Death Match (11 page)

His lunch was laid out on a crisp linen tablecloth: cold poached salmon with dill sauce, wild rice, a sourdough roll, and coffee—decaffeinated, of course. As he ate, Lash felt his appetite return and the headache recede. Vogel, who had left him to dine in peace, returned twenty minutes later.

“What next?” Lash asked, dabbing at his mouth with a napkin. He held out little hope his question would be answered, but Vogel surprised him.

“Just two more items,” Vogel said. “The physical examination and the psychological interview. If you’ve finished, we can proceed immediately.”

Lash laid the napkin aside and rose, thinking back again to what the man in the class reunion had said about his own day of testing. So far it had been tiring, even enervating, but nothing worse. A physical exam he could handle. And he’d given enough psychological interviews to know what to expect.

“Lead on,” he said.

Vogel ushered Lash back out into the central space and pointed at one of the two blank doors not yet opened. Vogel swiped his card through the reader, then began scratching something into his palm device with the plastic stylus. “You may proceed, Dr. Lash. Please remove your clothes and put on the hospital gown you’ll find inside. You can hang your things on the door hook.”

Lash entered the new room, closed the door, and looked around as he began undressing. It was an examination room, small but remarkably well equipped for its size. Unlike the previous rooms, there were plenty of items here, but most were of a kind Lash would have preferred not to see: probes, curette and syringe packets, sterile pads. A faint smell of antiseptic hung in the air.

Lash had no sooner donned the gown before the door opened again and a man stepped in. He was short and dark-complexioned, with thinning hair and a bottle-brush moustache. A stethoscope hung from the side pocket of his white coat.

“Let’s see,” he said, examining a folder in his hand. “Dr. Lash. Medical doctor, by chance?”

“No. Doctorate in psychology.”

“Very good, very good,” the doctor said, putting the folder aside and pulling on a pair of latex gloves. “Now just relax, Dr. Lash. This shouldn’t take more than an hour.”

“An hour?” Lash said, but fell silent when he saw the doctor poking his finger into a jar of petroleum jelly.
Maybe $100,000 isn’t such an outrageous fee, after all
, he thought to himself.

The doctor’s estimate proved correct. Over the next sixty minutes, Lash endured a more comprehensive and painstaking physical examination than he’d ever thought possible. EKG and EEG; echocardiogram; samples of urine, stool, mucus membranes, and the epithelial lining of his mouth; an extensive background medical history of both himself and two generations of forebears; checks of reflexes and vision; neurological testing and fine motor control; an exhaustive dermatological examination. There was even a point when the doctor gave him a glass beaker and, leaving the room, asked for a sample of Lash’s ejaculate. As the door closed, Lash stared at the tube—chill in his fingers—and felt a sense of unreality creep over him.
Makes sense
, a small voice said in his head.
Infertility or impotence would be an important concern
.

Some time later, he told the doctor he could come in again, and the examination resumed.

“Just the blood work now,” the doctor said at last, arranging a tray containing at least two dozen small glass tubes, currently empty. “Please lean back on the examining table.”

Lash did so, closing his eyes as he felt a rubber tube tightening above his elbow. There was a cold swab of Betadine, a brief probing fingertip, then the sting of a needle sliding home.

“Make a fist, please,” the doctor said. Lash did so, waiting stoically while at least half a pint of blood was drawn. At last, he felt the tension of the rubber release. The doctor slipped out the needle and applied a small bandage in one smooth motion. Then he helped Lash into a sitting position. “How do you feel?”

“I’m okay.”

“Very well. You may proceed to the next room.”

“But my clothes—”

“They’ll be waiting here for you at the close of the interview.”

Lash blinked, digesting this a moment. And then he turned away, toward the central cubicle.

Vogel was there, once again scribbling something on his digital device. He looked up as Lash emerged from the examination room. The normally unflappable face now held an expression Lash couldn’t quite read.

“Dr. Lash,” Vogel said as he slipped the device back into his lab coat. “This way, if you please.” But Lash needed little guidance: there was only one door in the suite that had not yet been opened, and he could guess where the final interview would take place.

When he turned toward it, he found the door already ajar. And the room beyond was unlike any of the others he had seen that day.

THIRTEEN

L
ash hesitated in the doorway. Ahead lay a room almost as small as the others, simply furnished: a chair in the center with unusually long armrests; a metal cabinet beside it; a table with a laptop near the rear wall. But Lash’s attention was drawn immediately to the leads that snaked away from the chair to the laptop. He’d sat in on enough interrogations to recognize the setup as a lie detector.

A man was seated behind the table, reading from a folder. Seeing Lash, he stood and came around the table. He was tall and cadaverously thin, his head covered with iron-gray hair, closely cropped. “Thank you, Robert,” the man said to the hovering Vogel. Then he closed the door and wordlessly motioned Lash toward the center chair.

Lash complied, feeling disbelief as the man attached clips to his fingertips, fitted a blood pressure cuff to his wrist.

The man moved out of Lash’s vision for a moment. When he returned, he was holding a red cap in one hand. A long, rainbow-hued ribbon cable was affixed to one side. Dozens of clear plastic discs, each about the size of a dime, had been sewn into the cloth.
Two dozen, to be exact
, Lash thought grimly. He recognized it as a “red cap,” adult headgear for the Quantitative EEG test, or QEEG, which monitored the frequencies of brain activity. It was usually used for neurological disorders, dissociation, head trauma, and so forth.

This was not like any psych interview he had ever heard of.

The man injected conducting gel into each of the twenty-four electrodes, attached the cap to Lash’s head, and fitted ground leads to each of his ears. Then he returned to the table and attached the ribbon cable to the laptop. Lash watched, the cap on his head feeling uncomfortably snug.

