Brownstonelit's Blog

4/10/2015

So shall we begin to lay the bread crumbs that will have all of Columbus eating out of our hands in less than a year?

How many of you remember these killings…the Columbus Silk Stocking Strangling’s?

How many of you had mothers and grandmothers who bolted their doors and left on their lights trying to prevent the evil from entering their homes?

How many of you questioned the inability of your police to catch the killer(s) who wandered your streets undetected and how many of you bought the line of crap they fed you when they said they could prove a man was responsible for the killings with an 8 year late partial fingerprint in one of the three of the seven attacks he was convicted on and yet…had nothing to parse on the other four?

How many of you have sat back and watched the circus of your courtrooms as the local law dances their way around the facts of the case and desperately trying not to step into the _______ of their  forefathers…or is that four fathers?

Let’s begin by asking the most primal of questions.

If both the Columbus Stocking Strangling’s and the Mary Sue Ogletree case’s, respectively can be categorized as crimes of passion…due to the brutality and personal natures of the violations and manners of death, then why are we even looking at the man currently on death row?

What intimate contacts or personal vendetta had this man ever had with any of these women?  And beyond the cursory knowledge that they lived in the same community at one time, they obviously never lived in the same world…if you understand my meaning. But even that cannot truly explain the motivation for the killings and the state’s premise was flimsy at best.

The convict was a thief and a drug dealer.

And if nothing was ever stolen…and no drug association evident?

What was his motivation for these horrendous kills?

What egregious errors had these women made towards him?

What up close and personal default had they committed towards him that would trigger such calculated and sexually stunted violence?

Can the pillars of your justice system answer that question with a straight face?

Motive 101!

Think my dear readers…because your officials are asking you to believe that the common rules and professional guidelines of criminal psychology for a psychopath and/or sociopath do not apply here to either case.

In the last hearing for this man to get a new trial we are asked to swallow such nonsensical rationalizations that a man in the midst of executing vile and passionate crimes… takes both time out and preferential umbrage with the kind of shoes he wears…so that he could spend a night running and jumping through hoops of ridiculous circumstances with his toes curled under to lay flat against the balls of his feet, so as to fit into a pair of shoes more than 3 sizes too small for him…just to screw with the detective’s heads after the fact. In addition, he is a thief who decides after he has killed his victims, not to steal anything-just to throw them off his scent!

That’ll teach those silly cops a thing or two!

Next, we are asked to believe that members of the Columbus justice system did not find the evidence of bite mold, or shoe mold information terribly important at the time of the murders… nor, decades later when they were asked to produce the evidence and then conveniently paraded that either it never existed or that it had been lost. All proven to have been untrue.

Now, I am not asking the families of these victims to relive their tragic losses for folly’s sake, and I would not presume to grasp the level of their despair; but I would venture that in as much as they would like to have their loved ones death’s validated by finding the true killer…they would feel remiss at having watched another man die for crimes he did not commit.

Again, I am not saying that the man in prison is innocent of all the crimes levied against him and he has openly admitted to thievery and substance issues in other cases, but these crimes? He says no…cops say yes. Yet there was never proper record of any of these conversations made, only hearsay after the fact commentaries by cops- desperate to fit the narrative of those being flown by those above them and so should not have been entered as evidence…only hearsay.

What I experienced while in that courtroom a few months ago was most alarming. Had it not been that I both heard and witnessed with my own eyes, these thin arguments offered by the state… I would not have believed some of the suppositions presented. In fact, had a criminal justice student turned in a proposition providing such lack of standard protocols for evidence collection and procedures, devoid of any proper chain of custody documentation, used as the basis for argument for or against any Defense positions…the DA’s office would have likely failed such a proposal. You cannot compound the initial lack of evidential integrity by throwing more piles of incredulity upon it to make it more palatable…the case should be thrown out.

Only in a small town or small minded courtroom would such flagrant evasions ever fly.

Now, I don’t pretend to be an attorney…but your name doesn’t have to be “Ferdinand” to recognize a huge pile of bull_____, when you’ve stepped in it!

I’m just saying that Columbus should perhaps pay greater attention to this case and the players in it, before this man is executed. There are a lot of really interesting questions that will have to be answered about the proposed, “lost” or “produced” evidence in this case…not to mention the unpublicized personal relationships between certain previous, “prime suspects”…the original investigators…attorneys and certain business partners and hidden activities at certain underground parties at a certain house, if this man is put to death.

