Writing with a third eye is like stepping into a Wonderland of the unexpected.  For me, imagine great cinematography by Scorsese and Hitchcock’s lovechild, Salvador Dali narrating with images at-will, and the unexpected twists and turns of a great film.  My third eye brings all of this eloquently to my intellect for sorting – like to some postal service headquarters, and then challenges my intellect to do it justice.  What I’ve noticed is that when I don’t intend anything, the more what I’ve written bends naturally to my characters and storyline.  A read of what I’ve just written at any given time typically shows clear linear development, but in a way I would never been able to conceive if I tried to write with my intellect.

Writing with an intuitive mind disables the intellectual mind so much that the real story reveals itself.  To get there I let my mind go blank, close my eyes and intend to clear my mind, and then write without any preconceived notion – even if I think I know where the story should be going, or what I should be working on.  The results are very often stellar.

The hardest thing about this process can be the Stuff that comes.  Case in point, a serial killer character with a dark mind.  But, the process of bringing the story to Life – like breathing a spark into a Golem – is about letting the story tell itself.  I get there best writing blind.  And, hopefully my readers will appreciate the story with a life of its own.

I live my life as a person who is psychic, and a person who utilizes her psychic ability in her work.  That being so, I don’t get a morning newspaper of sorts that lists out all of the future events that will impact me.  And, I don’t go looking for that list; I decided a long time ago that I wanted to live as normal a life as possible.  This means that if I don’t get a heads up on something sometimes, well, that’s just the way it is.  I deal with whatever it is, just like the next guy.

That being said, sometimes I get a rock telegram – you know, the kind of moment where you feel that someone sort of hit your head’s aura with some kind of rock.  Today was one of those days.  I awoke with an immediate awareness that today would be odd – that it would be the kind of day where everything felt out of sync with what I experienced and saw around me.  I also became immediately aware that my body still felt as sore and weak as it had for three days before.  I was not sick, had no other symptoms, and could not fathom why my knees hurt so bad I could barely walk.  I became weak and shaky in the late afternoon.  My day ended early for reasons other than my physicality, and after attempting some computer work, succumbed to the invitation of a hot bath.

So sore and weak I could barely support my weight on the way in, I landed on my rump in a graceful heap.  I leaned back and down into the water, wondering if this was some biological alarm clock, ringing in the arrival of my fiftieth year, in some eighteen hours.  As I closed my eyes to travel to the beach where I attempt all of my personal meditation and healing, I could not see it.  Instead, I was before a rudimentary outdoor platform.  I walked up each of the stairs that I could see, and found myself kneeling.  Just in front of me was a dead body -  – deep ashen gray like storm clouds, and emaciated beyond repair.  Thinking she needed a burial, I began to wonder whether that was what I was supposed to do.  I began to contemplate: a pyre, a sinking into a waterway, or a burial?  Just then, an angel swooped down, and gathered this body in its wrapped sheet.  It began a quick ascension into the sky.  Almost out of reach, I saw the body sit up and reach for me.  At once, the angel brought the person back, and they hovered just above and to the side of me.  I sat in amazement, and didn’t have time to react before she was close enough I could touch her.

This person, a woman – confirmed the thought I immediately had at that moment – she was me in another lifetime – a lifetime so close to this one, that perhaps the only difference had been that on one day of that lifetime, we each wore a different color pants.  She said she had died of consumption.  She said that she wanted me to have… and then, she dropped a bag of what seemed like coins, on my leg.  She said “I want you to have the wealth I earned through creating.  This is all I have to give.”  I couldn’t speak – I just acknowledged the gift.  The angel confirmed her story with a nod, and my Soul Sister closed her eyes, and her body rose with the angel up out of sight.

The bag and I stayed on the platform  for a while – me asking whether it was really permissible and useable to appropriate her Gift.  I was told that she had earned that wealth creating, and it would help me with my creative life.

I closed my meditation, and opened my eyes.  My fatigue had gone.  My knees were almost back to normal.  I could feel the insular balance of my Self come into focus.  I lifted myself out of the bath with ease.  All was well with me once again.

