The Big Bad Wolf

THE FIRST INTERVIEW with Potter took place in his small library 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 wooden 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 and 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 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."