‘You’re under arrest… Mr Potter.’
Chapter Seventy-Seven
The first interview with Potter took place in the small library he’d built in the farmhouse. It was cozy and tastefully furnished, and gave no hint of the horrible acts going on elsewhere on the property. Potter sat on a dark wood bench with his wrists handcuffed in front of him. His dark eyes boiled over in anger directed at me.
I sat in a straight-backed chair directly across from him. For a long moment we glared at each other, then I let my eyes wander around the room. Bookcases and cabinets had been custom-built and covered every wall. A large oak desk held a computer and printer as well as wooden in/out boxes and stacks of ungraded papers. A green wooden sign behind the desk read: ‘Bless This Mess.’ There was no hint of the real Taylor, or ‘Potter’, anywhere.
I noticed authors’ names on the spines of the books: Richard Russo, Jamaica Kinkaid, 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 to write about Milton or Donne mattered anymore. I continued to look through his books – the OED, 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? Jackson Arnold in Boston?’ Taylor said. ‘Tell me. Don’t fuck with me.’
‘As far as I know,’ I said. ‘Let’s see, we busted you at around eight. He was called at eight-thirty.’
Taylor looked at his watch. His dark eyes blazed. ‘It’s only five o’clock 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 Francis was taken to a 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 PhD. 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 Seventy-Eight
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 now.
‘I’ll bet you do. I would if I was 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.’
‘You know, the calmness gives you away,’ I told him. ‘You show no fear. Nothing in your eyes. I’ve seen so many like you. Better, smarter.’
He blew out a smoke ring in my direction. ‘To such a skilled interrogator as yourself, such things must be obvious. The calmness I show.’
‘So where did you learn about drama, the theatre, English and American literature?’
‘You know the answers to that. Iowa. Then NYU. It’s on my résumé. I want a lawyer.’
‘You mentioned the lawyer earlier. You’ll be given one. All in good time. So where is Benjamin Coffey? 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? Who else is involved with you?’
‘You’re actually funny, for a police drone. I like a bit of dry humor now and then.’
I stretched my leg out, struck his chest, and knocked his wooden bench over. He hit the floor hard. Banged his head. I could see that it shook him, surprised him anyway. Must have hurt at least a little bit.
‘That supposed to scare me?’ he asked once he’d gotten his breath. He was angry now, redfaced, veins in his neck pulsing. That was a start. ‘I want my lawyer!… I’m explicitly asking you for a lawyer!’ he began to yell over and over again. ‘Lawyer! Lawyer! Lawyer! Lawyer! Can anyone hear me?’
Taylor kept yelling at me for over an hour – like some sociopathic kid who wasn’t getting his way. I let him scream and curse, until he started to get hoarse. I even went outside and stretched my legs, drank some coffee, chatted with Charlie Powiesnik, who was a pretty good guy.
When I came back inside, Potter looked changed. He’d had time to think about everything that had happened at the farm. He knew that we were talking to Francis Deegan, and that we’d find Benjamin Coffey, too. Maybe a few others.
Then he sighed out loud. ‘I assume we can make some sort of arrangement to my liking. Mutually beneficial.’
I nodded. ‘I’m sure we can make an arrangement. But I need something concrete in return. How did you get the boys? How did it work? That’s what I need to hear from you.’
I waited for him to answer. Several minutes passed.
‘I’ll tell you where Benjamin is,’ he finally said.
‘You’ll tell me that, too.’
I waited some more. Took another turn outside with Charlie. Came back to the study.
‘I bought the boys from the Wolf,’ Potter finally said. ‘But you’ll be sorry you asked. So will I, probably. He’ll make both of us pay. In my humble opinion – and remember, this is just a college professor talking – the Wolf is the most dangerous man alive. He’s Russian. Red Mafiya.’