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.”