Part 4 · Chapter 5

When he finally went to the criminal investigations department the next morning, right at eleven, Raskolnikov was surprised at how long he had to wait - at least ten minutes before they called his name.

He’s expected them to jump on him, but instead, he stood in the waiting room, surrounded by people who seemed to have nothing to do with him. Clerks were busy writing in an office nearby, totally oblivious to who he was.

He nervously scanned the room, looking for a guard, some kind of surveillance, like they were preventing him from running. But there was nothing - just clerks absorbed in boring details, and other people who didn’t seem to care about him at all. He could have walked away if he wanted to.

He started to think that if that weird guy from yesterday - that phantom - had seen everything, they wouldn’t have let him just sit there, waiting. And would they have made him show up at eleven?

Either the guy hadn't given them any info yet, or... or maybe he didn't know anything, hadn't seen anything (but how could he have seen anything?).

So, everything that had happened to him the day before was probably just a figment of his imagination, blown way out of proportion by his sickness and stress. That thought had started to creep into his mind the day before, in the middle of all the panic and despair.

Now, as he prepared for another confrontation, he suddenly realized he was shaking - and he felt a surge of anger at himself for being scared to face that awful Porfiry Petrovitch.

What he dreaded most was seeing that guy again; he hated him with everything he had and was afraid his hatred would give him away. His anger stopped the shaking instantly.

He straightened his shoulders and prepared to walk in with a cool, arrogant look, vowing to be as quiet as possible, to watch and listen, and to finally get a handle on his frayed nerves. Then, they called him in to see Porfiry Petrovitch.

He found Porfiry Petrovitch alone in his study. The room wasn't huge, but it wasn't tiny either. It had a big desk facing a couch with a checkered pattern, a dresser, a bookcase in the corner, and a bunch of chairs - all that generic government furniture with the shiny yellow wood.

There was a closed door on the far wall, and he guessed there were more rooms behind it. As soon as Raskolnikov walked in, Porfiry Petrovitch closed the door behind him, and they were alone.

Porfiry Petrovitch greeted him with a friendly, laid-back vibe, but after a few minutes, Raskolnikov noticed a certain awkwardness creeping into his expression, like he’s been caught off guard or was hiding something huge.

"Ah, my friend! You’re here... in our space," Porfiry started, holding out both hands.

"Come on, sit down, pal... or maybe you don’t like being called ‘my friend’ and ‘pal!’ - totally? Please don’t think I’m being too familiar... Here, on the couch."

Raskolnikov sat down, staring at him.

"In our space," the friendly greetings, the French phrase - it was all classic Porfiry.

"He held out both hands to me, but he didn't actually give me one - he pulled it back just in time," Raskolnikov thought suspiciously.

They were both watching each other, but when their eyes met, they quickly looked away.

"I brought you this paper... about the watch. Here it is. Is it okay, or should I copy it again?"

"What? A note? Yeah, yeah, don’t freak out, it’s fine," Porfiry Petrovitch said, kind of rushing, and then he grabbed the note and looked at it. "Yeah, it’s all good. Nothing else needed," he declared just as fast, and he tossed the note onto the table.

A minute later, when he was talking about something else, he picked it up and put it on his desk.

"I think you said yesterday you wanted to question me... officially... about knowing the murdered woman?"

Raskolnikov started again.

"Why did I put in ‘I think’?" flashed through his mind.

"Why am I so stressed about saying ‘I think’?"

then another thought: He suddenly felt like his anxiety about just being around Porfiry, about the first words, the first looks, had blown up into something huge and scary. His nerves were buzzing, his emotions were going crazy.

"This is bad, really bad! I’m gonna say too much again."

"Yeah, yeah, yeah! No rush, no rush," mumbled Porfiry Petrovitch, pacing around the table without seeming to have a plan, like he was darting towards the window, the desk, and the table, dodging Raskolnikov’s suspicious stares, then stopping to stare right at him.

His round, chubby figure looked really weird, like a ball bouncing from side to side.

