Gary Condit took the test, but hired his own tech. Same with the parents of JonBenet Ramsey. I remember these deviations from the accepted path of innocent behavior. So does everybody else.
For the most part the test is a form of pressure, pure and simple. You have a suspect, you squeeze him, make him nervous in every possible way. We’ve all seen it a million times. That’s what Shoffler wants: to squeeze me.
The technician squirts gel onto the sensors and attaches them to my skin. The gel is very cold.
The polygraph man himself also seems cold – even mechanical – as he explains the procedure. After a long pause to check his machinery, he begins to ask me his list of prepared questions.
The inflection of his voice does not vary, whether he’s asking me routine establishing questions (“Is your name Alex?” “Do you reside in North Dakota?” “Is the shirt you are wearing blue?”) or the ones at the heart of the matter (“Did you kill Sean and Kevin Callahan?” “Do you know the whereabouts of Sean and Kevin?”)
There is a long interval between each question while he adjusts his machine and makes notes. I catch myself holding my breath when I’m answering the questions and can’t stop myself from mentioning this. The technician offers a weak smile. “That won’t matter,” he says, in a way that does not reassure me.
And then it’s over. I’m handed a foil-wrapped wipe to remove any residue of gel from my skin. I roll down my sleeves expecting to return to the squad car and be driven home.
Instead, Shoffler materializes, with a young African-American man he introduces as Detective Price.
The three of us go to Price’s cubicle. On the monitor, tropical fish swim through waving aquatic vegetation. The gray fabric walls of the cubicle display a dozen or more photographs of a little smiling boy.
“Tell me something, Alex,” Shoffler asks, “you mind going through your story one more time? I’d like Detective Price to hear it – he’s been assigned to assist us with the case.”
I shrug. I don’t see the point, but once again, why not? “Fine.”
“Thing is, Detective Price has some special training in… ah… questioning people. What I hear is he’s got a real gift for tickling the memory bank. What I hope is maybe you’ll come up with something that will help us find your sons.”
“Some kind of lead,” Price says in an earnest baritone. “That’s what we all want.”
This is bullshit and all three of us know it. Shoffler’s looking for inconsistencies in my story. Which means that’s what he thinks it is – a story.
“Whatever you want,” I say.
A heavyset woman with huge round earrings raps on the side of the cubicle wall. “Yoo-hoo, need you to sign something, Jason.” She beckons with one red-nailed finger. “Come to my parlor please.”
Shoffler studies the array of photographs pinned to the cubicle walls. “Cute kid,” he says, and then he lets out a regretful jet of air. “Jeez, I’m sorry.”
“What about the ticket?” I ask him.
“What?”
“Ticket to the fair. One adult, two children. I showed it to you. I think I gave it to you, didn’t I?”
“Yeah.”
“It’s got the time right on it, when we went in. One adult, two kids.”
Shoffler shakes his head, his face showing a kind of get-real look. “Alex – you do realize this ticket means nothin’.” His hands rise up, fall down. “You could have bought a ticket for one adult and ten kids, you know what I’m saying?”
To my surprise, I’m embarrassed.
Acoustics.
Liz and I did the backpack thing right out of William and Mary. In London, we went to St. Paul’s Cathedral and climbed halfway up the dome to the Whispering Gallery. Our guidebook noted an acoustical anomaly: someone halfway across the vast dome could whisper against the wall and the sound, if unimpeded, would travel around to anyone listening on the opposite side. Liz insisted we try it out, and we took up our positions, waiting several minutes until no one was in the way. I still remember the shock of Liz’s voice in my ear, so intimate and immediate, when I could see her only as a small shape across a distance of a hundred yards or so. “Meet me back at the hotel,” she whispered, “and I’ll show you a good time.”
Through some trick of acoustics, I now hear Detective Price’s voice, although I can’t even see him in the crowded and noisy space of the police station. His words float to my ear, precise and clear. “No, that’s what I’m telling you. That’s why we’re going for it. The guy is not lawyered up – you believe that? Not yet, anyway.”
He sits across from me, straddling a chair, arms making a kind of platform upon which he rests his handsome head. “You must be sick of this,” he says, with a sad swivel of his head. “I can only imagine.”
Price is good, I have to acknowledge that. I was expecting – I don’t know – gamesmanship, I guess. Good cop, bad cop with Shoffler, I don’t know. Some kind of heavy manners.
It’s not like that. It’s just me and Detective Price in the room. Shoffler is nowhere in sight, although I don’t doubt he’s behind the long mirror against the opposite wall.
I give my permission for the use of a tape recorder.
We start by going through my account of Saturday one more time, in great detail.
Then we move on to my finances.
“It’s tough, isn’t it, running two separate households on more or less the same income?”
I admit that it’s a strain, financially, but tell Price that Liz and I are getting by.
“I understand you were late with your support payments on two occasions.”
I nod. “That’s true. But it wasn’t because of the money. I was abroad. On assignment. You can check with the station.”
“Abroad,” Price says. His face twitches when he repeats the word, as if he just got a whiff of something unpleasant. “Abroad,” he says again. “I see.”
He says nothing for a good long minute or two. I look at my feet and resist the urge to fill in the silence. Price rocks back on his chair, then tilts his head and looks at me. “The preliminary separation agreement takes a good chunk out of your salary, right?”
I nod.
“Your house – that’s a pricey neighborhood, isn’t it? If you don’t work things out with Liz, you’re going to have to sell, isn’t that right?”
I shrug. “That’s true.” And then, before I can stop myself: “I don’t care about that. It’s not important to me.”
I hesitate. I don’t like the way I’m trying to explain myself to this guy. I don’t like the way he refers to my wife by her first name. He’s never even met her.
“So will you lose the house?”
I suddenly get angry. “What are you saying? You think I killed my kids because I don’t want to move out of Cleveland Park? Is that what you think? Jesus.”
He makes a conciliatory gesture. “Okay, new subject. Did the boys have insurance? Some policy out there? Because if they did, it would be best if you told us now.”
“Insurance? You mean medical insurance?”
Price shakes his head. “I mean life insurance.”
“Life insurance? They’re six years old!”
Then I get it, and my voice, angry and too loud, shows it. “Now you’re suggesting I killed my kids for insurance!? What – and after a decent interval, I’m going to cash in and move to fucking Brazil! Are you out of your mind?”
“No,” Price says, his voice calm and reasonable. “No one’s suggesting anything of the sort. We’re just talking about the pressures you’re under, that’s all, we’re just exploring that area. Personally, I think it’s far more likely that someone like you – you simply lost your temper, the way you did just now, and it went a little further than you intended, you know…”