The Judgment (36 page)

“He said that? Aren’t you protected by Civil Service or something?”

“No, nothing like that. It’s all strictly county.”

I was incensed. First of all, no trial lawyer, defense or prosecution, puts any faith in the polygraph. There are so many glitches and hitches in their operation and interpretation that no court in the country accepts their results as evidence. Psychopaths and sociopaths have no difficulty beating the polygraph because they lack any ordinary human sense of guilt. And to threaten to take away a man’s pension if he refused to take such a faulty test seemed like coercion. It was probably even illegal.

“So what did you tell him?” I asked Dominic.

“I told him I’d take it. I had no choice. But I think I need a lawyer, right?”

“I think you do, yes.”

“Well, would you, you know, be my lawyer?”

“Sure, Dominic.”

“It’s gonna cost me, though, right?”

“There’ll be a retainer, yes, but don’t worry. We’ll work it out.”

“Mark Evola said I didn’t need a lawyer. That’s why I figured I did.”

“Good thinking, Dominic.”

“But Charley, I gotta tell you I’m really scared of taking that lie-detector test. I didn’t kill those children. I could never do that. I raised four kids of my own. I was a good father, or I tried to be.” Tears welled in his eyes. “But I’m so scared of that damned machine, I’m afraid I’ll set it off, no matter what they ask me.”

This wasn’t the time to give him a lecture on the fallibility of the polygraph. That was just what he was afraid of. And I couldn’t tell him his fears were completely unfounded. Instead, I thought about it for a moment, made my decision, and then gave him a bit of advice.

Later in the afternoon, after Dominic had left, I started thinking again about Ismail Carter, not in a nostalgic way, but rather in strictly utilitarian terms: How could I use him on the Conroy case? And, more important, how could I find him?

He had acknowledged a debt to me, and I knew that the one-time city councilman, a man of many faults, had one outstanding virtue. He honored his debts. I just had no idea where he might be, or if he was even still alive.

But I had an idea just who might be able to help me find Ismail Carter. I picked up the telephone and dialed a number in Detroit I knew by heart, police headquarters, and asked for Detective LeMoyne Tolliver.

I got lucky. He answered on the second ring.

“Tolliver here.” His voice sounded even bigger and deeper on the telephone.

“Do you recognize my voice?”

He held off. “I think so.”

“From Friday morning and Saturday night.”

“Now I do.”

“Good, I was just wondering if you could give me some help finding somebody—a local politician who’s dropped out of sight. He must be pretty old by now, might be dead for all I know.”

“Who you got in mind?”

“Ismail Carter. Remember him?”

“I remember him, all right. Matter of fact, it was him who got me on the force, back when there was a definite quota, if you get my meaning.”

“Sure, but do you know how I might reach him?”

“No, I don’t, but I’ll see what I can do for you. One thing’s certain, though.”

“What’s that?”

“He ain’t dead. When he dies, you’ll know it. Gonna be one of the biggest funerals this town has ever seen.” He paused as if giving preliminary thought to the matter. “I’ll be in touch,” he said.

“But just one thing more.”

“What’s that?”

“Don’t tell our friend about this. He might not approve.”

“You’re right. He might not. But I think you’re doin’ the right thing, anyway.”

I
had agreed to meet Dominic Benda in the parking lot outside my office at eight o’clock in the morning. I began pacing about five minutes after, looking anxiously up the road in the direction I expected him to appear. He didn’t appear. My watch said eight-ten the next time I looked. I stopped and scanned River Road in both directions, worried, afraid I’d asked too much of him. He was more than sixty years of age, overweight, and big in the butt from years of pushing that patrol car over the highways and backroads of Kerry County, not really in good physical shape at all. By eight-fifteen I had about decided that it was time for me to jump in my car and backtrack along the route into town. I might find him with his thumb out, or worse, collapsed along the side of the road. But before I climbed into my Chrysler, I went to the curb and took one last look for Dominic, and then I saw him, just about a city block away.

He was limping and staggering along, apparently exhausted totally from his long hike. As he drew closer, he appeared to me for the first time since I’d known him to be dressed in civilian clothes. His Sunday best. He must have started out in a suit and tie, and a topcoat, too. Coats were now thrown over his shoulder, his shirt collar was open, and his tie was askew. I saw that he was red-faced and sweating. I went out to meet him.

