by Joël Dicker
Ernest Gordon was now seventy. He was Joseph’s elder brother. He received us in his kitchen, where he had cookies and coffee ready. His wife was also present. She seemed nervous.
“On the telephone you said you had new information about the murder of my brother and his family,” Gordon said.
His wife could not stay seated.
“That’s right, Mr Gordon,” I said. “To be honest with you, there are a number of things we’ve discovered recently that lead us to think we may have been mistaken twenty years ago about the guilt of the man called Ted Tennenbaum.”
“You mean he wasn’t the killer?”
“Yes, that is what I mean. What we came today to discover, Mr Gordon, was whether you can remember seeing among your brother’s effects a playscript entitled ‘The Darkest Night’.”
Gordon sighed. “My brother had an incredible amount of paperwork at home. I tried to sort through it a little, but there was too much. In the end, I threw most of it away.”
“We have the impression this play was quite important. Apparently he had resisted giving it back to its author. This suggests that he might have kept it somewhere secure. Somewhere unusual, too, a place where nobody would think to look for it.”
Gordon stared at us. There was a heavy silence. It was his wife who finally broke it.
“Ernie,” she said, “we have to tell them everything. It may be important to these officers.”
Gordon sighed again. “After my brother’s death, I was contacted by a notary public. Joseph had drawn up a will, which surprised me because he didn’t have any other property apart from his house. But this will mentioned a safe deposit box in a bank.”
“We were never told about this safe deposit box back then,” Derek said.
“I didn’t inform the police about it,” Gordon admitted.
“Why?”
“Because there was cash in that box. A lot of cash. Enough to send our three children to college. So I decided not to tell anyone about it.”
“These were the kickbacks that Gordon had not managed to transfer to Montana,” Derek said.
“What else was in the box?” I said.
“Assorted papers, Captain Rosenberg. But I confess I didn’t go through them carefully.”
“Shit,” Derek said. “I suppose you threw it all away!”
Gordon said, “I didn’t tell the bank my brother had died, and I gave the notary public enough money to pay the rental of the box until I die. I suspected the money in it wasn’t entirely clean and I thought the best way to keep the existence of the box secret was to stay well away. I told myself that if I approached the bank about canceling it—”
Derek didn’t let him finish. “What bank was this, Professor Gordon?”
“I promise I’ll give it all back,” Gordon said.
“We don’t care about the money, we have no intention of chasing you for it. But we do need to see what other papers your brother was hiding in the box.”
*
A few hours later, Betsy, Derek and I entered the safe deposit area of a private bank in Manhattan. A clerk opened the safe for us and took out a box, which we hastened to open.
Inside, we discovered a heap of bound pages. On the cover was:
THE DARKEST NIGHT
by
Kirk Hayward
“Well, well,” Betsy said. “Why did Mayor Gordon put the script in a safe deposit box?”
“And what’s the connection between the play and the murders?” Derek said.
The box also contained bank documents. Derek leafed through them and seemed intrigued.
“What have you found, Derek?”
“Bank statements, with details of large amounts paid in. Presumably kickbacks. There are withdrawals, too. I think they correspond to the sums that Gordon was sending to Montana prior to running away.”
“We already knew that Gordon was corrupt,” I said, not sure why he sounded so astonished.
“The account is in the names of Joseph Gordon and Alan Brown.”
So Brown was involved, too. And this wasn’t the last of our surprises. After the bank, we went to troop headquarters to get the results of the analysis of the video of Brown’s speech on the opening night of the first festival.
The imaging experts had identified a split second in the video sequence where the backlighting from the theater’s spotlights on the sheet of paper Alan Brown was holding revealed, through the paper, the text that was on it. Their report indicated summarily: “Of the few words that can be made out, the text spoken by the speaker seems to correspond to what is written on the paper.”
I looked at the enlargement, speechless.
“What is it, Jesse?” Derek said. “You just told us that the text on the paper was indeed Brown’s speech, didn’t you?”
I showed him the image. “The text on the paper is typewritten. On the evening of the murders, contrary to what he stated, Brown did not ad-lib his speech. He had typed it out in advance. He knew Mayor Gordon would not be coming. He had prepared everything.”
JESSE ROSENBERG
Saturday, July 19, 2014
Seven days to opening night
The bank documents discovered in Gordon’s safe deposit box were genuine. The account through which the dirty money had passed had been opened by Gordon and Brown together. Brown had himself signed the documents opening it.
In the early hours of the morning, with the greatest discretion, we rang the doorbell of Alan and Charlotte Brown’s house and drove them both to headquarters for questioning. Charlotte must have known about her husband’s involvement in the corruption that had blighted Orphea in 1994.
Despite our best efforts not to be noticed as we were taking the Browns away, a female neighbor, an early riser, glued to the window of her kitchen, had seen them climb into two State Police cars. The information passed from house to house, at the exponential speed of a text message. Some, incredulous, were so curious that they went and rang the Browns’ bell. Among them was the Chronicle editor, no doubt eager to check the veracity of the rumor. The shock wave soon spread among the local media: the mayor of Orphea and his wife had been arrested by the police. Peter Frogg, the deputy mayor, bombarded by telephone calls, shut himself up in his house. Chief Gulliver, on the other hand, was happy to answer all inquiries, even though he knew nothing. A scandal was brewing.