"We’re not in a hurry. Do you smoke? Got your own? Here, a cigarette!" he went on, offering his visitor a cigarette.

"You know I’m seeing you here, but my actual office is through there, you know, my government office. But I’m living elsewhere for now, had to get some repairs done here. It’s almost done... Government offices are the best, you know? What do you think?"

"Yeah, the best," answered Raskolnikov, looking at him almost sarcastically.

"The best, the best," repeated Porfiry Petrovitch, as if he’s just thought of something totally different.

"Yeah, the best," he almost yelled, suddenly staring at Raskolnikov and stopping two steps away.

That dumb repetition was totally out of place with the serious, intense, and mysterious look he gave his visitor.

But it really got under Raskolnikov’s skin, and he couldn’t resist a sarcastic, and maybe reckless, challenge.

"Tell me, please," he asked suddenly, looking almost rude and enjoying his own sass. "I think it’s a kind of legal rule, a kind of legal tradition - for all detectives - to start their thing from far away, with a small, or at least unimportant, subject, to encourage, or rather, to distract the person they’re questioning, to lower their guard, and then suddenly hit them with a killer question."

"Isn’t that right? It’s a sacred tradition, mentioned, I think, in all the detective handbooks?"

"Yeah, yeah... You think that’s why I was talking about government offices... huh?"

"And as he said this Porfiry Petrovitch squinted and winked; a playful, sneaky look flashed across his face. The lines on his forehead relaxed, his eyes narrowed, his features widened, and he suddenly burst into a nervous, drawn-out laugh, shaking all over and staring right at Raskolnikov."

The latter forced himself to laugh along, but when Porfiry, seeing that he was laughing, let out a huge guffaw and turned almost red, Raskolnikov’s disgust took over; he stopped laughing, glared at Porfiry with pure hatred, keeping his eyes locked on him while Porfiry’s laughter went on.

Both of them were being careless, because Porfiry Petrovitch seemed to be laughing right in his visitor’s face and didn’t seem bothered at all by the annoyance the visitor was showing.

"That was really significant to Raskolnikov: he realized Porfiry Petrovitch hadn’t been embarrassed before, either, but that he, Raskolnikov, might have walked right into a trap; that something was up, some hidden reason he didn’t know; that maybe everything was set and would come crashing down on him any minute..."

He got straight to the point, stood up, and grabbed his cap.

"Porfiry Petrovitch," he started, determined but super irritated, "yesterday you said you wanted me to come over and ask some questions" (he really emphasized the word "questions"). "I’m here, and if you have something to ask, ask it, and if not, let me leave. I don’t have time for this..."

I gotta be at the funeral for that guy who got hit by a car, you... know about him too," he added, instantly regretting saying it and even more annoyed at his own anger. "I’m done with it all, you hear? And have been for a while. It’s part of what made me sick.

Basically," he practically shouted, feeling like even mentioning his illness was out of place, "basically, examine me or let me go, right now. And if you’re gonna examine me, do it properly!

"I won’t let you do it any other way, and so, for now, goodbye, because it seems like we don’t have anything keeping us here anymore."

"Good grief! What are you going on about? What do you want to ask me?"

Porfiry Petrovitch cackled, his tone completely changing, instantly stopping the laughter.

"Please don’t get worked up," he started pacing around and fussily trying to get Raskolnikov to sit down.

"There’s no rush, no rush, it’s all good. Oh, no, I’m really glad you came to see me finally... I just see you as a visitor. And about my crazy laughter, please excuse me, Rodion Romanovitch. Rodion Romanovitch? Is that your name?..."

"It’s my nerves, you totally cracked me up with your clever comment; I swear, sometimes I shake with laughter like a bouncy ball for half an hour straight... I’m often scared I’ll have a stroke. Please sit down. Do sit down, or I’ll think you’re mad at me..."

Raskolnikov didn’t say anything; he just listened, watching him, still frowning angrily. He did sit down, but still held his cap.

