Chapter Twenty-one

going through a file cabinet.
"Out, patrolman," Mike snapped.
"But, sir, I've got to—"
"Get the hell out! This is private!"
The young cop hurried to the door. Jonathan looked around at the police equipment. He recognized the
elec­trodes and wires of a skin galvanometer. He understood the principle of the polygraph; the devices he
worked with in his own lab were far more sophisticated versions of the same system.
As soon as he saw how primitive the police machine really was he began to doubt the effectiveness of
this session. Perhaps this was all just a waste of time and emotional energy.
Mike was staring at the door. "Who was that guy, Blake, a rookie?"
"Musta been. Never saw him before."
"Got his uniform all screwed up. Notice that?"
"No, sir."
"Yeah. Some damn screwed-up rookie." Mike looked through his bifocals at Jonathan. "Let's get on with
it."
"Remove any metal objects from your pockets and roll up your sleeves, please."
Mike stood at the far side of the room with his fingers hooked in his belt loops. His lips were pursed, his
face tightly controlled. His eyes were too calm. He was preparing himself for the worst.
Jonathan said nothing about the poor rookie, who was still lurking in the hall. Fortunately Mike couldn't
see him from where he was standing. All the young cop needed was an argument with Mike Banion.
He could feel the young cop's eyes on him, watching from just beyond the edge of the light. Idle eyes.
Lucky young cop, with nothing to worry about except some damn file.
The operator rubbed Jonathan's wrists with electrostatic gel and affixed the straps, then bound the
device's belt around his chest. He flipped a couple of switches and graph paper began spewing out of the
plotter. Next there was a test routine to confirm that the styli were rolling correctly,
"What is your name, please?"
"Jonathan Titus Banion."
"Your age?"
"Twenty-two."
"Occupation?"
"Assistant professor, New York University."
"Are you a homosexual?"
"Cut the crap! Don't ask him asshole questions."
"Sorry, Mike! Sorry! It's routine in rape cases."
"Try another tack, boy."
The operator cleared his throat. "Do you like girls?"
"Yes."
"Have you ever hit a girl or hurt a girl in any way?"
"Not that I remember."
"Do you go to church on Sunday?"
"No."
"Do you bathe?"
"Yes."
It was coming soon. They usually popped in the big one after a few innocuous questions so that
fluctuations in the graph could be more easily read.
"Do you have a driver's license?"
"Yes."
"Did you rape Patricia Murray?"
"No."
"Were you present when she was raped?"
"No."
Silence descended. Jonathan had the happiness of watch­ing Mike's face go from tight misery to relief.
The needles hadn't even burped. But his own mind was just as full of questions as before. Even as he was
taking the test he was growing more sure that this polygraph was the wrong instru­ment. There were more
sensitive ways of getting to the truth than measuring whether or not a person thought he was lying.
Jonathan's outer self obviously believed that he was inno­cent. But was that enough? There are other,
deeper selves in all human beings, selves that are never meant to be seen by the person riding the surface.