“Ruthie!”
She let her thoughts drift… and drift… till they settled on that glorious day when she and her father were riding in his ’65 Pontiac, the wind blowing her hair as she sat on the armrest next to him, a half-eaten cotton candy cone in her hand.
They’d just returned from the fair, just she and her father, and he’d allowed her to ride every ride she wanted, had even joined her in a bumper car.
“Remember, Ruth Ann, don’t tell nobody where we went, not even your mother,” her father had said when they returned home.
Lester lifted himself off her, and she returned to the present.
“Baby,” Lester said, “I know you’re sick… I can’t help it, I want you so bad.”
His mouth sought her breast again.
Just when she decided to accommodate him, Lester ripped her pajama bottoms off with one violent yank.
“There!” he said victoriously.
She couldn’t help but open one eye now. Lester was butt naked, except for his socks and shoes.
Not to mention when?
“Oh God!”
Lester started kissing her kneecaps, then clumsily worked his way up. At her inner thigh, a few inches from her pubic, he stopped and sneezed.
Oh, yes, he most certainly did.
Lester parted her legs… and suddenly he was inside her, bucking and thrashing as if he were riding a mechanical bull.
“Whoa!” Lester whooped, and collapsed on top of her.
Lightning, Ruth Ann thought.
Lester stopped gasping to say, “I love you so much, Ruthie!”
Ruth Ann whispered, “I love me, too.”
The doorbell finally stopped ringing.
Chapter 21
“It’s broke!” Sheriff Bledsoe said into the phone. “What you mean it’s broke?”
“Inoperable, damaged, malfunctioned, in need of repair,” Deputy Sheriff Jim Barr said. “Broke is broke.”
“Fantastic, just fantastic! I have a murder case here with twice the suspects in an Agatha Christie novel, and the only polygraph machine in southeastern Arkansas is broke?”
“I’m sorry, Ennis, it’s been down six months. Sheriff Greene said he was going to send it to the shop up there in Little Rock. It might take two years before he gets around to doing anything about it.”
“Which may be the same time I solve this case.” He sat down and added ruefully, “If ever.”
“Take your suspects to Little Rock and use their machine. Sheriff Hughes, over in Chicot county, took a guy up there last week. Those Little Rock boys are obliging enough. You ask them real nice they’ll even conduct the interview.”
“Bad idea. Each time I get two or more of my suspects in one room, all kinds of commotion break loose. Piling em up in a van on a two-hour trip to Little Rock would get more chaotic than throwing a hornet’s nest into a senior citizen home.”
“Oh, well. You know there’s the old-fashioned way.”
“What’s that?”
“Make your own polygraph machine.”
“Excuse me?” Sheriff Bledsoe said, not sure if he’d heard correctly.
“Make your own machine.”
“Jim, are you crazy?”
“My ex certainly thinks so. Listen, all you have to do is rig something together and call it a polygraph machine. When you suspect your perp is lying, make your machine react. Even with a legitimate machine the results are dictated by the person administering the test.”
“Are you crazy?”
“A couple of years ago, right before we got the real machine, we hooked up a strobe light to a rape suspect and each time he opened his mouth the light came on. He confessed everything he did back to daycare.”
“You are crazy, aren’t you? What happens when a defense lawyer discovers his or her client confessed to a homemade polygraph machine? How you explain that?”
“I wouldn’t try. Who would believe it? Look, Ennis, I’m only offering a suggestion. You called me, remember?”
“Yes, I’m sorry I did. Bye.”
“If you try it, call me back and let me know how it worked out.”
“Are you crazy?” and hung up the phone. He popped six Pepsid AC tablets into his mouth and chased them down with a gulp of Mylanta. A fake polygraph machine—Ha!—with a strobe light.
The next day, Sheriff Bledsoe directed a disheveled Robert Earl to a seat in front of a pine box the size of a microwave oven, stained and lacquered to a mirror finish. Atop the box were two light bulbs, one red, the other black. Three extension cords snaked out from under it, one leading to a wall socket, unplugged, one hanging down the front of the desk and disappearing underneath to a foot pedal, the last looped in a large circle, crudely covered with Velcro.
Sheriff Bledsoe picked up the Velcro-covered cord and said, “Robert Earl, we’ll wrap this around your chest.” Robert Earl nodded and allowed Sheriff Bledsoe to rope the cord around him. “The main thing here,” Sheriff Bledsoe explained, “is to be completely honest.”
“Is it going to hurt?”
“No, no. It won’t hurt at all. It’s perfectly…”
Robert Earl was a big old boy, two-fifty plus some, but if enough electricity coursed through his body it could not only hurt him, it might kill him.
He needed to check and make sure the wires weren’t touching. He stood between Robert Earl and the desk and lifted the box; the wires, wrapped individually with electrical tape, weren’t touching.
Still he had doubts. He could already hear the news anchor: “Sheriff electrocutes man with cracker-rigged polygraph machine. Hear the details Live-At-Five.”
“Sheriff, what was you about to say?”
“Oh, nothing. Just it’s perfectly safe.”
“You gotta plug it up first, don’t you?”
“Yes, right.” He plugged the cord into the socket.
“Wait!” Robert Earl shouted.
Sheriff Bledsoe snatched the cord out of the socket; electricity zapped his hand. “Did it hurt?”
“No.”
“Man, you scared the mess out of me! What you shouting for? Don’t shout, okay?” He wiped sweat from his forehead and noticed his hand was shaking. “No need to shout.”
