Presumption of Guilt by Archer Mayor

Just so there’re no misunderstandings later on.”
    The emotions crossing her face were beginning to pile into each other. “I suppose so.”
    â€œThank you.” Joe turned on the machine and placed it by his side. “Shortly before he disappeared, did your husband injure his right shoulder?”
    She nodded, clearly distressed. Her hands were clasping and unclasping in her lap, seeking elusive comfort in one another. Finally, she settled for twisting the ring on her left hand.
    Joe opened the small bag he’d brought along, speaking as he did so, “Mrs. Mitchell, I’m sorry to do this, but the circumstances are so unusual, I’m not sure how else to proceed. A couple of days ago, a man’s body was discovered—a skeleton—who we’re pretty sure was your husband. We had a latex mask made that shows what he looked like when he died, in 1970.” He looked up at her, hesitating. “I have a copy of that in this bag. I know it’s a lot to ask, but would you be willing to look at it?”
    She didn’t answer right away, staring at Joe’s hand in the bag as if it might reappear with a snake—which, in a way, it was about to.
    â€œAll right,” she said softly.
    In one gesture, Joe brought out the ivory-colored mask and cradled it in his extended hands, as if ghoulishly offering her a head on a plate.
    The face stared up at her, ghostly and expressionless, as she responded in kind.
    After a prolonged silence, Joe asked, “Is this your late husband?”
    She tore her eyes away, allowing him to banish the mask back into the bag. “Where did you find him?”
    Joe hedged his response. “Some people were dismantling an old warehouse, tearing up the concrete floor—”
    She straightened. “I heard that on the radio. The Yankee plant. That was Hank?”
    â€œYes.”
    Her hand fluttered by her cheek a moment. “What was he doing there?”
    â€œMrs. Mitchell,” Willy spoke, “did he have anything to do with that project?”
    She shook her head. “He was a roofer. He did some odd jobs on the side, but never there that I know of. How did he die?”
    â€œWe’re still looking into that,” Joe answered quickly, laying Hank’s ring on the table and asking, “Is that his wedding band?”
    She picked it up and read the inscription. “Yes.”
    â€œWhat were the circumstances of his disappearance?” Willy asked, his tone encouraging. “You must’ve explained his sudden absence to yourself somehow—in order to make sense of it. You never called the police?”
    â€œNo,” she answered, her expression softening with reminiscence. “No. In a way, he was already missing.” She replaced the ring and sank against the sofa cushions, looking as if she’d been dropped there from a height. Her hands had stopped fidgeting.
    â€œOur marriage was having problems. When Hank disappeared, he wasn’t living with us anymore. I’d asked him to move out.”
    â€œI’m sorry.”
    She was quiet for a while, and then crossed her arms across her stomach and began rocking slightly, back and forth. Joe realized that she was silently weeping.
    â€œCan I get you anything, Mrs. Mitchell? A glass of water?” He looked around for at least a box of Kleenex.
    But she looked up and wiped her eyes with both palms. She took a deep breath. “It’s hard, even after so long.”
    Willy interpreted what she meant. “Hearing what really happened?”
    She nodded. “I never would’ve guessed it. He was so restless; so hungry for something else. I figured he took off. Those were the days, after all—‘free love.’ I thought the kids and I made him feel trapped.”
    â€œI know this is painful,” Joe said, “but we were hoping you could give us as many details as possible about Hank. We have to try to reconstruct what