Brownstonelit's Blog

I tell her G is the younger woman who they say he was leaving his wife for. The reason he committed suicide.’
At this point she is visibly affected and pulls her sleeves up to show me her arms. She tells me they will often give a physical response when something affects them strongly. The physical response is strong every time we speak her name.

I tell her the story is that he and Hazel fought that day over his affair with G. That they discussed divorce and that Gerri had supposedly threatened to dump him if he didn’t tell his wife he was leaving her that weekend. Rumor had it that he saw her (G) later that day on her front porch talking with her ex-husband and supposedly Charley became distraught over what he thought was her getting back together wither husband*, and so he drove out of town and committed suicide.

(*G does remarry her husband 3 weeks after Charley is buried.)

She tells me he did not commit suicide. She tells me they present suicide if in deed that is what happened. She tells me she can assure me Charley did not commit suicide.

She tells me he has become nostalgic and shows her his heart. He shows her his children; that he would never have abandoned them.
She tries to redirect.
He continues; he would never have abandoned them.
She asks him to show her the car and what happened at the tire.
She asks to borrow my pen again and makes a rudimentary drawing of a car; a rectangular with four circles to symbolize tires and two smaller circles with lines coming out of them to symbolize head lights, so that I might get the locations of information I am seeking.
She shows me an X at the front right tire and tells me, he shows her this is his location.
He continues to refer to a red truck.

She redirects.

He shows her the tire is for the first impact… a shock. I ask her to clarify.
She redirects.
A shock, an unexpected blow. A moment of recognition when you know everything has changed. An, “oh shit moment.”
Do you understand?
I say yes. A kind of, “WTF” moment. She confirms.

I ask her if I can ask him to show her, so that she may show me. Body tingling, she responds with confirmation. I ask if G is there. Body tingling she responds with confirmation. There are two entities there at the crime scene. The other is a younger man… a law enforcement individual.

She tells me again he came to her days ago.
She asks to redirect and he shows her he has a personal message for me.
He is showing her, he is thanking me for helping Julie.
He is showing her (J’s) 2 children. Two grandbabies.
She asks if I understand. I nod confirmation. Julie has two boys.
She tells me he is having a nostalgic moment. He is showing her emptiness… void… his loss at not being able to participate. He offers support and guidance. He is a part of their lives, though he cannot participate. His sadness is overwhelming. She tells me this is very moving for her. He shows her grief- emotional pain. Emptiness.
He shows her, he would never have abandoned them. He repeats this over and over.

She tries to redirect.

He shows her his connection to Hazel (wife). That he is a good person. He shows a sense of being torn between the two- G and Hazel. He has a connection to Hazel, a respect, a love. A connection- strong bond. A great affection.
He is immediately drawn back to G.
G he equates to man eater.
G is double dipping with LT.
He shows G with an older man. Wealthy- socio-economic differences. Influential, higher up. Many years her senior. Shows her having a bond with this older man and a younger male in law enforcement.

She asks me to write down the first names that come to my mind in regards to Charley’s case. I write the following, pulling from immediate memory of documents and interviews in this fashion and in this order:

JF
BH
PH
BC
CW B
WW
GB
CA C
HS

HC

She asks for my pen and then interrupts.

He is showing me 1439 blue oak. Three times she repeats.
1439 blue oak, 1439 blue oak, 1439 blue oak
Do you understand?
I say I think so and ask if I can have clarification. Does oak stand for Oak Street?
She closes her eyes, and then nods confirmation.
1439 Oak Street, blue house
Do you understand? Does this mean anything to you?
I respond, ‘I think so.’