“Are you okay, Dominic?” I asked. “Here, let me take your topcoat.”

He handed it over without a word.

“Better put your jacket on. It’s too cold to go around in your shirt like that.”

He nodded, stopped, and pulled on the suitcoat. He wasn’t out of breath, just exhausted.

“Come on over and sit in the car. Take a rest. Then we’ll drive over.” Again, he nodded. He limped over to the Chrysler. I opened the door for him, and he collapsed into the passenger seat. I walked around, tossed his coat in the backseat, and got in behind the wheel. He let out a groan.

“I don’t know, Charley,” he spoke up at last. “This was more than I expected. I ain’t done anything like this since I was in the army, and that was forty years ago.”

“Did you stay up the way I told you to?”

“Yeah, I was up all night. I stayed on my feet the last three or four hours. If I even sat down, I would’ve fallen asleep, I’m sure of that.”

“Maybe that was the hardest part,” I suggested.

“No, it wasn’t. Peggy fixed me breakfast, and that helped. Coffee—man, I needed that—eggs and bacon, so I felt pretty good when I started out, but when I’d walked just a couple of miles, my legs started hurting. And each mile after that they hurt something fierce.”

“How far did you come? It was about five miles, wasn’t it?”

“No, closer to seven. That last mile or so, I really wasn’t sure I’d make it.” He shook his head in dismay. “I thought I was in better shape than this.”

“If it’s any consolation, Dominic, I probably wouldn’t have done any better myself.”

I slipped the key into the ignition and started the car. “We’d better get over there,” I told him. “The test is scheduled for eight-thirty. It wouldn’t do to be too late.”

On our way to the station, Dominic was pretty quiet. I looked over at him. No, he wasn’t tense, he was just plain
tired. When we pulled into the parking lot, though, he did seek a little reassurance.

“All this I went through—does this, you know, guarantee FU pass?”

“I never said that, Dominic, but it sure gives you an edge.”

He thought about that a moment. “I’ll pass,” he said. “I don’t give a fuck what they ask me now. I just want to get through this, so I can get home and get some sleep. Besides which, I didn’t do any of that horrible shit they more or less accused me of.”

“I like your attitude.”

I pulled into a visitor’s space. Dominic opened the car door and squeezed out. He was too big for my little car. But he got his feet on the ground and struggled to an upright stance. Somehow he took hold of himself then, and in spite of the pain in his legs, he marched beside me to the building and up the steps at a good, soldierly pace. As I held open the door for him, I looked him over. He was a mess, sweat streaked, hair matted; the ordeal he’d been put through was written on his face. His wife was waiting for him inside. They said their helios; her concern was written on her face.

“Dominic,” I said, “I want you to go into the washroom and clean up. Wipe your hair dry and comb it, button your shirt, and pull that tie all the way up. When you come out, I want you to look like you’re ready for them.”

He nodded and set off once again like a good soldier. Tony Makarides, the desk sergeant, watched him go. A couple of the girls in the front exchanged looks.

“Is he okay?” Peg Benda asked.

“He’ll be all right. It was good of you to come here to give him moral support. He needs all he can get.”

“Well, yeah,” she said, “but that wasn’t the only reason. I had to drive the car in—the old patrol car he bought off them. I told him he was crazy when he did that.”

“Wait a minute. What do you mean, you ‘had to’?”

“That was part of the deal he made with them so he
could keep his pension. Take the lie-detector test and let them go over the old patrol car for, you know, evidence.”

“He didn’t tell me about that.”

“He was probably ashamed. No kidding, Mr. Sloan, this really isn’t fair. I mean, all the years he put in for this lousy county, and this is what they give him. I’m telling you, his heart’s broke over this.”

“Do you know if he signed something giving them permission to go through the car?”

“Oh, sure, just like he did for this damn old lie test.”

It was probably too late to stop them, and maybe it was best I didn’t. If they went ahead, anything they tried to use as evidence should be relatively easy to keep out of court on the grounds that Dominic had been coerced. If it ever came to trial. Let well enough alone, Charley.

