The Visitation…


Preface: She knew nothing about the case prior to this meeting. She had instructed me not to share anything with her. No names, dates, premises or locations- nothing that would taint or compromise her reading. She had stressed that from our very first meeting back in December at the Cold Case Research and Investigation Institute/Moores Ford Bridge award ceremony. She wanted no information ahead of time and bid me call her after the holidays. I complied and late in January I called to set a date.
I am going to record what took place during my interview with the psychic detective on Friday. This report may seem disjointed at points, but this is the fashion in which it occurred and I want to try and remain as close to the experience as possible.
We were to meet at a designated coffee house in midtown Atlanta at 10:00 in the morning. As fate would have it, it was raining like a son-of-a-bitch; a fact at the time that registered more as annoyance with me, than grossly appropriate. In hindsight now, I realize the weather couldn’t have been any other way. It was perfect. In fact, I wouldn’t have been surprised if she had told me Charley had arranged it that way. Two days and two blogs earlier I had openly begged Charley to talk to me, so there was no way I could not be there when fate had finally led me to someone who might be able to speak for him. I just hoped what she had to tell me would be enough to fill the metaphorical coffee cup from my title.
I wanted to know if the rumors about his affair had been true. That it all had started and ended with an innocent cup of coffee the way I had guesstimated in my teaser. Had he really decided on the spur of the moment to leave his wife and kids and commit suicide? Or were my suspicions about all the inconsistencies in everything I had read thus far, correct? I needed to know if I was right about the significance of the rain that night. If I could confirm my timeline theory based on the omission about the windshield wipers… if he could help us identify who it was at the front right tire when the first witness drove by. Whether or not he pulled the trigger at his chin and how it was they found traces of nitrate on his right hand. Was I correct about which shot was fired first? Was there really blood on the right side of the window, or had it been staged that way? (You’ve read the previous blogs. You know the suspicions I have written about. The many theories I have promoted thus far in my investigation of this case. Use them as control specimens for this experiment.) I wanted to ask how Charley’s body got moved from where it should have fallen– to where the second set of witnesses found it several minutes after the first witness had driven by. I wanted to know if I was on the right track to discovering who else might have been involved that night. And most of all, I needed to know if I was doing the right thing by everyone, but especially his daughter by asking all those questions to begin with.
I can tell you now that I received all of the information above at the hands of a woman so gracious with her soul, it made me re-access the generosity of my own. An individual so compassionate and gifted that I awed in her presence and hoped she would be kind in her appraisal of whatever elements of my own soul bled in kind before her. Things and secrets I could not hide from her. For the first time I understood what it was to be naked from the inside out… and I worried I was not worthy enough to sit across from her.
The drive in from Athens on 316 went fairly well, until I got within a mile of merging with 85 south. Then of course, Murphy’s Law set in along with a horrendous bank of fog and rain that tormented me through equal parts. I called her at approximately 9:50 a.m. to tell her that I would be about ten to fifteen minutes more. She granted me leniency and gave me a heads up on the parking accommodations.
Inside my trunk lay a large clear plastic storage container. It was filled with a myriad of personal papers, print media clippings, photos; letters and telegrams I thought might be useful. The rain continued to pour while I hedged my bets thinking about the secret weapon in the plastic baggie, (his bloodied wallet), and wondered if it would be my best ticket to solving the mystery of his death. I went through the rest of my checklist mentally. My personal files, plus another binder that held the GBI crime lab report, the indictments (506F and 514F) for F and both C’s, Jr. and Sr. sequentially-check. The register book from the Carson McLane Funeral Home and Charley’s 8×10 tinted photo–the one I have been talking to now for months-check. Beyond that I had belly full of butterflies and a pot full of questions I had no idea if I would be able to ask.
The rain continued to accost me as I set the bin to the curb, grabbed my book bag with laptop and my purse. Once inside I told the waiter I was meeting someone and he immediately escorted me across the room and down a slender alcove filled with heavy wood, chocolate perfume and Mediterranean ambience. Introductions made, menus dispersed, she set about explaining what was about to take place.
As she spoke it became increasingly clear there had been no real need for my computer; only my leather notebook, a pen and an open mind. I quietly assured myself everything else I needed factually had already been etched into my brain and everything else she was about to afford me would be etched upon my heart. She motioned towards the bin on the floor. I explained I was just trying to be prepared. She smiled again and I was uncertain as to whether or not I should be embarrassed. Had it been out of place to bring so much? In my defense I told her, having never interviewed an entity before I brought everything I thought might spike a reaction. Psychic/medium and writer in place… all we needed now was a visit from Charley. Had I known from the start how the rest of the morning would go, I would have known I only needed to bring one thing. The thing that started an avalanche of information that damn near buried us all for the next two and a half hours… the initial G.

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