Dead Certain

by Adam Mitzner

  This is the moment of truth. Will Josh decline, showing that he probably has something to hide, or continue to be an open book?

  15.

  The NYPD’s polygraph administrator, a guy named David Samuels, doesn’t answer his phone. That isn’t too surprising given the late hour.

  “I’m not going to wait until tomorrow to do this on the off chance that Josh finds a defense lawyer between now and then,” Gabriel says to no one in particular, but I take the comment to be a not-too-thinly veiled reference to my work for Paul Michelson. “Nardello!” he calls out to a uniform cop loitering in the hallway. “Send a squad car over to Samuels’s house in Queens, roust him out of bed, and drag him down here.”

  Samuels arrives at One PP at a little after 1:00 a.m. A short, fat man, with a thick black beard, he looks like he’s literally been dragged down from Queens. He’s wearing sweatpants and a New York Mets T-shirt and sporting quite the bed head—at least concerning the hair he still has on his head, which for the most part is sticking straight up or to the side.

  Gabriel handles the introductions. “This is Ella Broden, she’s a former ADA in Special Vics and the sister of the missing woman, Charlotte Broden.”

  Samuels shakes my hand but keeps his focus on Gabriel. “What’s the story?”

  “The short version is that Charlotte Broden is a twenty-five-year-old woman who was last seen on Wednesday at around eight thirty a.m. After that . . . nothing. She lives with her boyfriend, a guy named Zachary Rawls, who was the last to see her. He isn’t cooperating with us, so he’s still in the mix. But the guy we got in here is Josh Walden. He’s a college student at NYU who was in a class that Charlotte was teaching over there, and he’s admitted to us that they have been having a sexual relationship for the last two months. He said he hasn’t seen her since Monday, and claimed not to know anything about her having a live-in boyfriend or even that she was missing.”

  Gabriel looks over at me. “Anything else?”

  “Charlotte wrote a novel—or at least half of one,” I say. “It’s loosely based on her life. That’s how we discovered that she might be involved with one of her students. In the book, the narrator’s a TA having a fling with one of her students. Josh is that student. In the story, she’s also involved with another man, a Wall Street banker. His character is named Matthew, but I’m sure that’s not actually his name.”

  “Okay,” Samuels says. “So three men. Boyfriend . . . what’s his name again?”

  “Zach,” I say.

  “Zachary Rawls,” Gabriel adds.

  “And this here is the student, Josh. And there’s a Wall Street banker type who probably isn’t named Matthew.”

  “Right,” I say.

  “Any last name on the banker?” Samuels asks. “In the book, I mean.”

  Gabriel looks to me. “Harrison,” I say. “Matthew Harrison.”

  “Okay, I think I got the lay of the land,” Samuels says. “Give me ten minutes to prep, and then I’ll be good to go.”

  The word polygraph literally means “many writings.” It doesn’t portend to ascertain the truth, but to give the examiner a set of data from which he or she can interpret whether the subject is being deceptive. There are many who distrust the machine, as false positives and inconclusive results are not unheard of—which is why polygraph results are generally not admissible at trial. I’ve never met anyone in law enforcement, however, who didn’t believe in the device’s infallibility in detecting a liar.

  Gabriel has joined me in his office, as Samuels emphasized that it was important that he be the only person in the room during the examination. We watch on the computer screen as Samuels arranges the band around Josh’s chest and places the rubber tubes on his fingers.

  Josh looks more relaxed than he did during Gabriel’s questioning. His knee has stopped bouncing.

  “Are you comfortable?” Samuels asks.

  Josh shrugs. “Yeah, fine.”

  Samuels looks directly into the camera and then nods, apparently to communicate to us that he’s about to begin.

  “Mr. Walden, my name is David Samuels. I am a licensed administrator of the polygraph device and I work for the New York City Police Department. Before we begin the actual test, I’m willing to answer whatever questions you might have about the process, and I also want to tell you a little bit about how it works. Okay?”

