By Staff Reporter Tom O’Connor
QUEENS, Nov. 9–The mother of two murdered children has refused to take a lie detector test to answer questions about the mystery surrounding their deaths, it was revealed yesterday.
Frank Malone Jr., 5, and his sister Cindy, 4, disappeared on the night of July 13, 1965 from their first-floor apartment in Kew Gardens Hills, and were later found dead nearby. They lived with their mother, 26-year-old Ruth Malone, who was estranged from their father, Frank Malone Sr. Mr. and Mrs. Malone were briefly reunited by the tragedy.
Despite a thorough investigation, the police have not yet been able to obtain enough information to make an arrest.
Mrs. Malone originally said she was willing to help the police investigation by undergoing a polygraph examination. It has now emerged that she refused to take the test because the results are not admissible as evidence in a court of law.
A police spokesman told this newspaper: “Mrs. Malone said she would take the lie detector test to prove her innocence, but in reality, she had no intention of ever doing it. She knew all along that polygraphs cannot be used in court.”
Lie detectors work by measuring physiological responses, such as blood pressure levels, pulse rate and sweat gland activity during questioning. Any significant variation in these rates may indicate that the subject is lying.
Mrs. Malone left her apartment this morning, and refused to comment on her failure to take the test or on rumors that an arrest in the case is imminent.
Another call. This time they wanted Ruth to come into the station house.
“Just a few questions.”
She went in with her head high, asked to call a lawyer. Devlin said she didn’t need one. She asked again and he said she must have something to hide. She kept asking and he took her to a phone and she called Arnold Green.
When he answered, he sounded distracted. When he realized who was calling, his tone became guarded.
“Mrs. Malone. How can I help?”
“I’m at the police station. I think . . . I need a lawyer.”
There was a moment of silence and then, “I’m a divorce attorney, Mrs. Malone. I deal with family law. Civil matters.”
“I don’t . . . I don’t know what to do.”
“I’m sorry. I can’t help with your current situation.”
She opened her mouth to reply, but the phone was dead.
She turned to Devlin, standing behind her and, without looking at him, told him she needed a lawyer.
“You mean you need us to appoint someone for you?”
She stared at a mark on the wall somewhere to the left of his head. “Yes. That’s what I mean.”
“I’ll see what I can do. Keep in mind,”—and she heard the smile in his voice—“it might take a while. I can’t imagine what lawyer would take the case.”
They put her in a locked room with no windows and the heat turned up, and a door that only opened from the outside. Quinn came in to tell her they were trying to get hold of someone from the public defender’s office. She didn’t look around, just waited for the door to close.
Hours later, the door opened again and she heard Quinn say, “She’s in here.”
She glanced up and saw a stranger. A man in his fifties, with silver hair and bright blue eyes. He was wearing a beautiful suit, a tie pin, an immaculate white shirt. She was suddenly aware of how hot the room was, of how she must look. She pushed her hair back, half-stood, and he waved her to sit down, held out his hand.
“I’m Henry Scott. I’m your lawyer.”
His skin was dry. She could smell his cologne: something woody. Fresh.
She blurted out, “You’re not from the public defender’s office.”
He smiled at her, reminding her of someone.
“No, I’m not.”
Then he turned to Quinn and his voice was sharp.
“This room is stifling. Get the temperature fixed, or find us another room. Bring us some water. And some coffee and sandwiches—and make sure my office has copies of all my client’s interview tapes and the transcripts by tomorrow morning.”
Quinn blushed and nodded. Once he’d left, Scott turned back to her.
“I’ve been retained by Mr. Gallagher. I believe he’s a friend of yours.”
She realized then that it was Lou he reminded her of. She had the same feeling with them both: here was a guy who knew what he was doing. Who could take care of her.
Scott put his briefcase down, shook his head.
“Pathetic.”
She looked at him. He smiled again, nodded toward the door.
“Clearly they’ve got nothing on you. They’re subjecting you to these conditions to try and break you. If they had any real evidence, they’d come out with it. This”—he gestured around the small room—“this tells me they have nothing and they’re trying to put pressure on you to confess.”
She had a sudden, dizzying sensation of being able to hand over responsibility to someone whose job it was to take care of her. She tested the feeling cautiously. Sat up, looked him in the eye, and waited for him to begin.