Glass Eye: Confessions of a Fake Psychic Detective

Chapter 5

Eight aspirins and a two-mile walk into the woods outside Stevens Point later, Zandra arrives at Herman the Hermit's home. "Home" is a loose term. It's a tiny shack choked by walls of trash like a square egg in a junkyard bird's nest.

"Herman the Hermit" is what locals call the recluse living in the dense woods adjacent to Soma Falls Park. The property is technically owned by the county, which leased it to a timber company.

Herman skipped eviction through his knowledge of the legal process and knack for never shutting up. He rarely accomplishes anything in court, just ties things up in red tape until the opposing attorney retires. In another life, Herman earned a reputation as a successful Portage County prosecutor. He left his career one day on a whim. He'd later tell the Stevens Point Journal, the local newspaper owned by Gene Carey, he "opted out." The brief comment marked the first and last time he spoke publicly about leaving.

Like Zandra, Herman picks up plenty of flak for "opting out" of the mainstream. No doubt the police interrogated him about Elle Carey. He's harmless, but that doesn't prevent Stevens Point from appropriating him as the bogeyman whenever something bad happens. In a town of 27,000, he's still one of the first to get a visit from police.

Zandra pauses next to a pile of tires outside the shack and rests. The bath and aspirin can only do so much, but she knows the hike will be well worth it. She hears Herman's voice call out to her from inside the shack. It's as seasoned with tobacco as hers.

"If you're here for a knife, I only sell them at shows," Herman says. He sounds exceptionally lucid for someone living in isolation. "No one gets to budge."

Collectors revere Herman's custom knives for their incredible aesthetics and ingenuity. Herman collects discarded metal from box springs, vehicles, appliances and other bits of Stevens Point's rusty underbelly. Using a DIY gas forge made from scrap and crossed fingers, Herman literally turns trash into treasure. His fixed blade creations fetch tens of thousands of dollars at knife shows across the country. Each is a work of art unto itself, featuring unworldly designs that wouldn't look out of place at a vivisection in hell.

Autumn's tug claimed enough leaves around the shack for Zandra to see Herman's frail face and long, gray hair poking out the front door.

"I need to talk to you. It's important," Zandra says. She moves away from the stack of tires to reveal herself. Rolls up her purple sleeves and shows her palms.

Herman steps out from the door. He wears a full-body poncho made from burlap patched with T-shirts.

"Is that who I think it is?" Herman says. He wipes a patch of crud from his eyes. "Well, I'll be. It's the psychic herself, Zandra. The Zandra. But I don't remember ordering a reading. Or did I?"

Zandra takes a shuffled step toward Herman. Her foot drags in the dirt from the pain in her ankle. She wants a better look at him, not that there's anything obtuse about Herman's persona. He looks like a haggard cross between Alan Moore, Grizzly Adams and the bottom of a Dumpster.

"Thought I'd swing by for a smoke break," Zandra says and reaches into the deep pocket of her gown. Out comes a pack of cigarettes and a lighter. Back when Herman still associated with Stevens Point, Zandra spotted him outside the courthouse puffing away between hearings. "You still smoke, right?"

"You're too kind. No one brings me presents," Herman says. He fishes out two chairs from a heap of trash and drags over a plastic table. He offers a bow and a seat to Zandra. "M'lady."

They smoke and make small talk about the weather. It's the first Zandra's seen of Herman in years. Not that they had much of a relationship outside the courthouse.