Cleve Backster spent his career teaching America how to catch a liar. He founded the CIA's polygraph program, trained a generation of examiners, and believed without reservation that "Only liars are afraid of the polygraph." Then, on the morning of February 2, 1966, he clipped his lie detector to the leaf of an office houseplant, thought about setting it on fire, and watched the pen leap off the chart.
A machine with a crowded family tree
Backster didn't invent the polygraph, and strictly speaking, neither did the man who gets the credit. Leonarde Keeler built the modern machine, but he got his start as a high school intern at the Berkeley Police Department in California. There, John Larson, a Canadian and the first cop in America with a PhD, was obsessed with building a lie detector for criminal interrogations. Larson worked from an early prototype built by psychologist William Moulton Marston and his wife, Elizabeth Holloway. The couple shared a throuple, a three-person romantic partnership, with a woman named Olive Byrne. Marston also created Wonder Woman, inspired by the two women in his life.
Keeler's first machine, the Emotograph, was lost in a house fire. He kept at it, and in February 1935 he ran the first test of the Keeler polygraph. He had the backing of his old boss August Vollmer, the lawman who pushed American policing toward science. Keeler insisted the device wasn't a lie detector at all, since it measured only respiration, pulse and blood pressure. The public didn't care. As far as they were concerned, it was a machine that caught liars, and that was that.
Then came the Lindbergh case. Bruno Richard Hauptmann was a German immigrant and carpenter whom the press dubbed "the most hated man in America." He faced the electric chair for kidnapping and murdering the 20-month-old son of aviator Charles Lindbergh. The evidence was circumstantial: no witnesses, no fingerprints. But Lindbergh told a grand jury he had heard Hauptmann's voice in the cemetery where the ransom changed hands. Hauptmann's wife begged for a polygraph test, sure it would save him. Keeler had sworn his machine was 90 percent accurate and offered to run the test, and so did Marston. It never happened. Hauptmann was executed on April 3, 1936. Later, a memo from J. Edgar Hoover turned up that ruled out any FBI part in polygraphing him. Early in the investigation, Lindbergh had also turned down Keeler's offer to test his household staff, certain none of them could be guilty.
The CIA's truth man
Backster was born in February 1924 in Lafayette Township, New Jersey, where his father ran a country store. He studied psychology at Middlebury College and served in the Navy during World War II. After that, he taught interrogation for the Army Counterintelligence Corps, specializing in hypnosis and truth serum. The CIA hired him in 1948, and a year later he founded its polygraph program. One of his jobs was warning State Department staff headed overseas to pick a reliable dentist. Sodium pentothal, a dental anesthetic, doubles as a truth serum, and nobody wants to spill state secrets mid-root canal.
Years later the agency admitted it had never checked whether the polygraph worked in the real world. By then Backster was long gone. He worked with Keeler in Chicago and created the Backster Zone Comparison Technique, the mix of control, relevant, neutral and symptomatic questions familiar from every cop show. He also scored reactions with numbers to rein in examiner bias. He opened his own lie detection school in New York, and by 1964 the country had 2,000 trained examiners using over 1,000 machines. He polygraphed TV audiences and job applicants hoping to drive school buses. He was successful, respected and settled.
The case that plants are aware didn't come from a mystic. It came from the man who founded the CIA's polygraph program, who became convinced his office plant panicked when he only thought about burning it.
The dracaena that flinched
The office plants were an accident. A florist downstairs was going out of business, and Backster's secretary bought a rubber plant and a dracaena cane, a common houseplant with glossy leaves on a long, slender trunk. After soaking both plants, Backster wondered how long the water would take to climb to the leaf tips. He attached the polygraph's galvanic skin response sensor, the part that tracks electrical resistance, to a leaf. He expected a steady drop as moisture arrived. Instead, the chart showed something that looked like a human response.
So he tried threatening the plant. He dipped a leaf in warm coffee, and "The plant, if anything, showed boredom." Then he simply thought about burning the leaf, without saying a word or touching anything. "The pen jumped right off the top of the chart." Waving a lit match couldn't push a maxed-out reading any higher, so he tried the reverse. "I removed the threat by returning the matches to the secretary's desk. The plant calmed right back down."
As Backster put it, "From that moment on, my consciousness hasn't been the same." Calling it ESP, or extrasensory perception, "fit the times, but not the facts." After all, a plant doesn't have the five senses to begin with. Backster called it primary perception: the idea that living cells stay aware of their surroundings and react to them. He tested whether plants noticed brine shrimp dropped at random into simmering water. The plants turned out to be so attuned to the experimenters that when he and his partner waited at a bar a block away, the plants seemed to follow the ups and downs of their conversation instead. In 1980 he wired up cells scraped from the roof of a man's mouth, seated the man 10 feet away and handed him a Playboy featuring Bo Derek. The needle jumped.
Someone at the CIA wrote in the margin of a file that the agency might do well to recognize such advances. The idea was that a plant might register great agitation if a murderer walked back into the room. How would defense attorneys cross-examine a ficus?
Music for the ficus
Backster's work might have stayed obscure if not for The Secret Life of Plants, a 1973 book by Peter Tompkins and Christopher Bird. It claimed plants were sentient and emotional, and possibly related to fairies, elves and gnomes. One critic called it "sensational tosh," and the savage reviews only sold more copies. The book's claim that plants thrive on Bach and jazz is the reason people still play music for their houseplants. When it became a documentary, Stevie Wonder wrote the soundtrack. It all landed in the decade of the first Earth Day, Watergate and gas lines, a time ripe for the idea that every living thing is connected.
Backster died at 89 in June 2013. A few years earlier, Mythbusters matched his results using a polygraph. They failed to repeat them with an EEG, a brainwave monitor that's an entirely different technology, and declared the whole thing busted anyway. As for whether vegetables mind being eaten, Backster was convinced that plants "liked being of use" and that lettuce simply goes into shock when threatened.
