by Roy Johansen
He didn’t say a word to anyone the entire weekend.
And now, with the trial only a few weeks away, the pressure was killing him. He had to pass the polygraph test. Maybe then this hell would be over.
He couldn’t wait to see his kid. God, he missed Jeremy.
Sabini threw a few bucks on the table and left the restaurant. As he walked to his car, a black Porsche cut in front of him.
Herbert Decker climbed out. “How are you, Burton?”
It was the first time Sabini had seen his old boss since the arrest. The Vikkers president’s thin lips were contorted in a smile.
Sabini stepped around Decker’s car. “Excuse me.”
“What’s the rush?”
“My attorney wouldn’t want me to speak to you.”
“After all that’s happened, I think I’m entitled.”
“Your right to talk to me ended when you involved the police.”
“We can help each other.”
“I doubt that.”
“We just want our money back. Give it to us and we’ll square things away. We’ll take another look at the books and say, ‘What’s this? Here’s the twelve million!’ Your reputation will be unsullied, and you’ll be free to work for another company to rip off.”
“Sounds like a good deal, if I had the money.”
Redness spread from Decker’s face to his ears. “What if I make you a better deal? What if you kept a few hundred thousand for yourself? As sort of a bonus.”
“Now you want to give me a bonus.”
“We always treated you fairly.”
Sabini looked at Decker’s Porsche. “Tell me, did you buy this car before or after the merger?”
“That’s what all this is about, isn’t it? The merger?”
“What makes you say that? The fact that twenty-eight-year-old sales managers became instant millionaires, and all I got was a handshake?”
“Stock options were part of their deal. Their guaranteed salary was lower than yours.”
Sabini nodded. “That’s what I keep telling myself. But for some reason, it doesn’t make me feel better. I wish it did, Herb.”
Decker was losing the battle with his temper. “You pathetic little prick.”
Sabini managed a smile. “This trial will be over before it even begins. You don’t have the proof. And you never will.”
“Just wait and see,” Decker said. “Wait and see.”
—
The forty thousand was almost as good as his.
Ken sat in his office, studying the graphs from Sabini’s most recent sessions. His client’s progress was amazing. The breathing was flawless and the pulse rate was stabilizing. Even the perspiration levels were evening out. Much of this, Ken knew, was due to the demystification effect that had been noted in the studies. As soon as the interviewee becomes comfortable with the polygraph and aware of its limitations, the device’s effectiveness diminishes.
Beyond that, Sabini was an apt and willing pupil. He remembered everything and applied his lessons immediately. On the rare occasions he made a mistake, he softly apologized, then proceeded to correct himself. Ken couldn’t have hoped for a better student.
Sabini didn’t even get rattled when Ken told him about the Reid seat, a chair that was designed to detect the pucker. Not many examiners used one, but if Sabini was asked to sit in such a chair, he was ready to utilize his most powerful weapon against the polygraph.
His mind.
“Psych yourself,” Ken told him. “It’s one sure way to beat every sensor they strap to you. When you sit down, you have to know you’ve done nothing wrong. Find a spot on the wall, look at it, and don’t look away. Believe what you say. Sit there and tell me you’re the pope, and the machine will believe it if you do. You’ve never done a thing wrong in your life. Anything you got, you earned. Believe it. Know it.”
Sabini believed. And bit by bit, so did the polygraph.
They usually took a short break around midnight, and Sabini always talked about his son. The kid’s batting average. The songs he could play on his trumpet. The nonstop calls from his little girlfriends. It occurred to Ken that he should have been bored by the stories, but Sabini’s enthusiasm touched him.
Ken’s thoughts were interrupted by a sharp rap at his door. He threw down the graphs, stood, and opened it. The first thing he saw was a silver badge.
“Ken Parker?”
“Yes?”
“I’m Lieutenant Thomas Gant. Atlanta P.D. Can we talk?”
Ken felt his own sphincter tighten.
“Sure. Come in.”
Gant stepped into the office.
What the hell could he want? Had he found out about Sabini’s training sessions?
“How can I help you?” Ken said.
Gant handed him a photograph. “How do you know this guy?”
Ken looked at the photo. “I gave him a test last week. His name is Carlos Valez.”
“When was the last time you saw him?”
“Saturday night. He didn’t like how his test came out, so he and a buddy came by and worked me over pretty good.”
“Is that where you got those bruises?”
Ken felt his cheek, which was still a pale shade of magenta. “Yeah. Why are you asking me this? I’m really not interested in pressing charges.”
“I’m glad to hear it, because he’s dead.”
Ken stared blankly at Gant. He tried to understand what he had just heard. Carlos Valez. Dead. “How?” he asked.
“Murdered at your apartment complex. Early this morning. I’m surprised you didn’t see us there.”
“I saw the police cars. But there’s a couple in the complex who fight a lot. I figured the lady beat up her husband again.”
Gant smiled. “We have four witnesses who saw your Saturday-night fight from their apartment windows. Two of them identified Carlos Valez from his picture. Apparently your parking lot is pretty well lit.”
“People were watching? Nice of them to give me a hand.”