Psychic or shut down to Self, open by nature or continuously muddled, we are sometimes affected by Things that we aren’t aware of – deeply profound things that are Sacred – either to our current Life, or to some other Part of ourselves.  We get aches and pains, we get sad, we get elative, we feel sorrowful.  Our society’s mental health diagnosis manual spells out the possibilities.  We are after all, and as it were, Human.  We are also part of a larger Family – our Soul’s.  And, sometimes, through no action of our own, we are called to feel through intrinsic mechanism, request or volunteered, a sort of Other Experience – our day then becomes a Day that is not really What It appears to Be, but a Process Bigger than Us or the Day.  At such times, if we can stop and at least entertain the notion that perhaps there is something else at work, we can accept that the day will be odd, and we can also anticipate the Strangeness that might follow.  Odd occurrences, strange goings on, and even pain might be part of the Day or Days, in my case.  And yet, for whatever reason, I was there to connect with her before she left, so she could give me something.  And while I have no doubt that this would have happened even if I had not been aware of it, I am so much better off for being aware of the Gift.

Just like a parent, friend, or sibling, my Soul Sister gave me an inheritance today – an experience for her that I think led to even greater peace, the moment she closed her eyes for the final trip Home.  And, an experience that confirms for me that my fiftieth year is just the Beginning.

I hope you’ll find it entertaining and enlightening.  Katherine Bennett, Northern California~~~And now, the Blog.

Baths for me can be a mixed bag.  Unlike meditation, I find that my brain likes to take the opportunity to mull and invent, ponder and solve.  I do try to sink lower in the hot water and breathe to discourage my brain from dominating the experience.  That strategy usually works.

And for me, a new house isn’t officially a Home until I take a bath in the new tub.  If I can do that, it says that I’ve unpacked and cleaned enough to be able to relax and revel in the new digs of recline, hot water, and bubbles.  My favorite bathtub of all of my Homes was a turn of the century claw footed bathtub in a 1890′s farmhouse.  It sat in my first Home outside the Big City.  White, quaint, nestled between walnut trees, with its own grapes and orange trees, who could resist?  The house sat just outside a small town in a farming valley in Northern California.  I remember that bathtub well.  There was only a portable heater in that room, and the window was circa 1890 as well.  When the wind blew, I could feel it through the wallboards  no matter where I was in that bathroom.  It was the closest bathroom I have ever had that felt like it was outdoors.

Living in that house was an act of love – loving to live in a rudimentary house with no heat, except a pellet stove, and a swamp cooler for the intense summers.  Dilapidated by some standards – black widow spiders and the threat of rattlesnakes, exposed wires and rusty nails were just some of the detractions.  Power outages and crossed telephone lines that created unwelcome party lines were others.  And, the memories – real country Christmases, and my favorite memory:  that I jumped into a hole which appeared after a storm to do some archaeological digging.  My family pulled up patio chairs to watch that spectacle.  I found an old button, a broken piece of china, a doll arm, and a strange piece of odorous dirt.  When I raised that piece of dirt proudly like the Olympic torch, they nearly fell out of their chairs – their conclusion had alluded me – that old houses have holes in their backyards for reasons.  And those reasons are not good places to dig.  Good times.

My first bath in that house was on a summer night shortly after moving in.  Crickets and frogs serenaded, and fox calls kept me from dozing.  But, I had a fan blowing directly on me, and the combination of the window’s breeze and the fan was lulling.  Sounds drifted as if they were just outside the window – the organic farm to the north launching Mexican music and laughter that cascaded over other sounds.

But then, just like a radio channel change, I started to only hear 1940′s big band music.  I remember thinking at the time how odd it was that the farm workers were partying to Tommy Dorsey.  Not long after, I smelled the acrid and hot fragrance of something burning.  I opened my eyes and looked around.  I heard the music quiet, and then heard concerning and escalating language.  Unmistakably, women and children speaking loudly, panicked.  Then, the sounds dialed back, and I could hear the frogs, crickets, and the party next door – its laughter and festive Mexican tunes.  I got out of the tub, went out the back porch and looked around.  The outline of the mountains to the West against the moonlight, and no hint of smoke – either by  sight or smell.  I checked the house and then out front.  No smoke.

Not long after, thunder reigned in the distance.  I ran to the back porch door, and watched the lightning display over the mountains.  As I retired that night to my clapboard bedroom, enjoying the sounds of nature, my mind parked on the notion of Fire.  I fell asleep with Fire on my mind.

