Indefensible: A Novel

by Lee Goodman

  He shrugs. “Hard to say, Mr. Davis. I’m just a guy. But tell me what you’ve got.” He sips his soda and watches me with hopeful eyes.

  I sip my Chivas. “Here’s what I’ve got,” I say. “I’ve got two dead hoods and a dead college kid who was selling pot. The Bureau and the troopers aren’t coming up with shit. The leaf the kid was selling comes from the main supply, though, you know? That’s why we went after him: Use him as the bottom rung and start up the ladder. Only it didn’t work out that way. So now we’ve got four bodies, and nothing leads anywhere.”

  “Four?”

  “A bystander, sort of. Wrong place, wrong time.”

  He sips his seltzer and I sip my whiskey. There’s something likable about him.

  “I used to be here a lot,” he says. “I lived here, really. But one day . . .”

  “Yes?”

  “One day, I shit you not, one morning, I woke up in bed like a year after my wife died—and I don’t have to tell you what that was like for me. Thirty-seven years that woman put up with me, and God knows, if ever a wife had reasons to walk, she did, but no; thirty-seven years. Thirty-seven years. And one night I come home, three sheets as always, and I get right in bed, and it isn’t till morning I realize I slept with a corpse and was too drunk to know it, and I don’t mind telling you, Mr.—”

  “Davis.”

  “Davis. I don’t mind telling you I cried like a baby.”

  “My sympathies. What I—”

  “Well, that was nearly five years ago now, so you know, I’m okay. They got the senior center and I got friends there. And the old gang, well, most of ’em is dead or in jail, like Tipper, but . . . ?”

  “I thought you didn’t know Tipper.”

  “ ’Course I do. But I do okay. My son, he calls. What I’m saying, it was almost a year after Louise died, and one morning I woke up from a drunk, and I shit you not, Jesus Christ Himself is sitting at the end of the bed, and He says . . . Guess what He says.”

  I shrug.

  “He says, ‘Do it for Louise.’ That’s it. End of discussion. And He disappears. So that very week I’m in A.A. And if you have any interest . . .”

  “Appreciate it,” I say, “but my demons manifest themselves more subtly. So what I was—”

  “Three years without a drink,” he says.

  “Congratulations Mr.— I don’t know your name.”

  “Platypus’ll do.”

  “Listen, Platypus, can you help me?”

  He blows a raspberry through those lips, which vibrate like a kazoo, and I wipe my face with a bar napkin. “Like, do I know who’s your snitch, who’s the shooter? Don’t have a fucking clue. Do I know who they’re working for? Maybe I got a couple of ideas. What I do know: I know how to find things out. No promises. No money-back guarantee. But I got an expertise that you don’t. I live here. I got forty years of who’s who, and for thirty-seven of those years, I was pretty good at looking drunker than I was. Me and Tipper. I was the fool, he was the straight. We had us our own information superhighway. Not like we was informants. I never sold anything that wasn’t already in the stream of commerce, so to speak. It’s like this: Say a guy goes to the library and learns how to make himself a bomb, blows holy hell out of some bank vault. Do you arrest the library? Whack the librarian? Bullshit. That’s me. Me and Tipper. We was the library.” He runs an index finger round and round on the rim of his glass. “I never did much business with your gang.” His head protrudes from the acres of his overcoat like a mushroom struggling through mulch. “A guy can get hurt that way, you know. I mean, sure, some back scratching now and then, you know. But that’s all, and I sure as shit never knew anything firsthand. It’s always somebody told somebody told me. Know?”

  “Sure.”

  “So you want help? Let’s talk business. I’ll need money up front for expenses.”

  “Bribes?”

  “Drinks. Drinks, loans, favors. You come at it sideways, else you pay too much, and you don’t get the story. Five hundred to start. If I get something, another five.”

  He watches for my reaction. I might as well be bargaining for pregnant yaks in Ulan Bator for as much as I know about this. But I’ve come prepared. My pocket bulges with a fat roll of twenties—my own money; there’s no way this is a sanctioned DOJ expense.

