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Immediately, Chris gets taken into custody, which is a fuckin' joke since he's already in prison. McManus can be a real tight-ass. Hustled into one of Oz's interrogation rooms, Chris is left cuffed to a table like he's a horse tied outside a fucking saloon.
Murphy shows up next, with Chris' own backpack and coat in his hands. "I tried to get everything, Keller."
Everything like — what — "I'm leavin' right now?"
"Guess so."
Chris works to keep it together. "No paperwork, nothin'?"
"Guess not."
Generally, Chris appreciates Murphy's laconic answers. Not today.
"What'd you think, Keller? You'd confess, we'd nod, everything'd stay the same?"
No, but — Cat's got his tongue. Fuck, he doesn't know what he thought would happen after; who the fuck thinks about that, the world would stop spinning and nothing'd ever get done.
After a brisk knock at the door, Chris' least-favorite federal agent bursts into the room, a look of mingled wonder and incredulity pasted on his usually dour face.
A turd the size of a cow patty just landed on Chris' dinner plate. Worse than a turd: gushing diarrhea. How the hell did Taylor get to Oz so fast? It can't have been more than an hour since Chris confessed to killing Hank.
"Well, well..." Taylor slams his briefcase down on the table so hard one of the latches flies open. "...well. Chris-to-pher Keller."
Fuck's sake.
Taylor sizes him up, then strips off his overcoat and tosses it onto the spare chair, currently holding the meager pile of Chris' worldly goods. He does not offer the seat to Murphy, who's still standing somewhere behind Chris, which could mean that maybe he's hoping for a little one-on-one time.
Or he's just a rude asshole.
Planting his palms on the table, Taylor leans toward Chris. "Now isn't this a surprise."
Ignoring the obvious glee on his face, Chris stares at Taylor's tie. Dark blue, or navy, or is it black? Squinting, he decides on navy. Taylor's volume increases: and to think, he was already in the neighborhood, what a fantastic coincidence.
"I've always wanted to be the one who took you in, Keller."
"Ooh," Chris mocks, "Kinky."
Taylor ignores him. "Arrest your ass, take you into my custody."
"You like talkin' about my ass a lot." He aims for sly, but today, this kind of arrow bounces harmlessly off Taylor. Slouching as best he can with the cuffs limiting his movement, Chris does his best to look extra bored — that part's not hard.
"It's called persistency," Taylor says, condescendingly.
If he says so. Fuck, now it's The Special Agent Show, and Chris can't change the channel.
Out comes the chunky plastic recorder, then a clear plastic box containing additional cassettes, even an extra set of double-A batteries. Chris snorts; Taylor's fucking moving in, and frankly, Chris ain't got that much to say.
"You look worried, Keller. I like that. In fact, I'm getting warm fuzzies just looking at your guilty face," he continues, pulling from the briefcase a thick file, teasingly labelled with Chris' full name in block letters.
Reverentially, Taylor touches one fingertip to the fraying string closure, then immediately tries to pretend that he hasn't. Doesn't matter, Chris already clocked it. This guy chose to be on center stage, that's fine, but for an arrogant moment, Taylor forgot his audience.
Then again, ol' Spanky's not a real subtle guy. Every step so far's been methodical, played out like he's been practicing, the role enhanced by the happiness radiating under his skin. Taylor's barely holding it in, he's so excited.
Chris has had to get over his own surprise real quick, but Taylor's maybe right about about one thing — he is a little worried. How could he have known this fucking vulture was already circling Oz? Confessing to the hit, Hank, proving himself to Beecher. It's not in the bag yet, and sure as the shitsmear on his plate, Taylor'd be happy to jam Chris up on anything.