The Answer Man (7 page)

“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 many 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.”

T
he 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.

They finally settled on Gregory Harmon, a middle-aged examiner who received his polygraph training in the military. Myth insisted the D.A. place a five-year moratorium on Harmon's services to its offices, so the examiner would have no reason to curry favor with the prosecutors.

The groundwork had been laid. Sabini knew it was now all up to him.

Gant wasn't in a good mood as he drove into the Gas 'n Snack station on Cheshire Bridge Road. He had just come from talking to Carlos Valez's widow, who sobbed throughout the entire conversation. She had been under sedation the entire day before, and only that morning had she been able to speak to him. He was troubled not by his empathy for her—but, rather, by his entire
lack
of empathy. He heard time and time again from the police shrink on the subject: It was a normal defense mechanism, and was not in any way a symptom of the officer's dehumanization. Gant wasn't so sure.

The crying woman had quickly identified the “brown-toothed man” who assisted Carlos Valez in the attack on Ken Parker. He was Kevin Farrell, and he often washed car windshields at this station.

Gant pulled to a stop and got out of the car. A tall, thin young man with a scraggly beard appeared from around the corner.

“Wash your windows?” he asked. One of his upper front teeth was dark brown.

Gant shrugged. “Sure.”

He watched the man spray his windshield and wipe it clean with newspaper. The window squeaked.

Gant held his badge in front of the man's face. “I'm Thomas Gant. Atlanta P.D.”

The man stopped rubbing. “I didn't ask for any money.”

“That's not what I'm here about. I have no problem with you making a few bucks. You're Kevin Farrell, right?”

Kevin nodded as he lifted the wipers and sprayed underneath.

“I want to talk to you about your friend Carlos.”

“Okay.”

“You know he's dead, don't you?”

Kevin moved to the passenger window. “Yeah. I know.”

“Someone killed him.”

“I heard.”

“Any idea who might've done it?”

“No.”

Kevin wiped his nose with his sleeve. He stepped around and squirted the rear window.

Gant followed him. “I hear you and Carlos beat up on a guy last week.”

“That's a lie!”

“Don't be stupid. There are witnesses. If you wanna go into a lineup, we'll see how far you can hide behind that tooth.”

A tall man holding a beer appeared from around the corner. “Kevin, you don't have to talk to that guy.”

Gant studied the second man. He wore faded jeans and a ripped muscle shirt, and his face was set in a scowl. “Are you his lawyer?” Gant said.

“I'm his friend. Kevin's not exactly a rocket scientist, so I'm looking out for him.”

“It's okay, Jesus,” Kevin said. He pronounced the name the same way Anglos pronounced the name of the Holy Savior. Good old Jesus.

Gant flipped back a few pages in his notebook. “Are you Jesus Millicent?” Gant pronounced the name
Hey-Zeus.

“Don't say it like that. It's Jesus.”

Gant snorted. “Okay, Jesus, you just saved me a trip. I want to talk to you too. We heard Carlos Valez holed up with you after he beat up his father. Two officers showed up at your place and you wouldn't let them in for a search.”

“I let them in.”

“Only after they came back with a warrant. I guess that bought Carlos enough time to get out, huh?”

“What do you want?” Jesus said.

“Stick around. If you have anything to add to the discussion, just chime in.”

“What if I don't?”

“Then we can discuss the fact that I can take you in for loitering and for consuming alcoholic beverages on the premises. Pretty minor except when we consider that you're still on parole. Isn't that right?”

Jesus glared at Gant.

“Do you think I killed Carlos?” Kevin asked.

Gant shrugged. “Is there any reason I
should
think that?”

“No. He was my friend.”

“What happened last week?”

“I didn't do anything to that lie detector guy. I just
held
him. I—I didn't know Carlos was gonna hurt him that bad!”

“Okay, tell me about it.”

Kevin told his story to Gant, from Carlos's anger at losing his job to the blow-by-blow on Ken Parker's beating.

“I know Carlos had a violent temper,” Gant said. “Did he have any enemies? People who may have wanted him dead for any reason?”

Jesus stepped forward. “If Carlos did to me what he did to that polygraph guy,
I
would have been his enemy.”

Gant looked at Kevin.

“I don't know who would have done that,” Kevin said.

Gant gave Kevin and Jesus his card with instructions to call in case they thought of anything else. He looked back at his car. The windows hadn't been so clean in weeks. He checked his wallet; all he had was a five-dollar bill. He gave it to Kevin.

“Good morning, Mr. Sabini. I'm Greg Harmon. How are you today?”

Sabini shook the examiner's hand, relieved that his own palm was dry, not sweaty. So far, so good.

“Fine, thank you,” he confidently replied.

Sabini glanced around the office. As Ken had told him, there were large, impressive-looking diplomas on the wall. This office was clean, almost antiseptic, a marked contrast with Ken's shabby, run-down work space. Sabini noticed a
full-length mirror on the wall facing the examination chair. A one-way observation window, no doubt.

The examiner motioned toward the chair. “Please have a seat.”

The seat.

Sabini stopped short when he saw it. Oh, no. It was the chair Ken warned him about, the Reid seat. He didn't dare try the pucker. Sabini said nothing as he sat and tried to get comfortable.

The examiner picked up a clipboard and sat across from him. “Okay, Mr. Sabini. Apparently, there was a great deal of money missing from your company. Can you tell me what the problem was there?”