Oh, who am I kidding?

I plan to ask those questions in the book anyway…whether you kill this man or not. But we can start other places before its release, and we can start with this:

Questions like…

If the lack of any responsible collection and/or chain of custody procedures for evidence in this case has clearly been proven to be an epic cluster_______ the size of Texas, then how can any of the evidence presented in this case ever be trusted? The evidence was improperly collected, stored and/or preserved to begin with. Now I know this was in the 70’s, but please…even an idiot knows to put all the evidence in one safe place…TOGETHER… and not at the bottom of a stairs or “hidden” in a brown paper bag in the back of a file cabinet. Not to mention that some of it was contained in an evidence vault on the same floor as the DA’s offices for decades. Now that sounds responsible, doesn’t it?

Unless…

So who had unfettered access to it? From what I have been told…pretty much anybody and everybody was able to walk right in there and walk right out, for all those years and if that’s the case… then well…that begs another set of questions–does it not?

Questions like:

Who had much to benefit from the removal or the manipulation of evidence to make sure Gary was convicted to take the fall and shut down the screams of fright from the community they so-call served?

But even more importantly?

Who had much to lose if the evidence found had been able to prove that Gary wasn’t the one who should have taken the fall?

Now that’s the real story in this case!

These are the basic questions that should have been asked then and if the case was solid enough to convict then…could they still be answered the same way today, producing the same effect. But can they?

Look at the original players? Who started somewhere and ended up somewhere else after the Gary conviction, or even just after his arrest? Who was elevated? Who was relocated and why? And then…who lost those positions later after and why?

Tigers don’t change their stripes, children! They just get longer and fade, like the smiles your players hide behind.

The case itself is a sham. The verdict of guilt such a pretentious pile and the endless defense of the state’s position, such a waste of tax payer money and intellect, that the whole case should be thrown out of court and Gary remanded to release for time served.

Otherwise…you explain to me how a fingerprint found 8 years after the fact…and AFTER…Gary’s latent arrest, can suddenly be introduced without proper documentation as to where it came from and how it could have been preserved for all that time without any compromise on a window sill?

Now that’s magic! Or is that…chaos?

(That’s an inside joke for the real players…trust me, they’ll get it!)

The lack of proper procedure in this case boggles the mind.

Many people have deep and hidden personal histories they wish to hide behind this case…things that involve certain activities and many public personalities that cannot professionally or personally afford to have come to light.

So Columbus, do yourself a favor and pay attention…things are about to get very interesting in your town. Go walk the streets of your historic district and take notes; this wasn’t just somebody’s Folly, it was an unholy alliance and mission statement placed in plain view and they counted on only those occultist and enlightened to understand its value and directives.

Business partnerships are about to be exposed…hidden activities brought to light…associations demonstrated…people who wore robes- ritually disrobed…houses that held secrets, dismantled-photo by photo… madmen who once danced naked in the moonlight around a blazing barrel of files and documents not meant for your eyes to see…later filled pools with something other than water…poems that once glorified the black mountains, now read more like a true crime novel… and student loans that had benefactors that might raise certain eyebrows now, have paid off in delays and denials.

Sounds like a good night at the movies and yet…it was all there in your little town…hidden from your eyes, by men who thought they were more clever than the rest of the world and they were–for a time, but no longer. So grab a box of popcorn, Columbus and get ready for the show!

Easter and this investigation have raised more than one man from the dead this year…let’s see what else can be found.

Stay tuned!

4/1/2015

Is it even possible to have this many victims?

Getting closer to closure for the book has already had me on pins and needles with all the information that has flooded this investigation with multiple serial killings and additional victims that have yet gone untethered to this string of events…until now.

Can I tell you that the killer(s) while clever, have fallen to the singular trap of every psychopath and sociopath, true textbook style? We humans are creatures of habits, passions and personal demons and we each have a particular way of dealing with them. Like a heavy Turkish tapestry, we weave our lives with strands of truths and lies and bind them so tight that they become the fabric of who we are…And just like that heavy Turkish tapestry, one tiny thread undone, can become the very thing that unravels the mass.

The trick then? To find that one thread and…pull!

You see, the psychopath has an ego, equal to none. He/she wants you to know how brilliant they are and when you refuse to recognize that…they will go to unearthly lengths to make it clear. Either they will tell you flat out, or in the case of the immoral, who cannot afford such blatant exposures…they will hint and drop bread crumbs the size of small Volkswagen’s for you to follow–so great is their need for adoration. They crave reward like a junkie craves one more blow. They also like souvenirs of their triumphs, but are clever about what they are and where they hide them.

