doctor said. Lash did so, waiting stoically while at least half a pint of blood was drawn. At last, he felt the tension of the rubber release. The doctor slipped out the needle and applied a small bandage in one smooth motion. Then he helped Lash into a sitting position. “How do you feel?”
“I’m okay.”
“Very well. You may proceed to the next room.”
“But my clothes—”
“They’ll be waiting here for you at the close of the interview.”
Lash blinked, digesting this a moment. And then he turned away, toward the central cubicle.
Vogel was there, once again scribbling something on his digital device. He looked up as Lash emerged from the examination room. The normally unflappable face now held an expression Lash couldn’t quite read.
“Dr. Lash,” Vogel said as he slipped the device back into his lab coat. “This way, if you please.” But Lash needed little guidance: there was only one door in the suite that had not yet been opened, and he could guess where the final interview would take place.
When he turned toward it, he found the door already ajar. And the room beyond was unlike any of the others he had seen that day.
THIRTEEN
L ash hesitated in the doorway. Ahead lay a room almost as small as the others, simply furnished: a chair in the center with unusually long armrests; a metal cabinet beside it; a table with a laptop near the rear wall. But Lash’s attention was drawn immediately to the leads that snaked away from the chair to the laptop. He’d sat in on enough interrogations to recognize the setup as a lie detector.
A man was seated behind the table, reading from a folder. Seeing Lash, he stood and came around the table. He was tall and cadaverously thin, his head covered with iron-gray hair, closely cropped. “Thank you, Robert,” the man said to the hovering Vogel. Then he closed the door and wordlessly motioned Lash toward the center chair.
Lash complied, feeling disbelief as the man attached clips to his fingertips, fitted a blood pressure cuff to his wrist.
The man moved out of Lash’s vision for a moment. When he returned, he was holding a red cap in one hand. A long, rainbow-hued ribbon cable was affixed to one side. Dozens of clear plastic discs, each about the size of a dime, had been sewn into the cloth.
Two dozen, to be exact
, Lash thought grimly. He recognized it as a “red cap,” adult headgear for the Quantitative EEG test, or QEEG, which monitored the frequencies of brain activity. It was usually used for neurological disorders, dissociation, head trauma, and so forth.
This was not like any psych interview he had ever heard of.
The man injected conducting gel into each of the twenty-four electrodes, attached the cap to Lash’s head, and fitted ground leads to each of his ears. Then he returned to the table and attached the ribbon cable to the laptop. Lash watched, the cap on his head feeling uncomfortably snug.
The man sat down and began typing. He peered at the screen, typed again. He had not shaken Lash’s hand or acknowledged him in any way.
Lash waited, numb, feeling exposed and undignified in his hospital gown. He knew from experience that, at heart, psych evaluations were often battles of wit between shrink and patient. One was trying to learn things that, many times, the other did not want to have known. Perhaps this was just some unique form of that game. He remained silent, waiting, trying to clear the fatigue from his head.
The man shifted his gaze from the laptop to the folder on his desk. Then, at long last, he lifted his head and looked Lash directly in the eyes.
“Dr. Lash,” he said. “I’m Dr. Alicto, your senior evaluator.”
Lash remained silent.
“As senior evaluator, I’m privy to a little more background information than Mr. Vogel. Information, for example, that would indicate your prior job no doubt familiarized you with a lie detector test.”
Lash nodded.
“In that case we’ll dispense with the usual business of
“I’m okay.”
“Very well. You may proceed to the next room.”
“But my clothes—”
“They’ll be waiting here for you at the close of the interview.”
Lash blinked, digesting this a moment. And then he turned away, toward the central cubicle.
Vogel was there, once again scribbling something on his digital device. He looked up as Lash emerged from the examination room. The normally unflappable face now held an expression Lash couldn’t quite read.
“Dr. Lash,” Vogel said as he slipped the device back into his lab coat. “This way, if you please.” But Lash needed little guidance: there was only one door in the suite that had not yet been opened, and he could guess where the final interview would take place.
When he turned toward it, he found the door already ajar. And the room beyond was unlike any of the others he had seen that day.
THIRTEEN
L ash hesitated in the doorway. Ahead lay a room almost as small as the others, simply furnished: a chair in the center with unusually long armrests; a metal cabinet beside it; a table with a laptop near the rear wall. But Lash’s attention was drawn immediately to the leads that snaked away from the chair to the laptop. He’d sat in on enough interrogations to recognize the setup as a lie detector.
A man was seated behind the table, reading from a folder. Seeing Lash, he stood and came around the table. He was tall and cadaverously thin, his head covered with iron-gray hair, closely cropped. “Thank you, Robert,” the man said to the hovering Vogel. Then he closed the door and wordlessly motioned Lash toward the center chair.
Lash complied, feeling disbelief as the man attached clips to his fingertips, fitted a blood pressure cuff to his wrist.
The man moved out of Lash’s vision for a moment. When he returned, he was holding a red cap in one hand. A long, rainbow-hued ribbon cable was affixed to one side. Dozens of clear plastic discs, each about the size of a dime, had been sewn into the cloth.
Two dozen, to be exact
, Lash thought grimly. He recognized it as a “red cap,” adult headgear for the Quantitative EEG test, or QEEG, which monitored the frequencies of brain activity. It was usually used for neurological disorders, dissociation, head trauma, and so forth.
This was not like any psych interview he had ever heard of.
The man injected conducting gel into each of the twenty-four electrodes, attached the cap to Lash’s head, and fitted ground leads to each of his ears. Then he returned to the table and attached the ribbon cable to the laptop. Lash watched, the cap on his head feeling uncomfortably snug.
The man sat down and began typing. He peered at the screen, typed again. He had not shaken Lash’s hand or acknowledged him in any way.
Lash waited, numb, feeling exposed and undignified in his hospital gown. He knew from experience that, at heart, psych evaluations were often battles of wit between shrink and patient. One was trying to learn things that, many times, the other did not want to have known. Perhaps this was just some unique form of that game. He remained silent, waiting, trying to clear the fatigue from his head.
The man shifted his gaze from the laptop to the folder on his desk. Then, at long last, he lifted his head and looked Lash directly in the eyes.
“Dr. Lash,” he said. “I’m Dr. Alicto, your senior evaluator.”
Lash remained silent.
“As senior evaluator, I’m privy to a little more background information than Mr. Vogel. Information, for example, that would indicate your prior job no doubt familiarized you with a lie detector test.”
Lash nodded.
“In that case we’ll dispense with the usual business of
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