That was a large if. I folded the three sheets of paper and handed them back to Diaz.

“A model of vagueness, if you don’t mind my saying so. The state wishes me to give certain specific information. If I provide it, then certain vague concessions will be offered to me as a quid pro quo.”

“It was written that way at my request.” Given the setting, Carmelo Diaz seemed too much at ease. I wondered if he had been here before, dealing with others on the threshold of the Chamber of Morpheus. The innocent blue eyes in that rounded Celtish skull told me nothing. Apparent innocence itself meant less than nothing, and all first impressions based on appearances alone are likely to be deceiving. I, for instance, have features and build that appear somewhat coarse, even loutish, while my nature is both sensitive and finicky.

“No two humans are identical,” he went on. “Your needs and wishes do not match those of the next man. You and I need room to maneuver, a freedom to negotiate.”

“Freedom is hardly a term that I would apply to my situation. Can you offer me freedom?”

“You know that I cannot.” There was a certain blunt charm to Father Carmelo Diaz. I could imagine that, under other circumstances, he might make a fine dinner companion. It must be one factor in his presumed successes.

“So what can you offer me?”

“Why don’t we first confirm what the state asks of you?” And, when I said nothing, “It is really very little. Your trial provided overwhelming evidence that you murdered fifteen people. We wish to know if there were more.”

“What makes you think there might be?”

“The chronological pattern. There are anomalously long gaps between cases five and six, between eight and nine, and between twelve and thirteen.”