Your name is Marcia Caldwell, Paranormal Private Investigator.
You have a few tricks up your sleeve that separate you from the average P.I. For one, you believe firmly in the existence of magic and the supernatural. In your 24 years on planet Earth, you’ve seen more monsters, spells, and bizarre occurrences than you care to count. You seem to have an uncanny knack (or cross to bear) for running into the unknown.
For two, you happen to be a psychic, attuned to all things not mundane. You possess “radar” that makes tracking the hidden normally quite easy. On top of that, you are strongly telepathic and slightly telekinetic.
After getting your license (with the original intent of pursuing normal, run-of-the-mill detective work), you found yourself unable to turn away from the lure of the mystical and unknown. Realizing someone needed to help those who couldn’t understand the bizarre aspects of this world, you formed Déjà vu Investigations and set up shop in New York City as a P.P.I. (Paranormal Private Investigator).
While the move did earn you quite the amount of ridicule from your colleagues (with your Scully-and-Mulder-in-a-blender demeanor not helping much), a few loyalists stuck by you. Your longtime friend Robert “Rusty” Jordan signed on as your data man, lending his computer expertise to your cause. In addition, you have an ally in the NYPD, Robbery/Homicide detective Fisher Zuckerman, who helps you on the sly (when he can get away with it).
Today has been relatively dead; your office receives curt yet curious looks from the street, but little business interest. The two-story brownstone serves as both your office and your upstairs loft, and you busy yourself by keeping it tidy for prospective clients. Rusty relaxes at his desk, sipping coffee as he electronically thumbs through stories of possible interest.
“Umm…gators in the sewers down by 42nd Street,” he announces hopefully.
A disdainful grin is your response. “What’s your second answer, Regis?” You tie back your brown hair once more and adjust the thin glasses over your hazel eyes, doing your best to vacuum the floor in heels and a teal business dress. You sigh long and audibly, wondering when a client…ANY client…will present you with a case.
Your mind tingles in response, picking up the thoughts of someone nearby with need of your unique services. The open front door and jingling bells announce their entry at that moment.
You shut off the vacuum, and turn to greet your visitor. The raven-haired black woman looks well-to-do, judging by her expensive ensemble and vise grip on her purse.
You extend your hand to her. “Welcome to Déjà vu Investigations,” you smile and say warmly. “Marcia Caldwell, P.I.”
“A pleasure. I’m Christine Atwell,” the woman sniffs. “I’m hoping you can help me, I wasn’t sure where else to turn.”
You nod in acknowledgement. “You know my specialization, I presume?”
“Yes, I do, Miss Caldwell. I must admit, I thought it rather ludicrous, until…well…”
“Until you needed supernatural help,” you smile. “That’s quite all right, Mrs. Atwell. I’m accustomed to that.” You motion for her to have a seat in the green upholstered chair before your desk.
As you both make yourselves comfortable, you ready your mind to filter her words. Your powers gift you with perfect mnemonic, eliminating the need to write anything down. Rusty brings you both a cup of the good French-Vanilla decaf as you clear your throat to speak.
“Now then, Mrs. Atwell…”
“Christine, please.”
“Very well, Christine. Call me Marcia. Can you tell me what brings you here?”
That familiar tingle rakes down your spine, the one you always get when the bizarre-crap-o-meter begins burying the needle in the red. Whatever her case may be, she’s definitely come to the right P.I.
She takes a slow sip of her java, and wipes away a tear before explaining her particular problem…