by Joël Dicker
“Quinn!” I repeated, when I saw him, still unable to believe it. “Robert Quinn set fire to the house? So he sent me all those messages too?”
“Yes, writer. His fingerprints were on the gas can.”
“But why?”
“I wish I knew. He hasn’t said a word. He’s refusing to talk.”
Gahalowood led me into his office and offered me coffee. He explained that the criminal division had searched the Quinns’ house that morning.
“What did they find?”
“Nothing. Nothing at all.”
“What about his wife? What did she have to say?”
“That’s a strange one. We got there at 7.30 a.m. Impossible to wake her up. She was sleeping like a log. She hadn’t even noticed her husband’s absence.”
“He drugs her,” I explained.
“He drugs her?”
“Quinn gives his wife sleeping pills when he wants some peace. He probably did that last night so she wouldn’t suspect anything. But suspect what? What was he doing in the middle of the night? And why was he covered in mud? Was he burying something?”
“That’s exactly what we need to find out. But without a confession, I can’t really make anything stick.”
“What about the gas can?”
“His lawyer is already claiming that Quinn found it on the beach. That he went for a walk, saw the gas can, picked it up, and threw it in the bushes. We need more evidence. Otherwise his lawyer will have no problem taking our case apart.”
“Who’s his lawyer?”
“You won’t believe this …”
“Tell me.”
“Benjamin Roth.”
I sighed.
“So you think Quinn killed Nola Kellergan.”
“Well, it’s a possibility.”
“Let me talk to him.”
“No way.”
At that moment a man entered the office without knocking, and Gahalowood immediately stood at attention. It was Dennis Lansdane, the state police chief. He looked to be at the end of his tether.
“I’ve spent the morning on the phone with the governor, a bunch of reporters, and that goddamn lawyer Roth.”
“Reporters? About what?”
“The guy you arrested last night.”
“Yes, sir. I think this is an important lead.”
The chief placed a friendly hand on Gahalowood’s shoulder. “Perry, we can’t go on like this.”
“What do you mean?”
“This case is never-ending. Let’s get serious, Perry. You change perps as often as you change shirts. Roth says he’s going to make a stink about this. The governor wants it over with. It’s time to close this case.”
“But, Chief, we have new evidence! The death of Nola’s mother, the arrest of Robert Quinn. We’re close to finding something.”
“First it was Quebert, then it was Caleb. Now it’s Nola’s father, or this Quinn guy, or Stern, or God knows who else. What evidence do we have against the father? Nothing. Stern? Nothing. Robert Quinn? Nothing.”
“There’s that gas can—”
“Roth says he would have no problem convincing a judge of Quinn’s innocence. Do you intend to formally charge him?”
“Of course.”
“Then you’ll lose, Perry. Again. You’re a good cop, Perry. Probably the best we have. But sometimes you have to know when to give up.”
“But, Chief—”
“Don’t throw your career away, Perry. As a gesture of friendship, I’m not going to insult you by forcing you off the case immediately. At 5 p.m. tomorrow, you will come to my office and tell me officially that the Kellergan case is closed. That gives you twenty-four hours to tell your colleagues that you’re giving up and to save face. Take the rest of the week off, and go somewhere nice with your family for the weekend. You deserve it.”
“Chief, I—”
“You have to know when to give up, Perry. See you tomorrow.”
Lansdane left the office, and Gahalowood slumped back into his chair. As if that were not enough, I got a call on my cell from Barnaski.
“Hi there, Goldman,” he said cheerfully. “Tomorrow it’ll be one week, as I’m sure you’re aware.”
“What’ll be one week, Roy?”
“The deadline I gave you before telling the press about the latest developments. Surely you didn’t forget? I assume you haven’t found anything.”
“Listen, we have a lead, Roy. It would be great if you could postpone your press conference.”
“Oh, for God’s sake … You always have a lead, Goldman. But it never actually leads anywhere! Come on now—it’s time you stopped this bullshit. I’ve arranged a press conference for 5 p.m. tomorrow. I expect you to be there.”
“That’s impossible. I’m in New Hampshire.”
“Goldman, you’re the one they want to see! I need you.”
“Sorry, Roy.”
I hung up.
“Who was it?” Gahalowood asked.
“Barnaski, my publisher. He wants to give a press conference tomorrow afternoon about Nola’s illness. He’s going to claim my book is a work of genius because it takes you inside a fifteen-year-old girl’s split personality.”
“So, by 5 p.m. tomorrow, we will have officially fucked up.”
Gahalowood still had twenty-four hours; we had to do something. He suggested we go to Somerset to talk to Tamara and Jenny, to see if we could learn more about Robert.
On the way, he called Travis to inform him of our arrival. We found him in front of the Quinns’ house. He looked incredulous.
“So they were really Robert’s fingerprints on that gas can?” he asked.
“Yes,” Gahalowood said.
“My God, I can’t believe it! Why would he do such a thing?”
“I have no idea—”
“Do you … you don’t think he could be involved in Nola’s murder?”
“At this point I wouldn’t rule anything out. How are Jenny and Tamara?”
