The Night She Disappeared

by Kevin O'Brien

  With a forlorn look, he nodded.

  “I’m assuming that’s another reason you’d just as soon not reveal where you are,” Sally remarked. “Stu, what would you say to your sister, Anna Malone, if she were listening right now?”

  He looked up—obviously at the cue cards again. “Um, I don’t hold any grudges, Anna. I—I always thought I was the unlucky one in our family. But I look at all the people around you, and what’s happened to them. And maybe you’re the one who isn’t lucky. Or maybe you just bring bad luck to people when you don’t really mean to. I know you’re in trouble right now. And I’m praying for you, Anna Banana.”

  “Shit,” Anna murmured. Tears streamed down her face. She figured Sally must have paid him for this. Poor Stu had to be desperate for money if he’d agreed to spout all those lies.

  “Thank you for sharing your story with us, Stu,” Sally said. “And I really hope you get some help soon.”

  Anna grabbed the remote off the floor and switched off the TV. Digging a Kleenex from the pocket of her shorts, she wiped her eyes and blew her nose. Then she crawled over to the coffee table, where she’d left her phone earlier. She started writing a text. But her hands were shaking, and she kept hitting the wrong letters. It seemed to take forever to compose a few lines:

  Someone from the show must know where my brother is and how I can reach him. Please find out for me as soon as possible. He never tried to contact me, and I really would like to see him and help him. Please do whatever you can. I’d appreciate it so much. Thank you.

  Then she sent it to Sally’s daughter, Taylor.

  Just as she pressed send, the phone rang.

  For just a second, Anna hoped it was Russ. But George’s name came up on the caller ID, and she was so disappointed. Then she felt guilty for her disappointment.

  She tapped the phone screen to pick up. “Hey . . .”

  “Was that really your brother—or some actor on Sally’s payroll?”

  “That was Stu.” She sighed. Anna had told George about Stu ages ago.

  “He never reached out to you, did he?”

  “Nope.” Anna wiped her eyes again. Still on the floor, she rested an elbow on the coffee table.

  “I’m so sorry, Anna. Are you going to be okay?”

  “Eventually, I hope.”

  “Have you heard from—Dr. Knoll?”

  “Nope.”

  “I can come over if you need some company.”

  “No, you can’t. No one could get past the gate to my dock unnoticed. It’s a regular convention of news reporters out there.”

  “Well, I can hang on the phone and talk with you—if you want.”

  “Thanks, George,” she murmured. “Not to be too dramatic about it, but I think I just need to lie down on the couch and have a good cry. This is a pity party of one.”

  “I understand. I’m around if you need me. Just give me a call. Are you sure you’re going to be okay alone?”

  “I’ll be all right. But thanks, you’re sweet. Take care, George.”

  “G’night,” he said. Then he hung up.

  Anna tapped the screen to disconnect.

  She was still sitting on the floor of her darkened living room. She didn’t want to move. Right now, just getting up and walking over to the sofa for her crying session seemed like too much of an effort.

  The phone rang in her hand.

  Anna automatically touched the screen to pick up. “George, really, I’m fine.”

  There was no response on the other end. But somehow, it felt as if someone was listening. Anna glanced at the caller ID: Unknown Caller.

  It dawned on her that Russ wouldn’t use his own phone to call her. “Russ?” she said anxiously. “Is that you?”

  “He’s a fugitive because of you,” said the raspy-voiced caller. “He’s taking the rap for you, bitch. I know, because I saw you kill her.”

  Then the line went dead.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  Thursday, July 16—3:27 A.M.

  Tacoma, Washington

  Transcript of the 911 call:

  Operator: 911. What’s your emergency?

  Woman Caller: I just saw a guy jump off the bridge! The Tacoma Narrows Bridge. He—he was a ways in front of me in his car. He pulled over to the side and got out . . . then . . . then he climbed over the railing and jumped.

  Operator: Do you have a description of the car?

  Caller: It’s a black BMW. License plate K-K-C something.

  Operator: That’s good. Do you know if he was the driver of the car?

