Free Anatomy of Fear by Jonathan Santlofer Page B

was dead. He was just lying there. Awful. A shondah. And his poor wife. I saw her later, when the police came. Awful.”
    She stopped and I tried to see it too, images starting to come together in my mind. “You mentioned the man’s wife; how did you know it was his wife?
    “Because the police were questioning me and she was there being questioned too, poor thing.” Adele Rubenstein leaned toward me and whispered, “They were one of those mixed marriages. Very common these days. Me, personally, I have nothing against it, but what about the children? It can’t be easy for them.”
    I didn’t bother to remind her that she was talking to a half-breed because she’d already accepted me as one of the flock. But it struck me that no one had mentioned that pertinent piece of information—that the black victim had a white wife. I glanced over at Terri, then at Adele. “So let’s go back to what you saw?”
    “What else could there be?”
    “You never know, Adele.” I patted her arm and asked her to close her eyes, which she did. “As you got closer, did the standing man see you?”
    “He…” She was squinting, looking inward and reliving it, the pars orbitalis muscles of her cheeks flicking under her loose flesh, an anxious grimace setting in.
    “Just relax, Adele. I’m right here with you. You’re safe. Now, think back to the standing man.”
    “One minute he was there, the next—” She shook her head.
    “It’s okay.” I touched her arm again. “Stay with the picture in your mind, a man standing over the dead man. Trust it, Adele.”

    She let out a breath and her facial muscles relaxed with it.
    “Now tell me, did you see his face?”
    “Yes. No. I saw something, but…I’m not seeing it now.”
    “Take your time.”
    And she did. Two full minutes passed, me staring at Adele Rubenstein’s wrinkled punim, as my Grandma Rose would call it.
    “Adele, are you with me?”
    She nodded.
    “Remember, you’re perfectly safe now, but I need you to go back to that street. You’re taking a walk. Sam is by your side. You look down the street and you see the two men—”
    “Yes…”
    “You’re getting closer now. The standing man looks up and sees you coming—and you see him.” I saw her expression change, no longer afraid, her incisivi labii muscles puckering her lips with determination. “His face,” I said. “You can see it, I know you can.”
    “Yes! I see it! He was colored. Just like the dead man! No, wait, wait. That wasn’t it. He wasn’t colored at all. I’m wrong. I’m dead wrong. I see it now. He was wearing a mask!”
    “Tell me about the mask.”
    “It was a knit one, not like on Halloween, but the kind you can pull down over your face, with the holes in it.”
    “A ski mask?”
    “That’s it exactly! He had on a ski mask.”
    “Totally covering his face?”
    “Total.”
    I spent a minute adding that to my drawing.
    “Have a look at this, okay?” I turned my pad around.
    “Oy vey.” Adele Rubenstein shivered and rubbed her arms. “Goose bumps. I’ve got goose bumps. You’re a regular Houdini,you know that, Nathan? It’s like a photograph, you made.” She pointed an arthritic finger at my sketch. “That’s the man. That’s the man I saw.”
     

     
     
    T erri and I were out on the street heading to the spot where the victim had been slain.
    “Sorry if I stepped on your toes in there. I just thought—”
    “No, it was okay. You were good, the way you drew it out of her. It’s like you’ve got your own kind of interrogation technique.”
    “It sort of evolved over the years. I’ve been dealing with witnesses for a long time.”
    “Well, it worked.” She smiled. “I’m just sorry I missed your bar mitzvah. I do a damn good hora. ”
    “Too bad I missed it too. Never had one. My mother’s totally assimilated, and my father—”
    “Juan the Just.”
    I stopped and turned toward her. “You know about my father?”
    “Only what I’ve read. That was his