by Joël Dicker
“Disappeared? What do you mean, disappeared?”
My only response was to ask him, “Mr Bird, could you print me all the articles Stephanie has written since she started here at the paper?”
“Of course. But aren’t you going to tell me what’s going on, Captain? Do you think something’s happened to Stephanie?”
“Yes, I do. And I think it’s serious.”
I left Betsy in the offices and ran into Chief Gulliver and the mayor of Orphea, Alan Brown, discussing the situation on the sidewalk. The mayor recognized me immediately. It was as if he had seen a ghost.
“You are here?”
“I wish we were meeting again under different circumstances.”
“What circumstances? What’s going on? Since when do the State Police get involved in a simple burglary?”
“You have no authority to do anything here!” Chief Gulliver said.
“There’s been a disappearance in this town, Chief Gulliver, and dis-appearances are the remit of the State Police.”
“A disappearance?” Mayor Brown said in a choked voice.
“There’s no disappearance!” Chief Gulliver cried in exasperation. “You don’t have the slightest evidence, Captain Rosenberg! Have you called the D.A.’s office? That’s what you should have done if you’re so sure of yourself! Maybe I should give them a call.”
I did not reply and left.
That night, at three in the morning, the Orphea fire department was called out to a blaze at 77 Bendham Road, Stephanie Mailer’s address.
DEREK SCOTT
July 30, 1994, the evening of the quadruple murder.
It was 8.55 when we arrived in Orphea. We had driven across Long Island in record time.
Siren screaming, we got to the corner of Main Street, which was closed off due to the opening of the theater festival. A local police car was parked there and the officers let us through. The Penfield neigh-borhood was cordoned off. There were emergency vehicles from all the neighboring towns. Around Penfield Lane, police tape had been set up, behind which stood a mass of onlookers who had streamed there from Main Street, anxious not to miss a moment of the show.
Jesse and I were the first detectives on the scene. We were greeted by Kirk Hayward, Orphea’s chief of police.
“I’m Sergeant Derek Scott, State Police,” I said, showing my badge, “and this is my partner, Inspector Jesse Rosenberg.”
“I’m Chief Kirk Hayward,” he said, visibly relieved that he could pass this thing on to someone. “I won’t bullshit you guys—I’m out of my depth here. We’ve never had to deal with anything like this. There are four people dead. It’s a massacre.”
Police officers were scurrying in all directions, shouting orders and counter-orders. It turned out that I was the highest-ranking officer on the scene.
“We have to close off all roads,” I said to Chief Hayward, “and put roadblocks in place. I’m asking for backup from the Highway Patrol and all available units of the State Police.”
Some twenty yards from us, in a pool of blood, lay the body of a woman in sports clothes. We slowly approached her. An officer was standing guard nearby, making an effort not to look.
“It was her husband who found her. He’s in the ambulance, just over there, if you want to question him. But the most horrible thing is inside.” He pointed. “A little boy and his mother . . . This is the mayor’s house.”
We headed immediately for the porch. As we tried to cut across the lawn, we found ourselves in an inch and a half of water.
“Goddammit,” I cursed, “my feet are soaking, I’m going to get water everywhere. Why’s there all this water here? It hasn’t rained for weeks.”
“A pipe burst in the automatic sprinkler system, sir,” an officer outside the house said. “We’re trying to turn the water off.”
“The main thing is not to touch anything,” I said. “We have to leave everything as it was until forensics arrive. And put tape on both sides of the lawn. I don’t want the whole crime scene flooded.”
I wiped my feet as best I could on the porch steps and we entered the house. The door had been kicked in. Right in front of us, in the hallway, a woman lay on the floor, several entry wounds visible. Next to her was an open suitcase, half filled. To the right, a small living room in which lay the body of a boy of about twelve, shot dead. He had collapsed into the curtains as if he had been cut down while trying to hide. In the kitchen, a man lying on his stomach in a pool of blood.
The smell of death and innards was unbearable. We quickly left the house, ashen-faced, shaken by what we had seen.
Before long, we were called into the mayor’s garage. Some officers had found more suitcases in the trunk of the car. The mayor and his family had apparently been about to leave.
*
The night was hot and the young deputy mayor, Alan Brown, was sweating in his suit. He had come down Main Street as quickly as he could, pushing his way through the crowd. He had left the theater as soon as he had been informed of what had happened and had decided to get to Penfield Crescent on foot, convinced it would be quicker than going by car. He was right: the center of town, crowded with people as it was, was impassable. At the corner of Durham Street, the locals, having heard disturbing rumors, saw him and gathered around, asking for information. He did not reply and set off at a run. He veered right when he got to Bendham Road and went on as far as the residential area. At first he passed down deserted streets, with lights out in all the houses. Then he became aware of all the agitation in the distance. As he drew closer, he saw a halo of lights growing brighter, as well as the flashing lights on the emergency vehicles. The crowd of onlookers had grown. Some called to him, but he ignored them. He made his way through until he was up against the police tape. Spotting him, Deputy Chief Ron Gulliver let him through. Brown was overwhelmed by it all at first: the noise, the lights, a body covered in a white sheet on the sidewalk. He did not know where to turn until, to his relief, he saw the familiar face of Chief Hayward, with whom Jesse and I were talking.
