Indefensible by Lee Goodman

well flap my arms and jump from the roof. No chance of finding that soft spot today.
    We pull up in front of the school. Liz grabs her pack and is out, no kiss, no goodbye, door closed.
    I believe that objectively, Lizzy knows there is no connection between her having blabbed about events at the reservoir and Cassandra’s death. Through extensive interviews and investigation, we’ve established that, in errantly telling her tale, Lizzy did not use Cassandra’s name nor any other identifying information. And none of the people she spoke with could have passed the information on. So there was definitely a more efficient and malicious snitch, and Lizzy’s indiscretion had no real effect. But what the objective self knows and what the mischievous subconscious conjures can be different things indeed.
    As for me, it’s not a matter of my subconscious inventing facts for the purpose of validating my own feelings of guilt. I know what I know. If I had overruled the idea of dangling Cassandra as bait, albeit anonymously, she might still be alive. And my reason for not objecting: I wanted the excuse to stay in touch with her. Oh, how we are punished for our hubris.
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    Late in the afternoon, my intercom bleeps: “Kendall Vance on three.”
    â€œTake a message, Janice.”
    And later, “Captain Dorsey of the state troopers, Nick, line three.”
    I connect. “Gimme some good news, Captain.”
    â€œI have info on Seth Coen.”
    â€œHang on.” I transfer the call and go into Upton’s office. We listen on speaker.
    â€œThree items,” Dorsey barks into the phone. “First, we’ve confirmed that it was Mr. Coen in the freezer. Second, it was all there—he was—the body. Nothing missing. Third, we found Scud Illman’s prints in the apartment.”
    â€œI love you,” I shout.
    â€œNot so fast. The prints were confined to the kitchen area. Apparently, whoever did the dirty work wore gloves.”
    â€œSo we know Scud was there at the murder, but we can’t prove he participated. Right?”
    â€œWrong. Scud’s prints could have been left before, after, or during the murder, but at least we have Coen and Illman verifiably linked. That’s something.”
    Upton has his feet on the desk, rocking in his desk chair. His office is less homey than mine. He has a wall of legal texts and one framed photo from his football years. There is a bookcase behind his desk where he has pictures of his kids and wife. They face me, the visitor, instead of sitting on the desk facing him. It’s quite formal that way, but on the desk, as always, is the sports page from today’s paper, opened to the scores and rankings, and I see that several items are circled in red.
    â€œWhat else?” I ask Dorsey.
    â€œThe mud from Coen’s boots: It’s a match with the soil at the reservoir. I have this report from the state lab that talks about feldspars and pollen load composition, blah, blah, blah. Bottom line: It is verifiably from the Slippery River Valley and within a, quote unquote, reasonable proximity of the burial site.”
    â€œWhat the hell is a reasonable proximity?” Upton says.
    â€œIt’s okay,” Dorsey’s voice soothes over the phone, “these guys are pros. We’ve had them on the stand before. I’ll talk to them.”
    â€œGood. It’s all good,” I say. “We’ve got Scud in Coen’s apartment,we’ve got Coen at the reservoir, we’ve got Scud’s car coming back to town that morning. We’re almost home. Anything else, Dorsey?”
    â€œCoupla things. The freezer meats, venison, rainbow trout, all of that, they seem to be what the packages say they are. As for the victim, he suffered a single gunshot to the back of the head. Dismemberment took place in the shower stall, by the way. Professional. No usable prints anywhere in the