Look to what they do…their hobbies or professions. This is the graveyard of their accomplishments and it is there that you will find the corpses of their “winnings”…this is where they hide their treasures.

I opened this blog with a rather graphic question…why?

Because even as I am parsing clues and outlining final suppositions, spirit has added one more body to the pile. I used to be coy…used to want to make you guess at what I was saying, but this case has made me weary of charades. I fatigue at the mention of another victim’s name and yet, they too must be served. Victims deserve to be recognized… so do killers.

It always amazes me that the sleepiest little towns are the ones with the most flamboyant and nefarious of characters…the juiciest scandals and the greatest liars. Are you ready to be laid bare Columbus? To learn the true meanings of your statues and your lawn ornaments. To learn who it was that controlled your justice, embroidered your sheets, planted your gardens and held your esteem?

Two of the killers are native…one from far away.

This man both intrigues me and makes me want to vomit at the same time…the arrogance and the vitriol with which he looked down upon the rest of humanity, bled through his words. I found it interesting in the beginning why I was chosen to follow this case. Now, far more knowledgeable, I understand exactly why I was chosen and have exploited such.

So why was I chosen?

Because I am a sopher… a scribe…a writer and in being one, understand the psyche of one. We live and die and bleed in ink…we breathe through this medium as though it were our very air. And what do writer’s do? They record… thoughts… impressions… images… visions…sights… events… kills…

What?

Yes…they record kills. So carefully do they craft their words that you barely understand what they are saying; but just like very true psychopath, eventually they have to make certain you understand just how brilliant they are and so they let down their guard.

The trick?

Finding the moment they do so!

I have found that moment and many more. Why?

Because psychopaths also see themselves as invincible…impregnable… capable of absolute autonomy, but the ego has a blind spot. The third killer, confident in his superiority, exposes himself so that you can see and worship his accomplishments.

The Columbus killings were but introduction and the victims have done their best to tell their tale and light the path to others. I thank those that brought their information to the table and shared…they will find their names in the book and duly credited for their participation. So Columbus, are you ready to hear your story?

Are you ready to hear about the killers who wandered your streets as free men…who killed without remorse and who bargained and bartered the reputations of your pillars of the community, trading their souls like baseball cards? The men who did things in the dark they could not afford to have light shown upon? The men who still hold high offices in your buildings…the woman who still practices law…the kings and queens of your courts…the pillars of your arts…the messengers of debauchery and the latent members of secret societies?

Yesterday, even as I was walking away, spirit pulled me back in with one simple question:

“Do you understand the name…Terrance?”

3/22/2015

Ok…so a feather floated to my feet yesterday as I worked on our beach, clearing debris and boughs of soggy pine straw from the sandy shoreline. Eager for another message, I acknowledged its gift–lifted it from the water and laid it upon a rock of my fire pit to dry. Lost again in the rigors of  raking and burning, I forgot about the feather and continued to work. Hours later, sore but happy to finally be outside in the sunshine…a large boat came too close to the dock –kicking up a huge swell of water that rushed the shoreline.

My back had been to the water, cleaning our chairs from winter’s mildew and so did not notice the wave’s approach- but rather heard it, as it slammed the shoreline and splashed the nearby fire pit. Hearing the cacophony, I turned abruptly and noted the feather that had been placed on the warming stone to dry, was missing.

“Well…the Lord giveth and the Lord taketh”, I guessed and went swiftly back to my chores.

As my husband cleared the cover from the boat and worked about replacing the radio and fish finder–I continued to wash chairs and rake debris. Three more chairs in, I absentmindedly stepped too near a fire ant hill and got bit. Annoyed at my misfortune, I ran to the water’s edge and shoved my feet, river shoes and all into the cold water up to my ankles…to stop the little suckers from biting me further.

Caught off guard, but refreshed by the cold swirling water I watched with satisfaction as their little bodies floated away. Those that clung, I brushed away- thrust my foot back into the water to soothe and then noted the very same little white feather I had saved hours before, was now floating in front of me for the second time that day.

What are the odds?

In spirit world- pretty good,  I would surmise.

So what was the message?

The message was, to now bring this book out of the shadows and into the public light.

