The Mental Detective

The line between mental and physical is hazy at best, and immaterial at worst. And the thinner and more indeterminate that line gets, the harder it is for me to make a living in my family profession. We are mental detectives. I can see your expression already. But I am not crazy, and I am not a fortune teller or mind-reader, and I am certainly not a psychologist. I hunt down lost minds. And my family has been doing this for generations.

     Business used to be fairly busy even as recently as my grandfather's time. When he ran the family business the income was decent. I won't pretend that my grandfather was wealthy, not like his grandfather, who lived at the time of the witches, when people's minds could be enslaved or stolen. But the witch hunters drove the witches into exile, and their knowledge of mental activity has long since died out. But my grandfather made decent money. Now I am barely getting by. I may be the last of the Wilson mental detectives.

     And it is because of the blurring line between mental and physical. Or rather, it is because of the disappearance of the mental in modern society. When some feels that something has gone wrong mentally, they seek out a physical cure, going to doctors and pharmacists before they ever consider that their mind might have been misplaced or stolen. And part of the time they are correct. The physical does have a lot to do with the mental, and the two must interact in harmony. But if the doctors cannot help them, people often assume the case is hopeless. They don't see the two sides of the situation. They don't understand that the mental is still there, no matter how much the line blurs. We are not solely physical machines. And that's what you don't understand, and why you can't help me.

     I was gloomily thinking about the loss of work as I sat in my office one Saturday afternoon. The week had been painfully slow. The bills were piling up in my inbox, and I had no money to pay them. I was, for the hundredth time in my career, contemplating throwing in the towel and going back to school. I could take an accounting degree and get a secure job with a nice steady income in a few years. Sure the work might be a bit boring, but how was that any worse than watching the walls as I normally did in my current office?

     As I was moodily contemplating my future, an elderly lady came in leading her husband by the hand. My spine tingled with warning the moment I laid eyes on the gentleman. His eyes were vacant, his jaw was slack. He was literally being led around by his nervous wife. I knew immediately that something was wrong with him mentally. I can see you doubting me again. But when you are a mental detective who has grown up in a family of mental detectives you learn to trust your instincts. There are things that happen when a person loses the mental aspect of themselves. I know you don't believe me, but the line between mental and physical is indeterminate at best. Did I say that already? Anyway, I get an impression from people shortly after meeting them as to their mental state, and I am rarely ever wrong. I suspected that this man was mentally missing.

     His wife, as I've said, was terribly nervous. She looked like most of my customers look lately, when I have any customers that is. I could almost read her emotions from her expression. She was desperate, which is what drove her to a mental detective in an age of science and medicine. But she was also terribly afraid that I would not be able to help her, and feeling foolish for even seeking me out in the first place.

     "Detective Wilson?" She said in a quivering voice, tugging her husband a little further into my small office.

     "Yes ma'am, how may I help you?" I rose from behind my desk and offered my hand. She hesitantly took it and we shook hands briefly.

     " It's my husband, Walter." The agitation in her voice rose. "He has been ill for a while. Years, really." She swallowed hard. She opened her mouth to say more, but didn't seem to know what to say.

     "Why don't you sit down and begin at the beginning." I settled behind my desk and gestured to the two chairs.

     The lady sat on the edge of one of the chairs and gently pulled her husband down into the other one, where he sat with a slightly bemused expression on his face. She remained silent for a few more moments.

     "How about you start by telling me your name?" I prompted gently.

     "Oh how rude of me. I'm Rose Anderson, and this is my husband, Walter." She took a deep quivering breath. "Well, he was my husband. And he certainly still looks like my husband. He's just. . .  it's like my husband isn't even here anymore. One night everything was fine, and the next morning he woke up and everything was different. He doesn't know where he is or who he is, and he doesn't interact with anyone. He doesn't seem to notice anyone anymore. I've taken him to doctors and specialists. No one can find anything wrong with him. They tell me he has dementia, but it all just happened so fast. I. . .  I don't know if there is anything you can do. Perhaps his brain has been damaged some how but it seems as though. . . it seems as though. . ."

     "As though his mind is gone?" I finished softly.

     "Yes, exactly." Tears slid down her face, as she stared at me with naked hope.

     I stood up and walked around my desk, not an easy feat in my narrow office, especially with the covered bird cage which stands just beside my office chair. I crouched beside Walter and gazed into his eyes. "Walter," I said slowly and clearly, "do you know where you are?"