“Not good. They’re in shock. So am I. This is a nightmare!” He sat dejectedly on the hood of his car. “I haven’t been able to stop thinking about it all morning … This case is bringing back so many memories.”
“What kind of memories?” Gahalowood said.
“Robert Quinn took a very keen interest in the investigation. Back then, I was seeing a lot of Jenny, having lunch with the Quinns every Sunday. He was always talking to me about the case.”
“I thought it was his wife who was always talking about it.”
“At the table, yes. But as soon as I arrived, Robert would give me a beer on the porch and pump me for information. Did we have a suspect? Were there any leads? After lunch he would accompany me to my car and we would talk some more. I sometimes had trouble getting rid of him.”
“Are you suggesting that—”
“I’m not suggesting anything. But …”
He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a photograph.
“This morning I found this in a family album that Jenny keeps at our house.”
The photograph showed Robert Quinn standing next to a black Chevrolet Monte Carlo, in front of Clark’s. On the back were the words Somerset, August 1975.
“What does this mean?” Gahalowood demanded.
“I asked Jenny about it. She told me her father wanted to buy a new car that summer, but he wasn’t sure what model to get. He approached some local dealerships for test drives, and for several weekends he was able to try out different models.”
“Including a black Monte Carlo?” Gahalowood said.
“Including a black Monte Carlo,” Travis said.
“You mean it’s possible that the day Nola disappeared, Robert Quinn was driving this car?”
“Yes.”
Gahalowood ran his hand over his head. He asked to keep the photograph.
“Travis,” I said, “we have to talk with Tamara and Jenny. Are they inside?”
“Yes, of course. Come in. They’re in the living room.�
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Tamara and Jenny were prostrate on a couch. We spent over an hour trying to get them to speak, but they were in such a state of shock that they were unable to say anything coherent. Finally, between sobs, Tamara managed to describe the previous evening. She and Robert had eaten dinner early, then they had watched television.
“Did you notice anything strange about the way your husband was acting?” Gahalowood asked.
“No … Well, yes, he did seem very eager for me to drink a cup of tea. I didn’t want to, but he kept repeating: ‘Drink, honey bunny, drink. It’s a diuretic tea—it’ll do you good.’ In the end I drank that stupid tea and fell asleep on the couch.”
“What time was that?”
“Around eleven, I would guess.”
“And afterward?”
“I don’t remember anything afterward. I slept like a log. When I woke up it was 7.30 a.m. I was still on the couch and there were policemen knocking on the door.”
“Mrs Quinn, is it true that your husband was thinking about buying a Chevrolet Monte Carlo in the summer of 1975?” Gahalowood asked.
“I … I don’t know. Yes, maybe, but you don’t think he could have harmed the girl, do you? Was it him?”
With these words she rushed to the bathroom.
The discussion wasn’t going anywhere, and we left without having learned anything new. Time was running out. In the car, I suggested to Gahalowood that we confront Robert with the photograph of the black Monte Carlo, which constituted damning evidence against him.
“It wouldn’t do any good,” he replied. “Roth knows Lansdane is about to crack. He’s probably advised Quinn to play for time. Quinn won’t talk. And we’ll take the fall. Tomorrow at five the investigation will be closed; your friend Barnaski will do his thing for the national television cameras; Robert Quinn will be free; and we will be the laughingstock of America.”
“Unless—”
“Unless there’s a miracle, writer. Unless we figure out what Quinn was in such a rush to do last night. His wife said she fell asleep at 11 p.m. He was arrested just after midnight. So he only had an hour. We know wherever he went, it must have been local. But where?”
Gahalowood thought there was only one thing we could do: go to the place where Robert Quinn had been arrested and attempt to retrace his steps. He even persuaded Officer Forsyth, on his day off, to meet us and show us the arrest spot. An hour later we met him on the outskirts of Somerset, and he led us to a spot on the Montburry road.
“It was here,” he said.
The road was straight, with thick vegetation on both sides. That did not help us much.
“What happened, exactly?” Gahalowood asked.
“I was coming from Montburry, routine patrol, when suddenly this car came hurtling out in front of me.”
“Hurtling out from where?”
“An intersection about half a mile from here.”
“Which one?”
“I’m not sure which road it crosses, but it’s definitely an intersection, with a traffic light. I know it has a traffic light because it’s the only one on this stretch of road.”
“The traffic light down there?” Gahalowood asked, pointing into the distance.
“That’s right,” Forsyth said.
Suddenly a lightbulb came on in my head. “That’s the road to the lake!” I shouted.
“What lake?” Gahalowood asked.
“It’s the intersection with the road that leads to the Montburry lake.”
We drove to the intersection and took the road to the lake. After three hundred feet we came to a parking lot. The lakefront was in a terrible state; the recent fall storms had turned it to mud.
Wednesday, November 12, 2008, 8 a.m.
A line of police vehicles arrived at the lake’s parking lot. Gahalowood and I stayed in his car a little longer. As the van bringing the police diving team turned up, I asked: “Are you sure about this, Sergeant?”
“No. But what choice do we have?”