“I passed him out on the road when I was drivin’ in,” said Peg. “He was really draggin’. I pulled over and asked him, did he want to ride the rest of the way. But he said no. He’s really got a lotta faith in you, Mr. Sloan.”

I gave her a little lecture on the subject of the polygraph, stressing that it was notoriously unreliable and that its results couldn’t be used against him. She’d have to wait here, I told her, and the test would probably take about forty-five minutes to an hour. Peg took it all in without complaint or comment.

When Dominic reappeared, he looked a lot better, though he may have felt just as bad. Peg sent him on his way with a kiss on the cheek. Sergeant Makarides buzzed us in, and the two of us started on our way to Interrogation Room Three.

“How you holding up?” I asked Dominic.

“Not bad. Better.”

“Good man.”

I knocked on the door. It was opened by a man named Brunner, whom I’d met on a couple of occasions. He was the forensic psychologist usually employed by the Kerry County prosecutor’s office. A short, squat man in a badly rumpled suit, he seemed okay.

“Hello, Mr. Sloan. Is this Dominic Benda?”

“It is.”

“Come on in. I’ll acquaint both of you with the procedure.”

Leading the way, I looked around the room and took in the setup. It was about what I expected. There was an old reel-to-reel tape recorder and microphone on the table. The polygraph operator had tucked himself away behind his equipment in the far corner; he barely looked up at us, so intent was he on testing the movement of the stylus on the roll of graph paper in the machine. There were only three chairs in the room. I was about to call Brunner’s attention to that when Mark Evola burst into the room, followed by Sue Gillis. Pausing just long enough to throw me a dirty look, he went up to Dominic Benda and, fists on his hips, confronted him. He was one angry county prosecutor.

“I thought I told you that you wouldn’t need a lawyer for this.”

Dominic didn’t know quite what to say. I didn’t want him upset. I gave him a touch on the arm and a wink I meant to be reassuring.

“He’s entitled to have counsel present during every step of an investigation. Surely you know that, Mark.”

“But this is a test—it’s scientific! It’s not an interrogation. You can’t tell him what to answer, or not to answer. No Fifth Amendment.”

“I’m aware of that,” I said, “and I—”

“Gentlemen,” Brunner interrupted, “maybe I can help settle this. The truth is, I’d prefer to have Mr. Sloan present during the test as an observer. After the test has been administered, he will be free to register any and all objections he has to the test, either procedural or material. They will be duly noted in my report. Does that satisfy you both?”

“My objections”—up on my high horse—“are not to the polygraph test per se but to the method in which permission
to administer it was obtained from my client. He was coerced into this by the threat of—”

“Mr. Sloan,” said Brunner severely, “do you agree to remain as an observer?”

Taking a deep breath, I said I agreed.

“Are you satisfied, Mr. Evola?”

“I suppose so.”

Evola turned and stalked out of Interrogation Room Three, leaving Sue alone to glare at me. But it wasn’t to me she spoke.

“It might interest you to know, Dominic,” she said, “that Charley Sloan—”

“Please
, Detective Gillis,” Brunner interrupted for the third time, “if this test is to be administered fairly, then Mr. Benda must feel at ease. Unless what you wish to tell him is intended to promote that, I urge you to say nothing at all.”

She pursed her lips, looked from Brunner to me and back to Dominic, then she walked out the door, slamming it behind her. Clearly, for the time it took to administer the polygraph test, Interrogation Room Three was Brunner’s turf, and he was going to make damned sure we all knew that. Good style—you had to admire him for it.

“Now, Mr. Sloan, since you were not expected, we don’t have a chair for you. Would you mind getting one?”

“Gladly.”

In the empty office where I’d talked to Sam Evans the week before, I found just what I was looking for, a swivel chair, padded and upholstered sufficiently to fit my own soft frame. I wheeled it out of the office and across the hall. Once back in the room, I saw that the polygraph operator was busy pasting electrodes on Dominic’s skin. Shirt open, tie off, sleeves rolled up—this after all Dominic’s efforts to make himself presentable.

“Sit anywhere, just so long as you’re out of Mr. Benda’s line of vision.”

I chose a place behind them all that offered me a good view of the polygraph. The angle was perfect for me to
watch the action of the stylus on the graph paper as the questions were asked.