That’s right…I am now at the point in the book and my research where I am editing and reaching out to those who will be the ones to help me bring closure to the effort. I have several law enforcement colleagues that have been tapped for such and of course, a copy to my lawyer for perusal, with a few messages to those still active in  peripheral cases as a head’s up– to make certain the content will not compromise their efforts to get certain people a new trial.

Carlton Gary’s case is integral for sure- but not the sum total of all that this book entails. It is not even the sum total of all that was brought to me to investigate by one very brave and dedicated woman. It is more…so much more.

Am I completely done with the book? The final chapters are outlined, but at over 500 pages… I must begin to reign in the timelines, tailor the fit and rework my original book cover for polish.

I promise you dear readers…in as much as Charley’s case took you places you never thought you would go–this book will take you that much farther and beyond where even I thought it could go. The city of Columbus, Georgia  will begin to feel the rumble first…then several other metropolitan cities, the Florida Keys and islands beyond.

The title for the book has morphed from its original working title, due to the extent of additional victims found allegedly connected to this case and will be published under the following:

LAW OF THE HARVEST: A True Crime Investigative Memoir

by T.A. POWELL

(copyrighted materials 2014)

And just to wet your whistle?

Here’s the Prologue…

Prologue:

“While it is not my intention to begin this book with a riddle for levity’s sake, it is my intention to ask you to use your intellect from page one. You see, some murders are prompted by basic emotions that render a killer’s motivation most obvious. Other murders are committed out of a need to serve a higher purpose such as; personal or ideological loyalty and/or religious martyrdom. But the Columbus Stocking Strangler murders will never rise to the elegance of such, no matter how much the perpetrators of these atrocities might insist. These graphic slayings of seven elderly white women were executed for a series of reasons that for over 37 years have gone undecipherable and in the end, were simply part of a much larger puzzle that until now has remained hidden; the terror of the unholy trinity… the lords of the harvest.

So let us continue with the riddle.

What is another word for Thesaurus?

Thought provoking, isn’t it?

For how do you describe something that in essence exists only to describe everything else, but not itself? I think you would agree with me then, that sometimes there simply isn’t a better word or group of words to describe a thing other than the words that originally describes it the best. Thus, you have the reason why the title for this book could be nothing other than, Law of the Harvest.

The word harvest is defined as the process of gathering mature crops from the fields. In like token, reaping is the cutting of mature grains or produce for harvest, typically using a scythe, sickle or reaper.

But in Columbus, Georgia in 1977, the word harvest took on another meaning and the tools that were used to harvest these ‘matured’ victims will not only shock you…but lead you to other horrors before, once shrouded in mystery and considered as stand-alone murders.

The harvested souls of Columbus:

Mary Ferne Jackson, a white woman, age 60, was harvested by strangulation with a nylon stocking on Thursday, September 15, 1977. Jackson was also brutally beaten and …

Jean Dimenstein, a white woman, age 71, was harvested by strangulation with a nylon stocking on September 25, 1977. Dimenstein was also brutally beaten and …

Florence Scheible, a white woman, age 89, was harvested strangulation with a nylon stocking on October 21, 1977. Scheible was also brutally beaten and …

Martha Thurmond, a white woman, age 69, was harvested by strangulation with a nylon stocking on October 25, 1977. Thurmond was also brutally beaten and …

Kathleen Woodruff, a white woman, age 74, was harvested by strangulation with a scarf on December 27, 1977. Woodruff was also brutally beaten and …

Mildred Borom, a white woman, age 78, was harvested by strangulation with a nylon curtain cord on February 11, 1978. Borom was also brutally beaten and …

Ruth Schwob, a white woman, age 74, was almost harvested by strangulation with a nylon stocking on February 11, 1978…but survived.

Janet Cofer was harvested by strangulation with a nylon stocking on April 20, 1978. Cofer was also brutally beaten and …

Two years later?

Mary Sue Ogletree, a white woman, age 54, was harvested by slitting her throat in addition to over 33 other stab wounds to her body on June 8, 1980. Ogletree was also …

All of the victims had been assaulted, presenting trauma to the left side of the head; the first three found with their faces hidden beneath a pillow to muffle their screams during their profane violation. Indeed, the harvest that began in 1977 proved to be a productive culling of Columbus’s finest matrons; a killing spree that crossed over several seasons, leaving behind a bewildered city and the mangled corpses of seven elderly white women and one battered and bruised survivor.

Now, 38 years later we dip our shovels back into the cold swollen earth that swallowed the Columbus Stocking Strangler’s victims and ask the women who died beneath the crush of the killer’s knees and the stockings in his hands, to tell us their stories and point the way to other harvested souls from a network of serial killings that have spanned not only multiple decades, but reached across the four corners of this country as well.

So why this case? Why now?

Because spirit knew this case was the key to opening a larger set of locks that have kept this country in the dark about other serial killings and the true impetus of the killers. Beyond that, because I too, am now in the harvest cycle of my life and just the like the string of victims left behind would want someone to speak for me, if God forbid…

My name is T.A. Powell and I am an investigative forensic author who works with active and retired law enforcement, plus a psychic medium detective, to unlock the shorthand of the dead and speak for those who can no longer be heard.”

LAW OF THE HARVEST…coming this summer of 2015!

3/17/2015

Happy St. Patty’s Day…

Less than five hours after  my last post,  our beloved old Chihuahua, Scrat died in my arms and I prayed that my father was there to take him from me just before his final breath. Heart broken, I have made my way through the quiet of the following days and tried without tear to manage a smile on his behalf …it is amazing the space such a tiny creature can take up in one’s heart.

Beyond that, spirit has been very generous with information of late and I grow weary of the chase and prefer now to lay the matter at the foot of editor and fly without care for consequence. So many loose ends…so many victims untethered.

The unholy triad walk through their days on this side and the other with bated breath. One for certain dead…one who like the opossum tends to like to “play” dead and the other left holding the bag. His “Folly” will be his downfall.

The poet sings from within his coffin and has left his words for all the world to see  and yet they read and did not acknowledge. Minus the “Key” they did not understand…but with the “key” all is revealed. So, will the dead man rise to claim his innocence? Will his lover paint the airwaves with his disclaimers and satisfy the critics?

Spirit has provided that enough questions can be answered…even evidence proffered that any other speculation garners credibility simply by proximity.

The Sociopaths, even for all their clever banter and charades, can never overcome their collective Achilles heel…the ego! They published for all to see, what they could not share in private…how ironic!

Shall I quote the page that tells it all?

Shall I sight the skit whose cover draws the map?

Shall the meadow and the Grove finally give up their secrets? The black mountains their collective lies? Shall we all sing ring around the roses with new meaning?

Dear Richard…the arrow points the way! Do you remember the day? The grass was not green yet…the shirt, short sleeved and red. They circled you and took their turns? Do you remember how it ended? It was a game…a sport for them. Orion…remember?

Hope you have enjoyed this little sampler, Mr. Folly…they left you holding the bag and I intend to exploit such insensitivities. The two of you thought the pen was mightier than the shovel…and it was. But then, you can’t believe everything you read.

So much nonsense in the verbiage- my eyes get crossed! Or would that be, crost?

Here’s a riddle for you?

What does a rose (or rather a bed of roses), a dripping pen and a dirty shovel all have in common?

Can you say the answer out loud and not betray them?

I know…”IT”…is not really all that funny, but then…neither were your intentions or acts committed.

I could quote a piece here that would give away all and yet if drawn to do so, must reference its title and its author and I know you would rather keep that quiet for right now…but not for long. Someone once waited 15 years in between publishing.

I am not so patient as he.

Stay tuned…

3/12/2015

Happy Birthday to my father…

Were he here, he would have been 88 years old today, had my mother not been so lonely in heaven without him and come to collect him one early morning 9 days and 6 years ago on March 3rd, 2009.

I’ve missed you everyday since then daddy, but I know you missed her more and so you had to go. That I can wrap my head around… that I can forgive, though I was never meant to be an orphan…even at this age. It sucks. Just every once in a while, reach down from where you are and kiss my cheek– hold my hand in yours and tell me you two are fine and that you miss me too.

I have been deep in thought about my dad for several days now; not that he is not always in my heart, but specifically since my recent dream at the shores of an ocean where we were all together and celebrating something special.

But today is his day and I want to thank him for something we battled over for years…my faith.

Born Catholic, I toyed with the study of many religions- which I’m sure drove my father insane. Now on the other side, I’m certain he forgives the shorthand I came with since birth…a shorthand he never understood…till now!

My father once told me that the greatest gift he could give me, other than life itself, was the gift of faith. In my testy youth I found that a sappy and religiously pandering statement. Now, in doing what I do and what I have learned through my own throws of dealing with overwhelming grief over the loss of loved ones…I have to thank him for teaching me the truth about my faith. It is the most important gift after life itself, for it is faith that makes all the trials  in life- the lessons that we survive to evolve to a higher place…doable. Not wonderful…but doable.

