Your palms are sweating, but, perversely, your mouth is dry. You walk to the bathroom and pick up a paper cup from the shelf under the metal mirror which is bolted to the wall. You fill the cup with cold water and drink half of it slowly, and then carry it back into the main room. You stand at the end of the bed, looking at her, side on. She has a good figure, no indication that she's a mother of young children. A word comes to mind suddenly: ripe. The woman is ripe for picking, like a fruit that is ready to drop from the tree. You lick your lips. ‘Take off your blouse, Sarah,’ you say quietly. She starts to tremble and at first you think she's going to resist but then her hands flutter up to the top button of her shirt. One by one she undoes the buttons and then her hands fall to her side as if reluctant to do her bidding.
‘Take the shirt off,’ you say. She closes her eyes and takes a deep breath, then shrugs the shirt off her shoulders and removes her arms from the sleeves. She half turns and puts the shirt on the bed, careful not to catch your eye. Her hands return to their original position, linked at her waist. You move to stand in front of her. Her breasts are rising and falling as she breathes, and you can see beads of sweat gathering in her cleavage. Her bra is white and lacy with a small metal clasp at the front. It seems a fraction too small. Perhaps she buys them that way deliberately, knowing that it has the effect of pushing her breasts together, making them look larger and firmer. Her skin is milky white and unmarked, no scars or discolorations, as if she'd spent a lot of money on expensive oils and soaps and kept out of the sun. You savour the moment, and fight back the urge to rush things. You rushed the first few, but you've learned from your mistakes. For the power to be truly appreciated, it has to be extended. Prolonged.
‘Sarah,’ you say, ‘I want you to take off your bra.’
She swallows nervously. You know what she's thinking. She thinks she's smart, she thinks that if she can only talk to you that she'll be able to persuade you to let her go. She's used to dealing with her children, using the force of her intellect to keep them in order, and she's used to getting her own way with a husband who probably worships her. All her life she's been able to get what she wants by smiling cutely and using the right words and she thinks that you'll be just as much of a pushover, if only she could find the right thing to say. But she remembers the stun gun, she knows that as soon as she starts to speak you'll hurt her again, and she doesn't want the pain. Her hands begin to shake. She wants to risk it, she wants to try and talk you out of it because she can see where things are heading. Taking off her shirt is one thing, it's something she might do in a changing room or in front of her family. The bra is something else. It represents a barrier she doesn't want to cross.
‘The bra, Sarah. I won't ask again.’
Her lips part and you think that she's actually going to speak, but then they close tight. Her hands move slowly up and reach for the clasp but she resists actually opening it. She needs a nudge. ‘Sarah, you want to see your children again, don't you?’
You hear the click of the clasp parting and the bra opens like a flower sensing the sun. You watch as the lace pulls away from the white flesh of her breasts, almost as if the material had been stuck to the skin. The breasts move outwards and downwards as they are freed from their confinement, but as she slips off the bra you can see that they still do their best to defy gravity, standing proud and full, the nipples small and erect. She throws the bra on the bed and crosses her arms across her chest, trying to hide her nakedness. You chuckle. ‘Drop your hands,’ you say. She does as she's told. She begins to cry, small, animal snuffling noises, and tears run down her cheeks. Crying is a defensive response, you know. Either consciously or subconsciously she hopes that by appearing weak and defenceless you'll leave her alone, like a submissive dog lying flat on its back, its tail between its legs and its throat exposed. I'm weak, she's saying, I can't hurt you so leave me alone. She doesn't realise that it's her defenselessness that you find so attractive, so stimulating. You relish her tears. You leave her standing, her head bowed as tear drops plop onto the tiled floor, as you go back into the bathroom, crumple the paper cup and toss it into a waste paper bin.
Her tears are still falling when you go back, but she has kept her hands at her side, like a soldier on parade. You stand in front of her and gently take her breasts in your hands, sighing at their softness. You caress her nipples with your thumbs, wanting to pinch and hurt but fighting the urge, knowing that pain will come later. First must come control. Total obedience.
‘Please,’ she whimpers. ‘Please let me go.’
You take a sudden, sharp breath and she flinches. ‘I'll pretend I didn't hear that, Sarah,’ you say. ‘But if you speak to me again I'll chain you to the bed again and beat you to within an inch of your life. Now, kneel down.’
She swallows and more tears come, but she does as she's told. You look down on the top of her head, her hair blonde right down to the roots. Soft, shiny hair. You reach down and touch it, running the strands through your fingers. You'd like to pull and twist and hear her scream, and you find your breath coming faster so you fight against it. The top of her head is level with your waist and you know without looking that her eyes are closed. You run your hand down her left cheek and under her chin, lifting her head so that her hair falls back over her shoulders. The tears make her look less attractive but they increase her vulnerability and to you that's just as much of a turn-on. Maybe even more so.
‘Pull down my zipper,’ you tell her, and her face crumples like a little girl who's just been told that her puppy has died. Her hands stay down by her side so you repeat the instruction, tightening your grip on her chin as you speak to give her a taste of what will happen unless she obeys. Her fumbling hands are unsure where to go and they bang against your trousers and then she finds the metal tab and pulls it down with the sound of material tearing. ‘Good, that's good,’ you say soothingly, and then you explain what it is you want her to do to you, how she is to use her mouth and her tongue and that she is to keep her eyes open at all times.
* * *
Turner and Marcinko aren't going to go away, of that I'm sure. The lie detector test worries me, but not overmuch. It's only a machine, and machines are fallible. And the results won't be admissible in court. It isn't a problem. But Turner and Marcinko, now they are a problem. I'm going to have to protect myself.
The only information on their IDs was their name, rank and the precinct where they're based, but it's a start. I sit down in the armchair and slide a new sheet of paper into the typewriter. I write four letters, all of them to the Commissioner of Motor Vehicles for the State of New York at Empire State Plaza in Albany. They hold all the drivers licence and vehicle registrations records for the state, and for a few dollars they'll run checks on any resident. They prefer to know the name and date of birth of the person you're checking up on, but if all you've got is a name they'll do an alphabetical search so long as you enclose a big enough check. I phone first to find out the cost of each search.
I write one letter to the Drivers Licence Department asking for an alpha search for the driving record of Ed Turner, enclosing a check for the normal amount plus an additional check in case there are more than one Ed Turner resident in the state. I write a similar letter asking for the driving record of Lisa Marcinko.
The other two letters are addressed to the Motor Vehicles Registration Department at the same address, this time asking for details of any motor vehicles they own and including more checks.
I seal the envelopes and sit looking at them for a while. They don't know who they're messing with, Turner and Marcinko. But they're going to find out soon enough.
* * *
She scampers off the bed as soon as you open the door and by the time you close it behind you she's standing, head bowed, her hands linked at waist level. The position of obedience, like a subservient shop assistant welcoming a wealthy customer.
You place the white carrier bag on the bed. ‘There are some new clothes, I want you to wea
r them later,’ you tell her. ‘All of them, the underwear, the stockings, the hair ribbon, everything.’ She nods but doesn't speak. Her hair is still damp as if she isn't long out of the shower. On the floor by the bed is a paper plate with the remains of the breakfast you brought in two hours earlier. A croissant and a banana. You walk into the bathroom and check that everything is as it should be. You know there's nothing in there that can be used as a weapon, but it's better to be sure. Everything is as it should be.
When you go back into the room she's rubbing her hands together. ‘Can I speak?’ she says.
You stand in front of her as if considering her request. After a while you reach out and caress her cheek. ‘You did well yesterday,’ you tell her. ‘As a reward, you can. But only this once.’
She sniffs and shudders as if a cold draught has blown across her back. ‘Why are you doing this?’ she asks.
You smile benignly. ‘Because I want to,’ you say. ‘Because I can.’
‘Please let me go,’ she says.
‘Eventually I will,’ you lie.
