“Of course,” you lie. “But first, you must do something for me. Okay?” She nods eagerly, then a cloud passes over her face as she realises what you mean. As tears fill her eyes she begins to unbutton her shirt with trembling fingers.
* * *
The guy who they've brought in to operate the polygraph is Oriental, Korean, or maybe Japanese.
He gives me a small nod as I enter the room behind Turner and Marcinko. I recognise the model.
It's an Ambassador Halliburton from the Lafayette Instrument Company. It's a good polygraph, but it's only a machine and it doesn't worry me.
“We really appreciate you coming in, Marvin,” says Marcinko, laying it on with a trowel.
“Hey, I just want to get you guys off my back,” I say. “If this is what it takes, let's do it.”
Maybe I'm being too casual because she looks at me strangely, like I'm wearing my shirt back to front. “Have you been through a polygraph test before?” she asks.
I wink. “Maybe you should wait until I'm plugged in before you ask me any questions.” I sit down at the table while the Oriental fusses with his equipment. “How's the investigation going?” I ask.
Turner pushes his spectacles up his nose with his forefinger. “It's going just fine, Waller.” He looks over at the Oriental. “You ready, Doc?”
The Oriental nods and begins attaching sensors to me: a sphygmomanometer to measure blood pressure and heart rate, electrodes to my thumb and second finger for the galvanic skin response monitor, and a strap across my chest to measure my breathing. It's the GSR that tends to be the hardest to fool because it effectively tracks the involuntary nervous system. It measures the conductivity of the skin, the more I sweat, the more lower my skin resistance, and, in theory at least, the more I lie the more I'll sweat. Sweating isn't something I can control, mentally anyway.
But before I left the apartment I sprayed both my hands with Arid Extra-Dry anti-perspirant, the non-scented variety, so no matter how stressed out I get, my hands aren't going to sweat and there'll be no deviation from the base line. It's not an infallible way of beating the machine, but it's better than nothing.
As he works, the Oriental tells me how long he's been using the equipment, how accurate it is,
how it's impossible to fool, that he's done work for the FBI and the State Department and several Fortune 500 companies. I nod wide-eyed. It's part of the process, making me believe that the machine is infallible so that if I do lie, it'll be all the more stressful. See, that's one of the myths of the polygraph. It can't tell the difference between truth and a falsehood, all it does is to measure physiological signs. What it actually measures is guilt. If I give off the same physiological signs when I'm lying as when I'm telling the truth, the machine can't tell the difference. Without guilt,
the machine is useless.
I smile at Marcinko, waiting for the questions. She isn't wearing as much mascara today, and she's toned down her lipstick. She still looks pretty, though. Far too pretty to be a cop.
“You know, Marvin, if there's anything you want to tell us, now's the time to get it off your chest,” she says.
I shake my head, slowly. “I've done nothing wrong, Lisa.”
She nods at the equipment. “Just remember that this makes it all more official, that's all. If you want us to help you, you've got to help us. And now's the time to do it.”
She's so transparent. The polygraph is just a machine, but it carries a mystique, a mystique that means a lot of people are afraid of it. The cops play on that, they start asking questions even before the machine is switched on, trying to get a confession based on the fear alone. It works, too. If someone is lying, and if they believe that the machine is going to find them out, then it makes sense to tell the truth right away. It's similar to the old cop ploy “we know everything anyway but we need you to clear up a few loose ends.” Yeah, well cop tricks don't work on me, and I'm pretty sure that their machine won't work either. Marcinko wanted to know if I'd been through a polygraph test before. Yeah. And some. In face, I used to own one, used to play with it a lot. For research.
I was working on a screenplay about a serial killer who preys on actresses, and I wanted to know how someone could beat a polygraph. They only cost a few thousand dollars so I bought one and spent hours on it. Polygraphs don't scare me, and that's half the battle.
The Oriental finishes fiddling with his wires and he nods at Turner, letting him know that we're ready to start. Marcinko has a notebook in front of her, and she's holding a fountain pen. By the look of it she's got her questions written down, so that she can keep up a steady rhythm. It's important that I'm not given too much time to think. “Okay, Marvin, I think we're ready now.”
