"Mike, did you sleep here last night?" Jerry asked as he strolled up to Mike's desk.

"I tried, but didn't get much sleep," he replied, his eyes burning.

Jerry furrowed his brow. "Mike that's not a good thing..."

"What isn't?"

"Hanging around here all night."

"Yeah," Mike dismissed the junior detective quickly with a half-hearted wave. "Know what I think is weird? Melissa Anson didn't attend a parochial school."

Jerry saw that the discussion about Mike's late nights was now over. "So?"

"Why was she wearing the Catholic school get-up?" Mike asked.

Jerry shrugged.

"I think there's some connection between the location and what she was wearing."

"What, like some whacko dressing up his victims before he rapes and strangles 'em?"

"Maybe."

"I don't know Mike. Why would the guy leave these clothes on her? That's all possible evidence."

"So's DNA. But..." Mike stared into space for moment then glanced back at Jerry. "Do you think the clothes were hers."

Eyebrows raised, Jerry shot back. "What's 'at mean, Mike?"

"She's done this before..."

"Oh, come on. A thirteen-year-old whore playing what... to the pedophile crowd?" Mike stared at Jerry unblinking. "Go home, Joseph and get some rest. You're raving." Jerry swung his head from side to side as he spoke sarcastically.

"Odds are against it Jerry, but it makes more sense than anything else we've seen." There was a long pause before Jerry put his thumb to his upper lip to ponder Mike's idea.

"I gotta check out the school." Jerry blurted out, at last.

Mike stood and swung his coat on.

"I need to visit the Anson house. I'll bring a couple lab guys with me."

"Bring a computer nerd," Jerry added with a slow nod. "Every kid's got a computer now."

"Yeah." Mike was already dialing the phone.

There would be no investigation at the Anson residence that day. The dead girl's mother, Lydia, explained that family and friends had descended on the Anson's to offer condolences and renew familial bonds. The moment he heard her words Mike felt foolish. He should have realized there would have been a gathering at the Anson's. The emotional detachment he had cultivated to protect himself was creating a schism between himself and humanity and it reared up like a venomous snake during their conversation, catching Mike off guard.

The following day was a Saturday but Mike was able to find two lab technicians willing to come for a thorough search of the girl's room. Mike asked the mother to keep guests out of the girl's room until the police could complete an investigation. Even with his emotional shields in place Mike felt callus asking for Lydia Anson's cooperation on this point.

*****

Early that next morning Mike stood in the doorway of his old house waiting for his daughter. When the door swung wide Mike's ex-wife did not speak to him, but instead yelled over her shoulder to their only child and plodded away from the open door.

Their life together had been filled with inside jokes and stolen glances. Separated in a crowded room they were still together, casting smiles and secret signals between each other while they pretended to be interested in someone else's conversation. This shared intensity made his separation from her more difficult.

His favorite family photograph, the one that sat propped up on the edge of his desk, was one a friend took at a beach outing. Mike was lying on a blanket with Prudence, then only two years old, on his chest and Cynthia nestled into the hollow of his shoulder. The entire family was deep in slumber on a warm sunny day. He never even knew the photo was taken until his friend offered him an enlargement. To Mike, that was the defining moment in their marriage. But the pressures of being married to a policeman had pushed Cynthia too far.

Prudence brushed passed him, in a hurry, towards his car.

"Hi daddy, where we goin' today?" She asked in rush.

Mike sighed and trotted to catch up as she leaped through the passenger's side door .

Sliding into the driver's seat Mike struggled for the words to express his regrets.

"Actually, I can't take you anywhere, today." Mike twisted the rubbery coating of the steering wheel in his grasp. He hated hearing those words as much as he hated saying them.

His young daughter leaned forward, her face turned towards him. "Last weekend, you didn't want me to leave..."

"I know, I know. I've got a new case that's got me working overtime and..." Mike let his words drift off while he continued to stare straight ahead.

There was a long silence before Prudence spoke.

"The other day I asked mom if she loved you."

Mike felt his eyes clamp shut before he could catch himself. His chest fell heavily before he opened his eyes again to stare through the windshield.

"She said when you guys were first together her heart would jump when she saw you."

Mike swallowed and licked his lips slowly while his daughter continued.

"And she said she knew you loved her... but you loved bein' a cop more and she wouldn't take second place to anyone or anything."

"Yeah, it was pretty tough on her." Mike whispered.

"What was?"

Turning, at last, Mike smiled weakly at the girl. "Me, being a cop."

"No... she said it was you 'being a good cop'… that was tough."

Mike opened his mouth to speak but no words came out and he turned his gaze towards the emblem at the center of steering wheel in hopes of some comforting sign. He found none. Prudence went on.

"She said to be a good cop you had to give up everything else. Does that include me?"

"No, honey," Mike spun back towards his daughter throwing an arm around her pulling her close. The sniffles he heard from his daughter tore at him. "No, Prudence. Never." Mike squeezed her tighter. "It's just this case is really bad and I have to take care of it, myself."

Wresting him to arm's length Prudence let Mike know she was not about to take second place to his career, either. He let go of her and she wiped her eyes quickly on the heel of palm. The car door flew open and before he could say another word and his daughter was out of the car sprinting back towards the house.

The front door opened as Prudence approached signaling Mike that his ex-wife had been watching from inside as father and daughter sat together. He cursed under his breath. It wasn't fair, he thought staring out the windshield again.

With the sound of the front slamming shut Mike started the car, threw it into gear and headed to the Anson house where he had arranged to meet with the forensic tech and a computer geek from the state police.

Mike delighted in leaving saucy notes throughout their home in places where he knew Cynthia would stumble across them at some future time. While on an evening patrol Mike swung by his house to surprise Cynthia, only to find her huddled in the dark kitchen crying. An "I love you" doodle left in between two dinner plates had set her into a teary jag. He remembered it clearly: trying to get back to the patrol car with his partner impatiently waiting inside, and Cynthia weeping as she clung to his sleeve. Between sobs she told him of her fear that she might find one of his notes after something bad had happened to him and the pain that carried with it. Their life together would never again be like it was in the photograph that sunny afternoon on the beach.

*****

The Anson house looked like all the others in their middle class neighborhood. All; two story row houses, well kept with immaculate dark green lawns the size of postage stamps. The middle class loves their lawns, Mike thought as he stepped out of the car and pulled his suit coat on. "Probably more than their kids," he muttered under his breath.

The door bell was answered almost as soon as his finger rebounded from the button. Someone had been expecting him. Lydia Anson pulled the door open. A quick nod and then Mike squeazed past her noticing, as he did, that her eyes were a burnt red probably from many tear-filled hours. He assumed she wasn't cried out yet.

"Please, sit down," she offered with a sweeping open palm.

Mike wandered into the living room. It was bright and simple, without the accumulated clutter associated with an older couple. Mike could tell the approximate age of a couple by the amount clutter in a living room. As a couple grew together more items brought on some "magical" memory, a moment to be remembered with a simple memento. Mike's apartment contained nothing that could evoke memories save some leftovers in the refrigerator, left in a "to-go" bag, now sporting blue smudges of mold on the outside. He found it better not have reminders in his apartment of what he hoped would be the rest of his life.

"Can I get you something? Coffee?" Lydia dabbed at her nose with a tissue.

Mike forced a smile and shook his head.

Lydia fell into a chair across from Mike. "Okay," she started with a heavy sigh. "Where do you wanna start?"

Flipping open his notebook, Mike forced himself to look away from the woman's features. She was attractive, he realized. A petite woman, Lydia had delicate features and striking blond hair. A nervousness set loose several butterflies in Mike's stomach.

Concentrate, Mike he told himself. Married. She's married. And she's vulnerable. Get your head back into the game. The tickling sensation in his gut was banished to that place where Mike sent all his feelings. A place, he feared, that was becoming quite crowded.

