“In short, if you don't want to hear the theories, then Valentin Vasilyevich Krivoshein — that's me. You can put that into the official record.”

It was so unexpected and daring that Matvei Apollonovich was stunned for a second. “Should I send him to the psychiatrist?” he thought. But the suspect's blue eyes looked at him reasonably and there was mockery in their depths. That's what brought Onisimov out of his suspended animation.

“I see!” He got up. “Do you take me for a fool? Do you think I haven't familiarized myself with his file, that I wasn't present at the scene of the accident, that I don't remember his face?” He leaned on the desk top. “ If you refuse to identify yourself, it's only worse for you. We'll find out anyway. Do you admit your papers are forged?”

“That's it. We have to stop playing,” Kravets thought, and said:

“No. You still have to prove that. You might as well consider me a forgery while you're at it!”

The assistant turned to look out the window.

“Don't clown around with me, citizen!” The detective had raised his voice. “What was your purpose in entering the lab? Answer me! What happened between you and Krivoshein? Answer!”

“I'm not answering anything!”

Matvei Apollonovich scolded himself for losing his temper. He sat down and after a pause started talking in a heartfelt manner:

“Listen, don't think that I'm trying to pin anything on you. My job is to investigate thoroughly, to fill in the missing blanks, and then the prosecutor's office evaluates it, and the court makes the decision. But you're hurting yourself. You don't understand one thing: if you confess later, under duress as they say, it won't count as much as making a clean breast of things now. It might not all be so terrible. But for now, everything points against you. Proof of an assault on the body, expert testimony, and other circumstances. And it all boils down to one thing.” He leaned across the desk and lowered his voice. “It looks as if you… alleviated the victim's suffering.”