03/2/10
The days continue to pass from dusk to dawn without time to think clearly and I am remiss as to what I can say here and what I should say here. Efforts in writing shall begin in earnest after this weekend. My job will continue to swallow much of my time these next two days and then into the weekend. So it will take me a day or two after this production to decompress. More importantly, I have a session with my detective/medium coming at the end of this week and its reminder begs of me again to search within my own soul for my purpose. Another chance to ask questions I have been storing up since the first. I will not want to task her longer on this if I can help it, as I know others will want to come through. As insane as this may sound, I will ask her to remain open to the perpetrators of this crime, if they wish to be heard. She says she has no control over who steps forward and I appreciate the candor and weight of her words, but I am hopeful to hear from others involved. Do you find it odd to consider, that I might desire to hear details from their perspective? I am most curious about G and realize I may appear bias in my appraisals thus far. If I am to be truthful, I will confess to you the bias you recognize is real. Unwarranted perhaps, but real none the less. Do I believe love and/or rejection of love equates to the loss of life? I do not. Love is a lesson and death is such a contradiction to what it was I believe Charley was trying to achieve. Do I have misgivings about his altruistic nature? I suppose, but only in the same fashion I have about my own. Love is always the unknown variable.

I believe that Charley loved his wife in the way a couple often comes to love. It is a love of combined identity for two people who have shared the experience of birth and death. A bond shared between two souls bound by experience and history- by their children and the years of familial ties and the margins in which they both painted a life. Bound by comfort and great affection, they create a tapestry of memories that seem to hold their lives together. But there is another love that sometimes picks at the frayed ends of a relationship and tugs away at the loose threads we create when we neglect one another… A love that while it feeds nothing on the surface of who we are, recognizes a portion of who we once were. Love’s greatest lesson is that we learn, no one controls the heart. We fall in love with different people for reasons we sometimes never know. It is a search to rebuild what has been broken in our own lives by life itself… one glance, one touch, one tear, one kiss at a time. Sometimes only subconsciously understanding it is our primary obligation to become whole- to fulfill our reason for being. Could G have become Charley’s reason for being? It is possible… in the same sense that she could also have become the reason for his demise. Was she a part of it? I believe so, but I am also curious as to what Charley could have done to her to warrant such reactions. What infraction sought could have brought such rapacious justice as reward? Jealousy? Revenge? Fear? And who anointed those who served it up buffet style?

Was this all about power and money? About the threat of Charley getting too close to the local organised crime ring? Was the karma delivered almost ten years later, the impetus for this crime? And how did G play into the larger schematic? Was she also involved with the alleged hit men?

The scenario reminds me of a scene from the play Bull In a China Shop where the lovely reporter Jane is trying to describe the uncanny attraction of five women to one man- Dennis O’Finn, a homicide detective! ‘A twist on the old triangle theory. What would you call this? A hexagon?’

Rumor dictates that there were two men and one woman at the scene of the crime.  The original information I received well after my first session from another retired law enforcement individual. According to my information received from Charley through the medium, I know it has to do with G and ‘other’ business. My suspicion is that Charley was onto the illegal gambling ring that was broken up after his death, but that still doesn’t explain what the relationship between G and B.C. would have been. Charley may have been a pawn in a much larger game and G the convenient cornerstone to the set up.

I think about the cornerstones and events of my own life this past year and know the effects of frayed edges and their cost. Perhaps that is why Charley chose me. To guide? To mentor? To warn? It is a curious thread which binds me to a man who died almost the entirety of my life ago. Maybe it is his pain that keeps me up at night…or maybe it is the echo of my own. Solving the mystery of Charley’s death will not bring Charley back or return to him the wonderful years he has missed with his children. It cannot bridge the gap between he and his wife; both chronologically in their deaths and emotionally in their lives. But according to the medium, Hazel was at his side throughout the session… quiet and stoic she let him take lead and speak his mind. Perhaps she invites me to do the same. Asking me to be quiet, so that another may speak their mind. To wait patient and not waste time on the why’s of love, but to enjoy the mysteries it brings to each of us.
Until later then…