"Misses Ans..." Mike caught himself. "I'm sorry, Lydia, right?" The woman nodded. "Let's start with the morning, day before yesterday, when you called the police."

"Um, we sat down for breakfast... myself and my husband Warren, and he asked me where Melissa was. I told him I thought she went to a friend's house after church. She does that sometimes. When I turned on the TV and saw the pictures..." The woman sucked her lips into her mouth to hold back her tears. She cleared her throat and continued in a wavering tone.

"Something hit me and I just felt panicky. Warren told me to call the police... just so I'd feel better. But..." Now the woman screwed her eyes shut sending tears streaming down her cheeks dragging a tiny rivulet of mascara in its wake. "I'm sorry," she whined turning her head away from Mike.

Mike sat silently listening to the weeping of a mother who had lost her only child. No psychology text books or classroom exercises could prepare a public servant for the grief that came attached to the profession. He wanted to reach out to her, to touch her shoulder, and give her warmth or some wizened words that she could cling to in her despair. He couldn't. He was like the doctor who needed to maintain a distance if he was to be effective as an investigator. That protocol cut him like a cold blade some days.

Instead Mike sat, reserved, searching the room for photographs or something that made a visable connection to the couple's dead child. No pictures were on the walls and Mike thought maybe there was some gallery in a hallway or another room. Someplace where the couple could chronicle their daughter's journey from childhood into adulthood, a journey that would never be completed.

Not being able to protect Mike while he carried on as a policeman, Cynthia became obsessive about their child. It became so frenzied that Mike requested the Police Department Psychiatrist intervene. The psychiatrist told the couple that Cynthia was over-compensating for her fears about Mike's safety and suggested Mike look into duty that was less dangerous. That same week Mike took the Detective's examination. His first attempt had been a trial run. The test was brand new—consolidating several different enforcement agencies' examinations, each adding questions—and the score needed for Mike to make the promotion list his first time eligible would have had to be near perfect.

New to it, Mike did enjoy the adrenaline rush he felt walking up to a car in the middle of the night, not knowing who or what waited inside. But he began to feel selfish. He was a cop but  also a father and a husband and he truly wanted to be good at all three.

Neither time nor repetition could inure a good cop to the pain that spilt over to touch even the hardest hearts. Mike blinked his eyes purposefully a couple of times to refocus on the questions he needed to ask in order to move forward with his investigation.

"I am so sorry..." Mike spoke haltingly, leaving his mouth open to continue but after a moment he could only sigh and snap his jaw shut.

Nodding her head, Lydia dabbed at her bloodshot eyes until the woman, at last, was able to swallow, take a deep breath, and continue.

"Normally Warren would've been on the road that night but one of his customers came to town. They went to dinner and he got home about 9:30 and went to bed about ten. I was right behind him. I never even thought to check..." Her voice rose up an octave. When she turned her head away, Mike began filling in his "physical characteristics" information. He scribbled a bit and then glanced back towards the woman.

Looking back to his pad again, Mike was surprised by the words he had written on the page. It seemed to him as though his fingers had scribbled her description without his control.

It started with the usual information: "5' 5" 110 lbs, blond, green..." Then as an addendum he noticed the words, "Pretty, button nose, petite."

Mike took a deep breath and let it out slowly before he turned his pencil over to rub out these last observations. Inside Mike was feeling like some idiotic love-struck teen. The last few months had been difficult for Mike; with his divorce becoming final and his feeling that he had lost his moorings to the "real" world.

Cynthia accused Mike of deliberately failing the exam so he could stay on patrol duty. Regardless of his true reasons, his wife was becoming manic by now. By the time he took the exam again it was too late. Cynthia was more detached from reality and was on a daily regimen of medication. In spite of this, Mike had now immersed himself in his new duties.

After a time Cynthia recovered, but their marriage did not. Half a year away from the daily stress of being a cop's wife and she was okay. Six months apart—calling it a trial separation—and six months together. Both stuck to their agreement, but it didn't take long for both of them to see going back to their old life was not an option. Living together again they both saw how far apart they had become.

Their marriage slipped farther away as Cynthia's composure returned. No more fits when someone cut her off on the freeway or tantrums in restaurants. Her life was coming back to normal: except she was no longer the wife of a cop. She professed her love for Mike on many occasions since their first split, crying to him, "I'm just not that keen on excitement."

Just as he began to erase the inappropriate descriptors he stopped himself, deciding against it. He knew enough about psychology and himself that leaving these words in place might work as a reminder that he needed to keep some detachment from anything in this case that might cloud his judgment. Now Mike circled the words repeatedly as he waited for the bereaved mother to gather herself and continue with the interview.

Muscling his "official" persona back to the surface, Mike pressed the woman to speak.

"Misses..." Mike stopped dead. The word "Lydia," underlined, his internal code for preferred title, danced above the page in front of his eyes. "Lydia?" he continued.

She sniffed and cleared her throat before she turned back to face Mike again. "I'm okay, now." Tears still tumbled down her cheeks but Mike saw the woman set her jaw, ready to soldier on.

"This is the hardest aspect of this job." A genuine feeling of empathy swept over him causing him to sit forward hoping to offer the woman some sign of comfort.

She pursed her lips and nodded quickly. "S'okay."

The ring of the door bell interrupted them.

The woman let the two lab techs in and led them to the girl's room. Mike nodded to them as they passed through the living room but remained seated waiting to finish his questioning of the dead girl's mother.

When she returned she sat diffidently across from Mike, her hands folded neatly in her lap.

Opening his mouth to speak Mike stopped and then furrowed his brow. "Where's your husband, today?"

"Oh, he'll be back in a little while. He had to go to the office for a couple of minutes... and send out some memos to let everybody know he would be out for a couple of weeks." She answered with a dismissive wave.

"He couldn't do that... over the phone?"

Lydia sighed heavily. "He... he needed some time. Some time... away from me, I think. Things... have been a little rough lately," she finished in rush.

"You mean, in your marriage?"

"Yeah. I'm sorry I... gushed all over you at the hospital. I just needed a confessor and you bore the brunt of it." A trace of a chuckle tried to shine through her statement.

“Do you know the names of the people... uh, where she would spend the night after church?" Mike continued with his questions.

Lydia, sighed and nodded. Rising quickly she retreated to the kitchen returning with a small address book. Flipping it open she read off several names which Mike scribbled down in order to interview each.

"I wanted to ask you more about Melissa's trips with her father," Mike started. He paused for a long moment. "I visited my daughter today and... she wasn't happy about um... I couldn't stay."

Her lips pursed in a tight smile, Lydia nodded quickly. "That was one of the reasons we wanted Lydia to travel with, uh Warren. So there wouldn't be any... um... missed weekends or brief visits."

"Did she seem affected after any of these business trips?"

"What do you mean?"

Mike paused. "Did she seem unhappy or disturbed after any of these trips?" The ice was thin where Mike was pushing this line of questions and he knew he needed more than a modicum of tact when approaching a grieving mother about a possible sexual liaison between her husband and her daughter.

The woman glared at Mike and it made him uncomfortable but he could not leave this question unanswered.

"No." She snapped.

Mike turned his eyes back to his notebook to avoid her burning gaze. A sticky silence separated the two for a moment. He needed to continue his query but the woman's fiery stare burned his face and he found himself feeling uneasy.

"Um..." He started in an unsteady voice, but was interrupted by a call from the girl's bedroom.

“Hey, Mike," one of the men beckoned.

"Excuse me, Lydia." Mike shot out of his chair and hurried out of her sharpened stare.

The man held up a scarf-wrapped bundle. Flipping back the gaily flowered silk the held out the bundle for Mike to see. It was a neat stack of bills, a portrait of Benjamin Franklin sitting atop the pile.

