A Murder Knocks

I try not to let it bug me when someone on Facebook says, I’m so upset, I just can’t believe it. I want to yell back, what’s the secret? Soon I realize it’s a cry for help.   

I don’t need help here, but I’m troubled. Let me back up. Ten years ago, I worked with detectives on what I hoped was my last missing persons case. After 32 years of pro bono work, I was exhausted. I prayed and pleaded to the powers who help me, to make my abilities stop, and they did. Until last week.

When a case hasn’t been adjudicated, I can’t talk about it. But I can tell you how sad and sick I felt as my brain buzzer went off with information that bombarded me and knowledge that shocked me. As always, I typed up what I know, and soon realized that all the detectives whose names I would use to present trust, had all retired. In 1992, I was an anomaly. Now non-skilled psychics trying to make a name for themselves abound. For two days, I was dizzy and disoriented. I felt so old and weak.

I believe it’s too late to save a life in this case, but if information comes to me, I will work on cases until I die. I question why I have this skill set, and then I think about rescue skiers, doctors, nurses, and fire fighters. We all have a mandate to use our skill set, no matter our own private anguish.