‘You will?’ she says, hesitantly, as if frightened that you'll change your mind.
‘Of course,’ you lie.
She swallows heavily. ‘Can I call my family?’
You laugh out loud, the sound echoing around the room like a pistol shot. ‘No, Sarah, I can't trust you to do that.’
‘They'll be worried about me,’ she says. ‘They'll be looking for me.’
The implied threat is laughable. She still hasn't given up hope. She still thinks she can manipulate you with her soft mouth, that she can find the right words to push you into doing her will. You want to laugh in her face and see the pain, but you don't. ‘I tell you what I'll do,’ you say, speaking softly. ‘I'll call them and tell them you're all right. That you'll be back with them soon.’
She looks up quickly, the hope in her eyes burning like a beacon. You keep your face severe, fighting against the urge to grin. ‘You will?’ she asks. ‘You'll call them?’
‘Of course,’ you lie. ‘But first, you must do something for me. Okay?’ She nods eagerly, then a cloud passes over her face as she realises what you mean. As tears fill her eyes she begins to unbutton her shirt with trembling fingers.
* * *
The guy who they've brought in to operate the polygraph is Oriental, Korean, or maybe Japanese. He gives me a small nod as I enter the room behind Turner and Marcinko. I recognise the model. It's an Ambassador Halliburton from the Lafayette Instrument Company. It's a good polygraph, but it's only a machine and it doesn't worry me.
‘We really appreciate you coming in, Marvin,’ says Marcinko, laying it on with a trowel.
‘Hey, I just want to get you guys off my back,’ I say. ‘If this is what it takes, let's do it.’ Maybe I'm being too casual because she looks at me strangely, like I'm wearing my shirt back to front.
‘Have you been through a polygraph test before?’ she asks.
I wink. ‘Maybe you should wait until I'm plugged in before you ask me any questions.’ I sit down at the table while the Oriental fusses with his equipment. ‘How's the investigation going?’ I ask.
Turner pushes his spectacles up his nose with his forefinger. ‘It's going just fine, Waller.’ He looks over at the Oriental. ‘You ready, Doc?’
The Oriental nods and begins attaching sensors to me: a sphygmomanometer to measure blood pressure and heart rate, electrodes to my thumb and second finger for the galvanic skin response monitor, and a strap across my chest to measure my breathing. It's the GSR that tends to be the hardest to fool because it effectively tracks the involuntary nervous system. It measures the conductivity of the skin, the more I sweat, the lower my skin resistance will be, and, in theory at least, the more I lie the more I'll sweat. Sweating isn't something I can control, mentally anyway. But before I left the apartment I sprayed both my hands with Arid Extra-Dry anti-perspirant, the non-scented variety, so no matter how stressed out I get, my hands aren't going to sweat and there'll be no deviation from the base line. It's not an infallible way of beating the machine, but it's better than nothing.
As he works, the Oriental tells me how long he's been using the equipment, how accurate it is, how it's impossible to fool, that he's done work for the FBI and the State Department and several Fortune 500 companies. I nod, wide-eyed. It's part of the process, making me believe that the machine is infallible so that if I do lie, it'll be all the more stressful. See, that's one of the myths of the polygraph. It can't tell the difference between truth and a falsehood, all it does is measure physiological signs. What it actually measures is guilt. If I give off the same physiological signs when I'm lying as when I'm telling the truth, the machine can't tell the difference. Without guilt, the machine is useless.
I smile at Marcinko, waiting for the questions. She isn't wearing as much mascara today, and she's toned down her lipstick. She still looks pretty, though. Far too pretty to be a cop.
‘You know, Marvin, if there's anything you want to tell us, now's the time to get it off your chest,’ she says.
I shake my head, slowly. ‘I've done nothing wrong, Lisa.’
She nods at the equipment. ‘Just remember that this makes it all more official, that's all. If you want us to help you, you've got to help us. And now's the time to do it.’
