Split (17 page)

Sergeant Rothstein of the RCMP Polygraph Division stood in the doorway and quietly eyed Evan Rose up and down. The subject was sitting in the waiting room, flanked by officers, busily filling in the paperwork Rothstein had given him. His lips moved noticeably as he read.

Steroid user?
Rothstein wondered, noting his overdeveloped muscles.

Evan wore dirty jeans that strained to fit around his bulging quadriceps. His boots were slightly muddy, his T-shirt rolled up at the sleeves to show off tattooed biceps, and a flannel lumberjack shirt was tied around his waist.
A real bruiser.
He’d been told the guy worked as a bartender at the Blue Fox.

Rothstein had him fill out some standard medical forms to ensure that he was physically capable of being tested and could produce adequate physiological tracings for recording. He certainly looked fit enough, but there was always the concern of drug taking
before the test. Hopefully he was clean, otherwise they’d have to postpone.

Having completed the medical forms, Evan signed the consent form for the polygraph, stood up and said, “Alright, let’s get on with it.”

Rothstein smiled. He was eager.

He led him into the office and closed the door behind them, leaving the officers in the waiting room with their arms crossed.

Evan was a big boy. Pretty tall and very beefy. But his cocky attitude seemed to deflate a notch once Rothstein had him alone. He was confronted with a carefully assembled scene—a thick folder marked “Evan Rose”, a recent photograph of Susan Walker, and another of Petra Wallace spread out on the desk, and of course the polygraph instrument, with all its wires and tubes.

“Please sit down,” Rothstein said, and Rose sat, his eye on the photographs.

Rothstein always made sure he had recent photographs of the victims in cases like these. The killer may not have known the girls’ names when he attacked them, so it was conceivable that the name would mean little to him unless he could associate it with a face. This way there could be no mistaking who the girls were.

Rothstein got his attention by leaning forward and slapping his open hand on the desk. “My job here today is to find out whether or not you are the person
who did this,” he began. “I want you to know that I presume that all examinees who come here for a polygraph examination are innocent and thus truthful regarding the issue for which they are being polygraphed. And I maintain that presumption of your innocence throughout the entire examination until all of the polygraph charts have been collected, analysed and scored for a determination of truth or deception.”

Evan nodded, somewhat nervously. His wide-eyed gaze rested on the thick folder bearing his name, then shifted to the pneumo tubes. In eleven years as an examiner, Rothstein was well used to this slightly awed response, and the truth was, he was guilty of playing it up a bit from time to time. The subject wouldn’t know this, but the folder was topped up with blank sheets. The subject would feel like it wasn’t worth trying to lie, because they already had everything on him.

“First off, I will explain in basic terms how a polygraph works, so that you understand fully what we are doing today. A polygraph is simply an instrument that records changes in the physiological activity that is driven by your autonomic nervous system.”

Evan seemed dumbstruck.

“Autonomic means automatic or involuntary, so it deals with those aspects of the body that cannot be controlled,” Rothstein went on. “There are two branches to your autonomic nervous system. The first
one deals with growth and development whilst the second one is an emergency response system. These two parts operate in opposition to one another, which means that only one system, usually the part that has to do with growth, is in control at any one time.”

He watched Evan’s expression. He seemed to be following fine.

“The emergency system becomes dominant only when there is some threat to an individual and he or she becomes fearful. For example: if you are walking down the street and someone suddenly approaches you and produces a knife, you will become afraid. That message will go to the brain and the brain in turn will send a message back to the autonomic nervous system to put the emergency system into control. When that happens a series of physiological changes takes place that helps you cope with that situation.”

Evan crossed his arms. He was becoming defensive, or perhaps a bit bored of the lecture. Still it was necessary, and Rothstein continued.

“Your heart contracts more quickly which sends more blood throughout your body to provide it with nourishment so it can function more effectively. Your liver secretes sugar giving you more energy and the pupils of your eyes dilate so you can see better. The palms of your hands will also perspire so that you can grasp things more effectively.” He raised his palms to make the point. “Just as a baseball player spits on his
hands to get a better grip on a baseball bat. These and other changes occur allowing you to run faster, hit harder or lift more so that you can get out of that dangerous situation.”

