The Late Matthew Brown. Paul Ketzle

He was obviously displeased with the arrangement. I imagined the politics between them, of the young up-and-comer pushing aside the aged veteran.

      I gestured Stanton toward the other chair by my desk and set down my briefcase. “Should I be worried?” I attempted a carefree laugh.

      “We just want to have a conversation,” Stanton said, trying to make it sound lighthearted, but still something made him seem grim. There was a graininess to him, like a figure in one of those old photographs, just out of focus. But you could tell in an instant—here was a man who took the measure of things. A man of sums, someone for whom everything would eventually add up.

      “You are currently associate director of the Department of Corrections?”

      “If I’m not, I’m in the wrong office,” I joked.

      Stanton smiled lightly, and his partner just rolled his eyes.

      “Now, you used to work at the Bureau of Environmental Study.”

      “Over a year ago,” I said. “I was the director for about three years. Is that what this is about? The investigation at Environmental?”

      The older man looked over at his colleague, shifting in his seat uncomfortably. “We’re not at liberty to say.”

      “I just want to know if I’m being investigated, too, for some reason.”

      The two men sat quietly for another moment, neither taking eyes off of me.

      “We aren’t at liberty to say.”

      “What are you at liberty to say?”

      “We were hoping you might be able to help us with any information from your time working at the Bureau of Environmental Study.”

      “What sort of information?”

      “Anything at all that might be of interest.”

      “I don’t know about anything illegal, if that’s what you’re talking about.”

      “Did you ever come across anything unusual in your time working there? Did anyone ever ask you to do anything that you considered ethically… questionable?”

      “Not that I recall.”

      Stanton and his partner exchanged a quick look, but didn’t say anything.

      “I guess that sounds incriminating,” I added quickly. “I’m not good at this kind of thing.”

      “That’s fine.”

      “I mean, I don’t think so. I just don’t feel comfortable speaking in absolutes.”

      “That’s fine,” Stanton said again.

      “I mean, my job was pretty benign. No one really ever asked me to do anything. It was a lot of paperwork. A lot of signatures. Boring stuff. Looking over recommendations and reports from the actual scientists. I wasn’t really qualified to pass judgments or anything. Basically, I just followed the recommendations that came across my desk. Pretty simple, really. I think I’d remember if someone made a special request. But I can’t be sure.”

      Never having been interrogated before, and feeling the absurdity of trying to defend myself for having to defend myself, fear wasn’t really at the heart of my experience. I stood outside of myself, looking in on these men who seemed so clearly to want me to tell them something, yet unable to realize that I had nothing to tell them.

      “What about your replacement. Mr. Morr?”

      “What about him?

      The older man sat up. “When he was your assistant, did you ever ask him to bend the rules?”

      “Guess that depends upon what you mean by ‘bend.’ ” I smiled, but neither man smiled back. “I mean, no.” Slowly, it was dawning on me that my innocence wasn’t any kind of protection, and I sunk back into myself. “I’m suddenly feeling a little anxious here,” I said.

      “We’re just having a conversation.”

      “I wasn’t some guy with an agenda. I had no reason to bend the rules. I don’t even know what rules we’re talking about. Much less why I’d want to bend them.” I didn’t mention that I’d have had very little idea how to do so anyway.

      Both men said nothing. The younger man, Stanton, seemed on the cusp of speaking, but then tapped his colleague’s sleeve.

      “Well, we’ve taken up enough of your time, Mr. Brown. We do appreciate your cooperation. If we have further questions, we hope you’ll be available.” They shook my hand, Stanton’s handshake less firm, but congenial.

      As they left my office, they passed by Hal, who was hovering by the door.

      “I’m an idiot,” I said, watching Stanton and his colleague follow the cubicle maze out.

      “No argument here. What’d they want?”

      “They’re not at liberty to say.”

      “They asking about Corrections?”

      “No. Environmental. I just hope they aren’t also interested in me.”

      “Ready for lunch?” he asked, brushing past my concern with a dismissive cock of his head.

      “I just got in.”

      “Gotta eat sometime.”

      “In an hour, maybe, sure,” I said.

      “Sure, sure.”

      As Hal left, I paused to consider my brief interview with Stanton and his largely silent partner. The truth was, I didn’t have anything to tell them at all, and despite my clumsy attempts to incriminate myself, I consoled myself with the thought that they were most likely merely fishing for information. I had nothing to offer them, though, and so my contributions to any kind of investigation of the Bureau, especially of current personnel, were likely minimal. What I knew about Bernie Morr, especially over the past year, was even less, and if they hoped to use me to get to him, they were going to be sorely disappointed to discover my overwhelming ignorance.

      My in-box was beginning to fill with requests for media credentials for the upcoming execution. With the date now set, one month away, the media was starting to jump into the fray. Ten years without the state killing anyone had made my task especially difficult. We lacked any kind of clear procedure.

      Of all my tasks, the most bizarre was the matter of the last meal. I held Adler’s request card, boxes marked, crossed off, blurred and smudged eraser marks, finally double-starred to indicate exactly which choice he wanted. The special request lines were filled with looping, bubbly characters that might have been drawn by Hero were she of a different sensibility, the sort who would have appreciated my bedroom design efforts, instead of the brutal killer that Adler was. He wanted a steak, medium rare, lobster (or shrimp, if that wasn’t available), BBQ chicken, dark meat, fruit salad—no bananas—grape juice (wine and other alcoholic beverages were not allowed), pecan pie, a single glazed doughnut.

      I phoned Hal and told him I was ready to go eat.

      We often took lunch at Early’s, a small kitchen crowded between rusty warehouses, two blocks from the train tracks. This proximity had always bothered me. It felt too easy, obvious: a living cliche. The line bums. Shanty houses. Pounding rhythms rising from shuffling boxcars. Poverty spreading over everything, onto us, like an odor, scents compelling and repulsive, stench of garbage and the billowing hickory smoke.

      Early’s stood between the Murat Gun & Pawn and the Country Feed store—an oasis for lunchtime travelers. Early himself was a lanky, lean black man of indeterminate years. His face seemed young, but both hair and voice carried hints of graying age. Today the dining room bustled like a marketplace or the floor of the Stock Exchange. Short bursts of laughter cut through the overlapping conversations, Early’s sister Edna’s great bellow carrying most from her position at the register. A brilliant red scarf engulfed her yards of thick hair. The place