She's so transparent. The polygraph is just a machine, but it carries a mystique, a mystique that means a lot of people are afraid of it. The cops play on that, they start asking questions even before the machine is switched on, trying to get a confession based on the fear alone. It works, too. If someone is lying, and if they believe that the machine is going to find them out, then it makes sense to tell the truth right away. It's similar to the old cop ploy ‘we know everything anyway but we need you to clear up a few loose ends.’ Yeah, well cop tricks don't work on me, and I'm pretty sure that their machine won't work either. Marcinko wanted to know if I'd been through a polygraph test before. Yeah. And some. In fact, I used to own one, used to play with it a lot. For research. I was working on a screenplay about a serial killer who preys on actresses, and I wanted to know how someone could beat a polygraph. They only cost a few thousand dollars so I bought one and spent hours on it. Polygraphs don't scare me, and that's half the battle.
The Oriental finishes fiddling with his wires and he nods at Turner, letting him know that we're ready to start. Marcinko has a notebook in front of her, and she's holding a fountain pen. By the look of it she's got her questions written down, so that she can keep up a steady rhythm. It's important that I'm not given too much time to think. ‘Okay, Marvin, I think we're ready now.’
The first questions are to establish the base lines, general questions to which they know the answers. What's my name? How old am I? Where do I live? What colour are my eyes? Where did I go to school? The base lines are crucial for the accuracy of the machine. The operator has to set the polygraph based on the reaction to the test questions, so if you screw them up, you screw up everything that follows. I let my face relax but tense my feet, curling my toes tight. I've put a small tack in each of my shoes, between my toes, and when I crunch them up they bite into the flesh, hurting. I answer the questions authoritatively, calmly, but the pain in my feet means that the Oriental accepts the stress as normal and sets the base lines accordingly. These people, they're so stupid.
‘Okay, Mr Waller, you're doing just fine,’ says the Oriental from behind me. He stays out of my vision because that's supposed to increase my stress level.
I turn and smile at him. ‘I'm a bit nervous,’ I say, playing the small boy, making him feel in control because the more cocky he gets, the more likely he is to be misled. The machine is only as good as its operator, and people are even easier to fool than machines.
‘Everyone gets nervous,’ he says. ‘Don't worry about it.’
‘Okay,’ I say, settling down in the chair and looking at Marcinko as I grind the tacks between my toes.
‘Now, I'm going to ask you to
describe an event in your past which you feel guilty about,’ he says. ‘Can you do that for me?’
‘Sure,’ I say. ‘Go ahead.’
I pause, like I'm confused. ‘What sort of thing?’ I ask.
‘It can be anything. Say, if you stole something.’
I look at Marcinko. ‘Yeah, but what if it's something illegal?’
She smiles. ‘Have you done something illegal, Marvin?’
‘Is this part of the test?’
‘No, it's not part of the test,’ says the Oriental, clearly irritated. ‘Mr Waller, anything will do. Something from your childhood, maybe.’
‘Okay,’ I say. ‘Okay. There was this time when I was at school, I made this kid give me his bike.’ It's not true, it's something I made up the night before, but it's important that the machine registers guilt so I grind the tacks really hard, and I contract the muscles in my backside and my diaphragm, actions which I know from experience will send my blood pressure up. ‘He was smaller than me, I was fifteen and he was about twelve. I pushed him off and took the bike. He hit his head on the ground. He was bleeding, but I rode off and left him there.’
‘And you feel bad about that?’
I contract my muscles again, then take a deep breath and hold it for a second before answering. Another guilt response, so that the operator thinks he knows what the lines look like when I lie. ‘Yeah. Even today. He was hurt bad, but all I wanted was the bike.’
Marcinko looks at the operator and obviously gets the signal that she's to go ahead. She looks down at her questions. I wait expectantly, relaxing my feet, breathing slowly and evenly. She looks up.
‘You're name is Marvin Waller?’ More control questions. ‘Yes.’
‘You're a writer?’
‘Yes.’
‘Have you ever had anything published?’
The Basement Page 7