  “Ain’t you got any questions?” Platypus asks.

  “Sure,” I say, “how come after a career of not working for the feds, you’re all eager to help me?”

  He blows another raspberry and plays with the rim of his glass. “More back scratching,” he says, and he shifts in his seat, and his head moves up and down in the mulch and finally settles low. “See, I got this daughter lives right near here. Never see her.”

  “How come?”

  “She blames me.”

  “For what?”

  “For being in the life. She says that’s why what happened, happened.”

  He’s getting close to something. No monologue; he’s making me prod.

  “What happened?”

  He reaches into the big overcoat and brings out a photo: a girl, maybe six years younger than Lizzy. She’s laughing, freckles on café au lait cheeks and nose, and hair in small, exotic braids. I feel nauseated, because all I know of this girl at this moment is that something happened, and since I live with this shit every day—true crime—I know it’s bad. I didn’t see it coming from this lonely, washed-up once-upon-a-timer, but there it is, and my defenses are down and I know, every cell tingling with the knowing, that this pretty girl is dead and the repulsive, spittle-spraying Platypus is trying to resurrect her. I hand the picture back, not meeting his eyes.

  “My granddaughter, she went to school one day and never came home,” he says, his voice flat.

  “Police?”

  “Nothing.”

  “That’s that?”

  “No. Someone found a photo a few months later. They . . . they . . . the police, they just showed us the face, and truly, she didn’t look that bad. Healthy, sort of, you know? But the rest of the picture, what they didn’t show us . . .”

  “What?”

  His hands flap around as he looks for words or maybe gets a handle on himself. Then he pronounces slowly, “Por-nog-ra-phy. Apparently, there was someone else in the picture, but they wouldn’t tell us details. Said it’s best not to know. The detectives said by the time the photo turned up, she was most likely dead or someplace very, very far away.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  He nods.

  “I’m not an investigator. I’m sure the police . . .” I trail off. He straightens up some and shifts position. “What do you want?” I ask.

  “Just look.”

  “For her?”

  He laughs bitterly. “Look at you. Your idea of blending in is taking off your tie. Know who you remind me of ? Mark Trail, remember him?”

  “Who?”

  “Old comic from the funny pages. Mark Trail. He was a forest ranger or something. Like Lassie on two legs. That’s who you look like. Plaid shirt and all.”

  “Mark Trail? No, I don’t—”

  “So maybe you can rub two sticks together, but you go out looking for Brittany, only thing you’re going to find is a knife in the ribs and your wallet gone. Friendly word of advice, Mr. Davis: At least in a suit, you’d have some respectability.”

  “So you want what?”

  “I just want to know what’s happening. Like, are they still working the case, or have they given up and forgotten about her? I got the names of these two dicks. They give me their cards. At first they was real nice when I’d call. Now they don’t call me back. Been six months since I’ve heard a peep.”

  “If there was news, they’d call.”

  “I know.”

  “So what do you want?”

  “Attention. And I want to keep reminding them. And I want to know if there are any Jane Does of about the right age but too decomposed to ID. Anything.”

  He’s talked himself t
hrough the emotional quicksand, and now he’s sitting as straight as his backbone allows. “I’m a realist,” he says. “I don’t expect much.”

  “The dicks. Who are they?”

  He hands me two business cards from his billfold. I don’t know the guys. They’re city cops with the JCPTF: Joint Child Protection Task Force. I write down the names and promise to make some calls. “But let me be clear,” I say. “I’m just finding out where it stands. I’m not working this. Absolute best you can hope is that my inquiries light a fire under them. More likely, they’ll tell me it’s over ’cause they could never develop a lead. Agreed?”

  “It’s something.”

  “What’s her name?”

  “Brittany. Brittany Tesoro.”

  Tesoro. I recognize the name from the list of kids who’ve gone missing from Rivertown. “I’ll read case notes, talk to the detectives,” I say, “but that’s all.”

