by Joël Dicker
“How do we know this is the path he took?”
“There were traces of blood going from the house to here.”
“And the car?”
“Vanished. Like I told you, a deputy sheriff who was coming in as support happened to see it. There was a chase, and there were roadblocks all over the area, but he lost us.”
“How did the murderer manage to escape through the holes in the dragnet?”
“I would love to know that, and I have to say that there are many things about this case that I’m still wondering about after thirty-three years. You know, there’s not a day that passes without me getting in my police car and thinking how things might have been different if we’d caught that goddamn Chevy. Maybe we could have saved the girl …”
“You think she was in the car, then?”
“Now that we’ve found her body two miles from here, I’d say it’s certain.”
“And you also think it was Harry who was driving that black Chevy, huh?”
He shrugged.
“Let’s just say that, given recent events, I don’t see who else it could have been.”
*
The former police chief, Gareth Pratt, whom I went to speak with that same day, seemed to share his former deputy’s opinion regarding Harry’s guilt. He received me on his porch, wearing golf pants. His wife, Amy, served us drinks and then pretended to tend to the potted plants on their porch so she could eavesdrop on our conversation—a fact she did not attempt to conceal, commenting from time to time on what her husband was saying.
“I’ve seen you before, haven’t I?” Pratt said.
“Yes, I often come to Somerset.”
“It’s that nice young man who wrote that book,” his wife said.
“You’re not that guy who wrote a book?” he repeated.
“Yes,” I replied. “One of those guys.”
“Gareth, I just told you that,” Amy cut in.
“Darling, please don’t interrupt us. I’m the one he’s come to see. So, Mr Goldman, how can I help you?”
“I’m trying to find out a few things about the murder of Nola Kellergan. I spoke to Travis Dawn, who told me that you already had suspicions about Harry at the time.”
“That’s true.”
“On what basis?”
“Several things tipped us off. Particularly the way the car chase went: It suggested that the murderer was somebody local. He had to have known the area perfectly in order to disappear like that with every police car in the county on his tail. And then there was that black Monte Carlo. As you probably guessed, we made a list of all the people in the area owning that particular model. The only one not to have an alibi was Quebert.”
“And yet, in the end, you didn’t follow up your suspicions …”
“No, because apart from the description of the car, we had no real evidence against him. We very quickly removed him from our list of suspects. The discovery of that poor girl’s body in his yard proves that we were wrong. It’s crazy—I always thought he seemed like such a nice guy. Maybe, deep down, that skewed my judgment. He was always so charming, friendly … I mean, what about you, Mr Goldman? If I’ve understood correctly, he was a friend of yours. Now that you know about the girl in his yard, haven’t you thought of anything he might once have said or done that could have aroused your suspicions?”
“No, Chief. Nothing comes to mind.”
As I returned to Goose Cove, I noticed, beyond the police tape, the hydrangea bushes dying by the side of the trench, their roots exposed. I went to the garage and found a spade. Then, entering the forbidden zone, I dug a hole in a square of soft ground overlooking the ocean, and I planted the bushes.
August 30, 2002
“Harry?”
It was six in the morning. He was standing on the deck, holding a cup of coffee. He turned around.
“Marcus? You’re sweating … don’t tell me you’ve already been running?”
“Yeah. I’ve done my eight miles.”
“What time did you get up?”
“Early. You remember, two years ago, when you forced me to get up at dawn? That became a habit. I get up early so that the world belongs to me. What about you—what are you doing outside?”
“I’m observing, Marcus.”
“What are you observing?”
“You see that little grassy area between the pines, overlooking the beach? I’ve been meaning to do something with that for a long time. It’s the only part of the property flat enough to be used as a garden. I would like to create a pretty niche for myself, with two benches, an iron table, and hydrangeas growing all around. Lots of hydrangeas.”
“Why hydrangeas?”
“I knew someone who liked them. I would like to have flower beds filled with hydrangeas so that I can always remember her.”
“Was she someone you loved?”
“Yes.”
“You look sad, Harry.”
“Pay no attention.”
“Why don’t you ever talk about your love life?”
“Because there’s nothing to say. Just look—look carefully. Or, better yet, close your eyes! Yes, close your eyes tightly so that no light penetrates your eyelids. Can you see? There is that paved path going from the deck to the hydrangeas. And there are those two little benches, from which you can see both the ocean and the beautiful flowers. What could be better than seeing the ocean and the hydrangeas? There’s even a little pool, with a fountain in the form of a statue in the middle. And if the pool is big enough, I’ll put multicolored Japanese carp in it.”
“Fish? They wouldn’t last an hour. The seagulls would gobble them up.”
He smiled.
“The seagulls can do what they like here, Marcus. But you’re right: I won’t put carp in the pool. Go take a hot shower before you catch a cold. I don’t want your parents thinking I’m not looking after you. I’m going to make breakfast … Marcus—”
“Yes, Harry?”
“If I’d had a son—”
“I know, Harry. I know.”