"Look, I gotta tell you something about myself, Rodion Romanovitch," Porfiry Petrovitch went on, pacing the room and still avoiding his visitor’s eyes.

"I’m single, a nobody, not really into the social scene. Plus, I don't have much going on, I'm kind of stuck, fading out..."

and you know, Rodion Romanovitch, in our Petersburg circles, when two smart guys meet who aren’t close but respect each other, like you and me, it takes them like, half an hour just to find something to talk about - they’re totally awkward, sitting across from each other, feeling super uncomfortable.

Everyone has something to talk about, like, ladies for example... people in high society always have their topics, it’s just how it is, but us middle-class types, the thinking types, are always tongue-tied and awkward. Why is that?

"Is it because we’re not interested in what’s happening out there, or are we just being honest and don't want to mislead each other? I don’t know. What do you think? Put your cap down, will ya? It looks like you’re about to leave, and it makes me nervous... I’m so glad you’re here."

Raskolnikov put down his cap and kept listening, his face serious and frowning, to Porfiry Petrovitch’s rambling, pointless chatter.

"Is he seriously trying to distract me with this silly stuff?"

"I can’t offer you coffee, but why not hang out with a friend for a few minutes?"

Porfiry kept going.

"And you know, all this official stuff... don’t mind me bouncing around, excuse me, I'm worried about offending you, but I really need to move around. I’m killing myself sitting all day..."

I always mean to join a gym; they say even top officials, like Privy Councillors, are skipping rope there - it’s modern science, you know? Yeah, yeah... But as for my work here, the investigations and all that paperwork... you mentioned investigations just now...

I promise, these interrogations can be more awkward for the person asking the questions than for the person being questioned. You pointed that out really well, actually. It's a total mess! You keep repeating the same thing, like a drumbeat!

There's supposed to be a reform, and we’ll have new titles, at least, haha! And as for our legal system, like you so cleverly called it, I totally agree with you.

Every prisoner on trial, even the roughest peasant, knows that they start by throwing you off balance with random questions (like you so happily put it) and then hit you with the big stuff, haha! - your brilliant comparison, haha! So you really thought I meant by ‘government offices’... haha!

You're a sarcastic dude. Come on. I won’t go on! Oh, by the way, yeah! One thing leads to another. You mentioned formality just now, related to the investigation, you know. But what’s the point of formality? In a lot of cases, it’s just nonsense. Sometimes a casual chat gets you a lot more.

"You can always fall back on formality, trust me. And really, what does it matter? An investigating lawyer can’t be tied down by rules at every step. The work of investigation is, like, an art form in its own way, haha!"

Porfiry Petrovitch paused for breath. He'd just been rambling, dropping a few mysterious words and then going back to being incoherent.

He was practically running around the room, his little legs moving faster and faster, staring at the floor, with his right hand behind his back, while with his left making gestures that were totally weird compared to what he was saying.

Raskolnikov suddenly noticed that as he ran around, he seemed to stop for a moment near the door twice, like he was listening for something.

"Is he expecting something?"

"You’re totally right," Porfiry started, grinning and looking at Raskolnikov with this super chill vibe (which totally threw him and put him on edge).

"Totally right to laugh at our legal stuff, haha! Some of these fancy psychology things are seriously ridiculous and kinda pointless if you get too caught up in the rules. Yeah... I’m talking about the rules again. So, if I think someone’s a criminal - and I’m working a case, you know?"

"You’re studying law, right, Rodion Romanovitch?"

"Yeah, I am..."

"Okay, so it’s good practice for you later on - but don’t think I’m trying to teach you anything, especially with those articles you write about crime! No, I’m just saying, if I thought this guy or that guy was a criminal, why would I stress them out before I had anything solid?"

In one case, I might have to arrest someone right away, but another situation could be totally different. So, why not let them wander around town a bit? Haha! But I see you’re not quite getting it, so I’ll give you a better example.

"If I lock someone up too soon, I could basically give them a pep talk, haha! Are you laughing?"

