by Joël Dicker
“That’s precisely why I’m here. Why didn’t you tell me you’d received an anonymous letter?”
“Because you threw me out of your office.”
“True.”
“Can I get you a beer, Sergeant?”
He hesitated for a moment, then accepted. We walked up to the house together, and I went to fetch two bottles, which we drank on the deck. I told him how, coming back from Grand Beach two nights before, I had seen the arsonist.
“He was wearing some sort of mask. All I saw was his outline. And the message was the same as before: ‘Go home, Goldman.’ That’s the third.”
“Chief Dawn told me. Who else knows that you’re running your own investigation?”
“Everyone. I mean, I spend my days questioning everyone I see. It could be anybody. What are you thinking? You think it’s someone who doesn’t want me to dig into this story?”
“Someone who doesn’t want you to discover the truth about Nola. How’s your investigation going, by the way?”
“My investigation? So you’re interested in it now?”
“Maybe. Let’s just say that your credibility has skyrocketed since someone started threatening you.”
“I talked to David Kellergan. He’s a good guy. He showed me Nola’s bedroom. I imagine you’ve been to see it too.”
“Yes.”
“So if she was running away, how do you explain the fact that she didn’t take anything with her? No clothes, no money, nothing.”
“Because she wasn’t running away,” Gahalowood said.
“But if she was kidnapped, why weren’t there any signs of a struggle? And why would she take with her that bag containing the manuscript?”
“That could be explained by her knowing her murderer. Maybe they were even having an affair. In that case, he might have appeared at her window, as he sometimes did, and persuaded her to go with him. Maybe just for a walk.”
“You’re talking about Harry.”
“Yes.”
“So what happens? She takes the manuscript and escapes through the window?”
“Who says she took the manuscript? Who says she ever had the manuscript? That’s Quebert’s explanation, his way of justifying the presence of his manuscript with Nola’s corpse.”
For a fraction of a second I thought about telling him what I knew about Harry and Nola: that they had arranged to meet at the Sea Side Motel and elope. But I preferred not to mention it for the moment because I didn’t want to harm Harry’s case. Instead, I asked, “So what is your theory?”
“Quebert killed the girl and buried the manuscript with her body. Maybe because he was feeling remorse. It was a book about their love, and their love had killed her.”
“What makes you say that?”
“There’s an inscription on the manuscript.”
“An inscription? What does it say?”
“I can’t tell you that. Confidential.”
“Oh, cut the crap, Sergeant! You’ve told me either too much or not enough. You can’t hide behind confidentiality just when it suits you.”
He sighed with resignation. “The inscription is: ‘Good-bye, darling Nola.’”
“What are you going to do with that note?” I asked.
“It’s being examined by a handwriting expert. Hopefully we can get something from it.”
I was deeply disturbed by this—“darling Nola.” Those were the exact words spoken by Harry himself, words I had recorded.
I spent part of my evening thinking this over, with no idea what I should do. I sat in Harry’s office, started up the recorder, and listened to his voice again. I needed new evidence, some tangible proof that would change the course of the investigation, something that would shine a new light on this mind-numbing puzzle I was attempting to solve, which at the moment went no further than Harry, a manuscript, and a dead girl. As I thought about it, I was overcome by a feeling I had not experienced for a long time: the desire to write. I wanted to write about what I was going through, what I was feeling. Soon my head was overflowing with ideas. It was more than a mere desire; I needed to write. This had not happened to me in over a year and a half. I felt like a volcano suddenly waking and preparing to erupt. I rushed to my laptop and, after wondering for a moment how I could begin, I typed the opening lines of what would become my next book:
In the spring of 2008, about a year and a half after I had become the new star of American literature, something happened that I decided to bury deep in my memory: I discovered that my college professor Harry Quebert—sixty-seven years old and one of the most respected writers in the country—had been romantically involved with a fifteen-year-old girl when he was thirty-four. This happened during the summer of 1975.
On Tuesday, June 24, 2008, a grand jury confirmed the legitimacy of the accusations made by the DA and formally indicted Harry for kidnapping and murder. When Roth told me of the jury’s decision, I shouted into the telephone: “You’ve apparently studied law—can you explain to me on what basis they are going through with this bullshit?”
The answer was simple: on the basis of the police file. And Harry’s indictment would allow us, as the defense team, access to that file. The morning I spent with Roth studying the evidence was somewhat tense, not least because, as he went through the documents, he kept repeating, “Oh shit, that is not good. That is not good at all.”
“It’s not getting anyone anywhere to keep saying it’s not good,” I said. “You’re the one who’s supposed to be good—a damn good lawyer—aren’t you?” He replied only with a bewildered expression that didn’t inspire much confidence.
