by Batya Gur
“And Balilty? If Balilty is running the show,” Eli continued, “then I can’t bring in Rafi, even if we need to . . . I’m not on such great terms with him either. I don’t know what will happen. He’s not easy to deal with, you know that yourself.”
“We’ll see,” said Michael. “We’ll see tomorrow. Let’s go and free Izzy Mashiah from Zippo. And by the way, maybe you can tell me what the hell Zippo’s doing here in the first place?”
“I couldn’t stand seeing him like that, at loose ends, hanging around with nothing to do, looking for an audience for his stories while he waits for his pension. Now he’s telling me about Jerusalem in the old days. Before my time. About all the crazy people there used to be here. When you arrived he was in the midst of telling me about Rabbi Levinger’s aunt, the madwoman everyone called Four-in-One, who used to wander around downtown Jerusalem sticking little labels on people. She believed that Buddha and Jesus and Moses and Mohammed were all one person. I remember my uncle’s stories, now I get to hear them from Zippo, too. He says he’s going to write a book about all those crazy people. Why not send him off with the surgical tape?”
And so Zippo—his real name was Itzhak Halevi, but no one ever called him that; he was Zippo because of a story about his cigarette lighter, one he was only too happy to relate to anyone who did, or didn’t, ask—Zippo went with the piece of evidence to the Forensics laboratory at national police headquarters, and Michael went back to his office and sat down opposite Izzy Mashiah. Eli Bahar pulled up the chair near the door.
“Are you sure you’re willing?” asked Michael.
“I’ve already said so,” replied Izzy impatiently.
“Then I just have to explain to you what it’s about. Have you ever taken a polygraph test before?”
“Me?” said Izzy, horrified. “I’ve never even been in a police station before.”
“There are two methods,” Michael explained. “One of them we don’t use.”
Out of the corner of his eye he saw Eli Bahar’s mouth opening and closing, the expression of protest freezing on his face as Michael continued: “That method has been a complete failure. It contains trick questions, questions that . . .” He hesitated, sensing the waves of opposition coming from Eli, who had never liked Michael’s frankness with suspects, on more than one occasion having expressed his objections and his fears that one day his chief would go too far.
Izzy waited in silence.
“Okay, let’s say you’re asked a series of questions whose answers are known in advance. For instance, whether your name is Izzy Mashiah, whether you were born in Jerusalem, whether your father’s name is, let’s say, Moshe, whether your wife’s name is Shula, whether it’s true that yesterday you were caught in bed with the upstairs neighbor.”
Izzy sat up straight in his chair and folded his hands.
“You’re suddenly asked a shocking question. And then conclusions are drawn from your reaction to the effect of the abrupt transition itself. We’re against this method, because we think that it doesn’t indicate anything. Even any kind of sudden change—the light going off, a lizard running across the floor—influences the reactions of the person taking the test. We’re in favor of the second method.”
Eli Bahar rested his elbow on the desk and cupped his chin in his hand. “Explain it to him,” requested Michael, “and I’ll go talk to the polygraph technician.”
“I’m already at the door,” said Eli, quickly jumping up. “I’ll go talk to her.”
“The second method, the one we prefer,” Michael went on, “is based on the assumption that only a few people are capable of outwitting the machine. Therefore it’s better to inform the subject of the questions in advance, before he’s connected to the polygraph. I’ll tell you what the questions are going to be, and then we’ll connect you. The different variables—blood pressure, sweat, adrenalin—will tell us the rest.”
“How long will it take?”
“Ten minutes, a quarter of an hour at most.”
“Does it hurt? Do they prick you?”
Michael suppressed a smile. He almost murmured: Oh, the sweet anxieties of the survivors! Our world has been destroyed, our beloved is lying on the table in the Forensic Medicine Institute with his body split wide open, and we’re still worried about a pinprick.
“It doesn’t hurt,” he said reassuringly. “You’ll be connected to a machine they way you are for an EKG. We’re also willing for you to go to a private outfit to have it done, and we’ll accept their conclusions. A lot of suspects offer to undergo a polygraph and go to a private institution for it.”