The next morning, I woke to angry fires on the mountain ridge to the West.  Pre-dawn, the reds and yellows lit up the hint of mountain against the dark horizon.  Even so, I woke with the understanding that what I had experienced in the bathtub was psychic information about something related to this house.  Even as a Psychic Professional, I don’t always seize experiences and analyze them for psychic content, and I also don’t sometimes look psychically to see if there is something important to be had.  When I don’t, I expect that my Intuition will get my attention when needed – it always has.  At the same time, I like the fact that I get the chance to live life without my Psychic Ability always at the forefront – that it does not knock incessantly at the door unwarranted.  But on that morning, even my intellectual mind was clear.  I had experienced some information about Fire.

Pondering the idea, I took my morning coffee out to the back stoop.  I watched across the orchard 25 acres out, as the crop dusting by-plane did its thing, then flew low over the house to take another pass.  Then, I stepped out and took a good look at the roofline.  Tucked under the uneven tin roof were burned-out eaves.  Charcoal black and scarred, many of the top eaves were nestled next to new eaves.

This required a sit-down with my Intuition.  I got into my intuitive space and went to work deciphering what I had experienced the night before.  The answers were straight-forward:  Yes, the house had burned, and no – no one had died.  The cause?  Lightning.  The year: 1943.

And there was more.  The Fire Info had been given to me because it was relevant for my stay there.  Expecting I would be told that the roof-line integrity was compromised, I was instead told that the Fire Energy was still with the house, because risks remained.  These risks I was told, were out of my control.  The house would burn again.  The wood stove and the wiring.  Both were issues.  Which one would be the start of the Fire was unclear.

I asked that my family be allowed to stay there until we could leave via buying a Home.  I was told that we had at least five years there, and that I could check back anytime.  I then went to the House Energy, and worked with It to help it heal from the wounds of the Fire.  I worked on the wiring and the pellet stove.  I asked for protection for my family and for the house.

Three years came and went.  That Winter, the chimney-sweep came to maintain the pellet stove.  Coming down the roof, he said “You sure are lucky.  Those eaves are getting a baking.”  He explained that the beams near the flue were getting too hot, and we best stop using the stove.  That afternoon, I checked in with the Fire Energy.  Yes, we could still stay.  And yes, the Fire Energy was not imminent.  The rest of that Winter was a cold one – a propane floorboard heater in the main room was all we had.  Our oven became a communal campfire of sorts on frigid mornings when the designated Barista would walk into the kitchen and determine just how cold it was by the amount of breath she could see out of her mouth.  On those mornings, we would sip our coffee with the oven door open – in our sweats and wool.  Not a noise from birds, foxes, or farm equipment.  Too foggy for animals to frolic, too foggy to plow.  Good times.

A few years later, the sense that we needed to leave soon came to me.  A few months later, the chance to buy a home.  By July of that year – six years later, we were five minutes away, living in the Town Proper in a new house.

I drove by that farmhouse from time to time, gazing at the view behind it to the West, hoping to get a look at the foxes.  I was lucky to see the Male one day, running just ahead of my car, and then weaving through the tall wheat grass.  Thoughts of that house lulled until one day, I drove out the main exit of my town.  There, behind the fence of a decorative rock business, sat the unmistakable provenance of my once beloved farmhouse bathtub.  It’s unique gold feet reflected in the sunlight, a for sale sign sat on its side – $100.  Knowing I had no place for it and no way to move it, I watched it disappear from view.  A few days later, I drove by the farmhouse.  It’s roof was partially gone.  It’s window frames pulled.  Holes and charring, and a cast open front door: the house had burned.

I stopped the car.  I sat at that roadside for a few minutes, staring at the skeleton of the house – taking the shock in, feeling the sadness.  As I prepared to drive away, I realized that my family and I had been spared the experience of a house fire there.  We had relayed concerns to the landlord several times regarding wiring, the pellet stove, and the fire danger.  Nothing had been done to prevent the fire.  The house was dead.

We inquired some time later – no one had been hurt.  I said my thanks again that night, that I had received a heads up about the fire danger, and that we had left in time.  Some may think that we were foolish to even risk living there.  But, it is another example of how I have relied on my psychic information in decision-making.  It brings to mind the importance of being able to understand one’s Intuition, and to know when It is Speaking to you.

I am grateful for my Intuition and my times in the Farmhouse.  Good times.

One of the most frequent questions I get from clients is: “When did I know I was psychic?”  This question seems straightforward, and many professional Psychics may be able to answer it easily, but for me, not so.  For me, the fact that I am Psychic with a capital “P” became clear when the psychic information I received became verified as accurate time and time again, until I could trust it.  Then, it became something I felt I could share with others.  While it’s true that often, the benefit of psychic info cannot be verified, in the early beginnings of my psychic awakening, I found it more and more significant as it showed itself to be accurate.  For me, it was not just the awareness of my psychic self, but the demonstration of it as something useful that became my benchmark about it as something to pay attention to – just as a scientist might consider something significant after witnessing its efficacy in a lab.  And, nothing showed me the intensity and usefulness of my psychic ability more than the day I contacted the Israeli Ambassador about Case of the Missile and the Military Officer.

Imagine if you will, a normal day.  You sit down to meditate – for me, meditation is a chance to get a vacation from my life.  On that day, I expected I would travel in my meditation space to a body of water, enjoy the scenery, and doing some self-directed imagery.  Instead on that day as I was meditating with my eyes closed – just about ready to exhale at the anticipated sight of some beautiful ocean, I  was confronted with the undeniable presence of a Voice and a Light, then more Light, in my third eye.  At that moment, I saw a lake, and had the sense of a very hot day with a high, almost blinding sky.  I looked around, and saw a  hilly landscape of scrub brush and weeds – a lake in a small valley, bordered on one side by a small building.  Then, all at once, I was looking out the eyes of a man whose thick, tanned fingers gripped a steering wheel in a sparsely furnished vehicle.  I was staring at the building on the rim of the lake, which sat below and away from the dirt road I was parked on.  As I looked out his eyes and listened with his ears, I witnessed him verify a quiet radio.  As him, I looked around.  Still him, I got out of the jeep, and walked to the building.  When I unlocked and pushed the riveted metal door it made a popping noise, the fitted door yielding. I stepped over a metal threshold into a metal room that felt like a submarine with its thick walls.  Closed instrument panels and exposed controls were mounted on one wall.  Clipboards hung near the door.  And in the middle of the room, a covered massive structure housed in a metal sheath, rounded at one end.  Not a chair or desk was present; no phone and just one light switch, the light shining yellow.

Just then, the Voices I heard were like narrators, and identified themselves as Angels from the Fifth Realm.  They explained that the images were real.  The location: a Middle-Eastern nation that I won’t disclose here.  The man:  a high-ranking officer in his Nation’s military.  He was tired of waiting for his government to act, and He intended on arming and deploying this missile towards Israel.  He and his comrades were tired of waiting for Israel to go away.  Once Israel was attacked and destroyed and a World War was underway, his Country and Its Allies would be able to dominate the region and achieve compliance of world Superpowers by using oil as leverage.

I opened my eyes.  Missile?  World War??  I surveyed my circumstance:  One person meditating; one person seeing these images.  Okay, even if the images are real and I am not mistaken or worse, what am I supposed to do?  The answers I received were not comforting.  The missile, I was told:  I should disarm it.  Israel:  I should inform Israel – the Israeli Ambassador to the United States should be warned.

This called for a cup of tea and some serious soul-searching on the backyard deck.  Okay:  So, I should disarm a missile, contact the Israeli Ambassador to the U.S., and should…get a Psychiatrist?  Stop meditating?  Change professions?  Do the work of disarming the missile, contact the Israeli Ambassador and reap the consequences of getting on some crazy person Watch List…

Well, I reasoned, I received this info.  Either my intuition is false – I am misinformed or worse, or the information is true and I need to try to do something to prevent the missile from being launched.  I decided that if I did the work and I was wrong, I could cause some harm to others, have my name on some government List, see the CIA visit my home, or other scenarios that breed embarrassment and regret.  But, I decided to take the risk: I would try to disarm the missile and contact the Israeli Ambassador.

I went back into meditation, and witnessed first-person, still through the eyes of the military officer – whose high rank I could discern because of the stiffness at my horizontal chest pockets, a turning off of the light, and walking back to the Jeep.  I heard him think:  “All is ready.”  I felt him think about late that evening; how he would sneak out of his quarters and back to this site.  He would walk to the building, activate the missile, watch it take off from the jeep, and then steal back to his quarters undetected.  He had given his house help the night off.  His wife was away with his children.  He would not be detected.

I knew what I had to do.  Still in my meditation space, I waited for him to start the jeep.  I jumped out of his body, then made my way to the building.  I walked through the closed door – I had no mass of my own body to stop me, but could see my hands and body just as if I were walking down the street.  Once inside the site, I stood by the missile.  I asked the Angels:  “Are you still here?”  “Yes”, they replied.  “We will instruct you on how to disarm the missile.”

They instructed me to make myself very small.  Once inside the mechanism, they instructed me to affect aspects of the mechanism to disarm it.  I will leave the details out here.  I crawled out of the missile, and intended to come back to my body.  Once back, I asked the Angels “What now?”  They instructed me to contact the Israeli Ambassador, and explain that a Military Officer from another country intended to activate a missile towards Israel that evening from a military site near a lake.  I was to explain that I am a psychic and got this information in a meditation.

So, with great trepidation for the havoc I may unleash on myself and the World, I sent the email.  As I hit the send button, I was hesitant but relieved, and exhausted.  I figured a nap was in order, because I would need the energy when the black-suited or white-coated men came to my door.

I called part of my Support System, Barbara, that night and confessed to her the whole business.  She supported my decision to follow the instructions of the Angels, saying “If you want to pick and choose when you listen to them, what good are they?”

About a week later, I got a call from Barbara.  She asked if I had seen the paper.  In her State’s largest newspaper, an article on a page in the news section: a Military Officer in the Middle East had been arrested for plotting to deploy a missile to Israel.  The article was short, but included details about the attempt, including:  The Officer had been caught, and the missile malfunctioned.  The missile location: near an undisclosed lake in a Middle Eastern country.

“Now, what do you think?”, Barbara asked.  “I think I need to listen with a more open mind next time”, I admitted.

And, so it has been.  I have listened, and participated in some pretty strange espionage for the Good of the Planet since then.  I have tried to warn people psychically when I could not stop an upcoming event, and have attempted to divert hurricanes and disarm earthquakes before they happen.  Call me strange, but call me earnest.

And so, that’s how my psychic ability made its grand and undeniable entrance into my World – in a way that I could not deny or diminish.

You know you’re deep in Weirdness when you’re sitting across from a human being who is normally pleasant and sociable,  but whose eyes are GLOWING red – not in the dark alley scene of some Sci-Fi drama he might want to play the lead in, but in a day-lit living room.  Such is the way my afternoon started one day in L.A., as I realized I would have a showdown with the Sunset Boulevard zombie king.

At the heart of the showdown, my client.  I connected with this young actor through one of his friends – this man who we can call John, had some health challenges, and wanted assistance with them.  Professionally, I am not only a Psychic, but an Energy Healer, and my client practice has a large health component.  We met at his home for our second session after meeting him originally at my practice location – I had opted that day to travel to the homes of my health clients – better me battling the traffic than them.

His apartment building sat on a tree-lined street:  plants lined his stairwell, and the dwelling exuded a straight-forward vitality; nothing to indicate that the person who lived there was on first names with a zombie king.

Our session began, and he admitted that he had bigger problems than his health challenge.  His soul had been captured by a zombie king. As I listened trying to understand what he was saying, his eyes began to glow – like red-hot embers in the bottom of a campfire. His body rocked as his chair vibrated from the legs up.  I watched to see where the vibration was coming from, and held onto my own chair arms in case the vibration was really an Earthquake.  But then, his head arched and he let out the most deep and pleading scream – asking me to “make it stop”.

I jumped into energy survival mode, checking to see if there was other energy in his Space.  There was, and I kicked the energy out that did not belong to him, and called his energy back.  My efforts were only temporarily successful.  In between these two-minute episodes, he explained that he had been attending some spiritual meetings.  He had done something to displease one of the organizers.  In the process, he said he had been told that his soul had been taken and captured.  If I could he asked, could I go and get his soul back?  I went in and looked for any sign of his soul energy.  It wasn’t where it should be – in fact, his cells had been stripped of their energy identity, too.  He was a blob of plasma, blood, bone and tissue – all illuminated by the energy of the Thing that had his Soul.

