by Jim Stark
Randall Whiteside never panicked, but at this moment he felt as close as he'd ever been. “You ... can't tell if people are lying?” he asked nervously.
"Nope,” said Victor as he accepted the pliers. “No can do, but...” He gripped the end of a wire with the pliers and yanked, splitting the surface of the cast from the inside of his middle finger up to the top, near the elbow. “Would you—uh—hold that open while I slide my fingers out of those damned holes?"
Victor laid his left forearm on the table, palm up. Randall dug his thumbs into the crack and pressed the two halves of the cast apart, and Victor extricated himself from the cage. He flexed his wrist for the first time in seven weeks, and rubbed it. “God, that feels good,” he said. Then he picked up the cast, held it up with the split facing down, inserted his hand part way, and gently tapped the finger-hole end on the table. As he pulled his hand slowly out, he watched the universe mutate in the eyes of his new friend and mentor.
"You son-of-a-bitch,” said Randall. “It's a piece of technology!"
"Why do you think I picked you as my partner?"
"You son-of-a-bitch," repeated Randall.
"It's called a LieDeck, l-i-e-d-e-c-k,” explained Victor as he handed him a wallet-sized black box, with silver duct tape stuck here and there on the thing. “That's short for lie detector. I spell it with a capital ‘L,’ and a capital ‘D’ in the middle ... not sure why. This is what you bought."
"You son-of-a-bitch,” said Randall again, with the voice of a man who'd just been caught on Candid Camera, and loved it.
"Unbelievable!” said Helen.
"It's quite simple in its operation and construction,” said Victor. “A tiny microphone picks up a person's voice—you see the little holes in the cast for the sound to reach the mike? A filter removes all the audible frequencies, from a hundred and twenty-five hertz to twelve thousand hertz—or twelve kilohertz—the normal hearing range. What's left are the inaudible frequencies, or maybe I should say the harmonics, produced by the voice box, frequencies that are above or below the human hearing range. These frequencies are dramatically altered when the speaker is aware that he or she is saying something untrue, because of a high level of stress caused by the fear of getting caught. The harder you try to lie convincingly, the easier it is to detect the deception. Even if you don't care whether you're caught or not, it still works. Unless you're a psychopath, with no conscience to be bothered, it's just not possible to control this autonomic aspect of your voice, even with extensive biofeedback training. Believe me, I tried every which way there is. It can't be done. If what's called the ‘guilt knowledge’ is there, you get caught, end of discussion.
"My hypothesis was that the same biological realities that underpin the regular old polygraph—the galvanic skin response and the blood flow variations—were reflected in voice patterns. The fundamental science was difficult to understand, and the computer algorithm took a very long time to perfect, but once those things were done, it became a simple technical matter to recognize when a person is lying by identifying two types of voice patterns, normal and stressed, and signaling the wearer when the stressed pattern is present. It's a nice little binary system—yes or no. I used a primitive pin structure, as you can see. When I was with you at the Royal Oaks and you were testing me, a tenth of a second after every untrue statement, that pin tapped the surface of my forearm."
Victor paused briefly to see if Randall wanted to respond, but he just stared intently at the small plastic box with the plaster dust on it, lost in thought and calculation.
"There's a patent application, wrapped in plastic, between layers of plaster, inside the cast,” continued the inventor. “Also, you'll find all the technical specifications in there ... and my will. That was in case I got killed."
Again, Victor waited, but Randall was still lost in his own world.
"The LieDeck is as safe from copycats as the Polaroid-Land camera,” he went on, “and the Polaroid patent was tested in the courts, as you know. The first prototypes of the LieDeck can be assembled in a day. A basic model can be on the market in a week, but that's only the beginning.
"A micro-miniaturized model is where the big money is. I'm hoping we can get that on the market in a few months, maybe by September or October. I think we should build the LieDeck into a digital wristwatch."
"Yes,” said Randall vacantly. “Yes, of course—like Dick Tracy and his two-way wrist radio."