  Caller: I guess so. He got out on the driver’s side. And the car’s still there as far as I know.

  Operator: As far as you know? Are you no longer at the scene?

  Caller: No, I slowed down, but I—I didn’t want to stop on the bridge. There isn’t much traffic right now. But I figured it was dangerous, and I was scared.

  Operator: Can I get your name?

  Caller: No, no, no. I don’t want to get involved.

  Operator: Please, I need your name and your phone number.

  Caller: No, forget it. I’ve already had some trouble with the police, and I don’t want any more. This is a burner phone I’m calling from, so don’t bother trying to trace the number.

  Operator: You’re not in trouble. We’re asking for your contact information in case we need to ask you for more details.

  Caller: Listen, I’m trying to tell you that some guy just offed himself. I’m only trying to do the right thing, y’know?

  Operator: I appreciate that. Are you still driving on the bridge now?

  Caller: You’re just trying to track me down, and I’ve already told you that I don’t want to get involved. So just forget it. I’m hanging up. This is what I get for trying to help. You’ll find the car in the westbound bridge near the halfway point. The guy was about six feet tall, and he was wearing a dark hoodie. I’m sure he’s dead. A fall like that would kill anybody.

  End Call.

  Thursday, July 16—6:49 A.M.

  Seattle

  Her first instinct was to ignore the ringing phone.

  Then Anna remembered that Russ had disappeared on Tuesday evening. That was why she’d gone to sleep last night with the phone on her nightstand and the ringer volume turned up.

  Anna sat up and reached for the phone. The caller ID was nameless—with a number she didn’t recognize. She thought of the raspy-voiced caller from last night. There had been no second call. Was this the follow-up call? While Anna hesitated, the ringing stopped and the call went to voice mail.

  The bedroom loft fan was on. Past the whirling white noise, she heard a commotion outside. The crowd of reporters had still been out by the dock gate when Anna had gone to bed at one in the morning. Obviously, they were still out there—and making a hell of a racket. Over the din, she heard a neighbor screaming at someone: “This dock is private property! You’re trespassing! I’m calling the police!”

  “The police are already out here, lady.”

  It sounded like they were just below her window.

  Someone rang the doorbell and pounded on her door.

  Anna jumped out of bed and grabbed her robe. Throwing it on, she scurried down the narrow staircase and headed for the door.

  “Anna! Anna, do you have a comment?” some reporter yelled out. Then he started banging on the door again.

  She checked the peephole and didn’t recognize the guy. But he had a mic in his hand—and a videographer hovering behind him. Behind the videographer was Anna’s sixtysomething neighbor, Mrs. Gettle, in a pale blue sweatsuit.

  Disoriented, Anna smoothed back her hair and then suddenly realized she still had on her night guard. She took it out of her mouth and stashed it in the pocket of her robe. Unlocking the door, she opened it as far as the chain lock allowed. She was careful not to get too close to the opening, because she didn’t want to see her unwashed, morning face on the news later today. Warily, she peered out at the reporter.

  H
e was a short, impish-looking guy in his midthirties with messy brown hair. He wore a denim shirt and jeans. He was so aggressive that Anna thought he might try to push the door in. “Anna! Do you have any comment on Dr. Russell Knoll’s suicide?”

  He shoved the mic through the door opening.

  “What?” she asked. She told herself she hadn’t heard him right. “What are you talking about?”

  Her phone upstairs started ringing again.

  “Don’t you know?” the pushy reporter asked. “Haven’t the police contacted you yet? Russell Knoll jumped off the Tacoma Narrows Bridge early this morning. He’s dead.”

  “God, a million different thoughts went through my mind when I stared down at her, sprawled across the floor with that gash in her head. Her eyes were open. She seemed to gaze back at me, accusing me . . . My first instinct was to get out of there. But then I realized I had to dispose of the body and clean up the blood. Otherwise, everyone would have blamed Russ. That was the last thing I wanted. So I got the idea to pack a suitcase—and make it look like she’d left him.”

  —Excerpt: Session 3, audio recording

  with Dr. G. Tolman, July 23

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  Thursday, July 16—6:37 P.M.

