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