3/01/10
What I now know about Charley could fill a small swimming pool. What I know about Valdosta and its vulnerability to corruption during the time surrounding Charley’s death could fill an ocean. Still I am overjoyed that I have had privilege to speak with several individuals of integrity who recall the events leading up to and after that night. Individuals who spoke fondly of Charley and the sanctity of the friendship they shared. Men whose sober appraisals, paint for me a more balanced, yet defined portrait of the man with the moldy skin. These brave few who have questioned for over 40 years the implausibility of suicide. Men whose gut instincts told them the evidence didn’t add up. That they saw that night and that investigation in much the same light as me- a sham, a cover-up for something bigger. Men who have carried the gauntlet of honor for almost half a century, waiting patiently to throw it down and challenge the inconsistencies of history. I am grateful to these men who have shared memories of Charley’s public and private personas. Their revelations task me now to be truthful in my representation of the man. This book, while it will be a collage of moments- becomes not just moments of Charley’s death, but of Charley’s life and the people in it. Moments that may damn many and praise few. What this book will grant is a portrait that will show depth and margin- impression and intention- shadow and light. It will reflect the moments of his heartache and his loss, his joys and his triumphs. The moments he shared and the moments stolen from him. It is my gift to Julie. The gift to me is not only the story, but the lesson of this man’s life. His personal struggle between his head and his heart- right and wrong. I shall discover the merits of my own humanity through the discovery of his and rejoice that their is kinship in learning.
It is in this vein that I receive comfort. Through the process of writing I make this experience my own. I am certain each author has his own procedure of morphing. Mine is an unorthodox process. Unlike most that use working titles and then craft from the mass at the end; I design to create the perfect title before I can commit further pen to paper. Once selected, I must find the font that matches the flavor of the title. For me a title has a very specific voice, which speaks to me through the font. Each font says something different, so the choice must be made mindful of content. Words reflect different emotions in different fonts and sizes. Their precise placement upon a blank page becomes a road map for me to follow. Verdana, Times New Roman and Copperplate use heavy blocked letters that carry an air of authority and conviction. Heavy blocked letters with shadow effect such as, Engravers MT, speak of something distant and historical to me. Edwardian oozes flair, feminine mystique and mystery upon the moors. Matisse says something Mediterranean and exotic to me. The font Curltz, something whimsical, boundless and ethereal. The perfect font then sets the tone and mood for every word that comes after. It is my compass- my true North and cannot be compromised. Once that has been selected… the tag line must follow.

The Coffee Pot Conspiracy

What is the statute of limitations for murder in the state of Georgia?
Ironically, the same amount of time a victim remains dead.

An eternity…

(Unfortuenately this dashboard does not allow for different font. But experiment with copy/paste and see Copperplate bold for the title and Times New Roman for tag line.) Once titlte and tag are secured, I begin. I vomit in ink for 2 to 6 chapters until I think I have gotten the gist of my gut instinct about the book and then wait. The next few months are spent on research, never touching up my intial foray. Now at that place, I look back at what was written almost a year ago and marvel. Without knowing things, I knew them. Without research, I marginalized the correct characters and highlighted others. Without confirmation of fact, I trusted my gut and confirmed my own suspicions. My guestimations at the onset generally prove to be as close to the truth by the time I get to the well researched ending. How does this happen- especially when we are talking historical fiction where the event is factual and there is no room for error? Intuition is a fascinating thing, that while it begs to be acknowledged has little ego for being understood.

With many peripheral questions still waiting for answers, I will consult with the detective/medium before the week is out to get more answers. For the moment I have enough information to speculate how Charley was murdered- a good idea of who did it and what some of the possible motives may have been… what I need now is confirmation of these suspicions. Because motive gives only cause as to why a person might consider a criminal act—but not always as to what finally tipped it from thought to action. I think you can agree that many of us have had moments where we desperately wish a certain thing would go right for us- without being cognizant that sometimes the cost is that a certain thing then must go very wrong for someone else.

The night of October 9, 1966 went very wrong for Charley. I want to prove who it went right for!

