Talk to Me (25 page)

‘Mark? What if we swing by Woodstock [Tori's hometown] on our day off?'

He smiled and replied, ‘I'm game.'

So we drove the 45 minutes to Woodstock to the scene of Tori's abduction, right across from her elementary school. We meandered down the main road, past signs in front of hotels and restaurants saying, ‘Bring home Tori!', ‘We love you, Tori', ‘Give Tori back to us!', letting the abductor know that they had a fight on their hands, because this baby was precious and was parented by the entire town now.

My being in Woodstock started to feel very personal, as I saw the wounded town awaiting the return of its missing child. Tania, a friend of mine, was familiar with the area, and she took us to the school where Tori had been last seen leaving with a woman. I yanked out my notepad and pulled up a chunk of kerb to park myself on, as I concentrated on the moment Tori went missing, to try and get some clues connected to her disappearance. I wasn't even sure I'd get anything, quite honestly. I had been so sick and my energy was low.

The first word I scribbled was ‘Alive?'

Answer: ‘No.'

My heart sank—that sucked! So now I knew we were looking for a body. I couldn't get emotional, I had to continue writing.

Question: ‘Motive?'

Answer: ‘Sexually motivated.'

Not good. I felt the female was just a lure to get Tori to go with her, and that there was a male who had planned all this to assault Tori. I also felt that the perps knew Tori's mum. That was a very important piece of information. Also, I sensed that the male had a tie to the neighbourhood; he either lived there or had a close connection with someone who lived there. I saw trees around Tori, like a forest or an area where you might camp. The male perpetrator was familiar with this desolate area. I also felt like the female was trying to get information from neighbours to find out what they knew, and might attend a candlelight vigil which I later found out was being held that very night. The only real good news is that I ‘knew' they'd be apprehended, and that Tori's body would be recovered and returned to the town that held her so close to their hearts.

Forested areas are vast, so when I sift through my information, I try to pull the pieces that can lead investigators to a direct connection with the perpetrator. For instance, I knew the male perpetrator had a tie to a female who lived in Tori's neighbourhood, and his mum and/or girlfriend live really close to Tori. While I was picking up on that, I could also feel that the male and female knew Tori's mum personally, meaning they've come into contact with Tori before. This is a very important piece of information, because an interview with Tori's mum then becomes a great source of finding out who did this to Tori, knowing that she has met her daughter's killers.

I slowly began to rise off the kerb, a different person from when I sat there earlier. I now had the answer that everyone searched for, and I felt sick about the information that I needed to share. I hesitated to call the constable for a moment, wanting to let five more minutes of hope exist in everyone's mind.

I rang him and, of course, his first question was: ‘Is she alive?'

‘I'm sorry, no, I don't feel that she is.'

You could feel the hope vacate his body, confirming what, I believe, he already felt in his heart to be true. I filled him in on the other details and sombrely hung up.

A couple of months later, Tori's body was discovered by a search party and brought back to her home town. She was in a forested area all that time where she had been waiting to be found. Another beautiful little girl taken from us by monsters, and sadly she won't be the last.

When I'm driving, I always look at the faces of the people in the cars around me, searching for signs of distress caused by something other than peak hour traffic. By this I mean signs that they're being transported unwillingly, just in case I can place an emergency call on their behalf or recognise a missing child whose face I've seen on the news. Once a child is kidnapped and transported on a freeway by their captor, their chance of survival drastically drops—so keep your eyes open out there.

A couple of unsettling statistics for people to keep in mind is that boys between the ages of six and nine are the most highly abducted and murdered of males under eighteen. Girls around the age of eleven are the most highly abducted and murdered of all children under age eighteen. So, even though kids want to exercise their freedom, keep those statistics in mind when letting them go anywhere alone, even if it's only three houses down the road. I've seen this too many times to count. Food for thought.

A year would pass before I would return to Canada for another event.

