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

by Joël Dicker

  Betsy was ready to leave the hospital and we offered to drive her home. In the corridor, we told her Bird’s version, and she seemed doubtful.

  “The attacker left him in the trunk of the car while he rowed me to that island? Why?”

  “Maybe the boat wouldn’t have taken the weight of three people,” I suggested, “and he was planning to make two trips.”

  “When you got to the lake, did you not look in the car?”

  “No,” I said. “We dived straight into the water.”

  “So we can’t do anything to Bird?”

  “Nothing without cast-iron evidence.”

  “If Bird’s blameless,” Betsy went on, “why did Miranda lie to me? She told me she met Michael a few years after Fold died. But in their living room, I saw a photograph from Christmas 1994. That’s just six months later. By that time, she was back with her parents in New York. She could only have met Michael when she was working for Fold.”

  “You think Bird could be the guy from the motel?” I said.

  “Yes, I do. And what’s more, I think Miranda made up that stuff about the tattoo to throw everyone off the scent.”

  Just then, who should we see but Miranda Bird, who had just arrived at the hospital.

  “My God, Betsy, your face!” she said. “I’m sorry about what happened. How are you feeling?”

  “I’m feeling fine.”

  Miranda turned to us. “You see, Michael had nothing to do with it. Poor man, what state is he in?”

  “We found Betsy in the very place you suggested,” I said.

  “It could have been anyone! Everybody in the area knows Badger Lake. Do you have any evidence?”

  We had nothing concrete. I felt as if I was reliving the investigation into Tennenbaum in 1994.

  “You lied to me, Miranda,” Betsy said. “You told me you met Michael several years after Jeremiah Fold died, but that’s not true. You met him when you were in Ridgesport.”

  Miranda said nothing. She seemed disconcerted. Derek spotted an empty waiting room and suggested we all go in there. We sat Miranda down on a couch.

  “When did you meet Michael?” Betsy insisted.

  “I don’t remember,” Miranda said.

  “Was Michael the man in the motel, the one who defied Costico?”

  “Betsy, I—”

  “Answer my question, Miranda. Don’t force me to take you to the station.”

  Miranda’s face fell apart. “Yes,” she said. “I don’t know how you found out about that incident at the motel, but yes, that was Michael. I met him when I was a hostess at the club, at the end of 1993. Costico wanted me to trick him into going to the motel, like all the others. But Michael wouldn’t let himself be caught in the trap.”

  “So when I talked to you about it,” Betsy said, “you made up that story about a tattoo to put us off the scent. Why?”

  “To protect Michael. If you had found out that he was the man in the motel . . .” Miranda broke off, realizing she had said too much.

  “Go on, Miranda. If we’d found out that he was the man in the motel, what else would we have discovered?”

  A tear ran down Miranda’s cheek. “You would have discovered that Michael killed Jeremiah Fold.”

  We were coming back to the same point: Fold, who we knew had been killed by Mayor Gordon.

  “Michael didn’t kill Jeremiah Fold,” Betsy said. “We’re sure of that. It was Mayor Gordon who killed him.”

  Miranda’s face lit up. “It wasn’t Michael?” she said, as happy as if this whole story was just a nightmare.

  “Miranda, why did you think Michael had killed Fold?”

  “After the incident with Costico, I saw Michael again a few times. We fell in love. And Michael got it into his head to free me from Fold’s clutches. All these years, I thought . . . Oh, God, I’m so relieved!”

  “You never talked about it with Michael?”

  “After Jeremiah died, we never talked about what had happened in Ridgesport. We had to forget everything. It was the only way to mend things. We wiped it all from our memories and we turned to the future. We succeeded. Look at us, we’re so happy.”

  *

  We spent the day in Betsy’s house, trying to pull together all the elements of the case.

  The more we thought about it, the more obvious it was that everything pointed to Bird. He was close to Stephanie Mailer, he had had special access to the Grand Theater and could have hidden the murder weapon there, and he had followed our investigation closely from the archive room of his newspaper, having himself offered to put it at our disposal. This had allowed him to eliminate all those who might bring him down as the investigation advanced. Despite this bundle of clues, without concrete evidence we could not touch him. A good lawyer would easily get him free.

  Late that afternoon, we were surprised to see Major McKenna pull up outside Betsy’s house. He was there to remind us of the threat hanging over Derek and me since the start of the week.