  “Did Dr. Russell Knoll really throw himself one hundred and eighty-eight feet from the Tacoma Narrows Bridge into the icy waters of Puget Sound?” Sally asked. Seated behind her judge’s desk, she read off the teleprompter. Sally and her writers had composed the script ninety minutes before, and now she was reading it live on her show.

  It reminded her of thirty-five years ago when she’d been a reporter and anchor at a TV station in Denver. Reporting and analyzing news events on the air just hours after they occurred had always given Sally an adrenaline rush.

  In the green screen box over Sally’s shoulder, they were showing several stock photos of the spectacular twin suspension bridges that spanned 5,400 feet, connecting Tacoma to the Kitsap Peninsula.

  “Yes, the police found Knoll’s abandoned car there, midway across the westbound bridge,” Sally continued. “Yes, they discovered what seems to be a suicide note inside the car, and several people at Dr. Knoll’s clinic have confirmed that the note is in his handwriting.”

  Then Sally frowned and slowly shook her head. “But there are simply too many questions about this alleged suicide. I mean, how murky can this whole thing be? First of all, the location of Dr. Knoll’s BMW—it just happened to be in a blind spot for the cameras on the bridge. So we have no video of him getting out of his car and taking that deadly leap. No one actually saw it happen—except for one anonymous witness. This woman phoned 911 about the alleged incident from an untraceable burner phone. How convenient that she just happened to have this burner phone in her car when she was driving on the Tacoma Narrows Bridge at three in the morning! She refused to give her name because she said she’d been in trouble with the police. I ask you, is this a credible source? We’re supposed to believe what this elusive, mystery woman is telling us? She managed to evade authorities last night. Pierce County and Tacoma Police are working together to locate the witness. They’ve been examining traffic cam videos from the bridge in hopes of tracking her down through her vehicle.”

  Sally let out a heavy sigh. “Well, people, who’s to say this so-called witness didn’t make the call from another location? We know she must have been in Pierce County or Tacoma, because her 911 call was routed to the police there. But she didn’t necessarily have to be calling from the bridge. So when you get down to it, we have no idea where this witness really was when she called. And we don’t know who she was.”

  A photo of Dr. Russell Knoll appeared in the box over Sally’s shoulder. “Finally, we have no body,” Sally announced. “The police have not yet found Dr. Knoll’s corpse. We don’t even know for certain if he’s dead! So—we have an alleged suicide without a body or a credible witness. All we have, folks, is the abandoned car and a suicide note.”

  Though it was on the teleprompter, Sally had the text of the note typed—in a sixteen-point font—on a piece of paper in front of her. She read aloud from that, because, for the viewers at home, it created the illusion that everything else she said was off the cuff and this was something she actually needed to read. The text came up—as if someone were typing it—superimposed over Russell Knoll’s image in the box over Sally’s shoulder:

  “‘I’ve come to an impasse. Right now this seems like the only way out. I apologize to Anna Malone, who never hurt anyone and never deserved the heartache I’ve brought upon her. To Anna, and all the other people who believed in me, I apologize for letting you down.’”

  Sally looked up at the camera and sighed. “Well, it was awfully noble of him to exonerate his girlfriend, Anna Malone. But is he to be believed? Dr. Knoll never really admits whether or not he killed his wife. I mean, as far as confessions or suicide notes go, it’s awfully vague. I wonder how much Anna Malone has to do with this supposed suicide. Is she as innocent as her lover makes her out to be? She claims not to remember anything from the night Courtney Knoll disappeared. Well, I think that’s bunk.

  “When we come back, I’ll talk to some callers about what they think. This so-called suicide of the fugitive Dr. Russell Knoll: Is it for real or is it a hoax? Tell us what you think! Go to www-dot-vote-sally-justice-dot-com! We’ll be right back.”

  In her earpiece, Sally heard them cue up her theme music for the break. She kept looking at the camera and waited for the assistant director to give her the signal that she was no longer on the air. Out of the corner of her eye, she caught a glimpse of Taylor, standing behind the second cameraman.

