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lie can be worth millions, you know.”
    I felt contaminated somehow.   “But how could you possibly design software able to catch human lies?”
    “It’s based on neurological studies of receptive aphasics.   Stroke victims and people with other brain injuries, who can’t understand human speech, or face real challenges trying to.   What the neurologists discovered was that aphasics share a remarkable gift for detecting falsehoods.   They pick up on nuances of facial expression—momentary and very minute emotional flashes that the rest of us usually miss because we understand human speech just fine, we’re busy attending to the words.”
    “I think I’m going to be sick,” I said.
    He smiled, pleased, I think, by my strong reaction.   “Put a group of aphasics in front of a television set while a politician is giving a speech and you’ll hear more laughing than inside a comedy club.   They understand not a word, typically, but they find all the fibbing hysterical.”
    “So the computer takes photos then?”
    “Video,” John said.   “In the back of the monitor is a pinhole camera lens.   It records whomever the wearer happens to be looking at.   The facial images are instantly run through the software program, checking for these nuances noted only by the aphasics, these shutter speed-swift leaks of emotion.”
    “And the results appear on the monitor?”
    He nodded.   “In about a second.   But I’m still not happy with the accuracy rate.   Another year of development, I think, and then I’ll be satisfied.”
    He took off his wearable computer, placed it on his desktop, and fixed his hair.   I remembered why I’d come.
    “You doing okay, John?”
    “Sure, sure.   Why do you ask?”
    “You’re not obsessing about the other day, are you?”
    “No, no.   You told me there’s nothing to worry about, and I believe you.   One lone mental case, right?”
    “Right,” I said.   I had to admit John did seem like he’d snapped back, like he belonged in his Armani suits again.
    “But I’m glad you stopped by, Argus.   I was going to call you.   What’ve you turned up about that unexplained backdoor we found in the new software?”
    “My investigator’s still interviewing the programmers and running background checks.   I’ll keep you posted.”
    “Every day, if you would.”
    “Sure.”
    “Also, something new’s come up.”
    “What is it?”
    “Jeremy Crane, my chief technology officer, he’s missing.”
    The name was vaguely familiar.   “Missing how?”
    “Absent from work.   He hasn’t shown up for two days straight, no calls, not a word.   Can’t reach him on his cell phone, or his home phone, or his Palm Pilot, or—”
    “What about family?   Did you—”
    “He lives alone.”
    “Maybe it’s just a misunderstanding, John.   Maybe he thought he had some time off and went out of town.”
    “No, no, son, it’s not like that.   You see, I know Jeremy Crane well.   He’s inner circle.   Been here nine, ten years now, at least.   And it’s not like this man to be out of touch, ever.   He’s dedicated, he’s loyal, he’s anal-retentive.   You know, the perfect employee.”
    “Until now.”
    “Until now,” John said.   “I’m worried about him, Argus, I really am.   Could you handle this for me?   Personally?”
    Did I mention John was demanding? (I don't think I have to mention he was also eccentric to the point of being scary.) I agreed to find the missing geek myself.
    But once I’d returned to my own headquarters in Georgetown I assigned a junior investigator to do the initial legwork.   I had to attend the weekly staff meeting with my principals and managing associates early that afternoon.
    The headquarters of my firm were conveniently located within half a mile of my townhouse in a converted brick warehouse down by the Potomac River .   A boardwalk, just outside the window of our conference room on the first floor, connected us to a