Authors: James Henderson
“Bad idea. Each time I get two or more of my suspects in one room, all kinds of commotion break loose. Piling em up in a van on a two-hour trip to Little Rock would get more chaotic than throwing a hornet’s nest into a senior citizen home.”
“Oh, well. You know there’s the old-fashioned way.”
“What’s that?”
“Make your own polygraph machine.”
“Excuse me?” Sheriff Bledsoe said, not sure if he’d heard correctly.
“Make your own machine.”
“Jim, are you crazy?”
“My ex certainly thinks so. Listen, all you have to do is rig something together and call it a polygraph machine. When you suspect your perp is lying, make your machine react. Even with a legitimate machine the results are dictated by the person administering the test.”
“Are you crazy?”
“A couple of years ago, right before we got the real machine, we hooked up a strobe light to a rape suspect and each time he opened his mouth the light came on. He confessed everything he did back to daycare.”
“You are crazy, aren’t you? What happens when a defense lawyer discovers his or her client confessed to a homemade polygraph machine? How you explain that?”
“I wouldn’t try. Who would believe it? Look, Ennis, I’m only offering a suggestion. You called me, remember?”
“Yes, I’m sorry I did. Bye.”
“If you try it, call me back and let me know how it worked out.”
“Are you crazy?” and hung up the phone. He popped six Pepsid AC tablets into his mouth and chased them down with a gulp of Mylanta. A fake polygraph machine--Ha!--with a strobe light.
Preposterous!
The next day, Sheriff Bledsoe directed a disheveled Robert Earl to a seat in front of a pine box the size of a microwave oven, stained and lacquered to a mirror finish. Atop the box were two light bulbs, one red, the other black. Three extension cords snaked out from under it, one leading to a wall socket, unplugged, one hanging down the front of the desk and disappearing underneath to a foot pedal, the last looped in a large circle, crudely covered with Velcro.
Sheriff Bledsoe picked up the Velcro-covered cord and said, “Robert Earl, we’ll wrap this around your chest.” Robert Earl nodded and allowed Sheriff Bledsoe to rope the cord around him. “The main thing here,” Sheriff Bledsoe explained, “is to be completely honest.”
“Is it going to hurt?”
“No, no. It won’t hurt at all. It’s perfectly…”
Or is it?
Robert Earl was a big old boy, two-fifty plus some, but if enough electricity coursed through his body it could not only hurt him, it might kill him.
I should have tested it at home.
He needed to check and make sure the wires weren’t touching. He stood between Robert Earl and the desk and lifted the box; the wires, wrapped individually with electrical tape, weren’t touching.
Still he had doubts. He could already hear the news anchor: “Sheriff electrocutes man with cracker-rigged polygraph machine. Hear the details Live-At-Five.”
Maybe this isn’t a good idea.
“Sheriff, what was you about to say?”
“Oh, nothing. Just it’s perfectly safe.”
“You gotta plug it up first, don’t you?”
“Yes, right.” He plugged the cord into the socket.
“Wait!” Robert Earl shouted.
Sheriff Bledsoe snatched the cord out of the socket; electricity zapped his hand. “Did it hurt?”
“No.”
“Man, you scared the mess out of me! What you shouting for? Don’t shout, okay?” He wiped sweat from his forehead and noticed his hand was shaking. “No need to shout.”
“I’m sorry, Sheriff. I hate to tell you this…”
Oh-oh, Sheriff Bledsoe thought.
Busted.
“What?”
Robert Earl shook his square-shaped head and stared at his large hands. “I’ve had dreams about killing him.”
“Killing who?”
“Daddy.”
Fiddlesticks!
He’d gotten so caught up with the box he’d forgotten why he built the thing.
“Will it…you know…make me look guilty?” Robert Earl said.
“It depends. Why don’t you tell me about the dreams?”
Robert Earl scratched the top of his balding head with both hands. Dandruff sprang up and landed on his red flannel shirt and overalls. “I didn’t kill him, let’s get that understood upfront.”
“Okay, Robert Earl.”
“Like I said, I had a few dreams about killing him. Well, shoot, a lot of dreams. He treated me like dirt, I’m telling you, Sheriff. Like I was something stinky on the bottom of his shoe. I’ve seen people treat dogs better…mangy dogs…one-eyed dogs…and I was his son, his first child.”
“In the dreams, how did you do it?”
“How did I kill him?”
“Yes.”
“Sheriff, don’t forget I’m talking dreams.”
Sheriff Bledsoe dropped the cord to the floor. This was far too complicated for a fake polygraph machine. “Tell me how you killed your father in your dreams.”
A smile appeared under Robert Earl’s bushy moustache.
