Greg Iles - The Spandau Phoenix

were asked simply to give a person's vital signs time to return to

nominal between the relevant questions.

Hans knew if he could produce a strong enough emotional response to a

control question, then an actual lie would appear no different to the

polygraph than his faked control responses. Schmidt would be forced to

declare him "innocent." The best method to do this was to hide a

thumbtack in your shoe, but Hans knew that an exaggerated response could

also be triggered by holding your breath or biting your tongue. He

decided to worzy about method later.

If he couldn't pick out the control questions, method wouldn't matter.

Schmidt's voice jolted him back to reality.

"Sergeant Apfel, prior to discharging your Spandau assignment, did you

conununicate with any person other thaln the duty sergeant regarding

that assignment?"

"No," Hans replied. That was true. He hadn't had tim I e to discuss it

with anyone.

"Is Captain Hauer a married man?"

Irrelevant question, Hans thought bitterly. To anyone except me.

"No," he answered.

Schmidt looked down at the notepad from which he chose his questions.

"Have you ever stopped a friend or public official for a traffic

violation and let them go without issuing a citation?"

Control question, Hans thought. Almost any cop who denied this would be

lying. Keeping a straight face, he bit down on the tip of his tongue

hard enough to draw blood.

He felt a brief flush of perspiration pass through his skin.

"No," he said.

When Schmidt glanced up from the polygraph, Hans knew he had produced an

exaggerated response. "Am I holding up two fingers?"

Schmidt asked.

Irrelevant, thought Hans. "Yes," he answered truthfully.

Schmidt came a step closer. "Sergeant Apfel, you've made several

arrests for drug possession in the past year.

Have you ever failed to turn the entire quantity of confiscated drugs

over to the evidence officer?"

Control ques-Hans started to bite his tongue again; then he hesitated.

If this was a control question, Schmidt had upped the stakes of the

game. Giving an exaggerated response here would not be without serious

consequences. Police corruption involving drugs was an epidemic

problem, with accordingly severe punishment for those caught.

The men at the table gave no indication that they saw this question as

anything but routine, but Hans thought he detected a feral gleam in

Schmidt's eyes. The dirty little man knew his business.

"Sergeant?" Schmidt prodded.

Hans fidgeted. He did not want to appear guilty of a drug crime, but

the Spandau questions still awaited. If he intended to keep the papers

secret, he would have to give at least a partially exaggerated response

to this question. In silent desperation he held his breath, counted to

four, then answered, "No," and exhaled slowly.

"Is your wife's maiden name Natterrnan, Sergeant?"

Irrelevant. "Yes," Hans replied.

Schmidt wiped his upper lip. "Were you the last man to arrive at the

scene of the argument over custody of the trespassers at Spandau

PrisonT' Relevant question. Hans glanced up at the panel. All eyes

were on him now. Stay calm ... "I don't remember," he said. "Things

were so confused then. I really didn't notice."

"Yes or no, Sergeant!"

"I suppose I could have been."

Exasperated, Schmidt looked to Funk for guidance. The prefect fixed

Hans with his imperious stare. "Sergeant," he said curtly, "one of your

fellow officers told us you were the last man there. Would you care to

answer the question again?"

"I'm sorry," Hans said sheepishly, "I just don't remem-her." He looked

at the floor. The Russian soldier who had caught him in the rubble pile

could call him a liar right now, he knew, but for some reason the man

hadn't spoken up.

Funk appeared satisfied with Hans's answer, and told Schmidt to move

along. There can't be many more questions, Hans thought. Just a little

longer"Sergeant Apfel?" Schmidt's voice cut like slivers of glass. "Did

you remove any documents from a hollow brick in the area of the

cellblocks last occupied by the Nuremberg war criminals?"

Holy Mother of God! Hans choked down a scream. Every eye in the room

burned upon his face. For the first time Hauer's steely mask cracked.

His probing eyes fixed Hans motionless in his chair, stripping away the

pathetic layers of deception. But it was too late to come clean.

"No," Hans said lamely.

"Specifically, " Schmidt bored in, "did you discover, remove, see, or

even hear of documents pertaining to or written by Prisoner Number

Seven-Rudolf Hess?"

Hans felt cold sweat running down his spine.. His heart became an enemy

within his chest, thumping out the tattoo of his guilt. And there stood

Schmidt, lie-hungry, watching each centimeter of paper unspool from his

precious machine.

Looking at him now, Hans fancied he saw a mad doctor reading an

electrocardiograph, a diabolical quack watching each fateful squiggle in

the hope of witnessing a fatal heart attack. Hans felt his willpower

ebbing away. The truth welled up in his throat, beyond his control.

Just tell the truth, urged a voice in his head, tell it all and take

whatever consequences come. Then this insanity willfocus elsewhere.

Yet as Hans started to do just that, Schmidt said"Sergeant, have you

ever omitted an important piece of information from a job application?"

Hans felt like a spacewalker cut loose from his tether.

Schmidt had asked another control question! Hadn't he? But why hadn't

he triumphantly proclaimed Hans's guilt to the tribunal? Hans had

expected the little demon to dance a jig and scream: Him! Him!

There is the liar!

"No-no, I haven't," Hans stammered.

"Thank you, Sergeant."

While Hans sat stunned, Schmidt turned to Funk and shook his head.

The prefect closed the. file before him, then turned to the Soviet

colonels and shrugged. "Any questions?" he asked.

The Russians looked like sleeping bears. When one finally shook his

head to indicate the negative, the gesture seemed the result of a

massive effort. Hans even sensed the soldiers in the back of the room

relaxing. Only Captain Hauer and Lieutenant Luhr remained tense. For

some reason it struck Hans just then that Jiirgen Luhr was the kind of

German who made Jews nervous. He was a racial type-the proto Germanic

man, tall and broad-shouldered, thin-lipped and square-headed-a mythical

Aryan fiend passed down in whispered tales from mother to daughter and

father to son.

"Thank you for your cooperation, Sergeant," Funk said wearily.

"We'll contact you if we need any further details."

Then over Hans's shoulder, "Bring in the last officer."

Hans floundered. They had drawn him into the trap, yet failed-to pounce

for the kill. "Am I free to go?" he asked uncertainly.

"Unless you wish to stay with us all night," Funk snapped.

"Excuse me, Prefect," Lieutenant Luhr cut in. All eyes turned to him.

"I'd like to ask the sergeant a question."

Funk nodded.

"Tell me, Sergeant, did you notice Officer Weiss acting in a suspicious

manner at any time during the Spandau assignment?"

Hans shook his head, remembering Weiss being dragged down the hall. "No,

sir. No, I didn't."

Luhr smiled with understanding, but he had the watchful eyes of a police

dog. "Officer Weiss is a Jew, isn't he, Sergeant?"

One of the Russian colonels staffed, but his comrade laid a restraining