Authors: Leslie Dana Kirby
The Perfect Game (6 page)
(Monday, August 15)
The polygraph was administered in an austere office at the Scottsdale Police Station. Aside from a table, two chairs, and the polygraph equipment, the room was empty. It was lit by overhead fluorescent bulbs.
Before he hooked up the equipment, the polygraph examiner explained the procedure and asked if Lauren had any questions.
“No questions, just a concern. I studied the polygraph for a college paper. And based on what I remember, I don't have the utmost confidence in these things.”
The examiner was bland-looking. Nondescript brown hair, brown eyes, horn-rimmed glasses. He responded, “Given that you're a physician, I would think you could appreciate this physiological approach to the detection of deception.”
“I understand the polygraph measures objective measures like pulse rate, muscular tension, and skin conductivity,” Lauren said. “And all of those things are reliable measures of anxiety which could result from lying. However, that anxiety could also result from being suspected of a crime.”
“True, but our interview techniques are very effective at distinguishing the two,” the examiner said. Lauren had already forgotten his name.
I'll think of him as Mr. Brown,
she told herself. He was even wearing a brown suit.
“Really? I think studies suggest the reliability is about seventy percent at best,” Lauren said.
“Are you refusing to take the test?” Mr. Brown's tone developed an edge.
“Not at all. I'll do whatever it takes to help find my sister's killer. I just want some assurances that this entire investigation isn't relying upon an instrument that has questionable efficacy under the best of circumstances.”
“Duly noted,” Mr. Brown said before he began hooking up the equipment. He instructed Lauren to answer each question with a yes or no response.
He started by asking easy questions to establish a baseline of truthfulness.
“Is your name Lauren Nicole Rose?”
“Yes.”
“Were you born on September twenty-eighth?”
“That's what I've been told.”
Mr. Brown sighed, “Answer with yes or no only please.”
“I'm trying, but I don't want to imply that I remember being born on that date when I don't.”
Mr. Brown shook his head and moved on to another question, “Are you employed at Good Samaritan Hospital?”
“Yes.”
“Are you the sister of Elizabeth Rose Wakefield?”
Lauren hesitated. “I used to be.”
Mr. Brown glared, but continued the test without comment. “Were you at Good Samaritan Hospital on the evening of July twenty-third for the entire time between the hours of seven p.m. and eleven p.m.?
“Yes.”
“Are you right-handed?”
“No.”
“Are you left-handed?”
“No.”
Mr. Brown furrowed his brow. “I need you to answer these questions fully and accurately.”
“I'm ambidextrous. I favor each hand for different tasks.”
“I see. But surely you use one more than the other?”
“I use my right hand for most things, including writing and eating, but I kick with my left foot and I throw balls with my left hand.”
He paused and made some notations on a strip of paper being generated by the polygraph machine on which writing tools were jumping about, creating wiggly lines based upon Lauren's answers.
“Do you swing a golf club with your left hand?”
Lauren hesitated. She had to answer the question with complete honesty. “I'm sorry, but I use both hands when I swing a golf club. Did you mean do I swing it left-handed?”
Mr. Brown let out a long sigh of agitation. “I'll rephrase the question.” He made another notation on the paper strip, which was now pooling on the floor next to the machine.
“Do you swing a golf club left-handed?”
“Yes.”
“Were you aware you were the sole beneficiary on your sister's life insurance policy?”
“Not prior to her death.”
“Yes or no only.”
“I am aware of that now, but I wasn't aware of it at the time of her death.”
He sighed again. “Were you aware you were the sole beneficiary on your sister's life insurance policy prior to July twenty-fourth?”
“No.”
“Have you been having financial problems?”
“No, not really.”
Mr. Brown eyeballed her unpleasantly. Lauren couldn't answer with a simple yes or no response. Lauren didn't have money problems per se, but she did sometimes worry about making sure her paycheck covered her expenses, like most people. After paying rent and student loans on her intern's salary, she didn't have a lot in savings. Did that constitute financial problems?
“Do you know the code to the alarm at your sister's home?”
“Yes.”
At least I used to
, she thought.
Maybe Jake changed it
. Knowing she might have answered that question âwrong' made her nervous.
“Do you have a key to your sister's home?”
“No.”
“Is there any reason why the forensics team will find Liz's blood on the scrubs you turned over to Detective Boyd?”
“No.”
Were they trying to fluster her? If so, it was working well.
Then came the question that she had been expecting, but wasn't prepared for.
“Did you kill your sister, Elizabeth Wakefield?”
“No.”
“Did you kill her by stabbing her?”
“No.”
“Did you kill her by shooting her?”
“No.”
“Did you kill her with medications?”
