“Have you ever thought about hurting a family member?”
Her brow wrinkled like the notion was absurd. “No.”
“You ever think about killing anyone?”
“Only when in traffic.” She smirked.
I gave her a stern look.
“Sorry. Could you repeat the question?”
I did.
“No.”
The fluorescents buzzed overhead, and the tiny room felt even more claustrophobic with all of us in there. The machine that could supposedly see into the dark recesses of your soul made it all the more suffocating for her. So far, Tiffany handled it well. Calm and composed.
"How did you meet your husband?" I asked, knowing what the answer should be.
"Like I said, I met my husband through Charlotte Beaumont."
I glanced at the laptop, looking for any indication of anomalies.
All the waveforms held steady and stayed in the range of normal, according to her baseline.
"Did you love your husband?"
"Very much."
"Yes or no?”
"Yes. A thousand percent yes."
Again, the waveforms on the computer held steady.
“Did you get into any arguments or disagreements with Brock Madison on the day of his death?”
“No.”
"Did you kill your husband?”
"No. Absolutely not.”
"Did you hire someone to kill your husband?”
“No.”
“Did you make any arrangements or plans to have him killed?"
"No.”
Nothing went haywire.
The waveforms remained consistent. I stared at them for a long moment, waiting for some type of blip or deviation—something to indicate deception. A momentary elevation in heartbeat or an increase in galvanic stress response. An elevation in blood pressure.
Nothing.
She was either telling the truth or she had complete control of her emotional response. Not impossible, especially for sociopaths and psychopaths. The machine could be beaten. Some of us knew how. But it was a rare day.