  At last, they gave her the signal.

  “Chad! My forehead’s shiny, I can feel it!” she screamed. She turned toward the people over in the sound booth. “Paulette, you better have some good calls for me!” Then she frowned at her daughter. “Why are you here? I didn’t think you wanted to have anything to do with me.”

  Chad I rushed onto the set and started patting down Sally’s forehead with pancake makeup.

  Sally closed her eyes for a moment. When she opened them again, her daughter had stepped forward. She was signing—and not speaking. Whenever Sally and her daughter argued in front of other people, they bickered in sign language.

  Back when Taylor had been diagnosed as deaf, Sally’s husband, Boyd Hofstad, had started taking lessons in sign language right away. He’d become fluent. Sally had been busy building her career in television. She’d picked up bits and pieces, but fell way behind Boyd and Taylor in her sign language abilities. She often felt left out of their conversations.

  After Boyd had been shot dead in a road rage incident, Sally went on the air about how the Denver Police seemed to be dragging their feet in the investigation. It took them two weeks to hunt down her husband’s killer: an armed twenty-two-year-old drunk driver who already had one DUI. Sally took to the airwaves to criticize how the police and prosecutors were handling the case.

  That was how Sally Hofstad became Sally Justice. And since Taylor was down to only one parent, Sally buckled down and learned sign language—so her ten-year-old deaf daughter would have someone to communicate with. Though she got by, Sally never became an expert at signing. Her TV career had always come first.

  Still, she’d made certain Taylor’s nannies and teachers were adept at sign language. She’d also sent her daughter to the finest special schools. Under the circumstances, Sally figured she’d done the best she could for her child.

  So she couldn’t help resenting it just a little whenever Taylor flared up and gave her a lot of attitude. Her daughter seemed pretty hostile right now.

  Taylor silently signed to her and mouthed the words: “You really should stop attacking Dr. . . .” She spelled out K-n-o-l-l. Sally caught Taylor’s signal for and. Then her daughter spelled out: A-n-n-a M-a-l-o-n-e. Taylor always spelled so rapidly with her fingers that Sally sometimes had difficulty following her. “What if he’s really dead?” Ta
ylor continued. “You’re going to look awful—if you don’t already look awful. This is just like T-e-d B-i-r-c-h in S-p-o-k-a-n-e. You drove him to suicide, too!”

  “Lovely to see you again, too, dear,” Sally said out loud. “I like your blouse.” Then she signed, abruptly bringing the little-finger side of her right hand down across her open left palm, the sign for stop. “Okay, enough,” she silently mouthed to her daughter.

  Chad I must have sensed her annoyance, because he quickly finished touching up her forehead and backed away.

  Taylor rolled her eyes at her. “People are going to get tired of your attacks on A-n-n-a M-a-l-o-n-e,” she signed and silently mouthed. “Right now, they’re probably starting to feel sorry for her. It’s bad enough that you dragged her brother in front of the cameras to criticize her yesterday. Where did you find him anyway?”

  “Down in Longview,” Sally replied out loud, not bothering to sign. Her daughter could read her lips. “That new private investigator, Brenda, tracked him down. And we got him for cheap, too—thirty-five hundred dollars. It was quite the bargain considering he was ratings gold. Now, I have twenty seconds before I’m back on the air.” Then Sally silently mouthed and signed: “Are we quite done here?”

  “Yes, we’re done, Mother,” Taylor signed—and replied aloud. She had a sneer on her face. Then she turned and walked off the set.

  Frowning, Sally watched her disappear in the darkness beyond the spotlights. She wondered if Taylor was right about her losing her audience. Were people going to get tired of her campaign to discredit Courtney’s husband and that bitch who was his mistress? Sally felt like she was just getting started on Anna Malone. She really wanted to stick it to her. But it wasn’t just about revenge.

  Sally was convinced the illicit pair had indeed killed Courtney Knoll—and this whole suicide thing was a ruse. Someone had to speak out. And that was Sally’s specialty. People had to be convinced.