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“Hannibal Lecter.” The boy’s voice was rusty.
“What is your age?”
“Thirteen years.”
/> The ink styluses ran smoothly over the polygraph paper.
“How long have you been a resident of France?”
“Six months.”
“Were you acquainted with the butcher Paul Momund?”
“We were never introduced.”
The styluses did not quiver.
“But you knew who he was.”
“Yes.”
“Did you have an altercation, that is a fight, with Paul Momund at the market on Thursday?”
“Yes.”
“Do you attend school?”
“Yes.”
“Does your school require uniforms?”
“No.”
“Do you have any guilty knowledge of the death of Paul Momund?”
“Guilty knowledge?”
“Limit your responses to yes or no.”
“No.”
The peaks and valleys in the ink lines are constant. No increase in blood pressure, no increase in heartbeat, respiration constant and calm.
“You know that the butcher is dead.”
“Yes.”
The polygrapher appeared to make several adjustments to the knobs of the machine.
“Have you studied mathematics?”
“Yes.”
“Have you studied geography?”
“Yes.”
“Did you see the dead body of Paul Momund?”