Raskolnikov wasn't laughing. He was sitting there with his lips pressed together, his wild eyes fixed on Porfiry Petrovitch.

"Seriously, that’s the deal, especially with certain types of people. Guys are just wired differently. You’re talking ‘evidence’? Well, there might be some. But evidence can be interpreted in a bunch of ways, you know? I’m a lawyer, and I’m gonna be honest, I’m not exactly the strongest guy."

I’d love to nail down a solid proof, like, mathematically clear. A chain of evidence, like two plus two equals four - a straight-up, undeniable proof! But if I shut him down too quickly - even if I’m pretty sure he’s the guy - I might be cutting myself off from more evidence. And how?

By giving him a definite position, I’m putting him at ease, letting him chill out. He’ll clam up and retreat. They say that at Sevastopol, right after Alma, the smart people were freaking out that the enemy would just attack and take the city instantly.

But when they realized the enemy was going for a full-on siege, they were actually relieved. It would drag on for months, you know? You’re laughing, you don't believe me again? Of course, you're probably right, too. You're right, you're right. These are special cases, I admit.

But you gotta see the bigger picture, my dear Rodion Romanovitch. The general case, the one all legal rules and forms are supposed to cover - it doesn’t really exist. Every crime, every situation, becomes totally unique the moment it happens. Sometimes, it's just wild.

If I leave a guy alone, if I don’t push him or stress him out, but let him know - or at least make him suspect - that I know everything and I'm watching him day and night, and he's constantly suspicious and terrified, he’s gonna crack.

He’ll mess up somehow, or do something that’s as obvious as two plus two equals four - it’s awesome. It might work with a simple peasant, but with someone like him - an intelligent, cultivated guy - it’s a sure thing. Because, seriously, it’s super important to know what kind of person he is.

And then there are nerves, nerves, you’re missing the point! They’re all sick, nervous, and on edge! And then how they all suffer from being down in the dumps! I’m telling you, that’s a goldmine for us. And it’s no big deal if he’s wandering around town! Let him! Let him walk around a bit!

I know I’ve got him, and he’s not getting away from me. Where could he escape to, he-he? Abroad, maybe? A Pole might bolt for another country, but not him, especially since I’m watching and I’ve got things covered. Go hide in the countryside?

But you know, there are real, rough Russian peasants out there. A modern, cultivated guy would rather be in prison than hanging out with those kinds of people. He-he! But that’s all surface-level stuff. It’s not just that he has nowhere to run to, he’s psychologically trapped by me, he-he!

What an expression! It’s like a law of nature - he can’t escape me even if he had somewhere to go. Have you ever seen a butterfly buzzing around a candle? That’s how he’s going to keep circling and circling around me. Freedom won't even be appealing anymore.

He’ll start overthinking things, he’ll tie himself in knots, he’ll stress himself to death! What’s more, he’ll give me a mathematical proof - if I just give him enough time... And he’ll keep circling, getting closer and closer, and then - bam!

"He’ll fly right into my mouth and I’ll swallow him, and that will be hilarious, he-he-he! You still don’t believe me?"

Raskolnikov said nothing; he sat pale and still, staring with the same intensity into Porfiry’s face.

"This is serious," he thought, feeling a chill run through him.

"This isn't just messing around, like yesterday. He wouldn’t be flexing his power for no reason... trying to bait me. He’s way too smart for that... he has another angle. What is it? This is ridiculous, my dude, you’re messing with me, trying to freak me out!"

You’re pulling a bluff - you have zero proof, and the guy I saw probably didn’t even exist. You just want to get under my skin, rile me up beforehand, and then crush me. But you’re wrong, you won't! But why drop such a hint? Is he counting on me being a nervous wreck?

"Nah, you’re wrong, you won’t do it, even if you’ve got some scheme cooking... let’s see what you’re planning."

And he steeled himself to face whatever was coming - something awful and completely unknown. Sometimes he wanted to just jump on Porfiry and choke him. That kind of rage was what he't been dreading from the start. He felt like his lips were dry and foamy, his heart pounding.