"Holy shit," Mike muttered under his breath.

A thumb fanned along the corner of the stack revealing that all the bills were all one hundreds.

"How much, ya think?"

The man shrugged before he answered. "Maybe five k or more," he pronounced as he handed the stack over to Mike.

"Where was it?"

"In a pair of boots... Booty... ha, ha," The other man seated at the computer chuckled slightly. Mike felt the muscles in his jaw tighten.

"Knock it off, you two," Mike growled before he glanced over his shoulder towards the living room where he had left the dead girl's mother.

"Mike, I think this girl was hookin'," offered the man seated in front of the computer.

"Why?" Mike snapped.

"I found some pictures and something that looked like an ad for a..." The man shook his head. "Here, I'll read it. 'Catholic girl needs a ride home from school. Your car is warm and dry. 13 year-old girl looking for daddy with benefits. Front door safe. Lolita 69 at..."

"Stop it." Mike help up his open palm. Hearing those words twisted Mike's gut in knot. He sighed heavily and pinched the bridge of his nose between his thumb and index finger.

"There's also some pictures." The man at computer went on softly.

"Of what?" Mike asked in a sad tone.

"Looks like other girls who might've been doing... the same thing." The man clicked the mouse twice and an image appeared on the screen that made Mike cringe.

Mike stared at the electronic image labeled simply "Renee.jpg" for a long time. The diminutive girl in the photo couldn't have been more than fifteen years old with a mere wisp of pubic hair between her thin legs. She had a beguiling smile that begged for acceptance, reassurance, or possibly some show of kindness. There was a willingness in that face to do anything to please.

"Renee" had her tee-shirt hiked-up to her arm pits displaying to the world all her secrets. On the bunched shirt were the words: "Daddy's girl!"

"There's more of 'em in here," the man stated flatly

In a buried folder, labeled "them," on the dead girl's computer, images were found of young girls, all near Melissa's age and all in various states of undress. The faces of these young girls made Mike's chest feel as though a great weight were pressing down on him robbing him of breath.

Mike looked from the stack of one-hundred-dollar bills and back to the screen.

"I don't fucking believe this," he moaned shaking his head. The man seated in front of the computer turned to stare out the window while the other man let his gaze fall to the floor. Both the lab men knew Mike well enough to recognize the flame of anger in the chief detective's face. Anyone spotting that look knew better than to treat the situation lightly. Mike's reputation as a good cop was second to his reputation as a man who took the life and, sometimes, death struggles a cop deals with everyday, as serious business.

Mike squeezed his eyes shut and twisted the stack of bills in his grasp. Anger consumed the chief detective. This little girl died because she was willing to sell herself to a murderous pederast who could give her enough money to overlook the degradation, danger, and humiliation that rode shotgun with every female who bartered sexual favors.

"Mike. Mike!" A voice brought him back quickly. He snapped open his eyes.

The man seated at the computer pointed at Mike's hand, still clutching the wad of one-hundred-dollar bills. Mike's trembling hand had crushed the neat stack of bills in his rage.

"That's evidence, Mike." The man whispered.

A wave of embarrassment hit Mike when he realized the two men were watching him vent his internal rage. A rage against so many things. A rage against so many people. A rage at his impotence in the face of those same things and people.

"Sorry," Mike offered up meekly before he handed the money back to the man.

Spinning away to face the wall, Mike flipped open his cell phone hit a speed dial number.

Listen...

Say what you want about the song. Say what you about him working with Akon. Say what you want about 106 & Park audiences being sycophants, BUT...

Can you honestly that this wasn't the livest performance on urban TV in a lonnnnnng time?

Personally, this is a scene of national pride. To say Kardi puts 110% into his stage show is an understatement. He knows what's at stake. Who knows how many other chances he'll get. Even if this is just another chapter in his continuing saga of flirting with crossover fame, at least we can look back on this performance and say he tore it the eff down, like he was born to do. Kardi, big up yuhself!

P.S. Someone tell DOC I need that soca version for Caribana times! Chuuuuusssssssss!!!

BRAND NEW TRACK: Kardinal Offishall feat. Lindo P "Burnt"

[audio http://www.thecyberkrib.com/audio/kardinaloffishall_burnt.mp3 |bg=0xBED9EE|leftbg=0xA7CFED|rightbg=0x4C99D4|slider=0xC00000|loader=0xC0C0C0]

Not 4 Sale is due for a September 2008 release through Interscope/Universal.

OK, here it is, finally...

We were inspired by this, and a post on another blog, Sports Locker, that suggested things Beckett could do to generate interest in the blog world and elsewhere. By the way, there are tons of interesting and well-written hobby-related blogs out there, almost too many to keep up with (I try though), check out our blogroll when you can.

Yes, this has been in the works for a while (here comes the whining) but I have been so busy (*sniff*) that I have not gotten to it.   Sad, I know.

So the contest is exactly what was asked for...we want to see how much abuse our BGS slabs can take, without the card inside being damaged.  It's not necessary to damage or destroy the slab to win!

Entries will be judged on creativity, so it's not necessary to include a bulldozer or anything from NASA.  To make this fair, only the BGS/BVG slabs are allowed, BCCG are not.

Please, for me, don't try testing your ideas on your Pristine 10s...

The prize, 10 free gradings, at the 10 day service level, with Beckett covering the return shipping and insurance up to $1,000.

There are some rules, of course - no gunfire or explosives!

I will be honest and admit that I would love to see what happens to a slab if it's hit by a .22 at 100 yards or so, but we can't condone dangerous acts.  We held off announcing this until after July 4 for the same reason, it may be cool to tape a slab to 10 bottle rockets and see what happens, but it's just not safe.  Use good judgment, if it's likely, or even if it's "fairly possible," to result in injury, then we will be forced to disqualify the entry.

Questions about what is OK and what is not OK are more than welcome, hit the "Contact Us" button (see below) on the front page sidebar if you don't want to ask in the comments and possibly give your idea away.

Video entries are probably the best bet, but if you can clearly show what you did just using photos, by all means send them in!

There will be a panel of 7 judges--myself, Associate Publisher Tracy Hackler, Director of Grading Services Mark Anderson, Director of Data Publishing Bill "Sudsy" Sutherland, Editors David Lee and Al Muir, and Beckett grader Aaron Gibson.

Paying off the judges is strictly confidential.   Wait, I meant strictly prohibited!

The contest ends at midnight August 18, 2008, and judging will begin on August 19. The time it will take to complete the judging will be determined by the number of entries.

In the near future, we will post this button somewhere in the sidebar, so you can click it, come back to this post, and see these rules.

Send entries to, beckettblog@gmail.com, or hit this button in the sidebar-->.

Good Luck!

All comment are welcome... ciao 4 niao, max

The call from an early morning jogger roused the coroner's van, six marked police units, two unmarked, and four vans topped with telescoping microwave gadgetry to beam the "breaking news" directly to everyone's breakfast table. Mike hated these kinds of cases.

He ordered a patrolman to move his squad car in between the press and the small crumpled form lying in the corner of the parking lot. After adjusting his tie Mike moved towards a group of men clustered together some distance from those involved in the forensic investigation.

Seated on the curb, amid a circle of men wearing dark suits, was an athletic looking man about forty years old clad in shorts and tee-shirt. Typical jogging attire. Mike could see the man was shaken. One of the plainclothes detectives stepped in front of Mike with an open notebook in his hand.

"Hi, Mike."

"Hey," he responded peering around the detective at the early morning jogger. Mike leveled his open palm to his forehead and squinted into the morning sun. "When did he find her?"

"About 5:45. His usual morning run." The man pointed the eraser end of his pencil over his shoulder. "He's pretty upset."

"Let me talk to him."

The detective shrugged and muttered, "Be my guest.”

