Yes, Virginia, there is life after death

On an early morning last week, just 10 days before Christmas, as I lay in bed gathering my thoughts, I heard a loud crashing sound downstairs in my house. No sound had preceded it, so I did not fear a break-in. But it was loud enough to wake my wife. What was that? she asked, alarmed. I'll go check, I said dutifully.

In that no one else was home, I had figured that the Christmas tree had toppled over or a picture had fallen off a wall, but I could find nothing out of order. With no place else to look, I checked the sparest and smallest room downstairs, the one where I kept my weights and a TV to watch while working out.

What I found there, especially on reflection, was evidence enough for me to come to a rather stupendous conclusion: yes, Virginia, there is indeed life after death. To understand how and why I concluded thusly requires a little back-story. It begins with a family friend we will call Anna, a sensible young wife and mother I have known forever.

After years of suppressing her gifts, and more years still of struggling to reconcile them with her deep Catholic faith, Anna has let a few people know what she believes herself capable of doing, namely – hang on here – communicating with the dead. I have been historically agnostic about all things irrational and/or intangible like extraterrestrials or ESP or telekinesis or poltergeists or pro-life Democrats or people who self-combust in their living rooms.

Despite my doubts, Anna approached me because of my access to the media. There were missing person cases where she thought she could be helpful but, understandably, she had made little headway with skeptical authorities. Curious, I asked her what she could tell me about Clinton Commerce Secretary Ron Brown, the title character of my book, Ron Brown's Body.

The apolitical Anna had not heard of Brown but came back a day later with astonishingly accurate details about his life and death. Still wary, I figured, she could have pulled some of these details from my book, but not all. For one, the death scenario she drew differed from the one I had depicted as most likely, but hers was nonetheless entirely plausible.

For another, the personal details she evoked went well beyond anything I knew. To check, I called Brown's confidante, Nolanda Butler Hill, and the precision of Anna's revelations took Nolanda's breath away. Some time later Anna called me without prompting. She told me that my late father had visited her the night before. This was not an area I was eager to explore, but I chose to listen.

As Anna related, she had been awakened by a very loud rendition of the song Sloop John B. She heard my father's voice filtered and coming from her left. This meant, she told me, He did, in fact, shoot himself.

Anna laid out the details: my father been demoted from top grade detective to cop on the beat in a political purge by an incoming administration. He hated the corruption around him, she told me. This stuff happened in Newark, I explained. I was 15 years old at the time. Anna had yet to be born, but she was eerily accurate.

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