“Kirk,” Brown said to the chief, rushing toward him, “what’s going on, for heaven’s sake? Is the rumor true? Have Joseph and his family been murdered?”
“All three of them, Alan,” Chief Hayward replied in a grave tone.
He nodded toward the house, where police officers were coming and going.
“All of them shot in the house.”
Chief Hayward introduced us to the deputy mayor.
“Do you have a lead?” Brown asked us. “Any clues?”
“Nothing for the moment,” I said. “What I can’t get out of my head is that this should have happened on the opening night of the theater festival.”
“You think there’s a connection?”
“I can’t even guess what the mayor was doing at home. Shouldn’t he have been at the Grand Theater?”
“Yes, we’d arranged to meet at seven. When he didn’t come, I tried to call him at home, but there was no answer. Since the play was about to start, I ad-libbed the opening speech in his place. His seat was empty all through the first act. It wasn’t until the intermission that I was informed of what had happened.”
“Alan,” Chief Hayward said, “we found packed suitcases in Mayor Gordon’s car. It looks like he and his family were going away.”
“Going away? What do you mean? Going away where?”
“Your guess is as good as mine,” I said. “Did you get the feeling the mayor was anxious about anything lately? Had he told you about any threats? Was he worried for his safety?”
“Threats? No, he never said anything like that. Can I . . . Can I look inside the house?”
“It’s best to avoid contaminating the crime scene,” Chief Hayward said. “And besides, it’s not a pretty sight, Alan. A real slaughterhouse. The boy was killed in the living room, Leslie in the hallway, and Joseph in the kitchen.”
Deputy Mayor Brown felt shaky. He suddenly had the impression that his legs were giving way and he sat do
wn on the sidewalk. His gaze again came to rest on the white sheet a few dozen yards away.
“But if they all died in the house, then who’s that?” he asked, point-ing to the body.
“A young woman named Meghan Padalin,” I said. “She was jogging. She may have run into the murderer as he was coming out of the house.”
“It’s not possible!” Brown said, covering his face with his hands. “This is a nightmare!”
Just then, Deputy Gulliver joined us. “The press are asking a lot of questions,” he said to Brown. “Someone will have to make a statement.”
“I . . . I don’t know if I can face it,” Brown stammered.
“Alan,” Chief Hayward said, “you have to. You’re the mayor of this town now.”
JESSE ROSENBERG
Saturday, June 28, 2014
Twenty-eight days to opening night
It was eight in the morning. While Orphea slowly woke up, excitement was still high on Bendham Road, which was filled with fire engines. The building where Stephanie lived was a smoking, skeletal ruin.
Betsy and I stood on the sidewalk, watching the coming and going of the firefighters, who were busy rolling up their hoses and putting away their equipment. We were soon joined by the fire chief.
“It’s arson,” he said categorically. “Lucky that nobody was hurt. Only the second-floor tenant was in the building and he got out in time. He’s the one who alerted us. Would you come with me? I’d like to show you something.”
We followed him into the building, then up the black, soaked staircase. The air was smoky and acrid. When we got to the third floor, we discovered that the door to Stephanie’s apartment was wide open. The lock looked intact.
“How did you get in without breaking the door down or damaging the lock?” Betsy said.
“That’s what I wanted to show you,” the fire chief replied. “The door was wide open when we arrived, just as you see it now.”
“The arsonist had the keys,” I said.
Betsy looked at me gravely. “Jesse, I think the person you surprised here on Thursday night came to finish the job.”
I went closer and looked into the apartment. The furniture, the walls, the books—everything was charred. The person who had set fire to the apartment had had only one aim in mind: to destroy it.
*
Out on the street, Brad Melshaw, the man who had lived on the second floor, was sitting on the steps of a nearby building, wrapped in a blanket and drinking from a mug, contemplating the flame-blackened facade of the building.
He told us he had finished his shift at Café Athena at around 11.30.
“I came straight home,” he said. “I didn’t notice anything unusual. I took a shower, watched T.V. for a while, and fell asleep on my couch, as I often do. Around three in the morning, I woke up to find the apartment was filled with smoke. I quickly realized it was coming from the stairwell. When I opened my door I saw that the floor above was burning. I ran straight down to the street and called the fire department on my cell phone. Apparently, Stephanie wasn’t at home. She’s having problems, is that right?”
“Who told you that?”
“Everyone’s talking about it. This is a small town, you know.”
“Do you know Stephanie well?”
“No. Like neighbors who pass on the stairs, but not even that really. Our timetables are very different. She moved here late last year. She’s nice.”
“Did she tell you about a trip she had planned? Did she mention that she was going away?”
“No. Like I said, we weren’t close enough for her to tell me that kind of thing.”
“She might have asked you to water her plants or pick up her mail.”
“She never asked me to do anything like that.” Suddenly, Melshaw’s eyes clouded over. “Wait! How could I have forgotten? She had an argument with a police officer the other night.”
“Which night was this?”
“Last Saturday.”
“What happened?”
