The Cochrans, the Auberdines, and the Myerses all stonewalled Natalie’s request for an interview. Brandon wasn’t reachable. Having hit a wall, frustrated and full of concern for her niece, Natalie decided to strategize with Luke about her next move and was on her way to his office when her phone buzzed. It was Lenny.
“Ethan Hathaway’s here for the polygraph,” he told her.
“Be right there.” She hung up.
Natalie had always relished the challenge of finding the bad guy, pinning him like a bug to a board and dissecting him. To shred him; to ruin and destroy him. In other words, justice. But now that she was looking into the possibility of children as homicide suspects, her mind swam with confusion. She found herself floating in a toxic sludge of self-doubt, her thoughts slowly twisting and untwisting. In the smoky play of light, a bundle of worries nagged at her. As a detective, you had to tease the truth out of good and bad information. Right now, Natalie had only incomplete information. She was pecking at facts littered with false leads.
Ethan Hathaway wore a tweed jacket and an uneasy smile. “I’m a little nervous,” he admitted as she led him down the hallway.
“Just answer the questions truthfully, to the best of your ability.”
The polygraph room was compact and windowless, with a table, two chairs, and the polygraph machine. Intimidating, for sure.
“Have a seat,” Natalie said. “Lenny will be joining us shortly.”
Ethan drummed his fingers on the table and glanced around. The lie-detector machine consisted of a suitcase-size box with wires sticking out, a blood-pressure cuff, finger electrodes, a motion-sensor pad, and several pneumograph tubes for measuring the subject’s breathing. The tubes would be attached to Hathaway’s chest with Velcro straps. The stark fluorescent lights emitted a faint background hum.
“Take off your jacket and roll up your shirtsleeves,” Natalie said.
He proceeded to remove his jacket, which he draped over the back of his chair.
“Roll them up past the elbows, please.”
He hesitated with his fingers on one of the shirt cuffs. She held her breath and waited with something akin to lust—a wild yearning to know. Despite her determination not to, Natalie always looked at the arms of any male suspect who fit the profile. As Hathaway slowly rolled up his shirtsleeves past the elbows, she had a good line of sight, but there weren’t any birthmarks on his inner forearms. She’d checked out a lot of exposed hairy arms in this town, looking for the bogeyman. It was an automatic response. A reflex action from a scarred psyche.
Ethan dropped his arms by his sides and surprised her by suddenly opening up. “You know, Detective Lockhart, I’ve been thinking about our conversation the other day, and I’d like to be completely honest with you. The first thing I thought of when I heard the news about Daisy was that Brandon had done it. I thought he may have found out about us. That was my initial impression.”
She crossed her arms. “Why do you say that?”
“Some of the things Daisy told me about him, about their marriage.”
“Such as?”
“He comes from wealth. He’s used to having his own way. He’s an imposing guy, a big guy. Whenever he drank, he became belligerent.”
“Was there physical abuse? Yelling? Hitting?”
“I have no direct knowledge of that, it’s just…”
“You have a suspicion based on what then?” she pressed.
“Like I said, it’s just an impression.”
Lenny came strolling into the room just then. “Ethan Hathaway?”
“Hello, sir.”
The two men shook hands.
“I’m Detective Labruzzo,” Lenny said, touching his laminated ID card, which he wore on a long chain around his neck. He sat down in a chair that squealed as it rolled across the depressing carpet. “I’m going to attach some stuff to you now. Lean forward, please.” It took several minutes for Lenny to hook up Hathaway to the polygraph and establish a baseline. The control questions were easy—What is your name?
After every question, Hathaway glanced away for a second. Eye direction. Eye flutter. Touching the face. Deep breathing. Shallow breathing. Everything was a tell. The eye glance could be from nerves. Or force of habit. Or it could mean he was lying. That was what the machine was for.
“Have you ever lied to anyone who trusted you?” Lenny asked.
“Probably,” Hathaway said.
“Have you ever stolen anything?”
“Pens and pencils.”
“Have you ever lied to anyone to keep from getting into trouble?”
“My mom.”
“Did you kill Daisy Buckner?”
“No,” he said, his chiseled face flushing with emotion. “Absolutely not.”
Lenny waited a beat, then put a pencil mark on the printout. “Where were you between four and six P.M. last Wednesday?”