I had just finished two events in Rochester, New York, and my cousin and I sat in a sports bar in Niagara Falls watching Mark's San Jose Sharks play ice hockey on the big screen, while we waited for Wendy, who was driving us to Canada. I was in a good place, hanging out with my cousin watching ice hockey in the town where my husband was born, and I was through with two events, so I was halfway home.

When Wendy showed up, she had a newspaper in her hand and she looked somewhat irritated. She placed the paper on the table in front of me and the front page read, ‘I Knew Tori Was Dead', with my picture next to it, and Tori's as well. I felt like I'd been slapped in the face by a giant. I was smiling in the picture and I found that disturbing, because I would never look happy about something so dreadful—it was certainly in poor taste. I have a lot of trouble working cases under the radar; if I comment on a case at all it can be turned into a front page story. Anyway, I've been in so many magazines and newspapers, I'm surprised I haven't married Bigfoot yet (at least according to them)! My sense of humour is all that pulls me through sometimes. It's a rough world out there, so take it with a grain of salt, people!

WHEN MURDER IS TOO CLOSE FOR COMFORT

Many think that I reside in a bubble unscathed by murder. That's not true—each and every case affects me. Why wouldn't they?

On 19 July 2010, I was awakened by a police officer's voice saying (and I'm paraphrasing), ‘Do not come out of your homes—we're releasing the dogs!'

This was a stone's throw from my bed, and I was in that groggy state that allows you to go right back to sleep, especially since I had a cold. So sleep was all I wanted to do. When I awakened, Joe was noticeably shaken.

‘What's wrong?' I asked.

Joe replied, ‘One of our neighbours was stabbed to death this morning and the police have blocked off all of our streets. The killer's still on the loose.'

There was very little information released at the time about the victim. The killer was said to be a male, medium build. ‘Well, that narrows it,' I thought.

There was a police car parked right outside our house, so I felt fairly safe and sure the killer was no threat to my kids. I started pondering that someone was the last person to talk to the deceased, and didn't realise it, and someone was now standing in the presence of a murderer, and was unaware. ‘How frightening,' I thought. You never really know what kind of person you're standing right next to, what they've done in life, or who's handing you your burger at the drive-thru window. Have their hands pulled the trigger of a gun that took a life?

We live in a neighbourhood with armed guards that's considered ultra-safe, and still bad things can happen. I knew this, but sometimes a reminder not to take each day for granted comes in handy.

We are all human and we make mistakes, some much bigger than others. In the end, whether we live in fear or ignorance (most fall somewhere in between), it won't change how our lives end, but rather changes what we create while living. If you live in fear, you go through life basically holding your breath and turning your power over to those who want it; so in the end you never truly lived at all. If you live in total ignorance, chances are you will allow someone around you to walk a line that most likely breaks rules and ignores consequences; and that's not fair to those who play by the rules.

I've sat in courtrooms and watched the killer's family cry for them just as hard as the victim's family, and it brings certain conf licting feelings to the surface for me. A killer never forgets looking into the eyes of the person they victimise, but the deceased lets go of the killer as soon as they die. It's their family and friends who are now in the position to identify and stare down the person who robbed them of their loved one.

What a sad day it was in my neighbourhood. (Later, the murder suspects were quickly apprehended; it appeared to have been a love triangle that ended tragically.) I prayed for the man who died and his family, because no matter what safety bubble we think we live in, we're all affected—because we're all connected.

10
Not forgotten

I
was doing a show in Las Vegas, and I started talking to a man who puts together USO (United States Organisation) tours for Iraq, and he asked me if I would ever consider going. I said, ‘Of course,' and then I started thinking about what I could possibly do to lift their spirits (no pun intended). I don't sing or play an instrument, I can't strut up and down a catwalk . . . What's my talent? I talk to the dead.