  “If you don’t bring this case to a conclusion by tomorrow morning, I’ll be obliged to ask for your resignations. That’s what the governor wants. This has gone on too long.”

  “Everything indicates that Michael Bird could be our man,” I said.

  “I don’t want indications, I want evidence! Cast-iron evidence! Do I need to remind you of the Ted Tennenbaum fiasco?”

  “We found the keys—”

  “Forget the keys, Jesse. They aren’t legal proof, as you know perfectly well. No court would admit it. The D.A. wants a cast-iron case, nobody wants to take risks. If you don’t close this case, it’ll be closed for you. It’s gotten worse than the plague. If you think Michael Bird is the culprit, get him to talk. You need a confession, however you get it.”

  “But how?” I asked.

  “Put pressure on him. Find his weak spot.”

  “If Miranda thought Michael had killed Fold to free her,” Derek said, “that means he’s ready to do anything to protect his wife.”

  “What are you getting at?” I said.

  “That we shouldn’t be focusing on Michael, but on Miranda. And I think I have an idea.”

  In the late evening, I had a call from Chief Montagne who reported that a Highway Patrol officer had arrested Steven Bergdorf in the Adirondack Mountains. I thanked Montagne and asked him to ensure that Bergdorf called the station in Orphea without failure the following afternoon.

  JESSE ROSENBERG

  Monday, August 4, 2014

  Nine days after opening night

  We got to the Birds’ house at seven in the morning. Bird had been allowed home the previous evening.

  It was Miranda who opened the door to us. Derek immediately handcuffed her.

  “Miranda Bird,” I said, “you’re under arrest for lying to a police officer and obstructing a criminal investigation.”

  Michael came running from the kitchen, followed by his children. “You’re crazy!” he yelled, trying to get between us.

  The children started crying. I didn’t like doing what we were doing, but we had no choice. I reassured the children, trying to keep Bird at a distance, while Derek led Miranda away.

  “The situation is serious,” I told Bird, in a confidential tone. “Miranda’s lies have had serious consequences. The D.A. is furious. She’ll be lucky to get away without a prison sentence.”

  “But this is a nightmare!” Bird said. “Let me talk to the D.A., there must be some misunderstanding.”

  “I’m sorry, Michael. There’s nothing you can do, unfortunately. You’ll have to be strong. For your children.”

  I left the house to join Derek in our car. Bird ran after us.

  “Let her go!” he cried. “Let my wife go, and I’ll confess everything.”

  “What do you have to confess?” I said.

  “I’ll tell you if you promise to leave my wife alone.”

  “It’s a deal.”

  Derek removed the cuffs from Miranda’s wrists.

  “I want a wr
itten agreement from the D.A.,” Bird said. “A guarantee that Miranda is under no risk.”

  “I can arrange that,” I said.

  One hour later, in an interrogation room at troop headquarters, Michael Bird read a letter signed by the D.A. exempting his wife from all prosecution for having deliberately misled us in our investigation. He signed it and confessed, with something like relief in his voice.

  “I killed Meghan. And the Gordons. And Stephanie. And Cody Springfield. And Costico. I killed them all.”

  There was a long silence. After twenty years, we finally had a confession. I urged Michael to tell us more.

  “Why did you do it?”

  He shrugged. “I’ve confessed. That’s all that matters, isn’t it?”

  “We want to understand. You don’t fit the profile of a murderer, Michael. You’re a kind family man. How does a man like you end up killing seven people?”

  He hesitated for a moment.

  “I don’t even know where to begin.”

  “Begin at the beginning.”

  Searching deep in his memories, he said, “It began one evening at the end of 1993.”

  * * *

  Early December 1993

  It was the first time Bird had been in Ridge’s Club. This wasn’t at all his kind of place. But a friend of his had urged him to come with him. “There’s a singer there with an amazing voice,” he had said. But when they arrived, it wasn’t the singer who captivated Michael, but the hostess on the way in. That was Miranda. It was love at first sight. Michael was under her spell. He started going regularly to Ridge’s Club, just to see her. He was besotted.

