Dr. Watterson's pale face became paler. Lloyd was no longer smiling.
"When the fire wardens were canvassing Central Avenue," Ness said, "one of them received a call from you, Dr. Watterson. Do you recall making it?"
"I do," Dr. Watterson said stiffly. "I assured the fire warden that my properties were well-maintained and not in need of inspection."
"You asked that these properties not be disrupted by the rather thorough searches other buildings in the area were being subjected to," Ness said.
"Yes."
"And the fire warden with whom you spoke agreed to take care of it."
"Yes he did."
"How much did you pay him?"
"That's an impertinent question."
"Well, perhaps it is. The fire warden in question has admitted complying with your wishes-apparently you dropped some big names, if not dollars-and I'm inclined not to 'subject' this city employee to further investigation, since he's cooperating with us. Why did you make that call, Dr. Watterson? Why did you make that request?"
"Well… I…"
"Your son asked you to. Didn't he?"
Dr. Watterson said nothing. Then he glanced at his son, who smiled nervously.
"Yes, he did," the doctor said. "But it seemed to me then, and seems to me now, a reasonable request. The searches were an invasion of privacy and a disruption of business."
"Fair enough," Ness said, nodding again. "But you should also know that a number of shantytown denizens have identified Lloyd's picture, confirming that he went among them under an assumed name, posing as one of them."
Dr. Watterson gazed unblinkingly at Ness. "My son's avocation is sociological research."
"Fine. But I think you can understand that we have the disturbing beginnings of a possible case against your son. Or at least the suggestion that in his 'sociological research' in these slum areas, he has encountered evidence that, for whatever reason, he's withheld."
The father looked at the son again. The son had a blank, vaguely sad expression, as if Ness's evidence-circumstantial though it was-had worn him down.
"So," Dr. Watterson said. "You're suggesting my son submit to a lie detector test."
"Yes," Ness said.
The doctor narrowed his eyes. "Perhaps it would be a good way to put this ridiculous assertion to rest."
Ness looked at Lloyd and smiled pleasantly. "What do you think, Lloyd? You've been strangely silent about all this."
Lloyd brightened. "Why, Eliot, I think it's a splendid idea. But, uh… why don't we get some lunch first? We can chat a little about this situation."
Ness shook his head gently no. "I don't really think dismemberments are proper dinner-table conversation, Lloyd."
"Well, I'd just like you to explain the lie detector to me. I'm interested in science, after all. I don't intend to submit to something that I don't understand."
"I don't expect you to," Ness said.
"I only believe in the scientific," Lloyd said. "The proven. Why should I put my life on the line for something pseudopsychic? This smacks of mind reading and fortune-telling to me."
"All right." Ness said. He looked at his watch. "It is noon."
Dr. Watterson said, "We could go downstairs to the dining room. Perhaps it would do us all good to talk like civilized people."
Ness had thought he'd been extremely civilized, considering that in these past minutes he'd lost whatever shred of doubt he might have had about Lloyd's guilt. The big blond young man was the Butcher of Kingsbury Run. Ness would have staked his life on it.
"Why don't I call down to room service," Ness said, wanting to keep the meeting contained to this room, where it was being taped. "We can eat up here."
That seemed agreeable to all, and Ness ordered three steak plates.
"They'll be up soon," he said, and returned to his straight-backed chair. "Why don't you let me explain to you some of the principles of the polygraph, Lloyd."
Lloyd shrugged. "Why not?"
Ness explained that the polygraph was a scientific instrument, stressing the word "scientific," measuring physiological reactions of the body to emotion and stress.
"These measurements," Ness said, "are provided by monitoring blood pressure, heartbeat, and changes in body chemistry, as reflected by an instrument that records the electrodermal changes in the skin."
Lloyd sat forward through this, clearly interested. He said, "I agree that emotions do affect the body-fear, anger, grief, joy, they can all make the heart pump more rapidly. But I wouldn't think lying would."
"The mental process of lying," Ness said, "upsets the emotional balance ever so slightly-but not so slightly that the polygraph can't pick up on it."
"It sounds improbable," Lloyd said.
"Here. Let me show you."
Ness stood and gestured Lloyd over to the polygraph desk. Lloyd seemed the kind of subject who needed to understand the machine before submitting to it, and that was fine with Ness. He removed the central, blotterlike cover and revealed a rectangle of light brown metal with many dials and knobs, as if on an elaborate ham radio outfit, next to which was a roll of paper cross-ruled in brown ink, in chart fashion, about five inches wide. Three slender arms, tipped with red ink, extended from the brown metal panel to the chart paper.
Ness pointed to the nearest of the three slender arms. "This stylus records heart action." He reached across the desk and threw a switch. A motor hummed; machinery whispered into action. The chart paper began to slowly move, as each stylus point, though motionless, traced continuous red lines.
"The middle stylus," Ness said, "connects with the electrodermal unit."
"What does skin have to do with it?" Lloyd asked, smiling smugly, as if proud of knowing what "dermal" referred to.
"Because liars tend to sweat, Lloyd-and that varies the conductivity of saline-impregnated electrodes placed in contact with the skin."
"Oh. And this final stylus?"
"It monitors breathing. The emotions affect breathing, just as they do the heart."
"What would happen," Lloyd asked slyly, "if you encountered someone in complete control of his emotions?"
Ness gave him a broad smile. "Well, Lloyd-I suppose he'd beat the machine, now wouldn't he?"
Lloyd smiled. He turned to his father. "I'm not afraid of this thing."
The father nodded solemnly.
A knock at the door announced room service, and the steak luncheons were brought in and trays were set up, the three men sitting to their meals and eating them in near silence. Neither Ness nor Dr. Watterson ate much at all; but Lloyd, brandishing his shiny stainless-steel steak knife like a scalpel, ate his rare steak quickly, greedily, cheerfully.
Lloyd dabbed his mouth with a napkin and his smile was very white in his suntanned, bruised face. He stood and rubbed his hands together as if about to tackle some challenging project for dessert.
"Let's get it done," he said. "Let's put these silly notions about the 'Mad Doctor of Kingsbury Run' behind us." He turned and looked at his father. "Right, Father?"
Dr. Watterson, still seated behind his tray, his meal practically untouched, nodded gravely.
"Remove your coat, Lloyd," Ness said, and Lloyd did. "Roll your sleeve up, your right sleeve, clear to the shoulder." Lloyd did that, too.
"Now take a seat in that easy chair, and relax. Just relax."