It is the beginning of a new year and, for many, it feels like a fresh start, an artificial marker that gives the day some imagined significance over its predecessor. For some, it signifies hope for the future; for others, it may mean establishing new motivations for personal growth. Sometimes it simply offers a fresh outlook on life.

For me, it means better-than-average business, and in the case of this particular coming year, a fresh — or at least different — outlook on death.

My name is Mackenzie Dalton, though everyone calls me Mack, and I own a bar located in downtown Milwaukee. The post-holiday season is a busy one for the bar. Some people come in hoping to extend their holiday spirit by lifting a few holiday spirits with their friends, family, or coworkers. Others come in to celebrate the end of the hectic, mad rush that always seems to be a hallmark of the holiday season. Still others come in simply because it's part of their regular routine to visit the neighborhood bar, exercise their elbows, and share their holiday tales with other regulars they see throughout the year. And more than a few come in simply to escape the bone-chilling cold that is part and parcel of a Milwaukee winter. Cozying up to a drink with some friends is a great way to warm both the body and the soul.

My bar has a lot of regulars, the most notable of whom is an assemblage of barstool detectives who call themselves the Capone Club. This group is an eclectic collection of folks from many walks of life who share a common interest in crime solving. The Club got its start through some tragic events that happened over the past year, not the least of which was the murder of my father, Mack, exactly a year ago today. My father opened Mack's Bar thirty-five years ago, naming it after himself and then giving me a name that would allow me to eponymously inherit. It was a huge assumption on his part that I would want to do that, but he guessed right. For me, the decision was a no-brainer. My mother died shortly after giving birth to me, so it was always just me and Dad, running the bar day in and day out. We lived in a three-bedroom apartment above it, and that made for a strange and memorable childhood. I knew how to mix a host of cocktails before I knew my ABCs, my extended family consisted of some of the bar's regular customers, and I was the envy of many of my high school friends who coveted my constant exposure to free alcohol. Despite my unusual childhood, I'd have to say it was a happy and simple one. My life up until a year ago was uncomplicated and enjoyable for the most part.

Of course, there were a few rough spots. One in particular that marked me as different from the other kids and nearly got me declared insane is a neurological disorder I have called synesthesia. It's an odd cross-wiring of the senses that results in its victims experiencing the world around them in ways others don't. According to the doctors who evaluated me over the years, my synesthesia is a particularly severe case. The most commonly ascribed-to theory about how I acquired this disorder is that it resulted from the unusual circumstances surrounding my birth. My mother ended up in a coma due to injuries from a car accident that happened while she was pregnant with me. She sustained severe brain damage that left her essentially dead, but her heart — and mine — kept going. So she was hooked up to machines and her body was kept alive until it was safe for me to be born. Then the machines were removed, and she was allowed to die. Whenever I asked about my mother's death, my father always told me it was peaceful — he believed my mother's soul had slipped away the night of the accident — but there was a haunted look in his eyes whenever he spoke of it that let me know he had his doubts.

The doctors speculated that the conditions surrounding my gestation and birth contributed to an abnormal development of my neurological system. The result was that I experience each of my senses — sight, sound, smell, taste, and touch — in at least two ways. For instance, I taste certain sounds; this typically is the case with men's voices. Other sounds, such as music, are accompanied by visual manifestations, like floating geometric shapes or colorful designs. Most of my tastes are accompanied by sounds. For instance, the taste of champagne makes me hear violin music, whereas beer makes me hear the deep bass notes of a cello. But there are some tastes that trigger a physical or emotional sensation instead. For instance, I confess to being something of a coffee snob, and when I drink coffee that's brewed just right, it makes me feel happy inside, almost giddy. Bad coffee makes me feel irritable and angry. I'm a coffee addict, and going without it for a length of time makes me feel almost homicidal, though I suspect that is more of a caffeine addiction issue as opposed to a manifestation of my synesthesia.

In addition to the five basic senses, I also have synesthetic reactions to my emotions, either a visual manifestation or a physical sensation. My emotions were put through the wringer at times when I was growing up. I would say things like, "This song is too red and wavy," or, "This sandwich tastes like a tuba." It didn't help me fit in with the other kids, and my teachers grew concerned when they realized I was seeing things that weren't there ... or at least things that weren't there for most people. The visual manifestations I had were very real to me, and they still are. But the lack of understanding regarding my condition left many people fearful and confused. I quickly learned to keep most of my experiences to myself rather than share them. After spending time observing other people's reactions to things, and hearing their comments and descriptions regarding their own sensual experiences, I gradually learned which of my responses were considered "normal" and which were my own peculiarity.

When the hormonal surge of adolescence hit me, my synesthesia became even more pronounced. Had it not been for one particularly patient and insightful doctor, I would've ended up committed to a psychiatric institution. Instead, my father and I learned how to control my disorder and hide it from the outside world. However, in private, he and I played with my abilities from time to time. My synesthesia is not only more severe than most, my senses are greatly heightened. I can smell, see, and feel things that others can't. I can often tell when something has been recently moved because I can feel changes in the air pressure, or see a difference in the air surrounding the spot where the item used to be.

The aspect of my synesthesia that has turned out to be the most significant of late is that I'm something of a human lie detector. In the vast majority of people, the voice changes ever so slightly when they're lying — a subconscious thing. This results in a variation in whatever manifestation I experience when listening to their voice. Once I've learned what someone's voice normally tastes or looks like, I can tell when they're lying because that taste or visual manifestation will suddenly change.

Because of my experiences as a child, I spent most of my life trying to hide my synesthesia from the world. It was an embarrassment to me, a handicap, a disability, something to be scorned and laughed at, something that made me stand out from the rest of the world ... and not in a good way. That all changed this past year, however. It began with the murder of my father in...