  At first, Miranda rejected his advances. She made it clear to him that he wasn’t to approach her. He thought she was just playing hard to get. He didn’t see the danger. Eventually, Costico noticed him and told Miranda to entice him into a trap at the motel. She refused at first. But a session with the bowl of cold water persuaded her to agree. One evening in January, she arranged to meet Michael in the motel. He joined her there the following afternoon. They both got undressed and only then did Miranda, lying naked on the bed, say, “I’m underage, I’m still at school, does that turn you on?” Bird was stunned. “You told me you were nineteen. You’re crazy to have lied to me. I can’t stay in this room with you.” He tried to get dressed but then he saw a huge man coming out from behind a curtain: it was Costico. There was a struggle, and Bird managed to get out of the room, naked, but with his car keys. Costico rushed out after him to the parking lot. Bird had time to open the door of his car and reach for a canister of tear gas. He neutralized Costico and escaped. But Costico tracked him down without difficulty and gave him a regulation beating in his own home, before bundling him into a car and driving, in the middle of the night, to Ridge’s Club, which had by then closed. Bird found himself in the office. With Fold. Miranda was there, too. Fold told Bird he would have to work for him from now on. He was his slave. “As long as you do as you’re told, your girlfriend here will be safe.” At this point, Costico grabbed Miranda by the hair and dragged her over to the bowl of cold water. He plunged her head in the water for several seconds, and repeated this until Bird promised to cooperate.

  * * *

  “And so you became one of Jeremiah Fold’s slaves,” I said.

  “Yes,” Bird said. “I was even his favorite slave. I couldn’t refuse him anything. If I ever seemed unwilling, he’d take it out on Miranda.”

  “And you didn’t think to go to the police?”

  “It was too risky. Jeremiah had photographs of my entire family. One day, I went to see my parents, and there he was, in their living room, drinking tea. I was afraid for Miranda, too. I was crazy about her. And it was mutual. At night, I would come to see her in her motel room. I wanted to persuade her to run away with me, but she was too frightened. She said Fold would track us down. She said, ‘If Jeremiah finds out we talk, he’ll kill both of us. He’ll dispose of us, and nobody will ever find our bodies.’ I promised her I’d get her out of there. But things got complicated for me. Fold had set his sights on Café Athena.”

  “He had started to put the squeeze on Tennenbaum?”

  “That’s right. And guess who he entrusted with the task of collecting the money every week? Me. I knew Ted a little. Everyone knows everyone in Orphea. When I told him it was Fold who’d sent me, he took out a gun and stuck the barrel to my forehead. I thought he was going to kill me. I told him everything. I told him the life of a woman I loved depended on my cooperation. That was the one mistake that Fold made. He was always so meticulous, so attentive to details. He never imagined that Ted and I would join forces against him.”

  “The two of you decided to kill him,” Derek said.

  “Yes, but it was complicated. We didn’t know how to go about it. Ted liked a fight, but he was no murderer. And besides, Fold had to be alone. We couldn’t attack him in front of Costico or anyone else. So we decided to study his habits. Did he go for walks alone sometimes? Did he go running in the woods? We had to find the right moment to kill him and dispose of his body. But we soon discovered that the man was untouchable. He was more powerful than Ted and I could have imagined. His slaves spied on each other, he had an impressive intelligence network, he was in league with the police. He knew everything.”

  * * *

  May 1994

  Bird had been staked out for two days in his car near Fold’s house, watching him, when suddenly the car door opened, and, before he could react, he was punched full in the face. It was Costico, who pulled him out of the car and dragged him to the club. Fold and Miranda were waiting in the office. Fold was furious. “You’re spying on me,” he said. “Are you planning to go to the police?” Bird swore he wasn’t, but Fold wouldn’t listen to him. He ordered Costico to beat him up. When they had finished with him, they started in on Miranda. The torture seemed interminable. Miranda was messed up so badly, she couldn’t go out for weeks.

  After that episode, and afraid they were being watched, Bird and Tennenbaum went on meeting in the greatest secrecy, in unlikely places a long way from Orphea, so as not to risk being seen together.

  “It’s impossible to kill Fold ourselves,” Tennenbaum said. “We have to find someone who doesn’t know anything about him and persuade that person to do it.”

  “Who would agree to do something like that?”

  “Someone who needs a similar favor. We’ll kill someone in return. Someone we don’t know either. The police will never trace it back to us.”

  “Someone who’s done nothing to us?” Bird said.

  “Believe me,” Tennenbaum said, “I’m not happy about suggesting this, but I don’t see any other way out.”

  On reflection, Bird thought it was probably the only way to save Miranda. He was ready to do anything for her.

  The problem was to find a partner, someone who had no connection with them. How to do that? They could hardly place a small ad.