The file contained photographs, witness accounts, and forensic reports. Some of the photos were from 1975: pictures of Deborah Cooper’s house, then her body lying on her blood-covered kitchen floor, and finally the place in the forest where traces of blood, human hair, and scraps of clothing had been found. We then zoomed forward thirty-three years to photographs of Goose Cove, where we could see, lying at the bottom of the hole dug by the police, a skeleton in the fetal position. In places there were still scraps of flesh clinging to the bones and there were a few sparse hairs on top of the skull; the skeleton was wearing a half-rotted dress, and next to it was that much-discussed leather bag. I retched.
“That’s Nola?”
“That’s her. And Harry’s manuscript was found in that bag. There was nothing else, just the manuscript. The prosecutor’s argument is that a girl who’s running away does not go empty-handed.”
The autopsy report revealed a major skull fracture. Nola had been beaten with incredible violence, her occipital bone smashed. The forensic examiner believed that the murderer had used a very heavy stick or a similar object, such as a bat.
Next we read various statements: from the gardeners, from Harry, and one in particular, signed by Tamara Quinn, in which she claimed to Sergeant Gahalowood that she had discovered at the time that Harry was infatuated with Nola, but that the proof of this, which had been in her possession, had later disappeared, and consequently nobody had believed her.
“Is her testimony credible?” I asked.
“With a jury, yeah,” Roth replied. “And we don’t have anything we can counter with. Harry himself admitted during the interrogation that he’d had a relationship with Nola.”
“Goddamn it! Is there anything in this file that doesn’t condemn him?”
On that point Roth had his own ideas. He rummaged through the documents and handed me a thick sheaf of papers bound by sticky tape.
“A copy of the famous manuscript,” he told me.
The cover page had no title, but in the center three handwritten words could be clearly read:
Good-bye, darling Nola
Roth launched into an explanation. He believed that using this manuscript as the main evidence against Harry was a serious mistake by the prosecutor’s
office: the handwriting analysis was under way, and as soon as the result was known—he was convinced they would prove Harry’s innocence—the whole case would collapse like a house of cards.
“This is the centerpiece of my defense,” he told me triumphantly. “With a little luck, we might not even have to go to trial.”
“But what if the writing is authenticated as Harry’s?” I asked.
Roth gave me a strange look. “Why the hell should it be?”
“There’s something important you should know: Harry told me he spent a day in Rockland with Nola, and that she asked him to call her ‘darling Nola.’”
Roth went pale. “You do understand,” he said, “that if, one way or another, he wrote this note”—and without even finishing his sentence, he gathered his things and took me to the state prison. He was beside himself.
• • •
Roth had barely set foot in the visiting room before he was brandishing the manuscript under Harry’s nose and yelling, “She told you to call her ‘darling Nola’?”
“Yes,” Harry replied, bowing his head.
“Can you see what’s written here? On the first page of this goddamn manuscript! When were you planning to tell me, for fuck’s sake?”
“I can assure you it’s not my writing. I didn’t kill her! I did not kill Nola! For God’s sake, you do know that, don’t you? You know I’m not a child killer!”
Roth calmed down and took a seat.
“We know it, Harry,” he said. “But all these coincidences are disturbing. The elopement, this note . . . And I have to defend your ass to a jury of good citizens who are going to want to condemn you to death before the trial even begins.”
Harry stood up and began pacing the small concrete room.
“The whole country is rising up against me. Everyone wants me dead. People are calling me a pedophile, a pervert, a psycho. They’re burning my books. But you have to know, and I will say this again for the last time: I am not some kind of madman. Nola was the only woman I ever loved, and, unfortunately for me, she was only fifteen. But it was love, for God’s sake—you can’t control love!”
“But we’re talking about a fifteen-year-old girl!” Roth said.
Despairingly, Harry turned toward me.
“Do you feel the same way, Marcus?”
“What bothers me is that you never told me about any of this,” I said. “We’ve been friends for ten years, and you never mentioned Nola. I thought we were close.”
“But what could I have told you, for Christ’s sake? ‘Oh, Marcus, by the way, I never told you this before, but in 1975, when I came to Somerset, I fell in love with a fifteen-year-old girl who changed my life and disappeared three months later, and I’ve never really gotten over it’?”
He kicked a plastic chair and sent it hurtling toward the wall.
“Harry,” Roth said, “if you didn’t write that note—and I believe you when you say that—do you have any idea who did?”
“No.”
“Who knew about you and Nola? Tamara Quinn claims she suspected it all along.”
“I don’t know! Maybe Nola told some of her friends about us . . .”
“But do you think it probable that someone knew about it?” Roth said.
There was a silence. Harry looked so sad and broken that it wrung my heart.
“Come on,” Roth insisted, attempting to make Harry talk. “I can sense you’re not telling me everything. How can you expect me to defend you if you hide things?”
“There were . . . There were those anonymous letters.”
“What anonymous letters?”
“Just after Nola disappeared, I began receiving anonymous letters. I would find them in my front doorway when I came back from being out. I was scared stiff at the time. It meant that someone was spying on me, keeping watch over when I was coming and going. At one point, I was so scared that I would call the police after I received one, and would tell them I thought I’d seen a prowler. They would send a patrol car, which calmed me down. Of course I couldn’t mention the real reason I was so worried.”