But he was still determined to stay quiet until the time was right. He realized that was the smartest move in his situation - instead of talking a lot, he’s annoy his enemy with his silence and push him into spilling too much. That's what he was hoping for, anyway.

"Seriously, I see you don’t believe me," Porfiry began again, getting really animated, chuckling constantly and pacing around the room.

"And you’d be right to think I’m pulling your leg - I mean, look at me! My build isn’t exactly inspiring, right? A total goofball. But let me tell you, and I’m saying this as an older guy, my dear Rodion Romanovitch, you’re still young - like, in your prime."

And you put brains above everything, just like all young people do. Witty jokes and complicated arguments totally fascinate you. It’s like that old Austrian military advisor - you know, the ones who thought they could beat Napoleon on paper?

They’d planned everything out perfectly in their studies, but then General Mack just surrendered with his whole army, haha! I get it, I get it, Rodion Romanovitch - you’re laughing at a civilian like me, throwing in examples from military history! But I can’t help it, it’s my thing.

I'm obsessed with military stuff. I’ve definitely missed my calling. I should’ve been in the army, I swear! I wouldn't have been a Napoleon, but I could’ve been a major, haha!

"Okay, so I’ll tell you the whole truth about this whole situation - I mean, the actual facts and a person’s personality, my dear sir, are big deals, and it’s crazy how they can mess up even the smartest plans! Listen to an old guy - I’m being serious, Rodion Romanovitch."

"(As he said this Porfiry Petrovitch, who was barely thirty-five, suddenly seemed to look ancient; even his voice changed and he seemed to shrink.) "Plus, I’m a straight shooter... am I a straight shooter or not? What do you think?

I think I really am: I’m telling you all this for nothing and don’t even expect a reward, haha! Anyway, wit, in my opinion, is awesome - it's like, a gift and a way to cope with life. And it can play some serious tricks!

It’s sometimes hard for a poor lawyer to know what's going on, especially when he’s letting his imagination run wild, you know, because he's human! But the criminal’s personality saves the day, unfortunately for him!

But young people carried away by their own wit don’t think about that - ‘when they overstep all obstacles,’ as you so cleverly put it yesterday.

He’s going to lie - that is, the guy who’s a special case, the mystery man, and he’s going to lie well, in the smartest way possible; you’d think he’d be celebrating and enjoying his cleverness, but at the most crucial, the most obvious moment, he’ll faint.

Sure, maybe there’s illness and a stuffy room too, but still! Anyway, he’s given us an idea! He lied brilliantly, but he didn’t count on his personality. That’s what gives him away!

Another time he’ll get carried away by his jokes and start messing with the person who suspects him - he’ll turn pale on purpose to throw them off, but his paleness will be too real, too natural, another clue!

Even if the questioner gets fooled at first, they’ll think differently the next day if they’re not totally clueless, and, of course, that’s how it always goes! He pushes himself forward when he’s not wanted, talks constantly when he should be quiet, throws in all kinds of weird references, haha!

"Comes and asks why didn’t you grab me earlier? Haha-ha! And that can happen with the smartest guy, the psychologist, the writer. Personality reflects everything like a mirror! Take a look and see what you see! But why are you so pale, Rodion Romanovitch? Is it hot in here? Should I open a window?"

"Oh, don’t worry, please," cried Raskolnikov, and he suddenly burst out laughing. "Please don’t bother."

Porfiry stood facing him, paused a moment, and then suddenly laughed too. Raskolnikov got up from the couch, abruptly cutting off his hysterical laughter.

"Porfiry Petrovitch," he started, speaking loudly and clearly, though his legs were shaking and he could barely stand.

"I finally see that you totally suspect me of murdering that old woman and her sister Lizaveta. Honestly, I'm done with this. If you have the right to arrest me, to charge me legally, then go ahead. But I won’t stand here and be mocked and stressed out..."