  Six weeks went by. In mid-June, just when they had despaired of finding someone, Tennenbaum contacted him.

  “I think I’ve found our man.”

  “Who is he?”

  “It’s best you don’t know.”

  * * *

  “So you didn’t know the identity of the partner Tennenbaum had found?” Derek said.

  “That’s right,” Bird said. “Tennenbaum was the go-between, only he knew who the two killers would be. That way we’d cover our tracks. The police couldn’t trace anything back to us since we didn’t know each other’s identity. Apart from Tennenbaum, but he had guts. To be sure we had no contact, Tennenbaum and this partner had agreed on a method for swapping the names of our victims. He had said to him something like, ‘We mustn’t speak again, we mustn’t meet again. On July 1, go to the bookstore in Orphea. There’s a room there where no-one ever goes, with books by local writers. Choose one, and write the name of the person in it. Not directly. Circle the first letters of words to spell out the name. Then turn down the corners of the pages.
That’ll be the signal.”

  “And you wrote the name Jeremiah Fold,” Betsy said.

  “That’s right, in Hayward’s play. Our partner had chosen a book about the theater festival. In it was the name Meghan Padalin. The nice bookstore assistant. That was who we were supposed to kill. We started watching her movements. She went running every evening as far as Penfield Crescent. We thought we’d knock her down in a car. We still had to figure out when to do it. Our partner clearly had the same idea as us. On July 16 Jeremiah died in a traffic accident. But things might have gone badly. He had taken a long time to die, and might have been saved. That was the kind of pitfall we had to avoid. Ted and I were both good shots. My father had taught me to use a rifle when I was very young. He told me I had a real talent. So we decided to shoot Meghan. It was safer.”

  * * *

  July 20, 1994

  Tennenbaum met with Bird in an empty parking lot by the beach.

  “We have to do it, my friend. We have to kill that girl.”

  “Can’t we just drop it?” Michael said with a grimace. “We got what we wanted.”

  “I’d like to, but we have to keep our end of the bargain. If our partner thinks we’ve fucked him around, he could come after us. I heard Meghan talking in the bookstore. She’s not going to the opening of the festival. She’ll be jogging, same as every evening, and the neighborhood will be deserted. It’s the perfect opportunity.”

  “So we’ll do it at the opening of the festival,” Bird murmured.

  “Yes,” Tennenbaum said, covertly putting a Beretta in his hand. “Here, take this. The serial number is filed off. Nobody will trace it back to you.”

  “Why me? Why don’t you do it?”

  “Because I know the other guy’s identity. It has to be you, it’s the only way to cover our tracks. Even if the police question you, you won’t be able to tell them anything. Believe me, the plan is perfect. And besides, you told me you were a good shot, right? You just have to kill that girl and we’ll both be free of everything at last.”

  * * *

  “So on July 30, 1994, you went ahead with it,” Derek said.

  “Yes. Tennenbaum said he’d come with me and asked me to meet with him at the theater. He was the duty fire officer that night. He’d parked his van outside the stage door so everyone noticed it and he could use it as an alibi. We went together to the Penfield neighborhood. Everything was deserted. Meghan was already in the park. I remember looking at my watch: 7.10. On July 30, 1994, at 7.10, I was going to take the life of a human being. I took a deep breath, then ran like a madman toward Meghan. She didn’t realize what was happening. I fired twice, and missed. She ran toward the mayor’s house. I got into position, waited for her to be in my sights, and fired again. She fell. I went to her and put a bullet in her head. To make sure she was dead. I felt almost relieved. It was unreal. At that moment, I saw the mayor’s son looking at me from behind the living room curtain. What was he doing there? Why wasn’t he in the Grand Theater with his parents? It all happened in a fraction of a second. I didn’t think. I ran to the house, in a state of panic. The adrenaline made me feel ten times stronger. I kicked the door in and found myself face to face with the mayor’s wife, Leslie. The gun almost went off by itself. She collapsed. Then I aimed at the son who was running to hide. I fired several times, and at the mother again, to be sure they were dead. Then I heard a noise in the kitchen. It was Mayor Gordon, who was trying to escape through the back door. What could I do except kill him, too? By the time I came out, Ted had gone. I went back to the Grand Theater to mingle with the opening night crowd and be seen. I still had the gun on me, I didn’t know where or how to get rid of it.”