“I spent the evening grading papers. What can I say? My life’s a thrill a minute.”
“Have you ever been inside the Buckner household?”
“For a Halloween party last year.”
“Did you go into the kitchen?”
“Probably.”
“Did you see a medium-size skillet hanging from the pot rack on the ceiling?”
“No.”
“Do you drink Coke?”
“I prefer bottled water.”
They were measuring for physiological distress. The tubes around his chest measured his breathing; the arm cuff monitored his heart rate; the electrodes attached to his fingers measured perspiration. Polygraphs weren’t a hundred percent reliable. A guilty man could game the machine by learning how to control his breathing and body movements, and by altering his reaction to the control questions. An innocent man might come across as nervous. But to law enforcement, the polygraph was another weapon in their arsenal. Sometimes they got a confession.
“Did you see anyone on Wednesday afternoon between four and six P.M.?” Lenny asked.
“No,” Ethan said. “I was home alone. All evening.”
“Did you order a pizza? Make a phone call? Talk to the neighbors?”
“No.”
“When was the last time you spoke to Daisy Buckner?”
Ethan hesitated for a second. “At school, two weeks ago. We found ourselves alone in the faculty room. It was a little awkward. I asked her how she was doing. She said she’d found peace.”
“Peace?”
“Yes, that’s right. I told her I was happy for her. She got up and left.”
Natalie was watching him closely. “What did she mean by ‘peace’?” she asked.
Ethan steepled his fingers together. “I took it to mean that she’d found peace in her marriage. That she’d made the right decision. But…”
“But what?” Natalie asked.
He shook his head. “I didn’t press the issue. That’s the last time we spoke.”
Natalie had gone off script. She nodded at Lenny to proceed.
“Would you describe your relationship with the deceased as emotionally fraught?” Lenny asked, reading from the list of questions.
“No,” Ethan answered. “During the times we were together, we were just like any other couple. We had our disagreements, but we were passionately in love.”
Lenny marked the printout with his pencil. “Did you ever hit Daisy Buckner?”
“No. Never.”
“Have you ever used physical violence against anyone?”
Ethan stroked the nape of his neck. “No.”
“Ever struck anyone?”
“Not since I was a kid.”
“What happened when you were a kid?”
“I got into a few tussles with boys at school. Normal stuff.”
“Anything since? High school? College?”
“No.”
“Have you ever been arrested?”
“No.”
“Did you have anything to do with the murder of Daisy Buckner?”
A shadow crossed Ethan’s face. Pain silenced his eyes. “I already told you, no.”
“Did you ever fantasize about killing her?”
“What?”
“Did you ever fantasize about killing Daisy Buckner?”
“Hold on.”
Tension surrounded them.
“Ethan?” Natalie said. “Is there a problem?”
He met her concerned gaze. “I didn’t sign up for this.”
“What’s that?”
“I was willing to come down here and take a polygraph test, because I sincerely hoped it would help with the investigation, but I didn’t realize you were going to probe my subconscious.” He tugged the electrodes off his fingers. He ripped off the arm cuff. He tore off the pneumograph tubes around his chest and rolled down his shirtsleeves.
“Ethan, calm down…”
“Fantasize?”
“These are standard questions…”
“Did I ever fantasize about killing her? No, Detective Lockhart. I’m sorry I trusted you. Now I realize I probably should’ve hired an attorney.” He put on his jacket. “Did you polygraph Brandon yet? Did you ask him if he ever fantasized about killing his wife? No? I didn’t think so. You police protect your own.” He walked out of the room.
Lenny glanced at Natalie and shrugged. “That struck a nerve,” he said.
“I wouldn’t answer it, either,” she admitted.
Together, they leaned over the graph paper and studied the responses.
“What do you think?” she asked.
“I’ll need more time to extrapolate, but I’d say the results were inconclusive.”
“How’s that?”
“He was nervous all the way through. Even with the control questions. Sometimes their emotions get the better of them, and they generate a lot of false positives. They get jittery, whether or not they’re guilty. It’s a type of performance anxiety.” Lenny circled the results with his pencil. “I want to go over the results more thoroughly before making an official determination. I’ll let you know tomorrow.”
“Thanks.” She left the room.