Mike stopped in front of the man and extended his hand. "I'm Mike Joseph. Can I ask you a few more questions?"

As the man reached up to shake Mike's hand he wiped tears from his eyes with his shoulder while he sniffled. "I'm uh... I'm Scott. Scott Thurston," the man offered in a shaky voice.

Mike sat down next to the man. "I know you've already told these guys everything but I'm the Chief Homicide Investigator. I have to ask you a few more questions, okay?" The jogger nodded.

"Tell me what happened."

"I was, uh..." Fighting back tears the man recanted his tale. He cleared his throat and continued. "I turned this corner," he pointed to his right. "And I saw her there. I thought maybe she was unconscious so I ran over and..." He stopped momentarily as a tear was pushed over the edge of his eye lid and went skidding down his cheek. "I shook her and asked if she was okay." The man was losing the battle of emotions. "I called on my cell... She was so young." His voice evaporated into a whine.

"You jog with your cell phone?"

The man sniffed and nodded. Mike watched every movement and took detailed mental notes on the man's state. He decided Scott was either a great actor or genuine.

"All right, Scott. Thank you. I'll have somebody take you home." The early morning jogger nodded silently as he wiped tears onto his tee-shirt. Mike stood and signaled to a patrolman. "Would you drive, Mr. Thurston home?"

"You got it, Detective."

Turning back again, Mike finished, "I'm sure we'll have some more questions for you later." From his breast pocket Mike fished out a business card and handed it to the jogger. "If you think of anything else, please call me. Okay?" Mike put the card into the man's hand and noticed he was trembling. "Are you gonna be all right?"

Scott nodded as he choked out, "She was just so young."

Mike began to speak but stopped before the words came out. He wanted to assure the jogger that people who do bad things will all pay for their sins: all would be held accountable for their actions. But Mike knew reality was often something different.

The patrolman sat the jogger in the front seat of his squad car and got in himself. The man never looked back at the body but instead stared straight ahead, unblinking. As the they pulled away Mike turned back to the cluster of detectives and approached them rubbing his chin.

"Gentlemen..."

"Hey, it's too early for name calling," shot one man with a chuckle.

With a crooked smile Mike went on. "Well, do you think this guy is the real deal?"

One man nodded. "Yeah. When I got here the guy was bawling. He looks legit."

"What's the rest of the story?"

Another detective notebook flipped open and the man read aloud the details. "Female, between ten and fifteen years of age, appears to be strangulation. She was wearing a school uniform… we don't know which school, yet." Looking up at Mike the man took a deep breath before he finished.

"Her underwear was around her ankles and there appears to be seminal fluid from her rectum."

"Fuck. Every news-hound in the state'll be on this thing. Callin' me at home, I'm sure."

"That's why you get the big money, Joseph." One man popped sardonically.

"Did you get a car parked near the intersection?"

The man nodded. "As per your instructions."

"Maybe it'll pay off, this time." When Mike Joseph was made Chief Detective, a year ago, he issued a memo: when possible, a patrol car with a working video camera would be stationed near the scene of an homicide investigation. The video could be used to track who came and went at or near the crime scene. Mike knew it was a desperate tactic but if a suspect was identified it helped the case if he could tie the individual to the crime scene somehow with video evidence.

"All right, I'll check with the forensics people, about the time and the particulars." Mike pointed to one of the men and asked, "What've you got right now, John?"

John shrugged. "I'm still working that gang shooting, not that I expect anybody to give me anything in that neighborhood." Shaking his head he continued, "And Sims is still on maternity leave."

One man piped up, "Hey, she got pregnant just about the time you guys were working that crack-house gig, didn't she?" Several men chuckled at his comment.

"Fuck you, Tommie. At least I know how to get a woman pregnant." This was greeted by hoots and laughter.

"Knock it off." Mike's voice was terse. "We've got press over there." He jerked his head in the general direction of the vans. He turned to glare at the microwave dishes fully extended in some display of electronic machismo: "my transmitter is bigger than yours."

Mike knew this was only the beginning. A case this sensational always brought out the worst in that gaggle called the working press. Every step, and misstep, in the investigation would be caught under the hot, white lights of the media. He had seen it before but for the first time he was the one that would weather the storm, and it would be from the crows' nest. Mike knew he had to stay close to this investigation.

"Jerry, you and I'll work together on this one." Mike pointed at thin young detective in a gray suit.

Several of the men made noises at this comment.

"Uh oh, Jerry. Better cross your eyes and dot your tees," one man added as he stuck out his tongue slightly and crossed his eyes.

The loudest men found themselves under Mike's hard stare until it was quiet again.

"No one—I repeat—no one will discuss this case without approval by me and through me. This one's gonna get shitty." The men nodded. With a flick of his head Mike motioned at two of the men. "You guys start working the neighborhood, door to door, for witnesses. Then I need one of you to find out where she's from when we get an ID." With a dismissive gesture he added, "You can flip for it."

Nudging Mike with his elbow Jerry asked, "Do you wanna talk to the 'helmet heads' while I talk to forensics?"

Mike turned to glare at the well-dressed reporters before he answered. "Fuck 'em. They can tell lies until I get there. Bloody vultures." Mike had picked up some of the vernacular of his ex-wife, Cynthia.

The pair had met when he was stationed in London at the U.S. Embassy. In the Marine Corps, Mike had re-enlisted to get embassy duty in England after one tour in Lebanon and a battle ribbon earned in Grenada. Things made sense in the military. There was a rule to cover everything and Mike liked life without too many variables.

Mike saw a camera flash near the body and turned to look. The woman taking photographs of the crime scene was new to the division so he walked straight to her and introduced himself.

"Hi, I'm Mike Joseph. I'll be the lead on this investigation."

The woman turned her head towards Mike briefly and then continued to take photographs. She was slim, with tawny hair pulled back into a ponytail. Mike saw she was quite pretty. From behind the viewfinder she answered him.

"Tyler Sweeny." She announced. "I heard about you at the University of Maryland. You were the 'wunderkind' of the AJ program." Mike was slightly embarrassed by her comment. "I'm in kind of a hurry," she continued. "I've gotta get these back and get to another shoot before ten." The camera flashed again.

"Any information about this case will go through me before it's released. Do you understand?"

The photographer pulled the camera away from her face to change her f-stop. Within the department film cameras were still the preferred method for documentation, resulting in fewer "gliches" and lost information. As the woman spun the aperture ring she peered directly at Mike.

"I heard you were all business." She had a half smile on her face as she spoke. Mike stood without speaking. He had no response to her statement. Business was all he knew anymore.

With the camera's viewfinder to her face she pointed the lens at Mike. The flash burned his eyes with a blue-white heat. He blinked.

"What was that for?"

Pasteing a faux grim look on her face she spouted in a voice like a television newscaster, "Serious cop at the crime scene." With that, she grinned and swung the camera back towards the lifeless body to finish her macabre chronicle.

Mike's stomach churned. The graveyard humor of those who worked homicide was always upsetting to him, almost painful. Here was a young woman taking pictures of a little girl—dead in a parking lot—and she was treating it like it was a bat mitzvah.

This dead girl could have been the photographer ten years ago but now it was just another "shoot." Mike found himself losing that steely resolve his fellow officers displayed when it came to life, death, and a cop's proximity to the lowest strata of society, the strata that often lived and died within a cop's workplace. The only way Mike found he could cope was to "turn off" his emotions and to operate like an automaton. Turning his emotions back to the "on" position came less frequently and that had put a enormous strain on his marriage.

Mike was sent on brief deployment to Somalia to evacuate the embassy in Mogodishu when his wife, still a subject of the British Crown, was three months pregnant. The time he was away terrified Cynthia. He decided, then, against a career in the Marines. That lifestyle was not suited to family life, in his mind, so he returned to the U.S. and entered an Administration of Justice program at the University of Maryland. He graduated in three years with a 4.0 grade point average: straight A's.