  Josh nods. “Sure.”

  “Good. When we officially begin, I will ask you a series of questions. Some of them I already know the answer to. I’m asking those questions merely to establish certain baselines. The machine records various physiological factors such as your heart rate, blood pressure, even sweat, all of which will read differently when a person is lying. After the test, I will examine the results and then provide the police with my findings as to which answers indicate deception, if any.”

  “Okay,” Josh says.

  For the first time since he’s been hooked up, Josh’s knee begins to bounce. It’s subtle, but I can see it. I wonder whether Gabriel notices it too.

  “Now, for the machine to work accurately, I need to establish a few things. These are not part of the actual test, but I still need you to answer them truthfully. Okay?”

  “I’m going to answer everything truthfully,” Josh says.

  “Good. Are you currently on any medication?”

  “No.”

  “Are you under the influence of any drug or narcotic?”

  “No.”

  “Have you had any alcohol in the last twenty-four hours?”

  Josh hesitates. “I had a beer with dinner.”

  “That’s fine. Was that around six o’clock tonight?”

  “A little later. Maybe seven or seven thirty.”

  “Okay. That won’t affect the results. Now, do you have any questions for me?”

  “Just one. Are these things really accurate? Because I know you can’t use them in court, so I’m just wondering.”

  “Yes. They are highly accurate. And the idea that you can’t use them in court is not true. Many courts permit their usage.”

  My stomach drops with the fear that Josh will get up and leave. Besides which, what Samuels said isn’t entirely true. While some courts do permit the introduction of polygraphs, they only do so under highly controlled circumstances, requiring, for example, when both sides agree to their admission, or for sentencing purposes only.

  “Why’d he say that?” I ask Gabriel.

  “We find it helps the results if the subject believes the test works and will be used against him if he lies. Remember, it’s not measuring truth telling, but anxiety. We want him to be afraid that his false answers will hurt him because that ratchets up the anxiety level.”

  “Any other questions?” Samuels asks Josh.

  “No.”

  “Then let’s get started.”

  Samuels flips the switches on the machine, which looks like one of the old-time computer printers. Then he takes a black Sharpie out of his breast shirt pocket and makes some type of notation on the printer paper.

  “Is your name Josh Walden?”

  “Yes.”

  “Is it Monday?”

  “No.”

  “Are you in a police station?”

  “Yes.”

  “Are you in Canada?”

  “No.”

  The knee-thumping has gotten progressively worse with each question. By the Canada query, Josh’s hands are also trembling, to the point that he looks like he’s suffering from Parkinson’s disease.

  “Do you see that?” I say to Gabriel. “His hands.”

  Gabriel leans closer to the screen. “Yeah. He did the same thing during the interrogation. He’s a nervous kid, that’s for sure.”

  “Do you know Charlotte Broden?”

  “Yes.”

  “Were you engaged in a sexual relationship with her?”

  “A romantic relationship,” Josh says.

  “It was a sexual relationship too, correct?”

&nb
sp; “Yes.”

  Samuels marks the computer printout. I wonder if that last answer is significant for some reason, although I can’t imagine why it would be. Josh wouldn’t be falsely claiming that he had sex with Charlotte.

  “Do you know whether Charlotte has a boyfriend?”

  “I thought I was her boyfriend.”

  “But you now know that she has another boyfriend?”

  “That’s what the police told me.”

  “Prior to the police telling you that Charlotte has a boyfriend, did you know that there was another man she was involved with romantically?”

  “No.”

  He marks the printout again. Josh’s knee keeps bouncing. It’s now as high as it’s been so far.

  “Have you ever heard the name Zachary or Zach Rawls?”

  “No.”

  “Was the last time you saw Charlotte on Monday of this week?”

  This time Josh’s slower to answer, as if he’s counting off the days in his head.

  “Yes.”