His lips trembled, his eyes flashed with anger, and he couldn't control his voice.

"I won’t let it happen!" he shouted, slamming his fist on the table. "Do you hear me, Porfiry Petrovitch? I won’t let it happen."

"Whoa! What’s going on?" cried Porfiry Petrovitch, looking genuinely freaked out. "Rodion Romanovitch, my friend, what’s wrong with you?"

"I won’t let it happen," Raskolnikov shouted again.

"Shhh, my guy! They’ll hear and come in. Seriously, what would we even say to them?" Porfiry Petrovitch whispered in horror, leaning close to Raskolnikov.

"I won’t let it happen, I won’t let it happen," Raskolnikov repeated mechanically, but he too spoke in a sudden whisper.

Porfiry turned quickly and ran to open the window.

"Get some fresh air! And you need some water, seriously. You look awful!"

and he was heading for the door to call for someone when he spotted a decanter of water in the corner.

"Here, drink a little," he whispered, rushing up to him with the decanter. "It’s gotta make you feel better."

Porfiry Petrovitch’s alarm and concern felt so real that Raskolnikov fell silent and started staring at him with wide-eyed curiosity. He didn't take the water, though.

"Rodion Romanovitch, my friend, you’ll burn yourself out, I’m telling you, seriously! Have some water, just a little."

He practically forced him to take the glass. Raskolnikov lifted it to his lips mechanically, but then put it back on the table with a disgusted look.

"Yeah, you had a little episode! You’re bringing back that sickness, my friend," Porfiry Petrovitch chuckled with friendly concern, though he still seemed a little rattled.

"Goodness, you gotta take better care of yourself! Dmitri Prokofitch was here, came to see me yesterday - I know, I know, I can be a little sarcastic, but what they made of it!... Seriously, he came yesterday after you’d been."

"We ate and he talked and talked away, and I just threw my hands up in frustration! Did he come from you? But please, sit down, for heaven’s sake, sit down!"

"No, not from me, but I knew he went to you and why," Raskolnikov snapped back.

"No way... You knew why?"

"I knew. So what?"

"So, Rodion Romanovitch, that I know more than that about you; I know everything. I know how you went to find an apartment at night when it was dark and how you rang the bell and asked about the blood, so the workers and the doorman didn’t know what to make of it."

Yeah, I get your state of mind at that time... but you’ll drive yourself crazy like that, I’m serious! You’ll lose it!

You’re so full of righteous anger about the wrongs you’ve suffered, first from fate, and then from the cops, and so you rush from one thing to another to force them to speak out and end it all, because you’re sick of all this suspicion and nonsense. That’s it, isn’t it?

I’ve figured out how you feel, right? But that’s how you’ll lose it, and Razumihin’s too; he’s too good a guy for this, you gotta know that. You’re sick, and he’s good, and your sickness is contagious for him... I’ll tell you about it when you’re more yourself...

"But please, sit down, for goodness’ sake. Just relax, you look awful, sit down."

Raskolnikov sat down; he was hot all over, not shivering anymore. He listened, totally focused, as Porfiry Petrovitch spoke - the guy still seemed freaked out, looking at him with this friendly, worried vibe. But Raskolnikov didn’t believe a single word, even though a weird part of him wanted to.

Porfiry’s unexpected comment about the apartment had totally thrown him.

"Wait, he knows about the apartment? And he’s telling me?" he thought, suddenly.

"Yeah, in my legal work, there was a case almost exactly like it - a case about messed-up psychology," Porfiry continued quickly.

"A guy confessed to murder and how he kept it going! It was like a total hallucination; he made up facts, tricked everyone, and why?"

He’s been partly, but only partly, accidentally responsible for a murder, and when he realized he’s given the killers the chance, he spiraled, it messed with his head, he started imagining things and convinced himself he was the killer.

But eventually, the High Court of Appeal looked into it and the poor guy was cleared and got the help he needed. Thanks to the Court of Appeal! Tut-tut-tut! Seriously, my friend, you could drive yourself crazy if you start messing with your nerves, ringing doorbells at night and asking about blood!

