Jean Harrington - The Monet Murders

Police business, I surmised, wishing he had followed me into the cubicle with Darth, who said, “Please have a seat and let me tell you how the polygraph works.”

He indicated a straight-backed wooden chair in front of a small table. The stale air in the windowless room reeked of fear and tension, or maybe it was just my imagination working overtime. I took the seat he indicated. With nothing on the industrial tan walls to attract my attention, I concentrated on the table and its black box. Roughly the size of a briefcase, the box bristled with wires, some of which led to a blood pressure cuff. A graph printer was attached to one side of the box.

“There’s no right or wrong to this test,” he said as I sat down. “What the polygraph does is record your physiological responses to the questions I’ll ask. These responses are involuntary. In other words, they can’t be controlled.”

I was about to ask, “What makes you so sure?” when he handed me a sheet of graph paper. “This is a sample printout.” Jagged vertical lines marched across the page. “The longer the lines, the greater the emotional response to the question.”

“Those are the lies, then?”

He stiffened. “Possibly.”

Bingo.

He removed a sheet of paper from a manila envelope Rossi had handed him when we came in. He glanced it at briefly then gave it to me. “Read these over and when asked, simply answer truthfully with a yes or a no. All questions are factual about events that did or did not occur. None are based on emotion or opinion.”

Straightforward enough, but still I could feel my blood pressure shoot up, and my palms go sweaty. Rossi must have written the questions before I got to his house. Knowing he had did nothing to calm me down. In fact, believing he’d set me up, I’d be taking the test mad as hell. As Darth stood there with the blood pressure cuff in his hands, I scanned the questions. He had been truthful; I could answer every one with a single yes or no.

I gave him back the page. He hooked me up to the machine and wrapped the cuff around my upper arm. “I’m also going to put a monitor on your finger to measure pulse and breathing rates, so try not to move your fingers or toes. Movement can affect the results. Okay so far?”

I nodded though I wasn’t okay with this at all. Far from it. Maybe I should have contacted a lawyer before getting in so deep. I heaved a sigh. A fine time to worry about legal counsel now that I was hooked up like fish bait.

“First, I’ll ask you some basic questions,” Darth was saying. “They’re not relevant to the case, but they’ll give me a baseline for your responses. I’ll be marking the sheet as you respond. Don’t worry about that. It’s standard procedure. Just answer truthfully. Then I’ll ask a final question, and I want you to lie.”

I nodded. The fake lie would establish a sample of my reactions when I really was lying.

He stood behind the table, turned on the polygraph machine and asked, “Ready?”

I nodded.

“Is your name Devalera Dunne?”

“Yes.” I love the Dunne part.

“Are you married?” Oh, I was, I was.

“No.”

“Divorced?” From Jack? Never.

“No.”

“Widowed?” Dear God in heaven, that has to be a…

“Yes.”

“Have you ever stolen money?”

“Yes.” When I was seven, a dime from my grandma’s change purse.

“Final question. Have you stolen anything in the last six months?”

“Yes.” That’s my lie.

The long sheet of graph paper spewing out of the printer spilled over the table edge. Darth examined it then picked up the list of relevant questions Rossi had prepared.

“All right, Mrs. Dunne. We’ll do a practice run of the lieutenant’s questions. Simply answer as truthfully as you can. Then we’ll do the test a second time. That’s the one that’ll count. Understood?”

I nodded, ignoring the trickle of sweat between my shoulder blades.

The questions began. “Did Mr. and Mrs. Alexander employ you as an interior designer? Did you steal the Monet seascape? Do you know Mrs. Alexander’s maiden name? Did you know the Alexanders’ cook, Maria Cardoza? Did you find the Monet cut from the frame? Do you know who stole it? Did you contact the police? Did you find Maria Cardoza’s body? Did Maria Cardoza ever cook you a meal? Did you kill Maria Cardoza? Do you know who did kill her?”

On and on, he droned. All told, with periodic stops while he marked the graph sheet, the practice test lasted for nearly an hour. In between the benign queries there were four lethal ones-did I steal the painting; did I know who had? Had I killed Maria; did I know who had? Those were no, of course. After we ran through the list once, Darth examined the printout then he turned off the polygraph machine, removed the cuff from my arm and the monitor from my finger.

“You did very well,” he said.

I looked at him in surprise. “What’s the matter, Mr. Butterworth, aren’t you going to give me the test?”

His smile said it all. “I have, Mrs. Dunne. We’re finished.”

“Wasn’t that a practice run?”

“Well,” he said, his smile growing broader, “if you put me on the machine and asked that same question, the needle would spike.”

“You lied.”

“Yes,” he said, “I did. But I’m sure you didn’t.”

“So I passed the test, but dammit, Rossi,” I said when we hit the parking lot and headed for the Audi, “that guy lied to me. I bet you knew he was going to.”

“Pretty standard procedure, Mrs. D. If the subject thinks it’s only a practice test, he relaxes. It goes better.”

“So now I’m a subject. Of what? Speculation? All I did was check on my design job. I found the crimes. I didn’t commit them.”

Rossi stopped midstride and, planting his feet wide apart on the tarmac, stood facing me. “It looks like a woman. It moves like a woman. I’ll bet it feels like a woman. Too bad it sounds like a child.”

“You have a hell of a-”

He held up a warning hand, palm out. He had a long lifeline. “Stop there. This is a murder investigation. I’m sorry you were lied to, but I’m sorrier Maria Cardoza is lying on a slab.”

Heat rushed into my face. If I had a mirror, I’d be looking at a boiled beet.

Rossi stared at me without blinking, waiting, no doubt, for his pound of flesh. I gave it to him. “I’m truly sorry. You’re absolutely right. Forgive me for losing sight of what matters.”

He grinned. “Maybe. All depends. Want to hear the terms?”

“Why not?” Though I could guess.

“After the investigation is concluded-not before-you’ll have dinner with me.”

“Where? Mel’s Diner?”

Mel’s was the local greasy spoon. I let my voice purr with disdain, but I was faking it. Fact is, though I hadn’t been out with anyone since losing Jack, at least not on an actual date, I was surprised to realize I’d enjoy going to dinner with Rossi. And somehow, I knew that would be okay with Jack.

“No, not Mel’s,” Rossi said calmly, not letting my disdainful tone affect him. Or at least not enough to let it show. “Someplace where I have to wear a jacket. The one in the closet on the fifteenth hanger.”

“I know the one.” I heaved a sigh to make him think the decision came hard. “St. George and the Dragon?”

“Great. It’s dark as a cave in there.”

“You’ve been?”

“I’m the detective. I ask the questions. And there’s something else. I spoke to the chief while you were taking the test. He’ll recuse me from the case if you and I…ah…give the appearance of impropriety.”

Relief flooded through me. So he had been sincere in hiring me. There was no trap, after all. Still I asked, “What does recuse mean, Rossi, in plain English?”