Chapter 5

I was jogging on the track. Boring, but something I did to create stamina. I had little weights on my ankles, and on my wrists. It is amazing how just a few ounces of weight can cause your muscles to ache faster, and your body to work harder!

The track was a quarter mile oval. Four times around was a mile, and I was on the third circuit of my second mile. Just one more mile to go, thank god! Five more trips around the oval and I could hit the showers. That's when I noticed the older man on the side of the track waving at me.

I immediately thought something had happened to my mom! I slowed and came up to him at a brisk walk. He fell in with me, and asked if I were Tom Wilshire. I said yes, and asked how I might help him.

"I'm Robert Simpson, from the Bugler. I came across a very curious thing recently, and tracked it down to you," he said with an intent look.

I felt like I had been kicked in my stomach. The Bugler was the paper I had sent the evidence I had collected about my town mayor and state representative's illegal activities. I just didn't see how he could connect that to me though. I had been very careful.

"I am sure I have no idea what you're talking about, so please, feel free to fill me in," I said.

I walked over to the bleachers, and grabbed my stuff there. While it was cold now, running tended to warm me up nicely. Now that I had stopped, I was going to become cold very quickly. I put my jacket on as I continued my 'cool down' walk.

"You're 'The Psychic'," he made it a statement, not a question.

"I am?" I asked.

He chuckled, and said, "You do 'innocence', very well. Let me tell you why I think you're the Psychic. I have checked with the local paper here, and you have written to them a couple times. Mostly, you help the police solve difficult cases. Now, you were home on vacation, and POW, 'The Psychic' shows up in our neck of the woods..." I interrupted him.

"There are probably hundreds of thousands, millions of school kids all over the country, and you pin this psychic thing on me? I don't buy that because I show up at home, it has to be me," I said, amused.

He was shaking his head and said, "I understand, and I would agree with you except for one thing. You TYPED your letter on a typewriter. It has a flaw in one of the keys. You're father used to write letters to the editor frequently, and the editor recognized where this letter had to have come from," he said nailing me with proof I could not really fight.

He continued. "We have already been out to your mother's house. We asked if we could see her typewriter. She was most accommodating. We typed up a few lines and they match, in every case. No, you're 'The Psychic'. By the way, we didn't 'out' you to her. We told her we had gone over older letters to the editor and were verifying that this was indeed the address and typewriter that wrote such good opinions. We awarded her a free year's subscription to the paper as a cover," he said smiling.

"Well, that was kind of you. Dad loved your paper, and thought you did good pieces on government waste," I said continuing my walk. He kept right up with me.

"Thanks. Would you care to make a comment for the paper?" he asked, holding out a tape recorder.

I thought furiously. I could deny this, but it would raise suspicions, and they would be on me like stink on shit. I opted for a second idea that I had thought out long ago.

"Yes, I am 'The Psychic'. Look, let's go back to my room, and we'll talk," I said leading the way. I assumed he would follow me, and he did.

Fifteen minutes later we were seated at my small table with coffee before us, in my dorm room. I had asked him to turn off the recorder, but said he could take notes if he wished.

I spun him the tale I had ready, and had actually practiced. I had put some truth into it, but had made up a lot, also. In truth, I had thought this out over the years, and had what I thought was a good story ready.

He was thoughtful as he left, and said he understood my position. I thanked him for listening, and said I hoped he would keep my name out of it. He said he would send me a copy of the story when it was published. I was on pins and needles for almost a week, when an envelope with my name and address on it, arrived from out of town.

Inside was a brief note, and a copy of the Bugler's story on me! I read both with fear, which turned into relief! I read the note first. It said the following:

Dear Tom,

You were right. As soon as the story hit the street, the switchboard was hit with literally hundreds of calls from people wanting to be put in touch with you. I fully understand your point of view, and I will be keeping your identity a close secret.

Sincerely,

Robert.

I put the letter down. I picked up and unfolded the column he had sent me to read. As I read it, I relaxed. The reporter had been very kind, and I knew I had someone in my corner from the media! Here is what it said:

A Psychic's Story
By
Robert Simpson

The Bugler first became aware of this person, who signs all his correspondence simply 'The Psychic', months ago. I know, there are lots of psychics out there in this day and age. Ms. Cleo comes to mind. Unlike Ms. Cleo and her ilk, this young man has an impressive resume, and he does not charge three ninety nine a minute for his help.

This unassuming young man is probably in the same league as Nostradamus. Unlike Nostradamus who saw the future, this young man sees what has gone before. He sees the past as you or I view a film.

His first time seeing something that had happened was when he got off the bus from visiting relatives out of town. A friend's dog had gone missing and he helped find it. As a matter of fact, he said he he was accused of taking the dog to begin with! How else could he go directly to the dog?

After being accused, but then vindicated when his bus ticket showed his innocence, he made a decision never to go public with his ability. Still, he wanted to help. His major problem was and is, that he has no way to control this ability. It comes and goes as it wills. He says he has tried to get some sort of control of it, but that control is still beyond his abilities.

He helps out the police in the college town where he is a student. No, they do not know who he is, but they do take seriously any notes or letters he may send them. One officer (speaking only with a guarantee of anonymity) said it was positively eerie the way this guy got it, and got it right! He also got it right every time, as if he were watching the crime happen.

This young man just wants a college education. He does not want to be paid for his services. He says he is reluctant to go public since he has no control over this ability. I agree with him. How would you feel, if you had a loved one missing, and went to this young man only to be told: "I can't help you?" How would you feel, if you were that young man?

He is more than happy to help out when and where he can. But his help is sporadic, at best. So I take my hat off to this 'reluctant psychic', and pray that he gets some sort of control over this ability at some point in the future. I will keep his identity a secret. I respect what he has done, and I respect him as a person. I wish him well in his chosen work, and hope he continues to help out when he can.

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