The Disappearance of Stephanie Mailer: A gripping new thriller with a killer twist, Joël Dicker [general ebook reader .txt] 📗

of articles in the Orphea Chronicle. There were enlargements of photographs of each of the victims and a photograph of Mayor Gordon’s house taken on the night of the murder, also cut from a newspaper. There I was, with Derek and a group of police officers, standing next to a white sheet covering the body of Meghan Padalin. Stephanie had written on the photograph with a marker pen:

What nobody saw

The only furniture was one small table and one chair. It was easy to imagine Stephanie spending hours here.

On that makeshift desk were paper and pens. And there was a sheet of paper stuck to the wall, on which she had written:

Find Kirk Hayward

“Who’s Kirk Hayward?” Betsy said.

“He was Orphea’s police chief at the time of the murders,” I said. “He worked on the case with us.”

“And where is he now?”

“I have no idea. He must have retired. We need to contact him. He may have talked to Stephanie.”

Searching among the notes in little heaps on the table, I made another discovery.

“Betsy, look at this,” I said, handing her Stephanie’s airline ticket to Los Angeles. On it, she had written:

Darkest Night ➝ Police records

“‘Darkest Night’again,” Betsy said. “What the hell does it mean?”

“It means her trip to L.A. was connected with her investigation,” I said. “And now we know for certain that Stephanie really was investi-gating the Gordon killings.”

On the wall was a photograph of Mayor Brown, taken at least twenty years earlier. It looked like a frame from a video. Brown was standing at the microphone with a sheet of paper in his hand, as if he were making a speech. The sheet of paper had been circled in felt-tip. The background suggested the stage of the Grand Theater.

“It could be a picture of Mayor Brown giving the opening speech of the festival on the night of the murders,” Derek said.

“How do you know it’s the night of the murders?” I said. “Do you remember what he was wearing that night?”

Derek picked up the press photograph in which Brown also appeared. “He seems to be wearing the same clothes.”

We spent all night in the self-storage facility. There were no security cameras and the guard told us he was there only in case there were any problems, but there never were. Customers came and went as they pleased, at all hours, without being checked and without having to answer any questions.

The forensics team from the State Police was sent to inspect the place, and their meticulous search uncovered Stephanie’s laptop, hidden in the false bottom of a cardboard box they had supposed was empty until the officer who lifted it to move it expressed surprise at the weight.

“This is what whoever set fire to the apartment and burglarized the newspaper offices was looking for,” I said.

The computer was taken away by the forensics team for analysis, while Betsy, Derek and I removed the items from the wall and put them back together in the same order in Betsy’s office. At 6.30 in the morning, eyes swollen by lack of sleep, Derek pinned up the photograph of Mayor Gordon’s house, stared at it for a long while and read again out loud what Stephanie had written on it: What nobody saw. He moved his face to within a few inches of the picture and studied the faces of the people in it. “So, let’s see. This is Mayor Brown,” he said, pointing to a man in a light-colored suit. “And this,” he said, pointing to a tiny head, “is Chief Kirk Hayward.”

I was due back at troop headquarters to inform Major McKenna of whatever progress I had made. Derek came with me. As we were leaving Orphea, going back down Main Street in the morning sunshine, Derek, who was seeing Orphea again after a gap of twenty years, said:

“Nothing’s changed. It’s like time stood still.”

An hour later, we were in Major McKenna’s office. He listened in amazement to my account of the weekend. With the discovery of the unit in the self-storage facility, we now had proof that Stephanie had been investigating the 1994 murders.

“Goddammit, Jesse,” McKenna said, “is this case going to follow us around our whole lives?”

“I hope not, sir. But we can’t give up on the investigation now.”

“Do you realize what it means if you screwed up at the time?”

“Yes, I do. That’s why I’d like you to keep me on the force for as long as it takes me to see this thing through.”

He sighed. “You know, Jesse, it’s going to cost me a hell of a lot of time in paperwork and explanations to the top brass.”

“I’m aware of that, sir, and I’m sorry.”

“And what about this famous project of yours, the one that persuaded you to quit the force?”

“That can wait until I’ve closed this case, sir.”

Grunting, McKenna took some forms from a drawer. “I’m doing this for you, Jesse, because you’re the best police officer I’ve ever known.”

“I’m very grateful, sir.”

“I’m afraid I already assigned your office to someone else, starting from tomorrow.”

“I don’t need an office, sir. I’ll go pick up my things.”

“And I don’t want you to investigate on your own. I’m assigning you a partner. Unfortunately, the other teams in your unit are already fixed up, since you were supposed to be leaving today, but don’t worry, I’ll find you someone.”

Derek, who had been sitting beside me, now broke his silence.

“I’m ready to back up Jesse, sir. That’s why I’m here.”

“You, Derek? How long is it since you were last in the field?”

“Twenty years.”

“It’s thanks to Derek that we found the self-storage facility,” I said.

The major sighed again. I could see how troubled he was.

“Derek, are you telling me you want to throw yourself back into a case that was the reason you’re behind a desk now?”

“Yes, sir,” Derek said, determination in his voice.

The major stared at us for a long time. “Where’s your service pistol, Derek?” he said at last.

“In my desk drawer.”

“Do you still know how to use it?”

“Yes,