Money was tight so he fought his way through the courses as quickly as possible. He had to. The couple was living on his GI Bill and their combined savings. Their recently arrived baby stretched their budget to the limit, but they were happy with one another and their new direction. The separation and long hours required to be a cop wore on Cynthia and their marriage unraveled.

"Criminals don't punch a time clock, Cin'," he used to tell her. "I've got to be there when they are, not the other way 'round."

He came home one night, late as usual. Cynthia was seated in the darkened kitchen crying. Their daughter, Prudence, had written a poem about him that was to be judged in a state-wide competition. The third-grader was bursting with pride and she wanted to share this honor with her father.

"She fell asleep around ten-thirty or so. She just couldn't keep her eyes open any longer. She wanted to tell you all about it." Cynthia sniffled and continued. "I suppose you'll have to leave early," she said pointedly. He nodded sadly. Cynthia did not say another word. For two whole days she didn't speak to him: when she finally did, she asked him for a divorce.

By the time Mike sat down at his desk and sorted through the stack of his messages he spotted two detectives walking straight towards his open door. The phone rang and Mike put the receiver to his ear but continued to watch the men carefully as they approached. The look on their faces and the way they carried themselves told Mike the men had found the dead girl's identity.

"Mike?" The phone crackled.

"Yeah," Mike's eyes burned into the men who stopped in front of his desk.

"We've got the parents of the Melissa Anson at County General. Do you want us to hold them so you talk to 'em?"

Mike didn't know the name yet but he figured out that the name was attached to crumpled figure discovered in the parking that morning.

"Yeah. I'll be right over." Mike stood up and swung his coat on in one practiced move.

"What do ya have?" Mike sighed as he spoke.

The first man opened a file containing a couple of sheets of paper.

"Nothing really. The girl's name was Melissa Marie Anson, thirteen years old, and her parents are squeaky clean."

Mike took the file and surveyed it quickly. Nothing worse than a traffic ticket a couple of years ago for either parent. The address was not in the neighborhood where the girl was found, but instead, almost five miles away. The three men began to walk towards the elevator together.

"How did you find out who she was?"

"Call came in to dispatch that a girl was missing."

"What time?"

"About eight this morning."

Mike stopped, his mouth agape. "Eight? Unbelievable."

The first man shook his head slightly. "They said they saw it on the news and that's when they realized she was gone."

"The fucking parents didn't know their thirteen-year-old daughter was missing?"

The man shook his head again before he asked, "You think it was an abduction?"

Mike started walking again.

"Too early to tell." Mike stared at the floor as he walked and thought the evidence through.

"What about the clothing... She could've been snatched yesterday on the way home from school." The second man offered.

"No, the parents said she was at dinner and then she said she was going to church." The first detective replied flatly as he pressed the button for the elevator and took the file back as Mike turned towards the stairway. The stairway was a place where Mike could be alone and sort out his thoughts. Few people used the stairs but Mike. He liked the exercise and the solitude it offered, allowing him to put together a mental inventory.

What questions do you ask the parents of dead thirteen-year girl that was strangled and dumped in a parking lot like she was refuse?

Mike was met by the Phyllis Zimmerman, the Tragedy Counselor, at an entrance near the back of the hospital. This was the entrance used by the coroner and the morticians. It was best to keep the dead as far from the living as possible in a hospital. People seldom liked to be reminded of their mortality when they were in the best health and the scrubbed white walls of a hospital only intensified that feeling.

With a quick nod Mike greeted the counselor and they walked together to meet the family. The counselor was a shared position funded between a dozen agencies. When something happened involving a death or serious injury the Tragedy Counselor was brought in to assist with the notification process. Since starting the program, all of the feedback had been positive and the public relations aspect was high profile.

In addition to the good public relations, Mike had been tutoring the young woman about reading people's reactions to incidents. The woman had even tipped off the state troopers about one man's odd behavior. This caused the troopers to look more carefully at the man and the unusual nature of an accident. After a series of interviews with the troopers over a course of several weeks, the man confessed that he had contrived the incident in order to eliminate his estranged wife.

After Mike made a quick introduction, the mother of the girl leaned in and begged, "Was she..?" The woman broke down before she could finish. The husband snaked his arm around her shoulders to pull her close but she seemed to nudge him away with her shoulder. Mike took careful note of the slight.

"Was she raped?" The woman sniffled without looking up at Mike.

Her husband broke in, "That's what it said on TV."

Inside, Mike was seething. Someone from the crime scene must have tipped off a reporter. Carefully, Mike pushed his anger back inside before he answered.

"We're not certain, yet." The official results of the autopsy had yet to arrive so Mike held off on what those at the scene already suspected.

Jerry turned a corner and came towards the knot of people with a file in his hand as Mike finished. He looked directly at Mike and scratched his ear lobe with his index finger. This was a signal amongst the station personnel: a finger to the ear lobe. It could mean almost anything normally but Mike knew it meant they had found some solid evidence.

"Can you excuse me." Mike was already walking as he spoke.

Passing the tragedy counselor Mike whispered to her. "Phyllis, watch how they act together. Something's not right."

The woman nodded at Mike's request and stepped closer to the couple as a sign of condolence and her willingness to comfort the couple.

"It was semen and the morgue got a perfect sample," Jerry whispered to Mike when he pulled within a couple of inches. "Now, all we have to do is find out who it belongs to."

Mike grunted quietly.

They knew having a good DNA sample would make for indisputable evidence, but they still had to find that person, somehow. Mike flipped through the preliminary autopsy report. It appeared to be strangulation at about 3:00 AM and no drugs or alcohol were found in her blood.

The counselor approached the two detectives.

"It seems to be the mother, that's acting strange. She keeps shoving him away but he keeps trying." She finished with a guarded shrug.

Mike scratched at his upper lip so he could cover his mouth as he spoke to the counselor.

"Let's get 'em apart."

The counselor nodded agreement, turned on her heel and stopped short of the pair.

"We only need one of you to make the ID at the mor..." She paused to correct herself. "Where she is... but if you'd both like to be there that's okay, too. It's just down this hall." The counselor waved her open palm at a set of painted glass double doors. While no set procedures were in place for the identification process the counselor was fishing: hoping one or the other would do the unpleasant task of identification in hopes the one parent might be more candid when alone. The man stood and quietly answered.

"I'll do it." The counselor extended her arm to point him towards the glass double doors. She paused at the door to glance back at Mike. He returned her quick look.

Mike sat down next to the woman and sighed.

"I have a daughter just a few years younger." Mike stared at the wall while he spoke. After a pause Mike turned to face the woman, his every move was carefully planned. He wanted the woman to tell him everything, regardless of the discomfort. "Missus Anson, when did you notice Melissa was missing?"

Dabbing her eyes with a handkerchief she replied. "Please, call me Lydia. Um, she left for church about six-thirty last night and when I saw the news this morning something made me feel..." Lydia's lip began to quiver and she hesitated. "Something made me..." Her voice spiraled upward as she struggled with the words.

"You didn't notice that she wasn't home, last night?"

"I thought she stayed at a friends' house. She does that sometimes after church."

"What church was that?"

"The Clinton Street Evangelical..." Tears streaked down the woman's cheeks while her small frame convulsed in weeping, her voice waylaid in her grief.

Mike let his arm slowly go to the woman's shoulder and then around her back. When Mike placed the weight of his arm on her back she didn't move. He wrapped his fingers around her opposite shoulder to give her a reassuring squeeze and still he met no resistance. Given her response to her husband's attempt at this same gesture Mike figured something was strained in the relationship. He decided he needed to broach the subject delicately.

"Lydia, was Melissa under any... stress lately?" Mike was grasping at straws but he hoped this woman might want to vent about some problem at home.

With a heavy sigh the woman unexpectedly began to pour out details of her life. Her husband had recently confessed to an affair and the couple was in the middle of ugly accusations and recriminations. Tiny black rivulets lined her cheeks as Lydia, revealed that this was not the first rocky stretch in their marriage.

"But you have stayed together this long."

Lydia dabbed at her eyes again and tightened her lips.

"We've taken a few..." she paused to gather her words. "Breaks from one another during that time." The tears had ceased to flow when she related the failings of her marriage to Mike.

"How did Melissa take that?" This question came out more as a curious divorced father than a homicide detective.

With a dismissive shake of her head Lydia replied, "Melissa never knew, really. We just told her that he was on a business trip or something. He took her with him on a couple of trips."

Mike glanced up towards Jerry, who was leaning against the wall next to them. Something about Lydia's statement struck Mike and he looked towards his partner for any glimmer of interest. A furrowed brow on the other man's face told Mike he was not alone in his apprehension.

The doors of the morgue swung open and Melissa's father stepped out into the hallway wearing an expression that told a sad tale. The counselor nodded almost imperceptibly to let Mike and the detective know that he had positively identified the body as his thirteen-year-old daughter. Lydia burst into tears again, leaped to her feet, and ran down the hallway towards the parking lot exit.

"Do I have to..." The man swallowed hard. "Ahem, do I have to sign anything or..?" His voice drifted off.

"We'll get back with you later. Right now you need to take care of your wife." Mike flipped his head towards the doorway. The man nodded and hurried outside to join his wife.

"Well, what's your opinion?" Mike asked the tragedy counselor after the doors to the exit swung closed.

"Something's weird. Can't put my finger on it." The woman shook her head.

"I put my arm around her, and she didn't pull away from me at all." Mike shrugged.

The young woman glanced at Mike, shook her head, and walked outside to join the couple. Mike knew she would give the parents a pamphlet with half a dozen agencies they could contact to assist them with crisis assistance: something Mike felt he could use after his marriage came apart. The marital rift between the husband and wife didn't seem to explain the wife's refusal to let her husband console her when Mike found her open to his touch. Mike felt something was definitely wrong.

"Her comment about the business trips sounded funny."

Mike nodded agreement with Jerry's observation.

"Jerry, make some calls to that church. I wanna know more about that place."

The Clinton Street Evangelical Church was known to most regular television viewers along the eastern seaboard. The church supported one 24 hour fundamentalist Christian cable television station and two small radio networks.

Jerry shrugged and wandered back down the hall while Mike sat sifting through the few details he had to go on. Mike mulled an idea over in his mind: who could murder a girl on the brink of womanhood and dump the body without emotional trauma? Suspects would be: men, mentally detached, hardened to suffering, and possess a knowledge of killing. A horrible thought struck Mike. It sounded like the description of a cop. He shook that notion off. A cop wouldn't leave behind DNA evidence.

The evidence carelessly left at the scene could possibly indicate an accidental death followed by panic or it could indicate someone confident that they would never be discovered. The latter was the most serious threat in Mike's mind because those criminals often set out to commit the same kind of crime again to test themselves against law enforcement.

A copy of the site investigation lay on Mike's desk when he had arrived. It was area with numerous used and discarded prophylactics indicating a regular stop for prostitutes and late-night sexual rendezvous. Mike wrote a quick memo to have all evidence collected that could hold some DNA just in case this guy had used this spot before.

Jerry ambled up to Mike's desk as he finished the memo.

"Whacha got, Jerry?"

"I called the church. Anson didn't show up at church that night like the parents claimed." Mike leaned back in his chair. He knew then this girl might have used the church as an excuse more than once.

 Mike took the test for detective after his one year probation as a patrolman was finished because he yearned to be a "real cop." Traffic duty and answering domestic calls was sending Mike over the edge. The boredom was killing him. He needed to feel the exhilaration of "real" police work.

When he was a patrolman Cynthia worried about him doing traffic stops late at night. When he made the promotion list he promised Cynthia he'd be able to work regular hours, no more graveyard and swing shifts and for a year after he was promoted the couple was happy, comfortable, and even considering another child. But as Mike put in longer hours and began to build up personal barriers the pair quietly grew apart while conversations about another child tapered off. Then heated exchanges about divorce were no longer heated but surprisingly civil dialogues about who would get what. Mike figured that was the sure sign it was over: when a couple no longer battled over their differences but instead accepted the end as inevitable. Mike was broken-hearted but didn't know how to return to their previous life together.

"You think it coulda been a boyfriend?"

Jerry shifted his weight. "The people at the church told me she didn't really have a boyfriend. Matter-of-fact, they said she hadn't been there in a while. So a boyfriend probably wouldn't have come from there." He shrugged with that and dropped his notes onto Mike's desk.

"So now, we start on her school."

Jerry turned and took two steps before he stopped and stared back over his shoulder.

"I asked if the church was gonna hold a service for the girl and the secretary told me they hadn't planned on it." Mike furrowed his brow. Jerry continued. "Why not? Doesn't that seem weird to you?" Swinging his head back Jerry continued on his march vanishing in the maze of cubicles of the detective's office. Mike scribbled on a pad: "Why no service?" and underlined it twice.

*****

The final autopsy report fell open in Mike's hands. It stated Melissa Anson died between two thirty and three AM from strangulation by some flexible object, probably an electrical cord. Further it stated that she probably died on site. It wasn't much to go on but the DNA sample was perfect.

Mike reached for the phone to call his wife, it was going to be a late night for him. When the familiar dial buzzed in his ear he remembered they had separated for good a month earlier. Slowly he lowered the phone back into the cradle and wondered to himself, who would notice if I never went home? He rubbed his palm across the stubble of his face and reached into a draw for his electric razor. His glance fell on the red numbers of his clock: 6:05 PM. Already it had been a twelve hour day. No wonder Cynthia left me he thought as a sigh slipped from his chest. Then he took a deep breath and grabbed a pencil to underline anything in the report that might be important in the ongoing investigation.

He kept gravitating to one question: why was this girl found in a place known a place for prostitutes to finish a business deal?

Mike stared at the photo on his desk—the one of him, his wife and his daughter—and wondered what his daughter was doing at that moment.

Of course, I could show you a neck tattoo, and you might show me Victoria Beckham, aka Posh Spice aka Mrs. David Beckham. Or Eva Longoria, aka the Desperate Housewife who would never really live in the suburbs. Or Angelina Jolie or Ben Affleck or Amy Winehouse (there's a role model) or just about any contestant on any reality show, tattoos, neck or otherwise, seeming to be a prerequisite for crossing the Hollywood town line.

Why would anyone get a tattoo? That's a very good question. In fact, let's do a Q and A on the subject with a noted authority, me:

Why would anyone get a tattoo?

The young get tattoos for the sole purpose of setting themselves apart from the old. "I'm nothing like you," the tattoo signals, "and I want to make sure the entire world knows it, so I'm going to etch this large dark blue and red symbol on my neck. Just so there's never any confusion. And I mean never, ever, ever."

Exactly! That's the problem with tattoos: They're so permanent! Why would anyone want to mark their body with a symbol of something or someone ("Billy Bob") they might not care about in two decades or even two months?

The young believe that who and what they are now, they will stay forever, and the tattoo is evidence of a superstitious belief that making a permanent mark will create a permanent condition. Or at least that's what studies show.

What's with the Asian symbol thing? Why would a kid who's not Asian, has no desire to travel through Thailand or Mongolia, and can barely write and read English choose to put a Chinese character on his shoulder or forearm?

As with so much else, it's Angelina's fault. Right, Jen?

Won't having a tattoo make it hard to get a good job? Look terrible if you want to wear a strapless wedding gown? Be difficult and painful to remove if you change your mind when you're 35?