This was our last roll of the dice; we were in an endgame. Robert Quinn had undoubtedly come here. He had slogged through the mud to reach the edge of the lake and thrown something into the water. That, at least, was our theory.
We got out of the car and went to see the divers, who were getting ready to go in. The team leader gave his men a few instructions and then had a discussion with Gahalowood.
“So what are we looking for, Sergeant?”
“Everything. Anything. Documents, a gun, I have no idea. Anything that might be linked to the Kellergan case.”
“You realize this lake is a dumping ground? If you could be a little more precise …”
“I think whatever we’re looking for is obvious enough that your guys will recognize it if they see it. But I don’t know what it is yet.”
“And whereabouts in the lake, sir?”
“Near the shore. No farther than a stone’s throw from the edge. I would focus on the opposite side of the lake. Our suspect was covered in mud, and he had a scratch on his face, probably caused by a low branch. He undoubtedly wanted to hide whatever it was where no-one would want to go look for it. So I would guess he went to the opposite bank, which is surrounded by brambles and bushes.”
The search began. We stood at the edge of the lake, close to the parking lot, and watched the divers disappear into the water. It was ice-cold. The first hour passed uneventfully. We stayed close to the diving team’s leader, listening to the few radio communications.
At 9.30 Lansdane called Gahalowood to read him the riot act. He shouted so loud that I was able to hear their conversation through the sergeant’s cell phone.
“Tell me this is a joke, Perry!”
“What, Chief?”
“You’ve got a team of divers out there?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Are you completely crazy? You’re screwing up your career. I could suspend you for something like this! I’m having a press conference at five o’clock. You will be there. You will announce that the investigation is over. You can clear up the mess you’ve created. I’m not covering for you anymore, Perry. I’ve had enough of this shit.”
“Very good, sir.”
He hung up. We stood in silence.
Another hour passed fruitlessly. In spite of the cold, Gahalowood and I remained in the same spot. Finally I said: “Sergeant, if—”
“Shut up, writer. Please. Don’t say a word. I don’t want to hear your questions or your doubts.”
We kept waiting. Suddenly the chief diver’s radio crackled to life. Something was happening. Divers resurfaced. There was a rush of excitement.
“What’s happening?” Gahalowood asked the chief diver.
“They found it! They found it!”
“Found what?”
About forty feet from the edge of the lake, buried in the mud, the divers had discovered a Colt .38 and a gold necklace with the name NOLA engraved on it.
*
At noon that day, standing behind the one-way mirror of an interview room in the state police headquarters, I watched Robert Quinn confess, after Gahalowood had placed the gun and the necklace in front of him.
“So this is what you were doing last night?” he said, almost gently. “Getting rid of compromising evidence?”
“How … how did you find them?”
“This is it, Mr Quinn. Game over for you. The black Monte Carlo was yours, wasn’t it? An unlisted dealership car. No-one would have been able to connect you with it if you hadn’t been stupid enough to get yourself photographed next to it.”
“I …”
“But why? Why did you kill that girl? And that poor woman?”
“I don’t know. I think I wasn’t myself. It was just an accident, really.”
“What happened?”
“Nola was walking by the side of the road, and I offered her a ride. She agreed, and got in. And then … I felt so alone. I wanted to stroke her hair … She ran into the forest. I had to catch her so I could ask her not t
o tell anyone. And then, she went to Deborah Cooper’s house. I had no choice. They would have talked otherwise. It was … it was a moment of madness!”
And he broke down.
*
When he left the interview room, Gahalowood telephoned Travis to let him know that Robert Quinn had signed a full confession.
“There’ll be a press conference at 5 p.m.,” he told him. “I didn’t want you to find out from the television.”
“Thank you, Sergeant. I … what should I tell my wife?”
“I don’t know—I’m sorry. But tell her soon. The news will spread quickly.”
“I’ll do that.”
“Chief Dawn, could you maybe come to Concord to clear up a few things about Robert Quinn? I’d prefer not to inflict that on your wife or your mother-in-law.”
“Of course. I’m on duty at the moment. There’s been a car accident, and they’re waiting for me. And I have to talk to Jenny. But I could come this evening or tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow would be fine. There’s no rush now.”
Gahalowood hung up. He seemed calm and happy.
“And now?” I asked.
“Now we’re going to get a bite to eat. I think we deserve it.”
We had lunch at the police cafeteria. Gahalowood looked thoughtful: He didn’t touch his food. He had kept the case file with him, on the table, and for fifteen minutes he stared at the photograph of Robert and the black Monte Carlo.
“What’s bugging you, Sergeant?”
“Nothing. I’m just wondering why Quinn had a gun with him. He told us he saw the girl by chance as he was driving. But either it was all premeditated, the car and the gun, or he did meet Nola by chance. And if it was by chance, I wonder why he had a gun on him and where he got it.”
“You think it was premeditated, but he didn’t want to confess that?”
“It’s possible.”
He looked at the photograph again, holding it close to his face to examine the details. Suddenly his expression changed.
“What’s up, Sergeant?” I asked.
“The headline …”
I went over to his side of the table. He pointed to a newspaper vendor in the background, next to Clark’s. If you looked closely, it was just possible to make out the headline: