Indefensible by Lee Goodman Page A

bathroom or freezer area. Hardly even any blood remaining.”
    â€œIs that it?”
    â€œWell, that tattoo on Coen’s hand. The medical examiner says part of it was recent, and parts were older, like it had been touched up or added to.”
    â€œEver seen it before, Dorsey? Does it mean anything?”
    â€œLike a gang thing?”
    â€œHold on one,” I say. I put Dorsey on hold, beep Tina’s extension, and ask her to come in for a minute. Then I put Dorsey back on speaker. Tina shows up. “You ever seen this tattoo?” I ask her, showing a drawing of the four-pane window. Tina’s specialty in drug crimes brings her into contact with a lot of gang-type offenders.
    â€œNever seen it,” she says.
    â€œOkay, I just thought—”
    â€œIt’s not like I pay a lot of attention to their artwork.”
    â€œWe were just—”
    â€œBut if you really need to know, I know a guy,” Tina says.
    â€œWhat guy?”
    â€œAn offender. Old guy, Fuseli, doing life for a bank withdrawal he tried to make at age seventeen. Felony murder. They left two dead on the floor. He’s a mentor now, counsels the newbies, works on paroles. He hates the drugs and gang culture in there, so he’s a good contact for what’s happening inside. The Bureau uses him. And he’s an artist. Most of the body art coming out of there, the good stuff, it’s his work. Your guy with the window, Seth Coen, was he in Ellisville Max?”
    â€œNo,” Upton says, “he was down south in Alder Creek.”
    â€œEven so,” Tina says, “Fuseli might know if it means anything. Do you have some reason to think it’s significant?”
    Dorsey says, “I was saying, the ME thinks it was touched up or altered recently. Kind of strange for a guy in his late thirties. So we’re curious. But otherwise, no, no reason to think anything.”
    Tina taps her lips with a finger. I’m still thrown off by her hair—the menacing wedge. At first I thought of Tina as sweet and a bit innocent. Then came her haircut and her perpetual rime of anger. Then we took that helicopter ride together, with her hand resting reassuringly on my knee. Now I don’t know who she is.
    â€œWell, if you’re interested,” she says, “Fuseli would be the one.”
    We sign off with Dorsey.
    â€œIf there’s nothing else,” Tina says, and she leaves.
    Upton and I sit with our feet on his desk. “How are the girls?” I ask.
    He exhales and shakes his head.
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œLike they’re juggling grenades with the pins halfway out.”
    â€œGrowing up?”
    â€œThey’re babies,” he says, “they think it’s a big joke. Butt cracks and navels on display. And here.” He gestures breasts in his sweet, fatherly inability to use the word.
    â€œYou’re just old-fashioned,” I say. His girls are both in high school, a year apart. In the portraits on his bookcase, they look like porcelain dolls. In real life, they’re giggly, and Lizzy isn’t crazy about them. Walking mannequins, she calls them, not because they’re inanimate but because they’re always wearing something fashionable. Gag me!
    â€œYou wait,” Upton says, “you’ll have your turn soon enough.” He laughs.
    I shrug. He’s wrong. Lizzy is different.
    â€œAnd speaking of babes,” he says, “you could do worse.”
    â€œWorse than what?”
    â€œHeeheehee.”
    â€œTina?”
    â€œI see things.”
    â€œHallucinations,” I say, and I feel my face redden. “Let’s get a search warrant for Scud’s place. We’ll execute first thing tomorrow morning when his stepkid is in school.”
    Upton’s cell rings. He looks at the number, and his perpetual grin suddenly looks striven for. He glances up at me: “I have to . . .” Then he answers: “Hello,