Yes! That's what I keep telling them! But nobody listens!

But you're so intelligent! So right! Why won't they listen?

Because they think I'm old and out of it and that I don't know what I'm talking about and that they're never going to feel the way I feel or be the way I am. And my only consolation is knowing for sure what a 50-year-old butt looks like, and why a fat red rose would not add anything to the picture.

What to do if confronted with a young tattooed person? "Don't try to look "kewl" and "hip" by asking said kid where they "got their ink done" or comment on their "nice tats". Eew," says Denise Garratt, aka The Internet Research Geek. "Just stop staring, take your book or coffee and walk quickly and quietly to your Volvo and don't look back."

If you choose to join me in this mission, please press the mooch button. I warn you now - it may be dangerous.

Good luck!

-Laura

This discovery was in fact given to me. The real story starts with the existence of the saintly unconscious mind and the evil wild conscience and the necessity to transform the wild conscience into a saintly conscience, so that it will be able to live happily. The creation of our planet with one unexplainable variety of animals and plants that could not be the product of chance, happened in order to give to the wild conscience the necessary environment for its transformation.

The wild conscience acquired an animal body. Part of it was transformed into a human conscience, thanks to all the efforts of the saintly unconscious mind, which is in fact directed by God, the wisest existing conscience.

The wild and the human conscience started to live together inside the human being, while having the guidance of the unconscious mind, that lives inside everyone, helping the human side of the conscience eliminate the evil wild side.

The unconscious mind has been trying to transform the wild conscience into a human conscience for many centuries without success, because evil is stronger than sanctity, since destruction is easier than construction. The wild conscience has the power to destroy everything and it impedes human salvation.

The entire history of mankind is in fact the development of several different processes of transformation, created by the unconscious mind with the intention to eliminate the evilness of the wild anti-conscience and transform it into a positive part of the human conscience.

I discovered this astonishing truth not because I had the indispensable knowledge to do so, but because it was given to me by the unconscious mind in my literature and in my dreams, so that I could “discover it” and relate it to several scientific discoveries of my time.

I was not a genius, but I became one after completely developing the human side of my conscience and eliminating the wild side. If you want to become a genius like me and control the wild side of your conscience, you have to follow my example and fight against it with determination.

Pay attention to the guidance of the unconscious mind in your dreams, and you will understand what your mistakes are and what you have to do in order to correct them and find happiness.

Alone you will never be able to control the anti-conscience, unless you decide to become saintly and dedicate your life to helping the others.

If you cannot be that hero, you need the indispensable guidance of the unconscious mind in your dreams to show you another way to transform your psyche, without so much pain.

You have to be very careful though, if you want to control the wild conscience.

Here is a list of general indispensable precautions for the preservation of your human conscience:

1.  Never agree to do anything against anyone, even if the other person did many things against you. You are going to pay for your mistakes in the future, no matter if you made them because you were a victim of somebody else’s evilness.

2.  Never be immoral. Respect everyone and never agree to any sin, because if you do so, the wild conscience will constantly invade the human side of your conscience, winning more fields there with your acceptance of what is immoral.

3.  Be religious. Believe in God because He really exists and He is really saintly as described by all religions. If you don’t like the human leaders of your religion, don’t blame your religion for that, but only the human evilness that distorts what should be sacred.

This is basic craziness prevention, but you need a lot in order to really stay far from craziness and eliminate this danger forever.

This is why you have to start writing down your dreams and learn how to translate their meaning with my simplification of the complicated method discovered by Carl Jung.

I could simplify this method exactly because I discovered the basic fact about what exists in the ignored side of the human conscience. This is the basic theme of all our dreams, since the wise unconscious mind is always trying to save our human side from the attacks of the anti-conscience and is always trying to help us develop our human personality more completely.

Knowing the basic theme of all dreams, of course the translation of their meaning becomes much simpler and well defined.

Today you can have the privilege of learning a very complicated method in a very clear, well defined and helpful form after its evolution, with the continuation of the research abandoned by the psychiatrist that discovered it.

However the most important thing is that today you know that if you want to preserve the human side of your conscience forever and never become a victim of craziness, you have to lean how to translate the meaning of your dreams according to the scientific method. 

Article Source: http://EzineArticles.com/?expert=Christina_Sponias

Have you submitted Your own dreams for Free professional dream interpretation and psychotherapy?

Don’t waste time!

Learn more at: http://www.scientificdreaminterpretation.com

Interesting, that White guy with dreads (really, really great combo, btw) sounds like he might have a legitimate learning disability. He believes that should complications occur while his partner is going through labor, dolphins offer better medical assistance than a licensed doctor. Maybe he's just high though. It's a fine line.

But I do not approve of this method. (Obvs.) There are many documentaries (okay, I think there's only one) that expose the secret dark side of dolphins. And let me tell you, dolphins are dangerous. I know you don't believe me, but trust. Trust. They torment smaller dolphins, prey on females, gang rape, etc. They're basically like every other species. I know it's hard to believe, what with their perpetual smile and all, but people need to remember, that is just their facial structure. Not all of them are nice.

And anyway, if it costs like seven thousand dollars to ride a single dolphin for an hour in Orlando Fl., wouldn't the hourly rate be even higher to birth a baby surrounded by an entire flock? How does this procedure work? Is there a specific area where dolphins linger, ready to send their nurturing, positive waves to newborns? I need to know.

***

Alright, I did some extensive research on the topic (ie: I googled it) and found this site to be the most informative. Given that the dolphin-assisted birthing method's most educative site looks like a web page an 8th grade student made back in 1997 for his or her Solar System science project, I don't think enough research has been conducted on the subject. However, the site does reveal this information:

There are tide pools, hot ponds, access for free dolphins. This area of Hawaii is the only area where all these occur together. Therefore this is a prime area for establishing water birth with dolphins and the human-dolphin habitats where we can live and learn from each other. This area can also be the first embassy for the Cetacean Commonwealth. See Cetacean Commonwealth.

Okay...so let me just click on Cetacean Commonwealth....

The Cetacean Commonwealth

The Cetacean Commonwealth is a commonwealth of the Cetacea Nations comprising all species of Cetacea, the mammalian order of whales and dolphins and the humans that support them. Um, what?

Well, basically I wasted a half hour writing about and researching a topic I care zero about, and no one even knows anything about this method. But I do know one thing: I still hate Penn Jillette. And in the end, that's all that matters.

*I take that back. This show appears to be anything but interesting.

[dailymotion id=x3odlg]

Video Clip : Dangerous

Singer : Heaven 17

You have to forgive yourself first of all, because you were dominated by the wild part of your conscience, which is very violent and cruel. You could not control your behavior—your thoughts were not really yours. It was not your fault. You are only an animal and you have no idea of how your mind works. You have no idea how much the anti-conscience (your primitive, wild conscience that didn’t pass through the process of consciousness and is totally absurd) influences your behavior and your decisions. You are too ignorant.

After forgiving yourself for your very serious mistakes, you will need to think about how you can correct them. Of course, most serious mistakes cannot be corrected. We wish we could go back in time and simply correct what happened, but often there is no possible correction.

However, you have to think that life goes on, that everything continues, and that you have to continue too, which can give miraculous solutions to what seemingly cannot be solved.

Think. What could you do for the person or the people that you hurt? How could you compensate them for all the damage you caused?

First of all, if there is money involved in the case, you have to pay for the damages without resistance and without delay.

If the problem is even worse because it cannot be solved with money, give money anyway. Even though it means nothing, it’s a sign that you recognize your fault. Give money, especially if you have a lot. Throw money on the table, saying that you know very well that you cannot pay for all the damages you caused even with all the money in the world, but that you are giving it because you know the people you hurt have many needs. You want to do something to somehow compensate them for what cannot be forgiven.