“One time I chopped his body in little bitty pieces with a hatchet and fed it to some hogs. Another time I booby-trapped the commode with dynamite, like in the movie. You know, the one with Danny Glover and Mel Gibson. In my dream, Daddy blew up and landed outside on the ground.”
“You ever put something in his food?”
“In my dreams, right?”
“Yes.”
The unctuous smile reappeared and he said, “In this one dream he and I were riding in my truck and he said something snotty about my wife, Estafay, so I slipped him something. Don’t remember what it was. Put it his buttermilk. He started choking and begging me to help him. I sat there watching him turn purple, thinking he shouldna said what he said about Estafay.”
“You don’t remember what you gave him?”
“No, I sure don’t. Bet you just as soon as I leave here it’ll come to me.”
“Think it mighta been a pesticide?”
“Could have been. I really don’t remember. Dreams are hazy like that. Wait a minute, wait one darn minute! I had dreams about doing it and I even thought once or twice about doing it, but I
didn’t
do it. Like the preacher said, ‘Thinking about it and doing it are two different things.’ You can hook me up to the lie-detector if you don’t believe me.”
“Not necessary. I heard you were experiencing financial difficulties and you confronted your father for an advance on your share of the money, and you and he got into a shoving match. True?”
“Yes, sorta true. He shoved me--I didn’t shove him.”
“You’re experiencing financial difficulties?”
“Yes. Me and everyone else. Estafay, my wife, she wants…You know how women are. Want this, need that.”
Sheriff Bledsoe studied him for a moment.
Robert Earl shifted uncomfortably under his gaze. “Why you looking at me, Sheriff? I’m telling the truth. You think I’m lying, hook me up to the lie-detector.”
Sheriff Bledsoe thought about it for a second.
Why not?
Again he plugged the cord into the socket. “Okay, Robert Earl, let’s do it. If there’s any doubt of your veracity, the red light will light up.” Actually, both lights came on whenever he stepped on the pedal. “If you tell a flat-foot, bald-faced lie, both the red and black light will light up. So, Robert Earl, speak only the truth.”
“Okay.”
“What’s your full name?”
“Sheriff, you know my full name.”
“Yes, I do. We need to establish a rapport with the machine to see if it’s working properly. Your full name?”
“Mitt Romney. Just kidding. Robert Earl Harris.”
Sheriff Bledsoe stepped on the pedal and specks of light sparkled through cracks of paint in both bulbs.
“Dang! It can detect flip-flops?”
“Yes, Robert Earl. Let’s move on. Do you like snakes?”
“Yes,” staring intently at the bulbs; they didn’t light up.
“Have you ever flunked an IQ test?”
“Yes.”
“Have you ever killed anything?”
Robert Earl jerked his attention from the bulbs to Sheriff Bledsoe. “No!”
Sheriff Bledsoe stepped on the pedal and both bulbs lighted.
“Dang! Do animals count?”
“Yes, they do.”
“Yes.” The lights went off.
“Have you ever physically injured a human being?”
Robert Earl nodded.
“The machine can’t register nods. It requires a verbal response.”
Robert Earl pinched the bridge of his nose. “Uh-huh.”
“Yes or no?”
“Yes,” and pounded the arm of the chair with a closed fist.
Sheriff Bledsoe noticed sweat beading on Robert Earl’s nose and forehead.
This thing just might
work.
“Robert Earl, have you ever killed a human being?”
“No!” Instantly both bulbs lighted. “Aw, shoots! Yes--I mean no. Maybe. I don’t know!” He squeezed his head with both hands.
“What?”
Robert Earl pounded the top of his head. “I didn’t mean to do it, Sheriff! I swear I didn’t mean to do it! The demon got hold of me.”
“Relax, Robert Earl. I’ll help you any way I can. Tell me--”
“I knew this would happen! I knew it, I knew it, I knew it!” He kicked the desk. “I knew I shouldna come here. I should’ve waited till you came and got me. Noooooo! I had to go first.” He pounded his head again. “I knew it, I knew it, I knew it!”
Sheriff Bledsoe surreptitiously patted himself for his weapon. It wasn’t strapped to his waist. He scanned the room…There it was, a good ten feet away, in a holster hanging on a hat rack.
“Calm down, Robert Earl. I’m going to do everything I can to help you.”
Robert Earl jumped to his feet, snatched the cord off his chest and threw it to the floor. He held his fists in a boxing stance. “Are you going to arrest me?”
Sheriff Bledsoe pushed his chair away from the desk, for maneuvering room, and suddenly felt that all too familiar pain in his gut. “I’m afraid so, Robert Earl. You murdered a man.”
“What man?”
“Your father.”
“I didn’t murder him!”
“You just said you did.”
“I wasn’t talking about him. I was talking about somebody else.”
Sheriff Bledsoe stared at him for a long moment. “Excuse me?”