When Hayward got to the Grand Theater, just before rehearsals were scheduled to begin, he found reporters pacing up and down outside. They were waiting for him.
“Mr Hayward, is there a link between your play and the arrest of Charlotte Brown?”
Hayward hesitated for a moment before replying. “You’ll have to come and see the play. Everything’s in it.”
The reporters grew even more excited and Hayward smiled. Everyone was starting to talk about “The Darkest Night”.
*
We questioned Alan and Charlotte Brown in separate rooms. It was Charlotte who cracked first. When I showed her the bank statements found in Mayor Gordon’s safe deposit box, she turned pale.
“Taking kickbacks?” she said. “No, Alan would never have done anything like that. He’s the most honest man I know.”
“The evidence is here, Charlotte,” Betsy said. “You recognize his signature, don’t you?”
“Yes, I agree, that is his signature, but I’m sure there’s a sensible explanation. What has he said?”
“So far, he’s denied everything. If he doesn’t help us, we won’t be able to help him in return. He’ll be referred to the D.A. and put in provisional detention.”
Charlotte burst into tears. “Oh, Betsy, I swear I don’t know about any of this!”
Betsy placed a sympathetic hand on hers. “Charlotte, did you tell us everything the other day?”
“There is one thing I left out.” Charlotte was finding it difficult to get her breath back. “Alan knew the Gordons were planning to run away. He knew that on the opening night of the festival they were going to sneak out of
town.”
* * *
Orphea, July 30, 1994, 11.30 a.m.
Eight hours before the murders
On the stage of the Grand Theater, Buzz Lambert was putting his cast through their paces for the very last time. He had a few details he wanted to polish. Charlotte took advantage of a scene she wasn’t in to go to the bathroom. In the lobby, she ran into Alan and happily threw herself into his arms. He drew her away from prying eyes and they kissed.
“Did you come to see me?” she said. Her eyes were sparkling wickedly. But he seemed troubled.
“Is everything going well?” he said.
“Very well, Alan.”
“No news about that nut Hayward?”
“Yes, actually there is. Good news, in fact. He says he’s prepared to leave me alone. No more suicide threats, no more scenes. He’s going to behave himself from now on. All he wants is for me to help him recover the script of his play.”
“What kind of blackmail is that?”
“No, Alan, I’m happy to help him. He worked so hard on his play. It seems there’s only one copy left and Mayor Gordon has it. Can you ask him to give it back? Or to give it to you and then we’ll get it to Kirk?”
Brown immediately dug in his heels. “Forget about the play, Charlotte.”
“Why?”
“Because I’m asking you. Hayward can get lost.”
“Alan, why are you reacting like this? It isn’t like you. Hayward’s weird, O.K. But he deserves to get his script back. You know what a huge amount of work it was for him.”
“Listen, Charlotte, I respect Hayward as a police officer, but, please, forget his play. And forget Gordon.”
“Oh, Alan, surely you can do this for me. You don’t know what it’s like having Kirk endlessly threatening to blow his brains out.”
“Let him do it!” Brown said, exasperated.
“I didn’t know you were so stupid, Alan. I guess I was wrong about you.”
She turned away from him and made to head back to the auditorium. He caught her by the arm.
“Wait, Charlotte. Please forgive me, I’m really sorry. I’d like to help Kirk, but it’s impossible.”
“Why impossible?”
Brown hesitated for a moment, then said, “Because Gordon is about to leave Orphea. Forever.”
“What? Tonight?”
“Yes, Charlotte. Gordon and his family are getting ready to disappear.”
* * *
“Why do you think the Gordons had to leave?” Betsy asked Charlotte.
“I have no idea,” Charlotte said. “I didn’t even want to know. I did think there was something strange about Mayor Gordon. All I wanted was to retrieve the script of Hayward’s play. But I couldn’t leave the theater all day. Lambert insisted on rehearsing some scenes, then he asked for a read-through, and then had private conversations with each of us in turn. There was a lot at stake and he was nervous. It was only at the end of the day that I finally had a free moment to go to the mayor’s house, and I went straight there. Without even knowing if they were still there, or had already left. I knew it was the last chance I had to get the script back.”
“And later?” Betsy said.
“When I heard that the Gordons had been killed, I wanted to talk to the police, but Alan persuaded me not to. He said it might get him into serious trouble. And me, too, because I’d been there just before they were killed. When I told him that a woman exercising in the park had seen me he looked terrified. ‘She’s dead, too,’ he said. ‘Everyone who saw anything is dead. I think it’s best not to talk about this to anyone.’”
Betsy next went to see Brown in the adjoining room.
“Alan, you knew that Gordon would not be coming to the opening ceremony. Your supposedly improvised speech had been typed.”
He lowered his eyes. “I can assure you I had nothing to do with the deaths of the Gordon family.”