Now that doesn’t mean that we necessarily reach a place through faith where pain no longer pervades our lives or affects our emotions, but it affords us a place of acceptance that lets us know that we are never truly separated from those we love…that the veil is as thick or as thin as we make, or need it to be in the process of our healing.

My faith allows me to reach across the veil– to see and hear what others cannot.

Faith allows me to serve those who have suffered at the hands of others- a place to come for resolution or help. My faith allows me to tread where angels lead the way and it is with their guidance and support that a blessed few are allowed to come to the truth of earthly justice. Not all will…but that is not for me to decide…that is what the heavenly court is for.

The book has now reached 489 pages and will show a trail of murder, wrought by the unholy three who ravaged Boston, California, Atlanta, Columbus and the Florida Keys. The names have not been changed…not like in Charley’s book where I let fear invade my need to be truthful. In this book however, the guilty are who they are and their legacy’s will suffer the consequence of their actions as is willed by another court, other than my own.

You cannot hide in death what you think you buried in life; be you poets, preachers or practitioners of chaos and magik. This ring around the ROSES, will not cover your sins from prying eyes–at east not mine and once published…not from anyone else’s either. Does that bother you? That your secrets are no longer secrets… your lies no longer buried with your victims?

They had much to share and are still sharing! What is it I always said about Charley’s case? Dead men tell no tales…they tell the truth! Well, dead women enjoy their cosmic gossip- but have many truths to share as well. Women from Boston, Columbus, California and the Florida Keys!

So here is a question for you, that was asked of me by spirit early on in this case:

Do you understand the red key?

In the beginning, I didn’t. But after more than a year of research into this case and following spirit’s lead without question… I do!

The collective legacy’s of the unholy trinity (the three killers-the lords of the harvest) now hangs in the balance of justice. Let the public decide what is truth and what is fodder.  My job is simply to provide record of what has been discovered.

So here’s to my father’s birthday.

Happy Birthday daddy…my gift to you is my public acknowledgement of my spiritual faith. May it keep us connected always! Hugs to mom and I hope Birthday cake in heaven is just as good as it is  here!

xoxoxoxoxo

t

3/7/2015 Finals at last are finished and in two days this production ended and another audition process begun and somewhere in between there is me. This morning I took a break from final posts and book research to watch a curious film that had mostly German and Swedish speaking actors and then…there was Pierce Broslan in the mix..the ever accented, pepper haired actor who suffered the loss of a wife, the estrangement of a man-child and the ridiculous advances of a former sister in law. It sounds like an absolute wreck of a movie, but it was set in Italy and they could have been speaking Chinese for all I cared, so yearning for a chance to travel and be somewhere else for a holiday, was I. Each year that goes by I promise myself I will do something else…go somewhere else, and then the rigors of life and the budgets of households and children and daily chaos– suck the wind out of my sails and I am exactly where I started. Not in a bad place…not in an unfulfilled job or life…just here…and here is not there…wherever there is at the moment of my need to be in another space. With school ending for a sabbatical of a summer and work slowing a bit and the sun rising earlier and the sun setting later on the morrow…I pray that one day I walk myself into a Post Office and order a God Blessed Passport before the  assholes of the world have screwed everything up, before I can finally see some of the world I dream about. Ireland…England…Italy…even Seattle seems pretty exotic to me these days. Perhaps it is the endless hamster wheel of school and work that get me to this point every year, where I just want to pick up my coffee cup and find my own “Bramasole” to rehabilitate. (Those who understand, Under the Tuscan Sun will get  my drift)…but that is not the point. The point is that this morning, for ever so brief a period…I basked in a lemon grove, watched colorful boats bob up and down in the quaint inlets of idyllic seaside villages… dipped my toes into the rippling waves along pebbled shores of southern Italy’s Mediterranean waters… watched the sun dip and bend between clouded shelves of blue, just before sunset…a painted sky of pastel purple that accompanied my my soul as it metaphorically wandered amidst the halls of a plastered palace in a place a thousand miles away. Pathetic as  that is…it was something. And every once in a while in between the magic of the theatre…the murder and the grief of those I try to help and the papers I try to write, or the books I live to research and publish…there is calm and the promise of something more. Something Italian…something…other than spaghetti.

