text: The conference room receded into a corner while a black-and-white image popped out to fill the screen. I recognized it immediately: it was an overhead view of one of Raphael's rooms. Correction. It was a recording, not an image. Numbers on the top right corner ticked away the date and time. The time was 7:02 in the evening.
  
  "The tape is from the camera in Crèche Room C on the night of the robbery," I heard Dan say.
  
  One could be forgiven for mistaking the scene to be a still image as there was nothing moving except the numbers. The room was large, roughly square-shaped. It didn't have much furniture except for a corner workstation with Raphael's computer on it and a small roundtable in the middle flanked by two office chairs. Two of the walls were inset with big, open shelves, the shelves filled with stuff: books, movies, a microscope, a calligraphy kit, toys… so many toys, not just on the shelves, but scattered on the floor, dumped in untidy heaps by the walls, thrown on top of the cupboard by the corner. Rubik cubes, Legos, board games, jigsaws, science models, toy robots, action figures: he had them all. He had outgrown most of them, but Raphael was a hoarder. He didn't care much for neatness either, and what could have been packed away in a box ate up space inside the room. In one corner, a painter's easel stood on top of a washable rubber mat. Strewn around it were half-empty tubes of oil paint, brushes, spray cans and rolled up canvases (this was one hobby he had not outgrown—he had started finger painting at a few months and kept going).
  
  Parked next to the painting area was a wheelchair, and on it, the Hunc 11 body. It was like peering into a tomb, at a modern-day pharaoh lording over his prized possessions while waiting for eternal life in the elsewhere.
  
  The illusion didn't last. In the next instant, Pharaoh came alive.
  
  "See that?" Dan said. He slowed down the playback and zoomed in on the hand resting on the wheelchair's joystick. The fingers were moving, closing on the joystick. He zoomed out, to catch the wheelchair lurch forward. It moved tentatively at first, a few inches forward, then back, and then right. Then the eyes opened.
  
  The robot slowly looked around the room, as if it was in an unknown place and was getting the lay of the land. The next moment, suddenly infused with purpose, the wheelchair shot towards one of the shelf-walls.
  
  On reaching it, the robot swept its arms over the lowermost shelf and brought everything clattering down to the floor. He did this again with the next shelf. Then he started hitting and tugging at the now empty wooden shelf with his bare fists. After he managed to break off a big enough piece, he used it to swipe at the shelves he could not reach with his arms alone. This apparent fit of rage went on for a few minutes. He then moved to the center of the room. He knocked over the table before making for the other shelf where he repeated the same behavior, knocking stuff over to the floor.
  
  He paused to consider his handiwork before turning and wheeling himself to his workstation.
  
  There he attacked the computer, first hitting it with his fists and then grabbing the entire thing and repeatedly smashing it against the wall until it lay in pieces.
  
  He then started picking up objects from the ground and flinging them every which way in seeming blind fury. Something hit the mirror on the wall, making the glass break. And then, just as suddenly as it had begun, the mindless violence ceased. The head lifted up and scanned the ceiling with a searching gaze. It stopped, now looking directly into the camera. The robot then moved to the corner where the paints were, and after grabbing something from there, moved directly below the camera.
  
  The clip ended, right after he pointed the can of spray paint at us and pressed the nozzle.