The absurdity of it all was enough to make me laugh, which probably didn't help my case. Oh, the good doctor and his "research"! If I had known the madness that would unfold, I'd have run in the opposite direction.

But, here I was, stuck in a never-ending nightmare. The interrogation was a joke.

A poorly scripted comedy sketch, if you will. Detective Murphy, with his bulging 
neck veins and a temper to match, asked the same questions over and over again, each time becoming more enraged that I didn't have any answers for him.

"Where were you the night of the murders?" "Did you know the victims?" 
"Why were you seen at the crime scenes?" and on and on. As if I'd have stuck around to watch the police at work if I had any sense of guilt! It was all so ridiculous.

They had nothing on me, no evidence, no motive, nothing but a pair of panties that somehow ended up in my car-which, by the way, was the most convenient "discovery" I had ever seen. Of course, I didn't bother telling them about my visions.

What 
would have been the point? They'd have locked me up in a psych ward, and the real killer would have gone free. .