“I was coming home from the restaurant. It was around midnight. There was a police car parked outside the building and Stephanie was talking to the driver. She was saying, ‘You can’t do that to me, I need you.’ And he said something like, ‘I don’t want to hear from you again. If you keep calling me, I’ll lodge a complaint.’ Then he started the car and drove away. She stood there on the sidewalk for a while. She looked lost. I waited at the corner of the street, which was where I’d seen it all from, until she went up to her apartment. I didn’t want to make her feel uncomfortable.”
“What type of police car was it?” Betsy said. “From Orphea or another town? State Police? Highway Patrol?”
“I have no idea. I didn’t pay attention. And it was dark.”
We were interrupted by Mayor Brown. “I assume you’ve read today’s paper, Captain Rosenberg?” he said angrily, unfolding a copy of the Chronicle in front of me.
On the front page was a photograph of Stephanie, and above it the headline:
HAVE YOU SEEN THIS WOMAN?
Stephanie Mailer, a reporter for the Orphea Chronicle, has been missing since Monday. A number of strange events have occurred in connection with her disappearance. The State Police are investigating.
“I didn’t know anything about this article, Mr Mayor,” I assured him.
“Whether you knew about it or not, Captain Rosenberg,” Brown said crossly, “you’re the one creating all this upset!”
I turned to the still-smoking building. “Are you saying that nothing out of the ordinary is happening in Orphea?”
“Nothing the local police can’t deal with. So don’t come here and create more chaos, O.K.? The town isn’t in great shape financially, and everyone’s counting on the summer season and the theater festival to put us back on our feet. If the tourists are scared, they won’t come.”
“I am sorry to insist, Mr Mayor, but I believe this may be something very serious.”
“You don’t have the first clue, Captain Rosenberg. Chief Gulliver told me yesterday that Stephanie’s car hasn’t been seen since Monday. What if she’s simply taken off for a few days? And I made a few calls about you. I hear you’re retiring on Monday.”
Betsy gave me a strange look. “Jesse, are you quitting the police?”
“I’m not going anywhere until I get to the bottom of all this.”
I understood the kind of reach Mayor Brown had when, after leaving Bendham Road, as Betsy and I were on our way back to the Orphea police station, I received a call from my commander, Major McKenna.
“Rosenberg,” he said, “the mayor of Orphea is on my back. He says you’re spreading panic in the town.”
“A woman has disappeared, sir,” I said, “and it may have something to do with the quadruple murder of 1994.”
“That case is closed, Rosenberg. You should know that—you solved it.”
“I know, sir. But I’m starting to wonder if we didn’t miss something at the time.”
“What the hell are you talking about?”
“The woman who’s gone missing is a reporter who’s been looking into the case. Maybe it’s a sign we should dig deeper.”
“Rosenberg, according to the local police chief, you don’t have a single reason to be digging deeper,” McKenna said impatiently. “Right now, you’re spoiling my Saturday, and two days before you leave the force you’re making a fool of yourself. Is that really what you want?”
I said nothing, and McKenna resumed, in a friendlier tone:
“Listen to me. I’m leaving with my family for Lake Champlain for the weekend, and when I do I’ll make sure I leave my cell phone at home. I’ll be unreachable until tomorrow evening and back in the office on Monday morning. You have until first thing on Monday to find something solid to show me. Otherwise, you come back nicely to the office, as if nothing has happened. We’ll have a drink to celebrate your departure and I don’t want to hear any more about this story. Is that clear?”
“Got it, sir. Th
anks.”
I didn’t have much time. In Betsy’s office, we started sticking the different elements of the case on a whiteboard.
“According to the other journalists,” I said, “the theft of the computer from the editorial offices can only have taken place on Monday night. The break-in at the apartment took place on Thursday night, and finally there was the fire last night.”
“What are you getting at?” Betsy said, handing me a cup of burning hot coffee.
“Well, this suggests that what this person was looking for wasn’t on the office computer, and this forced him or her to search Stephanie Mailer’s apartment. Obviously without success, since he took the risk of coming back the following night and setting fire to it. Why act this way unless he hoped to destroy the files if he couldn’t get his hands on them?”
“So what we’re looking for may still be out there.”
“Exactly,” I said. “But where?”
I had brought Stephanie’s telephone and bank records with me, having picked them up the previous day from headquarters.
“Let’s start by trying to find out who phoned Stephanie as she left the Kodiak Grill,” I said, searching through the documents until I found the list of the last calls made and received.
Stephanie had received a call at 10.03. Then she had phoned the same person twice in a row, at 10.05 and 10.10. The first call lasted barely a second, the second lasted twenty seconds.
Betsy sat down at her computer. I read out the number of the call received by Stephanie at 10.03 and she looked in the search engine for the corresponding subscriber.
“My God, Jesse!” she exclaimed.
“What?” I said, rushing to the screen.
“The number is that of the phone booth in the Kodiak Grill!”
“Someone called Stephanie from the Kodiak Grill just after she left the place?”
“Someone was watching her,” Betsy said. “All the time she was waiting, someone was watching her.”
Going back to the records, I underlined the last number dialed by Stephanie. I read that one out and Betsy entered it into the system.