“But who could have sent you those letters?” Roth asked. “Who knew about you and Nola?”
“I don’t have the faintest idea. In any case, it went on for maybe four or more months. And after that, nothing.”
“Did you keep them?”
“Yes. They’re in my house. Hidden between the pages of an encyclopedia in my office. I assume the police didn’t find them because nobody has mentioned them to me.”
As soon as I got back to Goose Cove, I picked up the encyclopedia he had mentioned. Concealed between its pages I found an envelope containing about ten small pieces of paper. Letters, on yellowed paper, each with the same typewritten message:
I know what you’ve done with that 15-year-old girl. And soon the whole town will know.
So someone did know about Harry and Nola. Someone who had kept silent about it for thirty-three years.
During the next two days, I tried to question everyone who might have known Nola in any way whatsoever. Ernie Pinkas was, again, very helpful in this regard: Having found the 1975 Somerset High School yearbook in the library, and using the telephone book and the Internet, he provided me with the current contact information for most of Nola’s former classmates who still lived in the area. Unfortunately, this angle of attack did not prove very fruitful. Though these people were now in their forties, all they could give me were childhood memories that did not have much bearing on the investigation. Until I realized that one of the names on the list was not unknown to me: Nancy Hattaway, the girl Harry told me had provided Nola with her alibi for the trip to Rockland.
According to the information provided by Pinkas, Nancy Hattaway ran a clothing and quilt store located in a strip mall on Shore Road, just south of town. I went there for the first time on June 26. It was an attractive, colorful storefront sandwiched between a café and a hardware store. The only person I found inside was a woman in her late forties with short gray hair and wearing reading glasses. She was seated at a desk, and after she greeted me politely, I asked her, “Are you Nancy Hattaway?”
“That’s me,” she replied, getting to her feet. “Do I know you? Your face seems familiar.”
“My name is Marcus Goldman. I’m—”
“The writer,” she interrupted. “It’s come back to me now. I’ve heard you’re asking lots of questions about Nola.” She seemed defensive. Immediately afterward, she added: “I assume you’re not here for my quilts?”
“That’s true. And it’s also true that I’m interested in the death of Nola Kellergan.”
“What does that have to do with me?”
“If you really are who I think you are, you knew Nola very well. When you were fifteen.”
“Who told you that?”
“Harry Quebert.”
She moved away from her chair and strode purposefully toward the door. I thought she was going to ask me to leave, but instead she turned the CLOSED sign so it was facing out, and bolted the door. Then she turned in my direction and asked, “How do you like your coffee, Mr. Goldman?”
We spent more than an hour in the back room of her store. She was indeed the same Nancy that Harry had mentioned to me. She had never married.
“You never left Somerset?” I said.
“Never. I’m much too fond of this town to leave. So what exactly would you like to know, Mr. Goldman?”
“Call me Marcus. I need someone to tell me about Nola.”
She smiled.
“Nola and I were in the same class at school. We’d been friends ever since she arrived in Somerset. We lived almost next door to each other, on Terrace Avenue, and she often came to our house. She said she liked coming there because I had a normal family.”
“Normal? What do you mean?”
“I assume y
ou’ve met her father?”
“Yes.”
“He’s a very strict man. It’s hard to imagine how he could have had a daughter like Nola: intelligent, sweet, kind, friendly.”
“I’m surprised by your comments about Mr. Kellergan. I met him a few days ago, and he seemed like quite a gentle man.”
“He can come across that way. In public, at least. He’d been recruited to save St. James’s, which had fallen into neglect, after apparently performing miracles in Alabama. And it’s true that soon after he took it over, the church was full every Sunday. But apart from that, no one really knows what went on in the Kellergan house.”
“What do you mean?”
“Nola used to get beaten.”
“What?”
According to my calculations, the incident that Nancy Hattaway then told me about took place on Monday, July 7, 1975, during the period when Harry was keeping his distance from Nola.
Monday, July 7, 1975
It was summer. The weather was absolutely glorious, and Nancy had come to get Nola at her house so they could go to the beach together. As they walked along Terrace Avenue, Nola suddenly said, “Hey, Nancy, do you think I’m a wicked girl?”
“A wicked girl? No, of course not!”
“Because at home, I’ve been told I’m a wicked girl.”
“Why would anyone say such a thing?”
“It doesn’t matter. Where are we going to go swimming?”
“At Grand Beach. But, Nola, why would anyone say that to you?”
“Maybe it’s true,” Nola said. “It may be because of what happened when we were in Alabama.”
“What happened in Alabama?”
“It doesn’t matter.”
“You look unhappy.”
“I am.”
“But it’s summer! How can you be unhappy when it’s summer?”
“It’s complicated, Nancy.”
“Are you in trouble? If you’re in trouble, you should tell me!”
“I’m in love with someone who doesn’t love me.”
“Who?”