Jackson is sitting in a room opposite Detective Mark Sloan, 48, and Sergeant Stephanie Edwards, 31. Both officers are staring at Jackson as he speaks. Jackson seems very uncomfortable.

"Look, you've gotta believe me. I don't even believe this stuff, myself. I never have. But this- I have a strong feeling that this is real." Jackson says earnestly, feeling this strong sensation in his gut. "Do you think I'd come here if it wasn't real? You told me to come if I had any new information. Well, here I am."

The officers don't respond. They simply look at him as if he is a mad man.

"Don't look at me like that. You guys use psychics all the time."

There is dead silence.

"Damn it. I know how this sounds. I hear myself saying it and I really want to cringe. But this woman knew things she couldn't have known, intimate details."

"How intimate?" Stephanie asks Jackson.

"Things April only said to me." Jackson responds.

"Okay, let me get this straight. According to this psychic lady, there are ghosts and spirits all over the place, watching us all the time, huh?" Stephanie smirks then proceeds to stand up. "I'm sorry. I've got more important things to do than to listen to this ridiculous story of yours." She leaves the room. Jackson gives her a dirty look and turns to Mark.

"I'm telling you, sir. The killer's name is William Thorpe. I've got his address. You've got to check it out."

Detective Sloan gets up and looks over to Jackson.

"Okay. You just wait here. Let me see if this guy's got a record." Mark tells him.

"Thank you." Jackson says.

As Mark heads out of the room, Jackson sits back with an air of enormous relief and gratitude. Stephanie comes into the room again and picks up a folder. Jackson waits nervously. After a moment Mark returns with a police file in his hands. Jackson looks up at him and then smiles at Mark as she sees it. He feels vindicated. Mark lays the thick folder on the desk and opens it up. Jackson hurries over to him.

"What are you doing? This isn't what I asked for. Where's your file on William Thorpe?"

"There's no file for a William Thorpe. However, we do have a file on this Cristina of yours. She was probably some old boyfriend she was trying to get even with. This psychic woman's record goes back a long way. Fraud, numbers rackets, you name it. She's a real pro."

Jackson can see recent photos of Cristina and various others going back to her youth. They are fascinating and revealing. He even sees photos of her mother and grandmother. In addition, there are pages of arrest records and prison files.

"2007. Shreveport, Louisiana. Forgery, selling false IDs. Served one year. 2011. Baton Rouge. Arrested for fraud, numbers racketeering. Served ten months. 2014. Hattiesburg, Mississippi. Fraud, seven months. 2014. Albany, New York. Petty larceny. It goes on and on." Mark tells him.

Jackson is overwhelmed by the evidence.

"This woman's a charlatan. You can't believe anything she says." Mark finishes.

"This isn't possible. There were words, private things. How could she have known all that?" Jackson asks, tears forming in his eyes.

"They have their ways."

"Ways? What ways, Detective Sloan?"

"They've got a million cons, Mr. Avery. A lot of times these so called "Spiritual Readers" read the obits. All she had to do was see the word "banker". Hell, they even go through your garbage to find things they can use, letters, old papers. They don't need much."

Jackson turns away to wipe his eyes.

"I bet you threw stuff out, huh? It could have been anything. What about that underwear she knew all about?"

Jackson's eyes widen.

"Baby blue underwear? I'll bet she zeroed right in on that."

"No! She was real. She said things- private things. She knew about a sweater April knitted, about songs we sang... She knew about this place we went to in Montego Bay..."

Jackson begins to cry again.

"Mr. Avery, I'm sorry. I know this is hard. People want so much to believe. They're grieving, vulnerable. They'd give anything for one last moment... money, insurance policies. Believe me, these people know what they're doing. Look, I know how you must feel. You know, if it'll make you feel any better, you can always press charges."

"No, thank you." Jackson says as he shakes his head.

Detective Sloan nods his head compassionately then closes the file. Jackson sits for a long time. He is in terrible pain.

"Oh God, I wanted it to be April." Jackson says sadly before he leaves the police station.