“There’s no need for that,” said Izzy. His breath was rapid and shallow as he asked to hear the questions. Michael listed them one by one. He remembered the quickening of Izzy’s eye blinks when he asked about any crisis in the relationship, about any recent changes.
“Who’s going to question me? You? The other guy? The technician?”
“I am. The technician never questions people. He doesn’t even have to be in the room. Tonight it’s a woman, and she’ll be there only to check the functioning of the machine, to see if it’s inscribing the movements of the needle properly, if any of the wires come unstuck. I’ll ask the questions and I’ll begin with the ones with known answers and without any problems, as I told you before. Then I’ll proceed gradually to the complicated ones.”
“So the whole thing’s completely mechanical,” said Izzy with frank relief. “Like a psychological test of some kind. There’s nothing mysterious about it. Any idiot can ask the questions.”
“Precisely,” said Michael, not batting an eye. He didn’t tell Izzy how concerned he was with the rhythm of the questions and their formulation. He didn’t tell him that the problem was that the polygraph wasn’t at all like a psychological test, that, on the contrary, with the polygraph it was impossible to go at a subject from different angles. And he didn’t tell him that the brevity of the time available demanded virtuosity in the composition of the questions and control over their tempo. It was impossible to leave and return to the subject over and over again.
“Okay, no problem,” said Eli from the doorway. “She’s ready and waiting.”
Michael stood up, but Izzy Mashiah didn’t move. “So why isn’t the test admissible in court? If it’s so mechanical and unequivocal?”
“Oh, that,” said Michael, again sitting down. He exchanged a quick look with Eli, who pulled up the chair and sat down looking resigned. “Do you want me to explain?” Izzy Mashiah shrugged his shoulders, but he didn’t get up.
“The polygraph isn’t admissible because there are situations in which people feel that they have a license to lie. When the person being examined isn’t conscious that he’s lying, in which case the reactions are simply not meaningful.”
“What do you mean by license to lie?”
Michael looked at Eli Bahar. “Tell him about the lecture,” he said.
“Right now?” protested Eli.
Michael did not reply.
“If you insist,” Eli said unwillingly. “Once I was at a lecture where the lecturer asked a policewoman to come forward, and he showed her a series of cards, tacked them to a cork board, and then told her to read the numbers on the cards. Out loud, from one to seven. But he said that when she came to the card with the five on it, she should say ‘seven.’ And that’s what she did. They connected her to a polygraph machine, and when she reached the card with the five on it she said seven. The needle didn’t move because she didn’t feel she was lying. She felt that she was obeying the lecturer’s instructions. That’s what’s called a license to lie.”
“The question is, what authority has authorized the lie,” added Michael. “It hasn’t been researched, but I’m sure that if you studied the reactions of Orthodox Jews to a polygraph you’d discover that they’d have no trouble lying if their rabbi told them to or if they thought they were doing God’s will.”
“You didn’t warn him about his rights,” whispered E
li, fingering the cassette of Michael’s conversation with Izzy Mashiah as the technician was attaching him to the machine.
“I didn’t think it was necessary,” Michael admitted. “Not only is there no motive that I know of, but unless we obtain proof to the contrary, it appears that he didn’t leave the house all day. He didn’t even ask for a lawyer.”
“But there aren’t any witnesses saying that he didn’t go out,” said Eli.
“We’ll ask him.”
“Twice!” said Eli Bahar excitedly as they stood in the corridor. “He lied twice!”
“Not quite,” said Michael, examining the graph again. “The first time it’s clear, when I ask him about any crisis or a change in the relationship. But the second time, when I ask him if he left the house, it’s inconclusive.”
“Twice!” insisted Eli. “Do you want to keep him here?”
“For the time being,” said Michael reflectively. He tried to suppress his surprising feelings of disappointment over Izzy’s results.
“You can begin with him now, and I’ll go talk to Balilty, and then come back later. You begin, and soon the others will be coming back from the scene, and we’ll have some more manpower here.”
