The Shadow Man by John Katzenbach Page A

That was all. He shot himself. The detective told me. One time, right in the forehead.’
    ‘The forehead?’
    ‘That is what the policeman said.’ The rabbi tapped the space just above his eyebrows as he spoke.
    ‘You’re sure? Did you read the detective’s crime scene notes? Did they show you any of the crime scene photographs? Did you see the autopsy protocol?’
    The rabbi arched a single eyebrow upward at the quick array of questions.
    ‘No. He just told me this. He showed me nothing. A protocol?’
    Simon Winter started to ask another question, then stopped. He thought: the forehead. Not the temple. Not the
    mouth, as he had selected for himself in what seemed years beforehand. In his mind’s eye he tried to envision holding a pistol in that position. Awkward. Not impossible. Not even improbable. But awkward and why would anyone make their own suicide awkward? His immediate answer to this question was that the rabbi had misunderstood the detective.
    The rabbi looked over at him sharply. ‘You know of such things, Mr Winter?’
    ‘Yes. For two decades I was a policeman for the City of Miami. I retired to the Beach a number of years ago. So, yes, it has been a long time, but I still know of such things, Rabbi.’
    ‘You were a policeman?’ Mr Silver asked hurriedly. ‘And now?’
    ‘And now I’m just another old person on the Beach, Mr Silver.’
    Rabbi Rubinstein snorted. ‘This is why Sophie went to you.’
    ‘Yes. I suppose so. She was afraid, and she knew I had a gun.’ Winter took a deep breath. ‘She thought I could help her.’
    ‘I am going to get a gun too,’ Irving Silver said defiantly. ‘And I think we should all go get one and be able to defend ourselves!’
    ‘What do I know of guns?’ Frieda Kroner interrupted. ‘And what do you know, you old fool? More than likely, you will shoot yourself, or your neighbor, or the delivery boy who brings your heart medicine from the pharmacy.’
    ‘Yes, but maybe I will shoot him first, when he comes for me!’
    This statement brought a silence crashing into the room.
    Simon Winter looked at the three faces in front of him.
    The rabbi seemed exhausted by fear and sadness; Mrs Kroner’s eyes captured a combination of despair and defiance; while Mr Silver covered the terror he felt with anger. The rabbi spoke first.
    ‘You must forgive us, Mr Winter. Sophie was our friend and we are in mourning. But we are also upset, and now, I think, we are afraid as well.’
    ‘There’s no need to apologize, Rabbi. But why is it that you are so convinced that she was killed by this man? The police have a witness, another neighbor, who saw the perpetrator fleeing the murder scene. A young black man.’
    ‘You believe this?’ Irving Silver demanded.
    ‘An eyewitness,’ Winter replied sharply. ‘He chased the man into an alley.’
    The rabbi shook his head. ‘I am confused, Mr Winter. And confusion only seems to make me more uncertain and afraid. Mr Stein says he sees Der Schattenmann and then he dies. A suicide. Sophie says she sees Der Schattenmann and then she dies, killed by some unknown black man. This is a mystery to me, Mr Winter. You are the detective. Tell us: can such odd coincidences occur?’
    Simon Winter paused before replying. ‘Rabbi, for many years I was a homicide detective—’
    ‘Yes, yes, but answer the question!’ Irving Silver interrupted. He opened his mouth again, but Frieda Kroner snapped an elbow into his ribs.
    ‘Let the man speak!’ she whispered harshly.
    Winter let quiet fill the room while he considered his response. ‘Let me say this. Coincidences do occur. Fantastic, unbelievable coincidences. All detectives remember remarkable events, things that no one could have anticipated in a million years. In homicide work, these things are, if not commonplace, at least familiar. But, that said,
    you should understand that the vast majority of deaths are perfectly routine and straightforward. It is important to always search