Unusual, yes, but there was a familiarity between us that allowed for the less than formal setting; in fact, it all but demanded it.

Helen had come into my life during a period when I truly thought I was going insane. In fact, at the time, I was fairly sure that I had already been delivered to madness’ doorstep. Of course, discovering that you can communicate with the dead can tend to do that to a person, and at that point I had already been living with that very affliction for quite some time.

To be truthful, I hadn’t been falling all over myself to talk to a psychiatrist when it was suggested. My immediate assumption was that I would be labeled insane, instantly medicated, and carted off to the land of straightjackets and padded rooms. However, considering that the deceased individuals with whom I had been having conversations were all murder victims, and I’d been spending an inordinate amount of time helping the police track down their killers, I needed to vent to someone. I had been seeing things that seasoned cops had trouble dealing with, and I had been experiencing them on a far grander scale than photographs or even the physical crime scene. I saw through the eyes, and felt through the bodies, of the victims.

No, these were things that truly didn’t need to remain shuttered away in my subconscious.

In the end, a good friend of mine who was a Saint Louis city homicide detective, and also happened to be Helen’s brother, had argued that I needed to at least give her a chance. Of course, my wife had been directly involved in the “intervention” as well. Between the two of them, the pressure on me to seek outside help dealing with my “gift” had been relentless.

Fortunately, they had won the skirmish because Helen’s counsel had seen me through some very pitch darkness, both then and countless times since. In fact, her understanding ear and uncanny ability to guide one through his or her own psyche had developed into an invaluable resource.