Evan swung his foot up to rest on the opposite knee. He was definitely impatient now. “Are we going to get on with this thing, or do I have to sit through a whole Grade Three class on biology here?”

Rothstein leaned forward. “Listen carefully, Evan. I want you to understand exactly how this works.” Evan unfolded his arms, and Sergeant Rothstein went on. “The polygraph test measures a similar response. If you tell the truth you will function at your normal level. If you come to a question to which you are going to lie
you will become afraid of being caught in that lie
.” He emphasised that point, looking Evan straight in the eye as he said it. “As soon as you become afraid your body automatically shifts into the emergency system.
There is no way that you can stop it.
All of these changes will take place and I will be able to see them on the polygraph chart.”

Evan squinted.

“Any questions?”

“But what if someone is…nervous?”

“Don’t worry. The state of being nervous as a result of your anxiety about taking this test is constant throughout the test, whether you are very nervous, nervous or just mildly nervous. I expect that all people who undergo a polygraph test will be nervous, but that
will not affect the accuracy of the test. Your pulse rate is usually around 70-80 beats per minute depending on your age and state of health but now may be around 90-100. That is the baseline that we will be functioning from. If you’re telling the truth you’ll stay at that level, but if you lie to a question your pulse will probably jump up to 120. Do you follow?”

Evan grunted affirmative.

“The test that will be used today is called a Zone Comparison Test. Are you ready for me to conduct the test?”

“Yeah, let’s get on with it.” The bravado was back.

Sergeant Rothstein got up from his seat behind the desk and placed the pneumo tubes around Evan’s upper chest and lower diaphragm to measure his breath, explaining their function as he went. “Just breathe normally throughout the test. I will detect if you try to hold your breath, or anything unusual like that. This clamp goes on your fingertip to measure the tiniest changes in your perspiration.” Finally he pulled out the arm cuff of the sphygmomanometer aneroid gauge. “This goes around your arm to register any cardiovascular changes.”

“It looks like a blood pressure thing,” Evan commented.

Rothstein sat back at the desk and looked over the polygraph instrument. “Please sit perfectly still during the test: no finger movements, facial movements, moving your feet. Even if you are nervous, avoid clearing your
throat, licking your lips and so on. Each test is only a few minutes long, so just stay still. Simply answer yes or no to each question, not, ‘No, I didn’t’, or anything like that, and please wait until the entire question has been asked before answering.” Evan swallowed nervously.

“Try not to swallow, please,” Rothstein said. “Okay, we will do eight tests today, four with regards to Susan Walker and four with regards to Petra Wallace. We will now begin the first test. Are you ready?”

“Yes.”

“Good. Is your first name Evan?”

“Yes.”

“Do you live in BC?”

“Yes.”

“Regarding any involvement you had with Susan Walker or Petra Wallace, do you intend to answer truthfully to each question about that?”

“Yes, I do.”

“Just answer yes or no to each question, okay?”

“Yes.”

“Regarding any involvement you had with Susan Walker,
do you intend to answer truthfully to each question about that
?”

“Yes.”

“Did you shoot Susan Walker…?”

Andy Flynn waited for Mak in the lobby of the Renaissance Hotel, mulling over Evan Rose’s recent departure from the suspect list.

Damn.

Evan had wanted to be polygraph tested—no, he had
insisted
he be polygraphed. And the bastard had passed.

He recalled Rothstein’s words, “Look, for all I know this guy could have knocked off twenty banks this month, but in my professional opinion, with regards to Susan Walker and Petra Wallace, he never laid a hand on them. He’s not your man.”

Evan had passed with flying colours. That meant the killer was still at large, and the case was far from being solved. And the students at UBC—including Makedde—could still be at risk. In spite of his mentor’s warnings, Andy felt compelled to say something to her about it. He had to inform her of the danger.