‘Wow, that will really help them!' I thought in my most sarcastic tone. I'd probably be a ‘walking taboo' to the soldiers, someone to fear because I'm so close to death—the very thing they're trying to avoid. I can't say that I blame them if I somehow seem taboo to them, being too close to tragedy all the time.

So, even though I never heard from that man again, he did get me thinking about ways to give back. I did still want to do something in tribute to our soldiers and their families for all of their many sacrifices.

My dad was a marine in the Korean War, my brother was army infantry in Nicaragua and recalled for Desert Storm, my Uncle Joe was in the US Navy. Many, many of my family members have stepped up to the plate, so this topic is very close to my heart.

I have also brought through a number of soldiers from World War II, Vietnam, Desert Storm and our current war in Iraq. This is my way of reminding us all to never forget what they did for us. So this is my small contribution to the men and women who are the fabric of our f lag. We are deeply grateful for all that you are and do!

DEATH OF A YOUNG SOLDIER

While sifting through emails from parents who lost their children to war, I found it difficult to choose one. But this one stood out for me because it struck me that there are various ways to lose a child to war, as they leave shards of their soul behind in the battlefield.

Debbie's son James died tragically after serving his country so valiantly. Debbie is a very bubbly, appreciative lady who clearly loved her son and wanted to connect with him. I first met her at one of my seminars, but later had the opportunity to give her a private reading. Her 30-minute reading was set for 23 March 2011, and I was geared up to deliver a very meaningful reading for James's family.

I started: ‘James says he's not the only “James”, there's another one.'

Debbie responded, ‘Yes, his father's name is James.'

He also wanted to acknowledge the birthday in June.

Debbie came back with, ‘James's sister's birthday is in June, as well as his nephew's.'

As the reading progressed, James talked about his pictures being all over the computer. He said to tell his mum to take out a picture of them when he was five years old, because that's how he wants her to remember him.

Debbie asked for messages for family members and brought up his two young nephews. One was named Nico, she said. He was exactly like James, his very image. I inquired as to how old they were and she said, ‘Eleven and five.'

‘Debbie,' I asked, ‘did you put it together that James said that he appears five years old now, and his nephew, who is his spitting image, is five years old?'

We both sat there for a moment and took it all in.

Debbie shared that, like other mothers, she carried the guilt of being unable to save her son or ‘make it all better'. All parents can relate to this. I did remind her that sometimes the ability to ‘save' is taken out of our hands, and that guilt and grief seem to go hand in hand. We must find a way to let go of the guilt to lighten the intensity of the grief. Grief still affects us, but it's more mutable without guilt, so it can be investigated and processed by all who experience it.

I concluded my reading with Debbie and she graciously thanked me. I thanked her back for sharing her son James with me and my readers, so that we can know both how wonderful a son and soldier he is. Plus, his reinforcement that family is indivisible—even by death.

DEBBIE'S STORY

As a toddler, James was so pretty that a woman once said to me: ‘A boy? He's much too pretty to be a boy.' When he smiled, his eyes would twinkle like the stars, his face would light up like the sun, and it was then you saw his dimples. He was the little boy everyone loved. He was the little boy who was not afraid to speak out about what his eyes saw in the world. You never knew what to expect from him; he was silly and spontaneous.

I remember feeling my heart melt as I saw the world through the eyes of my child when at age four, James proclaimed, ‘Look around, isn't it a beautiful world we live in?'

Growing up, James was small for his age, so in his teen years his size earned him the nickname of ‘Shorty'. I don't think I ever heard his friends call him by his given name.

James was also very sensitive to others' feelings. When he was nineteen, I came home to find him waiting on the steps for me. He pointed to the garden and said, ‘The cat got your favourite squirrel, Mum, so I made him a little wooden cross and buried him 'cos I knew you'd be upset.' That's the sort of ‘sweet' my son James was to me.

It was after the Twin Towers tragedy that James decided that he wanted to join the army. I tried to talk him out of it—me being a 1960s ‘peace and love' mum.