     He turned to look at me blankly. His eyebrows were raised slightly as though he didn't know where I'd come from and was surprised to find me squatting beside him. He opened and closed his mouth a few times, but didn't say anything. His eyebrows drew together in puzzlement as though he was trying to riddle out something. He remained like this for a few seconds before his face relaxed into its original bland expression.

     I went back and sat behind my desk. "Mrs. Anderson, I'll tell you what I think. I think you are quite right. This is not a simple case of dementia. You husband shows no signs of agitation or confusion which usually accompanies dementia. He says nothing, and dementia patients do not loose all their vocabulary all at once. Furthermore, the speed with which you state this change came about does not correspond with the usual onset of dementia at all." I steepled my fingers and tapped them against my chin and leaned back in my chair, propping my feet up on my desk. This is a habit I've acquired from watching too many old detective movies. I've been told that it is ridiculous looking, but I can't seem to stop doing it. "I think your husband has indeed lost his mind, but curiously not all of it. His reactions of surprise, and struggling to find words to communicate suggest to me that, on some level at least, he is aware that something is missing. This awareness in and of itself suggests that something is also present. Does that make sense to you Mrs. Anderson?"

     The elderly lady looked slightly confused, but nodded. "Yes," she said slowly, "I believe so. What should we do?"

     "Well, it could be that he will be reunited with his mind naturally, without us having to do anything. However, given the amount of time he has been separated from his own mind, I tend to think that this is unlikely. Either it is so lost that it cannot be found, or it is being kept from him on purpose."

     Mrs. Anderson's eyes widened. "Being kept from him?"

     "I wouldn't worry. That is not a common thing these days. I'm sure his mind has simply wandered. I will begin looking for it immediately. Here is my contract." I dusted off a pile of papers on the corner of my desk and handed Mrs. Anderson one to look over. "As you can see I only receive payment upon my successful retrieval of your husband's mind."

     Mrs. Anderson signed the contract immediately. "Thank you so much, Detective Wilson."

     I took the contract back and stuck it in a cob-web filled drawer. "Now, I'm just going to let my parrot get a sense of your husband," I turned and pulled to cloth off the parrot cage beside my chair, "using what is left of your husband's mind he should be able to track the rest."

     "Your parrot?" Mrs. Anderson said, wrinkling her forehead in puzzlement. Yes, just like your brow is wrinkling now. But I assure you, I am not crazy. Parrots have a gift for walking the fine line between the mental and the physical. My great great aunt discovered that when she was working as an office girl in the Wilson Detective Agency. She kept a pet parrot, and it was truly remarkable what that bird could do. Now, let me get on with my story.

     "Of course," I said to Mrs. Anderson. "This parrot has been in my family for generations. He's tracked down hundreds of minds in his day. Sure, he's a little past his prime, but he will be able to find your husband's mind. C'mon Earl." I coaxed the old parrot out of his cage and allowed him to perch lightly on Mr. Anderson's shoulder. Earl twitched this way and that, looking in the old man's ears and eyes, cocking his head as he walked from one shoulder to the other. Finally, satisfied, the parrot flew back to my hand. "I believe we are ready to begin. I will contact you the moment we have any news."

     As I watched Mr. and Mrs. Anderson leave my small office I felt an excitement I hadn't felt in months. Most likely the mind was simply lost or snagged on a nail or something. But maybe, maybe the mind was willfully being held captive somewhere. I felt my adrenaline rushing, and remembered again why I had chosen this dying profession over all others. I was going to reunite this old man with his mind, and I would be there where he looked at his wife and remembered who she was.  I felt elated and left my office with a spring in my step, and Earl perched on my shoulder.

     We pounded the pavement, Earl and me, for weeks. I interviewed Mrs. Anderson extensively asking her about her husband's best and worst memories. We explored the areas where those memories had taken place, even returning to his childhood school yard and examining it in minute detail, looking for somewhere where the mind might have become snagged or caught while wandering down memory lane. Nothing. Nothing and nothing. And as the weeks stretched on I knew Mrs. Anderson was becoming more agitated. As well she should. Remember, the line between mental and physical is fuzzy at best. Did I say that? I don't mean to keep repeating myself, but it's important that you understand. The longer the mind is separated from the body, the harder it is to reform that blurry connection that binds mental and physical together. And that was something I couldn't help the Anderson's with. I was determined to find Walter's mind, but once I found it, it was up to him to reform the bond. Needless to say I was eager to find his mind as soon as possible, and not just for Walter's sake. The third and final notice of all of my bills were gradually collecting dust in my dingy office.

