Bell takes the chair to her right. As the guard leaves, Emma squares the manila folder in front of her. “Clarence McMurtry—thanks for meeting with us.”

“Who the hell’re you?” McMurtry barks out. He has pimples, skinny arms, a snappable neck. His head is too big for his body, like a baby chick.

“My name is Emma Lewis and this is Travis Bell. We’re—”

“You’re not a G-man.”

Emma registers a whole lot of Down in the Holler in McMurtry’s accent, which is something she figures she can work with. She allows more Apple Creek to slide into hers. “Actually we’re both with the FBI.”

“Now that ain’t right,” McMurtry scoffs.

“Pardon?”

“You’re a girl.”

“Indeed I am.”

“And there ain’t no girls in the FBI.”

“This girl is.” She shows her teeth.

McMurtry leans back in his chair, hands on his thighs. “Well, goddamn. Now I seen everything.” He squints at Bell. “That right? There’s girls in the FBI now? And Mexicans, too, by the look of it.”

Bell’s face darkens. “Mr. McMurtry—”

Emma cuts him off. “Clarence, we’re here to talk to you about the crimes you’re in prison for, if you’re willing.”

“Well, hell yeah, I’m willing.” McMurtry squints. “What’s with yer hair? You a dyke or somethin’? Why’d you cut yer hair like that?”

Emma has been made aware that the golden rule of interrogation is never to answer the subject’s questions. Now she leans over the table as if she’s sharing a confidence. Her expression does not change one iota. “Lice.”

“Ohhh,” McMurtry says. “Yeah, I get that. Well, I’m happy to talk, but you gotta know, they don’t treat me right in here.”

“Is that so.”

“Those fuckers in Unit Care, they don’t give a spit about folks in the cells. Why, last night I said to my bunkmate Roger, I said to Roger they don’t treat us right. They ration the food, the smokes—”

“The toilet paper?”

McMurtry slaps his knee. “Hell yes! They ration that, too!”

“Lord almighty.”

“I said to Roger, I’ve about had it up to here with this ration bullshit. It makes me just wanna—ugh. You know? It makes me wanna—”

“It makes you wanna strangle someone?” Emma suggests.

McMurtry’s expression turns sly. “Oh. You got all the details about that, do you?”

She cocks her head. “Clarence, you choked three old ladies to death in their beds. Those kinds of details we tend to take note of.”

There’s a heartbeat pause, then McMurtry’s bray of laughter ricochets into the silence. He slaps his knee some more and yucks hard. Bell stares. Emma waits.

McMurtry laughs so much he has to wipe his eyes. “Oh boy. Oh yeah. You’re a funny one, ain’tcha? What’s yer name again?”

“Emma Lewis.”

“You got a smoke on you, Emma Lewis?”

For the first time, Emma’s response is delayed. It’s Bell who takes a can of Bugler out of his jacket pocket and offers it to McMurtry.

“There’s one already rolled in there,” Bell says. “You can keep the can, but I need the matchbook back.”