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Chapter Twenty-one

Chapter Twenty-one

Chapter Twenty-one

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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.

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