The first questions are to establish the base lines, general questions to which they know the answers. What's my name? How old am I? Where do I live? What colour are my eyes? Where did I go to school? The base lines are crucial for the accuracy of the machine. The operator has to set the polygraph based on the reaction to the test questions, so if you screw them up, you screw up everything that follows. I let my face relax but tense my feet, curling my toes tight. I've put a small tack in each of my shoes, between my toes, and when I crunch them up they bite into the flesh,
hurting. I answer the questions authoritatively, calmly, but the pain in my feet means that the Oriental accepts the stress as normal and sets the base lines accordingly. These people, they're so stupid.
“Okay, Mr Waller, you're doing just fine,” says the Oriental from behind me. He stays out of my vision because that's supposed to increase my stress level.
I turn and smile at him. “I'm a bit nervous,” I say, playing the small boy, making him feel in control because the more cocky he gets, the more likely he is to be misled. The machine is only as good as its operator, and people are even easier to fool than machines.
“Everyone gets nervous,” he says. “Don't worry about it.”
“Okay,” I say, settling down in the chair and looking at Marcinko as I grind the tacks between my toes.
“Now, I'm going to ask you to describe an event in your past which you feel guilty about,” he says. “Can you do that for me?”
“Sure,” I say.
“Go ahead.”
I pause, like I'm confused. “What sort of thing?” I ask.
“It can be anything. Say, if you stole something.”
I look at Marcinko. “Yeah, but what if it's something illegal?”
She smiles. “Have you done something illegal, Marvin?”
“Is this part of the test?”
“No, it's not part of the test,” says the Oriental, clearly irritated. "Mr Waller, anything will do.
Something from your childhood, maybe."
“Okay,” I say. “Okay. There was this time when I was at school, I made this kid give me his bike.” It's not true, it's something I made up the night before, but it's important that the machine registers guilt so I grind the tacks really hard, and I contract the muscles in my backside and my diaphragm, actions which I know from experience will send my blood pressure up. “He was smaller than me, I was fifteen and he was about twelve. I pushed him off and took the bike. He hit his head on the ground. He was bleeding, but I rode off and left him there.”
“And you feel bad about that?”
I contract my muscles again, then take a deep breath and hold it for a second before answering.
Another guilt response, so that the operator thinks he knows what the lines look like when I lie.
“Yeah. Even today. He was hurt bad, but all I wanted was the bike.”
Marcinko looks at the operator and obviously gets the signal that she's to go ahead. She looks down at her questions. I wait expectantly, relaxing my feet, breathing slowly and evenly. She looks up.
“You're name is Marvin Waller?”
More control questions. “Yes.”
“You're a writer?”
“Yes.”
“Have you ever had anything published?”
“No.”
“Or sold a screenplay?”
“No.” She's trying to annoy me. A cheap shot. I relax my body, keeping my breathing even.
My hands feel bone dry.
“You don't like secretaries, do you?”
“No.”
“Why is that?”
“They stand between me and what I want to achieve.”
“Have you ever hurt a secretary?”
“No.”
“Have you ever killed anyone?”
“No.”
“Have you ever raped anyone?”
“No.”
She looks at me for a few seconds, then back to her notebook. She turns the page. So far she hasn't asked me anything that I wasn't prepared for. Yesterday I wrote down several hundred possible questions, and the answers I should give, and I spent hours repeating them until I could answer automatically, until my subconscious almost believed that all the answers I gave were true.
A lie repeated often enough becomes the truth, at least so far as the polygraph is concerned.
"Your father was Sam Waller? A base line question, checking the levels.
I grind the tacks into my toes, keeping my face composed. “Yes.”
“You live in New York.”
“Yes.”
“Do you know where Sarah Hall is?”
I relax my feet and breath easily. “No.”
“Have you kidnapped Sarah Hall?”
“No.”
“Have you killed Sarah Hall?”
“No.”
Turner grunts something and walks to stand behind Marcinko. She's come to the end of her questions. Marcinko looks up at him, then nods almost imperceptibly.
“We know you did it, Waller,” he says.
“No you don't. If you did, we wouldn't be going through this.”
“We know you did it and we'll get you.”
