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happened” to be warehoused in the classroom I was in at that time.
    And I never question my gut. Because my gut has gotten me where I am today. My gut allowed me to survive my own childhood hell and it’s led me to solve homicide case after homicide case for more than seven years.
    Writing about this whole ordeal has been cathartic for me. I feel a bit lighter right now. Maybe Sergeant Weyler was onto something when he suggested I do this. It sure as hell beats being psychoanalyzed by a Freud-loving woman with a mauve toilet.

YOU’RE ONLY AS SICK AS YOUR SECRETS
    My younger brother, Mike, is engaged to be married. Good for him. But the wedding won’t be for an entire year . I personally don’t understand long engagements. To me, it’s either do it or don’t do it, but don’t keep me in suspense. I have to get him a present, and if he thinks it’s not going to work with his fiancée, I’d like him to give me a heads-up so I don’t have to keep track of the sales receipt in case I have to return his gift.
    To further complicate my brother’s whole engagement, he and his fiancée, Lisa, decided that they needed to drag it out by first having a “spiritual blessing” by a “shaman.” Mike, if you’re reading this (and I know you’re reading this), why in the hell did we have to drag our asses across two states and end up in Sedona? If the attraction was the New Agers,
we could have packed a lunch and driven over the hill to the Socialist Republic of Boulder, Colorado. It’s infinitely closer than Sedona and I could have escaped the gathering sooner.
    I hope Mike doesn’t hire this “shaman” to marry him because I don’t think that quack has a license to do anything except wave a turkey feather and blow sweetgrass smoke in your face. I keep putting “shaman” in quotes because when I think of a real shaman , I think of a four-foot, ten-inch, oilyskinned Peruvian male wearing nothing but a loincloth and a piercing stare and carrying a humble walking stick. I don’t think of a bloated, sixty-year-old Jew who looks like Jack Klugman, wearing a Budweiser T-shirt and a pressed pair of dark denim jeans. Seriously. They were ironed. Who irons their jeans? Oh, that’s right. Bloated, sixty-year-old Jewish “shamans” who drink Bud.
    I know, I know. I come off as an abrasive cynic. But it comes with my job. I don’t think anyone else at Mike’s spiritual blessing gave this “shaman” a second thought. They just accepted him for whatever he said he was and left it at that. But not me. I looked at the “shaman” and pondered what thought process it took for him to craft this odd little image. I wondered what his distraught Jewish mother must think. “My son, the SHA man,” I could hear her crying, with a roll of her eyes. Did he scour the Internet looking for “shaman props” to incorporate into his shtick? How many New Age workshops did he sit through in order to develop this ridiculous persona?
    People are always saying I’m judgmental. Screw ‘em. It’s not judgmental; it’s called observation . I suggest you learn it. If more people would take the time to observe other people and not just accept what they see on the surface as fact, they wouldn’t have so many damn problems. I’m not saying
they’d be happier; I’m saying their lives wouldn’t be so complicated. As a cop, I can’t help it. It’s in my blood to probe beneath the surface. Once you learn the basics of reading body language, posturing, intonations and all the other subtle diagnostic tools good cops use to discern what’s in front of them, you gotta go to the next level, and that next level is unexplainable. It’s a knowing that grips you and leads you toward the truth.
    With me, what you see is what you get. No illusions here. But I’m an odd bird in a flock of