2/23/2015

This morning as I pulled into the parking garage I heard my angel song and knew that an important message would be arriving within 24 hours.

Oddly enough it took less than 5…now I know why!

Gotta love this stuff!

2/18/2015

Today I received a new request…another person in search of answers to the murder of a loved one.

I find it amazing that God has chosen such a life for me and feel humbled that others are being led to this site for relief. If I were able, I would work them all and yet I too have a life that gets in the way of my living and have limitations I must work around. It was funny though…yesterday I listened to some astrology that asked the question, “What of you could get up every day and do what it is you thought you were meant to do, without concerns for finances or perceived obligations?”

So, is this what I would do?

It’s not that easy…

I have a wonderful career as a professional theatre director and it also feeds my soul in a way that few other careers might. It allows for the excess of creative overflow to have purpose…it heals when loss or frustrations besiege this world, but would I give it up to work through spirit alone?

Tricky question… why? Because spirit works through me in the theatre as well as an expression of my creative joy.

I wish to speak to a person who came to me in the earlier stages of this new life adventure- to a woman who came to me for help after the loss of her son. Try as I might, it was a case I was ill prepared for and was not able to satisfy what she needed.

Was it her fault? No…

Was it my fault? No…

Sometimes we are led to things for reasons not of our making and sometimes we are sent places that have healing elements specifically meant for us to discover. That case…her case was not for me to solve at this time. Why? Perhaps the journey was meant for her to walk alone for a bit longer…perhaps her son was trying to help her learn something from the other side I could not or should not have mediated for him.

What I wish to say to you all, is that spirit brings to you what is best for the greater good and sometimes what is good for another is not good for me, or vise-a-versa. My trepidation in allowing others to hear from me has to do more with my fear that I may not connect with their case and that they will see this detour as a negative. Sometimes I am not meant to connect with a case…sometimes it is not meant for me to journey. Does that sound harsh?

When I began this case…the Stocking Strangler… I was in the middle of another book/case and yet the pull to this case was so strong, I could not walk away. That doesn’t happen with every case, but when it does—it is undeniable that spirit is prompting for a reason. What I am required to do is to remain open and to intuit the messages being sent.

God has given me a great gift, but this gift is but half of the combination needed to bring fruition. As those of you who have read the books and followed the blog, I work with a gifted Psychic Medium Detective and she is an essential part of what and how this all happens. Blessed? Yes… I am blessed in ways many of you are unable to appreciate at this point in your life.

What I wish for you to know, should you bring to me the loss of a loved one…where spirit blesses, I will follow with blind fidelity and stay the course without concern for safety or sanity. But for me, I must have that connection and that will be different in every case. I am but one…the other half of two. As always, I will listen and if spirit deems so, will follow and pursue with relentless energy.

This current case has captured heart and soul, but just like the childhood game of, “ring around the roses” it must eventually come to an end. Secrets have been revealed and the devil is in the details, which is exactly what the unholy trinity designed to distract.

However, just like every psycho and sociopath… the ego is the greatest weakness and true to their nature they cannot resist to shout their accomplishments from the rooftops, even as they must bury their triumphs. In this case, quite literally. Your greatest accomplishments will be your undoing and once in print, clues cannot be taken back. I see what you never meant to show, read what you never meant to write and understood what your ego was screaming in between the lines and scrolls.

The triangle is complete…

Do you understand the red key, my dears?

I do…

2/8/2015

Last week I wrote a blog and curious followers, including an attorney commented how they didn’t understand its cryptic content. “Good, for you” I say. For any who did understand, then every word I write from here to eternity will have you have you sitting at the edge of your seat…waiting for the other shoe to drop…specifically a size 10.

For two days I sat and listened to what can only be called, the precursor to the final chapter. But it was sooooooo much more than that…it was informative. This is why it has taken so long to write here. Other words more valuable have been spent elsewhere…other eyes have seen their worth, as is fitting and just.

Do you understand…the Jenga Effect? (Which I will now copyright here!)

The Jenga Effect (according to the gospel of TA and Glele) in this case, is when a story that has been told and carefully built up over time; each layer being added by another and crafted into a tight fit, so that all the joints of the lies are perfectly dovetailed into the other… begins to fall apart, piece by piece…it stands for a time… then falters…then finally gives way as the foundation has so many holes… it can no longer support the weight of the collective.

