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YEAR SIX BEGINS |
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WITH US FROM YEAR FOUR |
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GIFT |
Maybe it could help him find people as well. |
HENRY TRIED SO HARD TO BE HELPFUL, BUT...
By RAY DREYFACK
of TheColumnists.com
Henry Wilson, 57, was short, bald, and ordinary. Except
for one thing. He discovered at an early age that he possessed
psychic abilities. Henry Wilson was an accountant with an unaccountable
blessing or curse.
A student of the famed psychic, Edgar Cayce, he could close his
earnest pale blue eyes, transform himself into an altered state,
and disclose the location of lost or hidden objects. From time
to time this gift had proven useful.
The Wilsons were childless. Twenty years ago his wife Irma, a
fretful woman with chemically discolored reddish brown hair,
had lost their baby in childbirth.
Irma, who forever misplaced and lost things, was especially appreciative
of Henry's gift. One day, for example, she couldn't find a pearl
necklace her husband, in a splurging mood, had given her for
their 25th anniversary. Irma, a suspicious woman, had hidden
the necklace prior to the arrival of a new cleaning woman. But
where? She and Henry searched the apartment high, low, and in
between.
With a heartfelt sigh--for working himself into an altered state
was a strain-producing experience--Henry did his thing and told
Irma, "Check the striped shoe box on the top shelf of the
closet." Sure enough, the necklace was there.
"How did you know?" Irma asked for the umpteenth time.
Henry shrugged. "I just knew."
Irma shook her head. She couldn't get over it.
For years Wilson's gift was more a blessing than curse. But that
wasn't destined to last.
One day a tragic story
appeared in the Sun-Sentinel. Patty Benson, a pretty 11-year-old
Fort Lauderdale girl, was reported missing. She had been on her
way home from school and had never arrived. Search teams were
dispersed. Helicopters and dogs. Neighbors, relatives, and friends.
Patty was a happy child, not the type to run off. Had she been
kidnapped? Was she still alive? Specialists were called in. Days
faded into weeks. Patty's parents were distraught. Mrs. Benson
was on the verge of a breakdown.
Wilson was moved by the story. For three days after work he joined
in the search and prayed for Patty to be found safe and unharmed.
One morning at work a thought occurred to him. His psychic gift
helped him find things. Maybe it could help him find people as
well. On impulse, he worked himself into the semi-hypnotic state
that had led to the disclosure of Irma's pearls and other items.
Shaking and incredulous, he emerged from the trance barely able
to hold back his tears. He left the office and took a cab to
the local precinct.
"What can I do for you?"
The desk officer had a mustache the color of rotting seaweed,
was in his fifties, and 30 pounds overweight.
Wilson spoke with difficulty, emotion leaked from his voice.
"I know where the Benson girl's body is located."
The policeman gave him a long baleful look. "Yeah? How do
you know that?"
"I just know."
The officer's expression said, oh brother, one of those. But
he had been taught not to brush off any citizen, however weird.
"Wait here." He picked up the phone.
Within moments another policeman appeared. A large red-faced
man who wore a nameplate that read Detective Lieutenant Travis
Connor.
"What can I do for you, sir?"
Wilson repeated what he had told the desk officer. The policemen
exchanged glances.
"Is that so?" Connor said. "Where's the body?"
Wilson named a specific place in the Everglades.
Connor was a conscientious cop. Sighing, he took Wilson's name,
home and office addresses and phone numbers and said they would
check it out. Wilson left. He had done all he could.
The cop dispatched to the Everglades found the girl's
body at the exact spot Wilson had specified.
Twenty-four minutes later Connor and his partner appeared in
the reception room of Cooper Auto Parts. The alarmed receptionist
summoned Mr. Cooper himself.
"You have a Henry Wilson employed here?"
"Why, yes, what -- ?"
"Please get him out here."
"Yes sir, at once." Cooper picked up the phone and
relayed the message to Jeff Morgan, Wilson's supervisor. Morgan
came hurrying out trailed by Wilson.
