by Joël Dicker
“You’re crazy, Jesse,” Ostrovski complained as I pinned him to the wall and handcuffed him.
“We know everything, Ostrovski!” I cried. “It’s over!”
“What everything do you know?”
“You killed Meghan Padalin and the Gordons. As well as Stephanie Mailer and Cody Springfield.”
“Are you sick or something?” Ostrovski said.
A crowd of onlookers was forming around us. Some were filming the scene on their cell phones.
“Help me!” Ostrovski called to them. “These two aren’t police officers! They’re crazy people!”
We were forced to show our badges to the crowd. We pulled Ostrovski inside the building to be somewhere quiet.
“I’d like you to tell me what’s wrong with you,” Ostrovski said. “How could you think I killed those poor people?”
“We saw the wall of your suite, Ostrovski, with the press clippings and the photographs of Meghan.”
“There’s your proof right there that I didn’t kill anyone! I’ve spent the last twenty years trying to understand what happened.”
“Or it could be you’ve spent the last twenty years trying to cover your tracks,” Derek said. “That’s why you commissioned Stephanie, isn’t it? You wanted to see if it was possible to trace the crimes back to you, and when it looked like she was doing precisely that, you killed her.”
“Oh, goddammit! I was just trying to do the job you two incompetents should have done in 1994.”
“Don’t take us for idiots. You were Jeremiah Fold’s slave! That’s why you asked Mayor Gordon to get rid of him for you.”
“I’m nobody’s slave!” Ostrovski spat at me.
“Enough of this bullshit,” Derek said. “Why did you leave Orphea so suddenly if you have nothing to hide?”
“Since you ask, my sister had a stroke yesterday. She had to have an emergency operation. I wanted to be with her. I spent all night and all day in the hospital. She’s the only family I have left.”
“Which hospital?”
“New York Presbyterian.”
Derek contacted the hospital to check. Ostrovski wasn’t lying to us. I immediately removed his handcuffs.
“Why are you so obsessed with those killings?” I said.
“Because I loved Meghan, dammit!” Ostrovski cried. “Is that so hard to comprehend? I loved her and she was taken from me! You can’t know what it is to lose the love of your life!”
I stared at him for a long time. There was a terribly sad light in his eyes. I finally said:
“I know it only too well.”
Ostrovski was out of the picture. We had wasted time and precious energy, and now we had only twenty-four hours left to solve the case. If we didn’t hand over the killer to Major McKenna by Monday morning, it would be the end of our careers.
We had one remaining option: Steven Bergdorf. We had allowed him to return home to his family in New York City on condition he did not leave the state. Once the editor of the Orphea Chronicle, and formerly Stephanie Mailer’s employer, he had left Orphea soon after the 1994 killings, then had come back to take part in the play that was supposed to reveal the name of the murderer. We went to his apartment in Brooklyn. We drummed for a long time on his door. No answer. As we were thinking of breaking it down, a neighbor appeared on the landing and said:
“No point knocking like that, the Bergdorfs have left.”
“Left?” I said in surprise. “When?”
“Day before yesterday. I saw them from my window, getting into his car.”
“Steven Bergdorf, too?”
“Yes, Steven, too. With his family.”
“But he’s not supposed to leave New York State,” Derek said.
“That’s not my problem,” the neighbor replied. “No doubt they went somewhere in the Hudson Valley.”
Derek and I issued a missing persons bulletin for Steven Bergdorf, then decided to return to Orphea. I informed Betsy and we set off.
In the archive room, Betsy hung up.
“That was Jesse,” she told Bird and Hayward. “Apparently, Ostrovski has nothing to do with any of this.”
“Just as I thought,” Bird said. “So what do we do now?”
“We should grab a bite to eat. It looks like it could be a long night.”
“Let’s go to the Kodiak Grill,” Bird suggested.
“Great,” Hayward said. “I’d die for a good steak.”
