“You say your name is Gregory Thompson?”

“From my previous knowledge, I do believe so.”

“Age?”

“Thirty-two and six months.”

“Do you feel any remorse for what you’ve accomplished?”

“None at all.”

“Very well then. Do you ever have any. . .thoughts, or. . .dreams, perhaps?”

”. . .No.”

“I see. Well, due to your. . .accomplishments, I think a life sentence should be acceptable?”

“Are you asking my permission?”

“Curiosity.”

“Oh, then, of course.”

“Hmph.”

“So do you feel any remorse for what you’ve accomplished?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Do. You. Feel. Any. Remorse. Because to me it seems that you’re incapable of delivering anything but sarcasm and contempt.”

“I believe I am the one interviewing, Mr. Thompson.”

“Of course.”

“Leave.”

“At once, sir.”

As the prisoner left, the interviewer followed him with his eyes. Something about Thompson had unnerved him. Oh well. He would surely lose that unsettling personality in the Yard.