Glass Eye: Confessions of a Fake Psychic Detective

Chapter 4

"If you need water, there's a drinking fountain in the hallway," Charlie says the next morning from behind a desk in her office. Like yesterday, she's in plain clothes. The pale in her face turns a shade of red at the sight of Zandra.

Zandra straightens in her chair. Her ankle already hurts. Slept on the couch funny. The pain doesn't prevent her from noticing the term "drinking fountain." Charlie's not native to central Wisconsin. The correct term for around here is "bubbler." Another notch to add to the family rift storyline.

Charlie's barebones office is seemingly empty of further clues. But that's a "tell," too, in the items that aren't present. No pictures of family. No hints of hobbies. No life outside work, apparently. At least the walls are made of glass to let the life of the police department shine in.

"I'm fine. Let's start," Zandra says. She stuffs her hands in the pockets of her purple gown. It's chilly in the office.

Before Charlie can reply, a burly officer in uniform stuffs himself through the office door.

"This the psychic? Holy shit, I thought that was a joke," the officer says and snorts. He pulls a deck of cards from his pockets. "The guys wanted me to do a, uh, screening."

"We're a little busy for your jokes today, Bob," Charlie says.

Zandra turns to face Bob. Stares through him with eyes as hard and pointed as an antler shed. "It's quite alright. If you've got the time to make yourself look like a jackass, I'm happy to oblige," she says.

"Oh, oh, I gotta get the guys for this. Wait here a sec," Bob says.

Charlie grumbles and sips her coffee while Bob fetches his "guys." He takes his place in the office again with a trio in tow. They jockey for position to see Bob's deck of cards. He holds the cards out of Zandra's view and gives them a sloppy shuffle before drawing one, taking care to not let Zandra see. The small crowd nods in approval. Bob stuffs the card back into the deck.

"You know how this works, right? Tell me what card I drew, psychic lady," Bob says.

"I'm a psychic, not a magician," Zandra says.

"Same difference. You got the card or not?"

Zandra already knows the correct answer. She saw the card in the reflection off the office's glass walls, but she still owes them a show. It's no more or less a performance than the one the officers put on every day. The real power comes in how they're perceived by others, not the way they dress. Perception is reality. That badge is as powerless as Zandra's crystals until enough people agree those things have meaning.

Zandra figures Bob is about 45, meaning his great-grandfather is dead. The last name plated onto his uniform, Debski, is Polish, meaning his lineage likely goes back to the early days of Stevens Point. Occupations, especially in law enforcement, have a tendency to pass down through generations.

"In good time, my dear Bob. First let me tell me you about the spirit of your great-grandfather. He's standing right next to you, child," Zandra says with a wave of her hand. "He worked in some sort of public service role, right?"

That's only an educated guess. It's why Zandra didn't say the great-grandfather was a "police officer" outright. "Public service" usually means "government employee," but it could open up to almost anything. A volunteer. A role at church. A generally charitable person.

Bob delivers on the meathead persona Zandra pegged him for. He buys right into it.

"How did you know my great-grandpa was a cop?" Bob says. His frat boy smirk is no more.

"He told me," Zandra says.

The gaggle behind Bob goes silent. Even Charlie's jaw drops just a little, although it's quickly filled with coffee.

"Are you being serious right now?" Bob says.

Zandra doesn't break her stare. "One hundred percent," she says and pulls a folded piece of small paper from her pocket. "He told me to give you this."

Bob hesitates to take the paper until his "guys" egg him on. He unfolds it and looks over lines of scribble.

"Two of clubs," Bob says. He sends Zandra a gaping, incredulous look. "How did you do that?"

Zandra smiles out of the corner of her mouth, but it's not for him. The satisfaction of knocking over a dunce never gets old.

"I didn't, child. The spirits have their ways," Zandra says. "Know that your great-grandfather is watching over you. He's proud of you."

Bob still looks stunned. "Wow, I, uh, I don't know what to say. Thanks, I guess," he says before leading his silent comrades out the door.

Zandra turns back to Charlie. Hopes the officer didn't notice her hand working the pen inside her pocket.

"Really? The dead cross back into the world of the living to do what, look at a deck of cards?" Charlie says.

Zandra keeps her act going while the momentum is still strong. "You're not from central Wisconsin, are you? No husband. No kids," she says.

Charlie shows Zandra her palms. "Guilty. Born and raised in Minnesota. And I'm here all by myself, just like you."

More information for Zandra's files.

"No, not just like me. We're plenty different. I see spirits. You see parking tickets," Zandra says.

"Are there any spirits around me right now? Maybe they want to reveal the brand of toothpaste I used earlier this morning," Charlie says.

Zandra probably could if she focused long enough on the tiny, chalky stain on Charlie's sleeve. She opts for something grimmer instead.

"There used to be spirits around you. They left after something troubling came up," Zandra says.

Charlie hides her reaction behind a coffee mug. "Now that you're good and warmed up, care to get started?" she says. She sets a photo down on the desk. "How about asking gramps about this?"

The photo's similar to the black-and-white poster Zandra saw earlier. Elle Carey smiles from behind the handlebars of her bicycle, except this version is in color. The color keys Zandra's eyes onto something she missed before: Elle's shoelaces are missing from her left shoe. The detail is barely visible in the angle of the shot, but it's there.

A timestamp in the lower corner of the photo indicates the camera snapped Elle minutes before she went missing.

"Gramps says we need to find her pink shoe," Zandra says.

Charlie raises an eyebrow. "Oh, really? A shoe," she says.

"I don't enjoy repeating myself," Zandra says.

"We've sent dogs in to scent Soma Falls Park more times than I can count. They didn't find a shoe," Charlie says and stands to stretch. She paces the office.

Zandra cranks the psychic persona up a notch at the risk of her more realistic abilities. It's a gamble to buy her time, to focus. She doesn't want to spend the day with Charlie. She'll get better results doing things her way. Alone.

"The shoe must've fallen off at some point. And now there's an imprint on it, a memory. It's like a psychic breadcrumb I can use for remote viewing," Zandra says. She hobbles to her feet. Thinks how terrific a hot bath back home would feel for her bad ankle.

"And how do we go about this remote viewing?" Charlie says.

Zandra hacks something into her sleeve. Holds it there and wheezes.

"There's no we about it. I must have total focus for my remote viewing. I'll work it alone after I find the shoe," Zandra says and starts for the door. "We'll talk tomorrow."

Charlie moves to block her from leaving.

"You can't just leave before this even starts," Charlie says.

"Have a little faith, child," Zandra says.

Later, beneath four inches of bubbles and six of hot water, Zandra wakes from her concentration and opens her eyes. She knows how to find the shoe.