The Big Bad Wolf - James Patterson [66]
I noticed authors’ names on the spines of the books: Richard Russo, Jamaica Kincaid, Zadie Smith, Martin Amis, Stanley Kunitz.
It was rumored that the Bureau often had an incredible amount of information on a subject before an interview was conducted. This was true with Taylor. I already knew about his boyhood spent in Iowa, then his years as a student at Iowa and NYU. No one had suspected he had a dark side. He had been up for promotion and tenure this year, and had been working to finish a book on Milton’s Paradise Lost, as well as an article on John Donne. Drafts of the literary projects were laid out on the desk.
I got up and looked through the pages. He’s organized. He compartmentalizes beautifully, I was thinking. “Interesting stuff,” I said.
“Be careful with those,” he warned.
“Oh, sorry. I’ll be careful,” I said, as if anything he had written about Milton or Donne mattered anymore. I continued to look through his books—the OED, The Riverside Shakespeare, Shakespeare and Milton quarterlies, Gravity’s Rainbow, a Merck Manual.
“This interrogation is illegal. You must know that. I want to see my lawyer,” he said as I sat down again. “I demand it.”
“Oh, we’re just talking,” I said. “This is only an interview. We’re waiting for a lawyer to get here. Just getting to know you.”
“Has my lawyer been called? Ralph Guild in Boston?” Taylor asked. “Tell me. Don’t fuck with me.”
“As far as I know,” I said. “Let’s see, we busted you at around eight A.M. He was called at eight-thirty.”
Taylor looked at his watch. His dark eyes blazed. “It’s only twelve-thirty now!”
I shrugged. “Well, no wonder your lawyer isn’t here yet. You haven’t even been apprehended. So, you teach English lit, right? I liked literature in school, read a lot, still do, but I loved the sciences.”
Taylor continued to glare at me. “You forget that Francis was taken to the hospital. The time is on the record.”
I snapped my fingers and winced. “Right. Of course it is. He was picked up at a little past nine. I signed the form myself,” I said. “I have a doctorate, like yourself. In psychology, from Johns Hopkins, down in Baltimore.”
Homer Taylor rocked back and forth on the bench. He shook his head. “You don’t scare me, you fucking asshole. I can’t be intimidated by little people like you. Trust me. I doubt you have a Ph.D. Maybe from Alcorn State. Or Jackson State.”
I ignored the baiting. “Did you kill Benjamin Coffey? I think you did. We’ll start looking for the body a little later this morning. Why don’t you save us the trouble?”
Taylor finally smiled. “Save you the trouble? Why would I do that?”
“I actually have a pretty good answer. Because you’re going to need my help later on.”
“Well, then, I’ll save you some trouble later on, after you help me.” Taylor smirked. “What are you?” he finally asked. “The FBI’s idea of affirmative action?”
I smiled. “No. Actually, I’m your last chance. You better take it.”
Chapter 77
THE LIBRARY IN the farmhouse was empty except for Potter and me. He was handcuffed, totally cool and unafraid, glaring menacingly.
“I want my lawyer,” he said again.
“I’ll bet you do. I would if I were you. I’d be making a real scene in here.”
Taylor finally smiled. His teeth were badly stained. “How about a cigarette? Give me something.”
I gave him one. I even lit it for him. “Where did you bury Benjamin Coffey?” I asked again.
“So, you’re really the one in charge?” he asked. “Interesting. The world turns, doesn’t it? The worm too.”
I ignored his question. “Where is Benjamin Coffey?” I repeated. “Is he buried out here? I’m sure he is.”
“Then why ask? If you already know the answer.”
“Because I don’t want to waste time digging up these fields or dredging the pond over there.”
“I really can’t help you. I don’t know a Benjamin Coffey. Of course, Francis was here of his own free will. He hated it at Holy Cross. The Jesuits don’t like us. Well, some of the priests don’t.”
“The Jesuits don’t like who?