They never really had any hard evidence on Evan Rose, but Bob was right, he had fit the profile and they had to check him out. That he was the brother of an RCMP officer working the murder case only complicated things. It was undoubtedly causing waves within the ranks already, and those who liked the Rose brothers could well become ambivalent towards the outside help that had been brought into their jurisdiction. In any case, Dr Harris and Andy were supposed to be heading back to Quantico in less than a
week. The trouble was, Andy wanted to be sure that the killer was in custody before he left. He wanted to know that he wasn’t leaving Mak in any possible danger. At this rate, it seemed unlikely.

Now he was meeting her for dinner and he had to decide how much he should tell her.

True to form, he chose to sit and wait at a spot farthest from the front desk, with his back to the wall and a thin veil of plastic ferns surrounding him. It was a good, protected position which afforded him views of the entire lobby. He remembered Makedde calling this spot in any given room the “Clint Chair”—as in
Dirty Harry
’s Clint Eastwood.

It was shortly after eight when she walked in.

His breath caught in his throat.

Oh, boy.

He couldn’t have missed her. She was wearing a figure-hugging black dress and heels. She had a black coat slung over one arm and a small glittery purse in her hand. Understated elegance. With her looks she didn’t need to play it up.

Damn she looks good.

Andy found himself looking down at his own clothes to check out what he was wearing. Black dress pants and charcoal-coloured dress shirt. No tie. That was still okay. At least he wasn’t wearing a T-shirt. He didn’t know she would be dressed so…well.

“Hi, Andy,” she said as she approached. She moved like a seasoned catwalker, but somehow didn’t seem
conscious of the fact that other people didn’t walk that way. Did she have any idea how devastating she looked?

“Good evening,” he replied. “You look lovely.”

“Thanks,” she said, and then all that model composure fell away. She shook her head and put a hand over her face. “That was really embarrassing the other night.”

“Forget about it. I could drink you under the table any day,” he said.

She offered a laugh that didn’t seem all that relaxed. “So, shall we?”

“Where are we going?” he asked. They had agreed on dinner, but she hadn’t told him where.

“I’m taking you to Tojo’s. It is
the
sushi joint in Vancouver. I was just thinking the other day that it had been way too long since I’ve been there. You like sushi, don’t you?”

Damn.
Mak and her adventurous taste in food. Andy’s chopstick mastery was not up to scratch, to say the least. He still ordered a knife and fork in his favourite Thai restaurant back home, and he vaguely remembered making an ass of himself in front of Mak while grappling with something called Saang Choi Bao at a restaurant back in Sydney. That was a year ago. His skills had not improved since.

“I haven’t had sushi for a while…” he said.

“Good. You’ll enjoy it then. It’s just over on West Broadway. Not too far.”

Oh, great.

The restaurant was on the second floor, and they took the stairs. She walked just ahead of him, and Andy did his best not to gawk at the movement of her rounded hips.

When they walked into Tojo’s a few heads turned. Mostly to admire Makedde, Andy guessed. Some part of his ego puffed up, until he reminded himself of how “over him” she had seemed just the other day. She was probably only being polite by agreeing to go out with him at all. But then again, she had worn that dress…

They passed a busy sushi bar as they were taken to their seats. Japanese men with nimble fingers worked swiftly to create small delicacies with rice and seaweed. He recognised the raw tuna and salmon, but had a little difficulty identifying some items with tentacles and strange skin. The glass case was topped with the biggest wooden sushi boat he had ever seen, and it contained colourful morsels that hardly looked edible. He wondered if he would be able to tackle the dishes they ordered without making a fool of himself.

Right on cue, Mak waved to a moustached man working behind the bar. He had a round, friendly face. “Hey, Tojo,” she said, and his face lit up.

He stopped and clasped his hands in front of him. “Good to see you, Mak. It’s been a while. Enjoy.”

The lighting was low and the restaurant was bustling with customers. Andy imagined it might be difficult to
get a booking. He noticed a number of autographed actors’ portraits and shots of famous bands framed on the walls in amongst the more traditional décor.