by Joël Dicker
The governor of New York State was furious and made his displeasure known. Mayor Brown was abandoned by the community, and Major McKenna and the assistant D.A. were hauled over the coals by their superiors. In response to criticism, they decided to hold a press conference in the town hall that morning. In my opinion, it was the worst thing they could have done. We had no answers to give the media for the time being, so why further expose ourselves?
Up until the last minute, in the corridors of the town hall, Derek, Betsy and I tried to persuade them to give up on making any public statements at this stage, but it was to no avail.
“The problem is that right now you have nothing to tell the media,” I said.
“That’s because you haven’t been able to find anything!” the assistant D.A. roared. “You haven’t found anything since you started this investigation!”
“We need more time.”
“You have had more than enough time! All I see is a catastrophe, two murders, one attempted murder, a community frightened out of its wits. You’re a bunch of incompetents, that’s what I’m going to tell the media!”
I turned to Major McKenna, hoping for his support.
“Sir, I don’t think you can lay the whole responsibility on our shoulders,” I said. “The security of the theater and the town was down to you and Deputy Montagne.”
At this clumsy remark of mine, the major saw red. “Don’t be insolent, Jesse. Not with me. I’ve been covering your ass since the start of this investigation. The governor called me last night, and my ears are still ringing! He wants a press conference, he’ll get one.”
“I’m sorry, sir.”
“I don’t give a damn if you’re sorry, Jesse. Derek and you opened this Pandora’s box, you’re going to have to figure out a way to close it.”
“Would you rather we’d covered everything up?”
The major sighed. “I don’t think you realize the firestorm you’ve started by reopening this case. Right now the whole country is talking about it. Heads will roll, Jesse, and mine isn’t going to be one of them! Why didn’t you retire the way you’d planned, huh? You had all the professional honors you could have wanted, why didn’t you go off and live your life in well-earned peace?”
“Because I’m a real police officer, sir.”
“Or a real idiot, Jesse. I’m giving the two of you till the end of the week to wrap this thing up. If by Monday morning I don’t have the killer sitting in my office, I’ll get you thrown off the force without a pension. You too, Derek. Now go do your work and let us do ours. The reporters are waiting for us.”
The major and the assistant D.A. headed for the press conference. Before he hurried after them, Mayor Brown turned to Betsy.
“I’d rather you learned it here, Betsy. I’m going to announce the official appointment of Jasper Montagne as Orphea’s new chief of police.”
Betsy turned pale. “What?” she said, choking. “You said he’d only be acting chief until I finished the investigation.”
“With all the agitation here in Orphea, I have to replace Gulliver officially. And my choice has fallen on Montagne.”
Betsy was on the verge of tears. “You can’t do this to me, Alan!”
“I can, and I am.”
“You promised me . . . That’s the reason I came to Orphea.”
“A lot of things have happened since then. I’m sorry, Betsy.”
I tried to defend Betsy. “Mr Mayor, you’re making a serious mistake. Deputy Kanner is one of the best police officers I’ve come across in a very long time.”
“What’s it got to do with you, Captain Rosenberg?” Mayor Brown said curtly. “Concentrate on your investigation instead of interfering in something that’s none of your business.”
The mayor turned on his heel and headed for the town hall.
* * *
At the Lake Palace, as in every hotel in the area, most of the guests were leaving, and the manager, ready to do anything to stop this hemorrhage, urged them to stay, offering exceptional discounts. But nobody wanted to be in Orphea, apart from Hayward, who was determined to help with bringing the investigation to a close, and who nevertheless seized the opportunity to keep his suite for a reduced price, now that it was no longer being paid for by the town. Ostrovski did the same.
Charlotte Brown and Samuel Padalin had left to go back to their homes the previous evening, while Bergdorf had returned to the city.
A few miles away, facing Central Park, in Mount Sinai Hospital, Jerry and Cynthia Eden were watching over their daughter, who was now in an I.C.U. The doctor came in to reassure them.
