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Even back in 1994, we had already wondered if anyone had seen Tennenbaum drive past the barrier on Main Street in order to get to the Grand Theater. But the only thing that emerged from questioning the volunteers and the police officers who had been on duty was that there had been such chaos that nobody had seen anything. The festival had been a victim of its own success: Main Street was crowded, the parking lots were overwhelmed. The teams had been unable to cope. The instructions to channel the crowds and the traffic had not been followed for long. People had started parking anywhere they could and walking where there was space, treading on the flowered borders. It was quite impossible to know who had gone through the barrier and at what time.

“So Tennenbaum came along Sutton Street to get back to the theater, just as we thought,” Derek said.

“But why did Hayward never tell us that? If we’d known of that testimony, we’d have been able to pin it on Tennenbaum much earlier. Did Hayward want him to get away with it?”

Connors suddenly appeared at the door of the store and came over to us.

“It’s lucky you’re still here,” he said. “I just remembered something. Back then, I mentioned the van to the other guy.”

“What other guy?” Derek said.

“I don’t remember his name. But I know he wasn’t from around here. The year after the murders, he came back to Orphea regularly. He said he was conducting his own investigation.”

JESSE ROSENBERG

Wednesday, July 16, 2014

Ten days to opening night

The front page of the Orphea Chronicle:

THE DARKEST NIGHT:

FIRST ROLES CAST

Today is scheduled to be the last day of the auditions that have attracted an extraordinary number of aspiring actors from all over the region, much to the delight of the town’s storekeepers. The first to have been cast in a role is none other than the famous critic Meta Ostrovski (photograph opposite). He has spoken of the play as a chrysalis from which “those who thought they were caterpillars emerge as beautiful butterflies”.

Betsy, Derek and I got to the Grand Theater just before the start of the third day of auditions. The auditorium was deserted. Hayward was alone onstage. Seeing us arrive, he cried:

“You have no right to be here!”

I did not bother to reply. I took hold of him by the collar. “What have you been hiding from us, Hayward?”

I dragged him into the wings, where nobody could see us.

“You knew at the time that it was Tennenbaum’s van parked outside the Gordons’ house. And you covered up the gas station attendant’s testimony. What do you know about this case?”

“I’m not saying anything!” Hayward blustered. “How dare you bully me like this?”

I took out my pistol and stuck it in his belly.

“Jesse, what are you doing?” Betsy said.

“Let’s calm down,” Hayward said in a wheedling voice. “What is it you want to know? I’ll allow you one question.”

“I want to know what ‘The Darkest Night’is,” I said.

“‘The Darkest Night’ is my play,” Hayward said. “Are you dumb or something?”

“I’m talking about 1994. What did ‘The Darkest Night’mean then?”

“In 1994 it was also my play. Well, not the same play. I had to rewrite everything because of that idiot Gordon. But I kept the same title because I thought it was a good one.”

“Don’t bullshit us,” I said, losing it. “There are a whole bunch of things connected with ‘The Darkest Night’, which you know full well because you were police chief at the time. There was the graffiti that appeared all across town, then the fire at what was going to be Café Athena. It was like a countdown to Gordon’s death.”

“You’re crazy!” Hayward cried in exasperation. “That was all me! It was a way of drawing attention to my play! When all those things started, I was sure I’d be able to put on ‘The Darkest Night’as the opening event of the festival. I thought that when people made a connection between the graffiti and the announcement of my play, it would generate interest.”

“So you set fire to the Café Athena site?” Derek said.

“Of course not! I was called to the fire scene and I stayed there until the middle of the night, until the firefighters managed to put out the fire. I took advantage of a time when people were busy elsewhere to go into the ruins and write ‘The Darkest Night’on the walls. It was a heaven-sent opportunity. When morning came and the firefighters saw it, it made quite an impression. It wasn’t a countdown to Gordon’s death, it was a countdown to the opening night of the festival. I was absolutely sure I’d be chosen as the opening night attraction and that July 30 would mark the coming of ‘The Darkest Night’, the sensational play by the dramatist Kirk Hayward.”

Just then, we heard a noise coming from the auditorium. The latest batch of auditioners was arriving. I let him go.

“You never saw us here, Kirk,” Derek said. “Is that clear? It had better be.”

Hayward did not reply. He straightened his shirt and went back onstage, and we went out through the emergency exit.

In the auditorium the first person to come forward was none other than Samuel Padalin, who had come to exorcise his ghosts and pay tribute to his dead wife. Hayward chose him immediately, because he felt sorry for him.

“Oh, my poor friend, if only you knew. I picked your poor wife from the sidewalk, all smashed up. A little piece here, a little piece there!”

“I know,” Padalin said. “I was there, too.”

Then, to Hayward’s amazement, Charlotte Brown walked up onstage. He was really touched to see her. He had long dreamed of this moment. He would have liked to act hard, to put her down in front of everyone as she had humiliated him by dumping him for Brown, but he could not. It took just one glance to see