“No, we’ll have to go without you, Kirk,” Betsy said, afraid that he could not be trusted to be discreet. “Someone has to stay here on call.”
“On call?” Hayward said. “Why?”
“You’re staying here and that’s it.”
She and Bird left the building by the back door and the alleyway and got in Betsy’s car.
Hayward cursed at finding himself alone once again. He thought of the months he’d spent in the basement of the police station. He searched through the documents scattered on the table in front of him and plunged into the police file. He helped himself to the remaining candies.
Betsy and Bird were driving down Main Street.
“Do you mind if we swing by my place?” Bird said. “I want to say goodnight to my daughters before they go to bed. I’ve hardly seen them this past week.”
“Gladly,” Betsy said, veering in the direction of Bridgehampton.
When they got to the Birds’ house, Betsy saw that all the lights were off.
“Isn’t there anyone in?” Bird said, surprised.
Betsy parked outside the house. “Maybe your wife went out with the children.”
“They must have gone for a pizza. I’ll call them.”
Bird took out his cell phone and cursed on seeing the screen: no bars.
“There’s been bad reception here for a while,” he said.
“I don’t have any coverage either,” Betsy said.
“Wait here a minute. I’ll run inside and call my wife from the landline.”
“Do you mind if I come in at the same time and use your bathroom?”
“Of course not. Come.”
They went into the house. Bird showed Betsy where the bathroom was and picked up the phone.
*
Derek and I were approaching Orphea when we got a radio call. The operator informed us that a man named Kirk Hayward was trying desperately to reach us but didn’t have our cell numbers. The call was passed on to us by radio and we suddenly heard Hayward’s voice echoing in the car.
“Jesse, the keys are here!”
“What keys?”
“I’m in Bird’s office at the Chronicle. I found them.”
We couldn’t figure out what Kirk was talking about.
“What did you find, Kirk? Speak clearly!”
“I found Stephanie Mailer’s keys!”
Hayward explained that he had gone upstairs to Bird’s office to look for more chocolate. Rummaging through one of the drawers, he had come across a bunch of keys attached to a yellow plastic ball. He had seen it before somewhere. Searching his memory, he recalled being in the Beluga Bar with Stephanie Mailer as she was leaving, when her purse had fallen on the floor. The contents of the purse had scattered. He had picked up her keys to give them back to her. He remembered that key ring perfectly.
“Are you sure they’re Stephanie’s keys?” I said.
“Yes, in fact there’s a car key with them. A Mazda. What kind of car did Stephanie drive?”
“A Mazda. They’re her keys. Don’t say anything, just do everything you can to keep Michael there.”
“He’s gone. He’s with Betsy.”
*
In the Birds’ house, Betsy came out of the bathroom. Everything was quiet. She walked across the living room. No sign of Bird. Her gaze fell on some framed photographs arranged on a chest of drawers. Photographs of the family, over the years. The births of the daughters, vacations. Betsy noticed a photograph in which Miranda Bird looked especially young. She was with Michael, it was Christmas time. In the background was a
fir tree with decorations, and through the window you could see snow outside. In the bottom right-hand corner of the picture was the date, as all photographs had in the days when they were developed in stores. Betsy moved her face closer: December 23, 1994. She felt her heart start to pound. Miranda had told her she had met her husband several years after the death of Fold. She had lied.
Betsy looked around. The house was silent. Where was Bird? Anxiety took hold of her. She put her hand on the grip of her gun and headed cautiously for the kitchen. There was nobody there. Everything seemed inexplicably deserted. She took out her gun and entered a dark corridor. She pressed the light switch, but the light didn’t come on. Suddenly, she received a blow across her back that threw her to the floor and made her drop her gun. She tried to turn over, but her face was immediately sprinkled with some kind of asphyxiant. She screamed in pain. Her eyes were burning. She received a blow on the head, which knocked her out.
She sank into a black hole.