“Mr and Mrs Eden, you should both get some rest. We’re going to keep Carolina in an artificial coma for the time being.”
“But how is she?” Cynthia said, distraught.
“It’s impossible to say for the moment. She came through the operation well, which is encouraging, of course. But we still don’t know if there will be any physical or neurological after-effects. The bullets caused significant lesions. One lung was perforated, and the spleen was hit.”
“Doctor,” Eden said. “We need you to tell us: will our daughter wake up again?”
“If I knew for certain, I would tell you. As things stand . . . I’m sorry, but I just don’t know. It is possible she won’t make it.”
* * *
Betsy, Derek and I were driving along Main Street, which was still closed to the public. Everything was deserted, in spite of the blazing sun. Nobody on the sidewalks, hardly anyone in the marina. The place was like a ghost town.
Outside the Grand Theater, a few police officers were still keeping guard, while municipal employees were collecting the remaining litter, including the souvenirs from the abandoned vendors’ stands, the final testimony to the commotion that had taken place here.
Betsy picked up a T-shirt bearing the words I WAS IN ORPHEA JULY 26, 2014.
“I wish I hadn’t been,” she said.
“Me, too,” Derek said with a sigh.
We entered the building and got to the auditorium, which was deserted. On the stage there was a huge area of dried blood like a lake on a map, as well as medical compresses and sterile dressing wrappings left there by the paramedics. One word came into my head: desolation.
According to the report that had been sent by the doctor who had operated on Carolina, the bullets had hit her from above, at an angle of approximately sixty degrees. That would allow us to determine the position of the shooter in the theater. We set about creating a small reconstruction.
“So, Carolina is center stage,” Derek said. “Hayward is to her left, with Eden.”
I took up position center stage, as if I were Carolina.
“I don’t see how from the seats,” Betsy said, “even from the back of the auditorium, which is higher than the front, the bullets could have struck her at that angle.”
She walked pensively along the rows. I looked up and saw above me a technical gangway that led to the bank of spotlights.
I pointed. “The weapon was fired from there!”
Derek and Betsy searched for a way to get up to the gangway, and finally found a narrow staircase in the backstage area, near the dressing rooms. The gangway went all around the stage, as the lighting required. Once he was up there, Derek aimed at me with his fingers. The angle of fire looked to be right. And it was a relatively short distance. You wouldn’t need to be a crack shot to hit your target.
“The theater was in darkness apart from the spotlights, which Carolina had full in her face. She could see nothing, but the shooter could see everything. There were no volunteers, no technicians apart from those handling the lighting, so he had all the time in the world to go up there without being seen, shoot Carolina at the right moment, then get out of the building through an emergency exit.”
“To get up to that gangway, you have to pass through the backstage area,” Betsy said. “And the only people who could do that had been accredited. Access was strictly controlled.”
“So it must, after all, have been a member of the cast,” Derek said. “Which means we have four suspects: Bergdorf, Ostrovski, Padalin, and Charlotte Brown.”
“Charlotte ran to Carolina after the shooting,” I said.
“That doesn’t rule her out,” Derek said. “She fires from the gangway, comes straight back down and runs to help Carolina. The perfect alibi!”
Just then, I received a call on my cell phone.
I sighed. “Shit, what does he want with me this time?” I picked up. “Hello, sir. We’re in the Grand Theater. We’ve identified the place from which the shots were fired. A gangway that can only be reached through the backstage area, which means that—”
“Jesse,” the major cut in, “that’s why I’m calling you. I have the ballistic analysis. The gun used on Carolina Eden was a Beretta. And get this, Jesse: the same weapon was used in 1994 and two days ago.”
Derek, seeing me turn pale, asked me what was happening.
“He’s here among us,” I told him. “The weapon that killed the Gordons and Meghan was also used to shoot Carolina.”
“It’s as if everything’s cursed,” Derek said.