I’ve studied all this crazy psychology in my practice. People sometimes feel like jumping out of a window or off a bell tower. It's the same with ringing those bells... It's all an illness, Rodion Romanovitch! You’ve been ignoring your health. You should see a real doctor, what about that chubby guy?

"You're out of your mind! You were tripping when you did all this!"

For a moment, Raskolnikov felt like the room was spinning.

"No way, no way," flashed through his mind, "is he still lying? He couldn’t be, right?"

He rejected that thought, realizing how furious it could make him, how that fury could push him over the edge.

"I wasn’t hallucinating. I knew what I was doing," he said, straining to figure out Porfiry’s game, "I was totally myself, you hear?"

"Yeah, I hear you and I get it. You said yesterday you weren't hallucinating, you really emphasized it! I understand everything you're saying! A-ach!... Listen, Rodion Romanovitch, my friend."

If you were actually a criminal, or somehow involved in this awful mess, would you insist that you weren’t hallucinating but were totally in control? And so strongly and consistently? Would that even be possible? To me, it’s completely impossible.

"If you had something on your conscience, you definitely would insist you were delirious. Right?"

There was a sneaky tone in this question. Raskolnikov pulled back on the couch as Porfiry leaned over him, staring with a silent, confused look.

"Another thing about Razumihin - you really should have said he showed up on his own, to have hidden your part in it! But you're not hiding it! You're stressing how he came at your invitation."

Raskolnikov hadn't done that. A chill ran down his spine.

"You keep lying," he said slowly, forcing a sickly smile, "you’re trying again to show that you know all my game, that you know everything I’m going to say beforehand," he realized himself that he wasn’t carefully choosing his words. "You want to scare me... or you’re just messing with me..."

He was still staring at him as he said this, and again there was a flash of intense hate in his eyes.

"You keep lying," he said. "You know perfectly well that the best thing for a criminal is to tell the truth as much as possible... to hide as little as possible. I don’t believe you!"

"You’re seriously messing with me!"

Porfiry chuckled, "There’s no catching you; you’re totally obsessed. So you don’t believe me? But you do believe me, you believe a quarter - I’m gonna make you believe the whole thing, because I actually like you and genuinely want things to go well for you."

Raskolnikov’s lips started to tremble.

"Yeah, I do," Porfiry went on, touching Raskolnikov’s arm in a friendly way, "you really need to take care of yourself. Plus, your mom and sister are here now; you need to think about them. You need to comfort them and you're just scaring them..."

"What’s that got to do with you? How do you even know? Why are you so invested?"

"Seriously! I learned it all from you! You don’t even realize you’re spilling everything when you’re worked up. Razumihin told me a bunch of interesting stuff yesterday too. Look, you interrupted me, but I gotta tell you, for all your smarts, your paranoia is making you lose sight of the obvious."

Like the bell-ringing, for example. I, an investigator, just revealed a valuable fact - a real, juicy detail - and you didn’t even notice! Why would I do that if I suspected you?

I would’ve played it cool, let your suspicions down, and then blindsided you: ‘And what were you doing, sir, around ten or eleven at the murdered woman’s apartment, and why were you ringing the bell and asking about blood?

And why did you invite the doormen to go with you to the police station, to the lieutenant? That’s how I would’ve acted if I had even a tiny bit of suspicion. I would’ve collected your statement properly, searched your place, maybe even arrested you.

"So, I don't suspect you, because I haven't done any of that! But you’re not seeing things clearly, you’re missing the big picture, I’m telling you."

Raskolnikov jumped, and Porfiry Petrovitch noticed it right away.

"You’re lying the whole time!" he shouted, "I don’t know what your game is, but you’re lying. You didn’t talk like that a minute ago, and I’m not wrong!"

"I’m lying?" Porfiry repeated, looking annoyed, but keeping a good-humored and sarcastic expression, like he didn’t care what Raskolnikov thought.