2/24/10
I am reminded today of a song that was sung by Peggy Lee. Those of you old enough to remember her will remember this song… “Is That All There Is”. Know then that I have fought with both head and heart these last few days over information I have received. Incriminating information that, to the best of my knowledge was never been made available to the public. Information from the face of justice itself. Information that could have altered the course of countless lives- their destinies, their legacies and those of their children’s children. Information that could have changed the face of an entire community. The receipt of this information has escalated and propelled this case into a higher stratosphere than ever I could have imagined.

It is one thing to suspect a thing… it is another to find it an absolute. For where does one go from there, but to those who share in the responsibility for its execution? There is an unwritten responsibility that comes with knowledge of the absolute. A pact of scared trust between the gods who have granted such intercessions and the recipients there of. A pact which begs of both to use whatever spoils distributed- be put to use for the betterment of mankind. That these gifts of information be reviewed with omnipotent eye, governed with clarity of mind and dispensed with purity of heart. Each day I work this case, I find I ask for more patience and guidance from those who lead me. Now too I must ask for their temperance and wisdom; for solid counsel and a steely stomach to digest and ruminate what I have discerned.

Whatever part of me once thought writing this book would remain the better part of folly, no longer entertains such naiveté. Knowledge of a crime, without the sharing of that knowledge…makes one as guilty as the perpetrator if that is where one’s integrity in the matter ends. Knowledge of, and silence about– begets collusion. I cannot in good conscience sit idly beside and share in the duplicity of another’s ego. No matter the intention or perceived nobility of the act. Silence is not the right of the observer. It is the right of the victim to choose what is and is not shared! As Betty Davis once said in one of her films (All About Eve, I believe)… “Hold on to your seats! It’s going to be a bumpy ride!”

As of today, I take off the kid gloves and prepare to do real battle with those living who have information… with those living who withheld information and those dead who took that information silently to the grave!

2/23/10
Today I write with heavy heart. A very dear friend of mine told me when I began this to be careful. That once I opened Pandora’s box… I would not be able to put the lid back on it. They were right.

I apologize in advance if it feels as though I have taken on the mantle of witch hunter. I have not. I am merely frustrated by the difficulties of my research. So many files unavailable, or in my ignorance of due process—out of my reach. I continue to hone skill sets of investigation, yet irony finds that sometimes it matters not how I approach this situation- but how unable I am to affect its outcome. Sometimes articles and documents simply no longer exist. Still I go back to the fact that this man was employed by our Federal Treasury Department and that, in and of itself should have warranted some kind of immemorial paper trail. While I beat my chest and caterwaul about the inconsistencies of due process of law in this case… I am reminded that this was another time and another place from my own experience. People there and then suffered under watchful eyes that held both power of life and death. Players who held all the cards and dealt from the bottom of the deck, because there was no one more powerful to tell them they couldn’t. It is a caricature of a world that I have little natural bearings to navigate in. I am a Midwestern gal… land of practicality, corn, pigs and black dirt. I did not understand even the most colloquial of sayings when I first ventured south of the Mason Dixon over 30 years ago. Terminologies such as; ‘frog stranglers’ and ‘gully washers’ figured not in my limited repertoire. ‘Jerk a knot in your tail’, ‘just being ugly’ or ‘down the road a fair piece’ were things of uncommon literature and not one’s daily vernacular. Further, I fully confess to be stymied by the thought that indoor furniture eventually suffices as outdoor furniture once completely devoid of all practical use… or that sweet iced tea could become a preferred breakfast drink. While these and other such southern idiosyncrasies plagued my early arrival, I always tried to understand the people who shared them. In that vein, it makes more sense that Charley has asked me to be point guard on this project. That and my sheer ignorance of any dangers involved in reopening this local wound.

As I told his daughter,” Maybe I’m not smart enough to know I shouldn’t be asking these questions…” So I am hopefully then, that those I press for answers are tolerant of my ignorance and share with me whatever they can in my desire to help solve the mystery of the coffee pot conspiracy and Charley Covington’s murder.

