The Disappearance of Stephanie Mailer: A gripping new thriller with a killer twist

by Joël Dicker

  “Stop the show?” Derek said. “But the theater’s been searched with dogs, and anyone wanting to get in will be searched and have to go through a metal detector.”

  “I think he’ll be there,” I said. “I think the killer will be in the theater, among us.”

  We decided to go and observe the audience as they entered the theater. Some unusual behavior might alert us. But we also wanted to know more about what Kirk Hayward was cooking up. If he knew the killer’s identity, it would be better not to have to wait until opening night to find out.

  The only way to read Hayward’s mind was to be able to access the material in his possession. Especially the case file, which he was hiding somewhere. We sent Bird to search his hotel room when he was not there.

  “Whatever I discover will have no value as evidence,” Bird said.

  “We don’t need evidence. We need a name.”

  “But how do I get upstairs? There’ll be police all over the hotel.”

  “Show them your accreditation for the theater and say that Hayward sent you to fetch his things. I’ll call to let them know you’re coming.”

  Although the officers were prepared to allow Bird upstairs, the hotel manager was unwilling to give him a duplicate of the room key.

  “Mr Hayward gave specific instructions,” he said to Bird. “Nobody is allowed in his room.”

  But Bird insisted, saying that it was Hayward himself who had sent him to look for a notebook. The manager decided to go with him to the suite.

  The room was in perfect order. Looking around, watched suspiciously by the manager, Bird did not see any papers, any books, any notebooks. He checked the desk, the drawers, even the night table. But there was nothing. He glanced into the bathroom.

  “I don’t think Mr Hayward puts his notebooks away in the bathroom,” the manager said.

  “There’s nothing in Hayward’s room,” Bird said, joining us in the lobby of the Grand Theater after passing through the endless security checks.

  It was 7.30. The play would begin in half an hour. We had not managed to get one step ahead of Hayward. We were going to have to learn the name of the killer, like the rest of the audience, from his play. And we were about to find out how the killer, if he were in the auditorium, would react. We were going to be among the audience, watching like hawks.

  *

  7.58. In the wings, a few minutes from going onstage, Hayward had gathered his cast in the corridor that led to the stage. Facing him were Charlotte Brown, Carolina and Jerry Eden, Samuel Padalin, Meta Ostrovski, and Steven Bergdorf.

  “My friends,” he said, “I hope you are ready to discover the thrill of fame and success. Your performance will be unique in the history of the theater and will resonate throughout the nation.”

  *

  8.00. The auditorium was plunged into darkness. The murmur of the audience subsided unevenly. The tension was palpable. Derek, Betsy and I were standing behind the last row of seats, each at one of the doors into the auditorium.

  Mayor Brown appeared on stage for his speech of welcome. I thought again of the frozen image from the video of that same sequence, twenty years earlier, which Stephanie Mailer had circled with her felt-tip.

  After a fairly conventional address, the mayor concluded with the words: “This is a festival that will be long remembered. Let the show begin.” He walked down off the stage and took his seat in the front row. The curtain rose. A tremor went through the audience.

  The play opened with one of the scenes we had watched in Bird’s clandestine videos. The curtain was raised to reveal Padalin, playing the dead man, and, beside him, Eden as a police officer. From where I was standing, I could see Hayward watching from the wings. He looked nervous. There was something about him that struck me as odd, but I couldn’t put my finger on it.

  By the time we reached the scene in Fold’s bar in Ridgesport, with Charlotte playing Virginia Parker, I had studied the face of every person in the auditorium, looking for any sign of tension or nerves that might betray the killer. I glanced at Hayward again, as Charlotte broke into song. It was at this point that I noticed that Hayward did not have anything in his hand. That was it. That was what was bothering me. He wasn’t holding a script and he wasn’t wearing his shoulder bag. I walked over to where Derek was standing.

  “Hayward doesn’t have his script with him. If he’s left it in the dressing room, this could be our chance.”

