Impossible Things by Connie Willis

right over the mess that been the jackal’s hind legs. The jackal was already dead, of course, but you couldn’t see that or the already drying blood coming out of its mouth because of the angle. You couldn’t see the truck’s license number either because of the speed the tanker was going, but the number was there, waiting for the Society’s computers. It looked like the tanker had just hit it.
    “What did they do with the picture?” I asked.
    “They took it into the chief’s office. I tried to call up the originals from composing, but the chief had already sent for them
and
your vidcam footage. Then I tried to get you, but I couldn’t get past your damned exclusion.”
    “Are they still in there with the chief?”
    “They just left. They’re on their way over to your house. The chief told me to tell you he wants ‘full cooperation,’ which means hand over the negatives and any other film you just took this morning. He told
me
to keep my hands off. No story. Case closed.”
    “How long ago did they leave?”
    “Five minutes. You’ve got plenty of time to make me a print. Don’t highwire it. I’ll come pick it up.”
    “What happened to, ‘The last thing I need is trouble with the Society’?”
    “It’ll take them at least twenty minutes to get to your place. Hide it somewhere the Society won’t find it.”
    “I can’t,” I said, and listened to her furious silence. “My developer’s broken. It just ate my longshot film,” I said, and hit the exclusion button again.
    “You want to see who hit the jackal?” I said to Katie, and motioned her over to the developer. “One of Phoenix’s finest.”
    She came and stood in front of the screen, looking at the picture. If the Society’s computers were really good, they could probably prove the jackal was already dead, but the Society wouldn’t keep the film long enough for that. Hunter and Segura had probably already destroyed the highwire copies. Maybe I should offer to run the cartridge sheet through the permanganate bath for them when they got here, just to save time.
    I looked at Katie. “It looks guilty as hell, doesn’t it?” I said. “Only it isn’t.” She didn’t say anything, didn’t move. “It would have killed the jackal if it had hit it. It was going at least ninety. But the jackal was already dead.”
    She looked across at me.
    “The Society would have sent the Amblers to jail. It would have confiscated the house they’ve lived in for fifteen years for an accident that was nobody’s fault. They didn’t even see it coming. It just ran right out in front of them.”
    Katie put her hand up to the screen and touched the jackal’s image.
    “They’ve suffered enough,” I said, looking at her. It was getting dark. I hadn’t turned on any lights, and the red image of the tanker made her nose look sunburned.
    “All these years she’s blamed him for her dog’s death, and he didn’t do it,” I said. “A Winnebago’s a hundred square feet on the inside. That’s about as big as this developer, and they’ve lived inside it for fifteen years, while the lanes got narrower and the highways shut down, hardlyenough room to breathe, let alone live, and her blaming him for something he didn’t do.”
    In the ruddy light from the screen she looked sixteen.
    “They won’t do anything to the driver, not with the tankers hauling thousands of gallons of water into Phoenix every day. Even the Society won’t run the risk of a boycott. They’ll destroy the negatives and call the case closed. And the Society won’t go after the Amblers,” I said. “Or you.”
    I turned back to the developer. “Go,” I said, and the image changed. Yucca. Yucca. My forearm. My back. Cups and spoons.
    “Besides,” I said. “I’m an old hand at shifting the blame.” Mrs. Ambler’s arm. Mrs. Ambler’s back. Open shower door. “Did I ever tell you about Aberfan?”
    Katie was still watching the screen, her face pale now from the light-blue 100