“No.”
“Did you kill her by hitting her in the head?”
“No.”
But somebody had.
Lauren felt her pulse racing.
“Did you have anything to do with her death?”
I've been interviewed by homicide investigators. I had to tell my grandmother she died. I identified the body. I attended the funeral. I've had way too much to do with her death
, Lauren thought. “No.”
“Do you know who killed her?”
Lauren's mind raced.
I don't know. Do I? Once I find out who did it, I might know that person.
“No.”
After waiting for the examiner to review the yards and yards of polygraph data, he told her the results were inconclusive. Lauren knew this stupid test wasn't valid. Mr. Brown asked her if she would submit to the test a second time.
The cold instruments were re-affixed to her body. Again, she was asked the intrusive, offensive, ambiguous questions.
After taking an eternity to review the results, he finally spoke. “I'll turn the findings over to the detectives. You may discuss it with them. But there is one more thing we'd like to ask of you before you leave the station today.”
“Yes?”
“Would you be willing to leave hair and blood samples with us for DNA analysis?
“Sure. DNA analysis. That's a verifiable science.”
“Yes, Dr. Rose, I believe you've made your opposition to the polygraph crystal clear.” His tone was caustic.
As she left, Lauren said, “I'm sorry I frustrated you, Mr. Brown, I genuinely appreciate your efforts on this case.”
He gave her a sour look, “My name is Baxter, not Brown.”
Lauren had accidentally referred to him by the name she had secretly assigned him. Thank goodness it was not something worse like “Bully.”
***
“Those are some serious scratches you have on your arm,” the phlebotomist commented as he drew Lauren's blood in the police station laboratory.
“Yeah,” Lauren agreed, looking at the fading scratches she had all but forgotten about.
“Maybe we should take some pictures of those,” he suggested.
“Yeah, you probably should.”
(Tuesday, August 16)
The next day at the hospital, Dr. Stone tracked Lauren down accompanied by an unfamiliar man in civilian clothing.
“Don't freak out,” Stone said, “but this gentleman is here to serve you with a subpoena. We get these often. It's usually some patient haggling with their insurance company over payment.” Lauren accepted the white envelope handed to her and Stone directed her to the office of Mr. Lawrence, the hospital attorney. She handed the subpoena to Mr. Lawrence for routine legal review. There, she learned she was not being subpoenaed regarding a medical case, but with a court order to report to the Scottsdale Police Department within twenty-four hours.
“It requires you to submit to photography of your person,” Mr. Lawrence advised after a quick review of the document. “Any idea why?”
“I got scratched a couple weeks ago by a patient. The police asked me about the scratches yesterday when I was having my blood drawn.”
“Seems like they're looking at you pretty hard in your sister's murder. I can't represent you because this doesn't involve a hospital matter, but I can recommend a good criminal defense attorney. Sounds to me like you need one.”
Lauren felt as if she had the wind knocked out of her. She had never had so much as a traffic ticket before. Now, she needed a defense attorney for the murder of her own sister.
Lauren had few people in whom she could confide. She did talk to Rose-ma on the phone every day. But as much as Lauren adored Rose-ma, she was tired of hearing Liz's murder attributed to God's will. Additionally, Lauren felt she had to protect Rose-ma from some of the things that were bothering her most, such as her own treatment as a possible suspect.
Her fellow interns had been amazing. In a field renowned for vicious competition, their intern class had managed to foster a spirit of cooperation. Lauren could share any work-related concern with the other interns and feel supported. Still, she didn't feel comfortable sharing details of the investigation with them. They had picked up on this and had respectfully stopped asking.
Lauren still had frequent phone calls from old friends, all calling to express concern about her in the wake of the tragedy. Most seemed sincere, others appeared to be fishing for gossip. Given the constant stories that showed up in the press, Lauren found it hard to trust anybody with her innermost fears.
She found herself leaning most heavily on Jake. She had never been particularly close to him before. He was a famous baseball player and she had been his wife's little sister. But now, they seemed to have everything in common. He understood her feelings of grief, anger, and loneliness because he was riding the same emotional roller coaster. They discussed the case nearly every day. He was as obsessed with the status of the investigation as she was. And he was equally frustrated by the detectives.
So, Lauren immediately called Jake about the police summons for photographs. “That's fucking ridiculous,” he raged. “Enough's enough. I don't think you should do it. What the hell could they possibly want to take pictures of?”
“I was scratched by a patient at the ER.”
“Don't you have witnesses? Somebody must have seen it happen.”
“No one else was there at the time.”
“Did this happen before or after Liz's⦔ his words petered out.
“A few days before.”
“And you still have scratches?”
