"Myself detective Stan Demiurge," I said and held out my right hand.

At first, the man sitting across the table gave me an astonished look, but then he grinned and shook my hand.

The room was eerily quiet and dim; there was only us in the room--he and me.

A wide mirror stood on the wall on my right (his left). He didn't know that it was actually a see-through mirror. But I felt dozen of eyes staring at us through the mirror.

"I didn't do anything," he abruptly said.

I smiled. "In a way, yes. You didn't do anything; it was one of your four personalities."

"What does that mean?" he said, appalled.

I lifted his file from the table and began reading it aloud. "Suspect name: Josh Mathews. Age: 46. Height: 5 feet 8 inch. Job: technician in a garage. Medical records: suffering from severe multiple personality disorder; the symptoms first appeared after his wife's death. Crime: killed his own daughter."

"You can not prove that I killed my own daughter," he said defiantly. "You don't even know where she is!"

"We do," I said, "we know where you have disposed her body. We know how you killed her. We know everything."

Josh snorted. "I know you are bluffing. Old trick. I have seen it many times in the Hollywood films. It will not work on me."

"It will work," I said, "for I'm not bluffing. I really know everything."

"Then prove it!" he barked.

"You were having severe headaches in your workplace," I said, "and so you left for home early around seven--the proprietor of the garage told us about your headaches. You reached home by eight--by that time you were already in one of your four personalities. We believe it was the lawyer guy. You caught your daughter with a boy and that made you very angry. The boy fled. You had a row with her. You kept telling her that these kind of things are not appropriate for the daughter of a famous lawyer. She kept telling you that you are no lawyer but an underpaid technician who can't even afford to send her to a good college. That made you even angrier.

"In fact, it infuriated you. What happened after that was terrifying and heartbreaking. You grabbed her by her hair and slammed her head into a wall. She passed out. You then tied her to a chair and pushed all her fingers in the toaster. She kept shrieking. She kept repeating: please daddy, stop it. But you didn't. After that, you-you ate her in the dinner and buried her bones in your own backyard!"

"This is all bullshit!" Josh roared. "How can I eat my own daughter?"

"You cooked her--we believe your chef personality was at work at that time."

"This can't be true. I really doubt the veracity." Josh said dubiously.

"All this really happened," I said glumly, "You killed your own daughter."

"No," Josh said, suddenly smiling, "All of this is not true. You made a slight mistake."

That took me by surprise. "And what is my mistake?"

He grinned. "You said that it was the lawyer guy. But it was actually the police officer, Josh."

"Hey," I said, indignantly, "why did you called me Josh?"

"Because you are Josh. And you just made a confession--just told one lie--your daughter's boyfriend told us you were behaving like a police officer, not like a lawyer."

"What!" I jumped to me feet and heard a rattle. I stared at my left hand and my heart jumped into my throat. My left hand was cuffed to the table.

A/N: Now again read the first two paragraphs.