  “What do you mean?” he whispered.

  “I can’t watch this anymore. I’m going to find out exactly what Hayward has in store for us. Are you coming?”

  Derek and I made our way as silently and as swiftly as we could from the auditorium to the backstage area. We found Hayward’s dressing room. It was locked. We forced the door. On a table, we immediately saw the police file, and also his famous sheaf of papers. We looked rapidly through the pages. There were the first scenes, which had just been played, but then, after the scene in the bar, came an appearance by Meghan Padalin, played by Carolina, on her own, declaring:

  “The moment of truth has come. The name of the killer is . . .”

  The sentence ended with an ellipsis. There was nothing more. Nothing but blank pages. After a moment’s astonishment, Derek cried:

  “My God, Jesse, you were right! Hayward has no idea of the killer’s identity. He’s waiting for the killer to reveal himself by interrupting the show.”

  At that very moment, Carolina was moving downstage, alone, announcing, in a prophetic tone, “The moment of truth has come.”

  Derek and I ran out of the dressing room. But we were too late. The auditorium was plunged into darkness. The darkest night. Only the stage was still lit. As we reached the stage, Carolina was beginning her sentence: “The name of the killer is . . .”

  A shot rang out. And then a second. Carolina slumped to the floor.

  The crowd started screaming. Derek and I took out our pistols and jumped up onto the stage, yelling into our radios, “Gunshots! One person down!” The auditorium lights went up and a general panic burst out. The terrified audience tried as best they could to get away, out of the theater. It was total chaos. We had not seen the shooter. Neither had Betsy. And we could not stop this human stream pouring out through the emergency exits. The shooter had mingled with the crowd. He might already be outside and gone.

  Carolina was lying on the floor of the stage, convulsing. There was blood everywhere. Eden, Charlotte Brown, and Bird had rushed to help her. Eden was screaming. I pressed on her wounds to stop the bleeding, while Derek yelled into his radio, “We have one person down! Send first aid to the stage!”

  The stream of spectators spilled out onto Main Street, unleashing a great wave of panic the police could not contain. People were screaming. They were talking about an attack. From Main Street, yells and sirens could be heard. Emergency vehicles were coming in from all sides.

  It was chaos.

  It was the Darkest Night.

  BETSY KANNER

  Friday, September 21, 2012. The day everything changed.

  Up until then, everything had been going well. In my professional life and in my life with Mark. I was a detective in the 55th precinct. Mark, working as a lawyer in my father’s firm, had built up a portfolio of clients that generated substantial income. We loved each other. We were a happy couple. At work and at home. A happily married couple. I even had the impression that we were happier and more fulfilled than most of the other couples we knew, with whom I often compared myself.

  I think the first sign of trouble in our relationship came with my change of assignment in the police. Having quickly proved myself in the field, it was proposed by my superiors that I join a unit dealing with hostage situations, as a negotiator. I took tests for this new post and passed with flying colors.

  Mark did not at first fully understand what my new assignment entailed. Not until, unknown to myself, I appeared on T.V. during a hostage situation in a supermarket in Queens early in 2012. I was shown in my black
uniform and bulletproof vest, holding my ballistic helmet in front of me. The images were seen by my family and all my friends.

  “I thought you were a negotiator,” Mark said in a shocked tone, after looking at the sequence on a loop.

  “That’s right,” I assured him.

  “Judging by what you were wearing, you seem to be more involved in the action than in calming things down.”

  “Mark, it’s a unit that deals with hostage situations. You can’t handle that kind of thing by doing yoga.”

  He was silent for a time. He poured himself a drink, smoked a cigarette, then came and told me:

  “I don’t know if I can bear you doing that job.”

  “You knew the risks of my profession when you married me,” I pointed out.

  “No, when I met you, you were a detective, you weren’t up to that kind of nonsense.”

  “Nonsense? Mark, I’m saving lives.”

