by Joël Dicker
“Yes, but that’s a work of fiction. Not only is Nola dead, but it seems like he never even intended to elope with her. And yet he leaves you this manuscript, in which he and Nola end up in Canada. So where is the truth?”
“I don’t understand anything!” I said. “Why the hell has he run away?”
“Because he has something to hide. But we don’t know what, exactly.”
• • •
That evening I told Gahalowood I was catching a flight to New York the next day.
“What the hell . . . ? You’re going back to New York? Are you crazy, writer? We’ve almost nailed this!”
I smiled. “I’m not abandoning you, Sergeant. But it’s time.”
“Time for what?”
“Time to vote. America has an appointment with history.”
At noon on November 5, 2008, while New York was still celebrating the election of the first black president in American history, I had a lunch meeting with Barnaski at the Pierre Hotel. The Democratic victory had put him in a good mood: “I love black people!” he told me. “I love them. If you get invited to the White House, take me with you. Anyway, what’s your important news?”
I told him what I had discovered about Nola and the diagnosis of infantile psychosis, and his face lit up.
“So those scenes where you describe Nola being abused by her mother—she was doing it herself?”
“Yes.”
“That’s terrific!” he roared over the noise of restaurant. “Your book is the pioneer of a new genre! The reader is implicated in the insanity because the character of the mother exists without actually existing. You’re a genius, Goldman! A genius!”
“No, I just got it wrong. I let Harry pull the wool over my eyes.”
“Harry knew about this?”
“Yes. And now he’s disappeared off the face of the earth.”
“What do you mean?”
“He’s nowhere to be found. Apparently he crossed the border into Canada. The only clues he left me are a cryptic message and an unpublished manuscript about Nola.”
“Do you own the rights?”
“I’m sorry?”
“Do you own the rights to the unpublished manuscript? I’ll buy them from you!”
“Goddamn it, Roy, you’re completely missing the point!”
“I beg your pardon. I was only asking.”
“There’s something we’re missing here. Something I haven’t understood yet. This whole story of infantile psychosis, Harry disappearing. There’s a piece of the puzzle missing, I know, but I can’t think what it could be.”
“You need to calm down, Marcus. Believe me, getting anxious about this is not going to help. Go see Dr. Freud and ask him for some pills to help you relax. For my part I’m going to contact the media. We’ll put together a press release about the kid’s illness; we’ll make out that we knew all about it from the beginning, and that the truth was your big surprise, a way of demonstrating that the truth is not always what it seems. All those who panned you will have egg on their faces, and people will say you’re a creative genius. And of course everyone will be talking about your book again, and sales will surge. Because with a story like this, even those who had no intention of buying the book won’t be able to resist. They’ll be burning with curiosity to see how you represented the mother.”
I frowned. “I’m not convinced, Roy. I’d like some time to dig more deeply into this.”
“But you’re never convinced, Marcus! We don’t have time to ‘dig more deeply,’ as you put it. You’re a poet: You think the passing of time has meaning. But the passing of time is either money earned or money lost. And I’m a big supporter of the former. Nevertheless, as you are probably aware, we now have a handsome, black, and very popular new president, and by my reckoning we will be hearing all about him—and nothing but him—for at least the next week. So there’s no point in our trying to communicate with the media about anything else. The best we could hope for is a paragraph at the bottom of page seven. So I’ll give you a week to get this worked out. Unless, of course, some southerners in pointy hats pick off our new president, which would keep us from getting front-page coverage for about a month. Yup, at least a month if that happens. My God, what a disaster that would be: A month from now we’d be into Christmas, and no one would pay any attention to our story! So anyway, a week from today we’ll feed the media the story of infantile psychosis. Newspaper supplements and all that jazz. If I had more time I’d rush out a book for parents. You know the kind I mean: Detecting Infantile Psychosis: How to Prevent Your Child from Becoming the Next Nola Kellergan and Setting Fire to You in Your Sleep. Now that would be a bestseller! But anyway, we don’t have time.”
