I’m not under arrest yet, but the body language of my companions makes it clear what this is: a perp walk. I fight against my natural inclination to avoid eye contact. It’s not easy. Reflex alone makes me want to turn my head and avert my eyes from the constant explosions of light. I work to keep my head up. By the time we get to the car, I’m blind from the dazzle.

Christiansen pushes me inside. I’m being transported to the Park Street station for the polygraph. D.C. is involved now because there are “jurisdictional questions to be resolved, dependent on the location and the nature of the crime.” This is the way Shoffler explained it at this morning’s press conference, for which, Christiansen tells me, they badged 318 representatives of the media.

Like most authorities, Shoffler didn’t explain what he said – despite pleas from the press.

I got it, though – along with the millions of Americans who watched various “experts” deconstruct Shoffler’s statement. It comes down to this.

Scenario 1: I murdered my kids at home, disposed of their bodies, then drove sixty miles to Cromwell, Maryland. I then wandered around the fairgrounds for a couple of hours to establish my alibi before reporting the kids missing. Jurisdiction: D.C.

Scenario 2: I murdered my children in Maryland, somewhere in the vicinity of the Renaissance Faire. Jurisdiction: Anne Arundel County.

Scenario 3: The boys were kidnapped from the Renaissance Faire (this has now been referred to by at least one broadcaster as “the father’s version of events”). Jurisdiction: Anne Arundel County in conjunction with the FBI.

The police station has a kind of played-out atmosphere that against all odds calms me down. It’s so different from the adrenalized energy at home. It reminds me of the DMV.

I get the sense that most of the people who work here, from clerk to detective, see enough barbarity on a regular basis that it’s blunted their emotional response. No matter how unthinkable a crime – even the murder of children – there’s a precedent, a number for it in the criminal code.

It’s all procedure. There’s a process to deal with every conceivable type of human wrongdoing, a process that doesn’t leave much room for passion or outrage. While I’m here, everyone – if not exactly polite – at least treats me with professional disdain, interested only in advancing that process. I’m here for a polygraph test; the idea is to get it done and move on to the next chore.

Just like getting fingerprinted, though, there’s something sordid about the procedure. I feel trapped, caught in a lose-lose situation, the lie detector test a not-so-modern version of the test given to the Salem witches. As I remember it (from a History Channel special), if the accused woman, weighted down with stones, managed not to drown – as a normal person would – it signified guilt and she was burned as a witch.

The test is the same. Just being asked to take a polygraph counts against me. I won’t fail the test, but as someone who’s covered a lot of court cases, I know it’s possible the result will be “inconclusive.”

If I pass, that won’t help. It’s just that refusing it would have been worse. Passing means nothing because no one actually trusts the results – which, I am reminded, as the technician asks me to take a seat, are not “admissible in court.” He offers a thin smile.

“Kind of makes you wonder why they bother,” I hear myself say, instantly irritated by my nervous chatter.

He shrugs. “The results can be instructive,” he says, “even if not on the evidentiary level.”

We both know why they bother with lie detector tests. They can be instructive in many ways. It means one thing if someone agrees to take the test, another if he hires his own technician, who might frame a slightly different set of questions or put them in a more client-friendly way.

Gary Condit took the test, but hired his own tech. Same with the parents of JonBenet Ramsey. I remember these deviations from the accepted path of innocent behavior. So does everybody else.

For the most part the test is a form of pressure, pure and simple. You have a suspect, you squeeze him, make him nervous in every possible way. We’ve all seen it a million times. That’s what Shoffler wants: to squeeze me.

The technician squirts gel onto the sensors and attaches them to my skin. The gel is very cold.

The polygraph man himself also seems cold – even mechanical – as he explains the procedure. After a long pause to check his machinery, he begins to ask me his list of prepared questions.

The inflection of his voice does not vary, whether he’s asking me routine establishing questions (“Is your name Alex?” “Do you reside in North Dakota?” “Is the shirt you are wearing blue?”) or the ones at the heart of the matter (“Did you kill Sean and Kevin Callahan?” “Do you know the whereabouts of Sean and Kevin?”)

There is a long interval between each question while he adjusts his machine and makes notes. I catch myself holding my breath when I’m answering the questions and can’t stop myself from mentioning this. The technician offers a weak smile. “That won’t matter,” he says, in a way that does not reassure me.

And then it’s over. I’m handed a foil-wrapped wipe to remove any residue of gel from my skin. I roll down my sleeves expecting to return to the squad car and be driven home.

Instead, Shoffler materializes, with a young African-American man he introduces as Detective Price.

The three of us go to Price’s cubicle. On the monitor, tropical fish swim through waving aquatic vegetation. The gray fabric walls of the cubicle display a dozen or more photographs of a little smiling boy.

“Tell me something, Alex,” Shoffler asks, “you mind going through your story one more time? I’d like Detective Price to hear it – he’s been assigned to assist us with the case.”

I shrug. I don’t see the point, but once again, why not? “Fine.”

“Thing is, Detective Price has some special training in… ah… questioning people. What I hear is he’s got a real gift for tickling the memory bank. What I hope is maybe you’ll come up with something that will help us find your sons.”

“Some kind of lead,” Price says in an earnest baritone. “That’s what we all want.”

This is bullshit and all three of us know it. Shoffler’s looking for inconsistencies in my story. Which means that’s what he thinks it is – a story.

“Whatever you want,” I say.

A heavyset woman with huge round earrings raps on the side of the cubicle wall. “Yoo-hoo, need you to sign something, Jason.” She beckons with one red-nailed finger. “Come to my parlor please.”

Shoffler studies the array of photographs pinned to the cubicle walls. “Cute kid,” he says, and then he lets out a regretful jet of air. “Jeez, I’m sorry.”

“What about the ticket?” I ask him.

“What?”

“Ticket to the fair. One adult, two children. I showed it to you. I think I gave it to you, didn’t I?”

“Yeah.”

“It’s got the time right on it, when we went in. One adult, two kids.”

Shoffler shakes his head, his face showing a kind of get-real look. “Alex – you do realize this ticket means nothin’.” His hands rise up, fall down. “You could have bought a ticket for one adult and ten kids, you know what I’m saying?”

To my surprise, I’m embarrassed.

Acoustics.

Liz and I did the backpack thing right out of William and Mary. In London, we went to St. Paul’s Cathedral and climbed halfway up the dome to the Whispering Gallery. Our guidebook noted an acoustical anomaly: someone halfway across the vast dome could whisper against the wall and the sound, if unimpeded, would travel around to anyone listening on the opposite side. Liz insisted we try it out, and we took up our positions, waiting several minutes until no one was in the way. I still remember the shock of Liz’s voice in my ear, so intimate and immediate, when I could see her only as a small shape across a distance of a hundred yards or so. “Meet me back at the hotel,” she whispered, “and I’ll show you a good time.”