By John Carl O’Neil
1. From the Memoirs of Dr. Sharon Redstone
Robert Torington made the appointment and paid the bill, but he said other matters kept him from meeting me that first day. I knew it was a confused love for his ex-father-in-law who was more a dad than his biological father had ever been that was the real motivation, but clients don’t want psychic detectives to turn their abilities on them. So, on March 13, Michael Dent walked into my office all by himself. His height would have been impressive indeed, if his frame had not been bent down from care and countless hours sitting hunched over. His black beard hair mottled with grey was not well trimmed, suggesting to me that he had not bothered to trim it in months. His hair was long with split ends, and I surmised he was not making a fashion statement. Since he was coming to see me, a detective with some small psychic ability specializing in occult related disappearances and murder, I surmised he was here to see me about a loved one. And when his eyes met mine, I knew he was here to find his missing son—he had been a widower for many years. How did I deduce that? I didn’t. I have some small psychic ability after all to complement my ratiocination.
I spoke in a formal and perfunctory manner. It will not do to let clients, especially those who belong to an older generation, see my softer side. “I am sorry about your son. I will use all earthly and unearthly means at my disposal to find him and, if possible retrieve him for you. If he is beyond retrieval, I will see if I can send you to him by means of astral projection. Do sit down”
“Hello, Mrs., Miss, Ms. Redstone. I am Michael Dent. Call me Michael. A year ago it would have been Mr. Dent, but since he has gone missing, I haven’t cared so much about such things” he said, while sitting down. I could smell the whisky on his breath but modulated my facial expressions so that I gave no indication. He would interpret any reaction at all as condescending disapproval—since that was the way he felt about himself, he would expect others to feel the same way. He folded one leg over the other, a gesture meant to show comfort, but he crossed his arms, showing that he was still uncomfortable despite his desire to hide the fact. I pitied the old man, but I’d be damned before I’d tell or show him that.
“As whoever recommended you must have mentioned, I am Sharon Redstone, and I have earned doctorates in criminology, paranormal psychology, as well as metaphysics. So pardon me, Mr. Dent, but none of your guesses as how to address me are correct. I am Dr. Redstone, and you will call me that,” I said. I saw the flinch, saw the embarrassment that filled Michael—so he only pretended he was too far gone in grief to care. I call him Michael now, but that first night I felt that I must use his title to remind him he need not lose his dignity because he had lost his son. Men of his generation still believe titles grant one a certain dignity. Must I really explain that I insisted the man use my title not out of any personal pride but because I felt that it was my duty to restore this poor man to his former state of contented dignity. His son might be beyond restoration, but his dignity was not.
“My sincere apologies, Dr. Redstone,” Michael replied contritely, but I saw some of his old spirit return. I never knew Michael before that night, but I could see the man of last year as clear as I could see the man of today. It was my vision of the man as he had been that first stirred my hard old heart—a professional career woman of my age who has chosen to remain single for her first sixty years does not fall in love at first sight, but I knew a part of me could and would. I did not let a muscle of my face show this inner turmoil. I told myself it was pity, not love. I am usually so astute, but my heart is a bit too close for impartial observation.