“No you won't.”
“You think you're so fucking clever, don't you?” he says, leaning forward to rest his hands on the table. He looks at me over the top of his spectacles.
“Only in comparison to you, Ed.”
“What have you done with her?”
“Who?”
“You know who. Sarah Hall.”
I shrug and he glares at me. “The machine doesn't pick up shrugs, Waller.”
“We've been through this. I don't know Sarah Hall. I did not kidnap Sarah Hall. I have not killed Sarah Hall. And if you could prove any of it, you'd charge me.”
“You'll slip up, Waller. You'll slip up and I'll be there to kick you when you're down.” He's trying to get me to lose my temper. He wants me angry, he wants me stressed. I keep a relaxed smile on my face and keep breathing shallowly, no sighing, no holding my breath, nice and easy does it. I must never forget that the Oriental is standing behind me, studying his readouts and waiting to catch me out. I think calm thoughts. Happy thoughts.
“You're mistaken, Ed.” My lungs are bursting, I want to take a deep breath, to drag in more oxygen, but I fight the urge. I look at Marcinko, to see if she's happy with the way Turner's haranguing me. She smiles sympathetically and I'm grateful for that.
“Where's your TV, Waller?”
“I told you. A friend has it.”
He pounces. “You said it was in for repair.”
I shake my head as if trying to clear it. "That's what I meant. My friend has the video recorder.
And the camera."
“What's your friend's name?”
“I don't want to involve him.”
“Him? Is he your boyfriend?”
“What?”
“Your boyfriend. Are you gay, Waller?”
I look into his eyes. I'm starting to hate the man. “Why, Ed? Do you fancy me?” He stands up and balls his fists. I smile. “Anyway, you're not my type. Too butch.” I blow him a kiss.
“Answer the question.”
“No, Sergeant Turner. I'm not gay. Are you?”
“I'm married, Waller. There's nothing gay about me.”
I look at Marcinko. “Is that in your profile? Is the killer you're looking for supposed to be gay?”
She shakes her head. “No, Marvin.” She looks up at Turner. “I think we're finished.”
“I'm not,” says Turner, glaring at me.
“That's enough, Ed,” she says quietly, but he just keeps on staring at me.
"Understand me, Waller. From now on I'm going to be your shadow. Everywhere you go, I go.
You're going to make a mistake, and when you do, I'll have you."
I smile and nod. “Thanks for the warning, Ed. I really appreciate it.” For several seconds we remain staring at each other. Eventually it's Marcinko who breaks the silence, sighing and standing up. She motions with her hand for the Oriental to switch the polygraph off. They'll discuss the results later, when I've gone, but I already know what the findings will be. Inconclusive.
I get up to go but Turner slaps a hand on my shoulder and pushes me back onto the seat. “We haven't finished with you yet, Waller.”
“I said I'd sit through a polygraph test, and I've done that.”
“And I've got more questions for you.”
The Oriental finishes packing up his equipment and trundles it out of the interview room.
Marcinko lights a cigarette and studies me through a plume of smoke. "You've got good control,
haven't you, Marvin?" she says.
“In what way?”
“Physical control. Mental control. You're very....controlled.”
“I like to think so, yes.”
“It's important to you, isn't it? Control?”
“Discipline. Yes. Discipline is important.” She nods and flicks ash onto the floor. “Don't you agree?” I ask.
She shrugs and doesn't answer.
“What have you done with the bodies, Waller?” Turner barks, catching me by surprise.
I raise an eyebrow. “Shouldn't you have asked that question while I was hooked up to the machine, Ed?”
“Fuck the machine. What have you done with the bodies?”
I lean forward and stare at him, wide eyed. “I cut them up into little pieces, and I buried them all over the State.” I laugh like I'm crazy and for a few moments I can see that he's taking it all in.
“Get real, Sergeant Turner,” I say. “It's going to take more than a few snappy one-liners to get me to confess.”
“What would it take, Marvin?” asks Marcinko.
“Maybe I should kick the shit out of him,” snarls Turner.
“I'm shaking,” I say.
“You fucking well will be.”
I reach over slowly and take hold of Marcinko's cigarette lighter. I'll show her control.