"I’m lying... but how did I treat you just now, me, the investigator? Encouraging you, giving you every advantage for your defense - illness, delirium, injury, melancholy, the police officers, all of it? Ah! He-he-he!"

"Though, honestly, those psychological defenses aren’t always reliable and can backfire. Illness, delirium, you don't remember - that's fine, but why, when you were sick and delirious, were you haunted by those delusions and not others? There could’ve been others, eh?"

Raskolnikov glared at him with disdain.

"Just briefly," he said loudly and impatiently, standing up and pushing Porfiry back a little, "briefly, do you acknowledge that you have no suspicion of me or not? Tell me, Porfiry Petrovitch, tell me once and for all and hurry up!"

What a mess I’m in with you! Porfiry said with a friendly, sly, and composed face. And why do you need to know, why are you so desperate to know, when they haven’t even started to worry you? You’re like a kid asking for matches! And why are you so on edge?

Why are you pushing so hard, eh?

"I repeat," Raskolnikov shouted furiously, "I can’t stand it!"

"With what? Uncertainty?" Porfiry interrupted.

"Don’t mess with me! I won’t have it! I tell you, I can’t and I won’t, do you hear, do you hear?" he yelled, slamming his fist on the table again.

"Shhh! They’ll hear! Seriously, watch yourself. I’m not kidding," Porfiry whispered, but his face wasn't its usual sweet, worried look.

Now he was serious, stern, and frowning, dropping all the games.

But it was only for a second. Raskolnikov, totally freaked out, suddenly lost it, but weirdly, he still obeyed the quiet command, even though he was boiling with anger.

"I won’t let you mess with me," he whispered, instantly hating that he couldn't help but listen and even angrier at the thought. "Arrest me, search me, but do things by the book, okay? Don’t play games! Don’t even try it!"

"Don’t worry about the rules," Porfiry interrupted with that same sneaky smile, like he was enjoying Raskolnikov’s reaction.

"I just wanted to chat, you know?"

"I don’t want your friendship, and I spit on it! Got it? And, uh, I’m outta here."

He reached for his cap and headed for the door.

"And you won’t believe my little surprise?" Porfiry chuckled, grabbing his arm again and stopping him at the door.

He seemed to be joking around, which totally freaked Raskolnikov out.

"What surprise?" he asked, standing still and looking at Porfiry, worried.

"My little surprise is right there behind the door, he-he-he!" (He pointed to the locked door.)

"I locked him in so he wouldn’t run off."

"What is it? Where? What...?"

Raskolnikov walked to the door and would have opened it, but it was locked.

"It’s locked, here’s the key!"

And he pulled a key out of his pocket.

"You’re lying!" Raskolnikov roared, completely losing control.

"You’re lying, you ridiculous clown!" and he lunged at Porfiry, who calmly stepped back to the other door.

"I get it! You’re lying and messing with me so I’ll trip myself up..."

"Why, you’ve already tripped yourself up plenty, my dear Rodion Romanovitch. You’re all worked up. Don't yell, I’ll call the assistants."

"You’re lying! Call the assistants! You knew I was sick and tried to push me over the edge to make me confess, that was your plan! Show me the evidence! I understand everything now. You have nothing, just pathetic suspicions like Zametov’s!"

"You know my personality, you wanted to drive me crazy and then take me down with priests and officials... Are you waiting for them? Huh? What are you waiting for? Where are they? Bring them out!"

"Why officials, my good man? People will imagine all sorts of things! And that wouldn’t be following procedure, as you say, you don't know how things work, my friend... And you can’t escape procedure, as you can see."

Porfiry muttered, listening at the door where a noise could be heard.

"Ah, they’re coming!" Raskolnikov cried. "You called them! You were expecting them! Okay, bring them all: your officials, your witnesses, whatever you’re hiding!... I’m ready!"

But at that moment, something really weird happened, something so unexpected that neither Raskolnikov nor Porfiry Petrovitch could have predicted.