Betsy put the bank statements down on the table. “ In 1992 you opened a joint account with Joseph Gordon into which half a million dollars was transferred over two years, deriving from kickbacks linked to work on buildings in Orphea.”
“Where did you find these?”
“In a safe deposit box belonging to Joseph Gordon.”
“Betsy, I swear to you I’m not corrupt.”
“Then explain all this to me! Because right now all you’re doing is denying everything, and that doesn’t help your case.”
After one last hesitation, Brown finally plunged in. “At the beginning of 1994, I discovered that Gordon was corrupt.”
“How?”
“From an anonymous phone call, around the end of February. It was a woman’s voice. She told me to examine the books of companies chosen by the council for public works and compare the internal billing of the companies and the billing received by the council for the same contracts. There was a sizeable difference. All the companies were systematically overbilling. Someone in the council was making a packet. Someone in a position to take the final decisions in awarding contracts. In other words, either Gordon or me. I knew it wasn’t me.”
“What did you do?”
“I went straight to Gordon and asked him to explain. I admit I was still giving him the benefit of the doubt. What I wasn’t expecting was the way he counter-attacked.”
* * *
Orphea, February 25, 1994
Mayor Gordon’s office
Mayor Gordon looked rapidly through the documents that Alan Brown had brought in. Brown sat facing him, uncomfortable at Gordon’s lack of reaction.
“Joseph,” he said, “tell me you’re not mixed up in corruption. Tell me you didn’t ask for money in return for awarding contracts.”
Mayor Gordon opened a drawer and took out some papers, which he handed across the desk to Alan.
“Alan,” he said, almost apologetically, “we’re just a couple of small-time crooks.”
“What are these?” Alan said, looking through the papers. “And why is my name on this statement?”
“Because we opened that account together, two years ago, don’t you remember?”
“We opened an account for the council, Joseph! You said it would make accounting easier, especially for expenses. What I see here is a personal account, nothing to do with the council.”
“You should have read it carefully before you signed.”
“But I trusted you, Joseph! Are you telling me you tricked me? Oh, my God . . . I even gave you my passport to show to the bank.”
“Yes, and I’m grateful for your cooperation. That means if I go down, you go down with me, Alan. This money is ours, the two of us. Don’t try taking the law into your own hands, don’t go to the police, don’t go rummaging about in this account. Everything is in both our names. So unless you want us to share a cell in a federal prison for corruption, it’s best you forget the whole story.”
“But this is bound to come out, Joseph! If only because every contractor in town knows you’re corrupt!”
“Stop moaning, Alan. The contractors are all in the same boat as you. They won’t say anything because they’re as guilty as I am. You can rest easy. And besides, this has been going on for a while now and everyone’s happy. The contractors are assured of work, so they’re not going to risk taking the moral high ground now.”
“Joseph, you don’t understand. Somebody knows about your schemes and is ready to talk. I received an anonymous call. That’s how I discovered everything.”
For the first time, Mayor Gordon showed signs of unease. “What? Who?”
“As I said, it was an anonymous call.”
* * *
In the interrogation room, Brown looked at Betsy in silence.
“I was in a corner,” he said. “I knew I’d never be able to prove I wasn’t involved in the general corruption. The account was in my name, too. Gordon was clever, he had planned it all. He may have seemed a little soft sometimes, a little indecisive, but he knew exactly what he was doing. I was at his mercy.”
“Gordon was still in a panic over the anonymous phone call. He was so sure that everyone would keep their mouth shut that he had never imagined anything like that happening. This made me think that the corruption involved even more people than I knew of, and that he was in real danger. The months that followed were very difficult. Our relations were strained, but we had to save face. Gordon wasn’t the kind of man to do nothing and I suspected he was looking for a way out. And, in fact, in April, he asked me to meet him one evening in the marina parking lot. ‘I’m going to leave town soon,’ he told me. ‘Where are you going, Joseph?’ ‘That doesn’t matter.’ ‘When?’ ‘As soon as I’ve finished cleaning up this mess.’ Another two months went by. To me, they were an eternity. At the end of June 1994 he summoned me again to the marina parking lot and told me he would be leaving at the end of the summer. ‘I’ll announce after the festival that I won’t be standing for re-election in September. Right after that, I’ll move out.’ ‘Why don’t you leave before? Why wait another two months?’ ‘I’ve been gradually emptying the bank account since March. I can only make transfers up to a certain level in order not to arouse suspicion. At this rate, it’ll be cleared by the end of the summer. The timing’s ideal. We’ll close the account. It’ll cease to exist, and you’ll never be implicated. The town will be yours. That’s what you always dreamed of, isn’t it?’ ‘And in the meantime, this business can blow up in our faces at any moment. And even if you do close the account, there must still be traces of the transactions somewhere. You can’t just wipe everything out, Joseph!’ ‘Don’t panic, Alan. I’ve thought of everything, as usual.’
“Mayor Gordon actually said: ‘I’ve thought of everything’?”
“Yes, those were his very words. I’ll never forget his face when he said them. It was ice-cold, terrifying. After all that time rubbing shoulders with him, I’d never realized that Joseph Gordon was the kind of man who let nothing stand in his way.”