• • •
So I had only one week before Barnaski would tell all. One week to try to understand what still eluded me. Four days passed, four fruitless days. I called Gahalowood constantly, but the investigation appeared to be at a standstill. Then on the night of the fifth day, November 10, something happened that would change the whole ballgame. It was just after midnight. During a routine patrol, Police Officer Dean Forsyth began chasing a car on the Montburry-Somerset road, having seen it run a red light at far above the speed limit. This might easily have led to nothing more than a ticket if the suspicious behavior of the driver—who seemed highly agitated and was sweating profusely—hadn’t caught the officer’s attention.
“Where are you coming from, sir?” Officer Forsyth asked.
“Montburry.”
“What were you doing there?”
“I was . . . I was with friends.”
“Their names, please?”
Seeing the glimmer of panic in the driver’s eyes as he hesitated over his answer, Officer Forsyth shone his flashlight on the man’s face and noticed a scratch on his cheek.
“What happened to your face?”
“It was a low branch on a tree. I didn’t see it.”
The officer was unconvinced.
“Why were you driving so fast?”
“I . . . I’m sorry. I was in a rush. You’re right, I shouldn’t have—”
“Have you been drinking, sir?”
“No.”
A Breathalyzer test was negative, and the vehicle seemed to be in order; the officer didn’t see any empty medicine bottles or similar junk that was usually strewn across the backseats of cars belonging to drug addicts. And yet he had a hunch. Something in this man’s behavior—the way he was too nervous and yet too calm at the same time—made him want to investigate further. Looking more closely, he noticed what had hitherto escaped his attention: the driver’s hands were dirty, his pants soaked, and his shoes covered in mud.
“Please get out of your vehicle, sir,” Forsyth ordered.
“What? But . . . why?” the driver stammered.
“Do what I say, sir. Get out of your vehicle.”
The man stalled. Irritated, Officer Forsyth decided to use force to get him out and to arrest him for disobeying a police officer. He took him to the station, where he personally took care of the regulation photographs and electronic fingerprinting. He was perplexed for a moment by the information that appeared on his computer screen. Then, even though it was 1:30 a.m., he picked up the telephone, deciding that the discovery he had made was sufficiently important to wake Sergeant Perry Gahalowood of the state police criminal division.
Three hours later, at about 4:30 a.m., I, in turn, was awakened by a phone call.
“Writer? It’s Gahalowood. Where are you?”
“Sergeant?” I replied, still half comatose. “I’m in bed, in New York. Where else would I be at 4:30 in the morning? What’s going on?”
“We’ve caught our firebug,” he said.
“Sorry?”
“The arsonist who set fire to Harry’s house. He was arrested tonight.”
“O
h. Who is it?”
“Are you sitting down?”
“I’m lying down.”
“Good. Because you’re in for a shock.”
2
ENDGAME
“SOMETIMES YOU’LL FEEL DISCOURAGED, Marcus. That’s normal. I told you that writing was like boxing, but it’s also like running. That’s why I keep sending you out to pound the pavement: If you have the moral courage to run a long way, in the rain, in the cold, if you have the strength to keep going until the end, to give it all you have and to reach your goal, then you’re capable of writing a book. Never let fear or fatigue stop you. On the contrary: You should use them to help you keep going.”
I CAUGHT A FLIGHT TO Manchester that morning, stunned by what I had just discovered. I landed at 1 p.m., and forty-five minutes later I was at police headquarters in Concord. Gahalowood came to meet me in reception.
“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. 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 five o’clock tomorrow afternoon 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 in his chair. As if that were not enough, I got a call on my cell from Roy 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 wait before contacting the media.”
“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 call with reporters for five o’clock tomorrow. I expect you to be there.”
“That’s impossible. I’m in New Hampshire.”
“Goldman, you’re the one they want to hear from! I need you.”
“Sorry, Roy.”
I hung up.
“Who was it?” Gahalowood asked.
“Barnaski, my publisher. He wants to speak to the press 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 five o’clock 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 asked.
“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 photo 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 asked.
“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.”
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 seven-thirty, I was still on the couch, and there were policemen knocking on the door.”