The investigator shuffled through the pile of papers, glancing suspiciously at the rather placid suspect.
“Do you have any idea,” he began, “why you’re here?”
“Not a clue.”
He raised his eyebrow. “Well, these papers ought to give you ‘a clue.’” He carefully selected a middle page, read it over once more, then spoke. “This one says that you are currently in possession of a hundred-twenty year old, nine-foot concert grand piano. Why does it say that?”
No reaction.
“What about this? Here, it says that you have a radio, extracted by illicit means, set only to a Montreal station, & use it for bilingual contact with the Canadian government. How do you explain that?”
Again, no answer.
“Or, how about this one? It accuses you of frequently viewing…” he swallowed, glanced over his shoulder, leaned in and whispered, “Vintage Sesame Street.”
The suspect’s expression never changed.
“Why don’t you say anything?!” he asked in frustration.
“Easy,” she said, smirking. “Because one of those is a lie.”