  The tension got worse after a madwoman shot dead two police officers parked on a street in Brooklyn with their patrol car windows open, drinking coffee.

  Mark was worried. When I left in the morning, he would say to me, “I hope I see you again tonight.” Months went by. Gradually, hints were not enough: Mark became more insistent and even proposed that I ask for a chance to retrain.

  “Why don’t you come and work with me in the firm, Betsy? You could help me with major cases.”

  “Help you? You want me to be your assistant? You think I’m not capable of handling my own cases? Do I need to remind you that I’m a qualified lawyer, no more or less than you?”

  “Don’t put words in my mouth. I just think you should think a bit farther than your immediate future and envisage a part-time job.”

  “Part-time? Why part-time?”

  “Betsy, when we have kids, you’re not going to spend your days away from them, are you?”

  Mark had career-minded parents who had not bothered with him very much when he was a child. It had stayed with him, an open wound, and he made up for it by working flat out with the thought of being the sole breadwinner and allowing his wife to stay at home.

  “I’m never going to be a housewife, Mark. That’s something else you knew before you married me.”

  “But you don’t need to keep working, Betsy, I earn enough money!”

  “I love my job, Mark. I’m sorry you hate it so much.”

  “At least promise you’ll think about it.”

  “The answer is no, Mark! But don’t worry, we won’t be like your parents.”

  “Don’t bring my parents into this, Betsy!”

  But he himself brought my father into it, by confiding in him. And my father talked to me about it one day when we were together. It was the famous Friday, September 21. I remember it as a wonderful day, a real Indian summer day. The sun was bright in New York, and the temperature was at least 70°F. I wasn’t working that day, and I met my father for lunch in the outside seating area of an Italian restaurant that we were both fond of. It wasn’t far from my father’s office, and I thought that if he was arranging to meet with me there on a weekday, it was because he wanted to talk to me about something important.

  And indeed, no sooner were we sitting at the table than he said:

  “Betsy, darling, I know you’re having problems in your marriage.”

  I almost spat out the water I was drinking. “Who told you that, Daddy?”

  “Your husband. He’s afraid for you, you know.”

  “I was already doing this job when he met me, Daddy.”

  “So you’re going to sacrifice everything to be a police officer?”

  “I love my work. Why can’t anybody respect that?”

  “You risk your life every day!”

  “Daddy, I could just as easily be knocked down by a bus leaving this restaurant.”

  “Don’t play with words, Betsy. Mark is a wonderful boy, don’t make a fool of yourself with him.”

  That evening, Mark and I had a violent argument.

  “I can’t believe you went whining to my father!” I said angrily. “What happens between us as a couple is no-one’s business but ours!”

  “I was hoping your father could talk some sense into you. He’s the only person who has any influence over you, it seems. But I guess when it comes down to it all you think about is your own personal happiness. You’re so selfish, Betsy.”

  “I love my job, Mark! I’m good at what I do! Is that so hard to understand?”

  “And can’t you understand that I’ve had enough of feeling scared for you? Of shaking when your cell phone rings in the middle of the night and you rush off to an emergency?”

  “Don’t be such a drama queen. That doesn’t happen so often.”

  “But it does happen. Frankly, Betsy, it’s too dangerous. It’s not a job for you anymore!”

  “And how do you know what’s a job for me?”

  “I know, that’s all.”

  “I wonder how you can be so stupid.”

  “Your father agrees with me!”

  “I’m not married to my father, Mark! I don’t give a fuck what he thinks!”

  Just then my cell phone rang. I saw on the screen that it was my chief. At such an hour, it could only be an emergency and Mark realized that immediately.

  “Betsy, please don’t pick up.”

  “Mark, it’s my chief.”

  “You’re on leave.”

  “That’s just it, Mark. If he’s calling me now, it must be important.”

  “Dammit, you’re not the only police officer in this town, are you?”

  I hesitated for a moment, then took the call.

