Greg Pahules wrestles his powerful frame into a classroom chair in his spartan apartment above a nail salon in central Florida. Aged 68 and bald, save for a string of grey hair pulled into a ponytail from the back of his head, he is practically twitching. He fixes me with cloudy blue eyes and asks if I think he’s “normal”.

An hour earlier, over lunch, Greg had suddenly remembered that he may have killed someone in Colombia in the 1980s, when he was deep enough into the cocaine trade to be on Pablo Escobar’s radar. He’d told me the story of coming upon a car crash on a winding mountain road one evening. As they slowed to help, a man jumped out and started shooting, hitting the driver’s hand. Greg put two bullets in the guy and sped away. The memory burrowed itself in a corner of his mind, until our conversation jogged it free.