What I witnessed the other day was the slow and deliberate removal of a peg here…a peg there and the first hints of a wobble within the carefully crafted tower. For those of you involved–and I mean, “involved” you already understand the connection of the Tarot to this case and all the others in the tower that must fall when the Tower card appears. The Tower card shows only two that flail away from the burning capstones…the two of the unholy trinity left. But who will be buried beneath the rubble of their collective lies after they are all dead?

“Change,” they say…555’s abound!

For years, those in command for the defense–not of the suspect, but of the lie, have done their best to keep the pegs at the bottom solid. “Let them pull from the top” you whisper, “…we can survive that.” But now, it is the bottom pegs of the tower that have begun to falter and so you begin the count.

How many more can be removed before the tower falls and who will be there…crushed beneath it?

How do we hide the skeletons in our closets? The ones we so carefully buried under the roses… the ones that got out and walked about the streets as night- safe in their overcoats of furry blackmail? Or the ones that scratched with their pens or cruised the halls of edification with another kind of teaching in mind?

Murder makes for strange bedfellows they say and business partners as well… and all the professional temper tantrums in the world cannot put this Humpty Dumpty back together again. The egg is rotten…its contents already spoiled. Can you not smell the stench? The back of the lie is broken and now has but months before the shell completely cracks and the collective deceit oozes out and fries upon the heated concrete of public contempt.

What would not be believed in times gone by, has found new ears to listen…new eyes to read and it is an epic and inspiring tome that would make it’s subject proud.

The word is like a dagger…it cuts both ways; for even as it hides the household, it reveals the city.

I have a poem too, says the messenger.

I sat upon a bench and watched a murder of crows dance within the walls of justice today- doing their best to hold back the truth. Their banter banging about in my head, same as the screams that bounced between the rocks…and echoed into the canyons, the grove and the opened fields were the sentinels gathered and witnessed your calling. Too late, too late…they cry into the night. The watchers have already seen you. You try to hold back the dam of emotion, but do you not know the wave has already crested?

The plugs that were needed to keep the dam strong have been deciphered and will not be used to save you…rather, they will be used to free the others who can no longer speak for themselves…the victim’s.

The bell has begun to toll.

2/3/2015

Again they showed me a beautiful white feather… a message is coming… or has it already come?

A curling iron jumped out of my hand, as I prepared for the day and with coffee in hand, read a poem about a rose.  “A rose, is a rose, is a rose… unless it’s you!”

A rose of pink and white, plucked from it’s stem and  multiplied four hundred fold to form  the outline of a grave…could it have been hers– the lovely Maiden’s– or yours?

‘Tis 12 days since last she spoke.

Silently in black, she lays upon the rock- forever waiting for your hand to throttle.

What is that about her neck?  The weight of your collective deeds… caught in a barrel, locked in a drum?

She sends you greetings…but where to send your fan mail? I asked, but you were so angry…the freckled face one did her best to get me the information I needed and I thanked her from where I stood, but still you cried afoul. Or was it… a fowl?

So angry you were crossed…so crossed you saw red…. so red you saw pink.

What it is the number now?  Twenty-seven you say?

Nay, “Can it be so ?” the masses whisper, in adoring disbelief.

Ahhhh… but the eyes have it right! “Twenty- seven and not a day more,” they scream… having counted out each day since! They too thought so much more time had passed and yet in the blink of an eye, while the other remains closed…they wished you well on your journey to the sun.

Nothing lasts forever they say…not love, not hatred, not envy…not even a legacy.

You stand at the crossroads and sigh, beside them. This is not at all what you expected? Nothing but the inside of an endless circle! What? No angels…no paradise… no one to comfort me?

Rest not on your laurels, nor your haunches you son-of-a-bitch, for I am on your trail(s) and carry with me the strength of those you murdered!

My secrets are buried, you say. Where, I might ask? Under a meadow… a grove…an open field…a broken tree or a craggy shoreline beside the sea?

Your silence is duly noted…cat got your tongue? Your familiar?

Your insolence cuts me to the core…but you like it that way. Neat and clean from stem to stern.

What’s that your victim’s say?  “Quote the raven–nevermore–for only the owl and the falcon truly know.”

So I asked them once again…are his secrets buried for all times?

And the falcon closed his beak, with bated breath… but the owl the pussycat remanded, as the cow jumped over tonight’s full moon…

“They are buried under pretty pictures, pretty words, pretty letters and sacred geometry. Just not far enough…just not far enough!”