The Disappearance of Stephanie Mailer: A gripping new thriller with a killer twist Joël Dicker (booksvooks TXT) 📖

theater festival. A local police car was parked there and the officers let us through. The Penfield neigh-borhood was cordoned off. There were emergency vehicles from all the neighboring towns. Around Penfield Lane, police tape had been set up, behind which stood a mass of onlookers who had streamed there from Main Street, anxious not to miss a moment of the show.

Jesse and I were the first detectives on the scene. We were greeted by Kirk Hayward, Orphea’s chief of police.

“I’m Sergeant Derek Scott, State Police,” I said, showing my badge, “and this is my partner, Inspector Jesse Rosenberg.”

“I’m Chief Kirk Hayward,” he said, visibly relieved that he could pass this thing on to someone. “I won’t bullshit you guys—I’m out of my depth here. We’ve never had to deal with anything like this. There are four people dead. It’s a massacre.”

Police officers were scurrying in all directions, shouting orders and counter-orders. It turned out that I was the highest-ranking officer on the scene.

“We have to close off all roads,” I said to Chief Hayward, “and put roadblocks in place. I’m asking for backup from the Highway Patrol and all available units of the State Police.”

Some twenty yards from us, in a pool of blood, lay the body of a woman in sports clothes. We slowly approached her. An officer was standing guard nearby, making an effort not to look.

“It was her husband who found her. He’s in the ambulance, just over there, if you want to question him. But the most horrible thing is inside.” He pointed. “A little boy and his mother . . . This is the mayor’s house.”

We headed immediately for the porch. As we tried to cut across the lawn, we found ourselves in an inch and a half of water.

“Goddammit,” I cursed, “my feet are soaking, I’m going to get water everywhere. Why’s there all this water here? It hasn’t rained for weeks.”

“A pipe burst in the automatic sprinkler system, sir,” an officer outside the house said. “We’re trying to turn the water off.”

“The main thing is not to touch anything,” I said. “We have to leave everything as it was until forensics arrive. And put tape on both sides of the lawn. I don’t want the whole crime scene flooded.”

I wiped my feet as best I could on the porch steps and we entered the house. The door had been kicked in. Right in front of us, in the hallway, a woman lay on the floor, several entry wounds visible. Next to her was an open suitcase, half filled. To the right, a small living room in which lay the body of a boy of about twelve, shot dead. He had collapsed into the curtains as if he had been cut down while trying to hide. In the kitchen, a man lying on his stomach in a pool of blood.

The smell of death and innards was unbearable. We quickly left the house, ashen-faced, shaken by what we had seen.

Before long, we were called into the mayor’s garage. Some officers had found more suitcases in the trunk of the car. The mayor and his family had apparently been about to leave.

*

The night was hot and the young deputy mayor, Alan Brown, was sweating in his suit. He had come down Main Street as quickly as he could, pushing his way through the crowd. He had left the theater as soon as he had been informed of what had happened and had decided to get to Penfield Crescent on foot, convinced it would be quicker than going by car. He was right: the center of town, crowded with people as it was, was impassable. At the corner of Durham Street, the locals, having heard disturbing rumors, saw him and gathered around, asking for information. He did not reply and set off at a run. He veered right when he got to Bendham Road and went on as far as the residential area. At first he passed down deserted streets, with lights out in all the houses. Then he became aware of all the agitation in the distance. As he drew closer, he saw a halo of lights growing brighter, as well as the flashing lights on the emergency vehicles. The crowd of onlookers had grown. Some called to him, but he ignored them. He made his way through until he was up against the police tape. Spotting him, Deputy Chief Ron Gulliver let him through. Brown was overwhelmed by it all at first: the noise, the lights, a body covered in a white sheet on the sidewalk. He did not know where to turn until, to his relief, he saw the familiar face of Chief Hayward, with whom Jesse and I were talking.

“Kirk,” Brown said to the chief, rushing toward him, “what’s going on, for heaven’s sake? Is the rumor true? Have Joseph and his family been murdered?”

“All three of them, Alan,” Chief Hayward replied in a grave tone.

He nodded toward the house, where police officers were coming and going.

“All of them shot in the house.”

Chief Hayward introduced us to the deputy mayor.

“Do you have a lead?” Brown asked us. “Any clues?”

“Nothing for the moment,” I said. “What I can’t get out of my head is that this should have happened on the opening night of the theater festival.”

“You think there’s a connection?”

“I can’t even guess what the mayor was doing at home. Shouldn’t he have been at the Grand Theater?”

“Yes, we’d arranged to meet at seven. When he didn’t come, I tried to call him at home, but there was no answer. Since the play was about to start, I ad-libbed the opening speech in his place. His seat was empty all through the first act. It wasn’t until the intermission that I was informed of what had happened.”

“Alan,” Chief Hayward said, “we found packed suitcases in Mayor Gordon’s car. It looks like he and his family were going away.”

“Going away? What do you mean? Going away where?”

“Your guess is as good as mine,” I