To those of you who have helped me thus far I give great, good thanks and return to my task. Pounding the metaphorical streets like a cop, going over and over my interview(s) notes there is a pattern that has emerged. Something mentioned that corroborated information from the journal and several interviews. There was a reference in the journal to “other work” Charley had been working on that would have placed him in danger. I talked with another former law enforcement officer last week who told me he had seen Charley at the courthouse late one night while he was covering the desk for someone. When he asked Charley what he was doing out so late at night… Charley told him he was getting ready to go meet a guy in Lake Park to get some information. When the Trooper asked him what he was working on, Charley told him he couldn’t tell him yet, but that it was big. When the trooper asked him how big? Charley replied, “Big enough to blow this county wide open!” (According to several others interviewed, he had said that to at least two other individuals.) The Trooper cautioned him to be careful and to let someone know where he was going at all times for safety reasons. And that preferably he should not go alone.

Two weeks later Charley was dead! Dead after getting a phone call from Henderson, the snitch about an alleged “moonshine deal” that went down every Sunday night between 9:30 P.M. and 10:00 P.M. out by the river on Clyattville-Nankin and Rocky Ford Roads respectively.

Everyone from the funeral home ambulance attendants to the State Troopers who worked the scene that night saw the body and said it wasn’t suicide. One individual (a first responder) said Charley’s body was laid out like he was already at the funeral home; legs straight, left arm across his chest and his right out to his side holding the gun. (Which of course does not jive with print reports that say he was face down, with the gun under his belly.) First responders agreed Charley could not have killed himself and the physical evidence at the scene that night bore that out. (This is why crime scene photos would be so important to have.)

Two interviewed, told me the Deputy Sheriff arrived on the scene hours later that night, drunk as a skunk. So drunk that he could not stand straight and fell against the car, while announcing in slurred voice he’d be taking over the investigation. (Incidentally, certain witness information given by other first responders never sees the light of day again once the Deputy Sheriff has it in his hands. Information that does not get disseminated before or after the inquest. But more importantly… questions that never got asked because certain people were not notified of the inquest hearing until after it had happened.)

So that begs the question? Why were these people kept out of the loop? Why would their testimony and/or presence have been so threatening if the local law was so convinced that it was suicide? What were they afraid of? And why didn’t the other Federal investigators follow the clear leads from the crime scene itself? How many shells actually were spent from Charley’s gun that night as opposed to how many bullets were pulled from his body? And why didn’t other agencies question the mere impracticality presented by the logistics of the crime scene?

The obvious questions are the easy ones.
For example:
How many bullets were taken from the victim’s head?
Answer: Two.

The less than obvious questions that should have been asked.
How many shots were fired? How many shells were spent?
Answer: More than two!

WHY?

And there are others not quite so obvious that must be asked too. Questions like; if this road was such a hot bed of moonshine action… how many more times did the local law and ATTD work that specific stretch of road after Charley was killed. Who took Henderson’s (the snitch’s) calls after that? Or… is that where the calls ended? Local scuttlebutt places two men and one woman at the crime scene? Who were they and why was there no follow up on such rumblings? Rumors generally have a small speck of truth in them somewhere, so… why did they spend only three weeks investigating? Why the rush to inquest and why not re-open the case after reclassification? I have other questions as a matter of curiosity. Questions like; when did Charley’s partner arrive on scene that night? Did he know about the “big” project Charley was working on? And why was he later transferred out of state? Who was it Charley was meeting out in Lake Park late at night that was giving him regular information? And was this “big something” Charley was working on, the huge illegal gambling ring that involved the Valdosta Amusement Company and the Fraternal Order of Eagles? The very same crime ring that Edward Wray Crockett Jr. and Jewell Futch were indicted and sentenced to prison for almost ten years later?