“What happened?”
“I told you. He disagreed with his test results.” Ken gave his full account of the exam, the outcome, and the confrontation that followed. The words tumbled out, occasionally sticking in his dry mouth. Was this really happening?
“So you saw him only two times,” Gant said. “Once when you gave him the exam, once when he roughed you up.”
“That’s right.”
“Why didn’t you report him to the police?”
“I didn’t think it was worth it. The guy lost his job because of me. He was upset. I just wanted to forget the whole thing.”
Gant stared at him for what seemed like an hour. “Is there any reason why he would have been at your complex last night?”
“None that I know of.”
“Look, we’re pretty sure he was killed near the stairwell just down the hall from your apartment. We found traces of blood, his type, on the walkway. We figure he was stabbed, pushed over the railing to the parking lot two stories below, then dragged to the Dumpster.”
Christ, Ken thought. The cop suspected him of murder.
“The guy had it in for you,” Gant said. “Let’s just say he came back to your building and attacked you again. You guys rumbled a little bit, maybe you picked up a few extra bruises, and in the end, he gets stabbed. He’s dead. You didn’t mean to do it, but you were scared. You panicked. You pushed him over the railing and stuffed him in the Dumpster.”
“That didn’t happen.”
“If it did, it would be best if you told me now. It would be self-defense. Those witnesses saw Valez pound you into the sidewalk less than a week before. You could still come out of this all right.”
“I didn’t have anything to do with it. I didn’t even know he was dead until you just told me.”
Gant stared at him again.
Ken knew the game; these long pauses were supposed to rattle the interviewee and make him spill his guts. Even though he had used the tactic man
y times himself, he was surprised at how effective it was. The impulse to fill the gap in conversation was overwhelming.
The seconds ticked by, and still Gant did not speak. Ken relaxed and stared blankly at the detective. Finally Gant turned and circled around the polygraph.
“So you’re an Answer Man.”
“Excuse me?”
“That’s what they used to call you polygraph examiners, isn’t it? Answer Men?”
“I haven’t heard that in a while.” It was a regional expression, popular with the old-time examiners who still worked downtown. “It’s pretty funny, because our business is really about asking questions.”
“Yeah, but it’s the answers you work with, sort out, and sift through.”
Gant kneeled next to the machine and peered at the tiny needles. He picked up the blood pressure wrap. “I’ve never believed in these things. When I was a kid, maybe seventeen, I had to take a lie detector test when I was applying to work at a fast-food joint.” He shook his head. “A fast-food joint. I didn’t get the job. According to the machine, I was lying when I said I had never taken drugs on the job before. Funny thing was, I never took drugs in my life.”
Ken shrugged. Whenever he told people of his profession, maybe one person in six had a story similar to Gant’s.
Ken spit out his stock answer. “It’s not an exact science.”
“That it isn’t.” Gant put down the blood pressure wrap and handed Ken a business card. “If you think of anything else, please give me a call. I’m sure I’ll need to talk to you again as our investigation moves along. Will you be around?”
The implication bothered him, but he nodded. “I’ll be around.”
—
Static filled the line as Ken spoke to Myth on a gas station pay phone. He kept his voice low so as not to be overheard by a teenage girl wailing on the adjacent phone about a fender-bender.
“They found his body in my complex. They think I had something to do with it.”
“They obviously don’t have any proof. Do they?”
“No.”
“Naturally they would want to talk to you, but there’s nothing more they can do. If you didn’t do it.”
“What do you mean?”
“If something happened, and if you did—”
“You mean if I killed him?”
“You could tell me, Ken. You should tell me.”
“Jesus Christ, you sound like that cop. I didn’t do it!”
“Okay. Don’t get mad. I’m just trying to help. This is what I do for a living, remember?” She paused. “I’ll need your final decision by tomorrow, Ken.”
“I’m giving Sabini a final run-through tonight. A full mock exam. We’ll pretend that we’ve never met, and I’ll take him through the whole thing. By the book. I’ll give you my answer tomorrow morning. Do you want to meet somewhere?”
“Yes. There’s a pier on the lake, just off Gower Road. It’s a little out of the way, but there’s never anyone there. See you about ten tomorrow morning?”
“Fine.”
“And, Ken,” she said softly, “I’m sorry. I know you couldn’t have done anything like that.”
“Whatever.”
—
Ted Michaelson walked through the narrow corridors of Vikkers Industries. Where was the conference room? He had gotten lost many times there, and it was happening again.
He looked at the workers in their offices and cubicles. He was sure they were laughing at him. People had been laughing at his obesity all his life, but now it was more than that. They thought they were better than him. If only they knew how many times he had saved their miserable jobs…
Snotty bastards.
Michaelson finally found his way to the conference room. Only one man was there, sitting at the long table.
Matt Lansing, Vikkers’ VP of Finance, was trembling. Was he afraid of losing his job?
Lansing had been approached by Securities and Exchange Commission investigators on several occasions, but he still wasn’t clear on what they were after. Michaelson had given Lansing a wireless microphone to wear, but for some reason it failed in his latest meeting with the SEC agents.
