He looks over the papers again, mostly out of curiosity. Checking out the other man's handwriting, maybe. Do non-medical doctors also write like shit? Not that he can talk. When he scrawls out Daryl Dixon, using the deck chair's armrest as a writing surface, it's clunky at best. He stares at it for a moment after, puzzled, trying to remember the last time he wrote something so normal out. Or wrote much of anything at all.

But it passes. He hands both the papers and the pen back. Question time, apparently.

"No," he answers, looking at him. A beat, then: "Couldn't I just lie?"

He isn't lying. He hasn't been arrested for a violent crime, or any crime. Which does not mean he hasn't committed any (he has), just that he's managed to avoid being caught. But he's not worried about that; he has no control over what Spencer believes. He's mostly just wondering as to what the methodology is here. Lie detectors are fake, he knows that much, but the younger man isn't doing anything but sitting across with him, eyeballs presumably peeled.