*
Derek and I had put out a general alert. Montagne had dispatched men to the Kodiak Grill and the Bird residence. But Betsy and Michael were nowhere to be found. When we finally got to the house, the officers on the scene showed us fresh bloodstains.
Just then, Miranda Bird got back from the pizzeria with her daughters.
“What’s going on?” she said when she saw the officers.
“Where’s Michael?” I cried.
“I’ve no idea. He called me earlier and said he was here with Betsy.”
“And where were you?”
“With my daughters, we went for a pizza. What the hell’s going on, Captain?”
When Betsy came to, her hands were cuffed behind her back and there was a bag over her head that stopped her from seeing anything. She forced herself not to panic. From the sounds and vibrations, she realized that she was lying on the back seat of a moving car.
She deduced that the car was driving along an untarred road, presumably of earth or gravel. Suddenly, the vehicle stopped. Betsy heard a noise. The back door opened abruptly. She was lifted and dragged out onto the ground. She could see nothing. She didn’t know where she was. But she could hear frogs: she was near the lake.
*
In the Birds’ living room, where the smell of tear gas was still evident, Miranda was finding it hard to take in what she was being told.
“How can you possibly think Michael was involved in any of this? It may be his blood you found here!”
“Stephanie Mailer’s car and house keys were in his desk,” I said.
Miranda refused to believe it. “You’re making a mistake. You’re wasting precious time. Michael may be in danger.”
I joined Derek in the next room. He had a map of the area open in front of him, and was talking with Dr Ranjit Singh on the telephone.
“The killer is intelligent and methodical,” Singh said over the loudspeaker. “He knows he can’t go very far with Betsy, and he won’t want to risk running into police patrol cars. He’s a very cautious person, remember. He wants to limit the risks and avoid a confrontation at all costs.”
“So you think he’s still in the Orphea area?” I said.
“I’m sure of it. Within a radius he’s familiar with. A place where he feels safe.”
“Could he have done the same thing with Stephanie?” Derek said, studying the map.
“Probably so.”
Derek circled with a marker pen the beach close to where Stephanie’s car had been found.
“If the killer arranged to meet with Stephanie in that place, it means he was planning to take her somewhere near there.”
With my finger, I followed Route 22 as far as Stag Lake, which I circled in red. Then I took the map to show Miranda.
“Do you have another house in the area?” I said. “A family house, a cabin, a place where your husband could take shelter?”
“My husband? But—”
“Answer my question!”
Miranda examined the map. She looked at Stag Lake and then pointed to a nearby stretch of water: Beaver Lake.
“Michael likes going there,” she said. “There’s a landing stage with a boat. You can get over to a lovely little island. We often picnic there with the girls. There’s never anybody there. Michael says you can be alone in the world there.”
Derek and I looked at each other and, without needing to speak, ran to our car.
*
Betsy had been thrown into what she thought was a boat. She pretended to be still unconscious. She felt the movement of the water and heard the sound of oars. She was being taken somewhere, but where?
Derek and I were driving flat out along Route 56. We soon had Stag Lake in view.
“There’s a turn-off on your right,” Derek said, cutting the siren. “A dirt track.”
We only just spotted it. I turned onto it and accelerated like a madman. I soon saw Betsy’s car parked by the water, beside a landing stage. I hit the brakes and we got out of the car. Despite the darkness, we made out a boat on the lake, heading toward the island. We took out our guns. “Stop! Police!” I shouted, and fired a warning shot.
In response, we heard Betsy’s voice from the boat, calling for help. The figure holding the oars struck her a blow. Betsy screamed. Derek and I plunged into the lake. We just had time to see Betsy being flung overboard. She went straight down, then tried, just with the strength in her legs, to come back up to the surface for air.
Derek and I swam as fast as we could. In the failing light, it was impossible to make out the figure in the boat, who was going around us, back toward the cars. We couldn’t stop him: we had to save Betsy. We gathered our remaining strength to reach her, just as Betsy, exhausted, let herself sink to the bottom of the lake.