"The signaling system can be tactile, as in this model,” continued Victor, “but it could be visual—a flashing light—or auditory—a beeper, a buzzer, a bell, whatever. Actually, this one has a beeper too—I just disconnected it while it was inside the cast. It shouldn't be a problem to build a device with all three signaling systems, even in the wristwatch model. So, Randall ... are you a happy man?"
"Happy” didn't quite catch the essence of Randall's emotions. He was gaga. “This is ingenious ... fantastic ... and m-m-marketable as hell,” he stammered. “I absolutely love it. I honestly didn't know for sure if you were a crazy or a psychic or a con man until this very minute. This is ... it's..."
"Sort of a high-tech Pinocchio,” volunteered Annette.
"How the hell did you come up with this idea?” asked Randall.
"Actually, it was originally dreamed up by a good friend of mine, George Cluff,” said Victor, with sadness in his voice. “But his model—he called it the Cluff Voice Analyzer, the C.V.A.—his model was too unreliable ... it didn't do the job nearly well enough to be put on the market. I perfected it. George died in a plane crash in 2002, twelve years ago. I believe the CIA killed him because of his device. That's why I played hermit for all those years. I was scared the CIA would get me too."
Victor wanted to change the subject, to not talk about George Cluff, but he couldn't prevent himself from showing grief. His face seemed frozen, or at least locked into an aimless stare at the tabletop.
"Well, you're safe now, Victor,” said Helen reassuringly. She put a gentle hand onto the forearm that had just been liberated from the cast, and made a mental note to get back to that George Cluff business ... at the appropriate time, of course.
Victor shook himself out of the mood he had fallen into. “Why don't you—uh—try it,” he suggested to Randall. “Just hold it in your hand and talk."
Randall was relieved to get past the minor funk, and he was suddenly like a kid with his first Nintendo. His eyes lit up as he placed the box firmly in his hand, with the pin over the butt of his palm. “Uh—what's your name?” he asked.
"I am Napoleon,” cracked Victor. “Did you feel it tap you?"
"Yeah,” said Randall. “This is freaking great."
"I'm forty-two years old,” said Victor.
"Nope,” laughed Randall.
"I'm forty-one years old."
"Uh ... yep."
"I had to make seven casts before I got one that looked right."
"Really ... seven?” asked Randall. “Hey, that's odd. I automatically asked you for confirmation, even though I knew that you spoke the truth, because I didn't feel the pin tap me. This thing is really going to modify our speech habits."
"It took me twelve years to build that sucker, and I only perfected it this January,” said Victor.
"It took you twelve years to build,” said Randall excitedly, “but you ... didn't perfect it in January. Did I—uh—get that right?"
"Right you are,” laughed Victor. “It was last November."
"No it wasn't,” Randall chirped delightedly.
"Okay, it was February, about seven weeks ago."
"Yep."
"I'm an honest man,” volunteered Victor.
"Yes ... you are,” said Randall. “Jesus H. Christ! Just that easy, I get an absolutely vital insight into your character! I can sure use an advantage like that in my business."
"So can your competitors,” said Victor.
"I ... suppose so,” realized Randall.
"I have no insecurities."
&
nbsp; "False."
"I have quite a few insecurities."
"True."
"Ever since I've had a working prototype of the LieDeck, about six years ago, I've been talking out loud when I'm alone to do sort of a running check on myself. Using the LieDeck that way helps you to understand yourself, stops you from lying to yourself—which we all do, by the way."
"That's ... apparently true,” said an astonished Randall Whiteside.
"And once you get to know all your fears,” continued Victor, “and understand which ones you're responsible for and which ones you're not responsible for, which ones are real and which aren't, they're a lot easier to overcome, and you'll find yourself motivated to change your personality."
"That's ... also true,” said Randall, wide-eyed. “At least that's your—uh—honest opinion."
"You're right—good point,” said Victor. “It is my opinion, but in this case, it's also true, as you'll find out in time. A lot of things are provable when you use the LieDeck on yourself. In fact, using a LieDeck will not only motivate you to consciously try to change your personality, it will change your personality whether you work at it or not ... whether you want it to or not!"