“They're healed now, but the scars are still visible. Jake, have the police said anything to you about me? Do they really think I might have done this?”
“Of course not. Those jerks don't know what they're doing. Pretty boy Boyd is a know-nothing and Wallace is a know-it-all.” Lauren was touched by his anger on her behalf. “I think you should stop cooperating. Force them to stop focusing on you and turn their attention to real suspects. Why don't you talk to my family lawyer? I'm sure I can get you a free consultation.”
Lauren let out a sigh of relief. Her parents' life insurance policy had covered college expenses for both Liz and Lauren, but Lauren had taken out student loans to finance medical school. Now, she was making substantial payments on her loans. She could ill-afford an expensive criminal defense attorney.
“Thank you, Jake. I don't know how I would survive this without you.”
“That's what family's for.”
“Jake, did you know Liz changed her life insurance policy?”
“Of course I knew. The policy was up for renewal and we agreed she should change her beneficiary to you. Have you gotten the payout yet?”
“No. They said they can't pay it until the investigation is complete. It doesn't matter. I don't care about the money. I was just wondering why she changed her beneficiary.”
“I didn't need the money. So we agreed the money should go to you if, you knowâ¦Do you need money, Lauren?”
“No, thanks. I'm just worried about how much a lawyer is going to cost. I can't believe this is happening.”
“I know.” He sighed deeply. “Me neither. That's why you should talk to my lawyer. Let me call him and I'll call you right back.”
Lauren paced until her phone rang again a few minutes later. “Sorry, Lauren,” Jake said. “I talked to Bob, but he said he can't help. He said it represents a conflict of interest since I've already consulted him. I don't get that legalese stuff. Anyway, he says he thinks you should stop talking to the police. He says they'll only try to use what you say against you.”
“But I haven't done anything wrong.”
“You know that. And I know that. But those jackasses haven't figured that out yet.”
(Wednesday, August 17)
In the end, Lauren decided to comply with the court order, confident in forensic science. The day after the summons, she reported to the Scottsdale Police Department. She was required to strip down to her undergarments so the police photographer could take photos of her entire body. They focused several frames on the scratches fading on her upper right arm. The experience was humiliating and by the time she left the small windowless room, she was in tears.
As she was approaching the station exit, she heard somebody calling her name. “Miss Rose.”
Lauren had become accustomed to people calling out to her. Perfect strangers recognized her from the exhaustive coverage of the case. Many felt they knew her. It had been surreal at first. Now, it was annoying. Every trite condolence offered by a stranger was a stabbing reminder of her loss.
Lauren increased the length of her stride. The building was closing in on her. She was desperate to get outside.
The calls became more insistent, “Miss Rose!” The voice sounded familiar, but she did not pause long enough to try to identify the speaker.
Lauren was speed walking, practically running. She hit the door at a brisk pace and forced her way out to the front steps.
She could hear somebody pushing through the door behind her. She descended the steps two at a time. Her ten-year-old Civic had recently died a quiet death from a blown gasket. Lauren had long ago promised herself a new car when she finished her internship, but she had been forced to buy a new car eleven months shy of that goal. Her shiny new emerald Acura beckoned to her from across the parking lot.
Reaching the last step, she miscalculated her footing and went sprawling across the parking lot. The latch on her purse sprang open and her keys, a bottle of Tylenol, and two tubes of cherry chapstick scattered across the ground. Her right knee ripped open on the rough asphalt.
Before she could collect her thoughts, somebody pulled her to her feet and began gathering up the contents of her spilled purse. Detective Boyd.
“Are you okay?”
“Fine,” she snapped. “Nothing bruised but my ego. Did you need something?”
He looked surprised at the sharpness of her tone, his blue-green eyes reflecting the bright sunlight. “I spotted you leaving the building. I wanted to see how you were doing.”
“I'll tell you how I'm doing. I've lost my only sister and my best friend. I've been falsely accused of her murder. I've been served a subpoena and taken a polygraph. I've been poked and prodded and photographed in my underwear. And now you have chased me down the stairs and literally onto my knees. And you want to know how I'm doing? I'm doing crappy. That's how I'm doing.”
Boyd took a step back. His face was somber, but the corners of his eyes turned up a bit at the corners. “I'm very sorry I chased you onto your knees. I just wanted you to know that we now have a very real suspect in this case.” He turned on his heel and bounded up the steps.
Now it was her turn to call after him. “Detective Boyd? Wait.” But he disappeared into the police station without a backward glance.
A very real suspect? Finally! Lauren's immediate euphoria was quickly followed by a foreboding feeling. She had just been photographed in her bra and panties. Perhaps she was the “very real suspect” that Detective Boyd was referring to.