Someone Else's Lady

The more Orson realized I sometimes knew the unknown, and that I could also draw fairly well, the more excited he was at the idea of introducing me to a few cops he knew. He believed they could use these tools and that I could make more money than I was earning at my dull office job. I eventually agreed to meet with him and a detective named Jacques at a local diner early one evening. Jacques was a handsome guy and very friendly as well—not the kind you would guess was a detective. He didn't come off with the arrogant, superior attitude that many in law enforcement often possess. "I don't know if I would exactly describe myself as psychic," I told him up front, "but sometimes I seem to be very intuitive." I described how I sometimes had dream premonitions or would simply get a negative or positive vibe about something in particular while I was awake. "Sort of like a feeling that something would or wouldn't work out?" he asked. "Yes, more or less," I said with a nod. "I was once waiting for a friend to call, since I don't drive, and tell me she was on her way to pick me up so we could go clubbing together." Jacques studied me as I spoke. "Then I was suddenly hit with a feeling that said I wouldn't be going out that night, so I might as well not bother to put on any makeup at the last minute like I was going to. Sure enough, the phone rang and she told me her car broke down and she was waiting for it to be towed." "Wow, interesting," said Jacques. "Well, I think we're all intuitive in some way or another. It's just a little advanced in my case for some reason." "Do you think you could look at photos of a crime scene, or maybe actually be brought to the crime scene itself, and get a sense of what might've happened?" "I have no idea. It's not something I've ever done before, so I couldn't possibly say for sure." "How about holding an object belonging to a missing victim? Think you could get a sense of where they may be?" "That's a very good question." The three of us ate our burgers and fries for a few minutes in silence. I could tell that Jacques was digesting what I told him right along with his food. Then Orson reminded him that I had a dream of him being in a car accident, but instead of that, he was actually nearly hit by a car the next day while crossing a street. "When I have a bad dream about someone," I explained, "the bad thing that ends up happening usually isn't what I dreamed it would be. Sometimes it's close, but other times it's way off. It's just bad either way." "Pretty neat to be that intuitive," Jacques said before taking a sip of his soda. "Not really. I mean, there's nothing I can do to change fate. All I can do is know something bad is coming, and that just gives me time to worry about it until I know what it is. It's not something I would exactly consider a gift." "Yeah, I can see where you might feel that way," said Jacques. I watched as the detective pulled a pad of blank paper and a pencil from the briefcase he had with him. "Would you be willing to draw me?" "I could try," I said. "Just a rough sketch of what I basically look like. It doesn't have to be overly detailed or perfect in any way." Orson snorted with amusement. "Like there's anything perfect about your face, Detective?" We laughed, and then I began to draw. "Just keep your expression steady and your head still." A few minutes later, satisfied that I had done what Jacques wanted, I turned the pad in his direction and slid it toward him. Orson leaned to the side to study it along with him. "Wow," said Orson. "Hey, this is really good," said Jacques. "This guy definitely looks like me. I'm impressed." I smiled. Jacques looked up at me, his expression turning more serious as he got down to business. "I don't know about whether or not we could use you as a psychic but maybe we could for some of our cold cases. But I think we could definitely use you as a sketch artist, if only to fill in for the regulars when they were either on vacation or taking personal days or whatever it may be." I was speechless at first, totally surprised by what I was hearing. How had I gone from an office worker to possibly a sketch artist for the police in the amount of time it took to consume a cheeseburger and an order of fries?