What does one do in a case like this?  I mean, a soul is kind of a really BIG deal.  Should I try to intervene, or was this between John and the zombie king?  Possession is one of the most extreme aspects of human experience – bodies levitating and contorting, objects and climates in a room changing so drastically that science can’t begin to explain it.  All I knew, is that somewhere between the Botox and the BMW’s, a soul waited to be rescued.

Rescuing a soul from a zombie king is no easy business.  It is also not without risks.  After all, zombie kings – are notoriously pissed off.  When a person can control the comings and goings of a human soul and executes that ability, well – that is the Dark Side Incarnate.  I wasn’t crazy about getting involved; obviously some risk if the zombie king got a whiff of me.  But then, what is a Good Doer supposed to do?  Take her cape and go home?

I helped my client in the moment as I could, and I said that I would attempt to reunite him and his soul.  I would not tell him when or how, but he would know that I had been successful, because he would feel like himself again.

And so, it was that I waited for the perfect moment to do the Work.  And then, one beautiful afternoon, I went and got John’s soul and reunited it with his Energy.

I bet you’d like to know how I did it… Let’s just say that it involved something like Harry Potter’s invisibility cloak, and traveling in and working with Time.  If you’re confused, I apologize.  But, I’d like to keep My Playbook out of the hands of the Bad Guys.

After our meeting, my client John reported that he had stopped going to those events, his health was continuing to improve, and his career was taking off.  No more glowing eyes or vibrating chairs.

So, how do you survive a showdown with the Sunset Boulevard zombie king?  You do it along the Big Boulevard of Time – and, you do it without him knowing it.

You can learn more about Katherine and her work at www.katherinelbennett.com

You have to be a special kind of person to work solving a suspected homicide, or for that matter, be involved in any aspect of a missing persons case.  Especially as a Psychic – I mean, let’s face it, I didn’t sign up for the Police Academy.  Readings of various kinds and energy healing are the things that butter my bread.  I like my work, and it’s a far cry from the yuck-shoeing of a crime scene.  As a cop, there are just too many disturbing things that you can come into contact with…well, for instance, the body of a victim or the victim’s killer.

Even after working on a missing person’s case involving a search and remains recovery, or a handful of missing persons’ cases and unsolved deaths, I know I’m not anything close to that special kind of person – the kind who can work a suspected homicide – although I’ve committed to show up and do my best on unsolved crimes when asked.   But for me, working unsolved crimes is a two-sided coin: the benefit to the victim and the family, and on the other side, dealing with death and dead, the sociopathic indifference that is elective murder, and of course, the murderer.

I’m an ordinary person by many standards – I like professional sports, am a card-carrying cheeseburger eater, and like the Star-Spangled Banner.  I guess I’m also not ordinary by others – I talk to angels, see things that I can’t see with my eyes, and have conversations with the likes of Buddha and Jesus.  You can pigeon-hole me any way you want; I’m just telling you how it is.  I am a card-carrying, ordinary but strange person, albeit talented Psychic.

On a bone-startling winter morning, when even the fog was reluctant to stir, I drove into the woods of a small huddled town somewhere in the U.S. – to keep a promise to a loved one – that I would do what I could to help solve a crime that had paralyzed her neck of the woods.  I made that promise between a cup of tea and a slew of phone calls a few weeks before, and didn’t think much about it.  She called with great urgency and anxiety, and asked PLEASE would I take a look.  Having given her a quick set of impressions, I didn’t begin to think that I would then get a call from a rather tenative-sounding detective some 700 miles away.

My loved one, who shall remain nameless, had made a call to the Police about my impressions.  And, they were apparently so right on in terms of what the Police already knew but had not fully disclosed to the public, that the Detective felt compelled to call the next morning, and check me and my story out.  No, I didn’t know the case, hadn’t read about the case, didn’t know anyone associated with the case, and didn’t live close, I told him.  I referred him to my website so he could see who I was and what I did for a living.  I took his call between a snack and a client, and again didn’t think much about it, until he called back and asked if I was going to be in the Area in the next few weeks.  Ordinarily, the chance of that would be slim to none, but yes I said, as a matter of fact, I had a trip close to that place planned for a few weeks from then.