Sabini nodded pleasantly. He knew the examiner was fully aware of all the circumstances surrounding the case—otherwise, how could he have made up the list of questions on that clipboard? Ken had drilled him on this part. As Sabini explained in his own words, the examiner would be watching and listening closely, trying to pick up on any verbal or nonverbal cues that might incriminate the interviewee. Eye contact, enunciation, and body language were crucial.

“It started when one of the company's owners was getting divorced.” Sabini relaxed and spoke matter-of-factly. “His wife, or his wife's lawyers, demanded an audit of the firm's holdings. It was done, and we were something like twelve million short.”

He shook his head as if he couldn't believe it himself.

“We tracked it down and found that the funds were electronically transferred to four different banks in Switzerland, where they had already been withdrawn. By who, we don't know. Some people obviously think I did it, since I know more about this area than just about anyone in the company. But I
didn't
do it,” he emphasized calmly. “There's really nothing that links me to this. It's just circumstantial.”

The examiner nodded. “All right. I'm going to briefly go through some questions with you. If you're not sure about
any of them, or you want me to explain, please let me know.”

Sabini listened as the examiner went down the list. By the third question he knew it was the Standard Format Control Question Test. Good.

The examiner was a dry, humorless man whose every look, every glance, seemed accusatory. He spoke with a slight southern accent, yet his words were clipped and precise. He wore a tie and a short-sleeved dress shirt of a style that even Sabini no longer wore.

After the examiner finished previewing the questions, he attached the sensors to Sabini. This polygraph was sleeker and shinier than Ken's, with a frosty silver finish on its sides. Sabini noticed the examiner pressing a foot pedal, which he assumed would activate the Reid seat.

The examiner stood. “I'll be back in a moment.”

The man disappeared through a doorway next to the mirror. He closed the door behind him.

Sabini almost smiled, knowing he was being watched from the other side of that glass. He and Ken had practiced this part too. Sabini leaned back in the chair and casually glanced around the office. His eyes finally settled on the wall as he did his best to look bored.

In a few minutes the examiner returned. He sat down, turned on the polygraph, and studied the graph readings. He leaned forward and forcefully clapped his hands together in front of Sabini's face. The needles jumped in response.

“That was to see if you're reactive enough for the instrument's settings. This should be fine.”

The examiner positioned his clipboard in front of the polygraph. “Mr. Sabini, were you born in St. Louis, Missouri?”

“Yes.”

Sabini concentrated on his breathing. If he could just get a good breathing pattern going, the rest would follow.

“Have you been completely truthful and forthcoming to your company with regard to this case we have discussed?”

“Yes.”

“Do you understand that I will inquire only about issues we have already discussed?”

Verbatim from Ken's test.

“Yes.”

“Have you ever lied to a superior at work?”

“No.”

The first relevant question was next.

There was a pain in his stomach.

His heart pounded faster and faster.

This hadn't happened before….

“Did you, over the course of several months, transfer funds belonging to Vikkers Industries into accounts you opened for your personal benefit?”

Ambiguous question. Many accounts he opened on behalf of his company benefited him personally with regard to ease of use, relationships, and so on. He almost told the examiner so during the pre-exam.

Maybe he
should
have said something.

Stop it, he told himself. He was second-guessing, overanalyzing the situation.

He wanted to look at the polygraph. Was his exploding heart giving him away? All that practice, all that training, it was all falling apart….

“No,” he answered.

“Have you ever taken anything from your place of business that did not belong to you?”

“No.”

His collar was throbbing, taking the pulse from his neck. He struggled to keep his cool. But the more he struggled, the worse his readings would be. He couldn't win….

“Did you arrange for the withdrawal of your company funds after they were transferred into banks in Zurich, Switzerland?”

There was dampness under his arms. Perspiration.

Oh, God, not now.

Surely the examiner could tell, if not from his polygraph, then from the ever-growing sweat stains.

Sabini tried to relax, pretending he was back at Ken's office, looking at that spot of chipped paint on the wall.

“No.”

“Is your birthday March third?”

“Yes.”

“Have you ever knowingly violated the rules, regulations, or policies of your company?”

Sabini wanted to swallow.

He didn't dare. The machine would pick it up and brand him forever. One swallow, one movement of his throat muscles, one twitch, could mean the difference between prison and freedom. It could cost him years of his life.

“No.”

One more question to go. One more. This wasn't the same as practicing with Ken.

“Do you have specific knowledge of other person or persons who executed the embezzlement of funds from Vikkers Industries?”

“No.”

The examiner made another mark on the graph paper.

Sabini stared at the wall, trying to hold it together until the machine was shut down.

The examiner switched off the polygraph, and Sabini felt as if his power had suddenly been cut too. He was drained. As the sensors were removed, he looked at the examiner. The man's face revealed nothing.

“Thank you for coming in, Mr. Sabini. I'll analyze the results and forward them as soon as possible.”

It was a long way to Myth's, Ken thought as he crossed Peachtree Street and caught a glimpse of the Fox theater. Traffic was heavy on Ponce De Leon Avenue. Why on this of all nights did it have to be so slow? he wondered. He
knew Myth must have Sabini's results, and it was killing him to wait.

He could have called her, of course. But it seemed better for him to be with her when he got the news. Years before, when his father had taken a turn for the worse, his mother called him frantically, begging him to come home immediately. The doctors said his father had only hours to live. Ken took the first flight out of Alaska, and upon his arrival at the Atlanta airport, called Bobby to find out where he should go—the hospital or their house.

“Our house,” Bobby told him.