DEREK SCOTT
November 12, 1994. One month after our terrifying car accident, I received the medal of valor. In the gymnasium at troop headquarters, in front of an audience of police officers, officials, journalists, and guests, I was decorated by the head of the State Police. He had made the journey for the occasion.
Standing on the platform, one arm in a sling, I kept my head down. I didn’t want that medal, I didn’t want the ceremony, but Major McKenna had assured me that a refusal on my part would not be well received by my superiors.
Jesse was at the back of the room. Keeping a low profile. He didn’t want to sit in the seat that had been reserved for him in the front row. He seemed beaten. I couldn’t even look at him.
After a long speech, the head of the State Police approached and solemnly put a medal around my neck, declaring: “Sergeant Derek Scott, for your bravery in the exercise of your duty, and for saving a life while endangering your own, I bestow this decoration on you. You are an example to your fellow officers.”
Once the medal had been awarded, he saluted me in military style, and the brass band struck up a triumphal march.
I remained impassive, my gaze fixed. Suddenly, I saw that Jesse was crying and I was unable to hold back my tears either. I came down off the platform and made my way to the cloakrooms. I tore the medal from my neck and threw it angrily to the ground. Then I collapsed on a bench and sobbed.
JESSE ROSENBERG
Tuesday, July 29, 2014
Three days after opening night
This was the last great turning point in the case.
The murder weapon from 1994, which had never been found, had showed up again. The weapon that had been used to murder the Gordon family and Meghan Padalin had now been used to silence Carolina. This meant that Stephanie Mailer had likely been right: Ted Tennenbaum had not murdered either the Gordon family or Meghan Padalin.
That morning, at troop headquarters, the major summoned Derek and me, in the presence of the assistant D.A.
“I’m going to have to advise Sylvia Tennenbaum of the situation,” he said. “The D.A.’s office will start a procedure. I wanted you to be warned.”
“Thank you, sir,” I said. “We understand.”
“Sylvia Tennenbaum might decide to take action not only against the police as a whole,” the assistant D.A. said, “but against the two of you.”
“Whether or not he was guilty of those murders, Ted Tennenbaum was involved in a fatal car chase with the police, which would not have happened if he’d stopped when ordered to.”
“But Sergeant Scott deliberately rammed his vehicle and pushed him off the bridge,” the assistant D.A. said.
“We were trying to intercept him!” Derek said.
“There were other ways.”
“Oh, yes? What other ways? If you’re such an expert on car chases, tell me what other ways?”
“We’re not here to blame you,” the major assured us. “I took another look at the file. Everything pointed to Tennenbaum. There was the fact that his van was spotted at the crime scene a few minutes before the murders, the fact that he had a motive in the financial pressure being put on him by the mayor, confirmed in his bank statements, the fact that he purchased a gun of the same kind used in the murders, and the fact that he was a good shot. The evidence pointed only to him!”
I sighed. “And yet all that evidence has since been pulled to pieces.”
“I know that, Jesse. But anyone would have gotten it wrong. You’re not guilty of anything. Unfortunately, I’m afraid Sylvia Tennenbaum won’t be satisfied with that explanation, and will do everything she can to obtain compensation.”
We had come full circle in our investigation. In 1994, whoever had killed Meghan Padalin had also eliminated the Gordons as unwitting witnesses. Because Derek and I had followed the wrong lead about the Gordons and the weight of evidence convinced us of Tennenbaum’s guilt, the real murderer had been sleeping easy these past twenty years. That was until Stephanie Mailer reopened the case at the instigation of Meta Ostrovski, who had always had his doubts, having himself seen that it was not Tennenbaum at the wheel of his van. Now that all avenues of inquiry were converging on him, the killer was eliminating those who might unmask him. He had started with the Gordons, and gone on to eliminate Stephanie, then Springfield, before trying to silence Carolina. The killer was right there, in front of our eyes, within reach. We had to act intelligently and quickly.
Once our conversation with Major McKenna was over, we took advantage of the fact that we were at troop headquarters to drop into the office of Dr Ranjit Singh, the medical examiner, who was also an expert criminal profiler. He had looked at the case file to help us flesh out the killer’s personality.