Michaelson pulled the wire out of his battered leather satchel. “I checked it out, and it’s fine. Are you sure you didn’t turn it off?”
“Uh, yeah. I did it just like you told me.”
“Have you been wearing it every day?”
“Yes. I never know when they’re going to come, so I’ve been keeping it on me.”
Michaelson glared at him. “And on the day that they decided to show up, it stops working.”
“I’m sorry,” Lansing said. “I don’t know what happened. I didn’t want to talk to them at all. I thought I should have an attorney present.”
“Not yet. We need to find out what they’re fishing for, where they’re getting their information. We’re hoping to derail this before it gets to the point where we need lawyers.”
“Right.” Lansing wiped his perspiring forehead with the sleeve of his shirt.
“So what did they say?”
“They had a lot of questions about the merger. They suggested that they might give me immunity if I talked to them about it.”
“Why would you need immunity?”
“That’s what I asked them. They said something about anticompetitive practices.”
“Like what?”
“I don’t know. I think they were waiting for me to fill them in.”
“What else did they ask?”
“They wanted names of other people who might be willing to talk to them off the record.”
“What did you tell them?”
“I said I’d think about it.”
“Good. Did they ask for anyone in particular?”
“No.”
Michaelson leaned back and clasped his hands behind his head. “So tell me, why do you think they picked you?”
“I don’t know. I’ve been asking myself that. Maybe because I’m younger. I have a pretty high position, but not high enough to be part of the company’s inner circle. They figure I know enough to help them, but I’m probably not powerful enough to be involved in a major way.”
Michaelson played with the wireless mike for a moment. “If you were going to be completely truthful with them, what would you have said differently?”
“Nothing. I told them the truth as I know it.”
Michaelson reached into his satchel and produced a legal pad. He tossed it to Lansing. “Write down the entire conversation. Don’t leave out a syllable. If you so much as burped, I wanna read about it here. Got it?”
Lansing nodded.
Michaelson pulled out another wireless mike and slid it across the table. “Here’s another wire. If this one stops working, consider yourself officially unemployed.”
—
“Good evening, Mr. Sabini. My name’s Gary Marsh.”
It was a name Ken plucked out of thin air. He was trying to simulate the entire polygraph experience for Sabini, and that included a new persona for the examiner. He had prepared Sabini for the doctor’s-office–like atmosphere of many examiners’ places of business; there was often an assortment of impressive-looking diplomas lining the walls, and it was not uncommon for the interviewee to be kept waiting. This was primarily to maximize the importance and authority of the examiner. In many offices, a one-way glass was utilized to spy on the subject during his waiting time. In polygraph school, Ken had seen tapes of waiting subjects, and individuals deemed “deceptive” exhibited behavior ranging from simple nervousness to sabotage of the polygraph itself.
He motioned toward the examination chair. “Mr. Sabini, have a seat.”
Sabini sat down.
Ken produced a clipboard that held the sheet of neatly typed questions. “I understand there was some trouble at your company…”
—
Myth’s heels clattered on the wooden planks of the Gower pier. Ken checked his watch. Ten on the nose. He leaned
against a railing at the far end, looking out at the shimmering mirrors of sunlight on Lake Lanier’s choppy waters. The wind was hot, each breeze hitting him like a blast from a blow dryer. He didn’t turn as Myth sidled up next to him.
“He’s ready,” Ken said.
“What?”
“Sabini. He’s ready. He’s as good a liar as he’ll ever be.”
“But is he good enough?”
“You mean is he as good a liar as he is a thief? He is now. You should see him. I almost believe him.”
Ken still didn’t look at her. God, he was tired. The late nights had taken their toll. He gazed out at the water with hollow eyes.
“What’s wrong?”
He managed a bitter smile. “He took the money. You know damned well he did.”
“I don’t know any such thing. And besides, you wanted to do this.”
“I know, I know. It was just so easy. It should be harder for a man to let himself off the hook. But it was easy. So easy.” He looked at her. “I see people doing it all the time. Not just on the other side of my polygraph, but everywhere. And it keeps getting easier.”
“Ken, you’re exhausted. Why don’t you try to get some sleep?”
“Yeah. Maybe I’ll do that.”
“Besides, Sabini’s not off the hook yet.”
CHAPTER 6
The last thing Ken told Sabini was that it was crucial he get a good night’s sleep before taking the D.A.’s polygraph test.
Sabini did not sleep at all.
He spent half the night tossing and turning, practicing his breathing and replaying Ken’s test in his head. He spent the other half pacing in his motel room. He considered calling Denise, his wife, to see if she was home. It was something he did occasionally. If she answered, he would quickly hang up; if she didn’t answer, he would feel miserable for a day or so. Probably not a good idea to try it tonight, he decided.
He knew Ken and Myth had taken care of everything on their end. The D.A. had sent an approved list of examiners, from which Myth and Ken had made their selection. Ken immediately crossed one name off when he recognized the man as an instructor at his polygraph school. Heavy into the intuitive stuff, Ken thought. A no-no. They needed someone who placed greater importance on the graphs.
