The young man slowly raised his hands, holding a pillow.

“This will be better for both of us,” he rasped, pressing the pillow against the old woman’s face.

The grandmother flinched, uttered a muffled, desperate scream and began to struggle, pushing him away with her hands. The pillow fell to the floor; the young man recoiled, frightened that she would not die quickly enough. The old woman screamed at the top of her lungs:

“Help! People! They’re killing me!”

Neighbors rushed in within seconds — the door had not been locked. One burst into the bedroom, another ran to call the police.

The young man stood by the wall, confused and pale, as if he did not understand what had happened. They restrained him and led him out into the yard.

Later, when the police arrived, it became clear that the young man was not at all who he claimed to be.

His parents had died many years earlier in mysterious circumstances — he had been the only witness then, and the investigation had never been able to establish what had happened.

Since then he had lived under different names, until he devised a new plan: to move in with a trusting old woman and then stage everything as an accident in order to take possession of her apartment.