Those would be interesting questions to find answers for, don’t you think? My misfortune is that there does not seem to be much of a paper trail on this and that so many of those involved are now dead. A Federal Agent was killed… where’s the file? I can see the loss locally for reasons I shall expose later. But I should think there would be standard protocol to keep files on any events that lead to the subsequent death of an agent in the employ of the Federal government. It seems odd to me that we can track the path John Wilkes Booth took after jumping from the box seats in Ford’s Theatre, but we can’t track down a file on a Federal Agent killed in the line of duty in 1966?

2/17/10

With generosity of spirit and compassionate guidance, I continue to be led to people still living that played a role in the events of that evening- not the perpetrators, mind you- but peripheral innocents that became a part of the story through mere association. Thus far I have been aided by sources that I shall keep close to my vest… but they have been marvelous in raking through years of memories and misconceptions about the circumstances surrounding that night.

The transcript from this point forward, names too many names. Not be mindful of the fallout that would ensue after, would be irresponsible. Some of what could be printed would not be much in the way of surprise, as their names appeared in various print media of the time for infractions and suspicions both large and small. In fact almost all the names connected and woven throughout the transcript of my session have seen ink from time to time. But as I say, to be fair to those who cannot deny or defend themselves in the here and now, I shall wait until I have all the pieces to the puzzle before I take to print with my educated theory.

The more I read and the more I hear…I am convinced that this case should be re-opened. Life in Lowndes County; Valdosta in particular at the time was managed by many, but governed by few. Men drunk with power, libation and opportunity committed crimes of unspeakable horror without fear of recrimination. A Federal Treasury Agent was killed and yet the scream of outrage never came from the collective brotherhood of law enforcement there. Only from the widow and a handful of independents brave enough to cry foul play. Those few who found their voices, learned all to soon that they would bounce most singularly between the pines of the Clyattville –Nankin Road swamps without echo to follow. Those few, who continually sought assistance from the local law, asking… why and how such a travesty could have happened, found their answers in the form of home invasions and errant bullets. Innocents, that asked why such an investigation was never turned over (before and/or after the reclassification) to a trained and impartial law enforcement agency for further discovery?

And what kind of gullibility ran rampant within the State and Federal agencies involved in that investigation that they could not see the crime scene read like a bad Mickey Spillane novel? Decision makers who swallowed local law whole and did not vomit on the garbage they were fed? Those men and those agencies who obstructed the due process of the law, I hold responsible for the rush to Coroner’s Inquest and the subsequent misclassification of Charley’s death. How dare these men who carried both badge and gun, be allowed even in death to call themselves ambassadors of justice.

An unfaithful brotherhood, that could not step outside themselves for one brief moment to understand the damage of the legacy they helped to build by their ambiguity and apathy in the wake of Charley’s passing. Should not those who committed these crimes and this abuse stand before the court of public opinion and be called to answer for the damage that they have wrought? When it comes to an unsolved murder, which I believe is the case with Charley; I can say without hesitation that justice delayed- should not remain justice denied! I share in the frustration of a soul who has wandered above the veil of this earth since 1966 patiently awaiting his chance to speak his truth and ask… where are the heroes who would step forth gladly and resurrect this man’s name along with this case so that the truth of October 9, 1966 become known?

Keep talking Charley… I’m listening.

(Session Transcript cont.)

“She began again…
He is showing me a letter G. It is a name. A unisex name; it can be either male or female. Do you understand this?
I nod. She continues.
The G is perpetrator—suspected. G- He shows me an injury. He shows me his heart- broken heart. Injuries endured from this person— both emotional/physical. The reaction seems more current than it should be. He has not had enough time to process.
He is showing me a red car… or a red truck.
He is showing me a tire… an impact. A domestic dispute that happened before this event.*

(* It is unclear as to whether this dispute is between Charley and his wife or Charley and G. Though if one were to parse words, I believe it would be referring to dispute at home. There is confirmation that such an argument took place within the house the day of his disappearence.)
G has to do with abdominal impact. Perhaps emotional or physical. A shock, something unexpected. Something others would have known about. He keeps referring to G as someone who moves from hurting an animal without conscience to hurting a human without the same.
He continues to show me a tire. Showing me the impact. A shock, an unexpected blow- his body moving back and forth from the tire.