"Again ... true ... and scary as hell,” decided Randall.
"Holy cow!” said Annette.
"In other words,” said Victor, looking deep into the gaping eyes of his new partner, “eventually, the LieDeck will change the very nature of the beast, change human nature! Did the pin tap your hand when I said that?"
"No, it didn't,” said Randall incredulously. “Jesus Christ! This is far more than I bargained for. God damn it, Victor. This isn't just an electronic device. This is a ... a revolution!"
"I'd have to agree with that,” said Victor. “Did the pin tap you when you said that?"
"No."
"Does that mean it must be true?” asked Victor.
"I ... I guess,” said Randall.
"No, it doesn't. It means you believe it's true. But I believe that too, and that's why I told you at the Royal Oaks that while we stand to make a hell of a pile of dough together, the money we make will probably be the least of our accomplishments. Do you remember I said that?"
"Yes, of course I do,” said Randall.
"Well, it's ... true,” said Victor with a shrug of his shoulders.
Through all this, Cam O'Connor sat stiff as an icicle in front of the video screen in the Patriot compound, where he was monitoring the conversation from the lodge—he'd had a microphone planted there by one of his agents in the morning, without telling the boss. And as he listened, he became terrified at the thought of having this monstrous gadget turned on himself. My God, he thought. There are things in my life that I'm not prepared to discuss with anyone.
"So you ... lied to me when you told me you got your arm broke,” said Randall.
"I never said I got my arm broke,” corrected Victor. “I said that I got mugged, which was true. I said the cast would be on my arm for a few more days, which was exactly what I expected. And I said it hurt pretty bad for a while, by which I meant the cast. And it did hurt. I made it a little too tight on the thumb hole, and I had to ream it out a bit from the outside after the first day I wore it."
"And all this elaborate deception,” said Randall, “had to do with that fellow Cluff, your friend who invented the—uh—precursor of the LieDeck?"
"Well, if the bad guys found out, they'd just kill me,” said Victor, “thinking that that act would solve their problem. The way I had it figured, a murderer would hardly stop at the scene of the crime to remove and examine a cast. Inside the plaster, with the patent application and technical specifications, you'll find a mini-cassette. It directs that the LieDeck device be delivered to you ... and it also tells you where there are three reel-to-reel tapes that I prepared. These tapes talk about what I think ought to be done with the LieDeck, how it should be handled, what it has to teach us human beings about ourselves, plus a few other things. Thank goodness that stuff wasn't needed, but it was a sensible precaution, as far as I was concerned."
The two Samoyeds reappeared with Noel, panting ... and looking like they'd done something they should feel guilty about.
"I am feeding dem dat pork chops,” Noel announced as he replenished the lemonade in the pitcher, “an I t'ink dey in love wit’ me now."
Chapter 6
PHANTOM OF THE PENTHOUSE
Darlene Trahan's mind did a sweeping tour of her jumbled past as the silent driver transported her from the halfway house she called home to an upscale apartment on Riverside Drive. She sat in the backseat, as always, and as instructed. She wore her beaded moccasins, as always, not because it was the way of her people, but because it was her way of not getting confused about who she was—a thorny problem when you're getting straight.
She looked at the back of the driver's head, with its perfect, close-cropped hair. He never talks, she thought. Every week or two he calls me, he picks me up, I go, he waits, I do my dance for Blade, and then he takes me back home. He's made of wood. He feels like a tree feels ... wind, rain, sun, birds’ feet, snow, fox urine ... just what happens to him, nothing more. Gotta be a cop. Gotta be. Maybe an RCMP.
It was only ten minutes from the rooming houses and skin bars of Ottawa's Lowertown to the plush pads of the rich and powerful, but it might as well have been ten hours on a wide-body. Where Darlene was going was a land lost by her grandfather's ancestors, a young and sharp-edged mountain where the gold still lived near the surface.