And, so it began that I put on a very heavy sweater, some cloggy boots, a scarf, and some courage, to face what the day would bring and drove into a strange place, to a strange Police Station, and into one of the most bizarre days of my otherwise pretty bizarre life.  The morning at the Station began mundane enough.  I was met with a business-like set of Detectives, who said almost nothing, and put me in a room with a case file that was a skeleton of the public knowledge known about the case.  I was to provide any details I could that might be helpful.  With a styrofoam cup of burnt but weak coffee, I got to work and the images started flowing.  A vehicle, a man, a place, a series of quick events, and a body in a place.

I wrote everything down, handed it to the Detectives, and got long stares from both.  I figured that this would be the time they said thanks for coming in.  Instead, they asked if I could commit the day to a bit of search and recovery for the body.  Aahh, what a lovely thought…dirt, and body parts, and the coming images of All Things Criminal. But then, a greater series of awareness – the plight of the victim, the tears and desperation of the victim’s family, and the gloating, insular over-confidence of the murderer. Yes, I said, I would stay.

You never know how weird things can get until they do, and the weirdest often arrive silently, only to make their presence known with quick surprise.  And, so it began.  The Detectives told me we were going to take a ride, and would be likely out for some time.  At the parking lot exit to the street, they asked me “Which way?”  I replied “Which way to where?”  “Which way to wherever you want to drive us”, they chimed in unison.  So, I engaged my intuition, and I directed them to turn.  We drove, and some minutes passed with no conversation.  I was cold, reluctant, and felt the heaviness of the victim lying in a frigid, dark place on my body.  We passed a house and some land, and I looked in disbelief as the vehicle I had described so specifically sat parked.  “There’s the car”, I said, as the Detectives made no remark or sign of recognition whatsoever.  Driving for some minutes more, I told them to slow down.  My intuition site – my forehead, felt like someone was putting a foot to it, like a foot to a car brake.  I directed them to a wider point of the shoulder, and asked them to stop.

The Detectives looked at each other, and asked me what I thought about that place.  I told them it had the victim’s energy there quite strongly.  They called in the location, and requested a crew.  They would, they explained, be leaving me with an officer who would arrive shortly.  We would remain with the digging crew.  They would be conducting a search and recovery with a crew in another location.  The officer showed and we started digging.  This was, I was then told, a place of suspicion for the Detectives, because it was a known site for activity by their prime suspect.  The diggers got to dirt that was suspicious – loose and moist.  We were just calling it in when we got a radio call, and were asked to travel to the other search site.  The diggers would continue there without me.

As we pulled into the hub of the search organization effort, the officer that drove me suggested I get in the other car with the other Detectives.  I had done so only a minute before, when a man came to the car, and started talking to one of the detectives.  A man, fitting the description I had provided to the Detectives, and frankly, THE MAN I had seen with my intuition, chatted up the officer as if they had run into each other at the Mall..  “Look familiar?”, the Detective asked, after the man meandered away from the police sedan.  “Uh, yeah”, I half-whispered, my adrenalin kicking in.  I felt exposed and trapped just then, hoping that in addition to depraved, the murderer was also not psychic. I sunk down into my seat and connected with the reasons I was there.  It was not too long after that, that the victim’s body was found.  The bad guy, the prime suspect who I had fingered out of the ethers, was convicted and sentenced, bringing closure to the family and the community.

And for me? I couldn’t shake the cavalier nonchalance of the killer, as he chatted up the Detective.  I couldn’t shake the cold I felt veins-deep for days after, as if the frigid day of the search had chronicled in me.  And, I couldn’t shake for weeks the unexpected visit I had from the victim a few weeks later, as she thanked me for my help.  She knew I didn’t have to help, but did – and now she had a sense of closure – a feeling that her family would be able to move on since they had her body.  As I turned over to go to sleep that night, it occurred to me that I live a bizarre, but extraordinary life.

The funny thing that happened to me on the way to the crime scene? I became more Human – I experienced a new kind of fear: the up-close-and-personal to a murderer kind.  I lived what it’s like to participate in something that is not on my list of fun things to do – search for a body, because it benefited a victim and a family I didn’t know, and a community that could now turn their lights off at night.  To this day, I am better for it.

You can read more about Katherine and her interesting job at http://www.katherinelbennett.com

© Katherine Bennett and her Blog Site, The Psychic Insider, 2010. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Katherine Bennett and her Blog Site, The Psychic Insider, with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.

I hope you’ll find it entertaining and enlightening.  Katherine Bennett, Northern California

Find out more about my professional life at: http://www.katherinelbennett.com