Connor took him by the arm. "Let's go, buddy."
Henry Wilson was stunned. "What -- ?"
Connor tightened the grip on his arm. "Move it, pal. We'll
talk at the station."
The receptionist looked on in horror as Connor read him his rights.
At the station Captain Harold Rainey was new to the precinct.
Detective Connor took over, wasting no time or words.
"Let's have it, Wilson. How did you know where the body
was?"
"I'm psychic. I have - "
"Don't bullshit a bullshitter. We know you killed her? When
did you dump the body? Tell the truth now and it'll go easier
later."
Captain Rainey didn't care for Connor's approach. But Connor
was a tough and experienced cop, Rainey a political appointee.
He didn't interfere.
Connor's mind was set hard as reinforced concrete. No way could
this dirtbag know where the body was if he wasn't the perp.
They pumped him all afternoon. They subjected him to good-cop-bad-cop
treatment. They brought in interrogation experts. Wilson was
terrified and sweating, but they were unable to break him. In
the end they let him go.
Rainey muttered to Connor, "I hope you know what you're
doing. They say some psychics-- "
"--They say a lot of things. We'll get this s.o.b. Trust
me."
They put plain-clothes men on Henry's tail 24/7.
HENRY WILSON, PSYCHIC OR KILLER?
The story made the Sun-Sentinel's front page and hung there for
days.
Readers were invited to write, call in, or e-mail their opinions.
Results were tablulated. Sixty-eight percent voted killer, 27
percent psychic; the rest were noncommittal.
One reader e-mailed in to inform that Henry Wilson could be the
famed psychic Edgar Cayce reincarnated.
Henry's life turned into a nightmare. He was not challenged openly.
But scores of eyes were distressingly eloquent. His cronies at
work stopped chowing with him. His boss was suddenly distant
and cold. Friendly neighbors turned hostile. Irma was a nervous
wreck. Her bridge game was cancelled. Her mother urged her to
move out and stay with her. She said she would stick it out for
a while.
"He didn't do it, Mom."
"How can you be sure?"
The question worried her.
Eight days later a nine-year-old honor student named
Billy Sawyer was found missing. Again, an all-points search was
conducted. Every resource was brought into the picture. Days
dissolved into weeks. William Sawyer, the father, with reporters
hot on his trail, appeared at the precinct and demanded to see
the officer in charge.
Captain Rainey couldn't have been more sympathetic. He made every
effort to be calm and appease the distraught man. "We're
doing the best we can."
"Apparently, it's not good enough."
"Sir, I can understand how-- "
"You don't understand a damn thing." Sawyer demanded
he call Henry Wilson.
"There are cases on record where psychics . . . "
"I don't think that's a good idea, Mr. Sawyer. Wilson is
under suspicion himself."
"You have nothing to lose."
The guy had a point. Rainey blew out his cheeks. He instructed
the switchboard to call Wilson at his office.
"Mr. Wilson, you read about the Sawyer girl who is missing
- ?"
Wilson hung up the phone.
Rainey looked at Sawyer helplessly. "We can't force the
man to cooperate."
Sawyer rose and stormed out of the precinct.
That evening Wilson's phone rang at home.
The poor woman could barely identify herself. She was in tears,
pleading, inarticulate between sobs. Her husband took over the
call. "Mr. Wilson, we believe in your power. Please. As
a father I appeal to you. We need closure. If you have an ounce
of compassion - "
" - I'm sorry, sir, I can't. My life is a nightmare."
"Mr. Wilson, we're desperate. My wife is under sedation."
"I'm sorry."
He hung up.
Irma stood close by looking grimmer than ever.
Henry couldn't sleep. The call preyed on his conscience all night.
At 7:30 AM, ignoring the quiet prods of good sense, he worked
himself into a semi-hypnotic state. Worst fears realized, he
checked the Sawyers' number in the phone book and broke the bad
news.