     I sat there, among my bills, head in my hands and feeling the weight my task on my shoulders. I knew spending money was foolhardy in my state, but I was angry, hungry and needed to take my mind off of my failure. I popped Earl out of his cage and let him settle on my shoulder before collecting my coat and hat and sauntering down the street to the pub.

     I slid into my usual booth in the corner and ordered a pint and a cheeseburger. The bartender glowered at me. I suppose my tab was getting suspiciously long, and he distrusted my ability to pay, but he said nothing, though he did slam the pint down hard enough to shake the table. I ignored him. My bar tab would be the least of my worries if I wasn't able to solve this case.  I was on to my second pint and picking at my fries before I realized that Earl was no longer on my shoulder. He was standing on the back of an empty chair near the door squawking and bobbing his head excitedly.

     I frowned as I watched Earl and it really shows my preoccupation that I didn't realize what he was trying to tell me for several moments. It suddenly dawned on me that he was catching a scent of Walter's mind. I know you still have reservations over whether a parrot can sense minds or not. But parrots are very unique animals. They can be trained to do many difficult tasks, and my grandfather had trained Earl to seek out minds. And right at that moment he was definitely getting a strong sense of Walter's mind, or there was a pet shop with a female parrot nearby.

     I bolted from my shady corner booth and opened the door for Earl. I followed him outside. He glided through the air with purpose and I ran through to wet and smog-filled streets following his bright tail whip in and out of people and traffic. My disappointment rose as we passed a pet store, but Earl just kept flying past. We must have gone ten blocks or more, and I can tell you that I don't do a lot of physical activity, and maybe my cheeseburger diet isn't ideal either, but I was panting hard with a painful stitch in my side when Earl finally perched on the eves of a house that had been converted to a store.

     It was a psychic's store. To be more precise, it was Madame Angelica's Psychic Services store. I was very confused. And as I hunched doubled-over in pain wheezing hard I glared up at Earl. Was this his idea of a sick joke? I told you at the beginning of this that I am not a fortune teller. But people see "mental detective" above my office door and come in asking all sorts of frivolous questions. Stuff like 'who will take me to prom?' or 'is my mother happy in heaven?'

     Let me tell you now, I have no idea what heaven is like. I don't know what your future holds, and I cannot read your mind. I can find it if it's been misplaced or stolen, and trail it if it wanders off. That is all. So you can imagine what I thought when I saw Earl perched above this psychic's door. But he was insistent, so I cautiously wandered inside. Earl followed me, squawking happily. He sailed around the room a few times, flapping everywhere. He suddenly drew up and pecked at a cabinet over and over.

     I frowned and rushed over to the cabinet. I fumbled with the lock for only a moment before I was able to pick it. I may not be a conventional detective, but that doesn't mean that I don't know a few conventional detective tricks. There, inside the cupboard, was not-quite-full bag of marbles. Earl went ballistic, circling and circling the bag. I knew it was what I had come for. What I couldn't figure out was how Walter's lost marbles had ended up here in a psychic's cupboard.

     That was when Madame Angelica entered the room. She came in covered in shawls and bangles with a soft wispy voice asking, "How may I guide you through the uncertainties of tomorrow?" But the act was dropped pretty fast when she saw me holding Walter's bag of marbles.

     "What are you doing here?" She asked, her voice shrill and cold now.

     "I believe you have property that does not belong to you," I answered, holding up the bag. "I don't think it is necessary to involve the police, who would believe me anyway? But I will be taking this back to the Andersons."

     Madame Angelica smiled sweetly. "Do you imagine that I would simply let you leave with that?" she asked quietly, settling herself behind her velvet table which held her crystal ball. She stroked the ball with one long red fingernail.

     And then do you know what she did? She took some of my marbles too. Don't ask me how. I can't remember how, because that part of my mind is missing. I can't remember why either. Also missing. But you must realize that I'm telling the truth. I'm not crazy, I'm a mental detective. And I'm on the trail of one of the last mind snatchers in North America, I'd guess.

     I know you've examined me from top to bottom and there is nothing physically wrong with me is there? I just get lost, get confused, forget who people are. And that is because Madame Angelica has some of my marbles. My brain is intact, it's my mind that is torn apart. So, if you'll just let me out of this straight jacket then I could go back to Madame Angelica's and retrieve both my and Walter's marbles. And you'd see what a difference that would make.

     I see that you've been told about the restraining order. Can't you understand that Madame Angelica is making that up? I wasn't harassing her. I was simply doing my job. It's a proud Wilson family tradition you know. Go find my parrot, Earl. He'll lead you to my marbles, and then you'll see. The line between the mental and physical is fuzzy at best, but it is there. Did I say that already?