’s 15-year-old son, Larry, calls me ‘Mom’ and emails me from boarding school.
As for me – who doesn’t dream of being swept off her feet by a dashingly handsome, filthy rich, hopelessly romantic surgeon?
The only trouble is my fiancé, ‘Dr David Smith’, is none of those things. He’s a ‘catfisher’, someone who orchestrates an elaborate online romance before attempting to extort money.
As a single woman, who has written about my love life, I’ve been targeted by men on social media and usually block them. But, with romance scams booming in lockdown, I decide to play along. To catfish the catfisher.
It starts with a Facebook friend request. The profile picture shows an insanely goodlooking man but no other details.
I accept the request and instantly get a private message. The stranger introduces himself as Dr David Smith
– a brain surgeon, no less, originally from LA but currently on a peace-keeping mission on behalf of the United Nations in Afghanistan.
Romance fraudsters often claim to be military. It provides the perfect cover story for never being able to speak or video call.
Cutting straight to the chase, David asks if I’m single, have children or own a big house. So far, so unsubtle.
I answer and pose a few questions of my own. A common catfish trick is to claim to be a widower. It tugs at the heartstrings and proves the man isn’t afraid of commitment.
David tells me his wife was killed in a car crash. Bingo! She was the love of his life…
I do a ‘reverse image search’ on extra pictures David sends me of himself (where you upload photographs to an internet search engine). I discover the dashing chap in the photos is indeed a brilliant brain surgeon
– but he’s called
Dr Fernando Gomes, based in Brazil, a minor celebrity with 820,000 followers on Instagram.
After a couple of days of Facebook posts, David suggests we message privately. Another textbook move by catfishers.
David’s passionate. Within three days, he tells me I’m his soulmate.
He paints a bleak picture of life in camp where he’s been for five years and claims to be ambushed by ‘ISIS’ on an almost daily basis.
‘Do you do much brain surgery?’ I ask.
It transpires he can turn his hand to anything. He amputates limbs, patches up bullet wounds – even fixes tanks and cooks for the men. What a hero!
I soon suspect I’m being messaged by several people. Some have a good command of English, while others are barely literate. David seems to be online at all hours.
Oddly, I’m enjoying our communication and David’s fictitious updates. Has he been ambushed again? Has he rescued another soldier?
He tells me I am beautiful constantly. I can understand why a lonely person might become addicted to the attention.
A week passes and he’s yet to ask me for money. But he’s starting to drip-feed me information that will no doubt be pertinent when the sting finally comes.
He has experienced many tragedies. His parents are dead. He has no siblings and he cannot access his bank account from Afghanistan. He wants to retire but can’t until the UN agree.
They sound like the worst employer – they didn’t even give him any time off when he was shot in the arm. Or was it the leg? David gets mixed up.
Another time he tells me that ‘cheating and lies’ ended his last relationship.
Then he tells me it was his wife, sleeping with his best friend. Hang on. The wife who’s dead?
Whenever I question him, he has a deflection tactic. ‘How is the weather, my dear woman?’ he’ll ask.
I may be paying attention but David isn’t. Sometimes, I call him Daniel, Douglas or Donald. He never notices.
As our virtual relationship enters its second week, David is convinced I’m the woman of his dreams. ‘I am unable to give you the world, but I can give you my heart.’
I ask what drew him to me. ‘Your sparkling blue eyes, my love.’ My eyes are brown…
In a new twist, at the end of week two, he tells me about his son Larry. He’s a boarder at the elite Santa Catalina School in Monterey, California. The school does exist but it’s a girls’ school.
Larry begins to message me. He drops the bombshell he’s being bullied because he doesn’t have a mobile phone or iPad.
I know what’s coming but I fend it off, saying I’ll ring the school. ‘I won’t stand by while any son of mine is being bullied!’ I message. Suddenly, Larry decides I shouldn’t bother his teacher.
It’s time for David to step in… The UN are letting him retire. But the rotters are insisting he completes a final, highly dangerous, rescue mission.
As a sweetener, they’ve given him $1 million severance pay. In cash. David wants to send me the money for safekeeping. I’m instructed to email a courier company with my postal address.
I email from a fake account and instantly get a reply from a ‘diplomat’, who demands £5,700 ($8,707) in ‘taxes and fees,’ so they can courier me the million dollars.
I message my fiancé. I can’t send such a large sum when we’ve never even spoken. David sends a three-second video, blowing me a kiss, lifted straight from the Instagram account of Dr Gomes. Nice try.
I give my fiancé the silent treatment. ‘You don’t love me any more, my heart is broken,’ he messages.
When I don’t respond, Larry returns. ‘Mom, why are you making me sad?’ he pleads.
Reluctantly, David agrees to a phone call. His accent isn’t American, and I can hear children playing. It’s so hopeless, I almost feel sorry for him.
Over the next few days, David bombards me with messages. He claims his life is in danger but until I pay up, he can’t leave the camp. Then he sends declarations of love.
After three days of silence, he quits. Our month-long, giddy romance is over.
A cynical journalist, I saw the scam coming a mile off. But I feel sorry for the thousands of women who lose their life savings to such scams.
Four days later, David messages: ‘Honey, without trust we have nothing. Send the money.’ Finally, I do what every woman should when approached by strangers on the internet wanting money. Block and delete.