Derek dived down to the bottom. I did the same. Everything was opaque around us. At last, Derek touched Betsy’s body. He grabbed an arm and managed to bring her up to the surface. I came to his aid and somehow we dragged Betsy to the shore of the little island and pulled her onto dry land. She coughed and spat out water. She was alive.
On the other shore, the boat had pulled up to the landing stage. We saw the figure get into Betsy’s car and drive away.
*
Two hours later, the attendant at an isolated gas station saw a man covered in blood come into the store, in a panic. It was Michael Bird, his hands bound with a rope. “Call the police!” he cried. “He’s coming, he’s after me!”
JESSE ROSENBERG
Sunday, August 3, 2014
Eight days after opening night
In his hospital room, where he had spent the night under observation, Bird told us how he had been attacked at his house.
“I was in the kitchen. I had just phoned my wife. Suddenly, I heard a noise outside. Betsy was in the bathroom, so it couldn’t have been her. I went out to see what was going on, and was sprayed with tear gas before receiving a violent blow full in the face. I blacked out. When I came to, I was in the trunk of a car, with my hands tied. The trunk suddenly opened. I pretended to be unconscious. I was dragged along the ground. I could smell earth and vegetation. I heard a noise, like someone digging. I half opened my eyes. I was in the middle of a forest. A few yards away was a guy in a hood, digging a hole. It was my grave. I thought about my wife, my daughters. I didn’t want to die like that. With the energy of despair, I stood up and started running. I ran down a slope, and ran as fast as I could through the forest. I could hear him behind me, running after me. I managed to get some distance from him. Then I came to a road. I followed it, hoping to see a car, but finally spotted a gas station.”
Derek, having listened carefully to Bird’s story, said, “Enough of this bullshit, Michael. We found Stephanie Mailer’s keys in your desk drawer.”
Bird looked amazed. “Stephanie Mailer’s keys? What are you talking about? That’s completely absurd.”
“And yet it’s the truth. A whole bunch of them, the keys to her apartment, the newspaper offices, her car, and a self-storage
facility.”
“That’s quite simply impossible,” Bird said, seeming genuinely astonished by all this.
“Was it you, Michael?” I said. “Did you kill Stephanie?”
“No, Jesse, of course not! I mean, it’s ridiculous! Who found those keys in my desk?”
We would rather he hadn’t asked that question. Since the keys had not been found by a police officer in the course of an official search, they had no value as evidence. But I had to tell him the truth.
“It was Kirk Hayward.”
“Hayward? Hayward searched my desk and just happened to come across Stephanie’s keys? That makes no sense! Was he alone?”
“Yes.”
“Listen, I don’t know what it means, but I think Hayward is pulling the wool over your eyes. Just as he did with that play of his. So what’s happening? Am I under arrest?”
“No.”
Stephanie Mailer’s keys were not valid evidence. Had Hayward really found them in Bird’s desk as he claimed? Or had he had them with him from the start? Unless it was Bird who was trying to pull the wool over our eyes and who had staged the attack on himself? It was Hayward’s word against Bird’s. One of them was lying. But which one?
The wound to Bird’s face was serious and had required several stitches. Blood had been found on the front steps of his house. His story held up. The fact that Betsy had been thrown onto the back seat of her car was also consistent with Bird’s version, since he claimed he had been put in the trunk. In addition, we had searched his house as well as the offices of the Chronicle and had found absolutely nothing.
After our visit with Bird, Derek and I went to see Betsy in a nearby room. She, too, had spent the night in the hospital. She had pulled through quite well. She had an ugly bruise on her forehead and a black eye, but she had escaped the worst. The little island had been searched and Costico’s decomposing body had been found buried in a shallow grave. He had been shot.
Betsy had not seen her attacker, nor heard the sound of his voice. All she remembered was the tear gas that had blinded her and the blows that had knocked her out. When she had come to, she had a canvas bag over her head. As for her car, in which there might possibly be fingerprints, it had still not been recovered.