  “Betsy,” my chief said, “we have a hostage crisis in a jewelry store on the corner of Madison and 57th. The area has been cordoned off. We need a negotiator.”

  “O.K.,” I said, writing the address on a piece of paper. “What’s the name of the store?”

  “Sabar’s.”

  I hung up and collected my bag with my things, always kept ready beside the door. I tried to kiss Mark, but he had disappeared into the kitchen. I sighed and ran out. As I left our building, I saw our neighbors, through their dining room window, just finishing dinner. They looked happy. For the first time, it occurred to me that other couples’ marriages were probably more fulfilled than ours.

  I got in my unmarked car, put on the emergency lights, and set off into the night.

  DEREK SCOTT

  Thursday, October 13, 1994. The day everything changed.

  We drove at high speed. We didn’t want Tennenbaum to get away this time.

  We were so engrossed in our pursuit that I had forgotten Natasha, who was still in the back seat, holding on tight. Jesse, following the directions given on the radio, guided me.

  We took Route 101, then 107. Tennenbaum was being pursued by two patrol cars, which he was trying to lose however he could.

  “Keep straight on, then take Route 94,” Jesse said. “We’ll head him off and set up a roadblock.”

  I accelerated to gain ground and turned onto Route 94. But as we were approaching 107, Tennenbaum’s black van, with his logo painted on the rear window, cut us off. I just had time to glimpse him at the wheel.

  I set off in pursuit of him. He had managed to get a head start on the patrol cars. I was determined not to lose him. We soon saw the bridge crossing the Snake River ahead of us. We were almost bumper-to-bumper. I managed to accelerate some more and get almost level with him. There was nobody coming toward us.

  “I’m going to try to pin him against the railing of the bridge.”

  “Good,” Jesse said. “Do it.”

  As we drove onto the bridge, I gave a twist to the wheel and knocked into the back of Tennenbaum’s van. He lost control and hit the railing. But instead of stopping him dead in his tracks, the railing gave way and he went off the road. I didn’t have time to brake.

  Tennenbaum’s van plunged into the river, and so did our car.

  PART THREE

  Rising />
  1

  Natasha

  THURSDAY, OCTOBER 13, 1994

  JESSE ROSENBERG

  Thursday, October 13, 1994

  That day we’re chasing Tennenbaum and Derek loses control of the car and the railing of the bridge smashes to pieces, I see us plunging into the river in slow motion. As if suddenly time has stood still. I see the water moving closer to the windshield. The fall seems to go on for ten, twenty minutes. Obviously, it lasts only a few seconds.

  As the car hits the water, I realize I haven’t got my seat belt on. My head hits the glove compartment. Blackness swallows me. My life passes in front of my eyes.

  I see myself at the end of the ’70s, when I was nine and my mother and I had moved to Rego Park after my father’s death, to be closer to my grandparents. My mother had had to increase her working hours in order to make ends meet and, since she didn’t want me to be alone for too long after school, I would go to my grandparents, who lived one street away from my elementary school, and stay there until my mother came to pick me up.

  Objectively, my grandparents were terrible people, but for sentimental reasons I felt deep affection for them. They were neither pleasant nor kind, and they were hardly capable of behaving properly in any situation. My grandfather’s favorite phrase was “Bunch of jerks!” My grandmother’s was “That’s shit!” They would repeat this drivel all day long, like two stunted parrots.

  On the street, they would scold children and insult passers-by. First would come “Bunch of jerks!” Then Grandma’s “That’s shit!”

  In stores, they would abuse the staff. “Bunch of jerks!” Grandpa would proclaim, and Grandma would add her refrain.

  At the supermarket checkout, they would brazenly push past everybody else. If the other customers protested, Grandpa would say, “Bunch of jerks!” But if they said nothing, out of respect for their elders, Grandpa would still come out with “Bunch of jerks!” Then when the cashier, having scanned the barcodes, announced the total, Grandma would say, “That’s shit!”