“Who’s that, Mrs. Brice?”
“Every partner in my law firm.”
Agent Baxter exhaled and sat back down, realizing he’d been had. The mother tossed her copy of the profile on the table.
“Look, Agent Baxter,” she said, “cut the psychobabble bullshit. The guy’s a pervert who likes to fuck little girls!”
The mother stormed out of the room. Agent Baxter was visibly taken aback. After an awkwardly long silent moment, Colonel Brice spoke in a quiet voice.
“He wasn’t alone. There were two men, probably the two men on the videotape.”
“Mr. Brice,” Agent Brumley said, “sexual predators work alone, that’s proven. They’re what we call ‘loner deviants.’ ”
“I was at the park,” the colonel said, “retracing Gracie’s steps. He grabbed her behind the concession stand and took her through the woods to an accomplice waiting for him in a vehicle leaking oil. He didn’t work alone.”
“Then why did he leave her shorts in the woods?” Agent Baxter asked.
“Because he wanted them found.”
Agent Baxter frowned. “ Why? ”
“So you’d do just what you’re doing-hunting for a sexual predator.”
“Are you okay, Mrs. Brice?”
Elizabeth was sitting in her formal living room-now the FBI’s command post-and staring across the table at Agent Devereaux.
“No, I’m not okay. My daughter’s been abducted.”
“Mrs. Brice, I can still get a psychologist in here.”
“No.”
She had gained control of her emotions again. Her mind was alert and angry again. She had a plan. And it required a banker, not a psychologist.
“Let me know if you change your mind. Now, Mrs. Brice, what kind of kid is Gracie? See, with these guys, it’s all about control. They like to intimidate their victims, make the victim feel helpless and cornered so they feel powerful. What would Gracie do if she was cornered?”
“She’d fight.”
“Good. That’s the key to her survival.”
“She will survive.”
Agent Devereaux nodded. “Yes, ma’am. So, Mrs. Brice, you used to work our side of the street?”
“Yes.”
A little smile. “What made you go over to the dark side?”
She paused. “Life took me there.”
The agent frowned, then he said, “Well, then you understand why I need polygraphs.”
“You said it wasn’t random, that she was targeted. Now you think one of us did it?”
“No, ma’am. All I’m saying is, the Bureau is committing extensive resources to finding your daughter and the man who took her. But we’ve been burned before- you remember the Susan Smith case, said she was carjacked, her kids abducted? Turned out she drowned them herself. We must eliminate any family involvement.”
Elizabeth glared at Agent Devereaux, the rage making a move to escape the darkness. “I just left your two brilliant profilers in my kitchen. I listened to them telling me that a predator abducted my little girl for sex.” She slammed her fist down on the table. “Goddamnit! And now you’re telling me you want polygraphs of me and my husband?”
Agent Devereaux nodded. “Yes, ma’am. And Colonel Brice and his wife, and the household staff. Mrs. Brice, I know it’s an intrusion, but from our standpoint, it’s always a possibility. Fact is, only a couple hundred children each year are abducted by strangers. The rest are family related.”
He reached across the table and took her clenched fists in his hands. She refused to allow the tears to come.
“Look, Mrs. Brice, this isn’t a family abduction, I know that. But Washington doesn’t. And I just got off the phone with my superiors, requesting authorization for additional staffing-ten more agents to help find Gracie. So this ends well. Do this, Mrs. Brice, so the Bureau will give me more people to find your daughter. Do it for Gracie.”
“I’ll do it.”
The voice came from behind them. Elizabeth pulled her hands free of Agent Devereaux’s and turned. Her father-in-law was standing in the door. She started to object just because Ben Brice was a drunk and she hated him. But something in his eyes made her hold her tongue. She turned back to Agent Devereaux.
“I want it done here. I don’t want us on TV being marched into the police station.”
Agent Devereaux said, “We’re setting up in the library.”
Ben entered the library to a young FBI agent holding his hand out to him. “Mr. Brice, I'm Agent Randall.”
Randall was thirty, glasses, an accountant trying hard to be sociable. He was holding a rubber tube.
“If you’ll remove your shirt, Mr. Brice, I’ll strap the pneumograph tube around your chest.” Agent Randall moved around behind Ben, continuing his friendly chatter. “Nothing to be nervous about. A polygraph machine measures your breathing rate, your blood pressure-”
Ben unsnapped the cuffs of his shirt and then the front snaps.
– “your pulse rate, and your skin’s reflex to an electrical flow. See, the idea is, when someone’s lying they-”
Ben slipped the shirt off his back.
“ Jesus! ”
Ben felt Agent Randall’s eyes on his back; his chatter had been cut short. After a moment, Randall reached around Ben from behind to connect the tube; his hands were trembling.
“Is that, uh, is that too tight, Mr. Brice? It doesn’t hurt this… these… your back?”
“No.”
Agent Randall returned to Ben’s view. “Okay, where was I? Oh, you can sit down, Mr. Brice.”
Ben sat in a leather chair next to the polygraph; it looked like a laptop computer. The leather was cool on his bare back. Agent Randall stepped in front of him.
“This is an electrode,” Agent Randall said.
He took Ben’s hand and slipped a small sleeve onto the tip of his right index finger.
“And this is just an ordinary blood-pressure cuff, like at the doctor’s.”
The agent wrapped the cuff around Ben’s upper right arm and stepped back.
“Okay, I, uh, I guess we’re ready.” Agent Randall sat in a chair behind the machine and to Ben’s right. “Mr. Brice, I’m going to ask you several basic questions, just to get you comfortable so I can establish a baseline. Please breathe steadily, remain calm, and don’t take deep breaths. And answer each question truthfully with a yes or no. Okay?”
Ben nodded.
Agent Randall’s first question: “Is your real name Ben Brice?”
“Yes.”
“Are you Gracie Ann Brice’s grandfather?”
“Yes.”
“Have you ever taken a polygraph exam, commonly known as a lie-detector test?”
“No.”
That was a lie.
Ben closed his eyes and recalled his first lie-detector test: he is naked, his arms and ankles are strapped to a wood chair, and his eyes are tracking two wires taped to his testicles and running along the concrete floor to a battery-powered field telephone with a hand crank manned by a grinning sadist. The small room reeks with the smell of urine and feces.