At this point she asks to see something personal of his. An article of his… I hand her the plastic baggie holding the wallet. She removes it carefully and runs it over in her hands and then opens it and asks, “Was it wet?” I nod confirmation.
She tells me he breaks in to ask about his daughter.
She asks if I understand. I nod. ‘Does he have a daughter?
I nod confirmation. She says he keeps repeating, “My little girl. My little girl…”
He is showing her a location. It is woodsy… there is water… swampy.
She asks if I understand. I nod in confirmation.
She asks me to tell her where this might be. I give her the information I have about the Clyatteville- Nankin Road where his body was found. She asks if there is water. I nod confirmation. There is a river (Withlacoochee River) that acts as border between Brooks County Florida and Lowndes County Georgia. His body was found approximately 1000 yards from a river.
She asks if the area is swampy. I nod confirmation.

She continues.

He is showing me things. He is showing me injuries he has suffered from this person before, leading up to… He is showing me an object. I will try to describe using something I recognize. It is a tool. A tool you might find in your garage.
May I borrow your pen?
I hand her my pen and she begins to draw what appears to be a small coping saw.
Do you understand?
The tool is like this. The handle is like this and the other areas are jagged edges, like a saw blade.
Do you recognize such a tool? I nod confirmation.

May I tell you something? She nods.

He built houses on the side. I believe this to be a coping saw. It is a fine saw used for delicate carpentry work- angles on chair rails, quarter rounds for base boards. She thanks me and admits it is outside her scope.

He is very definite about this tool. He shows me lacerations from this tool. He concentrates on his arms again.
He is showing me about G. She is showing me, G =’s “that bitch”.

She advises me; they do not judge on the other side, but he is showing me so that I might understand what he felt about G.

He is showing me another object.
May I borrow your pen again? He is showing me a mallet or a gavel type object. It has a handle like this and a T shaped top.
I asked if the T portion at the top was elongated or cropped.
She responds …cropped, like a judges gavel. But not to say it was a judge’s gavel.
He is showing me an older man with a lot of money. He shows me the letters, L and T. Again he shows me G and shows “that bitch”.
There is an association- a connection between G and the older man LT.
He then shows me the tire and a secondary injury/second to an initial impact. Something impacted first at abdomen. I am uncertain if this is physical or emotional.

Next; he is showing me the area on the back of his head. There is energy from the side. This is the first definite physical impact.
He is showing me a second energy on the left side of his head -a second impact. First impact a blow, then the second to the left area of the head. Great energy there. Do you understand? Do you know what this is?

I nod confirmation and ask if I may tell her something. She nods.

I tell her there were bruises found to the back of his head and that the fatal shot was behind and just above his left ear.
(I do not mention the other wound to the chin as I am assuming that will be demonstrated next.)
She acknowledges and he shows her energy to the left side of his head.
(At this point I wanted to ask about the second wound, but hold my tongue as she is trying to redirect.)
He is showing me G. He is showing me; black widow, calculated, evil.
Do you understand what this means? Do you know who this is?

At this point I ask her if I can tell her who this is. She nods confirmation and says yes.”

What if it really is all about the hokey-pokey?

