Free Indefensible by Lee Goodman Page B

they were more scared of Scud and his friends than they were of the law. So Chip brought Scud back in and asked him outright: “What were you doing west of town on the early morning of June third?”
    His answer, offered with that frownlike smile, eyes drawn down at the corners: “Bird-watching.”
    If I’d been there in person instead of seeing it four days later on video, I’d have come across the table and twisted his head off.
    The agents asked for permission to search Scud’s car. “Not without a warrant,” Scud answered. Ditto his home. Smug smile.
    We weren’t able to get a search warrant last June. Upton Cruthers made the request, but instead of signing it, Judge Two Rivers phoned Upton and engaged him in a debate about what does and doesn’t constitute probable cause. Apparently, Two Rivers doesn’t see probable cause in an ex-con, drug-dealing, midlevel scumbag like Scud Illman driving into town from the direction of a body dumping on the morning in question. Scud Illman is still on the loose, and we’reat a dead end. Or we were until Seth Coen was discovered chopped up and packed in his own freezer.
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    Seymour Station is industrial. I pass a warehouse with dozens of trucks backed up to loading docks like piglets at teats. This is the part of town beyond the car dealerships, but closer in than the rock-crushing plants and junkyards.
    The address is a motel-looking place called Seymour Apartments. I don’t know much yet. Chip called me and said Dorsey had called him. They believe the deceased might be the second man from the reservoir that day: one of the guys who buried Zander Phippin.
    I pull up at the building. There’s not much going on outside, just a cop in a raincoat keeping an eye on things, and a few official cars parked in front. “Send him up,” Dorsey yells from the balcony. The cop flicks his head toward the stairs. I go up. The photographer and forensics team are there, plus Dorsey and Chip.
    â€œWe might have a lead here,” Chip says.
    â€œFriggin’ time,” I say.
    â€œFriggin’ time,” Dorsey says.
    Chip says, “Remember back in June, there was one associate of Scud Illman’s we wanted to talk to but we could never find him? Seth Coen. And since we didn’t have anything on him, we never bothered asking for a warrant? Well, we’ve found him.”
    Dorsey walks me into the bedroom. The forensic team was taking things apart systematically, but you can tell it was a clean and orderly place when they started. Everything is nondescript. Pasteboard dresser, double bed with a dingleberry bedspread, closet with bifolds. Under the window, where you’d expect a desk, there’s a chest freezer. Big but not the biggest. Maybe four feet long.
    â€œMr. Mellon,” Dorsey says to one of the guys I assumed was forensics. Now I see he was just standing back out of the way.
    â€œMilan,” the guy says. “Spelled like the city.”
    â€œWhat city?”
    â€œMilan.”
    â€œI mean—”
    â€œItaly.”
    â€œOh. Mi- lan ,” Dorsey says with a convincing accent. “Amazing cathedral there. Renaissance center of art and culture. Bombed to smithereens during the war. Too bad.”
    I glance over at Chip to see if he’s surprised. I didn’t have Dorsey pegged for someone to expound on European history. Chip is oblivious.
    â€œLousy krauts,” Mr. Milan says.
    â€œActually, the Allies bombed it,” Dorsey tells him. “Remember, Il Duce got confused about which side were the good guys. Got cozy with Hitler.”
    â€œAnyway, I’m not Italian,” Milan says.
    â€œTalk to us about the freezer.”
    â€œHe was a hunter,” Milan says. “He asked permission for the freezer, and I said sure, so long as he takes it away when he leaves. He said he needed it ’cause of his deer meat and fish and