At past one o’clock in the morning, Michael stood in Nita’s apartment. All the lights were on. When he bent over the baby, asleep in the stroller, he realized it would soon be too small for her. She had grown so much in the past month that he would have to transfer her to a crib even when she was at Nita’s. He suddenly remembered that he hadn’t called his sister, Yvette. Maybe it was a good thing he hadn’t, because, as it turned out, that policewoman Dalit had succeeded in locating and producing an Ethiopian girl with a bright smile who was ready and willing to step in and take care of the children on a live-in basis. Dalit’s eyes gleamed with self-esteem, with a sense of her indispensability, as she made haste to tell how she had found her. By chance the policewoman had heard about the Ethiopian, Sara by name, and found out that she was available while she waited for a college course to begin. By chance, too, Dalit was familiar with Sara’s suitability—the woman had worked for a year as an assistant at the Wizo Day Care Center and the children had adored her. And Dalit also knew that Sara was looking for a place to stay and that she had no money.
Balilty, standing next to Ido’s crib, nodded. “It’s impossible to talk to her, to your girlfriend. All she says is that she’s not sure, she doesn’t remember. Maybe she’s still under the influence of the sedative the doctor gave her. If it goes on like this we’ll have to call in another doctor. It seems to me that she’s on the verge of flipping out. I thought of getting help from Elroi.”
“What about the strings?” asked Michael. “All the rest can wait.”
“That’s just it.” Balilty studied the floor tiles. “She can’t remember, and her brother says that he simply doesn’t know. She’s not communicating. Theo’s the opposite. Once you get him started he doesn’t shut up. But you try with her first, just the preliminaries, the basics. Afterward we’ll talk.”
“Are you assuming it was the same perpetrator in both cases?” asked Michael.
“What, two different people, by chance, in such a short space of time, killing off two members of the same family? Give me a break!” said Balilty, and then he asked what had resulted from Izzy’s interrogation. At that moment the door to the bedroom opened and Dalit stood there, a slender figure in jeans. She crossed her arms under her little breasts and leaned, posing, against the doorpost.
“Yes?” said Michael.
“I thought that you . . . that you wanted to bring me up to date,” she said with a mixture of eagerness and vulnerability, passing a tentative hand over her cropped fair hair.
“In a minute,” said Balilty. “Meanwhile you can make another round of coffee.”
“Your baby’s awake,” she announced with a forced smile.
“I have to prepare her bottle,” said Michael. And to Balilty: “Come into the kitchen with me. We can go on talking there.”
“I’ve already done it,” said Dalit. “Two bottles.” Michael asked how she knew, at her age, about preparing bottles for babies. “Nita told me how,” she said familiarly.
“I don’t know what we’d do without her,” said Balilty admiringly. “The girl’s a treasure.”
“We have an au pair,” said Michael encouragingly as he sat on the double bed in the bedroom with Nita and stroked her hand. It was the first time since the discovery of the body that the two of them were alone together. When she spoke at last, Nita’s voice was hoarse, as if she had been shouting for hours on end. She kept her eyes fixed on the blue rug at the foot of the bed as she whispered, “It’s like waking up in a fright again and again from a nightmare. It’s as if that’s become a reality.”
He didn’t understand what she was talking about, and he said nothing. She rubbed the edge of the bedspread with her free hand and didn’t take her eyes off the rug. “Do you want to know what was worst for me at the first moment?” she asked. He nodded. She raised her head and studied his face as if to make sure that he meant it. Before fixing her eyes on the rug again, she warned: “It’s terrible, what I’m going to tell you.” He tightened his grip on her hand. “I haven’t told you till now. I couldn’t tell you. I didn’t have the words. Now I have them. For months, really months, every day, almost every hour, sometimes every minute, especially until Ido was born, but afterward too, it’s haunted me. . . . A recurring image, a recurring nightmare, a kind of vision that never left me, not when I was sleeping and not when I was awake. As if I were seeing a film. It haunted me all the time.”