  “Was the last time you saw Charlotte yesterday?”

  “No.”

  “Was the last time you saw Charlotte on Tuesday?”

  “No.”

  “Was Charlotte having a sexual relationship with a banker?”

  Josh looks oddly amused, as if this question strikes him as ludicrous.

  “No.”

  “Prior to today, did you think Charlotte was having a sexual relationship with anyone besides you?”

  “No,” he says, sounding uncertain.

  His knee continues to pop up and down. It feels almost like he’s mocking me, as if it’s a wink directed at me to indicate he’s beating the machine.

  “He’s lying,” I say to Gabriel. “You can see it.”

  “We’ll know for sure in a few minutes,” Gabriel replies.

  Samuels grimaces slightly, and I wonder if that’s because the machine confirms what I’m witnessing—that Josh is lying through his teeth.

  “Do you know where Charlotte is now?”

  “No.”

  “Did you and Charlotte break up?”

  “No.”

  “Have you ever driven a car above the speed limit?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you know if Charlotte is alive?”

  Josh uses his hand to wipe a trickle of sweat from his forehead. Samuels reaches across the table, pulling Josh’s hand away.

  “Please, Mr. Walden, leave your hands on the table.”

  “Okay,” Josh says.

  “Let me ask that last question again. Do you know if Charlotte is alive?”

  “No. I don’t.”

  “Was your relationship with Charlotte a violation of university rules?”

  “I think so.”

  “Have you ever told a lie?”

  “Um . . . yes.”

  “Did you ever strike Charlotte?”

  “Never.”

  “Are you aware of anyone who would want to harm Charlotte?”

  “No.”

  “Is my shirt blue?”

  “Yes.”

  “Is your shirt blue?”

  “No.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Walden.”

  Samuels unhooks the apparatus from Josh, carefully placing the tubing and the other sensors back in their box. After everything is meticulously put away, Samuels tears the paper off the printer.

  My eyes are glued on Josh. He looks relieved to have it over. The knee thumping has stopped. His hands are steady again.

  “I’m going to take a few moments to review your answers and the readouts from the machine,” Samuels says. “Then I’m sure that Lieutenant Velasquez will share the results with you.”

  Samuels stands to leave and seems surprised when Josh offers him his hand. “Thanks,” Josh says.

  “The kid’s like Mount Vesuvius,” Samuels says when he joins us in Gabriel’s office. “All over the place. I couldn’t get a decent reading on anything. I mean, even his answers to the calibration questions indicate deception.”

  “Doesn’t that mean he’s lying?” I say. “He certainly looked like he was lying.”

  “It could,” Samuels said, “but I can’t certify that the results to any particular question indicated deception because his answer to every question—I mean, even his name—indicated deception. All I can say is that the results are inconclusive. How long has he been here?”

  “A few hours,” Gabriel said.

  “That could skew the results too. It’s late, he’s obviously tired, he just found out that his girlfriend is missing, and he knows he’s a suspect. He’s also just been told that she wasn’t exclusively his girlfriend. Who wouldn’t be anxious under those conditions?”

  My heart sinks. All of this seems to have been a colossal waste of time.

  “Can we try again tomorrow?” I ask. “Maybe after he’s rested it’ll be different.”

  “That’s up to the lieutenant,” Samuels says. “But I doubt very much we’re going to get a different result. What a lot of people don’t know is that it’s awfully hard to beat the poly, but much less so to make it useless. Mr. Walden has done the latter with great expertise.”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  “I know this sounds stupid, Clare, but I’d really like to go to a movie with you. Or just out to dinner.”

  It does sound stupid, and yet the worst part of all is how far off the mark Jason is about why it’s so preposterous. He actually thinks that we can be one of those couples holding hands at the movies or sitting side by side drinking sangria at some outdoor café.

  We’re at his place, which looks like every boy’s dorm room I’ve ever been in. It’s barely large enough to fit his futon, which is pushed up against one wall. A fifty-inch television is the only thing hanging on any of the walls.

