Self-discovery

Kravets thought: “The truth. Easier said than done.” “You see, the truth… how can I put it… that's too much and too complicated,” the assistant began mumbling, hating and despising himself for this lack of control. “I'd have to discuss information theory and the modeling of random processes.”

“Just don't try to cloud the issues, citizen,” Onisimov said, frowning disdainfully. “People aren't killed by theories — this was definitely practical application and fact.”

“But… you must understand, actually no one at all may have died. It can be proven… or attempted to be proven. You see, citizen investigator — (Why did I call him that? I haven't been arrested yet.) — You see, first of all, a man is not, well, not a hunk of protoplasm weighing 150 pounds. There are the fifty quarts of water, forty — four pounds of protein, fats and carbohydrates, enzymes, and so on. No, man is first and foremost information. A concentration of information. And if it has not disappeared, then the man is still alive.”

He stopped and bit his lip. “No, this is nonsense. It's hopeless,” he thought.

“Yes, I'm listening. Go on,” the detective said, laughing to himself. The assistant glanced up at him, got more comfortable in his chair, and said with a small smile:

“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.”

The suspect lowered his head and rubbed his face. He was seeing the scene again. The skeleton with Krivoshein's head twitching convulsively in the tank, his own hands holding on to the tank's edge, the warm, gentle liquid touching them and then — the blow!

“I'm not sure myself, if it's me or not,” he muttered in a depressed voice. “I can't understand it.” He looked up. “Listen, I have to get back to the lab!”

Matvei Apollonovich almost jumped up: he hadn't expected such a rapid victory. “Listen, that can happen too,” he said, nodding sympathetically. “In a state of frenzy from an insult or through overzealous self — defense. Let's go down to the lab, and you can explain on the scene just what transpired there.” He picked up Monomakh's Crown from his desk and casually asked: “Was this what you hit him on the chest with? It's a heavy thing.”

“That's enough!” The suspect spoke harshly and almost haughtily. He straightened up. “I see no reason to continue this discussion. You're trying to put me into a corner. By the way, that 'heavy thing' costs over five thousand rubles. Be careful with it.”

“Does this mean that you don't want to tell me anything?” “Yes.”

“I see.” The detective pushed a button. “You'll have to be held until this is cleared up.”

A gangly policeman with a long face and droopy nose appeared at the door. In the Ukraine, people like him are described as “tall but still bends.”

“Gayevoy?” the detective looked at him uncertainly. “Aren't any of the guards around?”

'They're all out in the field, comrade captain,” he replied. “A lot of them are at the beaches, maintaining law and order.” “Do you have a car?” “A small GAZ.”