Dissociation is a disconnection between a person's emotions, behaviors, perceptions, and/or sense of self. This disconnection is out of the person's control. It's often described as an extracorporeal experience. The current "Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders" (DSM-5) identifies the first of three types of dissociation as:

Depersonalization-derealization disorder - Persistent or recurring episodes of depersonalization, derealization, or both. It's often described as observing one's self from afar, and a direct reaction to significant trauma. Most researchers view dissociation as a protective response to trauma. It allows people to function and go about day-to-day activities by blocking trauma related emotions and memories that are otherwise overwhelming.

With zero law enforcement encounters, other than a few speeding violations, being Mirandized for the first time was nothing short of surreal. Having it done just before getting into a government vehicle with two state police detectives who were transporting me to a polygraph exam where I'd be asked about my involvement in the hideous murder of my lover made it exquisitely transcendental as well. It is phenomenal how a dire situation can pique adrenal glands to create a clarity of mind that's nothing short of piercing. Epinephrine is unquestionably a mighty hormone and was the single arbiter over the previous few weeks that allowed me to exhibit any pretense of normal human behavior. At the jump, Epi wrapped a steadying arm around my shoulder saying, "Don't worry, zone out, do whatever you need to do, I've got this." From then on Epi was in charge while I settled into a seat somewhere in the upper deck bleachers.

Inspector Dulles assumed an officious co-pilot position with Lunk relegated to driver. I think Lunk's name was Luke or Liam or something like that, but I identified him as Lunk because he was a lunkhead through and through. He had blazing red hair, a pasty white, feverishly freckled complexion and I guessed stood about six-six. Consequently, without warning the front bench seat of the car got shoved back with maximum fury as far as it would go. Sitting in the rear, my knees were forcibly jammed into my chest. It was a typical Lunk move.

Lunk was the kind of big man who liked to throw around his two hundred and fifty pounds or more. He would deliberately insinuate himself into the path of an oncoming walker so as to force a sidestep. More than once, I saw him body brush individuals, knocking them off balance and then turn to disingenuously apologize as though it had been accidental. Another time during my relatively brief exposures, I witnessed Lunk "half-sit" a detainee on a bench, dropped his whole weight so hard on the guy's hip they debated the possible need to have the victim checked at an emergency room. An authentic undulating asshole, that Lunk. This was the brainiac too who, first day back at the apartment, strenuously argued in favor of booking me, citing one two-millimeter dot of blood on my boot. Didn't want to give it up either until the inspector finally held up his palm and quelled him with, "Enough!"

Inspector Dulles was a short plump, graying fifty-something. He generally wore a long-suffering expression that seemed to suggest a degree of boredom very much in danger of lapsing into a nap. In contrast to the members of the homicide squad he supervised, the Inspector, fortunately, demonstrated a modicum of professionalism and was likely the single authority standing between me and a jail cell. Previous exchanges between the two of us had been demonstrations in the economy of language, but today he surprisingly assumed a manner that for him, I'd have to say, was positively chatty. The Super Bowl had been played the day before and he made it the topic of discussion. Lunk jumped right in with both of them inviting my involvement. These two, up until then being strident inquisitors, were suddenly my best friends. The ploy was embarrassingly transparent, but Epi clasped a stiff hand over my mouth before I could reflexively blurt, "You've gotta be kidding." It wouldn't be strategically smart to begin to demean. After all, the whole point of agreeing to a polygraph in the first place, which my attorney thought very ill-advised, was an earnest attempt to not only support my claim of innocence but equally to keep the investigation focused on the creature they already had in custody. So naturally it would be in my better interest to indulge Toody and Muldoon in their painfully obvious gambit. Just more of one bizarre event after another in a new normal. Besides, the capital was close to two hours away and having a match of sorts to play came as a welcome diversion.

Sure enough, before we even got on the highway, the Inspector

referred to the late-night television show I cited during initial questioning when he had me recounting my every moment on the night of the murder.

"You said you watched an episode of Stedler that night at the group home. What was that about again?"

I replied, "He was trying to smuggle some prostitutes to Interpol in Berlin. They had info on the Russians there."

Then the Inspector offhandedly added, "He did end up getting those two girls out of Moscow, right?"

Ah! The Inspector had done some checking or had someone check for him and this was presumably designed to further test my credibility. With the truth in my corner, my return volley was an easy lob, "Actually there were three women and they were in Vilnius. I don't know what eventually happened. It was a two-parter."

For the next forty-five minutes, whenever our conversation approximated affable, the Inspector or Lunk would attempt to weave in a poorly disguised probing question or loaded statement related to the investigation. Realizing my responses were consistently accurate and they were finding no incongruities, the two sleuths fell quiet. The rest of the ride passed in silence, a silence that sucked me into an inverted tailspin of anxiety. Although I knew I was innocent and they had Romney, I was well aware volunteering to subject myself to a polygraph came with serious risk. What if my jangling nerves and fragmented frame of mind caused a false positive or possibly could render the results inconclusive. The closer we got the more doubt crept in.

When we pulled into the central lab parking lot I was full-on levitating. Presumably it was the wind that lifted me out of the car and escorted me into the building where I hovered along the corridor's astral rung with my hair skimming the ceiling. I vaguely recall being connected to the polygraph and asked a number of mundane preliminary questions. I do vividly remember though the technician pointedly asking whether I had any part in the commission of the murder. Every bit of the jumble vibrating throughout my body seemed to suddenly snap into the eye of my internal hurricane. Slammed down dead calm like a thick sheet of standing steel tipping over and landing perfectly flat, I answered, "No." The reply, a tranquil certainty, rose from the hole in my heart, filled my chest and exited my lips like a giant bubble. I think there were a few more questions after that. Next thing, we were back in the car.

Hitting the highway again, Lunk looked at me via the rear-view mirror. The late afternoon winter sunlight illuminated the upper half of his head. With an implied challenge in his voice, he asked if I was right or left-handed. It was his Hail Mary lofted to possibly implicate me. When I informed him about my being dominantly right, I could see the disappointment trickle into his eyes. I knew then the coroner had established the perpetrator to be left-handed and that Lunk's last-ditch effort at a gotcha also meant I'd passed the polygraph. Not a further word was spoken the entire ride back. When they dropped me at my car, the Inspector simply said. "I'll be in touch."

Toody & Muldoon were characters in an old TV show from The States.  If curious see: 

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Car_54,_Where_Are_You%3F