  “It’s not stupid, Jason. It’s sweet,” I say. “But you know why we can’t do that. Not this semester, at least. Next year will be different.”

  He looks at me with stars in his eyes. “I love you so much, Clare.”

  Jason is a junior and just turned twenty-one. He reminds me of the boys I knew in high school. Insecure, unsure of what to do next, uncertain about who they are. Yet it’s the very fact that he’s so unformed that draws me to him. He has no hidden agenda and plays no games. I truly believe that all he desires in life is to be with me.

  We decide to watch a movie. He picks a romantic comedy, which doesn’t surprise me in the least. When the closing credits roll, I kiss him. More often than not, it falls to me to make the first move to initiate sex.

  Jason told me that he had two sexual partners before me. His first was a virgin too, and so it was one of those blind-leading-the-blind situations. He said his second had some experience, but the relationship didn’t last long enough for him to profit from it.

  I’ve taught Jason the things he has to know. The importance of kissing. How to use his hands. Timing and tempo. He hasn’t mastered any of it yet, but he’s showing steady improvement.

  Tonight I can tell that he’s not going to last very long. His hands are actually trembling as they touch my breasts. I decide that rather than have this end badly, I’ll move things along more quickly.

  “Don’t,” he says, as I move slowly down his hairless torso.

  “Just relax,” I tell him. “Let me do this for you, and then we can talk about what you can do for me.”

  His head lolls back and his body relaxes. I take him into my mouth just a little, but that’s all it takes to bring him over the edge. His body clenches and he pushes himself farther into me. I stay with him until his body goes limp again, and then I put my head on his chest, listening to his rapid heartbeat begin to slow.

  “My God, Clare,” he says. “That was unbelievable.”

  “Shhhh,” I say. “Don’t speak. Just be.”

  He falls asleep shortly thereafter. Marco isn’t expecting me home for a few hours, so I crawl off Jason’s futon and make us both grilled-cheese sandwiches because all he has in his mini
fridge, aside from Coca-Cola and beer, is Wonder Bread and Kraft American cheese singles. Either the crackling or the smell wakes him, because Jason wakes up just as I’m flipping the sandwiches over.

  “I’m sorry,” he says.

  “For what?”

  “That was a bit selfish of me.”

  I laugh. “Don’t worry. You’ll make it up to me later.”

  “And not only do I get”—and he nods toward the bed rather than say the word blowjob—“but grilled cheese too?”

  “My cooking options were somewhat limited. Why don’t you keep any food in here?”

  “Because I’m on the partial meal plan and there’s a pizza place downstairs and a McDonald’s across the street.”

  “What am I going to do with you, Jason? You’re a child.”

  “Then you need to make a man of me,” he says.

  Jason did make it up to me. After dinner we got back into bed, and he tried his very best to bring me to a climax with his mouth. Matthew is able to do it every time and Marco’s an even-money bet, but it just wasn’t going to happen with Jason. So I suggested he try it the old-fashioned way. I go through my usual routine—screaming out his name, telling him how big he is, the whole nine yards, but even with that encouragement, I need to help it along with my own hand.

  When I start dressing, Jason gently pulls me back to the futon. “Stay,” he says.

  “I’m sorry, sweetheart. But you know I can only fall asleep in my own bed.”

  “I know, but it would be so nice to sleep together. I mean actually sleep together. Can’t we do it just this one night?”

  I laugh. “Jason, I’m not sleeping on a futon.”

  “We could go to your place.”

  “We’ve already talked about this,” I say with my butter-wouldn’t-melt-in-my-mouth voice. “I’d love to do that, but it’s too risky. The associate dean lives in my building.”

  Jason looks at me with his puppy-dog eyes. The associate dean doesn’t live in my building, but there’s no way that Jason would know where he lives—or even where I live, for that matter.