  He nods. We shake. I give him the necessary information to get him started in the right direction, then I hand over the money he asked for and I leave, pushing my way out through the tangle of sweaty drinkers. I wish Platypus had left first. I might have stayed, ordered a beer, let the earthy smells and sounds carry me along, seeing if I could catch the current for a second or two at a time, shedding the moment-by-moment stocktaking of life, and just, for those dreamlike intervals in the beer and smoke and sweat and roar of voices—accented voices, voices in other languages or jargons—for just those moments maybe I could forget about being a murder suspect. Maybe I could forget to think about living life and just live it.

  CHAPTER 38

  I’ve done something terrible.

  I killed someone, though the details of who, why, and where are lost in the vaporous otherworld of dreams. I would like to be rid of this crime, but the knowledge of it and the certainty of my capture haunt me from dream to dream and through a dozen awakenings.

  Now morning. I’m at the office early, catching up on busywork, and I read the weekly memo from Pleasant Holly, briefing us on cases and investigations over in the civil division. What catches my attention is her summary of litigation by veterans seeking compensation and services for Gulf War syndrome.

  Scud was in the Gulf, and so was Seth Coen. In Seth’s bathroom cabinet and on his bedside table were dozens of prescription vials. I thought he must be either a hypochondriac or dying of something, but we never followed up on it.

  I call Dorsey and ask him to fax over the inventory from Seth Coen’s apartment. I need to get to know Seth better. He was already dead when we met him, his only interest to us being through the connection to Scud. Then Scud was dropped from suspicion and got whacked in quick succession, making Seth a complete nonentity, investigation-wise. But I can’t shake the idea that it’s all connected. With this Gulf War syndrome stuff, he has become interesting in a noncriminal way.

  While I wait for a fax, I look through the files on the Phippin/Randall/Illman murders. We don’t have a separate file on Seth because, unlike the other three, he wasn’t an actual or potential federal witness, so his murder isn’t being investigated as a federal crime. Still, I expect to find some background info: probation records, police records, prison records. But there’s nothing. Upton must have it all from before I took over the case. For two seconds, I think about devious ways to get these records, but I screw on my courage and walk the ten yards of carpet to Upton’s office, doing my best to look like the aggressive and confident administrator I am not.

  “Hi, Upton.”

  “Hi, boss.”

  “I’m wondering if you have any more materials from the series of murders.”

  “What murders?”

  “Phippin, Randall, Illman, Coen.”

  “Oh, those murders. Box on the floor there, it says Phippin, but I tossed in a lot of that other stuff.”

  I pick up the box and start for the door. I stop. “How ’bout coffee?”

  • • •

  I’ve always liked Upton’s face. I wouldn’t call him good-looking by any stretch, but he’s got an inviting comfortableness, like a favorite slipper. Knobby chin and broken nose and age-softened ruggedness. “How are the girls?” I ask, avoiding using their names—Cicely and Hilary—because one of them always comes out as Celery.

  “The girls,” Upton says wearily, “are worshippers at the altar of consumerism. How’s Lizzy?”

  “Good. She’s good.”

  “Good.” He takes a noisy sip of coffee.

  I take a noisy sip of coffee. “Whatcha working on?”

  “The usual. Responding to a pile of suppression motions in the RICO case. They’re all bogus.”

  “Yeah. They’re all bogus.”

  “Ain’t it the truth.”

  “Ain’t it.”

  It’s true. When a court suppresses evidence, it almost always amounts to guilty people getting away with something. We spend a moment with that irritating thought: how guilty people feel entitled to their acquittals. I feel comforted by how well we understand each other.

  “What’s your interest?” Upton says, indicating the box I came to get. The question might be innocent, because with no suspects at the moment and the case gone cold, it’s in the hands of the Bureau and troopers. We’re out of it.

  “Tying up loose ends,” I say.