“I was able to make a study of all the recorded elements of the investigation,” he told us. “First of all, I think you’re dealing with a male. Statistically, the probability of a woman being murdered by another woman is barely two percent. But in our case, there are more concrete factors: that impulsive side to the killer, the way he broke down the Gordons’ door and murdered a whole family. And then the way he drowned Stephanie Mailer in the lake, and smashed Cody Springfield’s skull. Violence of this kind is overwhelmingly seen in men. As I saw in the file, back then my predecessors also thought it was a man.”
“So it can’t have been a woman?” I said.
“It cannot be ruled out, Captain. There have been cases where the profile pointed to a man and the culprit turned out to be a woman. But the impression I get from the file makes me lean confidently toward a man. And this is an interesting case. The profile is quite an uncommon one. In general, someone who kills so many people is either a psychopath or a hardened criminal. But if this were a psychopath, there would not be any rational causes. In this case, though, it’s clear he’s killing for a very specific reason: to prevent the truth coming out. And he’s definitely not a hardened criminal either. When he tries to kill Meghan Padalin, he misses her at first. That suggests he’s nervous. He shoots her several times, with the last shot to the head. He isn’t in command, he’s lost control. And when he realizes the Gordons may have seen him, he slaughters everyone. He kicks the door down even though it’s not locked and shoots three people at point-blank range.”
“All the same, he’s a good shot,” Derek said.
“Yes, he’s definitely a trained shot. I suspect he trained to shoot for the occasion. He’s meticulous, but he loses it when he goes ahead with it. So he’s not a cold-blooded killer, but rather someone who will kill reluctantly.”
“Reluctantly?” I said in surprise.
“Yes, someone who would never have thought about killing, or would even disapprove of murder socially, but who must have made up his mind to do it, perhaps to protect his reputation, his status, or to avoid prison.”
; “Owning or acquiring a weapon, training yourself to shoot, that’s quite a preparation,” Derek said.
“I didn’t say there was no premeditation,” Dr Singh said. “What I’m saying is that the killer had to kill Meghan at all costs. It wasn’t some petty motive, like robbery. Maybe she knew something about him and he had to keep her quiet. As for the choice of a gun, it’s the weapon par excellence for someone who doesn’t know how to kill. There’s an element of distance, and an assurance that you will kill. One shot and it’s all over. A knife doesn’t allow that, unless you cut the victim’s throat, but this killer wouldn’t have been capable of that. This is something we often see in suicides: a lot of people find it’s easier to use a firearm than to cut their wrists, throw themselves off a building or even take medications when they’re not sure what effect they’ll have.”
Derek said, “If it’s the same person who murdered the Gordons, Meghan Padalin, Stephanie Mailer and Springfield, and who also tried to kill Carolina Eden, why use a different M.O. with Stephanie and Springfield?”
“Because the killer was trying to cover his tracks,” Dr Singh said, with conviction. “He didn’t want anyone to make a connection with the murders in 1994. Especially after he had successfully hoodwinked everyone for so many years. I repeat: in my opinion you’re dealing with someone who doesn’t like killing. He’s killed six people because he is trapped in a spiral of violence, but he is not a cold-blooded murderer, he is not your typical serial killer. He’s someone who’s trying to save his own skin at the cost of other people’s. A reluctant murderer.”
“But if he is a reluctant murderer, why didn’t he get as far away as he could from Orphea?”
“That’s an option he’ll consider as soon as he can. He lived for twenty years thinking that nobody would discover his secret. He lowered his guard. That’s probably the reason why he’s taken such risks to protect his identity until now. He can’t just pack up and light out: that would give him away. He’s going to try to buy himself some time and find an excuse to leave the area for good without arousing suspicion. A new job, or a sick relative. You have to act fast. You’re dealing with an intelligent, painstaking man. The likeliest way you’re going to track him down is to find out who had a reason to kill Meghan Padalin in 1994.”