*
On the morning of Thursday, June 19, 2008, I went to the Sea Side Motel. It was very easy to find: From Side Creek Lane, you continued north straight along Shore Road for four miles, and you could not miss the huge wooden sign announcing:
SEA SIDE MOTEL & RESTAURANT
Since 1960
The place where Harry had waited for Nola was still there; I had undoubtedly passed it hundreds of times, never paying it the slightest attention. But then, why would I have, until now? It was a red-roofed wooden building surrounded by a rose garden; just behind it was the forest. All the first-floor rooms opened onto the parking lot; to reach the upstairs rooms, you took an outdoor staircase.
According to the front-desk clerk, the motel had barely changed since it was built. The rooms had been modernized and a restaurant had been added next to the main building, but that was all. He showed me the motel’s fortieth-anniversary commemorative book, containing photographs that bore out what he said.
“Why are you so interested in this place?” he finally said.
“Because I’m looking for some important information.”
“Go on.”
“I would like to know if someone slept here, in Room 8, on the night of Saturday, August 30, 1975.”
He laughed. “Nineteen seventy-five? Are you serious? Since we went digital, the farthest back we can go is two years. I could tell you who slept here on August 30, 2006, if you like. Well, theoretically I could. Obviously I don’t have the right to reveal that kind of information.”
“So there’s no way of knowing?”
“Apart from the register, the only things we keep are e-mail addresses and our newsletter. Would you be interested in receiving our newsletter?”
“No, thank you. But I would like to see Room 8 if possible.”
“I can’t just show it to you. But it is vacant. Would you like to rent it for the night? It’s a hundred dollars.”
“You
r sign says all the rooms are sixty-five dollars. You know what? I’m going to slip you twenty dollars, you’re going to show me the room, and everyone will be happy.”
“You drive a hard bargain. But O.K.”
Room 8 was on the second floor. It was an ordinary motel room, with a bed, a minibar, a television, a small desk, and a bathroom.
“Why are you so interested in this room?” the clerk wanted to know.
“It’s a long story. A friend told me he spent the night here, in 1975. If that’s true, it means he’s innocent.”
“Innocent of what?”
I did not reply, but asked another question of my own. “Why do you call this place the Sea Side Motel? There isn’t even a sea view.”
“No, but a path goes through the forest to the beach. It’s in the brochure. Our customers couldn’t care less, though; the people who stop here don’t go to the beach.”
“So are you saying that you could, for example, walk along the beach from Somerset, come through the forest, and arrive here?”
“It’s possible, yes.”
*
I spent the rest of my day at the library, going through the archives and attempting to reconstruct the past. Ernie Pinkas was a big help to me in this regard; he was very generous with his time.
According to newspaper articles from the time, nobody noticed anything strange on the day of the disappearance: neither a fleeing Nola, nor a prowler near the house. Everyone regarded the disappearance as a total mystery, with Deborah Cooper’s murder only compounding the puzzlement. Nevertheless, certain witnesses, mostly neighbors, reported hearing noises and shouts coming from the Kellergan house that day, while others stated that the noises were actually music, played at high volume by the Reverend David Kellergan, as was his wont. The Somerset Star’s investigations indicated that Mr Kellergan was doing odd jobs in his garage, and that he always listened to the same music when he was working. He turned the volume up enough to cover up the sounds of his tools, believing that good music, even when played too loud, was always preferable to the sound of hammering. But if his daughter had called out for help, he would not have heard her. According to Pinkas, Mr Kellergan always blamed himself for having played his music too loud: Afterward, he never left the family home on Terrace Avenue, living there as a hermit, playing the same record over and over again, loud enough to deafen himself, as a form of punishment. He was the only one of Nola’s parents still alive. Nola’s mother, Louisa, had died a long time before. Apparently, on the night Nola was identified, journalists assailed David Kellergan in his home. “It was such a sad scene,” Pinkas told me. “He said something like, ‘So she’s dead … I’ve been saving up all this time so I could send her to college.’ And guess what—the next day five fake Nolas appeared at his door. After the money. The poor guy was completely disoriented. What is the world coming to, Marcus? Some people have shit for hearts—that’s what I think.”
“And the father often did that, blasted music at high volume?”
“Yes, all the time. Actually, about Harry … I saw Mrs Quinn yesterday, in town …”
“Mrs Quinn?”
“Yeah, she’s the former owner of Clark’s. She’s telling anyone who’ll listen that she always knew Harry had designs on Nola. She says she had irrefutable proof at the time.”
“What kind of proof?” I asked.
“No idea. Have you heard from Harry?”
“I’m going to see him tomorrow.”
“Say hello for me.”
“Go and see him, if you want … he’d like that.”
“I’m not sure I want to.”
Pinkas was seventy-five years old and used to work at a textile factory in Concord; he had never gone to college and regretted not having been able to find any outlet for his love of books beyond volunteering as a librarian. I knew he owed an eternal debt of gratitude to Harry, who had allowed him to take literature classes at Burrows College for free. So I had always considered him one of Harry’s most faithful supporters. But now even he preferred to keep his distance.
