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begins to nod. “And how did you come across this information?” he asks.
    “I met the killer.”
    “In here or on the outside?”
    “I can’t say, Warden. But I’m not bullshitting you. Based on what I’m reading in the press, the FBI investigation isn’t going anywhere. And it won’t.”
    My disciplinary record is without blemish. I have never uttered a wrong word to a prison official. I have never complained. There is no contraband in my cell, not even an extra packet of sugar from the chow hall. I do not gamble or borrow money. I have helped dozens of fellow inmates, as well as a few civilians, including the warden, with their legal problems. My library is kept in meticulous order. The point being—for an inmate, I have credibility.
    He leans forward on his elbows and exposes his yellow teeth. He has dark circles under his eyes, which are always moist. The eyes of a drinker. “And let me guess, Bannister, you would like to share this information with the FBI, cut a deal, and get out of prison. Right?”
    “Absolutely, sir. That’s my plan.”
    Finally, the laugh. A long high-pitched cackle that in itself would be the source of much humor. When he winds down, he says, “When is your release?”
    “Five years.”
    “Oh, so this is a helluva deal, right? Just give them a name, and trot right out of here five years ahead of schedule?”
    “Nothing is that simple.”
    “What do you want me to do, Bannister?” he snarls, the laughter long gone. “Call the FBI and tell ’em I gotta guy whoknows the killer and is ready to cut a deal? They’re probably getting a hundred calls a day, most from fruitcakes sniffing around for the reward money. Why would I risk my credibility playing that game?”
    “Because I know the truth, and you know I’m not a fruitcake, nor a bullshitter.”
    “Why don’t you just write them a letter, keep me out of it?”
    “I will, if that’s what you want. But you’ll be involved at some point because I swear I’m going to convince the FBI. We’ll cut our deal, and I’ll say good-bye. You’ll be here for the logistics.”
    He slumps back in his chair as if overwhelmed by the pressure of his office. He picks his nose with a thumb. “You know, Bannister, as of this morning I have 602 men here at Frostburg, and you are the last one I would expect to sneak in my office with such a screwball idea. The very last.”
    “Thank you.”
    “Don’t mention it.”
    I lean forward and stare him in the eyes. “Look, Warden, I know what I’m talking about. I know you can’t trust an inmate, but just hear me out. I have some extremely valuable information, and the FBI will be desperate to have it. Please call them.”
    “I don’t know, Bannister. We’ll both look like fools.”
    “Please.”
    “I might think about it. Now shove off, and tell Officer Marvin that I denied your request to go to the funeral.”
    “Yes sir, and thanks.”
    My hunch is that the warden will not be able to resist a little excitement. Running a no-security camp filled with well-behaved inmates is a dull job. Why not get involved in the most notorious murder investigation in the country?

    I leave the administration building and head across the quad, the central area of our camp. On the west side are two dormitories that house 150 men each, and these are matched by identical buildings on the east side of the quad. East campus and west campus, as though one were strolling through a pleasant little college.
    The COs have a break room near the chow hall, and here I find dear Officer Marvin. If I set foot inside the break room I would probably be shot or hanged. The metal door is open, though, and I can see inside. Marvin is sprawled in a folding chair, cup of coffee in one hand and a thick pastry in the other. He’s laughing along with two other COs. If hooked by the necks and weighed together on meat scales, the three would push a thousand pounds.
    “What do you want, Bannister?” Darrel growls when he