This was not only the wording on a bumper sticker that my sister found, but the running gag between myself, my mother and my youngest sister. (AKA my cosmic twin.) The Hokey-Pokey, while a very animated dance generally known to accompany wedding receptions, Bar and Batmitzpha at a point when most patrons are duly baptized with libations… was also the code name my father gave to the curious fascination the three of us shared about all things commonly seen as taboo. Things like; near death experiences, life after death, clairvoyance, paranormal activities, locutions, synchronicity and various other abnormal disciplines that give persons of religious fervor heart palpitations. In sharing with a few siblings the revelations of last Friday in regards to my parents, the comment was made how ironic that my father would have made an appearance, as it was he first and foremost that insisted such an alliance would be seen an act against our Catholic upbringing. My answer to that now is, apparently it’s never too late to teach an old dog new tricks! And seeing how my father now has the upper hand when it comes to knowledge of what it is or is not taboo as seen through the eyes of eternal love, I remark and applaud his participation throughout the experience. What I witnessed last Friday; in having an opportunity to receive not only pertinent information about this case, but having shared a reunion with my parents; tells me that in deed there are greater things in heaven and earth than man can comprehend. So for my siblings, I grant you the gift of confirmation, that great love can indeed pierce the veil of death and that your parents are together and happy to be so. As much as we like to think we spend our days walking paths alone, Friday has taught me that we do not. Those we love and have lost are always at our side. So it seems my friends, it turns out in the end that the bumper sticker was right after all! In the vernacular of the peasantry then let me say to you all, as insane as it may sound…

It REALLY is… all about the Hokey-Pokey! (For you dad.)

As for the transcripts:
I need to get some logistical issues taken care of before I commit further to pen for you here. I see now I will not be able to share the entire transcript with you in this format for the following reasons. Firstly, this is an ongoing investigation for me and I have several unanswered questions that I must find resolution to before going to print. Secondly, there are names… places and people who will be called to task by what has been revealed to me. Many who have passed and so cannot defend or deny their actions. In fairness to them, I will be seeking counsel for what should happen next and will schedule another meeting with the expert to continue to flesh out the circumstances and players of that night and the reasons for why they would commit such a crime.

Once small talk and instructions had ended… the session began in earnest. Without fanfare or warning, she told me a man had come to visit her two days prior. She had been in her car and when she looked up, he was walking towards her. She made a mental note at the time that she felt he might have something to do with me. Two days earlier she had had a visitation. Two days earlier I had begged Charley to talk to me. Apparently that’s when he had started the conversation. Now two days later, it was all I could do to try and catch up.

The recollection and description she gave me is as follows:

A man came towards me, looking as though he had been sitting in a mossy mess for quite some time. He appeared damp, wet, moldy…
He came to visit two days ago. He was murky looking-as if he was coming through water. His clothing… how to put this? Best description—zombie-ish. He was not a zombie- but appeared zombie-ish. He wanted to find out about his skin. Obsessed and very confused about his skin. He was showing me wounds, lacerations…fixating on his arms. He was rancorous.

I did not know who this person was, but felt that he must have had something to do with the author, TA. He appeared and left without word.

My gut became pinched with bile. Two days ago I had asked for him to make contact. At this point the waiter came by and asked for our order. My stomach lurched at the thought of receiving more acid- even high dollar acid, so I searched the menu for something with fewer octanes. She opted for a specialty hot chocolate. I applauded her choice and echoed a similar selection with caramel. Not more than three minutes into the session, my most auspicious moments thus far had now been interrupted by a waiter, but it was a blessing in disguise. Without electrical outlet at my disposal, I surmised my lap top battery had a shelf life of about 45 minutes. Not nearly long enough to record everything imparted, if infact I was lucky enough to have Charley make an appearance at all. In the wake of our waiter’s departure, I acknowledged my lack of recording device and asked if I might run out to my car and trade my computer back pack in for my writing pad. She agreed and I donned my coat and rushed out the door into the pelting rain to secure. Upon my return, she told me the man with the moldy skin had escorted me back in. I pulled off my coat, sank into my chair and opened my notebook. In silence, I positioned my pen above a blank page of paper and began recording the remainder of what you will now see here… all the while bearing in mind I was in the presence of an entity, I came to believe as Charles Gordon Covington, Julie’s deceased father.