The man sat down and began typing. He peered at the screen, typed again. He had not shaken Lash’s hand or acknowledged him in any way.

Lash waited, numb, feeling exposed and undignified in his hospital gown. He knew from experience that, at heart, psych evaluations were often battles of wit between shrink and patient. One was trying to learn things that, many times, the other did not want to have known. Perhaps this was just some unique form of that game. He remained silent, waiting, trying to clear the fatigue from his head.

The man shifted his gaze from the laptop to the folder on his desk. Then, at long last, he lifted his head and looked Lash directly in the eyes.

“Dr. Lash,” he said. “I’m Dr. Alicto, your senior evaluator.”

Lash remained silent.

“As senior evaluator, I’m privy to a little more background information than Mr. Vogel. Information, for example, that would indicate your prior job no doubt familiarized you with a lie detector test.”

Lash nodded.

“In that case we’ll dispense with the usual business of demonstrating its effectiveness. And are you also familiar with the neurofeedback device I’ve placed on your head?”

Lash nodded again.

“As a clinician, you’re probably curious about its use in this environment. You know lie detectors only measure heart rate, blood pressure, muscle tension, and so forth. We’ve found the factor-analyzed data from the QEEG an excellent complement. It allows us to go far beyond the normal ‘yes’ and ‘no’ responses of a lie detector.”

“I see.”

“Please keep your arms motionless on the armrests and your back straight. I’m going to ask some baseline questions. Answer only yes or no. Is your name Christopher Lash?”

“Yes.”

“Do you currently reside at 17 Ship Bottom Road?”

“Yes.”

“Are you thirty-nine years old?”

“Yes.”

“Now I’m going to show you a playing card. Whatever color it is, red or blue, I want you to tell me the
opposite
color. Understand?”

“Yes.”

Alicto picked up a deck of cards, withdrew a red card, held it up. “What color is this card?”

“Blue.”

“Thank you.” Alicto put the deck away. “Now then. Have you completed today’s tests in as honest and complete a manner as possible?”

The man was looking at him with a quizzical, almost dubious expression. “Of course,” Lash said.

Alicto looked back down at the folder, let the silence build a moment. “Why are you here, Dr. Lash?”

“I should think that would be obvious.”

“Actually, it’s not obvious at all.” Alicto flipped over some pages in the folder. “You see, I’ve never done an evaluation on a psychologist before. For some reason, they never become Eden candidates. Internists, cardiologists, anesthesiologists by the truckload. But never psychologists or psychotherapists. I have a theory about that. But in any case, I’ve been going over your test results of the morning, particularly the personality inventory.” He raised a scoring sheet, giving Lash the merest glimpse:

“It’s intriguing, to say the least.” Alicto replaced the sheet in the folder.

Normally, psychometric evaluators would not reveal information like this to subjects. Lash wondered why Alicto was treating him in an almost cavalier way. “If you want to know more about my taste in movies, or if I prefer cognac to whisky, you should be concentrating on the preference test.”

Alicto glanced at him. “See, that’s another thing,” he said. “Most candidates are cooperative, eager to help, candid. Sarcastic responses are most unusual and, frankly, a matter of concern.”

Annoyance began bubbling up through the haze of weariness. “In other words, you intimidate your candidates and they act like sycophants in return. I can see how that would be gratifying to one’s ego. Particularly if that ego had been inadequately nurtured in earlier life.”

A flash of something—irritation, or perhaps suspicion—flickered in Alicto’s eyes. As quickly as it had come, it was gone again.

“You seem angry,” he said. “What is it about my questions that makes you angry?”

It occurred to Lash this very line of questioning could already be providing the responses Alicto was searching for. He fought back his annoyance. “Look,” he said in as reasonable a tone as he could muster. “It’s hard to feel cooperative when strapped to a lie detector, wearing nothing but a biofeedback cap and a hospital gown.”

“Actually, most candidates appreciate the lie detector, once they’ve gotten over the initial surprise. They find it reassuring to know that any partner they are matched with has been as honest as they’ve been.”

Alicto’s calm voice added to the unreality of the situation. Lash’s anger faded and grogginess again took its place. “Why don’t we get on with the evaluation?” he asked.

“What makes you think all this isn’t part of the evaluation, Dr. Lash? I’m evaluating you as a complete person in real time, not as the faceless body that completed those tests this morning. But very well, back to the personality inventory. While your scales for falsehood and median response are good, your remedial skews abnormally high.”

Lash remained silent.

“As you know, that implies you are limiting disclosure of negative information about yourself: trying to make a good impression, or trying to minimize personal problems.”

Lash waited, cursing himself for completing the tests candidly.

“Some of your clinical scales are most unusual for an Eden candidate. For example, your social introversion scale is high, as is your individual control scale. Taken together, these indicate a loner personality; someone who has perhaps had bad experiences in relationships. Such a person would not be motivated to take such a complete—and expensive—step as coming to us.” He glanced up from the folder. “Understand, Dr. Lash, that I would not usually share such technical details with a candidate. But your being a fellow psychologist . . . well, it’s a unique opportunity.”

A unique opportunity to watch me squirm,
Lash thought.

“Such items alone would be of concern to me as an Eden evaluator. But there are also elements of the test—may I be frank here?—that reveal distinct pathonomonic signs. Red flags, if you will.” Another turning of pages. “For example, your amorality and self-alienation scales are unusually high. Your depression scale, though not exactly high, is well above modal. Your vulnerability scale—that is, your degree of sensitiveness to surrounding events—is also high, despite your individual control scale: an anomaly I can’t immediately explain. This all seems like a dangerous cocktail, Dr. Lash. Something I would urge you to have looked at and, if necessary, treated in a clinical setting.”