  He nods. Neither of us hint at the intricacy of the interaction. He and I may both be unofficial suspects in Scud’s murder. Upton alone knows whether he’s guilty, and only I know whether I am. He doesn’t know I suspect him, and while he might know I’m a suspect, he doesn’t know that I know it. And since there are several crimes in play, we could both be guilty of something.

  Except that I’m not.

  And what a waste it will be if Upton is dirty. He always likes to talk about striving to improve our Urban Utopia. Upton’s Urban Utopia. I never thought of this before: U3. I could have had one of those oval Euro stickers made for the bumper of his car, or written it on a congratulatory cake to celebrate a big courtroom victory: “U3”

  “So what’s the status with Tina?” he asks with a sideways twist of his lips that indicates, in this instance, the delving into of matters romantic. “Have you closed the sale?”

  Another time I would welcome this. I might say, I like her, but I keep backing off. Don’t know why, and Upton would nod compassionately, and whether or not any more got said, I’d feel better. Not now. Now I just laugh, ignoring the question. I should leave. Kendall Vance would tell me to get the hell out of here. Upton takes our coffee cups out for refills.

  “So. The circuit bench,” he says when he comes back in.

  “Go figure.”

  “Sounds like you have a shot. The word I hear, everyone else on the short list brings baggage.”

  “Yeah, but. So much baggage, why are they on the list to begin with?”

  “Résumés. It’s a trade-off.”

  “Whatever. I’m trying not to get too invested.”

  “If I were the president . . .” he says, and this is followed by more coffee drinking. It’s a nice thing to say, a vote of confidence from a respected colleague, and it makes me want to believe in his innocence.

  “What about you?” I ask, flicking my head sideways in the direction of my office. I’m asking if he hopes to replace me as head of the division if I get the judgeship.

  “That’d be great.”

  “Have you spoken to TMU?”

  “Indirectly.”

  “And?”

  “Won’t commit.”

  “I’ll put in a word,” I say.

  He nods gratefully.

  I won’t ever put in a word. It’s all over. This brittle state will shatter. Accusations will be made against Upton or me or both of us—there are plenty of crimes to go around—and the world we’ve known will end. I look at his face; even when he isn’t smiling, you can see the afterimage in pleats of skin around his eyes and mouth. So many times over the years, we’ve sat here like this, lesser gods, putting people in jail, letting t
hem out, being the government. We were arrogant and charitable and earnest and fierce and strict and lenient. Maybe we should have moved on by now—either of us could have walked into the white-shoe firms in an instant, doubling, tripling, quadrupling our salaries. But we liked it here; we liked the camaraderie, power, public service. Why move?

  Now though, I realize I’ve stayed too long. We’ve both stayed too long, and all our years in ostensible public service resolve into a simple failure of ambition.

  My résumé is light. This is all I’ve done, and it’s almost over.

  CHAPTER 39

  Janice buzzes. “Nick, Special Agent d’Villafranca has been calling and calling. He says you aren’t getting back to him.

  “Oh, sorry, Janice. I’ll call him now.”

  I have no intention of calling Chip. His urgency to reach me, no doubt, is because he wants to confront me about Scud’s death. The minute it’s out in the open, my wings will be clipped: I’ll be ordered to have nothing more to do with the case. I’ll probably be put on suspension, and that’ll be that. Because the moment enforcement identifies a prime suspect, the system becomes focused on convicting, and all my own investigations will look like nothing more than the actions of a desperate perp trying to blow smoke over the whole thing. It’s better if I’m able to divert suspicion before the idea of me as a suspect is cemented into Chip’s reality.

  Janice buzzes again. “Nick, there’s a fax for you.”

  It’s the inventory from Seth’s apartment. I scan. The list of meds is daunting. The prescription vials all show the doctors’ names. I could probably get an order for the release of medical records, but Gulf War syndrome is outside the official thrust of any investigation. So I take the list of meds to the law library, where Kenny is busy reshelving books.

  “Where you been?” he asks, focusing his affectionate, chip-toothed grin at me.

  “Just busy. Tons going on.”

  “Don’t I know about that.”

  “Come over for a movie tonight?”