At 8:20 a.m. Wilson left for the office. More frightened than
ever, he waited for the bombshell to explode.
They found the body three feet from the spot he had specified.
Minutes later they came for him. Detective Connor,
with two cops in tow. "Damn you, Wilson!"
Once again Connor read him his rights. They trundled him into
a squad car and sped him to headquarters. Psychologists and specialists
interrogated him well into the night. For the second time they
were unable to break him and had to let him go.
Connor's rage knew no bounds. The surveillance was doubled.
This time the story broke nationally and worldwide. SERIAL
KILLER WHO WON'T CONFESS. New York Daily News. THE UNBREAKABLE
HENRY WILSON. New York Times. WILSON: SERIAL KILLER OR
PSYCHIC, London Times.
Irma resembled the angel of doom.
Next morning Wilson went into the office. His time card was not
in the rack. The receptionist could not meet his eyes. She picked
up the telephone. His supervisor appeared within moments.
"Henry, I'm sorry…" Morgan tried to shift responsibility.
"It's not fair, but Mr. Cooper feels a three-month leave
of absence would be best for all concerned."
Whatever money was due would be mailed to him.
Wilson trudged the streets for hours. When it started to rain
he went home and parked his car three blocks away to keep it
from being molested. Irma was in bed and under medication.
Days flowed into weeks. The reporters wouldn't leave him alone.
Petitions were signed in an effort to make him leave the neighborhood.
Real estate agents harassed him.
Then one day another story knocked all else off the front page.
The wife of U.S. Senator Elliot Page had disappeared. She had
been headed in her Porsche for Fort Lauderdale International
Airport and a flight booked to Washington. The Porsche was found
in the Broward Mall parking lot. Empty.
On the heels of the Billy Sawyer and Patty Benson murders, pressure
on the police department from parents, religious groups, the
press, and most of all Senator Page, a fiercely desperate man,
was overwhelming. Police Chief Shumler spent half the day mopping
his brow.
The D.A. popped pills by the handful.
Gov. Jeb Bush called in an uncontrolled rage demanding action.
Shumler's response was mouse-voiced and meek. "We have half
the force looking for him, sir. We've got search specialists
from out of state. Helicopters, dogs, the works. What else can
we do?"
"That's not my problem," Bush snapped back, "but
whatever it is you better do it damn fast if you value your job."
"Yes sir."
At wit's end Shumler confronted Captain Rainey. "Have you
called that nut who claims he's a psychic?"
"Sir, I couldn't - "
" - Don't give me 'couldn't', damn you! Get your butt on
the ball!"
Rainey had no choice. Not surprisingly, Wilson hung up on him.
Henry peeked out the window. News trucks, police cars, and other
vehicles blocked the street bumper to bumper. A helicopter hovered
overhead. Reporters crowded the front steps of his house. They
pounded on the door, demanding that he come out. Curiosity seekers
hung by in droves. He couldn't even get out of the house.
His wife had already left him.
Irrationally, the disappearance of the senator's wife disturbed
him mightily. At some time during the night, rejecting all logical
wisdom, discarding all common sense, he found himself slowly
drifting into self-hypnosis…drifting… drifting…
Henry cagily escaped from his house before daybreak through the
back entrance and managed to get to his car.
At 9 a.m. he called Detective Lieutenant Connor on his cell phone.
He was connected at once.
"Wilson! Jesus! What -- ?"
"I know where the body is."
"You do? Where, for God's sake!"
As he had done in the past, Wilson specified an exact location.
Within minutes, with Captain
Rainey and three squad cars in pursuit, Connor and the entourage
raced to the spot. The hump in the underbrush was apparent from
a distance.
As they drew closer Connor gazed down at the body. His face,
horror stricken, turned the sickly color of ashes.
Wilson's head was a bloody mess. His cell phone was at his side.
©2004 by Ray Dreyfack.
The illustration is from IMSI's Master Clips Collection, 1895
Francisco Blvd. E., San Rafael, CA, 94901-5506, USA.
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