If money would be considered an insult because your mistake was very serious, give a present to your enemies. Do something practical and give them something substantial, always with the same spirit of regret.

Recognize your faults. Admit you were an irrational animal and that you cannot understand how you could be so irresponsible. Blame yourself for everything, without defending yourself at any point.

When you apologize, you are not going to mention that your wild side or other people influenced you. You are not going to blame someone else for what happened. You are going to assume that you are the worse sinner on this planet, without excuses.

This way your enemies will abandon their weapons, because they won’t have to attack you and tell you how wrong you were—you are telling them that, before they can start complaining.

You must exaggerate. If you did only one thing wrong, start blaming yourself for other problems that happened because of your actions. Look for ways to blame yourself for all the horrors of this world, showing to your enemies that you are really devastated because you made this terrible mistake—so devastated that you feel like the worse murderer in human history.

You must be sincere. If you simply pretend you’re sorry, your enemies will notice it.

There is a special facial expression a human being takes when he or she is really sorry. You cannot be an actor.

So, when you talk about how horrible you feel, even if you cannot feel bad at that moment, think about how horrible the situation is and how bad it will be if you fail again and ask for forgiveness. Think about sad things that will make you feel very sad when you show your regret.

If your enemies won’t forgive you, they will be the monsters.

You will become a big hero who had the courage to recognize your mistakes and assume responsibility for them.

And your enemies will forgive you, even if they don’t do so immediately.

Prevent Depression and Craziness through the scientific method of Dream Interpretation discovered by Carl Jung and simplified by Christina Sponias, a writer who continued Jung's research in the unknown region of the human psychic sphere.

Learn more at: http://www.scientificdreaminterpretation.com and http://www.booksirecommend.com

Click below to download your copy of the Free ebook

Beating Depression and Craziness

Article Source: http://EzineArticles.com/?expert=Christina_Sponias

Have you submitted Your own dreams for Free professional dream interpretation and psychotherapy?

Don’t waste time! This is a limited offer, only for this summer.

A single dream is not enough. We need a series of dreams in order to understand what is happening to the dreamer and to understand the guidance of the wise unconscious mind that produces our dreams.

So, write down your dreams every day if you want to see results for your efforts. Your dreams and their special messages should be really important to you!
You need to start right now so you will have enough time to submit many dreams. If you put off this opportunity, time will pass and you won’t be able to send me anything…

Go to http://www.scientificdreaminterpretation.com and learn more.

Christina Sponias

You only have to write down your dreams. Write them down and wait. When you have around 5 dreams in your notebook or PC file, you will start to understand how to interpret them because you can relate the messages you received. This will be the beginning. Continue writing your dreams every day, and after many dreams, you’ll see the complete picture of what is happening in your psyche and around you.

Of course, it is essential to have a glossary with the dream symbols, which have been elucidated according to the scientific method of dream interpretation discovered by the psychiatrist and psychologist Carl Jung. I am a writer and have improved this method and can provide you a relevant glossary in my ebook, while Jung was too ignorant to do so. I continued his research and discovered that craziness is actually caused by the anti-conscience, which is untamed and very violent.

Only someone who is not a psychologist or psychiatrist could discover the existence of this wild conscience (anti-conscience) because all scientists follow the same basis for their research. However, their foundation is wrong. The same thing happened when the human beings believed that Earth was flat, whereas it turned out to be actually spherical. They looked for solutions based on the wrong impression about the Earth and therefore, none of their conclusions were correct.

All psychiatrists and psychologists believe that our conscience is right and we have to do what it tells us, even if we accept advice from someone else. Most people in our world think exactly the same.

However, my discoveries obtained by interpreting dreams revealed that the human conscience is absurd, ignorant and idiotic whereas the unconscious that produces our dreams is wise and saintly. Jung had concluded that the human being should listen to the advice of the unconscious mind but always do what one’s own conscience decides.

He thought that the wise unconscious that produces dreams to cure us from depression and craziness would also cause craziness. This is because Jung could not find another explanation, and he was afraid to continue investigating this finding. He accepted ignorance and stopped his research at a certain point. He was guided by the unconscious as well because he was not ready to learn the entire truth.

My research was not based only on the previous notions of the scientific world but also on the facts that I observed as a poetess. In addition, I could observe the works of many scientists that were consistent with each other, and all these resources revealed the same reality. Therefore, I abandoned the rule of my own conscience and followed only the directions I received in my dreams and symbols of daily life (that can be interpreted like dreams) that were sent by the wise and saintly unconscious mind.

No scientist would ever agree to do so; however, I did this because I clearly saw how crazy the human conscience was and I understood that far more craziness could originate only from the conscience and not from the unconscious as Jung mistakenly believed. Only the conscience shows us several signs of craziness and not the perfect unconscious mind that works like a doctor.

This is why I discovered that the human being is basically a monster and that one has to tame this violent nature and learn how to live peacefully, respect others and help them, so that one is happy and everyone in this world is happy too.

The other factor that the scientists ignore is that happiness is impossible on Earth because of the terror and violence that exist here. Terror destroys everything. This is why schizophrenia and psychosis and all the terrible mental illnesses that torture our population exist. Everything starts in our own psyche, which worsens in the crazy world we live in.

Everything in our world pushes us towards the labyrinth of craziness, helping the anti-conscience destroy our conscience completely. It is completely impossible to cure schizophrenia, psychosis or any mental illness in a world governed by terrorism, violence, immorality, corruption, greed, hypocrisy and futility.

If everything in our world is absurd, how can our population be balanced, calm and happy?

On the other hand, if the human being is a monster that has to be tamed and taught wisdom, how could one create a world that would be different than one’s own nature? One could only create a hell characterized by poverty, prostitution, wars, cruelty and indifference to human pain.

The solution for humanity and especially for each individual is dream interpretation, which is synonymous with craziness prevention. Everyone must prevent craziness as soon as possible, since it already exists in our psyche and even characterizes our conscience. With the invasion of the anti-conscience into the conscience, one becomes crazier, until one gets lost in the labyrinth of craziness.

We see dreams every time we sleep because the wise unconscious tries to save us when we sleep from the inherent craziness, so that the anti-conscience cannot invade our minds. The unconscious sends us mysterious messages that we have to learn how to decipher because if they could be easily understood by our conscience, the anti-conscience would understand them as well and distort them. We would then have no protection against craziness.

Depression is a warning that craziness is coming or that it has already arrived. You have to do something to change your life and behavior; otherwise, your depression can become a neurosis, which can easily worsen in a very short period of time if you do not treat yourself.

You need not go anywhere or pay any doctor. The wise unconscious is your doctor, the best that you could ever find. You only have to write down your dreams daily and relate them and study their meaning after translating dream symbols into words. You also have to follow its guidance to completely develop your conscience, forever eliminating the anti-conscience.

Prevent Depression and Craziness through the scientific method of Dream Interpretation discovered by Carl Jung and simplified by Christina Sponias, a writer who continued Jung's research in the unknown region of the human psychic sphere.
Learn more at: http://www.scientificdreaminterpretation.com and http://www.booksirecommend.com

Click below to download your copy of the Free ebook
Beating Depression and Craziness

Article Source: http://EzineArticles.com/?expert=Christina_Sponias

Have you submitted Your own dreams for Free professional dream interpretation and psychotherapy?

Don’t waste time! This is a limited offer, only for this summer.

A single dream is not enough. We need a series of dreams in order to understand what is happening to the dreamer and to understand the guidance of the wise unconscious mind that produces our dreams.

So, write down your dreams every day if you want to see results for your efforts. Your dreams and their special messages should be really important to you!
You need to start right now so you will have enough time to submit many dreams. If you put off this opportunity, time will pass and you won’t be able to send me anything…

Go to