She fell silent. Her hand was cold and clammy in his. He didn’t move. After a few seconds of silence she said: “The image was of my severed head. I saw myself with a string, holding the string at both ends. I put it on the upper part of my throat and pulled with all my strength. Then I saw my throat cut through. It’s as if I was seeing myself double. As the one being beheaded, and as the one doing the beheading. The blood beginning to flow, rivers of blood, streams of blood, and my head falling.” She choked back a sob and was silent. Michael bowed his head and closed his eyes. He shuddered. He opened his eyes again and looked at her. She didn’t move. Her eyes remained fixed on the blue rug, as if the streams and rivers of blood had collected there. “It’s probably connected to my feeling that I was stupid, that I deserved to be punished. As if this stupid head deserved to be cut off for being gullible despite everything it knew.”
“That’s why you gave up playing all that time.” Michael whispered what had become clear to him just at that moment. He had the feeling that he was shouting.
“That’s why I didn’t play,” she agreed. “Everyone thought I was depressed because of my broken heart. But it wasn’t that, it was simply fear. I wanted to play so much! It was so . . . But whenever I saw the cello I saw the strings, and whenever I saw the strings I thought of the severed head, and that ruined my joy in the music. This fear ruined music for me.”
A mixture of sorrow and horror filled him, and he heard himself asking: “Why didn’t you tell me this before?”
“I couldn’t. Even before I met you I began to . . . I thought it was beginning to go away. Later, when you turned up, it was better. When Father . . . when my father died, it came back. But I told myself that it would go away by itself. I couldn’t,” she pleaded, “I couldn’t say it in words. It was so vivid and real that . . .”
He loosened his grip on her hand and looked at her: the yellowish tinge of her skin, the eyes that were sunk in their sockets, the dark half-moons under the blue-gray irises ringed with black, the soft light of the lamp surrounding her. Her lips trembled and on either side of her mouth deep lines were etched. A dark shadow filled her hollow cheeks. Only her chin trembled. The rest of her face looked as tightly clenched as a fist.
“And today,” she whispered, “when I saw Gabi, it wasn’t only that Gabi . . . that Gabi . . . that I wouldn’t have Gabi anymore, which is something I can
’t even begin to grasp—and not just that anyone who saw that sight will ever forget it as long as she lives—in addition to all that, I had the feeling that it was me I was seeing lying there. That someone had copied that image, my vision, which was something I had never said a word about to anyone. And somehow someone knew about it and did it to Gabi instead of to me. By mistake. Gabi is a mistake.” She raised her head, leaned toward him, and looked into his eyes: “I should have been lying there with my throat cut! Me and not Gabi!” He held her hand again, and felt his own hands growing cold. From moment to moment his dread grew greater. “Suddenly I saw what it looked like in reality. What it would have looked like if I’d really done it. I think . . . I feel as if I taught someone how to do it. Or . . . or as if I did it myself.”
Precisely at this moment his dread began to dissolve. Instead he felt the beginning of a new clarity, of a sober coldness. “What do you mean, you did it yourself?” he asked in a stern, distant tone. “Did you do it yourself?”
“I don’t think so,” she whispered, and she raised her eyes to him. “I couldn’t have, could I? It isn’t possible, is it? I couldn’t have done it without knowing, could I? Could I?” she asked in horror, gripping his arm with all her strength. Now he was split in two, twins: one brimming over with panic, with terror, with a tumult of contradictory feelings threatening to overwhelm him, and the other, who with a cold, stern, controlled voice asked: “Do you really think you did it?”
“I told you: No. It’s not possible. You know that I loved Gabi. But how could anyone else have reconstructed so exactly what I had in my head and only I knew about? How is that possible? Maybe the only answer is that I did it unconsciously.”
“Unconsciously” he repeated. “Unconsciously,” he said again and fell silent.
“I once heard an interview with a professional hypnotist,” whispered Nita, “who said that even under full hypnosis you can’t make people do things they’re completely opposed to doing.”