“You know,” he said, “Nola was such a special girl—unfailingly gentle and kind. Everyone here loved her! She was like a daughter to all of us. So how could Harry have … I mean, even if he didn’t kill her, he wrote that book about her! I mean, shit – she was fifteen years old! She was a kid! And he loved her so much he wrote a book about her? A love story! I’ve been married for fifty years, and I’ve never felt the need to write a book about my wife.”
“But that book was a masterpiece.”
“That book is the devil’s work. It’s perverted. I threw away all the copies we had here. People are too upset about this.”
I sighed, but said nothing. I didn’t want to have an argument with him. All I said was: “Ernie, can I have a package sent to you here, at the library?”
“A package? Of course. Why?”
“I asked my cleaning lady to pick up something important from my apartment and send it to me by FedEx. But I’d prefer it be delivered here, it’s safer.”
The mailbox at Goose Cove provided an accurate reflection of the state of Harry’s reputation: The whole country, having admired him before, was now condemning him, sending him hate mail. This was the biggest scandal in the history of publishing. The Origin of Evil had already disappeared from the shelves of libraries and from school curricula, and the Boston Globe had dropped Harry’s column from its pages; as for Burrows College’s board of directors, they had decided to dismiss him, effective immediately. The newspapers had no qualms about describing him as a sexual predator; he was the subject of every debate and conversation. Roy Barnaski, scenting a surefire commercial opportunity, wanted a book on the scandal at any price. And since Douglas had not managed to persuade me, Barnaski ended up calling me himself to deliver a brief lesson on the market economy.
“The public wants this book,” he explained. “Listen to this: You even have fans chanting your name outside our building.”
He put me on speakerphone and signaled his assistants, who belted out: “Gold-man! Gold-man! Gold-man!”
“They’re not fans, Roy—they’re your staff. Hi, Marisa.”
“Hi, Marcus,” Marisa said.
Barnaski picked up the receiver again. “Listen, you need to think about this. We’re bringing a book out in the fall. A guaranteed success! A month and a half to write it—does that sound fair to you?”
“A month and a half? It took me years to write my first book. And I don’t even know what I would write. Nobody knows what happened yet.”
“I can provide you with ghostwriters, you know, to speed the process along. And it doesn’t have to be great literature—people just want to know what Quebert did with that girl. Just give us the facts—with some suspense and some sleazy details, and a little sex, of course.”
“Sex?”
“Come on, Goldman, I don’t have to teach you how to do your job. Who would want to buy this book if there weren’t some indecent scenes between the old guy and the seven-year-old girl? That’s what people want! We’ll sell it by the bucket load, even if the book’s no good. That’s what matters, isn’t it?”
“Harry was thirty-four years old, and Nola was fifteen!”
“Don’t split hairs. If you write this book, as I told your agent, I’ll tear up your previous contract and offer you a million-dollar advance as thanks for your cooperation.”
I refused point blank, and Barnaski lost his temper: “Alright, if you want to play hardball, let’s play hardball. I expect a manuscript from you in exactly eleven days. And if I don’t get it, I will sue the shit out of you!”
He hung up on me. Soon afterward, while I was buying groceries in the general store in Somerset, I received a call from Douglas. Barnaski had undoubtedly been in touch with him. “Marc, you can’t mess around with this,” he said. “Let me remind you that Barnaski has you by the balls! Your previous contract is still valid and your only means of getting out of it is to accept his proposal. And t
his book would be a huge boost to your career. An advance of a million dollars—there are worse things in life, aren’t there?”
“Barnaski wants me to do a hatchet job! It’s out of the question. I don’t want to write a book like that—a piece of garbage churned out in a few weeks. Good books take time.”
“But this is the way it is today! Writers who hang around in a daydream waiting for inspiration to come … all that is in the past! Everyone wants your book, even without your having written a single word of it, because everybody wants to know the truth. And they want it now. There’s a narrow window of opportunity. This fall, there’s the election …”
“So why would any publisher want to risk publishing a book that’s got nothing to do with the election?”
“That’s Barnaski through and through. He’s a fuckwit, a genius, an asshole, but he’ll pull it off, you see. Believe me, only he could do it.”
I couldn’t believe in anything anymore. I paid for my groceries and returned to my car. That was where I found a piece of paper slipped under one of the windshield wipers. The same message, once again:
Go home, Goldman.
I looked around: There was nobody. A few people sitting at an outdoors table at a nearby restaurant, customers coming out of the general store. Who was following me? Who wanted me to give up my investigation into the death of Nola Kellergan?
*
The day after this latest incident—Friday, June 20—I went to see Harry in prison again. Before leaving Somerset, I stopped at the library, where my package had just been delivered.
“What is it?” Pinkas asked. He was curious, and was hoping I would open it in front of him.
“A tool that I need.”
“What kind of tool?”
“A tool for work. Thank you for receiving it, Ernie.”
“Wait—don’t you want some coffee? I’ve just made some. Do you want a knife to open your package?”
“Thanks, Ernie, maybe next time. I have to go.”
Arriving in Concord, I decided to swing by the state police headquarters in order to find Sergeant Gahalowood and present him with a few theories I’d put together since our brief first meeting.