"Blade will see you now” was all she ever heard over the phone from the driver, and she was told to be ready in exactly five minutes. “I don't need to get myself ready just to spin,” she would respond, and then she would sigh.
Like everything in the white man's world, there was a price to be paid, both ways. Darlene paid with a slender body. For this gig—her only gig these long days—the rewards she got were never negotiated and never contested, unlike her years as a stripper, or a hooker (depending on whose story you believed). Social workers and probation officers never understood that side of Darlene, nor did the tight-assed staffers at the halfway house. Drugs were her problem, cocaine mostly, but the authorities were always keen to cure her of her personality, her character, every time they got a free shot.
Bodies were for lots of things ... she knew that ... but bodies were mostly for fun, for pleasure. If you said it was so, then it was so ... for you anyway, what with Canada being a free country and all. Her body just happened to fit the Playboy mold, the fashion tramp template, and she had one of those haunting faces that launch ships ... or at least cause an occasional fender-bender.
Her purpose in life was a total mystery to her, much like the purpose of life generally ... with one great exception: sex. Even when she was a teenager back on Manitoulin Island, all the “braves” knew her ground rules. “Nobody gets to just fuck me,” she had always warned the boys and men who panted at her feet. “You make my body howl like a wolf over the fresh kill ... then you get to let your arrow fly.” Life in that half-way house was agreeable enough in spite of the white taboos, she supposed, and whoever it was that secretly employed her from time to time obviously had the political juice to get around the ridiculous rules and regulations of Canada's penal system.
Blade, she thought vacantly as the car eased towards the back entrance of the apartment block. His name is Louis in my dreams. I don't know how I know that, but I do. Maybe I heard it in my sleep. My dreams are more real than ... than this, anyway. Still, he needs me ... here ... this way. He needs me to help him steer some great ship through turbulent air. He needs me to take away the sting of a mostly stupid life. Some day, I'll take away the fear too. People should not fear pleasure. Imagine, telling people that not having any sex is therapeutic. What a so-white crock. Even my doctors know better than that ... well, two of them, anyway.
As always before, Darlene stepped out from behind darkened auto glass into the darkened parking lot. It was never more than a few steps to the
back door, and her silent escort always seemed frantic to open the lock and get her inside—away from any prying eyes, she guessed. The private elevator required a key too, and once they were inside she was always told by a hand gesture to turn around, to face the rear wall, so he could push the button—and to stay that way exactly until she was ushered into a hall and down to an unmarked suite. That door was locked too, locked before she was let in and locked again from the outside after she was inside.
As the door clicked behind her, the puritanical rules of a white society were left whispering and whimpering in the hall. This was a place of mental health, of normalcy, of natural animals.
Darlene put her purse on an antique chair and went into the washroom. Her black hair hung like the curtains of an Egyptian royal bed, framing her face. “My eyes are too scary,” she said softly. “Men seem to like that, but..."
Her Timex watch was closing in on 10:00 p.m., but she was ready. The timing of her encounters with Blade had to be precise, just like at the Meat Shop, where she had most recently plied her trade, except that these impromptu sessions were so much ... classier.
She took off all her clothes and put on the printed pink kimono that hung on the inside of the bathroom door ... chosen by Blade, she was sure ... and a keeper, she said to herself. She walked into the living room of this place where no one lived, where no magazines ever lay about or got read. She took a deep breath and gazed at her reflection in the large, gray, two-way mirror that surely hid the man who paid the bills. Darlene liked being beautiful ... and silk has a special way of highlighting erect nipples, she said in her head as she swiveled for effect.
"Where is my phantom prince?” she asked aloud as she glanced to make sure the sliding doors and the drapes of the balcony were closed. “Is the moon your home? Do you pay visits to other ladies like me throughout the universe? Do you let them speak, while I can only know you in silence? Do you let them see you, and touch you, while I can't? Do you provide them with the good things of life, like you do for me? Do you make them into prisoners of terrible secrets? Must I live forever as a madwoman on this two-faced planet? Will I join you for eternity when I die? Come to me, my bear with no hair."
